This organized back-to-naturing, so to speak, deserves a large measure of attention and a vast deal of praise. The official purpose of the Sierra Club is "to explore, enjoy, and render accessible the mountain regions of the Pacific Coast." Its aim, like those of its brother organizations of the West and East, is to "publish authentic information concerning the mountain regions and to enlist the support and cooperation of the people and the Government in preserving the forests and other natural features of the Sierra Nevada Mountains." With such a platform these clubs of the Pacific accomplish much real good and often are the sponsors for forward-looking movements of wide importance. Also, their experience and their organized methods each summer make possible lengthy excursions into the mountain regions whose scope would be beyond the individual means of many who join forces with the club on these community outings. Hundreds of miles of new trails are laid out and old ones improved, peaks are climbed and records left, often trout are planted in barren lakes, and everyone is given an educational experience in the ways of the Open. Also—and primarily—all hands have a royal good time.
At Tracy, in the San Joaquin Valley, where the Sierra Club special train stopped for supper, I joined the party. That night I felt conspicuous, for six weeks of tramping in the Yosemite had removed the last traces of presentability from my costume; however, when at dawn the hikers of the morrow emerged from the sleeping-cars at Porterville, white collars, low shoes, long skirts, and all the other impedimenta of civilized apparel were replaced by workaday garments, while khaki and flannel shirts were much in evidence.
For two days the long line struggled along the trail leading into the canyon of the Kern. From oak and chaparral to pines and bear clover, silver fir, and nature-made gardens of columbine, red snow plant, and cyclamen we mounted, and then still higher to a silent tamarack country. Then down interminably to Fish Creek, and camp, and Charlie Tuck, who was—and no doubt still is—the Celestial ruler of the club's all-important culinary department.
Fishing, minor side trips, some fish-planting, and all the attractions of outdoor camp life occupied a week in the lower Kern Valley. Then camp was removed ten miles up the canyon to the junction of the Big Arroya and the Kern, whence were engineered ascents of the Red Kaweah and of Whitney, highest of all the mountains in the United States, each reached through side trips of several days' duration, and each opening up a fresh, new field of highland delights.
The trails of the Sierra, like trails the world over, are endlessly appealing—only the Sierran footways seem somehow richer in variety than others known to me. The entire mountain world unfolds from the shifting vantage points of these ribbons, threading its most sacred temples, clear and strong through the valleys, distinguishable only by the presence of many blazes upon the tree trunks where pine needles plot their obliteration, zigzagging dizzily up steep slopes, crossing rivers on perilous logs or buried knee-deep beneath the rushing waters of the ford, skirting sky-reflecting lakes, hiding beneath summer snowbanks, or traversing waste highlands, marked only by the cairns that lift their welcome heads against the sky. Underfoot there is the needle carpet, springy ground, shoe-cutting rocks, or deep-trodden dust, where the wayfarer comes to the journey's end a monument of ghostly gray. Overhead is always the tender blue of the summer California sky, with here and there a snowy cloud, for contrast's sake. Most impressive is the trail that clambers among the snow-clad heights, where the chilling air of the peaks makes the blood run fast and the heart rejoice; its beauty most appreciable where it follows brawling brooks and shadowed valleys, or meanders among woods, pillared with great trees and roofed with swaying boughs, ever and anon emerging into tiny, exquisite glades. Such is the Sierra trail, each mile a thing of individual charm and happy memory.
The physical ways and means of the outing are as near perfect as may be where one hundred and twenty humans are turned loose in the wilderness. The perfection is, of course, the outgrowth of long experience and careful planning. Pack-trains take in the provisions well in advance; the day's "hike" is laid out, and "grub" is in waiting when the allotted number of miles lie behind; side trips are arranged, and when there is climbing of consequence, experienced leaders pilot the way. And yet, withal, the month-long holiday is far from being disagreeably "cut and dried," and there seems always sufficient opportunity for freedom to satisfy individual tastes. Nor, because of the numbers, need one lack privacy; on the trail and at camp the excursionist may restrict himself to his own unimpeachable society, he may join a small group of chosen spirits, or associate with the general unit. In short, there is opportunity to satisfy every taste on a Sierra Club outing, which holds equally true of the other mountain organizations of the Coast, each of which conducts admirable activities in its chosen field.
The last bright recollection of that Sierra summer is the camp-fire which closed the final day—and all camp-fires are pleasant memories. It was beneath the mighty trees of the Giant Forest that we spent the final night, the light of our blaze insignificant 'midst the shadows of these huge trunks, the quiet summer night all about. The inner circle of faces showed ruddy in the reflected firelight, the outer edges of the group were deep in shadow. In the center, close to the fire, his figure outlined by its glow, stood John Muir, president of the Club, naturalist, explorer, lover of the Sierras, and loved by all. That night he shared with us, as often he had done before, his knowledge of those intimates of his, the Californian mountains, with whom he had lived so long and so understandingly. And now, in this December, six years since that evening in the Giant Forest, comes the news that John Muir has been gathered to his fathers, and that this splendid apostle of the out-of-doors will never again share its treasured secrets at Sierran camp-fires.
