Thirty years ago lightning struck. That charged bolt of light from the Thunder Beings led to one of the absolute greatest blessings and dearest loves of my life.
Cliff saw the lightning strike while logging with two buddies up Smith Creek in the Crazy Mountains; then they saw the smoke rise. Winds had already whipped the fire into a blaze when they got to it but they worked together to saw trees down to protect a batch of cabins. The buffer zone Cliff, Ralph and Mo created during the hours before the Forest Service arrived saved what turned out to be third-generation-owned historical cabins.
Thirty years ago this month when I returned to the Forest Service office in West Yellowstone after a 4-day hitch alone in the backcountry as a wilderness ranger, I was immediately sent along with another fella to the Crazies to help fight what had become a large 5-division fire.
A few days later in a quirky twist of fate, Cliff and I ended up working together as a two-person saw team on the Smith Creek Fire. I’d never seen anyone so skilled with a saw. His biceps were as big around as my thighs. He wielded a 36” bar on his saw with calm coolness and eyes that sparkled like Santa Claus.
The friendship begun in the blackened soot on steep slopes beneath blue skies defies definition and forged much of who I am, where I live and how I show up in this world. I’ve grieved him perhaps more this October than a handful of the last Octobers. Autumn this year has played out much like it did that season, languid and long with lavish foliage, starry nights, exceptionally warm days and a handful of dramatic storms. The past few weeks I’ve shed tears beneath stars, at sunrise and sunset and spaces between. I’ve also reveled in the warm fuzzies and awe of the love we shared for each other and this mountain.
I am lucky. So. Damn. Lucky.
Everyone should have a Cliff in their life. I can’t imagine my life without having had him in it.
Happy Birthday dear Cliff! I miss you beyond words. I love you dearly. Eternally.
Bhutanese Prayer Flags
For thousands of years, prayer flags have been created and hung to promote peace, compassion, strength and wisdom. Raymond and I brought these home from Bhutan.
Three prayer flags were raised in front of my studio one-year-to-the-day after Cliff’s death. Three more prayer flags were added on our first anniversary. Nine days later three more flags were raised one year after my mother’s death. The nine prayer flags danced through nearly two full years of sun and snow.
Released by air and wind, prayers and mantras sanctify and purify all-pervading space which becomes a permanent part of the Universe even as the flags fade. Life is replaced by new life. Prayer flags acknowledge the greater cycle which all beings are part of. I gathered the tattered and torn material before the elements scattered them to the ground. Precious pieces of the prayer flags have been dancing their way into my work… finding new life.
Memorable Easter Sunday
Raymond and I were honored to share Easter Sunday adventures on ice with legends Pat Callis and Conrad Anker. Pat is an 86 year old sprite who discovered the ice at Hyalite Canyon decades ago. He is a full time professor at MSU and inspires us all with his gumption and strength.
I highly recommend the documentary “Piton” about Pat Callis for inspiration.
Google Conrad Anker hours of articles (cover of National Geographic, TIME, Outside, etc. The stellar documentary movie Meru is one of our favorites.
Wishing you the jolliest of holidays!!!
Perhaps some of you remember the santa carvings I did for Big Sky Carvers during my 20’s? Here is one I stained with pin-striped overalls like my grandfather used to wear as a gift for my mother decades ago.
Seasonal Ritual
In the enchanting glow of tree lights and the nostalgia-laden hum of Christmas carols, I find myself enveloped in the warmth of memories, with my mother's spirit embracing me most tenderly during this magical season. Christmas was her time to shine, and the air still carries echoes of her laughter and the rustle of wrapping paper.
Before dawn tiptoes into the room, I retreat to the antique desk, a relic that my father and I restored together. A soft glow emanates from the lights of the Christmas tree, casting a gentle ambiance on my quiet morning ritual. There, by the flickering lights, I open my journal and find solace.
In the delicate stillness, I light a candle in my mother's cherished porcelain ashtray. The golden bird, poised on the edge of a pink blush bloom, is almost too beautiful for lipstick-stained cigarettes but, of course, perfect for my mother. It's a treasure which sits this morning next to a small porcelain cup adorned with a whimsical rabbit—a token from my adventures in Japan many moons ago.
Dried rose petals, a tender reminder of fleeting beauty, float gracefully in the velvety darkness of ceremonial chocolate, crafted with care by Guatemalan women and prepared by me each morning with intention and reverence for the subtle plant medicine and female lineage. The air is infused with the rich aroma, creating a delicate dance of scents and memories. I am transported to the heart of the holiday season, surrounded by the essence of love, tradition, and the enduring spirit of my mother.
Lady Tatterley
Her tattered right ear inspired her name. Remarkably bold, Lady Tatterley is a rather tough regal and demanding o'l gal. She's been in our life up here at the end of the road near the top of this mountain for quite a few years. We LOVE her. Don’t you?
Glorious Commute
Sooooooooo blessed….
Happy Birthday Cliff
Chico - 2012
Cliff and I would celebrate his birthday each year in the tiny intimate o’l bar lounge back of the dining room at Chico. We’d share appetizers. Oysters Rockefeller and “Green Cheese” were the headliners. Green cheese was his name for Brie as he misunderstood me the first we had it up here in this cabin on the mountain. Like most “Cliff-isms” the name stuck and so it was and still is Green Cheese.
I’d splurged then, when I brought Brie home that first time (which he loved but which of course didn’t compete with the pastry wrapped, huckleberry sauce embellished Brie that Chico’s menu faithfully offered). Those birthday dinners were special.
His birthday is still special and celebrated throughout the season. Autumn always ushers in extra “Cliffness.” His favorite time of year - as the light and air change, the leaves explode into richness and crispness, the stars shine brighter and the weather gets moodier - I hike his places and feel his graces. I cry. I smile. I talk to him. I feel him -more each year (thankfully).
My reverence for this mountain, the love we shared for Momma Nature, the respect we had of each other’s nature, the deep friendship and forever love we have - Precious.
Happy Birthday Cliff
10/21/47 - 5/1/16
Walking Down the Aisle
During the few months leading up to our big day, I imagined the moment when Cliff would walk me down the aisle. I would lean into him as I’d done for the better part of my adult life. He would offer his never-in-a-gym bulging mountain man arm for me to wrap into. He would have said something “Cliffy” in that moment meant only for me but loud enough for the guests, the birds and the bears to hear. Whatever he uttered would have been unpredictable with the exception of the inevitable endearment “Honey” spoken like a punctuation point; laden and dripping with golden sweet richness.
Guests wrote on prayer flags and tied them to the Aspen tree under which Cliff and I would have begun the wedding walk together. Strips of wispy white cotton blasted prayers, love and grace which emboldened the steps I took alone.
Not alone.
Despite many kind offers to walk me down the aisle no one could have taken Cliff’s place.
Musical notes leapt from Leslie’s violin and danced with birdsong. I began the walk, seven years ago today.
Spring Sunrise
Tala and I enjoy our early morning hikes on the mountain. The “antlered ones” are in velvet, tiny bambi’s and an occasional bear greet us here and there during our wanderings accompanied by wildflowers and birdsong.
Tala posing near our humble cabin home.
Season's First Summit
BEAUTIFUL and stunningly memorable summit shared with a dear friend - AND a violinist and ballerina who performed on the summit.
Carrie Krause and Genevieve Tygstad-Burke perform on top of Blackmore Peak (see article here)
Ray's Memorial
I wore mother’s wedding ring, my owl Cliff ring, my aunt Nora’s custom made-for-her hat, a dress Raymond brought home for me from bull fighting school, a handmade deer skin blazer which has its own special story, earrings my niece made, a gemstone necklace and several bracelets gifted from friends and my peace/love boots.
Emotional, spiritual and challenging days like Ray’s memorial, I welcome the energy and comfort felt from the things chosen to wear. The spirit and stories of loved ones attached to the adornments empower and deepen connection. Emboldened with meaning; past and present adds presence.
Ray’s memorial service was the most intentional and beautifully meaningful tribute I’ve witnessed so far in my life. More than four hundred people attended. Through them I was gifted an even deeper insight into the quietly humble yet highly impactful life my father-in-law led. We grieve and we feel blessed.
My dear father-in-law
My dear sweet, heart-smart, super kind, extraordinarily intelligent and deeply loving Father-in-law slipped away quietly in his sleep at home yesterday morning after a seven year battle with Alzheimer’s.
The candid photo taken by Robert Osborne and published in Osborne’s book “The Cowboys of Montana” is shared here more for the scrawled inscription than the classic image of Ray (although I LOVE the photo).
We’ve been losing Ray bit by bit for longer than I had the privilege of knowing him fully as his PhD self. But the thing with Ray - he was so authentically open, humble, approachable and loving that even a stranger could quickly feel like (or wish they were) kin to this magnetic man. That part of Ray was never lost.
I can not begin to express my honor at being able to call him “Dad” or the depth of my gratitude for the gift of Ray in my life.
Dr. Ray Ansotegui - July 11,1947-March 2,2023
Jungle juice
I danced deep in the jungle beneath the mystical glow of February’s full moon during a ceremony held by Indigenous women…
Happy New Year!!
Much to reflect, celebrate, envision, step out of, step into…
Wishing each of you courage, love, faith, good health, adventure, compassion and community in the NEW year.
Year of the Rabbit
Christmas kisses...
Smitten in mittens. Overflowing with love as we blow warm kisses from our crystal cold mountaintop to you. Let’s spin, dance, roll, and share abundant blessings with each other and all creatures great and small…
One of my passions...
Endlessly sculptural…ICE…!!!!
Excited for the season upon us but mostly I’m delighted to share adventures on ice with Raymond. I never imagined my rodeo bullfighting husband would discover his own love for the stuff. Raymond’s spiritual appreciation of and communion with Momma Nature (and the made-with-love gourmet sandwiches he creates for our adventures) are just a few sprinkles of the stardust goodness. He’s my favorite partner @raymondansotegui took this photo of me a few weeks ago…
Sweet Sleep
Catching the light while feeling mountaintop magic…
Light is a guide and friend to me. Even the tiniest sliver of light - though elusive - exists and can be found during the darkest times if I surrender and open myself to the painful scary places.
A lifetime of severe insomnia; chronic drenched darkness invited demons to dance. I was tough. But tough wasn’t enough. Tough actually got in the way of progress with something as allusive and temperamental as sleep. I’ve traveled dozens of healing paths, spent thousands and thousands of dollars, made progress and lost footing. Finally I came to grips with and accepted my fate as a non-sleeper. I resolved to “make do” with less sleep than most, sincerely thankful the worst chronic cycles of insomnia were behind me (several times in my life I averaged a total of 6-8 hours of sleep every 2-3 days for months at a time).
Last spring my dear friend Alan, a medical scientist and visionary told me in no definitive terms that what I considered acceptable progress and “normal for me” (4-6 hours of fitful sleep waking 6 -12 times a night) was actually not acceptable. New resolve; more journeys and breakthroughs. Sweet sleep.
Raymond took this photo last week while I balanced on a rock on top of a local summit. Full of gratitude for the sleep fullness gained during the last year. I no longer label myself as an insomniac. I am embracing a new chapter where I get to fine-tune sweet sleep.
I am dreaming again.
Parts of myself I hadn’t realized I’d lost are showing up. I sip and slurp light - not for survival but in celebration.
Full of gratitude.
Four months after being attacked by a pack of 3 pit bulls, severe PTSD clutched my guts and sabotaged my studio life.
The multi-weapon antibiotic assault on the threatening blood infection had thrown my body out of kilter. The pit of insomnia which accompanied decades of my life (and pock-marked my childhood) deepened and widened.
My studio, usually a healing and spiritual place, felt hollow, cavernous and frightening. Sharp chisels and power tools scared me. A “harmless” piece of charcoal resulted in a dark grotesque fang-filled demonic drawing scratched furiously onto big paper. Scary stuff. The process of creation may at times require glistening sweat and even drops of bright blood but PTSD tarnished sweat and blood into sickly blackened sticky goo. Scary stuff.
Uprooted and flailing after a summer lost to the attack, I grasped onto the “INKtober” challenge proposed in social media. The drawings were done outside my studio, mostly at home ‘tho I remember one evening self-consciously drawing at a tall two-top table in a crowded restaurant before a rodeo event in Billings.
Thirty-one drawings - tiny white tendrils - wispy roots that helped me navigate a steep deep pit.
Six more months crawled by before I inched my way back into the studio enticed by Cliff’s boot prints in the snow. The fire he’d built early one spring morning sent smoke signals from the studio chimney - love notes of encouragement.
Inspired by an unforgettable Great Horned Owl who visited me on a full moon night when 2015 rolled into 2016, I began a small palm-size sculpture of an owl. Cliff was excited about my return to work but more than that, he was excited about the beginnings of that little owl sculpture. Ah Cliff. The owl who perched on top of that big dead o’l tree and the little lump of clay which began to turn into an owl in my hands is a potent, ominous and mystical entwined story (for another time).
I’ve been missing Cliff something fierce. Autumn was his favorite time of year.
Tears. Walks and talks with his spirit on this mountain. Life and loss and love.
Earlier this week Raymond’s mother Linda spotted a Great Horned Owl perched on top a giant tree while she and I sat together on the studio deck at dusk. Then today, seven years after I scribbled this owl on a piece of scrap paper found in a tiny drawer of the small antique desk which belonged to my mother, Facebook reposted “INKober Drawing #2.”
I marvel at the gift of one tough and tender nutrient-gathering, stability-seeking tendril after another in a long healing journey mapped by gnarled roots and lotsa love.
Catching the light...
✨ Momma Nature’s abundant kisses are far more potent than any superfood, booster shot, pill or powder…