Mid day sun streams through the canopy, and I am feeling the presence of vernal influences…
The blissful places I have been missing for a while beckon to me…
All winter we have had pelting rain storms one after another, and Northern California is officially declared over the drought while reservoir spillways gush furiously!
Something about the approach of the equinox softens nature to a sweetness indescribable…
So I will leave off and show you the latest I’ve made,
a pair of trail socks!
…with my recent discovery of the snugger heel stitch foot, these socks are now ready for adventure!
Went out for a lovely knitting walk in the late afternoon today, and caught the golden fields at their height and most fragrant as the rain has come, and it won’t be long before they become dull and brown and beaten down by the strong winds up here on the ridge.
Leaves falling along one of our newer trails, a shortcut home through the edge of black oak woods (can you see the sticks ahead which mark the path?). Emma and I have really upped our game, and are walking religiously since day one of Autumn , and I’m knitting bunches as we walk. Grateful that Autumn has greeted us with some cool weather and…. did I mention that it rained last night? Everything is in its place, and life is good.
I so admire the man who found personal transformation and a sense of home deep in the wilderness of the High Sierra Nevada mountains, and fought to bring his experience of the territory into the lives of the general masses with his writing and activism. The masses who from a distance were readily destroying virgin wilderness with logging, mining, dam-building, and all manners of disregard in the turn of the last century. That man is John Muir, said to be the Father of Modern Environmentalism. That man is the man who made his home along the very lakes in the Sierra Nevada which I have camped, and who divided himself limb to limb to bring the High Sierra to the world, in attempt to protect it, its wildlife, the giant old-growth sequoias, and perfect beauty of the high mountain wilderness.
John Muir , born April 21, 1838 – died December 24, 1914, was a Scottish-American naturalist & author, environmental philosopher and early advocate of preservation of wilderness in the United States. His letters, essays, and books telling of his adventures in nature, especially in the Sierra Nevada of California, have been read by millions. His activism helped to preserve the Yosemite Valley, Sequoia National Park, and other wilderness areas. The Sierra Club, which he founded, is a prominent American conservation organization. The 211-mile (340 km) John Muir Trail, a hiking trail in the Sierra Nevada was named in his honor. read more ….
Yosemite Valley, by Carleton Watkins, John Muir’s friend and photographer.
In case you didn’t know, I am an experienced hiker of John Muir territory, although it’s been a time since I’ve returned there. As a bit of proof, take photos below backpacking eight days along John Muir’s High Route, culminating on the peak of Mount Whitney in August of 2001.
Above photo is of our group, Jeff directly behind me, all of us tired but totally and completely gratified.
And that’s me at the Mount Whitney plaque , quite exhausted and glacier-burnt in the face, from the epic trip but also from the push up from Guitar Lake that morning. Mount Whitney was for that eight-day trek the end of the line, and of the John Muir High Country Route. I nearly am dumb-struck just to take in the scope of the majestic granite mountain, and to realize that I actually was at the top of it!
I could go on indefinitely about John Muir’s High Country, but let me not ramble too much on side-trails and back-story, and let me bring attention to this noble creature…
Wild mountain sheep! In fact, the very wild sheep ( subspecies of ovis montana ) which inhabit the High Sierra and who’s tufts of downy wool Muir found and mused him to write a pithy chapter entitled “Wild Wool” from his publication Steep Trails.
“…pure wildness is the one great want, both of men and of sheep.”
” Give to Nature every cultured apple — codling, pippin, russet — and every sheep so laboriously compounded — muffled Southdowns, hairy Cotswolds, wrinkled Merinos — and she would throw the one to her caterpillars, the other to her wolves.”
“…and our wild sheep, wading in snow, roaming through bushes, and leaping among jagged storm-beaten cliffs, wears a dress so exquisitely adapted to its mountain life that it is always found as unruffled and stainless as a bird.”
excerpts from “Wild Wool” by John Muir
Visit Sierra Club archives to read“ Wild Wool “from John Muir’s “Steep Trails”, 1918
This is part one of a two-part post about John Muir, the High Sierra, and a new design which has come out of it. ( Stay tuned for Part Two forthcoming !) In the meantime, I hope you really do read Wild Wool and acquaint yourself with some of John Muir’s writing of High Sierra Wilderness, and of the wild sheep.
I have managed in an all-out flurry to design & knit these Ridges mitts!
An addition to Altitude Ridges Cowl, Ridges Mitts are pretty monumental in that they set precedent for additional hand accessories for two remaining of All Three Cowls.
These cowls & mitts are designs I am really working hard to put together in time for holiday knitting ~~ so feel free to check out the pattern on Yarnings HERE or on Ravelry HERE.
So now I’ll leave you with lots of photos from our hike up to the peak this morning. This photo taken from my latest secret rock outcropping near the peak, facing northerly and overlooking from the ridge in the direction of middle Napa Valley (around Yountville & Oakville)
On the way down from the peak, this panorama overlooking southerly at distant San Francisco Bay Area (left of center) and Mt. Tamalpais (right of center) . . . and if you look closely. . .
you’ll see buildings rising up through fog, behind the distorted mirage-like zoom view over the bay and marsh land , and you can see the city of San Francisco itself which is about 50 miles away by crow.
Beyond that, Autumn is picking up it’s pace here, and getting the first real blustery cold day for the mountain. Emma and I have been walking a lot more mornings in the week to the peak, and enjoying ourselves thoroughly.
Oh , I forgot to mention, the first photo at the top of post right at the start of hike, looking South East in the direction of Mt. Diablo (the double-crested mountains) Of course, the purpose of this morning’s photo-hike was to capture my local ridges to accompany latest pattern ~ Altitude Ridges Mitts !
Tarnished brass hooks on an old oak barrel stave, an artifact from attic, something my mother bought decades ago, and I remember it even then. Now, cut down to fit a new space, and hung again, the row of hooks hold felted wool nests of yarn & needles hanging with purpose midway fulfilled, rounds unfinished, in perpetual knitting motion on the trails which I walk, we walk, Emma and I.
One foot and one paw, in front of the other, we advance over the chaotic forest floor in unison, attempting to find a familiar path to stake. A knitting trail to rake aside the stones and the fallen branches from wind storms, to walk mornings and evenings, while knitting and smelling the wildlife’s potent presence, we go forth. These felted bags seem happy and purposeful, each of them filled with a different knitting project, they wait their turn as well-loved servants.
As the summer wanes, the air brings quiet subtle twinges of Autumn, and my skin nearly feels the rain that will come two months from now. Autumn is knit-walking season for me, when the forest has an aroma of spice the trails beckon us and knitting explodes into form. I am happy to say that I am finally getting to the hard work of the long-talked-about Knitting Trail. Glimpses here and there, and everywhere will be seen as the days shorten and the walks lengthen, and these bags hold secrets one day to be revealed, as will sections of trail with the rustic forested sitting spots, glimpses to be shared here for you to gather and sit with me.
Here & now, in the stale weeks left of summer, I try to maintain a sense of productivity. I can nearly count the days until the Autumnal Equinox, as it always becomes a very longed-for event in my life, when I am once again as a giddy child. Six weeks and four days . . .
