[Illustration]
THE WRITINGS OF JOHN MUIR
Sierra Edition
VOLUME II
[Illustration: _The Yosemite Falls, Yosemite National Park_]
MY FIRST SUMMER IN THE SIERRA
BY
JOHN MUIR
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY JOHN MUIR
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO
THE SIERRA CLUB OF CALIFORNIA
FAITHFUL DEFENDER OF THE PEOPLE’S PLAYGROUNDS
CONTENTS
I. THROUGH THE FOOTHILLS WITH A FLOCK OF SHEEP 3
II. IN CAMP ON THE NORTH FORK OF THE MERCED 32
III. A BREAD FAMINE 75
IV. TO THE HIGH MOUNTAINS 86
V. THE YOSEMITE 115
VI. MOUNT HOFFMAN AND LAKE TENAYA 149
VII. A STRANGE EXPERIENCE 178
VIII. THE MONO TRAIL 195
IX. BLOODY CA—ON AND MONO LAKE 214
X. THE TUOLUMNE CAMP 232
XI. BACK TO THE LOWLANDS 254
INDEX 265
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE YOSEMITE FALLS, YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK _Frontispiece_
The total height of the three falls is 2600 feet. The upper fall is
about 1600 feet, and the lower about 400 feet. Mr. Muir was
probably the only man who ever looked down into the heart of the
fall from the narrow ledge of rocks near the top.
_From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott_
SHEEP IN THE MOUNTAINS 8
Since the establishment of the Yosemite National Park the pasturing
of sheep has not been allowed within its boundaries, and as a
result the grasses and wild flowers have recovered very much of
their former luxuriance. The flock of sheep here photographed were
feeding near Alger Lake on the slope of Blacktop Mountain, at an
altitude of about 10,000 feet and just beyond the eastern boundary
of the Park.
_From a photograph by Herbert W. Gleason_
A SILVER FIR, OR RED FIR (_Abies magnifica_) 90
This tree was found in an extensive forest of red fir above the
Middle Fork of King’s River. It was estimated to be about 250 feet
high. Mr. Muir, on being shown the photograph, remarked that it was
one of the finest and most mature specimens of the red fir that he
had ever seen.
_From a photograph by Herbert W. Gleason_
THE NORTH AND SOUTH DOMES 122
The great rock on the right is the South Dome, commonly called the
Half-Dome, according to Mr. Muir “the most beautiful and most
sublime of all the Yosemite rocks.” The one on the left is the
North Dome, while in the center is the Washington Column.
_From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott_
CATHEDRAL PEAK 154
This view was taken from a point on the Sunrise Trail just south of
the Peak, on a day when the “cloud mountains” so inspiring to Mr.
Muir were much in evidence.
_From a photograph by Herbert W. Gleason_
THE VERNAL FALLS, YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK 182
_From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott_
THE HAPPY ISLES, YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK 190
This is the main stream of the Merced River after passing over the
Nevada and Vernal Falls and receiving the Illilouette tributary.
_From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott_
THE THREE BROTHERS, YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK 208
The highest rock, called Eagle Point, is 7900 feet above the sea,
and 3900 feet above the floor of the valley.
_From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott_
MAP OF THE YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK 264
_From the United States Geological Survey_
FROM SKETCHES MADE BY THE AUTHOR IN 1869
HORSESHOE BEND, MERCED RIVER 14
ON SECOND BENCH. EDGE OF THE MAIN FOREST
BELT, ABOVE COULTERVILLE, NEAR GREELEY’S
MILL 14
CAMP, NORTH FORK OF THE MERCED 38
MOUNTAIN LIVE OAK (_Quercus chrysolepis_), EIGHT
FEET IN DIAMETER 38
SUGAR PINE 50
DOUGLAS SQUIRREL OBSERVING BROTHER MAN 68
DIVIDE BETWEEN THE TUOLUMNE AND THE MERCED,
BELOW HAZEL GREEN 86
TRACK OF SINGING DANCING GRASSHOPPER IN THE
AIR OVER NORTH DOME 140
ABIES MAGNIFICA (MOUNT CLARK, TOP OF SOUTH
DOME, MOUNT STARR KING) 142
ILLUSTRATING GROWTH OF NEW PINE FROM BRANCH
BELOW THE BREAK OF AXIS OF SNOW-CRUSHED
TREE 144
APPROACH OF DOME CREEK TO YOSEMITE 150
JUNIPERS IN TENAYA CA—ON 164
VIEW OF TENAYA LAKE SHOWING CATHEDRAL PEAK 196
ONE OF THE TRIBUTARY FOUNTAINS OF THE TUOLUMNE
CA—ON WATERS, ON THE NORTH SIDE OF
THE HOFFMAN RANGE 196
GLACIER MEADOW, ON THE HEADWATERS OF THE
TUOLUMNE, 9500 FEET ABOVE THE SEA 204
MONO LAKE AND VOLCANIC CONES, LOOKING SOUTH 228
HIGHEST MONO VOLCANIC CONES (NEAR VIEW) 228
ONE OF THE HIGHEST MOUNT RITTER FOUNTAINS 240
GLACIER MEADOW STREWN WITH MORAINE BOULDERS,
10,000 FEET ABOVE THE SEA (NEAR MOUNT
DANA) 248
FRONT OF CATHEDRAL PEAK 248
VIEW OF UPPER TUOLUMNE VALLEY 252
MY FIRST SUMMER IN THE SIERRA
CHAPTER I
THROUGH THE FOOTHILLS WITH A FLOCK OF SHEEP
In the great Central Valley of California there are only two
seasons—spring and summer. The spring begins with the first rainstorm,
which usually falls in November. In a few months the wonderful flowery
vegetation is in full bloom, and by the end of May it is dead and dry
and crisp, as if every plant had been roasted in an oven.
Then the lolling, panting flocks and herds are driven to the high, cool,
green pastures of the Sierra. I was longing for the mountains about this
time, but money was scarce and I couldn’t see how a bread supply was to
be kept up. While I was anxiously brooding on the bread problem, so
troublesome to wanderers, and trying to believe that I might learn to
live like the wild animals, gleaning nourishment here and there from
seeds, berries, etc., sauntering and climbing in joyful independence of
money or baggage, Mr. Delaney, a sheep-owner, for whom I had worked a
few weeks, called on me, and offered to engage me to go with his
shepherd and flock to the headwaters of the Merced and Tuolumne
rivers—the very region I had most in mind. I was in the mood to accept
work of any kind that would take me into the mountains whose treasures I
had tasted last summer in the Yosemite region. The flock, he explained,
would be moved gradually higher through the successive forest belts as
the snow melted, stopping for a few weeks at the best places we came to.
These I thought would be good centers of observation from which I might
be able to make many telling excursions within a radius of eight or ten
miles of the camps to learn something of the plants, animals, and rocks;
for he assured me that I should be left perfectly free to follow my
studies. I judged, however, that I was in no way the right man for the
place, and freely explained my shortcomings, confessing that I was
wholly unacquainted with the topography of the upper mountains, the
streams that would have to be crossed, and the wild sheep-eating
animals, etc.; in short that, what with bears, coyotes, rivers, cañons,
and thorny, bewildering chaparral, I feared that half or more of his
flock would be lost. Fortunately these shortcomings seemed
insignificant to Mr. Delaney. The main thing, he said, was to have a man
about the camp whom he could trust to see that the shepherd did his
duty, and he assured me that the difficulties that seemed so formidable
at a distance would vanish as we went on; encouraging me further by
saying that the shepherd would do all the herding, that I could study
plants and rocks and scenery as much as I liked, and that he would
himself accompany us to the first main camp and make occasional visits
to our higher ones to replenish our store of provisions and see how we
prospered. Therefore I concluded to go, though still fearing, when I saw
the silly sheep bouncing one by one through the narrow gate of the home
corral to be counted, that of the two thousand and fifty many would
never return.
I was fortunate in getting a fine St. Bernard dog for a companion. His
master, a hunter with whom I was slightly acquainted, came to me as soon
as he heard that I was going to spend the summer in the Sierra and
begged me to take his favorite dog, Carlo, with me, for he feared that
if he were compelled to stay all summer on the plains the fierce heat
might be the death of him. “I think I can trust you to be kind to him,”
he said, “and I am sure he will be good to you. He knows all about the
mountain animals, will guard the camp, assist in managing the sheep,
and in every way be found able and faithful.” Carlo knew we were talking
about him, watched our faces, and listened so attentively that I fancied
he understood us. Calling him by name, I asked him if he was willing to
go with me. He looked me in the face with eyes expressing wonderful
intelligence, then turned to his master, and after permission was given
by a wave of the hand toward me and a farewell patting caress, he
quietly followed me as if he perfectly understood all that had been said
and had known me always.
* * * * *
_June 3, 1869._ This morning provisions, camp-kettles, blankets,
plant-press, etc., were packed on two horses, the flock headed for the
tawny foothills, and away we sauntered in a cloud of dust: Mr. Delaney,
bony and tall, with sharply hacked profile like Don Quixote, leading the
pack-horses, Billy, the proud shepherd, a Chinaman and a Digger Indian
to assist in driving for the first few days in the brushy foothills, and
myself with notebook tied to my belt.
The home ranch from which we set out is on the south side of the
Tuolumne River near French Bar, where the foothills of metamorphic
gold-bearing slates dip below the stratified deposits of the Central
Valley. We had not gone more than a mile before some of the old leaders
of the flock showed by the eager, inquiring way they ran and looked
ahead that they were thinking of the high pastures they had enjoyed last
summer. Soon the whole flock seemed to be hopefully excited, the mothers
calling their lambs, the lambs replying in tones wonderfully human,
their fondly quavering calls interrupted now and then by hastily
snatched mouthfuls of withered grass. Amid all this seeming babel of
baas as they streamed over the hills every mother and child recognized
each other’s voice. In case a tired lamb, half asleep in the smothering
dust, should fail to answer, its mother would come running back through
the flock toward the spot whence its last response was heard, and
refused to be comforted until she found it, the one of a thousand,
though to our eyes and ears all seemed alike.
The flock traveled at the rate of about a mile an hour, outspread in the
form of an irregular triangle, about a hundred yards wide at the base,
and a hundred and fifty yards long, with a crooked, ever-changing point
made up of the strongest foragers, called the “leaders,” which, with the
most active of those scattered along the ragged sides of the “main
body,” hastily explored nooks in the rocks and bushes for grass and
leaves; the lambs and feeble old mothers dawdling in the rear were
called the “tail end.”
[Illustration: _Sheep in the Mountains_]
About noon the heat was hard to bear; the poor sheep panted pitifully
and tried to stop in the shade of every tree they came to, while we
gazed with eager longing through the dim burning glare toward the snowy
mountains and streams, though not one was in sight. The landscape is
only wavering foothills roughened here and there with bushes and trees
and outcropping masses of slate. The trees, mostly the blue oak
(_Quercus Douglasii_), are about thirty to forty feet high, with pale
blue-green leaves and white bark, sparsely planted on the thinnest soil
or in crevices of rocks beyond the reach of grass fires. The slates in
many places rise abruptly through the tawny grass in sharp
lichen-covered slabs like tombstones in deserted burying-grounds. With
the exception of the oak and four or five species of manzanita and
ceanothus, the vegetation of the foothills is mostly the same as that of
the plains. I saw this region in the early spring, when it was a
charming landscape garden full of birds and bees and flowers. Now the
scorching weather makes everything dreary. The ground is full of cracks,
lizards glide about on the rocks, and ants in amazing numbers, whose
tiny sparks of life only burn the brighter with the heat, fairly
quiver with unquenchable energy as they run in long lines to fight and
gather food. How it comes that they do not dry to a crisp in a few
seconds’ exposure to such sun-fire is marvelous. A few rattlesnakes lie
coiled in out-of-the-way places, but are seldom seen. Magpies and crows,
usually so noisy, are silent now, standing in mixed flocks on the ground
beneath the best shade trees, with bills wide open and wings drooped,
too breathless to speak; the quails also are trying to keep in the shade
about the few tepid alkaline water-holes; cottontail rabbits are running
from shade to shade among the ceanothus brush, and occasionally the
long-eared hare is seen cantering gracefully across the wider openings.
After a short noon rest in a grove, the poor dust-choked flock was again
driven ahead over the brushy hills, but the dim roadway we had been
following faded away just where it was most needed, compelling us to
stop to look about us and get our bearings. The Chinaman seemed to think
we were lost, and chattered in pidgin English concerning the abundance
of “litty stick” (chaparral), while the Indian silently scanned the
billowy ridges and gulches for openings. Pushing through the thorny
jungle, we at length discovered a road trending toward Coulterville,
which we followed until an hour before sunset, when we reached a dry
ranch and camped for the night.
Camping in the foothills with a flock of sheep is simple and easy, but
far from pleasant. The sheep were allowed to pick what they could find
in the neighborhood until after sunset, watched by the shepherd, while
the others gathered wood, made a fire, cooked, unpacked and fed the
horses, etc. About dusk the weary sheep were gathered on the highest
open spot near camp, where they willingly bunched close together, and
after each mother had found her lamb and suckled it, all lay down and
required no attention until morning.
Supper was announced by the call, “Grub!” Each with a tin plate helped
himself direct from the pots and pans while chatting about such camp
studies as sheep-feed, mines, coyotes, bears, or adventures during the
memorable gold days of pay dirt. The Indian kept in the background,
saying never a word, as if he belonged to another species. The meal
finished, the dogs were fed, the smokers smoked by the fire, and under
the influences of fullness and tobacco the calm that settled on their
faces seemed almost divine, something like the mellow meditative glow
portrayed on the countenances of saints. Then suddenly, as if awakening
from a dream, each with a sigh or a grunt knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, yawned, gazed at the fire a few moments, said, “Well, I believe
I’ll turn in,” and straightway vanished beneath his blankets. The fire
smouldered and flickered an hour or two longer; the stars shone
brighter; coons, coyotes, and owls stirred the silence here and there,
while crickets and hylas made a cheerful, continuous music, so fitting
and full that it seemed a part of the very body of the night. The only
discordance came from a snoring sleeper, and the coughing sheep with
dust in their throats. In the starlight the flock looked like a big gray
blanket.
_June 4._ The camp was astir at daybreak; coffee, bacon, and beans
formed the breakfast, followed by quick dish-washing and packing. A
general bleating began about sunrise. As soon as a mother ewe arose, her
lamb came bounding and bunting for its breakfast, and after the thousand
youngsters had been suckled the flock began to nibble and spread. The
restless wethers with ravenous appetites were the first to move, but
dared not go far from the main body. Billy and the Indian and the
Chinaman kept them headed along the weary road, and allowed them to pick
up what little they could find on a breadth of about a quarter of a
mile. But as several flocks had already gone ahead of us, scarce a leaf,
green or dry, was left; therefore the starving flock had to be hurried
on over the bare, hot hills to the nearest of the green pastures, about
twenty or thirty miles from here.
The pack-animals were led by Don Quixote, a heavy rifle over his
shoulder intended for bears and wolves. This day has been as hot and
dusty as the first, leading over gently sloping brown hills, with mostly
the same vegetation, excepting the strange-looking Sabine pine (_Pinus
Sabiniana_), which here forms small groves or is scattered among the
blue oaks. The trunk divides at a height of fifteen or twenty feet into
two or more stems, outleaning or nearly upright, with many straggling
branches and long gray needles, casting but little shade. In general
appearance this tree looks more like a palm than a pine. The cones are
about six or seven inches long, about five in diameter, very heavy, and
last long after they fall, so that the ground beneath the trees is
covered with them. They make fine resiny, light-giving camp-fires, next
to ears of Indian corn the most beautiful fuel I’ve ever seen. The nuts,
the Don tells me, are gathered in large quantities by the Digger Indians
for food. They are about as large and hard-shelled as hazelnuts—food
and fire fit for the gods from the same fruit.
_June 5._ This morning a few hours after setting out with the crawling
sheep-cloud, we gained the summit of the first well-defined bench on the
mountain-flank at Pino Blanco. The Sabine pines interest me greatly.
They are so airy and strangely palm-like I was eager to sketch them, and
was in a fever of excitement without accomplishing much. I managed to
halt long enough, however, to make a tolerably fair sketch of Pino
Blanco peak from the southwest side, where there is a small field and
vineyard irrigated by a stream that makes a pretty fall on its way down
a gorge by the roadside.
After gaining the open summit of this first bench, feeling the natural
exhilaration due to the slight elevation of a thousand feet or so, and
the hopes excited concerning the outlook to be obtained, a magnificent
section of the Merced Valley at what is called Horseshoe Bend came full
in sight—a glorious wilderness that seemed to be calling with a
thousand songful voices. Bold, down-sweeping slopes, feathered with
pines and clumps of manzanita with sunny, open spaces between them, make
up most of the foreground; the middle and background present fold beyond
fold of finely modeled hills and ridges rising into mountain-like masses
in the distance, all covered with a shaggy growth of chaparral, mostly
adenostoma, planted so marvelously close and even that it looks like
soft, rich plush without a single tree or bare spot. As far as the eye
can reach it extends, a heaving, swelling sea of green as regular and
continuous as that produced by the heaths of Scotland. The sculpture of
the landscape is as striking in its main lines as in its lavish richness
of detail; a grand congregation of massive heights with the river
shining between, each carved into smooth, graceful folds without leaving
a single rocky angle exposed, as if the delicate fluting and ridging
fashioned out of metamorphic slates had been carefully sandpapered. The
whole landscape showed design, like man’s noblest sculptures. How
wonderful the power of its beauty! Gazing awe-stricken, I might have
left everything for it. Glad, endless work would then be mine tracing
the forces that have brought forth its features, its rocks and plants
and animals and glorious weather. Beauty beyond thought everywhere,
beneath, above, made and being made forever. I gazed and gazed and
longed and admired until the dusty sheep and packs were far out of
sight, made hurried notes and a sketch, though there was no need of
either, for the colors and lines and expression of this divine
landscape-countenance are so burned into mind and heart they surely can
never grow dim.
[Illustration: HORSESHOE BEND, MERCED RIVER]
[Illustration: ON SECOND BENCH. EDGE OF THE MAIN FOREST BELT ABOVE
COULTERVILLE, NEAR GREELEY’S MILL]
The evening of this charmed day is cool, calm, cloudless, and full of a
kind of lightning I have never seen before—white glowing cloud-shaped
masses down among the trees and bushes, like quick-throbbing fireflies
in the Wisconsin meadows rather than the so-called “wild fire.” The
spreading hairs of the horses’ tails and sparks from our blankets show
how highly charged the air is.
_June 6._ We are now on what may be called the second bench or plateau
of the Range, after making many small ups and downs over belts of
hill-waves, with, of course, corresponding changes in the vegetation. In
open spots many of the lowland compositæ are still to be found, and some
of the Mariposa tulips and other conspicuous members of the lily family;
but the characteristic blue oak of the foothills is left below, and its
place is taken by a fine large species (_Quercus Californica_) with
deeply lobed deciduous leaves, picturesquely divided trunk, and broad,
massy, finely lobed and modeled head. Here also at a height of about
twenty-five hundred feet we come to the edge of the great coniferous
forest, made up mostly of yellow pine with just a few sugar pines. We
are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making
every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. Our
flesh-and-bone tabernacle seems transparent as glass to the beauty about
us, as if truly an inseparable part of it, thrilling with the air and
trees, streams and rocks, in the waves of the sun,—a part of all
nature, neither old nor young, sick nor well, but immortal. Just now I
can hardly conceive of any bodily condition dependent on food or breath
any more than the ground or the sky. How glorious a conversion, so
complete and wholesome it is, scarce memory enough of old bondage days
left as a standpoint to view it from! In this newness of life we seem to
have been so always.
Through a meadow opening in the pine woods I see snowy peaks about the
headwaters of the Merced above Yosemite. How near they seem and how
clear their outlines on the blue air, or rather _in_ the blue air; for
they seem to be saturated with it. How consuming strong the invitation
they extend! Shall I be allowed to go to them? Night and day I’ll pray
that I may, but it seems too good to be true. Some one worthy will go,
able for the Godful work, yet as far as I can I must drift about these
love-monument mountains, glad to be a servant of servants in so holy a
wilderness.
Found a lovely lily (_Calochortus albus_) in a shady adenostoma thicket
near Coulterville, in company with _Adiantum Chilense_. It is white with
a faint purplish tinge inside at the base of the petals, a most
impressive plant, pure as a snow crystal, one of the plant saints that
all must love and be made so much the purer by it every time it is seen.
It puts the roughest mountaineer on his good behavior. With this plant
the whole world would seem rich though none other existed. It is not
easy to keep on with the camp cloud while such plant people are standing
preaching by the wayside.
During the afternoon we passed a fine meadow bounded by stately pines,
mostly the arrowy yellow pine, with here and there a noble sugar pine,
its feathery arms outspread above the spires of its companion species in
marked contrast; a glorious tree, its cones fifteen to twenty inches
long, swinging like tassels at the ends of the branches with superb
ornamental effect. Saw some logs of this species at the Greeley Mill.
They are round and regular as if turned in a lathe, excepting the butt
cuts, which have a few buttressing projections. The fragrance of the
sugary sap is delicious and scents the mill and lumber yard. How
beautiful the ground beneath this pine thickly strewn with slender
needles and grand cones, and the piles of cone-scales, seed-wings and
shells around the instep of each tree where the squirrels have been
feasting! They get the seeds by cutting off the scales at the base in
regular order, following their spiral arrangement, and the two seeds at
the base of each scale, a hundred or two in a cone, must make a good
meal. The yellow pine cones and those of most other species and genera
are held upside down on the ground by the Douglas squirrel, and turned
around gradually until stripped, while he sits usually with his back to
a tree, probably for safety. Strange to say, he never seems to get
himself smeared with gum, not even his paws or whiskers—and how cleanly
and beautiful in color the cone-litter kitchen-middens he makes.
We are now approaching the region of clouds and cool streams.
Magnificent white cumuli appeared about noon above the Yosemite
region,—floating fountains refreshing the glorious wilderness,—sky
mountains in whose pearly hills and dales the streams take their
rise,—blessing with cooling shadows and rain. No rock landscape is more
varied in sculpture, none more delicately modeled than these landscapes
of the sky; domes and peaks rising, swelling, white as finest marble
and firmly outlined, a most impressive manifestation of world building.
Every rain-cloud, however fleeting, leaves its mark, not only on trees
and flowers whose pulses are quickened, and on the replenished streams
and lakes, but also on the rocks are its marks engraved whether we can
see them or not.
I have been examining the curious and influential shrub _Adenostoma
fasciculata_, first noticed about Horseshoe Bend. It is very abundant on
the lower slopes of the second plateau near Coulterville, forming a
dense, almost impenetrable growth that looks dark in the distance. It
belongs to the rose family, is about six or eight feet high, has small
white flowers in racemes eight to twelve inches long, round needle-like
leaves, and reddish bark that becomes shreddy when old. It grows on
sun-beaten slopes, and like grass is often swept away by running fires,
but is quickly renewed from the roots. Any trees that may have
established themselves in its midst are at length killed by these fires,
and this no doubt is the secret of the unbroken character of its broad
belts. A few manzanitas, which also rise again from the root after
consuming fires, make out to dwell with it, also a few bush
compositæ—baccharis and linosyris, and some liliaceous plants, mostly
calochortus and brodiæa, with deepset bulbs safe from fire. A multitude
of birds and “wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beasties” find good homes
in its deepest thickets, and the open bays and lanes that fringe the
margins of its main belts offer shelter and food to the deer when winter
storms drive them down from their high mountain pastures. A most
admirable plant! It is now in bloom, and I like to wear its pretty
fragrant racemes in my buttonhole.
_Azalea occidentalis_, another charming shrub, grows beside cool streams
hereabouts and much higher in the Yosemite region. We found it this
evening in bloom a few miles above Greeley’s Mill, where we are camped
for the night. It is closely related to the rhododendrons, is very showy
and fragrant, and everybody must like it not only for itself but for the
shady alders and willows, ferny meadows, and living water associated
with it.
Another conifer was met to-day,—incense cedar (_Libocedrus decurrens_),
a large tree with warm yellow-green foliage in flat plumes like those of
arborvitæ, bark cinnamon-colored, and as the boles of the old trees are
without limbs they make striking pillars in the woods where the sun
chances to shine on them—a worthy companion of the kingly sugar and
yellow pines. I feel strangely attracted to this tree. The brown
close-grained wood, as well as the small scale-like leaves, is fragrant,
and the flat overlapping plumes make fine beds, and must shed the rain
well. It would be delightful to be storm-bound beneath one of these
noble, hospitable, inviting old trees, its broad sheltering arms bent
down like a tent, incense rising from the fire made from its dry fallen
branches, and a hearty wind chanting overhead. But the weather is calm
to-night, and our camp is only a sheep camp. We are near the North Fork
of the Merced. The night wind is telling the wonders of the upper
mountains, their snow fountains and gardens, forests and groves; even
their topography is in its tones. And the stars, the everlasting sky
lilies, how bright they are now that we have climbed above the lowland
dust! The horizon is bounded and adorned by a spiry wall of pines, every
tree harmoniously related to every other; definite symbols, divine
hieroglyphics written with sunbeams. Would I could understand them! The
stream flowing past the camp through ferns and lilies and alders makes
sweet music to the ear, but the pines marshaled around the edge of the
sky make a yet sweeter music to the eye. Divine beauty all. Here I
could stay tethered forever with just bread and water, nor would I be
lonely; loved friends and neighbors, as love for everything increased,
would seem all the nearer however many the miles and mountains between
us.
_June 7._ The sheep were sick last night, and many of them are still far
from well, hardly able to leave camp, coughing, groaning, looking
wretched and pitiful, all from eating the leaves of the blessed azalea.
So at least say the shepherd and the Don. Having had but little grass
since they left the plains, they are starving, and so eat anything green
they can get. “Sheep men” call azalea “sheep-poison,” and wonder what
the Creator was thinking about when he made it,—so desperately does
sheep business blind and degrade, though supposed to have a refining
influence in the good old days we read of. The California sheep owner is
in haste to get rich, and often does, now that pasturage costs nothing,
while the climate is so favorable that no winter food supply,
shelter-pens, or barns are required. Therefore large flocks may be kept
at slight expense, and large profits realized, the money invested
doubling, it is claimed, every other year. This quickly acquired wealth
usually creates desire for more. Then indeed the wool is drawn close
down over the poor fellow’s eyes, dimming or shutting out almost
everything worth seeing.
As for the shepherd, his case is still worse, especially in winter when
he lives alone in a cabin. For, though stimulated at times by hopes of
one day owning a flock and getting rich like his boss, he at the same
time is likely to be degraded by the life he leads, and seldom reaches
the dignity or advantage—or disadvantage—of ownership. The degradation
in his case has for cause one not far to seek. He is solitary most of
the year, and solitude to most people seems hard to bear. He seldom has
much good mental work or recreation in the way of books. Coming into his
dingy hovel-cabin at night, stupidly weary, he finds nothing to balance
and level his life with the universe. No, after his dull drag all day
after the sheep, he must get his supper; he is likely to slight this
task and try to satisfy his hunger with whatever comes handy. Perhaps no
bread is baked; then he just makes a few grimy flapjacks in his unwashed
frying-pan, boils a handful of tea, and perhaps fries a few strips of
rusty bacon. Usually there are dried peaches or apples in the cabin, but
he hates to be bothered with the cooking of them, just swallows the
bacon and flapjacks, and depends on the genial stupefaction of tobacco
for the rest. Then to bed, often without removing the clothing worn
during the day. Of course his health suffers, reacting on his mind; and
seeing nobody for weeks or months, he finally becomes semi-insane or
wholly so.
The shepherd in Scotland seldom thinks of being anything but a shepherd.
He has probably descended from a race of shepherds and inherited a love
and aptitude for the business almost as marked as that of his collie. He
has but a small flock to look after, sees his family and neighbors, has
time for reading in fine weather, and often carries books to the fields
with which he may converse with kings. The oriental shepherd, we read,
called his sheep by name; they knew his voice and followed him. The
flocks must have been small and easily managed, allowing piping on the
hills and ample leisure for reading and thinking. But whatever the
blessings of sheep-culture in other times and countries, the California
shepherd, as far as I’ve seen or heard, is never quite sane for any
considerable time. Of all Nature’s voices baa is about all he hears.
Even the howls and ki-yis of coyotes might be blessings if well heard,
but he hears them only through a blur of mutton and wool, and they do
him no good.
The sick sheep are getting well, and the shepherd is discoursing on the
various poisons lurking in these high pastures—azalea, kalmia, alkali.
After crossing the North Fork of the Merced we turned to the left toward
Pilot Peak, and made a considerable ascent on a rocky, brush-covered
ridge to Brown’s Flat, where for the first time since leaving the plains
the flock is enjoying plenty of green grass. Mr. Delaney intends to seek
a permanent camp somewhere in the neighborhood, to last several weeks.
Before noon we passed Bower Cave, a delightful marble palace, not dark
and dripping, but filled with sunshine, which pours into it through its
wide-open mouth facing the south. It has a fine, deep, clear little lake
with mossy banks embowered with broad-leaved maples, all under ground,
wholly unlike anything I have seen in the cave line even in Kentucky,
where a large part of the State is honeycombed with caves. This curious
specimen of subterranean scenery is located on a belt of marble that is
said to extend from the north end of the Range to the extreme south.
Many other caves occur on the belt, but none like this, as far as I have
learned, combining as it does sunny outdoor brightness and vegetation
with the crystalline beauty of the underworld. It is claimed by a
Frenchman, who has fenced and locked it, placed a boat on the lakelet
and seats on the mossy bank under the maple trees, and charges a dollar
admission fee. Being on one of the ways to the Yosemite Valley, a good
many tourists visit it during the travel months of summer, regarding it
as an interesting addition to their Yosemite wonders.
Poison oak or poison ivy (_Rhus diversiloba_), both as a bush and a
scrambler up trees and rocks, is common throughout the foothill region
up to a height of at least three thousand feet above the sea. It is
somewhat troublesome to most travelers, inflaming the skin and eyes, but
blends harmoniously with its companion plants, and many a charming
flower leans confidingly upon it for protection and shade. I have
oftentimes found the curious twining lily (_Stropholirion Californicum_)
climbing its branches, showing no fear but rather congenial
companionship. Sheep eat it without apparent ill effects; so do horses
to some extent, though not fond of it, and to many persons it is
harmless. Like most other things not apparently useful to man, it has
few friends, and the blind question, “Why was it made?” goes on and on
with never a guess that first of all it might have been made for
itself.
Brown’s Flat is a shallow fertile valley on the top of the divide
between the North Fork of the Merced and Bull Creek, commanding
magnificent views in every direction. Here the adventurous pioneer David
Brown made his headquarters for many years, dividing his time between
gold-hunting and bear-hunting. Where could lonely hunter find a better
solitude? Game in the woods, gold in the rocks, health and exhilaration
in the air, while the colors and cloud furniture of the sky are ever
inspiring through all sorts of weather. Though sternly practical, like
most pioneers, old David seems to have been uncommonly fond of scenery.
Mr. Delaney, who knew him well, tells me that he dearly loved to climb
to the summit of a commanding ridge to gaze abroad over the forest to
the snow-clad peaks and sources of the rivers, and over the foreground
valleys and gulches to note where miners were at work or claims were
abandoned, judging by smoke from cabins and camp-fires, the sounds of
axes, etc.; and when a rifle-shot was heard, to guess who was the
hunter, whether Indian or some poacher on his wide domain. His dog Sandy
accompanied him everywhere, and well the little hairy mountaineer knew
and loved his master and his master’s aims. In deer-hunting he had but
little to do, trotting behind his master as he slowly made his way
through the wood, careful not to step heavily on dry twigs, scanning
open spots in the chaparral, where the game loves to feed in the early
morning and towards sunset; peering cautiously over ridges as new
outlooks were reached, and along the meadowy borders of streams. But
when bears were hunted, little Sandy became more important, and it was
as a bear-hunter that Brown became famous. His hunting method, as
described by Mr. Delaney, who had passed many a night with him in his
lonely cabin and learned his stories, was simply to go slowly and
silently through the best bear pastures, with his dog and rifle and a
few pounds of flour, until he found a fresh track and then follow it to
the death, paying no heed to the time required. Wherever the bear went
he followed, led by little Sandy, who had a keen nose and never lost the
track, however rocky the ground. When high open points were reached, the
likeliest places were carefully scanned. The time of year enabled the
hunter to determine approximately where the bear would be found,—in the
spring and early summer on open spots about the banks of streams and
springy places eating grass and clover and lupines, or in dry meadows
feasting on strawberries; toward the end of summer, on dry ridges,
feasting on manzanita berries, sitting on his haunches, pulling down the
laden branches with his paws, and pressing them together so as to get
good compact mouthfuls however much mixed with twigs and leaves; in the
Indian summer, beneath the pines, chewing the cones cut off by the
squirrels, or occasionally climbing a tree to gnaw and break off the
fruitful branches. In late autumn, when acorns are ripe, Bruin’s
favorite feeding-grounds are groves of the California oak in park-like
cañon flats. Always the cunning hunter knew where to look, and seldom
came upon Bruin unawares. When the hot scent showed the dangerous game
was nigh, a long halt was made, and the intricacies of the topography
and vegetation leisurely scanned to catch a glimpse of the shaggy
wanderer, or to at least determine where he was most likely to be.
“Whenever,” said the hunter, “I saw a bear before it saw me I had no
trouble in killing it. I just studied the lay of the land and got to
leeward of it no matter how far around I had to go, and then worked up
to within a few hundred yards or so, at the foot of a tree that I could
easily climb, but too small for the bear to climb. Then I looked well to
the condition of my rifle, took off my boots so as to climb well if
necessary, and waited until the bear turned its side in clear view when
I could make a sure or at least a good shot. In case it showed fight I
climbed out of reach. But bears are slow and awkward with their eyes,
and being to leeward of them they could not scent me, and I often got in
a second shot before they noticed the smoke. Usually, however, they run
when wounded and hide in the brush. I let them run a good safe time
before I ventured to follow them, and Sandy was pretty sure to find them
dead. If not, he barked and drew their attention, and occasionally
rushed in for a distracting bite, so that I was able to get to a safe
distance for a final shot. Oh yes, bear-hunting is safe enough when
followed in a safe way, though like every other business it has its
accidents, and little doggie and I have had some close calls. Bears like
to keep out of the way of men as a general thing, but if an old, lean,
hungry mother with cubs met a man on her own ground she would, in my
opinion, try to catch and eat him. This would be only fair play anyhow,
for we eat them, but nobody hereabout has been used for bear grub that I
know of.”
Brown had left his mountain home ere we arrived, but a considerable
number of Digger Indians still linger in their cedar-bark huts on the
edge of the flat. They were attracted in the first place by the white
hunter whom they had learned to respect, and to whom they looked for
guidance and protection against their enemies the Pah Utes, who
sometimes made raids across from the east side of the Range to plunder
the stores of the comparatively feeble Diggers and steal their wives.