Realistic Art & Paintings

California. 

In spite of it's reputation for really strange people and ideas, it's still a fabulous place to be, if only for a little while.  It has a wider variety of landscapes, ocean vistas, and environments to experience than any other state in the Union. It's a multi-cultural tapestry, from the most sophisticated art districts to working class towns and seaports, often side-by-side. The climate is legendary, the weather usually stunning, and the architecture a smorgasbord of styles and designs that change from city to city and sometimes, from block to block.

And of course, sometimes the really strange people.

When you travel as I do, showing your artwork at festivals and art shows around the Country, you ultimately come face to face with people and situations most folks only read about in books and magazines.  Some of them are superb.  Some, not so much.  And a few are pretty scary.

In 1988 I was a lot younger and, having the exuberance of youth, was a lot more willing to take risks.  It didn't hurt that I was pretty poor, either. These days I stay in motels and hotels, not in the back bed of my truck, which are a lot safer (and easier on my old joints) way to travel.   Life is a series of trade-offs, however, and choosing to be safer eliminates a certain amount of adventures.

Like waking up to sunsets, or even rainstorms, instead of hotel walls.  

Or finding a place to camp on some two lane rutted road in the forest or desert.

When I did my art show tours of California in the late 1980's I had all those experiences because I was too poor to stay in even a Motel 6 but once or twice a week, and a trip to the Golden State from Denver was at least a two day drive across some pretty desolate places.  Even when I got there, however, I sought out places to camp; sometimes for the fun of it, sometimes for the necessity.  There were, in fact (and still are in places like Arizona) a lot of artists that did long tours, and traveled in motor homes or busses, and the shows themselves tried to provide artists with a safe place to park overnight. I availed myself of them more than a few times, but in between shows was another issue.

Besides, it was California.  There was lots to see.  And in the middle of the week, after Labor day but still in September, the parks were pretty empty, the Fall weather was spectacular, and one could camp without having to deal with other people.  It was a grand opportunity for sightseeing, undisturbed. In the instance I'm about to relate, unfortunately, it was also an opportunity for some really strange people to pursue their goals undisturbed, too.  A better word might be "unhindered".  Disturbed goes almost without saying.

I'd just finished the show in Menlo Park. This is the one I described in the California Earthquake I which ended up better than it might have, considering the circumstances, so I was emboldened to go on to the next event, with a few days to kill. Point Reyes National Seashore beckoned.

I was even thinking of creating some paintings inspired by the area, and I took my camera with me everywhere, so a side trip to the Park (or Seashore, in the case) seemed perfectly reasonable. 

I mean, it's a National Park; a family destination; lots of rules and restrictions, but a safe place to go.  Short of something like a truck breakdown (and it was only a four year old truck), what could go wrong?

The drive up was, in fact, worth the trip alone.  The redwood forests are all you've ever heard about, the air was wonderful, and I was forced to stop and get more film.  The roadside restaurants had great, home made food, and it's one of the few places I've been I loved as much as Colorado.  By the time I got to the park it was early afternoon, so I had plenty of time to explore the place and snapped off lots of great shots of the California Coast, some which I still use in paintings today.  A truly beautiful place, which absorbed my whole afternoon, until it was getting dark, and I had to find a place to camp.  I could have actually camped in a campground in the park itself, but you couldn't get to them except on foot, and I didn't bring my backpacking supplies with me.  I had a tent, of course, but I mostly car camped on these expeditions, and had no way to get food and water to a campsite without making several trips, and the campsites were about a mile walk.

Besides, I had a book to read for entertainment, and enjoyed reading in the truck before calling it a night. Car camping would be fine, but not in the parking lot of the Seashore, because it was not permitted.

The answer, it seemed, would be to do what I had frequently done, and just look for a place to park my truck for the night on some sort of public lands. I'd done it countless times before, and I was in a remote area near a National Seashore with mostly farms and ranches around, so I figured that there must be a lot of options near by.  In fact, as I was always conscious of potential camp spots as I drove, I'd been considering several options as I'd driven in, and remembered one now even as I drove out the gate.  Less than a mile or two from the gate was large, unoccupied gravel pull off, big enough for a couple of semis.  A quick drive backtracking my route took me there, and it was still unoccupied.

Grand!

I pulled my rig into the area, positioned myself  comfortably off the road, and stopped for the night. It was after all September, and night would fall pretty quickly, so I made myself some dinner with the aid of a Coleman stove, some Ramen noodles and a hot dog, pulled out my book (a thriller by Dean Koontz), and snuggled in for the night. There were even some sea birds calling in the distance.  It would have been romantic, if I'd hade someone to romance with - and the room.

The book would have to do.

Sleep came pretty easily.  Morning was not as pleasant.

I was awakened right around dawn before the Sun was even up to the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel of my makeshift campground. 

Great, I figured, it's the cops, rousting me.  So I lifted the drapes of my tiny shelter which I'd hung for privacy in the windows of my camper shell, raised my head, and look out to see, not the cops, but two sport trucks (those were the pint sized things they made in the 80's) pulling into a space about 50 or so yards to my rear.

I shifted my position to look out the back, and peeked again.

Doors opened. Four guys got out. Wearing camouflaged clothing.

They were carrying automatic rifles. 

After a few seconds I had to restart my breath, I'd been holding it so long, as I recognized the M-16 and an AK, as I'd been made familiar with them in the Army, plus some other weaponry I wasn't sure of.

Holy crap! Had they seen me? Were they heading my way? What the hell...?

I reached for the .22 pistol I used to travel with almost reflexively, and considered my situation. Right. A .22 Ruger against machine guns. I might as well be shooting a grizzly bear. All I would do would piss him off. But as I watched peeking from under my curtain, they ignored me - thank God - and began walking away from the lot, and toward the fence of the Seashore on the other side of the road.  It's a good thing I'm too poor to afford a real camper, or they would have assumed someone was inside and perhaps checked me out as a possible witness to whatever it was they were up to.  They sure a hell weren't cops on some sort of patrol.

They crossed the road, did a commando routine to suppress the wire of the Park boundary, and leaped over it and into Park, and were gone.

I lay there for a few stunned seconds, and reconsidered my options. Get into the cab of the truck and run like hell? Pulling a trailer? What if they left a guard back by their trucks?  As I mulled this all over, my thoughts were interrupted by gunfire. A lot of it.

All the scenarios you've ever read about a heart pounding in fear I assure are not exaggerations. I didn't even have time to think about my future as an artist as, in a few seconds, they came running back over the fence, into their getaway trucks, and peeled out of the lot.

Little by little my heart quieted down while I tried to figure out what my best next move was.  Amazingly, staying put seemed like the best one.  After all, they were gone, right? Even though there were nothing but farm houses around, someone must have heard all the racket and called the police.  So I did what seemed rational.  I laid back down in my sleeping bag and went back to sleep. Even more amazingly, it worked.  After all, the sun wasn't up yet even though it was light, and I was now more tired than ever. I guess fearing for your life wears you out.

I little while later there were more tires on the gravel, waking me up again.  A deep breath and another lifted curtain, and a cop car rolled into view.  I never thought I'd be this happy to see the cops.  They came right over to my camper (being more intuitive than the gunmen) and rapped on the shell.

"Anybody in there"

"Yeah! Yup! Me!"

"Would you come out, please"

"Right! Right away!"

I pulled on my jeans, popped open the hatch, and clambered out, ungraceful but unconcerned about it. I certainly wasn't carrying any guns, that was obvious, as I didn't even have any shoes or shirt.

They looked at each other, then at me, and then said they'd heard reports of gunfire, and asked me if I'd seen anything unusual.

What I blurted out was probably almost blather, it ran together so much, and when I'd finished, they looked at each other again and then at the Seashore boundary.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Who are those guys"

Well, the official names vary from area to area, but as you probably figured by now anyway, they were some sort of survivalists or home grown militia, ready to defend the Nation from the Commies, or whatever.

Were they actually shooting at someone? Probably not, the cops mused.  Probably just exercises or war games. It's been going on for quite a while, but they sort of hit and run, so they never got caught.

They didn't even bother to fill out a report, at least not with me there, and thankfully didn't check my truck for weapons or I would have likely lost my Ruger. Well, it didn't do me much good anyway, but I still liked to have it, and would have missed it.

By the time they left the lot, I was really wide awake now, and the Sun was up, so I headed back down to San Francisco area for the next show, which worked out financially OK. I was in a hurry, however, to head back to Colorado when it was over, where the gun nuts are actually people I know, and they don't go on the warpath...real or not.