Door County NewsPixels™ & Wish Books & Brochures MAG. THE DREAMING ISSUE | Page 80

As I recall, it all
started the first
week of April. At
long last, spring had
arrived to break the
monotony
of
a
white-on-white
winter. Color had
made its glorious
comeback to the
Door County, Wisconsin, peninsula. Green
Bay’s harbors were turning blue as the ice
chunks floated away. Here and there, brave
little green sprouts poked through lingering
snow mounds to tenta- tively test the
temperature of the day. Willow branches
offered hints of golden highlights-to-come.
So what if spring was two weeks late; I wasn’t
complaining. Today promised to be bright,
cheery and relatively warm. In short, the
weather was perfect for plein-air painting on
the lakeside of Door County. Or so I thought
as I drove down rural roads on the way to
one of my favorite painting subjects—Cave
Point—where Lake Michigan waves had
been carving the limestone cliffs ever since
the last ice age. I parked the car and
unloaded my portable easel and oil pastel
carrying case. In the few short minutes it
took to schlep my gear to the shore, the blue
sky had disap- peared. Fat, fluffy clouds had
taken away the sun. As the eastern sky
darkened, the temperature plummeted.
7
“It’s my luck,” I muttered as I set up my
easel. “Brrr.” I opened the pastel case and

looked out on the lake. I was perfectly
positioned on the ledge overlooking one of
the caves. Waves were crashing into the
rocks below. The ledge was still bedecked
with icicles. A few of the scrubby shrubs
were sprouting green. It should have been
a perfect scene for painting except . . . well,
now it was snowing. And not a little bit
either. I was standing in the middle of a
mini-blizzard. A zillion jumbo-sized flakes
were descending from the heavens. So what
did I expect? There’s a highway marker a
couple of miles away that proudly declares
Door County is halfway to the North Pole.
Apparently, those bragging rights come with
a hefty price tag, i.e., more winter than
spring. Nevertheless, I was immensely
disappointed by spring’s no-show and sorely
tempted to go back home. But wait a minute.
“What would Monet do?” I asked myself.
“Would he chicken out?” No, Monet was not
a wimp. Of course, the premier
Impressionist plein-air painter would render
whatever nature gave him on any given day.
“There’s a painting here somewhere. Your
mission is to find it,” my creative right brain
challenged its practical left side counterpart.
“Okay. I’ll try. Let’s see. First, I’ll take three
deep breaths, and then pray for inspiration.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten, praying
for a muse to inspire me. When I opened my
eyes, I was surprised and somewhat dazzled.
“Well, what do you know. There’s the
painting,” I mumbled as I reached for a
pastel. “While I was counting
to ten, Nature created a fantasyland and
now I’m going to capture it. This is going to
be an adventure!” I grabbed another pastel
and quickly composed my visual drama. As I
was dashing highlights on the churn- ing
waves, I heard a squeal behind me.