John Muir's Adventures With Dogs: A story re-enactment. Part ll: Stickeen.

• John Muir's fascinating experiences with dogs (i.e., Carlo & Stickeen)  in the wild
• recounted by story-teller Howard Clifford 

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Transcript

Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai

Welcome to the Reverie Nature Podcast. This is part two of an episode that explores John Muir's fascinating wilderness adventures with dogs, as reenacted by storyteller Howard Clifford. Just in case you're not familiar with John Muir yet, he's a Scottish-born American naturalist, author and early advocate for the preservation of wilderness in the United States.

He is often referred to as the father of the national parks, due to his pivotal role in the establishment of several national parks, including Yosemite. In part one of this episode, John Muir recounts his experiences in the wilderness with a dog named Carlo. In part two, we hear about Muir's adventures with a dog named Stakeen, which accompanied him during an Alaskan expedition.

In the Reverie Nature Podcast, you can expect to find a wide variety of topics on the nature experience. From bushcraft, survival skills, nature lore, animal tracks and sign, story telling, nature soundscapes and much more. These are the lessons and skills I've been teaching for decades.

So before we dig in, please take a moment to subscribe and consider offering your support to the podcast. Now let's hear Howard Clifford do his reenactment of John Muir with Stakeen. It was the second dog that made the biggest impact on me.

It was 11 years later, so I had much more experience. I was sitting in a canoe at Fort Wrangell, Alaska. The Indian crew were seated waiting to go.

We were going to be exploring the southeast of Alaska to explore the icy regions, glaciers, the love of my life. We were just waiting for the Reverend Samuel Hall Young to come aboard because he was going to be visiting Indian tribes along the way. I had met him the year before.

We had had a wonderful experience together. We had become, in that short period of time, great friends. Now here he was, walking down toward the canoe, and he had with him this small dog.

The dog immediately stepped into the canoe, settled down on the luggage, and just made himself at home. I couldn't believe my eyes. How could he come with us? And so I said as much.

I said, please return this dog. Let him play with the children. He can't go where we're going.

It's no place for him. He'll perish. But Reverend Young smiled, and he said, he'll be fine.

He loves the cold water. He swims like a seal. He endures hunger.

He'll be no problem at all. And then I tried to argue, but no one took my side. And so I had to let it be.

I was told that Stakeen was his name, that he had been given to Young's wife shortly after his birth by an Irish trader. And when she brought him back to Fort Wrangle, the Indians loved him. And they actually named him after the river and the place that they lived, Stakeen.

At this point in time, he was two years of age. And unlike Carlo, who was large and whose breed was obvious, he was a St. Bernard, this dog was small. And I couldn't even see any particular breed that stood out.

He had short legs, dark, long, silky hair. And when this hair was hit by any gust of wind, it gave him a shabby look. And he had two tan patches above his eyes.

And from the beginning, I knew he was exceptionally aloof, a completely independent spirit. If anything, I sort of sensed that he had a trait of two, of fox. I was later told by Young that he had always been an excellent judge of human character.

Well, on the canoe trip, he never seemed to be paying attention to anything. His nose just over the rail of the canoe. But he was always aware.

He seemed to just know when we were about to head for a campground. And as we approached, he would suddenly jump out and dive overboard into this icy cold water and swim the shore. He would shake himself off and then disappear to hunt small game.

I noticed another very disconcerting trait that he had. When we went ready, packed up, ready to leave, suddenly he was nowhere to be found. But the Indians, they knew him.

And they paid no attention that he wasn't there. They just paddled off. And then each time, five, ten minutes later, we would see something swimming in the water, efficiently, no worry, catching up to us.

It was sticking. Somebody would grab him by the collar and pull him aboard. And he just seemed to know exactly what was happening.

And over the next two or three days, I realized that I had seriously underestimated him. I never thought a dog of his size could be a wilderness dog, comfortable in the wilderness. And I was beginning to enjoy his company.

The other thing I noticed was each day, one of the Indians would have been assigned to go hunting for food. And the king would always follow that person, except when he saw me going off in a different direction. Then he would follow me, even though I had no gun and I wasn't a hunter.

He seemed to be more interested in what I was up to than even the hunt. Well, finally we reached Taylor Bay. And today you'd know it as part of the Glacier National Park.

And this is what I'd been waiting for. I could hardly contain my excitement. A living glacier.

And I knew first thing in the morning I was going to be up early, have a quick breakfast, and off for a full day of studying this glacier. Early in the morning I was up, and my day was even more perfect. Because a fierce storm had set upon us.

I couldn't believe my good luck. I guess I should explain. To me, you can't begin to know nature unless you experience all of its faces.

If you only enjoy summer, sunny and rain-free walks, if you're part of the picnic route, you only touch a surface, a fragment of what nature means. You're really a stranger to nature. If you experience nature in all of its faces, you learn to adapt.

If it's raining, you find it's easy to shelter under a tree and just observe and enjoy the fresh air, the smells. If you haven't experienced sleeping in snow, thunderstorms, lightning, winds, floods, droughts, then you don't understand nature. I recall visiting friends in Yuba Valley, and a strong gale forest wind came up.

They went inside and urged me to do the same. But how could I miss this wonderful display of nature? Outdoors, these giant trees were crashing through the ground. Just think of the power.

Feel the power of these winds. But as I was out there, I sensed the real action is in the canopy. It's up there where the tree troughs were swaying back and forth.

That's where you would really feel and come to grips with the power of nature. I knew I must get to the top. Now, many people have thought I must have a death wish or just recklessly foolish.

But I knew they were risks. But each time I pushed myself to the limit, it increased my knowledge, my understanding, gave me new ways to adapt, to assess the risks, and actually reduce the risks. I noticed above, the sway, the arc of these tree troughs was 20 to 30 feet back and forth.

But I also knew that this wonderful Douglas fir, that this was within the limits of their resiliency, their ability to withstand. And I also picked a Douglas fir that was within a grove of firs. Because if it toppled, it would be caught by its neighbors and it would be held up.

It would actually be safer up there than on the ground where the trees could come and hit me. But this kind of knowledge comes only from accumulated experience. I weighed the risk against the values that the experience offered.

So I climbed this 100-foot Douglas. And at the top, oh, I just felt so out of control. The power of the gale winds.

I felt like a bobberling concrete. I could just cling, relying completely that nature had prepared these giants for such a time. I felt like I was part of an orchestra dancing wildly and freely in the storm.

Over time, I was able to focus on the view. How different than from the forest floor. Imagine the array of aromas and fragrances carried from miles away.

The scent of sea salt. How glorious this was. I frequently closed my eyes so I could focus on the music.

The storm created music. Original music. I had never heard the lights before.

Finally, the storm died down. My friends were so relieved that I was safe. I only wish they could have shared my experience.

But I couldn't share it with them. They had nothing in their experience to compare it with. They really knew nothing about nature at its basic elements.

Also, my camping techniques were described by everybody as unorthodox. I never took any equipment with me except for an ice axe. No sleeping bag, just a blanket.

Yet I was able to sleep in winter storms, deep snow, each time finding marvelous experiences. I adapted. I camped in storms that people said no one could survive.

But I would find a pine, a tunnel under. Gather the firewood to keep a fire going just outside. Snug as a buck in a rug.

It was a wonderful experience. It's nothing compared with just a sunny walk during a summer day. Now, it's true.

Occasionally something happened that was not anticipated. One time in Yosemite, I climbed aside the canyon, following three or four feet of freshly fallen snow. I wanted to get to the summit where I knew there would be avalanches around, and I wanted to observe them from the summit to see the power and the impact that they would have.

I expected to be able to climb up in about an hour. But with this fresh fallen snow, I kept sinking up to my waist and sometimes even higher. It was terribly slow going.

And I would now, instead of being an hour, I was within a half hour of sunset. And I was still a couple hundred yards from the top. And then suddenly, I felt the snow giving away from under my feet.

I knew I was caught in an ambulance. Instinctively, I threw myself on top of the snow on my back and threw my arms out to help keep myself on top of the snow. And what had taken hours to come up here? We rushed down.

I was thoned here and there, partially buried, mostly on top. And within maybe a minute, 2,000 feet down into the valley. Fortunately, there were no cliffs for the snow to go over that would make me into a free throw.

We ended up in a crumble of snow. I stood up. I didn't have a bruise or a scar upon me.

I wrote, this flight in a milky way of snowflowers was the most spiritual of all my travels. Now, I admit, I had not anticipated this. I had particularly chosen this side canyon because of the... My guess was this would be the last place a novelance would take place.

And I also knew it had no cliffs or preferences. But if I did get caught in an ambulance, that would for sure kill me. But I certainly wouldn't have went if I knew I was going to be caught in an ambulance.

It's almost a sheer death sentence. But, you know, you city folk, you can slip on a sidewalk and hit your head and pass away. You never know what's going to take you.

Risk is a life. And the risks I took that you may think to be reckless, they were thought out. I came close to several times through losing my life, but I'm going to easily lost my life crossing the street.

It's a matter of what kind of experiences you want to have in life. Well, now here back at Taylor Bay, I was facing this rain-laden gale. I didn't have time to stop for breakfast.

I was just filled with excitement. Look at what Nietzsche was offering me. The rain now was falling.

It wasn't falling like heavy rain. It came in level sheets. The wind roaring, as I've never heard wind roar before, not even in that gale at Yuba.

But I'd climbed a tree. But I hadn't gotten more than a dozen yards. When suddenly, no, there was Stikine.

He had left his safe bed coming out into the storm that no dog would come out in. And there he was, wanting to go with me. And I was arguing with him, you can't come.

This will be no place for you. It can't work. I was told later by Reverend Young, he was awakened by the storm just laying there in his tent.

And he heard me arguing with Stikine. He said he had to smother a laugh because he knew who was going to win this argument. He was right.

I lost. So I gave him permission to come. Oh, the storm was fierce.

We knew enough, at least I knew enough, that we shouldn't climb on the glacier right now. Because with these winds, sometimes you're going to have to jump over a crevice. And as you prepare yourself to jump, or you're in the process of jumping, if a heavy wind hits you with those gusts so strong, it could have knocked you right into the crevice.

So I kept to the margin where there were some trees going up the edge on the eastern side. But the storm increased in power. I couldn't even breathe when I was facing it.

So I took refuge behind a large tree. It was not large compared to trees I'm used to, but for up there, and waited for the storm to abate. And eventually it abated somewhat.

So we continued up the margin, maybe three or four miles, and I came to sort of a mound, sort of a hill point. I topped with my axe steps so I could climb to the top. And as far as I could see looking across the glacier, it was level.

It looked like it would be safe to cross. And the wind now was only moderate, but it was still raining and that wouldn't bother me. But the kind of rain it was made it misty and hard to see.

And I thought, you know, if I get across and I can't see at all, I'd have trouble coming back. So I paused and thought, looked at it, examined the situation, but my desire to see was greater than my fear of the risk. And so we started across.

Well, it was about seven miles across, but the first going on this east side was remarkably free of any large crevices. Most were just easy to stop across, and some you could avoid just by going a little ways up or a little ways down until you found a way around it or could jump it. Sometimes I found that there was an ice bridge across, and so I could take my axe and smooth off the tops of it so that the king could walk behind me, and maybe 15 to sometimes 20 feet across the crevice would make a way.

Now, I know most people find this too dangerous, but I've never been afraid of heights. And I knew these ice bridges were strong, so I was able to do it without giving it too much thought. But then, as the crevices became more prevalent, and we had this zigzag up and down to find a way around, it would sometimes take ten times longer than if we could once it straight across.

But nevertheless, we made it in about three hours because the ice itself was pretty easy walking. When I got across to the other side, I started walking to the north because I saw a point where you could look over to the sea and the lake, and it would give us a glorious view. But when I got there, I wanted to explore more, but I knew we were going to get caught in the dark if we didn't get back.

So we reluctantly turned around and started back across the glacier. I got about two miles, and then all of a sudden we came across a maze of different sized crevices semipallingly deep and wide. I picked up my pace because I knew it was going to take longer to get back than we had planned.

Sometimes I had to use my axe to create a foot brace because it was a fairly large jump I would have to make. And so I would cut a foot brace, run at it, and jump maybe five, six feet, and Stikine was right behind me, had no problem jumping at all. But then the dreaded storm came back.

I couldn't even see the other side. The only way I could find my way was directed by the ice structures. Now this is a learning skill, learning to read the landscape.

I used to have to do this very often in storms, read the landscape so I know even if it had turned dark, I could find my way back. But I also knew that it's possible we might have to spend the night here. And if this happened, I would just have to find a flat spot.

I'd spent nights before in similar situations. I knew it would be cold, and now that we were wet, it's going to be a very miserable night. In fact, we'd probably have to dance the highland fling to keep warm.

And also I knew the people back at camp would become very worried about us. Each time when I came to a fairly large crevice that challenged my ability, and I'd jump it, I'd be hoping this would be the last. Surely there'd be no more.

But then suddenly a large one. I didn't want to try it. It was almost to the end of the limits of my ability.

But I couldn't find a narrower spot. It was desperation time. I guessed it to be about eight feet across, and this was just about the outer limits of my ability.

But what made it even worse was the other side. I noticed it was about a bit lower than on this side. It meant that if we did have to come back, I would have to jump uphill, which would make it even more difficult to do.

I studied it carefully. And he said, yes, even if I had to do it back, I think I wouldn't want to, but I think I could make it. So I did carefully make a brace for my jumping.

I put it as close to the edge of the ice crevice as I could to give me every last inch I would need. And then I immediately ran under control, timing it so I could get my foot on that brace and jump given full momentum to my jump. Oh, no.

It was further than I had estimated. I just barely, barely made it. I knew that I could not return if I had to.

My only hope, and I was hopeful that now it would be over would make the other side, because we had to be getting close to it. But we only got maybe 100 or 200 yards and a crevice about 50 feet wide. I immediately began to run up, following it to see if it would narrow.

I went for about two miles. My heart was in my mouth. And then it circled back to exactly where I had made that eight-foot jump.

We were on an island. There was no way I could jump back that over eight feet now uphill. But I had noticed that there was a very narrow ice bridge across.

But this wasn't the kind of ice bridge I was used to. The strong ones that last for a long time. This one was obviously old, degraded, and in fact so degraded that it was like a loose rope going from one side, sinking down into the middle, and then up to the other side.

And I guessed it to be 30 or 35 feet below in the middle from the edges above. I didn't know if this bridge would even hold. But what made it even worse, it terrified me actually, was the bridge instead of starting at the top was eight to ten feet below the ice edge.

That somehow I would have to make cut off tracks down below footholds to get me down the sheer ice face to this bridge. And it was only six, eight inches across. How would I get onto that bridge and then straddle it? Because this is how you make these ice bridges.

The ones I had done before, I would straddle like a child on a fence rail and then hitch it… .