This project ends in the place it began. Thirty days later, having undertaken countless adventures, we arrive the same, yet utterly changed.

Life is an endless spiral of growth by which we arrive at the same place over and over. We rise, hopefully one rung higher in insight, and better than before. In life’s endless sequence of cycles, endings are also beginnings. Grief and love go hand in hand.

One journey’s end begins another.

ADVENTURE ART CLUB | DAY 30 | 9.30

WHERE IT BEGAN

MOOSE CAN GULLY TRAIL

MISSOULA, MT

September in Montana is a month of dramatic change. Violent storms sweep through, drenching the earth with rain, in a matter of mere moments. Thunderheads fill the sky in the evenings, and we are taken in by the drama of light filtered through waves of darkness. Mornings and evenings shift to pronounced chill. Yet even still, the warmth of the sun permeates our days in this season. Opposites meet here, throwing each other into brilliant contrast.

In this season, the land prepares to go underground, offering up the last of her bounty to us all before hibernation (germination). Colors change, subtly at first and then all at once in riotous splendor. Birds gather, converse, and gobble up the last of the Summer berries. Big bears come down from the mountains to join in this harvest. Moss and mushrooms return in this wet shoulder season to thrive and offer their own connective abundance.

A quickening and a slowing happens simultaneously in September wherein the frantic nature of bringing in the harvest and a slow appreciation of what we have worked so hard to accomplish find and challenge one another. September is a time of transition, and, as such, embodies the combination of light and dark that makes up life itself. The arrival of the Autumn Equinox punctuates this month of ever-present duality in a single day of balanced light and dark before the world moves on ever more rapidly into the throws of Winter.

In October, the last warm light of the sun shines through technicolor leaves, offering one last celebration before everything falls to earth once more in silence.

On this final September adventure, I find myself pondering all of this pensively as Scout and I hike along the Moose Can Gully trail in the South Hills neighborhood. We have not been back to this trail in thirty days, and as we walk along, I’m tracking the many changes in the colors around me, even as I reacquaint myself with the ever-constant and familiar.

Just as before, today a storm threatens our adventure. Grey clouds hover over us. I notice I’m a little wary, remembering our bear encounter from the first day of this project. I arrive in this same place a little more cautious of the dense brush around me, a little more aware of my surroundings. Risk tolerance abated, I’m keenly aware that I am entering the home of another, wilder, creature. Perhaps I’m more respectful of that fact now.

Scout and I make our way down the winding earthen trail past trees and shrubs cloaked in the brilliant reds and yellows of the now firmly Fall. Many have lost their leaves already, telling me Winter is fast approaching. Birds float past us through the trees here and there busily chattering and feasting on berries, seeds, and small insects.

The rain of the past month has brought back the green moss that thrives in Spring, and faerie trails of mushrooms trickle this way and that through this dense forest, like small lights guiding tiny travelers. The trail winds its leisurely way through this small ravine tucked between the streets and culs-de-sac of our neighborhood, and I marvel at the fact that such a wild place as this can exist, hidden in plain sight between two endless seas of pavement.

Like many of our other adventures this month, I’m finding trash and other evidence of human carelessness in this tangled forest. Beer cans. Shards of glass I steer Scout around. The odd piece of crumpled paper. Food wrappings blown down the hillside from over-stuffed garbage cans on city streets above us. Every time my gaze passes over another piece of human disturbance to an otherwise beautiful landscape, the sight sticks in my heart and bothers like burs that cling to my clothing as I pass. I notice some berry-filled bear scat in amongst the heaviest hill of trash, and, filled with dread, I silently resolve to return without Scout to clean all this up soon. I’m worried that this wild creature may learn to feast on old McDonald’s wrappers and will then be labeled as a “problem bear” - the tragic result of our own collective folly. I'd like to leave this place a little better than I found it…

Eventually, Scout and I reach the spot where I set out to draw from. I want to spend some time with the bear tree from before, but from a different vantage point. We slip down the slope below us just a bit so we can stand on a flat grassy spot perched just above the densely wooded creek below us. On the opposite bank, I can see the dry rocky earth we tread on just a month ago. This deer-track-trail that splits in two leads would-be adventurers just below the reaching tree from which the bear we saw lolled its head to stare at us groggily. We’ve come so far in the last few weeks…. I’ve wondered how it would feel to draw this same tree from a new perspective.

As I start to sketch, I’m on edge, knowing I’m so close to this bear’s preferred hang-out. I pay close attention to Scout for any sign that he smells something larger than a squirrel. I start to sketch the outline of a spruce tree nearby, then the larger pine. Scout sits patiently at my feet, scenting the air above us. I’m observing the tangled mess of shrubs that’s in the foreground, when Scout becomes more restless. He’s air-scenting much more now, pointing his nose directly behind this spot and farther up the ravine. I can’t see past a tangled mass of aspens here, so I’m a little nervous. Scout becomes more and more aware of something, so I decide to listen. My “rational” brain says “He’s just smelling bear sign. It’s been here recently. You’ve checked, and we’re safe here. Finish the sketch.” But…. My intuition tells me to trust and to leave. I don’t know what he’s aware of. I don’t need to question it. I simply pack up what I have and take back to the trail in the direction that we came from.

Trusting intuition to lead me to lessons I didn’t know I needed has been a valuable takeaway from this month’s journey. I often didn’t plan adventures far ahead, preferring instead to check in with myself on any given day and ask “What do I need today?”, “What would feel good?” , or “What do I have capacity for?” Trusting the first feeling that arrived as the right one, I would build a day around the trail or event that presented itself. I allowed myself to be led by the heart. To trust. Often, these tracks I’d follow would be just some tiny inkling - “water” - “forest” - “gather” - but I would trust them anyway. Even when adventures didn’t turn out as expected, I always gained some sort of insight…some surprise to treasure.

After some time treading softly down the trail, we find ourselves back at the start, right where the trail drops down into the ravine below. I take a moment to notice the sky, framed here by the land, which is now blue and simultaneously imbued with the day's last rays of light. The storm has cleared, and now the light shines through, illuminating everything around us. I’m struck by the metaphor of that.

I undertook this project without really knowing what would happen along the way. It started on the bridge between one turbulent season and the next. Along the trail, I’ve seen the many facets of adventure (large and small) and how it works within my life. I’ve changed with every step. I’ve navigated light and dark. Now, as we climb out of this depth onto a new plateau, clarity peeks through, and the land around us feels imbued with celebration and light. Adventure is the seeking out of joy, of life.

I’ve ended every entry in this project with two words - “Love & Gratitude” - which feels especially right in this moment, as I pause to watch the warm evening light play its way across the mountains in the distance. I feel more connected to the land now after spending more time noticing closely and responding to those moments, shifting back and forth from led to leading, like a dance.

These mountains up ahead beckon and call to me, as they always have, in some form or another, since I was a small child. I see them as protectors, guardians, challengers, and friends. They live beyond time, and in that way, they constantly remind me of this bittersweet truth: I am but one small part of this great expansive world. I am finite and fragile.

And yet…

The awareness that I am connected to it all lends my life indescribable meaning. I know that very step I’ve taken on this journey has impacted…something, or someone…perhaps in ways I cannot measure. I think back to the ripples I’ve seen radiating along the glassy surface of the mountain lakes I’ve visited. They start small and radiate outward, until, eventually, the entire lake is changed by the movement. We are all connected.

As the Adventure Art Club project for September draws to a close, I’m grateful for the insights that I’ve gathered in this season of harvest. Having one lens (adventure) through which to look through, close and far, from various angles, has brought to light even more clearly what I deeply care about, what catches my eye, what I choose to record, how I reflect and make meaning, and how I love to share that art with others.

I’ll be honest: I have lost members of my trail crew on this journey... People have unfollowed and unsubscribed at every junction. Additionally, our collective habit of disengagement, or “lurking,” has felt, at times, like I’m speaking art into a vacuum. I’ve created and shared, without response, over and over, which has been difficult, and a certain sense of “aloneness” on this journey has preyed on my insecurities, which I carry around like oversized rocks in my backpack. I’ve been challenged to answer “why do this” and realign to my own inner purpose, repeatedly.

What I’ve come to is this: I adventure for the love of life and of nature. I create for the love of creating. Art should depart from the center and move outward. It should not result solely from serving the needs of others. I want to create art of substance. I don’t want what I make to be hollow. While I always hope that what I create resonates with others, that’s not the goal of creation. This project has re-oriented me to some sort of center point that I’ve neglected recently. It’s been a sort of grounding. And, I do think that what I’ve experienced and created this month has made some sort of difference.

With this project, I hope I’ve built a foundation from which we can move forward together. I’ve shared more of my Self, my art, and my values with you each step along the way.

I think it’s okay for people who don’t share those same dreams with me to turn back towards the trailhead. We’ll keep travelling. Keep noticing. Keep feeling. Keep wondering. Together. I hope that you’ll keep climbing with me to the top of this mountain, and then to the next.

As I reach the rise on this adventure and take in the views around me, I know I’ve only ever reached the starting point of another journey. Let’s go see what’s over there…..

Love & Gratitude

Always,

Christina

The End

The Film