A walk along the riverside in Missoula, Montana takes you past several crossing points. These bridges bring travelers to the other side of the Clark Fork and connect two valley shorelines split by the river between them. 

Tonight, Scout and I choose to start our adventure at the ballpark and walk down the shoreline until we eventually feel like crossing. From the start, our journey takes us past sculpture parks and osprey nests, to which we glance in recognition before moving onward. This trail feels placed at the intersection of the natural and the industrial. Tension persists here between the carefully curated straight lines of steel and the wild creatures that adapt and inhabit these spaces. Are we not wild creatures as well? I wonder.

Tonight, I choose to wear a soft white lace dress I have not worn in ages. This piece feels delicate and flirtatious, lending me a feeling of buoyant cheer for the evening. It feels like Summer. 

There’s something about getting ready for an evening out that builds anticipation, like the journey that makes the view from the top of the hike worth the challenge.

I arrive at Council Grove State Park near Missoula a little flustered and cranky, twisted up inside by complaints and contemplations about my life right now. What I want to change. What’s not working. What is of value. What is the point. I’m short with my Scout, urging him to move on from the trailhead, essentially rushing him. I know an evening storm system is moving this way. I want to get out and back before it hits us. …

I’ve had a day of rewards and challenge. I’m feeling worn… so I decide to treat myself with an ice cream cone from a local shop. As the golden light fades slowly into shadows on the city streets around me, I embrace the childlike joy that can only come from devouring an ice cream cone while I take myself on a traipsing walk through a tree-lined Downtown neighborhood.

My aimless walking, lick by lick, leads me through a garden park and towards the river trail. Once again, like a homing pigeon, I can’t help myself. To the wilder, unscripted, quiet parts of nature I am drawn, always. 

I look down at the water beading on my arm in my black rain jacket and think to myself, ”This isn’t what I had in mind”. Sometimes adventure doesn’t arrive in the way we intended... In those moments, can we stay open to receiving the gifts of “what is” rather than what “should be”? 

It’s late afternoon by the time I set out on the Sousa Trail, heading toward the Barmeyer Overlook. I love this trail for its simplicity and its sweeping views of the city of Missoula, Montana. The Barmeyer Overlook is a…

My love of baseball came to me completely unexpectedly and lives at the beautiful intersection of prediction and possibility. 

My love of baseball came to me completely unexpectedly and lives at the beautiful intersection of prediction and possibility. 

Once before, I loathed the sport, finding it too boring to be watchable. Then, one day, I looked up and barely recognized myself! There I am…. quoting stats, watching replays, talking at length about how my favorite team’s “season is going”, and debating whether or not we “have a chance at the playoffs”. Who have I become?!? I think.  …I love her.

I love that I can still surprise myself…

Light streams in through the tall pines above me and onto the dusty trail I find myself strolling along, Scout, my dog, in tow. He’s excited to be out, having spent the day waiting for me to finally be ready to take him on another adventure. The rain from earlier in the afternoon has left the woods fragrant and full of dewy possibility. The smell of pine and cottonwood, soft earth, and wet greets me with infectious joy. I breathe deeper with every step, devouring the cold, sweet mountain air. …

I’m walking along a steep and rocky incline on a small trail in my neighborhood, placing my feet carefully on the loose gravel on a steep slope covered in dry grasses, and trying not to be distracted by the multicolored rocks strewn about at my feet. I’m a rock-hound at heart (something I learned from my dad as a kid), but I don’t want to slide all the way to the bottom of this hill. Some caution is wise here. Up ahead, my half pit bull rescue dog, Scout, trots along loosely tethered to my wrist by a weathered blue lead. This line has linked us on countless adventures.

Moose Can Gully, the particular trail that I’ve chosen for the start of my September Adventure Art Club journey, begins in the hills….

Introducing a new series on Alpine Line Art for the month of September:  Adventure Art Club! …. For the next 30 days, each day, I am taking myself on a little adventure (which I’m interpreting quite loosely). Some of these adventures will be indoors (probably), but most will be in nature, where I feel most at peace and most alive. I’m choosing to create one 4”x6” sketch during each adventure as a way of slowing down and noticing for a brief time, no matter where I am, and to record the adventure. At the end of the month, I hope to have 30 small tokens ….

It felt like stepping into a river with a strong current that catches you unawares. That first step knocks you somewhat off balance. You feel displaced. You may even take a step backwards. Yet, with each step afterward, you adjust to the river’s current. You place your feet with intention. You anticipate the power of the movement. You adapt to the flow of the moment. …

Just as the intimidating “cool factor” of outdoor sports can turn away people who may not feel “good enough”, I believe the “pretention factor” that exists in some art spaces prevents people who would benefit from experiences in art from engaging with it. … Art, like outdoor recreation, should be accessible to everyone, regardless of former exposure, background, or economic status.

This year’s Spring Equinox arrived on March 20th, and it found me wrestling with some very real reluctance to the idea of leaving the slower paced last months of Winter behind. As Spring arrives, it brings with it renewed energy, a faster rhythm of life, longer days, and the busy blossoming of trees around us. The fruit trees near my home have already sprouted hopeful buds, despite recent snowy squalls. I’ve been taking stock of the last few months and thinking about what this time has meant for me.

What I’ve found over years of explorations is that my most poignant moments of reflection, brightest ideas, most creative ideations, and vibrant experiences of serene stillness of both mind and heart can only find me through a sort of movement meditation, preferably in nature. Through the rhythmic fall of my footsteps, I’m freed of certain limitations that keep my mind spiraling throughout the day. I am moving, yet I feel still. After a certain distance…

I think most people think that Artists spend their lives in a perpetual flow state creating magic every time they put pen to page. However, what it actually looks like (for a lot of us) is a series of fits and starts and disparate parts that seemingly don’t go together. Now and then, there’s a flash in the pan or a grand catalyst that brings it all into one crystallized endeavor. And once that happens, so much work still remains:  to revise, to edit, cut back, or refrain. 

If that’s the case, then the only way is to keep showing up, day after day. Imperfectly. Inconveniently. Inconceivably.  . . .

Through this new series of reflective writing, I want to embrace my innate desire to explore. I want to follow the callings and questionings of my heart. I want to allow the fleeting, flickering embers of thoughts, feelings, and inspiration to spring to life from the fire that incites this one creative life. I want to invite connection. And in this process, I want to feel into one unanswerable question that always stirs me: