This painting is 16″ x 20″ acrylic on canvas, and is available. Email me if you’re interested at larryeifert@gmail.com. It’s also available with the nice Taos school inspired frame (like you see here) and I already have a shipping crate ready to go. The offering price framed as you see it here is $950 – shipping cost is extra but it will go double boxed UPS.
The Nooksack River, just south of the Canadian border in Washington State. It’s one of our favorite Northwest rivers because it drains water from two of the greatest Pacific Northwest peaks, Mt Baker and Mount Shucksan. North Cascades National Park: big mountains, big glacial power, and the river valley shows that with miles of beautifully sculptured river rock. I’ve painted this area before, but pulled this painting together after I found an unfinished canvas just waiting for me. For some reason, I started this then it just sat there. I especially liked the way the foreground goes blue at the bottom, showing the sky overhead, the water tinted with glacier flour that always makes these river more aquamarine than cobalt.
Someone already asked me about the ducks in the painting, a pair of common mergansers, male has the green head. In the Northwest, these guys spend winters out in salt water. Then in spring, mated pairs head back up rivers to nest in tree cavities beside their grocery stores – the rivers. Their routine is to float leisurely downstream from pool to pool, diving for fish, sometimes resting on a rock in midstream. Then they fly back upstream and start the routine all over again.
This, believe it or not, this was my model for the painting. I like to take an idea and just make it up into a painting that’s far beyond what I originally saw. Let’s see, bigger rocks, add the birds, make the thing glow with Hudson River School late afternoon light.
Again: This painting is 16″ x 20″ acrylic on canvas, and is available. Email me if you’re interested at larryeifert@gmail.com. It’s also available with the nice Taos school inspired frame and I already have a shipping crate ready to go. The offering price framed as you see it here is $950 – shipping cost is extra but it will go double boxed UPS.
This painting is 16″ x 20″ acrylic on canvas, and is available. Email me if you’re interested at larryeifert@gmail.com. It’s available with the nice Taos school inspired frame and I already have a shipping crate ready to go. Shipping would be extra but we usually ship UPS so it won’t be much.
This painting was inspired by a day hike up the North Fork of the Sol Duc River in nearby Olympic National Park. Not many hikers get here, as it requires a breathe-taking thigh-deep river crossing, but it’s worth every icy step. Once on the east side of the river, the trail goes for miles along the banks, from pool to pool and finally turns into a vague rambling through streamside brush. In places there are sandstone-scoured potholes, meadows beneath huge big-leaf maple groves, just a glorious Olympic ramble. This place has produced several paintings from me, all similar, all emotional light studies of this pristine river’s journey from alpine down into the main stem of the Sol Duc.
Where does this trail start and end? On Olympic National Park’s Sol Duc River Road there’s a parking area just a quarter mile upstream from Salmon Cascades. The trail heads upslope on the east side of the road, the drops to the North Fork in half a mile past the ford. It’s about eight miles upslope to an old CCC shelter, then a few more miles to Mount Appleton and Blue Lake. While the main Sol Duc trail system is mobbed in summer, almost no one makes it this pristine place, just a raven’s flight of a couple of minutes.
This painting is 16″ x 20″ acrylic on canvas, and is available. Email me if you’re interested at larryeifert@gmail.com. It’s also available with the nice Taos school inspired frame (like you see here) and I already have a shipping crate ready to go. The offering price framed as you see it here is $950 – shipping cost is extra but it will go double boxed UPS.
With this August 2021 edition, I’ve now done about 110 of these pages, and while I’ve been considering possibly NOT doing any more, I mean, how long can this go on? But I’ve just learned so very much about the Salish Sea by making these pieces of art, researching the details, that I really can’t stop. I see now that you can never learn too much about this stuff, especially in the middle of my seventh decade. It’s all the fine details about how these things live, how amazing it all is. And besides, it’s really fun to spot something interesting and rush home to write about it – paint it.
Here’s the original drawing, which I did some of while walking Port Townsend’s North Beach at low tide. A VERY low tide, possibly the lowest of the year. All this feather boa kelp was strewn about on the sand, making great abstract forms and shapes.
So, I wrote this in the 2021 August issue of 48 North.
Saw this feather boa on a low-tide beach walk. There was a sandy beach, solid boulders, a place where currents flow – and all that equals kelp. There are at least 140 types of brown seaweeds here in the Northwest and they all work in similar ways. The permanent base attaches itself to solid underwater rocks. These are usually on underwater reefs and onshore rocks down to about 50 feet deep. If you see kelp floating up ahead of you, there can only be one reason it’s there – ROCKS!
By summer, this plant joins the other kelps in creating real forests of lush green and brown plants waving in the current. While bull kelp stipes (the trunk) and blades (the leaves) can grow 100 feet a season, the feather boa gets to be about 30 feet long, and in my mind it’s the most beautiful of them all. Based on a single velvet-looking stipe about an inch wide, several different types of blades branch off in wild profusion. There are gas-filled bladders that hold the plant up towards the light like little life jackets, single leaves that look like tiny willow leaves, and skinnier lateral branches that look like twigs with smaller blades at each end. The entire thing is shimmery golden brown.
These plants are key habitat to almost countless other creatures and food for many crabs and snails, sea slugs and fish. When you spot feather boas on the beach at low tide, carefully turn over the blades and see what surprises await you. It’s possibly the best reason to come here.
To end, there are lots of parts in this thing. There’s the ‘main stem’ that looks like velcro. Then along the edges are bladders filled with gas so it floats up into the current. The leaves in between provide the photosynthesis to make it live that are all sorts of shapes and sizes, very random. All this on something possibly 20 feet long, and it all grows from a root clinging to an exposed rock, each and every summer!
Larry Eifert paints and sails the Pacific Northwest from Port Townsend. His large-scale murals can be seen in many national parks across America, and at larryeifert.com.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com.
Some little paintings of my time there, inside that tent at sunset, and below, low tide watching sea otters herd the kids around the little bay. They’re simple paintings, but make good memories seeing them again here.
I went back to a wilderness beach hike with my little Six Moon Designs tent and my paints. I had plenty of great nature to worship, including an amazing belly-up humpback whale and a Steller’s sealion, both washed up without much injury as far as I could tell. I’m telling you, it is thrilling to walk up to a 30-foot whale on a wilderness beach, a sort of primal experience I will remember for awhile. As I walked up to it, sounds seemed to become sort of diminished, as if I were walking into a quiet room. It was a long way from the water, as you can see in the photo – a minus tide put the waves very far away and the whale seemed oddly out of place.
Then this guy:Exactly above my tent in the top canopy of a Sitka spruce, this bald eagle started in at about 5:30 am, broadcasting its discontent at not seeing breakfast out in the ocean I guess – or, who knows what. Soon the ravens got involved – and it was all over for a sleep-in morning. The Starbucks was made early! Later, I watched this eagle spot a fish at least 300 yards out from where it sat on a treetop, taking a long glide off the branch and catch it! How could it see that far?
I just recently finished three large paintings for Redwood National Park through the Save-the-Redwoods League. In one, I painted the canopy fern mats that develop in ancient trees (not just redwoods) that come from centuries of needle litter building up on branches. These become pockets of leather ferns, huckleberrys and critters. The wandering salamander live generations in those mats, and marbled murrelets, an endangered sea bird, nest on them.
Walking out of the hike to the trailhead, I spotted this one on an ancient Sitka spruce, not far above my head. It had all the components, leather fern, black huckleberry and maybe some salamanders hidden away in the roots. It all seemed to tie together that my work is my play, my hiking is directly tied to my art. It’s just all one. A symbiosis, if you will, of cause and effect. Symbiosis is interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both. Art and nature, I am who I am, therefore it seems I have to paint and write about it, hopefully to the benefit of nature.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com.
There are trails, good, bad and even ugly, and then there are a few that quality as something more than just a trail. This one is just that, something considerably more. It’s not easy to hike, that boardwalk over the swampy stuff is something you have to pay attention to, and it goes on for miles. I’ve been there before, recently returned and realized I enjoyed it so much I just might go back again soon. I think it’s the variety, miles of old-growth Sitka spruce and red-cedar forest, more miles of wilderness beaches, a deep history lots of wildlife – it’s a package deal.
While there I did some art. Maybe that’s even tougher than hiking a split red-cedar boardwalk. Refining the essence of a place into a few quick pencil strokes isn’t the easiest process. It’s not what you draw, or paint, its what you DON’T paint. It’s just so easy to get clogged up, obsessed with all those tiny but glorious details – and there goes another hour, and another.
Here I am, painting the scene I’m sitting in – a selfie.
I hit it just right to see the northern spring migration of many. Terns, plovers, sandpipers, lots of ducks and ragged geese in lines, all coming up from the south at night, then pacing the beaches during the day to replenish energy. This bird, an American Golden Plover, was with his flock and destined for the far Alaskan Arctic to help raise a family. I had never seen this spectacular bird in its spring breeding colors and realized how the mottled golden back might blend into these beaches perfectly, camo for safety against soaring eagles looking for a meal. They were stunning.
If you live on the Olympic Peninsula and hike like I do, you undoubtedly know this place. I’ll not name it here to protect what I can of what I consider the finest, most isolated wilderness stretch of Pacific Coast we have left in the lower 48. This was my camp, and not a single other person was in sight. That monster tree butt just past my Six Moon Lunar tent was meaningful. A tsunami would bring it right on top of me in the middle of the night and at least I wouldn’t have to worry if the zipper worked!
I want to thank Six Moon Designs, the fine ultralight gear company in the Portland area for helping with my equipment, and helping an older guy lighten his load. It makes it so I can continue with this passion, of making art and doing it out in the wilderness. I understand now that, if I’m lucky, I might be able to do this for years to come.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com.
In the 1970’s, I hiked into Caribou Lakes Basin in Northern California’s Trinity Alps. It’s a place of great beauty, stark white Sierra granite and rare plants that mix Pacific Coastal and Cascade ecosystems together in a jumbled profusion – the most conifer species together in one place in North America. That evening, I camped near another hiker, an older gentleman who was comfortably stretched out on a flat shelf of granite above the lake. (I was about 28 years old and everyone with white hair looked old to me.) It was a bit of a shock to realize he was without a tent or stove – or even a sleeping bag. I remember actually being a little worried about him, then realized he was traveling as light as one could in those days. He knew exactly what he was doing, much more than I did. After more consideration, I realized he wouldn’t have been there in the first place had he been carrying the normal 40+ lbs. we all struggled with in those days. A big smile was on his face, I remember that, and he looked to have less than half of 40 lbs. spread around him. No wonder he was smiling!
His main equipment seemed to be just a big tarp, and after his cold dinner he simple rolled everything, including himself, inside the tarp and spent the night poking his head out to star-watch, decades before Dark Skies became a ‘thing’ in Parks. I remember thinking he was like a big burrito, rolled in that tarp, and wondered if the bears liked Mexican. The next day, he told me he was in his 70’s and was determined not to stop hiking, experiencing pristine and untrammeled nature and that it kept him healthy.
Today, I am that guy!
Larry Eifert 74th Birthday
The Addition of Art
Very early on I learned to carry paper and pencil, watercolors and brushes into the wild. Little paintings that became the result piled up at home – so I started selling them, and all these years later I can say I’ve actually made a good living painting nature. It takes thousands of paintings to become an artist, and, well, that’s just what I did, one little effort at a time. The ah-hah moment came in the 80’s when I realized I could make art in national parks, and park staff might find a place for them actually in the park.
Early morning pond ice at 6000 feet in August, Olympic National Park.
As the decades passed, the outdoor gear companies caught up with me, and my tent, bag, stove and all the rest now weighs about as much as the older gent’s tarp – yes, the tent, bag, pack and all the rest weigh in at about 25 lbs, including the painting materials. What that means is that besides me, many more women and older hikers are out there now, and with some physical luck, I’ll bet you I can continue to do this into my 80’s. These days I don’t go as far, or as high, but still I get to meaningful and stunningly-wild places all the same.
Six Moon Designs Lunar Solo, my 2-pound tent in action.
So why go to all this trouble with the art-thing? Why go to wild country and take paper and pencil, maybe some paints. Wouldn’t it be easier just to pull out my phone and take pictures like everyone else? See it, point and tap. My short answer is, yes, of course it’s easier to take a photo. I do this too. But this art-thing is vastly beyond the level of hastily recording your journey. It’s not just about holding up a plastic box in front of you, shielding your eyes from what you might actually be seeing and looking into a little TV. It’s about YOU actually seeing what you’re looking at and seeing it better. A lot better!
When I make a little sketch, it takes some studying.
You don’t just bang it out and run down the trail, and that’s why most of these are either early morning or late afternoon paintings made around camp. Those contemplative times mean I can stand there and ask myself just how does that mountain ridgeline go? How are the trees in front of it highlighting certain areas of the mountains behind them? What about the foreground where there’s a little path, maybe that might be moved over a bit to make a better composition. In fact, maybe I can move the mountains a bit left to highlight some details I like. Oh, you sure can’t do THAT with your phone camera, can you? It’s a clear day, totally blue skies? Maybe I could add some clouds to make it more complex and interesting, just a few flicks of the pencil and I have mountains tearing at passing clouds, making movement and drama. You see, it’s not just about making art from what you see, it’s about designing nature to look even better than it is – and these places are fairly wonderful already.
Meadows Camp
I usually start these little paintings by just taking a moment – and looking, really looking at what I got all enthrawled with in the first place. What did I think might make it a nice piece of art? I try not to design the entire thing in my mind, just get a sense of what’s out there. Maybe it’s some fish swimming below me in a clear pool, a bird going about it’s business, the way two ridgelines come together. The painting above shows some of this, the way the two mountains lean inwards toward the picture’s center. Then the trail angles away and upwards towards the same spot. It’s a way to bring the wondering eyeballs towards the tent, the center-of-interest where you want viewers to end up. I wanted them to imagine that THEY, the viewers are walking up the trail towards camp.
American Dipper
American Dippers are one of my favorite creatures to paint. These little gray birds make their lives along only the clearest and coldest mountains streams, and even nest behind waterfalls where the little growing family is constantly wet, or very nearly so. Given a sharp elbow bend in the stream, they will always fly over water the long way instead of short-cutting it through forest. But here’s the best part. They make their living by walking and flying underwater, looking for insects, small fish and caddisfly larva. For me, an artist-naturalist, they hold fascination because of their homes, maybe more than the bird itself. In this painting, I carefully left the area behind the dipper so the dull-gray bird would stand out better on it’s perch rock. In reality, a second after I drew it, the bird jumped into the pool and vanished as it made it’s way in search of dinner. Yes, they dip up and down when rock-sitting.
Royal Creek – Glacier Flour Blue
That evening, I watched the colors of the setting sun high overhead and beyond the mountains. I had lost the sun an hour earlier down in this canyon, but had already picked out a ‘sitting rock’ for morning coffee, a Starbucks instant backpackers seem to prefer – me too. As I looked at the sky overhead, I noticed the silhouetted trees arched over the top of me. Of course, in reality they were actually straight vertical, but I made this painting look like they were arched over me, closing me in like a shelter. For clarity and design, I left out about half of them and focused on just two for details. Did I get the point across?
Looking Up – It’s a Glorious Sunset
I should probably mention here that this year Six Moon Designs sponsor me by passing over some of their gear to try. I feel good that, at 74, I have such a company willing to help me continue my life of hiking, making it easier to get to these places. The painting below is their Lunar Solo, a beautiful little single-hiker tent that’s making these trips a joy. That’s a single pole holding it up. The entrance side can be opened wide for an 8-foot view, sort of like a picture window. I love to sit inside with both sides opened up. This evening I sat there and watched the sun set as I drew this painting almost to completion, adding my water jug, stove and coffee mug in the foreground to give it scale and a connection to me. Those things were placed there at the end once I sketched the rest of it. In front, the huge meadow allowed me to watch wildlife appear at the end of a hot day, but by the time the deer showed up, the painting was finished. Does it feel like you’re there ready to crawl into your sleeping bag? I hope so.
Sunset inside the tent
I truly believe that making simple expressions on paper can enhance a hike anywhere, and give you something solid to remember it with.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com.
Making art on the trail – it’s my way of taking home some souvenirs. The very act of making art means I have to slow down, stop forward motion and actually see nature around me. I often pass hikers so intent on the trail coming up before them they don’t even see me standing beside there, watching them and wondering if they’ll even notice me. Some don’t! I suspect it’s the same for the deer and bears they pass too. I imagine them saying “many people come here looking, but there are so few actually seeing”.
I’m an older hiker now in my mid-70’s, but I’m still passionate about continuing this odd sort of primitive act of strapping a bag on my back and walking up a mountain. I’ve done it for a very long time now, and I never feel so close to life as I do out when I’m out there. It seems important, and I want to continue to do this as long as I’m able. So, some changes had to be made a few years ago – lighter equipment, a lighter me, a healthier lifestyle, regular exercise and being more careful how I walk. I’m now much more aware of being safe, and I’m facing the fact that just one stupid stumble and it might be the last step of trail I ever do. So I’ve slowed my pace, shorten goals and buy new boots more often. This means there are some new perks, like going slow enough to inspect how nature works, see the vibrancy of nature and how it goes on in the wild without us messing with it.
My paint kit, paints, paper, pencil and sharpener weighs in at about 12 ounces.
This is a cheap way to have fun.
Slowing down means I can make art while I’m out there, although I’ve always done this in some form – even when I was running down the trails. There are lots of ways to do this, and I fool around with several processes. One is to draw out the sketches while on the trail, refine them at home and add color there. That way I don’t have to carry the paints and mess with water or the sun, and it takes less time. Other trips I take the entire kit of paints, pencil, paper and sharpener and a brush, sit down in a meadow in the morning or evening after hiking, and paint with it all on my lap. This way I can match the colors I see instead of translating information from memory or photos later at home – or just making it up. It’s a more authentic painting, I think, to do it all on the spot.
Equipment: I really like, am almost passionate about, Noir black wood HB#2 pencils from Ticonderoga, and I carry a tiny little pencil sharpener called a “Long Point”. This little thing keeps the pencil sharper far longer than normal sharpeners, important when I’m in the flow of seeing and drawing.
While there are far better papers, the 5.5″ x 8.5″ 400 Series Strathmore Watercolor blocks ($5 for 12 sheets) are cheap, hold up well with scrubbing out goofs and provide a way to store finished paintings on the trail. Keep the paper small and paintings go quicker. Prang double set of watercolors ($11.50) provide a closed kit for hiking and yet opens to a nice set of paints opposite lots of mixing trays. It comes with a nice brush, big enough for wash work, small enough for details – and it stores in the pallet.
You don’t need more. For under $20, the entire painting kit weighs about 12 ounces and can be tucked into my pack, just waiting, tantalizing me, offering to make my hike a far better memory. It’s saying, “take me out, open me up”. Want proof, you’re reading this, aren’t you?
This is how I work
On a lunch break, I was standing beside a back eddy on Heather Creek. The stream was high and quick, running fast with a warm day’s runoff from the melting snows upslope. Suddenly, I noticed a flash in the water, then movement, then more. Half a dozen brook trout were holding in the back eddy, facing downstream. Occasionally, a fish would break rank, dart out into the opposite-flowing current and snatch up an insect floating by.
These fish were perfectly color matched with their rocky surroundings, and the slight reddish pectoral fin was all that gave them away. That fin, just behind the eye, the one that often lays flat so it shows from above was what told me which trout species I was seeing. That slight bit of warm red was only occasionally visible, or I’d have missed seeing them altogether. So, now here’s the best part of this experience. I did this piece of art standing right in front of them, and now, as I write this, I realized those fish are most likely still there, still going about their business in that bit of stream. I may be gone from there, but this bit of nature is probably not. I have a good memory, but it will always maintained by this painting of them. This gives me great satisfaction, some small token of this trip that I can conger up later to remember what I thought was a superior moment.
I was waiting for dinner
Like many solo hikers, I use a JetBoil stove that gives me a liter of boiling water in 100 seconds. It’s light, stores all its parts inside the pot, and I can have morning Starbucks coffee in one minute flat. Think of that! I started camping in a time when a wood fire was all I had, all anyone had to get a hot cup of coffee or a warm meal. It was a true ordeal, scratching up raw dirt for a fire pit so I wouldn’t burn the place down, scrounging around under bigger trees for small dry twigs and then bigger branches, finding dry duff for tinder – then hoping the darned thing actually started. I still makes fires occasionally, but the urgency in the past is past. Instead, I can paint a little picture of what I saw, the kitchen – or the open meadows before me, clouds breaking off the peaks above Royal Basin to the west. I used the two ancient Douglas-firs snags for the center of interest and two matching little firs just starting life for the foreground.
It may not seem apparent from these little watercolor paintings, but I’m really not that abstract all the time. I paint bigger stuff, I mean BIGGER stuff, often for the National Park Service for parks around the country.
I recently used my knowledge of the Olympic Mountains to paint 500 sq feet of murals for the Hoh Rain Forest Visitor Center, and the process wasn’t really much different than hiking up a trail and learning what the place looks like. Yes, it’s the same guy doing both the trail paintings and these huge wall paintings. Me.
Also for Olympic National Park, I’ve painted several large wall murals of the Elwha Dam deconstruction, the largest dam removal in US history. The murals showed how the river would look after nature heals and was used for community outreach in libraries, visitor centers and schools. These were painted using day hikes to gain references, and again it was the process of studying nature and then just putting it down on a huge canvas. To tell you the truth, while I like doing these big paintings – standing by a river and drawing fish in the back country is much more fun.
Elwha River Estuary Olympic National Park
Finally, about the Tent
You can see my sketch pad in the foreground, in front of my camp, the tent set up for the evening. This is my routine, set it up, make water for the night with my filter down by the creek or lake, then settle in and make some art while there’s still light. Because I’m not carrying 40+ lbs any more, I can paint instead of licking my wounds. I feel good, and this tent is helping. It’s a Six Moon Designs Lunar Solo from a small company in the Portland, Oregon area. They sent me this to use, and my packed tent weight went from 6 lbs to 1 lb 10 ounces. It’s an amazing shelter, I think, that uses my single hiking stick as the pole. No tent poles means an even lighter tent.
This brings me back to how I started this story, about older people getting out, experiencing nature and bringing back memories. It’s a subtle hint that, if you like what I’m writing about here, you can do this too. Get some cheap or used gear to start, do some short hikes, sleep under the stars and find some real happiness in these strange times.
Go to the mountains, it will heal your soul.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com, down the right side of the home page.
“Getting out there”, the mentally and physically healing immersion into wild nature is nothing new. Okay, I understand what it does for the soul, not to mention an aging body, but it cannot be understated. We’ve gotten to know the some quickie lowland Olympic hikes and this post is about an easy early-summer trail. A couple of years ago I painted this acrylic of the river beside that trail, its namesake. It shows the river crashing along during the early spring snowmelt. The photo below was taken close to the same place, a month and some years later, shot just a two days ago.
Some hikers passed us, going at a jog, all careful of the fact we were socially distancing. Everyone was passing like they should, like they were smart. All had snowshoes, gear for alpine efforts – that told me they were probably returning from Mt Constance a few miles west and vastly up. Decades ago, I, too, would have been running down the trail and aiming for a hamburger. Now? Not so much in a hurry. For our part, it’s not the act of getting there and back, although we did that, but rather appreciating nature on every step. We were already there, after all, every step of the way. Smelling for forest, feeling the rising humidity from the river, closely looking at details, hearing and feeling our surroundings is now what it’s all about.
In my later years, I’ve come to truly worship those details, the way a branch has become intertwined with moss, a columbine flower presenting itself to a pollinator. Taking an extra few minutes for some field sketching makes me intently focus even sharper, to see the mountain rising up ahead, how the glaciers carved this valley and where the trees seem to grow best – or the fire scars on hillsides where ancient burns came down the valley.
Nancy photographing some trail-side columbine.
On a sunny south-facing slope, I spotted some California hazel, a soft-leaved shrub I remember from my years of trails in the Trinity Alps and High Sierra. Hazel and cascara, another southern shrub were both here, remnants of warmer climates now past. It takes a lifetime of doing this stuff to quickly grasp these details, and it’s what I tend to focus on these days, the details. I’m not a botanist, I didn’t even take biology in school (how’d THAT happen?), but I love these mountains, any mountains, and want to understand how they work, who the characters are, why they’re here.
The physical world is still in charge, no matter what we think! I lost a good friend this past week, Ron Mastrogiuseppe, a former scientist and naturalist for the National Park Service. Ron was the first naturalist for Redwood National Park and over the years he taught me an appreciation for nature you don’t find in books. Sure, books are important to get you the basics, but in field observation you get the actually interaction of an ecosystem, right before your eyes. Ron was considered to be somewhat eccentric, but I’d call it more a heightened level of observation and deep believe in science. He is listed as discoverer of a tree species in the Sierra, along with his wife, Joy. Ron also found proof of the date Mount Mazama erupted, when Crater Lake was formed and reset our known history of that amazing lake. One doesn’t do that just reading books or watching TV, but actually going there in person. Ron founded Crater Lake Institute and commissioned many pieces of art from me. He helped me appreciate the details, and maybe more importantly, how the details really matter.
Science, it drives passion and love for things far beyond just walking past a shrub or two. Once I understood that, I was changed forever.
Upstream on the Dose – with the Olympics just beginning.
Thanks for reading this week. You can sign up for emails for these posts on my website at larryeifert.com, down the right side of the home page.
Down through the ’33’, a piece of forest that’s like a park. The name came from how much it cost.
Nancy and I are truly fortunate to have our own bit of nature here that’s big enough to actually camp in. Through the years, we’ve added to it, strategically bought chunks here and there, and now it’s a very tasty place to walk. So, since we’re supposed to stay home, how about a little backpack with Nancy as the supporting photographer and me as painter!
This patch of trilliums come up each spring, getting bigger each time and is at the start of a little loop that is really a complex bunch of deer trails. I have some new equipment, so, out we went with that new Six Moon Designs pack on to try out their new tent, a Lunar Duo. If I can’t do it up a mountain somewhere, I can try it out here.
Along the way, I tried to get a couple of small paintings going, just jestures of how it felt here on a warm spring day in a forest I know better than any. This huge big-leaf maple is a favorite of mine, a giant sprawling mass of life that changes each year as branches fall off in winter storms. A couple of years ago, a fawn was born here.
A little way down the deer trail this little scene unfolds. I made the trail a bit wider in the painting, hopefully the deer won’t notice.
My new Lunar Duo tent from 6 Moon Designs – a perfect tent for an old guy.
Here’s a little tent review for the Lunar Duo, a perfect ultralight two-person tent:
This tent is already a hit with me. Less than half the weight of my old standby, yet much bigger in size. For decades I’ve carried a free-standing tent, one with enough complicated poles that you wouldn’t want to put it together in the dark. The Lunar Duo comes in at 2.5lbs and uses one carbon fiber pole and my hiking stick, that’s it. (my old tent was about 6lbs. and had about 30 little poles all stuck together with bungies)
I’ve read this one takes some fiddling and adjusting to put it up, and requires ground soft enough for the titanium stakes, but that’s the same as the other one – I never camp on rocks and still had to connect it to the ground. With a floating floor, this was up in minutes and I was set for the night. The floating floor means it just floats around under you like a little water tight boat under a waterproof cover.
Thanks for reading this week. Stay well out there so you can join me in the next addition of this little journey. Art and nature, they go together well, even if you’re still at home.
All photos by Nancy Cherry Eifert using the old Nikon backpacking camera without post processing.
Yesterday I received my copy of 48 North magazine in the mail, and here is my page. Always amazed when the greens print nicely, and they did this time, subtle shades that aren’t easy to reproduce. For some reason, that color hates me in print. Flounders, flatfish, are always favorites of mine to paint. These fish begin life swimming upright like normal fish, eyes on both sides, then later they get lazy and settle onto the seafloor to await food that swims by. Since predators need good vision to catch prey, the eye that faces downward migrates around to the other side. I’m not kidding, but if you’re a flatfish fisherman, you will have seen this most every time you catch one. I find them fascinating.
So here’s my story that went with the art:
A face only a mother could love. Starry flounders are just one species of 23 local ‘flatfish’. Flat because they tend to spend their time lying flat on the bottom, on either their right or left sides. Beginning life, they’re just a ‘normal’ fish that swim upright, an eye on each side of a vertical body. As they age, they spend more time laying sideways on the bottom, lying prone and just waiting for pry to swim close enough to grab. Soon, strange things happen with the growing juveniles, and it’s not just hormones. It’s a major anatomical change. One of their eyes actually migrates around their head to the other side, stopping just short of the other one. Now, the upside view has a pair of eyes looking for the next meal. These are hunters, after all, and they need binocular vision to assess distance. So, the flounder then has its same two eyes, but now they’re on the upper side of the body, like two little periscopes.
Starry flounders can grow to 36” long, or bigger than the size of a garbage can lid. At this size, they’re approaching 20 lbs and they can live upwards of 20 years. They’re often found near shore in bays or even fresh water and throughout the coastal North Pacific. They sport namesake star-like scales on both the lighter downside and darker upper side. The distinctive black bands on outer fins make it an easy flatfish to identify, and they can alter their colors to match surroundings. As predators, they often settle on a sandy bottom and wiggle their fins to cover themselves with sand and debris to hide. With only eyes showing as they move independently gazing about, and a mouth just waiting to go to work, they wait for a hapless crab or small fish to wander by, and then ‘wham’. Look for these fish as you bring your skiff through shallow water towards the beach. The fish’s outline is usually obvious from above.
I’m going to be expanding this blog a bit, adding more art from my partner in crime, Nancy Cherry Eifert, and essays on hiking and seeking wildness. This blog seems to be growing into something bigger than just art and it’s evolving. So I should too.
This next hiking season, I’m being sponsored by Six Moon Designs, an ultra-light backpacking gear company from Oregon. After hiking for decades in heavy old gear, and trying desperately to lighten my load, here’s an example of what they’re letting me try out. My tent weight just went from 6 lbs to less then 2! This is the Six Moon Lunar Solo tent. Check it out here. Or, I’ll see you on the trail in a couple of months with a smile on my face.
