John Muir: My Life with Nature, by Joseph Cornell

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John Muir: My Life with Nature
Chapter V: Forever a Mountaineer

I never took much time to prepare for a trip—just long enough to throw bread and tea in an old sack and jump over the back fence. My pack was as light as a squirrel’s tail. Besides bread and tea, I sometimes carried a light blanket, a hat, and a change of underwear. If I didn’t have a coat or blanket, I’d warm myself by a small fire and burrow beneath the pine needles at night. A month's worth of supplies cost me only three dollars.

My bread was so hard, I had to throw it against a rock to break it, then soak the pieces in water. Often, I'd be so excited to start a day’s adventures that I wouldn’t even boil my tea water in the morning; instead, I’d stuff my mouth with tea leaves and pour the water in. It tasted pretty good, if you had a mind to think so. I camped wherever night found me, and when the weather turned bad, my secret of staying warm was to gaze at the wonder of the beautiful scene before me. Sometimes weary, with only animals to compare notes with, I rested beneath spicy pines or on the plushy sod of glacial meadows.

My method of study was to drift from rock to rock and grove to grove. I’d sit for hours watching the birds or squirrels, or looking into the faces of flowers. When I discovered a new plant, I sat beside it for a minute or a day, to make its acquaintance and try to hear what it had to tell me. I asked the boulders where they came from and where they were going. And when I discovered a mountain, I climbed about it and compared it with its neighbors. It's astonishing how high and far we can climb in the mountains we love, and how little we require for food and clothing.

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° 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.

Another time, I spent a more enjoyable, glorious storm-day near Yuba Pass. When the wind began to blow, I went outside at once to enjoy it. The pine trees were in ecstasy, and I longed to join them. Young sugar pines were bowing almost to the ground, while grand old trees waved solemnly above them. For hours, I heard the thunderous crack of trees falling—about one tree every two or three minutes. I could also clearly hear the different tones of the trees: closing my eyes, I could effortlessly identify the special music of pine, fir, and oak. Each tree sang its own song and danced its own dance.

Toward mid-day, I reached the summit of the highest ridge, where I thought to climb to the top of a tree to observe the storm and hear the tree’s glorious music. In a stand of trees growing closely together I carefully selected the tallest Douglas fir, about 100 feet high, its lithe brushy top rocking and swirling wildly in the blasting gale. I had never enjoyed such thrilling motion. I held on like a bird on a reed while the tree flapped and swished and swirled back and forth. I remained in my lofty perch for hours, enjoying the wild wind-music and feasting on the delicious forest fragrances streaming past me.

I finally came down from the mountains and married when I was 42 years old. I was nearly 42 years old when I married. All my friends sighed with relief and said "At last!" My wife, Louie, and I lived on her family's ranch in Martinez near San Francisco, and soon we had two daughters, Wanda and Helen. I enjoyed telling them funny stories and taking them on walks in the hills. As soon as Wanda could speak, I taught her the names of the flowers. "For how would you like it," I asked her, "if people didn't call you by your name?" I was a proud papa when years later Wanda and Helen accompanied me on my trips to the Sierra.

For ten years I tended our orchards and vineyards. During that time I was able to earn money to provide for my family’s future. But seeing that I was working too hard, Louie sold part of the ranch to give me the freedom to pursue my mountain studies again. I would leave in late summer and return just before the harvest. Later we hired a foreman so I could devote myself completely to my nature work. Louie’s concern and loving support is something that I’ve always treasured.

HOW TO ORDER:
All Sharing Nature Products are now available through secure online ordering.
You can also order by calling our toll free number: 866-693-4263

In the United Kingdom you can order our books from Deep Books, ltd.
Contact: David Birkett, david@deep-books.co.uk

Joseph Cornell's books are currently available in the following foreign languages: Chinese, Danish, French, German, Greek, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, Russian, Slovene, Spanish, and Thai.

Excerpts From John Muir: My Life with Nature

Table of Contents

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter IX

Explore More

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			Home Flow Learning ™ Nature Activities Programs Calendar of Events Sharing Nature Worldwide Country Coordinators Joseph Cornell Books and Resources Connections and More Information
	John Muir: My Life with Nature Chapter V: Forever a Mountaineer
	I never took much time to prepare for a trip—just long enough to throw bread and tea in an old sack and jump over the back fence. My pack was as light as a squirrel’s tail. Besides bread and tea, I sometimes carried a light blanket, a hat, and a change of underwear. If I didn’t have a coat or blanket, I’d warm myself by a small fire and burrow beneath the pine needles at night. A month's worth of supplies cost me only three dollars. My bread was so hard, I had to throw it against a rock to break it, then soak the pieces in water. Often, I'd be so excited to start a day’s adventures that I wouldn’t even boil my tea water in the morning; instead, I’d stuff my mouth with tea leaves and pour the water in. It tasted pretty good, if you had a mind to think so. I camped wherever night found me, and when the weather turned bad, my secret of staying warm was to gaze at the wonder of the beautiful scene before me. Sometimes weary, with only animals to compare notes with, I rested beneath spicy pines or on the plushy sod of glacial meadows. My method of study was to drift from rock to rock and grove to grove. I’d sit for hours watching the birds or squirrels, or looking into the faces of flowers. When I discovered a new plant, I sat beside it for a minute or a day, to make its acquaintance and try to hear what it had to tell me. I asked the boulders where they came from and where they were going. And when I discovered a mountain, I climbed about it and compared it with its neighbors. It's astonishing how high and far we can climb in the mountains we love, and how little we require for food and clothing. 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° 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. Another time, I spent a more enjoyable, glorious storm-day near Yuba Pass. When the wind began to blow, I went outside at once to enjoy it. The pine trees were in ecstasy, and I longed to join them. Young sugar pines were bowing almost to the ground, while grand old trees waved solemnly above them. For hours, I heard the thunderous crack of trees falling—about one tree every two or three minutes. I could also clearly hear the different tones of the trees: closing my eyes, I could effortlessly identify the special music of pine, fir, and oak. Each tree sang its own song and danced its own dance. Toward mid-day, I reached the summit of the highest ridge, where I thought to climb to the top of a tree to observe the storm and hear the tree’s glorious music. In a stand of trees growing closely together I carefully selected the tallest Douglas fir, about 100 feet high, its lithe brushy top rocking and swirling wildly in the blasting gale. I had never enjoyed such thrilling motion. I held on like a bird on a reed while the tree flapped and swished and swirled back and forth. I remained in my lofty perch for hours, enjoying the wild wind-music and feasting on the delicious forest fragrances streaming past me. I finally came down from the mountains and married when I was 42 years old. I was nearly 42 years old when I married. All my friends sighed with relief and said "At last!" My wife, Louie, and I lived on her family's ranch in Martinez near San Francisco, and soon we had two daughters, Wanda and Helen. I enjoyed telling them funny stories and taking them on walks in the hills. As soon as Wanda could speak, I taught her the names of the flowers. "For how would you like it," I asked her, "if people didn't call you by your name?" I was a proud papa when years later Wanda and Helen accompanied me on my trips to the Sierra. For ten years I tended our orchards and vineyards. During that time I was able to earn money to provide for my family’s future. But seeing that I was working too hard, Louie sold part of the ranch to give me the freedom to pursue my mountain studies again. I would leave in late summer and return just before the harvest. Later we hired a foreman so I could devote myself completely to my nature work. Louie’s concern and loving support is something that I’ve always treasured. HOW TO ORDER: All Sharing Nature Products are now available through secure online ordering. You can also order by calling our toll free number: 866-693-4263 In the United Kingdom you can order our books from Deep Books, ltd. Contact: David Birkett, david@deep-books.co.uk Joseph Cornell's books are currently available in the following foreign languages: Chinese, Danish, French, German, Greek, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, Russian, Slovene, Spanish, and Thai.

	Excerpts From John Muir: My Life with Nature Table of Contents Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter IX Explore More

	\| Flow Learning™ \| Nature Activities \| Programs \| Calendar of Events \| \| Sharing Nature Worldwide \| Country Coordinators \| Joseph Cornell \| \| Books and Resources \| Connections and More Information \| Mailing List Sharing Nature Foundation 14618 Tyler Foote Rd. Nevada City, CA 95959 530-478-7650 e-mail: info@sharingnature.com