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With Duke Beardsley, Whitney Gardner, Robert Moore, Bradford Overton, Billy Schenck, Ben Steele, & Dennis Ziemienski

Reception: Thursday, January 22, 6-8pm

7038 E. Main Street
Scottsdale, AZ 85251

I was honored to be asked to create artwork for the new dinning experience, Gertrude’s by Tarbell’s, at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix. The garden has been close to heart for over 35 years, and hosted my 25th year retrospective in 2016. When I need to meet a client or entertain out of town guests, Gertrude’s is a favorite dining destination!

Learn More / Make a Reservation

I have been a professional artist for almost 35 years now. I work hard, seek out my own inspiration, and paint authentically from my heart about things I am passionate about.

In the art world, it is common knowledge that the minute you finish a piece of art, you own the copyright. However, your legal rights diminish if you haven’t actually filed copyrights with the Library of Congress. Even so, if another person wants to copy your work or make derivatives, they must ask permission. Copying another person’s work is not flattery, it’s stealing. I have been filing copyrights of my work yearly since the beginning of my career. I felt it was an important part of the business of being an artist. This year it paid off–literally.

I started noticing an issue during Covid. My followers were being targeted for merchandise featuring my art, and thankfully they brought that to my attention.  Products like paint-by-numbers and home décor appeared primarily on Facebook and Instagram. Tracking down overseas companies was tough, and we fought it where we could–sending cease-and-desist letters, referencing my copyrights–and we got most of it taken down. Some days it was like playing whack-a-mole.

This is when I started the practice of doing random reverse image searches of my art online, maybe once a month. It was interesting what would show up. Graphic designers were using my art in their customer’s branding. On Etsy, “artists” were downright copying paintings (poorly) and offering them for sale.  Again, I would do the work, report posts, or reach out and ask nicely to take things down.

A common misconception is that if anything is on the internet, it’s free for the taking. It is not. Even if the image had traveled, meaning it has been shared and reposted so many times the original attribution is gone, you still must do the work to find the source and ask permission. A simple application of the practice would be on Facebook. If you, for example, find a pretty photo online of the Sonoran Desert landscape and make it your cover photo, you need to give credit to the photographer who created it. Photographers who are trying to eke out a living in their profession don’t spent hours creating and editing images for you to use it for free; so reach out for permission, and at the very least give them credit.

Pinterest is a treasure trove for copyright infringements. Again, there’s an assumption that if you can snag it off the site, you can copy it; after all, it’s a site for ideas. Again, this is a false assumption. Several times when I’ve asked an artist who copied me where they found my work, they’ve said Pinterest, and they thought they could copy it. I don’t use Pinterest anymore for that reason.

Earlier this year, I discovered (through a random online search) that an artist found my work on Pinterest, copied it as a large mural in a restaurant, and then was paid handsomely for “his work.” This infringement hurt. This was not a hobbyist or an art student learning to paint, this was a professional artist stealing from another artist. We discussed it as a family, and decided this would be where we would take a stand.

I contacted several artist friends who have walked this road and asked for advice. They generously shared their own copyright lawsuit experience and results. When I asked, “would you do it again?” some said yes, some no. For sure, it felt like a huge gamble. In the end, we (and I know I’m saying we a lot, but we are a family business) decided this was a stitch in time; a line in the sand, a career decision, and most of all (for me personally) a fight on behalf of all my artist friends who work hard to create original work. This was me yelling out the window “insert famous movie line of your choice!”

An artist friend in Santa Fe graciously shared the name of his copyright attorney. I called. I shared the evidence. Most importantly, I shared my copyright Library of Congress number for the infringed work. Our odds improved. They took the case and we got an education in the world of copyright law. Was it a cheep education? No, but they worked with us because we all knew what’s right is right.

We just settled, thankfully out of court. Everyone involved now know what transpired was wrong. The mural will be painted over, expenses paid; and yes, there will be a bit left over for some nice art supplies. Overall, I am very happy with our results.

The purpose of this essay, and our copyright lawsuit story, is to accomplish two things.

First, to encourage you to create your own work. It’s great to be inspired and influenced by other artists, but if you want longevity in this profession, your work needs to be recognizably yours and yours alone. Choose your subject matter from your heart, and then go find it in the world; study it, immerse yourself, and then create! Why would you enter the profession of creativity and then not be creative? Phony art is easy to spot. Don’t be a phony.

Second, protect your work. Maybe you don’t care if your work is copied and sold, and that’s okay; but if you do, if you have plans down the road for your children and their children to benefit from your hard work, you must protect it. Filing a copyright involves the government; sometimes that’s a pain, but overall it’s not a hard task. I sit down and do mine once a year in about a day. And this year, it paid off.

Lastly, I’d like to talk to art collectors. The value of my original art in your collections is important to me. The integrity of my work and my profession should be the best I can offer. That includes my copyright. If any derivatives are made of my work, they will be controlled by me and my family. You are the reason we as artists get to create. Your investment in the work of my hands is monumental to me, and I thank you.

So, gratefully, we are feeling victorious in the fight for what is right. I hope you feel better informed, encouraged, and empowered.    

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have original art to create!

©2025 Dyana Hesson

Learn more about copyright:

https://copyright.gov

March 28th- May 23, 2025

In 2005, Desert Caballeros Western Museum embraced a revolutionary idea: an annual exhibition showcasing the brightest contemporary female artists working in the Western genre. In the male-dominated world of Western Art, Cowgirl Up! turned the spotlight squarely on women’s voices and perspectives, serving up a new, deeper understanding of the American West. Over a decade later, CU! remains one of the major national events for Western women artists.

Come celebrate the 20th year with me as I unveil new masterworks especially for the show.

Artist Talk
Thursday October 3, 2024 3:00 PM

Western Spirit: Scottsdale’s Museum of the West
3830 N. Marshall Way
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
480-686-9539

Tickets: https://westernspirit.org/project/artist-spotlight-wild-at-art-the-adventures-and-art-of-dyana-hesson/

Botanical artist Dyana Hesson loves a good adventure. “I simply can’t get enough of Arizona; its sun on my face, its dirt under my feet, its colors on my pallet. The Grand Canyon state has been generous with inspiration for my many years as an artist, and I’m just getting started. There’s always more to explore around the next bend.”

Driven by curiosity and discovery, Hesson is on a mission to paint every wild Arizona plant she can find. Beyond the attention-grabbing prickly pear and saguaro, she also loves painting the little plants and blooms found in Arizona’s backcountry. Placing her subjects in the landscape helps her collectors feel the moment of discovery, and thus enter into the adventure.

Learn more about her creative process through stories, photos, and videos, and get a sneak peek at the work she is preparing for her 2025 one-woman show. Wild Arizona will celebrate her thirty-five years as a painter, unveiling the largest collection of her works seen publicly in years.

The one-hour talk will be followed by time for questions and a “The Art of Wildflowers” book signing in the museum lobby. Special reception and art viewing to follow at Bonner David Galleries, located at 7040 E. Main Street in Scottsdale.

Costa Rica, January 2024, the dry season.

I recently did some flower hunting in Costa Rica!

Jump to Video

Traveling to a new place, especially an international destination, can be a little overwhelming. If you’re like me, you prepare by talking to people who have been, gathering information, and making a nice tidy folder. I watched YouTube videos, travel videos, so that in some way I was familiar with the place in my mind before I arrived. I also bought a nice Nat Geo map. I love maps.

All of that preparation is helpful. But there’s nothing like putting your boots on the ground. 

Our trip was a girl trip, and we planned  for about a year and a half. My friends all used their superpowers to help. We held zoom calls with our Costa Rican host, had group chats, and we made a plan. Slowly the hard details like flights, hotels and shuttles were in place. We decided on activities loosely and nailed those down once we arrived. 

Three of us were coming from Arizona, one from Minnesota, and one from California. The Arizona girls took Southwest Airlines through Houston.

We flew into San Jose, spent one night at the Fairfield by Marriot, which was perfect. Great breakfast, clean and quiet rooms, friendly service, and a free shuttle to and from the airport. In the morning we used a shuttle service (Costa Rica Trip Guild) to get from San Jose to the Dominical area. Our Driver made interesting stops along the way. We picked up a rental car in Uvita, (EC rent a car) got groceries, and drove on our own for the week. I was mainly the designated driver, and after a short while I felt very comfortable navigating the roads and all the steep ups and downs.  

We stayed at a beautiful vacation home by owner (https://www.vrbo.com/11133866ha) in the hills overlooking Playa Dominical. We heard howling monkeys and Toucans every morning. We took walks, explored local waterfalls, took surfing lessons, swam in the pool, and ate a lot of great, fresh, local food.

My overall impression? Costa Rica is a beautiful country. The people are friendly and hard-working and helpful. The food is delicious, the scenery is breathtaking, and it is such a huge country, there is so much to explore time and time again.

Would I go back? Absolutely.
See our:

Tips and notes:

-With connecting flights, our bags went straight through to Costa Rica, but on the return flight, we had to pick them up in Houston and recheck them. Southwest has a flight from Phoenix to Houston and Houston to San Jose.

-If you are driving on your own, a 4-wheel drive is a must. I would not have driven on my own in the congested city of San Jose, but the Uvita/Dominical area was fine.

-We were asked for our passports one time at a road side check.

-We had one night where it rained 3 inches, but I only had to drive in the rain once. Pack a rain coat.

-Be leery of anywhere that advertises photos with with wildlife. It’s not good for a “wild” monkey to sit on your shoulder for a photo, and they have been known to eat their own. Leave the wild, wild. Use a zoom lens. There is a great Animal rescue in Uvita you can visit and learn more.

-I didn’t drink the water, all my friend did, we were all fine.

-a 10% tip is added, so no need to tip extra. This made life easier, and service was still great although not super fast. We did tip our shuttle diver, etc.

-Mas o Menos (More or less) reigns true with scheduling. It’s still good to arrive to your tour etc on time, but waiting once you arrive is not uncommon.

-the surf at Playa Dominical is gentle and a great place for surfing lessons.

Packing:

I took a midsize checked bag in a small carry-on with my toiletries and things I would need for one night. That way I would not have to rummage through my large suitcase at the first night hotel.

I did not wear my hiking pants, boots or any socks at all.
But If I were to go back and hike more of Chirripo NP. I’d bring them for the cooler temps and rough terrain.

My swim suit took too long to dry. Next time I would bring a fast drying two piece and wraps and quick drying tanks for over the top.  If your accommodations have air-conditioning, things will dry faster inside, even if there is sun outside.

Ladies, loose dresses are perfect. You can wear your bathing suit underneath and be ready for a dip in the ocean or a waterfall at a moment’s notice.

Pretty much, just pack like you would for Hawaii. Plan to sweat, a lot. Don’t bring anything valuable, and don’t leave things in your car.

Pura Vita!

Dyana Hesson partnered with Rusconi’s American Kitchen to raffle two limited edition signed prints for the month of September. Each print was inspired by Hesson’s frequent travels to Hawaii for rest and inspiration. They are 20×30 inches, and are titled “The Anniversary Gift” and “Pili-Lani, Close to Heaven.”

100% of the proceeds will go to Maui Strong.
The drawing will took place on September 30, and the lucky winner was Susie Ernst!

And, combined with the participating valley restaurants, the total campaign raised 32,556!!!

The Maui Strong Fund is providing financial resources to support the immediate and long-term recovery needs for the people and places affected by the devastating Maui wildfires.

Learn more here:
https://www.hawaiicommunityfoundation.org/strengthening/maui-strong-fund

I’m so honored to announce that “Arizona Spin Cycle: Wildflowers, Little Colorado River” is now on permanent collection at Western Spirit Museum in Scottsdale. Many thanks to the Charles F. Sands Family and Bonner David Galleries for their generous gift in memory of Dr. Ted F. Anderson, Ethnobotanist.

Visit: 3830 N Marshall Way, Scottsdale, AZ 85251
https://scottsdalemuseumwest.org/

Making Something New, 2023

I’ve been exploring this area of desert for over 25 years. As long as I can remember, there has been a pile of scalloped landscape bricks near the wash. I am guessing that even before Red Mountain Ranch was built, someone redoing their yard made the trek into the desert to discard what they no longer wanted. 

People do that. 

They dump their trash.

All things considered, it’s a shame. Dumping stuff in the desert, or out your window is littering. And, things like bricks can have a second life. 

The old can be made new. Re-imagined. Redeemed. 

Earlier this year I stopped and stared at the pile of bricks for a spell. I saw a problem to be solved. They should not be out here.  My back could not endure hauling them out of the desert altogether, so maybe I’d just build something new. 

Like the Heart if Prayer I built with friends out here after Sandy Hook, maybe a new heart, an open heart would be a nice place for a hiker to stop, rest, and be still. 

I thought I would get some help in moving the pile, for all I knew there was a dead body under all those bricks. But as it happened, I worked on the transformation alone. 

It gave me time to think. To process some hurts, some sorrow, some less than perfect circumstances, and to pray.  

As I moved each brick from its random spot in the pile to its new location in my design, I thought about the work God has done in my life. Using various trials for my good, transforming my junk into something useful, beautiful. I certainly am thankful for that.

Slowly, the pile shrunk and the heart grew. I decided to would make a break in the design. Keep the heart open so to speak. After all, a new year is cresting over the horizon and it would be good to stay open to new possibilities, new experiences, new friends. After all, by staying open, I could learn something new. 

So, if you’re out this way, maybe you’ll find the Open Heart. Maybe you’ll stop for a spell and think about your own pile of bricks.

It’s never too late.

You’re never too far gone.

Your life, no matter how messy can be a new creation.

Just keep your heart open. 

#openheartredmountain 

I’m so pleased to be a part of this special installation. Three of my works were transformed into giant lit glass pieces for the elevator lobbies, and a walkway of my prints were installed. All of the art was chosen for this valley hospital with beauty and healing in mind. Praying that all who visit; patients, families, and healthcare workers would feel energized, blessed and strengthened.

A special thank you to ArtStudio 101

-dh

by Dyana Hesson

An Eight Day River Trip on the Colorado River from Lee’s Ferry to Diamond Creek
May 26 – June 2, 2022      Jump to What to Pack

The frigid water washed over me like a second baptism. My right hand clenched my camera tightly over my head. Randy was sitting next to me on the floor of the boat, our feet dangling over the “people catcher” net. He was urging me to put down the camera and hold on. I heard someone chant “Lava, Lava!” Just then, the boat dipped, and the second wave engulfed me.

I could feel my body separate from the boat. For a moment I was floating. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my life vest from behind. I learned later that a guide had grabbed ahold of me. I felt my body come to a rest on the hard steel, gravity was restored, and I was exhilarated.

This story is about the river, the boatmen, and us; the bobbing bodies on the boat. The newbies, the first-time campers, the adventurers and the timid. We would learn day by day what we were made of, what we were capable of, how friendships are created when daily life is spent in close quarters and new adventures are experienced in tandem.

But truthfully, this story may be more about me. Selfishly, I want to write about my experience. All the other stuff is important too. I love Arizona history, geography, interesting facts. Lord knows, writing about a Grand Canyon River trip would give me oodles of opportunities to share those things. I mean, good grief; the Powell expedition, the missing layer thing, excerpts of “Death in the Grand Canyon’, the Sierra Club’s fight, the fastest run in a Dory. . . But other people have written those stories and they are good stories. But this was my trip.

The way I see it, a trip has three impactful phases: before (anticipation), during (adrenaline), and after (reflection). These are my reflections. They are deep and wide, like the river that inspired them.

Why The Colorado River?

Randy and I booked this trip about a year earlier. Originally, we wanted to travel with friends, but by one by one their plans changed, or an injury ensued and so that was that. We would learn later that the river does not care about who you bring, but what you bring. If you bring your courage, your willingness, your talents, your patience, and your energy; and share those things freely, that will do. There will be things to learn, new friends to make, challenges taken, and tears shed all around the river bend.

We were attracted to this trip as a way to connect the dots of so many places we love in Arizona. The Little Colorado River in the White Mountains, Havasupai, Phantom Ranch on Bright Angel Creek, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, Lake Powell, Lee’s Ferry and Page, are all places where we’ve spent significant time exploring and recreating. The Colorado River is the long sweeping line on the map that connects all those special places. It is the common thread, and the lifeblood of our great state of Arizona. It is wild and unspoiled and a little overwhelming. And so it was time, while we were able-bodied and upright.

The Adventure Begins

We arrived at the Little America Hotel in Flagstaff on a Wednesday afternoon. Orientation was at 7:00pm. Slowly, 24 strangers tricked into the room and found a seat. We received our dry bags, map, personal groover, and some simple instructions. And I do believe the “simple” part is a strategy used by our rafting outfitter, AZRA. Give a bunch of newbies too much info too fast and our heads would explode.

We all had an opportunity to introduce ourselves. Nice folks, mostly 55 or older, from all over the US. A very special group in the making.

We had a reasonable night’s sleep and met first thing in the morning to board our bus to Lee’s Ferry. For better or worse, our two dry bags were packed and loaded, and we climbed aboard. We passed the time chitchatting with our fellow travelers as the bus traversed a landscape of hogans and dry washes. Connections were beginning to form as we attempted to learn more about our group members. I glanced up and around at what looked the opening scene of a summer camp movie; windows open, bus bouncing down the road, anticipations high. I had never been to summer camp as a kid, maybe this was my initiation.

After a pit stop and a few more miles we stopped briefly at Navajo Bridge, which spans Marble Canyon, and is a favorite place of mine. I have stood here many times marveling at the contrast of the green Colorado River with the red walls of the canyon. Some days you can see condors roosting below the bridge or riding the contrails in the blue sky above. I have always thought this view was beautiful and symbolic; so much so that several years ago, I painted a small painting of the bridge and river called “The Adventure Begins.” And now here we were about to begin our own river adventure.

The bus dropped us at Lee’s Ferry, a place steeped with Arizona history, and the launching point of hundreds of rafters each year. We used the flushing toilet one more time, put on our life vests, chose a boat, and loaded our gear. There were two boats. They were bigger than I thought they would be, and that was comforting to me.

And just like that, we were bouncing through Pariah Riffle, and I was looking UP at Navajo Bridge. The first dot connected. My sister-in-law, Candice, did a fun thing for us. She drove up from Mesa with her dog Indy and positioned herself on the bridge as we floated underneath. She snapped photos of us, we took photos of her.

We had five guides; Wes and Harlen who drove the boats, and three helpers or “swampers” Marcus, Julie and Rene. A past guide, Nancy also helped. Their combined experience on the river was invaluable. I don’t know if all river guides possess the same traits, but I noticed that our guides had an easy way about them. Relaxed, confident and patient. Their demeaners bred assurance, and their encouragement during various activities made my shoulders relax.

Ah yes, my shoulders. All scrunched up to my ears after a serious year of activity in the studio. All squeezed together in anxiety about whether I had what it took to do this trip well. I pride myself on being a competent, athletic gal of 56 years, but truth be told I have had periods of anxiety in recent years. That’s when being with the right people comes in. Randy is my people. And tonight, as I hyperventilated in our sweltering tent after day one, he would whisper to me, “You can do this, God made you for this.” But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

One of my anxieties about the trip was my swimming ability. I’m an ok swimmer, but not a champion by any means. In preparation for this trip, I had read some amazing books and seen some wonderful documentaries, and so “swimming” around in my head were all the scenarios that had gone wrong. In recent months, several women my age had died on their rafting trips. In the end, I knew that I was responsible for my own safety. I don’t assume a guide or even my husband of 36 years has the ability to save me from some unfortunate circumstance. This adventure was a risk, but the reward always outweighs the risk. And I’m not a quitter.

The agenda on the river is fluid. You do not receive an itinerary of scheduled stops. If it is lunchtime and a beach is available, then the guides make that choice. I thought I would write down the details of our trip as we went, and we were given this awesome map book in which to do so, but where did I pack that thing? And where did I put that lip balm? It was day one and I was discombobulated. And now, it was time for our first lunch and pee stop.

For some of us newbies, the whole pee-in-the-river thing had a learning curve. Friends told me it would work out, and I would get the hang of it, and I did. If you are thinking about this trip and that is a concern of yours, let it go. It’s going to be ok.

A little table that doubled as a gurney, got set up for lunch. Lunch was always some sort or wrap or sandwich, pringles (they don’t crush on the river and the sodium tastes great!) and cookies or little candies like Starburst. You wash your hands and get in line and construct your sandwich. No utensils or napkins, and you eat standing in the water or sitting on a rock or the boat. Easy peasy.

When this activity takes place in the upper world, there are always little bits of trash left behind. That is simply not tolerated on the river. It is a pristine, wild place, and so like visitors to an ancient castle, looking over the ropes to see where the king sat, we had the desire to leave it like it was. Not a scrap of food or a tiny tear of wrapper get left behind. It all gets safely stowed away or, if it qualifies, deposited in the river. The saying down here “The solution to pollution is dilution,” is a weird concept to get used to. The idea of dumping your pee in the same water where you wash up and brush your teeth is odd at first, but we were assured that it works in such a massive amount of moving water.

After successfully riding several more rapids, which all have interesting names and are recorded in that great map book I put somewhere, it was time for camp. It was later in the afternoon, and we encountered another rafting party, non-motorized, I think.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Is that Harlan?”

“Yeah man, how’s your trip?”

“Great man.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Thinking 139 mile.”

“Okay, we won’t go there.”

“Thanks man, have a great trip!”

“Right on.”

This is the Colorado River text message; a simple exchange that we would hear often on our eight days on the river. Its simplicity and good will enable multiple rafting parties to make their plans for a safe night on shore. But we would see as the days went by that these boatmen and women are not only caretakers of their passengers, but also stewards of the mighty Colorado River.

I think it was 3:30 or 4:00PM when we pulled into camp. That was about the time we pulled in each afternoon, usually just before the sun sank over a ridge and gave us the sweet relief of shade.

Our guides were diligent to announce the name of camp each night, but I couldn’t keep track. If it hadn’t been for a group of ladies lead by Brooke from Idaho, I would not even have had the details of each day for this story. They simply escaped my mind on the river and floated south. And really, what does it matter if you are safe on shore and dinner is cooking?

Brooke tells me camp on day one was at North Canyon. After creating a human chain to unload the boat, an interesting activity took place, the campsite scurry. This is where Randy and I failed. Not that we didn’t find a decent place to pitch our tent each night, we always did, but the speed and grace of that activity was lost on us. That is a personality thing. We are frustrated perfectionists. We are refiners. We butt heads sometimes, like Colorado River big horn sheep. Not until the eighth day of our eight-day trip did we find a groove. Not to be confused with a groover.

Although we have camping experience, that first night we failed. We put our tent on a level rock, which was fine, the pads they give you to sleep on are soft. However, the heat of the day released from the earth at night, and with no breeze, well, this menopausal woman had a crisis. If a helicopter had landed, I would have hopped on and whizzed away; at least I fantasized about that. But remember, I’m not a quitter.

Randy likes to tell the story of the time we cycled around Mormon Lake. We had been camping there to watch a friend compete in a dog trial and had brought our bikes. The ride was lovely, a clockwise loop from the little town and back. Near the end or our ride, there was a long sloping hill to ascend. As I approached, I attempted to shift, and my gears stuck. I could not adjust them into an easier gear for climbing. I could see Randy getting smaller and smaller in front of me and my heart was racing. I stood up on my petals and powered through in high gear. Randy was waiting for me at the top as I came huffing and puffing up the hill, tears streaming down my face. “What’s going on?” he said. I hopped off my bike and collapsed in his arms, bawling. “My bike was stuck in high gear,” I gasped. “Why didn’t you just hop off and walk it up?” he asked.

Why, indeed? I don’t know. Maybe the same reason why failing college algebra three times didn’t stop me from graduating with honors at Arizona State University. It’s the will. And there’s always a way. But sometimes it’s not pretty.

On night one on the Colorado River at about midnight, I was fighting a panic. I could not cool down. I could not turn on a fan. Randy handed me his water bottle and said, “soak your sarong and lay it on top of you, you can do this.” I soaked the pretty sarong I had bought years ago at a farmers market in Hawaii while vacationing with friends. Where were those friends? Probably sleeping well in air conditioning. I laid it over my body and stared at the sky. Even without my glasses (dagnabit, where did I pack those glasses?) I could see a shower of meteorites just above the rim. Spectacular, I thought. And then I mumbled something to God like, “Nice one, trying to comfort me with your profoundly beautiful light show thingy, keep it up God, I dare you.”

Just after 12:30AM or so, a cool breeze picked up and I drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day, guaranteed.

A New Day, and Another, and Another

Just now, while writing from my high-top table at happy hour, I overheard the headlines from the 5:00 newscast. “Restrictions in place this weekend for all urban hiking trails. They will be closed from 8AM to 6PM because of excessive heat.” This is life back on top; restrictions, no trespassing signs, etc. You might get hurt, pass out, fall. I grew up at a time when kids my age were flying down hills on skateboards without helmets, jumping off bridges into the American river, and driving fast down narrow country roads. Yes, all risky behaviors. And yes, some kids got hurt, and when they did our parents let us know. That’s why I never did the bridge jumping thing, (it didn’t seem wise to me) but I did do the skateboarding thing. And I have the scars to prove it. I got to choose.

Day two was mildly risky, but it was challenging in other ways. We saw beautiful sights as we bounced up and down in our boat. We explored a pueblo ruin, saw numerous mountain sheep, and our lunch stop was at Redwall Cavern, a giant cave-like structure with a sandy beach. Picture perfect. There were many sacred datura plants glowing along the shore that gave me painting ideas. Most had already bloomed and wilted for the day, but I did spy a few that were open in the shade. That was a gift. We had a yummy lunch on the cavern beach and were off again. Our guide stopped for a moment against the red wall to point out a small cavity, maybe eight feet across, encrusted with giant fist-sized quartz crystals. I thought my head would explode.

In a few more miles there was an opportunity to cliff jump, a risk we were invited to explore. I took a moment to think. It was only day two. Would there be other cliff jumping opportunities? I asked our guide. Yes, there would. I watched from the boat and filmed two young men, one middled aged man, and our guide all jump. It looked fun, and it was fun to celebrate another’s accomplishment. They swam back to the boat’s safety, and we were on our way again.

As the day went on, the wind became quite strong. We pulled into camp at Nanokoweap Creek. Again, we did the camp site shuffle and got everything set up. I was pooped, but then our guide announced an optional hike to the granaries built into the canyon wall, high above our camp.

I had seen and read about these ancient pueblo storage structures in photos and had wanted to see them, but dang, I was pooped. Then Randy said, “Maybe you should just rest.” That did it. I dunked myself in the water, struggled to get my socks and boots on wet feet, and joined the expedition. I can rest when I’m dead. About half of us went. It was a vigorous hike, and I’m glad I did it.

We circled our camp chairs and enjoyed a fajita dinner on the beach. More connections were made, it truly is a small world. By now, time and its concerns began to slip away. I should write that in my journal, where did I put that journal?

Sleep came easier that night.

Day Three, I Think

Today we would get to see and play in the Little Colorado River. I had been really looking forward to connecting this dot.

For the last several summers, we have been enjoying the hospitality of the X Diamond Ranch on the South Fork of the Little Colorado River in the White Mountains. It is a special place to rest and be inspired. Running water is such a precious treasure in Arizona. To soak your feet the headwaters of such an important tributary is a privilege. It is a rare place where my shoulders relax and I can breathe deeply. Many paintings have been inspired by those moments. The water here eventually travels northwest past Holbrook, Winslow and Cameron, sometimes sinking deep under the earth. But just before its rendezvous with the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, it collides with the aqua blue water of a travertine spring. The clash of color here is profound.

It was midmorning when our guides secured our boats near the confluence. It was an easy walk up the canyon. The first sight of the blue water took my breath away. Thankfully there were only a few other boating parties there when we arrived. There was plenty of room for everyone to enjoy the water. Some boaters had brought blow-up alligators or water toys to play on. I have to say, the sight of something so artificial was a jar to my system.

I’ve had a commitment to conservation since I was a little kid. When I was in grade school, I published a newsletter for the neighborhood kids. My dad would take it to work and run off the copies for me. He was an encouraging dad. It was called Kid News and had a crossword puzzle, and articles about not polluting the environment. The Give a Hoot Don’t Pollute ad campaign was big back then, as well as the crying Indian commercial. It worked on me. Trash made me sad. It still makes me sad. Just this week I followed a work truck out of my neighborhood, and as the driver turned a corner, I saw a silver burrito wrapper fly out the window. It took everything in me not to race up beside him and express my displeasure.

Reflecting on this trip has enhanced those feelings. I want to make good choices in whatever small ways I can. So that day on the pristine river, all I saw when I looked at those blow-up toys was a heap of green plastic in a landfill someday.

We did not need floaties to have fun in the blue water. Our guides taught us how to wear our life vests like diapers to keep our butts from scraping bottom as we floated down the rapids. One by one we each took a turn. I had a little bit of camera battery left so I held my camera in my right hand, pointed my feet downstream, and launched on my first float down the Little Colorado. With the other hand, I high fived our guide Wes, who was waiting on a rock by a rapid. Just then the current took me under. I’m sure I swallowed some blue water. A privilege, I think.

There were several places on this trip where I could have spent the whole day, places I would really enjoy exploring more. But on a trip like this you just get a sample that leaves you longing for the whole enchilada. (Please put your enchilada wrapper in the trash) A few of us hiked up the river a bit farther. That’s when I saw the most beautiful, giant, colorful lizard I had ever seen. By now my camera battery was dead, but fellow boater Bill from California snapped a photo. We asked our guide for help in identifying the exotic lizard, and he said a collared lizard. I have never seen a collared lizard so large and so colorful. Perhaps he swallowed some of the blue water too.

Later that afternoon, another dot was connected. We looked up and to the right at a small arch on the North Rim. Harland told us it was Angel’s Window at Cape Royal. Randy and I had stood there in the autumn of 2020, and we knew it was not small. It was massive. We had spent our 35th wedding anniversary hiking and exploring the North Rim. A friend from Hawaii could not use her reserved cabin because of travel restrictions. It was October, the height of fall color, and we enjoyed four-wheeling and ample wildlife, including American Bison. In the evenings we sat on the lodge patio with a bottle of wine, distanced from other COVID travelers, and had amazing conversations. I remember looking down at the river on that trip and contemplating it. Later in the studio, I had painted that scene, and now I was smack dab in the middle of it.

We had lunch at Carbon Creek and made camp near Hance Rapid that night. Very windy.

While dinner was cooking (hamburgers, I think) we sat in a circle and played a game, initiated by me. I hope that did not annoy my fellow travelers. I just longed to know them better, they were all so very interesting. I walked behind the circle Duck, Duck, Goose style and asked the group to tell me what they had learned so far about the featured rafter. This exercise revealed that I am terrible at remembering specific facts about people, compared to others. Some had taken the time to really know each other. How precious! I love hearing people’s stories, and everyone has one to tell. Listening is such a discipline, and I need to continue to hone that skill. But I tend to learn about people through observation. Maybe that is an artist thing. I notice how someone is patient, how someone is encouraging, how someone lacks confidence or is generous.

Slowly the light faded, and it was time to say goodnight. The wind never died that night, it never even reached old age, it just kept blowing. The tent made a racket. Where were those earplugs I packed? Ugh, oh well.

Rapid Rapids

Day four made me nervous. In all that reading I had done before our trip, I had become familiar with some names that caused me concern. Horn, Granite, Hermit and Crystal were not members of a punk band, but rapids with some grit that at the very least would make me wet and cold. But first, there was another dot to connect on the river.

The first time I hiked to Phantom Ranch from the South Kaibab trail was in 2006. My sister-in-law, Candice, had a special affection for the canyon that she wanted to share with Randy and I. She made the plans and prepared us for our first hike, including gifting us backpacks the Christmas before. The feelings I had on that trip were very much like those I am having now. Anxiety before, trepidation during, and fondness afterward. I would hike it again and again in the coming years, but there had to be a first time.

That inaugural trip magic. We had no reservations for the bottom. But, when we checked in at Bright Angel Lodge the night before, the attendant told us to be first in line in the morning, as there could be a cancellation for one of the cabins. The stars aligned. We got the cabin! I remember on the hike down watching my boots change color as we passed through the geologic layers, alternating between red, buff and green trail dirt. We crossed the black bridge and followed the trail to Phantom Ranch; a conglomerate of dorms, cabins, and a canteen. There were wild turkey and deer grazing alongside the little irrigation creek that runs through the camp. It felt like Shangri-la to me. We ate a steak dinner at long tables with people from all over the world that night. As darkness fell, we gazed towards the rim and thought of the thousands of people up there, standing near the edge for photos, glancing over the precipice. They would never see what we were seeing. It felt very special.

I remember hiking out the next day in the front of my group, and then waiting at the top. I was dirty, tired and exhilarated; my backpack was my crown. A tourist approached me and asked if I would take a photo of her and her friend.

“No,” I said, “I’m sorry, I’m having a moment, I just hiked out of that abyss.” The juxtaposition hit me hard. People walking around with ice cream cones in flip flops while I was standing there with all I needed on my back. It was a learning moment for me; maybe not so much for the tourist. But that’s the canyon. Contrasts, and challenge.

I was sharing some of these hiking stories with my fellow rafters as our boats approached the black bridge. I was so excited to see my old friend from the river. And look, hikers traveling overhead! Candice had given me some cash to get her a t-shirt that is only available from the ranch. But we would not be stopping here. Our guides had shared this information earlier that day. Phantom Ranch was not really open. They were making repairs, bla bla bla. That made me sad. The toll high populations take on natural places is real. In my heart it feels like opportunities to have wild experiences could slowly vanish. Perhaps that is just my perception. Perhaps it’s a post pandemic panic.

The National Park’s website lists all the ways visiting Phantom Ranch will be limited in the near future due to infrastructure repairs. Lotteries and ranch bookings are suspended from January until May 1, 2023, and portions of Bright Angel trail will be closed. And now there is literature saying that Mary Jane Colter did NOT design and name the cabins at the ranch?  I hate change.

I breathed a deep sigh as we floated past Boat Beach, and waved.

A few weeks after we returned from our rafting trip, we would learn a rafter from Tennessee had died near this beach after entering the water to cool off. She would be starting her rafting adventure here and had just arrived from the hike down. Another reminder that the Canyon is a risky place.

We floated under the Bright Angel Silver Bridge and said goodbye to the most populated area on the river thus far. It was time for some wet rapids. For several of these technical rapids Harlan had us sit on the floor of the boat and lock arms. It was safer for us here and he needed to be able to see the rapids to navigate through areas of concern. As the river levels rise and fall as dictated by the dam, things change, and there is never time to be complacent.

For Horn Creek Rapid I sat at the front of the boat on the floor. When the boat dipped into the rapid most of us were soaked, more so if you were up front. It was still morning with cooler air temps, and so recovering from that soaking took quite a while for me. My jaw chattered. But Rene and Julie helped me get out of my wet clothes and the sun began to warm me. We got through Crystal just fine too. There would be another large rapid on day seven, and I would be ready. By the time we landed at Shinumo Creek for lunch I was ready to sit on a warm rock, and I did.

There was a wonderful waterfall and little fish and polliwogs in the creek. I could have stayed here all day too. But it was time to find camp.

Happy hour was at mile 119 that night. Chuck and Cynthia helped us batten down our tent in anticipation of the W word. We learned that the wind has less power if you do not speak its name. I hope I have not cursed anyone on the river by writing it just now. Sorry. Speaking of writing, I thought maybe tonight I’d write in my journal. Take some time to think. No, not tonight. I thought there would be more time for solitude on this trip. Quiet time alone to think. I had to let that go. I treasure the conversation I had with some amazing ladies that night. That was more important than my journal.

River Song

At some point in the trip, it felt like we should be singing river songs, or at least songs about rivers. I could not conjure one up. And for the first time in years, I did not have access to Google to help in the recall. I couldn’t text my Junior High friend about the Olivia Newton John album we listened to. What about the song we would sing with the windows rolled down in high school? Those friends were not around to ask either. The only person on the trip that knew anything about my likes or history was Randy, and he didn’t remember a river song either.

That is another beautiful thing about a river trip. Unless you organize a group to go, you are traveling with strangers. The only thing you know you have in common, is your desire to take this trip: #coloradoriver #grandcanyon

Then, as the days roll by, other affinities arise. But then again, maybe not. No one goes down the river to talk about work. Everyone had interesting professions and such, but the trip was not about that. In fact, I would argue the trip was about anything BUT our professions or roles back home. Shelly from Tucson said it best: “I like to be incognito sometimes.” I think most of my river-mates were natural leaders; folks who could take the reins at any given moment but were taking a break from that role.

But what about that river song? Some of the lyrics for “The River’s Too Wide” came to me and I sang it aloud on the river, and I invited my river mates to sing along too. Still can’t believe I did that, but I felt compelled. And free.

Beeping Cars and Jumping Ship

Randy has one of those hybrid cars that you can put on cruise control, and it basically keeps you in your lane and from hitting the car in front of you. But then you aren’t really driving, the car is. I hate it. It beeps at me when I’m pulling it out of the garage, and I’m not even close to hitting anything. I become accustomed to features like the backup camera, and then, when I drive my Jeep (which literally has no bells or whistles) I forget that I have to look over my shoulder.

The river demands you not turn your attention off. No cruise control, no car beeping at you to stay in your lane. You must be present; you should be present.

It was day five, Memorial Day. There was a small boat regatta of one on the river that day; one rower, with an American flag waving in the wind on the back of his boat.

“Happy Memorial Day!”

“Happy Memorial Day!”

We made a quiet stop at Black Tail Canyon. When I say quiet, that is because, our guides asked us to quietly enter the slot canyon, explore the spring at the terminus, and then settle in the natural amphitheater to enjoy some rest. (Which, ironically, is my word for 2022) Later our guide Harlen played his guitar and Wes read a story. It was nice to sit and listen. No beeping car noises.

I sat and stacked rocks one on another, cairn style. I do not sit still well, and that’s ok. To me, creating piles was restful. When the outing was finished, I took a photo of my rock creations and then knocked the little towers over. The rocks would be there for the next hiker wanting some meditative time alone.

Back on the river again, there was another opportunity for risk. Jump off a perfectly good boat and swim through the rapids, with life vests on of course. On our boat, the family from New Hampshire and Bill from California took the leap. On the other boat I think Greg and Garry from Illinois jumped ship. It was fun to watch. That risk was not for me. Maybe next time. Would there be a next time? I watched in admiration as the boaters were pulled from the water drenched and cold. There were no beeps warning them to swim this way or that way. It was a learn as you go activity, and they had succeeded.

This day was bursting with beauty. We stopped for lunch at Tapeats Creek, which most certainly will inspire a painting, and later we visited Deer Creek Falls. How I love a loud, powerful waterfall. I jumped in the cold water and enjoyed the noise-cancelling roar of the water obeying gravity as it rushed downward and then gently flowed to the Colorado.

That night was my favorite camping spot; a big, flat, wide beach affectionately called Football Beach at mile 138. No spousal arguing here. Along with some other couples from the trip, we made a row with our tents and affectionately called our subdivision “The Villages.” No association fee, and a coffee shop just down the beach. We put our burlap beverage sack in the cold shallow water in front of camp and waited for it to chill. Soon, we noticed that big horn sheep were visible across the river. Mike from Ohio used his deep voice to make a convincing sheep noise that lured them closer. Suddenly, we heard the loud, undeniable sound of horns clashing as two rams challenged the dominance of one another. At the end of our own beach, three rams were grazing and clashing as members of our party were bathing and swimming. It was a surreal juxtaposition and is burned in my memory.

Solitude and Seeing

This was the first night I had time to find my sketchbook and watercolors and paint a quick scene. I had planned on doing this every night. I had hoped for contemplative moments and solitude; I thought I would journal deep thoughts, but that was not to be. The business of camping and arranging for one’s comfort and happiness took precedent over such frivolity.

But tonight, the W word was calm, there was still plenty of light and some time before dinner, so I fetched a small bowl of river water and sat in my camp chair. I fixed my gaze on the horizon. I created a rough sketch, quickly dipped my brush in the water and painted. Without over thinking it, drew what I saw. Garry wanted to watch. He was interested in art. But I knew I would be uneasy about my results. I am not a sketch or watercolor artist. Contrary or popular opinion, artists aren’t great at every artistic endeavor, but we love to try new things. We have ideas that lead us this way and that way. I make my living as a painter, but this exercise was not for the buying public, it was for me.

On the three nights that I had the privilege of partaking in this activity, I realize I can remember those camping spots the best. The simple act of really looking and seeing made the landscape stick in my mind. And such is art; a record of what was seen, experienced, considered, contemplated, and recorded. Sometimes for public consumption, and sometimes for personal reflection.

That night as the light faded, we celebrated three ladies and their 70^th birthdays. A cake was baked and adorned with candles. We made noise so the canyon knew there was a celebration, and of course we sang the birthday song. No need to Google the lyrics on that one. A cake and a song in a beautiful place, do we really need anything more? In the canyon, simplicity rules.

As I drifted to sleep that night, I wondered if those sheep would come near our subdivision. In the morning, their fresh tracks revealed that they had.

Discoveries

From a botanical perspective, there is not a huge amount of diversity in the canyon. You see the same flourishing cactus, shrubs, and trees over and over, varying only slightly as the miles lead to Diamond Point. But I have trained my eyes to search for new discoveries. Like a hunter with her bow, I glass the landscape ahead and at my feet, all the while wishing. On day six, my wish came true.

After successfully running Doris and Fishtail Rapids, we made a nice lengthy stop at Matkatamiba (Supai family name) Canyon. There were three options for us here. Hang out at the entrance to the canyon along the creek, hike the high trail around the slot canyon into the amphitheater, or free climb through the slot canyon. The last option required some core strength to “stem” the canyon walls to our destination. About a third of us chose each option. Randy and I chose to navigate the slot canyon. I was looking forward to the challenge.

At the mouth of the narrows while waiting my turn, I looked toward the base of the eroded canyon wall and saw something that appeared to glow. A singular, five petaled, pale green-white flower was blooming in the dark shade. My heart leapt. I snapped some photos quicky, hoping I would see more as the adventure continued and if not, I would visit this beauty again on the way out. I wondered what this flower was called. The foliage looked familiar.

As the walls narrowed, our movements became slower. Sometimes the only way to proceed was to straddle, either with your hands on one side and feet on the other like a bridge or wedge yourself with your butt and feet firmly suspending you above the crack. I listened to Harlan’s advice for navigating a particular formation, watched as each hiker made their move, and then planned for my own navigation. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I didn’t. I slid into the drink once, but recovered and went on. It was a process of problem solving for each person based on their body size and ability. An in-the-moment, focused activity, like mountain biking or painting.

An activity like this reveals who the encouragers are. If you are timid in your abilities, all it takes is a hand on your shoulder or a “you’ve got this” spoken in your ear to get you through. This group was full of encouragers and helpers. Whether the task was hiking or setting up camp, there was friendly help.

I remember a canyoneering trip I took with friends in Zion through a canyon called the Subway. On that trip, we wore dry suits and heavy packs and had to repel and swim through deep, dark water several times. That trip began before dawn, and we crawled out at 10:00pm or so. It was hard, but there were several encouragers on that trip that got me through. I felt like the abominable snowman in all that gear.

On this short trek I was happy to be in Teva’s with a small pack on my back. I felt light on my feet. “Atta a girl Cynthia, you got this!” I hollered.

One by one the slot hikers emerged from the narrows and reunited with the trail hikers who were waiting and watching. The canyon generously opened up into the most beautiful arena, with red canyon walls and a blue sky canopy. The creek was teeming with life. The creek was life. Plants, insects, and aquatic life were thriving here. The air was thick with birdsong.

Harland played the flute and many hikers rested in the amphitheater, but a few of us wanted to see more and continued upstream. There were new discoveries around every corner. Most of the hikers walked right by them. People get focused on the going, and they don’t notice the small, amazing things. But different strokes for different folks. Personally, I did not want to miss a thing, so I lagged behind with my camera.
My efforts to slow down a look were rewarded. I spotted a Texas Dobsonfly on a rock and marveled at his size and shape. He was probably four inches long with lacey wings and formidable pincers (mandibles).

As I rounded a corner, I spotted a whole garden of the white-green flowers! They were thriving in the canyon light and air. Some were in the shade and some in the sun. I tried to manipulate a bloom so I could get a better angel for her portrait, but the flower would not let me touch it. I would learn later that I was looking at Desert Rock Nettle, sometimes called a Velcro plant; sticky from top to bottom and a favorite food to big horn sheep, despite it being covered with tiny needles. I had seen the plant before, but never the blooms. When I returned home, I found a YouTube video entitled “Desert Rock Nettle, The Nightmare of Hikers and Canyoneers.” A simple walk through the plant can result in being encrusted with foliage; not a pleasant experience. Beauty has a price.

My camera battery was draining, and I knew the others might be waiting. I returned to the amphitheater, where my river mates were attempting to dam the little creek by sitting butt to butt on the flat part of the rock. The water was creating a little lake at their backs. I snapped a quick photo of the group from behind before my camera was totally dead and joined the brigade.

The water was released, and cheers rose. I wondered what would happen to hikers in the slot should there be any? I guess it really wasn’t that much water. We hiked out on the high trail and had a nice lunch by the boats. I had two lunches. It was BLT day, a favorite. I had earned it.

Later that day, our boats drifted past Havasu Creek, a very beautiful dot connected. But we would not be stopping, again. Since COVID, the tribe had suspended tourism of any kind to the magical blue-green pools and waterfalls. Like Phantom Ranch, the closure was an opportunity to make repairs and enhancements.

I was sad my boatmates would not be seeing this place. I longed to hike to Beaver Falls, at the confluence of Beaver Canyon and Havasu Creek, about three miles from the Colorado. In all my trips to Havasupai, there had never been enough daylight to see Beaver Falls. The last time I had been to the village was in December of 2016. I had wanted to share the experience with Randy and Sydney before they went off to college. It was cold in the canyon, and daylight was limited, but we did swim. We had a romance with a certain reservation dog on the trip, but that is a story for another day.

As the sun sank behind the canyon walls, we made camp near Red Slide at mile 176 that night. By this point in the trip, I was sleeping as well as could be expected. I knew where my stuff was, the important stuff being all near the top of my bag where I could find it. I knew that I was comfortable just sleeping in my camp dress, I knew how to get out of tent in the middle of the night and pee in a cup without falling. I knew better than to turn a light on in the tent to keep the bugs out. I drifted off to sleep, no sound machine needed. I tried to really hear and appreciate the sound of the river’s rapids churning and talking all night. I knew I would long for that sound once I was home. And now, home was only a few days away.

Hot Java, Cold Lava

As dawn broke, I heard the now familiar sounds of the guides hollering that coffee was ready. They do this in the slow, sing-song way that does not jar the system, using just enough gusto to nudge one gently from a river dream.

Speaking of dreams, for several years leading up to this trip, sleep has been elusive. I fall asleep just fine, but then usually about 3:00 AM, I wake and cannot fall back asleep. I cannot turn off my brain. When this happens, I have taken to listening to Audible stories that aren’t too stimulating. Young adult classics are great for this. The Little House series, Wind in the Willows, and even books like the Secret Knowledge of Water, by Craig Childs are interesting and relaxing.

But since being home from this trip, I have not had any sleeping problems. I sleep straight through the night, and most nights my dreams involve the river. It was as if my brain got a hard reboot on the shores of the mighty Colorado, like I left some worries there in the sand and they were washed way. I cannot explain it, and I don’t know if the effects will last, but I hope they do.

I stumbled to the huge vat of coffee and ladled myself a cup. I hiked up a small sandy dune and noticed some desert primroses were blooming, a far more forgiving plant than the nettle of the previous day. The soft white petals swayed in the breeze. Soon they would wither in the harsh summer sunlight, and their crunchy remains would fall to the ground, where they would decompose into the earth.

I gazed at the red sandstone across the river. The sun was kissing the rim and an orange glow began to pierce the soft blue morning sky. I marveled at the perfect contrast of the red canyon walls with green of the evermoving water. An artist herself could mix no more perfect colors to complement each other. My rafting buddies were stirring, and throughout camp there was the telltale movement of people preparing for their day; drinking coffee, rolling up tents, smashing belongings into drybags. I wondered who else was walking up in the canyon that morning? Maybe Mr. Toad or Ratty lived nearby.

After breakfast and a short geography lesson from Guide Wes, we were packed up and loaded the boats for our last full day. Today we would enjoy our last level 10 rapid, Lava Falls Rapid.

“What a conflict of water and fire there must have been here! Just imagine a river of molten rock running down into a river of melted snow. What is seething and boiling of the waters; what clouds of steam rolled into the heavens!”
-John Wesley Powell 1875

Our boats entered into the marvelous geology Wes had just described. We motored by Vulcan Anvil and prepared for the exciting rapid. No one was volunteering to sit on the floor in the front of the boat. Randy said he would, and looked towards me to join him. I declined. I felt safe seated in the back. Then Rene said, “You should join your husband up there, go on!”

It was a split-second decision. Timely. I took my seat next to Randy and fixed my gaze on the horizon. The green water was glassy, slippery and seductive as it morphed into a foamy white torrent. And just like that, we were in the rapids, and the landscape disappeared from my sight. I was underwater.

The frigid water washed over me like a second baptism. My right hand clenched my camera tightly over my head. Randy was next to me, our feet dangling over the “people catcher” net. He was urging me to put down the camera and hold on. I heard someone chant “Lava, Lava!” Just then, the boat dipped, and the second wave engulfed me.

I could feel my body separate from the boat. For a moment I was floating. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my life vest from behind. I learned later that a guide had grabbed ahold of me. I felt my body come to a rest on the hard steel, gravity was restored, and I was exhilarated.

Drenched to the bone, Randy and I made our way back of the boat to watch Wes and his crew come through the rapids. We could hear our new friends cheering in excitement as the boat popped up out of the white froth into calmer green waters. They were lifting their hands in victory, and all was well.

I was kind of quiet after that. I just wanted to take some moments to reflect and be proud of myself for my adventure accomplishments so far. On launch day I was so nervous about the rapids, and now I had just ridden the best one and enjoyed it. I thanked Rene for the encouragement.

Lunch time had a small cliff-jumping opportunity that would warm us up for the next big jump at Pumpkin Springs, (a geothermal hot spring nestled between tall red rock walls.) I jumped a few times and felt ready.

Leap of Faith

When we approached Pumpkin Springs Beach, there was another boating party on shore. The trip leader hollered that they had had a COVID case who had helicoptered out the day before, and the remaining rafters had been exposed. Ugh, the real-world rushing in. I was so sad for the poor camper who had to leave, and I was so thankful that we were all in good shape. The worse injury or illness our party had suffered was sunburned feet.

We waited for the boating party to finish their visit, then safely made our way to the beach to unload the two boats and enjoy the last bit of daylight. The walk to the cliffs was pretty rocky, so some rafters were content being spectators. The guides took turns showing us the best way to jump, and how to get back up around the travertine warm spring to jump again. Their relaxed, helpful demeanor laid the foundation for success.

One by one, our new friends made their approach to the precipice. And then, either with a simple step or a running leap, they launched into the air. Our cheers rose to meet them as their feet left earth. It was such a beautiful picture of freedom and light and sun and joy. I remember my jump well, the feeling of weightlessness and flight.

I have not had a flying dream for quite some time. I used to dream often of leaping, and pushing myself up with my arms, as if in water, to move through the air. In these dreams the landscape would drift just below me comparable to drone footage, long before drones were popular. But on this day along the Colorado, it was not a dream; it was real.

I pierced the smooth green waters and felt the cold envelope me. And then, like a tug from a rescuer, my life jacket pulled me back to the surface. The water was cold, but it did not seem as cold as the water on the first day. There was a strong current just ahead of me, but where I landed was calm and peaceful. These moments are burned into my memory, and I hope my leap is the subject of my dreams for years to come.

It was steak night on the beach. There was ice for our drinks, plenty of adult beverages to trade with each other, and another get-to-know-you game (two truths and a lie).

Randy and I camped up on the bluff away from the “crowds”; it was our last night in a tent. This time tomorrow we would be standing in a hot shower back in Flagstaff. That would be nice, but also sad.

Falling Flat

The dawn came right on time. A somber mood fell over camp as we rolled up our gear for the last time. Thoughts of life on top drifted into my mind, and I fought them off. They could wait. As I rummaged through my belongings, I took note of all the things I had brought and didn’t use or didn’t need. I looked around at tanned faces of folks who, only eight days ago, were strangers. I could feel feelings coming. The trip had gone so fast and been so busy, I hadn’t even had time to anticipate this moment. I looked across the canyon at the daylight slowly creeping down the canyon wall, consuming the shadows and exposing detail and color.

“Nice one God, I did dare you to impress me.”

I sucked in the emotion; I was not ready. So, I just did the next thing, which was load the boat. Activity has always been my friend. Give me a task or a hill to climb and I am better, even in high gear.

We boarded the boats, and mile 226 (Diamond Creek) pulled like a magnet towards the end of our journey. There was one last jumping opportunity, “Diving Board Rock”, I think it was called. It was a doozy. We had only three takers. Mom Lynda and her sons Jake and Nate from New Hampshire. Harland climbed the rock with them and encouraged and instructed. It was a beautiful thing to watch. The boys went first, perfect form. Lynda took some time, but there was no question she would do it, and she did. Her pretty blond hair streamed behind her like a tail on a soaring kite. Splash. Harlan went last, and flipped backwards off the rock backwards in an elegant dive. It was the perfect finale.

The last challenge came a few miles before take out. We put the boats together, stopped the motors, and had some quiet time to drift. I think Wes might have read something, I’m not sure. I bowed my head in reverence. I used this time to thank God for the trip; for giving me the ability to come, for all the hardships, for the things I learned and for Randy at my side. I also thanked God for each soul that came, their safety and joy.

And now, it was time to go back to the top. We went through the motions of take out. Emptying our drybags, loading the bus, waving goodbye to our guides. We would have a pit stop in Peach Springs, an ice cream break, and then back to the hotel in Flagstaff. They gave us yummy sack lunches for the ride back. We found our seats and started down the bumpy dirt road.

Let me just say here that I am not a weirdo, but from time to time I have premonitions that come true. Maybe they are coincidence, whatever. But as I watched the gang board the bus, I just knew we would have a flat tire before we made it off the dirt road.
About a third of the way to the main road, the bus dipped into a dry rocky wash and I heard a noise. “Did you hear that, Randy? Sounds like a flat.” We alerted the bus driver who stopped the bus and went outside to look. Yup, it was flat.

I was not worried. We were a bus full of leaders, and sure enough, plans were quickly made to fix the problem. I sat quietly in the coolish bus and consumed my sandwich and chips. A few guys helped our driver get the satellite phone working, and communication with headquarters were made. Before you knew it, our guides came rolling up. They had just finished the loading of the boats and gear, and were probably spent. Once again, their hard work and competence saved the day. I stuck my head out the window to see Harlan and Wes were changing the tire. We cheered our thanks, and off we went.

The Last Supper

As we bounced back to Flagstaff, a plan was made for a celebratory meal back at Little America Hotel. The bus rolled up and we shuffled in, retrieved our luggage, and found our rooms. They were pristine and clean and had soft beds and showers. What luxury. The shower felt like a waste of water, but it felt great. I watched the dirt of the canyon swirl down the drain, and I was a little sad. I wrapped myself in a clean fluffy towel and rested on the bed before dinner. But before my head hit the pillow, I remembered that I had left my phone off and in my luggage. I wanted to know if all was well back home, but I really did not want to turn that thing back on. I did. It pinged as messages loaded and just like that, I was back on the grid.

Slowly the gang trickled onto the patio at the restaurant. We kept the bartender busy mixing our favorite drinks, some with ice. I had a bourbon drink. I took my sketchbook and passed it around to collect names and addresses. I allowed myself to be in charge of that task because I knew it would bring me joy. Connecting dots on a map is fun, but connecting people is even better.

I also took everyone aside and interviewed them on camera asking, “What did you learn on this trip?” If you watch that video, you will see that the short answers to that question clearly reveal the beautiful personalities of our group. I love that.

Laughter rose, conversations rolled, and goodbyes were said. And just like that, adult summer camp was over.

Home

I was quiet when we got home, and I tried to minimize the noise around me. I felt like external or internal noise would blur my experience and cause it to slip my memory. And that proved to be true. Two days later, I was trying to imagine myself sitting on the raft with the scenery going by. It was already starting to fade, and that initial feeling of “oh boy, never gonna do that again,” morphed into “Well, maybe I’ll go back.”

As I began to talk to other people about the trip and my experiences, I found myself encouraging my audience to give it a try too. Maybe we should go together? Now that the unknowns where known, I could picture what a future trip would like.

These were similar thoughts I had after hiking the Grand Canyon the first time. That was truly life changing. I didn’t think I had that in me either, yet I went on to do it five more times. So if you asked me if I’d do it again, I’d have to say yes, and I would consider myself very privileged.

The activities we experienced in the Grand Canyon were risky. In day-to-day life they would not be allowed. There would be a chain link fence around the adventure, so to speak. But in the canyon, you take your own calculated risks. The guides are there to encourage you, but the choice is yours. Truly, it feels like the best kind of freedom ever; freedom to push yourself, freedom to try things you’ve never done, freedom to fail.

The beauty of the canyon is undeniable, pristine, and a treasure. It is big, bigger than anything you know in your life on the top. People who say things like “the Grand Canyon is just a big hole” are dead to me. Well, not really, but we are living in an age where people are truly suffering from nature deficit disorder. The cure is time outdoors, plain and simple. Maybe the canyon is the medicine that could cure you?

Experiences like rafting and camping in the Grand Canyon feel endangered, vanishing. I find myself craving and wanting to consume these trips like drinking water in the desert. Because what if someday I can’t? What could I learn? Who will I meet? What will my creator show me, if I dare Him?

Exploration fuels inspiration. I know that to be true, at least for me. And freedom to explore is a God-given right we should not take for granted. The wild places were created for us are to be cared for by us, shared with others.

When people ask me why I paint what I paint, it’s always a simple answer. I do not grow tired of the inspiration in God’s creation. I truly see something new every day, whether in the Grand Canyon or my own back yard. And these things beg to be explored, understood. I will run out of life before I have painted all the marvelous things that have inspired me. I hope the work I leave behind offers a measure of beauty to counteract some human suffering, because there is plenty of that.

The river washed away some of my pain, left my dots connected, and filled me with inspiration. I can hear the emerald waters calling.

dh
July 16, 2022, Mesa, Arizona

Pack Your Bags! My packing tips for your trip.

Packing tips:

This was not an easy task. For months I agonized over it. We printed and read the suggested pack list, talked to friends who had taken the trip, watched YouTube videos, and slowly a pile grew on the guest room bed that looked like an REI volcano. How will you know what you need? What will you use? The truth is the river won’t reveal that information until your boots are on the sand. It is a baptism by fire.

I followed the AZRA website’s suggested pack list and then added a few things. I had great advice from seasoned rafters that helped too. I did my best, but in the end, I packed too much. I always journal after trips like these reminding myself of what worked and what didn’t. I’ll share that here with you, and then you can make your own choices, should you go.

Clothing:

Locating my stuff during the trip was a little frustrating. Less time looking for gear on the river means more time enjoying the river. Some preparation helped.

Investing in a nylon duffel the same size of the dry bag we were given for our “checked luggage” was key. You can practice packing at home and not be totally thrown off once you receive your dry bag at orientation. Then each night at camp, slide out your duffel in one action, rather than fishing through a deep dark dry bag for your belongings.

Reusable Ziplock packing bags (available at container stores or online) were awesome. I put one day’s worth of clothes in each bag, pushed out the air, and rolled them into my duffel. They are clear so you can see what you have.

I brought camp clothes, but wore mostly two knee-length sleeveless dresses at the end of each day. You can wear them while cleaning up or after, and then to bed. That was easier than changing into another night shirt in the dark, and it was too hot to wear anything with sleeves or little shorts. Pockets in your dress are great for toothpaste or carrying shampoo to the river.

One bathing suit top and bottom that can be worn swimming and cliff jumping, under shorts and a quick dry tank, was perfect.

Having two quick dry sun shirts (I like the button up collared type) to keep arms covered during the day or dip in the water to cool off worked great. Three quick-dry hiking shorts and a pair of gym shorts for over a bathing suit, or to wear in camp, worked too.

I brought a sarong to take on the boat each day to wet and cover shoulders or legs. On hot nights, I dipped this in the river and slept with it over the body to cool down.

You should also bring multiple bandanas for cooling your neck, bathing, keeping your hat on, and cleaning feet before bed. They are quick-drying and don’t take much space.

I had a wide-brim hat and a cap, and wore the cap more. I hated that the hat brim got floppy when wet. Whatever hat you bring, you must tether it to your shirt. Sometimes I tethered mine to my ponytail holder, as all the straps around my neck with the PFD made me a little nuts.

I didn’t really wear my socks or neoprene socks, but I’m glad I had them. A lot of rafters wore socks for sun protection with their sandals. I took a beanie, leggings, and long hike pants I never wore, but I’m glad I had them just in case.

I wore a zip-up fleece light jacket a few nights. A rain jacket and pull-on rain pants are a must.

I brought hiking boots, but only wore them once. They took up a lot of room and were heavy. Teva shoes do double duty if they are comfy, and you can wear them with socks. A lightweight trail runner would have been good too. Bring old flip flops for camp, and duct tape. Several rafters’ shoes came unglued in the water and heat. Having lived in Arizona a long time, I have learned that you never leave your wet flip flops in the heat to dry. The glue tends to come unglued. Tuck them in the shade to dry.

Quick-dry undies for day, cotton for night was a good choice. Undies don’t take much room and you can wash them out.

Toiletries:

Take a nail file. You will break every nail.

A small mirror is helpful. Multiple lip balms, small hand creams, and sunscreen tubes were helpful. At some point you won’t be able to find where you left one. One seasoned rafter used a sunglass leash to keep chapstick around her neck.

Biodegradable soap, shampoo, and a laundry bar worked great. Check out Ethique, they even have a biodegradable luffa bag for the bar soap that makes clean up easy. I brought four small wire chip clips that were invaluable for hanging and clipping laundry up to dry. I did laundry once.

My hair got super tangled in all the wind. A leave-in conditioner would have been good, and a very wide toothed comb.

A small pack of wipes are nice in the morning before dressing and sunscreen. I took a baggie with presoaked cotton balls in astringent, which were perfect in the AM as well.

Bring a collapsible dog bowl for water at your tent, for wiping off your feet before bed, or watercolor sketching, or to help wash your hair if you can’t bend over that far. (Which reminds me, if you are not flexible or don’t have great balance, work on that before your trip, it’s paramount.)

Bring a few band-aids and a small tube of Neosporin. The guides have supplies, but it’s nice not to bother them for small things. I also carried Benadryl, Advil, Tylenol, and an ace bandage.

Drinks:

We were allowed to bring 36 cans (a box of wine counted as six) for the trip. Maybe two a day is all we consumed, one beer and maybe a canned wine or spritzer. Iced tea tasted good too. Things get cold in the river, but not icy cold. A Nalgene of bourbon is nice. On some nights you will be treated to ice.

Snacks:

Your outfitter will have ample snacks, but if you are a frequent eater like me, a few snack bars in your day pack are nice. I also took a ziplock bag of small apple sauce cups to eat in the AM while waiting for breakfast, then I was sure to get fruit every day.

Camp:

For making camp, I have a few suggestions. Cool, wettish sand by the water is optimal. You don’t need to drag your gear up a mountainside, unless that is your preference. Ask your guide if there will be fluctuations in the water level for the night, then pitch your tent or sleep under the stars, your choice. Randy liked having the tent up so we could throw our gear inside, so that’s what we did. You still have a great view of the stars with the door unzipped. Just do what makes you feel comfortable.

Gear:

A head lamp is a must, keep it in your toiletry bag. (I used a medium stuff sack.) Put it around your neck after you clean up, you’ll be ready for the dark. I took a travel pillow and was grateful, but I have a bum neck.

Use a small lightweight day pack for the boat and impromptu hiking, and use mini drybags inside to keep batteries and such dry, should you cross deep water. I also brought a sleep mask to keep a bright moon from keeping me awake.

If you plan to photograph the trip, think about taking 3-4 fully charged extra batteries. A solar charger works okay, but most of us had exhausted that resource before the trip was over. Don’t forget your charging cord.

I invested in an Olympus T-6 tough underwater camera, put a float wrist strap on it, and wore it on an adjustable lanyard around my neck. I dropped it, used it underwater, in the rapids, etc. I wanted no worries about losing or dropping an iPhone the water.

Photo tip: to sort thought your days of photos when you get home, be proactive. Take a photo or short video of each morning from your tent or resting place. If you are videoing, say what day it is, if you know. If you are filming the rapids, say the rapid name into the camera. You will not believe how fast the trip goes and how each day dissolves into another. Your photos and videos will help you remember.

A River Song:

The River’s too Wide

The river’s too wide now for crossing
The waters rush too loud for talking
We never build bridges for walking
‘Cause the river’s too wide

A gentle stream once flowed between us
But love could cross it easily
‘Til stormy skies brought bitter teardrops
And made that stream a raging river
Come between you and me

The river’s too wide now for crossing
The waters rush too loud for talking
We never build bridges for walking
There’s no getting to the other side

The river’s too wide now for crossing
The current goes too deep for mending
It looks like an unhappy ending
‘Cause the river’s too wide

Good lessons learned are not forgotten
We gave up love to save our pride
Next time I’m faced with rising waters
I’ll build a bridge of love and kindness
Reaching to the other side

The river’s too wide now for crossing
The waters rush too loud for talking
We never build bridges for walking
There’s no getting to the other side

The river’s too wide now for crossing
The current goes too deep for mending
It looks like an unhappy ending
‘Cause the river’s too wide

Songwriters: Bob Morrison

Suggested reading:

The Emerald Mile: The Epic Story of the Fastest Ride Through the Heart of the Grand Canyon by Kevin Fedarko

The Secret Knowledge of Water by Craig Childs

Documentaries:

“Can’t Beat This Place for Fun” – Dory boat building in Flagstaff.
“The Weight of Water” – Our guide Harlan Taney helping a blind explorer kayak through the Grand Canyon.
“Into the Canyon” – Pete McBride and Kevin Fedarko hike the 750 length of the Grand Canyon.

Videos to help you prepare:

8 Days on the Grand Canyon – Motorized Rafting Trip, Beautiful Scenery, Canyon Hikes, Tips by ARoarHar on YouTube https://youtu.be/eAbJNXZY6ns

Dyana’s Video:
Green is the New Blue – Colorado River Rafting on Vimeo Dyana Hesson

A Very Special Birthday Party

It was a warm sunny day in the spring of 1933 in Long Beach, California. Marion Roan was working on crocheting a stuffed brown bear she was making for a special boy. She and her sister Kathryn had been up early; they’d done all the household chores, visited friends, and were enjoying a quiet evening in their apartment on Appleton Street just blocks away from the beach.

America was in the grip of a depression. Life was challenging, but the sisters were managing. In the evening, they would listen to the news on the radio, read and write letters, and Marion would write in her diary. That night, Kathryn penned a letter to their middle sister Anne, who was in Norfolk, Virginia. She had been an English teacher at nearby Poly High, the largest high school west of the Mississippi. Anne had met and married Naval Lt. Commander Raymond Walker on September 15^th, 1924 in San Francisco, and they were stationed back east.

Ray (53) had lost his previous wife Emily in 1922. Anne was 51, and as far as the family knows had never been married or had children. While living in Norfolk, Anne had met Mae Smith, a receptionist at her dentist’s office. Mae had a 3-year-old son, and had lost her husband. An arrangement was made for Anne and Ray to adopt her son, as a suiter wanted to marry Mae, but did not want children.

Joseph Bailey would soon be renamed Donald Walker and start a whole new life in California. He was oblivious that to the fact that America had a new president, the banks were a mess, and it was only a matter of time before the US entered the war.

Saturday, March 4, 1933

Beautiful day, no fires in the house and windows all open.

Today Franklin Delano Roosevelt became president of US. We heard him to take his oath over the radio hook up from Washington D.C. He made a very good speech, I felt sorry for Mr. Hoover, for he too was a big man. We washed clothes, and rested in the P.M. Ruth Peterson and I went down in the evening also to Pike [a waterfront amusement zone with roller coasters boardwalks and bath house built in 1902]. Ella Pendleton called up. Got letters from Anne [sister] and Mr. Boyenge. Busty [cat] had a worm pill not feeling so well but nice kitty tho. 

Marion Roan

Sunday, March 5, 1933

Nice warm day Santa Ana also.

We got up and went to church in the A.M. Had our dinner downtown and went window shopping. Irene W. said she was trying to get us all P.M. We rested in the P.M., both of us, and read. Mrs. Crawford called a while late in the P. M. News came over the radio that president declared all banks in the U. S. closed until March 10th to straighten the banks and to put an end to hoarding money. And put the banks on solid ground again. Also listened to the American Legion program over radio. Very good. Went to bed late.

Marion Roan

On March 6^th, Kathryn and Marion got word from Anne that she, Ray, and Laddie Boy (as Marion referred to Donald) were headed west. Ray had received orders to be the chief engineer on the USS Utah. The sisters were excited to all be together again and finally meet the little boy Anne told them so much about. They would have to look for a larger place to live, but for now they would get their home in order for the big day of little Donald’s arrival. Since the banks were closed, they only had $1.39 on hand. That presented a problem.

Monday, March 6, 1933
Another Beautiful Day

Mrs. C called and cashed a check for us, can’t get any money anywhere and we only had $1.39 on hand. And no stores will cash checks. When banks open up again they will use Script for money. Just heard that the banks will open for only new account deposits tomorrow. Mayor Cermak died 6:45 A.M. in Miami, Fla. [Hungarian born Chicago mayor, shot when supposedly the assassin was aiming for FDR]

Marion Roan

On Thursday, March 9^th, Kathryn and Marion were invited to see the fleet parade by their friend who lived at the Willmore apartments. They boarded a “launch” and rode out over the brakers to watch battle practice; a rough ride, but a wonderful day. Then on March 10^th, disaster struck the coast on California.

Friday, March 10, 1933

Beautiful day.

Just got in and sat down to eat dinner at 5:55 P.M. when the earthquake struck L.B. 

Thought first was explosion, then knew it was E.Q. Came with terrible rumble, we put out fires and light. Grabbed Busty and we ran out of the house. Took my car out and parked it on the street. Where we slept in it all night. Quakes continued all night long. The town was put under martial law at once sailors, soldiers and ROTC boys called to duty and patrolled all night long. Went down to wire Anne and boys about 11 P.M. Town looked terrible, night was cold and foggy and the fog was like a rain. Hard on sick and dying, as they use the parks to care for them, and put up tents. City put off gas four minutes after quake to stop fires.

Saturday, March 11, 1933

Beautiful day after a terrible night.

Listened all night to the radio reports of the quake damage as we could not sleep. Quakes still tremor and shake. Got out of car and went to see the damage, dishes broken, the kitchen a mess, bathroom a mess, broken bottles, furniture moved, piano about 18 inches from the wall. Pictures upside down, but thank God we were not hurt, and house not badly damaged, clean house between quick shakes then got out. K and I went downtown to see disaster and send some telegrams, Town looked terrible, Mann’s phone[d] and wanted us to come up there to stay with them. Ella Pendleton called and ate lunch with us, or rather a piece of bread. All roads to L. B. are closed, and they ask over radio and beg and intreat people not come just now. All P. E.’s are stopped running into town. They sent out an SOS for 100 nurses and 40 doctors more to come as the bad night had caused pneumonia case at the rate of five cases per hour. People slept on the ground and out of doors too afraid to go indoors and I don’t blame them. Poly High is a wreck and all the other schools. No public places open, we cook out of doors on camp stoves made of fallen and brick, the whole town is doing it. Wilsons and us will sleep in our car again. John Enders and Mrs. James called on us. On their way to San Diego. Ambulance and fire whistles all day and all night. I wish they would stop. 

Meanwhile, Donald and his new mom and dad were en-route to Long Beach. They had packed up their belongings and sent letters to Marion and Kathryn along the way. Years later, Donald would share that he had a memory of looking out the rearview window of the car as they drove away from the only home he ever knew. It would be years before he would connect with his birthmother Mae again, although she and Anne would exchange letters for the next 16 years.

Although Marion and Kathryn’s two-story apartment building survived the quake, most of the city laid in ruins. The quake occurred on the Newport-Englewood fault and was an estimated magnitude 6.3–which, historically speaking, was not as intense as the 8.3 magnitude that hit San Francisco in 1906–but the damage was severe. The timing, dinner time, had been a saving grace. If the quake had hit earlier in the day during school hours, the results would have been devastating. Within seconds, 70 schools crumbled that day, and 230 schools were not fit to re-enter.*

Marion and Kathryn slept outdoors for several nights. They did not take their clothes off for five days. They cooked outdoors on camp stoves, checked on friends, sent correspondence to family, and helped where they could. There had been 120 deaths; 52 in Long Beach and 17 in nearby Compton. Most deaths and injuries had occurred as people were running from buildings and were struck by debris. 500 injures were reported in Long Beach alone. Kathryn and Marion were grateful they were safe.

Monday March 13, 1933

Another grand day. 

Plenty of quakes, will they ever stop, it is terrible and makes us so nervous. Our Lincoln Park is full of suffering people. Which are being cared for by the Salvation Army, Red Cross, and doctors and nurses. I washed out a few handkerchiefs and aprons and underwear. Got letters from an Alice Anson, Irene Buchnell. Kay answered all, I got one from Grace Kime Berger and answered it. Mail the papers to the boys and letters. Walkers, Anne and Ray and baby leave for California March 15th to drive home. Will try and get here March 24th or 25th. Still cook out of doors, but boil coffee on an electric percolator. Will sleep in the car again tonight.

On March 18^th, the sisters took an outing to see the frigate ship, “Old Ironsides” in the harbor. On Sunday, March 19^th, they heard a “good sermon” at church at the First Congregational Church on Cedar Ave, but outdoors, in a vacant lot. The ground was still shaking, they had no gas, and sightseers were out in numbers. Marion wrote in her diary that night how the traffic in town was so “wild.”

 

On March 22^nd, Marion and Katherine received a letter that Anne and Ray and Donald were in El Paso Texas en-route to Long Beach, and then on March 23^rd the waiting was over. On March 25^th, Donald saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time.

March 23,1933

Cool and very dusty day.

Still cooking out of doors. I pressed the bedroom curtains. Anne phone[d] they were at Laguna Beach, they arrived at about 3 P.M. and were we glad to see them! I should say so. Laddie is a darling and we are so happy with him. Still no gas, got an electric plate, drove through the part where the earthquake was the worst. 

Marion Roan

Saturday, March 25, 1933

Nice cool day.

Anne, Ray, and Kathryn went down to the market did Saturday marketing. Came home had lunch. Laddie and I went down to the beach and he played in the sand. Had shoes and hose off. His first time in the sand at Long Beach. He had a great time. In the P.M. Anne, Donald and I went down to Irene W.’s at the Willmore and took our baths as we still have no gas. Gas was turned on at 5 P.M. after Kathryn had cooked all P.M. on a campfire stove. Gee! It’s good to have gas. Off since March 10^th

Marion Roan

Little Donald had turned 4 years old during his car ride to California, but the family waited until they could all be together to celebrate. Donald not only had a mom and a dad to dote over him, but two unmarried aunts, who would be forever present in his life until their deaths.

Donald woke Sunday morning to a handmade stuffed bear and a home full of life and activity, despite the ruins of Long Beach, lack of money, and pending war. Marion gathered roses from the garden and Kathryn baked a cake. These tasks, baking and gardening, would be their perspective vocations when they all moved to a ranch on 300 acres in the Sierra Nevada Foothills in 1935. There would be cows to milk and generators to fix, and gardens to plant, but for the time being the Walker and Roan Families were safe and well in Long Beach.

Sunday March 26, 1933

Wonderful day.

Got up late. Had breakfast and after Donald’s birthday lunch, a lovely big angel food cake all trimmed up, and flowers and ice cream. Ray took indoor pictures of the table and Donald. He got gifts and a tricycle from his Daddie. We all went for a ride first to Pico Landing then to San Pedro and Palos Verdes Hills also over to Compton. Compton looks terrible and was hard-hit by the earthquake. Left Ray at the Navy landing came home at to get dinner. When he called up Anne and I called for him in the car. We were gone when there was quite a quake. Spent evening at home.

Marion Roan

Aside from my dad, Donald Walker, I have never met any of these relatives. They were all gone by the time of my adoption into the Walker family. Many of their possessions, like the vase on the birthday table, were fixtures of decoration in my parents’ home as I was growing up. Dad would share stories of the Roan sisters and his childhood from time to time, and I think I listened with intent, but of course the value of those exchanges always increases after death, and now I can’t get those moments back. Through the discovery of Marion’s diaries and old photos, I am reconstructing a time line of places and people who lived and laughed and had hardships, and I’m trying to listen carefully to the lessons they are whispering to me though time.

I look at the face of little Donald staring at his birthday cake and it brings me joy. And the lesson of this chapter? Time will tell.

dh

January 15, 2022

*California legislators acted quickly, and within a month, the Field Act was passed. The legislation mandated earthquake resistant construction and called attention to the shoddy unreinforced masonry that failed on that warm day in March. Poly High school, Anne’s school, would later sell bricks from the rubble as souvenirs.

More Historic photos of the Long Beach Quake damage of 1933 via the LA Times.

https://www.latimes.com/visuals/photography/la-me-fw-archives-the-1933-long-beach-earthquake-20190205-htmlstory.html

This is the only photo I have of that miraculous night. It was miraculous because our baby actually slept peacefully in the manger. No crying or fussing, as was her way. As children laid toys and pretend money in the straw beneath “Jesus,” Sydney was fast asleep, oblivious to the Bethlehem night unfolding around her.  

When families approached and realized we were real people, and Jesus was a real baby, their countenance would change. For many, emotion would sweep over them, and tears would trickle down contemplative faces as they beheld the scene before them.

I remember the sunset that night. The warmth of the day sank in the west; cold, brisk air descended into the grassy basin. The sky filled with jewel-tone hues that saturated the sky and then faded slowly, giving way to a deep indigo, spotted with twinkling stars.  

The village was full of visitors, and there were shops to visit, Roman soldiers on horseback, and livestock milling about. The air was full of the smells and sounds of the first Christmas, which, by the way, also took place in the desert.

Although historically we know the wise men not pay their respects to Jesus until many days later, in this Arizona reenactment they would be arriving at the barn soon, and visitors really enjoyed that spectacle. We hoped Sydney would not break “peaceful-baby-Jesus” character, and enjoy their visit too. 

I remember looking up at, watching for the kings, and taking in the faces of the visitors, when I noticed one small face in particular.

“Anthony?” I said aloud, and realizing that I had just broke character, thought quickly about how I might recover from the blunder. But it was too late. Young Anthony stood there in amazement, marveling that Mary, the mother of the savior, had just muttered his name. 

“I’m really glad to see you tonight,” I said, because that was the truth, and I thought both Dyana and Mary would likely say something welcoming like that.

I knew Anthony because, that summer, I had also volunteered as a helper during vacation Bible school. I waddled around pregnant with a group of about six kids, ages six to ten-ish, from activity to activity for a week. Some kids were there because they wanted to be. Some kids were just dropped off. My feeling was that Anthony fell into the second camp. He was hesitant to enjoy the week, but I kept at it, involving him in discussions, helping him with his crafts. Truth be told, I am always attracted to the outcast kid in a group; the kid who acts out, or is shy, or looks uncomfortable in their own skin.

By week’s end, I saw a little change in Anthony, and I was praying he understood the beauty of God’s grace and love for him. 

And on this night, he was standing in front of me, not just dropped off, but with his family. Who, by now, were also getting emotional that Mary knew their son. 

Antony approached baby Jesus and laid his pretend Bethlehem coins at Jesus’ manger. And now I was tearing up. This moment, this tangible connection with a historical event, this appreciation of God among us, this joy and expression of love; this was Christmas. 

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

Isaiah 9:6 NIV

Wishing you peace, hope, and love this Christmas season, and a childlike faith to believe. 

Cactusland U.S.A. 
Opuntia Blooms, Organ Pipe National Monument, AZ
Oil on Canvas, 71in. x 55in. 2021
$21,500
On exhibit at the Western Spirit: Museum of the West Scottsdale, AZ
November 12, 2021- January 16, 2022

Proceeds to benefit Hospice of the Valley.
Contact Bonner David Galleries for more information

Inspired by the photography of Josef Muench, published by Arizona Highways Magazine, January, 1959.

It started with a request to choose one reference photo from the almost hundred-year archive of Arizona Highways Magazine. The image chosen would serve as inspiration for an original painting; not an easy task.

I was browsing Arizona Highways Memory Project by subject when up popped Josef Muench’s photo “Engelmann’s Prickly Pear” on the January 1959 cover. I loved it instantly; the jagged mountains in the background, the golden bouquet of opuntia blooms in the foreground, and of course the blue Arizona sky dotted with cotton candy clouds. Perfect! 

The description read, “April, sunny day, photo taken in Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, south of Ajo, in Southern Arizona.” The inside cover photo, also by Muench, held an equally captivating photo of the same area. I knew I had the perfect inspiration for an amazing painting; now I just needed permission.  

Robert Stieve, editor and chief of the magazine, obtained permission from the Muench family for my endeavor. I had a large canvas built, and began planning.

Now that Muench and I would be partners in this creative endeavor, I wanted to learn more about the photographer responsible for this image, and so many important images that have graced the pages of the magazine. When I researched Muench’s biography I learned that he was an immigrant from Bavaria, Germany. So, Muench and I both had a German immigrating story, and I wanted to know more. 

Muench received his first camera as a gift from his father when he was 11. I, too, was gifted a camera from my father at about the same age. Muench worked as a landscape gardener in his late teens; I worked as a landscape gardener in my late teens. I also worked as a landscaper (not for pay, but in the form of chores) which gave me a great appreciation for all things botanical. 

When Muench was in his early 20’s he followed his brother to Detroit, Michigan, finding a job at the Ford motor company at age 24. In my 20’s, I had a short stay near Detroit as well. Then I headed back to the west. In 1930, so did Muench. He purchased a model T and eventually settled in Santa Barbara, California. In 1938, Joseph met with the editor for Arizona Highways, who published Josef’s photographs of Rainbow Bridge in Glen Canyon, one of my favorite places on earth.

Josef Muench loved the west and was quoted as saying, “When I first saw the desert, I liked it. It was new and different. It immediately took on a meaning to me. I had heard it was barren. It isn’t. A little cactus– so delicate and beautiful can hide from you. You have to go slowly, and look carefully.”

Speaking of hiding and looking carefully, I felt it important to travel to where the inspiration photo was taken, stand where Muench stood, and experience that part of the Arizona desert for myself. Knowing he took the photo in April, my husband and I traveled in April 2021 down to Organ Pipe National Monument, to hunt down the jagged mountains in Josef’s photo and find a blooming opuntia.

We spent several days searching within the park boundaries—west of the 85, and east of the 85, and along the Mexican border—but we never found Muench’s exact mountain. Perhaps he backpacked further in, or flipped the negative? I am not certain, but the exact location of his photo shall remain a mystery to me. Wandering through Organ Pipe National Monument, however, did provide valuable inspiration for my painting, because the adventure is always important to my work.

Once home, I purchased a copy of the magazine online from a used bookstore and pinned it to my studio wall for reference. I would gaze at the cover every working day in the studio for the following two months. 

I also chose to use the landscape from the inside cover of the ’59 issue titled “A Saguaro in Bloom” as my back drop, as I was really enamored with the shadows that Muench captured during a different part of the same day. 

My final composition choice was to place myself within Muench’s landscape. In the distance, near the horizon, you’ll find me in my Jeep, True Blue, exploring Muench’s Cactusland in the sunshine the way the photographer did 62 years ago.

Thank you Muench family, and Arizona Highways Magazine, for the privilege and honor to partner with Josef in this creative endeavor. My hope is that I’ve created a painting that captivates readers now, and years from now, the way Josef Muench’s work captivated me.

-dh November 2021

See more art in the December 2021 Issue of Arizona Highways Magazine

View Dyana’s article

*Information about Muench’s biography from NAU’s Cline library.

Dreaming of an Arizona Beauty Haven

I’ve been down some serious rabbit trails lately. I blame my great Aunt Marion Roan, who I  just meet through her diaries. You’ll be hearing more about Marian and her life on the Verde Antique Ranch* in Foresthill, California from me soon, but for now, I have a clipping! **

When this newspaper clipping fell from Marion’s diary, I knew I was hooked. It’s from the San Francisco Examiner – Monday, March 21, 1949. The clipping left a yellow impression on the pages. And her life has sure left an impression on me. The article reads,

“Pounds and Care Vanish at Arizona Beauty Haven,” Busy program and refreshing diet fill days at desert resort. Arizona Main Chance under the desert skies, near Phoenix, is a haven for weary women. Here can be found health, hope and beauty renewed by restful hours and skillful hands.” Writer Susan Smith  goes on to describe her magical stay at the beauty resort operated by Elizabeth Arden.

I understand why my aunt Marion penciled three big X’s on the article. She, like many women today, was craving rest, adventure, and a change of pace. She worked from sun up to sun down on the ranch. She was dreaming of a getaway.

So, I wondered, where was this resort?

My research led me to the Phoenician Resort, at the foot of Camelback Mountain, where Elizabeth Arden purchased an existing estate and modeled her luxury spa after her rural farm spa in Central Maine.

Smith’s article goes on to say “There is also the magic of the dinner hour, which provides both thin and fat tables, to which one is assigned kindly get firmly by experts in beauty-building.”

Guests like Mamie Eisenhower came yearly for skillful massages, exercise classes, and afternoons by the pool drinking ice-cold vegetable juices.

Sounds dreamy, but where is the resort today? This led me to a blog by Boyce Thompson. You see, the original estate was likely was owned by the family of Jessie Benton Evans, who was a painter and owned a small home on 40 acres at the base of Camelback mountain. (Oh! A painter? A rabbit trail for another day, Dyana) Apparently, 12 of those acres were gifted to a son and daughter in-law who built the adobe estate  in 1926. 

The adobe estate became the Jokake Inn. The inn was purchased by Mabel Maud Thompson Wilson (sister of Colonel William Boyce Thompson of the Arizona arboretum fame) In 1946, Elizabeth Arden transformed the estate into her Main Chance Arizona resort.

And where is that beautiful adobe inn today? 

According to the Thompson blog, the estate was still there when the Phoenician first opened in 1988, but when Starwood bought the resort, it was razed to make room for canyon suites.

For whatever reason, I pine for old places and stories. And I contemplate the daily lives of those who came before me and think about how very similar we all are.

Marion Roan rose early every day to bird songs. She let out the ducks, fed the chickens, milked the cows, separated the milk, made breakfast, had devotions and prayer, fixed the generator, weeded the garden, harvested the strawberries, checked on a neighbor, drove to town, entertained guests, wrote letters by the fire, loved her dog, and went to bed tired and grateful.

I rise each day to bird song. I read my bible app, feed the dog, take a walk, make the coffee, make breakfast, water the yard, pull a few weeds, answer emails, fill orders, paint a canvas, fix what’s broken, run to the store, check on a neighbor, clean up the studio, make dinner, wash the dishes, finish work in the studio, read or watch TV, write in my journal, fall into bed exhausted, and grateful.

I could use a spa day too, Aunt Marion. But a day with you back at the ranch would sure be fun too.

*My Aunt’s ranch is still standing, for now.

**Bonus points for knowing this reference

If you’ve ever read my artist’s statement you know it is my mission to create beauty, because I believe there should be an equal amount a beauty for the suffering that we experience in this world. Never did I feel that truth more profoundly than this week.

I am not one of those people that believes when a butterfly lands on your shoulder it’s a sign from a dead relative or pet, but I do believe with all my heart that God sends the butterfly, the shooting stars, the rolling grassy hills, the swaying sunflowers to comfort and assure us.

If you are not a dog person, you can stop reading right here. You simply can’t relate unless you have loved your pet and been the recipient of their unique unconditional love. Cat people, ranchers, you can read on. You get it too.

Our dog Boon came to us when we were grieving his predecessor, Zoni. Zoni was like our first child. We adopted him in Michigan when we were so lonely, and then moved him all the way home to Arizona. He was well loved for 15 1/2 years. He was my constant companion and when he was gone there was a huge hole.

In 2008, there was still a Jack Russell rescue here in town. We found them on the Internet and made an appointment to look at the dogs they had available. Boon and his sister had been rescued from a puppy mill in Missouri. He had a few health issues, barely made eye contact and just was a very forlorn little boy. But we fell in love with him. We asked him to come home with us and he said yes.

We told him he had big shoes to fill. Slowly he became more affectionate and trusting and we began to include him and all our family adventures. Specifically, for me, he was my morning hike or walk buddy, and we would marvel at God’s creation together. During the day, when Randy and Syd were gone, he followed me around the house and, during my long days of painting he was my steadfast companion. Listening to my grumblings and looking at me lovingly when I was suffering.

We installed a doggie door and I loved the sound of the door flapping in the wind as he would race outside to chase a golfer, or a bird, a bobcat, or whatever. His favorite time of day was when Sydney would come home from school or work and feed and walk him. They had a special relationship and she was so loving and caring towards him.

Randy, being the big softy he is, relinquished part of our bed for Boon to sleep in each night. They would antagonize each other with affectionate growls as a part of our nighttime routine. Eventually, Boon would settle up against Randy’s back and they would both fall fast asleep.

In recent months Boon’s health began to decline. He had been diagnosed with Cushing’s disease, and had chronic interdigital cysts. At Christmas time, while tree hunting in the woods, we noticed he wandered far from us and could not see or hear us yelling at him to come back.  Eventually he lost all his sight and most of his hearing. Long walks became short walks, and finally just walks in the backyard. You or I might have complained. Boon was not a complainer. He simply tried to adapt the best he could, relying on what hearing he had left and his sense of smell.

He could no longer use the doggie door and falling in the pool was a concern. He could not be left alone for more than a few hours, and so we adjusted and scheduled our time as a family to care for him. We adjusted our summer travel, so that one of us would stay behind and care for Boon. There would be time to travel as a family later.

Last week it was Randy’s and my turn to travel to my beloved White Mountains. Syd would stay home and with help from family and friends, watch over Boon. When we left, he wasn’t standing very well, and loosing interest in his food, sleeping all the time. Bumping into walls to find his way was not an option any more. He was carried from room to room, and as long as he was with us, he seemed content. We knew he was declining, but truly we felt we had some time, we would not have left him if we had thought otherwise. I gave him a bath, arranged his schedule and whispered in his ear, “don’t go anywhere until I come home now.” We loved and kissed him and said goodbye, the way we always had when leaving the house. We checked in each day. He was doing ok.

Unfortunately, while we were still away, Boon’s health took a drastic turn, Sydney with the help of her Aunt Candy had to make a hard choice. They tried to reach us just after midnight on Wednesday. The call couldn’t get through. I was lying awake when I saw the doorbell notification that someone was leaving the house.  It was Syd with Boon wrapped in his favorite blanket.  She was telling him he was a good boy. I woke Randy and we drove the top of the hill where there was a signal. Randy called Candy and got the whole story. Sydney had held Boon as he passed, at about 1:00 am, and he was no longer in discomfort.

It was pitch dark and the only lights on the hill were our headlights illuminating a field of Sunflowers bobbing in the cold breeze. In the distance, lightning flashed in the sky. Randy and I got out the jeep to embrace and sob. We felt guilt for not being at home, and sadness that Sydney, 21, had to make such an important decision. We ran through all the what-ifs out loud and assured each other, it was all as it should be.  For truly, Syd and Candy were the best suited of all the Hessons to carry such a heavy load, and for that we were grateful.

As I sobbed and tried to grasp the fact that we would be coming home to an empty house, I opened my eyes for a moment and stared at the night sky. In succession, several falling stars plummeted toward the earth in fiery reds and blues. On the horizon lightning continued to flash and light up the sky. It was all so beyond breathtaking. I walked over to the bobbing sunflowers and picked one for Boon, they too were so beautiful, so alive, so perfectly created.

On the slow jeep ride back to the cabin, we saw flashing eyes in our headlights, two small foxes were playing with each other by the road, not a care in the world.

The day before had also been so remarkably beautiful, I had cried and worried over losses and worries of Boon while simultaneously marveling at the lush and rugged landscape. I wrote in my journal before bed:

“Here is what I know without a doubt – when I am in nature, God’s creation – looking at his handiwork, seeing his creativity and mastery of beauty, I am at total peace. I’m not concerned with the worlds man-made drama, I am unaware of my own mortality, or safety, or future peril. I am just in the middle of God’s work and I can see no flaws, no condemnation, nothing wrong or out of place. And I know, he is King and I am his daughter and He loves me so very much.”

And He does love me so very much, and Sydney, and Randy, and our sweet baby Boon. He is with us in our grief, and we have so much to be thankful for.

There has been a lot of debate about pets and heaven. I am reminded that God created the animals before he made Adam and Eve. In fact, he put the first man and woman in charge of creation, to care for it. Caring for a pet changes you. The unconditional love of a pet changes you. When you are at your worst moment, they love you. I swear, some days Boon looked into my eyes, and I knew he was an angel sent by God to care for me, deeply.

We will miss our Boon-Doggle, Boon-alicious, Bonnie-baby so very much. He was the right dog at the right time for all the right reasons. We are so grateful for every day we had with him. There is a huge hole in our hearts right now, and we are very sad. The studio is empty and I don’t know how I will paint without him.

Outside my window, there is a pale blue sky, and pretty clouds, and birdsong, and they are comforting. A measure of beauty for pain.

dh 8-15-21

I’m going to reminisce about the tradition that was born out of frustration, but resulted in new knowledge, new friends, and some new-old glassware and shoes.

In March of 2020, I had the biggest show of my life. I had created a very special collection of work for a very special purpose, and I was stoked. I had speaking engagements and celebrations all lined up, and a modest wardrobe at the ready to look my best. And then…nothing. Now I had things to wear and nowhere to wear them. As did so many of us, collectively.

My art exhibition at Bonner David Galleries was supposed to kick off with a reception on Friday, March 27, 2020. We called all our guests and asked them to stay home. But I wanted to see the show hung! So, I put on my fancy cowboy boots, snapped a selfie in the back yard, and we were off. Randy and I stopped to pick up take-out at Rusconi’s and we headed to an empty gallery. I had a musician for the night and I hated to cancel, so I told her she could stay home, but I would still pay her. She decided to come and play her beautiful music anyway. Her audience was me, Randy and gallery director, Christi Manuelito. In the early days before the mask ruled, distance was king, and so we did. We wept as she sang. Outside the gallery doors, the streets were empty, it was all very surreal.

My collectors were enthusiastic about my new work, despite the absence of a reception, and all my paintings found great homes. I was, and am, so grateful. I decided to I put my head down and keep working. But on weekends, we hopped in True Blue and explored where we could, rediscovering our state and gathering new inspiration for the next series of paintings.

Fridays kept coming, and my need to get dressed up and have cocktails with friends was squashed.
So, organically really, I kept a Friday night date with myself going. I did my hair and makeup, put on a dress, poured a beer or made a cocktail, snapped a photo to share, and wished everyone a Happy Friday! 

And then more Fridays came.

Now I was out of frocks. I went to the guestroom closet. I found old dresses; from cruises, from weddings, even from high school formals, and pulled them out of their dry-cleaning bags. I thought maybe I would dress to match a painting I was working on, or the drink I wanted to try. Or recreate a historic photo, and yes, I made a dress out of the plastic tarp. It was a logical step to repurpose the plastic after we had repainted the laundry room (by now we were all remodeling, and baking bread).

A few months went by and I had worn everything in the guestroom closet. I had to pivot.

I don’t wear a mask well at all, maybe 5-10 minutes, tops. So I made it a game: run into Goodwill or the resale shop, grab something interesting and cheap off the rack, and let that inspire the Friday night. Or get a local beer (thus supporting our hurting tap rooms) and maybe design the Friday night around that? I found beautiful old glassware at the Sunshine acres thrift store, that needed new life too. And this, and that, and suddenly I was down rabbit holes of history, cocktail lore, you name it. It became a creative outlet of ADD abandon. I was amusing myself, learning new things, and I was making new friends, and that was fun.

I learned about Sake, Tears for Fears, Culver bar ware, the history of cowgirls, and the history of back Friday. I learned that toasting without eye contact is bad luck, that blonds do have more fun and are just as smart as brunettes.  I learned why porter is called porter, that Gray Duck is better than Grey Goose, that Ball jars are responsible for Ball State. And most importantly, I learned that I don’t look good in a beret at 55, but I sure looked cute in one when I was 3.

A lot of you have told me you know it’s Friday night when you see my post. Some of you have said you’ve learned new things. Some of you have sent me your own Friday night snap shots. Ultimately, it became a way to connect. And that was a gift. It gave me something to look forward to, to prepare for, to anticipate. That was good for my brain, and my heart.

I look back at our 52 Fridays together and I smile. We had fun didn’t we? They really are a means to an end. A way to create conversations, engage, lighten a dark mood.

And speaking of an end, where does this new Friday night tradition end? Or maybe, how does it continue, is a better question? Fridays will keep coming, I see a bunch of them in my calendar this year.
I think I will still post from time to time, if its ok with you.

What I’m dreaming of next is a real-life celebration on a Friday night. A celebration of humanity and perseverance and pivoting. A celebration of what we have in common. An event where we can dress up, look into each other’s eyes, and raise a toast!

So stay tuned, maybe we’ll plan that for 52 Fridays from now.  You know, so you have time to hit the thrift stores, and plan a really great outfit to wear.

So here’s to you Friday night, you are a constant in our lives, a celebration at the end of a good week, relief at the end of a bad week, a reason to gather, a reason to reflect, a reason to be thankful.

#cheers

Dyana  

A special collection of White Mountain wildflowers for Arizona Highways Magazine

Special Scottsdale Artwalk celebration:

Bonner David Galleries
7040 E. Main Street
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Thursday, June 24th, 2021
6:00 PM – 9:00 PM

While much of the Grand Canyon state is hot and void of botanical color in the summer, the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest in northeastern Arizona is alive with color. And I’m not talking about fall color. Amber and Crimson will have their day, and photographers will rush to those special places in Arizona to capture the autumnal light, soon enough, so just hang on. It’s still summer in the White Mountains and while White is a great description for this region in the winter, in August, this artist thinks Green would be more accurate. The warm greens of treeless, velvet valleys collide with the cool greens of thick pine-scented forests, from 3,500 to 11,500 in elevation. And, while Green is the main character dominating the horizon in the romance of the White Mountains, Blue cannot be ignored. It rushes downward to meet the land, in an ombre of ultra-marine to cerulean blue.

Truth be told, this region has been home to colorful landscapes and characters for years.  Coronado came looking for gold, John Wayne came to ranch cattle, and author Zane Grey came to paint word pictures. His character, Milt Dale, knew this area well.

“Dale pursued a zigzag course over ridges to escape the hardest climbing, but the “senacas”—those parklike meadows so named by Mexican sheep-herders—were as round and level as if they had been made by man in beautiful contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges.”

Is it any wonder why Grey loved Arizona’s wild places? But, back to color. Because in the White Mountains, an artist at heart can see more than White, Green, and Blue in the woods, senacas, and sky. There are other players like Pink, Yellow, Red, and Purple, and you can see them perform their parts too, if you know where to look.

– dh

On newsstands June 2021

I’m please that my painting, “Four Generations to Come, Milkweed and Moth, White Mountains, AZ was juried into the National AWA exhibit “Lifting the Sky” May 20 – August 21, 2021.

This painting is part of my “Colors of White” series, celebrating the wildflowers that thrive in the White Mountains of Eastern Arizona. In 2011, the Wallow fire destroyed 469,407 acres of wilderness, making it the largest fire in Arizona’s history. My series is a testimony to renewal and call to conservation.

Information: American Women Artists

I’m proud to announce my participation in “Cowgirl Up” at the Desert Caballeros Western Museum in Wickenburg, Arizona, March 28- September 5, 2021

March 26-27: Private events for sponsors

March 28-September 5: Showings by appointment open to public, please call 928-684-2272 to reserve your time.

“Cowgirl Up!” Online begins the week of March 29th. Experience the Exhibition and Sale virtually.

Proxy bidding is still available by phone, please contact curator Mary Ann Igna 928-684-2272 ext 101

Location:
21 North Frontier Street
Wickenburg, AZ 85390

928.684.2272

info@westernmuseum.org

See the work

The #plant100agaves Project
The give away starts Friday, October 23rd

On March 3, 2020 I wrote this post for Instagram:

“So it’s a happy/sad day at the Hesson Hacienda. When we moved to this house in 1996, I rescued some octopus agave bulbils (baby plants) from a neighbor’s plant. They were in pots, then in the garden, and then I planted them as focal points along my courtyard wall. Today I noticed two plants have sent up their florescence. That means the mother plants, after using every last bit of resources to create new life, will soon die. Sounds deep, huh? Well, that’s Gods creation for you. If we care for it, it teaches us, brings us beauty, enriches our lives. And that’s why I paint what I paint. I don’t get tired of these little miracles, of these lessons. Soon I’ll be collecting bulbils and starting over. Thank you, beautiful octopus agaves, for 24 years.”

Soon after that post, human life changed because of COVID. But the plant world did not. I got right to work creating a painting of the glorious yellow flowers of my octopus agave. Meanwhile, the bees and hummingbirds obsessed over the flowers too. Once pollinated, the blooms transformed into baby plants, and I knew what I wanted to do. Every week, with the help of my kid, we collected eight or more bulbils and put them in small jars of water indoors. In a week’s time, the plants had rooted and it was time to put them into soil. Not wanting to purchase plastic pots that would be wasted, we looked in the trash to see what we could re-purpose. The answer was discarded plastic bottles and food containers that were now headed to the landfill because of our city’s suspension of recycling.

Week after week, we propagated agaves.

Meanwhile, in the western United States, we were having record heat and tremendous loss of plant life due to wild fires. Near our own home, the Bush fire obliterated 186,000 acres including the stands of saguaro that marched up the hills to Four Peaks Wilderness, some of which were 100 years old. In my own yard, cactus that had thrived for 25 years were dying.

So now, its time to replant. From my garden to yours, I’m giving away my harvest.  This is my way of encouraging you after a long hard season. Learn about the care and plating of an Agave Vilmoriana, get your hands dirty, and watch new life grow. It is a season of renewal.

Agaves will be given away at Bonner David Galleries in Scottsdale, starting Friday, October 23rd. Stop by and pick one up!
Bonner David galleries
7040 E. Main Street
Scottsdale, AZ 85215
open Tuesday- Saturday 10am-5:30pm
480-941-8500

-dh
Fore more plant education visit:
https://debraleebaldwin.com/agave-photos-labeled-identified/
https://centralarizonacactus.org/
https://plantcaretoday.com/agave-vilmoriniana.html

My Flowering Agave:

The propagation project:

What am I up to in the studio these days? Glad you asked. I’m continuing with the theme of capturing Arizona native plants and flowers and focusing more specifically on the precious little wild gems I’ve found on my adventures this year. 

I count these moments of discovery a sincere blessing. Hiking a trail, or rambling down a road, and having the time to look, to explore and ultimately discover flowers I’ve never seen before.

Back in the studio, they come alive on the canvas, and I learn something new about the flower, about the place where I saw it, and ultimately about myself. These moments in the wild refresh and delight me, and bring me closer to understanding the creative God who designed them, and me, for His purpose.

Near the first of the year, watch for a new book of my work published by Arizona Highways.

All my best,

Dyana 

Enjoy some fun adventure videos:

The Booth Western Art Museum, Cartersville, Georgia

I’m so honored to be a part of this exhibit celebrating the works of 113 American Women Artists from across the country. The work was selected by juror Lisa Wheeler, the Booth’s Director of Curatorial Services, from 1500 entries. This exhibit is part of AWA’s bold 25 in 25 initiative, to have 25 museum exhibitions for women in the next 25 years. The grand prize was $10,000 and five purchase prizes were awarded during opening ceremonies, which happened virtually thanks to the dedicated Booth staff.

View the exhibit work

True Blue Arizona – The Arizona Highways Magazine Project
The Hunt for Native Blooms, March – April 2019

A few years ago, I received a special birthday card from my husband. When I opened it, pictures of my favorite cars, cut from the pages of magazines, fell and floated to the floor. My gift that year, and meaningfully so, was for me to pick out and purchase the car of my choice. You see, we were down a car, and truth be told, my husband usually gets his way when making car choices. This year he was handing the baton to me. This was a bigger responsibility than I thought. By the time I was done with my hunt, I more fully appreciated Randy’s role as the family “car guy” all these years.

I resolved that my “new” car would be gently used. It would be fun, and it would be colorful. I’m an artist after all. Someday I will own a blue convertible Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, but this was not the stage of life for that frivolity. I needed a car for hunting. And by hunting, I mean flower hunting.

You see, for twenty-eight years I have made my living as a botanical artist, mostly right here in the great state of Arizona. The first cactus blooms I painted while studying art at ASU were hedgehog blooms from the cover of Arizona Highways Magazine. My husband bought a subscription as an enticement to move me from my home state of California to Arizona in the late 80’s. It worked. Since that first painting, I have made it my mission to photograph beautiful botanicals to paint. I have traveled to some wonderful places with beautiful tropical gardens, rose gardens, etc., but I always return to the desert. Desert blooms and Arizona light enamor me. Which brings me back to my car purchase. 

An Arizona flower hunter needs a four-wheel drive car, in a pretty shade of blue. I found a gently used 2010 two-door Jeep Wrangler in Huntington Beach, California. It had never seen the dirt. I haggled with the sales person, and on spring break of March 2012 we loaded up the family and went to see a man about a wrangler. I named her True Blue.

My husband and daughter drove our other car and I followed them back over the border into Arizona. As I drove, I was day dreaming about the adventures Blue and I would have. Then suddenly, near Dateland, I hit the largest swarm of bees I had ever seen—a huge cloud of pollen and wings. I pulled over at the next gas station to survey the damage. It was not good. It would take a lot of elbow grease to get that grill clean again. And truthfully, Blue has never been totally clean since that day. She is always slightly dirty and scraped up from recent adventures. And that’s the way it should be, when you are a hunter.

In 2019 we had a wonderful rainy winter. In California, celebrities were being helicoptered into fields of orange and gold to see the “super bloom”. But here in Arizona, we had blooms (and ideas) brewing too. I had just delivered my latest body of work to Bonner David Galleries in Scottsdale for my March show. I was ready for a break. Enter Robert Stieve with a cup of coffee and a thought. Maybe an issue with ten or so paintings celebrating the spring bloom in the Arizona desert. Hmm. Intriguing.

So, no break. And honestly, how could I take a break now? I needed to get out and see the desert while it was in bloom. Over the next few weeks, I compiled a list of places to go hunting. Instagram and plant nerd friends would send me locations of bloom sightings and I hit the books to refresh my brain about what really blooms here, what is native Arizona—you know, true blue. When guests came from out of town, I dragged them with me to hunt. Superior, the Catalina’s, Bartlett lake, the Superstitions. True Blue got pretty dirty. I took the lids off and she got dusty inside too. The camera clicked and clicked and a few weeks later I had 1500 photos to choose from, and the sketching began . . .

Choosing what to paint was no small feat. It was like having a gift card for your favorite outdoor outfitter, and having to narrow your choice when you love it all. Fortunately, the crew at Arizona Highways offered a vision of their favorite blooms which helped. Jeff Kida, the magazine’s photo editor, sent a thumb drive with some reference photos that provided great direction. Then, I was able to narrow down my own reference photos and get started. I knew, as is normally my habit, I would probably edit my choices as the work began and my vision of the collection came more sharply into focus. I began painting in late April, and started with a composition of an agave and a sego lily that I had spotted in Sedona. I finished the piece in late May and was really pleased. The momentum had started. Painting can be like running or hiking out of the Grand Canyon; once you find your pace and are focused, you just want to keep going, and so I did.

Over the summer months I painted like the wind. Mariposa lily, poppies, opuntia, cholla, all rolled out of me like words on paper do for an author writing her epic novel. I noticed there was a color palette developing with my choices for  the backgrounds. The work began to look cohesive as a collection. Many of the compositions like “Superstition Treasure, Buckhorn Cholla” really gave me a run for my money. I had to make edits mid-stream, because what works in a photograph or a preliminary sketch does not always work on a canvas. I also would change my mind on background colors, opting for a slightly more effective hue in the final hours of the piece.

On weekends, after I was exhausted from studio work and craving the outdoors, my husband would graciously take me on Arizona back road adventures in True Blue. We would pack some food and spend all day exploring some remote and glorious areas of Arizona. My creative tank would refill and my mission to be an ambassador for the plants and places of my state would be renewed. On Monday morning I would hit the canvas refreshed and re-energized.

Once the paintings were complete I would hurry them to my photographer in Phoenix to be expertly photographed for the magazine. Slowly but surely the collection was coming together, and in November the last piece for the magazine was created. I saved the iconic saguaro for last. You’ll notice the bees happily pollinating the blooms in the piece, a much happier place to be than on the grill of True Blue. It was an exhausting composition but well worth it.

Now it was time to get the images and descriptions to Arizona Highways editor Noah Austin. The idea was to create a bit of a field guide for the magazine’s readers. I loved that idea, because part of my quest with my art is to inspire others to get outside and explore, notice, and learn new things. I had done my best to identify the genus and species of each plant, but I called upon my plant nerd friends to check my work. Then we had the experts at the Desert Botanical Garden do the final check.

So in March 2020, on the pages of Arizona Highways Magazine, you will see the fruits (or, um, flowers) of our labor, inspired by the native plants and places of the Grand Canyon State. And while you are reading the magazine, I’ll be creating more paintings for the series, because I’m simply not done with this theme, probably ever. There will always be another dirt road to explore and a meadow or rocky hillside to examine, and that’s the way I like it. True Blue Arizona.

Dyana Hesson

December 1, 2019

Dedicated to Dad

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March 27^th 6-8pm gallery reception update: 

Friends,
Even though we did not get to gather in person for this show, it was a huge success. Thank you Bonner David Galleries for making adjustments and caring for my collectors, and thank you to my collectors for your earnest interest in the work of my hands. We just about had a sellout.

With gratitude,

Dyana

“True Blue Arizona” The Arizona Highways magazine project
March 27- April 20, 2020

New work inspired by Arizona native plants and places.
Bonner David Galleries
7040 E. Main Street
Scottsdale, AZ

More about this collection

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Order a signed copy of the March 2020 Arizona Highways issue

Thank you to our generous
True Blue Arizona sponsors:

Listen!

By Dyana Hesson

You are not an island. Grab some artist friends, start a group, and begin to celebrate your successes.

I first read about the Algonquin Roundtable in Harpo Marx’s book Harpo Speaks. The group was compiled of New York City writers, critics, actors and performers who met each day for lunch at the Algonquin Hotel from 1919 to 1928. They dreamed and collaborated.

So, a few years ago, some artist friends and I started a group. We call ourselves the POP- T’Arts. We decided we would meet for breakfast in a fun location in Phoenix, talk over our current projects and ideas and encourage one another. An artist’s life can be quite solitary, and we felt there was a need to be social and support one another. Over time, we added other members to our group and also invited guests, mostly emerging artists, so they could ask our opinions and clarify their direction with their own art. We have seen successes, failures and funks in our group, but truly, mostly successes. 

Here are some tips to start your own group.

-Meet at in artistically invigorating location. We have varied our locations over the years, and currently are meeting at happy hour time rather than breakfast, but the location can truly be a spark for creativity. It’s also an opportunity to network with a local business.

-Don’t get too large. We have about 10 regular members, but not all can come every time. Be cautious about adding new members, as it can truly bog down the amount of time everyone has to share their projects. We have opted to create a guest artist opportunity, wherein emerging artists can come with their ideas and receive input from the group.

-Show up at the events of your fellow group members. I can’t tell you how many times I have looked up during a show to see my posse of artists supporting and smiling at me. This is key. This is community.

-Be flexible. We are loosey-goosey with our dates. We do not have a set date each month; instead, have a Facebook group where we decide when and where to meet. In this way, our group does not become a burden on a to-do list, but rather something we look forward to.

-Be diverse. Our group is comprised of painters, sculptors, photographers, men, and women, of all ages. This becomes very helpful when you have a project and you need opinions; you need the lens of diversity to know whether your project has appeal. 

-Do fun things. This year we added a Christmas party potluck at my home with a white elephant gift exchange. It was a joyful gathering.

So, grab a group and get started. You will be amazed and delighted to see the things you talk about around the table come to fruition. And this time next year, perhaps you will be celebrating a plethora of successes with your artist friends.

“Just swim towards my voice,” my ex-Air Force friend Nan said as she swam confidently in front of me. I flipped over on my back and stared at the crystal blue Mexico sky. “Go to your happy place,” she yelled.

“Shouldn’t a warm sandy beach in Mexico be a happy place?” I thought. I decided to picture myself back in my desert home floating in my swimming pool on my squishy blue raft. I knew if I kept my thoughts on home and focused on my friend’s assuring words, I would be ok.  I hoped I would be ok. I began to recite my favorite psalm over and over in my head.

It had started as an end of the school year vacation to Puerto Peñasco, Mexico. My daughter, husband, and I were asked to join two other families for four days of sun and relaxation at a beautiful villa facing the Gulf of Mexico. We had all traveled to this region before, but had never seen the beach, or the town for that matter. Every year, over President’s Day weekend, we would travel to Rocky Point on a house building trip with a large group. There, we would tent camp in the sand and work from dawn to dusk to build a home for a local family. At the end of three days, almost miraculously and without power tools, there would stand a modest stucco home. The family, who worked alongside us, would receive their keys and a blessing on the last day in an emotional exchange. These trips were always so rewarding, but there was no time to relax, no showers, no margaritas. This trip would be different.

We loaded our stuff and kids into three cars and made the easy five hour drive from Mesa, stopping once after crossing the border for a rest stop and local beer. Then our little caravan turned east and drove along the gentle curve of the Gulf of Mexico. There were no views really except flat land and sand; I was looking forward to seeing the water. As we entered the residential “resort” It became apparent to me that shifting sand must be an ongoing battle for locals. There is simply nothing for it to grab onto.  Very little vegetation, or landscape. We parked and looked around at the amenities. There was a tennis court in decent shape, and since we all played, we agreed we would give that a go in the morning. There was a club house with a pool that our kids were eager to see, but during a recent storm, the pool had filled with sand, and there was a crew working to empty the contents. There would be no pool time on this trip. But who needs a pool when you have the Gulf of Mexico steps from your villa?

After some exploring, we made our way to our villa. It had a walled entrance, a courtyard, a casita and a main house with several bedrooms and a kitchen. This was definitely an upgrade from the pit toilets and hard, cold ground of the house building trips. The living area opened up into a large raised patio with an outdoor fireplace. The kids were running through the house choosing their rooms. It was going to be a trip full of quiet and loud moments.

I stepped through the chaos for a moment alone on the patio. I willed my shoulders to relax, and my mind to clear, and took in the view before me. The buff colored sand appeared to softly melt into an expanse of blue and turquoise water as far as the eye could see. I could mix those colors. Perhaps I could try my hand at a sea scape. I looked down the beach to my right and pictured myself taking a long walk. I bet there are things to explore down there. That would be nice. Maybe tomorrow. Just then my silent contemplation was broken by a band of children running past me to the beach. There were beautiful shells everywhere, and the kids began collecting with abandon. Soon, the patio wall became a showplace for the hundreds of shells that were collected.

We settled in for the night with a light dinner and Mexican beer. A fire was built on the patio and some of the kids tried their hand at net fishing with flashlights on the shore. The older kids stayed on the patio to discuss politics with the adults. They would be leaving the nest soon; these moments were precious.

Soon the conversation yielded to silence, which was the telltale sign that it was time for bed. Tomorrow would be epic. We needed rest.

As morning broke, the bright gulf sun rousted us from bed. Coffee was made, breakfast eaten and it was time for the adults to play tennis. This gang did not sit still. The same gusto that got a house built in three days was present in every tennis match. There were grunts and “in your face” type of comments as the competitive spirit rose from the sandy court. Soon the sun chased us to the cooler coastal air. But again, sitting still was not an option. So a volleyball net was erected on the sandy beach and play ensued. The seven kids were invited to join us, some playing for the first time. It was interesting to see their personalities emerge in the game. Some were encouraging to others, some easily frustrated; some couldn’t care less and just wanted to play in the water.

Soon, the gulf water won. It was shallow and warm, perfect for kids. Our friend Steve warned us to be cautious, however; there were small sting rays here and they were the same color as the sand. Shuffle your feet was his advice. Ok, noted.

Included with our villa was an afternoon meal prepared by two local ladies. Today it was ceviche and homemade guacamole. They called us to the patio when it was ready and we ate heartily. Finally, the pace slowed a bit. The gusto of our busy competitive group gave way to talk of reading and naps. The moms (Nan, Beth and I) began to hatch a plan to take a walk down the beach sans kids. Which put the boys in change of all seven kids. But they were capable.

By now the sun was lower in the sky but still intense. We could hop in the water as we walked to cool off, being careful to watch for stingrays of course. We hydrated and headed out.

The walk was glorious. The water sparkled in the afternoon sun and the tide created little shallow pools and islands to explore. The conversation ran the gamut from our children to our past adventures.  These were hardy ladies. They had accomplished great things and were brave in spirit. It felt good to be in the company of woman who enjoyed and valued the same things as I did.

Water and beach memories began to dominate the conversation; Nan was a strong swimmer in high school, and Beth had been bitten by a shark once. Wait, what? I was surprised and not surprised. Beth had often reveled outrageous details about her life in small modest moments. Teenage beauty queen, lottery winner, shark bite victim. Amazing. Now I was scanning the water for sting rays and sharks alike. You couldn’t be too careful.

The flat shore to our north began rise and form a bluff. Up ahead we could see a small inlet where the gulf flowed into an estuary that spilled into a waterway behind the bluff. You could see the high-rises in town beyond the estuary, and some fishermen had parked their truck on the opposite side of the inlet. There was also a small dark shiny creature glistening in the sun and resting just across from us. What was that? We were curious folk, and we could not let this opportunity for adventure pass us by. Our conversation reminded me of the scene from the movie “Stand by Me” where the kids go on quest to see a dead body.

A plan was hatched to go see the creature. The estuary was not that wide and, in most places, you could touch the bottom. This was no problem for Nan and Beth, they were strong swimmers.  I took a moment to assess the safety of the adventure for myself. I was not a strong swimmer, but if I could touch bottom, I would be fine. But what of the stingrays and sharks? I discussed my concern with the girls. We decided we would swim and keep our feet from touching the bottom to decrease our chances of getting stung. If we needed to rest we could stand on the bottom for a moment and then continue. It would be fine. I looked over my shoulder back towards our villa, which was now out of sight. We still had a few hours of daylight, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

The planning discussion morphed into giggling as we made our way across the estuary. Nan took the lead, then Beth, then me. They were talking and laughing and swimming and I chimed in occasionally with a one-liner. That was my way. Especially when I was nervous. About half way across the water I decided to rest. I was out of breath and needed to regroup.  I swung my legs from the top of the water behind me to the sandy floor below.

Except there was no sand floor.  Just water, and more water. As I looked up I realized the tide had been rising as we had been swimming across. I glanced at my friends, who had almost reached the other side.  Now, knowing I was in trouble, I tried to get their attention. But I could barely stay afloat and I did not have the ability to shout. I began to panic and thought “so this is how it ends, in an estuary in Mexico.” My normally low heart rate was racing. I was gasping for air. “Get ahold of yourself,” I thought. I rolled over on my back and told myself that I could do it. I gulped in air as calmly as I could muster and slowly moved towards the shore.  I can still remember hearing the voices of my friends on the other side, totally unaware of my peril. “This is how people drown,” I thought. “Quietly, and when no one is watching; is anyone watching?” Just then, I felt my head hit the sand. That beautiful buff Mexican sand, that blows around without any consideration to anyone or anything, was my safe resting place.

I crawled onto the shore. By now Nan and Beth looked back and noticed that something had gone wrong.  I am a joker, but at this moment I was dead serious. “I almost drowned, you guys.” It took a moment for them to realize my truth. They were sorry that they hadn’t noticed; perhaps crossing was a foolish decision, but sometimes bad choices are made on vacation when your guard is down. Sometimes rational, educated people travel a very long way—say, from Ohio to the Grand Canyon—only to make one wrong step and fall into the abyss. I read those books, I know those stories. After my heart rate returned to normal, I was able to conjured up a one liner. “At least I wasn’t stung by a stingray, right?” We gathered ourselves for a moment, and assessed the situation. There was the small issue of returning across the estuary to get back to the villa. The sun was sinking, and the tide was still rising. Now I did not see sparkling gulf water before me; I saw dangerous fast-moving water and it terrified me.

Beth laid out our options. “We could walk around the estuary, we could ask for a ride from the guys in the truck, or we could swim back across.” The guys were not an option. Stranger danger. Walking was not an option; we had no shoes, no drinking water and we’d be cut to ribbons in the reeds. We would have to swim back across. I didn’t want to even think about it. I looked away from the water, hoping to find a safe place for my eyes to rest, and my friends followed suit. We all took a deep breath. And that was the moment when we all noticed the very thing that compelled us across the channel in the first place. The shiny black creature. “Let’s go at least have a look,” Nan said. “I mean, we are here, right?” It was a decent plan. Maybe that would help change a channel in my brain and I could revisit the task of returning to the evil water in a new light.

The shiny black creature turned out to be a dead dolphin. Not a romantic discovery, and yet fantastical and intriguing nonetheless. Nature had already set about the business of returning this creature to the earth. Her eyes and face were in a disturbing state, but her skin still glistened. We wondered how she had lived her life in the sea, free and without worry, and was she a mom like us?

We said our respects and returned to the task of the crossing. The guys in the truck were still there, that might be a better choice after all.  And that’s when Nan spoke up; “Dyana, this time, we will all be together, we won’t leave you behind, this is doable.” Beth, also an encouraging force, assured me, “You can do this, we won’t leave you behind.” No man left behind, ok then. If they think I’ll be ok, then I need to believe that. Plus it’s getting late, the men folk will start to worry. Let’s get this done. I stared into the now very deep, fast-moving water.  “Slow and steady,” I thought.

My friends went just ahead of me. I waded into the water backwards, so I would not see the enormity of the expanse and freak out. I thought about all the challenges God had brought me through so far, all the ways he had protected me. I thought about the women in my life who supported and encouraged me, and I hoped in a small way I had done the same for them when they most needed it.

The water slowly enveloped me.

“Just swim towards my voice,” my ex-Air Force friend Nan said as she swam confidently in front of me. I flipped over on my back and stared at the crystal blue Mexico sky. “Go to your happy place,” she yelled.

I felt strangely comfortable, not at all panicked like on the maiden voyage across. The sky was such an amazing shade of blue. I was grateful that I had a safe home to focus my thoughts on, and I thought about the many Mexican families on our home-building trips who were so grateful when we handed them the keys to their homes.

“Dyana, its over,” I heard Beth say from shore. I flipped over, and this time my feet hit a sandy bottom. I waded the rest of the way to the shore. It was over. We were all safe. I glanced over my shoulder at our dolphin friend on the other shore. I was sad she could not celebrate with us. I thanked God for her life, my life, and the lives of my friends. And then I started running.

“I’ll see you at the villa!” I yelled at my friends as I ran towards our temporary home. I wanted to see my husband and tell him the story. I wanted to be held. About a quarter of a mile or so from the villa I could see a figure standing on the sand near the shore. As I approached, I could see that it was my husband. I picked up the pace and ran harder. His hands were on his hips; he looked concerned. Were we gone that long? Was he worried? I bet he was. How sweet. I threw my arms around his neck and exclaimed “I almost drowned!”

“Where have you been?” he asked. Before I could answer he blurted out “Steve got pierced though the foot by a stingray. Mark had to take him to town to see a doctor. I’ve been here alone with seven kids!”

Wait, what? It was obvious that Beth’s husband was trying to play catch up with some outrageous details about his life. “Married Beth, stung by a stingray in Mexico.”

There was no time to tell my story at the moment. We watched over the kids, updated the ladies when they arrived, and waited for Steve and Mark to return from town. And return they did, Steve with a bandaged foot and tales of a magical injection, Mark with a story of how great and affordable Mexican health care is, and more beer.

That night after dinner by the fire, the peril of the day slowly morphed into vacation lore. You know, the stories you tell when you are old and gray, about the time so-and-so almost drowned in Mexico, and the Mexican doctor and the epic game of volleyball, and oh, did Beth ever mention that she played volleyball in the Olympics? It might be true.

As laughter rolled, and the fire’s smoke rose into the indigo sky, I thought about the new lessons I had learned from the day’s adventure.

Later, while safe in bed, in my travel journal I wrote: “When your life is in peril, listen to you friends, take a deep breath, and repeat, ‘there’s is no place like home’.”

Dyana Hesson, December 2019

Or, what not to do when houseboating on Lake Powell.

A Short Story by Dyana Hesson

“As I turned the boat sideways to head out of the canyon, the howling wind broadsided our fifty-two foot behemoth, pushing us the other direction. Sliding within inches of the canyon wall and over the steel cables holding the dock in place, we moved slowly up the gorge. My first thought, as our twin screws were ripped to shreds on the cable, was that after millions of years of wind and water, I would be the cause of the crumbling to ruins of the Rainbow Bridge.”

My husband penned these words in 1997 shortly after our first houseboating trip on Lake Powell. But it was not my first time seeing Rainbow Bridge. My parents had taken me and my brothers to the lake when I was small, probably around 1970. The reservoir began to fill in 1963, so back then it looked quite different. My mom recalls the long, shallow narrows they traveled each day from the newly built lodge just to get to the main body of the lake. Because there was less water, the dock at Rainbow Bridge was quite a distance from the natural arch. There are stories about little Dyana’s long walk to Rainbow Bridge, and how momentous it was, but I have no memory of that. So in 1996, my parents started prodding us to take a house boat trip with them, to see the lake anew. We began planning over the phone, as Mom and Dad were in California and we were in Arizona.

Houseboating is not an inexpensive venture. Randy and I had picked out a modest boat to rent, suitable for four people, and a small skiff to tow behind. Mom and Dad wanted a bit more luxury, and persuaded us to bump up the fifty-two foot boat. They would pay the difference. So in May, we met in Page, Arizona to get on our boat and have our grand adventure. It was indeed a nice houseboat. Plenty of room, nicer than most apartments. There was an orientation on the ins and outs of proper houseboating. I didn’t pay much attention to that. Randy and Dad would be at the helm, Mom and I would cook and help with docking. It would all be fine.

I remember the magical feeling I had while pulling away from the dock. I had read my guidebook in advance, studied about the rich history of Glen Canyon and was ready to see it all; or at least as much as four days would allow. Lake Powell is so expansive, it is unlike any other lake experience. It has more shore line than the west coast of the United States, and it never feels crowded. There are endless canyons to explore, and unique geologic formations; the most famous of all being Rainbow Bridge, which was definitely on our agenda. This time I would remember my visit.

While Dad and Randy navigated that first day, I retreated to the upper deck. The blue sky juxtaposed against the red canyon walls took my breath way. And if that were not enough, puffy white clouds would appear on the horizon, and their bellies would glow pink, reflecting the land below. Extraordinary. After a significant cruise, we found a suitable red sandy cove where we could park for the night. With a crew of only four, the large boat took some work to beach, anchor, and secure. Randy nosed the boat into the beach, while Dad, Mom and I jumped ashore to dig holes in the sand and bury the anchors. With a little effort, everything seemed secure, and this would be a nice place to stay the night. No other boats within sight. We did a little swimming, and Randy and I fished from shore. 

I enjoy fishing; however, I am a terrible fisherman. That is to say, I rarely catch a thing, ever. And yet I feel compelled to keep trying. I’m thinking it’s what golfers feel every time they play; that if they just keep at it, they will refine their swing and the perfect game will be attainable, and it rarely is. But, on this magical afternoon on Lake Powell, I actually felt something on my line. And this time it was not a reed.

“Wait, what is that? It’s fighting me!”

“Reel it in!” Randy yelled. “You’ve got one!”

And so I did. I thought I might have a heart attack, I was so excited. I did not want to lose it. Like you see on that survival reality show “Alone” when a desperate contestant gets their fish all the away to shore, only to lose it. But I didn’t lose it. I have a photo to prove it. I was loving Lake Powell even more. A real fish on my line, more magic.

Mom and Dad ran over to admire the foot-long bass, and then we gently removed the hook and sent him on his way. Mom loves animals; she would not have had the heart to gut and eat him. “I can do that on my next trip here,” I thought.

The sun sank behind the crimson buttes, the sky yielded its blue for shades of purple and gold, and the day faded into night. We had a fire on the shore and ate homemade spaghetti that Mom had prepared. It was incredibly quiet, and eerily desolate. We climbed to the upper deck to enjoy the cool air. And then, slowly, the lake revealed another magic trick. As darkness increased and the stars intensified, the lake appeared to fill with stars as well. Optically, I could not tell where the water ended and the sky began. It’s an image I can still see today in my mind’s eye. We settled in for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would another epic day.

The following day we used the skiff to explore some of the smaller canyons and Indian ruins. This was a good plan, as the houseboat was too large for these more intimate waterways. After some afternoon fishing, we navigated to a new cove closer to Forbidding Canyon to camp for the night. This time anchoring the four anchors and lines came easier and our little crew felt we were truly mastering this “houseboat thing”. After dinner, we retreated to the rooftop to watch the stars and plan our next day.

We consulted my handy guide book, “Boaters Guide to Lake Powell”, second edition by Michael Kelsey. In the section about Rainbow Bridge, the author writes “The only times the author felt in danger of having his boat overturned by waves were the times he went to see Rainbow Bridge.” He goes on to urge boaters to slow down in the narrow waterway because the pyramid type waves vibrate on for ten to fifteen minutes. Near the end of the canyon there would be a floating dock and a trail to view the bridge. It was noted that the first white men saw the bridge in 1909, and in 1910 president Taft proclaimed the bridge a National Monument.

The first trail to Rainbow Bridge was established in 1922, long before the dam. Early tourists would come down the Rainbow Bridge trail, which started on the south side of Navajo Mountain. Visitors could stay at the Rainbow Lodge* and travel the thirteen miles by horseback, camping under the stars near the bridge by a natural spring. Bedsprings from the bunks that were housed in canvas-topped cabins still remain in the landscape.

So much history and beauty to explore in the morning. I was looking forward to experiencing this special place with my family.

The new day arrived and morning revealed a placid lake. Perfect for the day’s expedition. We pulled up anchor on the house boat and secured the skiff to the back, and were on our way. This is where my memory about the day’s events gets fuzzy, or perhaps suppressed, or something.

As we motored closer to the mouth of Forbidding Canyon, the winds had picked up. Also, the amount of boat traffic going into the canyon looked like rush hour, with wakes. A consensus was reached that it would not be a good day to see the bridge. Too much wind, and too many boaters. But I was determined. It’s a fault I carry, being determined, despite common sense.  But honestly, that trait has also served me well over the years. Determination has carried me out of the Grand Canyon on several occasions; it has rappelled me into frigid waters from a tiny rope, it has helped me complete and correct a painting that seemed doomed.

“When else are we going to be here again?” I pleaded. “This is only day we have left to do this!” And now I was channeling John Wesley Powell himself. The expedition must go on. We have an arch to see.

I persuaded my crew that the ride would be smoother (my dad suffered from sea sickness) if we traveled the channel in the house boat and not the skiff. We were within the size limit. What could go wrong?

So, we proceeded into the mouth of the serpent that is Forbidding Canyon. Soon it was very evident that the author of my guide book had not exaggerated.  Boats of all kinds were in the channel, some going faster than was considerate to others. Our crew became nervously quiet as we watched Randy carefully navigate the water and maintain a safe speed. We would be there soon.

Then, around the corner, we spotted our first glimpse of the dock and the arch. It was quite a sight. “What must those first visitors have thought at the sight of that?” I thought.

A long wood dock was positioned along the southeast wall of the canyon and then straight across the water in a right angle to the west, separating boaters from where the channel narrowed into a stream that eventually ran under the bridge. By now the wind was really picking up. Randy was able to pull right up alongside the southeast dock and parallel park safely away from other boats. We carefully tied up the boat and secured the skiff. When we looked up from our work and gazed around, we realized we were the only houseboat to make the trek.

“Good for us…yes by golly, good for us, and me with only one arm,” I giggled to myself in character as J.W. Powell again.

Randy urged us to walk quickly up the hill, snap a photo and get back to the boat, as he did not feel conditions would improve but rather get worse as the afternoon went on.

And so, we did.

The bridge was a magical sight. This arch is not delicate; it is 288 feet high, 275 feet wide, and at its smallest part, forty-two feet thick. The terra cotta and pink varnished sandstone seems to occasionally sparkle in the bright southwestern sun. For an arch to form, years of wind and water erode away soft unstable sandstone to reveal formations of stronger stone altered by weight and time. I like to think that “Erosion” is the master sculptor commissioned by God to chisel away an already breathtaking landscape, to reveal an even more captivating form within.

My daydreaming was loudly interrupted by my husband. “Get your photo, and let’s go.”

I positioned my Mom and Dad in front of the arch and snapped their photo. They were so happy to see this beautiful place again after so many years. And that made me happy.

By now the wind was howling full force up the canyon. Many fellow travelers had already left the dock. We hurried back to the house boat, untied our ropes from the dock cleats and climbed aboard. Dad got in the skiff. We had docked the boat facing south with the stern and engines to the north. Randy and my dad assessed the situation and determined that we had plenty of room to simply pull out of our parallel parking place, turn right, straighten the boat in the channel and motor away. A simple U-turn. The best laid plans…

What we as inexperienced house boaters had forgotten was that boats are not like cars; there are no wheels in the front to turn the vehicle. As Randy turned our ship starboard, our houseboat transformed into a giant sail, catching a gust of wind that was relentless to push us against the right angle of the dock. A man with a very nice speed boat in proximity to our ship quickly jumped in is boat and sped away, just as our boat slammed broadside into the dock. In a blink of an eye, our situation tuned from challenging at best to “oh my goodness, what now”.

My poor husband struggled with the boat controls; he knew he needed to move us into deeper water or we would be in trouble.  At this point visitors on the dock took notice. At first, I remember looking up and just seeing blank stares. The same wind that God’s sculptor “Erosion” uses to create his masterpieces was bound to destroy us, the dock, the bridge!

“As I turned the boat sideways to head out the canyon, the howling wind broadsided our fifty-two foot behemoth, pushing us the other direction.  Sliding within inches of the canyon wall and over the steel cables holding the dock in place, we moved slowly up the gorge. My first thought, as our twin screws were ripped to shreds on the cable, was that after millions of years of wind and water, I would be the cause of the crumbling to ruins of the Rainbow Bridge.” – Captain Randy Hesson

At this point some onlookers on the dock turned from passive to active. Some were in the mood to be heroes that day and not just spectators. We were struggling; we needed help. Our crew of four turned to five when a stranger leaped on our boat from the dock to help. Some onlookers barked suggestions to Randy while some pushed us physically away from the dock with their hands. My poor mother was running from the front of the boat to the back. If we could just straighten out, the wind would have less power to control us. At this point the bow of our ship was slightly pointed toward the channel, but too close to the rock canyon wall to continue turning. Good Samaritans tried their best, but we were still doomed. I noticed there was another powerful boat still at the dock, and I kept thinking, “If only we could get a pull from that fella!” I burned a stare through his foster grants, but he was not in the mood to be a hero.

I looked at my Dad who was watching the scene unfold from the skiff. Then it dawned on me and my dad simultaneously. We had a skiff. And some rope. What would J.W. Powell do? Our skiff’s engine was only a five horsepower, like a little weakling compared to the Mr. Grant’s shiny yellow boat at the dock, but that guy wasn’t helping, so we had to do what we had to do. The little skiff would be fine, especially with my ex-navy dad at the helm. He was my hero, after all, and he was made of the tough stuff.

The plan quickly unfolded; we would tie the rope to the cleats at the front of the houseboat and pull our ship back to center. Mom tied off the rope and threw me the line. Thankfully, I caught it. My dad taught me how to catch. I was a good catcher. I looked down for a place to tie off my end of the rope to the skiff. There was nothing to tie to. What now?

And this is the point in the story where ordinary people do maybe foolish things, unsafe things, because that is all they can do.

I planted one foot on either side of the boats motor, bending my knees slightly and straightening my back at a slight angle. Then I wrapped the end of the rope several times around my dominant right arm and gripped the rope like a baseball bat in front of me.  “My dad had taught me how to hold a baseball bat, and I had played tug-a-war in grade school; this would be the same,” I thought.

My mom watched as her only daughter and only husband pulled away from the bow of the ship. The rope pulled taut as Dad pushed the boat to full throttle.

I don’t remember physical pain at this point, but I’m sure there was some. I remember looking over my shoulder at my dad, doing all he could to power the little skiff into deeper water, and looking up any my mom’s face, clearly upset. I had been the cause of all this stress. I had insisted we see Rainbow Bridge. When our boat sank, and the bill to pay for it came, that would all be on me.

The engine smelled hot, and the bow of our little skiff stood high out of the water.

On the houseboat, Mom continued to run back and forth. Randy was looking at me. Dad focused on open water; I held fast to the rope. And suddenly, I heard angels. No wait, those were cheers coming from the dock! For a moment I stopped thinking about my arms breaking and looked up. We were indeed straightening out! It was working. Tourists were cheering, and I felt energized. The adrenaline surging though my body gave way to a wave on emotion and gratitude. We were going to be okay.

We continued pulling to be sure we were in the clear. Dad and I got out of little skiff, tied it off and boarded. We all sat in the houseboat’s living room as Captain Randy used our last working prop to safely navigate us to smooth waters. No one said a word. I looked over at my poor parents, who I thought most certainly I almost killed; if not by sinking, by a stress-related heart attack. Truth be told, I had been stressing them out all my life. I had not been an easy child, or an easy teenager, and they had always had to actively parent me, guild me, endure me. At that moment, I just felt too sorry.

As sunset neared, we found a pretty cove to make home for the night. We settled in, and as was now our habit, retreated to the upper deck to watch the day end. And what a day it had been. We assessed the damage—one prop destroyed on the dock cables. It was a miracle it had not been worse. We could afford to pay for the prop. Then my dad chuckled. “We could have sunk the whole damn boat and walked away,” he said. “I bought the insurance back at the marina before we left.”

And that was that. Dad had saved me, us, again. With his banker’s caution, and a planner’s wisdom, he had provided the security that he had provided for me and our family all my life.

Years later, our little crew—Randy, Mom, and Dad—would laugh about our adventure. And that is what happens with time. The stresses of trips and failures of vacations turn into family lore and bind you together in ways you never imagined.

I have returned to Lake Powell several times since 1997, older and wiser, but still determined. It remains one of my favorite places on earth, and this year I’ll return with Randy and some folks who have never been to the lake. As we glide along the deep blue waters past the sparking sandstone formations, my thoughts will be of my dad, who we lost earlier this year. I miss him so much. I can still see him in his hat, sitting on the upper deck marveling the wondrous place that is Lake Powell. Perhaps he is exchanging adventure stories with John Wesley Powell.

So, I look forward to seeing Rainbow Bridge again and again, as long as someone doesn’t knock it down. And I promise Dad, I’ll be sure we get the extra insurance, just in case.

From the studio in Mesa, August 2019

Dedicated to Don Walker 1929-2019

* Rainbow Lodge was purchased by Peggy Goldwater from its original operators for her husband, future Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater, but burned down in 1951.

Flower Power: Desert Botanicals
Desert Caballeros Western Museum
21 North Frontier Street
Wickenburg, AZ 85390
June 8th- October 20th, 2019

5 Hesson Paintings on Display

Looking West: An Exhibition Highlighting works by
American Women Artists
150 paintings and sculptures by North America’s finest women artists
May 13th- September 2, 2019
Steamboat Art Museum
807 Lincoln Ave, Steamboat Springs, Colorado
Artist reception, June 28th 6:00-8:00 pm

Dad

In memory, Donald R. Walker
3-18-1929 – 6-4-2019

This Father’s Day is especially hard for me, as it may be for many of you. This will be my first Father’s Day without my dad. One is never truly prepared for such a loss, even though it’s inevitable. I arrived home an hour before my dad’s death on June 4^th. He was surrounded by my mom and two brothers. I have been reflecting on what I learned from my dad since that moment, and recalling memories that I can see in a new light.

My dad was adopted like me. At age three he moved with his adoptive parents (Lt. Commander Raymond Walker and Anne Roan Walker) from Norfolk Virginia to Long Beach California. Ray Walker was the chief engineer on the U.S.S. Utah in San Pedro, and Anne was an English teacher. In 1935 the Walkers moved to a ranch (now the Monte Verde Inn) in Forest Hill, California. Dad attended a one-room school house in McKeon, California. When Ray was called back to duty before WWII, the family moved back to Vallejo. The Walkers would continue to go to the ranch on weekends. The family moved back to the ranch in 1944, and Dad attended Placer High in Auburn. There he met his best friend Eugene Smith, who proceeded him in death by a few months. Dad joined the Navy in 1946, and went to boot camp in San Diego, CA. Dad boarded the President Jackson at Treasure Island to Honolulu, HI, and then the USS Atlanta where he was posted in the electronics division. He sailed to Australia, all over the Pacific, including Japan and China. Dad served four years. Dad went to the University of Seattle, Washington. On a stay back in Auburn to boost his GPA at Placer Jr. College (now the Placer Highschool campus), he saw Doris Keller walking down the street. Later Don and Doris were in the same algebra class (Mom was the only girl). Six months later they were married, and this March they celebrated 66 years together.

Don was a TV repair man, worked for the Auburn Lumber company, and later became the Auburn City manager. In 1960 Wendell Robie offered Don a job as a savings and loan branch manager in Woodland, CA. (He had seen Don speak at a meeting and had known Ray Walker). Don learned the business at the Davis branch where the Walker family rented and eventually owned a duplex. Don became Yolo County manager of Central California Federal Savings and Loan, and later moved the family back to Auburn in 1969 to become senior vice president. The Savings Loan later became Heart Federal Savings and Loan and then was bought by US Bank around the time Don retired. 

More than a banker.

Dad was a builder. My dad built the houses we lived in, and they were always in various stages of completion, and usually about finished when it was time to move. My dad wore a tool belt around his waist on the weekends. There was always a deck to build. We had a garden, a green house and worm beds for fresh fertilizer.  He would help erect swings in various trees on our property and even made a giant swing for me that was free standing, welded and anchored in concrete. My dad always had a workshop. Scraps of balsa wood, chains of extension cords, sanders, model airplanes, and craft paper covered work bench, all bring back fond memories of being in the shop with him. He would make me doll furniture and rings made of copper wire. He had a huge pile of scrap balsa wood scraps from building his model airplanes that were always available for whatever I wanted to make. On a moment’s notice one night, he made me a boat with a paddle wheel powered by a rubber band for the school boat race. As a little girl, I thought my dad could make anything in his magical workshop, and I’m grateful he allowed me into his sacred space to create alongside him.

My dad was a ham radio enthusiast. At one house we built, he had a huge radio tower that helped him talk to people all over the world. After dinner Dad could be found in his shop or on the radio.

Dad was a photographer. There was a room in one house that was always going to be a darkroom. He shot mostly slides and we would look at them through a projector on the wall. Dad gave me his old Nicca camera he had bought used when he lived in Seattle and taught me how to use it. That was a very instrumental part of me becoming an artist later on.

Dad was a learner, an avid reader and therefore wise. I would call Dad and after an enthusiastic “Hi Dy!”, I’d ask “What’cha doing?” Inevitably he would say he was reading such and such article about how to do such and such. He taught himself how to build a computer, how to invest and buy shares, and he never stopped learning. I will miss his guidance and advice.

Dad was an aviator. In his early days he owned his own airplane. When flying was on hold to raise his family, he built and operated radio-controlled airplanes. He would call and talk to me about color combinations for his planes. He wanted them to be snazzy and stand out in the blue sky. I have good memories of going with dad to the Auburn airport to see airshows or static displays.  Dad and I had birthday a day apart. One year we celebrated by riding in the Sentimental Journey B-17 bomber at Falcon Field, Arizona. Later that night we attended the WWII swing dance and dinner, and dad danced with me, old style. On his 90^th birthday this year, my brothers and I treated him to a biplane ride, he was so happy to be in the air again.

See Dad’s Flight

Dad was civic minded. He served. In Rotary, in Sirs’ Club, in government. I remember campaigning for various conservative candidates, attending rallies, getting signatures, and pounding in signs. Mom and Dad gave to causes they believed in, served on various committees, and contributed to society. In recent days when Dad and I would talk he was saddened at the state of the world. Even with his generation’s struggles, he really felt he had lived at the best of times. I will miss my political talks with him. He would encourage me by saying “the pendulum swings back and forth Dyana, back and forth, just wait a bit and things will change again.”

Dad taught me to throw and catch, how to watch the ball all the way to the bat and hit it hard.  He taught me how to wash a car, and when I was maybe junior high age, how to stack wood. Dad was a hard worker who strived for excellence, and he wanted us to do the same. I remember when the pile of wood was delivered. He took me out and instructed me how to load the wheelbarrow, wheel it to the back of the garage, and stack the wood in an alternating pattern. It was a huge pile of wood. I think it was my summer project, in addition to watering every redwood tree he planted by hand with a slow running hose. Yes, there was a long list of chores, but I digress. Every day after work, Dad would come look at the wood stacking I had done. It was hot, and I moaned and groaned a lot. He made me redo much of my work because it was not correct.  Later in life he admitted that he was perhaps a little hard on me, but he was teaching me to do my best. At the end of the job, he brought me a gift, which sits on my desk as I type. Two little owls sitting on a log. To this day, I sign my correspondences “my best, Dyana Hesson” as a way of checking myself. I am of course not perfect, and neither was my dad, but I always want to try my best, and that was taught to me by Dad.

My dad was handpicked for me by God, I do believe. I know not everyone has a great dad. That makes me sad. My dad was tender hearted. He was my advocate. He encouraged me and provided for my dreams. He helped me to see who I could be. He said to me once in an email “Dy, the colors of your paintings are just stunning! The last one was particularly so. You ought to get more money for the colors you create. Dad”

Dad’s favorite poem was High Flight. I gave him a framed copy for his birthday in 2002, and he wrote this to me:

Princess, you could not have given me a nicer more thoughtful present. I will treasure it for all the days I have left. I first saw this poem in the pilot’s lounge in Auburn airport in 1946. It was published in flying magazine by Gail Robb Wilson who is the editor of FLYING at the time. I always thought that he had written it. Now I find out who the real writer was due to your thoughtful gift. I have repeated those words “oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth” many, many times during my life over and over again. In 1946, I liked to fly on days when the clouds billowed up and created canyons of clear air between them. They looked like gentle giants when I flew up and around them in the clear blue sky. At the time I owned an open Cockpit PT- 19 with an eight-cylinder Menasco engine that seemed to just purr as I flew along. The open cockpit just made the clouds seem all the closer. All the while I was thinking of this poem. It would have been a more emotional feeling if I had known who wrote it, and the circumstances when it was written. Just a few weeks ago I gave some thought to looking up a poem and getting a copy of it. Somehow you must’ve heard me. Yes, I do think that you touch the face of God when you fly high and alone and those beautiful clouds. Much love, dad

Fly High Dad, I love you and miss you.

Dy

“Good design isn’t just about looking good—it’s about feeling good and creating spaces for people to live in. Good design crafts spaces that enhance the lives of the people that live within them. Good design establishes spaces that are versatile to be grand or intimate. Good design pushes the envelope of form and function; it seeks aesthetics and livability. Good design is cognizant and respectful of its surroundings.”

These are the words of Tate Studio Architects, a Cave Creek, Arizona based architectural design studio passionate about creating design that is beautiful and perfectly suited for Arizona living at its finest. I first met Mark Tate many years ago when he was designing an Arizona home and wanted to talk about integrating my work in the design. That particular project did not pan out for my part, but I continued to follow and admire Mark’s architecture, and he followed the evolution of my work as well. Then, a few years ago, he designed and build the lovely Estancia home you see here. The owner, an avid art collector, wanted art that was right at home in the environment. Mark and his designers contacted Bonner David Galleries and Christi arranged for eight of my paintings, all desert inspired, to be delivered and hung on approval.

When you are dreaming and creating in the studio, it’s hard to know where your art might land, and whether it’s a small apartment wall or a grand home, I have to say, it’s always, always, an honor to be “chosen.” Every one of my art collectors is a part of my story, believing in what I do enough to lay down hard earned cash and take the work home.

The sweet part about this project is the admiration I have, as an artist, for its excellent design. Integration of the outdoors, rich textures, carefully placed windows, comfortable gathering spaces, restful rooms.

I’m so honored to be a part of this beautiful home, where family gathers, rests, and recharges.
Good job Mr. Tate, and Good Design.

dh

See More Tate Studio Architects
Photography by Thompson Photographic

Look at more images from this home on Houzz

So, if you need a luxurious getaway in one of the most beautiful locations on earth (I know, I’m prejudiced) head to the Ritz and take in the desert that is my source for endless inspiration.

Ritz-Carlton, Dove Mountain, Arizona
Interior Design Firm: Studio V Interior Architecture & Design, Scottsdale, Arizona
Photography: Dino Tonn Photographer, Scottsdale, Arizona

Resort Exterior

Bedroom Suite

Honeymoon Suite

Suite Master Bath

Back in August I met with a beautiful family to discuss a commissioned painting for their newly remodeled home. They had worked hard for many months restoring and redesigning their home, doing much of the work themselves and were ready to fill a significant wall in the family room with original art. After several proposed compositions, they chose the iconic Arizona Saguaro with bees. Full of light and life like their family.
In November the painting was completed and varnished, and in early December, right in time for the holidays, Christi Manuelito of Bonner David galleries and I were able to complete installation.

Before:

Composition chosen:

Completed on Easel:

Installation:

After:

Merry Christmas Arizona Family!

I traveled a bit this summer. All different places, some exotic and some ordinary. I always have a bit of anxiety before I travel, because you truly can’t plan for everything. You can Google Earth your location and make plans, but really there is such an element of uncertainty to it all. One of the greatest joys of travel I have experienced (in fact, embraced this summer) are the people you may meet. I think being a stranger in a new place sets the stage for meeting the most interesting people; and everyone has a story to tell.

For example, while in Hawaii this summer, my friends and I were traversing the northern coast of the Big Island in route to the Tropical Botanical Garden near Hilo. We decided to take a side road to the Tidal Wave Memorial near Laupanoehoe. As we turned down the narrow road, I noticed a modest home on the right. The front yard was lined with the most beautiful varieties of hibiscus I had ever seen. I asked the girls if they would mind pulling over so I could maybe snap a photo of some of the blooms. Decisions like this always carry some risk. I could after all, be unwanted company in this Hawaiian’s front yard.

And that’s when I got an unexpected bonus to the beauty of the garden before me. The home’s front door slowly opened and a small Hawaiian woman popped her head out and looked at me. Oh I’m in trouble, I thought, trespassing and all, and then I noticed a huge smile on her face.

“Do you want to get closer?” she said, motioning me to enter her garden. I was delighted to oblige.

What followed was a delightful exchange about her garden, her life in this small valley, and her grandson who lived in Arizona. She herself had never left the island, which is not unusual in this neck of the world. She told me that the plants in her garden were the big splurges in her life, and that her husband was kind enough to indulge her. She invited me into her home and showed me her painted sea turtle shell collection, which would be frowned on today, but was part of her Hawaiian heritage. The shells contained painted depictions of her family’s history, much like totem poles from the Northwest coast. I don’t know if I will even see my little Hawaiian gardening friend again, but I will never forget her, and she is now part of my travel memory.

Later in the summer, I found myself on the central coast of California, traveling with my husband Randy on his business trip. I was able to fill my time however I wanted, and this became another travel blessing. One day my birth dad, Ron, picked me up at my hotel to spend the day with me. He drove us to Guadalupe Dunes Park, which is an extremely beautiful uncrowded stretch of beach on the Pacific Ocean. I later learned that the original Ten Commandments movie was filmed here.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot. One was an old Chevy truck, originally teal blue, now adorned with a perfect patina of coastal rust. Because the sand shifts so much in this area, the truck, surrounded by sand, looked as if the wind had just revealed an old artifact from days gone by. Ron joined me for a walk on the beach, but later decided to turn back and wait for me in the lot. After I enjoyed the wild stretch of coastline, I made my way back to join him. I looked up and noticed Ron was standing near the pretty pickup, talking with another older gentleman. I giggled as I approached the truck, because Ron learned long ago the sweet gifts of meeting strangers. I joined the conversation and learned that we were talking to the owner of the truck, Frank. He grew up in nearby Santa Maria, and had bought his truck brand new. I told him I had always dreamed of having a truck like his. He said he offered to give it to a granddaughter, but she wanted a brand-new Jeep Rubicon. (kids these days, sheesh!) Ron told Frank I was an artist and so we chit-chatted about the fact that I was hoping to find some inspiration on my trip so I could “write the trip off” and I laughed.

“Good girl!” Frank said. Turns out Frank was a retired IRS agent and knew the tax law well. As we talked about his life in government work, I noticed he had lost his right hand and had a stainless-steel prosthetic. Frank said he came here most days to fish in the wild surf. Today there was no catch, but he and Ron talked about the old days when you could drive your truck down the beach and up the dunes before it was all blocked off to protect birds. Which reminds me another story.

Later in the summer Randy and I traveled to Montana, which, I have to say, is one of my new all-time favorite “best last places.” Mountains, rivers, lakes, little towns, so much to explore! We spent a lot of time in Glacier National Park. Each day, we would enter the park and chart a course that included some driving and a hike. While hiking, I noticed another travel phenomenon. This observation was less about meeting people in their hometowns and more about the special things that happen when strangers unite over common interests. We took several remote hikes (with our bear spray) where we saw no one, but serval hikes were well populated, including the hike to Hidden Lake at Logan Pass. As we ascended the trail, we passed serval hikers coming down. We were the new kids. They had just seen all were about to see.

A woman I passed stopped for a moment and said “There’s a mountain goat around the corner, keep your eyes open!” I thanked her, grateful she had brought the goat to my attention because I really wanted to see one. A little bit further up the trail, a man stood quietly with a fixed gaze. His posture indicated he was observing something and perhaps he wanted to share his observations with others.

So, we approached quietly and whispered “Whatcha looking at?” He pointed about three feet ahead of him where a ptarmigan and her chicks were wandering around among the rocks. Randy and I had never seen this type of bird before, and so we stood there talking with the stranger about its traits and deciding that it most definitely could be endangered because it had no fear of people. This was verified when, as our little bird watching crowd grew, a five-year-old boy came running up and yelled “Duckie!” while lunging at the birds. His mother grabbed him in the nick of time, but the ptarmigan did not even flinch.

And so, the pattern repeated on the Hidden Lake trail; tourists pausing to look at wondrous sights, and wanting to share the experience with others. And we played along. Randy and I spotted a group of bighorn sheep on the moraine above, and stopped to take a closer look through our binoculars. A group of teen boys frolicked by and stopped to stare at the hill. The sheep were camouflaged among the rocks, and were hard to see. So, I handed one kid my binoculars and told him to look at two o’clock.

When his gaze finally fixed on the wildlife, he gasped, “Cool!” That brought me joy. That united us. I have to say, when you see something wonderful, it feels right to share it. I wondered if this kid would appreciate an old rusted Ford truck, or a blooming hibiscus?

The interaction with the people I experienced and embraced this summer was limited, I realize. You cannot sum up a person in five minutes on a trail, or while river rafting, or while hugging a bride on a summit in Montana. But these windows of opportunity are precious. These moments are summaries of a person’s past, and perhaps their futures. Their essence, really. They are telling if you listen, and take the time. In a moment you can ascertain what is important to a stranger, and what about them they feel is important enough for you to know. And it starts with being open, and paying attention.

I mentioned a bride in that last paragraph. I don’t have a photo of that. But she does. Near the end of our last adventure in Montana, after a glorious day and driving through a thunderstorm, the clouds finally parted on the summit. We pulled off the main road briefly to breathe the clean air and look at the valley below. Up came another car. The door opened and a photographer jumped out, followed by a bride in a simple dress and her groom. They were taking advantage of the heavenly conditions as a backdrop for a portrait on the most important day of their lives. I teared up. Standing there with my husband of thirty-three years, I flashed back, and forward, and sideways. Just pondering perhaps all the life that would be ahead for this couple, good and bad.

I’m sure I embarrassed my husband at this point because I called out “Did you just get married?”
“Yes!” the bride said, with a glowing smile.

“Congratulations!”, I said. “Can I hug you?” I know, bold perhaps, but I was caught up in the moment. She obliged and I shared with her that we had been married thirty-three years and we wished them a very happy life together.

As I walked back to our car, I could smell the bride’s perfume on my hiking clothes. Something of her had transferred to me. It lingered for a while as we drove down the mountain. That couple must have really liked Glacier National Park enough to make it part of their wedding day. We sure liked the park too. It’s a special place. In a special world. With wonderful, special people.

Pay attention. You never know who you might meet.

dh

Read More about Dyana’s painting in this show.
Take a quick tour of the Haggin Museum and it’s collections

Antique stores are fascinating places, right? Why? Because you can treasure hunt and perhaps find a link to your past. You can hold an object that was held by someone long ago. You can ponder their life, their surroundings, their circumstances. Perhaps their life was not so very different from your own.
And now, you stand holding a matchbook that they held. On their vacation. When smoking was cool, even normal. Away from their troubles. In a beautiful place.

Today for example, I’m sitting in the restaurant at the Mountain Shadows Resort in Paradise Valley, Arizona. It’s been here a long time. Well, its predecessor was here a long time. They recently rebuilt the resort, but happily they retained the history of the place in the design and memorabilia on display. Complete with an issue of Arizona Highways from December 1950 next to the bar tray set up for martinis in my room. I love that.

When I learned I had the opportunity to come here today, to enjoy the resort and maybe have the luxury to sit and think and enjoy a pretty view, I realized something. Although I had never been here before, I knew the resort. Not because I had ever visited, but because I had held an object. A matchbook.
You see when my husband was a lad, he used to collect matchbooks. Some he gathered on his own, from his family’s trips to Florida or Arizona, and some were given to him. Maybe twenty or more years ago, his mom and dad gave the collection back to him in a display case. The matchbooks hang on dowels in a wooden case with a plexiglass door. They are precious little works of art, a window to the past. Small businesses, restaurants, car dealerships, real estate offices, airlines, all hoped that you would remember them when you lit your smoke.
Mountain Shadows opened in 1959. There was not much here back then. Arizona was cool place to come and refresh and get healthy. Movie stars loved it. Midwesterners loved it. In 1960 they expanded. Poured four million dollars into additional land and a golf course. In 1961 Del Webb, master planner and visionary, bought it. That is the matchbook I hold. Apparently, Mr. Webb held quite a few hotels, because on the back of the matchbook it lists three hotels in Las Vegas, the Hotel Sahara in Tahoe, the Newporter in Newport Beach, the Townhouse in Fresno, the Townhouse in San Francisco, the Townhouse in Phoenix, and Kuilima In Oahu, Hawaii. That’s impressive. I would have liked to have a martini with Mr. Webb. He got things done.
When you ride up and down the elevator at Mountain Shadows, there are photos of Lucille Ball and Bob Hope on the golf course on the walls. I guess the band the Monkees came here too. Can you see it all in your mind’s eye? Back then we did not have social media. The paparazzi snapped a photograph of you dinning or playing golf and it would end up in the newspaper. People did not ‘post’ about their stay like we do now. They did not post angry tweets at 2am. But I’m sure they had those moments. After all, they were human. Striving to work hard, be good at something and occasionally relax in the desert to refresh their bones. And after their steak dinner by the pool, perhaps they would light a cigarette, recommended by doctors, a great was to stay slim and show your independence.
Wow, we had that wrong. And only time will tell what we are getting wrong today. As I hold this little matchbook in my hand, and my iPhone in the other, I just wonder.
June 20, 2018
Mountain Shadows Resort

I always count it an honor to work one-on-one with a collector (and again, this is just a fancy name we use in the art world for a person who buys and collects art) to create a special piece.  Usually the collector has seen my work over time or loved a particular piece that has sold.  They share where they want to hang the painting, what size they are interested in, and what subject matter they long for.  It is in these conversations that I get to know them; who they are, about their family and lives.  They may also share photos of the space, which is super valuable to me, because I can see for myself what colors they live with and what other things embellish their homes.

Then I think. I look through the many source photos I have taken or perhaps I run to the flower mart or nursery and bring home some inspiration. When I have three or four compositions I think my collector may like I write a proposal, include the photos, and we go from there. When the decision is made, the collector pays half the purchase price down, and I begin.  Because I am often busy preparing for shows and deadlines, we talk over a time frame that is acceptable to both parties.  It could take anywhere from 3-6 months, and then there is dry time, varnish time, and shipping if necessary.

As I work, I send progress photos to my collectors. They can watch as the piece unfolds on the canvas. Then, when the piece is finished I send a final photo and hold my breath.  Of course, I want you to be delighted!  When the piece is delivered and hanging, many times my collector will send a photo of the painting in its place of honor back to me.  This I love!  We have come full circle.

So, that is it!  I would count it my joy to create something special for you and your family.  Please contact me with any questions!

My Best,

Dyana

Many of you know Adoption is near and dear to my heart.  While you are busy preparing dinner or lunch for your family, I ask you to take a moment and consider the child who doesn’t have a family to spend meals with. Now, think of the family who desperately wants to adopt, but has come up short, financially. We can help.

I want to say a special thank you to everyone who helped raise money for Show Hope adoption grants at my show opening April 20th! So far this month (April), we raised $2990 with a grand total from what we started last year of $6475! My heart is full knowing this will make a real difference in the life of a child waiting to be adopted. Jennifer K won the print in our raffle at Bonner David Galleries! Congrats Jen! You may continue to donate if you feel lead to help Show Hope raise their goal of 20 grants this month.
With Thanks,
Dyana

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In loving memory of our Arizona Sunshine
7-12-92  –  2-25-08
The best studio buddy an artist will ever have.

Celebrating Personal Milestones
and Arizona’s Centennial

On February 14, 2012, Arizona will celebrate its centennial as the last of the 48 contiguous states to gain statehood. I hold Arizona near and dear to my heart, and although it is not my native state, it is my home. It was here in Arizona that I found my ability to paint and here in Arizona where I began my art career in 1990 in a little gallery in Scottsdale. Arizona has provided not only inspiration but also loyal patrons who have collected the work of my hands.

While studying painting at Arizona State University in the late 80’s, one of the first things I painted was a rose from the back yard of my Mesa home. Since then, I have continued to explore the rose in my paintings. Each spring and fall I spend a good deal of time photographing the extensive rose collection at Mesa Community College.

2012 will mark the 21st year of my career as a professional artist, and I will be painting my 500th painting. Whew! I can think of no greater way to celebrate my love for my state and my work than to memorialize the occasion with a special painting.

Each rose in this painting represents 10 years of Arizona statehood, totaling 100 years. The various colors of the roses, united in a heart shape, represent the diversity of our home here in the southwest. The roses were grown in Arizona soil and bloomed this April at the Mesa Community rose gardens.

On November 12th, this painting will be unveiled at the Phoenix Airport Museum as a part of their “Arizona Valentine” show. After the show, the painting will become part of their permanent collection. A limited edition print of this piece will be offered in a live auction at Mesa Community College’s special rose garden benefit on November 19th, 2011. For More information go to: http://rosegarden.mesacc.edu/

Dyana at the Mesa Community College – Rose Gardens, Arizona.

MAYO CLINIC PHOENIX

Dyana’s work is on exhibit now until October 24, 2016 as part of the Humanities in Medicine program at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix. The gallery is located on the first floor of the Hospital (5777 E Mayo Blvd, Phoenix) by the outpatient waiting room.

So there I was, sitting at the table sketching out a floor plan, which lead to wondering what would the front elevation of this home would look like. So I drew that too. I added landscaping, and then I did a sketch of the bedroom and the kitchen. Finally, I drew a fun sketch of what the view might look like if were standing out in the back yard. For fun I opened all the sliding windows and put guests (stick figures) inside at the dinner table. I put more people around the fire pit and sitting by the river (yes my dream home would have a river running though the back yard). As I worked, time flew. Several hours went by and I felt energized.

The drawing I produced that afternoon will not win any prizes. The perspectives are not quite right and there is no fancy shading, but the focused, creative, act of sketching was invigorating. At dinner I shared my work with my family. My daughter was particularly enamored with what I had designed. She went off into the studio to create her own floor plans to go with a science fiction story she is writing.

This got me thinking. I should sketch more often. I should get a small sketch book and carry it with me. I should get it out when I’ve got time to kill at a coffee shop and jot down ideas or just do a study of my coffee mug to sharpen my skills and rest my brain. I should treat myself to the satisfaction of really LOOKING at something instead of quickly snapping a cell phone photo and then forgetting about it.

Over the years I have also made little sketches in my travel journal. They are simple sketches of the view from a balcony or whatever, and honestly they seem to take me back to a moment better than a photograph.

So, I resolved to sketch. I ran to Hobby Lobby a bought a fresh, portable sketch book. I sharpened a Cinderella pencil. No need to charge a battery. If I want to “share” my sketches I’ll tear them out and give them away. If I want to “pin” them, I’ll do so, on my bulletin board. They won’t be perfect, there is no photo shop. Simple.

Isn’t that what we are craving these days? Simplicity? Maybe you’ll join me in this adventure. Whether you are an artist or an accountant, there is room in your life for a good, honest, doodle. A mark made by your hand will be unlike anyone else’s. Before you know it you’ll have a book full of “one of kinds.” Isn’t that, after all, what God did when he doodled you into existence? He made a one of a kind too. No eraser needed.

I am a goal setter. I am not sure when this started. I think early on I had only very basic and broad goals. One of my first goals was probably to just finish college. That’s a big goal actually, so I had to break it down into bite-sized goals. Finish this term paper… finish this semester… complete this requirement. And then, after a total of seven years, which consisted of three majors, a break to get married and move, and failing college Algebra three times, I completed my goal.

That felt good. That felt really good. And on the heels of that accomplishment came more goals. Written down, checked off, achieved.

Looking back makes me grateful. Grateful for not only the goals I achieved but also for the ability to leave time for the things that were not on a list; things that God prompted me to do that were not in my plans.

When I look back, I can see clearly how focusing on the important things, and not just the urgent things, caused everything to work together for my good. Pondering these things encourages me for the future. Things will work out. They have before. Relationships will mend, they have before. Provisions will arrive, they have before. Wisdom in difficult times will come, as it has before.

As I prepare to celebrate 25 years as an artist in 2016*, I will be doing a lot of looking back. I hope you will join me in reflecting on God’s goodness to you over the course of your life. Whether you’ve had 18 years or 81, take a moment to look back on your journey, and then jot down a fresh goal. And remember; always leave time for what’s important.

Dedicated to Doris Walker for her birthday July 2014

*Return to the Desert, 25 years of Paintings premiered in January of 2016 at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix.

2) Wrap your painting in smooth foam.  A good foam can be purchased from ULine.  Never use bubble wrap (can indent the canvas) or lint-filled blankets, or paper.  The foam will provide the perfect smooth breathable surface you need.

3) Use a good tape to secure the foam.  you may want to go around in several directions and reinforce the corners.  Use a good tape like Scotch brand, cheap tape will not stick and you’ll need it later for your box.

4) Encase your painting in some scrap cardboard.  This will give you some insurance should the box be punctured in shipping.  Again, the idea here is to surround your painting in smooth durable rigid material.

5) Slide your encased painting into the mirror box. Ideally you’ll have a few inches around the sides and top.  Use crumpled newspaper or craft paper to fill in the empty space.  This will keep your painting from wiggling around inside the outer box.  The less movement  you have, the less chance there will be of damage.

6) Tape up your box.  A good tip is to reinforce the bottom and corners with extra tape.  This way if your painting arrives at it’s destination and sits in a damp area, the moisture won’t wick up into the box.

Hope that was helpful! As always, if you have any questions about anything please contact me at Dyana@DyanaHesson.com.

We would pack up, leave instructions and groceries for our husbands and children, and head to an affordable destination, usually for a long weekend. The fact that any of us could get away was miraculous.  Miraculous, because we were all bogged down with work, on a tight budget, and short on time.

I believe our first trip was to San Diego. We piled into a big truck, got half way there and blew a tire out on the hot interstate. A minor inconvenience.  But, inconveniences on road trips make for lore and laughter later, so what was at the time a “big bummer,” later became a famous “remember when”?

Checking into a hotel or condo on a girl trip is comical.  Most of us are blessed to be married to amazing husbands, who, on most trips, check us in, help us find our rooms, and wrestle our luggage out of the car.  On girl trips we tend to fumble around at the clerks desk or airport check in, but in the end the experience builds confidence.

We have tackled many types of outings on our road trips. On the first girl trip we went to Sea World without our kids. Scandalous! Some of us felt guilty, many of us didn’t. We laughed, giggled on the rides, and saw the animal shows. We all love the outdoors so we have also hiked the White Mountains and the Red Rocks of Arizona. We have kayaked at Lake Powell, and zip lined over the mountains in Nevada. We have made bracelets, cake with no flour and lightshows with cell phones. We have stayed in cabins, in little hotel rooms, and on house boats. We have cooked our own meals, eaten at fancy restaurants and have gorged on chocolate fondue at midnight. (The birthday girl always wears a tiara on the evening of her celebration; she must not take it off.) We try to stay up as late as we can talking, laughing, singing, dancing, and did I mention laughing?

And there is always shenagagans. On one trip to Sedona, there was a very scandalous incident involving a brassiere and water in the middle of the night. The prankster will remain nameless, but she has fiery red hair and donned a black cloak.

At some point in the weekend there may be tears, confessions, encouragement, and very deep conversation. The kind of conversation that requires a good chunk of time together to take place. The moment I love during girl trips is when we are sitting around, in a hotel room, or on a mountain, and I look around and  see little conversations taking place between my friends, little conversations with big significance. That warms my heart.

We have run out of 40th birthdays to celebrate. That will not stop us. We have decided that just being alive another year is a reason to gather and celebrate.

Here are some things I have learned from traveling with women:

• There will always be ample snacks. You will not go hungry. Each woman has stopped at Costco to get a few things for the trip. And there will always be some chocolate involved.
• Women require a lot less maintenance than society would have you  believe. They can be ready quickly for the day, be flexible if plans change, and generally are easy going.
• There are no two women alike. We are extremely different from each other down to every little quirk. From what we eat, to when we eat. I often get teased about my “no fruit after breakfast rule,” and another friend of mine has to have a certain kind of coffee to function, but it’s all good.
• It’s a smart husband who encourages his wife to go on a girl trip. He can hang out at home doing whatever he wants, and in the end his wife will arrive back home refreshed and energized for her role as wife, mom or business woman.
• Every woman has a story to tell. I am continually amazed to learn the stories of some of my friends; amazing stories of courage, hardship and victory. I have immense respect and admiration for every woman I have ever traveled with.

If you have never planned a girl trip, I would encourage you to start a new tradition, especially if you are a young mom.  It’s a tradition that will help you keep your sanity as you grow older.  Friends may move away, or move on, but there will be a core of ladies that will return each time. There will be divorces, marriages, deaths, and illness between your times together. What a relief to know there will be time to chat about life’s challenges at least once a year, when you gather in a safe circle of friends around a campfire somewhere. Also, it does not need to be an entire weekend away; it could be dinner once a year like I have with my elementary school friends in my home town.

God made friendships between women very special. I believe He delights to see us together, encouraging one another in our quests to live our uniquely feminine lives of loving our families and caring for others.

If you can’t remember your last good belly laugh, and your shoulders are hiked up to your ears, its time to go. Pack some snacks and a pair of pj’s and go. Just keep track of your brassiere at night.

My Best,
Dyana Hesson

A lot has been written about collecting art, usually from the perspective of a historian or curator. However, I think I can offer insight on the subject, not only because I’ve been a professional artist for 30 years, but because I am a collector of fine art as well.

Why collect original art? Think about the time and effort that you’ve put into your home.  You’ve hunted long and hard for a house that suits your needs and tastes. You’ve purchased fine furnishings, or perhaps filled it with special pieces that you’ve collected over the years.  Maybe you picked the land, and designed the home yourself.  You’ve painted, landscaped, fluffed, and fussed. Why would you put any less attention into what you display on a table or hang on your walls? An art collection can begin at any time in your life and at any budget. I think you’ll find once you’ve brought the first piece home, you’ll never shop for wall art at Costco again.

So where do you begin? Local art fairs and galleries are excellent places to begin your collection. You can also check the websites of the artists you love and find out more about their work.  An emerging artist or mid career artist’s work will be highly collectable. Another good resource is a publication like American Art Collector magazine. The magazine features the work of artists from all over the country as well as pricing. You can compare current values  to what the work was selling  for in years past. Unlike most things in life these days, art is still appreciating. In 1997 I sold my 24×24 originals for $200. Today that size sells for about $2000 (wow, I just shocked myself!). So, if you buy what you love, from a reputable working artist, your piece will appreciate and your kids will be fighting over it after you’re gone, not only because of it’s value, but because it reminds them of you!

How do I choose a good piece of art?  Well, you must love the art first.  The old adage is true, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. Ask these questions; Does it make my heart leap? Bring a smile to my face? Or take my breath away? Maybe the subject matter is near to your heart, and it makes you feel nostalgic. Maybe the piece memorializes a happy moment, or  trip. The bottom line is there should be an emotional response to the art.  Collecting this way will always produce a cohesive collection, and at the end of your days, your art will reveal something about you that is true and consistent. If , however, you have purchased  art solely because it matched your decor (always a bonus, don’t get me wrong, but NOT a requirement) after your couch wears out or your design changes course, your art may loose it’s appeal to you. A great way to design your interiors might be to start with a piece of art that speaks to your soul and let that be the inspiration for the fabrics, materials, and shapes you use in your space.  A good designer can help with art selections too. His or Her experience and resources will multiply your opportunities.

Ok, so we’ve established that you must love what you purchase, but what about the cost of the artwork? Go to your local art district’s ‘art walk’, and look at the prices in the galleries. Compare the prices of oil paintings to acrylics, to watercolors. If you love glass or sculpture compare those prices too. One of your best resources is the gallery itself. The gallery owners, directors, and sales people are in essence the agent for the artist. They can supply you with all sorts of information about a piece. If you love something, ask for a photo, and ask about the background for the piece. Is there a story? What inspired the artist? If you have an opportunity to go to a show opening and meet the artist, ask her which painting is her favorite and why.  Often, the artist herself will lead you to the most quality piece, for only she knows the time, effort and angst that she invested in the art.

A great point of entry for any collector is to purchase a limited edition giclee on canvas or paper from the artists you love. The price will be very affordable and you can live with the work in your home before you make the leap to purchase an original.

Now, a word about quality. Choose art that is well painted or sculpted, and made of quality materials, but keep this in mind: you are purchasing original art.  It was not mass produced and did not  pop out of a laser printer. A real person (flawed at that) poured their heart and soul into creating something from nothing but inspiration. Perfection is unattainable. Landscape painters often create their work in ‘plain air’ so you may find traces of the great outdoors (dust, bugs) in their work. Even the artist who works in the studio will not attain perfection. There may be blobs of paint, paint brush hair, or other anomalies in the work. I often joke that I should charge more for a painting if it has a special surprise hidden within the work.  Can you imagine what a Monet, Singer Sargent, or Maynard Dixon would sell for at auction if the painting was imbedded with the hair of the artist? DNA! A gift with purchase!

The point I’m trying to make here is that art is messy, and smelly, and created by people who are desperately trying to convey their sense of  beauty to the world.  The fact that any of us are willing to sell what we have birthed is generous. And just so you know, we never take your purchase for granted.  We could not do what we do if it were not for our patron saints, so to speak. Embrace art  for what it is, and if your love it, take it home.

You’ll find a wall for it, I promise.

As gas prices have continued to rise, and American families have had to tighten their financial belts, vacations have become a luxury that many  have had to put on the backburner. But one of the most affordable, enjoyable and traditional of all summer vacations is still the American road trip.

I have wonderful memories of family’s road trips when I was young. My parents, my two older brothers, and I would pack some clothes, games and snacks and load into the family station wagon (I don’t remember seat belts) and take off into the wild west. I would ride in the very back with my little vintage alligator suitcase full of things to amuse me on the long ride.  I was what they used to call ‘hyperactive’ back in the day, so having things ready to amuse at a moments notice were essential. I still remember the strange odor of that suitcase… smelled like travel.

The view from the back of that station wagon was magical. My mom would lay out an old blanket and I would lay on my back (apparently not affected by car sickness) and stare up and out the window at the blue sky and puffy clouds. I would ask questions all along the way, like “what are those hills called” and “does God live in the clouds?” and “are we there yet??” I think that last question is every parent’s favorite.

We toured mines with glow in the dark rocks, saw snow covered mountains in the middle of summer, stood under natural stone arches, and walked onto a lake filled with salt water. If we were lucky, the hotel we pulled into at the end of the day had a pool, with a diving board. We would swim our wiggles out and maybe meet a new friend and exchange addresses.

There were no computer games or DVDs to play while we were driving through America, instead there were license plate games to play and crayola pictures to draw of the scenes we saw out our windows. There was also talking, singing and good old fashioned sibling squabbling too.

Things did not always go as planned.  There were engine troubles, wrong turns, and upset stomachs. But years later these seemingly ‘end of the world’ dilemmas became family lore and the very experiences that would bond us together more tightly.

Now days families seem to be changing their vacation habits. Statistics show that visits to our nation’s national parks are way down. Apparently families would rather visit amusement parks and ride adrenaline pumping  rides. And while there’s nothing wrong with making a stop on your summer road trip at an amusement park,  there is no bigger thrill that watching your child oo and ah as they pass through the gates of Yellowstone, or Yosemite. There is no view from the top of a rollercoaster that rivals the view from the foot of a sequoia in the middle of a forest. And in between, being confined in the small space that is your family car, well that’s just magical.

My mail box frequently fills up with all sorts of catalogues dedicated to everything you need to set a nice table, have a garden party, or even a fancy cocktail party. There are so many stores dedicated to selling the things to make a home suitable for entertaining. My girlfriend and I love to walk the halls of Crate and Barrel or Williams’s Sonoma and drool over all the beautiful place settings, perfectly color coordinated and set for an intimate party of four.

What I find particularly ironic, however, is that with so many stores offering the dream of giving the perfect dinner party in your home, I see very few people actually making the dream a reality. Perhaps things will shift a bit with the economy’s down turn, I hope it does. After all, dining out can get quite expensive compared to creating a meal at home. We have a tremendous opportunity to share our lives with the people God has placed in our paths by simply inviting them to dinner.

My husband and I have been blessed by this practice for years. It can be challenging to coordinate schedules, clean your home a bit, and plan a meal, but the benefits far outweigh the effort. You can even have a tried-and-true meal that you make over and over each time you have a guest, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be fancy either, sometimes I forgo making a home made dessert, and put out a nice box of chocolates after dinner. I have only one rule when I entertain, that my guests are guests. Unless they insist, or it’s a big group function, I do not allow my guests to bring any part of the meal. If you do this, you are no longer making dinner for guests, you are having a pot luck, which is fine, but is entirely another thing.

I remember once, while we were living in the Midwest, we were invited to the home of some new friends for dinner. As is usually the case, I asked politely if there was anything I could bring? (Correct answer, “Just bring yourselves!” said with a smile.) The hostess quickly replied “Well yes, the salad, oh and the bread, and if you have time a desert would be great” This was not a huge affair; it was a gathering of four adults. Of course you should always bring a bottle of wine or flowers to give to the hostess, that is a nice thing to do, but not half the meal. I vowed right then and there, that I would not entertain that way. I would give my home, my time, and the meal as my gift. Also, my guests are not allowed to help clear dishes in my home. The only friends I let near a dish are those who may implode if they do not help in someway. You’ll know this type when you have them to dinner. They will rise as you rise to clear the dishes, and you’ll say “Oh, please sit, I have it” and they will watch your every move uncomfortably, squirm in their seats, fidget….so I let these friends help, it would be cruel otherwise.

Over the years, we have had new friends, old friends, neighbors, work associates, and out of town guests to our home for dinner. The more I practice the easier it gets. You don’t have to have a fancy home or matching silverware either.  In fact, you can cut out the photos from the Pottery Barn catalogue for inspiration and shop in your own cupboards to recreate the look with what you have, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you take the opportunity to connect with people, spend some of you hard earned time on relationships, give a bit of what you have.

Recently, a young friend of mine, who hasn’t even been married a year, invited my family to her newlywed home for dinner. She had worked all day on the meal, which was simple yet wonderful. There were seven of us altogether, sitting at a simply set, mismatched tables. On each table had a freshly cut flower from her little garden in a simple vase. I don’t think the flatware matched, I really didn’t notice. What I did notice were the beautiful faces sitting around the table, sharing a meal, sharing their lives, and laughing a whole bunch. I have never seen a more beautiful table. It was more exquisite that any fancy table I have seen set up at Macys. In life, it is the people sitting at the table, not the table that makes the perfect setting.

So, entertain! If it’s been a while since you entertained, do it. If you have never done it, do it! Clean your guest bathroom, turn on the radio, and put out some cheese and crackers. Invite you old friends, your new friends, or your child’s teacher. Time is precious people, give a little of your time and have some friends for dinner, you will be blessed. You might inspire them to do the same. Oh, and I am free a week from Friday. What would you like for me to bring?

Even if you are not an artist, you will find that many of life’s endeavors take creativity and a fresh eye.  Whether you are redecorating a room in your home, planting a garden, or planning a fundraiser, getting out and away from your work environment might be just the trick to get those creative juices going.  Never underestimate the power of a new adventure, and don’t be afraid to try some thing new.  Exploration is what shaped the west my friends, let’s not let that part of us die, if we do, we will be terribly uninteresting and uninspired.

Here in the north east valley, we have an abundance of beautiful places we can visit to see how God has designed our world.  Recently, after the snow had fallen fresh on our surrounding mountains, I headed down to one of my favorit e places, the Salt River, to get a view of Four Peaks.  I was not disappointed, and if you go to the river, you won’t be either.

There are several recreation sites you can explore from the Bush Highway to see the Salt River, each will give a unique experience of the river.  Go at different times of day as well.  I like to go on a weekday morning when it is less crowded.  Take your time and look at the beautiful stones along the water, the pieces of wood that have washed ashore, and the blue sky against Red Mountain. This is a great place to look at color. You may even want to help yourself to a beautiful rock that catches your eye, so wear something with pockets.  I used a bucket full of rocks from the river to inspire the color scheme for my home.  Also, on some days you can see bald eagles or wild horses near the river.  Now if that doesn’t inspire the heart, I don’t know what will.  I love the Bull Dogs at sunset (the ‘Bull Dogs’ are jagged hills at the last view point before Saguaro lake, not your neighbors dogs howling when they want their dinner)  I don’t normally paint landscapes but this view inspired a small painting a few years back.  It serves as a reminder of those beautiful hills while I am working in the studio.  If you sit a while and look at this sight you will enjoy the sounds of the water rushing over rocks, the shimmer of the cotton woods, or the screech of a hawk.  Be still, take it in. The river never looks the same way twice.

Sometimes a quite moment alone in creation can spark the genius idea you’ve been waiting for, but if you are like me, and you don’t write it down, it will vanish into thin air. I carry a small journal with me when I venture out.  Just writing down my impressions of a scene, while I am thinking them, can serve me later when I am stuck in a rut. Also, this goes with out saying, but take your camera along!  A 0Afriend recently chastised me for not bringing my camera on a very important adventure.  He said   “Never, never, leave the camera behind!”  It’s true, you may miss a moment that you will want to refer to later, after the day has faded, and the river has changed course, again.

So there is your assignment for the week.  Go see something new. Get some perspective. When you arrive home, you may have a new solution for the task before you.  Use what you gather on your adventure to inspire you. Use your notes, your photographs.  Take the rock you found at the river and set it next to your computer. When you look at it, you’ll smile and remember your inspirational day.  I am smiling right now.