April 21, 2018 Dear Friends, On the 180th
Birthday of John Muir (1838-1914), after a year's sabbatical, I am again prompted to send along
some of
Muir’s glorious writings celebrating the Earth’s wild places. Doris and I
have recently returned to the Pacific Northwest, this time Portland,
Oregon, to
be specific, so I thought sharing some excerpts from Muir’s
“travelogue” of
Oregon’s features might be appropriate. The
selections below are from Chapter 25, The Basin of the Columbia
River, written by Muir, in
John Muir, ed., Picturesque California: The Rocky Mountains and the
Pacific
Slope, J. Dewing Publishing Co.,
New York and San Francisco, 1888-1890 [See also the Editorial
Note]. Paragraph headings are my own. Enjoy! Richard
Cellarius Oregon: Oregon
is a large, rich, compact section of the west side of the continent,
containing
nearly a hundred thousand square miles of deep, wet evergreen woods,
fertile
valleys, icy mountains, and high, rolling wind-swept plains, watered by
the
majestic Columbia River and its countless branches. It is bounded on
the north
by Washington, on the east by Idaho, on the south by California and
Nevada, and
on the west by the Pacific Ocean. It is a grand, hearty, wholesome,
foodful
wilderness and, like Washington, once a part of the Oregon Territory,
abounds
in bold, far-reaching contrasts as to scenery, climate, soil, and
productions.
Side by side there is drouth on a grand scale and overflowing moisture;
flinty,
sharply cut lava beds, gloomy and forbidding, and smooth, flowery
lawns; cool
bogs, exquisitely plushy and soft, overshadowed by jagged crags barren
as
icebergs; forests seemingly boundless and plains with no tree in sight;
presenting a wide range of conditions, but as a whole favorable to
industry.
Natural wealth of an available kind abounds nearly everywhere, inviting
the
farmer, the stock-raiser, the lumberman, the fisherman, the
manufacturer, and
the miner, as well as the free walker in search of knowledge and
wildness. The
scenery is mostly of a comfortable, assuring kind, grand and inspiring
without
too much of that dreadful overpowering sublimity and exuberance which
tend to
discourage effort and cast people into inaction and superstition. … The Oregon Coast: In
sailing along the Oregon coast one sees but few more signs of human
occupation
than did Juan de Fuca three centuries ago. The shore bluffs rise
abruptly from
the waves, forming a wall apparently unbroken, though many short rivers
from
the coast range of mountains and two from the interior have made narrow
openings on their way to the sea. At the mouths of these rivers good
harbors
have been discovered for coasting vessels, which are of great
importance to the
lumbermen, dairymen, and farmers of the coast region. But little or
nothing of
these appear in general views, only a simple gray wall nearly straight,
green
along the top, and the forest stretching back into the mountains as far
as the
eye can reach. Going
ashore, we find few long reaches of sand where one may saunter, or
meadows,
save the brown and purple meadows of the sea, overgrown with slippery
kelp,
swashed and swirled in the restless breakers. The abruptness of the
shore
allows the massive waves that have come from far over the broad Pacific
to get
close to the bluffs ere they break, and the thundering shock shakes the
rocks to
their foundations. No calm comes to these shores. Even in the finest
weather,
when the ships off shore are becalmed and their sails hang loose
against the
mast, there is always a wreath of foam at the base of these bluffs. The
breakers are ever in bloom and crystal brine is ever in the air. A
scramble along the Oregon sea bluffs proves as richly exciting to
lovers of
wild beauty as heart could wish. Here are three hundred miles of
pictures of
rock and water in black and white, or gray and white, with more or less
of
green and yellow, purple and blue. The rocks, glistening in sunshine
and foam,
are never wholly dry -- many of them marvels of wave-sculpture and most
imposing in bulk and bearing, standing boldly forward, monuments of a
thousand
storms, types of permanence, holding the homes and places of refuge of
multitudes of seafaring animals in their keeping, yet ever wasting
away. How
grand the songs of the waves about them, every wave a fine, hearty
storm in
itself, taking its rise on the breezy plains of the sea, perhaps
thousands of
miles away, traveling with majestic, slow-heaving deliberation,
reaching the
end of its journey, striking its blow, bursting into a mass of white
and pink
bloom, then falling spent and withered to give place to the next in the
endless
procession, thus keeping up the glorious show and glorious song through
all
times and seasons forever! Terribly
impressive as is this cliff and wave scenery when the skies are bright
and
kindly sunshine makes rainbows in the spray, it is doubly so in dark,
stormy
nights, when, crouching in some hollow on the top of some jutting
headland, we
may gaze and listen undisturbed in the heart of it. Perhaps now and
then we may
dimly see the tops of the highest breakers, looking ghostly in the
gloom; but when
the water happens to be phosphorescent, as it oftentimes is, then both
the sea
and the rocks are visible, and the wild, exulting, up-dashing spray
burns,
every particle of it, and is combined into one glowing mass of white
fire;
while back in the woods and along the bluffs and crags of the shore the
storm
wind roars, and the rain-floods, gathering strength and coming from far
and
near, rush wildly down every gulch to the sea, as if eager to join the
waves in
their grand, savage harmony; deep calling unto deep in the heart of the
great,
dark night, making a sight and a song unspeakable sublime and glorious.
… Oregon Rains: Many
a tale, good-natured or otherwise, is told concerning the overflowing
abundance
of the Oregon rains. Once an English traveler, as the story goes, went
to a
store to make some purchases and on leaving found that rain was
falling;
therefore, not liking to get wet, he stepped back to wait till the
shower was
over. Seeing no signs of clearing, he soon became impatient and
inquired of the
storekeeper how long he thought the shower would be likely to last.
Going to
the door and looking wisely into the gray sky and noting the direction
of the
wind, the latter replied that he thought the shower would probably last
about
six months, an opinion that of course disgusted the fault-finding
Briton with
the "blawsted country," though in fact it is but little if at all
wetter or cloudier than his own. No
climate seems the best for everybody. Many there be who waste their
lives in a
vain search for weather with which no fault may be found, keeping
themselves
and their families in constant motion, like floating seaweeds that
never strike
root, yielding compliance to every current of news concerning countries
yet
untried, believing that everywhere, anywhere, the sky is fairer and the
grass
grows greener than where they happen to be. Before the Oregon and
California
railroad was built, the overland journey between these States across
the
Siskiyou Mountains in the old-fashioned emigrant wagon was a long and
tedious
one. Nevertheless, every season dissatisfied climate-seekers, too wet
and too
dry, might be seen plodding along through the dust in the old " 49
style," making their way one half of them from California to Oregon,
the
other half from Oregon to California. The beautiful Sisson meadows at
the base
of Mount Shasta were a favorite halfway resting place, where the weary
cattle
were turned out for a few days to gather strength for better climates,
and it
was curious to hear those perpetual pioneers comparing notes and
seeking
information around the campfires. "Where
are you from?" some Oregonian would ask. "The
Joaquin." "It's
dry there, ain't it?" "Well,
I should say so. No rain at all in summer and none to speak of in
winter, and
I'm dried out. I just told my wife I was on the move again, and I'm
going to
keep moving till I come to a country where it rains once in a while,
like it
does in every reg'lar white man's country; and that, I guess, will be
Oregon,
if the news be true." "Yes,
neighbor, you's heading in the right direction for rain," the Oregonian
would say. "Keep right on to Yamhill and you'll soon be damp enough. It
rains there more than twelve months in the year; at least, no saying
but it
will. I've just come from there, plumb drownded out, and I told my wife
to jump
into the wagon and we should start out and see if we couldn't find a
dry day
somewhere. Last fall the hay was out and the wood was out, and the
cabin
leaked, and I made up my mind to try California the first chance." "Well,
if you be a horned toad or coyote," the seeker of moisture would reply,
"then maybe you can stand it. Just keep right on by the Alabama
Settlement
to Tulare and you can have my place on Big Dry Creek and welcome.
You'll be
drowned there mighty seldom. The wagon spokes and tires will rattle and
tell
you when you come to it." "All
right, partner, we'll swap square, you can have mine in Yamhill and the
rain
thrown in. Last August a painter sharp came along one day wanting to
know the
way to Willamette Falls, and I told him: Young man, just wait a little
and
you'll find falls enough without going to Oregon City after them. The
whole
dog-gone Noah's flood of a country will be a fall and melt and float
away some
day.'" And more to the same effect. … The Cascade Mountains
and Mount
Hood: As
we approach Oregon from the coast in summer, no hint of snowy mountains
can be
seen, and it is only after we have sailed into the country by the
Columbia, or
climbed some one of the commanding summits, that the great white peaks
send us
greeting and make telling advertisements of themselves and of the
country over
which they rule. So, also, in coming to Oregon from the east the
country by no
means impresses one as being surpassingly mountainous, the abode of
peaks and
glaciers. Descending the spurs of the Rocky Mountains into the basin of
the
Columbia, we see hot, hundred-mile plains, roughened here the there by
hills
and ridges that look hazy and blue in the distance, until we have
pushed well
to the westward. Then one white point after another comes into sight to
refresh
the eye and the imagination; but they are yet a long way off, and have
much to
say only to those who know them or others of their kind. How grand they
are,
though insignificant-looking on the edge of the vast landscape! What
noble
woods they nourish, and emerald meadows and gardens! What springs and
streams
and waterfalls sing about them and to what a multitude of happy
creatures they
give homes and food! … The
principal mountains of the range are Mounts Pitt, Scott, and Thielson,
Diamond
Peak, the Three Sisters, Mounts Jefferson, Hood, St. Helen's, Adams,
Rainier,
Aix, and Baker. Of these the seven first named belong to Oregon, the
others to
Washington. They rise singly at irregular distances from one another
along the
main axis of the range or near it, with an elevation of from about
eight
thousand to fourteen thousand four hundred feet above the level of the
sea.
From few points in the valleys may more than three or four of them be
seen, and
of the more distant ones of these only the tops appear. Therefore,
speaking
generally, each of the lowland landscapes of the State contains only
one grand
snowy mountain. The
heights back of Portland command one of the best general views of the
forests
and also of the most famous of the great mountains both of Oregon and
Washington. Mount Hood is in full view, with the summits of Mounts
Jefferson,
St. Helen's, Adams, and Rainier in the distance. The city of Portland
is at our
feet, covering a large area along both banks of the Willamette, and,
with its
fine streets, schools, churches, mills, shipping, parks, and gardens,
makes a
telling picture of busy, aspiring civilization in the midst of the
green
wilderness in which it is planted. The river is displayed to fine
advantage in
the foreground of our main view, sweeping in beautiful curves around
rich,
leafy islands, its banks fringed with willows. … A
few miles beyond the Willamette flows the renowned Columbia, and the
confluence
of these two great rivers is at a point only about ten miles below the
city.
Beyond the Columbia extends the immense breadth of the forest, one dim,
black,
monotonous field with only the sky, which one is glad to see is not
forested,
and the tops of the majestic old volcanoes to give diversity to the
view. That
sharp, white, broad-based pyramid on the south side of the Columbia, a
few
degrees to the south of east from where you stand, is the famous Mount
Hood.
The distance to it in a straight line is about fifty miles. Its upper
slopes
form the only bare ground, bare as to forests, in the landscape in that
direction. It is the pride of Oregonians, and when it is visible is
always
pointed out to strangers as the glory of the country, the mountain of
mountains.
It is one of the grand series of extinct volcanoes extending from
Lassen's
Butte 31 to Mount Baker, a
distance of about
six hundred miles, which once flamed like gigantic watch-fires along
the coast.
Some of them have been active in recent times, but no considerable
addition to
the bulk of Mount Hood has been made for several centuries, as is shown
by the
amount of glacial denudation it has suffered. Its summit has been
ground to a
point, which gives it a rather thin, pinched appearance. It has a
wide-flowing
base, however, and is fairly well proportioned. Though it is eleven
thousand
feet high, it is too far off to make much show under ordinary
conditions in so
extensive a landscape. Through a great part of the summer it is
invisible on
account of smoke poured into the sky from burning woods, logging camps,
mills,
etc., and in winter for weeks at a time, or even months, it is in the
clouds.
Only in spring and early summer and in what there may chance to be of
bright
weather in winter is it or any of its companions at all clear or
telling. From
the Cascades on the Columbia it may be seen at a distance of twenty
miles or
thereabouts, or from other points up and down the river, and with the
magnificent foreground it is very impressive. It gives the supreme
touch of
grandeur to all the main Columbia views, rising at every turn,
solitary,
majestic, awe-inspiring, the ruling spirit of the landscape. But, like
mountains everywhere, it varies greatly in impressiveness and apparent
height
at different times and seasons, not alone from differences as to the
dimness or
transparency of the air. Clear, or arrayed in clouds, it changes both
in size
and general expression. Now it looms up to an immense height and seems
to draw
near in tremendous grandeur and beauty, holding the eyes of every
beholder in
devout and awful interest. Next year or next day, or even in the same
day, you
return to the same point of view, perhaps to find that the glory has
departed,
as if the mountain had died and the poor dull, shrunken mass of rocks
and ice
had lost all power to charm. Never
shall I forget my first glorious view of Mount Hood one calm evening in
July,
though I had seen it many times before this. I was then sauntering with
a
friend across the new Willamette bridge between Portland and East
Portland for
the sake of the river views, which are here very fine in the tranquil
summer
weather. The scene on the water was a lively one. Boats of every
description
were gliding, glinting, drifting about at work or play, and we leaned
over the
rail from time to time, contemplating the gay throng. Several lines of
ferry
boats were making regular trips at intervals of a few minutes, and
river
steamers were coming and going from the wharves, laden with all sorts
of
merchandise, raising long diverging swells that make all the light
pleasure
craft bow and nod in hearty salutation as they passed. The crowd was
being
constantly increased by new arrivals from both shores, sailboats,
rowboats,
racing shells, rafts, were loaded with gayly dressed people, and here
and there
some adventurous man or boy might be seen as a merry sailor on a single
plank
or spar, apparently as deep in enjoyment as were any on the water. It
seemed as
if all the town were coming to the river, renouncing the cares and
toils of the
day, determined to take the evening breeze into their pulses, and be
cool and
tranquil ere going to bed. Absorbed
in the happy scene, given up to dreamy, random observation of what lay
immediately before me, I was not conscious of anything occurring on the
outer
rim of the landscape. Forest, mountain, and sky were forgotten, when my
companion suddenly directed my attention to the eastward, shouting,
"Oh,
look! look!" in so loud and excited a tone of voice that passers-by,
saunterers like ourselves, were startled and looked over the bridge as
if
expecting to see some boat upset. Looking across the forest, over which
the
mellow light of the sunset was streaming, I soon discovered the source
of my
friend's excitement. There stood Mount Hood in all the glory of the
alpenglow,
looming immensely high, beaming with intelligence, and so impressive
that one
was overawed as if suddenly brought before some superior being newly
arrived
from the sky. The
atmosphere was somewhat hazy, but the mountain seemed neither near nor
far. Its
glaciers flashed in the divine light. The rugged, storm-worn ridges
between
them and the snowfields of the summit, these perhaps might have been
traced as
far as they were in sight, and the blending zones of color about the
base. But
so profound was the general impression, partial analysis did not come
into
play. The whole mountain appeared as one glorious manifestation of
divine
power, enthusiastic and benevolent, glowing like a countenance with
ineffable
repose and beauty, before which we could only gaze in devout and lowly
admiration. Picturesque California was originally published as thirty
parts,
then ten, and finally as two volumes (J. Dewing and Company:
1888-1890). It was
reprinted as West of the Rocky Mountains (Philadelphia: Running
Press,
1976). Chapters 10, 24, and 25 were reprinted in Chapters 3-5, 17-20,
and
21-23, respectively, of Muir, Steep
Trails. (William Frederic Bade, ed) 1918. The two-volume
edition of Picturesque California might be
characterized as the first “Exhibit Format” book. The full texts of
Muir’s
chapters are available at https://vault.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/writings/picturesque_california/default.aspx. In the
introduction to the 1976 reprint, Richard E. Nicholls wrote, While he was a
prolific writer, this book
is unique among his published works. Evidently, Muir hit upon the idea
of
putting together a series of articles for a national magazine, written
by
knowledgeable observers, in which the features and life forms of each
of the
regions west of the Rockies would be described. He convinced an editor
to
undertake the project, of which Muir became the enthusiastic overseer.
He
helped select illustrations, recruit writers and edit the
contributions. He
wrote six essays for the series, describing the Sierras and the Pacific
Northwest region. The articles apparently enjoyed some success, for
they were
next collected and issued as a book, supplemented by over six hundred
illustrations. At the time of its
original publication,
there cannot have been anything quite like this book available. It was
the first
large-scale attempt to present to the American people a thorough
description of
the mountains, forests, deserts, wildlife and people of the western
half of the
nation. |