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