My first winter in the Sierra

Lesley and I visited the Sierra mountains near Lake Tahoe, on a December weekend when the great majority of recreationists stayed home. We drove her old reliable station wagon uphill through cold rain, which became wet snow once we reached the elevation of 5,000 feet. And finally, in the dark, we arrived the entrance of Clair Tappan Lodge, and walked the final 100 yards to the heavy wooden front door. The vanilla smell of the Sierras was instantly recognizable, as we trudged ankle-deep in wet snow, schlepping our gear. We gladly stepped inside, where it was dry and warm. In the Lewis and Clark room, we sat by the fire, and met new friends. The rain and snow made conditions for skiing or snowboarding less than ideal. Therefore, only six or so souls, ourselves included, occupied the lodge per night.

The next day, it was hard to pull ourselves away from the fire. There were books to read and tea to drink and sketchbooks to draw in and online courses to complete for the renewal of our EMT certifications. The wind billowed against the windows of the lodge and the rain fell hard. Lesley and I are people who love the woods, regardless of weather. However, she was recovering from a cold, and wished to be cautious. In the afternoon, our opportunity arose, with a moment of clear blue sky, and light rain only. We saddled ourselves up with backpacks and snowshoes and ski poles, and into the woods we went.  We followed a trail called the "main drag."

All about us, the red firs, Abies magnifica, stretched for the sky, their trunks nearly black in color. Upon them, stag-horn lichens glowed yellow-green, like fluorescent lights. And there were lodgepole pines, and hemlocks, and spruces. We sloshed our way through sloshy snow, which was a foot deep in places. Breaking trail through the icy sludge was not easy. I walked in Lesley's footsteps for a spell, then took my turn. (And compared the former to Good King Wencelas.)

Save the moans of the wind, it was quiet. Except for the rhythmic sway of the treetops—back and forth like a pendulum—it was still. I teadily put one foot and one pole in front of the other, in front of the other. I had to keep my thermal engine pumping its pistons. We were two spots of warmth, in a polar landscape.

The forest seemed empty of animals, but they were nearby. Under cover of bark or earth, escaped from the wind and rain. Some animals, on the other hand, were quite unperturbed by the elements. We crossed footprints, a line of them, from a small canid. Perhaps a fox. Squirrels, too, had left their marks in the snow.

And then a black form swooped past us. The raven finished its concave arc, and alighted atop a dead tree. It croaked and called, and proclaimed itself lord of the realm. Then it flapped and rose from the tree and into the wind. It beat its wings strong, but hovered like a helicopter, against the wind's push. Then the raven broke the stalemate, and soared onward, and out of sight.

We came finally to the Lytton Lake, our destination. Or rather, the rippling snowy field, with boulders and forest beyond. The map assured us of a lake under the snow. We turned around, and commenced our return trip.

We stepped into a copse of trees, and felt the calm. Their trunks kept the wind at bay; we had a safe fortress. From the side of my backpack, I removed a gift. A thermos of hot tea. It warmed our hearts, both figuratively and literally.

In this landscape of rolling hills, rocky and snow-covered, the trees stood strong. The rain began to fall again and the wind grew stronger, and the trees swayed but stood. For many centuries, they had braved every storm, and then the coldest depths of winter and the scorching summer heat. The weathered old giants took the monsoons and droughts, undaunted. As for me, I was glad that we had taken some of their brothers and sisters, and fashioned their strong bodies into a house. With a fire inside, wherein I could warm myself. I thanked the trees, and quickened my pace for the hike home.

Thanks be to friends, goats, and the wealth of the soil

Ross and the goats of Wealth Underground Farm

I have much to be thankful for this post-Thanksgiving season. I am thankful for my mom, dad, and brother, and the rest of my extended family spread throughout the country. I am thankful for Lesley and my other great friends. I am thankful to be a Park Ranger at Crater Lake National Park for some of the year. I am thankful for the results of the November 2012 election: given that only two political parties have realistic chances at office, the better of the two has made substantial gains. My heart goes out to the victims of Hurricane Sandy in New York and Haiti and elsewhere. I hope that we can rebuild and restore. And I hope that we work to curb global warming, and prevent worse recurrences.

The Homestead 35th reunion, 2012

 

I am thankful for my other family—the community of current and former residents of The Homestead. We share a unique bond, like no other place I've known. Once, I was stranded in Austin, Texas, as a “refugee” from Galveston Island after Hurricane Ike. With no place to stay, I sent an email to a Homestead alum named Grant, whom I had never met, but knew lived in Austin from correspondence on our alumni email list-serve. And yes, he took me in for a week. Such is the kinship among Homesteaders.

Several of my Homestead comrades have launched new sustainable business projects, and furnished careers for themselves and earth-friendly goods and services for their communities. Among these pioneers are Colin and Brad of The Seattle Urban Farm Company, and Chris and Nolan of Wealth Underground Farm. (Side note: Colin and Brad published a book this year.  Food Grown Right, In Your Backyard provides wise advice for novice and seasoned gardeners alike.  And it makes a great Christmas gift!)

The new tome of garden wisdom

From time to time, I return to these outposts of Homesteading, for a few hours or a few months. This Thanksgiving, Lesley and I paid a visit to Portland, on that rare and precious thing known as a sunny day. From downtown, we rode bicycles for ten miles, past green houses surrounded by vine maples, past street mosaics and telephone poles full of staples, and across the St John's Bridge. The snow-covered Mount Hood was like a shining cloud in the distance; the river, 200 feet below us, swirled green and grey; we pedaled on a little patch of earth, surrounded by expanses of sky. The icy wind turned our knuckles white. Cars and trucks rumbled by slowly. In Portland, they slow down for cyclists.

After the bridge, between us and our destination, loomed a great hill. We pedaled and breathed hard. We hopped off the bikes and walked them, and breathed harder. I felt my legs become a little stiff, and I walked faster. Eventually, by this combination of walking and pedaling, we reached the top of the hill. We guessed a distance of five miles uphill, although the cold green highway signs indicated we had traveled only one.

After a right turn and a short downhill coast, we reached Wealth Underground Farm. Within the house, Nolan, Chris and his family, and their comrades crowded by warmth of a wood-burning stove, which provides both heat and cooking. While they steamed vegetables and boiled free-range flesh, we talked about life, mutual friends, present and past work and farming (wherein Chris and Lesley discovered that both had worked at Hidden Villa), and The Homestead of our origin.

Nolan, Chris, and Ross at Wealth Underground, 2011

We went out into the farm. I had last seen it in the spring of 2011, and tilled the earth and planted seeds alongside the agrarian duo. Now, in the fall, the garden swelled and gushed with plant-life. Cabbages the size of my head, turnips the size of my fist, and kale leaves wider than the span of my hand. Pumpkins and squash. A greenhouse with still-ripe tomatoes. It was impressive, to put it mildly. And they regularly furnish goods for a 30-member CSA!

The Mind of the Goat

And we met the goats. Their fur was soft, their brains inquisitive. They accepted petting from Lesley and I, and expressed special interest in the Portland map. I only permitted them a little nibble.

Lesley and the goats of New World Farmstead (Eugene, OR)

To roam among goats, to eat of the earth, to build my own shelter, and to gather by the warmth of the fire. I seek all these in life, but wonder if it is too much to ask of the modern world. Fossil fuels can rapidly take one from point A to point B, and can give any room a tropical climate. But the joys of walking the journey or splitting the wood are missed. We celebrate in winter because of the need for companionship against the challenges of weather, wherein there is hard darkness but also joyous light. Life in a climate-controlled box makes for an even, dull grey. However, when the age of cheap oil comes to an end, we may all learn the way of the Homestead, by necessity. If such occurs, we will have losses but also great gains.

On the way back down, the hill was short. It felt like half a mile at most. Thanksgiving with Lesley and her family went well. After dinner, we performed “Dumpster Theater,” our new show of storytelling and shadow puppets. We told ancient stories, and used new materials, acquired in the rubbish. We shared the wisdom of coyote and huckleberries and fire, across the generations.

Top photo by © 2012 Lesley McClintock.  Reunion photo by © 2012 some Homie alum.

Hornet Woman and Scarier Things

With Halloween at the near, I ought to share something spooky.

On a recent hike along the Rogue River beginning near Union Creek, my comrade Lesley—who has the eyes of an owl—chanced upon an abandoned hornet's nest, on the ground, having fallen from a tree, and now withering away. Instantly, I noted that it looked like the face of a monster, or zombie perhaps. And Lesley expressed a desire to see my depiction of said creature. After a few sketchbook attempts at beasts with the layered carapace of the hornet's nest, I came upon “Hornet Woman."

I am considering making her the subject of a comic book. She has potential.

All autumn at Crater Lake, I guided children on school field trips through a forest of hemlock trees and—yellow jackets. In the warm autumn, the stinging insects were prevalent. On cold days, they slowed to a torpor. For many insects, weather has a direct impact on behavior, including activity and breeding. In our modern era of global warming, we have increased populations of mosquitoes and the diseases they carry. And the whitebark pines featured in my previous post are getting devoured by mountain pine beetles, who are in a population boom, thanks to climate change.

While bees and wasps are rather non-agressive, and not to be feared, they may be an indicator of something truly ominous.

I hope that we come together against global warming, before it's too late. 

Through the forest and into the snow

 Clark's nutcracker

Recently, I and my comrade Emily paid a visit to Scoria Cone. On the southern end of Crater Lake National Park, nestled in the old growth forest, Scoria Cone, like the rest of the Cascade mountains, was formed by volcanic heat and violence. Now, it is the land of perpetual snow. No trails or signs lead to Scoria Cone. To get there, one must venture into the conifer forest, with only map and compass as guide. (We didn't bring a GPS.)

We walked for an hour or so on the Pumice Flats trail, and the heat of exercise countered the cool of the fall morning.  We walked until there was a clearing in the pines and firs, enough of an overlook to see the mountain peaks behind. Using the area maps, we determined that the tall one was Scoria Cone. We took a compass bearing and followed it. First we went downhill, surrounded by lodgepole pines, which quickly obscured the broader view of the landscape. We followed our compasses, past a place where the lodgepole pines had bent over under snow, to look more like “arch pines”, or like monks bowing in a prayer circle. We walked on.

Away from highway 62, the forest was quiet, save the occasional croak from a Raven, or the yank-yank-yank of a nuthatch (which sounds like a truck backing up, as I learned from a wise birder.) We kicked up dust as we walked, for the ground was dry. Barely any rain had graced the landscape in months, but the hardy pines and firs stayed evergreen, like their namesake. From time to time, a shy chipmunk ran across our path and disappeared again. I'll admit to a slight nervousness, being away from the safety of the trail. Would I find the way back? Would I be lost in the woods, and have to put some wilderness survival techniques to work? I recalled Survivorman's cool attitude, and tried to imitate.

Our walk took us back upwards, towards the peak which we believed to be Scoria Cone. As the landscape came back into view—including in the distance, familiar landmarks like Llao rock and Mount Scott. This put my mind at ease. Crater Lake National Park has become to me a sort of home to me, and these landmarks give a sense of security, like the arch for residents St Louis, or the space needle for Seattle-ites. We walked past a healthy pile of bear scat, whose author had feasted upon berries and plants. We walked to the top of Scoria Cone. Just below, a bushy Ponderosa Pine stood proud and defiant, growing from out of the dark red rocks. Emily examined the map and determined locale of the crater, and the “snowcone”. We walked around the Ponderosa and down below it. And then we saw the pit, like an inverted cone. In the middle of the pit, snow. 

 Slowly, carefully, we edged down the steep walls. Near the end, I had to slide a bit on the seat of my pants, similar to the maneuver of the first white man to touch the water of Crater Lake. For the final stretch, a log acted as walkway between crater walls and snow, with one problem. The log was occupied by a yellow jacket nest. We edged past the log, and jumped onto the snow. A thick layer of snow. Below our feet the snow went on for tens of feet or more. Emily wondered how much snow must pile in the crater in the winter, for so much snow to remain now. It was chunky, icy snow, the kind that would draw blood if you fell into it at the end of a sled run. A Clark's nutcracker visited us on the snow. The bird pecked at the snow, and flew off. By my best observation and estimation, the bird ate chunks of snow as a source of water. A wise technique in a dry forest. Constantly, in fact, birds flew into and out of the cone. Nutcrackers and nuthatches and gray jays and stellar jays came along. Wasps and yellow jackets buzzed around us, so I made no sudden moves. We took some photos, and climbed out of the crater, free from stings, and with only the slightest of scrapes from the sojourn into the unknown. We followed our compasses back to the trail, where Emily set out for her new destination: Stuart Falls. I stayed along until the next grand view of the landscape, then was ready to turn around, having had a long and vigorous hike, and having met my goal of reaching Scoria Cone.

In her hike to Stuart Falls, Emily encountered a small bear. The beast ran in terror, climbed a tree, and howled and mewled like a dying puppy. I was envious and regretted having missed the bear. But I was prompted to fashion a bear with my oil-pastels. To join the mammal, I included another icon of western national parks—the whitebark pine. This high altitude tree is symbiotic with the Clark's nutcracker, who both eats and distributes their seeds. A nutcracker's thanksgiving would include volumes of whitebark pine nuts, some flavorful insects, and, evidently, a bowl of icy snow.

Clark's nutcracker photo by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, public domain; Ross descent photo by © Emily Prud'homme

The Mystic Power of Crater Lake or A White Man's Vision Quest

 Ranger Ross atop Garfield Peak

I have never been comfortable in churches. For me, a box with a steeple is not the best place to connect with a higher power. My temples are forests and mountains, valleys and lakes. Here I see the masterworks of the forces that made our universe, be they God or gods or quantum superstrings or the “blind watchmaker” of natural selection.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons why I am so fascinated by Native American stories and religious traditions. They describe spirit power that is omnipresent in nature, found in people and animals and trees and plants, and even mountains. In my reverential moments, I am of a similar persuasion.

The Native Americans describe certain locales where the spirit-power is especially concentrated, “power points.” To the Klamath tribes, Crater Lake (or Giwas) is a central power point, a most sacred place. It is a place where people connect to the spirit world, and have life-transforming experiences, through the vision quest. Motivations for the vision quest vary, but can include tranformation from boy to man, and recovery from emotional trauma, such as the death of a loved one. Many shamans—healers and spiritual leaders—gained their powers at Crater Lake.

Although I am no shaman, I do have a special connection to Crater Lake and its surrounding environs. And I have had some experiences which seem nearly mystical. Oregon is a wild state, and Crater Lake National Park is nestled amidst thousands of acres of national forests. It is a blessing to be here, if only for a short while, and to have the opportunity to romp through the forests where the Klamath chiefs tread before. And it is a blessing to have friends to accompany me. My friend Lesley has been at my side for multiple adventures, and other comrades, including Lauren, Grimes, Emily, and Mike have been along for some.

Ross and Lesley about to canoe in Klamath marsh

Lesley dreams of rivers every night. And she is drawn to rivers by day, especially if a canoe is involved. On one of our first adventures, we paddled the Wood River, upriver to Kimball State Park and then downriver back to Fort Klamath. As we paddled through the serpentine river, surrounded by fields and pastures, with osprey in the trees at riverside, and the sillouhetted forms of the rim of Crater Lake in the distance, I imagined life for the Native Americans on that fateful day 7,700 years ago, when a tall mountain stood where Crater Lake is now. And a great tower of volcanic ash—the ominous form of the spirit Llao—arose from the mountain and unleashed his fury upon the landscape.  Probably, many people were vaporized by the volcano's glowing avalanches of ash and rock (Llao's fiery breath, in the Klamath interpretation).  Someday in the future, Llao will awaken, and the volcano will erupt again.  I hope not to be here when that happens.

The Wood River is crystal clear and very cold. At its beginning in Kimball State Park, there is a shiny green pool, inhabited by frogs and insect larvae and a menagerie of fascinating creatures. Drawn to the aquatic alien world, Lesley set to work on an underwater film in the emerald water.

 Lesley explores underwater at Kimball.

As we paddled with the current to our destination, the winding river was fraught with dead logs and branches. We had to steer the boat with skill and focus, as the current brought us from one strainer and around one sharp bend and on to the next strainer and bend. Lesley, who is a former whitewater canoe guide, had the helm for this stretch.

We reached Fort Klamath, pulled the boat out of the water, and waited outside the country store, for our ride back. We lay on the grass and watched red-tailed hawks circle overhead. The sun was warm and the grass smelled sweet. It is rare for me to simply relax, for I normally keep a heavy and constant list of things to do. It is good that I could forget about my list for a little while. Perhaps benevolent spirits from the river helped me to feel a sense of peace.

On their vision quests, the Klamath people face fear and conquer it. I have always feared cold water. I haven't exactly conquered my fear, but perhaps I have made progress towards pushing it back. Our comrade Lauren accompanied Lesley and I on a trip to the Modoc Lava Beds. In the orange light of a setting sun, we swam in Medicine Lake. Entering the cold water was a great challenge for me; it always is. I stand in water up to my knees, then waist for long periods before I immerse myself. Sometimes I resort to a chanted count to ten in Japanese—which I associate with drills from karate—to psych myself for the plunge. This time, I got in quietly, if slowly. Tiny frogs swam over the water's surface and below; they frog-kicked with as much authority as their half-inch legs could muster. They clung to reeds between swims. I imitated the frogs, and swam with the breast stroke, out to a thicket of reeds and back. Between swims, my submerged feet sank ankle-deep in the sandy mud.

After the swim, I welcomed the campfire. I read aloud Native American stories about the Pleiades, the big dipper, and Mount Shasta. Sleep was nourishing, but short—I had work the next day. I awoke at 4:30 AM to make the drive back to Crater Lake. As I drove, the red sunrise cast the desert in shades of orange. Jackrabbits bounded across the rode in front of my car.

Lauren, Lesley, and Ross camped at Lava Beds, near Medicine Lake

I returned to face the cold water again—at Rocky Point Resort, at the Williamson River, and at Union Creek. At the Williamson, we paddled right over Ska’mdi, the eddy where monsters dwell (according to Klamath legend). We stayed in the boat for that part, and luckily the “big animals” did not disturb us. We passed a dead beaver, and a living muskrat swam alongside us for as stretch. Repeatedly, we paddled over rocks which jutted from the river's bottom to a few inches below us. We limited our hang-ups on rock as best we could. Near the end of this venture, past Chemult and just before highway 97, Lesley and I shot through rapids. Our boat rocked and jostled and spun from side to side; we paddled with gusto in an effort to keep it stable. We struck the next rock and Lesley, who was in back, lost her paddle. From the front, I was still able to steer the boat through the white water to shore. I hastily pulled the boat onto the bank, a little too close to a fisherman, who gave me a look of disgust. Lesley and I ran through the water and on the bank, barefooted, after the paddle. The river's rocky bottom was unforgiving to the feet, and the water felt cold as snow. We ran through several few hundred yards of territory and back again, and feared the paddle was lost. (And being tired, hungry, and cold, even my outdoor optimism was challenged.) Then Lesley spotted the paddle in a cove. When we returned to our boat, the fisherman had left us a present, consisting of dead earthworms in the boat's bottom. If any devotees of canoeing or kayaking read this blog, they may remind me that one should always carry a spare paddle, in which case this whole obstacle course could have been avoided.

At Union Creek, the water was even colder. Lesley submerged herself completely and lay down. Hesitantly, I followed suit. She said that the cold felt good, that is it was invigorating, empowering. I mainly felt relieved when I had the opportunity to warm myself by the campfire. The next day we, alongside our comrade Lauren, had a rollicking raft ride on the Rogue River. The inflatable raft's bumpers cushioned the impacts from rocks; what was an earthquake to the canoe was the rocking of a baby-cradle to the raft. We took some of the rapids lying on our bellies on the boat, and took in the refreshing blasts of fresh water face-first. And we had splash fights with other rafts. During a break on shore, we watched a pileated woodpecker explore the trees. 

Woodpecker photo by © Lesley McClintock

 From Dutton Ridge, in the night, I gained new understanding of the mysticism of Crater Lake. Vision quests happen in high places, where the spirits of earth and sky meet. Atop the ridge, in the fading gray and purple light of dusk, we had a view of broad expanses of the Cascade mountains, Mount McLaughlin and Union Peak and the Klamath Basin, and (almost), Mount Shasta, 100 miles distant. Our feet sunk into the layers of volcanic ash and pumice as we walked. At this high altitude, no trees could survive, save the hardy whitebark pine. A stand of the whitebark pines (which look more like shrubs) grew along the ridge, all bent to one side, sculpted by the merciless wind and the snow which engulfs them, all winter long.

The windswept rim

As we trudged through the ash towards the top of the ridge, it grew darker and colder still. Our forms turned to silhouettes, against a sunset backdrop of crimson red. And, betwixt us and the sun, the expansive Crater Lake. In grey and black and purple shades, the caldera looked like a lunar landscape. I half-expected to see the towering form of Llao rise from the water. We each snapped away with our cameras, with the hope of immortalizing this holy moment at Giwas. We walked back amidst the twisted silhouettes of whitebark pines—the survivors.  Like Hephaestus, the trees were deformed, overburdened—but persistent to the end.

The sun sets behind Crater Lake, with Lauren in the foreground.

I have faced trauma in the past year. I faced a man who typecast me as a basket case, who downplayed my accomplishments as farce, and we who wove false narratives to soil my reputation. And he took a great deal away from me. I would not call myself recovered, yet. I am still scarred by his insults, and paranoid of forces that lurk in shadow, waiting to strike again, to burn the bridge out from under me when my next goal is in sight.

However, after my sequence of mystical experiences, I am closer to recovery. The Buddhists call it the path to enlightenment; the Christians call it coming to know God; and some Native Americans call it finding one's manitou. I call it developing heightened appreciation of Earth's beauty and magic, and connecting with a purpose higher than oneself. The touch of the Earth Mother can heal. She mends some of the wounds in my soul.

For more information on the Klamath vision quests, I reccomend In the Footprints of Gmukamps by Douglas Deur. For Klamath legends of Crater Lake, consult Indian Legends of the Pacific Northwest by Ella Clark.

Reflections on the Visions

I am at work on a post about my adventures and mystical experiences at Crater Lake and its surrounding environs.  In the meantime, I'll share a bit more from the 2012 staff art show.

All toll, we showcased work from 12 park employees from three divisions.  In two days, 300 or so park visitors came to the Rim Community House see our show.  For most of the two days, I was on the front lines, staffing the show.  All the setup and take down and organizing left me in a bit of state of exhaustion, even though  I received great help from my comrades Lesley and Lauren.  On the afternoon of the second day, my comrade Brian came an offered to staff the show voluntarily, and give me few hours of respite.  It was an act of kindness.  I went to sleep on the bare wooden floor in the back of the Community House.

In the end, it was great to see the various creative interpretations of Crater Lake by my comrades, and an honor that we could share our visions with the visitors.  I composed the following statement to introduce the show, and posted it at the front table:

"The Vision behind Visions from the Blue

By living and working in National Parks, Park Rangers develop unique depths of knowledge and emotional connections to America’s great places.  Therefore, it should not be surprising that many Park Rangers are also artists.  With camera, pen, brush, utility knife, knitting needle, or keyboard, we express our knowledge and feelings about these landscapes.  At Crater Lake, different rangers respond artistically to different aspects of the mountaintop caldera.  Some are drawn to the power and violence of the volcanic eruptions which created Crater Lake; some interpret the beauty and tranquility of the lake at present day; some are enamored with the plants and animals which inhabit the lake and forest; some retell or reinvent the Native American stories; and some create abstract works to express the mystery and mysticism found in this environment.  Visions from the Blue showcases artistic approaches as diverse as the Rangers who created them.  We hope that you enjoy this show, and leave it with some education about the wonders of Crater Lake National Park, as viewed through the eyes of those who live them daily.

~ Ross Wood Studlar
Park Ranger-Interpreter (and artist!)"

Visions from the Blue

A lot has happened since I arrived at Crater Lake.  I have gathered much to fuel my blog in the future.  In the present, it has been difficult to make time to update this bloody site.  I am here now.

Now that I have returned to Crater Lake, the Crater Lake staff art show has been reborn.  I led the organizing of the first-ever staff art show in 2010; I am back for the second-ever in 2012.  Our title for this one is Visions from the Blue: Park Rangers Interpret Crater Lake.  The show will feature photos, paintings, drawings, weavings, and sculptures by at least seven members of the park staff, including yours truly.

In my four years of seasonal work at Crater Lake, I have interpreted this unique landscape from many angles.  I take special inspiration from the stories that Native Americans tell about Crater Lake.  My latest artwork along these lines is below.

This one is a collaboration with my friend and fellow ranger-naturalist-artist Lesley McClintock.  She created the environment; I created the figures.  ( © to respective creators).  It is an illustration to "Coyote in Love with a Star", a story told by the Klamath Tribe wherein Coyote has a tragic love affair with a mischievous star, and the events lead to the formation of Crater Lake.  (For the full story, you can consult Coyote Was Going There by Jarold Ramsey.)

At Visions from the Blue, I will display illustrations to other Native American stories, along with drawings of our amazing landscape and its wildlife.  And I'll showcase my comic books The Raven and the Crayfish and Avian Tales from Crater Lake.  As for my fellow rangers--Lesley has drawings and prints of rare animals at Crater Lake, such as the Mazama Newt and spotted owl; Stephanie has an impressive set of photos of Crater Lake and other national parks; Lauren has an image of Crater Lake knitted from wool (and I had not known it was possible to knit with such detail); and Maria has a glass sculpture of a volcano, which I am yet eager to see.  Tomorrow, I will hustle and bustle to get all this set up and situated in the Rim Community House.

And so, if you happen to be able, I recommend that you come see us for the art show.  For more information, the flyer which we have posted across the park is also posted below:

Excelsior~!