Nature In Balance

Spring is arriving on schedule amidst the world-wide pandemic. In the southern hemisphere autumn is unfolding. For Amy and I, living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, we see flowers and delicate green buds on trees as they begin making leaves again. 

The deadly covid virus is a result of nature out of balance. Like so many others, Amy and I are staying home. Our art gallery has been closed for well over 1 month. We have no social contact since there are official edicts limiting gatherings, and everyone is cautious about the virus spreading.

Amy and I go for a walk alone in our neighborhood once a day. Seeing the tree blooms turning into leaves, I suggested a drive out of town where we might see apple orchards. 

We packed a lunch and drove north toward a little town called Dixon. Passing through the city of Española, Amy remarked that the name means “Those from Spain”. The main road has about seven traffic lights and then the highway resumes across open landscapes. In a short while we were driving in a chasm with the rushing Rio Grande River on our left. The road twisted in the mountain pass with scenic vistas at every turn. Soon we came to the turn off to Dixon. The landscape was not yet green. A few homes stood along the county road but we noticed the fruit trees were either past blooming or not at all. Driving on, we passed a food market and church, then not seeing what we came for, turned around. The Dixon market is a homespun food co-op and Amy wanted to stop there. She put on her mask and went in. “Look for toilet paper!” I said. It is entirely scarce everywhere— all the stores in town are sold out. Soon she came out, no toilet paper in hand but quite happy she had found some bulk beans and other items she could not find in Santa Fe. 

I suggested we go further north, since we were very near a tiny village called Pilar and the entrance to the Rio Grande Gorge. At Pilar, I turned off to an area near the river. The air felt balmy and temperate, with blue sky above—perfect spring weather. We got out to stretch our legs and stand by the flowing water. Amy surmised later that it was there that she lost her hand sewn face mask—it must have fallen to the ground from her lap when she got out of the car.  

I never tire of the Rio Grande Gorge. The vistas are grand. A small road follows the river which has cut a deep groove in the mountain terrain. Rock is exposed and sage brush grows among the hearty little piñon and cedar trees dotting the earth. 

The Rio Grande Gorge State park, extends along the river and we noticed that entrances to campgrounds and picnic areas were closed off, (because of the pandemic). None-the-less, I saw plenty of fishing activity. Folks in waders stood in the middle of the flowing water, fishing for trout. I was surprised to see so many anglers, but surmised they had no work so wished to be outdoors doing something pleasurable and useful. 

We found a spot by the river to sit on boulders and eat lunch to the sound of strong currents of water flowing. I wanted to paint a picture so we climbed back in the car and drove further until I found the scene that appealed to me, (see picture at top). I set up and painted while Amy stayed behind and read. My view was looking north through the gorge. The mountains rose from the river banks on each side and colorful sage and other shrubs speckled the earth. I like painting scenes that include a path that starts in the foreground and then gets smaller and disappears in the middle somewhere. In this case the river extended from my feet and vanished in the gorge with mountains behind in the distance.

After painting, we drove a bit further to the end of the paved road and came to Orilla Verde, a small recreation area that has a trailhead. The elevation along the river is 6,100 feet and the steep canyon rises 800 feet from the river to the Gorge rim. We hiked in the early afternoon sunshine and I took pictures. By now fluffy white clouds were arriving to blow slowly across the stretch of blue overhead. Both of us felt jubilant and Amy said, “We must do this twice a week!” 

Indeed, nature in balance is the best antidote to a pandemic.

Raspberries

Heidi Of The Mountains is an outdoors type, and this week amidst the whirlwind activity at my gallery, she said, “I have to go to the mountains . . . and soon.”  I agreed to stop work, and today, we drove together to a ranch outside of Santa Fe that is renowned for raspberries.

When we arrived around noon, I was surprised to see a dirt parking lot crammed with cars, and looking out to the raspberry field, about 100 people ambling through the rows, buckets in hand, picking berries. We gathered our baskets and set out io the raspberry patch. A field manager took us to a row, and said, “The field has been picked over, especially since so many people were out on Saturday, but look under the leaves along the way here, and you will find berries.” I asked him about the growing season, and he told me the plants would continue replenishing berries for a few more weeks. “By Tuesday, they will all be back” he said. We stepped into the field, and soon, found ourselves each alone in our own meditative space, looking down, concentrated on spotting the ripe, ruby red berries amidst the green leaves and prickly stems.

While picking the berries, it is impossible not to sample the juicy fruit. To taste a freshly plucked raspberry is wonderful. The soft flesh almost melts in the mouth, oozing sweet and slightly tart flavors. The tiny seeds are all that are left to crunch upon before swallowing. In forty-five minutes, the two of us had gathered about 2 ½ pounds, for which we paid $12.00.

After our picking, we went to the quaint ranch café and ordered a slice of raspberry pie, then sat in the shade and shared.

As the sun moved slowly across the afternoon sky, I took my paints and easel out, and while Heidi Of The Mountains stood next to me making a watercolor painting, I captured a scene of an old adobe warehouse standing along the road. Its weathered tin roof pitched at an angle and reflected the bright sky, while the faded stuccoed whitewashed walls stood accented by deep green shrubs, sunflowers, and a few decrepit windows. A grand old tree grew at the end of the building, almost like an exclamation point.

On our way home, Heidi Of The Mountains massaged my head and neck while I drove, saying, “Oh thank-you . . . I had a wonderful day!”

Crested Butte Sojourn

The season of wildflowers is magical and short in the high mountain regions of Colorado. I wavered before driving 5 ½ hours to Crested Butte. I was there only three weeks ago to paint, hike, photograph, and see the beginning of summer. The wildflowers were coming out, but had not reached their peak of performance and array. I am glad the universe called me to make the effort and return for the full symphony.

This time, I did not bring my painting gear but only a bike and my camera. The rugged scenery and spectacular vistas kept me outside all day, and in the evening I could find a spot to pull my vehicle aside, take the bike out, spread a bedroll and go to sleep.

I like the little town of Crested Butte. It has an old west feel and is very laid back. It caters to lovers of the great outdoors and has an ambiance that appeals to mountain enthusiasts. I arrived during the Wildflower Festival, and also The Rocky Mountain Plein Air Painters National Show.

This is what happened in 56 hours: I packed and drove from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Crested Butte, Colorado in about 5 ½ hours. Drove through town and into the mountains to Lake Irwin. The official campsite spaces were all taken, so I drove off to an undesignated area nearby and pulled my van into a spot under trees. Got on my bike and rode trails, huffing and puffing with exertion, getting out of breath with my heart thumping in my throat, sweated, and stopped frequently to be amazed at the natural splendor and photograph it. Incredibly, on a remote mountain trail, I ran into a friend from Santa Fe whom I had not seen in a couple years, (of all places!). As the sun sinks behind the mountain peaks, I cycle back downhill without crashing, make a small campfire, cook a can of soup, get smoke in my eyes, crawl in the back of my van and look at photographs on my laptop, settle down in the darkness, give thanks to God and go to sleep. Wake up, drive into town and have coffee, go to some shops and sell some leather bags I receive regularly from Kashmir, India, drive to Slate Creek and slowly follow a dirt road along the river, stopping occasionally. Find a pullout by the river and go for a short hike, getting my feet wet and making a recording with my iphone’s recorder of the stream’s song. Go back to town for supplies. Take a short nap in my hot van. Find a mountain bike trail on the outskirt of town and ride. Drink the fresh air, smell the fragrance, get sweaty, dirty, scratched, and bitten by horseflies, wave and say hello to other enthusiasts, stop frequently to lay my bike down and trudge through the fields to photograph. Get sunburned, and finally exhausted, and very thirsty. Ride the bike back to my van, drive back into town, find a cafe, eat a salad and drink a lot of water. Drive back to 
Slate Creek and pull off the road to camp in a place where others are doing the same. Work on my laptop and lay down to sleep . . . but cannot because of the young party-people nearby who are having fun around their campfire. Put on my earphones and listen to white-noise recording on my iphone. Sleep. Wake up cold, eat some milk and cereal, then drive back into town in my dusty van, realizing I am dirty, unshaven, and have not brushed my teeth (forgot my toothbrush). Have coffee, sell some leather purses, and drive 5 ½ hours home to Santa Fe. Hallelujah!
See some pictures of my Crested Butte Sojourn!

Standing On The Threshold

When I arrived in Auckland, New Zealand, a native told me, “Ah, you saved the best for last!” No doubt New Zealand, with its sparse population, is among the very best places in the world for natural scenic beauty that has not been spoiled by man. For lovers of wilderness and the great outdoors—from volcanoes and glaciers, to fjords and endless coastlines, this is paradise, offering just about every open-air activity. Now, while it is summer and so far south of the equator, it is especially wonderful because the sun barely goes down before it rises again. Light comes before 6 AM (06:00) and does not completely vanish until after 10:30 PM (22:30).








I have rented a car for the two weeks I am here, and for the first time in my travel, have been staying in hostels. I get a room of my own, and usually share a bathroom and other facilities, such as a kitchen. It is cheap and for the most part has worked out, except for some lack of privacy. I mix in with a mostly young, international, set of fellow travelers.

New Zealand is comprised of the North Island and the South Island. Starting from the far north, in Auckland, I have driven south, following the western coast and stopping along the way at nearly deserted black sand beaches to walk and dive into slightly chilly surf to be invigorated. From Wellington, the capital, I took a three-hour ferry with my car to the South Island. Now I am in Queenstown in the far south, a major city that is a jumping off place to spectacular mountains, forests, lakes, streams, rivers, alpine meadows, lush pastures, and especially Milford Sound and the fjordlands.

I have been driving more than I expected, but at least I am close to the ground and can witness the changing scenery. Also, if I see something interesting, I stop. By the time I finish with my car, I will have driven perhaps 3,800 kilometres (2105 miles). Despite seeing so much, I feel a bit rushed and realize that two weeks is not enough time—rather, a year would be about right to get an intimate and insightful impression of the manifest and hidden wonders of New Zealand.

Strange, but when I arrived in New Zealand I had mixed feelings. I have seen and experienced so many places, and now, I am at the last step, standing on the threshold of returning home to the United States. I have some remorse and wonder how I will adjust to being “home.” My solace is that THE DREAM keeps going.