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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 [the dog] 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.
* * *
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.
***
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.
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