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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 canon, 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
though the gap discovered last evening, which proved to be Indian Canon.
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 canon 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."
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 Canon 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 tomorrow 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 Canon 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 Canon
we observed 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 canon, 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!
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. |
