the john muir exhibit - writings - my_first_summer_in_the_sierra - chapter 10
My First Summer in the Sierra
by John Muir
Chapter 10
The Tuolumne Camp
August 22.
--Clouds none, cool west
wind, slight hoarfrost on the meadows. Carlo is missing; have been
seeking him all day. In the thick woods between camp and the river,
among tall grass and fallen pines, I discovered a baby fawn. At first
it seemed inclined to come to me; but when I tried to catch it, and
got within a rod or two, it turned and walked softly away, choosing
its steps like a cautious, stealthy, hunting cat. Then, as if suddenly
called or alarmed, it began to buck and run like a grown deer, jumping
high above the fallen trunks, and was soon out of sight. Possibly its
mother may have called it, but I did not hear her. I don't think fawns
ever leave the home thicket or follow their mothers until they are
called or frightened. I am distressed about Carlo. There are several
other camps and dogs not many miles from here, and I still hope to
find him. He never left me before. Panthers are very rare here, and I
don't think any of these cats would dare touch him. He knows bears too
well
to be caught by them, and as for Indians, they don't want him.
August 23.
--Cool, bright day, hinting Indian summer. Mr. Delaney has gone to the
Smith Ranch, on the Tuolumne below Hetch-Hetchy Valley, thirty-five or
forty miles from here, so I'll be alone for a week or more, --not
really alone, for Carlo has come back. He was at a camp a few miles to
the northwestward. He looked sheepish and ashamed when I asked him
where he had been and why he had gone away without leave. He is now
trying to get me to caress him and show signs of forgiveness. A
wondrous wise dog. A great load is off my mind. I could not have left
the mountains without him. He seems very glad to get back to me.
Rose and crimson sunset, and soon after the stars appeared the moon
rose in most impressive majesty over the top of Mt. Dana. I sauntered
up the meadow in the white light. The jet-black tree-shadows were so
wonderfully distinct and substantial looking, I often stepped high in
crossing them, taking them for black charred logs.
August 24.
--Another charming day, warm and calm soon after sunrise, clouds only
about .01, --faint, silky cirrus wisps, scarcely visible. Slight
frost, Indian summerish, the mountains growing softer in outline and
dreamy looking, their rough angles melted off, apparently. Sky at
evening with fine, dark, subdued purple, almost like the evening
purple of the San Joaquin plains in settled weather. The moon is now
gazing over the summit of Dana. Glorious exhilarating air. I wonder if
in all the world there is another mountain range of equal height
blessed with weather so fine, and so openly kind and hospitable and
approachable.
August 25.
--Cool as usual in the morning, quickly changing to the ordinary
serene generous warmth and brightness. Toward evening the west wind
was cool and sent us
to the camp-fire. Of all Nature's flowery carpeted mountain halls none
can be finer than this glacier meadow. Bees and butterflies seem as
abundant as ever. The birds are still here, showing no sign of leaving
for winter quarters though the frost must bring them to mind. For my
part I should like to stay here all winter or all my life or even all
eternity.
August 26.
--Frost this morning; all the meadow grass and some of the pine
needles sparkling with irised crystals, --flowers of light. Large
picturesque clouds, craggy like rocks, are piled on Mt. Dana, reddish
in color like the mountain itself; the sky for a few degrees around
the horizon is pale purple, into which the pines dip their spires with
fine effect. Spent the day as usual looking about me, watching the
changing lights, the ripening autumn colors of the grass, seeds,
late-blooming gentians, asters, golden-rods; parting the meadow grass
here and there and looking down into the underworld of mosses
and liverworts; watching the busy ants and beetles and other small
people at work and play like squirrels and bears in a forest; studying
the formation of lakes and meadows, moraines, mountain sculpture;
making small beginnings in these directions, charmed by the serene
beauty of everything.
The day has been extra cloudy, though bright on the whole, for the
clouds were brighter than common. Clouds about .15, which in
Switzerland would be considered extra clear. Probably more free
sunshine falls on this majestic range than on any other in the world
I've ever seen or heard of. It has the brightest weather, brightest
glacier-polished rocks, the greatest abundance of irised spray from
its glorious waterfalls, the brightest forests of silver firs and
silver pines, more star-shine, moonshine, and perhaps more
crystal-shine than any other mountain chain, and its countless mirror
lakes, having more light poured into them, glow and spangle most. And
how glorious the shining after the short
summer showers and after frosty nights when the morning sunbeams are
pouring through the crystals on the grass and pine needles, and how
ineffably spiritually fine is the morning-glow on the mountain-tops
and the alpenglow of evening. Well may the Sierra be named, not the
Snowy Range, but the Range of Light.
August 27.
--Clouds only .05, --mostly white and pink cumuli over the Hoffman
spur towards evening, --frosty morning. Crystals grow in marvelous
beauty and perfection of form these still nights, every one built as
carefully as the grandest holiest temple, as if planned to endure
forever.
Contemplating the lace-like fabric of streams outspread over the
mountains, we are reminded that everything is flowing--going
somewhere, animals and so-called lifeless rocks as well as water. Thus
the snow flows fast or slow in grand beauty-making glaciers and
avalanches; the air in majestic floods carrying minerals, plant
leaves, seeds, spores, with streams of music and fragrance; water
streams carrying rocks both in solution and in the form of mud
particles, sand, pebbles, and boulders. Rocks flow from volcanoes like
water from springs, and animals flock together and flow in currents
modified by stepping, leaping, gliding, flying, swimming, etc. While
the stars go streaming through space pulsed on and on forever like
blood globules in Nature's warm heart.
August 28.
--The dawn a glorious song of color. Sky absolutely cloudless. A fine
crop of hoarfrost. Warm after ten o'clock. The gentians don't mind the
first frost though their petals seem so delicate; they close every
night as if going to sleep, and awake fresh as ever in the morning
sun-glory. The grass is a shade browner since last week, but there are
no nipped wilted plants of any sort as far as I have seen. Butterflies
and the grand host of smaller flies are benumbed every night, but they
hover and dance in the sunbeams over the meadows before noon with no
apparent lack of playful, joyful life. Soon they
must all fall like petals in an orchard, dry and wrinkled, not a wing
of all the mighty host left to tingle the air. Nevertheless new
myriads will arise in the spring, rejoicing, exulting, as if laughing
cold death to scorn.
August 29.
--Clouds about .05, slight frost. Bland serene Indian summer weather.
Have been gazing all day at the mountains, watching the changing
lights. More and more plainly are they clothed with light as a
garment, white tinged with pale purple, palest during the midday
hours, richest in the morning and evening. Everything seems
consciously peaceful, thoughtful, faithfully waiting God's will.
August 30.
--This day just like yesterday. A few clouds motionless and apparently
with no work to do beyond looking beautiful. Frost enough for crystal
building, --glorious fields of ice-diamonds destined to last but a
night. How lavish is Nature building, pulling down, creating,
destroying, chasing every
material particle from form to form, ever changing, ever beautiful.
Mr. Delaney arrived this morning. Felt not a trace of loneliness while
he was gone. On the contrary, I never enjoyed grander company. The
whole wilderness seems to be alive and familiar, full of humanity. The
very stones seem talkative, sympathetic, brotherly. No wonder when we
consider that we all have the same Father and Mother.
August 31.
--Clouds .05. Silky cirrus wisps and fringes so fine they almost
escape notice. Frost enough for another crop of crystals on the
meadows but none on the forests. The gentians, golden-rods, asters,
etc., don't seem to feel it; neither petals nor leaves are touched
though they seem so tender. Every day opens and closes like a flower,
noiseless, effortless. Divine peace glows on all the majestic
landscape like the silent enthusiastic joy that sometimes transfigures
a noble human face.
September 1.
--Clouds .05, --motionless,
of no particular color, --ornaments with no hint of rain or snow in
them. Day all calm, --another grand throb of Nature's heart, ripening
late flowers and seeds for next summer, full of life and the thoughts
and plans of life to come, and full of ripe and ready death beautiful
as life, telling divine wisdom and goodness and immortality. Have been
up Mt. Dana, making haste to see as much as I can now that the time of
departure is drawing nigh. The views from the summit reach far and
wide, eastward over the Mono Lake and Desert; mountains beyond
mountains looking strangely barren and gray and bare like heaps of
ashes dumped from the sky. The lake, eight or ten miles in diameter,
shines like a burnished disk of silver, no trees about its gray, ashy,
cindery shores. Looking westward, the glorious forests are seen
sweeping over countless ridges and hills, girdling domes and
subordinate mountains, fringing in long curving lines the dividing
ridges, and filling every hollow where the glaciers have
spread soil-beds however rocky or smooth. Looking northward and
southward along the axis of the range, you see the glorious array of
high mountains, crags and peaks and snow, the fountain-heads of rivers
that are flowing west to the sea through the famous Golden Gate, and
east to hot salt lakes and deserts to evaporate and hurry back into
the sky. Innumerable lakes are shining like eyes beneath heavy rock
brows, bare or tree fringed, or imbedded in black forests. Meadow
openings in the woods seem as numerous as the lakes or perhaps more
so. Far up the moraine-covered slopes and among crumbling rocks I
found many delicate hardy plants, some of them still in flower. The
best gains of this trip were the lessons of unity and inter-relation
of all the features of the landscape revealed in general views. The
lakes and meadows are located just where the ancient glaciers bore
heaviest at the foot of the steepest parts of their channels, and of
course their longest diameters are approximately parallel
with each other and with the belts of forests growing in long curving
lines on the lateral and medial moraines, and in broad outspreading
fields on the terminal beds deposited toward the end of the ice period
when the glaciers were receding. The domes, ridges, and spurs also
show the influence of glacial action in their forms, which
approximately seem to be the forms of greatest strength with reference
to the stress of oversweeping, past-sweeping, down-grinding
ice-streams; survivals of the most resisting masses, or those most
favorably situated. How interesting everything is! Every rock,
mountain, stream, plant, lake, lawn, forest, garden, bird, beast,
insect seems to call and invite us to come and learn something of its
history and relationship. But shall the poor ignorant scholar be
allowed to try the lessons they offer? It seems too great and good to
be true. Soon I'll be going to the lowlands. The bread camp must soon
be removed. If I had a few sacks of flour, an axe, and some matches,
I would build a cabin of pine logs, pile up plenty of firewood about
it and stay all winter to see the grand fertile snow-storms, watch the
birds and animals that winter thus high, how they live, how the
forests look
One of the Highest Mt. Ritter Fountains
|
snowladen or
buried, and how the avalanches look and sound on their way down the
mountains. But now I'll have to go, for there is nothing to spare in
the way of provisions. I'll surely be back, however, surely I'll be
back. No
other place has ever so overwhelmingly attracted me as this
hospitable, Godful wilderness.
September 2.
--A grand, red, rosy, crimson day, --a perfect glory of a day. What it
means I don't know. It is the first marked change from tranquil
sunshine with purple mornings and evenings and still, white noons.
There is nothing like a storm, however. The average cloudiness only
about .08, and there is no sighing in the woods to betoken a big
weather change. The sky was red in the morning and evening, the color
not diffused like the ordinary purple glow, but loaded upon separate
well-defined clouds that remained motionless, as if anchored around
the jagged mountain-fenced horizon. A deep-red cap, bluffy around its
sides, lingered a long time on Mt. Dana and Mt. Gibbs, drooping so low
as to hide most of their bases, but leaving Dana's round summit free,
which seemed to float separate and alone over the big crimson cloud.
Mammoth Mountain, to the south of Gibbs and Bloody Cañon, striped and
spotted with snow-banks and clumps of dwarf pine, was also favored
with a glorious crimson cap, in the making of which there was no trace
of economy, --a huge bossy pile colored with a perfect passion of
crimson, that seemed important enough to be sent off to burn among the
stars in majestic independence. One is constantly reminded of the
infinite lavishness and fertility of Nature, --inexhaustible abundance
amid what seems enormous waste. And yet when we look into any of her
operations that lie within reach of our minds, we learn that no
particle of her material is wasted or worn out. It is eternally
flowing from use to use, beauty to yet higher beauty; and we soon
cease to lament waste and death, and rather rejoice and exult in the
imperishable, unspendable wealth of the universe, and faithfully watch
and wait the reappearance of everything that melts and fades and dies
about us,
feeling sure that its next appearance will be better and more
beautiful than the last.
I watched the growth of these red-lands of the sky as eagerly as if
new mountain ranges were being built. Soon the group of snowy peaks in
whose recesses lie the highest fountains of the Tuolumne, Merced, and
North Fork of the San Joaquin were decorated with majestic colored
clouds like those already described, but more complicated, to
correspond with the grand fountain-heads of the rivers they
overshadowed. The Sierra Cathedral, to the south of camp, was
over-shadowed like Sinai. Never before noticed so fine a union of rock
and cloud in form and color and substance, drawing earth and sky
together as one; and so human is it, every feature and tint of color
goes to one's heart, and we shout, exulting in wild enthusiasm as if
all the divine show were our own. More and more, in a place like this,
we feel ourselves part of wild Nature, kin to everything. Spent most
of the day high
up on the north rim of the valley, commanding views of the clouds in
all their red glory spreading their wonderful light over all the
basin, while the rocks and trees and small Alpine plants at my feet
seemed hushed and thoughtful, as if they also were conscious
spectators of the glorious new cloud-world.
Here and there, as I plodded farther and higher, I came to small
garden-patches and ferneries just where one would naturally decide
that no plant-creature could possibly live. But, as in the region
about the head of Mono Pass and the top of Dana, it was in the
wildest, highest places that the most beautiful and tender and
enthusiastic plant-people were found. Again and again, as I lingered
over these charming plants, I said, How came you here? How do you live
through the winter? Our roots, they explained, reach far down the
joints of the summer-warmed rocks, and beneath our fine snow mantle
killing frosts cannot reach us,
while we sleep away the dark half of the year dreaming of spring.
Ever since I was allowed entrance into these mountains I have been
looking for cassiope, said to be the most beautiful and best loved of
the heathworts, but, strange to say, I have not yet found it. On my
high mountain walks I keep muttering, "Cassiope, cassiope." This name,
as Calvinists say, is driven in upon me, notwithstanding the glorious
host of plants that come about me uncalled as soon as I show myself.
Cassiope seems the highest name of all the small mountain-heath
people, and as if conscious of her worth, keeps out of my way. I must
find her soon, if at all this year.
September 4.
--All the vast sky dome is clear, filled only with mellow Indian
summer light. The pine and hemlock and fir cones are nearly ripe and
are falling fast from morning to night, cut off and gathered by the
busy squirrels. Almost all the plants have matured their seeds, their
summer work done; and the summer crop of birds and deer will soon be
able to follow their parents to the foothills and plains at the
approach of winter, when the snow begins to fly.
September 5.
--No clouds. Weather cool, calm, bright as if no great thing was yet
ready to be done. Have been sketching the North Tuolumne Church. The
sunset gloriously colored.
September 6.
--Still another perfectly cloudless day, purple evening and morning,
all the middle hours one mass of pure serene sunshine. Soon after
sunrise the air grew warm, and there was no wind. One naturally halted
to see what Nature intended to do. There is a suggestion of real
Indian summer in the hushed, brooding, faintly hazy weather. The
yellow atmosphere, though thin, is still plainly of the same general
character as that of eastern Indian summer. The peculiar mellowness is
perhaps in part caused by myriads of ripe spores adrift in the sky.
Mr. Delaney now keeps up a solemn talk about the need of getting away
from these high mountains, telling sad stories of flocks that perished
in storms that broke suddenly into the midst of fine innocent weather
like this we are now enjoying. "In no case," said he, "will I venture
to stay so high and far back in the mountains as we now are later than
the middle of this month, no matter how warm and sunny it may be." He
would move the flock slowly at first, a few miles a day until the
Yosemite Creek basin was reached and crossed, then while lingering in
the heavy pine woods should the weather threaten he could hurry down
to the foothills, where the snow never falls deep enough to smother a
sheep. Of course I am anxious to see as much of the wilderness as
possible in the few days left me, and I say again, --May the good time
come when I can stay as long as I like with plenty of bread, far and
free from trampling flocks, though I may well be thankful for this
generous
foodful inspiring summer. Anyhow we never know where we must go nor
what guides we are to get, --men, storms, guardian angels, or sheep.
Perhaps almost everybody in the least natural is guided more than he
is ever aware of. All the wilderness seems to be full of tricks and
plans to drive and draw us up into God's Light.
Have been busy planning, and baking bread for at least one more good
wild excursion among the high peaks, and surely none, however
hopefully aiming at fortune or fame, ever felt so gloriously happily
excited by the outlook.
September 7.
--Left camp at daybreak and made direct for Cathedral Peak, intending
to strike eastward and southward from that point among the peaks and
ridges at the heads of the Tuolumne, Merced, and San Joaquin rivers.
Down through the pine woods I made my way, across the Tuolumne River
and meadows, and up the heavily timbered slope forming the south
boundary
of the upper Tuolumne basin, along the east side of Cathedral Peak,
and up to its topmost spire, which I reached at noon, having loitered
by the way to study the fine trees, --two-leaved pine, mountain pine,
albicaulis pine, silver fir, and the most charming, most graceful of
all the evergreens, the mountain hemlock. High, cool, late-flowering
meadows also detained me, and lakelets and avalanche tracks and huge
quarries of moraine rocks above the forests.
All the way up from the Big Meadows to the base of the Cathedral the
ground is covered with moraine material, the left lateral moraine of
the great glacier that must have completely filled this upper Tuolumne
basin. Higher there are several small terminal moraines of residual
glaciers shoved forward at right angles against the grand simple
lateral of the main Tuolumne Glacier. A fine place to study mountain
sculpture and soil making. The view from the Cathedral Spires is very
fine and telling in every direction.
Innumerable peaks, ridges, domes, meadows, lakes, and woods; the
forests extending in long curving lines and broad fields wherever the
glaciers have left soil for them to grow on, while the sides of the
highest mountains show a straggling dwarf growth clinging to
Glacier Meadow Strewn with Moraine Boulders,
10,000 Feet above the Sea (near Mt. Dana)
|
rifts in the rocks apparently
independent of soil. The dark heath-like growth on the Cathedral roof
I found to be dwarf snow-pressed albicaulis pine, about three or four
feet high, but very old looking. Many of
them are bearing cones, and the noisy Clarke crow is eating the seeds,
using his long bill like a woodpecker in digging them out of the
cones. A good many flowers are still in bloom about the base of the
peak, and even on the roof among the little pines, especially a woody
yellow-flowered eriogonum and a handsome aster. The body of the
Cathedral is nearly square, and the roof slopes are wonderfully
regular and symmetrical, the ridge trending northeast and southwest.
This direction has apparently been determined by structure joints in
the granite. The gable on the northeast end is magnificent in size and
simplicity, and at its base there is a big snow-bank protected by the
shadow of the building. The front is adorned with many pinnacles and a
tall spire of curious workmanship. Here too the joints in the rock are
seen to have played an important part in determining their forms and
size and general arrangement. The Cathedral is said to be about eleven
thousand feet above the sea,
but the height of the building itself above the level of the ridge it
stands on is about fifteen hundred feet. A mile or so to the westward
there is a handsome lake, and the glacier-polished granite about it is
shining so brightly it is not easy in some places to trace
Front of Cathedral Peak
|
the line between the rock and
water, both shining alike. Of this lake with its silvery basin and
bits of meadow and groves I have a fine view from the spires; also of
Lake Tenaya, Cloud's Rest, and the South Dome of Yosemite, Mt. Starr
King, Mt. Hoffman,
the Merced peaks, and the vast multitude of snowy fountain peaks
extending far north and south along the axis of the range. No feature,
however, of all the noble landscape as seen from here seems more
wonderful than the Cathedral itself, a temple displaying Nature's best
masonry and sermons in stones. How often I have gazed at it from the
tops of hills and ridges, and through openings in the forests on my
many short excursions, devoutly wondering, admiring, longing! This I
may say is the first time I have been at church in California, led
here at last, every door graciously opened for the poor lonely
worshiper. In our best times everything turns into religion, all the
world seems a church and the mountains altars. And lo, here at last in
front of the Cathedral is blessed cassiope, ringing her thousands of
sweet-toned bells, the sweetest church music I ever enjoyed.
Listening, admiring, until late in the afternoon I compelled myself to
hasten away eastward back of rough, sharp, spiry, splintery
peaks, all of them granite like the Cathedral, sparkling with
crystals, --feldspar, quartz, hornblende, mica, tourmaline. Had a
rather difficult walk and creep across an immense snow and ice cliff
which gradually increased in steepness as I advanced until it was
almost impassable. Slipped on a dangerous place, but managed to stop
by digging my heels into the thawing surface just on the brink of a
yawning ice gulf. Camped beside a little pool and a group of crinkled
dwarf pines; and as I sit by the fire trying to write notes the
shallow pool seems fathomless with the infinite starry heavens in it,
while the onlooking rocks and trees, tiny shrubs and daisies and
sedges, brought forward in the fire-glow, seem full of thought as if
about to speak aloud and tell all their wild stories. A marvelously
impressive meeting in which every one has something worth while to
tell. And beyond the fire-beams out in the solemn darkness, how
impressive is the music of a choir of rills singing their way down
from
the snow to the river! And when we call to mind that thousands of
these rejoicing rills are assembled in each one of the main streams,
we wonder the less that our Sierra rivers are songful all the way to
the sea.
About sundown saw a flock of dun grayish sparrows going to roost in
crevices of a crag above the big snow-field. Charming little
mountaineers! Found a species of sedge in flower within eight or ten
feet of a snow-bank. Judging by the looks of the ground, it can hardly
have been out in the sunshine much longer than a week, and it is
likely to be buried again in fresh snow in a month or so, thus making
a winter about ten months long, while spring, summer, and autumn are
crowded and hurried into two months. How delightful it is to be alone
here! How wild everything is, --wild as the sky and as pure! Never
shall I forget this big, divine day, --the Cathedral and its thousands
of cassiope bells, and the landscapes around them, and this camp
in the gray crags above the woods, with its stars and streams and
snow.
September 8.
View of Upper Tuolumne Valley
|
--Day of climbing, scrambling, sliding on the peaks around the highest
sources of the Tuolumne and Merced. Climbed three of the most
commanding of the mountains, whose names I don't know; crossed streams
and huge beds of ice and snow more than I could keep count of. Neither
could I keep count of the lakes scattered on tablelands and in the
cirques of the peaks, and in chains in the cañons, linked together by
the streams, --a tremendously wild gray wilderness of hacked,
shattered crags, ridges, and peaks, a few clouds drifting over and
through the midst of them as if looking for work. In general views all
the immense round landscape seems raw and lifeless as a quarry, yet
the most charming flowers were found rejoicing in countless nooks and
garden-like patches everywhere. I must have done three or four days'
climbing work in this one. Limbs
perfectly tireless until near sundown, when I descended into the main
upper Tuolumne
valley at the foot of Mt. Lyell, the camp still eight or ten miles
distant. Going up
through the pine woods past the Soda Springs Dome in the dark, where
there is much fallen timber, and when all the excitement of seeing
things was wanting, I was tired. Arrived at the main camp at nine
o'clock, and soon was sleeping sound as death.
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