the john muir exhibit - writings - my_first_summer_in_the_sierra - chapter 7
My First Summer in the Sierra
by John Muir
Chapter 7
A Strange Experience
August 2.
--Clouds and showers, about the same as yesterday. Sketching all day
on the North Dome until four or five o'clock
in the afternoon, when, as I was busily employed thinking only of the
glorious Yosemite landscape, trying to draw every tree and every line
and feature of the rocks, I was suddenly, and without warning,
possessed with the notion that my friend, Professor J. D. Butler, of
the State University of Wisconsin, was below me in the valley, and I
jumped up full of the idea of meeting him, with almost as much
startling excitement as if he had suddenly touched me to make me look
up. Leaving my work without the slightest deliberation, I ran down the
western slope of the Dome and along the brink of the valley wall,
looking for a way to the bottom, until I came to a side cañon, which,
judging by its apparently continuous growth of trees and bushes, I
thought might afford a practical way into the valley, and immediately
began to make the descent, late as it was, as if drawn irresistibly.
But after a little, common sense stopped me and explained that it
would be
long after dark ere I could possibly reach the hotel, that the
visitors would be asleep, that nobody would know me, that I had no
money in my pockets, and moreover was without a coat. I therefore
compelled myself to stop, and finally succeeded in reasoning myself
out of the notion of seeking my friend in the dark, whose presence I
only felt in a strange, telepathic way. I succeeded in dragging myself
back through the woods to camp, never for a moment wavering, however,
in my determination to go down to him next morning. This I think is
the most unexplainable notion that ever struck me. Had some one
whispered in my ear while I sat on the Dome, where I had spent so many
days, that Professor Butler was in the valley, I could not have been
more surprised and startled. When I was leaving the university he
said, "Now, John, I want to hold you in sight and watch your career.
Promise to write me at least once a year." I received a letter from
him in
July, at our first camp in the Hollow, written in May, in which he
said that he might possibly visit California some time this summer,
and therefore hoped to meet me. But inasmuch as he named no
meeting-place, and gave no directions as to the course he would
probably follow, and as I should be in the wilderness all summer, I
had not the slightest hope of seeing him, and all thought of the
matter had vanished from my mind until this afternoon, when he seemed
to be wafted bodily almost against my face. Well, to-morrow I shall
see; for, reasonable or unreasonable, I feel I must go.
August 3.
--Had a wonderful day. Found Professor Butler as the compass-needle
finds the pole. So last evening's telepathy, transcendental
revelation, or whatever else it may be called, was true; for, strange
to say, he had just entered the valley by way of the Coulterville
Trail and was coming up the valley past El Capitan when his presence
struck me. Had he then looked
toward the North Dome with a good glass when it first came in sight,
he might have seen me jump up from my work and run toward him. This
seems the one well-defined marvel of my life of the kind called
supernatural; for, absorbed in glad Nature, spirit-rappings, second
sight, ghost stories, etc., have never interested me since boyhood,
seeming comparatively useless and infinitely less wonderful than
Nature's open, harmonious, songful, sunny, every-day beauty.
This morning, when I thought of having to appear among tourists at a
hotel, I was troubled because I had no suitable clothes, and at best
am desperately bashful and shy. I was determined to go, however, to
see my old friend after two years among strangers; got on a clean pair
of overalls, a cashmere shirt, and a sort of jacket, --the best my
camp wardrobe afforded, --tied my note-book on my belt, and strode
away on my strange journey, followed by Carlo.
I made my way through the gap discovered last evening, which proved to
be Indian Cañon. There was no trail in it, and the rocks and brush
were so rough that Carlo frequently called me back to help him down
precipitous places. Emerging from the cañon shadows, I found a man
making hay on one of the meadows, and asked him whether Professor
Butler was in the valley. "I don't know," he replied; "but you can
easily find out at the hotel. There are but few visitors in the valley
just now. A small party came in yesterday afternoon, and I heard some
one called Professor Butler, or Butterfield, or some name like that."
In front of the gloomy hotel I found a tourist party adjusting their
fishing tackle. They all stared at me in silent wonderment, as if I
had been seen dropping down through the trees from the clouds, mostly,
I suppose, on account of my strange garb. Inquiring for the office, I
was told it was
locked, and that the landlord was away, but I might find the landlady,
Mrs. Hutchings, in the parlor. I entered in a sad state of
embarrassment, and after I had waited in the big, empty room and
knocked at several doors the landlady at length appeared, and in reply
to my question said she rather thought Professor Butler was in the
valley, but to make sure, she would bring the register from the
office. Among the names of the last arrivals I soon discovered the
Professor's familiar handwriting, at the sight of which bashfulness
vanished; and having learned that his party had gone up the valley,
--probably to the Vernal and Nevada Falls, --I pushed on in glad
pursuit, my heart now sure of its prey. In less than an hour I reached
the head of the Nevada Cañon at the Vernal Fall, and just outside of
the spray discovered a distinguished-looking gentleman, who, like
everybody else I have seen to-day, regarded me curiously as I
approached. when I made bold to
inquire if he knew where Professor Butler was, he seemed yet more
curious to know what could possibly have happened that required a
messenger for the Professor, and instead of answering my question he
asked with military sharpness, "Who wants him?" "I want him," I
replied with equal sharpness. "Why? Do you know him?" "Yes," I said.
"Do you know him?" Astonished that any one in the mountains could
possibly know Professor Butler and find him as soon as he had reached
the valley, he came down to meet the strange mountaineer on equal
terms, and courteously replied, "Yes, I know Professor Butler very
well. I am General Alvord, and we were fellow students in Rutland,
Vermont, long ago, when we were both young." "But where is he now?" I
persisted, cutting short his story. "He has gone beyond the falls with
a companion, to try to climb that big rock, the top of which you see
from here." His guide now volunteered the
information that it was the Liberty Cap Professor Butler and his
companion had gone to climb, and that if I waited at the head of the
fall I should be sure to find them on their way down. I therefore
climbed the ladders alongside the Vernal Fall, and was pushing
forward, determined to go to the top of Liberty Cap rock in my hurry,
rather than wait, if I should not meet my friend sooner. So
heart-hungry at times may one be to see a friend in the flesh, however
happily full and care-free one's life may be. I had gone but a short
distance, however, above the brow of the Vernal Fall when I caught
sight of him in the brush and rocks, half erect, groping his way, his
sleeves rolled up, vest open, hat in his hand, evidently very hot and
tired. When he saw me coming he sat down on a boulder to wipe the
perspiration from his brow and neck, and taking me for one of the
valley guides, he inquired the way to the fall ladders. I pointed
out the path marked with little piles of stones, on seeing which he
called his companion, saying that the way was found; but he did not
yet recognize me. Then I stood directly in front of him, looked him in
the face, and held out my hand. He thought I was offering to assist
him in rising. "Never mind," he said. Then I said, "Professor Butler,
don't you know me?" "I think not," he replied; but catching my eye,
sudden recognition followed, and astonishment that I should have found
him just when he was lost in the brush and did not know that I was
within hundreds of miles of him. "John Muir, John Muir, where have you
come from?" Then I told him the story of my feeling his presence when
he entered the valley last evening, when he was four or five miles
distant, as I sat sketching on the North Dome. This, of course, only
made him wonder the more. Below the foot of the Vernal Fall the guide
was waiting with his saddle-horse, and I
walked along the trail, chatting all the way back to the hotel,
talking of school days, friends in Madison, of the students, how each
had prospered, etc., ever and anon gazing at the stupendous rocks
about us, now growing indistinct in the gloaming, and again quoting
from the poets, --a rare ramble.
It was late ere we reached the hotel, and General Alvord was waiting
the Professor's arrival for dinner. When I was introduced he seemed
yet more astonished than the Professor at my descent from cloudland
and going straight to my friend without knowing in any ordinary way
that he was even in California. They had come on direct from the East,
had not yet visited any of their friends in the state, and considered
themselves undiscoverable. As we sat at dinner, the General leaned
back in his chair, and looking down the table, thus introduced me to
the dozen guests or so, including the staring fisherman mentioned
above: "This man, you know, came down out of these huge, trackless
mountains, you know, to find his friend Professor Butler here, the
very day he arrived; and how did he know he was here? He just felt
him, he says. This is the queerest case of Scotch farsightedness I
ever heard of," etc., etc. While my friend quoted Shakespeare: "More
things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your
philosophy," "As the sun, ere he has risen, sometimes paints his image
in the firmament, e'en so the shadows of events precede the events,
and in to-day already walks to-morrow."
Had a long conversation, after dinner, over Madison days. The
Professor wants me to promise to go with him, sometime, on a camping
trip in the Hawaiian Islands, while I tried to get him to go back with
me to camp in the high Sierra. But he says, "Not now." He must not
leave the General; and I was surprised to learn they are to leave the
valley to-morrow or next
day. I'm glad I'm not great enough to be missed in the busy world.
August 4.
--It seemed strange to sleep in a paltry hotel chamber after the
spacious magnificence and luxury of the starry sky and silver fir
grove. Bade farewell to my friend and the General. The old soldier was
very kind, and an interesting talker. He told me long stories of the
Florida Seminole war, in which he took part, and invited me to visit
him in Omaha. Calling Carlo, I scrambled home through the Indian Cañon
gate, rejoicing, pitying the poor Professor and General, bound by
clocks, almanacs, orders, duties, etc., and compelled to dwell with
lowland care and dust and din, where Nature is covered and her voice
smothered, while the poor, insignificant wanderer enjoys the freedom
and glory of God's wilderness.
Apart from the human interest of my visit to-day, I greatly enjoyed
Yosemite, which I had visited only once before,
having spent eight days last spring in rambling amid its rocks and
waters. Wherever we go in the mountains, or indeed in any of God's
wild fields, we find more than we seek. Descending four thousand feet
in a few hours, we enter a new world, --climate, plants, sounds,
inhabitants, and scenery all new or changed. Near camp the gold-cup
oak forms sheets of chaparral, on top of which we may make our beds.
Going down the Indian Cañon we observe this little bush changing by
regular gradations to a large bush, to a small tree, and then larger,
until on the rocky taluses near the bottom of the valley we find it
developed into a broad, wide-spreading, gnarled, picturesque tree from
four to eight feet in diameter, and forty or fifty feet high.
Innumerable are the forms of water displayed. Every gliding reach,
cascade, and fall has characters of its own. Had a good view of the
Vernal and Nevada, two of the main falls of the valley, less than a
mile apart, and offering
striking differences in voice, form, color, etc. The Vernal, four
hundred feet high and about seventy-five or eighty feet wide, drops
smoothly over a round-lipped precipice and forms a superb apron of
embroidery, green and white, slightly folded and fluted, maintaining
this form nearly to the bottom, where it is suddenly veiled in
quick-flying billows of spray and mist, in which the afternoon
sunbeams play with ravishing beauty of rainbow colors. The Nevada is
white from its first appearance as it leaps out into the freedom of
the air. At the head it presents a twisted appearance, by an
overfolding of the current from striking on the side of its channel
just before the first free outbounding leap is made. About two thirds
of the way down, the hurrying throng of comet-shaped masses glance on
an inclined part of the face of the precipice and are beaten into yet
whiter foam, greatly expanded, and sent bounding outward, making an
indescribably glorious
show, especially when the afternoon sunshine is pouring into it. In
this fall--one of the most wonderful in the world--the water does not
seem to be under the dominion of ordinary laws, but rather as if it
were a living creature, full of the strength of the mountains and
their huge, wild joy.
From beneath heavy throbbing blasts of spray the broken river is seen
emerging in ragged boulder-chafed strips. These are speedily gathered
into a roaring torrent, showing that the young river is still
gloriously alive. On it goes, shouting, roaring, exulting in its
strength, passes through a gorge with sublime display of energy, then
suddenly expands on a gently inclined pavement, down which it rushes
in thin sheets and folds of lace-work into a quiet pool, --"Emerald
Pool," as it is called, --a stopping-place, a period separating two
grand sentences. Resting here long enough to part with its foam-bells
and gray
mixtures of air, it glides quietly to the verge of the Vernal
precipice in a broad sheet and makes its new display in the Vernal
Fall; then more rapids and rock tossings down the cañon, shaded by
live oak, Douglas spruce, fir, maple, and dogwood. It receives the
Illilouette tributary, and makes a long sweep out into the level,
sun-filled valley to join the other streams which, like itself, have
danced and sung their way down from snowy heights to form the main
Merced, --the river of Mercy. But of this there is no end, and life,
when one thinks of it, is so short. Never mind, one day in the midst
of these divine glories is well worth living and toiling and starving
for.
Before parting with Professor Butler he gave me a book, and I gave him
one of my pencil sketches for his little son Henry, who is a favorite
of mine. He used to make many visits to my room when I was a student.
Never shall I forget his patriotic
speeches for the Union, mounted on a tall stool, when he was only six
years old.
It seems strange that visitors to Yosemite should be so little
influenced by its novel grandeur, as if their eyes were bandaged and
their ears stopped. Most of those I saw yesterday were looking down as
if wholly unconscious of anything going on about them, while the
sublime rocks were trembling with the tones of the mighty chanting
congregation of waters gathered from all the mountains round about,
making music that might draw angels out of heaven. Yet
respectable-looking, even wise-looking people were fixing bits of
worms on bent pieces of wire to catch trout. Sport they called it.
Should church-goers try to pass the time fishing in baptismal fonts
while dull sermons were being preached, the so-called sport might not
be so bad; but to play in the Yosemite temple, seeking pleasure in the
pain of fishes struggling for their lives, while God himself is
preaching his sublimest water and stone sermons!
Now I'm back at the camp-fire, and cannot help thinking about my
recognition of my friend's presence in the valley while he was four or
five miles away, and while I had no means of knowing that he was not
thousands of miles away. It seems supernatural, but only because it is
not understood. Anyhow, it seems silly to make so much of it, while
the natural and common is more truly marvelous and mysterious than the
so-called supernatural. Indeed most of the miracles we hear of are
infinitely less wonderful than the commonest of natural phenomena,
when fairly seen. Perhaps the invisible rays that struck me while I
sat at work on the Dome are something like those which attract and
repel people at first sight, concerning which so much nonsense has
been written. The worst apparent effect of these mysterious odd things
is blindness to all that is divinely
common. Hawthorne, I fancy, could weave one of his weird romances out
of this little telepathic episode, the one strange marvel of my life,
probably replacing my good old Professor by an attractive woman.
August 5.
--We were awakened this morning before daybreak by the furious barking
of Carlo and Jack and the sound of stampeding sheep. Billy fled from
his punk bed to the fire, and refused to stir into the darkness to try
to gather the scattered flock, or ascertain the nature of the
disturbance. It was a bear attack, as we afterward learned, and I
suppose little was gained by attempting to do anything before
daylight. Nevertheless, being anxious to know what was up, Carlo and I
groped our way through the woods, guided by the rustling sound made by
fragments of the flock, not fearing the bear, for I knew that the
runaways would go from their enemy as far as possible and Carlo's nose
was also to be depended upon. About half a mile
east of the corral we overtook twenty or thirty of the flock and
succeeded in driving them back; then turning to the westward, we
traced another band of fugitives and got them back to the flock. After
day-break I discovered the remains of a sheep carcass, still warm,
showing that Bruin must have been enjoying his early mutton breakfast
while I was seeking the runaways. He had eaten about half of it. Six
dead sheep lay in the corral, evidently smothered by the crowding and
piling up of the flock against the side of the corral wall when the
bear entered. Making a wide circuit of the camp, Carlo and I
discovered a third band of fugitives and drove them back to camp. We
also discovered another dead sheep half eaten, showing there had been
two of the shaggy free-booters at this early breakfast. They were
easily traced. They had each caught a sheep, jumped over the corral
fence with them, carrying them as a cat carries a mouse,
laid them at the foot of fir trees a hundred yards or so back from the
corral, and eaten their fill. After breakfast I set out to seek more
of the lost, and found seventy-five at a considerable distance from
camp. In the afternoon I succeeded, with Carlo's help, in getting them
back to the flock. I don't know whether all are together again or not.
I shall make a big fire this evening and keep watch.
When I asked Billy why he made his bed against the corral in rotten
wood, when so many better places offered, he replied that he "wished
to be as near the sheep as possible in case bears should attack them."
Now that the bears have come, he has moved his bed to the far side of
the camp, and seems afraid that he may be mistaken for a sheep.
This has been mostly a sheep day, and of course studies have been
interrupted. Nevertheless, the walk through the gloom of the woods
before the dawn was worth
while, and I have learned something about these noble bears. Their
tracks are very telling, and so are their breakfasts. Scarce a trace
of clouds to-day, and of course our ordinary mid-day thunder is
wanting.
August 6.
--Enjoyed the grand illumination of the camp grove, last night, from
the fire we made to frighten the bears, --compensation for loss of
sleep and sheep. The noble pillars of verdure, vividly aglow, seemed
to shoot into the sky like the flames that lighted them. Nevertheless,
one of the bears paid us another visit, as if more attracted than
repelled by the fire, climbed into the corral, killed a sheep and made
off with it without being seen, while still another was lost by
trampling and suffocation against the side of the corral. Now that our
mutton has been tasted, I suppose it will be difficult to put a stop
to the ravages of these freebooters.
The Don arrived to-day from the lowlands with provisions and a letter.
On
learning the losses he had sustained, he determined to move the flock
at once to the upper Tuolumne region, saying that the bears would be
sure to visit the camp every night as long as we stayed, and that no
fire or noise we might make would avail to frighten them. No clouds
save a few thin, lustrous touches on the eastern horizon. Thunder
heard in the distance.
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