 Section 8 of My First Summer in the Sierra This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org My First Summer in the Sierra by John Muir Read by Adrian Pretzelis July 20 Fine, calm morning Air, tents and clear Not the slightest breeze a stir Everything shining The rocks with wet crystals The plants with dew Each receiving its portion of iris dew drops and sunshine Like living creatures getting their breakfast Their dew manner coming down from the starry sky Like swarms of smaller stars How wondrous fine are the particles in showers of dew Thousands required for a single drop Growing in the dark as silently as the grass What pains are taken to keep this wilderness in health Shours of snow, showers of rain, showers of dew Floods of light, floods of invisible vapour Clouds, winds, all sorts of weather Interaction of plant on plant Animal on animal, etc. Beyond thought How fine nature's methods How deeply with beauty is beauty overlaid The ground covered with crystals The crystals with mosses and lichens And low spreading grasses and flowers Those with larger plants leaf over leaf With ever changing colour and form The broad palms of the furs Outspread over these The azure dome over all Like a bellflower And star above star Yonder stands the south dome Its crown high above our camp Though its base is four thousand feet below us A most noble rock It seems full of thought Clothed with living light No sense of dead stone about it All spiritualised Neither heavy looking nor light Steadfast in serene strength Like a god Our shepherd is a queer character And hard to place in this wilderness His beard is a hollow Made in red dry rot punky dust Beside a log which forms a portion Of the south wall of the corral Here he lies with his wonderful Everlasting clothing on Wrapped in a red blanket Breathing not only the dust Of the decayed wood But also that of the corral As if determined to take Ammonicle snuff all night After chewing tobacco all day Following the sheep He carries a heavy six-shooter Swung from his belt on one side And his luncheon on the other The ancient cloth in which the meat Fresh from the frying pan is tied Serves as filter Through which the clear fat And gravy juices drip down On his right hip and leg In clustering stalactites Only ingenious formation Is soon broken up, however And diffused and rubbed evenly Into his scanty apparel By sitting down, rolling over Crossing his legs while resting On logs, etc. Making his shirt and trousers Watertight and shiny His trousers in particular Have become so adhesive With the mixed fat and resin That pine needles, thin flakes And fibres of bark, hair Micascales and minute grains of quartz Hornblend, etc. Feathers, seed wings Moth and butterfly wings Eggs, legs and antennae Of innumerable insects Or even whole insects Such as the small beetles Moths and mosquitoes With flower petals, pollen dust And indeed bits of all plants Animals and minerals of the region Adhere to them And are safely embedded So that though far from being a naturalist He collects fragmentary specimens of everything And becomes richer than he knows His specimens are kept passably fresh too By the purity of the air And the resiny bituminous beds Into which they are pressed Man is a microcosm At least our shepherd is Or rather his trousers These precious overalls are never taken off And nobody knows how old they are Though one may guess by their thickness And concentric structure Instead of wearing thin, they wear thick And in their stratification Have no small geological significance Besides herding the sheep Billy is the butcher While I have agreed to wash The few iron and tin utensils And make the bread Then the small duty is done By the time the sign is Fairly above the mountain tops I am beyond the flock Free to rove and revel in the wilderness All the big immortal days Sketching on the North Dome It commands views of nearly all the valley Besides a few of the high mountains I would feign draw everything in sight Rock, tree, and leaf But little can I do beyond mere outlines Marks with meanings like words Readable only to myself Yet I sharpen my pencils and work on As if others might possibly be benefited Whether these picture sheets are to vanish Like fallen leaves Or go to friends like letters Matters not much For little can they tell to those Who have not themselves seen similar wilderness And, like a language, have learned it No pain here No dull empty hours No fear of the past No fear of the future These blessed mountains Are so compactly filled with God's beauty No petty personal hope or experience Has room to be Drinking this champagne water Is pure pleasure So is breathing the living air And every movement of limbs is pleasure While the whole body seems to feel beauty When exposed to it as it feels the campfire Or sunshine Entering not by the eyes alone But equally through all one's flesh Like radiant heat Making a passionate, ecstatic pleasure glow Not explainable One's body then seems homogeneous throughout Sound as a crystal Perched like a fly on this Yosemite dome I gaze and sketch and bask Oftentimes setting down into dumb admiration Without definite hope of ever learning much Yet with the longing, unresting effort That lies at the door of hope Humbly prostrate before the vast display Of God's power And eager to offer self-denial And renunciation with eternal toil To learn any lesson in the Divine Manuscript It is easier to feel than to realize Or in any way explain Yosemite grandeur The magnitude of the rocks and trees and streams Are so delicately harmonized They are mostly hidden Sheer precipices, three thousand feet high Are fringed with tall trees Growing close, like grass On the brow of a lowland hill And extending along the feet of these precipices A ribbon of meadow, a mile wide And seven or eight long That seems like a strip a farmer might mow In less than a day Waterfalls, five hundred to one Or two thousand feet high Are so subordinated to the mighty cliffs Over which they pour That they seem like wisps of smoke Gentle as floating clouds Though their voices fill the valley And make the rocks tremble The mountains, too, along the eastern sky And the domes in front of them And the succession of smooth rounded waves Between swelling higher, higher With dark woods in their hollows Serene in massive exuberant bulk and beauty Tend yet more to hide the grandeur of the Yosemite temple And make it appear as a subdued subordinate feature Of that vast, harmonious landscape Thus every attempt to appreciate any one feature Is beaten down by the overwhelming influence of all the others And, as if this were not enough, low in the sky Arises another mountain range with topography As rugged and substantial looking as the one beneath it Snowy peaks and domes and shadow Yosemite valleys Another version of the snowy Sierra A new creation heralded by a thunderstorm How fiercely, devoutly wild is nature In the midst of her beauty-loving tenderness Painting lilies, watering them Caressing them with a gentle hand Going from flower to flower like a gardener While building rock mountains and cloud mountains Full of lightning and rain Gladly we run for shelter beneath an overhanging cliff And examine the reassuring ferns and mosses Gentle love tokens growing in cracks and chinks Daisy's too and Ivesia's Confiding wild children of light Too small to fear To these one's heart goes home And the voices of the storm become gentle Now the sun breaks forth and fragrance steam arises The birds are out singing on the edges of the groves The west is flaming in gold and purple Ready for the ceremony of the sunset And back I go to camp with my notes and pictures The best of them printed in my mind as dreams A fruitful day without measured beginning or ending A terrestrial eternity A gift of good God Wrote to my mother and a few friends Mountain hints to each They seem as near as if within voice reach or touch The deeper the solitude the less the sense of loneliness And the nearer our friends Now bread and tea, fur bed and good night to Carlo A look at the sky lilies and death sleep Until the dawn of another Sierra tomorrow July 21 Sketching on the dome No rain, clouds at noon About quarter filled the sky Casting shadows with fine effect on the white mountains At the heads of the streams And a soothing cover over the gardens during the warm hours Saw a common housefly and a grasshopper And a brown bear The fly and the grasshopper paid me a merry visit At the top of the dome And I paid a visit to the bear In the middle of a small garden meadow Between the dome and the camp Where he was standing alert among the flowers As if willing to be seen to advantage I had not gone more than half a mile from camp this morning When Carlo, who was trotting on a few yards ahead of me Came to a sudden, cautious standstill Down went tail and ears Forward went his knowing nose While he seemed to be saying, Ha, what's this? A bear, I guess Then a cautious advance of a few steps Setting his feet down softly like a hunting cat And questioning the air as to the scent he had caught Until all doubt vanished Then he came back to me, looked me in the face And with his speaking eyes reported a bear nearby And then led on, softly, carefully Like an experienced hunter, not to make the slightest noise And frequently looking back as if whispering Yes, it's a bear, come, I'll show you Presently we came to where the sunbeams were streaming through Between purple shafts of the furs And showed that we were nearing an open spot And here Carlo came behind me Evidently sure that the bear was very near So I crept to a low ridge of moraine boulders On the edge of a narrow garden meadow And in this meadow I felt pretty sure the bear must be I was anxious to get a good look at the sturdy mountaineer Without alarming him So, drawing myself up noiselessly Back of one of the largest of the trees I peered past its bulging buttresses Exposing only a part of my head And there stood neighbor Bruin Within a stone's throw His hips covered by tall grass and flowers And his front feet on the trunk of a fur That had fallen out into the meadow Which raised his head so high That he seemed to be standing erect He had not yet seen me But was looking and listening attentively Showing that in some way he was aware of our approach I watched my gestures And tried to make the most of my opportunity To learn what I could about him Fearing he would catch sight of me and run away For I had been told that this sort of bear, the cinnamon Always ran from his bad brother man Never showing fight and less wounded Or in defence of young He made a telling picture Standing alert in the sunny forest garden How well he played his part Harmonising in bulk and colour and shaggy hair With the trunks of the trees and lush vegetation As natural a feature as any other in the landscape After examining at leisure Noting the sharp muzzle Thrust inquiringly forward The long shaggy hair on his broad chest The stiff, erect ears Nearly buried in hair And the slow, heavy way he moved his head I thought I should like to see his gate in running So I made a sudden rush at him Shouting and swinging my hat to frighten him Expecting to see him make haste to get away But to my dismay he did not run Or show any sign of running On the contrary, he stood his ground Ready to fight and defend himself Loaded his head, thrust it forward And looked sharply and fiercely at me Then I suddenly began to fear That upon me would fall the work of running But I was afraid to run And therefore, like the bear, held my ground We stood staring at each other in solemn silence Within a dozen yards or thereabouts While I fervently hoped that the power Of the human eye over wild beasts Would prove as great as it is said to be How long our awfully strenuous interview lasted I don't know But at length in the slow fallness of time He pulled his huge paws down off the log And with magnificent deliberation Turned and walked leisurely up the meadow Stopping frequently to look back over his shoulder To see whether I was pursuing him Then, moving on again Evidently neither fearing me very much Nor trusting me He was probably about five hundred pounds in weight A gawd, rusty bundle of ungovernable wildness A happy fellow whose lines have fallen in pleasant places The flowery glade in which I saw him so well Framed like a picture is one of the best Of all I have yet discovered A conservatory of nature's precious plant people Tall lilies were swinging their bells Over that bear's back with geraniums Larks' burrs, columbines and daisies brushing against his sides A place for angels, one would say, instead of bears In the great canyons brew in rain supreme Happy fellow whom no famine can reach While one of his thousand kinds of food has spared him His bread is sure at all seasons Changed on the mountain shelves like stores in a pantry From one to the other, up or down he climbs Tasting and enjoying each in turn in different climates As if he had journeyed thousands of miles to other countries North or south to enjoy their varied productions I should like to know my hairy brothers better Though after this particularly, Semedy Bear My very neighbour had sauntered out of sight this morning I reluctantly went back to camp for the don's rifle To shoot him, if necessary, in defence of the flock Fortunately I couldn't find him And after tracking him a mile or two towards Mount Hoffman I bat him godspeed and gladly return to my work On the Semedy Dome The housefly also seemed at home and buzzed about me As I sat sketching and enjoying my bear interview Now it was over I wonder what draws houseflies so far up in the mountains Heavy, gross feeders as they are Sensitive to cold and fond of domestic ease How have they been distributed from continent to continent Across seas and deserts and mountain chains Usually so influential in determining boundaries of species Both of plants and animals Beetles and butterflies are sometimes restricted to small areas Each mountain in a range and even the different zones of a mountain May have its own peculiar species But the housefly seems to be everywhere I wonder if any island in mid-ocean is flyless The blue bottle is abundant in these Yosemite woods Ever ready with his marvellous store of eggs To make all dead flesh fly Bumblebees are here And are well fed on boundless stores of nectar and pollen The honeybee, though abundant in the foothills Has not yet got so high It is only a few years since the first swarm was brought to California A queer fellow and a jolly fellow is the grasshopper Up the mountains he comes on excursions How high I don't know But at least as far and high as Yosemite tourists I was much interested with the hearty enjoyment of the one that danced and sang for me On the dome this afternoon He seemed brimful of glad, hilarious energy Manifested by springing into the air to a height of twenty or thirty feet Then diving and springing up again And making a sharp musical rattle Just as the lowest point in the descent was reached Up and down a dozen times he danced and sang Then alighted to rest Then up and at it again The curves he described in the air in diving and rattling Resembled those made by cords hanging loose Then attached to the same height at the ends The loops nearly covering each other Braver, heartier, keener Carefree enjoyment of life I have never seen or heard in any creature Great or small The life of this comic red legs The mountain's merriest child Seems to be made up of pure condensed gaiety The Douglas squirrel is the only creature that I can compare with him In exuberant, rollicking, irrepressible jollity Wonderful that these sublime mountains are so loudly cheered And brightened by a creature so queer Nature in him seems to be snapping her fingers In the face of all earthly dejection and melancholy With a boyish hippipara How the sound is made I do not understand When he was on the ground he made not the slightest noise Nor when he was simply flying from place to place But only when diving in curves The motion seeming to be required for the sound For the more vigorous the diving But energetic the corresponding outbursts of jolly rattling I tried to observe him closely while he was resting in the intervals Of his performances, but he would not allow a near approach All was getting his jumping legs ready to spring for immediate flight And keeping his eye on me I find sermon the little fellow dance for me on the dome A likely place to look for sermons in stones But not for grasshopper sermons A large and imposing pulpit for so small a preacher No danger of weakness in the knees of the world While nature can spring such a rattle as this Even the bear did not express for me The mountain's wild health and strength and happiness So telling as did this comical little hopper No cloud of care in his day No winter of discontent in sight To him every day is a holiday And when at length his son sets I fancy he will cuddle down on the forest floor and die Like the leaves and flowers And like them leave no unsightly remains Calling for burial Sundown and I must to camp Good night, friends three Brown bear, rugged boulder of energy In groves and gardens, fair as Eden Restless, fussy fly With gauzy wings stirring the air all around the world And grasshopper, crisp electric spark of joy Enlivening the massy sublimity of the mountains Like the laugh of a child Thank you, thank you all three For your quickening company Heaven guide every wing and leg Good night, friends three Good night, July 22 A fine specimen of the black-tailed deer Went bounding past camp this morning A buck with wide spread of antlers Showing admirable vigor and grace Wonderful the beauty and strength And graceful movements of animals and wildernesses Caired for by nature only When our experience with domestic animals Would lead us to fear that all the so-called Neglected wild beasts would degenerate Yet the upshot of nature's method Of breeding and teaching seems to lead To excellence of every sort Deer, like all wild animals Are as clean as plants The beauty of their gestures and attitudes Alert or in repose Surprise yet more than their bounding Exuberant strength Every movement and posture is graceful The very poetry of manners and motion Mother nature is too often spoken of As, in reality, no mother at all Yet how wisely, sternly, tenderly She loves and looks after her children In all sorts of weather and wildernesses The more I see of deer The more I admire them as mountaineers They make their way into the heart Of the roughest solitudes With smooth reserve of strength Through dense belts of brush and forest Encumbered with fallen trees and boulder piles Across canyons, roaring streams and snow fields Ever showing forth beauty and courage Over nearly all the continent The deer find homes In the Florida savannas and hummocks In the Canada woods, in the far north Roaming over mossy tundras Swimming lakes and rivers and arms of the sea From island to island, washed with waves Or climbing rocky mountains Everywhere healthy and able Adding beauty to every landscape A truly admirable creature And great credit to nature Have been sketching a silver fur That stands on a granite ridge A few hundred yards to the eastward of camp A fine tree with a particular snowstorm Story to tell It is about one hundred feet high Growing on bare rock Thrusting its roots into a weather joint Less than an inch wide And bulging out to form a base To bear its weight The storm came from the north While it was young And broke it down nearly to the ground As is shown by the old Dead weather-beaten top Leaning out from the living trunk Built up from a new chute below the break The annual rings of the trunk That have overgrown the dead sapling Tell the year of the storm Wonderful that a side branch Forming a portion of one of the level colours That encircle the trunk of this species AB's Magnifica should bend upward Grow erect and take the place Of the lost axis to form a new tree Many others, pines as well as furs Bear testimony to the crushing severity Of this particular storm Trees, some of them fifty to seventy-five feet high Were bent to the ground and buried like grass Whole groves vanishing as if the forest Had been cleared away Leaving not a branch or needle visible Until the spring thaw Then the more elastic, undamaged saplings Rose again, aided by the wind Some reaching a nearly erect attitude Others remaining more or less bent While those with broken backs Endeavoured to specialise a side branch Below the break and make a leader of it To form a new axis of development It is as if a man whose back Was broken or nearly so And who was compelled to go bent Should find a branch backbone Sprouting straight up from below the break And should gradually develop new arms And shoulders and head While the old damaged portion of his body Died Grand white cloud mountains and domes Created about noon as usual Ridges and ranges of endless variety As if nature dearly loved this sort of work Doing it again and again Nearly every day with infinite industry And producing beauty that never pulls A few zigzags of lightning Five minutes' shower Then a gradual wilting and clearing July 23 Another midday cloudland Displaying power and beauty That one never wears in beholding But hopelessly unsketchable and untellable What can poor mortal say about clouds? While a description of their huge glowing domes And ridges, shadowy gulfs and canyons And feather-edge ravines is being tried They vanish, leaving no visible ruins Nevertheless, these fleeting sky mountains Are as substantial and significant As the more lasting upheavals of granite beneath them Both alike are built up and die And in God's calendar difference of duration is nothing We can only dream about them In wandering, worshipping admiration Happier than we dare tell even to friends Who see farthest in sympathy Glad to know that not a crystal or vapor particle of them Hard or soft is lost That they sink and vanish only to rise again And again in higher and higher beauty As to our own work, duty, influence, etc. Concerning which so much fussy pother is made It will not fail of its due effect Though, like a lichin on a stone We keep silent End of Section 8 Section 9 of My First Summer in the Sierra This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org My First Summer in the Sierra by John Muir Read by Adrian Pretzelis July 24 Clouds at noon occupying half the sky Gave half an hour of heavy rain To wash one of the cleanest landscapes in the world How well it is washed The sea is hardly less dusty than the ice-burnished pavements And ridges, domes and canyons and summit peaks Plashed with snow like waves with foam How fresh the woods are and calm After the last films of clouds have been wiped from the sky A few minutes ago every tree was excited Bowing to the roaring storm Waving, swirling, tossing their branches In glorious enthusiasm like worship But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent Their songs never cease Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life Every fibre thrilling like harp strings While incense is ever flowing from the bolson bells and leaves No wonder the hills and groves were God's first temples And the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches The farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself The same may be said of stone temples Yonder, to the eastward of our camp grove Stands one of nature's cathedrals Hewn from the living rock Almost conventional in form About 2,000 feet high Nobly adorned with spires and pinnacles Thrilling under floods of sunshine As if alive like a grove temple And well-named Cathedral Peak Even Shepherd Billy turns at times To this wonderful mountain building Though apparently deaf to all stone sermons Snow that refused to melt in fire Would hardly be more wonderful than unchanging dullness In the rays of God's beauty I have been trying to get him to walk To the brink of Yosemite for a view Offering to watch the sheep for a day While he should enjoy what tourists Come from all over the world to see But though within a mile of the famous valley He will not go to it Even out of mere curiosity What, said he, is Yosemite but a canyon A lot of rocks, a hole in the ground A place dangerous about falling into A damn good place to keep away from But think of the waterfalls, Billy Just think of that big stream we crossed the other day Falling half a mile through the air Think of that and the sound it makes You can hear it now like the roar of the sea Thus I pressed Yosemite upon him Like a missionary offering the Gospel But he would have none of it I should be afraid to look over so high a wall He said, it would make my head swim There is nothing worth seeing anyhow Only rocks, and I see plenty of them here Tourists that spend their money to see rocks And falls or fools, that's all You can't humbug me I've been in this country too long for that Such souls, I suppose, are asleep Or smothered and be fogged beneath Mean pleasures and cares July 25 Another cloud-land Some clouds have an over-ripe decaying look Watery and bedraggled and drawn out Into wind-torn shreds and patches Giving the sky a littered appearance Not so, these Sierra summer midday clouds All are beautiful, with smooth, definite Outlines and curves like those of Glacier-polished domes They begin to grow about eleven o'clock And seem so wonderfully near and clear From this high camp, one is tempted to try to Climb them and trace the streams that pour Like cataracts from their shadowy fountains The rain to which they give birth Is often very heavy, a sort of waterfall As imposing as if pouring from rock mountains Never in all my travels have I found anything More truly novel and interesting Than these midday mountains of the sky Their fine tones of colour, majestic, visible growth An ever-changing scenery in general effects Though mostly as well, let alone As far as description goes I often times think of Shelley's cloud poem I sift the snow on the mountains below July 26 Ramble to the summit of Mount Hoffman Eleven thousand feet high The highest point in life's journey My feet have yet touched And what glorious landscapes are about me New plants, new animals, new crystals And multitudes of new mountains Far higher than Hoffman Towering in glorious array Along the axis of the range Serene, majestic, snow-laden, sun-drenched Vast domes and ridges shining below them Forests, lakes and meadows in the hollows The pure, blue, bellflower sky brooding them all A glory day of admission To a new realm of wonders As if nature had wooingly whispered Come higher What questions I asked And how little I know of all the vast show And how eagerly, tremulously hopeful Of some day knowing more Learning the meaning of these divine symbols Crowded together on this wondrous page Mount Hoffman is the highest part of a ridge Or spur about fourteen miles from the axis Of the main range Perhaps a remnant brought into relief And isolated by unequal denudation The southern slopes shed their waters Into Yosemite Valley by Tenaya and Dome creeks The northern, in part, into the Tuolumne River But mostly into the Merced by Yosemite Creek The rock is mostly granite With some small piles and crests rising Here and there in picturesque, pillard And castellated remnants of red, metamorphic slates Both the granite and slates are divided by joints Making them separable into blocks Like the stones of artificial masonry Suggesting the scripture, he hath builded the mountains Great banks of snow and ice are piled into hollows On the cool precipitous north side Forming the highest perennial sources of Yosemite Creek The southern slopes are much more gradual and accessible Narrow, sloth-like gorges extend across the summit At right angles, which look like lanes Formed evidently by the erosion of less-resisting beds They are usually called devil's slides Though they lie farther above the region Usually haunted by the devil For, though we read that he once climbed An exceeding high mountain He cannot be much of a mountaineer For his tracks are seldom seen above the timberline The broad grey summit is barren And desolate-looking in general views Wasted by ages of gnawing storms But looking at the surface in detail One finds it covered by thousands And millions of charming plants With leaves and flowers so small They form no mass of colour Visible at a distance of a few hundred yards Beds of azure daisies smile confidingly In moist hollows And along the banks of small reels With several species of ergonum Silky-leaved ivesia Penstemon Orthocarpus And patches of primula surfruticosa A beautiful shrubby species Here also I find brianthus A charming heathbort Covered with purple flowers And dark green foliage like heather And three trees new to me A hemlock and two pines The hemlock, Tzuga matensiana Is the most beautiful conifer I have ever seen The branches and also the main axis Drup in a singularly graceful way And the dense foliage covers the delicate, Sensitive, swaying branchlets all around It is now in full bloom And the flowers together with thousands Of last season's cones Still clinging to the drooping sprays Display wonderful wealth of colour Brown and purple and blue Gladly I climbed the first tree I found to revel in the midst of it How the touch of the flowers Makes one's flesh tingle The pistolate are dark, rich purple And almost translucent The staminate blue A vivid, pure tone of blue Like the mountain sky The most uncommonly beautiful Of all the Sierra tree flowers I have seen How wonderful that With all its delicate, feminine grace And beauty of form and dress and behaviour This lovely tree up here Exposed to the wildest blasts Has already endured the storms Of centuries of winters The two pines are also brave Storm-enduring trees The mountain pine, Pinus Monte-Cola And the dwarf pine, Pinus albicolis The mountain pine is closely related To the sugar pine, though the cones Are only about four to six inches long The largest trees are from Five to six feet in diameter At four feet above the ground The bark, rich brown Only a few storm-beaten adventurers Approach the summit of the mountain The dwarf or white-bark pine Is the species that forms the timberline Where it is so completely dwarfed That one may walk over the top Of a bed of it as over snow-pressed chaparral How boundless the day seems As we revel in these storm-beaten sky gardens Amid so vast a congregation of onlooking mountains Strange and admirable it is That the more savage and chilly And storm-chaffed the mountains The finer the glow on their faces And the finer the plants they bear The myriads of flowers Tinging the mountain top Do not seem to have grown out Of the dry, rough gravel of disintegration But rather they appear as visitors A cloud of witnesses to nature's love In what we in our timid ignorance And unbelief call howling desert The surface of the ground So dull and forbidding at first sight Besides being rich in plants Shines and sparkles with crystals Micah, hornblend, feldspar, quartz, tourmaline The radiance in some places Is so great as to be fairly dazzling Keen lance rays of every colour Flashing, sparkling in glorious abundance Joining the plants in their fine, brave beauty work Every crystal, every flower A window opening into heaven A mirror reflecting the Creator From garden to garden, ridge to ridge I drifted enchanting Now on my knees gazing into the face of a daisy Now climbing again and again Among the purple and azure flowers of the henlocks Now down into the treasures of the snow Or gazing afar over domes and peaks Lakes and woods and the billowy, glaciated fields Of the upper twolumny and trying to sketch them In the midst of such beauty pierced with its rays One's body is all one tingling pallet Who wouldn't be a mountaineer? Up here all the world's prizes seem nothing The largest of the many glacier lakes in sight And the one with the finest shore scenery is Tanaya About a mile long with an imposing mountain Dipping its feet into it on the south side Cathedral Peak, a few miles above its head Many smooth, swelling rock waves and domes On the north and in the distance southward A multitude of snowy peaks The fountain heads of rivers Lake Hoffman lies shimmering beneath my feet Mountain pines around its shining rim To the northward the picturesque basin Of Yosemite Creek glitters with lake-lits and pools But the eye is soon drawn away From these bright mirror-wells, however attractive To revel in the glorious congregation of peaks On the axis of the range In their robes of snow and light Carlo caught an unfortunate woodchuck When it was running from a grassy spot To its bolder pile home One of the hardiest of the mountain animals I tried hard to save him, but in vain After telling Carlo that he must be careful Not to kill anything, I caught sight For the first time of the curious piker Or little chief hare That cuts large quantities of lupins and other plants And lays them out to dry in the sun for hay Which it stores in underground barns To last through the long snowy winter Coming upon these plants Freshly cut and lying in handfuls Here and there on the rocks Has a startling effect of busy life On the lonely mountain top These little haymakers Endowed with brain-stuff something like our own God up here looking after them What lessons they teach How they widen our sympathy An eagle, soaring above a sheer cliff Or I suppose its nest is Makes another striking show of life And helps to bring to mind The other people of the so-called solitude Deer in the forest, caring for their young The strong, well-clad, well-fed bears The lively throng of squirrels The blessed birds, great and small Stirring and sweetening the groves And the clouds of happy insects Filling the sky with joyous hum As part and parcel of the downpouring sunshine All these come to mind As well as the plant people And the glad streams Being their way to the sea But most impressive of all Is the vast, glowing countenance of the wilderness In awful, infinite repose Toward sunset enjoyed a fine run to camp Down the long south slopes Across ridges and ravines Gardens and avalanche gaps Through the furs and chaparral Enjoying wild excitement and excess of strength And so ends a day that will never end July 27 Up and away to Lake Tenaya Another big day, enough for a lifetime The rocks, the air Everything speaking with audible voice Or silent, joyful, wonderful Shanting, banishing weariness and sense of time No longing for anything now or hereafter As we go home into the mountain's heart The level sunbeams are touching the fur tops Every leaf shining with dew I'm holding an easterly course The deep canyon of Tenaya Creek on the right hand Mount Hoffman on the left And the lake straight ahead about ten miles distant The summit of Mount Hoffman about 3,000 feet above me Tenaya Creek, 4,000 feet below And separated from the shallow irregular valley Along which most of the way lies By smooth domes and waverages Many mossy emerald bogs Meadows and gardens in rocky hollows To wade and saunter through And what fine plants they give me What joyful streams I have to cross And how many views are displayed Of the Hoffman and Cathedral Peak masonry And what a wondrous breath Of shining granite pavement to walk over For the first time about the shores of the lake On I sauntered in freedom complete Body without weight as far as I was aware Now wading through starry panacea bogs Now through gardens shoulder deep In Larkspur and lilies, grasses and rushes Shaking off sows of dew Crossing piles of crystalline moraine boulders Bright mirror pavements And cool cheery streams going to Yosemite Crossing brianthus carpets And the scoured pathways of avalanches And thickets of snow-pressed seanothus Then down, a broad majestic stairway Into the ice-sculptured lake basin The snow on the high mountains is melting fast And the streams are singing bankful Swaying softly through the level meadows and bogs Quivering with sun-spangles Swirling in potholes Resting in deep pools Leaping, shouting in wild, exulting energy The rough, bolder dams Joyful, beautiful in all their forms No Sierra landscape that I have seen Holds anything truly dead or dull Or any trace of what in manufactories Is called rubbish or waste Everything is perfectly clean and pure And full of divine lessons This quick, inevitable interest Attaching to everything seems marvellous Until the hand of God becomes visible Then it seems reasonable That what interests him may well interest us When we try to pick out anything by itself We find it hitched to everything else in the universe One fancies a heart like our own Must be beating in every crystal and cell And we feel like stopping to speak to the plants and animals As friendly fellow mountaineers Nature as a poet An enthusiastic working man Becomes more and more visible the farther and higher we go For the mountains are fountains Beginning places However related to sources beyond mortal can I found three kinds of meadows One, those contained in basins Not yet filled with earth enough to make a dry surface They are planted with several species of caracks And have their margins diversified With robust flowering plants Such as veratrum, laksper, lupin, etc Two, those contained in the same sort of basins Once lakes like the first But so situated in relation to the streams that flow through them And beds of transportable sand, gravel, etc That they are now high and dry and well drained This dry condition and corresponding difference in their vegetation May be caused by no superiority of position Or power of transporting filling material in the streams that belong to them But simply by the basin being shallower And therefore sooner filled They are planted with grasses Mostly fine, silky, and rather short-leaved calamagrosis And agrostis, being the principal genera They form delightfully smooth level sods In which one finds two or three species of gentian And as many of purple and yellow Orthocarpus, violet, vicinium, chalmia, brianthus, and lonicera Three, meadows hanging on ridge and mountain slopes Not in basins at all But made and held in place by masses of boulders and fallen trees Which, forming dams and one above another In close succession on small, outspread channelless streams Have collected soil enough for the growth of grasses, carices, and many flowering plants And being kept well watered Without being subject to currents sufficiently strong to carry them away A hanging or sloping meadow is the result Their surfaces are seldom so smooth as the others Being roughened more or less by the projecting tops of the dam rocks or logs But at a little distance this roughness is not noticed And the effect is very striking Bright green, fluent, down-sweeping flowery ribbons on grey slopes The broad shallow streams these meadows belong to Are mostly derived from the banks of snow And because the soil is well drained in some places While in others the dam rocks are packed close And cooked with bits of wood and leaves making boggy patches The vegetation of course is correspondingly varied I saw patches of willow, brianthus, and a fine show of lilies on some of them Not forming a margin but scattered about among the caracks and grass Most of these meadows are now in their prime How wonderful must be the temper of the elastic leaves of grasses and sedges To make curves so perfect and fine Tempered a little harder they would stand erect Stiff and bristly like strips of metal A little softer and every leaf would lie flat And what fine painting and tinting there is on the glooms and pales Stamens and feathery pistols Butterflies coloured like the flowers Wave above them in wonderful profusion And many other beautiful winged people Numbered and known and loved only by the Lord Are warfing together high overhead Seemingly in pure play and hilarious enjoyment of their little sparks of life How wonderful they are! How do they get a living and endure the weather? How are their little bodies with muscles, nerves, organs Kept warm and jolly in such admirable exuberant health Regarded only as mechanical inventions How wonderful they are! Compared with these god-like man's greatest machines are as nothing Most of the sandy gardens on moraines are in prime beauty like the meadows Though some on the north sides of rocks And behind groves of sapling pines have not yet bloomed On sunny sheets of crystal soil along the slopes of the Hoffman Mountains I saw extensive patches of Ivesia and purple gillia With scarce and green leaf making fine clouds of colour Ribus bushes, vicinium and chalmia now in bloom Make beautiful rugs and borders along the banks of the streams Shaggy beds of dwarf oak, quarkus chrysolopis Variant vicinifolia over which one may walk are common on rocky moraines Yet this is the same species as the large live oak seen near Brown's flat The most beautiful of the shrubs is the purple flowered brianthus Here making glorious carpets at an elevation of 9,000 feet The principal tree for the first mile or two from camp is the magnificent silver fir Which reaches perfection here both in size and form of individual trees And in the mode of grouping in groves with open spaces between So trim and tasteful are these silvery, spirey groves One would fancy they must have been placed in position by some master landscape gardener Their regularity seeming almost conventional But nature is the only gardener able to do work so fine A few noble specimens 200 feet high occupy central positions in the groups With younger trees around them And outside of these another circle of yet smaller ones The whole arranged like tastefully symmetrical bouquets Every tree fitting nicely the place assigned to it As if made especially for it Small roses and eriagonums are usually found blooming on the open spaces about the groves Forming charming pleasure grounds Higher the furs gradually become smaller and less perfect Many showing double summits indicating storm stress Still where good moraine's soil is found Even on the rim of the lake basin specimens 150 feet in height And 5 feet in diameter occur nearly 9000 feet above the sea The saplings I find are mostly bent with the crushing weight of the winter snow Which at this elevation must be at least 8 or 10 feet deep Judging by marks on the trees And this depth of compacted snow is heavy enough to bend and bury young trees 20 or 30 feet in height and hold them down for 4 or 5 months Some are broken Others spring up when the snow melts And at length attain a size that enables them to withstand the snow pressure Yet even in trees 5 feet thick The traces of this early discipline are still plainly to be seen In their curved insteps And frequently in old dried saplings protruding from the trunk Partially overgrown by the new axis developed from a branch below the break Yet through all this stress the forest is maintained in marvellous beauty Beyond the silver furs I find the two-leaved pine, variant Mariana Forms the bulk of the forest up to an elevation of 10,000 feet or more The highest timber belt of the Sierra I saw a specimen nearly 5 feet in diameter growing on deep well-watered soil At an elevation of about 9,000 feet The form of this species varies very much with position, exposure, soil, etc On stream banks, where it is closely planted, it is very slender Some specimens 75 feet high do not exceed 5 inches in diameter at the ground But the ordinary form, as far as I have seen, is well proportioned The average diameter, when full grown at this elevation, is about 12 or 14 inches Height 40 or 50 feet The straggling branches bent up at the end The bark thin and bedraggled with amber-coloured resin The pistolate flowers form little crimson rosettes, a fourth of an inch in diameter On the ends of the branchlets, mostly hidden in the leaf tassels The staminate are about three-eighths of an inch in diameter Salt for yellow in snowy clusters giving a remarkable rich effect A brave, hardy mountaineer pine growing cheerfully on rough beds of avalanche boulders And joints of rock pavements, as well as infertile hollows Standing up to the waist in snow every winter for centuries Facing a thousand storms and blooming every year In colours as bright as those worn by the sun-drenched trees of the tropics A still, hardier mountaineer is the Sierra Juniper Juniperus occidentalis growing mostly on domes and ridges and glacier pavements A thick set, sturdy, picturesque highlander Seemingly content to live for more than a score of centuries on sunshine and snow A truly wonderful fellow, dogged endurance expressed in every feature Lasting about as long as the granite he stands on Some are nearly as broad as high I saw one on the shore of the lake nearly ten feet in diameter And many six to eight feet The bark, cinnamon coloured, flakes off in long ribbon-like strips with a shiny luster Surely the most enduring of all tree mountaineers it never seems to die a natural death Or even to fall after it has been killed If protected from accidents it would perhaps be immortal I saw some that had withstood an avalanche from snowy Mount Hoffman cheerily putting out new branches As if repeating, like Gip, never say die Some were simply standing on the pavement where no fissure more than half an inch wide offered a hole for its roots The common height for these rock dwellers is from ten to twenty feet Most of the old ones have broken tops and are mere stumps with a few tufted branches forming picturesque brown pillars on bare pavements with plenty of elbow room and a clear view in every direction On good moraine soil it reaches a height of from forty to sixty feet with dense grey foliage The rings of the trunks are very thin, eighty to an inch of diameter in some specimens I examined Those ten feet in diameter must be very old, thousands of years Wish I could live like these junipers on sunshine and snow and stand beside them on the shore of Lake Tenaya for a thousand years How much I should see and how delightful it would be Everything in the mountains would find me and come to me and everything from the heavens like light The lake was named for one of the chiefs of the Yosemite tribe Old Tenaya is said to have been a good Indian to his tribe When a company of soldiers followed his band into Yosemite to punish them for cattle stealing and other crimes They fled to this lake by a trail that leads out of the upper end of the valley early in the spring while the snow is still deep But being pursued they lost heart and surrendered A fine monument the old man has in this bright lake and likely to last a long time Though lakes die as well as Indians being gradually filled with detritus carried in by the feeding streams And to some extent also by snow avalanches and rain and wind A considerable portion of the Tenaya basin is already changed into a forested flat and meadow at the upper end Where the main tributary enters from Cathedral Peak Two other tributaries come from the Hoffman Range The outlet flows westward through Tenaya Canyon to join the Mesed River in Yosemite Scarce a handful of loose soil is to be seen on the North Shore All is bare shining granite, suggesting the Indian name of the lake, Paiwaiak Meaning shining rock The basin seems to have been slowly excavated by the ancient glaciers A marvellous work requiring countless thousands of years On the south side an imposing mountain rises from the water's edge to the height of three thousand feet or more Feathered with hemlock and pine and huge shining domes on the east Over the tops of which the grinding, wasting, moulding glacier must have swept as the wind does today July 28 No cloud mountains, only curly cirrus wisps scarce perceptible And the want of thunder to strike the noon hour seemed strange as if the Sierra clock had stopped Had been studying the Magnifica fur, measured one near 240 feet high, the tallest I have yet seen This species is the most symmetrical of all conifers, but though gigantic in size, its seldom lives more than four or five hundred years Most of the trees die from the attacks of a fungus at the age of two or three centuries This dry rot fungus perhaps enters the trunk by way of the stumps of limbs broken off by the snow that loads the broad palmate branches The younger specimens are marvels of symmetry, straight and erect as a plum line Their branches in regular level worlds of five mostly Each branch as exact in its divisions as a fern front and thickly covered by the leaves Making a rich plush over all the tree, accepting only the trunk and a small portion of the main limbs The leaves turn upwards, especially on the branchlets, and are stiff and sharp, pointed on all the upper portions of the tree They remain on the tree about eight or ten years, and as the growth is rapid, it is not rare to find the leaves still in place on the upper part of the axis Where it is three or four inches in diameter, wider part of course, and their spiral arrangement beautifully displayed The leaf scars are conspicuous for twenty years or more, but there is a good deal of variation in different trees as to the thickness and sharpness of the leaves After the excursion to Mount Hoffman, I have seen a complete cross-section of the Sierra Forest And I find that Abys Magnifica is the most symmetrical tree of all the noble coniferous company The cones are grand affairs, superb in form, size and colour, cylindrical, stand erect on the upper branches like casks, and are from five to eight inches in length by three or four inch diameter Greenish grey and covered with fine down, which has a silvery luster in the sunshine, and their brilliance is augmented by beads of transparent balsam Which seems to have been poured over each cone, bringing to mind the old ceremonies of anointing with oil If possible the inside of the cone is more beautiful than the outside The scales, bracts and seed wings are tinted with the loveliest rosy purple with a bright, lustrous iridescence The seeds, three fourths of an inch long, are dark brown When the cones are ripe the scales and bracts fall off, setting the seeds free to fly to their predestined places While the dead spike-like axes are left on the branches for many years to mark the positions of the vanished cones Accepting those cut off when green by the Douglas squirrel How he gets his teeth under the broad bases of the sessile cones that I don't know Climbing these trees on a sunny day to visit the growing cones and to gaze over the tops of the forest is one of my best enjoyments End of section 9 Section 10 of My First Summer in the Sierra This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org My First Summer in the Sierra by John Muir Read by Adrian Pretzelis July 29 Bright, cool, exhilarating Clouds about 0.05 Another glorious day of rambling, sketching, and universal enjoyment July 30 Clouds about 0.20 But the regular shower did not reach us, though thunder was heard a few miles off striking the noon hour Ants, flies and mosquitoes seem to enjoy this fine climate A few houseflies have discovered our camp The Sierra mosquitoes are courageous and of good size, some of them measuring nearly an inch from tip of sting to tip of folded wings Though less abundant than in most wildernesses, they occasionally make quite a harm and stir and pay but little attention to time or place They sting anywhere, any time of day, whenever they can find anything worthwhile, until they are themselves stung by frost The large, jet-black ants are only ticklish and troublesome when one is lying down under the trees Noticed a borer drilling a silver fur A vipositor about an inch-and-a-half in length, polished and straight like a needle When not in use it is folded back in a sheath which extends straight behind like the legs of a crane in flying This drilling, I suppose, is to save nest-building and the aftercare of feeding the young Who would guess that in the brain of a fly so much knowledge could find lodgment? How do they know that their eggs will hatch in such holes or after they hatch that the soft, helpless grubs will find the right sort of nourishment in silver fur sap? This domestic arrangement calls to mind the curious family of gallflies Each species seems to know what kind of plant will respond to the irritation or stimulus of the puncture it makes and the eggs it lays In forming a growth that not only answers for a nest and a home but also provides food for the young Probably these gallflies make mistakes at times like anybody else, but when they do there is simply a failure of that particular brood While enough to perpetuate the species do find the proper plants and nourishment Many mistakes of this kind might be made without being discovered by us Once a pair of wrens made the mistake of building a nest in the sleeve of a workman's coat which was called for at sundown Much to the consternation and discomforture of the birds Still the marvel remains that any of the children of such small people as gnats and mosquitoes should escape their own and their parents' mistakes As well as the vicissitudes of the weather and hosts of enemies and come forth in full vigor and perfection to enjoy the sunny world When we think of the small creatures that are visible we are led to think of many that are smaller still and lead us on and on into infinite mystery July 31 Another glorious day the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue Indeed the body seems one pallet and tingles equally throughout Cloudiness about point zero five but our ordinary shower has not yet reached us though I hear thunder in the distance The cheery chipmunk so common about Brown's flat is common here also and perhaps other species In their light airy habits they recall the familiar species of the eastern states which we admired in the oak openings of Wisconsin as they skimmed along the zigzag rail fences These Sierra chipmunks are more arboreal and squirrel-like I first noticed them on the lower edge of the coniferous belt where the sabine and yellow pines meet Exceedingly interesting little fellows full of odd funny ways and without being true squirrels have most of their accomplishments without their aggressive quarrelsomeness I never weary watching them as they frisk about in the bushes gathering seeds and berries like song sparrows Poising daintily on slender twigs and making even less stir than most birds of the same size Few of the Sierra animals interest me more They are so able, gentle, confiding and beautiful they take one's heart and get themselves adopted as darlings Though weighing hardly more than field mice they are laborious collectors of seeds, nuts and cones and are therefore well fed But never in the least swollen with fat or lazily full On the contrary of their frisky bird-like liveliness there is no end They have a great variety of notes corresponding with their movements Some sweet and liquid like water dripping with twinkling sounds into ponds They seem dearly to love teasing a dog Coming frequently almost within reach then frisking away with a lively chipping like sparrows Beating time to their music with their tails which at each chip describes half circles from side to side Not even the Douglas squirrel is sure afooted or more fearless I've seen them running about on sheer precipices of the Yosemite walls seemingly holding on with as little effort as flies And as unconscious of danger where if the slightest slip were made they would have fallen two or three thousand feet How fine it would be could we mountaineers climb these tremendous cliffs with the same shore grip The venture I made the other day for a view of the Yosemite fall and which tried my nerve so surely this little tamious would have made for an ear of grass The woodchuck, Artemis Monax, of the bleak mountain tops is a very different sort of mountaineer The most bovine of rodents, a heavy eater, fat, old manic in bulk and fairly bloated in his high pastures like a cow in a clover field One woodchuck would outweigh a hundred chipmunks and yet he is by no means a dull animal In the midst of what we regard as storm-beaten desolation he pipes and whistles right cheerily and enjoys long life in his skyland homes His burrow is made in disintegrated rocks or beneath large boulders Coming out of the den in the cold Hawfrost mornings he takes a sun bath on some favourite flat-topped rock Then goes to breakfast in garden hollows, eats grass and flowers until comfortably swollen Then goes a visiting to fight and play How long a woodchuck lives in this bracing air I don't know but some of them are rusty and grey like a lichen-covered boulders August 1 A grand cloud-land and five-minute shower refreshing the blessed wilderness already so fragrant and fresh, steeping the black meadow-mold and dead leaves like tea The wake-up, or flicker, so familiar to every boy in the Old Middle West dates, is one of the most common of the woodpeckers hereabouts and makes one feel at home I can see no difference in plumage or habits from the European species, though the climate here is so different A fine, brave, confiding, beautiful bird The Robin too is here, with all his familiar notes and gestures tripping daintily on open garden spots and high meadows All over America he seems to be at home, moving from plains to the mountains and from north to south, back and forth, up and down with the march of the seasons and food supply How admirable the constitution and temper of this brave singer, keeping in cheery health over so vast and varied a range Oftentimes, as I wander through these solemn woods, awe-stricken and silent, I hear the reassuring voice of this fellow wanderer ringing out, sweet and clear Fear not, fear not The mountain quail, Oriotik's Richter, I often meet in my walks, a small, brown partridge with very long, slender, ornamental crest worn dauntily like a feather in a boy's cap, giving it a very marked appearance This species is considerably larger than the valley quail, so common on the hot foothills They seldom alight in trees, but love to wander in flocks of from five or six to twenty through the seanothus and manzanita thickets, or over open, dry meadows and rocks of the ridges where the forest is less dense or wanting, uttering a low clucking sound to enable them to keep together When disturbed they rise with a strong burr of wing-beats and scatter as if exploded to a distance of a quarter of a mile or so After the danger is passed they call one another together with a louder piping note, Nature's beautiful mountain chickens I have not yet found their nests, the young of this season are already hatched and away, new broods of happy wanderers half as large as their parents I wonder how they live through the long winters when the ground is snow-covered, ten feet deep, they must go down towards the lower edge of the forest like the deer, though I have not heard of them there The blue or dusky grouse is also common here, they like the deepest and closest fur-woods, and when disturbed burst from the branches of the trees with a strong loud whir of wing-beats and vanish in a wavering, silent slide without moving a feather A stout, beautiful bird, about the size of the prairie chicken of the Old West, spending most of the time in the trees accepting the breeding season when it keeps to the ground The young are now able to fly, when scattered by man or dog they keep still till the danger is supposed to be passed, then the mother calls them together The chicks can hear the call a distance of several hundred yards, though it is not loud Should the young be unable to fly, the mother feigns desperate lameness or death to draw one away, throwing herself at one's feet within two or three yards, rolling over on her back, kicking and gasping so as to deceive man or beast They are said to stay all the year in the woods hereabouts, taking shelter in dense, tufted branches of fur and yellow pine during snowstorms and feeding on the young buds of those trees Their legs are feathered down to their toes, and I've never heard of their suffering in any sort of weather Able to live on pine and fur buds, they are forever independent in the matter of food, which troubles so many of us and controls our movements Gladly, if I could, I would live for ever on pine buds, however full of turpentine and pitch, for the sake of this grand independence Just to think of our sufferings last month merely for grist mill flower Man seems to have more difficulty in gaining food than any other of the Lord's creatures For many in towns it is a consuming, lifelong struggle For others, the danger of coming to want is so great, the deadly habit of endless hoarding for the future is formed, which smothers all real life And is continued long after every reasonable need has been oversupplied On Mount Hoffman I saw a curious dove-colored bird that seemed half woodpecker, half magpie or crow It screams something like a crow, but flies like a woodpecker, and has a long, straight bill, with which I saw it opening the cones of the mountain and white-barked pines It seems to keep to the heights, though no doubt it comes down for shelter during the winter, if not for food So far as food is concerned, these bird-mountaineers, I guess, can glean nuts enough, even in winter, from the different kinds of conifers For always there are a few that have been unable to fly out of the cones, and remain for hungry winter gleaners 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 westward 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 canyon, 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 while, 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 someone 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 would 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 he might possibly visit California sometime 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, tomorrow I shall see. For, reasonable or unreasonable, I feel I must go August 3 Had a wonderful day Found Professor Butler as the needle-compass 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 Colterville trail and was coming up the valley past El Capitan when his presence struck me Had he then looked towards 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-wrappings, 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, everyday 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 I 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 offered Tied my notebook 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 Canyon There was no trail in it and the rocks and brush was so rough that Carlo frequently called me back to help him down precipitous places Emerging from the canyon's shadows I found a man making hay on one of the meadows and asked him where the 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 someone call 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 that it was locked and that the landlord was away, but I might find the landlady, Mrs. Hutchins, 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 canyon at the vernal fall And just outside of the spray discovered a distinguished looking gentleman who, like everybody else I have seen today, 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 anyone in the mountains could possibly know Professor Butler and find him as soon as he 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 to 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 carefree 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 When 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 suddenly 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-far-sightedness I ever heard of, etc. etc. While my friend quoted Shakespeare, more things in heaven and earth are ratio than are dreamt of in your philosophy As the sun ere he has risen, sometimes paints his image in the firmament, and so the shadows of events precede the events, and in today already walks tomorrow 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 that they are to leave the Valley tomorrow or the next day I'm glad I'm not great enough to be missed in the busy world End of section 10