Galen Clark
Galen Clark was the best mountaineer I ever met, and one of the kindest
and most amiable of all my mountain friends. I first met him at his
Wawona ranch forty-three years ago on my first visit to Yosemite. I had
entered the Valley with one companion by way of Coulterville, and
returned by what was then known as the Mariposa trail. Both trails were
buried in deep snow where the elevation was from 5000 to 7000 feet
above sea level in the sugar pine and silver fir regions. We had no
great difficulty, however, in finding our way by the trends of the main
features of the topography. Botanizing by the way, we made slow,
plodding progress, and were again about out of provisions when we
reached Clark’s hospitable cabin at Wawona. He kindly furnished us with
flour and a little sugar and tea, and my companion, who complained of
the be-numbing poverty of a strictly vegetarian diet, gladly accepted
Mr. Clark’s offer of a piece of a bear that had just been killed. After
a short talk about bears and the forests and the way to the Big Trees,
we pushed on up through the Wawona firs and sugar pines, and camped in
the now-famous Mariposa grove.
Later, after making my home in the Yosemite Valley, I became well
acquainted with Mr. Clark, while he was guardian. He was elected again
and again to this important office by different Boards of Commissioners
on account of his efficiency and his real love of the Valley.
Although nearly all my mountaineering has been done without companions,
I had the pleasure of having Galen Clark with me on three excursions.
About thirty-five years ago I invited him to accompany me on a trip
through the Big Tuolumne Cañon from Hetch Hetchy Valley. The cañon up
to that time had not been explored, and knowing that the difference in
the elevation of the river at the head of the cañon and in Hetch Hetchy
was about 5000 feet, we expected to find some magnificent cataracts or
falls; nor were we disappointed. When we were leaving Yosemite an
ambitious young man begged leave to join us. I strongly advised him not
to attempt such a long, hard trip, for it would undoubtedly prove very
trying to an inexperienced climber. He assured us, however, that he was
equal to anything, would gladly meet every difficulty as it came, and
cause us no hindrance or trouble of any sort. So at last, after
repeating our advice that he give up the trip, we consented to his
joining us. We entered the cañon by way of Hetch Hetchy Valley, each
carrying his own provisions, and making his own tea, porridge, bed,
etc.
In the morning of the second day out from Hetch Hetchy we came to what
is now known as “Muir Gorge,” and Mr. Clark without hesitation prepared
to force a way through it, wading and jumping from one submerged
boulder to another through the torrent, bracing and steadying himself
with a long pole. Though the river was then rather low, the savage,
roaring, surging song it was ringing was rather nerve-trying,
especially to our inexperienced companion. With careful assistance,
however, I managed to get him through, but this hard trial, naturally
enough, proved too much and he informed us, pale and trembling, that he
could go no farther. I gathered some wood at the upper throat of the
gorge, made a fire for him and advised him to feel at home and make
himself comfortable, hoped he would enjoy the grand scenery and the
songs of the water-ouzels which haunted the gorge, and assured him that
we would return some time in the night, though it might be late, as we
wished to go on through the entire cañon if possible. We pushed our way
through the dense chaparral and over the earthquake taluses with such
speed that we reached the foot of the upper cataract while we had still
an hour or so of daylight for the return trip. It was long after dark
when we reached our adventurous, but nerve-shaken companion who, of
course, was anxious and lonely, not being accustomed to solitude,
however kindly and flowery and full of sweet bird-song and stream-song.
Being tired we simply lay down in restful comfort on the river bank
beside a good fire, instead of trying to go down the gorge in the dark
or climb over its high shoulder to our blankets and provisions, which
we had left in the morning in a tree at the foot of the gorge. I
remember Mr. Clark remarking that if he had his choice that night
between provisions and blankets he would choose his blankets.
The next morning in about an hour we had crossed over the ridge through
which the gorge is cut, reached our provisions, made tea, and had a
good breakfast. As soon as we had returned to Yosemite I obtained fresh
provisions, pushed off alone up to the head of Yosemite Creek basin,
entered the cañon by a side cañon, and completed the exploration up to
the Tuolumne Meadows.
It was on this first trip from Hetch Hetchy to the upper cataracts that
I had convincing proofs of Mr. Clark’s daring and skill as mountaineer,
particularly in fording torrents, and in forcing his way through thick
chaparral. I found it somewhat difficult to keep up with him in dense,
tangled brush, though in jumping on boulder taluses and slippery
cobble-beds I had no difficulty in leaving him behind.
After I had discovered the glaciers on Mount Lyell and Mount McClure,
Mr. Clark kindly made a second excursion with me to assist in
establishing a line of stakes across the McClure glacier to measure its
rate of flow. On this trip we also climbed Mount Lyell together, when
the snow which covered the glacier was melted into upleaning, icy
blades which were extremely difficult to cross, not being strong enough
to support our weight, nor wide enough apart to enable us to stride
across each blade as it was met. Here again I, being lighter, had no
difficulty in keeping ahead of him. While resting after wearisome
staggering and falling he stared at the marvelous ranks of leaning
blades, and said, “I think I have traveled all sorts of trails and
cañons, through all kinds of brush and snow, but this gets me.”
Mr. Clark at my urgent request joined my small party on a trip to the
Kings River yosemite by way of the high mountains, most of the way
without a trail. He joined us at the Mariposa Big Tree grove and
intended to go all the way, but finding that, on account of the
difficulties encountered, the time required was much greater than he
expected, he turned back near the head of the north fork of the Kings
River.
In cooking his mess of oatmeal porridge and making tea, his pot was
always the first to boil, and I used to wonder why, with all his skill
in scrambling through brush in the easiest way, and preparing his
meals, he was so utterly careless about his beds. He would lie down
anywhere on any ground, rough or smooth, without taking pains even to
remove cobbles or sharp-angled rocks protruding through the grass or
gravel, saying that his own bones were as hard as any stones and could
do him no harm.
His kindness to all Yosemite visitors and mountaineers was marvelously
constant and uniform. He was not a good business man, and in building
an extensive hotel and barns at Wawona, before the travel to Yosemite
had been greatly developed, he borrowed money, mortgaged his property
and lost it all.
Though not the first to see the Mariposa Big Tree grove, he was the
first to explore it, after he had heard from a prospector, who had
passed through the grove and who gave him the indefinite information,
that there were some wonderful big trees up there on the top of the
Wawona hill and that he believed they must be of the same kind that had
become so famous and well-known in the Calaveras grove farther north.
On this information, Galen Clark told me, he went up and thoroughly
explored the grove, counting the trees and measuring the largest, and
becoming familiar with it. He stated also that he had explored the
forest to the southward and had discovered the much larger Fresno grove
of about two square miles, six or seven miles distant from the Mariposa
grove. Unfortunately most of the Fresno grove has been cut and flumed
down to the railroad near Madera.
Mr. Clark was truly and literally a gentle-man. I never heard him utter
a hasty, angry, fault-finding word. His voice was uniformly pitched at
a rather low tone, perfectly even, although lances of his eyes and
slight intonations of his voice often indicated that something funny or
mildly sarcastic was coming, but upon the whole he was serious and
industrious, and, however deep and fun-provoking a story might be, he
never indulged in boisterous laughter.
He was very fond of scenery and once told me after I became acquainted
with him that he liked “nothing in the world better than climbing to
the top of a high ridge or mountain and looking off.” He preferred the
mountain ridges and domes in the Yosemite regions on account of the
wealth and beauty of the forests. Often times he would take his rifle,
a few pounds of bacon, a few pound of flour, and a single blanket and
go off hunting, for no other reason than to explore and get acquainted
with the most beautiful points of view within a journey of a week or
two from his Wawona home. On these trips he was always alone and could
indulge in tranquil enjoyment of Nature to his heart’s content. He said
that on those trips, when he was a sufficient distance from home in a
neighborhood where he wished to linger, he always shot a deer,
sometimes a grouse, and occasionally a bear. After diminishing the
weight of a deer or bear by eating part of it, he carried as much as
possible of the best of the meat to Wawona, and from his hospitable
well-supplied cabin no weary wanderer ever went away hungry or
unrested.
The value of the mountain air in prolonging life is well examplified in
Mr. Clark’s case. While working in the mines he contracted a severe
cold that settled on his lungs and finally caused severe inflammation
and bleeding, and none of his friends thought he would ever recover.
The physicians told him he had but a short time to live. It was then
that he repaired to the beautiful sugar pine woods at Wawona and took
up a claim, including the fine meadows there, and building his cabin,
began his life of wandering and exploring in the glorious mountains
about him, usually going bare-headed. In a remarkably short time his
lungs were healed.
He was one of the most sincere tree-lovers I ever knew. About twenty
years before his death he made choice of a plot in the Yosemite
cemetery on the north side of the Valley, not far from the Yosemite
Fall, and selecting a dozen or so of seedling sequoias in the Mariposa
grove he brought them to the Valley and planted them around the spot he
had chosen for his last rest. The ground there is gravelly and dry; by
careful watering he finally nursed most of the seedlings into good,
thrifty trees, and doubtless they will long shade the grave of their
blessed lover and friend.