: John Muir
: My First Summer in the Sierra The nature diary of a pioneering environmentalist
: Vertebrate Digital
: 9781911342014
: 1
: CHF 2.10
:
: Ökologie
: English
: 300
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
'Divine beauty all. Here I could stay tethered forever with just bread and water, nor would I be lonely.' In the summer of 1869, John Muir joined a group of shepherds in the foothills of California's Sierra Nevada mountains, that he might study and expand his knowledge of the plants, animals and rocks he found there. My First Summer in the Sierra - first published in 1911 - is the detailed and colourful diary he kept while tending sheep and exploring the wilderness. Muir's account tracks his experiences in the Yosemite Valley and the High Sierra alongside faithful companion Carlo the St Bernard, describing the majestic landscapes and the flora and fauna of the area with the excitement and wonder of a child. From sleeping on silver-fir-bough mattresses to goading wild bears, and valuing everything from tiny pebbles to giant sequoia, he truly immerses himself and falls in love with the wilderness. Muir's enthusiasm is infectious, and over 100 years on his environmental message is more pertinent than ever. With a new introduction from Muir authority Terry Gifford, My First Summer in the Sierra is an enchanting and informative read for anyone passionate about the natural world and its splendours.

Born in 1838, John Muir was a Scottish-American naturalist, author, environmental philosopher and ahead-of-his-time advocate of preservation of wilderness in the United States. Muir's works tell of his adventures in nature, especially in the Sierra Nevada of California. His activism helped to preserve the Yosemite Valley, Sequoia National Park and other exquisite wilderness areas. He founded The Sierra Club, and petitioned the US Congress for the National Park bill that was passed in 1890, establishing Yosemite National Park. The 211-mile John Muir Trail - a hiking trail in the Sierra Nevada - was named in his honour, as was the John Muir Way in Scotland, and many other places including a beach, college and glacier. Muir married Louisa Strentzel and they had two daughters together, living on a fruit orchard in California. Today he is referred to as the 'Father of the National Parks' and has a legacy as one of the most influential naturalists in America.

– Chapter 1 –


Through the Foothills with a Flock of Sheep


In the great Central Valley of California there are only two seasons: spring and summer. The spring begins with the first rainstorm, which usually falls in November. In a few months the wonderful flowery vegetation is in full bloom and by the end of May it is dead and dry and crisp, as if every plant had been roasted in an oven.

Then the lolling, panting flocks and herds are driven to the high, cool, green pastures of the Sierra. I was longing for the mountains about this time, 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 I might learn to live like the wild animals, gleaning nourishment here and there from seeds and berries, 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. The flock, he explained, would be moved gradually higher through the successive forest belts as the snow melted, stopping for a few weeks at the best places we came to. These I thought would be good centres of observation from which I might be able to make many telling excursions within a radius of eight or ten miles of the camps to learn something of the plants, animals and rocks; for he assured me that I should be left perfectly free to follow my studies. I judged, however, that I was in no way the right man for the place, and freely explained my shortcomings, confessing that I was wholly unacquainted with the topography of the upper mountains, the streams that would have to be crossed, and the wild sheep-eating animals; in short that, what with bears, coyotes, rivers, canyons and thorny, bewildering chaparral, I feared that half or more of his flock would be lost. Fortunately these shortcomings seemed insignificant to Mr Delaney. The main thing, he said, was to have a man about the camp whom he could trust to see that the shepherd did his duty, and he assured me that the difficulties that seemed so formidable at a distance would vanish as we went on; encouraging me further by saying that the shepherd would do all the herding, that I could study plants and rocks and scenery as much as I liked, and that he would himself accompany us to the first main camp and make occasional visits to our higher ones to replenish our store of provisions and see how we prospered. Therefore I concluded to go, though still fearing, when I saw the silly sheep bouncing one by one through the narrow gate of the home corral to be counted, that of the 2,050 many would never return.

I was fortunate in getting a fine St Bernard dog for a companion. His master, a hunter with whom I was slightly acquainted, came to me as soon as he heard that I was going to spend the summer in the Sierra and begged me to take his favourite dog, Carlo, with me, for he feared that if he were compelled to stay all summer on the plains the fierce heat might be the death of him. ‘I think I can trust you to be kind to him,’ he said, ‘and I am sure he will be good to you. He knows all about the mountain animals, will guard the camp, assist in managing the sheep and in every way be found able and faithful.’ Carlo knew we were talking about him, watched our faces and listened so attentively that I fancied he understood us. Calling him by name, I asked him if he was willing to go with me. He looked me in the face with eyes expressing wonderful intelligence, then turned to his master, and after permission was given by a wave of the hand toward me and a farewell patting caress, he quietly followed me as if he perfectly understood all that had been said and had known me always.

3 June 1869. This morning provisions, camp-kettles, blankets, plant press etc., were packed on two horses, the flock headed for the tawny foothills, and away we sauntered in a cloud of dust: Mr Delaney, bony and tall, with sharply hacked profile like Don Quixote, leading the packhorses; Billy, the proud shepherd; a Chinaman and a Digger Indian to assist in driving for the first few days in the brushy foothills; and myself with notebook tied to my belt.

The home ranch from which we set out is on the south side of the Tuolumne River near French Bar, where the foothills of metamorphic gold-bearing slates dip below the stratified deposits of the Central Valley. We had not gone more than a mile before some of the old leaders of the flock showed by the