Sharing Nature Articles and Activities

Two John Muir Wilderness Adventures
by Joseph Cornell
 

I have just finished writing a book for young adults about the naturalist, John Muir, who is remembered today as the father of America's national parks. Born in 1838, Muir is considered by many to be the most influential conservationist of modern times. His life is a wonderful example for children as well as for adults. It is said that no one brought nature to life like John Muir. His great love for all living things gave him a rare understanding of the natural world. Birds, bears and flowers all revealed their secret lives to him. When Muir spoke of his encounters with wild animals, trees, and mountain storms, his listeners said it felt as if they were there, experiencing the adventure with him. His adventuresome spirit and love for everything wild makes Muir's life very appealing to children-and adults.

I would like to share two excerpts from my new book, John Muir: My Life with Nature. The book is written in the first person, as if Muir were telling his story himself. There is also an Explore Further Activities Guide at the end of the book so readers can reflect on Muir's life and how it may be meaningful to them. You can see a couple of these activities on page 9.

From Forever a Mountaineer, Chapter V: In 1874, I walked from Redding, California to Mt. Shasta, a majestic, snow-covered volcano that rises 10,000 feet above the surrounding countryside. It was late autumn, and heavy snow blanketed the mountain. I set out at 2 a.m., hoping to reach the summit before an approaching storm. In places, I had to wade through snow as deep as my armpits, and the slope was steep, so my progress was slow. But the bracing air and the sublime beauty of the snowy expanse thrilled my every nerve, making exhaustion impossible. By 10:30 a.m. I had gained the summit.

Returning at dusk, I hollowed out a space behind a big block of lava and immediately fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, storm clouds covered the sky. I quickly gathered as much wood as possible and staked down my blankets to prevent them from being blown away. The precious bread sack was positioned safely as a pillow, and when the first flakes fell I was ready to welcome them.

Day after day the storm continued, piling snow in weariless abundance. Several times, when the storm ceased for a few minutes, I had the company of a frisky Douglas squirrel. Once a large flock of mountain sheep took shelter near my little nest. Happy and content, I spent my time examining snow crystals and watching snow flakes and dwarf pines dancing together in the wind. The storm lasted about a week, but before it ended I was "rescued." The news had spread that there was a man on the mountain, and that surely he must have perished, but I was as safe as anyone in the lowlands, lying like a squirrel in my warm, fluffy nest and wishing only to be left alone.

The following April, I spent a much more perilous night on Mt. Shasta, trapped by a violent storm at 14,000 feet. The thermometer fell 22 degrees within minutes, then quickly dropped below zero. Hail gave way to snow, and darkness came while the wind rose to the highest pitch of violence and boomed and surged amid the desolate crags, and lightning-flashes cut the gloomy darkness.

My companion, Jerome Fay, and I made a dash for the "hot springs" just below the summit. These steam vents spew out hot smoke and gases from the volcano. "Here," Jerome said, as we shivered in the midst of hissing, sputtering fumaroles, "if we lie down we shall be safe from frost." The heat became unbearable on spots where scalding steam escaped directly through the sludge, and we tried to stop it with snow and mud. The hot spring's deadly carbonic gas would kill us if we fell asleep, so all through the night we called feebly to each other, "Are you awake?"
Two feet of snow fell in just a few hours, freezing into a stiff, crusty heap as the temperature fell, adding to our misery. Frozen, blistered, hungry and numb, our bodies seemed lost to us at times. Scalded beneath and freezing above, we made the best of it, for it was our only hope. Finally, the sky cleared and we gazed at the stars, blessed immortals of light shining with marvelous brightness. The star clouds of the Milky Way seemed especially close and I delighted in their radiance and tranquility.

The frost, however, grew ever more intense, until we were covered over with ice and crusty snow. After thirteen hours-every hour seemed like a year-day began to return. We didn't know if we could walk back to camp, because we had lain all this time without once rising to our feet. But mountaineers always seem to discover reserves of power after a period of deep exhaustion. It's a kind of second life, available only in emergencies like this. I had no great fear that either of us would fail, though one of my arms was already numb and hung useless.

We arose and began our homeward struggle. Our frozen trousers could scarcely be bent at the knee, and we waded through the snow with difficulty. Eventually, we reached the long, final, homeward slopes where we made rapid progress by sliding, shuffling, and pitching headlong down the icy mountain. At 10 a.m. we had reached the trees and knew we were safe; half an hour later, we heard our friend Sisson shouting for us. He had brought horses to carry us home.

From Favorite Animals, Chapter IV: Sierra travelers often complain about seeing few animals. "Trees," they say, "are fine, but where are the animals and birds? We haven't heard a song all day." And it's no wonder! They go in such large groups, make a great noise and dress in such outlandish colors-no wonder animals avoid them. Even the frightened pines would run away if they could. But nature-lovers, silent and open-eyed, looking and listening with love, find that animals come to them gladly.

One Sierra morning as I was eating breakfast in a small meadow surrounded by brush, I noticed a deer gazing at me. I kept still, and the deer came forward a step, then paused, snorted and quickly fled. But in a few minutes she returned, bringing along two friends. Staying for just a moment, they took off, too. But their curiosity brought them back once more-now with a fourth companion. This time, the deer were satisfied that I meant them no harm, and they settled down in the meadow and ate breakfast with me, just like tame, gentle sheep around a shepherd.

Another time, a whole troop of mountain quail visited me. They are our most handsome and largest quail. Small and stocky, they have a beautiful head plume, which they wear jauntily backwards like a feather in a boy's cap. These ground-dwelling birds are most secretive, and usually run from any threat, flying only if necessary. They wander the lonely mountains in family flocks of six to twenty, living high in the Sierras. Only in winter do they come down to the brushy foothills, but like every true mountaineer, they are quick to follow spring back up into the higher mountains.

I was sitting at the foot of a tree, sketching, when I heard a flock up the valley behind me. Their voices grew increasingly louder, and I knew that they were feeding toward me. I kept very still, hoping to see them, and soon one came within three or four feet, not noticing me any more than if I were a stump or a tree. Along came another, and another, and I was thrilled to get so near a view of these handsome fellows so that I could observe their manners, and hear their low, peaceful notes.

One of them finally saw me. He gazed for a moment in silent wonder, then uttered a strange cry, which was followed immediately by hurried muttered notes that sounded like speech. The others saw me as soon as the alarm was sounded, and they joined in the wonder talk, gazing and chattering, astonished but not frightened. Then all together they ran back with the news to the rest of the flock. "What is it, What is it? Oh, you never saw the like," they seemed to be saying." "Where? Where?" "Down there by that tree." They approached cautiously, coming past the tree and stretching their necks, looking up in turn as if knowing from the story told them just where I sat. For fifteen or twenty minutes they kept coming and going, venturing within a few feet of me and discussing the wonder in charming chatter. Their curiosity at last satisfied, they began to scatter and feed again, returning in the direction they had come. Sorry to see them go, I followed them as quietly as I could, crawling beneath the bushes and keeping them in sight for an hour or two, learning their habits and finding out what seeds and berries they liked best.

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