There is a small stone hut sitting on top of a mountain in the high
reaches of the Sierra Nevada; a hut made from native rock quarried by hand from the mountain sides and carried through the passes and canyons where no trees grow; in the thin air far above the tree line where the pines, firs, and cedars so common in most other parts of the Sierra can no longer take root and flourish or even survive; a rock enclosure shaped like a Sherpa’s hat; a hut with no amenities other than a small stone fireplace which might just barely manage to ward off the effects of the freezing winds of the High Sierra – it might manage, that is, if there was any wood nearby with which to feed the tiny flames one might just possibly be able to coax into life. But this hut is far above and miles away from where any firewood could be found and gathered, and once found the wood needed would then have to be carried for many miles along a rocky trail and thousands of feet up in elevation to finally get it to the threshold of the cold hearth of this fireplace; carried by hand, or on one’s back. The hut is roomy enough to comfortably house a small group of people for a brief period of time. In fact it would be better if the traveler who comes upon it were indeed part of such a group, for the collective body heat of several friends would easily generate more warmth than the tiny fire which might happen to flicker into life here. Yet those hopeful flames must be guarded well, for the mortar holding the stones in place within the walls has crumbled into a fine dust in many places between those rocks, and that dust whips about the dark interior of the hut as the high mountain wind blows through the cracks, sending particles of pulverized rock into your nose, your mouth, your eyes and lungs; while at the same time making the tiny fingers of your young fire dance and bend to its unpredictable whim. There is, of course, no light in this hut once you have closed the door to keep out the freezing chill, and there won’t be unless you have brought a source of light with you. The glow from your new fire barely casts a shadow far enough for you to see the few extra pieces of wood you have stacked nearby in the hopeful yet unrealistic expectation of a warm night. One’s first thought might be to wrap an old rag around a stout piece of wood and dip it into the flames to make a torch, as this would instinctually fit with the somewhat medieval atmosphere of desolate rock and looming danger in which you now find yourself. But stout pieces of wood are far too heavy to carry all this way along the trail and what you have already just barely managed to haul up this mountain might more laughably and generously be classified as merely sticks. As you are by now wearing every piece of clothing you have brought with you up this trail of stone, there are no bits of cloth to spare for such fanciful things as torches. So, the murky medieval mood of the oncoming night notwithstanding, the option of chasing away the dark with a brave flame from a smoking torch is probably not going to come to fruition. As your eyes have adjusted to the gloom you can now see that there’s a bit of light coming through the cracks in the walls along with the wind. In fact, if you let your gaze drift upward to the conical stone ceiling you can see the dim fading light of the evening reaching in from up there as well, and the thought passes through your mind that perhaps this stone cottage which appeared so firm on the outside just might not be as stout as it seemed upon first sight; that just maybe your haste for shelter from the wind and the dark might have clouded your judgment; that you might well be better off taking your chances outside with the elemental furies of nature. So you open the door again as you consider the possible benefits of leaving and feel the blast of the icy wind as it finds every small opening in your clothing and instantly freezes the skin beneath. No, leaving this place is not an option which a reasonable traveler should consider. So with the door firmly closed once again and with a reluctant mental nod toward the Lesser of Two Evils you fumble through your pack and find your lantern, turning the adjustment knob up a bit so that the flame won’t die immediately after birth, then lighting it with a match from the small box still lying on the hearth after your somewhat questionable success with the fireplace. But, unlike your earlier effort, the flame on the lamp roars into life and floods you with relief, and the glow that spreads from it throughout the hut does more to warm your spirits than the fireplace has so far managed. You raise the lamp and look around. There, off to one side, is unquestionably an attempt to fashion some seating out of the native stone. With relief you move over and sit down to take the weight off your tired feet, but the cold quickly penetrates through your layers of clothing to chill your butt and legs more effectively than even the icy wind outside. So you stand again, holding the lamp high and turning slowly as your gaze revolves about the room to examine this lonely shelter which you have unexpectedly stumbled upon. But there’s nothing here to examine; no tables or chairs; no cot or stove; no cupboard full of food or cistern full of water - of course there’s no water, for water in this part of the Sierra is as nonexistent as that firewood which cost so much labor. So you set your glowing lantern down on the stone hearth and again rummage through your pack, finding things you know are there through the way they feel on your fingers and pulling them one by one out from the dark recesses of your pack to line them up on the hearth next to the lamp. Your stove is first; a small cylinder of gas with a burner atop and a holder for your mug. The mug comes out next. Then comes your packet of coffee. You reach to the side and unfasten the bottle of water, filling the cup with it from one hand while you pour the coffee grounds out with the other. Setting these two ingredients down you light the stove, take the cup in one hand and swirl the contents, then set the cup over the burner for what you hope will be a quick heat to a boil. And it probably is a quick heat, but it seems like an eternity to you. Every few seconds you pick the cup up and swirl it some more because even with the glow from the lamp you can’t really tell in the shadows which surround you if the coffee is dissolving into the water. Your nose gives you the first clue that this has happened as the comforting aroma of hot coffee begins to fill the hut despite the constant wind which tries its best to steal the scent from your hovering nostrils. And when you first begin to see the tiny bubbles start to rise and pop you know that your coffee is finally ready. You turn down the flame and pick up the cup by the handle, then tentatively wrap the fingers of both hands around it to suck the heat from it into your body before that thief-of-a-wind manages to snatch it away. The coffee, when you finally put the cup to your lips and let a few drops trickle in, is by far the finest you’ve ever tasted, and you can’t help but smile happily as you sit alone there in the flickering darkness. The rest of the coffee goes down quickly and while it is still hot, warming at least that part of you between mouth and stomach with its actual heat and at the same time warming the rest of your body with the comfortable thought that you have managed to make a fire, generate some light, and boil a hot drink in the midst of being caught in an unexpected Sierra storm. Moving quickly now, before that warmth fades away, you unroll your pad and sleeping bag next to the hearth and, turning off your lamp, crawl in to pass the night. As the wind howls through the cracks in the walls and the dust from the mortar blows around you and you listen to what your imagination tells you must be the fiercest storm in Sierra history raging to a crescendo around you, you then realize that there is one more thing you should probably do. So you roll out of your warm bag back into the almost total darkness of the hut and again feel your way along the inside and outside of your pack, picking out the bits and pieces you will need for this next task. In the close blackness you begin now to assemble your tent, your fingers moving quickly and surely as if they hold the knowledge in their tips of how it is done, for indeed they now do after so many days and nights on the trail. Then you stuff your pad and sleeping bag inside the hastily assembled tent and climb in after them, sliding back in and zipping it up and curling quickly into a fetal ball, closing your eyes and listening to the night, comfortable in the thought that, since the stone roof seems to hold as many openings as the walls, at least you won’t get wet now if rain should find its way into those cracks along with the wind. Then another thought comes, perhaps this one not quite as comforting; that should these shaky stone walls and spiraling roof fail to hold against the wind and happen to fall in upon you, at least you won’t see what is coming your way and the end will be quick. No, that’s probably not really a comforting thought. Then, although you don’t know how you manage to do it, you fall asleep soundly to spend a surprisingly comfortable night; a night in what you later discover is the John Muir Hut, an artful pile of stone at twelve thousand feet in elevation which sits atop the treeless desolation of Muir Pass in Kings Canyon National Park, framed on the crest of the Sierra between Mount Solomons and Mount Warlow, marking the halfway point of the John Muir Trail as it winds its way from Yosemite to Mount Whitney. A hut not built by John Muir; a hut in which he never actually even stayed as it was constructed long after his death, but a hut which was built to stand as a token to his memory and as a nod of recognition for all that he did to preserve the mountains which surround it. Its design was based upon alpine huts commonly constructed in Italy which had been in use for centuries. It was built by members of the Sierra Club and funded by a donation from one of its members. The stone for its construction was cut out of the mountain, while the mortar was packed up to the site along with the sand with which it was mixed. Even the water to mix these two ingredients together into cement had to be packed up the mountain almost ten miles. The rock walls fade inward to a conical roof which spirals above you to a point without beam or truss to support it. When it was completed in 1930 its cost was just under six thousand dollars, not much in a modern sense yet at that time it was far more than the cost of a fairly large and comfortable house would have been in most California cities. The donation of the money, therefore, was generous; but the donation of the time, the labor, and the loving care which went into its construction was even more so. The wind, snow, and ice have taken their toll over the past nine decades; the walls may have cracks and the roof may show more than a few holes; yet the Muir Hut still stands staunchly to honor the man after whom it was named; in a rocky pass on a high mountain where only the true and dedicated lovers of the Sierra will ever visit to see and appreciate it, and this is perhaps just the way John Muir would have liked it. So you have come to this hut on top of the world which few people know even exists; you have just made fire, boiled a hot drink, and slept soundly in the beautiful desolation of the High Sierra; accomplishments in which you should find happiness and of which you should be proud. But not too proud - John of the Mountains did it many times and on many mountain tops in his years of traversing the Sierra, and he did so without the benefit of the tent, the sleeping bag, and the hut, with just a thin blanket of wool and the endless blanket of stars to cover him at night, and a journal on his lap in which to write the thoughts which we still read and appreciate a century later. All by himself in a lonely place, high on an empty mountain; a scene into which he placed himself as often as possible; a place which we should perhaps all seek at least once in our lives.
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AuthorWith a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books. Archives
July 2017
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy, the official 501(c)(3) nonprofit partner of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks (National Park Service) and Lake Kaweah (U.S. Army Corps of Engineers), uses tax-deductible contributions to support these parks.
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy
47050 Generals Hwy Unit 10 Three Rivers, CA 93271 |