THE ARTS
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John Muir, Prose
"This is true freedom, John Muir He was called “John of the Mountains,” a wild-haired, eccentric Scotsman fired with enthusiasm for the Sierra Nevada. Some saw him as saint, others viewed him as irritating crank, but none could doubt his passion and commitment to his beliefs. He was John Muir. Born in Dunbar, Scotland, in 1838, Muir emigrated to Wisconsin in 1849. A budding inventor, John Muir won a prize for his clever devices at the 1860 Wisconsin State Fair. Soon afterward, he entered the University of Wisconsin. Muir attended the college for four years, but did not receive a degree. Leaving the state, Muir walked to the Gulf of Mexico and then headed west to California. Arriving in 1868, Muir spent six years in and near Yosemite Valley. There he built a cabin which had running water -- a mountain stream ran through it. Enthralled by the natural beauty, John Muir hiked throughout the region, jotting down notes in pencil in a remarkably disorganized fashion. Muir simply opened his notebook and on whatever page appeared he started writing. He became an expert on residual glaciers, discovering sixty-five in the Yosemite area alone. His theories on the formation of Yosemite Valley by glaciers ran counter to the prevailing notion that the valley was the result of a sudden collapse of the earth’s crust. Critics branded him a kook, but Muir was proven correct. Muir’s notebooks contain many memorable passages. For instance he recounts an evening spent high in a pine tree during an intense Sierra thunderstorm. Muir wrote more than sixty journals and hundreds of notes during this period of his life. His notebooks were bulging with natural observations and often lyrical praise for the entrancing merits of Yosemite. And then, he stopped. For a while. In 1880, Muir married and devoted a decade to fruit farming in Martinez, a community near the San Francisco Bay. He became financially independent and headed back to the mountains. John Muir devoted the rest of his life to conservation and preservation causes. In the years that followed, Muir traveled the world promoting his environmental vision. He explored Nevada, Utah, the Pacific Northwest, Alaska, Siberia, Manchuria, Japan, Egypt, Australia, and New Zealand. Muir wrote dozens of articles in support of natural issues, strengthening of the National Park system, and in opposition to destructive exploitation of natural resources. In 1892, Muir founded the Sierra Club and remained its president until 1914. He fought to make Yosemite a national park and unsuccessfully battled against the damming of Hetch Hetchy Valley within the park’s boundaries. While Muir penned numerous articles and editorials for years, his first book The Mountains of California did not appear until 1894. His unpublished journals and notes were not collected and published until 1938. John Muir’s writings are unique among the journals of the 19th century American West. Unlike other narratives that emphasize “getting there” and triumph over physical hardship, Muir celebrated what he called the “spiritual affinities” of the natural experience. Mountains were not obstacles to overcome, but cathedrals. Storms were not terrifying occurrences, but delightful evidence of a supernatural plan. Muir’s journals reflect this transcendentalism and are powerfully evocative and poetic. John Muir continued to write and proselytize until his death in 1914 at age 76.
This passage from an 1869 journal (later published in 1911 by Atlantic Monthly) presents Muir’s idyllic description of the landscape and, of all things, the lizards and ants he encounters in the Sierra. June 13. -- Another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where. Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality. Yonder rises another white skyland. How sharply the yellow pine spires and the palm-like crowns of the sugar pines are outlined in its smooth white domes. And hark! the grand thunder-billows booming, rolling from ridge to ridge, followed by the faithful shower. A good many herbaceous plants come thus far up the mountains from the plains, and are now in flower, two months later than their lowland relatives. Saw a few columbines to-day. Most of the ferns are in their prime -- rockferns on the sunny hillsides, cheilanthes, pelltea, gymnogramma; woodwardia, aspidium, woodsia along the stream-banks, and the common pteris aquiline on sandy flats. This last, however common, is here making shows of strong exuberant abounding beauty to set the botanist wild with admiration. I measured some scarce full grown that are more than seven feet high. Though the commonest and most widely distributed of all the ferns, I might almost say that I never saw it before. The broad-shouldered fronds held high on smooth stout stalks growing close together, overleaping and overlapping, make a complete ceiling, beneath which one may walk erect over several acres without being seen, as if beneath a roof. And how soft and lovely the light streaming through this living ceiling, revealing the arching, branching ribs and veins of the fronds as the framework of countless panes of pale green and yellow plant-glass nicely fitted together -- a fairyland created out of the commonest fern-stuff. The smaller animals wander about in it as if in a tropical forest. I saw the entire flock of sheep vanish at one side of a patch and reappear a hundred yards farther on at the other, their progress betrayed only by the jerking and trembling of the fronds; and strange to say very few of the stout woody stalks were broken. I sat a long time beneath the tallest field, and never enjoyed anything in the way of a bower of wild leaves more strangely impressive. Only spread a fern-frond over a man's head, and worldly cares are cast out, and freedom and beauty and peace come in. The waving of a pine tree on the top of a mountain, -- a magic wand in nature's hand, -- every devout mountaineer knows its power, but the marvelous beauty-value of what the Scotch call a breckan in a still dell, what poet has sung this? It would seem impossible that any one, however incrusted with care, could escape the Godful influence of these sacred fern forests. Yet this very day I saw a shepherd pass through one of the finest of them without betraying more feeling than his sheep. 'What do you think of these grand ferns?" I asked. 'Oh, they're only d--d big brakes,' he replied. Lizards of every temper, style, and color dwell here, seemingly as happy and companionable as the birds and squirrels. Lowly, gentle fellow mortals, enjoying God's sunshine, and doing the best they can in getting a living, I like to watch them at their work and play. They bear acquaintance well, and one likes them the better the longer one looks into their beautiful, innocent eyes. They are easily tamed, and one soon learns to love them, as they dart about on the hot rocks, swift as dragon-flies. The eye can hardly follow them; but they never make long-sustained runs, usually only about ten or twelve feet, then a sudden stop, and as sudden a start again; going all their journeys by quick, jerking impulses. These many stops I find are necessary as rests, for they are short-winded, and when pursued steadily are soon out of breath, pant pitifully, and are easily caught. Their bodies are more than half tail, but these tails are well managed, never heavily dragged nor curved up as if hard to carry; on the contrary, they seem to follow the body lightly of their own will. Some are colored like the sky, bright as bluebirds, others gray like the lichened rocks on which they hunt and bask. Even the horned toad of the plains is a mild, harmless creature, and so are the snake-like species which glide in curves with true snake motion, while their small undeveloped limbs drag as useless appendages. One specimen fourteen inches long which I observed closely made no use whatever of its tender sprouting limbs, but glided with all the soft, sly ease and grace of a snake. Here comes a little gray, dusty fellow who seems to know and trust me, running about my feet, and looking up cunningly into my face. Carlo is watching, makes a quick pounce on him, for the fun of the thing I suppose, but Liz. has shot away from his paws like an arrow, and is safe in the recesses of a clump of chaparral. Gentle saurians, dragons, descendants of an ancient and mighty race, Heaven bless you all and make your virtues known! for few of us yet know that scales may cover fellow creatures as gentle and lovable as do feathers, or hair, or cloth. Mastodons and elephants used to live here no great geological time ago, as shown by their bones, often discovered by miners in washing gold-gravel. And bears of at least two species are here now, besides the California lion or panther, and wild cats, wolves, foxes, snakes, scorpions, wasps, tarantulas; but one is almost tempted at times to regard a small savage black ant as the master-existence of this vast mountain vorld. These fearless, restless wandering imps, though only about a quarter of an inch long, are fonder of fighting and biting than any beast I know. They attack every living thing around their homes, often without cause so far as I can see. Their bodies are mostly jaws curved like ice-hooks, and to get work for these weapons seems to be their chief aim and pleasure. Most of their colonies are established in living oaks somewhat decayed or hollowed, in which they can conveniently build their cells. These are chosen probably on account of their strength as opposed to the attacks of animals and storms. They work both day and night, creep into dark caves, climb the highest trees, wander and hunt through cool ravines as well as on hot, unshaded ridges, and extend their highways and byways over everything but water and sky. From the foothills to a mile above the level of the sea nothing can stir without their knowledge; and alarms are spread in an incredibly short time, without any howl or cry that we can hear. I can't understand the need of their ferocious courage; there seems to be no common sense in it. Sometimes no doubt they fight in defense of their homes, but they fight anywhere and always wherever they can find anything to bite. As soon as a vulnerable spot is discovered on man or beast they stand on their heads and sink their jaws, and though torn limb from limb they will yet hold on and die biting deeper. When I contemplate this fierce creature so widely distributed and strongly intrenched, I see that much remains to be done ere the world is brought under the rule of universal peace and love. On my way to camp a few minutes ago, I passed a dead pine nearly ten feet in diameter. It has been enveloped in fire from top to bottom so that now it looks like a grand black pillar set up as a monument. In this noble shaft a colony of large jet-black ants have established themselves, laboriously cutting tunnels and cells through the wood, whether sound or decayed. The entire trunk seems to have been honeycombed, judging by the size of the talus of gnawed chips like sawdust piled up around its base. They are more intelligent-looking than their small, belligerent, strong-scented brethren, and have better manners, though quick to fight when required. Their towns are carved in fallen trunks as well as in those left standing, but never in sound, living trees or in the ground. When you happen to sit down to rest or take notes near a colony, some wandering hunter is sure to find you and come cautiously forward to discover the nature of the intruder and what ought to be done. If you are not too near the town and keep perfectly still he may run across your feet a few times, over your legs and hands and face, up your trousers, as if taking your measure and getting comprehensive views, then go in peace without raising an alarm. If however a tempting spot is offered or some suspicious movement excites him, a bite follows, and such a bite! I fancy that a bear- or wolf-bite is not to be compared with it. A quick electric flame of pain flashes along the outraged nerves, and you discover for the first time how great is the capacity for sensation you are possessed of. A shriek, a grab for the animal, and a bewildered stare follow this bite of bites as one comes back to consciousness from sudden eclipse. Fortunately, if careful, one need not be bitten oftener than once or twice in a lifetime. This wonderful electric ant is about three fourths of an inch long. Bears are fond of them, and tear and gnaw their home logs to pieces, and roughly devour the eggs, larvae, parent ants, and the rotten or sound wood of the cells, all in one spicy acid hash. The Digger Indians also are fond of the larvae and even of the perfect ants, so I have been told by old mountaineers. They bite off and reject the head, and eat the sickly acid body with keen relish. Thus are the poor biters bitten, like every other biter, big or little, in the world's great family. There is also a fine active intelligent-looking red species, intermediate in size between the above. They dwell in the ground, and build large piles of seedhusks, leaves, straw, etc., over their nests. Their food seems to be mostly insects and plant-leaves, seeds and sap. How many mouths nature has to fill, how many neighbors we have, how little we know about them, and how seldom we get in one another's way! Then to think of the infinite numbers of smaller fellow mortals, invisibly small, compared with which the smallest ants are as mastodons.
The Range of Light So on the first of April, 1868, I set out afoot for Yosemite. It was the bloom-time of the year over the lowlands and coast ranges; the landscapes of the Santa Clara Valley were fairly drenched with sunshine, all the air was quivering with the songs of the meadowlarks, and the hills were so covered with flowers that they seemed to be painted. Slow indeed was my progress through these glorious gardens, the first of the California flora I had seen. Cattle and cultivation were making few scars as yet, and I wandered enchanted in long wavering curves, knowing by my pocket map that Yosemite Valley lay to the east and that I should surely find it. . . . Looking eastward from the summit of the Pacheco Pass one shining morning, a landscape was displayed that after all my wanderings still appears as the most beautiful I have ever beheld. At my feet lay the Great Central Valley of California, level and flowery, like a lake of pure sunshine, forty or fifty miles wide, five hundred miles long, one rich furred garden of yellow Compositae. And from the eastern boundary of this vast golden flower-bed rose the mighty Sierra, miles in height, and so gloriously colored and so radiant, it seemed not clothed with light, but wholly composed of it, like the wall of some celestial city. Along the top and extending a good way down, was a rich pearl-gray belt of snow; below it a belt of blue and dark purple, marking the extension of the forests; and stretching along the base of the range a broad belt of rose-purple; all these colors, from the blue sky to the yellow valley smoothly blending as they do in a rainbow, making a wall of light ineffably fine. Then it seemed to me that the Sierra should be called, not the Nevada or Snowy Range, but the Range of Light. And after ten years of wandering and wondering in the heart of it, rejoicing in its glorious floods of light, the white beams of the morning streaming through the passes, the noonday radiance on the crystal rocks, the flush of the alpenglow, and the irised spray of countless waterfalls, it still seems above all others the Range of Light. -- John Muir
From: John Muir, "My First Summer in the Sierra (Part 1)," Atlantic Monthly, January 1911. Photo credits: John Muir in 1872 – U.S. National Park Service, Washington, D.C. Muir Yose – Sierra Club Archives -- Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley  |