JohnnyAppleseedandOtherAmericanLegendsByMelodyWarnick

JohnnyAppleseed

AmongthesettlerswhoselogcabinslinedthebanksoftheOhioRiver,itwassaid

thatyoucouldhearJohnnyAppleseedcominglongbeforeyoucouldseehim.At

duskonawarmsummerevening,afarmerbringinghiscowsintomilkmighthear,

offinthedistance,arhythmicrattle‐bang,rattle‐bang,rattle‐bang;thatwasthe

clappingofJohn’scookpotandspoonnosingtogether.Then,beneaththat,there’dbe

theshush‐shush‐shushofJohn’sbarefeettrampingthroughthegrass.Byall

accountsJohnwouldbewhistling,sometimesamerrysong,like“SkiptoMyLou,”

andsometimesahymnhe’dlearnedasaboyinchurch.AndjustbeforeJohnstepped

intoviewyou’dheartheappleseedsrollinginsidehisleatherpouch.Itsoundeda

bitlikethepitter‐patterofaspringrainfall.ToJohn,itwasthebestsoundinthe

world.

ThoseappleseedswereatreasuretoJohn.He’dgatheredthemhimselffroma

ciderpressbackinPennsylvania,pluckingthemoutoftheapplemashleftoverfrom

thecider‐making.Thenhecleanedanddriedthemsothey’dbereadytoplant.Ifyou

askedJohn,he’dsaythatplantingappleswasthereasonGodputhimonthishere

greenearth.Itwaswhathislifewasabout―hadbeeneversincehewasaboyof12

orso,growingupinMassachusetts.

Itwasfunnyhowithappened―suchasimplething,really.Onagolden

afternoon,afterthefarmchoresweredone,youngJohnChapmansatintheshort

springgrasswithhissister,Elizabeth,eatingapples.Johnbithisrightdowntothe

seeds,andElizabethsaid,“Betternoteatthatseed,Johnny,orit’llgrowintoanapple

treeinyourstomach.”

Johnlaughed,thenstopped,suspicious.“Thatisn’ttrue,Lizzy,isit?”

NowitwasLizzy’sturntolaugh.“Well,notunlessyouateplentyofdirttogo

withit,anddrankaboutagallonofwatereveryday.Andeventhenyou’dhavetolie

onyourbackoutsidewithyourmouthwideopentotheskysolotsofsunshine

couldgetin.”Bynowtheywerebothgiggling.Butforthefirsttime,Johnthought

abouthowinsidethatlittleblacknothingofaseed,nobiggerthanamosquito,there

wasinactualfactatreejustwaitingtogrow.Johnstaredatthatlittlespeckofan

appleseedbetweenhisfingersandrealizedthatthisseedwaswaitingonhim.Ifhe

didn’tplantit,itwouldneverbecomewhatitwasmeanttobe.

Johnsaid,“Lizzy,Iwon’tswallowit,butIamgoingtoputthisseedwhereit

belongs―intheground.”Onhiskneesheplowedhishandsintothedirt,madeanice

holetodroptheseedinto,thencovereditbackup.

Johnalmostforgotaboutthatseed.Butoneday,atendergreenstalkpoked

throughtheground.Soonwhiteblossomsbloomedoutonthebranches.Asthe

yearspassed,springtosummertoautumntowinter,thenroundagain,John

watched,proudasapapa,asthetreegrewtaller,thenasitboreitsfirst

fruit―round,rosy‐cheekedGravensteinapplesthatsprayedwhitefoamwhenyou

bitintothem.Withinayearafterthat,Lizziemadeapplepiesfromhistree,andhis

papressedcider.

BythenJohnwasamanhimself,18yearsold,andknewthatjustassurelyas

becomingatreewastheappleseed’sdestiny,plantingappletreeswashis.“Fine,

thenbuyalittlelandandplantanorchardrighthereinLeominster,”saidhispa.

“Orsellfruitsandvegetablesatthemarket,”suggestedhisma.

“Orgetajobattheciderpress,”saidLizzie.

Johntossedtheirideasaroundinhishead,butfinallysaid,“Allthesenew

settlersmovingintotheterritoriesandmakingfarmswillwantapples.Lotsofthem.

Andthatmeansthey’llneedappletrees―notjustseeds,butsaplingsthatarestrong

enoughtostandthejourney.”John’seyesopenedwide,andhisvoicegotalittle

louder.“That’swhatI’mgoingtodo.I’mgoingtoraiseappletreestosupplythefolks

headingwest.I’mgoingtospreadapplesaroundthenewterritoriessothickthatall

you’llhavetodoisreachupforsomethinggoodtoeat.I’mgoingtoblazethetrail

withapples!”

“John,”saidLizzie,“youlookasifyou’veseenavision.”

“Inaway,Ihave,”saidJohnthoughtfully.“Avisionofmyfuture.”

Afewweeksafterthat,Johnwavedgoodbyetohisfamily,followedthetrail

intoOhio,andboughtalittleplotoflandnearLickingCreek.Thereheplantedapple

seedsintidyrows,neatasapatchworkquilt.Walkingamongthesaplings,John

actedasifheweretendinghisownbabies.Hesometimestalkedtothem.“Oh,don’t

youlookhandsometoday?”he’dsaytoonestrongyoungtree,andtoanotherthat

lookedamightweary,“Perkupnow,there,littlegirl,here’sasipofwater.”

Somehow,thetreesalwaysdidwhatheaskedthemto,andwithJohnaroundthey

grewupstrongandhealthy.

Whenthetreeswereknee‐highandbigenoughfortravel,Johnsoldthemto

settlerstousetoplanttheirownorchardsandkeepthemselvesinapplepiesand

ciderforyearstocome.SoonfolksknewtostopinatJohnChapman’sapplenursery.

SomeevenstartedcallinghimAppleseedJohn,onaccountofthebagofseedsthat

wasalwaysslungaroundhisshoulder.

Oneafternoonawagonrolledpast.Itwasfulloffurnitureandfamily―five

tow‐headedkids,Johncounted.“Whereyoufolksheaded?”Johncalledout,shading

hiseyeswithhishand.

“GoingtoKnoxCounty,”saidthefarmer,“byOwlCreek.We’vegotafew

acresovertherewe’regoingtoplant.”Thefarmerstuckouthishand.“NameisEzra

Pickins.”

“Well,Mr.Pickins,I’mAppleseedJohn,”hesaid,shakinghands,“andI’ll

suspectyou’llbewantingappletrees.ThesearethebestinOhio.Winesaps.

Gravensteins.Baldwins.Takeyourpick.”

Thefarmerexchangedaglancewithhiswife,thenslowlyshookhishead.

“Moneyistight,”hesaid.“Sorrytosaybutwedon’thaveanyextraforanappletree.”

ButJohnsawhowthekids’earsperkedupattheword“apples,”andhowthe

littlestgirllookedlonginglyathisrowsofgreen‐leafedlittletrees.SoJohnplucked

oneoutoftheground,wrappeditsbottominburlaptokeepitsrootsmoist,and

handeditover.“Takethis,”hesaid.“Nocharge.It’sagiftfrommetoyou.”Johnoften

gavetreestothosewhocouldn’tpay.Eventhosewhocould,hetoldthemjusttopay

himlater.Andiftheydidn’t,well,thatwasokay,too.

Still,thefarmer’sjawdroppedalittleashecradledhisnewgift.Thenhe

hoppeddownfromhisseatandgrabbedapairofbootsthatweretiedtothewood

slatsofthewagonbox.“Well,herethen,takethesebootsinreturn.They’reamight

toosmallforme.AndIcouldn’thelpbutnoticeyou’rewalkingbarefoot.”

EveryonestoppedtostareatJohn’sfeet,whichwereindeedbarefoot.He’d

gotinthehabitofkickingoffhisshoessohecouldfeelthedirtsquishingup

betweenhistoes,andsincehehadn’twornhisbootsinsolong,onedayheupand

gavethemtosomeonehethoughtneededthemmorethanhedid.AsthePickins

familywatched,Johnmerrilywiggledhismuddytoes,whichmadethechildren

laugh.

“Well,Idon’tmindmybarefeet,butifyou’reoffering,I’lltakethemwitha

thank‐ye‐kindlyandapraise‐be‐to‐God,”saidJohn.Heslippedthebootsontohis

feet;theyfitjustright.AsthePickinsfamilydroveoff,thechildrenhuggedtheir

armsaroundtheirnewlittleappletree,andwavedtoJohn.Johnwavedback.But

don’tyouknow,theverynextdayhegavehisnewbootsawaytoateenageboy

whosegrowingfeetwerewearingholesinhisown.

ThatwashowJohnwas.Hedidn’tsetmuchstorebygettingthings;hemostly

likedtogive.That’showcomegaveawaymostofhisgoodclothes.“WhatdoIneed

withthesefancyduds?”hesaid.Instead,hemadehisown…afteramannerof

speaking.NolinenshirtforJohn;heworeanoldcoffeesack,withholessnippedinit

forhisarmsandnecktopokethrough.Hiscottonbritcheswereworntosuchastate

thathisknobbykneessawdaylightwitheverystep.

Evenstranger,hesometimesworeacookingpotasahat,itstinhandle

pointingatthesky.Johnhadstartedtakingseedsandseedlingsfromtowntotown

aroundtheOhioRiverValley,sohavingapotthatdoubledasahatwashandy.Of

course,walkingoutofthewoods,hislegsandfeetamessofbriarscratchesand

brambleitches,withhistinpothatandhiscoffeesackshirt,Johnwasastrangesight

tobehold.Thegoodthingwasheneverneededanintroduction.

EventhoughJohn’sappletreebusinesswasdoingwell,hepreferredtosleep

outsidemostnightsandmaketheforestfloorhisfeatherbed.Onechillywinter

eveningasJohnwasovernightingintheforest,thewindstartedtohowl,andathick

snowbeganfalling.Coldtothebone,Johnthoughthe’drustleupsomewarmer

sleepingquarters.Hefoundagreatbighollowlogandwenttohunkerdownforthe

night.Butjustasheinchedhishindquartersinside,heheardalow,breathygrowl.

Ashiseyesadjustedtothedimness,Johnsawabigbrownbearglaringathim,asif

tosay,“Thisismyhouse,Mister.Andyou’renotinvited.”

Mostpeoplewouldbescaredwitless.They’dskedaddleoutofthere

screamingandhollering,andscaringthebearhalftodeathwhiletheydidit.Not

John.Hehadsuchagentletouchthatanimalsweren’tafraidofhim,andhewasn’t

afraidofthemeither.Eventhebigoneswerefriendly‐liketohim.Inthedarklog,

withabeargloweringathim,Johnjusttippedhistinpothat,said,“Pardonme,I

didn’tknowthislogwastaken,”andscurriedbackwardssoasnottodisturbthe

bear’ssleepanylonger.

OnceJohnevenadoptedawolf―ahuge,fierceEasternTimberwolfwith

blazingyelloweyes.Johnfounditwithitsfrontpawcaughtinatrap,whichmade

thewolfnotonlyhurtbutterriblyirritable.Anyothermanwouldn’thavedared

comenear,butwhenJohnsawthatpoorfellowinpain,hishearttrippedupwithin

him.Hecouldn’tgoonandleavehimtherewithouthelping.

Inhissoftestvoice,Johnwhisperedsweetnothingstothewolf.“Easynow,”

hemurmured.“You’realright.I’mgoingtofixyouupinnotime.”ListeningtoJohn,

thewolfcalmed.Hestoppedpullingathistrappedlegandinsteadlaydownand

restedhiswhitemuzzleonhispaws.Johnkneltdownbesidehimandwrestedhis

pawfreefromthetrap.“Therenow,I’mjustgoingtotakesomeoftheseherbsand

makeapoultice,”heexplainedtothewolf,whowatchedhimwithquizzicaleyes.“I’ll

wrapitallupwiththishereclothasabandage.Don’tworry,youshouldfeelbetter

rightquick.”Whenhewasdone,hepattedthewolfonhisbristlyhead,scratching

himbetweentheearslikeyou’dscratchahousecat.

Youbetterbelievethatnoonehadeverscratchedthiswolfbetweentheears

before.Butstrangelyenough,thewolffoundhimselfenjoyingit.Likeacat,he

rubbedhisheadagainstthebackofJohn’slegs.Hewassobigandpowerfulthathe

knockedJohndown.“Whoathere,fellow,”Johnlaughed.“Iknowyou’rejustsayin’

thanks,butifyousaymuchmoreyou’reliabletobreakmyleg.Here,though,have

thisapple.”Hehelditoutinthepalmofhishand,andthoughwolvesaren’tpartial

tofruit,thiswolfwassostarvedandgratefulthatheateitoutofJohn’shandlikea

horsewould.

Afterthat,thepairwerefastfriends.Fortwodays,thewolfandJohnwalked

togetherthroughthewilderness.WhenJohnfinallycametotheroadhewasaiming

for,hesaid,“Ihatetopartways,BrotherWolf;it’sbeennicetohaveatraveling

companion.Butifyougooutherewherepeopledon’tknowyou,youmightcausea

ruckus.Besttostayhereintheforest.”Thewolfseemedtounderstand.Nuzzling

Johnoncemore,hewalkedslowlybacktowardwherehecamefrom.

OddasitwasforJohntotrampoverthehillsandthroughtheforestswith

treesinhishands,wearinghiscrazycoffee‐sackget‐upandchattingupbearsand

wolves,everyonelovedJohnnyAppleseed.Nomatterwhichwayheheaded,women

bakedhimcinnamon‐lacedpiesandcrumb‐toppedcobblerswiththeapplesfrom

John’strees.Girlsworetheribbonshe’dgiventhem.Boysnevermadefun;they

wantedtheirowntin‐pothats,justlikehis.Hecouldcountonfolkstoofferamealor

abedintheworstweather,andonmostoccasionsitwassomeonehe’dhelpedin

thepast,justreturningthefavor.

Thatwaswhathappenedoneautumnevening,whentheappletreeswere

droopingwithfruit.HereJohncame,steppingthroughsomeone’spasture,whenthe

manofthehouseburstoutofhiscabinandcried,“Ifitain’tAppleseedJohn!”Itwas

EzraPickins,thesamefarmerwho’dgivenapairofbootsinexchangeforanapple

saplingyearsago.“Andyou’rebarefootagain,”hesaid,pointingtoJohn’sbootless

feet.

“I’lltellyou,Mr.Pickins,”saidJohn,amightembarrassed,“myfeetjust

weren’tmadeforshoes.Nottwodaysafteryourwagonrolledawayfrommyfarm,I

waswalkingroundmyorchardinmybarefeetwhenIsteppedonsomethingcold

anddryandscaly―arattlesnake!BeforeIcouldsay‘jack‐in‐the‐pulpit’itrearedup

andbitrightintomyleftfoot.IthoughtIwasagonerforsure.ThenIsawthatmy

feethadgotsotoughfromwalkingbootlesstherattlesnakecouldn’tsinkhisteeth

in.Itwasliketryingtobitethroughelephantskin.Hejustcouldn’tdoit!Aftera

whilehegaveupandslitheredaway.”AsEzraPickinslaughedheartily,Johnadded,

“Thankheavenswewerebothfine.IwouldhavebeenmiserableifI’daharmedthat

rattler.Butfromthentillnow,twobarefeet,thewaythegoodLordmadethem,is

howI’mhappytoroam.”

Bythenthefivekids,oldernow,werehuddledbehindtheirpa,peeringshyly

outatJohn.ButJohnknewhowtobreaktheice.Fromhisknapsackhepluckedsome

bright,shinyapplesandofferedthemtothechildren.“Enjoythefruitsoftheearth,”

hesaid.

“Butenjoythemlater,”scoldedMrs.Pickins,“we’reabouttohavesupper.In

fact,we’dbepleased,Mr.John,ifyou’djoinus.”Quicklyanotherplacewassetatthe

table,andJohnsaidthegrace,blessingjustabouteveryoneandeverythingonGod’s

greenearth.Butaseveryonedugin,Johnwouldn’teatasinglebite.“Aren’tyou

hungry,John,afterawholeday’sjourney?”askedMrs.Pickins.

“IliketomakesurethechildrenhavetheirfillbeforeIeatupallyourextra

vittles,”saidJohn.“Butthatsweetsmellcomingfromthatovenofyours,Mrs.

Pickins,hasmymouthwatering.Couldn’tbeapplecobbler,couldit?”

“Madefromyourownapples,Mr.John,”saidMrs.Pickinshappily.“And

they’rethesweetestyoueverate.”Whenitwastimetoservethecobbler,withits

gold‐browncruststeamingwarm,shedishedaheapinghelpingintoabowlandsaid,

“Firstpiecetoyou,Mr.John,forprovidingthisbounty.”

“Ma’am,”saidJohn,“Godprovidedit.Ijustgaveitthewaterandthedirt.”

Aftersupper,asMaPickinsdidthemendingandEzraPickinswhittledaknob

ofwoodintoadoll,JohnnyAppleseedpulledawornleatherBiblefromhis

knapsack,stretchedoutonthefloor,andsaid,“Letmesharesomegoodnews,fresh

fromheaven!”Thenheread.Danielinthelion’sden.DavidbestingGoliath.With

eachstory,hisvoicerosetotheroarofthewaves,orloweredintoasoothingsigh.

Sittingbythefireplace,thePickinschildrenlistened,mesmerized,untilonebyone,

againsttheirwill,theyeachfellfastasleep.

WhereverJohnnywent,tellinghisstoriesandspreadinghiskindnessesand

sharinghisseeds,applesgrew.Farmersmovedin,plantedcrops,builtstoresand

churchesandschools,andJohn’streesgrewupinthemiddleofitall.

For30years,JohnwanderedOhio,watchinghowevenaslifechanged,the

applesneverreallydid.Eachseasontheygavefruitascrispandjuicyasthelast,and

thecobblersandciderstheymadenourishedthesouljustassurelyastheydidthe

belly.ToJohn,thatwasmightysatisfyingtosee.

Ofcourse,justasinallstories,therecameatimewhenJohnwastoooldtodo

muchwalkingaroundanymore,toobenttoplant.Sofinallyherested.Lyinginthe

grassunderhiswhite‐blossomedappletreesearlyinthespring,Johnsaidoutloud

tonobodyinparticular,“Iknowjusthowanappleseedmustfeelwhenit’s

planted―thatit’sabouttogrowintosomethingawholelotbiggerthanitself.”Then

JohnnyAppleseedclosedhiseyes,fellasleep,anddreamedofapples.

TheStoryofSacagawea

“Sacagawea!Come,thesunisalreadyhigh.Wemustfindthegooseberries

beforetheraccoonsdo.”

Sacagawea’smotherstoodatthedooroftheirfamily’stepee,squintingout

intothebrightmorning,herdarkeyebrowsknittedtogether.Shelookedworried,

andSacagaweaunderstoodwhy.Formonthsthescrubbybushesandbrownhillsof

theLemhiValleyofIdaho,whereSacagaweaandherfamilylivedwiththeir

Shoshonetribe,hadbeenallbutbarren.Itwasearlysummer,whendeerand

antelopeshouldhavebeenplentiful,makingeasycatchesforthehuntersinthe

tribe.Instead,thehuntersrodeoutonhorsebackeachmorning,theirbowsand

arrowsattheready,andreturnedhomeempty‐handedeverynight.Therewas

almostnothingtoeat.

Justnineyearsold,Sacagaweasometimeswassohungryatnightthatshe

curleduponherblanketandclutchedherstomach.Butshedidnotcry.Shedidn’t

wanttoworryhermotheranymorethanshealreadywas.“I’mcoming,Mother,”she

saidnow,duckingoutofthetepeewithabaskettogatherberries.Sheknewthey

probablywouldn’tfindanything,butitwasimportanttolookeachday,ifonlyto

makethemselvesforgettheemptinessgnawingattheirbellies.

Thatevening,thechiefofthetribemadeadecision:“Wewillgodowninto

thevalleystohuntbuffalo,”heannounced.

Sacagawea’solderbrother,Cameahwait,offeredawarning.“We’llbein

dangerthere.Ourenemies,theBlackfeetandtheHidatsa,willnotletushuntbuffalo

intheirterritorywithoutafight.”

Thechiefnoddedslowly.“Itwillbedangerous.Butbettertodiequicklywith

afullbellythantostarvetodeathslowlyhereinthemountains.”

Gladthatshewouldfinallyhavefoodtoeat,Sacagaweaneverthelessfeltthe

familiarknotofworrytighteninherstomach.Shewhisperedtohermother,“If

we’reinthevalley,howwillweprotectourselves?TheHidatsahavegunsaswellas

arrows,andtherearesomanyofthem.”

Hermothersmiled,tryingtobebraveenoughforbothofthem.“We’llstay

together,Daughter,”shesaid.“Thereissafetyinnumbers.”

Thenextmorning,Sacagaweaandtheothermembersofhertribesaddled

theirhorsesandbeganthejourneyeasttowardtheplainsofWyoming.Afterseveral

days,theyfinallymadecampnearariver.Thatafternoon,thehuntersdraggedback

abigbuffalo,andSacagaweapracticallyweptforjoy.Finally,therewasenoughto

eat!Wheneveryonehadtheirfillofroastedmeat,therestwasfilletedintothin

piecestodryforjerky,andthetoughhidesweretannedforleatherforclothingand

tepees.TheShoshoneletnothinggotowaste,soeachbuffalomeantmuchworkfor

Sacagawea,hermother,andtheotherwomenandgirls.Still,Sacagaweafoundtime

toplay,chasingothergirlsandboysthroughthestandsofthintrees.Havingafull

bellymadehercheerful.

Afterseveraldays,thegoodfortuneofSacagawea’striberanout.Soonafter

thehuntingpartiesrodeout,oneriderracedbackintothecamp,crying,“Theenemy

iscoming!Awarparty!Quick,run!”

Sacagaweagaspedanddroppedtheloadofstonesshewascarrying.

“Mother!”shecried.“Mother!”Shedashedbacktotheirfamily’slodge,buther

motherandherolderbrother,Cameahwait,weren’tthere.Everywherepeoplewere

running,someintothebushestohidewiththeirchildren,othersdashingrightonto

thetrailthatledbacktotheShoshone’smountainhome.

Sacagaweadidn’tknowwhattodo.Glancingbehindher,shesawtheHidatsa

warpartyrideintocampwiththeirspearsraised.Theyalsohadguns;asagirl,

Sacagaweacalledthemthundersticks,becausetheyblastednoiseandfirelikea

thunderstorm.Breathlessly,Sacagaweaturnedandranfortheriver,hopingtocross

itandhideinthetreesontheotherside.Buttheriverwastoodeep,andflowingtoo

fast―therewasnowheretocross.Beforeshecouldfindashallowplace,aHidatsa

ridercamegallopingher.Sacagaweafeltherselfbeingpulledbyherarmontothe

backofhishorse.

Therewasnoescapenow.

Astheridersturnedandgallopedbacktothevalley,Sacagaweasawthat

severalpeoplefromhertribehadbeenkilled.Herfatherwasamongthem.Sowere

afewofherfriends.Butshecouldn’tcry.Inside,shefeltdryasabone.

*

Fromthattimeon,SacagaweaandanotherShoshonecaptive,herfriendOtter

Woman,livedwithaHidatsafamilyontheplainsofNorthDakota.Forweeks

Sacagaweathoughtofnothingbutescape.Butshewassofarfromhome.The

journeywouldbesolong.Andthereweresomanyawfulthingsalongthe

way―man‐eatingbearsandblood‐thirstyNativeAmericans.Findingherpeople

againjustdidn’tseempossible.

SacagaweaandOtterWomanwereslavesnowtoRedArrow,themanwho

hadcapturedthem.ButlifewasnotashardasSacagaweahadfeareditwouldbe.

RedArrowtreatedthegirlskindlyandfairly.Thoughtheyhadtoworkhardat

gatheringwood,tanningbuffalohides,plantingandreapingcornandother

vegetables,therewasalwaysenoughtoeat,andtheman’swivestreatedthegirls

liketheirownchildren.TheHidatsalivedinhousesmadeofmudandthatchedwith

stickroofsthatkeptouteventhestrongestwinterwind,soevenduringthefrigid

NorthDakotawintersSacagaweafeltwarmanddry.

Onenight,RedArrowinvitedaFrenchfurtrappernamedToussaint

Charbonneautohislodgetoplayagamblinggame.RedArrowwaslosing.Hebethis

gun,andlostit.Hebethisfavoriteknife,andlostit.Sacagaweawatchedsleepily

fromthecornerasRedArrow’sfaceturnedgrimandsour,andthetwomenbegan

arguingoverthebetforanewgame.CharbonneauandRedArrowdidn’tspeakthe

samelanguage,sotheycommunicatedthroughsignstheymadewiththeirhands.

Charbonneausigned,“Yousayyouhavenothinglefttobet,butyourspottedhorseis

afastrunner―notsofastasmyblackhorse,though.I’llbetmyblackhorseagainst

yourspottedone.”

RedArrowsignedback,“Ineedthespottedhorsetohuntfoodformyfamily.

Iwillnotriskmychildren’shungerinagameofhide‐the‐bone.”

Anxioustokeepwinning,Charbonneausigned,“WhatabouttheShoshone

girls?IwillbetmyfasthorseagainstyourtwoShoshonecaptives.”

Atthat,SacagaweaandOtterGirlstaredateachotherwithwideeyes,then

jumpedup,shouting,“No,no!”BythentheyhadlivedwithRedArrowandhisfamily

forseveralyears.Theydidn’twanttogowiththisFrenchfurtrapper,butifRed

Arrowbetthemandlost,theywouldhaveto.SacagaweagrabbedRedArrow’sarm

andpleaded.“OhgreatchiefRedArrow,pleasedon’tgambleusaway!We’llworkso

harditwillbeliketherearefourofus.”

ButRedArrowwouldn’tlookatSacagawea.Hesimplynoddedhisheadand

rolledthedicetocontinuethegame.Whentheblackboneappeared,Sacagaweaand

OtterWomanbegancrying.RedArrowhadlost.Thatverynight,theypackedtheir

fewthingsandfollowedCharbonneautohislodge.Eventhoughtheywerebothjust

teenagers,SacagaweaandOtterWomansoonbecameCharbonneau’swives,aswas

thecustomamongmanyNativeAmericantribesinthe1800s.

*

Afewyearspassed.OnemorningasSacagaweasatwithotherwomeninthevillage,

grindingcornintomeal,someonewhisperedsomethinginteresting:“Whitetraders

havecome,andtheyarebuildingafortneartheMandanvillage.Theirchiefsare

calledLongKnifeandRedHair.”

ThatwasthefirstSacagaweahadheardofMeriweatherLewisandWilliam

Clark.Whatshedidn’tknowthenwasthatLewis,whomtheHidatsacalledLong

Knife,andClark,whomtheycalledRedHair,hadleftWashington,D.C.,morethana

yearearlieronagreatadventure.PresidentThomasJeffersonhadmadethem

leadersofagroupofmencalledtheCorpsofDiscovery.Theirchargewastoexplore

thegreatunknownstretchesofthecountrywestoftheMississippiRiverandtofind

awaytowhatSacagawea’speoplecalledtheEverywhere‐Salt‐Water,thePacific

Ocean.Astheytraveled,theyweretokeepjournalsaboutthestrangeandwonderful

plantsandanimalstheysaw,makemaps,andperhapsmostimportantly,make

peacewiththetribesofNativeAmericanstheyencountered.

Sacagaweafeltcurious,andevenmorecuriousstillwhenoneevening

Charbonneau,herhusband,attendedaGreatCouncilbetweenLewisandClarkand

theNativeAmericanchiefs.WhenCharbonneaucamehome,hereported,“TheLong

Knifechiefswillspendthewinterintheirfort,andinthespringthey’lltravelwestto

theShoshonepeople,tobuyhorses.”

“TheShoshone!”criedSacagawea.“Mypeople!”Foralltheyearsshehad

livedawayfromherfamily,shehadneverstoppedthinkingofherfamilyandher

tribe,orgivenuphopethatshewouldseethemagain.NowLewisandClarkwere

makingplanstogotherethemselves.“They’llneedaguide,”shesaidquickly.“Anda

translatortohelpthemcommunicate.Icanguidethem.Iknowtheland.Ispeakthe

Snakelanguage.IfI’mwiththesemen,they’llbesuccessful.Otherwisemypeople

mighthide,orevenattack.”

“We’llsee,”saidCharbonneauslowly.Sacagaweawaseightmonthspregnant

withtheirfirstchild,andthoughheknewhowdeterminedSacagaweawas,he

wasn’tsureshewasstrongenoughforthetrip.

Sacagawea,however,knewshewasstrongenough.WhenLewisandClark

agreedtohaveCharbonneauandSacagaweaasguidesandinterpreters,thepair

movedtothefortwheretheCorpsofDiscoverywaitedoutthebleakwinter.That

waswhere,inFebruary1805,Sacagaweahadherbaby.Theynamedthelittledark‐

hairedboyJeanBaptiste,thoughCaptainClarkandothersintheexpeditioncalled

himPompy.CaringforPompy,andanticipatingthetripthatmightleadhertoher

family,forthefirsttimeinalongtimeSacagaweawastrulyhappy.

Onacool,foggydayinearlyApril,whenthechunksofblueiceintheriver

hadfinallybrokenup,Sacagaweastrappedhernewbornbabytoherbackand

steppedsurefootedlyintooneofseverallargeflat‐bottomedboatsthattheCorpsof

Discoverytraveledin.

“Ready?”LewiscalledtoClark.

Yes,sir,”repliedClark.OfftheyfloatedintotheMissouriRiver.Asthebreeze

tuggedatthestrandsofherlongbraid,Sacagaweafinallyallowedherselftosmile.

Shewasgoinghome.

Thejourneywasn’teasy.Theboatswereloadeddownwithwhatseemedto

Sacagaweastrangethings―books,mirrors,compasses,equipmentforhuntingand

trapping,finecloth,militarydress,tools.Therewasevenachestfullofsmallgolden

PeacemedallionsmadeespeciallyforLewisandClarks’journey,withanimageof

ThomasJeffersonononesideandoneoftwomenshakinghandsontheother.Some

ofthesethings,likethePeacemedallions,weremeanttobegiventoNative

Americansasatokenoffriendship.ThatSacagaweacouldunderstand;suchgifts

wereimportanttothesafetyofthejourney.Butsomanybooks?“Whyweighthe

boatsdownwithuselessstuff?”shesometimesthought.“We’dgettherequickerif

weletitsinktothebottomoftheMissouriRiver.”AftershesawCaptainClarkwrite

inoneofthebooksaboutanewplanthehadneverseenbefore,Sacagawea

understood.Shehadspentsomanyyearsthinkingofherpeople.Sheknewitwas

importanttorememberthings.

Oneafternoon,asCharbonneausteeredtheboatthatSacagaweaandPompey

rodein,asuddengustofwindtippedtheboat,anditstartedtofillwithwater.

“Overboard!”criedonemanasheslippedintothecoldwater.Panicking,

Charbonneaudroppedthetillerthatsteeredtheboat.Morewaterflowedin,and

boxesoffood,clothing,andequipmentbegantofloataway.

EvenwithherbabyPompycradledagainsther,Sacagaweawasn’tafraid.

Calmlyshegrabbedtheboxes,booksandpacketsbeforetheyhitopenwaterand

floateddownstream,tuckingthemintoherarmsandkeepingthemdryuntilthe

boatwasrightedandpulledashore.WhenshehandedthemovertoCaptainLewis,

heraisedhisarmswithjoy.“You’reasbraveastenmen,Sacagawea,”hesaid.

“Thankyou.”SeeingCaptainLewis’sgratitude,Sacagaweasmiledshyly.Shethought

toherself,“IwilldowhateverIcantohelpLongKnifeandRedHairfindthe

Everywhere‐Salt‐Waterandcompletetheirjourney.”

Whenfoodsuppliesranlow,Sacagaweashowedthewhitemenhowtoforage

forberriesandrootstoeat.Whentheycaughtanelk,sheboiledoutthemarrow

frominsidethebones,makinganothermealforanotherday.Justbybeinginthe

boatfromdaytoday,SacagaweashowedanywatchingIndiansthattheCorpsof

Discoverymeantnoharm.Iftheywereawarparty,theywouldn’thaveawoman

andchildwiththem.

LewisandClarkcaredforSacagawea,aswell.Whenshebecameillwitha

fever,CaptainClarkfoundasulfurspringandcarriedbackacupofmineralwater

forSacagawea.“Here,drinkthis,”hesaidgently.“Itwillmakeyoufeelbetter.”Weak

andpale,Sacagaweasippedfromthecupbeforefallingbackonherblanket.Soon,

however,herfeverbroke,andshefeltwellenoughtotravelagain.

Anotherday,Sacagawea,CaptainClark,andCharbonneauwereexploringa

ravinewhenacloudburstpeltedthemwithheavyraindrops.Strappedintothe

papooseonherback,babyPomp,usuallysoquiet,begantosquawl.“I’veneverseen

itrainthishard,”saidSacagawea.Shecouldbarelyseeherhusbandafewfeetin

frontofher.Suddenlysheheardaroaringinthedistance.Itsoundedlikeaherdof

horsesgallopingtowardthem,butinanawfulinstant,Sacagaweaknewwhatitwas:

aflashfloodcoursingthroughtheravine.“Run!”shecried.Spyingaledgeseveral

feetabovethestreambed,shedashedtowardit,withCharbonneaupullingherhand

andClarkpushingherfrombehind.Theyscrambledtosafetyandwatchedaswater

sweptoverthespotwheretheyhadbeenstandingjustafewmomentsbefore.

Throughitall,Sacagaweafocusedonwhatshewantedmorethananything:

toseeherpeople,theShoshone,again.Andsoonenough,theywereinShoshone

land.AlthoughsevenyearshadpassedsinceSacagaweahadlastbeenhereinthe

LemhiValley,sherecognizeditaseasilyasifithadbeenyesterday.Therewerethe

hillswherehermotherusedtotakehertogathergooseberries.Therewasthe

BeaverheadRiver,whereherolderbrothertaughthertofish.

OnahotAugustafternoon,SacagaweasawfourShoshonimenonhorseback

ridetowardthem.Sacagaweaspokewiththem.“Weareyourfriends,”shesaid.“I

amofyourpeople.”ShewhoLewisandClarkwereandaskedtheShoshonemento

leadthegrouptotheirvillagetomeettheShoshonechief.Theyagreed.

Atlast,Sacagaweahadreturned.Walkingintothevillage,shepeeredintothe

facesofthewomenandchildrenwhohadgatheredtogapeopen‐mouthedatthe

whitestrangers.Shewaslookingforhermother,butshedidnotseeher.She

overheardsomewomenwhisperingbehindtheirhands.“Whoisshe?”they

wondered.“Shelookssofamiliar.”

“Noonerecognizesme,”thoughtSacagaweasadly.“It’sbeentoolong.Ifonly

Icouldseemymotherormybrotheragain.”

Finallytheyreachedthebuffalohidetentthatbelongedtothechiefofthe

tribe.Thedoorflapwasopened,andSacagawea,Charbonneau,CaptainLewis,and

CaptainClarkduckedinside.Sacagaweablinkedashereyesadjustedtothedimness.

Thenshesawthechief,astrongmanwhosebroadshouldersweredrapedwitha

fur‐trimmedmantle.Sheblinkedagain.“Coulditbe?”shethought.

Thechief,lookingather,gasped.“Sacagawea?”hewhispered.

Assoonashespoke,Sacagaweaknewforcertainwhoitwas.“Cameahwait!”

shecried,throwingherarmsaroundhim.“Mybrother!”Atlonglast,Sacagaweahad

comehometoherfamily,andshecouldn’tkeepthetearsfromstreaminglikerivers

downherface.ShecriedharderwhenCameahwaittoldherthathermotherhad

diedseveralyearsearlier.Butbythetimesheleftthetepee,newshadspread.“It’s

Sacagawea,returnedtous!”thepeoplecried,andSacagaweafoundherself

surroundedbywomenandmenandchildrenwhopressedagainstherandheldher

handstowelcomeherbacktotheShoshone.

ThedaysshespentamongherShoshonetribewerejoyous.Buteventually

theCorpsofDiscoveryhadtomoveonagain.SacagaweakissedCameahwait.“Imay

noteverreturn,brother,”shesaid.

“Thenstaywithushere,”saidCameahwait.“Theseareyourpeople.Raise

yoursonhere,amongtheShoshone.”

Sacagaweaslowlyshookherhead.“Iwillalwaysloveyou,Cameahwait.ButI

belongwithmyhusbandnow,andwithLewisandClark.I’vepromisedtohelpthem

gettothegreatEverywhere‐Salt‐Water,andIwillkeepmypromise,nomatter

what.”

Cameahwaitunderstood.“Youwillalwaysbewelcomehere,Sacagawea,”he

said,liftinghisarminfarewell.

TheCorpsofDiscoverycontinuedtheirdifficultjourney.Throughthe

treacherousBitterrootMountainstheyclimbed.Menwereinjuredwhenthey

careeneddownasteepslope.Whenfoodranouthighinthesnow‐coveredpasses,

theywereforcedtoeatafewoftheirownhorsestosurvive.

Butsomewherealongthewaytheybegantohearamysterioussound,calling

themwithitsechoingvoice.ItwastheroaringwavesoftheEverywhere‐Salt‐Water.

InNovember1805,SacagaweasawthePacificOceanforthefirsttimeandcould

hardlybelievehereyes.Itwasmorewondrousthananythingshehadeverseen

before,asbig,itseemed,astheskyitself.“ForalittleShoshonegirltoseethis

majesty,”shesaid,“isamiracle.”TheCorpsofDiscoveryhadtraveledfornineteen

monthsand4,100miles,butCaptainLewisandCaptainClarkhadfinallycompleted

theirjourney.

Manymonthslater,in1806,SacagaweaandCharbonneaumadeitbackto

theirhomeintheearthenlodgeintheMandanVillage.Fortherestofherlife,men

andwomenwouldgatheraroundhertohearstoriesofhergreatadventurewiththe

whiteexplorersLewisandClark.InherSnakelanguage,shetoldofrain,snow,and

cold,ofbears,sickness,andhunger.Andshealwaysdescribedhowtheoceanlooked

glimmeringinthesunlight,andhowitmadeherfeel―likeshehadcomehome.

*

MuchoftherestofSacagawea’slifeisamystery.Somesayshediedofafever

in1812.Butothersthinksheeventuallyreturnedalonetoliveoutherdaysamong

herShoshonepeopleintheLemhiRiverValley,andthatshediedthereasanold

womanin1884.Whateverherend,Sacagaweaisoneoftheoriginaladventurersof

ourtimeandatrueAmericanheroine.

John Muir

John Muir set down his cup of tea, held up his hand, and said, “Listen. The wind

is singing.”

John was sitting in a friend’s cabin near the Yuba River in northern California.

He’d spent the night there, tucked into a cozy bed, which felt a little for John like being

the princess and the pea―just not right. Normally, on an exploring trip, John camped

outside and, before he fell asleep, he stared up at the millions of stars blinking above the

jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Once he’d even slept on a rock in the

middle of a stream. But since his friend’s cabin had been nearby, he’d spent the night

indoors for once.

Now, it seemed, the outdoors was calling to him. Thirty-six-years-old, with a

bushy brown beard that cascaded down to the middle of his chest, John listened as the

wind howled and moaned beyond the cabin walls. Then, Plack! Crack!

“What’s that?” asked his alarmed friend.

“It’s the wind,” he said, “making the pinecones and branches fly like birds.”

“Well, they’re flying right into my windows,” grumped his friend.

“Oh, now, don’t complain about the wind,” said John happily. “The wind is truly

charitable. It loves everyone the same.”

“What do you mean?” asked his friend.

“Think of the snow,” said John. “It bends only the topmost branches of the trees.

The lightning strikes only a tree here, a tree there. But the winds touch every tree, first

whispering and cooing through the branches like a sleepy child, then roaring like the

ocean. Everyone and everything feels its caress.”

Grinning now beneath his long beard, John hopped up, slipped into his coat, and

said, “I can’t stay inside while it’s calling out there. I want to see the wind storm up

close.”

His friend had known John for too long to try to persuade him to stay inside. But

he did say, “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

“In a windstorm, nature always has something to show us,” said John. “Besides,

going outside will hardly be more dangerous than crouching here beneath a roof.” With a

wink he was gone, striking off toward the highest bluff he could find.

It was a beautiful, pure-blue December day in 1874―one of those bits of

California winter that are warm and full of white sparkling sunshine. Yet even while the

damp earth hinted at spring, the wind was fierce enough to knock down a tree every two

or three minutes. For hours as he walked through the morning sunshine, John heard the

resounding CRACK of a tree trunk snapping, then a loud BOOM as the tree crashed to

the ground.

Hearing the trees fall didn’t make John nervous. He was too absorbed watching

the trees themselves dance in the winds. There were the young sugar pines, light and

feathery as squirrel-tails, that bowed almost to the ground; meanwhile, the old pines, who

had already weathered a hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their needles

shining like diamonds. The madrona trees, with their red bark and large glossy leaves,

reflected the sunshine like the surface of a lake. But the silver pines were the most

beautiful of all. Enormous trees 200 feet tall, they were rocked to the roots by the wind so

that even the biggest looked like they were trembling with excitement. To John, each tree

was wonderfully different. Each tree sang its own song, and John loved to be among

them, to hear their music.

By the middle of the day, John had scrambled to the top of the highest peak

around and admired the view into the valley. Looking up at the Douglas spruce trees that

towered above him, however, gave him an idea. “If I could climb one of those trees,” he

thought, “I’d get the best view there is, and I could hear all this wonderful wind music up

close.” He carefully chose the tallest Douglas spruce, about 100 feet tall. He was used to

climbing trees in his study of nature, so without a second thought he flung his arms

around the spruce and shimmied into the very highest branches.

At the top, John clung on tightly. The treetop was swaying so much that he felt a

bit like a bird being bobbed about on a blade of grass. But when he had caught his

breath―and reminded himself that trees like these could bend almost to the ground

without breaking―he looked around. John gasped in amazement at the shining leaves

fluttering and flapping in the winds. Even though it was winter, the colors were beautiful:

brown and purple flowers, yellow-tinged leaves, pale gray laurels. And the sounds: it was

like a symphony! The branches boomed like waterfalls; the pine-needles whistled and

murmured; the leaves clicked. John loved to hear it.

For hours, John stayed at the top of the tree, which rolled like a ship in stormy

seas, first twenty feet this way―WOOOSH―then twenty feet the other way. He never

felt motion sick, or scared of heights. Out in the wildest of places was where John felt

most at home in the world. He even thought that the movement of the trees was a bit like

the lives of people. “It never occurred to me until this storm-day,” he said later, “that

trees are travelers. They make many journeys―not long ones, it is true. But our own little

journeys, away and back again, are only little more than tree-wavings.”

At last the windstorm died down. John shimmied down the tree and slowly

walked through the calm forest toward his friend’s cabin, to tell about his adventure. Now

everything that had been in an uproar was quiet. The sun was setting, and all the snapped

trees and downed branches were hidden in the dim light. “Never before,” thought John,

“have these noble woods appeared so fresh and joyous.”

*

FromthetimeJohnMuirwasaboy,growingupinthesmalltownofDunbar,

Scotland,helovedbeingoutdoors.Perhapsyoudotoo.Johnlovedplayinggames

withhisfriendsinthestreets,clamberingupthesidesofanabandonedcastle,

racingacrossthemoors,andtakingwalksintothecountrysidewithhisgrandfather.

HeporedoverthebooksofnaturalistJohnJamesAudobon,withtheirpicturesand

storiesofNorthAmericanbirdsandforests.HelongedtoseeAmericaforhimself

oneday.

Whenhewas11,Johngothiswish.In1849,theMuirfamilymovedto

Americaandbegantofarm80acresoflandinWisconsin.ForJohn,itwasheaven.

Therewerebluejay’snestsandwoodpecker’sneststostudy;frogs,snakes,turtles,

andinsectstoadmire;animaltracksandburrowstodiscover.SinceJohnandhissix

brothersandsistersdidn’tgotoschool,sincetheirdadwantedthemtohelpwith

thefarm,theyspentalldayoutofdoors.“Herewithoutknowingitwestillwereat

school,”hesaidlater,“everywildlessonalovelesson.Thissuddensplashintopure

wilderness―howutterlyhappyitmadeus!”

Itwouldhavebeenperfect,exceptforJohn’sfather.DanielMuirwasterribly

strict,andfromthetimetheirfarmhousewasbuilt,hemadesurethatJohnandhis

brothersdidnothingalldaybutworkonthefarm.BydayJohnplowedthefieldsfor

planting;intheeveninghechoppedfirewoodandfedtheanimals.IfJohneventried

togetadrinkofwater,hisfathermightwhiphimfornotworking.Therules

extendedintothehousetoo.Nosinging.Nodancing.Notalkingatthedinnertable.

Forawhilethefamilyateonlyonemealaday.Justtohavetimeawayfromhiscruel

father,Johnstartedwakingupinthemiddleofthenightandsneakingdownintothe

basementtoread.

Atage21,JohnfinallygotawaytocollegeinMadison,Wisconsin.Studying

science―rocks,plants,animals―thatwaspurefunforJohn.Hestillescapedoutside

wheneverhecould,findingaperchinatreewherehecouldread,orswimmingin

LakeMendotaafterclasses.Healsolinedtheshelvesabovehisbedwithplantsand

flowers.

Still,therewasnoescapingtheitchJohnfelttogetoutsideandwander.After

alifetimeoflivingwithhisstrictfather,whodidn’tlethimseeanything,John

wantedtoseeeverything!Whenhewas25,Johnleftschoolforgoodandbecamea

vagabond,travelingallovertheUnitedStatesandbeyond.Hewalkedallthewayto

Florida,wherehegotmalaria,aterriblefeverdisease.Localsfoundhimcollapsed,

unconscious,onatrailhewasexploring,andtheytookcareofhimformonthstillhe

wasbetter.FromFloridaJohnsailedtoCuba,atropicalislandintheCaribbean

ocean,thenontoNewYork.Runningoutofmoneyandstillnotfeelingquitewell,

JohndecidedthatnextonhislistwasexploringCalifornia.Hehoppedonasteamer

shipandmadethetripjustbeforehis30thbirthday.ItturnedoutthatCaliforniawas

whereJohnMuirfoundwhathewaslookingfor.

*

ItwasYosemiteValley,awildernessareanorthofSanFrancisco,thatleft

Johnawestruck.Itwassodifferentfromanythinghehadeverseenbefore.The

toweringmountains.Themagnificent,thunderingwaterfalls.Thetreesthattowered

higherthanthebuildingshehadseeninNewYork.Walkingthroughthevalleysand

climbingupthepeaks,Johnfeltsohappythathesometimesburstoutsinging.Once

heevenscaredabrownbearfromaberrybushwithhismusicalinterlude.

Johndidn’tjustadmirethebeautyofYosemite.Hestudiedit.Withhissharp

eye,henoticedchangesintherockthatindicatedthepresenceoflong‐agoglaciers.

Heliedonhisstomachtostudyrockswithhismagnifyingglass.

Oneafternoon,JohndecidedhewantedtoseeYosemiteFalls.Thehighest

waterfallinNorthAmerica,itwindsthroughEagleCreekMeadowbeforeplunging

2,425feet―almosthalfamile―downthesideofagraygranitecliff.ButJohndidn’t

justwanttoadmirethefallsfrombelow;he’ddonethatalready.Hewantedtoknow

whatitwasliketolookrightdownthefalls―tobethewater,inacertainsense.

Althoughthesprayfromthefallsturnstherocksanywherenearitslippery

withcoldwater,thatdidn’tstopJohn.First,hecarefullyremovedhisshoes;he’d

needhistoestohelphimgripthewetstone.Thenhewalkedascloseashecouldget

totheicywater.Atinyledgeextendedoutanothertwentyorthirtyfeet,rightto

wherethewaterroaredpast.Mostpeoplewouldthinkitwasfartoodangerous.But

notJohn.“Iwanttoseewhatthewatersees,”hethought.Slowly,carefully,heinched

onhisbarefeetouttothetipoftheledge.Waterdrippeddownhisfaceandranlike

tinyriversthroughhisbeard.Withonestep,onewobble,Johncouldfalltohisdeath.

Buthedidn’tthinkaboutthat.Hejustclosedhiseyesandabsorbeditall―howcold

thewaterwas,andhowlouditsounded.Afterawhilehecreptback,driedoff,put

hisshoesbackon,andwalkedhome.

AsmuchashehelovedYosemite,JohnMuirwantedtoexploreotherpartsof

theworld―thewilderthebetter.Hecouldn’tresistachancetosailtoAlaskawitha

friendandseeicyglaciersupclose.Oneday,Johnsetouttostudyalargeglacier.

Stickeen,hisfriend’slittleblackdog,followedhimoutofcamp.“Shoo,Stickeen,”

Johnsaid.“Thisadventurewillbetoolongandhardforyou.Besides,Ionlyhavethis

littlecrustofbreadtoeat―notenoughforbothofus.”

ButStickeenwouldn’tshoo,andsoonJohngaveup.Theysharedthecrustof

breadforalatebreakfast.WhenJohnnoticedthatthesharpicewascutting

Stickeen’spawsandmakingthembleed,heshreddedabitofclothtotiearound

eachofthedog’spaws.Stickeenlickedhishandingratitude.“He’sabitofwork,”

thoughtJohn,“butagoodtravelingcompanion.”

Glaciersareriddledwithcrevasses―bigcracksintheicethatsometimes

dropdownhundredsoffeet.Fallinoneandyoumaynevergetbackout,Johnknew.

Asbraveashewas,Johnwasverycarefulwhenitcametocrevasses,especiallya

largeoneliketheeight‐footgapthatstretchedbeforehimandStickeennow.“Come

on,Stickeen,jump!”Johncalledasheleaptover.Stickeenbarkedandleapedafter

him.Theymadeit!Becausethefarsidewaslowerthanthesidethey’dcomefrom,

Johnknewthattheywouldn’tbeabletoleapbacktheotherway,evenwitha

runningstart.They’dhavetopressforward―andthey’dhavetohurry.Withso

manycrevasses,walkingontheglacierinthedarkwastoodangerous,andspending

thenightontheglacier,withoutanysortofshelter,moredangerousstill.Theyhad

tomakeitbacktocampbeforenightfall.

Johnpickedupthepace.SodidStickeen.Withthehelpofhiscompass,John

couldtelltheyhadalmostmadeafullcircleontheglacierandshouldbeheaded

backthedirectiontheyhadcome,backtowardthecamp.That’swhenJohnsawit:a

giantcrevasseatleastfiftyfeetwide,cuttingrightacrosstheirpath.“Uhoh,”John

said.“Howwillwegetacrossthisone?”Stickeen,sensingJohn’sworry,whimpered.

“Don’tworry,Stickeen,Iseeaway.There’sanicebridge.It’sthinasarazor,

yes,butit’lldo.Nowwejusthavetogetdownthere.”Usinghisiceax,Johnmade

smallpocketsforhisfeetsohecouldclimbdowntheicewalltogettothebridge.

Thenhestartedwalkingeversoslowlyacross.Stepbystep,inchbyinch.Whenhe

glanceddown,hesawonlydarkness.Whoknewhowdeepthecrevassewas,orhow

longhewouldfallifhetookawrongstep?“Can’tthinkaboutthatnow,”John

muttered,andshakingoffhisnervousness,hekeptonwalking.Atlasthemadeitto

theothersideandcarvedanothericeladdertoclimbtothetopoftheglacier.

Theonlyproblemwas,Stickeenwasstillontheotherside.Bythenthedog

wasdesperatelyworried,pacingbackandforth,whimpering,howling.“Comeon,

Stickeen,hereboy,”Johncalled,butStickeenonlylaiddownandburiedhisnosein

thesnow.“Youcandoit,”criedJohn.“Youhaveto!”Thesunwasstartingtofallin

thesky,andtheycouldn’tstayoutheremuchlonger.

Finally,Stickeenmadearunforit.Withhisbandagedfrontpaws,Stickeen

crambleddownthesideofthecrevasseandmadehiswayacrosstheicebridge.

Johnwastryingtofigureouthowhe’dlifthimbackuptheothersidewhenStickeen

madearunningstartandleapeduptheicepocketsJohnhadcarved,straightpast

Johntosafetyontheglacier.“Goodboy,Stickeen,youdidit,”Johnsaidashepatted

Stickeen’ssofthead.Withthedogtrottingathisside,Johnwalkedquicklybackto

campandwarmedupbythefire.

*

JohnMuirhadsomuchfunexploringthewildernessthatitwashardforhim

towanttostayinoneplace.ButatlasthefellinlovewithLouieStrentzel,the

daughterofawealthyrancher.Atage42JohnandLouiemarried,andthepair

settleddownonahouseonLouie’sparents’ranch,whereJohngrewpears,grapes

andcherriestosell.Soontheyhadtwoprettydark‐haireddaughters,Wandaand

Helen.Johnbecameadotingfather.Atbedtimehemadeupwonderfulstoriesabout

akidnamedPaddyGrogan,anIrishboywhorodeakangaroo.Hetookthegirlsinto

thefieldsandtoldthemthenamesoftheflowers.Ononelongwalk,Johnsaid,“You

seethathilloverthere?Theonewiththesilverpineontop?”

“Yes,”saidWanda.

“I’mnamingitMountWanda.Andthatotherone,overthere―yousee

it?―that’sMountHelen.”

HelenandWandagiggled.“Canyoudothat,Father?”

Johnpuffeduphischestandfluffedouthisgrizzledgraybeard.“Ijustdid.”

Asmuchashelovedhiswifeanddaughters,beingafarmerwaswearingon

him,andovertimehegrewthinnerandcrankier.Finallyhiswife,Louie,grabbedhis

armandsaid,“John,youneedtogetbacktothewoodsforalittlewhile.Itsuitsyou.”

Johnlookeddown.“Butthefamily,andthefarm…,”hesaid.

Louiekissedhimonthecheek.“John,Iknowthatyoulovemeandthegirls.

Butthewildernessisalwayscallingyou,isn’tit,evenwhenyou’rehereontheranch.

GobacktoYosemite,andreturntouswhenyougetyourwildernesshealthback.

You’llbehappier,andsowillwe.”

Gratefulforhisunderstandingwife,JohnsetoutagainforYosemite,theplace

hehadvisitedoverandoveragainandspentsomanyyearsasayoungman.Ithad

beenseveralyearssincehislastvisit.Thistime,in1889,Johnimmediatelynoticed

allthewaysYosemitehadchanged―andnotforthebetter.Standsoftalltreeshad

beencutdownforlumber.Cattleandsheephadovergrazedthemeadowssothat

manyofthegrassesandplantswerecompletelygone.Peopleweredumpingthings

intothewateraboveYosemite.AllofitmadeJohnsicktohisstomach.“We’vegotto

dosomethingtoprotectYosemite,”Johncomplainedtohisfriend,theeditorofa

magazine.“WeneedtoturnYosemiteintoanationalpark,sothatnoonewillbe

abletologorfarmhereanymore.Itwillstaywildforourgrandchildrenandtheir

grandchildrentoenjoy.”

“Whydon’tyouwriteaboutit,andmymagazinewillpublishyourwords?”

suggestedhiseditorfriend.“We’llworktogethertochangethings.John’smagazine

articlesaboutthedestructioninYosemiteappearedashortwhilelater,andsoon

everyonewastalkingaboutYosemite.Noteveryoneagreedaboutwhatshouldbe

done.Somepeoplethoughtitwasonlyrightthatranchers,farmersandlumberman

hadaccesstothegreatresourcesoftheYosemitevalley.Butafewimportant

governmentofficialsrecognizedthatitwasimportanttopreserveplacesofnatural

wonderintheUnitedStates.InOctober1890Congresspassedabillthatmade

Yosemiteanationalpark.Johnhadwon!

Johnhadalreadyspentmuchofhislifeexploringandwritingaboutthe

wilderness.Nowhesawthathecouldusehisknowledgetosavethewildernesshe

lovedfrompeoplewhocoulddamageit.Togatherwithpeoplewholovednatureas

muchashedidandwhobelieveditwasimportanttoprotectit,Johnstartedaclub.

HecalledittheSierraClub.Thedaytheclubwasorganized,therewere27

members,whoelectedJohntheSierraClubpresident.NowtheSierraClubisoneof

thebiggestenvironmentalorganizationsintheworld,withmorethanamillion

memberswhoworktoprotectplants,animalsandotherwildthings.

Fortherestofhislife,beforehisdeathin1914atage76,Johnfoughttosave

thenaturalwondersofAmerica.Hedidn’talwayswin.Despitealongbattleto

protectit,thebeautifulHetchHetchyValleynearYosemitewasfloodedwhenadam

wasbuiltthere.Still,bysharinghispassionatelovefornature,Johntaughtothers

thatourworldisagiftthatweneedtoprotectandtakecareof.Heoncesaid,

“Everybodyneedsbeautyaswellasbread,”whichmeansthatseeingthebeautiful

thingsoutsideispracticallyasimportantaseating.

Butyoudon’thavetogoYosemite,orAlaska,oranyplaceelsetodoit.Just

lookoutsideyourwindow.Whatdoyousee?Trees?Grass?Abird’snest?Enjoyit.

Keepitclean.LikeJohnMuir,helpkeepAmerica’snaturalplacesbeautiful.