Last weekend the wife and I took our boy up to the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias in
Yosemite. This grove of big trees was one of the first set aside for reservation from the timber industry. President Lincoln first reserved it and Yosemite Valley, and gave it over to the state to protect. Later on in 1906, the state turned it back over to the federal government, and with convincing from John Muir, President Roosevelt designated the grove and the valley into a much larger Yosemite National Park.
President Roosevelt visited the grove and other areas of the park with John Muir as a guide in 1903. They stayed the night in the grove, sleeping under piles of army blankets, and conversing over the campfire. Roosevelt had this to say about the experience:
"The night was clear, and in the darkening isles of the great sequoia grove, the majestic trunks, beautiful in color and symetry, rose around us like the pilars of the mightiest cathedral that ever was concieved, even by the fervor of the Middle Ages. Hermit thrushes sang beautifully in the evening."
My wife and I had never been to this grove, so we joined the throngs of fellow tourists, and entered Yosemite.
Early on in Muir's travels through the Sierra, he would write letters to friends to describe what he has witnessed. From a letter to Mrs. Ezra Carr which Muir wrote with the sap of a Sequoia:
"Do behold the King in his glory, King Sequoia! Behold! Behold! seems all I can say Some time ago I left all for Sequoia and have been and am at his feet; fasting and praying for light, for is he not the greatest light in the woods, in the world? Where are such columns of sunshine, tangible, accessible, terrestrialised? Well may I fast, not from bread, but from business, book-making, duty-going, and other trifles, and great is my reward already for tbe manly, freely sacrifice. What giant truths since coming to Gigantea, what magnificent clusters of Sequoiac becauses.
The King tree and I have sworn eternal love—sworn it without swearing, and I’ve taken the sacrament with Douglas squirrel, drunk Sequoia wine, Sequoia blood, and with its rosy purple drops I am writing this woody gospel letter.
I never before knew the virtue of Sequoia juice. Seen with sunbeams in it, its color is the most royal of all royal purples. No wonder the Indians instinctively drink it for they know not what. I wish I were so drunk and Sequoical that I could preach the green brown woods to all the juiceless world, descending from this divine wilderness like a John the Baptist, eating Douglas squirrels and wild honey or wild anything, crying, Repent, for the Kingdom of Sequoia is at hand!"
While Muir's earlier letter may have been a little over the top poetically, later in 1912 he wrote "The Yosemite". In it, he describes the giants a little more technically. Here is an excerpt:
"Between the heavy pine and silver fir zones towers the Big Tree (Sequoia gigantea), the king of all the conifers in the world, “the noblest of the noble race.”
So harmonious and finely balanced are even the mightiest of these monarchs in all their proportions that there is never anything overgrown or monstrous about them. Seeing them for the first time you are more impressed with their beauty than their size, their grandeur being in great part invisible; but sooner or later it becomes manifest to the loving eye, stealing slowly on the senses like the grandeur of Niagara or of the Yosemite Domes. When you approach them and walk around them you begin to wonder at their colossal size and try to measure them. They bulge considerably at the base, but not more than is required for beauty and safety and the only reason that this bulging seems in some cases excessive is that only a comparatively small section is seen in near views. One that I measured in the
Kings River forest was twenty-five feet in diameter at
the ground and ten feet in diameter 220 feet above the ground showing the
fineness of the taper of the trunk as a whole. No description can give anything
like an adequate idea of their singular majesty, much less of their beauty.
Except the sugar pine, most of their neighbors with pointed tops seem ever
trying to go higher, while the big tree, soaring above them all, seems
satisfied. Its grand domed head seems to be poised about as lightly as a cloud,
giving no impression of seeking to rise higher. Only when it is young does it
show like other conifers a heavenward yearning, sharply aspiring with a long
quick-growing top. Indeed, the whole tree for the first century or two, or
until it is a hundred or one hundred and fifty feet high, is arrowhead in form,
and, compared with the solemn rigidity of age, seems as sensitive to the wind
as a squirrel’s tail. As it grows older, the lower branches are gradually
dropped and the upper ones thinned out until comparatively few are left. These,
however, are developed to a great size, divide again and again and terminate in
bossy, rounded masses of leafy branch-lets, while the head becomes dome-shaped,
and is the first to feel the touch of the rosy beams of the morning, the last
to bid the sun good night. Perfect specimens, unhurt by running fires or
lightning, are singularly regular and symmetrical in general form though not in
the least conventionalized, for they show extraordinary variety in the unity
and harmony of their general outline. The immensely strong, stately shafts are
free of limbs for one hundred end fifty feet or so The large limbs reach out
with equal boldness a every direction, showing no weather side, and no other
tree has foliage so densely massed, so finely molded in outline and so
perfectly subordinate to an ideal type. A particularly knotty, angular,
ungovernable-looking branch, from five to seven or eight feet in diameter and
perhaps a thousand years old, may occasionally be seen pushing out from the
trunk as if determined to break across the bounds of the regular curve, but
like all the others it dissolves in bosses of branchlets and sprays as soon as
the general outline is approached. Except in picturesque old age, after being
struck by lightning or broken by thousands of snow-storms, the regularity of
forms is one of their most distinguishing characteristics. Another is the
simple beauty of the trunk and its great thickness as compared with its height
and the width of the branches, which makes them look more like finely modeled
and sculptured architectural columns than the stems of trees, while the great
limbs look like rafters, supporting the magnificent dome-head. But though so consummately
beautiful, the big tree always seems unfamiliar, with peculiar physiognomy,
awfully solemn and earnest; yet with all its strangeness it impresses us as
being more at home than any of its neighbors, holding the best right to the
ground as the oldest strongest inhabitant. One soon becomes acquainted with new
species of pine and fir and spruce as with friendly people, shaking their
outstretched branches like shaking hands and fondling their little ones, while
the venerable aboriginal sequoia, ancient of other days, keeps you at a
distance, looking as strange in aspect and behavior among its neighbor trees as
would the mastodon among the homely bears and deers. Only the Sierra juniper is
at all like it, standing rigid and unconquerable on glacier pavements for
thousands of years, grim and silent, with an air of antiquity about as
pronounced as that of the sequoia.