the john muir exhibit - writings - my_first_summer_in_the_sierra - chapter 1
My First Summer in the Sierra
by John Muir
Chapter 1
Through the Foothills with a Flock of Sheep
1869
IN the great Central Valley of California there are only two seasons,
--spring and summer. The spring begins with the first rainstorm, which
usually falls in November. In a few months the wonderful flowery
vegetation is in full bloom, and by the end of May it is dead and dry
and crisp, as if every plant had been roasted in an oven.
Then the lolling, panting flocks and herds are driven to the high,
cool, green pastures of the Sierra. I was longing for the mountains
about this time, but money was scarce and I couldn't see how a bread
supply was
to be kept up. While I was anxiously brooding on the bread problem, so
troublesome to wanderers, and trying to believe that I might learn to
live like the wild animals, gleaning nourishment here and there from
seeds, berries, etc., sauntering and climbing in joyful independence
of money or baggage, Mr. Delaney, a sheep-owner, for whom I had worked
a few weeks, called on me, and offered to engage me to go with his
shepherd and flock to the headwaters of the Merced and Tuolumne
rivers, --the very region I had most in mind. I was in the mood to
accept work of any kind that would take me into the mountains whose
treasures I had tasted last summer in the Yosemite region. The flock,
he explained, would be moved gradually higher through the successive
forest belts as the snow melted, stopping for a few weeks at the best
places we came to. These I thought would be good centres of
observation from which I might be able to make many telling
excursions within a radius of eight or ten miles of the camps to learn
something of the plants, animals, and rocks; for he assured me that I
should be left perfectly free to follow my studies. I judged, however,
that I was in no way the right man for the place, and freely explained
my shortcomings, confessing that I was wholly unacquainted with the
topography of the upper mountains, the streams that would have to be
crossed, and the wild sheep-eating animals, etc.; in short that, what
with bears, coyotes, rivers, cañons, and thorny, bewildering
chaparral, I feared that half or more of his flock would be lost.
Fortunately these shortcomings seemed insignificant to Mr. Delaney.
The main thing, he said, was to have a man about the camp whom he
could trust to see that the shepherd did his duty, and he assured me
that the difficulties that seemed so formidable at a distance would
vanish as we went on; encouraging me further by saying that the
shepherd would do all the herding, that
I could study plants and rocks and scenery as much as I liked, and
that he would himself accompany us to the first main camp and make
occasional visits to our higher ones to replenish our store of
provisions and see how we prospered. Therefore I concluded to go,
though still fearing, when I saw the silly sheep bouncing one by one
through the narrow gate of the home corral to be counted, that of the
two thousand and fifty many would never return.
I was fortunate in getting a fine St. Bernard dog for a companion. His
master, a hunter with whom I was slightly acquainted, came to me as
soon as he heard that I was going to spend the summer in the Sierra
and begged me to take his favorite dog, Carlo, with me, for he feared
that if he were compelled to stay all summer on the plains the fierce
heat might be the death of him. "I think I can trust you to be kind to
him," he said, "and I am sure he will be good to you. He knows all
about the
mountain animals, will guard the camp, assist in managing the sheep,
and in every way be found able and faithful." Carlo knew we were
talking about him, watched our faces, and listened so attentively that
I fancied he understood us. Calling him by name, I asked him if he was
willing to go with me. He looked me in the face with eyes expressing
wonderful intelligence, then turned to his master, and after
permission was given by a wave of the hand toward me and a farewell
patting caress, he quietly followed me as if he perfectly understood
all that had been said and had known me always.
June 3, 1869.
--This morning provisions, camp-kettles, blankets, plant-press, etc.,
were packed on two horses, the flock headed for the tawny foothills,
and away we sauntered in a cloud of dust: Mr. Delaney, bony and tall,
with sharply hacked profile like Don Quixote, leading the pack-horses,
Billy, the proud shepherd, a Chinaman and a Digger
Indian to assist in driving for the first few days in the brushy
foothills, and myself with notebook tied to my belt.
The home ranch from which we set out is on the south side of the
Tuolumne River near French Bar, where the foothills of metamorphic
gold-bearing slates dip below the stratified deposits of the Central
Valley. We had not gone more than a mile before some of the old
leaders of the flock showed by the eager, inquiring way they ran and
looked ahead that they were thinking of the high pastures they had
enjoyed last summer. Soon the whole flock seemed to be hopefully
excited, the mothers calling their lambs, the lambs replying in tones
wonderfully human, their fondly quavering calls interrupted now and
then by hastily snatched mouthfuls of withered grass. Amid all this
seeming babel of baas as they streamed over the hills every mother and
child recognized each other's voice. In case a tired lamb, half asleep
in the smothering dust, should
fail to answer, its mother would come running back through the flock
toward the spot whence its last response was heard, and refused to be
comforted until she found it, the one of a thousand, though to our
eyes and ears all seemed alike.
The flock traveled at the rate of about a mile an hour, outspread in
the form of an irregular triangle, about a hundred yards wide at the
base, and a hundred and fifty yards long, with a crooked,
ever-changing point made up of the strongest foragers, called the
"leaders," which, with the most active of those scattered along the
ragged sides of the "main body," hastily explored nooks in the rocks
and bushes for grass and leaves; the lambs and feeble old mothers
dawdling in the rear were called the "tail end."
About noon the heat was hard to bear; the poor sheep panted pitifully
and tried to stop in the shade of every tree they came to, while we
gazed with eager longing through
the dim burning glare toward the snowy mountains and streams, though
not one was in sight. The landscape is only wavering foothills
roughened here and there with bushes and trees and out-cropping masses
of slate. The trees, mostly the blue oak (Quercus Douglasii), are
about thirty to forty feet high, with pale blue-green leaves and white
bark, sparsely planted on the thinnest soil or in crevices of rocks
beyond the reach of grass fires. The slates in many places rise
abruptly through the tawny grass in sharp lichen covered slabs like
tombstones in deserted burying-grounds. With the exception of the oak
and four or five species of manzanita and ceanothus, the vegetation of
the foothills is mostly the same as that of the plains. I saw this
region in the early spring, when it was a charming landscape garden
full of birds and bees and flowers. Now the scorching weather makes
everything dreary. The ground is full of cracks, lizards glide about
on the rocks, and ants in amazing
numbers, whose tiny sparks of life only burn the brighter with the
heat, fairly quiver with unquenchable energy as they run in long lines
to fight and gather food. How it comes that they do not dry to a crisp
in a few seconds' exposure to such sun-fire is marvelous. A few
rattlesnakes lie coiled in out-of-the-way places, but are seldom seen.
Magpies and crows, usually so noisy, are silent now, standing in mixed
flocks on the ground beneath the best shade trees, with bills wide
open and wings drooped, too breathless to speak; the quails also are
trying to keep in the shade about the few tepid alkaline water holes;
cottontail rabbits are running from shade to shade among the ceanothus
brush, and occasionally the long-eared hare is seen cantering
gracefully across the wider openings.
After a short noon rest in a grove, the poor dust-choked flock was
again driven ahead over the brushy hills, but the dim roadway we had
been following faded away
just where it was most needed, compelling us to stop to look about us
and get our bearings. The Chinaman seemed to think we were lost, and
chattered in pidgin English concerning the abundance of "litty stick"
(chaparral), while the Indian silently scanned the billowy ridges and
gulches for openings. Pushing through the thorny jungle, we at length
discovered a road trending toward Coulterville, which we followed
until an hour before sunset, when we reached a dry ranch and camped
for the night.
Camping in the foothills with a flock of sheep is simple and easy, but
far from pleasant. The sheep were allowed to pick what they could find
in the neighborhood until after sunset, watched by the shepherd, while
the others gathered wood, made a fire, cooked, unpacked and fed the
horses, etc. About dusk the weary sheep were gathered on the highest
open spot near camp, where they willingly bunched close together, and
after each mother had found
her lamb and suckled it, all lay down and required no attention until
morning.
Supper was announced by the call, "Grub!" Each with a tin plate helped
himself direct from the pots and pans while chatting about such camp
studies as sheep feed, mines, coyotes, bears, or adventures during the
memorable gold days of paydirt. The Indian kept in the background,
saying never a word, as if he belonged to another species. The meal
finished, the dogs were fed, the smokers smoked by the fire, and under
the influences of fullness and tobacco the calm that settled on their
faces seemed almost divine, something like the mellow meditative glow
portrayed on the countenances of saints. Then suddenly, as if
awakening from a dream, each with a sigh or a grunt knocked the ashes
out of his pipe, yawned, gazed at the fire a few moments, said, "Well,
I believe I'll turn in," and straightway vanished beneath his
blankets. The fire smouldered and flickered
an hour or two longer; the stars shone brighter; coons, coyotes, and
owls stirred the silence here and there, while crickets and hylas made
a cheerful, continuous music, so fitting and full that it seemed a
part of the very body of the night. The only discordance came from a
snoring sleeper, and the coughing sheep with dust in their throats. In
the starlight the flock looked like a big gray blanket.
June 4.
--The camp was astir at day break; coffee, bacon, and beans formed the
breakfast, followed by quick dish-washing and packing. A general
bleating began about sunrise. As soon as a mother ewe arose, her lamb
came bounding and bunting for its breakfast, and after the thousand
youngsters had been suckled the flock began to nibble and spread. The
restless wethers with ravenous appetites were the first to move, but
dared not go far from the main body. Billy and the Indian and the
Chinaman kept them headed along the weary road, and allowed
them to pick up what little they could find on a breadth of about a
quarter of a mile. But as several flocks had already gone ahead of us,
scarce a leaf, green or dry, was left; therefore the starving flock
had to be hurried on over the bare, hot hills to the nearest of the
green pastures, about twenty or thirty miles from here.
The pack-animals were led by Don Quixote, a heavy rifle over his
shoulder intended for bears and wolves. This day has been as hot and
dusty as the first, leading over gently sloping brown hills, with
mostly the same vegetation, excepting the strange-looking Sabine pine
(Pinus Sabiniana), which here forms small groves or is scattered
among the blue oaks. The trunk divides at a height of fifteen or
twenty feet into two or more stems, outleaning or nearly upright, with
many straggling branches and long gray needles, casting but little
shade. In general appearance this tree looks more like a palm than a
pine. The cones are about six or seven inches long,
about five in diameter, very heavy, and last long after they fall, so
that the ground beneath the trees is covered with them. They make fine
resiny, light-giving camp-fires, next to ears of Indian corn the most
beautiful fuel I've ever seen. The nuts, the Don tells me, are
gathered in large quantities by the Digger Indians for food. They are
about as large and hard-shelled as hazelnuts, --food and fire fit for
the gods from the same fruit.
June 5.
--This morning a few hours after setting out with the crawling
sheep-cloud, we gained the summit of the first well-defined bench on
the mountain-flank at Pino Blanco. The Sabine pines interest me
greatly. They are so airy and strangely palm-like I was eager to
sketch them, and was in a fever of excitement without accomplishing
much. I managed to halt long enough, however, to make a tolerably fair
sketch of Pino Blanco peak from the southwest side, where there is a
small field and vineyard irrigated by a
stream that makes a pretty fall on its way down a gorge by the
roadside.
After gaining the open summit of this first bench, feeling the natural
exhilaration due to the slight elevation of a thousand feet or so, and
the hopes excited concerning the
Horseshoe Bend, Merced River
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outlook to be obtained, a
magnificent section of the Merced Valley at what is called Horse shoe
Bend came full in sight, --a glorious wilderness that seemed to be
calling with a thousand songful voices. Bold, down-sweeping slopes,
feathered with pines and clumps of manzanita with sunny, open spaces
between them, make up most of the foreground; the middle and
background present fold beyond fold of finely modeled hills and ridges
rising into mountain-like masses in the distance, all covered with a
shaggy growth of chaparral, mostly adenostoma, planted so marvelously
close and even that it looks like soft, rich plush without a single
tree or bare spot. As far as the eye can reach it extends, a heaving,
swelling sea of green as regular and continuous as that produced by
the heaths of Scotland. The sculpture of the landscape is as striking
in its main lines as in its lavish richness of detail; a grand
congregation of massive heights with the river shining between, each
carved into smooth, graceful folds without leaving a single rocky
angle exposed, as if the delicate fluting and ridging fashioned out of
metamorphic slates had been carefully sandpapered. The whole landscape
showed design, like man's noblest sculptures. How wonderful the power
of its beauty! Gazing awe-stricken, I might have left
everything for it. Glad, endless work would then be mine tracing the
forces that have brought forth its features, its rocks and plants and
animals and glorious weather. Beauty beyond thought everywhere,
beneath, above, made and being made forever. I gazed and gazed and
longed and admired until the dusty sheep and packs were far out of
sight, made hurried notes and a sketch, though there was no need of
either, for the colors and lines and expression of this divine
landscape-countenance are so burned into mind and heart they surely
can never grow dim.
The evening of this charmed day is cool, calm, cloudless, and full of
a kind of lightning I have never seen before--white glowing
cloud-shaped masses down among the trees and bushes, like
quick-throbbing fire-flies in the Wisconsin meadows rather than the
so-called "wild fire." The spreading hairs of the horses' tails and
sparks from our blankets show how highly charged the air is.
June 6.
--We are now on what may be
called the second bench or plateau of the Range, after making many
small ups and downs over belts of hill-waves, with, of course,
corresponding changes in the vegetation. In open spots many of the
lowland composit are still to be found, and some of the Mariposa
tulips and other conspicuous members of the lily family; but the
characteristic blue oak of the foothills is left below, and its place
is taken by a fine large species (Quercus Californica) with deeply
lobed deciduous leaves, picturesquely divided trunk, and broad, massy,
finely lobed and modeled head. Here also at a height of about
twenty-five hundred feet we come to the edge of the great coniferous
forest, made up mostly of yellow pine with just a few sugar pines. We
are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm,
making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. Our
flesh-and-bone tabernacle seems transparent as glass to the beauty
about us, as if truly an inseparable part of it, thrilling with the
air and trees, streams
and rocks, in the waves of the sun, --a part of all nature, neither
old nor young, sick nor well, but immortal. Just now I can hardly
conceive of any bodily condition dependent on food or breath any more
than the ground
On Second Bench.
Edge of the Main Forest Belt,
above Coulterville,
near Greeley's Mill.
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or the sky. How glorious a
conversion, so complete and wholesome it is, scarce memory enough of
old bondage days left as a standpoint to view it from! In this newness
of life we seem to have been so always.
White Mariposa Tulip
(Calorchortus albus)
|
Through a meadow opening in the pine woods I see snowy peaks about the
head-waters of the Merced above Yosemite. How near they seem and how
clear their outlines on the blue air, or rather in the blue air; for
they seem to be saturated with it. How consuming strong the invitation
they extend! Shall I be allowed to go to them? Night and day I'll pray
that I may, but it seems too good to be true. Some one worthy will go,
able for the Godful work, yet as far as I can I must drift about these
love-monument mountains, glad to be a servant of servants in so holy a
wilderness.
Found a lovely lily (Calochortus albus) in a shady adenostoma
thicket near Coulterville, in company with Adiantum Chilense. It is
white with a faint purplish tinge inside at the base of the petals, a
most impressive plant, pure as a snow crystal, one of the plant saints
that all must love and be made so much the purer by it every time it
is seen. It puts the roughest mountaineer
on his good behavior. With this plant the whole world would seem rich
though none other existed. It is not easy to keep on with the camp
cloud while such plant people are standing preaching by the wayside.
During the afternoon we passed a fine meadow bounded by stately pines,
mostly the arrowy yellow pine, with here and there a noble sugar pine,
its feathery arms outspread above the spires of its companion species
in marked contrast; a glorious tree, its cones fifteen to twenty
inches long, swinging like tassels at the end of the branches with
superb ornamental effect. Saw some logs of this species at the Greeley
Mill. They are round and regular as if turned in a lathe, excepting
the butt cuts, which have a few buttressing projections. The fragrance
of the sugary sap is delicious and scents the mill and lumber yard.
How beautiful the ground beneath this pine thickly strewn with slender
needles and grand cones, and the piles of cone-scales, seed-wings and
shells
around the instep of each tree where the squirrels have been feasting!
They get the seeds by cutting off the scales at the base in regular
order, following their spiral arrangement, and the two seeds at the
base of each scale, a hundred or two in a cone, must make a good meal.
The yellow pine cones and those of most other species and genera are
held upside down on the ground by the Douglas squirrel, and turned
around gradually until stripped, while he sits usually with his back
to a tree, probably for safety. Strange to say, he never seems to get
himself smeared with gum, not even his paws or whiskers, --and how
cleanly and beautiful in color the cone-litter kitchen-middens he
makes.
We are now approaching the region of clouds and cool streams.
Magnificent white cumuli appeared about noon above the Yosemite
region, --floating fountains refreshing the glorious wilderness, --sky
mountains in whose pearly hills and dales the
streams take their rise, --blessing with cooling shadows and rain. No
rock landscape is more varied in sculpture, none more delicately
modeled than these landscapes of the sky; domes and peaks rising,
swelling, white as finest marble and firmly outlined, a most
impressive manifestation of world building. Every rain-cloud, however
fleeting, leaves its mark, not only on trees and flowers whose pulses
are quickened, and on the replenished streams and lakes, but also on
the rocks are its marks engraved whether we can see them or not.
I have been examining the curious and influential shrub Adenostoma
Fascivulata, first noticed about Horseshoe Bend. It is very abundant
on the lower slopes of the second plateau near Coulterville, forming a
dense, almost impenetrable growth that looks dark in the distance. It
belongs to the rose family, is about six or eight feet high, has small
white flowers in racemes eight to twelve inches long, round
needle-like leaves, and
reddish bark that becomes shreddy when old. It grows on sun-beaten
slopes, and like grass is often swept away by running fires, but is
quickly renewed from the roots. Any trees that may have established
themselves in its midst are at length killed by these fires, and this
no doubt is the secret of the unbroken character of its broad belts. A
few manzanitas, which also rise again from the root after consuming
fires, make out to dwell with it, also a few bush composit,
--baccharis and linosyris, and some liliaceous plants, mostly
calochortus and brodia, with deepset bulbs safe from fire. A multitude
of birds and "wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beasties" find good
homes in its deepest thickets, and the open bays and lanes that fringe
the margins of its main belts offer shelter and food to the deer when
winter storms drive them down from their high mountain pastures. A
most admirable plant! It is now in bloom, and I like to wear its
pretty fragrant racemes in my buttonhole.
Azalea occidentalis, another charming shrub, grows beside cool
streams hereabouts and much higher in the Yosemite region. We found it
this evening in bloom a few miles above Greeley's Mill, where we are
camped for the night. It is closely related to the rhododendrons, is
very showy and fragrant, and everybody must like it not only for
itself but for the shady alders and willows, ferny meadows, and living
water associated with it.
Another conifer was met to-day, --incense cedar (Libocedrus decurrens),
a large tree with warm yellow-green foliage in flat plumes like
those of arborvit, bark cinnamon-colored, and as the boles of the old
trees are without limbs they make striking pillars in the woods where
the sun chances to shine on them, --a worthy companion of the kingly
sugar and yellow pines. I feel strangely attracted to this tree. The
brown close-grained wood, as well as the small scale-like leaves, is
fragrant, and the flat
overlapping plumes make fine beds, and must shed the rain well. It
would be delightful to be storm-bound beneath one of these noble,
hospitable, inviting old trees, its broad sheltering arms bent down
like a tent, incense rising from the fire made from its dry fallen
branches, and a hearty wind chanting overhead. But the weather is calm
to-night, and our camp is only a sheep camp. We are near the North
Fork of the Merced. The night wind is telling the wonders of the upper
mountains, their snow fountains and gardens, forests and groves; even
their topography is in its tones. And the stars, the everlasting sky
lilies, how bright they are now that we have climbed above the lowland
dust! The horizon is bounded and adorned by a spiry wall of pines,
every tree harmoniously related to every other; definite symbols,
divine hieroglyphics written with sunbeams. Would I could understand
them! The stream flowing past the camp through ferns and lilies and
alders makes
sweet music to the ear, but the pines marshaled around the edge of the
sky make a yet sweeter music to the eye. Divine beauty all. Here I
could stay tethered forever with just bread and water, nor would I be
lonely; loved friends and neighbors, as love for everything increased,
would seem all the nearer however many the miles and mountains between
us.
June 7
--The sheep were sick last night, and many of them are still far from
well, hardly able to leave camp, coughing, groaning, looking wretched
and pitiful, all from eating the leaves of the blessed azalea. So at
least say the shepherd and the Don. Having had but little grass since
they left the plains, they are starving, and so eat anything green
they can get. "Sheep men" call azalea "sheep-poison," and wonder what
the Creator was thinking about when he made it, --so desperately does
sheep business blind and degrade, though supposed to have a refining
influence in the good old
days we read of. The California sheepowner is in haste to get rich,
and often does, now that pasturage costs nothing, while the climate is
so favorable that no winter food supply, shelter-pens, or barns are
required. Therefore large flocks may be kept at slight expense, and
large profits realized, the money invested doubling, it is claimed,
every other year. This quickly acquired wealth usually creates desire
for more. Then indeed the wool is drawn close down over the poor
fellow's eyes, dimming or shutting out almost everything worth seeing.
As for the shepherd, his case is still worse, especially in winter
when he lives alone in a cabin. For, though stimulated at times by
hopes of one day owning a flock and getting rich like his boss, he at
the same time is likely to be degraded by the life he leads, and
seldom reaches the dignity or advantage--or disadvantage--of
ownership. The degradation in his case has for cause one not far to
seek. He is solitary most of the year, and
solitude to most people seems hard to bear. He seldom has much good
mental work or recreation in the way of books. Coming into his dingy
hovel-cabin at night, stupidly weary, he finds nothing to balance and
level his life with the universe. No, after his dull drag all day
after the sheep, he must get his supper; he is likely to slight this
task and try to satisfy his hunger with whatever comes handy. Perhaps
no bread is baked; then he just makes a few grimy flapjacks in his
unwashed frying-pan, boils a handful of tea, and perhaps fries a few
strips of rusty bacon. Usually there are dried peaches or apples in
the cabin, but he hates to be bothered with the cooking of them, just
swallows the bacon and flapjacks, and depends on the genial
stupefaction of tobacco for the rest. Then to bed, often without
removing the clothing worn during the day. Of course his health
suffers, reacting on his mind; and seeing nobody for weeks or months,
he finally becomes semi-insane or wholly so.
The shepherd in Scotland seldom thinks of being anything but a
shepherd. He has probably descended from a race of shepherds and
inherited a love and aptitude for the business almost as marked as
that of his collie. He has but a small flock to look after, sees his
family and neighbors, has time for reading in fine weather, and often
carries books to the fields with which he may converse with kings. The
oriental shepherd, we read, called his sheep by name; they knew his
voice and followed him. The flocks must have been small and easily
managed, allowing piping on the hills and ample leisure for reading
and thinking. But whatever the blessings of sheep-culture in other
times and countries, the California shepherd, as far as I've seen or
heard, is never quite sane for any considerable time. Of all Nature's
voices baa is about all he hears. Even the howls and ki-yis of coyotes
might be blessings if well heard, but he hears them only through a
blur of mutton and wool, and they do him no good.
The sick sheep are getting well, and the shepherd is discoursing on
the various poisons lurking in these high pastures--azalea, kalmia,
alkali. After crossing the North Fork of the Merced we turned to the
left toward Pilot Peak, and made a considerable ascent on a rocky,
brush-covered ridge to Brown's Flat, where for the first time since
leaving the plains the flock is enjoying plenty of green grass. Mr.
Delaney intends to seek a permanent camp somewhere in the
neighborhood, to last several weeks.
Before noon we passed Bower Cave, a delightful marble palace, not dark
and dripping, but filled with sunshine, which pours into it through
its wide-open mouth facing the south. It has a fine, deep, clear
little lake with mossy banks embowered with broad-leaved maples, all
under ground, wholly unlike anything I have seen in the cave line even
in Kentucky, where a large part
of the state is honeycombed with caves. This curious specimen of
subterranean scenery is located on a belt of marble that is said to
extend from the north end of the Range to the extreme south. Many
other caves occur on the belt, but none like this, as far as I have
learned, combining as it does sunny outdoor brightness and vegetation
with the crystalline beauty of the under-world. It is claimed by a
Frenchman, who has fenced and locked it, placed a boat on the lakelet
and seats on the mossy bank under the maple trees, and charges a
dollar admission fee. Being on one of the ways to the Yosemite Valley,
a good many tourists visit it during the travel months of summer,
regarding it as an interesting addition to their Yosemite wonders.
Poison oak or poison ivy (Rhus diversiloba), both as a bush and a
scrambler up trees and rocks, is common throughout the foothill region
up to a height of at least three thousand feet above the sea. It is
somewhat
troublesome to most travelers, inflaming the skin and eyes, but blends
harmoniously with its companion plants, and many a charming flower
leans confidingly upon it for protection and shade. I have oftentimes
found the curious twining lily (Stropholirion Californicum) climbing
its branches, showing no fear but rather congenial companionship.
Sheep eat it without apparent ill effects; so do horses to some
extent, though not fond of it, and to many persons it is harmless.
Like most other things not apparently useful to man, it has few
friends, and the blind question, "Why was it made?" goes on and on
with never a guess that first of all it might have been made for
itself.
Brown's Flat is a shallow fertile valley on the top of the divide
between the North Fork of the Merced and Bull Creek, commanding
magnificent views in every direction. Here the adventurous pioneer
David Brown made his headquarters for many years, dividing his time
between gold-hunting and
bear-hunting. Where could lonely hunter find a better solitude? Game
in the woods, gold in the rocks, health and exhilaration in the air,
while the colors and cloud furniture of the sky are ever inspiring
through all sorts of weather. Though sternly practical, like most
pioneers, old David seems to have been uncommonly fond of scenery. Mr.
Delaney, who knew him well, tells me that he dearly loved to climb to
the summit of a commanding ridge to gaze abroad over the forest to the
snow-clad peaks and sources of the rivers, and over the foreground
valleys and gulches to note where miners were at work or claims were
abandoned, judging by smoke from cabins and camp-fires, the sounds of
axes, etc.; and when a rifle-shot was heard, to guess who was the
hunter, whether Indian or some poacher on his wide domain. His dog
Sandy accompanied him everywhere, and well the little hairy
mountaineer knew and loved his master and his master's aims. In
deer-hunting he had but little to do, trotting behind
his master as he slowly made his way through the wood, careful not to
step heavily on dry twigs, scanning open spots in the chaparral, where
the game loves to feed in the early morning and towards sunset;
peering cautiously over ridges as new outlooks were reached, and along
the meadowy borders of streams. But when bears were hunted, little
Sandy became more important, and it was as a bear-hunter that Brown
became famous. His hunting method, as described by Mr. Delaney, who
had passed many a night with him in his lonely cabin and learned his
stories, was simply to go slowly and silently through the best bear
pastures, with his dog and rifle and a few pounds of flour, until he
found a fresh track and then follow it to the death, paying no heed to
the time required. Wherever the bear went he followed, led by little
Sandy, who had a keen nose and never lost the track, however rocky the
ground. When high open points were reached, the likeliest places were
carefully scanned. The
time of year enabled the hunter to determine approximately where the
bear would be found, --in the spring and early summer on open spots
about the banks of streams and springy places eating grass and clover
and lupines, or in dry meadows feasting on strawberries; toward the
end of summer, on dry ridges, feasting on manzanita berries, sitting
on his haunches, pulling down the laden branches with his paws, and
pressing them together so as to get good compact mouthfuls however
much mixed with twigs and leaves; in the Indian summer, beneath the
pines, chewing the cones cut off by the squirrels, or occasionally
climbing a tree to gnaw and break off the fruitful branches. In late
autumn, when acorns are ripe, Bruin's favorite feeding-grounds are
groves of the California oak in park-like cañon flats. Always the
cunning hunter knew where to look, and seldom came upon Bruin
unawares. When the hot scent showed the dangerous game was nigh, a
long halt was made, and the
intricacies of the topography and vegetation leisurely scanned to
catch a glimpse of the shaggy wanderer, or to at least determine where
he was most likely to be.
"Whenever," said the hunter, "I saw a bear before it saw me I had no
trouble in killing it. I just studied the lay of the land and got to
leeward of it no matter how far around I had to go, and then worked up
to within a few hundred yards or so, at the foot of a tree that I
could easily climb, but too small for the bear to climb. Then I looked
well to the condition of my rifle, took off my boots so as to climb
well if necessary, and waited until the bear turned its side in clear
view when I could make a sure or at least a good shot. In case it
showed fight I climbed out of reach. But bears are slow and awkward
with their eyes, and being to leeward of them they could not scent me,
and I often got in a second shot before they noticed the smoke.
Usually, however, they run when wounded and hide in the brush.
I let them run a good safe time before I ventured to follow them, and
Sandy was pretty sure to find them dead. If not, he barked and drew
their attention, and occasionally rushed in for a distracting bite, so
that I was able to get to a safe distance for a final shot. Oh yes,
bear-hunting is safe enough when followed in a safe way, though like
every other business it has its accidents, and little doggie and I
have had some close calls. Bears like to keep out of the way of men as
a general thing, but if an old, lean, hungry mother with cubs met a
man on her own ground she would, in my opinion, try to catch and eat
him. This would be only fair play anyhow, for we eat them, but nobody
hereabout has been used for bear grub that I know of."
Brown had left his mountain home ere we arrived, but a considerable
number of Digger Indians still linger in their cedar-bark huts on the
edge of the flat. They were attracted in the first place by the white
hunter whom they had learned to respect, and to whom they looked for
guidance and protection against their enemies the Pah Utes, who
sometimes made raids across from the east side of the Range to plunder
the stores of the comparatively feeble Diggers and steal their wives.
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