72 SACRED PLACES to lash everything down, only to have an extraordinary wind sweep through and snatch the board out of my hand (fortunately flattening it against a rock) and the hat off my head—it went sailing over the edge—lost forever. Reduced the board from 6ft to 4ft 6" and spent 1 1/2 hours lashing it down. It seems strong, so if it doesn’t work, then nothing will. THURSDAY, MAY 26 After lunch decided to do the sky despite battering winds, so made a windbreak from the old drawing board and laid the paper flat on two spare pieces of board on the ground under a tree. This must rate as one of the most difficult skies I’ve ever done—the battering wind, the tree shedding bark and twigs and needles, the sand blowing over the wet paper, equipment taking off and sailing across the landscape, the disconcerting shadows of the tree branches latticed across the painting—all conspired to defeat my project. Fortunately after two hours I ended up with a rudimentary but satisfactory sky. MONDAY, MAY 30 At my painting site I discover the wreckage of my drawing board, smashed into about ten pieces by the wind—bits of shredded marine ply ripped like cardboard, hinges, U bars, and pins and string everywhere. Spent an hour untangling the string, sorting out the rocks and tree (now broken) and retrieving as many pieces as I can find. Back to camp to fetch my old drawing board, which, with a bit of cannibalisation I manage to erect in place. EMIGRANT TRAIL SATURDAY, JUNE 11 Started painting the larger mule ear, but it didn’t really go well—too tentative and not sure of the colour, having no sky (cloudless again today). I wish I could get one. The work always looks feeble until I get it. A small ochre-brown lizard found a large dead moth—the wings outstretched far exceeding the breadth of the lizard’s head. With a deft flick it tossed and caught it with the moth’s head foremost and started to swallow it. As it swallowed, so the wings folded and with a couple of rapid movements had engulfed it whole. I saw it travel into its stomach. After ecstatic quivers it flattened itself onto the hot sand to aid its digestion. I sat wondering if this was happiness, and I suppose it is, of a sort. After a hard day, sitting quietly with a G&T, Cesaria Evora in the MP3 player, watching the cottonwood seeds drift in the breeze. Picture coming on OK, which helps. At dusk a little owl emerges like a ghost from the shadows and perches on a twig a few yards from my head. Its head swivelled constantly, listening for surreptitious rustling. My spoon clattering in my aluminium dish irritated it, and it dived into a dark tunnel through the tamarisk. SUNDAY, JUNE 12 A typical day—up at 6.00—a clear sky but the sun not yet striking the campsite. Warm but not as warm as it is going to be! Breakfast of porridge, nuts and dried fruit, tea, wash, pack and am ready to ascend the hill about 7.15. Why does it always take so long?! Scramble up a red sandstone gully occasionally steep enough to use hands as well, emerge onto the mesa having scrambled about 150ft. Walk across the soft desert sand noting lots of potsherds and knapped stones everywhere scattered around. Slog up the Mormon Trail—about 500ft at an angle of 35o, pausing for breath and a swig of water a couple of times. Cut across the rocks to my painting site—everything as I left it—board still erected, tube lying under a rock. Unroll the paper and clip it onto the board—no wind yet, but already the heat has built up—must be around 80° at 8 o’clock. Start work— correcting mistakes in the shadows and painting the coloured middle ground I so much admired—I think I’ve overdone it, but I can always knock it back. Tea break sitting right on top of the ridge with a huge view both sides, though nothing moving in the landscape. Back to work—the sun really striking now. Another tea break at 11.45 and work until 1.30. Hike back down to camp, the sweat pouring off me. Walk down to the river, take off all my clothes and slip into the water—very muddy under- foot, almost too sticky to pull your foot out. I immerse I’m mentally ticking off the days until I can stop. But I do feel quite content—as if I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, so that is a cause of satisfaction. Diary entry, June 12, 2011
