What We Can See

How's everyone doing out there? I hope well, and I hope that you all had a nice holiday weekend. With this whole COVID thing it's starting to feel like everything has a qualifier though, doesn't it? We want to wish others well, we hope that people are happy and healthy and doing the things that feed their souls. But there's kind of an asterisk there. Things that went without saying before.

​"I hope that you enjoyed the holiday weekend...*"

(*-in a socially responsible manner, of course.)

I think there are a lot of reasons for this. One is just the uncertainty of the times. It's so hard to know what is really safe, and where to draw the line, and those rules are different for all different people in all different places. Of course that's not to say we don't have very good science based guidelines that should help inform our choices and behavior, but it's easy for those lines to become blurred with so many variables in play. And of course we're all itching to get back to an uninhibited life, spent with friends and family and enjoying the activities that we love. So there's this whole dichotomy between what we wish life could get back to, and what we actually do or encourage, that factors into everything these days.  

On top of this, I believe that most of us have become more aware of how our actions can impact others. And how their actions can impact others, and on down the line. We are cognizant of things now that six months ago wouldn't have even crossed our minds. This is a good thing, because it not only leads us to consider how interconnected we all are, but presents an opportunity for growth in our shared humanity and social contract. Unfortunately though it also sheds an unsettling light on disconnect and empathetic divides.  

I wrote a couple of issues ago that while our sacrifices today may not elicit the glory of past examples, like storming the beach at Normandy, they are still performed for a greater good. It's so sadly ironic now that on Memorial Day weekend, a time meant to honor those who paid the ultimate price for our freedoms, that there would be people out there unwilling to accept the slightest inconvenience for the sake of others. There were literally people, in what they claimed as a proclamation of American freedom and while celebrating this as a gleeful holiday- one which they clearly don't understand- that were unwilling to wear a piece of fabric over their face or avoid large gatherings. They claim it as an expression of their personal choice and freedom, fixated on what at this point is a selfish excuse, as it is abundantly clear that innocent people will likely die because of these actions. 

What is wrong with people? Seriously... Now, before I go on let me stress again that I know that things are different everywhere and we do have to find a middle ground at times. We should be able to enjoy low risk activities and can't be expected to completely shut down our lives. Scrolling through my social media feeds this past weekend I saw friends all over the country camping, visiting parks, spending time with close family; and I'm happy for those of you who got to do this. I think we need more of this. We need to take care of our mental health too, and as long as we're informing our choices with sound advice and not taking irresponsible risks, this all seems like a prudent way forward.   

What I'm talking about are the nationwide scenes of crowded bars, boardwalks, and beaches. Stories of busy restaurants with minimum wage waitresses being ridiculed and coughed on simply for wearing a mask. That nonsense is not what our soldiers died for. I find it infuriating when people claim freedom as a guise for ignorance. 

I'm sure you've all seen that video from the Ozarks by now. My goodness. Talk about a human Petri dish. That looks like an absolute nightmare to me -even outside of a pandemic. Slathering up pool side with hordes of self entitled drunks? No thank you. I wonder though if a single one of those people has given any consideration to others.  

What would they say to someone who has to watch people behaving like that while grieving the recent loss of a loved one to COVID-19? How would they explain themselves to a doctor or nurse who spent this past weekend working twelve hour shifts, unable to so much as take a sip of water or grab a bite to eat because there's no time to take off their protective gear? That's happening right now, in and on the outskirts of Navajo Nation; and I'm sure probably in current hot spots all over the country as well.

What would they say to high school seniors who were supposed to graduate last weekend but couldn't have a traditional ceremony with their peers? Or grandparents who will never get to see them walk across the stage? What would they say to the parents of an immunocompromised child, who not only want to grocery shop without fear but who also long for the day that they can take their kid back out in public too?

And what would they say to the person who ends up dying for their "freedom"? Or to that person's family members, coworkers and friends? Not someone who died having made the choice to go to war, but who instead died having needlessly been exposed to a preventable illness,  because people disregarded the risks and just did as they pleased instead. 

It's so frustrating. It's beyond frustrating, it's heartbreaking. We are not talking about statistics. These aren't hypothetical numbers. We are talking about REAL PEOPLE. Real lives lost. A hundred thousand now in this country alone. Over 350,000 world wide. Millions of people grieving. Millions more sick and scared. And yet we see things like this. What has this world come to? Or has it always been this way and tragedy is exposing us for who we are?

There is hope, though. I saw a headline the other day, just as I was ready to lose my mind, that brought much needed perspective. It read "Some Americans Crowd Public Spaces as COVID-19 Cases Surge"

Some Americans. Some. I think it's very important to keep that in mind, and it's something I've been trying to hold onto. Absurdity makes for easy headlines. People being careless and stupid provides ready-made content. But just because it's gone viral doesn't mean it's the norm. (Definitely no pun intended there.) I think that speaks to some of my other frustrations and fears- those being that as people get restless they'll drop their guard. They'll see others behaving recklessly and feel it entitles them to do so too.

Please don't be like that. Knowing most of you who receive this newsletter I doubt any of you are. But still, if you find yourself on the fence, choose to be cautious. Choose to be kind. Choose empathy and self awareness. Despite the stories that are out there, despite what some are doing, there are still many, many more of us sacrificing to do the right thing and hold the line. Please be guided by the understanding that your choices will impact others.

Don't go down in history as some redneck in a pool.

News and Updates

I am still very much in limbo as far as art shows this year. Obviously they've all pretty much cancelled through May and June, with the lone exception being the Iowa Arts Festival, supposed to be in a couple of weekends but now tentatively postponed to the end of July. Others are taking a more proactive and probably much more realistic approach. I had a mid-July date for Steamboat Springs, Colorado and another show scheduled in Chicago for late August. Both already cancelled over a month ago. Another set for Peoria at the end of September is already polling interest for participation in an alternative virtual show. My earliest possible date right now is Fourth of July weekend in Whitefish, Montana. Honestly, if it does go on, I don't know what I'm going to do.  

Outside of my regular Iowa venues, of all those I was accepted to this year and for sentimental reason alone, the show I have been most hopeful for is Whitefish. I love that community. I love Montana. I lived there off and on for a decade and other than Tipton it's the only place I've ever felt I truly belonged. It was actually at the Whitefish Farmers Market, and in the local bookstore, that I first came across people selling embossed photo note cards. Around the same time I happened upon the art show one summer and discovered nature photographers selling prints. "Huh," I thought, "I wonder if I could do this too..." I later started my business in Iowa, but Whitefish is one hundred percent where the inspiration was born. 

It would mean so much to me to come full circle and return as a working artist, not to mention the chance to get back to town and see some of my old friends. But I've made the decision that if any show does take place this summer, I will only participate if it seems safe and ethical to do so. As much as I love Whitefish and would really love to get back, the last thing I want is to be any part of an event that leads to an outbreak there. While I'm isolated and could pretty much self quarantine for weeks before and after the show, I would have to go home to Iowa first to get my tent and displays before heading up there. Even then I can minimize contact with others, but that's six states I'd be passing through en route. I don't know. By the same token, Glacier is going to be opening up so people are going to be coming in from all over the place anyhow. I don't know that in the big picture I would add much overall risk to the community, but I am the only one that I have control over. I'm just going to have to watch and see how things develop over the next couple weeks and decide. If the show organizers don't cancel first, it's really going to be an agonizing decision. And the same will come a few weeks later for Iowa City, and everywhere after that.

There is hope that we could ease forward and start to lift restrictions, and that maybe events like this could reasonably take place. Research is showing that the virus doesn't spread easily via contaminated surfaces, but more prominently through aspirated droplets. Transmission and risk could drop significantly if everyone would start wearing masks, we institute wide spread testing, and we all pull together with common sense practices. With fairly simple and proper measures we could really get a handle on things in the months ahead. Festivals could happen, responsible gatherings, people could confidently return to work; and we'd be in a much better position to safely open schools in the fall. But, you know... freedom and stuff... so who's to say how it will all play out. 

Feature Photo

I've been thinking a lot about Whitefish lately, and reflecting back on my last visit there. The feature photo above (along with all of them in this newsletter) was taken during that trip, along Avalanche Creek in Glacier National Park. It was in August of 2016. I can't believe it's been so long since I've been back. When I left Montana I promised myself to return at least once a year. I didn't want to lose the special connection I felt with that magical place or the people there. Life happens though, and even our best intentions sometimes fall to compromise. I do still feel the connection, but also feel guilty for having been away so long.

Avalanche Creek, and specifically the famed Avalanche Gorge which these waters course through, was actually the site of one of my very first tastes of the Montana wild. I initially moved out there in 2001, just looking to experience a different side of life. I had no promise of a job, no place to live... my buddy Bill and I literally threw some possessions in the back of our trucks, pulled our Cedar County stakes and moved to the Flathead Valley. Neither of us had ever even been there before, but it was October, the local ski resort was hiring, and it sounded like a good place to be.

One of the first priorities upon our arrival was to visit nearby Glacier National Park. Come to think of it, Avalanche Gorge and the Trail of the Cedars was actually the first spot we stopped on that rainy autumn day. I'll never forget approaching the trailhead. Late in the season the park was pretty much deserted by humans, but the sounds and smells of the damp old growth forest were so vivid and alive. We were all smiles leaving the security of Billy's truck until we got close enough to read a welcome sign at the start of the trail.

Entering Grizzly Country- You are entering a wilderness area and must accept certain inherent dangers, including snow, steep terrain, water, and wildlife. There is no guarantee of your safety. Bears have injured and killed visitors and may attack without warning and for no apparent reason...

And directly below that, another sign-

WARNING: BEAR FREQUENTING AREA

It was the first time in my life that I had to face a reality where I was not at the top of the food chain. 

Despite many such eye opening moments, or probably because of them, my time in Montana was phenomenal. I said earlier that other than Tipton this is the only place I ever felt I really belonged. I think the same can be said in crediting these two places for very much making me who I am today. While my salt of the Earth Iowa upbringing is responsible for a foundation of hard work, imagination, determination and grit; I definitely built on these core values in Montana to develop new levels of courage, outdoor skill and respect for the wild. I came to be at ease exploring the mountains and grew comfortable venturing deep into Glacier's backcountry alone. Bear warning signs are old hat for me now. They evoke a smile more than trepidation. They mean that I'm entering a healthy ecosystem where apex predators still roam, and in this perspective remind how my appreciation and understanding of wild places has grown. I do blush a little bit now telling how nervous I was taking those first steps toward Avalanche Gorge. It was easy to imagine a ferocious grizzly lurking behind every tree. By comparison with some of my excursions that followed, that path through those suddenly foreboding woods was, as it turns out, actually very mild. Experience isn't fail proof, though. Ironically it was along this same scenic, mellow route, fifteen years later on the day these photos were taken, that I almost lost my life. Not to a bear, but to the water itself.  

The months prior to this 2016 photo trip were some of the scarier of my life. I went through a period of some really bizarre, unexplained health problems. A lot of neurologic abnormalities and almost crippling fatigue. I experienced frequent numbness in my extremities, bouts of dizziness, extreme sensitivity to cold, and grew very weak. I was tested for everything from multiple sclerosis to brain tumors, but nothing showed up. My body was simply falling apart and nobody could figure out why. To make things harder, Caden was on the way. All my life I'd wanted to be a father. I dreamt of taking my child hiking, on bike rides, teaching them to snowboard; bonding and sharing joy in many active pursuits. Now that I was finally going to get the chance my own future felt very much in doubt. I seriously feared at the rate I was declining that I might already be in a wheelchair, or worse, by the time he was born.  

Other than a few family members I didn't really tell anyone what was going on. I tried to hide from my coworkers that I felt on the verge of collapse from simply walking up the hall. I continued to do art shows and remember being near tears as I trembled through the struggle of setting up my tent by myself. I guess then maybe it's not a surprise that I went ahead with this photo trip that I'd been planning for over a year. To be entirely honest, I wanted to go back to Montana and feared this might be the last chance I'd get. 

Whatever was happening at that time never was diagnosed. There's a pretty good chance it was Lyme disease. I was tested for it but the results came back as a false positive. The neurologist I was seeing wasn't entirely confident and explained that Lyme mimics other conditions and can be a pretty hard thing to pin down. Eventually my symptoms stabilized, for lack of a better term, and in time would go away. I had a bit of a relapse with some of the tingling and numbness about a year ago, and still have some sensitivity to cold, but nothing else really since. As for relevance to this story, however, when I got back to Montana that summer I was a shell of myself and physically very weak. Still, I tried my best to fight through it.

That actually turned out to be a really significant trip: full of memorable moments, experiences and inspiration. It was the same adventure that brought the Medicine Wheel story that  I shared a few weeks ago, and visits to Banff and Jasper National Parks in Alberta that I'm sure I'll write about in time. Between those destinations was Glacier. I camped a few days on the east side and spent a couple of sunsets up at Logan Pass. The easy hike out to Hidden Lake Overlook was utterly exhausting for me, but I did it. Three times, for that matter. I went back for a sunrise in there too. I was heartbroken to finally be back in this place that I love and realize I didn't have the strength to set out on some of the hikes I had planned, but I did what I could. From there I moved my camp to the other side of the Divide and decided to take it easy and spend an afternoon photographing Avalanche Gorge.  

The gorge itself is a stretch of Avalanche Creek where over eons rushing water has cut down through the bedrock to carve a narrow chasm. It is easily one of the most spectacular waterways that I have ever seen. The creek roars through a narrow passage accentuating natures artistry as it curves and drops over beautifully sculpted red-hued stone. It slaloms around boulders, white water crashing, spouting mist to nurture a pristine micro-climate for stream side mosses and ferns. Dense surrounding cedar and hemlock forest further lends to the enchantment. It's the kind of place that if you just see once you will surely never forget. It's also the kind of place that you don't want to misstep and fall in. Drowning is the leading cause of death in Glacier National Park, and Avalanche Gorge has had it's share of casualties. It's hard to imagine that anyone could survive being swept through this torrent.  

I'd been at it for a couple of hours and was super careful not to get too close to the edge on the mossy cliffs overtop the gorge narrows. Some guys sell off their sports cars when expecting their first child. I came to the realization that I needed to start thinking twice before tight rope walking along slippery ledges over a treacherous ravine. This was my mini van moment. On top of that, it was painfully obvious that I no longer had the sure footing that I used to. I was shaky, off balance and unsure. So I thought I was being careful, but I suppose I lapsed just a little as I moved upstream and made my way to the waters edge at the head of the gorge. All it took was that one little misstep, one little misjudgment. I put my weight down with a step on a wet rock and my feet slipped out from under me. I was in the water before I knew it. This was basically the equivalent of falling into a river right at the top of a waterfall. I won't write specifically my expletive laden reaction when I hit that water , but the phrase started with "Oh..." and ended with full certainty I was about to die. 

Instinctively I reached out as I landed and grabbed hold of the edge of a platform shaped boulder on the bank. My camera was still in hand and I smashed its glass lens filter on impact. I tossed the camera to dry ground, thinking it would provide a clue to what had happened and where they might find me. The water was up to my rib cage, and the current was strong, but by some absolute miracle I had landed in a little eddy and was sheltered from the full force of the stream. Just a few yards in either direction and I would have been swept into the gorge and had no chance at all. 

I tried to get out, but couldn't. The rocks were slippery and I couldn't  seem to pull myself up. Ironically I wasn't all that far off the trail and as I clung there for dear life I could see people passing by in the sun. It was so surreal. I was desperate for help, but no one would look my way. It's a popular trail and a steady flow continued by. I could see them- carefree,  smiling, laughing. I was on the verge of being pulled under and all those around me were oblivious, just happily going about their day and on with their lives. It was pointless to even try and shout above the roar of the creek. No one would hear me. No one would see me. It was entirely up to me to try and find a way out. 

The middle picture in the series below shows the approximate vantage from where I fell in. I was just a bit further downstream from here. You can see that while hikers are visible passing on the trail, I was obscured from view, being at water level and clinging to the edge in the shadows. It was a pretty scary ordeal. Eventually, I did manage to climb out, though I'm still not really sure how. I remember it took several attempts and I kept pulling myself part way up before slipping back into the water. Each time I was almost scared to keep trying because any motion risked sliding back into the current in a place I couldn't withstand. I made it though. It took everything I had but I managed to claw my way back onto solid ground. 

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and everything that's happened in my life since. It's crazy how such a short span can encompass such unexpected change. In that time I've seen some of my highest of highs and been through the lowest of lows. I think about that sometimes, and all the things that never would have happened if I hadn't made it out of Avalanche Creek that day. There's definitely been a lot of pain that could have been avoided, but all I can do about that now is learn and grow. And on the flip side there were precious moments that I wouldn't trade for all the world. My life isn't where I thought it would be now, but I'm still here, and I hope I might find something to make of it yet. 

In that I'm also reminded of a story that goes with one from another newsletter I recently shared. Very early in my first of those Appalachian Trail adventures in Maine, I called home as everything was falling apart. Those of you who read that tale might remember that I'd set out with a dream of walking across America, which ultimately went nothing as I'd planned. I quickly fell off schedule and  every day felt like it only brought more agony. I called home and admitted that I was thinking about giving up. My Dad listened, and then calmly said "Well, you know what? You're still out there, aren't you? You can come home anytime but since you're there why not just see what you can see... see what you can do? It might not work out like you thought it would, but at least you'll have tried to make the best of what you could. You might as well see as much as  you can while you're there..."

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, too, and how it applies to the much bigger picture of life. Even when things fall apart and end up nothing as we hoped, wanted, or expected, we still have a chance to keep trying and see what we can while we're here. 

Life is full of twists and turns and we never really know where it's going to lead. There will be heartache, and there will be moments that we wouldn't trade for anthing. All we can really do is embrace it and keep trying. Be willing to learn and grow. Be grateful for the times we have, give it the best we can, and believe our paths will put us where they're supposed to in the end. 

The thing is, we'll never really know unless we find the strength to pull ourselves out of the water.

Alright all. I've certainly wasted enough of your time but if anyone is curious, here's a little video of Avalanche Gorge. (Not one that I shot, I just pulled this up from a quick YouTube search.) The video is kind of long but the first thirty seconds or so will give you a good taste. It's such an amazing place, I really hope those of you who haven't been there will one day get to (safely) experience it for yourselves.

And I do hope that these newsletters don't come off with me sounding too self-important or preachy. I know this isn't really what anybody signed up for. When I started this I envisioned more of a travelogue, but I haven't gone anywhere and I know I've just kind of taken the liberty to use this as a platform to share some of the other things on my mind, for the time. It's not for everybody, as evidenced by the handful of unsubscribes I get in response to every issue, but I do appreciate those of you who have stuck with me for this long. I'll stick with it too, and keep trying to make it worth your time. 

As for this one though, I suppose that's all I've got. 

Take care everyone. Keep those spirits up and keep focusing on both the quiet blessings of today and on the positive things to come. 

And please wear a damn mask...