Following the Footsteps of John Muir

“I don’t think it’s much farther.”

My friend Lesley had offered to take me on a “secret” hike that morning. I could hear the hesitation in her voice as she crawled hand over foot up the unmarked trail, but I didn’t care. One month ago, I’d never even seen proper mountains, let alone scrambled along the side of one. Sweat started to bead on my forehead. My heart beat quickened. I stuffed my water bottle awkwardly into the waistband of my shorts to use both of my hands.

“You’re almost there,” Lesley called encouragingly from ahead. As I wedged myself between the granite monolith and a boulder the size of a small car, I could hear the trickle of water. One last desperate thrust up and I landed on the plateau. It welcomed me to rest. There was a small pool of water formed by melted snow running down from the cliff about 300 feet above us. I bent down and touched my fingers to the water. It was surprisingly warm, and appropriately referred to by regulars that come here as the “Devil’s Bathtub.”

“Over here,” Lesley beckoned once more. I turned the corner and there it was: a perfect, unobstructed view of Yosemite National Park that would make John Muir proud. The land looked completely untouched by humans. It seemed as if this valley of sugar pine trees stretched infinitely through the peaks and arches of the silver Sierra Nevada Mountains.

In fact, this view might not exist if not for John Muir, the Scottish-born author and preservation advocate. He was the driving force behind forming our National Park System. Muir coerced President Theodore ”Teddy” Roosevelt to join him on a three-day hiking trip in Yosemite, in order to convince him that this land was worth preserving. Rumor has it that Teddy was smitten after just one day.

Today the park stretches across 750,000 acres, and is the second most visited National Park in the country, with more than 3.5 million people annually. But as I stood atop this granite plateau looking through the valley, it felt as if Lesley and I were the only people here.

You couldn’t hear the brakes of the shuttle buses pulling up to the visitor’s center or the confused tourists asking, “Where are the restrooms?” There were no cars, no buildings, no people. Just companionship, a strong sense of accomplishment from scaling the side of a mountain and natural beauty as far as my wide-open eyes could see.

John Muir said, “Going to the mountains is going home.” And in this moment, though I had never been there before, I was home.