40×30 oil on canvas
$9800 Framed

There is a hilltop near Payson, Arizona that I love. It sits at about 4500 feet, with views of the East Verde River on one side, and the Mazatzal mountain range on other. This hilltop is a botanist’s dream, with a diverse array of cactus and native Arizona plants. There is evidence that an ancient civilization spent time building, gathering and communing in this place too. I think of their time here often when I visit. I wonder what gossip filled the air as the women sat at their grinding stations, looking up occasionally at the mountains in front of them.

This is my first Ocotillo painting. The time was right to finally capture this iconic and loved Arizona bloom. As I worked, Christmas was approaching. As we unpacked tangled and partly working Christmas lights it occurred to me that the Ocotillo Bloom, in the sun, illuminates much like holiday lights. But as always, nature trumps store-bought for me, the simplicity and sheer, brilliant design of southwest blooms continue to work year after year.

Leave no Trace.

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the August 1976 issue of National Geographic. The cover featured a Mexican woman seemingly dressed in–and surrounded by–monarch butterflies. The pages inside told the story of the annual monarch migration to Mexico, but I doubt I read the story. Back then I just looked at pictures; there were too many words. That same year, on a California road trip with my parents, I had been enthralled by monarchs hanging on the trees in Monterey. I fell in love with butterflies and doodled them on school notebooks.
These days, I’m a better reader, and love to research the plants I paint. And recently, the butterfly of my youth has led me to its host plant: the complex and vitally important milkweed.
There are over 30 species of milkweed in Arizona, but this one–the antelope horns–likes a certain terrain. A little higher, a little cooler, a bit remote; just my style.
So on a nice day in May, we went looking near Payson in the Mazatzal Mountains, with the East Verde River trickling nearby. Not a bad assignment. This land has been disturbed over the years by Native Americans, ranchers and bovine feet, which ironically is why these plants thrive here. Tall, stately and covered with pollinators, I began to spot them, mostly near the old Dolly Baby Ranch.

These plants are Airbnbs for pollinators, but it’s not a simple check-in. The unusual structure of the flower regulates pollination. Insects snag sacs of pollen on their legs, but then they must be perfectly inserted in the slits behind the crown. If the pollen is inserted backwards, the grains germinate in the wrong direction and are wasted. This is why there are so few pods produced per plant. For butterflies, it’s a survival game too; their species only lays eggs in milkweed, thus their declining numbers.

On this day, the juniper hairstreak butterfly was diligently pollinating. As I watched him work, it felt like I was witnessing a miracle. It’s moments like these that fuel the work of my hands.
After a long hike and a ritual soaking of my feet in the Verde, we began our drive home, over the hills and into the sunset. I feel pretty tiny on days like that; the world is so big and marvelous, and I’m grateful to be a part of something so wild.
A picture is worth a thousand words.

-dh

Garnet Cholla Blooms Near Queen Valley, AZ
Bloomed 5-2-25 8:00 PM

Oil on Canvas 48 in. x 48 in., 2025

$18,500

Nothing like a steep climb in the first quarter to make a girl feel optimistic. Enjoy the desert, leave no trace, pray for rain.

Mexican Poppies and Desert Dandelion* Near Tubac, AZ

Bloomed 4.17.24

28×22 oil on canvas

$4800

These poppies and desert dandelion were found in a sandy canyon near historical Tubac, Arizona. My friend Veronika and I first noticed the dandelions on the roadsides as we approached town, and then were excited to find more of this simple, happy flower down a sandy wash. I decided to paint the flowers suspended in the sky, untethered, perhaps twirling in a gentle Arizona breeze. A simple delight on a beautiful spring day.

*I researched the dandelion, to see if any were documented in my area of Arizona and found a New York Botanical Garden Steere Herbarium entry collected by a Mrs. Capt. Hoyt near Fort Apache in 1892.  A little more research led to a R.C. Hoyt who was stationed there the same year. What a delight to have a small connection to a fellow amateur botanist from so long ago. I think we would have been friends.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 36 years in the southwest, it’s how different the weather can be from one year to the next; and how quickly we forget, only focusing on the present state of things. Often, we have to be patient, for seasons to change, and for rain to come.

Wildflower seeds can remain dormant in the soil for years, enduring hot, dry conditions; but if we have a wet autumn, the seeds awaken, sprout, and blanket the desert floor with glorious color. Where fire has burned, where soil has been disrupted, they thrive almost miraculously.

In the spring of 2023, all the conditions had lined up for a tremendous blooming season.

All up and down the Bush highways near the Salt River there were fields of orange, purple and pink. People parked their cars and waded through the grasses to take family photos, twirl in the colors, and watch the wild horses eat their fill of colorful blooms.

If this happened every year, perhaps we would take it for granted. It’s a special occasion, worth the wait.

Available at Manitou Gallery, Santa Fe

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 36 years in the southwest, it’s how different the weather can be from one year to the next; and how quickly we forget, only focusing on the present state of things. Often, we have to be patient, for seasons to change, and for rain to come.
Wildflower seeds can remain dormant in the soil for years, enduring hot, dry conditions; but if we have a wet autumn, the seeds awaken, sprout, and blanket the desert floor with glorious color. Where fire has burned, where soil has been disrupted, they thrive almost miraculously.

In the spring of 2023, all the conditions had lined up for a tremendous blooming season.
All up and down the Bush Highway near the Salt River there were fields of orange, purple and pink. People parked their cars and waded through the grasses to take family photos, twirl in the colors, and watch the wild horses eat their fill of colorful blooms.
If this happened every year, perhaps we would take it for granted. It’s a special occasion, worth the wait.

12,800
I stalked this plant in the White Mountains of Arizona for many summers. I rarely saw it, and when I did the plentiful clusters of bright blue buds would be tightly closed.
Dang it.

Next year, same thing. And the next, and the next. This plant’s flowers only open fully when there is plenty of sun, and I was only seeing these beauties under cloudy conditions. Then in the summer of 2024, after a long day of hiking various trails in and out of pouring rain, the sun finally came out just before sunset. My friend and I pulled over to walk the West Baldy trail for a bit, and the beautifully saturated and sun-soaked forest yielded several gentian plants; all of them were fully open.

What a delight to finally see what had been concealed from me for so long. It felt like a friend finally telling me her deepest secret. Such a magnificent shade of blue, and so worth the wait. Your secret is safe with me.

There’s something about a mountain; I have looked up to them all my life (pun intended). I have walked around them, skied down them, scrambled up their faces. I have been breathless from lack of oxygen, while gaining perspective that is only possible when standing at a peak. Mountains are landmarks, a way to find your way.
For Martha Summerhayes, Bill Williams Mountain outside of Flagstaff was a companion during her hard journey through Arizona.
“For some days, Bill Williams was the predominating feature of the landscape; turn whichever way we might, still this purple mountain was before us. It seemed to pervade the entire country, and took on such wonderful pink colors at sunset. Bill Williams held me in thrall, until the hills and the valleys in the vicinity of Fort Whipple shut him out from my sight. But he seemed to have come into my life somehow, and in spite of his name, I loved him for the companionship he had given me during those long, hot, weary and interminable days.” *

She did not have the luxury of traveling to the top to see the view. There were not resources for such frivolity back then. But if she had, she might have noticed the abundance of firecracker penstemon bursting in bright red around every corner. In July they are in full bloom, attracting bees and butterflies. At the top, you can sit at the base of the fire tower and watch the monsoon clouds build in the distance.

There is a reason why we say “mountaintop experience.” It is a special feeling. Just ask the butterflies on old Bill Willians.

*Martha Summerhayes, “Vanished Arizona”, written about her journey through Arizona as an army wife from 1874 to 1878.

10×30
$2400

For years I’ve preferred the long way home from Tucson to Mesa, on the Pinal Pioneer Parkway. It’s a two-lane backroad through open land and a few ranches. There are lonely dirt roads you can pull off and explore, think, or just kick around some rocks.

On a spring day I looked west from this spot towards Picacho Peak, where hordes of people were frolicking in fields of poppies and lupine, and felt quite content with the stands of purple Globemallow at my feet.

Sometimes the longer route is better; sometimes less in more.

Tree Tobacco, Castle Creek, AZ
Bloomed Oct 27, 2020 2 PM

12×16 Oil on Canvas 2021

This painting was inspired by the landscape near Castle Hot Springs, Arizona. It is a place of collisions, juxtapositions, and unexpected discoveries. Hot water gushes from the ground to converge with arid land and create a unique Arizona oasis. Near the property, Castle Creek bubbles up through the desert floor and then sinks below the earth, like a dotted line on paper. The trail in this area is rich with life. Birds, butterflies, reptiles and plants all thrive in this riparian ecosystem.

It was here, during a stay at the legendary hot springs, that I encountered wild tree tobacco swaying in the breeze. A hummingbird had raced by overhead, and I was eager to see where she was headed. Tree tobacco (Nicotiana glauca) love the streams and riverbeds of Arizona. At the Salt River near where I live, the shrubs have taken over parts of the landscape, creating forests of blue-green foliage and the yummiest yellow blooms you will ever see. Don’t roll ‘em and smoke ‘em, though; the leaves, even in the smallest of doses, can be lethal.

But they are beautiful graceful plants; the hummingbirds adore them, and so do I.

40×50 Oil on canvas

As you gaze at a bouquet, do you ever pause to consider a flower’s purpose? Humans and pollinators are drawn to the allure of a bloom’s beauty, color, and fragrance. Ultimately, however, flowers are about survival.

In the Sonoran Desert of Arizona, we are lucky to dwell among the most intriguing and iconic cactus in the world; the saguaro. We hike through these sentinels, marvel at their heights, and crane our necks upward to see their blooms.

We love to share amazing facts about saguaros with visitors to our state, especially related to their age and growth: they can take up to five years to grow a few centimeters, they don’t grow arms until they’re fifty years old, and they can weigh up to 4800 pounds after a good rain.

Hopefully these facts help people understand how devastating disasters like the Bush Fire can be to our environment and to our human hearts. In June of 2020, this human-caused fire destroyed 186,000 acres of prime saguaro habitat in the Tonto National Forest. This area of rolling hills served as the perfect foreground to Four Peaks wilderness, and was a favorite view of mine. Saguaros that were 100 to 200 years old were obliterated just like that. I will not live long enough to see its regeneration.

After a very hot and dry spell in 2021, our state’s saguaros had a super bloom. Scientists believe that the cactuses knew they were in danger, so they focused their energy toward producing more flowers than normal for a typical year, giving every effort to attract pollinators for maximum reproduction. Simply put, no flowers, no seeds.

In my opinion, flowers in the wilderness are not to be taken for granted. They are barometers for environmental health. They are life, beauty, and inspiration; a simple yet complex design created for our enjoyment and existence.

Ever since I began painting 35 years ago, my calling has been striving to recreate God’s creation. Being in the wild equals joy for me. Hopefully that’s what you see when you view my work. It’s my higher calling.

Learn more about replanting burn areas: http://www.naturalrestorations.org/

Read more about saguaros: The Saguaro Cactus, A Natural History by Yetman, Burquez, Hultine and Sanderson 2020

$2400

It’s always exciting to see something for the first time. In 2023 on the Barnhardt Waterfall trail, I spotted a few Fritillaries (or Leopard Liles). I had never seen them before in Arizona and was delighted. I snapped photos, made some notes, and planned a trip back the following year at about the same time.

It was worth the wait. The following year, with plenty of autumn rain, there were more plants than the previous year. Randy and I had a great hike to the gushing waterfall at the top of the trail, and I began to plan the painting in my mind. Two years after the inspiration, the painting finally came to life. I chose to paint a tall, stately portrait of the plant, in tribute to the waterfall.

With good stewardship, we should see these beautiful plants year after year.

$4400

I was feeling restless on warm Arizona June day, so I got in the Jeep and drove to the mountains. I ended up on a four-wheel drive road outside of Payson, where I had once seen wild bluebells. I was hoping to find more of what delighted me in years past.

I saw no bluebells, so I parked and began to wander. There are interesting plants to find at this elevation (about 4600 feet), so remained hopeful. I kept my eyes to the ground and said a little prayer. On this day, I just needed something special.

Just then, a pop of pink appeared at my feet; I’m glad I did not step on it. Glowing under the pines was the wonderfully bright and endangered bloom of the Arizona spinystar. The U.S. Forest service says of this cactus: “Imagine a group of whitish tennis balls with spines.” Awarded endangered status in 1996 in Minnesota, this variety has suffered at the hands of those who harvest it for their own gardens and propagation, leaving the wild less wild.

The spinystar was probably one of the many plants surveyed by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark on the Corps of Discovery Expedition from 1804-1806. Can you imagine seeing so many things for the first time? What a journey; what history.

On this day, I was so happy to see this little guy in the wild western landscape; thriving, colorful, unique. I’ll go looking for it again in the years to come. With any luck, there will be more, not less.

In Memory of Donald Walker 3/18/1929 – 6/4/2019

$4400.00

Not everyone has a big backyard. But in Arizona, no matter where you live, open space is not far away. In my neighborhood near the Salt River, there is a patch of open space that I have been exploring regularly since 1996.

After a long day in the studio, I venture out through the washes and up the hills. Often, I stay until sunset. Thinking is easier out here; my mind clears and ideas flow.

The desert never looks the same way twice. In late summer after monsoon storms there can be mounds of white Datura blooms, but not every year. One season there were lupine blooming where I’d never even seen the plants.  Some years the cholla cactus blooms are plentiful, some years not.

Chuparosa are not that temperamental. They are ever-present in the washes, and have adapted by dropping their leaves in hot summer months so the stems can keep making food. Their crimson flowers vibrate with color, attracting hummingbirds with very little effort. And if you find yourself hungry in the desert, you can eat the flowers too; they taste a little like cucumbers.

So I visit my crimson friends often, and I linger to enjoy the last light, the quail song, and the cool air that rises from the wash. The Sonoran Desert is a big, beautiful, diverse backyard for us all to enjoy and protect.

I’m not sure when I painted my first agave. I have always been attracted to their strong, stately structure. It’s a treat to see a mature plant send its florescence skyward, marking the end of its days and the beginning of new life.

In my own yard, this is an annual occurrence. It started with a single plant given to me by a neighbor years ago. We now have 30 or more agave in various stages of life throughout our property. Just this week, two of my plants have sent a stalk skyward. If you sat vigil, I’m convinced you could actually watch them grow several inches a day.

I spotted this agave in the wild on a spring day on the Mogollon Rim of Arizona. I was on my way to hike a mountain stream with a friend. The Jeep came a screeching stop.

There she stood. Brave, proud and unyielding, giving every last bit of energy to reproducing.

Nearby was a large patch of Palmer’s penstemon; the tallest, most fragrant penstemon in Arizona. The large bumblebee-sized blooms were proudly swaying in the morning air.

It seemed like a natural pairing, to paint these showy plants together. Their colors complimented each other, and I loved the contrast of the large frilly blooms against the heavy stalk.

It’s my tribute to life in the west; enduring the seasons, embracing adversity, and standing tall in beauty.

-dh

New Years, 2025

Fringed Redmaids, Silver King Mine and Apache Leap, Superior, AZ
28×22 Oil on Canvas
Bloomed 3-12-23 3:30 PM

$4400

A friend came to visit, and I dragged her and her family to a site I hadn’t explored before near Superior. I was hoping we would find poppies blooming, but it was too early in the season.
We climbed a rise to get a better look at the Apache Leap cliffs and the rolling hills.

Just east of where we stood, beneath Kings Crown Peak in Comstock Wash was the site of the richest silver mine in Arizona, producing $42 million worth of silver ore between 1875 and 1900.

In 1870, General George Stoneman ordered the construction of a road from Camp Picketpost to the Pinal Mountains. A soldier named Sullivan, who was working on the road, found some heavy black rocks which he showed to a rancher named Charles Mason. Mason and some companions went looking for the source of the rocks after Sullivan died. The group was attacked by Apaches; one man died and was buried near Stoneman’s grade. The group’s mule strayed during the burial and when they went looking for it, they found the silver rich outcropping with Sullivan’s markings.

But enough about silver; what was the pink and bright green carpet at our feet?  Spead this way and that were bight and pale pink fringed redmaids. Small, yes, but mighty; a bright and cheery foreground to the landscape beyond. I don’t suppose the miners paid much attention to their beauty back then; they probably trampled over them on the way to the mine. But the plants are edible; maybe they snacked on them?

There is always something wonderful to discover the in desert, be it silver or pink.
And I did bring home a mighty dark rock too. It was a lucky day.

When you are walking in the desert, do you ever wonder who might have walked along the same path in the past?

Hibiscus Coulteri was named for Irish Botanist Dr. Thomas Coulter, reportedly the first botanist to collect in Arizona. Coulteri earned a medical degree in Dublin and studied botany in Geneva. In 1832 he travelled to Mexico to be a physician for the Real de Monet Mining company, and began studying and collecting on a journey “from Monterey to the Colorado River.” It is said his collection contained over 50,000 species, representing between 1500 and 200 species. He founded the herbarium at Trinity College, Dublin.

On the other hand, I hiked, swam in a waterfall, took hundreds of photos in the beautiful Catalina foothills of Tucson, then painted this beautiful flower. To me it looked like two cups of lemon sherbert.
I think Dr. Coulteri would approve.

20×20 oil on canvas

Organ Pipe National Park in Ajo, Arizona is the only place in the United States where these catus grow. If you want to see them bloom, visit at dawn in early summer. The blooms are not as large as Saguaro’s, but they are not as lofty either. Many times, the blooms will be at eye level, such as this one.  Plants are usually 35 years old before they have their first blooms and are pollinated by the long nosed bat which migrates from Mexico.

Historically, people have been exploring what is now southern Arizona for hundreds of years, for hundreds of reasons. But it was the European pioneers who gave the Organ Pipe catus its common name. Apparently, its skeleton reminded them of the musical instruments they had seen in their past lives. Humans do that, in an effort to understand something new, we compare it to something we once knew. To the O’odham people, the Organ Pipe cactus has been a part of life for generations. The appearance of fruit meant harvest time, which was a community ritual that resulted in delicious jam or wine, that they shared with hungry pioneers.

What a strange land Arizona must have been to most Pioneers. They were dreaming of a big life in the west. They probably never dreamed they would eat fruit from a cactus. How sweet that must have tasted.

Can a cactus be famous? This one is, so much so that her common name is Queen of the Night. This cactus can be hard to find, and is often overlooked because it resembles a pile of dead sticks hiding under another shrub.
Supporting an underground blub weighing between 5-15 pounds, this plant flushes (blooms en masse) only once between May and August in a good year. Its beautiful fragrance attracts its special pollinator, the hawk moth. When the sun rises, the grand nocturnal event, like a royal ball, is over–just a memory.
Like so many wild plants, miraculous events need to line up to support its existence.
Tread lightly, keep your eyes open, and if you see the Queen, curtsy and enjoy the sight. You are in the presence of royalty.
This painting was inspired by the observations of Veronika Countryman and Marianne Skov Jensen.

While hiking in the Mazatzals after a very rainy season, I was delighted to discover flowering bitterroot.
The bitterroot was named Lewisia rediviva after Meriwether Lewis, who collected the plant on July 1st, 1806 at Traveler’s Rest in Lolo, Montana. Traditionally, the Blackfeet tribe would gather and boil the roots for healing the digestive and respiratory systems. It is believed the healing ability of the bitterroot is most potent around the New Year, which is traditionally celebrated by the tribe at the first clap of thunder during the first rainstorm.
Lewis boiled the roots, ate them, and found them bitter, hence the common name.
“Today, the bitterroot is the floral emblem of Montana as well as the source of several of Montana’s place names: Bitterroot Mountains, Bitterroot Valley, and Bitterroot River. The species name “rediviva” is derived from the Latin word relating to revival from dryness. Seeds from the bitterroot plant can survive for years until favorable conditions are found to sprout.” *
I have not seen it blooming since, but I know it’s there waiting, just under the soil.
*lewisandclark.org

20×20 Oil on Canvas

A rugged eleven-mile hike from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, or 134 miles on a raft from Lee’s Ferry, is the confluence of Tapeats Creek and the Colorado River. Water from Thunder River begins as a gush out of the Redwall Limestone and cascades 1,200 feet, where it meets the spring-fed Tapeats Creek. The creek flows year-round and supports canyon tree frogs, ferns, and fish; and on day five of our 2022 river rafting trip, it was the perfect picnic lunch site.

As our crew secured the boats and began setting up for lunch, I got busy exploring the creek. It was lush with vegetation, and the water was a clear window to the polished stones and polliwogs below. Pops of scarlet red began to appear along the banks, and I sloshed through the water to get a closer look. Scarlet Monkey flowers are not rare; in fact, they grow along the miners’ canals in my home town of Auburn, California. But here in the middle of nowhere they seemed pretty special, their color vibrating against the canyon walls and foaming water. I stored the moments away in my memories, and two years later I painted the scene.

It was Memorial Day weekend on the Colorado River. We were far from crowds, and there was no parade, but it was definitely a red, white and blue memorable day.