I did an experiment back in the mid-80s. I decided to go on walkabout – or, since I’d be living in my truck, I called it truckabout.

Because for years, I had had this niggling feeling in the back of my mind that art was only a habit I’d gotten into because when I was a kid, my ma set me down in the corner with paper, pencils and crayons to keep me out of the way.

I had been living in Hawaii. When I turned 40, all of a sudden I was aching to know the truth of it. So I made a vow not to make any art unless I felt from my core that making art was really and truly ‘mine.’

I decided to go on walkabout – or, since I’d be living in my truck, I called it truckabout. I gave up my house, packed the bare minimum of what I needed, and shipped my truck to California.

I wondered what I’d be spending my time and attention on if art was not my Thing. How would that be? I had been carving stone, and it was so hard NOT to be whacking away out in my studio. I didn’t even have a studio anymore!

For two years, I puttered around exploring all the back roads of all the western states and parts of Canada, camping out in spots so remote it was clear that no one had been there in years. A couple of them were so creepy I turned around and left as soon as I got there.

I found wide open salt flats that, coming awake in the back of my truck, the dawn light magically reflected off the flats in a way that made the world into a floating pink and cream fairy land.

In some places, there was no light from civilization. The dark was so dark even the powerful beam of my heavy-duty flashlight seemed puny. Those were nights I locked my truck from the inside. I knew there was no one around for miles, but still . . . .

Other nights, the stars were so close and so thick you could reach up and grab them. The very air was sweet, and everything seemed Right.

Hidden ponds and lakes for skinny dipping and getting road-grime off. Little grottoes next to tossing rivers where I could watch eagles and hawks and mice and otters, until I fell asleep right there on thick soft mats of pine needles.

I followed roads on sides of mountains that weren’t even roads – one of them so overgrown and obscure that I almost drove off the side into an abyss hundreds of feet deep.

I had to made sure to get people-time in – I get cranky if I don’t talk to another human at least once a week. So I camped in regular campgrounds, too, meeting folks from all over the world, sharing tall tales, spare supplies, and food goodies around the evening fire.

Winter snuck up and pounced on me one late October night. I’d been staying in my tent at the campground on the side of Mt. Sopris, above Glenwood Springs, Colorado.

All of a sudden, it felt a million degrees colder than the day before. The river, no longer quietly bubbling by, was doing its noisy best to climb right up the banks, rushing carelessly over rocks and fallen limbs.

The bruised-black-green sky looked ready to dump acres of snow at any moment. Way too cold to be camping anymore! So I found and rented one of the summer cabins right nearby in Avalanche Ranch.

I don’t recall what I did every day – I think I got a job at a local gym as a receptionist. Can you imagine? Gruff grumpy me, greeting people all hot to trot and work out? I think I probably didn’t last long.

Now that I no longer had the distraction of daily driving and exploration, I was miserable. I felt like the most boring person on the planet. It turned into The Winter of Bawling Myself to Sleep Every. Single. Night. Who am I? What’s Right for me? It was excruciating.

Finally, one afternoon in the middle of a January blizzard, the Answer came. The snow outside was waist-high, my truck was thoroughly buried, and huge 8-foot icicles dangled off my roof. I thank all the gods I had indoor plumbing.

It was a summer cabin – no insulation! I had the cook-stove, the wood-burning stove, and the wall heater all on full blast. I was wearing every last piece of clothing I could find, sitting there just kind of dozing/dreaming, trying to keep warm . . . .

At one point I noticed that I was mentally carving one of the pieces of kindling that I had stashed in the firewood bucket near the wood stove.

I watched my thoughts from the inside. I was mentally saying, take a bit off with my knife there, an eye, there, a nose, a few little pieces under the chin . . . .

And I realized right then and there that Making Art really was Mine.

If I can be freezing my ass off in the middle of a whirling snow storm on the side of a mountain, with every heat source in the house blasting, and every last stitch of clothing I owned on . . . and still think about making art – well.

It was Mine. MINE.

Not some cute thing my mother had me do to keep me quiet in the corner.

Not just a past-time I did to keep from being bored or in the way.

It had taken me two full years of driving, wandering, camping, exploring, getting lost, stuck in sand and mud, being incredibly lonely and cold – but at the end, it was plainly obvious – making art really was Mine.

I’m not sure why it took so long, but I can tell you that that two-year time was the one of the most upsetting, emotionally devastating, mentally horrific eras of my life.

And life can be so funny – the very next day, I got a note in the mail from a dear friend back in Hawaii, saying, “Angela, it’s time to come back home!” Including a big check for airfare.

The very day I landed back on Oahu, he took me to see a studio he thought I’d want. I did! And within two more days, I was sleeping in a real bed; and carving again.

What a relief it was to start carving again!

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Is Art Mine? Am I Art? Who Am I, Anyway?
© Angela Treat Lyon 2025

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