John Muir arrived in San Francisco by boat from Panama in 1868. He was
thirty years old. This was in the days of adventure. San Francisco Bay
was alive with strange ships from every part of the globe. The city
was filled with adventurers. On every hand were heard exciting tales
of colonization and wealth in South America, Siberia, and Australia,
stories of fabulous fortunes made in the islands of the South Seas,
and rumors of rich strikes by the "Bonanza Kings" in the mines of
Nevada. These things did not interest Muir. He became the Nestor of
National Parks.
[Illustration: JOHN MUIR AT THE FOOT OF A DOUGLAS SPRUCE IN MUIR
WOODS]
The second day after reaching San Francisco, he wandered away alone
into the wilderness. He heard Nature's bugle-call and was led on and
on. He wandered far into the flower-filled distances, threaded the
forests, and climbed the heights where wild cataracts leaped and where
the glaciers had left their story.
For forty years he spent the most of his time camping and exploring
and studying in the wilderness along the Pacific Coast, chiefly in the
Sierra of California. He neither fished nor carried a gun. He
frequently went hungry; many times was without bedding; often he was
entirely alone for weeks. These were glorious years!
He rambled through parts of Nevada, Oregon, Washington, and British
Columbia, and made five trips to Alaska. He also made visits to
Australia, India, Switzerland, Sweden, South America, and Africa. Long
and intimately he associated with Nature in the Yosemite National
Park.
He married in 1879, and for ten years devoted a part of his time to
business, amassing a fair fortune. But in each of these years he
managed to have several weeks in the wilderness.
He had a large share in arousing the public interest that led to the
creation of forest reserves. For years he splendidly led the movement
for National Parks. His work and his writing glorified the scenic
outdoors.
In his Autobiography he says, "When I was a boy in Scotland I was fond
of everything that was wild, and all my life I've been growing fonder
and fonder of wild places and wild creatures." In his boyhood
Wisconsin home he was so enraptured with Nature that, as he says, he
could hardly believe his senses except when he was hungry or his
father was thrashing him.
In another case he says, "Every wild lesson a love lesson; not whipped
into us but charmed into us." Commenting on leaving college, he
declares, "I was only leaving one university for another, the
Wisconsin University for the University of the Wilderness." Stevenson
wrote, "There should be nothing so much a man's business as his
amusements." John Muir's amusements occupied the major part of his
life, and the result is an inspiring and ennobling influence on the
world. More than anything else, his work is likely immeasurably to
help the human race by getting us outdoors.
While ever enjoying the beauty of Nature, he was continually searching
for facts. He had the poetic appreciation of Nature. He was the
greatest genius that ever with words interpreted the outdoors. No one
has ever written of Nature's realm with greater enthusiasm or charm.
He once said, "In drying plants, botanists often dry themselves." He
also felt that "dry words and dry facts will not fire hearts." Much
that he wrote is prose poetry or is enlivened with the poetic fire of
his genius.
His writings contain a wealth of National Parks material, and I wish
that every child might know of them. His books are: "The Mountains of
California," "Our National Parks," "Stickeen," "My First Summer in the
Sierra," "The Yosemite," "The Story of my Boyhood and Youth,"
"Travels in Alaska," and "A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf."
In December, 1914, the grandest character in National Parks history
and in nature literature vanished into that mysterious realm into
which all trails inevitably lead. He had rendered mankind a vast and
heroic service. His triumphs were of the very greatest. They were made
in times of peace for the eternal cause of peace. We are yet too close
to the deeds of this magnificent man to comprehend their helpfulness
to humanity. His practical labors and his books are likely to prove
the most influential force in this century for the profitable use of
leisure hours.
He has written the great drama of the outdoors. On Nature's scenic
stage he gave the wild life local habitation and character--did with
the wild folk what Shakespeare did with man. He puts the woods in
story, and in his story you are in the wilderness. His prose poems
illuminate the forest, the storm, and all the fields of life. He has
set Pan's melody to words. He sings of sun-tipped peaks and gloomy
cañons, flowery fields and wooded wilds. He has immortalized the Big
Trees. His memory is destined to be ever associated with the silent
places, with the bird-songs, with wild flowers, with the great
glaciers, with snowy peaks, with dark forests, with white cascades
that leap in glory, with sunlight and shadow, with the splendid
National Parks, and with every song that Nature sings in the wild
gardens of the world.