For the Love of Foxglove

Skyland Ranch — Gold Bar, Washington

Long before I painted foxglove, I was looking for horses. I've ridden at different times throughout my life, but what I really wanted was one of my own. Some of my earliest memories of them are at my father's childhood home. I remember running out to the stable and pressing my nose against the nose of his horse, Fury, telling him my secrets. Ever since, I've imagined having horses somewhere in my life. Over the years I looked for places to board, arrangements I could trade for, anything that might make it possible until I could someday have land of my own.

The closest I came was adopting a Shetland pony named Madonna. I found a property where I could board her in exchange for letting her eat down the grass, which seemed like a fairly ingenious arrangement at the time. Unfortunately, Madonna had very little interest in my lifelong dream of bonding with a horse. She was lonely, but didn't particularly care for people, and despite my best efforts, it became clear that what she needed was something I couldn't give her there. Eventually, I found a goat ranch that wanted her, and Madonna went on to live what appeared to be her absolute best life, surrounded by goats who looked up to her. Literally. I loved driving past and seeing her out in the pasture, large and in charge, looking about as pleased with herself as a Shetland pony could possibly be.

I digress. By the time I moved to Kirkland, Washington, I was still looking for ways to bring horses back into my life. I reached out to barns and ranches asking about horsemanship lessons or whether I might trade photography or design work for time there. I would have happily cleaned stalls, brushed horses, bathed them, whatever needed doing. I wasn't trying to become an accomplished equestrian. I just wanted to be around them. There has always been something about their presence that settles me. Nothing really came of my searches, and then I got sick.

During chemotherapy, leaving my house could sometimes feel like an accomplishment in itself. On one of the days I managed it, I put on a wig and a mask and went treasure hunting at a thrift store. I was terribly self-conscious about my wigs then. A woman passed me wearing cowboy boots and a bandana tied around her neck, looking wonderfully country, and stopped to tell me she loved my hair. I thanked her and kept walking, then decided to turn around and own it. “Well, you can have this exact hair for $450. I'll send you the link.” We laughed. She realized I was wearing a wig and very respectfully asked if I was going through treatment. I told her I was, and somehow our conversation wandered from cancer to Montana to my wish to have land with a farm and how I’d been searching for a place to be near horses for now.

She told me she knew just the place: Skyland Ranch in Gold Bar, Washington. Tami was from Montana and only visiting, but the friend she was staying with owned this magical place. Before we parted, she gave me the strongest hug, and the personal number of a woman named KC and told me I should call her. I did, but never heard back. Life continued, and eventually I forgot about it. Almost a year later, my parents were coming to visit around my birthday. My dad, my sister, and I all share the same birthday, and I wanted to find somewhere I could take Dad horseback riding while he was here. I started searching online and came across Skyland Ranch. I called the number listed on the website and began explaining that this was terribly last-minute, but I was hoping there might be some way to take my dad riding for our birthday. The woman on the other end interrupted me. “Your name is Tressa? Did you call me last year?”

It was KC. The woman whose personal number a stranger in a thrift store had handed me during chemotherapy was now on the other end of a completely different number I had found on my own nearly a year later. She remembered me, explained that they had been going through a difficult time when I'd first reached out, and told us to come the next day.

That was my first visit to Skyland Ranch, but it wouldn't be my last. We spent two hours riding along the river in Gold Bar, with eagles perched on old stumps as we passed. There was something especially meaningful about riding beside my dad. He grew up on horses, although his life now doesn't give him many opportunities to be around them. Watching him get back in the saddle was like watching something return to him. It was second nature. Even my mom got on a horse. She loves them, but she's not exactly someone you're likely to find on one. You’re more apt to see her creating magical garden party table settings with the most gorgeous dinner settings you’ve ever seen — which made it all the sweeter. One of my favorite photographs I've ever taken of her came from that day.

Illness had made our lives smaller in so many ways, and there were plenty of difficult moments for all of us. But within that time were also moments with my parents that became sacred to me. There is something about love showing up when life is at its lowest that reveals what it is made of. That day at Skyland became one of those memories: my dad returning so naturally to something he'd known since childhood, my mom in hiking boots, a ball cap, and a smile, and the three of us simply being together somewhere beautiful, making memories.

After our ride, KC invited us to wander the property and meet the horses. Foxglove grew everywhere. How sacred it was learning more about what KC and the people at Skyland had created there. The ranch offers second chances to rescued horses and to men in recovery, who build trust, responsibility, and connection through horsemanship and working with the animals. Skyland also welcomes the public for trail rides and also serves as an event space. I returned many times since that first ride, and it has become much more to me than the place I once happened to find through a stranger in a thrift store.

It was the foxglove from that first visit that eventually followed me back to the easel. There was something about seeing horses standing quietly among those flowers that I couldn't forget. I initially called the painting Skyland Foxglove. Then a family friend saw the finished piece and said, “For the love of foxglove!” I knew immediately that was its name. Sometimes art begins long before its made. This one may have begun with my search for horses, or with a stranger complimenting a wig I was afraid to wear, or with a phone call that went unanswered only to somehow find its way back to me nearly a year later. I thought I had been looking for a place to ride horses. Instead, I found a place I would return to, a place to make memories, and eventually, a painting.