Early last month, August of 2009, I noticed a new name had been added to the email list that gets these newsletter mail outs of the digital images of my paintings along with the corresponding short stories. The new name on the list was Christine Martin. The email address for her that was put on the list was Christine@toddevents.com. Since people are frequently signing up on my web site for these newsletter mail outs, I didn’t think too much about it, however I remember wondering who she was and also, I remember thinking that the “toddevents” in her email address must be some sort of company name. Little did I know then, that soon she and that company would become a big part of my life.

Along about the middle of last summer, Gary and Carole Holliman, owners of PrideRock Wildlife Refuge, told me that a big fund raiser was being planned for them to be on September 24, 2009, in Dallas, Texas. Gary requested for me to consider donating something to be auctioned at the fund raiser.

As most of you would know, in my return to the art world, Gary and Carole Holliman and their PrideRock Wildlife Refuge have played a big part in this effort to learn to draw and paint again. In September of 2007, they gave me the opportunity to start spending time with their lions, tigers, cougars and wolves to learn how to draw and paint them. Since then, my wife Corinne, and I have become friends with Gary and Carole at PrideRock and we try to help support them in whatever way we can in their effort to care for their twenty seven big cats that they have rescued from bad situations. Visit their web site, www.priderock.org and watch the recently added news video clip.

As I learned more about the planned fund raiser, Gary said that one of their new volunteers works for an event planner in Dallas and that she wanted to do something special to help them. Gary told me that her name is Christine Martin and that she works for a company named Todd Events. The light clicked on in my brain, I remembered that name was on my newsletter email list. On the internet, I looked up “Todd Events” and learned that they are a large company in Dallas that does special events. You can see what Christine Martin looks like, as I did, by clicking on their web site under the section Todd and The Gang.

The fund raiser event is named “Lions and Tigers and Cougars (oh my) a priderock wildlife refuge fundraiser”. It will be held on Thursday, September 24, 2009, 6:30 PM to 9:30 PM, at The Apartment, 1444 Oak Lawn Ave., #206, Dallas, Texas. You can purchase tickets by clicking on to www.priderock.org. It is going to be a big event and all of you are invited. 

I contacted Christine by email to discuss how I might participate in the fund raiser. Since then, she, Gary and I have done a lot of emailing back and forth. Carole told me that Christine’s favorite animal at the refuge is Jake, one of their big African lions. When she told me that, I happened to be in the middle of doing this watercolor portrait of Jake. After finishing the portrait, which turned out rather good I think, I decided that my contribution to the fund raiser would be this original watercolor portrait of him. The size of the painting is 15” x 22” and it has a double white acid free mat and is framed in a 24” x 30” polished wood frame.

We have decided that this portrait of Jake will be in a silent auction at the fund raiser. This is where people can bid on the painting by putting their name and bid on the auction sheet in front of the painting. They can increase their bid up to the cut-off time at the fundraiser. We have not yet decided what the starting bid or the minimum incremental bids will be, however the starting bid will probably be around $500 with incremental bids of $25.

Gary and I have been discussing how each of you can participate in the silent auction for this painting of Jake. If any of you would like to participate in the silent auction to bid on this watercolor portrait of him, Gary can act as your proxy and put your bid or bids on the silent auction sheet up to the bid limit you have authorized him to make in your behalf. You can contact Gary by email, hollimang@gmail.com, or telephone him at 1-214-926-0029, to discuss with him the details.

I hope to meet those of you that can come to the fundraiser. It will be fun to put faces with the names that are on my newsletter email list.

I think Christine Martin deserves some “pats on the back” for not only working as a volunteer to scoop up the poop and clean the big cat pens but to conceive and put together this fund raiser. Her email address is Christine@toddevents.com, please send her your words of appreciation.

Cheers,

Acree

GAS Pressure

It was 6:00 AM last Tuesday morning and I was on the way to the beach on Galveston Island. I was trying to get there by sunup to do a “plein air” painting. I hoped to do a watercolor painting of a sky with beautiful early morning colors and the incoming breaking waves of the ocean coming onto the sandy beach. At least, that was my plan. “Plein air” is the new catch word in the art world for paintings that are done outdoors. Why did I want to this, it is because I have GAS pressure.

In July of last year, 2008, I started doing watercolor paintings again after a layoff of about thirty five years. By December of last year, I had rejoined the Watercolor Art Society – Houston, commonly referred to as WASH. I used to belong to this group back in 1975. They have monthly juried art exhibits. I started entering some paintings for these exhibits a few months ago. It is their custom to have receptions after each exhibit has been hung for about a week for the members and their guest to view all the new paintings and for the winners to receive recognition for their awards. About two months ago, at one of these receptions, one of the WASH members , a gentleman about my age named Erik --that generally wins an award-- came up to me and introduced himself. After some conversation, he invited me to join a sub-group of WASH named the Geriatric Art Society also known as the GAS group. They go on trips from time to time and do “plein air” paintings. At the end of each day, after as sufficient amount of liquid courage from Happy Hour, they, as a group, critique the paintings done by the members that day. I accepted the invitation. The next day, I began to envision my first time to present a painting, done in plein air, for their critique and began to feel some GAS Pressure.

The next GAS painting trip is scheduled for October 25^th through the 29^th in Nacogdoches, Texas. The only problem is that I have not done any “plein air” paintings since the early 1970’s. So I figured I had better start practicing to hopefully avoid the first critique to be an embarrassment. I started collecting the things I need for painting outdoors such as a folding chair, something to put the palette of paints and water container on, boards to put the paper on and etc.

On Monday I had finished getting all the things I needed to do a plein air painting. Tuesday morning, I awaken early and decided this is the day. So I packed up and took off for Galveston.

On the way down Interstate 45, as I passed downtown Houston, I could see in the distance down toward Galveston lightening and storm clouds. About half way between Houston and Galveston, the sun came up and filled the sky with beautiful colors. I had hoped to already be at the beach so I was running late. I decided to go to East Beach and after some driving around, I found a place where I could park my Tahoe and set my stuff up to start painting.

There were still some storm clouds and the incoming waves were just right and some fishermen arrived and waded out into the surf and started fishing. So I set my stuff up and just as I was picking up a pencil to start sketching the painting outline, a voice over my shoulder said: “Hello, do you mind if I film you while you do your painting?” Startled I looked around and standing there back of me was a pleasant faced man with a camera. About the last thing I wanted was the evidence on film of a complete painting disaster. Not knowing just what to say, I mumbled a hello and said that he could film me. I finished the pencil outline and picked up a 2 inch brush and started painting. My new friend, named Ed, started filming and talking to me. As the painting progressed I learned his life story.

He and his wife were moving to Galveston. She had a job with The University of Texas Medical Branch (UTMB) here in Galveston and he was looking for a job. In Dallas, he had been on the staff of Southwestern Medical School in Dallas, Texas. Well we had a lot of things in common to talk about, since I had been associated with UTMB, in various ways, since about 1968 and at one time in my life I was responsible for doing the Master Plan for the expansion of Southwestern Medical School.

To do a plein air watercolor painting, you can’t mess around with a bunch of small brushes and a lot of colors. So I decided to do the painting wet in wet and use only the big 2 inch flat brush except for the final details. I wet the paper down and mixed up the paint for the first wash and took off. It was going fast, including the conversation, when suddenly I dropped my brush in the sand. Dismayed, I picked up the brush, now covered with salty sand, and wondered what to do. I decided the only thing to do was to keep on painting. Maybe the salty sand will add character to the painting.

Things were happening and changing fast. Every time I looked up the clouds had moved, the sun had moved, the waves had moved, cars were driving by, fisherman were standing in the way and Ed, my new companion, was telling me about a new chapter in his life and then I dropped my brush in the sand again. Now, I had a lot of sand to deal with. I tried to keep calm and keep on painting.

After about thirty or forty minutes, the painting was looking like it was finished. I got up and stood the painting up in the back of the Tahoe so I could back off and evaluate it. I decided that I shouldn’t touch it anymore. I looked, but couldn’t find any sand on it. I know it is there, I just couldn’t find any. My new companion commented that he wished he had the money to buy it.

Considering that this is my first “plein air” painting done since the early 1970’s, what are your comments? I see a lot of room for improvement, but maybe it is not a bad start. Feel free to give me your critique. It will help me get ready for the pressure of the first critique by the other artist in the GAS group that will be on the painting trip to Nacogdoches.

Cheers,

Acree  

For the last few hours I have been studying this painting of Zoe, which I have just finished, or at least I am trying to finish. I keep making changes. Of course, each time I make a change, it is a gamble, I can make it better, or I can ruin it. I guess I had better quit, before I screw it up, and just declare it to be finished. As I look at the painting, I am thinking about Zoe and what she has meant to me. I saw her last Thursday morning. Since I had not seen her in several months, I am not sure if she remembered me or not. In the past, she would come to the fence and purr wanting me to scratch her. This time, she came to the fence, looked me in the eye, bared her teeth and hissed. Maybe she was just mad at me for being gone so long. I went to the fence and knelt down on my knee by her and put my hand out to her. She didn’t move, but she quit hissing and just stared at my eyes. She has very large beautiful green eyes.

Zoe is a red Florida panther that lives at PrideRock Wildlife Refuge near Terrell, Texas. She is about five years old and weighs 112 pounds. Until she arrived at PrideRock on June 19^th of 2005, she had grown up in the home of a young couple that lived in Montgonery County, Texas. There she had her own room with a window so she could go to and come from her outside enclosure. She is very much like a domestic housecat in that she purrs, meows and enjoys being petted and scratched by humans.

On my visits to PrideRock, I always approach her pen with great anticipation. She is just so beautiful and is so expressive with her eyes. She seems to know “how to strike a pose” for us photographers.

As most of you know, I am a retired architect that is now devoting my time to drawing and painting. I started drawing again in September of 2006, after a thirty five year lay off. At first, I did pen and ink drawings of animals and birds until I started doing watercolor paintings again in July of 2008. So I have been doing watercolor paintings now for only about thirteen months. I am still searching for the style and subject matter that I should devote my time toward. I do enjoy doing landscape paintings, especially of the Texas hill country and West Texas and I intend to continue doing them from time to time. Even though the subject of wildlife for art is not in favor at this time, I guess that is where my main interest is so that is what I will continue to do.

I have decided that my mission statement will be: “My mission is to strive through my drawings, paintings, writings and public appearances to portray our wild animals – whether in the wild or in the refuges – in their most noble and peaceful state to help in their protection, preservation and sustainability.” So what should be my style and subject matter.

I liked the style and technique that I developed for doing my pen and ink drawings, especially of the big cats from PrideRock. Also, in doing the drawings of the PrideRock big cats, there was a human interest theme that appealed to a lot of people – “retired architect that now does drawings of wildlife to help support a wildlife refuge”. However, people in the art business advised me that the pen and ink drawings lacked color which is necessary to market art work. I tried, without much success, to add color to the pen and ink drawings.

About a month ago, I started doing watercolor paintings of the big cats at PrideRock. In doing these watercolor paintings, I have kind of merged my pen and ink drawing technique with my watercolor painting technique. I like the results and the comments from those that have already seen the paintings of Nia and Jake have been very favorable. Now, I have another painting using this style and technique that is of Zoe for you to comment on. Hopefully you will like it. 

This medium, style, technique and subject matter may be just where I belong. What do you think? I would appreciate your thoughts and comments.

Cheers,

Acree

It is just after lunch and getting warm. It seems like everybody is taking a nap. I am at PrideRock Wildlife Refuge just north of Terrell, Texas, taking photos of their lions, tigers, cougars and wolves. I am getting a little sleepy too and I am considering taking a nap also since it looks like the photo session is over until later this afternoon when everybody will be up anticipating being fed.

Standing near the gate to Jake’s pen watching him lying on one of his raised platforms on his back with his feet up in the air sound asleep, he reminded me of one of our housecats, named Simba, that will sleep in the same position. Jake is one of their large male African lions.

Everything is just real quite when suddenly Jake rolls over and his head comes up in full alert. He is looking in the opposite direction from me. I couldn’t see anything that would have awaken him and was wondering what he was looking at when I heard the low roar of an approaching large jet airplane.

As the airplane got closer, I could tell it was very low and was coming straight towards us. As it got closer, Jake was standing up and in full alert. When I could see the airplane over the trees, I could tell that it was a large jet airliner, with the its flaps down, going slow just above stalling speed, and it was very low and very noisy.

As the plane slowly roared by overhead, Jake followed along the fence, looking up at the airplane, toward the gate where I was standing. When he got to the gate, growling low, he watched, over my shoulder, the airplane disappear over the trees.

When the sound of the airplane had faded away, he did another deep growl and turned, raised his tail and shot a great big squirt through the gate. I knew what was coming when I saw him raising his tail and quickly started backing up, however I wasn’t quite fast enough. He got me good and he seemed so satisfied. He couldn’t get to that noisy airplane, but it was easy to show that guy standing at the gate who was boss.

Cheers,

Acree

This is my third attempt to do a painting of Nia a white tigress that lives at PrideRock Wildlife Refuge. In the first two attempts, I left the background white the same as the hair between the stripes. On this painting, I made the background dark and about the same darkness (called value in artistic lingo) as the stripes. However the background is a cool dark blue and the stripes are really a warm dark brown.

The really unusual thing about this painting is that our dog, Texas, a big chocolate lab, paid me one of the highest compliments that I have ever received for one of my painting.

It is my custom in doing a painting to let the painting “cool off” for a day or two while I decide whether or not something needs to be done to it. I generally will put the painting in a temporary mat and place it somewhere where I can look at for a day or two before making the final corrections or additions.

One of my favorite places to put a new painting in the “cooling off period” is in the Family Room on the hearth in front of the fireplace door grilles. The hearth is about sixteen inches high and wide enough to place the painting.

Day before yesterday, when I had finished this painting and had it in a temporary mat, I went downstairs and placed it on the hearth in front of the fireplace. It was about time for the evening news to come on TV, so I walked through the kitchen, where my wife Corinne, was preparing the evening meal. Our dog, Texas, was in the kitchen with Corinne. He follows her everywhere she goes.

About the time I had Katie on for the TV news, all hell broke loose in the Family Room. Corinne was going through the Family Room, with Texas following, to check on the laundry in the Utility Room. Texas, trotting by the hearth, had spotted this painting of Nia and was in full alarm bark with his hair on his back standing straight up. He would try to get up close enough to smell it and then jump back and go back into full alarm bark.  He was convinced that there was a tiger in our fireplace looking at him. Corinne got alarmed that he might attack the painting. After about twenty minutes we convinced him that it was just a painting and not a real tiger, however, he still has reservations and will not go near it.

Now this dog has seen hundreds of my drawings and paintings of animals before on this hearth over the last few years and never paid much attention to them. However, he thought this one was a real live tiger. If I like for my drawings and paintings to be realistic, then I guess he paid me about as high of a compliment as I can get.

Cheers,

Acree Carlisle

Suddenly, from a deep sleep, my eyes flew open. I was looking at the dark ceiling of my bedroom. As my consciousness began to focus, a strong voice in my brain was saying “Paint only the stripes with no shadows or shading, leave as much white paper as possible, use only blue for the eyes, red for the nose and burnt sienna under the chin.” Now wide awake, I rolled over and looked at the clock, eight minutes after four in the morning.

Now I could remember that the day before I had been attempting to do a watercolor painting of Nia, a white tigress that lives at PrideRock Wildlife Refuge. My plan was to do a dark background to contrast the whiteness of the tiger. I planned to do the dark background of the painting by using a wet painting technique. This is a technique in watercolor painting where the colors are put on a very wet surface and moved around and blotted out until the painting is mostly done. I had recently done that successfully doing the sky for the last landscape painting of Palo Duro Canyon and I was feeling somewhat confident that I could do it again for this painting.

To do this wet technique, the artist has to have a good plan and all the colors and towels ready before starting, because once started, things happened fast. I had it all ready and picked up my big round, #36 brush, wet the paper and started applying Ultramarine Blue and Burnt Umber. At first it was looking pretty good and had great potential, however it was hard to get it dark enough, so I kept adding more color. Things began to get out of control and then it quickly got worse. Then I changed my game plan, I will just make this kind of an abstract type design. That wasn’t working either, so late the night before, I had looked at the unfinished painting with its muddy colors and wondering if I was looking at a masterpiece or just a disaster. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that it was a disaster and it was time to give up and go to bed.

As an architect, I had spent a lifetime of trying to solve problems. I learned early in my career that if I had a problem that I couldn’t solve, I could often get a solution by breaking the problem down into its parts before I went to sleep at night. Then upon waking the next morning, often I would know the solution to the problem. I think that is what happened here with the painting of Nia.

I rolled out of bed, got dressed, make coffee and got started.

I decided to use the technique that I had developed to do pen and ink drawings of animals. I first started with the eye. Moving out from the eye, all of the brush strokes to do the stripes were done in the direction of the hair pattern. No black was used. The stripes are made with French Ultramarine Blue and Burnt Umber. Sometimes I let the cool blue show and in other places I let the Burnt Umber dominate. I left the pencil outline.

As I finished the ear and was moving down onto the neck, Nia began to look real. I could see that this painting was going to be what I was looking for. I finished the painting in one day.

I like the looks of this painting, however I am prejudiced since I am the one that painted it. I need other opinions, email me your comments. Hopefully you will like it, however if you don’t like it, tell me and I will try to be a big boy and not get too offended.

Cheers

Acree

As I was doing this painting of The Palo Duro Canyon, I was thinking about a day long ago, May 23, 1541, when something happened at this canyon. What happened here at this canyon was that a young Spanish Conquistador and Explorer, who was only thirty one years old, had a celebration dinner here with his army. I don’t know much about the reasons why they were celebrating and had the dinner, but it happened here. That young man’s name was Francisco Vasquez de Coronado y Lujan. Now nearly all Americans know him now simply as Coronado.

To put in perspective just how long ago this day was, it was sixty seven years (two generations) before the first English settlers stepped on to land on May 13, 1607, on the eastern coast of North America.

Being a second son to a wealthy family in Spain, he was excluded from any of the family’s inheritance. So to be somebody, he had to go somewhere to make his fortune. When he was twenty five years old, he chose to go to The New World that had been discovered only 42 years before. Arriving in Mexico, he soon married a girl, Beatriz de Estrada, from a very wealthy and prominent family. He soon became the Governor of the Kingdon of Nueva Galicia in western Mexico.

Spain, involved in expensive European wars, needed gold. They had already conquered and looted the gold from the Aztec Empire in Mexico and the Inca Empire in Peru.

There was great speculation among the Spanish aristocracy in Mexico that perhaps another Indian Empire with more ship-loads of gold was somewhere north of Mexico in the vast unknown wilderness. In 1539, Governor Coronado sent Friar Marcos de Niza and Estevanico on an expedition to the north to see if they could locate the Indian Empire. Friar Marcos returned with great news, he had seen a large city on a hill named Cibola that was made of solid gold. Governor Coronado got the gold fever and immediately started making plans to find and conquer the city of gold.

As the plans were made, the cost of the expedition grew and grew. Govenor Coronado invests everything he owns, including the vast wealth of his wife, in the expedition. Viceroy Antonio De Mendoza of Mexico also becomes a major investor, however he wants verification that there is really a city of gold to the north. He sends a smaller expedition northward under the command of Melchor Diaz.

On February 23, 1540, Governor Coronado departs Compostela in Western Mexico leading an army of 335 Spaniards, 1300 Indians, four monks, an unknown number of Indian and black slaves and camp followers. They also had 1500 horses, several cannons, an unknown number of supply and camp gear carts and camp followers. The expeditionary force stretched for miles down the narrow trails. Also, ships, full of supplies, were sent northward up the Gulf of California to find a river to hopefully supply the army when they got further inland.

On the way, they met the small force returning from their exploration, sent by the viceroy to confirm whether or not there was actually a city of gold, and the commander, Melchor Diaz, reported to Coronado that they did not found any such city or any gold. Coronado ordered him not to discuss this with his soldiers. So from this point forward, Coronado knew, but his army did not know, there may not be any city of gold. I am sure that he agonized over what to do.

They would be gone for two years and would travel nearly two thousand miles northward through present day northern Mexico, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas. In New Mexico, they had given up on finding the golden city, Cibolo, however they had met an Indian that said there were seven cities of gold further to the north. They nicknamed the Indian, “The Turk”, brought him along as a guide and continued northward. They crossed the great grassy plains and named it The Llano Estacado. They found Palo Duro Canyon and had the celebration dinner. They continued on, but by the time they reached the Kansas River in present day State of Kansas, Cornado had lost faith. He had The Turk” tortured and he confessed there were no seven cities of gold. For this, he lost his life, he was executed. Devastated, Coronado gave up his dream of fame and riches and started the two thousand miles back down their trail.  Coronado and only one hundred of his army would live to return to Compostela.

Coronado had lost his entire investment and was soon in bankruptcy. Then to make matters worse, he was accused of and found guilty of atrocities against the Indians and was removed from office.

Defeated and broke, he moved his family to Mexico City and held a minor position until his health failed and he died in 1554. He was just forty four years old.

Cheers,

Acree

References:

Wikinedia.org

Education.texashistory.unt.edu

Elizabethan-era.uk

Library.thinkquest.org

Kwintessential.co.uk  

Last month, June of 2009, my wife, Corinne, and I visited The Palo Duro Canyon State Park in the Texas Panhandle. For four days, we stayed in the small town of Canyon, Texas, which is about twelve miles west of the park and about fifteen miles south of Amarillo, Texas. It rained every night and most of one day while we were there. This painting shows Palo Duro Canyon with a stormy sky and the late afternoon sun breaking through the cloud cover to light up the canyon.

This part of Texas was named Llano Estacado by Coronado in 1541 when he and his Spanish expedition passed through this area on their great exploration trip. There seems to not be a definite English translation of his name for the region, however “The Staked Plains” seems to be the most popular translation today. For hundreds of miles in each direction, this part of Texas appears to be a flat treeless grassland with very little natural access to water. Prior to the drilling of water wells by American pioneers, it was greatly feared by travelers and was inhabited only by bison, antelope and the Indians that hunted them. Now, there are some trees that are nearby farm homes, however it is still flat and the sky goes from horizon to horizon.

In geological terms, this vast area, is called an up lift and although not apparent to the human eye, it slowly slopes from the west to the east at about ten feet per mile. Over the last million years or so, a few creeks have developed that slowly eroded some canyons. The most spectacular of these canyons is Palo Duro Canyon. It is about 120 miles long, up to two to three miles wide and about 600 to 800 feet deep. It was formed by Palo Duro Creek that eventually becomes The Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River.

About the time that I was born in 1934, The State of Texas acquired about 26,000 acres of the most scenic area of the Palo Duro Canyon. This was at the time of the great Depression and President Roosevelt and Congress had established the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) to make jobs for young unemployed men. The CCC made a very large camp up on the plains near the park entrance and constructed the roads and buildings for the state park.

To me, to fully get the impact of Palo Duro Canyon, a person has to approach the canyon from up on the flat treeless grasslands of The Llano Estacado. The twelve mile trip on State Highway 217 from Canyon, Texas, across the flat grasslands to the park entrance helps to get the visitor in the proper frame of mind. So when you come to the rim of the canyon and first look down into its vastness of orange, red, green, lavender, gray, brown and yellow colors that seems to go on for forever, and with a sky that is uninterrupted from horizon to horizon, it is just simply breathtaking. The valley floor down in the canyon has creeks, trees, green grass, flowers, birds and lots of wildlife. When we were there, a pair of Mississippi Kites were soaring on the up drafts near the cliffs. I watched one fold up its wings and dive at a great speed for several thousand feet down to a ledge and catch some creature. I never grew tired or bored enjoying this view for every few minutes it would change, as the clouds and the sun moved, so did the colors, shades and shadows.

Decending down into the valley, Park Road 5 goes for five miles through the forest of cottonwood and elm trees crossing the red waters of Palo Duro Creek several times. We saw deer, turkey and lots of colorful birds. We saw a number of Painting Buntings with their blue head, lime-green back and red chest. Colorful flowers were everywhere.  

Down in the valley, there are camp grounds, picnic areas, and trails to follow. About five miles down the canyon the park road ends and there is a turn around. At this turn around, there is a historical marker as follows:

The Battle of Palo Duro Canyon, September 28, 1874

            One of the most significant battles of 1874-1875 Indian campaign; columns of troops converging from five directions harassed Indians on the Panhandle Plains for over six months. The 4^th Cavalry under Colonel Ronald S. Mackenzie, moving north from Fort Concho, tracked a large band of Indians to their secret canyon camp. Moving silently at dawn down a perilous path on the south rim, the first troops reached the floor of the canyon before the aroused camp fled. Some of the warriors took up positions on the canyon walls from which they fired on the troops, seeking to give their families time to escape. Realizing his tactical disadvantage, Mackenzie ordered the Indian camp and supplies burned and withdrew, taking 1,400 captured horses (1,000 of which he later destroyed). The cavalry suffered no causalities in the fight and only four Indian dead were counted. Having lost half their horses as well as all their supplies and shelter, the Indians drifted back to their reservations at Fort Sill and Fort Reno. (1967)

Since reading that historical marker, I have been reading about that battle. From what I can find out, a lot of the above statement is not exactly what happened that day, however the basic information is true. It is true that Col. Mackenzie and the 4^th Cavalry regiment did attack several large Indian villages of Kiowa, Cheyenne and Comanche Indians.  Since this canyon had been occupied by Indians for their winter camps for the last 12,000 years so it could not have been much of a surprise to find them there preparing their winter camp.  The Indians saw Col Mackenzie and his troops up on the cliff tops early in the morning looking for the trail down into the canyon. Nearly all of the Indians escaped, but did not get to take with them all of their horses, tepees and supplies. Col. Mackenzie and his troops burned their tepees and winter supplies and killed approximately 1,000 captured horses. About 400 of the best horses were given to their Tonkaway Indian Scouts. This battle would be the last major battle between US troops and the Plains Indians.

The Indians that did manage to escape, were left to face the extremely cold winter weather of the upper Texas plains without tepees, supplies and not enough horses. So through the winter months, those that survived and could make it, went to Fort Sill in western Oklahoma and surrendered.

The Quahada Comanche band led by a young chief, Quanah Parker, remained at large on the plains. Col. Mackenzie sent the Fort Sill physician and interpreter, Jacob J. Sturm, to find him and persuade him to bring his band of about 400 to Fort Sill and surrender. According to Dr. Sturm, the young chief after talking with him went to the top of a nearby mesa to ask his gods for guidance. A wolf trotted up to him and howled and then trotted toward Fort Sill. An eagle glided overhead and then whipped his wings in the direction of Fort Sill. His gods had given him their answer. He brought his band to Fort Sill and surrendered in June of 1875.

His father was the Comanche chief named Peta Nocona. (The town of Nocona, Texas is named after him.) His mother was a white captive named Cynthia Ann Parker who became the wife of Chief Nocona. She and her daughter, Prairie Flower, were captured by Texas Rangers, led by Captain Lawrence Sullivan Ross, in 1860. She was returned to her family in Texas, however after twenty four years living as a Comanche woman, she never adjusted to living with the whites again. After repeated attempts to run away, she spent most of her remaining years locked in a room. After her daughter died, she died in 1870. Some accounts say she starved herself to death and some say she died of influenza.

My hunch is it was probably some of both. She was just 43 years old at the time of her death.

Soon after Quanah and his band surrendered at Fort Sill, he asked Col Mackenzie to help him find out the fate of his mother and sister. Col. MacKenzie corresponded with the Parker family in Texas and relayed to Quanah that is mother and sister were dead. (Since there are several different accounts of his father’s death, I am not sure how or when he died.) Col. Mackenzie evidently recognized that this young, tall and slender Comanche chief with the blue-grey eyes, had great potential. He soon appointed him chief of all the Comanche Indians on the reservation. He advised the young Comanche to follow the ways of the white man. He took his advice.

He would become the recognized chief of all of the Comanche Indians, learn to speak English, become an eloquent speaker, be a regular official visitor to Washington, D.C., meet with and know President Theodore Roosevelt and be in his inauguration parade, have five wives and twenty five children, live in a large and well furnished twenty two room home called Star Mansion, own a large herd of cattle and horses, own a large farm, serve as a judge on the reservation court, be the major investor in a railroad, be friends with the major cattlemen of the day including Charles Goodnight and be one of the founders of the Native American Church Movement. By the time of his death in 1911, he was the wealthiest and most famous Native-American Indian in America. The town of Quanah, Texas, is named after him.

His name, evidently given to him by his mother, is the Comanche word for “fragrant”. It was customary in the Comanche culture for young men to change their childhood name, after reaching manhood, to something more fitting for a warrior. He chose to keep his boyhood name and to add the Parker family name. In looking at the many available photographs of this remarkable man, one thing stands out, he never tried to be anything other than to be a very proud Comanche Chief.  

A few months before his death on February 23, 1911, he had his mother’s body, Cynthia Ann Parker, moved from Anderson County, Texas, to the Fort Sill Military Cemetery and reburied on Chiefs Knoll so that he could be buried beside her.

The inscription on his tombstone reads:

            Resting Here Until Day Breaks

            And Shadows Fall and Darkness

            Disappears is

            Quanah Parker Last Chief of the Comanches

            Born 1852

            Died Feb. 23, 1911

Cheers

Acree Carlisle

References:

Quanah Parker, Comanche Chief, by William T. Hagan

Battle of Palo Duro Canyon, Wikipedia

Quanah Parker, The Handbook of Texas Online

Quanah Parker, Lone Star Internet

Quanah Parker biography, essortment.com

Quanah Parker, Wikipedia

Palo Duro Canyon, Excursia.com

The Llano Estacado,

Palo Duro Canyon, Wikipedia

Palo Duro Canyon, forttours.com

This painting is of the view from the roadside picnic area on Texas State Highway 17 up in The Davis Mountains of far West Texas. It is one of my favorite places to be. For one thing, I have so many memories that relate to this scene.

To get there from Houston, I travel west on Interstate 10. From Houston to Columbus, Texas, the scenery is very monotonous. It is flat farm land with most of the trees at or near farm houses. My wife hates this segment of the journey. From Columbus to San Antonio the scenery changes for the better to wooded rolling low hills. At San Antonio, we leave Interstate 10 and take the US Highway 90 west. My heart begins to race a little bit here for this is the beginning of West Texas. Seventy-five miles west of this exit is where I was born and grew up so from here on just about every turn in the road brings back a flood of memories.

Passing through Castroville, I always look over to the Landmark Inn. It was one, if not the first one, of the buildings west of San Antonio to have windows glazed with glass. The Olmsted brothers stayed in this inn in 1854 when they were traveling through Texas doing a travel log for The New York Times. One of the brothers, Frederick, later became a famous Landscape Architect. He designed Central Park in New York City. He wrote a book about their adventures in Texas, titled Olmsted’s Texas Journey. I have read this book several times.

Passing over the bridge of Hondo Creek, I cannot help but remember the story of Rev. Z. N. Morrill who asked his friends and neighbors to get on their horses and charge with him straight down the road into the face of the huge Mexican cannon loaded with grape-shot. This occurred in 1842, when the retreating Mexican army under General Adrian Woll had the seventeen year son of Rev. Morrill as a prisoner. General Woll left a rear guard near Hondo Creek. They had a huge cannon pointed back down the road. The leader of the pursuing Texan army, seeing the cannon, had decided not to advance any further against the retreating Mexican army. Listening to the beating drums of the retreating army, the Rev. Morrill got on his horse and rode up and down the Texan army line asking for volunteers to charge with him the cannon and help him try to save his son. The tragic story of what happened to the rear-guard Mexican soldiers manning the cannon and to the Texan volunteers with Rev. Morrill that charged it is an unknown story to most people today. Most people just drive over the bridge as if nothing ever happened there. I will tell you their story someday when I can keep the tears out of my eyes when I think about what happened to them.

Passing through Sabinal, I wonder about the day in 1928 when my parents were married there in the Court House. I know so little about that wedding day, yet it is kind of important to me since I am here writing this story.

In Knippa, I always stop and drive across the railroad tracks and find my grandfathers house. Now it is really close to being called just a “shack”. Gone are the rose gardens, fish ponds, bee hives, picket fences and the swing on the front porch.

Between Knippa and Uvalde at the old Kramer farm, I still look to see if my paint Shetland pony is in their pasture. She has been dead for nearly sixty years. Then, further on, there is the turn in the highway near Blue Mountain where my grandfather’s farm was. Their home, with all their possessions, burned in 1918. From what I can tell, my grandfather was never quite the same afterwards. Their windmill and water tank used to be right near the highway. A famous artist did a painting of that windmill with Blue Mountain in the background. I still see prints of that painting from time to time.

Getting near Uvalde, the memories just explode in my mind. Coming down the slope of US 90 into town, there is now a MacDonald’s restaurant located where there used to be a four room rent house. I was born in the front room of that rent house in 1934. Passing through town, there is the Willie De Leon Civic Center. Willie worked for my father, a general construction contractor, for all of his life. I have driven thousands of miles in a pick-up truck with Willie going to and from construction sites. Then there is the two-story boarded up building, the first constructed in Uvalde, where the founder of Uvalde, Reading Black, was murdered, as he was lying on the store’s counter top taking a nap, by his brother-in-law soon after the Civil War.

West of Uvalde, the trees start getting smaller and smaller. Finally near Bracketville the scenery is mostly brush and rocks. That is what we will see until we get to Del Rio. As a newly-wed living in Uvalde, I drove the 75 miles from Uvalde to Del Rio every day for about a year. I was the job foreman to construct the instrument landing facilities at Laughlin Air Force Base in Del Rio, Texas. That’s when the ultra-secret U2 spy plane was based there. During the day, an air force military policeman with a sub-machine gun rode in the back of my pick up truck when I was on the base, not to protect me, but to make sure I didn’t look at their secret airplane. West of Del Rio we drive through endless miles of brush, cacti and mountains. Finally we get to Alpine and turn north onto Texas Highway 118 toward Fort Davis on the southern side of The Davis Mounatins.      

In Fort Davis we take Texas State Highway 17 which follows Limpia Creek up into the mountains. The road starts climbing. With the higher elevation, there is more rainfall. Up in these mountains the valleys are at about 6,000 feet elevation and the mountain tops are up to and above 8,000 feet. Up here the average rainfall is 10 to 20 inches more than in the surrounding semi-desert country.

I have stopped at this roadside park many times over the years and always enjoy the view. It so happens that the ranch in this view once belonged to the brother of my son-in-law. The scene is very typical of The Davis Mountains with lots of grass, cacti, rocks, small oak trees and magnificent mountain vistas.

My sister had cerebral palsy so my mother, who cared for her all of her life, rarely got to go anywhere. I only made one trip with my mother where it was just the two of us. I took her to The Davis Mountains. We stopped here at this roadside picnic area and while looking at this scene one late afternoon, we got to talk, just the two of us.    

Cheers,

Acree

In this art business I find myself in, not everything goes forward. “Some days are diamonds and some days are stones” as Neil Diamond sings in his song. However, every once in a while something special happens. One just happened.

On May 30^th, I gave a talk to a small group of people at the Flower Mound Public Library in Flower Mound, Texas. In the audience, I noticed a woman and her preteen daughter. What caught my attention was that they had pencils and pads to take notes. After my talk and visiting with members of the audience that wanted to meet me, I looked for the woman and her daughter, however they had left. It crossed my mind that I would never know who they were and why they were there. I was wrong, I would learn who they were and they would become a part of my life. Perhaps the biggest benefit to me, in my endeavors to draw and paint again, is the people that it has brought into my life.

The theme of my talk was how I went about learning to draw and paint again after a thirty five layoff from the art world. I had brought examples of my drawings and paintings from the various stages and milestones in this endeavor. We had arranged them in the room starting with the early drawings and leading up to the latest large watercolor landscapes.

One of the most important stages in my return to painting was when I found the web site of PrideRock Wildlife Refuge and wrote to the owners, Carol and Gary Holliman, requesting permission to spend time with their lions, tigers, cougars and wolves. They invited me to come to their animal sanctuary. There I learned that all of their animals were rescued from difficult circumstances and some from abusive situations. Carol and Gary have dedicated their lives to provide a home for these unfortunate animals. I spent some time during my talk at the library telling the audience about my experiences at PrideRock. Each of the animals there has a distinct personality. I told them about my experiences with some of the animals there such as the large lions Gabriel, Jake and Pharaoh, and the tigers Niki, Nia, Nallah, Sinbad and Rambo, and the cougars Cherokee, Casey, Kelsey and Zoe. I told them about the day when I was petting Zoe, and she reached out and put her paw on my shoulder. I told them about the day when Casey accepted me and finally let me touch him.

When the talk at the library was over, we packed up and came home. I thought that event was over. I was wrong again.

A few days ago, Gary Holliman emailed me that somebody named Madison had sent them a letter along with a $45 donation. As it turns out, Madison is the preteen girl that was at my talk at the library with her mother. I have contacted her mother and obtained permission to share this letter with you. This is the letter.

Dear PrideRock,

Hello, I am Madison _____, age 11 from Flower Mound, TX. I was alerted to your cause when my Mom and I went to listen to a wildlife artist named Acree Carlisle. He told us about your wonderful sanctuary for mistreated wild animals. He told us about Pharaoh, and Casey, and all of those other amazing animals there. This year for my birthday, I had decided to gather donations from my guests to your cause. I hope every little bit can help, and that your idea may remain strong! I appreciate what you are doing, and hope to follow in your foot steps one day!

Signed,

Madison _______

P.S. Does PrideRock allow visitors?

I don’t know about you, but this letter got to me. It has rejuvenated me. I have sent to her, as a birthday present, a framed signed and numbered giclee print of Pharaoh with a special message on it for Madison. Also, in addition to my regular monthly donation to PrideRock Wildlife Refuge, I am going to make a special donation, in her honor matching her donation, of $45.00. In this time of need at PrideRock, I am hoping that each of you can join Madison and me to help Carol and Gary in their cause and also send a tax deductible donation of $45.00 to honor Madison. Their mailing address is:

PrideRock Wildlife Refuge

Attention: The Madison Fund

17194 CR 329

Terrell, Texas 75161-0225 

Cheers,

Acree Carlisle

This scene is in Big Bend National Park. The mountain in the background is Dogie Mountain and in the middle distance is Rough Run Creek. When I paint, I think of many things. When painting this scene I got to enjoy all over again my visit to Big Bend with my grandson Nathaniel Duban earlier this spring. We had spend the previous night in Study Butte. It was just after sunup and we were on our way for the day’s adventures when I looked over to the left and saw the early morning sun shining on Dogie Mountain. We parked beside the road and walked out to the edge of Rough Run Creek and took some photographs that I used to design this painting. I added the Mockingbird to the painting. I cannot see or hear a Mockingbird without thinking of someone that I greatly admire.

His name was George Gist. His mother was a Cherokee Indian and his father was an English fur trader, so he was born a half-breed. He was born in a Cherokee Indian village in Tennessee about the time of our Declaration of Independence. As a boy, he was injured in a hunting accident that left him crippled for life. The Cherokees gave him an unflattering nickname, that in their language meant “Pig’s Foot”. His life did not start out well since he was crippled and not fully accepted in the Indian culture and not accepted in the white culture. For most of his life, things would not go well for him, yet today, his nickname is well known to all Americans because he achieved something that no other human being has ever done.

At an early age, his family moved along with some other Cherokees to Georgia. As a young man, he and some other Cherokees, enlisted to fight as allies with the United States, under the command of General Andrew Jackson, in the War of 1812 against the British and their Indian allies. During this war, he watched as couriers would arrive and hand the white officers something that to the Indians appeared to be leaves with marks on it. The Indians called these messages “talking leaves”. He began to grasp the concept that somehow the marks on the leaves told the officer something. He was intrigued with this thought and concept and became obsessed with it.

One day, while riding on horses with a band of fellow Cherokees along a road, there were Mockingbirds singing in the nearby trees. As he listened to the Indians talking and to the Mockingbirds unique singing manner of repeating sounds, he suddenly understood that their words consisted of various sounds and that some of the same sounds were used in different words. Then he understood that the marks on the leaves that the officers were looking at represented sounds and that combinations of those sounds then made words in the officer’s mind.

He became obsessed with this theory. He began to analyze Cherokee words to separate out the sounds. He would work on this for years. From a Bible, he borrowed the printed letters and numbers to use as a symbol for each sound. Eventually he identified eighty-six sounds in the Cherokee language. He taught his children and some of the other children in the tribe how to use the symbols to read and write the Cherokee language. The children thought it was fun, however the other adult members of the tribe and the tribal chiefs and elders thought that he was doing witchcraft. They were very concerned that he would anger their gods and the gods would cause great harm to their tribe. He had become a major problem for the tribe. His wife, terrified of their gods, burned his papers.

In 1821, he was called before the tribal elders. I suppose it was something like a trial. He brought some children with him that he had taught to read and write the Cherokee language using his symbols. They demonstrated to the elders how it was done. An elder would give a child a statement, the child wrote it down and passed it to another child that had been waiting outside who would then read the statement to the elders. They were amazed and decided it was not witchcraft afterall. He was given permission to teach others his system.

In the next few years, thousands of Cherokees learned to read and write their language. So Pig’s Foot’s status in the tribe changed from the crippled half-breed that did witchcraft

to a respected member of the tribe. In 1824 their National Council honored him with a silver medal that he proudly wore for the rest of his life. Many books were translated into their language. By 1828, the Cherokee nation was publishing a newspaper using his symbols. His symbols were now called the Cherokee Syllabary. He would live to become their statesman and diplomat and receive many honors.

The United States of America also honored him by naming the giant redwood trees in California and the national park where they are found after his nickname. Streets, schools, hospitals, hotels, restaurants, companies and an automobile bear his nickname. Even the yacht used by all of our presidents since Herbert Hoover bears his nickname.

The Cherokee word for Pig’s Foot, his nickname, is Sequoia.

Cheers,

Acree

 PS: I will be giving a talk at the Flower Mound Public Library, in Flower Mound, Texas, on Saturday, May 30^th at 1:00 PM.

            Man is the only animal who causes pain to others with no other object than wanting to do so.

Arthur Schopenhauer 1788- 1860

It is a cold, foggy and misty December morning just after daybreak in the deep brush country of Southwest Texas on the old Walcott Ranch in Webb County. A young deer hunter is slowly walking down a cow trail in the Mule Pasture. He is hunting the way he has been taught by slowly and silently walking in the sand of the trail. As he comes to a clearing in the brush and cactus, he stops behind a bush and waits while watching the clearing. He knows that wild animals watch for movement, so he waits motionless behind the bush waiting for an animal to move before he does. Nothing moves, so he moves on across the clearing and works his way to the next clearing. A coyote barks and then howls just ahead beyond some mesquite trees.

The young hunter walks even more slowly and cautiously. The cow trail winds its way through a dense whitebrush thicket. As the young hunter comes to the next clearing, again he stops behind a bush and waits. It is so quiet; he can hear his own pulse in his ears. He waits and watches. After waiting a few minutes, he sees a slight movement ahead in the fog. He watches and the movement becomes a coyote trotting down the trail toward him. Just after the coyote becomes clearly visible, he stops to smell a small bush beside the trail. Probably another coyote had left his scent on the bush. The young hunter watches the coyote intently. He is making a god-like decision. He is deciding whether or not this coyote will live or die in the next few moments. For no other reason than that deer hunting this morning had been fruitless and he wanted to do something, he decides that the coyote will die.

As the coyote concentrates on the scent on the small bush, the young hunter raises his Winchester Model 94 .30 / .30 and quickly puts the front sight, a pearl bead, in the grove of the back sight. Quickly the pearl bead is lined up with the back sight grove and the spot just behind the elbow of the coyote’s shoulder and the hunter squeezes his finger and “KABAMMM!!!!” the rifle kicks into his shoulder. The young hunter is a good marksman and seldom misses. The coyote is knocked down on his side and his feet are kicking trying to run, but he can’t.

The young hunter walks slowly up to the dying coyote and watches. He had shot the coyote just where he had aimed. Bright red oxygen rich blood is oozing out of the bullet hole. The coyote’s mouth is wide open as he gasps for breath. His eyes are staring straight ahead. He continues to gasp and is choking in his own blood. He is no longer kicking to run, the gasping and choking slows and then stops. The coyote is dead. The bright red blood continues to ooze out of the bullet hole.

The young hunter looks at his victim and admires the beauty of the coloring of its fur. The different shading of yellows, reds, browns with accents of white and black. He thinks about what he has just done. He has just killed a fellow creature on this earth. For the first time in his young life, he questions whether or not he should have shot this animal. All the people that he knows: his family and friends will endorse what he has just done and pat him on the back. All the magazines that he reads, such as Outdoor Life, in their stories and advertisements, promote the killing of predators such as coyotes. The federal, state and county agencies have programs that promote the killing of coyotes. His Sunday school teacher at The First Baptist Church had taught him that God had made all the animals on earth for the use of humans, the children of God. Yet as he looked at the dead coyote, he began to look at the things the coyote had that he also had. They both had a nose with two nostrils, a mouth with lips, teeth, a tongue, two eyes, two ears, a skull, a brain and thinking system, a neck, skin and hair, a back bone, a very similar skeleton, a heart and blood system, lungs, stomach, kidneys, liver, entrails, four limbs, two elbows, two knees, toe nails, an anus and genitals. The only differences were that the coyote had a tail and he didn’t and he had fingers and thumbs that the coyote didn’t and he walked on two limbs instead of all four limbs.

The image of that coyote gasping and choking for breath would live on in the mind of the young hunter and would be replayed countless times throughout his life. The last time, was sixty years later after that fateful cold foggy morning, when he was drawing and painting the two coyotes in the painting above, titled The Trail to Pulliam Peak. The young hunter slowly matured and began to question whether or not, he, as an animal on this earth, had the right to kill another animal just because he wanted to. With time, he came to the conclusion that he did not have that right and furthermore, he, as an animal with the ability to reason and blessed with thumbs, had a responsibility for the other animals and creatures on this earth.

Cheers,

Acree

PS: I have been invited to give a talk on my drawings, paintings and writings at the Flower Mound Public Library, in Flower Mound, Texas, on Saturday, May 30^th, at 1:00 PM. Y’all come.

A MISSION STATEMENT

Last Tuesday morning, in the midst of thunder storms and an ever increasing sore throat, I loaded up my art booth panels, paintings, drawings and other stuff in the Tahoe to begin the 600 mile trek to Lubbock, Texas, to participate in their three and one-half day Lubbock Art Festival. That night, I stayed with my daughter, Karen Duban and her family who live between Dallas and Denton, Texas. Karen was going with me to Lubbock to help set up and staff my booth in the festival. So early Wednesday morning, with my sore throat now a full blown head cold, we leave for the final 350 miles to Lubbock. On the way we discussed, as much as my sore throat would permit, my search for a mission statement.

            I have been giving a lot of thought lately on how to improve the design and layout of my art booth. Recently in discussing this effort with Kelly Kindred, the Festival Coordinator for The Art Colony Association, she had expressed her opinion on the importance of displaying in the booth the artist’s statement or mission. I think she is right and I have been doing a lot of soul searching as to who I am and what I am trying to do with this new adventure of mine into the world of art.

            On the way through the ever changing scenery of the high staked plains of West Texas, we discussed, with my ever hoarser voice, what it is that I am trying to do with my art and how to express it in a sentence or two. We arrived in the early afternoon and after checking into the Radisson Hotel we went to the nearby Lubbock Civic Center and registered. We unloaded the booth panels, paintings, drawings and all the stuff in my assigned 10’ x 10’ corner booth area.

            Early Thursday morning, I go down to the hotel lobby to read the newspaper and drink a cup of coffee. As I ask the desk clerk for the newspaper, I discover much to my dismay, that I have no voice. I can only whisper. After breakfast, Karen and I go to the Civic Center to set up the booth, hang the paintings and get ready for the opening of the art festival for the VIP showing at 6 PM. It is a very tiring and frustrating endeavor to set up an art booth in and among over one hundred other artist trying to do the same thing. Late in the afternoon we go back to the hotel to clean up and try to be presentable for the VIP Show. Exhausted from setting up the booth and very concerned over having a bad head cold and not having a voice at the start of a 3 ½ day art show, my wife, Corinne, calls from Houston to tell me that The Houston Chronicle had published a nice article on me in their Spring / Klein / Tomball supplement that is published every Thursday.

            Slowly, I got my voice back and got through the art festival. The downturn in the economy has reached the art festivals. For the artist at the festival that sell “useful” art such as jewelry, they seemed to be doing OK. For the artist, such as me, that sell “decorative” art, the sales were dismal. For a few others and me, there were no sales. We packed up Sunday evening and drove the 350 miles to Karen’s house. I slept a few hours and got up to drive the remaining 250 miles to Houston. For times like these, I definitely need to understand why I need to get up every morning and continue to do what I do.

            Upon my return on Monday, for the first time, I get to read the newspaper article. On the front page of the supplement, I come under a section titled “FACES IN THE CROWD”. The editor summarizes who I am with the statement “Spring artist focuses on nature Spring resident Acree Carlisle has a passion for nature. His favorite subjects include landscapes and wildlife” and there is a photograph, by Jerry Baker, of me painting the watercolor painting of a cougar overlooking a valley in the Davis Mountains. I think the editor got pretty close to what my mission statement should be.

            On page Z14, page 5, there is the article written by Valerie Sweeten. I will have to admit, it lifts my spirits to have someone like Valerie write such nice things about me and to have Kelly Kindred and Nancy Wakefield say such complimentary things about me and my art work. To read this is kind of like getting my spirit refueled. I now have a full tank and ready to go again.

            A tentative mission statement for me is as follows:

Mission Statement

By Acree Carlisle

            “I strive through my drawings, paintings and writings to portray our wild animals, whether in the wild or in refuges, in their most noble and peaceful state to help in their protection, preservation and sustainability.”

            What is your reaction to this proposed statement? Do you have any suggestions?

Cheers,

This scene is on the western side of the Chisos Mountains in Big Bend National Park. The road in the painting goes to Castolon, a tiny village on the Rio Grande River. This road roughly follows the old trail used by the Comanche Indian raiding bands going to Mexico to steal horses and children. There is something in my soul that so enjoys a vast and magnificent scene such as this one. The morning when I was there earlier this spring, I imagined that I was watching a band of Comanche warriors in the distance coming down the trail. For my three day trip out there, I had the back end of a SUV loaded with stuff. The Comanche warriors would be gone for about six months and would need a whole lot less baggage. The only things they took along were their horse, the clothes on their back, a blanket, a knife, a lance and their bow and arrows.   

As I was painting the two coyotes coming up the hill in the painting, I was remembering a coyote hunt long ago that went bad, in a hurry. One Sunday morning, my buddy and I were bored and wanted something exciting to do so we decided to borrow my dad’s predator caller and go coyote hunting down on the Old Walcott Ranch about twenty miles south of Catarina, Texas. My buddy, Bobby, was a big guy about six feet four inches and weighed well over two hundred pounds. My dad had a .22 caliber High Standard semi-automatic pistol with an extra long barrel that I really liked so I took it along. The decision to take that pistol on this hunt would change my life and save the life of my friend Bobby. You know, teenage boys, never consider that something bad or life threatening will ever happen to them. They are “bullet proof” and are going to live forever. 

During my growing up years in the 1950’s in southwest Texas, it was considered a good thing to hunt predators such as coyotes. It was considered a sport to hunt coyotes with a little device called a “predator caller”. It was a little horn-like device that you could blow through and make a loud sound like an animal, such as a rabbit, that has been caught by a predator and was squealing. My dad was really good at using a predator caller and taught me how to do it. Every type of predator such as cougars, coyotes, bobcats, hawks, owls and snakes, could be called up, so when using the predator caller, you had to be careful because the predator being called up could mistake the person doing the calling as the prey. Sometimes the hunter became the hunted.

The Old Walcott Ranch had about 26,000 acres deep in the South Texas brush country of Webb County. It was owned by my dad’s business partner so we could go hunting there anytime. About 3,000 acres of the ranch was on the west side of US Highway 83 and was all in one pasture called The Almood Pasture. This pasture was named after Almood Mountain which was at far western corner of the ranch. For those of you not familiar with how much land is in 3,000 acres, it is approximately five square miles with no cross-fencing.

We got down there in the early afternoon and drove about a mile into the pasture and parked the pick-up truck near Rices Creek. This was a dry creek bed about eight feet deep. The ranch road stopped there because it was difficult to maintain a road across the sandy creek bed. However, cow trails crossed the creek bed, although they were still difficult to walk on because they were steep and sandy. We crossed the creek and walked about 500 yards to some brushy rocky ledges where we could see out over some ravines. I sat down behind some bushes and Bobby sat down about ten yards a way on the other side looking the other direction. After letting things quiet down a bit, I got the predator caller out and gave it a good blow: “WWWAAAA!!!!!, WWWAAAA!!!, WWWAAAHHH!!!!” After about fifteen minutes, nothing had happened, so I called again “WWWAAAHHH!!!, WWWAAAHHH!!!”

Sitting there behind a bush, everything was very quite. Suddenly, I heard a slight movement behind me which I thought was Bobby shifting his weight. I heard it again and I slowly turned around to see what was going on. A big coyote was standing about half way between Bobby and me. He was looking at Bobby. I could also see Bobby looking back over his shoulder at the coyote. Then the coyote looked at me. Since the coyote was directly between us we couldn’t shoot at it and it didn’t want to leave, I guess it was looking for that rabbit. Both Bobby and I jumped up. Bobby, the coyote and I did a little dance in the brush. We were trying to shoot at it without shooting at each other. Finally, the coyote disappeared in the thick brush and got away without either of us firing a shot. For a few minutes though, it was really exciting, however the real excitement was yet to come. Something else had also come to the party.

Since there had been so much commotion here, we decided to move to another place to do some more calling. Bobby started walking down a cow path and I was following looking at the ground. He was looking back over his shoulder talking about how exciting that had been and he stepped right over a huge rattlesnake that was stretched across the cow trail. The snake, well over six feet long, pulled back into an “S” coil with its head up about knee high between us to strike at the back of Bobby’s leg. Bobby, as yet, had not seen the snake and was still talking. Its head, pointed at Bobby’s leg, was about 12 inches directly in front of my knee. Reacting without thinking, I instantly pulled out the .22 pistol and put the end of the barrel on top of the snake’s head and pulled the trigger. Immediately, all hell broke loose. The snake struck, but my shot had deflected his strike, and its fangs got hung up in Bobby’s pants leg. The snake’s rattlers suddenly sounded like a loud buzz saw. Its body and rattlers were writhing around on my feet. Bobby was now screaming and trying to get away from the rattlesnake that was hung up on his pants leg. After a lot of commotion we got the snake unhooked from his pants leg, but now the snake was striking in every direction. There was thick brush and prickly pear was on both sides of the cow trail, so Bobby, the snake and I did not have a lot of room to maneuver. By the time Bobby and I got away from the enraged rattlesnake, I was shaking so bad that I had difficulty holding the pistol steady enough to shoot at the snake. After a lot of shooting, we finally killed the snake.

After we calmed down some, we decided to just go home. We didn’t talk about it much, however we both knew that if the rattlesnakes strike had not been deflected by my .22 pistol shot and had actually struck Bobby’s leg instead of his pants leg, it could have been fatal because of where we were. I would have had a lot of difficulty getting Bobby across the Rices Creek bed and to the pickup truck. Then we were still about forty five miles from the nearest hospital in Laredo, Texas. There was also a good possibility that the snake could have bitten both of us. It would probably have been several days before we would have been found, so it could have been our last day, for each of us, to live on this earth.

It was one of those learning experiences where two teenage boys began to learn that things can go bad in a hurry and there is no guarantee that they will live forever.

Cheers,

Acree

I am busy getting ready for the Lubbock Arts Festival which starts on April 30^th and goes through May 3^rd.