Returning to the Hills

A granite spire on the Needles Highway, Black Hills SD

On my first trip to the hills when I was 15, I climbed this spire to the top and repelled down. I was the only girl in the group to do it. This rock always reminds me that I am braver and stronger than I think I am.

There are places in the world that inspire us, places that challenge us, and places that quietly restore us. For me, the Black Hills are all three.

Every summer, I make my way west for a week that has become something of a pilgrimage. It's a chance to step away from schedules, emails, deadlines, and the constant hum of everyday life. It's where I go to remember how good it feels to simply be.

The pace changes almost immediately.

The days aren't measured by appointments or to-do lists, but by the angle of the sunlight through the ponderosa pines, the call of meadowlarks, and the question of which trail to wander that morning. I hike miles of winding paths through granite outcroppings and quiet forests, stopping often—not because I'm tired, but because something catches my eye. A weathered tree clinging impossibly to a rock face. A patch of wildflowers dancing in the breeze. The sudden appearance of a deer along the trail. Sometimes a curious prairie dog. Sometimes a soaring hawk. Occasionally a shaggy bison reminding me that I am very much a visitor in its home.

Observing has always been at the heart of my creative practice, and nowhere do I feel more attentive than I do in the Hills. Nature asks nothing of us except that we slow down enough to notice.

One of my favorite rituals happens as evening approaches...

I drive to a quiet dirt road along the Wildlife Loop in Custer State Park, unfold a well-worn camp chair, and simply wait.

There's no destination. No agenda.

Just the slow transformation of the landscape as daylight begins to soften. The prairie grasses flow in waves under the wind, the distant ridges turn shades of blue and lavender, and the wildlife becomes a little more active as the heat of the day fades away.

This year, the evening offered an unforgettable surprise.

While waiting for the moonrise, a small herd of five pronghorn slowly made their way through the grasses. They appeared from behind a small hill, almost as if they arose from the land itself. I kept expecting them to suddenly bolt when they noticed me. With a calm, purposeful amble they all continued straight towards me, occasionally stopping for a bite of grass. Their beautiful black eyes were kind and mesmerizing, as if deep secrets of the prairie lay deep within. The pace was unhurried. They saw me, they were simply not threatened. Or maybe they were curious? How close had they ever come to a human? How close had I ever come to a pronghorn?

Pronghorn in Custer State Park

We ended up a mere three yards apart. I remained still, and tried to echo their relaxed posture. My mind, however, was going crazy. The number one rule in the park is to not approach wildlife. But what about when they approach you? There was no threat in their presence. I had been snapping pictures of them on their approach, but now, it seemed vulgar. I put my phone down. I did not need a photograph of this moment. I knew that my heart can hold onto this moment in truth without the clutter of a collection of pixels. We stared into each others' eyes for quite some time. It felt like an eternity. It felt like a split second. They took me in, measured me, and gave me their blessing. I was OK. Just for this evening, I was a part of the prairie. A few more bites of grass and they continued on along the side of the road. To them, it was probably just a passing encounter, but to my soul, it feels like it was something more. Like a message from the hills themselves. Stand still. Be quiet. Take in the calm. Just breathe.

To see and be seen, isn’t that all anyone needs?

As the sun slipped below the horizon, the Strawberry Full Moon began its slow climb into the eastern sky. It emerged with the softest blush of pink, almost unbelievable in its color, as though it had borrowed its hue from the sunset itself. Across the southeastern horizon, an enormous thunderhead towered over the plains, sending long curtains of rain toward what I imagined was somewhere in Nebraska. For a few magical moments, the moon and the storm shared the same sky—both glowing pink in the fading light.

It was one of those moments that no photograph could fully capture. But art… oh yes, ART… that can capture it.

Strawberry Moon rising above the hills

The Black Hills have a way of giving me permission to slow down. My sketchbook fills with quick pencil drawings and watercolor notes. The books I've been meaning to read all year finally get opened. Afternoons drift by while floating in the cool, crystal-clear spring-fed lakes. Iced mochas from my favorite little coffee shop help to relieve the heat when temperatures spike, and the familiar surroundings somehow make everything feel a little lighter.

A rock on the shores of the French Creek. On a usual year, you can just make out the little “cave” above the waterline. This year, the creek was very low. I’ve never seen into the rock this far before.

None of these moments are extraordinary on their own.

Together, they become something deeply restorative.

As artists, we often talk about inspiration as though it arrives in dramatic flashes. But I've come to believe that inspiration is usually much quieter. It gathers in accumulated moments of noticing—the sound of wind moving through pine needles, the changing colors of an evening sky, the rhythm of footsteps on a trail, the pages of a sketchbook filling one drawing at a time.

This tree in the campground was “owned” by a red squirrel. A mother robin and her offspring found this out in no uncertain terms when they were rudely chased away.

By the end of the week, I always feel different.

Not because anything monumental has happened, but because I've remembered how to pay attention again.

Perhaps that's why I return every year.

The Black Hills remind me that creativity doesn't always come from working harder. Sometimes it comes from walking a little farther down the trail. Sitting a little longer as the sun sets. Opening a sketchbook without worrying whether the drawing will be good. Floating in cool water without feeling guilty for doing nothing at all.

Those quiet moments refill something that the busy seasons slowly empty.

And when I return to the studio, I bring more than sketches home with me.

I bring a calmer mind, fresh ideas, and a renewed appreciation for the simple act of noticing.

The paintings will come.

The classes will begin again.

The projects will wait.

But for one beautiful week each summer, the Hills remind me that before we create, we must first learn to see.