The Boneyard

It was an early start on a cold clear damp morning. We were traveling to the coast for a Northwest getaway week of plein air painting, just us two gals. We stopped at one of my favorite places to break up the long drive, Camp 18. It's a log cabin restaurant on the river with acres of retired logging equipment and defunct railroad cars, a demonstration spot and a little red caboose lavatory. 

Sun was barely inching above the fir trees, pushing its rays through the mist creating a glare with an air of mystery, and glistening off all the dewy grass and weeds. And there, semi-hidden under a clump of firs, were all the rusted orange and some silver-blue bolts and chains and cogs and wheels and hooks and all manner of once-working machinery fragments.

I can't describe my gut reaction - but I gasped a deep breath of that cold moist air and could not get enough of the myriad shapes in matte burnt orange against the yellow-lit grass and glaring white mist. I KNEW this was going to make a great painting, or a series!

We still had a long distance to get to our destination, so after a visit to the little red caboose, we had to move along. But that image of worn and broken rusted bones under the firs stuck with me all week long. I remember it like it was yesterday - probably always will. And I hope it does not get cleaned up before I make it there on another sojourn to the coast.

Inv #5780