Date: 2004-12-05
To: Muir musings
Miles today: 0.0

9:30am12.5.04So, yesterday afternoon I hung out at Borders -- change of venue and selection from the library. I picked up a collection of John Muir¢s journals, and couldn¢t put it down. Even as I winced and grimaced as I handed my money over to the cashier, I couldn¢t part w/ it. A high price tag, but well worth it. His writing is so inspiring, such unadulterated joy at nature¢s beauty. Such vivid imagery. Very few people have the ability to weave w/ mere words the tapestry of the wilderness. I suppose that¢s why those who do become the well-known naturalists. I wish I had that familiarity, that ease w/ the written language. Not out of a desire for fame, but rather b/c there are moments that you want to capture, record forever; a desire to convey such moments to others, or to myself, in future years. Memories can fade, but words can be indelible.2pmReading Muir¢s My First Summer in the Sierra, in which he entered the range as a guide for a flock of sheep. He begins w/ a basic description of the terrain and wildlife, in such detail that you can feel the rough, rocky earth beneath your feet, and the baying of the coyotes echoes in your ears. His portrayal of camp life at night -- so apt, a flush of memories wells inside my mind, shaking off the layer of dust accrued over the past few months. (Interesting, isn¢t it, that the mundane details, even those that occur daily, are of the first to be relegated to the dark, forgotten corners of our minds¢¦)¢¢¦the meal finished¢¦under the influence of fullness and tobacco the calm that settled on their faces seemed almost divine, something like the mellow meditative glow portrayed on the countenances of saints. Then suddenly, as if awakening form a dream, each w/ a sigh or a grunt¢¦yawned, gazed at the fire a few moments, said, ¢Well, I believe I¢ll turn in,¢ and straightaway vanished beneath his blankets. The fire smouldered and flickered an hour or two longer; the stars shone brighter; coons, coyotes, and owls stirred the silence here and there, while crickets and hylas made a cheerful, continuous music, so fitting and full that it seemed a part of the very body of the night. The only discordance came from a snoring sleeper¢¦¢ Telling, isn¢t it, that it¢s the human presence that intrudes upon the serenity of the night. I can commiserate -- I¢ve had my share of sleep interrupted by (or precluded by) the jarring notes of nocturnal, throaty rumblings.Having just written earlier today of my desire to be able to compose such verbal vivid imagery as Muir and others, I realized how ineptly I worded my feeling. I didn¢t mean to imply that I would simply forget everything, the sights, the sounds, the experiences if it wasn¢t written down properly or elegantly enough. Some moments are so memorable that they become etched into the very fiber of your being. My night perched atop Max Patch was one such moment. Muir¢s words say it far better than mine: ¢I 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.¢ I don¢t know how I¢m going to ever digest these writings. Every phrase seems to resonate in my soul, I feel a kinship, a connection to him, to this place he describes, the Sierra, a place I¢ve never been and yet I can visualize more acutely through his words than by a photograph. ¢We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. Our flesh-and-bone tabernacle seems transparent as glass to the beauty about us, as if truly an inseparable part of it, thrilling w/ the air and trees, streams and rocks, in the waves of the sun, -- a part of all nature, neither old nor young, sick nor well, but immortal.¢My literary progress is impeded once again: ¢The horizon is bounded and adorned by a spiry wall of pines, every tree harmoniously related to every other; definite symbols, divine hieroglyphs written w/ sunbeams. Would I could understand them! The stream flowing past the camp through the ferns and lilies and alders makes sweet music to the ear, but the pines marshaled around the edge of the sky make a yet sweeter music to the eye. Divine beauty all. Here I could stay tethered forever w/ just bread and water, nor would I be lonely; loved friends and neighbors, as love for everything increased, would seem all the nearer however many the miles and mountains b/t us.¢3:15pmI reluctantly closed the cover of Muir and took my leave of the Borders caf©, w/ every intention of heading home (my temporary, house-sitting home). I made it all of 100meters before the temperate weather and cloudless mirror of the sky lured me to a seat in the open courtyard of Silver Spring¢s city center. Bing Crosby croons softly in the background, as families stroll in and out of shops, embarking on the annual trek of holiday shopping. A small winged insect took a temporary respite on my fingertip, iridescent wings gleaming in the waning afternoon sun. The durability, and yet concomitant frailty of life is amazing. Nature opportunistically taking advantage of the brief window of (relative) warmth in the air.9:30pmI pause yet again in my absorption of Mr. Muir, this time warmly ensconced in my bed: ¢Another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where. Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality.¢