"Just a Little Green"

"Just a Little Green"

A few years ago I was fortunate to explore one of my favorite places, Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge, with several talented artists who also happened to be much loved friends.  After the Florida Wildlife Art Expo Rob Mullen, Carel Brest Van Kempen, Cole Johnson, Steve Oliver and I headed to Ding Darling armed with cameras, binoculars and canoes.

After a lovely few hours paddling off the beaten path, we pulled ashore near a dike that was a popular birding spot.  One of the tourists, seeing our cameras and binoculars, walked over and said "you people look like you know what you are doing…" he pointed to a bird perched nearby "is that an eagle or an osprey?"  It was obviously an osprey even to the naked eye, but we glassed it to make him feel better and confirmed "osprey".  The gentleman looked at the printed bird list he held and said "well, I want it to be an eagle…so I am counting it as an eagle"  He checked the eagle off his list and headed back to his group.  We looked at one another and laughed...

Along the dike, we spotted a little green heron hunting from a mangrove knee.  Every species of heron has it's own techniques for hunting.  The green heron's arsenal includes sitting perfectly still and watching the water until a fish swims within reach…then, with lightning speed, the little green will try to grab it from its perch.  

We sat and patiently watched, waiting for the moment…the heron didn't move.  Time passed and the observers, birders, photographers and artists alike, began wandering away one by one.  Pretty soon it was Carel and I and a photographer we didn't know.  Then Carel left.  The photographer and I sat as still as the heron. cameras poised for the shot of the moment when the bird went for a fish…waiting and waiting and waiting.  Finally, almost simultaneously, we both lowered our cameras in defeat.  Of course, it was then, as if on cue, that the heron shot its head into the water after a fish.  

What came as a complete surprise was that the heron apparently forgot that it was supposed to maintain a grip on the branch when it grabbed for the fish…and crashed into the water with a completely undignified splash.  The heron scrambled back out of the water and onto another mangrove knee where it fluffed its soaked plumage and ruffled its crest indignantly.  The photographer and I looked at one another, laughing in amazement.  Neither of us had ever seen that happen…and I have never seen it happen again.  

It is moments like this that are carved into my memory after countless hours in the field watching the creatures I love to paint.  Over the years I have learned that, for me, it isn't enough to visit a place and snap a few pictures for reference.  The payoff for all those hours spent as my limbs cramped waiting for what happens next…are a plethora of precious, priceless moments of wonder.  

In the end, I painted the heron poised for the strike…but, swirled into every brushstroke, is the memory of the pink cloud of spoonbills we flushed as we paddled, the a perfect day spent in a wonderful place, the "un-birder" and his "eagle", the laughter of friends and the hilarious "miss" of a beautiful green heron…

"Gimme Shelter"

UPDATE August 13, 2015:

Sad news today, a grizzly sow was euthanized.  It is possible that she was one of the grizzlies that I have watched, photographed and painted for over a decade. It is said that she killed a park employee who was hiking off trail without bear spray.

I cannot imagine the horror and pain that defined the last minutes of this man’s life. My heart goes out to his family and his friends as they deal, not only with his death, but with the horrific manner in which he died. As if their loss were not painful enough, they are being subjected to a barrage of insensitive barbs and rants by the wildlife lovers who insist on blaming him for the euthanization of the bear.

It does not matter if he was off trail, it does not matter if he was without bear spray, it does not even matter if the bear was protecting her cubs. A man is dead.  For those of us who choose to live in bear country, this is the sobering reality: this bear did not just defensively attack and run, she killed, fed, cached and returned to feed again. For that, the Park and bear management felt as if they had no option other than to euthanize her. Like many, I hoped and tried for better options. At least the lives of her cubs were spared...they will be sent to zoos, possibly re-habbed and released. Wherever they end up, I hope their story continues to be told.

Tears come as I write those words, for if this is the bear they say, I have watched her for over a decade as she skillfully raised a number of cubs by the roadside. She brought so much awe and joy to the countless people who were fortunate enough to have seen her. I have painted her, laughed at her antics, marveled at her parenting skills, cried for her lost cubs and admired her grown cubs as they go about their life being the bears that she taught them to be. There is a hole in my heart just as there is a hole in the ecosystem of the Lake area.

My grief and sympathy extends also to the bear management team. They know this bear and I have no doubt that it also pains them greatly to have to say goodbye.

What has saddened me in addition to the loss of this bear and the hiker, is the blame and hatred being leveled at the hiker, the park service and even anyone that did not post a dozen different petitions to save her.

The reality is that blood of this bear is on all of our hands…she dies not simply for killing and eating an ill-prepared hiker…but for all of us. She died because people, willingly or ignorantly, fail to abide by park rules and recommendations. She died because people love to see bears, get close for a few moments, take photos. Anyone who has ever stood in a bear jam or been closer than 100 yards carries some responsibility in her loss, because we helped her become acclimated to people rather than instinctively running from us. Everyone who visits the park, lives in the area or simply drives a car has to shoulder a little of the weight of her death. Because we want to visit or live in their habitat, consume the products created by destruction of wild places and allow our population to outnumber them by greater numbers every year...we threaten the wild things that we love. It is something we ALL need to think about.

I am still holding out hope that it wasn't the bear teveryone says it was...there are a lot of bears in that area.  Whether is was or not, a man was lost and a bear was lost...sad all around.

Here is the original post telling a story on one of my experiences with this bear:

There are countless reasons to spend time in the field if you want to paint wildlife...not the least of which is the chance of witnessing something truly extraordinary.  

This is the story of one of those days and one of the paintings it inspired...

It was May 17, 2011...I was driving the road South of Hayden Valley when a Grizzly with a tiny coy cub stepped out of the trees to cross the road.  "COY" is an anacronym for "cub of the year"...the wee bear beside its mama was just a few months old.

Roadside mama bears are often pretty traffic-savvy.  She waited for the inevitable stop of the traffic.

When there was an opening, she ran across first...

The cub followed...look at how TINY it is!

We had an extraordinary amount of Spring snow this particular year...and the burms created by the plows were mountains to a teeny coy bear.

Safely across the road...mama headed for the melt-off flushed Yellowstone river.  She started swimming and we wondered where the cub was...and how it could possibly make it across the wide, cold water.

Mama swam out a few yards...then turned back.

She met the cub in the water...

then turned around and waited as the cub climbed on her back.

Then she ferried the wee one across the river.

On the other side, she shook him off...

Then the two headed away from the road, no doubt, to rest and nurse.

In my MANY years of bear watching, I had never seen anything like this (and haven't since).







Throughout the Summer the cub often climbed up to sit on mama's back, much to the delight of anyone who saw them.  In watching the two later in the season, I wondered if the cub learned that behavior because of unusually late (and deep) snow.  It would be much warmer on mama's back!

The only other time I have seen a cub "ride" its mama was during the first summer that the sow with four was roaming the area south of Mammoth a few years ago.  Once in a while, if the little runt of the litter was having trouble keeping up, she would turn back and wait for it to climb on before continuing to go where ever she was headed.

These moments of discovery are simply magical...and can only be found by being out there.

"Gimme Shelter"

Oil on Gessoed Panel

9" x 12"

Pony Up

by Lyn StClair

From the very beginning, I loved horses.

As a baby, my parents would entertain me by bouncing me on their foot and chanting the song "Downtown Pony".

As soon as I could hold a crayon, I started drawing them.

When I was a just a toddler, I decided that the inimitable Paul Brown needed help illustrating one of Mom's horse books…
<<  This is what I added to the book

All through my childhood, I read every book I could find about horses (over and over again).  The Black Stallion, Misty, and Black Beauty...I fell in love with the West reading My Friend Flicka, Thunderhead and The Green Grass of Wyoming...

When we'd get one of those bags of plastic cowboys and indians...I'd pick out all the horses and throw away the people.  I would even pretend to be a horse.

It was Breyers, not Barbies, for this girl...I put Barbie in her convertible and drove her off the cliff by the house (kinda wish I'd kept her car, though).

Even though we HAD horses, I wanted to ride every merry-go-round, every pony ride, and every single one of those dime horse rides that used to be out in front of stores.

Besides drawing and painting horses...I "sculpted" them with my silly putty, with pipecleaners and with the piles of wire that my TVA electrician grandfather brought home for us.  My school papers were illustrated with horses.

Fortunately, my parents were artists...and they loved horses.  We always had horses and ponies to ride...and there was no shortage of art supplies or encouragement.

When it came to riding, my brothers and I learned to ride on Shetland ponies.

For those of you who think "real men/women don't ride cute little ponies": well, let me tell you something...

Shetlands will buck, kick, dodge, parry, thrust... They will stop suddenly in mid gallop, they will lay down and roll in a creek (with you on board), they will try to scrape you off on trees, and if (when) they dislodge you they will often run home without you. They can be inordinately obstinate and endlessly frustrating....on the other hand, Shetlands can be wonderfully sweet, tough as nails, gentle as kittens, incredibly patient and the best friend a kid could have. A kid that rises to meet the challenge of a wily Shetland probably has a head start on the challenges that will come through the rest of life.

A couple of years ago I was riding with a couple of Wyoming ranch women, real cowgirls. The subject of Shetlands came up and it turned out we'd all learned to ride on Shetland ponies...and it was our unanimous opinion that "if you can ride a Shetland, you can ride anything".   

My first pony, when I was two or three, was "Downtown Pony" (I named him for the song Mom and Dad would sing when they bounced me on their foot). My parents were picky about our ponies and Downtown Pony didn't quite make the cut...he moved on to be loved by cousins.

When I was four, my second pony came along: "Blackie"...she was already almost 20 when we got her. You could put a baby on Blackie, start her walking in a circle and she'd go quietly until you told her to stop. That is, if you could catch her in the first place.

I remember Dad trying to rope Blackie from his Quarter horse "Ben"...and my brothers and I running from end to end of the 20+ acre pasture trying to corner and catch her. Sure, Blackie was gentle once you caught her...probably because by the time you caught her EVERYone was exhausted! Kids not getting enough exercise? Send 'em out to catch the pony! Blackie was 34 when she left us to teach life lessons to a new family's kids...at 34, you still had to work hard to catch her.

When my brothers started riding, we got "Twilight" to join Blackie...a sweet little grulla Shetland who was VERY fast (well, for a pony).
As a girl, there was probably nothing I loved more than riding any horse as fast as I could possibly make it go. Of course, any horse (and especially a Shetland) has a mind of its own...often they would decide to stop dead in their tracks without telling me first. Needless to say, I learned a lot about riding...and a LOT about falling.

One of the first rules of horsemanship instilled in me by my parents was the "if you fall off, get right back on" philosophy. The first fall I remember was from Blackie (I must have been about 4 or 5)...I had her tearing across the yard when the girth loosened and the saddle slid sideways...then under her belly. Well, I had been taught to stick to the saddle...so I went right under her with it. One of the nice things about shetlands, though...the ground isn't very far. I remember cracking my head pretty good...and being put right back on her. 

That "get right back on" philosophy has carried me through a lot of life's little (and big) falls.

Throughout my childhood and into my teens, I drew horses…constantly.  As a preteen, I would draw horses from life at the local saddle club between gymkhana classes.  That love of ponies and drawing was a great foundation for an art career.  Without realizing it, all those horses I drew turned out to be "practice"…and I got a LOT of it.  

When Tex Ritter made an appearance at his "Tex Ritter's" restaurant in Nashville, my parents talked me into doing a drawing of a horse so that he could autograph it.  He signed the back.  It was 1973…I was ten.

My childhood memories are full of horses and ponies...I rode them (fell off them), cried into their manes, talked to them, drew them and loved them.

In turn they taught me to be tough, resourceful, patient, independent and creative. They carried me into the outdoors, the backwoods, and the wild places of my imagination. They exercised my body and my soul….and they inspired me to draw and draw and draw...

Being There

by Lyn StClair

It is 4:47 AM and I have been sitting and contemplating the composition of a sketch for a new painting of a polar bear and ross's gulls that is coming together on the 24"x48" stretched linen on my easel.  As I stare at the piece, I am reminded of the trip when I saw my first white bears and pink gulls…

Several years ago, my friend Cathy joined me on a trip to Barrow, Alaska to visit my friend Donald and try to see polar bears.  We arrived in Barrow in October, in the middle of whaling season.  

Barrow is about as North as you can get.  One of Donald's nieces described it best in a call to him shortly after he started working there:  "Uncle Donald, we looked you up on the globe…you're really close to the screw!!"  Yup, that about sums it up…

We managed to rent an SUV from a local hotel and proceeded to troll the limited roads of Barrow in search of polar bears.  

Toward one end of our route , a whale carcass was being dismembered by the townspeople while whaling crews continued their hunt.  

Near the other end was a beautiful cemetery in the snow with white markers and colorful plastic flowers.

Big trucks loaded with one sort of detritus or another rumbled from one end of the road to the other (there is no road out of Barrow).

Grey-green waves crashed on the beach and a cold wind whipped the landscape.

There was no sign of bears on the first day…no sign of much of anything.  The arctic fox we saw in the distance saw us and ran like lightning the opposite direction (they hunt them, here…they hunt everything here).  

One morning, Cathy was feeling a wee bit stressed that she'd used precious vacation time for this...and no bears.
So, I offered a suggestion…in my very best (which was very bad) Jacques Cousteau accent, I said:
"Ho-kay, tew-day ees dee day zat vee speak vis zee varra bad French accents…and ZAT eees how vee find da polar baars."

Cathy groaned "Zee mud, but ahll zere ees, ees  MUD!"

and I replied:  "And zee sheet haulers, zhey haul zee sheet in zee mud from wan end to da other"

Thus it began…

We became our own comic relief…and we couldn't seem to stop the silly accent thing (much to the dismay of our dear host, Donald, a speech pathologist).  

We weren't finding much to shoot...but we were laughing so hard our faces hurt...

Then slowly, we began to find wildlife.... discovering the snowy owls that sat in the cemetery, posted on fences and hunted the tundra on the ends of town.  We found a Jaeger cruising a frozen pond.
We tried to sort out unfamiliar gulls and eiders. 

We'd been told to look for the pink gulls, which brought a wide-eyed look of wonder at one another…Ross's gulls!  A holy grail for birders!  

So, we'd sit on the beach and scan the birds with binos, looking for the "faint wash of pink"…

"Oh, that one has pink…could it be…?!"  

Back and forth we went, scanning for bears and shooting whatever we could find.  In the long stretches between seeing wildlife, on top of the silly "French" accents, we invented the Wide World of Arctic Sports:  dead bird leaping, wind jumping…

Basically, we did what Cathy and I do best:  

we played.

One day, on the way to the cemetary, we discovered a "stink" whale that had washed ashore.  This is a whale that had been harpooned, but escaped being brought in by the whaling party.  They die at sea, then wash ashore too late to be used for food.  We visited the stink whale often, hoping for a bear…and sadly mourning its terrible fate and the waste of a beautiful life.

We trolled and searched the tundra until our eyes hurt...

We even tried doing bear dances on the beach.

 Locals suggested looking for bears in the middle of the night (it started to get dark about 4 PM and didn't get light until nearly 10 AM)…so we began cruising in the deep of the night and the wee hours of the morning.

One night we brought Donald and his partner, Mick…who rolled their eyes at the accents (Donald whispering to Mick: "make them stop"), then fell asleep in blankets in the back seat while we looked for bears.

We found a lot of bear tracks...seemed we just missed them several times...

Then, late one night we were leaving the stink whale when we saw them…a sow polar bear and her nearly grown twins.  They were ambling up the road ahead of us.  Cathy was driving and carefully tried to sneak up as close as possible so I could, at least, get a record shot with the camera.  

They were MAGNIFICENT!  Cathy and I have been very close to many grizzlies over the years we've known one another…these white bears make grizzlies look small!  As we crept closer, I aimed…and "click"…the flash bounced off the windshield.  

The sow stopped and turned with a menacing look that pretty much said "do that again and I will open that thing like a sardine can and feed you one piece at a time to my kids!"  

Cathy whispered:  "Oh sheet, she eesa verra, verra beeg!" and we were lost in a paroxysm of laughter.  

We followed at a more respectful distance as the three bears ambled on and disappeared into the night.  We giggled like leetle girls the rest of the trip over Cathy's reaction to the bear.

One morning before we left, we were scanning the beach as usual when we saw them.  A flock of Ross's gulls hunting the surf and skimming the beach.  Our jaws dropped.  

Whatever we had seen before, it was not Ross's.  The "faint wash of pink" description in the bird book could not have prepared us for these gorgeous salmon and grey gulls hunting the green-grey surf.  Spectacular.

As I work on this painting, it comes to life with memories of Barrow, of the personal experiences with these two species and the laughter shared with my friends.  

My paintings are not just a portrait of a certain animal....they are stories of places I've been, things I have learned, people I have loved and homages to the beautiful creatures that I have been so very privileged to have seen.

As an artist, I cannot paint something I have not seen in the wild, in it's natural habitat. 

Photos mean nothing...the experience is EVERYTHING. 

There is always something new to be discovered…and there is simply NO substitute for being there…

So, as I tweak the sketch and prepare to start painting, I remind myself:  

She eesa verra, verra beeg…

  

...and zhey vere a verra, verra PEENK!