Category: Uncategorized

BROKEN

I started this painting on April 6^th, 2020, and finished it on April 27^th.  If you check back you’ll see that’s right in the first month or so of “isolation” in the Covid-19 Pandemic of 2020 here in Canada, and in particular, British Columbia.  These are troubling and very difficult times for all of us.

I’d seen this tree, on the Squamish Reserve lands just north of Gibsons, for over 25 years.  Though always intrigued by its shape, no painting ever “came into focus” for me.  It was Joy who enticed me down there again early in April.  We took advantage of our evening “social isolation” walk to make our way down to the ocean shore.  She insisted that the tree had to be painted.  It was in the evening as the last rays of the sun were warmly touching the gnarled shape.  As soon as we approached the tree, I knew this was the time that I’d be able to find my painting.

It wasn’t until I got home and started working with the photograph that I noticed one branch having been broken off.  And that broken branch dominated my thoughts as I painted the image over the next 3 weeks.  I always find the meaning, the story of the painting, as I paint.  But this one was different.  I knew the title was supposed to be “Broken”, but search as I might I can’t find the story that would go with it.  I couldn’t change the title, it had to be “Broken”.  That broken branch somehow just insisted.  The title was predetermined.  So perhaps – in that is the message.  That is the purpose of this image.

Perhaps the painting and the title are all I’m supposed to do.  Maybe, in this time of very personal experience for all of us, maybe you are to find some reality in the painting of the old dead tree with the strange title “Broken”.  We’re all making our way one day at a time through the stresses of “personal distance” and “isolation” in this year of the plague 2020.  We all have our own personal experiences and stories as they pertain to the invisible virus trying to touch each of us.  I’ll leave it at that.  Maybe, in this historic year that we’re all finding our way through, you are to just enjoy the tranquility of the image, or perhaps you’re to find some very personal meaning in the title that demanded to be used – “Broken”.

                               SITTING LADY FALLS

There’s a wonderful west coast walk located in Metchosin, on the outskirts of Victoria.  It’s called Witty’s Lagoon Trail.  A groomed track, it takes you from the parking lot down a meandering trail through a very typical west coast rain forest to the open beach looking out on the Juan de Fuca Straight.  I’ve done that walk many times with my daughter Melanie and her family.  Always I’ve felt the presence of a painting, and once I found a painting of tranquility along the forest trail. (Witty’s Lagoon – Tranquility)

But, that image of calm and serenity doesn’t tell the whole story of this trail.  There’s a waterfall on the trail that changes character almost daily.  Depending on the runoff from the surrounding area, Sitting Lady Falls can be an idyllic tumble of water over an impressive rocky outcrop, or it can be a raging, foaming torrent as it charges its course to the ocean.

The winter of 2020 was a particularly wet and grey one.  The heavy rains created dangerous and destructive flood conditions in many places on the west coast.  And Sitting Lady Falls was the benefactor of that rage of torrential rains.  I wasn’t there to witness it personally, but Melanie took a photograph one January day and sent it to me.  Melanie’s an artist herself so she knew the value of the light as it played on the trees in the foreground.  Though not a composition I’d usually be drawn to, I had to try my hand at painting this impressive natural display.

If ever you’re looking for a nice forest walk at the southern tip of Vancouver Island, consider Witty’s Lagoon Trail.  There you’ll get to see Sitting Lady Falls for yourself.  And it’ll always be impressive, no matter what mood the Sitting Lady is in.

                                                                                                               WINTER MEDICINE AT -7°

I’d been searching through the dark, wet, grey winter of 2019 and couldn’t find it.  My search continued through the entire month of January, 2020.  Still it wasn’t to be found.  My spirits were as dark and grey as the season.  The artist within just couldn’t stir.  The fire had gone out.  Some would call it “painter’s block”.  I’m certain my lack of artistic energy would be better diagnosed as “SAD” or “Seasonal Affective Disorder”.  I just couldn’t find it within to paint.  I longed for the light that I paint, but this record long winter of rain and drudge denied that light.  No matter how I tried, I couldn’t stir the spirit.

Then, at coffee one rainy morning, my friend Tom Hierck changed all that.  He’d been out to Lloydminster, Alberta on business and he’d come back with some photographs of the cold, still winter he’d experienced while there.  As soon as I saw his photograph of the old cabin in the steel blue snowy field, the bright light of that Alberta winter acted as a spark to my artistic energy.  It was the light that did it.  I’d been craving that light, and I’d paint that light.  It would be my first painting of 2020.

Even though, he told me, the temperature that day had been -7°, that simple, still scene was truly medicinal to me.  As I painted over the next two weeks, that exercise of “painting the light” healed my spirit.  No longer was I lacking the creativity of the artist.  In fact, I found myself compelled to paint.  Already I was composing my next painting even as I created this piece.  That winter scene of a cold Alberta fence line and solitary cabin in the crystal, sparkling snow had truly been a powerful tonic.  It launched me into 2020 such that by mid-February, when I finished the piece, I was full of the positive, creative energy so necessary to me as an artist.

Painting that bright Alberta winter’s light, from me, truly was “Winter Medicine at -7°”

Sometimes, when I do a painting, I don’t know the significance of it until it’s finished.  That’s what happened with my image called “Chapman Creek”.  I’d long known there was a painting there, but it took my wife Joy to insist that we stop there and look for it one clear, cold April day in 2007.  It was on that day that the image was born.

When the painting was finished though, after I’d studied it and lived with it for a few days, its importance became crystal clear.  You see, Chapman Creek is somewhat of a gateway to the Sunshine Coast.  Think of it, the majority of people who come to the Sunshine Coast do so by way of the Langdale ferry terminal.  Most drive straight up the bypass and head to where ever their destination.  If they are driving up the coast they see nothing but houses, trees and Elphinstone Mountain.  In the distance they catch fleeting glimpses of the ocean but in reality their drive is for the most part inland from the “coast”.  After all, we are called the Sunshine Coast and many come here to see just that – the coast.  As you drive north on the highway the very first time you can actually look out and see the ocean waters connected to the highway is when you drive over the bridge at Chapman Creek.  If you look to the left as you pass over the bridge you catch a quick glimpse of the creek emptying into the ocean.  A second later you are driving the only part of the Sunshine Coast highway that physically takes you along an expanse of the coast actually exposed to the highway.  So indeed Chapman Creek is the doorway to the actual Sunshine Coast.  But think further, it is also the very same doorway to thousands of salmon and steelhead trout.  Each year salmon and steelhead are raised at the Chapman Creek hatchery and released into its waters.  Those salmon leave the creek and return in four years knowing only the waters of Chapman Creek as their freshwater home.  To those salmon and steelhead trout Chapman Creek is the Sunshine Coast, their home.

I guess that’s what the rugged beauty of that creek mouth speaks of.  It is a gateway to all of us as it welcomes us to the Sunshine Coast.  It is without doubt one of our most important bodies of running water on the Coast.  Treat those waters with respect and cherish them always, these beautiful waters of Chapman Creek.

Since we moved to Gibsons in 1987, Joy and I have known Blane and Henny Hagedorn.  Introduced to us almost the day we arrived, they have become close friends.  We’ve participated in each other’s lives, and most significant to Joy and me, they donated their yacht, the Toucan, to act as a support vessel for our 1997 VisionQuest Journey down the west coast of Canada.  We’ve enjoyed family events together and rejoiced at the birth of grandchildren into each of our families.  I guess you could say we’re enjoying growing older together.

In the fall of 2006 Blane and Henny, their daughter Nicole and her children Wyatt and baby Tessa, led us on a bit of an excursion.  Blane and Henny had purchased a piece of land on Thormanby Island. Thormanby is a 10 minute boat ride from Secret Cove Marina, a business owned and operated by the Hagedorn family.  Together on that September day, we came ashore on Thormanby and walked the two or three kilometers up the hill to their new property.  Resembling a park, their new acquisition wasn’t wilderness. Rather it had storage sheds, a small cabin and groomed property.  We spent an idyllic afternoon in the sun wandering and exploring, visiting with neighbours and picking the few remaining apples and pears from the fruit trees on the property.  What a beautiful escape.

As we savoured both the place and the day, I couldn’t help but feel the presence of an image.  The fruit trees caught my attention. Framed by the thick surrounding forest and the glimpse of the ocean and Vancouver Island in the background, I knew this was my painting.  The fruit trees show no fruit, we’d already picked them clean.  What the painting does show is the peaceful tranquility of the Hagedorn property.  The title for my piece came easily and naturally.  This view, basically from the cabin onto the property, really is a THORMANBY RETREAT.

Every year as March approaches here on the west coast of Canada, Mother Nature has a way of teasing and tantalizing.  In between those inevitable stretches of winter wind and rain, the warming sun visits on every lengthening days and the buds and flowers begin what will be their annual explosion.  Those of us who have lived elsewhere in this country don’t take these days for granted, rather we use them much as one would squander a found dollar.  We enjoy these days for what they are, natures little extra gift to those of us lucky enough to live here.

On one such day in 2004 my friend Blaine Orloff, a former art student of one of my classes, escaped with me for a sojourn of driving and exploring. We were searching for something we knew was out there.  We were answering the call of a painting, an image just waiting to be found.  As the day began to bring the curtain down on what had been a coastal day of perfection, we found ourselves parking in Sargent’s Bay Provincial Park just above Sechelt. Somehow the beach summoned us. Rather than the forest trails, we walked directly to the beach to witness the last minutes of the sun’s performance.

As we walked out onto the beach trail I immediately was drawn magnetically to the huge rock point at the south end of the beach.  Having never been to this park before, I was transfixed by its stately presence.  Surely, from its summit, I’d find the image I could feel calling me.  We crunched our way closer through the beach gravel and rocks and I’d already scouted out my route to the top of the rock from the distance.  I knew how I’d clamber to the top to watch the final sun show.  Only when we were adjacent to the rock did I see the sign – “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.  Obviously that rock had been a magnetic draw to others, too many others.

Disappointed, we stood studying the beautiful prominence from afar only wishing we could be on its summit.  Then, the image that had been calling me showed itself.  The sun had already set for us.  It was below the tree line to the north and west of us.  The rock though was just now catching those final minutes of radiant sun and it reflected the glow towards us.  It was then that the faint whisper of a sea breeze caused the leaves of the Arbutus to shimmer. Like some gossamer fabric wafting in the sea air, the shiny leaves reflected the brilliance of the sun’s final performance of the day.  The red bark and twisting posture of the tree, contrasted by the rigid and angular position of the rocks created a compelling image for me.  That was my painting.  I had seen the sunset through that composition.  It was nature reflecting nature.

In pondering how I’d found this image I realize now that I would not have seen it had I been able to climb that rock that day.  Rather, I’d have squinted glimpses of the final sun show from its summit.  No, I’d found the image by slowing down and standing back.  I’d found the image accepting where I was and watching dutifully for what I knew was out there.  I’d never have found that image that day had I not heeded the sign that I had first resented.  I’d found the image only because of the sign that said – “PRIVATE PROPERTY”

 

It was February 2008.  That’s when spring can come to the Sunshine Coast, in spite of what the calendar says.  The morning promised to be clear, crisp and cold, and there would be a full moon.  My friend Barry Haynes and I got up and were on the road by 5:45 AM and by six we were set up with our cameras at Bonniebrook Beach.  As the sun lit the eastern sky, the clear but still dark western sky was resplendent with its full moon adornment.  As I shot images of brilliant light I noticed a few crows waking to the day.  As they flew from tree to tree calling each other, they served to rouse the other seashore life to greet the day.  Then, as one of the black silhouettes flew past the moon I realized I had an image to get in my camera.

I found a position on the grass that allowed the crow perched on a branch to be framed by the bright yellow full moon.  I took the photograph knowing as I did that I’d found the painting that I’d come searching for on this cold, clear morning.  As staged and contrived as the painting looks, I have the photograph to prove that it really did happen that way.

My wife, Joy, was known as “Crow” in her childhood.  A nickname given to her all those years ago, from time to time someone still remembers it and teases her about it.  Having never actually done a painting just for Joy, I knew as I painted this one that it was for her.  She has been so supportive of me in my artistic endeavors over the years; it seemed appropriate that this particular original painting should be hers.

When I finished the painting I wrote on the bottom of paper, just below the image – “I’ve been painting for about 23 years.  This is the very first painting I’ve done just for you Joy.  I love you. Ed”

Joy agreed to share the image with you.  We both hope you enjoy “Moonshadow”.

There’s an old saying that you may have heard. “Give a monkey a typewriter and eventually it’ll type a sentence.”  I think that may apply here.  I’ve been a photographer forever, not one of those professionals who knows every nuance about exposures, ASA’s, light refractions and reflections and the like, I’m a guy who takes pictures.  I use those photographs as inspiration and guidance for my paintings.  I suppose, upon reflection, it’s probably more accurate to say I’m a guy who takes pictures.

It was early December 2011.  My friend Greig Soohen had invited me to spend a day at his family cottage on Sakinaw Lake.  I jumped at the chance.  I’d long told him that I felt there was a painting somewhere there on the lake calling to me.  Joy and I had paddled Sakinaw the year before and I could feel the beck and call.  It was a glorious winter day.  The sun even had some warmth to it.  To get to Greig’s cottage requires a short boat ride of no more than four minutes, but once you’re there you are in seclusion. We spent the day wandering the property both up in the forest and at the placid shore of Sakinaw Lake.  We had a great lunch in the cottage and just let the day come over us with the serenity that only such places can provide.

I was ever on alert though.  I knew there was a painting calling but I couldn’t put a fix on just where it was calling from.  During the day I’d spent time on the rocks above the lake and I’d stood on the dock searching for what I knew was there.  Even as we left the cottage for the day I knew the waiting image was still calling but I couldn’t put a fix on it.  We were only a couple of hundred meters from Greig’s dock when the image that had been calling came into focus.  It was almost four in the afternoon; already the sun was dropping behind the hills at the south end of the lake.  The far shore of the lake was in virtual darkness but there in the ink black reflection of the hillside was a small island vibrant in the bright light of the setting sun.

“Stop the boat.”  I called to Greig, and as the gentle rolling wake moved across the black, glassy water I took that once in a lifetime photograph.  An alternate title for this painting is “Implausible” simply because the image doesn’t compute in the mind.  How can the island be so bright surrounded by such darkness?

In creating the painting from that photograph I’ve come to realize something else.  There’s only one artist who can truly do that unbelievable image justice, and that artist isn’t me.  It’s my best, my one and only attempt, but surely the guy in charge of lighting on that day on Sakinaw Lake was the true master.  Me?  I’m just like that monkey who eventually wrote a sentence.  I’ve taken enough photographs in my day; I guess it inevitably had to happen.  Just like the proverbial monkey who was eventually able to type something meaningful, this once in a lifetime photograph is truly my “sentence”.

It was probably about the year 2002, the year I retired, so we’ll call it that.  Joy and I were enjoying our annual summer camping trip in beautiful Manning Park.  Every year since about 1995 we’ve reserved the group campsite and joined up to 50 family and friends for anywhere from five days to two weeks of glorious lakeside camping. The Lightening Lakes are at our campsite doorstep and Mount Frosty offers an 8,000 foot challenge to all who come each and every year.  There’s something for everybody as we languish in the solitude of our private camp grounds.

Living in tents, tent trailers, motor homes, trailers and campers, we are a group of friends who eagerly anticipate the get together every year.  There are a few of us who enjoy one pastime more than the rest.  We enjoy our fishing.  The Lightening Lakes are loaded with small cutthroat trout.  The chain of five lakes is stocked each year, and though they are small, they are feisty and very, very tasty.  At least once every year the fishermen ensure that anyone in the campsite gets a feed of trout if they so desire.

For me, the very best Manning holidays must include lots of fishing from my canoe.  I’ll do the hikes, climb the hills and mountains, but the fishing is like paddling in a post card so how can I resist.  Each spring, about March, I take an afternoon and get my fly tying gear out.  I tie sufficient flies not only for me, but to share with anyone else who may need them at Manning that summer.  My fly tying afternoon is a part of the ritual that prepares me for the holiday as I struggle with the anticipation of this, my favourite summer activity.

In about 1996 or 97 I invented a trout fly specifically for the Lightening Lakes.  I’d observed the flies that seemed to work and in devising this one I incorporated a lot of the features that seemed to be effective in these lakes.  I suppose the predominant feature of my fly was the peacock hurl that I use in the body.  It emits an iridescent glow that I’m sure the fish are attracted to.  It’s a small fly, on a number ten hook usually, and aside from the flash of peacock green, it has grey, brown and black in its construction.  As it turns out, the fly is effective in almost any lake, river or stream I’ve tried it in.  Flies come in many and varied sizes.  There are as many shapes and colours as one can imagine. Some have names like “Wooly Bugger” or “Tom Thumb”.  Others have less imaginative names such as “Mosquito”, “Shrimp” and “Gnat”. My fly, however, had no name. It just worked.  I tied it each year, put it on the end of my line and it caught fish.  But it had no name.  That was all to change in the summer of 2002.

I’m always happiest when Bryson and Melanie are able to come with their families, and this year saw Bryson camping for a few days. A priority for me is time fishing with Bryson.  I used to take him fishing when he was a little guy in Bella Bella, then in Ottawa we’d actually take a Father and son spring camping/fishing trip together. Later, in Tofino, he developed a love of fishing that grew in proportion to his body.  He once caught a 62 lb skate off a dock with one of his little fishing buddies.  A few years later he registered an official “Tyee”, catching a 40 lb salmon there in the waters off Tofino.  To be able to fish with my son is one of the very best times of my life.

On this particular day we’d taken off from camp early in the afternoon.  We’d paddled down to the far end of the second lake and spent the afternoon fly casting and catching trout.  We caught so many fish with my unnamed fly that we released most of the fish throughout the afternoon.  We did keep our limit of eight fish, but we must have released 20 to 30 trout altogether that afternoon.  It was a time to be remembered and treasured with my son.

Turning for home, about a 20 minute paddle away, Bryson and I powered the canoe up the lake.  The canoe flew over the water with both of us reveling in our fitness and ability to make this thing go fast.  It was all part of a great afternoon together.  I treasure these times with Bryson.  As we approached the narrows at the bridge between the two lakes we slowed our pace.  There was a bit of canoe traffic, people swimming and even a few canoes with folks casting into the deep cut of the banks of the lake at the narrows.

As we paddled past one canoe with a singular man casting and retrieving his fly, I greeted him with a “Hi –  how’s the fishing?”

“Pretty bad” he said, turning to look at us as his fly drifted at full length of his cast.  “You guys get any?”  We let our canoe drift to a stop beside his.

Proudly I lifted the string with 8 nice trout shining in the sun.  “We did great! We’ve got our limit here and we threw a lot back.”  I put the fish back in the bottom of the canoe.  I didn’t want to rub it in too hard.  I know the feeling of no fish when others are loading up. No fisherman can claim to “always” catch fish.  If he does, he’s a liar!

“That’s great!”  He seemed genuine in his praise.  “What did you get them on?”  That’s a usual question that sometimes solicits a one of those fisherman’s lies from an over protective and secretive fisherman.  In my case though I’ll usually tell anyone what I used, and this time would be no different.

“I don’t know the name of it.”  I offered as I lifted my fly rod.  I released the fly from its catch loop on the rod and dangled it so he could see if from his canoe.  “I invented it and never named it.  It just catches a lot of fish so I keep tying it.”

“If it’s that good, you should name it after yourself.” The friendly fisherman offered.

He has a point, I thought.  But before I could even contrive a name for my fly from “Ed Hill”, Bryson spoke up.

“Asshole!” he said.  Our fisherman acquaintance looked a little stunned as we paddled away, but my trout fly had been named.  No matter what name I ever tried to dub this trusty fly with, it would forever be tagged with the name Bryson had given it that day at the narrows of the Lightening Lakes.  We all had a good laugh, and as we paddled away I knew my fly now had a name.  Someday, if others learn to tie that particular pattern, it may end up in fishing shops in the little bins that the flies display in.  I don’t’ know what they’ll call it, but I know what they should call it. From this day forward it will always be known as “Asshole”, named after its creator.

Retirement has been a wonderful time for me.  All of these 6 or 7 years later I can look back and easily say that these have, in many ways, been overall the very best years of my life.  Retirement has allowed me the opportunity to pursue those things that are a priority to both me and to my wife, Joy.  Time spent with family, grandchildren and friends is perhaps the most important thing of all.  I love to fly-fish and explore the wilderness around me.  Joy and I savour all that the fall brings as we collect wild mushrooms and wild mountain huckleberries.  Together we paddle on the ocean a couple of times a week in huge outrigger canoes.  We actually paddle twelve months a year here in the wondrous place of Gibsons, the place we call home.

In short, we try to stay very active in these “sunset” years of retirement.  One of the things we do is walk both as a means of exercise and as a time of reflection.  And one of the very nicest of walks is at Bonniebrook Beach.  I’ve done several paintings of the Bonniebrook area simply because it is such a beautiful and inspiring place, particularly as the sun casts its final warming rays of the day at you as it drops behind the mountains of Vancouver Island.

It was on one such evening, as we walked together, that we stopped to sit and just watch as the day came to a close.  There on that bench at Bonniebrook we soaked up the final warmth of the fall day that had been.  A time of relaxation, it was also a time of reflection.  In this time of life after a career one does come to realize that this is a part of the cycle of life that’s closer to the end than the beginning.  It is appropriate to reflect and remember, and what a perfect place to do it.

I suppose then that the title of this piece speaks not only of the immediate time and place we found ourselves on that evening of the fall of 2008; it speaks too of our time of life in retirement.  I found a comfort on that warm evening with Joy, but I also found a wonderful satisfaction at this particular time of our lives together.  My painting speaks of my appreciation of the opportunity for Joy and I to spend – SUNSET TOGETHER.

It was July 5^th, 2011 and it was getting late.  The PULLING TOGETHER canoe journey had left Toquaht at eight in the morning and it was now almost nine in the evening. Our fleet had paddled from Toquaht, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, to Nettle Island in the Broken Group archipelago.  From there, our flotilla of canoes and over 250 people had been “rescued” and transported to Bamfield some thirteen kilometers over Imperial Eagle Channel. Too exposed to the open ocean for a fleet of so many canoes and people, the decision had been made weeks earlier that everyone would be towed or transported from Nettle Island to Bamfield.  In what turned out to be an epic evacuation, everyone made it safe and sound that day with the help of an armada of agencies and various motor vessels.

It took much longer than planned though simply because the restless waters of Imperial Eagle Channel dictated that our plans of towing more than one giant canoe at a time couldn’t be executed.  So, rather than arrive at Bamfield at five in the afternoon, we were now drifting on the calm waters just out of sight of the community at almost nine in the evening.  We were waiting for the last two canoes to arrive on a huge landing craft that had assisted in the evacuation of Nettle Island.

Being late had its rewards though.  The light that evening, as the sun found the western horizon, was haunting and magical.  The distant mountains glowed in a surreal palette of colours and hues. The waters wore a majestic cloak that hinted of royal purple, appropriate for waters known as “Imperial”.  The stillness of the evening soothed even the most restless canoe crew.  Waiting for those last canoes, even though we were hours late on this evening, was a calming medicine.

Then, as the canoe called Soul Entry paddled past on our starboard side, the entire scene came into focus for the artist within. The silhouette of that very special canoe spoke of the past.  How many times over thousands of years had such a silhouette been seen in these waters?  That classic line of a west coast canoe is older than memory.  This canoe, previously owned by Chris Cooper, has seen years of experience here on the west coast of Canada but it pales in its acquired stories and wisdom to ancient canoes of similar design.  No, as we sat waiting in our canoes that evening, and as we watched the silhouettes of our fleet lazily ply the ocean waters, we were witnessing the distant past play before our eyes.  We in our canoes were merely one microcosm of time in the continuum of canoes on these west coast ocean waters.  Being late has its merits, if only we can learn to relax and understand.  As an artist, I guess I saw that when this image came to me as we waited that evening, the image of Soul Entry at Bamfield.

It’s a simple story really, perhaps the shortest, simplest story of all my paintings.  In July of 2011 I took part in the PULLING TOGETHER canoe journey that would see us start in Tofino and finish some ten days later in Port Alberni.  The journey was full of weather, drama, fun, excitement and delays, but that’s another story.

One of our legs of travel took us from the small First Nations settlement of Itattsoo near Ucluelet to the equally small community of Toquaht Bay.  What should have been a relatively short day of paddling turned into a rather long day of sitting and waiting for rescue.  It was decided that we’d take a detour to a beautiful island in the Broken Group archipelago, Benson Island.  Sacred to the local native people, it was decided we’d take the hour paddle out, have a visit there and come back.

The west coast ocean tides and winds had other plans.  Our fleet of over two hundred people made it to Benson Island all right, but we’d not paddle back that day.  We had to be rescued over the next five hours or so, and I was in charge of the logistics.  While others were able to relax in the sun on the small, protected beach, or wander the gorgeous little island exploring, I was left to co-ordinate with all the rescue vessels as they came for canoes and people.

Throughout it all though a prominent rock at the north end of the beach kept catching my eye.  At its summit was one of those hallmark naturally bonsaied trees that’s omnipresent on the west coast.  More than the tree though, that stately rock kept demanding my attention.  It was apparent.  I’d have to paint that rock.  It didn’t take long, a few scrambled steps over the beach and rocks and I had my vantage point.  I took a few photographs and returned to my duties.

Back in Gibsons, in December, I painted what would be my last image of 2011.  It’s a simple story really, perhaps the shortest, simplest story of all my paintings.  I just had to do the painting I now call “The Rock At Benson Island”

The day, sunny, crystal clear, gave no hint of the impact it was to have on Ed Hill and Lyall Nanson so many years later.  Some seven or eight years before it would ever become an artist’s image, the colourful painting “SUMMERTIME DREAM” was surely born on that day in the early 1980’s.  Ed Hill was driving towards Vancouver when to his left, just outside of Abbotsford, B.C.; he noticed numerous hot air balloons just lifting from a field.  Though Hill kept driving, he turned to look as often as traffic would allow. Even as he was well past the rising balloons Hill persisted in stealing every glimpse he could of the captivating and powerful shapes and colours.  At one point he looked into his driver’s side rear view mirror and there was the image.  Three of the kaleidoscope spheres were visible in his small circular mirror and in the background – majestic Mount Baker.  Those colours, the sharp, crisp lines and the symmetry of the moment gave Hill a feeling that he didn’t recognize at the time.  The impact of that crisp imagery hit hard however, and endured through the years.

In the spring of 1991 Ed Hill and Lyall Nanson were talking.  Both had collaborated in producing a serigraph to commemorate the departure of the Beachcombers CBC television series from Gibsons in 1990 (Beachcomber Farewell).  The two had become friends and often talked of ideas, inspirations and ongoing projects.  It was Nanson who said he was hoping to do a painting of hot air balloons and the very words as they were spoken went straight to their mark.  The image of that hot clear afternoon many years in the past came back to Hill with clarity and impact.  The two artists talked of what Hill had seen.  The image of so many yeas ago now caught both artists and, as they had worked with each other before, they agreed to “….just one more project” together.

In April of 1991 both traveled to Mount Baker, Washington on a perfect west coast spring day.  They experienced the blinding white snow, the sky deep with an unwavering blue and the clear sharp lines of contrast between rock, ice and deep powder snow.  Probably no balloon has ever drifted over those peaks that the two men saw that day but as artists, they felt a privilege in being able to paint the image they could both see so vividly.  Those balloons of colour and silent serenity were real to both artists.  They wanted their impression on paper.  It had to be expressed.  Their painting was completed in the spring of 1991. It was as they had imagined it – no – as they had seen it!  In effect they had shared with each other, and now with you, their ‘SUMMERTIME DREAM”.

The subject of this painting is a very special fly rod. The edited narration below tells the story.  The full story is a part of my family book I’ve written for my kids and grand-children.  If you own a limited edition canvas of this image, you own a piece of my family’s history.

Ed Hill, Artist

In the fall of 2009 I attended in a very special event. That past summer Joy and I had participated in the annual PULLING TOGETHER canoe journey.  That summer’s event had taken us the full length of Okanagan Lake and Skaha Lake.  I’d helped organize the journey for the Sunshine Coast crew. We were the largest contingent at the event, and the largest contingent to have ever come from the Sunshine Coast.  At our peak we were up to 48 people traveling on that journey in one capacity or another.

I’ve been organizing canoe journeys since 1997’s VisionQuest Canoe Journey. This year though a new participant came along.  Kerry Mahlman is the Principal of the Aboriginal program for School District #46.  While she’d sent students on our journeys before, this was the first year she’d come on the journey.  Apparently she was impressed with what she saw and experienced.  At the fall “Welcome Home” event that we held at Chatelech High School in Sechelt, we thanked community members who had helped us by sponsorship and the like.  Among those being thanked were the likes of the Superintendant of Schools, Deborah Palmer, who had helped us financially, and Josh Romer from The Source Sporting Goods.  He’d helped us with reduced rates on all necessary camping gear for our crew.

Then, there was a surprise for me.  Kerry called me to the center of the circle and presented me with a very special gift as a thank you for my efforts.  She is an artist and a craftswoman.  She makes split cane fly rods and as such she’d made me one.  She knew of my love of fly-fishing.  She even named it the  “Ed Hill Tribute Fly Rod”.  She also gifted me with a silk fly line and a reel to complete the package. Upon receiving it, I told her and the people present that it would forever be a family heirloom.  I would cherish it and use it, enjoy the casting and the catching, but it would be treated with the respect of the most treasured family possession.  I was humbled and honoured by the thought and the extravagant gift. To whoever in my succession holds this rod, please treat it with the respect it deserves.  It is truly your honour to hold such a piece of art. Use it.  You have a responsibility though.  Each future owner of this rod must catch a trout with it before passing it on to the next generation of the Hill family.  As you do, know that I am there to witness that event.  As this rod passes through the generations, know that each of us who has owned it in succession is there too with you.  Welcome to the family tradition created by my friend Kerry Mahlman.