I started this painting over a year ago after seeing a beautiful sunrise over the North Six-Shooter. It was a quiet morning at camp as folks roused from tents and vehicles, sand lodged in their eyes and deep under their fingernails. I started hot water for coffee, let Izzy, my dog, out of the van, and we walked up the hill to get a better view of the North and South Six as the sun was rising.
The sun had just risen above the Cliffs of Insanity, and a few rays perfectly illuminated the two towers, leaving the rest of the ground covered in predawn shadow. It was one of those sunrises that you feel more than you see—the creep of the light on the sandstone playing with shadow and color. Perfect hues of pink, orange, purple, and yellow.
Story published in Volume 24, now available
Banner photo from the author’s collection
I imagined what the sun would feel like on the North Six-Shooter: we are a pitch up; I am at the belay; they are on lead working the next pitch. I still haven’t climbed the North Six, even after five years of romping around the desert.
I snapped a photo of the scene both with my phone and my mind’s eye, trying to capture a bit of desert magic. I stood a bit longer on the hill, Izzy sniffed around the growing barrel cacti, and then I remembered I had water boiling and walked back to the van, leaving that perfect moment.
It took a while to finish the painting and three separate return trips to the desert. Getting the colors right turned into a struggle, and even on short trips deep down in The Creek, no sunrise matched the same as the one on that day.
But a month in the desert last fall, living in the red dirt and looking up at the seemingly endless horizon, I had a lot of time to paint. And, more realistically, the weather was terrible for climbing—it was a very wet fall. The last line was painted on a random October morning after another night of rain. The painting is on a piece of fifteen-by-thirty loose canvas cut from a much larger twenty-inch-by-five-foot roll. The painting isn’t cut straight, and the canvas was dimpled in a few spots, causing the paint to crack. Yet, with all of its imperfections, I was proud of the painting—though I also immediately felt like keeping it would be silly. For some reason, I knew I had to give it away.
I could give it to a friend I was camping with, but that felt like a disservice, like passing it off or getting rid of it. I had captured a little bit of desert magic with this painting and felt it deserved more (and I didn’t deserve to keep it). Over my short few years in The Creek, the desert has given me innumerable magic moments and experiences.
Desert magic, most Creekgoers have felt it in some form or another. On a climb when the send felt nearly impossible, but then the next move was to a whip-saving jam. Or in a random meetup at the base of a crag with an old friend. Or a campfire conversation under the Milky Way. Or watching the crows catch the thermals by the cliffs. Or the walls chatting late at night in the wind. Or a kind note left on the message board. Indian Creek has magic, and the people who frequent the place know that. I felt selfish in hoarding so much for myself.
I folded up the now-dry painting, signed the back, a little extra illegible on purpose, and wrote this note: “Free to take! Or to look at for a bit…” and drove the van to Beef Basin.
The beloved Indian Creek Beef Basin message board. Photo: Jake Burchmore
The message board was crowded with notes, but the parking lot was quiet. It was the middle of week and the middle of day. I found a spot down in the corner and hung up the painting, the note facing out. I used the Beef Basin toilet and headed back to camp. I smiled knowing my own desert magic could maybe spark a feeling for someone else. Driving down the two-lane road, I imagined who would take the painting: maybe some jaded dirt bag in their van, upset at how crowded The Creek was getting. Or, as I really hoped, some first-time Creek visitor, in awe of it all. It doesn’t really matter though; my joy comes from giving back to the people and place that have given me more than I could ever dream.
When I drove back to the rim on Sunday for service, the painting was gone—for all I know the walls took it for themselves.
Molly Malone is a climber and painter based in Salt Lake City, Utah. She like long splitter #3 cracks, craft beer, and long sunsets of the desert. When she is not leaving her art on message boards, she occasionally sells it on her Instagram, @melonmolly.
