About Dunrovin Ranch Archives - Page 4 of 9

Mar 16 2016

Points of View

Dunrovin had no idea what to expect when it arranged for its first ever artist in residence during the winter of 2016. Our intentions were simple. We wanted to break up the winter with some frivolity, to distract ourselves with something surprising and, hopefully. a little eccentric. We wanted to engage our www.DaysAtDunrovin.com cyber community members in the creative process, to watch it unfold, to connect with the artist as his or her vision took shape. And we wanted the artist to help us see our world through different eyes, and start a new conversation.

Luckily we picked the perfect artist to introduce us to working and living with art. Tyler Nansen seamlessly melded into our world. He was a quiet, unpretentious presence, wondering the property to let his artistic spirit “find Dunrovin.” He happily shared his thoughts and curiosity with us and our cyber friends as he began to “know” the place, feel its rhythms, and absorb its sense of self. While our local newspaper captured the specifics of the project, I am only now beginning to understand the prolonged impact the art will have on me and other Dunrovin residents and visitors.

I find myself circling each of Tyler’s pieces as part of my daily routine. They draw me in. They ask me to notice the light, the vegetation, the sky. They seem to demand that I take note of the differences, the details, the changes in them and their surroundings.

They invite me to play, to bring my friends and animals down to contemplate them. They have drawn visitors who called and came just so they could see for themselves, to share their own impressions, their own reactions and experiences, to leave of little of themselves behind.

Jewel’s and Kola’s initial suspicions to these strange things in their well known stomping grounds turned first to acceptance with casual inspections for any new features or creatures who might be about. Their feelings are now turning to near boredom mixed with exasperation at my interrupting their games each time we pass so that I can appreciate them anew.

What I did not anticipate was my complex and nuanced emotional reaction to these foreign objects in my space. Dunrovin is my home, my grounding, my safe harbor. It is part of me, and in many ways, it is a reflection of who I am and what I value. Unlike Tyler’s efforts to “find Dunrovin”, I had found it long ago. I have reshaped it and it has reshaped me. I and my family have never before been asked to live with someone else’s notion of “our” Dunrovin. Our possessiveness is natural and unavoidable.

While beautiful in many ways, Tyler’s pieces prompt all manor of thoughts, reactions, and reflections. This is what art is supposed to do. Some of my thoughts are joyful and appreciative. Some are disturbing and perplexing. Does Tyler’s vision conflict with my own? Does it invite criticism? Does it inspire? Does it please me? Does it unsettle me? The answer is yes, it does. It does all of these things – and more. It pulls me out of myself, which is both freeing and fraught. It tilts my mirror, blurs my vision, and leaves me with a new point of view on my world and my place in it.

These tantalizing and unexpected objects will no doubt catch the attention of our summer visitors and generate many conversations about their juxtaposition with nature. It will be great fun to hear our guests question and enjoy their presence. Our visitors’ impressions and exclamations will become part of the story of Tyler’s art.

But these art pieces will hold no greater power over anyone than me. The eyes of this beholder sees them in an entirely personal way, in my personal place, occupying my personal moments as my days of living around them and with them accumulate. These ephemeral, light and insubstantial objects are helping me comprehend the meaning of place. What are they doing in my place? I did not, and could not have, created these objects. I played no role in their becoming – but they now play a role in mine.

I am eager for the impact of the coming seasons on Tyler’s art – the potential flooding of the river, the eruption of spring vegetation, the horses milling about and inspecting them, birds selecting a corner for nest construction. I am equally eager for my mental and emotional meanderings that will surely accompany them as they are buffeted by the weather and nature to pass from standing proudly new, to slumping into disorderliness, to disappearing all together. Their impact on me will long outlast their physical presence.

Jan 12 2016

Jack Frost Runs Amuck

Big rivers are the home to many real and mythical creatures. Water is after all, the source of all life. River riparian areas are veritable highways for wildlife of all kinds. And rivers spark the mind’s imagination to conjure all manner of mythical beings.

Two winter rascals, Jack Frost and his side kick the Frost Fairy, are more than mythical. While they may be invisible, their presence and their work are both seen and felt. Every winter these two spirited phantoms venture forth under the cover of night to turn an ordinary, but beautiful, world into an extraordinary, other worldly and ephemeral vision of crystal. Just recently Jack seemed to be on a delusional high as he and his sidekick outdid themselves with magic.

Jack stayed at the river to play and do the heavy lifting, supplying the Frost Fairy with her pallet of crystals for her trips to the forest to adorn the trees. He magically levitated the warmer water molecules to hang effortlessly in the cold air, forming a thick mantle of fog to conceal his efforts and diffuse the warmth of the sun, thus preventing it from spoiling their fun. His organic brew infused the area with a musty, earthy and heavy odor. Like a child in summer gleefully and casually skipping stones across the river’s surface, Jack delighted in forming delicate and airy frost lily pads that he then randomly cast in the thick, yet flowing water.

The Frost Fairy did all of the delicate work. First she flitted among the cotton wood trees along the river’s shore, painting their naked limbs and spindly twigs a sparkly white to starkly contrast with their dark bark. The dull grey sky seemed only to accentuate her talents. It was a scene of contradictions, with the feathery frosted trees reaching and reaching into a fog laden and burdensome sky that was totally lacking in texture.

She then moved up to the bench and pastures to dress the ornamental trees, the buildings, and the fences by painstakingly applying individual ice crystals to each and every needle of the pine trees, to the tinniest of the lilac twigs, coating every strand of wire along the fences, and turning ordinary ranch objects like gates and bird houses into true works of art. She was meticulous and thorough in her duties, making sure that each crystal was unique, and delicately balancing crystal upon crystal to create cotton candy like swirls on every tree branch. What an artist is she!

She clearly favored one lovely ponderosa pine situated on a bench overlooking the river corridor, near our wooden arbor with porch swing, picnic tables, and fire pits. She recognized it as a gathering place where she could parade her skills and show off her aesthetic sensibilities to all who might pass by. Every needle, every branch, every nook and corner of the tree was coated with layer after layer after layer of luminous sheets of tiny crystals.

It was her masterpiece. And, indeed all who passed took notice, stopping for a detailed inspection of her fine work, looking up and down to appreciate it from all angles. She entrapped me in her spell binding artistry, as I stood for long moments breathing in the cold and viscous air that she and Jack had used to work their wonders. As with all things of great beauty, especially things that embrace all of the senses, mere photos do not do justice.

Dec 23 2015

Christmas in Montana’s Tinseltown

Hollywood does not own the moniker of Tinseltown. Butte can most certainly claim it as the Montana version. At the turn of the twentieth century, Butte boasted a vibrant vaudeville scene with opulent theaters seating 2,500 that hosted the likes of Mark Twain and Charlie Chaplin, who made his first American appearance there. Butte has been every bit the dream maker and heart breaker that Hollywood has come to represent. As Mary MacLane so aptly put it in 1917, “This Butte is capriciously decorated with sweet brilliant metallic orgies of color at any time, all times, as if by whims of pagan gods lightly drunk and lightly mad.”

Butte can wear the name Tinseltown for another, more literal, reason. Beyond Butte’s nineteenth century siren call to people from across the world looking for a better life, and beyond Butte’s eccentric and splashy multicultural theatrics, Butte has long embraced tinsel as the perfect trappings to turn an ordinary tree into a shimmering Christmas tree reflecting the lights, the colors, and the very dreams of the Christmas season. While I lack the facts to support the supposition, I will bet you that Butte sells more Christmas tinsel per person than any other community in the world.

Growing up in the multicultural milieu that was Butte, Montana in the 1950’s endowed me with a belief in Christmas magic. Butte was more than a flashy and eccentric place. More than a rough and tumble place. Butte had, and still has, a vigorous embracing heart that crosses cultural, economic, and social boundaries to form a vibrant community. To live in Butte is to be “in it” together, to not only honor and enjoy each other’s unique cultural differences, but to celebrate them through food, art, and theater. At no time are Butte’s richly hued split personalities more apparent than at Christmas.

Historically, Butte’s working-class immigrants from across much of Europe brought their Christmas traditions with them, which they proudly exhibited in their distinct neighborhoods. Skilled machinists, carpenters, electricians, and welders applied their crafts to creating elaborate Christmas displays with moving parts, music, and endless lights at volunteer fire stations, churches, and in front yards across the city. The Anaconda Company lit up the majority of Butte mining head frames that dotted the entire city, which could be seen from the Harding Way highway as people drove over the Continental Divide into Butte. White lights on the “M” for the Montana School of Mines (now Montana Tech) overlooking the city were replaced with red and green lights for the season. Uptown business streets were decked out to the nines with music playing, snow falling, and storefronts competing with each other for the most elaborate Christmas decorations. Cold temperatures, warm, welcoming houses, and numerous seasonal parties, musicals, and shows of all kinds were seasonal givens.

Through all of Butte’s seasonal excesses, tinsel was a unifying and essential decorative element for home Christmas trees – lots and lots of tinsel, tinsel that took hours to hang like icicles and properly reflect the twinkling lights carefully. Family bonds were forged, and family fights were ensured over the stringing of tinsel during the holidays. People tried to save tinsel, generally unsuccessfully, from year to year by placing it in the Sears and Pennys Christmas catalogs like a thousand bookmarks – which meant that taking the tree down was as big a job as putting it together.

While the family of my birth was totally engaged with Christmas tinsel, my own family outlawed it from our family tree years ago. My husband and two sons lacked the proper upbringing to put up with its laborious application – and it became increasingly difficult to find and purchase in such places as Alaska. Tinsel just wasn’t de rigueur outside of the Butte area.

Luckily, Fairmont Hot Springs (known to me and all others of a certain age as Gregson Hot Springs) carries on the Butte tinsel tradition in a grand way. Their enormous tree completely covered in tinsel and surrounded by wildlife mounts on the walls, enchants my inner child and takes me flying off to the Butte, Montana Christmas I long to celebrate. They do Christmas right. They go to excesses. All of their outdoor trees sport bright lights of every hue and are laden with fresh fallen snow. Red stocking with names of staff members are hanging from every mantel on every fireplace. It is simply delightful!

My family is more than willing to accompany me to get my Butte Christmas fix with an annual weekend stay at Fairmont. We dine at my favorite old style Butte restaurants, such as Lydia’s Supper Club, converse for hours to solve the world’s problems while soaking in the outside hot pools surrounded by snow, play on the slopes at Discovery Ski Area, and stop in Philipsburg on the way home to revel in the old fashioned Christmas atmosphere and pick up some delicious peanut butter taffy at the Sweet Palace. This weekend trip is a Christmas present to me from my family each year – and I LOVE it.

The 2015 holiday season’s trip was particularly wonderful. It snowed and snowed all day on Saturday, creating tons of powder for my sons’ snowboarding adventures at Discovery. Sunday dawned clear and cold – cold enough for booted feet to squeak as I walked along the shores of a frozen Georgetown Lake. It was nearly winter solstice and the bright rays cast by the low lying sun presented one Kodak moment after the other. It was winter as exactly winter should be. It was the winter of my dreams, the Christmas of my dreams.

Modern Philipsburg could be Butte of the 1950’s with their uptown wreaths, city center crèche, old, ornate buildings – old Butte on a miniature scale. The really enthralling thing is that none of this – Fairmont, Butte, Philispburg – is artificial. It has not been concocted by some marketing guru to satisfy someone’s idea of what an authentic (such an overused marketing term!) Christmas should be. No, all of this is organic and community-created. The staff at Farimont hang the tinsel, the citizens of Philispburg collectively decorate their beautiful mountain town, the same family that started Lydia’s Super Club still serves up the best Italian food in America, hot springs are geological features throughout Montana, and who but Nature or God could sculpt the mountains, light the sun, and forge such a dramatic landscape. My family’s Christmas gift to me surpasses all others in its meaning. I savor it all year long.

As a parting gesture, my Christmas trip ended with a bald eagle in a tree on one side of Montana Highway 1 and a rough-legged hawk on a utility pole on the other side. I will be smiling for a long, long time.

Merry Christmas from Tinseltown, Montana!

Dec 15 2015

Montana’s Fickle Winters

A November morning’s first light on the Bitterroot River reveals the season’s first snow.

The saying in Montana is that if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes and it will change. While many think of this saying during the summer months when a mountain thunderstorm can drop the temperatures within minutes and send outdoor enthusiasts scampering for shelter, winter is really Montana’s most fickle season. You need not take my word for it – just let your fingers do a little google searching for “extreme temperature changes” and will you ultimately land on the following facts:

The WORLD’S record for temperature change within a 24 hour period was recorded in 1972 in Loma, Montana, when the temperature rose 103 degrees, from – 54 degrees Fahrenheit to 49 degrees.
The USA’S record for temperature change within a 12 hour period occurred at Fairfield, Montana, on December 14, 1924 when the temperature dropped 84 degrees from 63 degrees Fahrenheit to – 21 degrees.
On January 11, 1980, the temperature at the Great Fall International Airport rose 47 degrees in 7 minutes, from -32 degrees Fahrenheit to 15 degrees. This is the most rapid temperature change ever recorded in the USA.
Montana is the state with the most extreme temperature range, from -70 degrees at Roger’s Pass in 1954 to 117 degrees at Medicine Lake in 1937.

Clearly, Montana’s weather and temperatures are as dramatic as its landscapes. Changes in winter temperatures are seen and felt most acutely along Montana’s waterways, as the thermometer vacillates between freezing and thawing. By geological definition, rivers occupy the valley bottoms where the cold air sinks and temperatures can be 10’s of degrees colder than those just a few feet higher along the valley sides. Fog collects and freezes, coating the surrounding tress and bushes with hoarfrost that shimmers in the morning sun. Ice flowers bloom along the river’s edge with delicate crystal petals. Ice jams raise and lower the water level, leaving multiple layers of ice shelves along river shores. A river in winter is simply a magical place, a place where nature displays her power, her temperament, and her artistry.

The transition from November to December this year aptly illustrates Montana’s abrupt weather changes. November started out with warm late-autumn days and ended in frigid winter nights. Within just a few days, the Bitterroot River transformed from a lovely, snowy yet welcoming, channel of slowly moving water that could easily be forded by our horses, to a frozen ice way that spelled danger for any animal daring to tread on its surface, then back again to a fog enshrouded, ominous and cold, yet ice free river.

Winter’s impact can best be seen by watching a single place being transformed by changing temperatures. Here, for example, is a tree stump along the water’s edge, just below a gate from Dunrovin’s riparian area to the river. I visit this little beach often and many times have my camera in hand. Note the shape of the stump and the branch that juts outs over it.

Now follow that stump and branch in the two photos below. The order of these photos is December 12, 2015 above: November 6, 2015 the first one below; and December 3, 2015 the second one below. On December 12, the water level was low enough for me to get right up to the stump – which I could not do either on November 6th or December 3rd. Notice how the water level rose with the ice and almost totally encrusted the stump. Then, when the ice broke, the water level fell again, and this time it fell below what it had been on November 6th. Think about that for a moment. We had several significant snow events between November 6th and December 12th, yet the resulting water level is lower. My best guess is that much of the water in both the main stem of the river and in smaller tributaries is still frozen upstream!

Rivers, aren’t they fascinating? We are so very lucky to be living along side this natural and mysterious phenomenon known affectionately as the Bitterroot River.

Nov 16 2015

How Lady Lonza Got Her Name

It was never my intent to breed Tennessee Walking Horses; but then Annie, my very first horse, became permanently lame during a freak hail storm that hurtled baseball sized stones into her pasture. Did another horse kick her during their frantic run? Did she fall or run blindly into a tree? We will never know; but after two unsuccessful surgeries, I had to accept the fact that, at only 8 years old, she would be retired from carrying a rider.

When I bought Annie, she had just weaned a beautiful, champaign-colored colt. He had perfect confirmation; his good looks caught everyone’s eyes. Not wanting to breed solely on the basis of color and looks, but for disposition and athletic ability, I called the owners to find out more about him. He got rave reviews for his amicable personality, great gait, and strong body, so I tracked down the stud that had “done the deed.” Arian’s Golden Sun was found living in California – not exactly next door to facilitate a pasture breeding. This meant artificial insemination.

Not having a clue as to what I was getting into, I signed a stud contract, contacted my vet, and began the long process of playing cupid. Instead of arrows in a quiver, my arsenal consisted of cold semen air freighted from California within hours of collection. It was a marathon: run to the airport to pick up the special container with a vile of semen, get the mare to the vet, have him “do the deed,” return the mare within another 24 hours to “do it again,” then ship the container back. Afterwards, wait a couple of weeks, take the mare to the vet for a sonogram to see if she “took,” and start over if she didn’t.

Of course, Annie didn’t “take” on the first three attempts – but hallelujah! She “settled” on the fourth. Then it was just sit back, pamper her, and wait 11 months.

The following June, at sunrise on my father’s first birthday after his death, I withdrew from a largely sleepless night on “foal watch” in the barn and went to my own bed to catch a few “zzzs” before beginning the day’s chores. I awoke a couple of hours later and instantly knew that the foal had arrived. My two geldings were frantically running along the fences, whinnying, and looking towards the barn.

There she was, a beautiful champagne-colored filly: big, strong, curious, confident—stunning! She was a gift from my father. Somehow he had a hand in her being born on his birthday.

After imprinting the foal, I excitedly went to pick up my mother to share the news. Lost in her grief of losing my father earlier that year, she expected to spend his birthday mourning his death. The foal changed all of that. Together my mother and I set up folding chairs near the stall to watch the pair, marvel at the miracle of birth and renewal of life, and to feel Dad’s presence among us. We would name her after him.

The names Bill or William did not, however, offer much inspiration as a name for such a filly. What to do? Then it struck me – I could take his middle name of Lonzo, feminize it with an “a,” and call her Lady Lonza! The Lovely Lady Lonza still rules the pastures.

Shortly after Lonza’s birth, my mother received a small publication from one of Dad’s distant relatives. The thin volume was published by the historical society in a little town along the Mississippi River where my great grandmother, Clara, had her boarding house. The booklet was ostensibly a history of that big mansion – but it really was a tribute to Clara. It chronicled her life there and followed her back to Montana and the “Dun Rovin” cabin. Reading it, I came upon a picture of Clara during their prosperous years. There she was, standing next to her “fancy gaited horse named Lady” with a dog at her side. Here I was – back in Montana, with Dunrovin nailed above my door, my “fancy gaited horse named Lady Lonza” and a dog at my side. This little acorn didn’t fall far from the family tree. Chills still run up my spine.

Annie and Lady Lonza are keep together except when Lady Lonza is out on the trails. They are inseparable, although Annie does not fret when Lonza goes on adventures for days at a time. She seems to understand that it is all temporary and that Lonza will soon be back.

As Annie and Lonza have aged, Annie is no longer the lead mare; rather her daughter is. Annie’s knee has become arthritic which has slowed down her body, but not her spirit. She continues to try to be the firebrand mare she once was by giving all manner of grief to the geldings. She still lays claim to the first hay and demands to be first at the water hole; but it is no long her own strength that gives her that power. It is the strength of her daughter and the strength of their bond. Lady Lonza now protects her mother from all harm.