Yellowstone – 1994

Among the hoodoos and crumbling conglomerate from which the hills of the Shoshoni Canyon are formed, I climbed high above the road that leads to the East Gate of Yellowstone, up onto the high plateau. Emerging from the heat of the valley, short of breath, I stopped to savor the cool, still air. The sun was burning through the clouds in hot, bright patches, and in the clarity of altitude the landscape seemed hyper-real. It was too much to absorb in one glance and I stood for a while, out of sight of the road, gazing over the ancient landscape. Scattered around were stunted pine trees and patches of dry grass, which forced their way through the rubble and sand. A cliff soared high above me. The steep basin in which I stood swept up to merge with the inner walls of a chimney in its vertical face, I could see around the butte but its hulking form loomed over head. A gust of cool wind swirled into the hollow as I gazed up the slope and a dust devil danced across the ground – touching down once, twice, three times, in staggered but regular intervals. In a pattern that exactly described the footsteps of a man, and loose sand trickled down hill from the points of contact. Four, five, six, seven – with a whooshing sound the last footstep swirled high in the air and up the face of the butte. An Eagle cried out over head and I felt as though I were in a film. So real was the moment though, that it is still imprinted in my mind all these years later. In many ways it was the most intangible of experiences, yet it seemed significant somehow. Perhaps this was just a dust devil but that place inspired one of my favorite paintings, The Trickster, which has never been sold and hangs on my living room wall to this day.

“It was him ... but they did not know it. All they saw were fading footprints in the air.”
The Trickster Makes this World – Dave Hartley

The semi-desert landscape east of Yellowstone.

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Mother Earth, personified as a young woman, the nurturer, giver of life, is portrayed in her bountiful, unspoiled garden. The Trickster, as a lesser creation deity, represented in the northern and western cultures as the Raven, is the master of illusion. He is the magician behind the curtain, constantly rearranging the "Veil of Maya."

The Trickster, according to native myths, made the physical worlds and set them in motion. Similarly, by playing his tricks and causing conflicts, he keeps the inhabitants of this world in motion. How dull life would quickly become if everything were always perfect and predictable. This is how the Trickster sees things, at least. In disturbing the equilibrium, he forces us into situations that appear negative on the surface, yet they ultimately lead to revelations and new insights. The Trickster is an ancient god, working in mysterious ways.

Yellowstone is the most enchantingof landscapes.		Hotsprings vent steam as water flows over green grass.

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Dark clouds drifted quickly overhead, and even darker water welled up from the deep and rolled in toward the rocky beach. I negotiated the shoreline, jumping from rock to rock just below the tree line, far up from the breaking surf. Water gushed out of the forest and formed into streams, rushing, enthusiastically, toward the crashing waves. It seemed as though some great deluge might once again be upon the world.

Arugged uprising of stone formed a headland just a short distance ahead, I resolved to make my way there before returning to the car. Mine was the only vehicle in sight, and for good reason perhaps. The river had already crested its banks and water, a foot or more deep, inundated the lower portions of the parking lot. The picnic areas were completely awash, and water rushed between the trees. A couple of picnic tables had been carried off and were now lodged in a thicket down stream...those ones that hadn't been swept away entirely, that is.

Water flows through the parking lot...		... as the river churns angrily nearby.

The wind blew fiercely off the lake, but the rain had stopped. Leaping from one rock to the next, I marveled at how weighty and unmovable they seemed. The relentless water though, had rounded their broken edges and softened their appearance, almost – it seemed – without effort.

I glanced at the white foam a few feet away, as it surged up onto the beach, and as I did, my foot slipped, wedging tightly in a crevice. The side cut of shoe conformed perfectly to the rounded face of the rock, and the thick rubber sole held fast. My ankle didn't twist but, instead, rotated with me as my momentum carried me forward. I dropped to my hands, stopping abruptly, and cursing at myself for being so careless. I struggling up again and pulled my shoe free. With the exception of a sore shin and a bloodied knuckle, no harm was done. No one even knows you’re here, I thought. Slow down.

Traversing the last hundred yards at a more cautious pace I reached the foot of the cliff, scrambled over a low outcropping and stood for a while watching the waves wash in and out. Beyond the next protrusion of solid stone, perhaps twenty feet away across a small cove, was an opening in the rock face. The waves, when they retreated, left the stones exposed for a few seconds, just long enough to traverse. I waited until the water rushed back out and jumped down.

The mouth of a cave opened alluringly, spanning the entire breadth of the next inlet. Again, I waited. Water crashed up to the opening in the cliff face, but only as far as the cave mouth, where it paused, and sank between the rocks. I leapt down again as the water ebbed, and scrambled into the cave.

Darkness engulfed me. Finding my footing, I stopped and watched as the next wave rolled in. Its sound echoed menacingly in the darkness, but I remained safely above the high water mark. My eyes adjusted and I moved deeper inside. The gloom outside was quickly reduced to total blackness as I felt my way along. A few more feet further along and it became apparent that this was no grand cavern. My hands, before long, could almost touch both walls at once.

Hunching over, I reached the back wall. The stone was cold and damp. A moment or two later, I felt my way back a few paces, until I could stand upright again. The stone was still only a few inches above my, when a loud roar, then a whooshing sound filled the tiny space. I turned, as icy water swept about my feet, and I instinctively lurching forward, making for the entrance. But my feet slipped, lodging, again, down between the large rounded rocks.

I thrust my hands out against the sides of the cave. The water rose quickly in the confined space, swirling up around my knees. I lifted one leg stepped to the side, trying to reposition myself a little higher on the cave wall, but my foot couldn’t find traction and immediately dropped back down where it had been. The water was washing around my hips and the numbing cold seized my legs, buoying my body, lifting me from my feet.

Pressing my hands even harder against the walls of the cave and looked toward the light, across icy, churning foam. Could I swim for the opening? Would the water sweep me out into the surf? My camera, hanging from my neck, was only an inch or two from the water and all I could think was that it mustn't get wet. At that instant, the water halted, just for a moment, then began to retreat. It was tugging hard on my body now, but my feet were well planted and as I leaned back the swirling eddies relinquished their grip.

The cave floor emerged again and I quickly following the water out, scrambling to safety atop the rocks at the cave mouth. Gathering myself, I waited for the next wave. The water stirred uneasily, but it held back. I waited a few more seconds, then, almost without thinking, scrambled across to the next highpoint, and over to the beach. Perhaps that fabled seventh wave does have some basis in fact, I thought, as I plodded along, keeping a wary eye on the restless, grey water. A black bird – a raven or crow, I wasn't sure – swept quickly by, buffeted this way and that by the gusting wind. I lifted my camera and snapped one parting picture.

Making my back to the forest trail, my clammy, wet jeans, clung uncomfortably, but I barely noticed. The fact I wasn't presently treading water offshore – or worse – filled me with a special joie de vivre. Having made my way to the shore of Lake Superior, to discover that Mother Nature didn't have it in for me just yet, gave me a warm glow inside...or perhaps it was the thought of dry clothes waiting back at the car.

The disarmingly named Sand River, now a raging tumult, makes its way to the shores of Lake Superior.

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Hotspring Island – The Queen Charlotte Islands 1988

Early the next morning, dressed quietly and went outside to explore a little more of the island before breakfast. A narrow trail led over a low hill behind the cabins. It wound its way through what seemed to be the densest part of the forest, to the shore at the other side. As I stopped to take a photograph of some large ferns at the base of a tree, a raven swooped overhead and landed on a nearby branch. I looked at him for a second and raised my camera. He tilted his head and looked back, but just as I was about to take a picture, he dropped from his perch and glided off. A minute or so later he returned; though a little farther away this time, and behind some branches. When I continued he launched into the air again, locating another vantage point, some distance ahead, with just a few beats of his wings. The pattern repeated, and every fifteen or twenty feet he would wait, peering at me through the foliage.
In the stillness of the forest, air whooshing over his feathers, and the snapping of one or two small branches as he made his way, were the only sounds. When I reached the edge of the woods however, my curious friend did not emerge into the open. He watched for a while as I stood on the beach, and then he was gone.
I wandered along the shore for a short distance, snapping the occasion picture as warm morning sunshine splashed the distant hill tops, washing away the flat blue light of dawn. The others will be up by now, it suddenly occurred to me, and they'll probably not want to stay here long. As the sun disappeared again behind a bank of heavy cloud, I retraced the forest trail and returned to the camp.

In the forest's shadow, new life emerges from the tangled branches of a dead hemlock. I found this silent, hidden world endlessly fascinating.

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