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chapter three

The Power of Beauty

Commentary

JOHN MUIR NEVER CONSIDERED HIMSELF a trail-blazer; he did not take his many talents, or his sharp intellect, very seriously. He was kind and friendly but not effusive. He was neither a hermit nor a recluse, yet he carried little more than the clothes on his back. He was generous. He had time for people, and he enjoyed their company, but he was completely at home in the forests by himself. His companions were what he called “plant people,” and sometimes “plant saints,” “flower people,” and “animal people.” He felt a relationship between himself and the birds and mammals, even lizards and insects. He observed the order and integrity of their lives and how they cared for their young.

John Muir hadn’t planned the direction of his life, yet when he reached the Sierras he knew intuitively that he had found the path that was right for him. Reflecting back, he recorded in his journal, “I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”¹

Going out and staying out day and night, season into season, through storms and sunshine, in driving rain and cold and searing heat, Muir was overpowered by the beauty and splendor of the natural world. Such grandeur, Muir reasoned, could only have been created by God, and it reflected God’s bounty. Like a perfectly tranquil pond with nary a ripple touching its surface as the sun approaches the horizon in the evening just before the still of night descends when every rock, every tree, every line of hills is piercingly reflected, so the creating God of the universe is reflected. Or, as John Muir paused and noted, “How wonderful the power of…beauty! Gazing awe-stricken, I might have left everything for it.… Beauty beyond thought everywhere, beneath, above, made and being made forever.”² Furthermore, Muir saw the world as constantly being created, its forces moving in cycles, ever rising and falling. “This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere, the dew is never dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth turns.”³

Raised as a Christian, Muir never renounced his orthodox roots. Many of his writings have biblical overtones, and he even borrowed some scriptural phrases in his writings. Still, Muir’s writings stress not a Trinitarian god, but God who is revealed in numberless ways. For John Muir the path to the Divine was a wide-open window; everything in nature was a source of Divine revelation. As he wrote in a letter to a friend in l872, “… fresh truth [is] gathered and absorbed from pines and waters and deep singing winds.… Rocks and waters are words of God and so are men. We all flow from one fountain Soul. All are expressions of one Love. God does not appear, and flow out, only from narrow chinks and round bored wells here and there in favored races and places, but He flows in grand undivided currents, shoreless and boundless over creeks and forms and all kinds of civilizations and peoples and beasts, saturating all.”⁴

Muir often capitalized the words nature, beauty, love, soul, and universe, just as he capitalized the word god. For him the perfect synonym for God was Beauty. Whether as seen carving the lines of the mountains with glaciers, in the star-filled night, or in crashing waterfalls, all was Beauty. He said everything in Nature, “From form to form, beauty to beauty, ever changing, never resting, all are speeding on with love’s enthusiasm, singing with the stars the eternal song of creation.”⁵ Transformed by the power of beauty himself, John Muir wanted others to be also. “I am hopelessly and forever a mountaineer.… I care only to entice people to look at Nature’s loveliness.”⁶

Nature’s Cathedral

ON THIS LATE SUMMER DAY, John Muir had hiked across the Tuolumne River, over meadows, and through heavily wooded forests to Cathedral Peak, which to him was more wondrous than the finest of Europe’s Gothic cathedrals.

How often I have gazed at it [Cathedral Peak] from the tops of hills and ridges, and through openings in the forests on my many short excursions, devoutly wondering, admiring, longing! This I may say is the first time I have been at church in California, led here at last, every door graciously opened for the poor lonely worshiper. In our best times everything turns into religion, all the world seems a church and the mountains altars. And lo, here at last in front of the Cathedral [Peak] is blessed cassiope [mountain heather] ringing her thousands of sweet-toned bells, the sweetest church music I ever enjoyed. Listening, admiring, until late in the afternoon I compelled myself to hasten away.…

—JOURNAL ENTRY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1868

The Power of Beauty

JOHN MUIR RECORDED IN HIS JOURNAL this description of the Merced Valley during his first week of working as a sheepherder. He had no interest in pursuing sheepherding, but “… money was scarce and I couldn’t see how a bread supply was to be kept up. While I was anxiously brooding on the bread problem, so troublesome to wanderers, and trying to believe that I might learn to live like the wild animals, gleaning nourishment here and there from seeds, berries, etc., sauntering and climbing in joyful independence of money or baggage, Mr. Delaney, a sheep-owner, for whom I had worked a few weeks, called on me, and offered to engage me to go with his shepherd and flock to the headwaters of the Merced and Tuolumne rivers—the very region I had most in mind. I was in the mood to accept work of any kind that would take me into the mountains whose treasures I had tasted last summer in the Yosemite region.” Dazzled by the beauty of the Sierra Mountains, Muir said, “Gaze-stricken, I might have left everything for it.” He did just that!

… a magnificent section of the Merced Valley at what is called Horseshoe Bend came full in sight—a glorious wilderness that seemed to be calling with a thousand songful voices. Bold, down-sweeping slopes, feathered with pines and clumps of manzanita [berry-bearing shrubs] with sunny, open spaces between them, make up most of the foreground; the middle and background present fold beyond fold of finely modeled hills and ridges rising into mountain-like masses in the distance, all covered with a shaggy growth of chaparral, mostly adenostoma [small flowering shrubs with stiff leaves], planted so marvelously close and even that it looks like soft, rich plush without a single tree or bare spot. As far as the eye can reach it extends, a heaving, swelling sea of green as regular and continuous as that produced by the heaths of Scotland. The sculpture of the landscape is as striking in its main lines as in its lavish richness of detail; a grand congregation of massive heights with the river shining between, each carved into smooth, graceful folds without leaving a single rocky angle exposed, as if the delicate fluting and ridging fashioned out of metamorphic slates had been carefully sandpapered. The whole landscape showed design, like man’s noblest sculptures. How wonderful the power of its beauty! Gazing awe-stricken, I might have left everything for it. Glad, endless work would then be mine tracing the forces that have brought forth its features, its rocks and plants and animals and glorious weather. Beauty beyond thought everywhere, beneath, above, made and being made forever. I gazed and gazed and longed and admired until the dusty sheep and packs were far out of sight, made hurried notes and a sketch, though there was no need of either, for the colors and lines and expression of this divine landscape-countenance are so burned into mind and heart they surely can never grow dim.

—JOURNAL ENTRY, JUNE 5, 1869

A Peaceful Joyful Stream of Beauty

THERE IS THE SAYING OF AN UNKNOWN ZEN MASTER, “Knock on the sky and listen to the sound.” John Muir knocked, listened, observed, and took into the core of his being everything that was natural and beautiful. All his senses were awake; he was enfolded in nature’s grasp.

Half cloudy, half sunny, clouds lustrous white. The tall pines crowded along the top of the Pilot Peak Ridge look like six-inch miniatures exquisitely outlined on the satiny sky.… And so this memorable month ends, a stream of beauty unmeasured, no more to be sectioned off by almanac arithmetic than sun-radiance or the currents of seas and rivers—a peaceful, joyful stream of beauty. Every morning, arising from the death of sleep, the happy plants and all our fellow animal creatures great and small, and even the rocks, seemed to be shouting, “Awake, awake, rejoice, rejoice, come love us and join in our song. Come! Come!” Looking back through the stillness and romantic enchanting beauty and peace of the camp grove, this June seems the greatest of all the months of my life, the most truly, divinely free, boundless like eternity, immortal. Everything in it seems equally divine—one smooth, pure, wild glow of Heaven’s love, never to be blotted or blurred by anything past or to come.

—JOURNAL ENTRY, JUNE 30, 1869

Opening a Thousand Windows

GOD’S FIRST REVELATION is through every aspect of the natural world—days and seasons, the sun rising and setting, rivers and ravens, mountains and plains, forests and ferns, winds and storms, stars splashed across the evening sky—everything that is and was; all creatures that walk, swim, crawl on Earth and fly in the realms above, in Muir’s words are “opening a thousand windows to show us God.”

Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, inciting at once to work and rest! Days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. Nevermore, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessings of one mountain day; whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever.

—JOURNAL ENTRY, JUNE 23, 1869

Enduring Beauty

AFTER DAYS OF NEAR STARVATION, Mr. Delaney, the sheep-owner, arrived at the sheep camp with provisions for the shepherds. Now with all his senses tingling, Muir records the beauty of a golden summer day in the High Sierra.

… hunger vanishes, we turn our eyes to the mountains, and tomorrow we go climbing cloud-ward. Never while anything is left of me shall this first camp be forgotten. It has fairly grown into me, not merely as memory pictures, but as part and parcel of mind and body alike. The deep hopper-like hollow, with its majestic trees through which all the wonderful nights the stars poured their beauty. The flowery wildness of the high steep slope toward Brown’s Flat, and its bloom-fragrance descending at the close of the still days. The embowered river-reaches with their multitude of voices making melody, the stately flow and rush and glad exulting on-sweeping currents caressing the dipping sedge-leaves and bushes and mossy stones, swirling in pools, dividing against little flowery islands, breaking gray and white here and there, ever rejoicing, yet with deep solemn undertones recalling the ocean—the brave little bird ever beside them, singing with sweet human tones among the waltzing foam-bells, and like a blessed evangel explaining God’s love. And the Pilot Peak Ridge, its long withdrawing slopes gracefully modeled and braided, reaching from climate to climate, feathered with trees that are the kings of their race, their ranks nobly marshaled to view, spire above spire, crown above crown, waving their long, leafy arms, tossing their cones like ringing bells—blessed sun-fed mountaineers rejoicing in their strength, every tree tuneful, a harp for the winds and the sun. The hazel and buckthorn pastures of the deer, the sun-beaten brows purple and yellow with mint and golden-rods, carpeted with chamaebatia [an aromatic evergreen shrub], humming with bees.

And the dawns and sunrises and sun downs of these mountain days—the rose light creeping higher among the stars, changing to daffodil yellow, the level beams bursting forth, streaming across the ridges, touching pine after pine, awakening and warming all the mighty host to do gladly their shining day’s work. The great sun-gold noons, the alabaster cloud-mountains, the landscape beaming with consciousness like the face of a god. The sunsets, when the trees stood hushed awaiting their good-night blessings. Divine, enduring, unwastable wealth.

—JOURNAL ENTRY, JULY 7, 1869

Illilouette Falls

JOHN MUIR’S FAVORITE WATERFALL in Yosemite was none of the classic, famous falls—the Upper Yosemite, Bridal Veil, nor Vernal Fall. It was the modest and lovely Illilouette, because as he explained, it is a “… singular form and beauty, flashing up and dancing in large flame-shaped masses, wavering at times, then steadying, rising and falling in accord with the shifting forms of the water.… the color changed not at all. Nothing in clouds or flowers, on bird-wings or the lips of shells, could rival it in fineness. It was the most divinely beautiful mass of yellow light I ever beheld—one of nature’s precious sights that come to us but once in a lifetime.”

One of the finest things I ever saw in Yosemite or elsewhere I found on the brow of this beautiful fall [the Illilouette]. It was in the Indian summer, when the leaf colors were ripe and the great cliffs and domes were transfigured in the hazy golden air. I had wandered up the rugged talus-dammed canyon of the Illilouette, admiring the wonderful views to be had there of the great Half Dome and the Liberty Cap, the foliage of the maples, dogwoods, rubus tangles, etc., the late goldenrods and asters, and the extreme purity of the water, which in motionless pools on this stream is almost perfectly invisible. The voice of the fall was now low, and the grand flood had waned to floating gauze and thin-broidered folds of linked and arrowy lace-work. When I reached the fall, slant sun-beams were glinting across the head of it, leaving all the rest in shadow; and on the illumined brow a group of yellow spangles were playing, of singular form and beauty, flashing up and dancing in large flame-shaped masses, wavering at times, then steadying, rising and falling in accord with the shifting forms of the water. But the color changed not at all. Nothing in clouds or flowers, on bird-wings or the lips of shells, could rival it in fineness. It was the most divinely beautiful mass of yellow light I ever beheld—one of nature’s precious sights that come to us but once in a lifetime.

—“THE TREASURES OF YOSEMITE,” Century Magazine, AUGUST, 1890

A Beautiful Crystal Hill

IMAGINE IT IS A FRIGID JANUARY in snow-covered Yosemite. Muir was so taken with the beauty of the frozen falls that created a cone as ice froze around the water-flow, he scarcely noticed the bone-chilling temperatures nor considered the fragility of the ice-crater. Against his better judgment, he sought to get as close as possible to the delicate and beautiful crystal hill.

Anxious to learn what I could about the structure of this curious ice-hill, I tried to climb it, carrying an ax to cut footsteps. Before I had reached the base of it I was met by a current of spray and wind that made breathing difficult. I pushed on backward, however, and soon gained the slope of the hill, where by creeping close to the surface most of the blast was avoided. Thus I made my way nearly to the summit, halting at times to peer up through the wild whirls of spray, or to listen to the sublime thunder beneath me, the whole hill sounding as if it were a huge, bellowing, exploding drum. I hoped that by waiting until the fall was blown aslant I should be able to climb to the lip of the crater and get a view of the interior; but a suffocating blast, half air, half water, followed by the fall of an enormous mass of ice from the wall, quickly discouraged me. The whole cone was jarred by the blow, and I was afraid its side might fall in. Some fragments of the mass sped past me dangerously near; so I beat a hasty retreat, chilled and drenched, and laid myself on a sunny rock in a safe place to dry.

Throughout the winter months the spray of the upper Yosemite Fall is frozen while falling thinly exposed and is deposited around the base of the fall in the form of a hollow truncated cone, which sometimes reaches a height of five hundred feet or more, into the heart of which the whole volume of the fall descends with a tremendous roar as if pouring down the throat of a crater. In the building of this ice-cone part of the frozen spray falls directly to its place, but a considerable portion is first frozen upon the face of the cliff on both sides of the fall, and attains a thickness of a foot or more during the night. When the sun strikes this ice-coating it is expanded and cracked off in masses weighing from a few pounds to several tons, and is built into the walls of the cone; while in windy, frosty weather, when the fall is swayed from side to side, the cone is well drenched, and the loose ice-masses and dust are all firmly frozen together. The thundering, reverberating reports of the falling ice-masses are like those of heavy cannon. They usually occur at intervals of a few minutes, and are the most strikingly characteristic of the winter sounds of the valley, and constant accompaniments of the best sunshine. While this stormy building is in progress the surface of the cone is smooth and pure white, the whole presenting the appearance of a beautiful crystal hill wreathed with folds of spray which are oftentimes irised.

—“THE TREASURES OF YOSEMITE,” Century Magazine, AUGUST, 1890

One Grand Canyon of Canyons

AFTER THE CIVIL WAR, The Gilded Age brought great economic growth to the United States, quickly transforming it into a modern industrial nation. The production of steel rose dramatically, and the nation’s forests were sacked for such natural resources, such as as timber, gold, and silver. Ten million immigrants flocked across oceans to work the nation’s farms, mills, and factories. In l869, John Muir’s first recorded summer in the Sierra, the Pacific Railroad and the Central Pacific Railroad met at Promontory Point in Utah, where a golden spike was driven in, indicating that the nation—from East to West—was linked by 3,500 miles of iron rails and wooden ties. It now took six days to move goods from the resource-rich West to the East.

Concerned about the toll such rapid growth was taking on the nation’s forests, President Grover Cleveland’s Secretary of the Interior, Hoke Smith, requested the National Academy of Sciences form a forestry commission to review the status of the American forests. In l896, led by Harvard botany professor Charles Sprague Sargent, John Muir joined the prestigious group of scientists and conservationists, which included Gifford Pinchot, to survey the forests of Yellowstone, South Dakota’s Black Hills, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, the Cascades, the mountains of southern California, and the southern Sierra Nevada. The trip opened up new territory to Muir, and he was particularly impressed by the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River, which he described as “one grand canyon of canyons.”

The Colorado River rises in the heart of the continent on the dividing ranges and ridges between the two oceans, drains thousands of snowy mountains through narrow or spacious valleys, and thence through canyons of every color, sheer-walled and deep, all of which seem to be represented in this one grand canyon of canyons.

It is very hard to give anything like an adequate conception of its size; much more of its color, its vast wall-sculpture, the wealth of ornate architectural buildings that fill it, or, most of all, the tremendous impression it makes.… So tremendous a chasm would be one of the world’s greatest wonders even if, like ordinary canyons cut in sedimentary rocks, it were empty and its walls were simple. But instead of being plain, the walls are so deeply and elaborately carved into all sorts of recesses—alcoves, cirques, amphitheaters, and side canyons—that, were you to trace the rim closely around on both sides, your journey would be nearly a thousand miles long. Into all these recesses the level, continuous beds of rock in ledges and benches, with their various colors, run like broad ribbons, marvelously beautiful and effective even at a distance of ten or twelve miles. And the vast space these glorious walls inclose, instead of being empty, is crowded with gigantic architectural rock forms gorgeously colored and adorned with towers and spires like works of art.

Looking down from this level plateau, we are more impressed with a feeling of being on the top of everything than when looking from the summit of a mountain. From side to side of the vast gulf, temples, palaces, towers, and spires come soaring up in thick array half a mile or nearly a mile above their sunken, hidden bases, some to a level with our standpoint, but none higher. And in the inspiring morning light all are so fresh and rosy-looking that they seem new-born; as if, like the quick-growing crimson snowplants of the California woods, they had just sprung up, hatched by the warm, brooding, motherly weather.

—Steep Trails

Leaf Shadows

NOTHING ESCAPED JOHN MUIR’S ATTENTION. We can imagine him pausing as the hush of the day recedes and the shadows lengthen, his eyes resting upon a single rock—the delicacy of the shadows thrown on it by the oak tree, their slight movement in the gentle breeze, then swirling, dancing, jumping as the wind picks up. It is a moment in time, so ephemeral, so eternal.

Pure sunshine all day. How beautiful a rock is made by leaf shadows! Those of the live oak are particularly clear and distinct, and beyond all art in grace and delicacy, now still as if painted on stone, now gliding softly as if afraid of noise, now dancing, waltzing in swift, merry swirls, or jumping on and off sunny rocks in quick dashes like wave embroidery on seashore cliffs. How true and substantial is this shadow beauty, and with what sublime extravagance is beauty thus multiplied!

—JOURNAL ENTRY, JUNE 19, 1869

Reflections of the Creator

THE BEAUTY OF CREATION flowed through all of John Muir’s senses, into his heart, and out through his hand, as every evening he recorded in his journal his impressions of the day. It was as if the Creator was silently moving Muir’s hand across the page.

The myriads of flowers tingeing the mountain-top do not seem to have grown out of the dry, rough gravel of disintegration, but rather they appear as visitors, a cloud of witnesses to Nature’s love in what we in our timid ignorance and unbelief call howling desert. The surface of the ground, so dull and forbidding at first sight, besides being rich in plants, shines and sparkles with [varieties of minerals and] crystals: mica, hornblende, feldspar, quartz, tourmaline. The radiance in some places is so great as to be fairly dazzling, keen lance rays of every color flashing, sparkling in glorious abundance, joining the plants in their fine, brave beauty-work—every crystal, every flower a window opening into heaven, a mirror reflecting the Creator.