Plein Air Painting A Story of Discovery by Stefan Baumann
Hall of the Mountain King
Hall of the Mountain King
by Stefan Baumann
Recently I found a sketch that I painted of a mountain goat that I followed up a canyon path in Glacier National Park a few years ago. It was one of my painting trips where I was not burdened with a production crew for the television show, and I could spend my time painting and exploring the park by myself.
During that visit, I met a park ranger who was very interested in my ability to paint wildlife. With a big grin, he winked, motioned with his hands, and said, “Come, I’ll show you something, a secret.” We walked a short distance over some boulders and up to a creek. He stopped by the foot of a tree and we both knelt down. Just a few yards away was a huge male mountain goat grazing along the sides of the cliffs, his white coat glistening like fresh snow, his eyes soulful and inquisitive, keeping one eye on us and the other on the edge of the cliff as he ate the fresh grass.
“He is my secret. He is always here. He is never bothered by humans. Well, at least not yet,” the ranger whispered. “We always play this little game,” the ranger turned to me and said. “Slowly, I go up to him. He will walk away, and then I follow him to a secret place.” The ranger pointed, and I did just as he suggested. The game had a child’s simplicity, but for some reason the adventure seemed exciting.
I stepped out from under the tree and the goat slowly turned and walked away, always keeping an eye on me. He led me upward towards the waterfall in the canyon. The canyon was small and did not even have a formal name. I was grateful for that, since it seemed to keep the tourists from this place.
I remember that this particular goat seemed to challenge me to go higher up the cliffs with the churning waterfalls below. I continued to walk for what seemed like a mile, making my way over boulders and along paths made by goats traveling these walls over the years. The very spirit of this place was magic. He followed the creek up into the mountains. Suddenly, he stopped and bobbed his head up and down a few times as if to tell me to continue following him.
As I came nearer, he leaped over to another rock. I hiked around the boulders and soon the sloped banks became steep rocky walls. The goat kept going ahead, sometimes taking long breaths and blowing them out of his nose, seemingly frustrated at my slow pace. The current of the river below was swifter now. We came to a turn in the canyon where we saw a waterfall spilling from the rock walls. The sound of water crashing against the rocks echoed in the canyon. It was unforgettable to come so close to the falls, to feel the spray on my face and the cool draft of the wind, and to press my hand against soft cushions of green moss that grow because of the misty waterfalls. This was the secret of the canyon.
Finally, I could go no further. I stopped, and the goat turned as if to show his dominance over the terrain. He seemed to gloat that he was the victor of this game of cat and mouse, that I was turning around and returning to the place this little game began. Before I left him, I sat quietly and sketched him as he watched me until, with a burst of energy, he leaped to another rock and disappeared around the ledge. In the Hall of the Mountain King.