A Wind-Storm In The Forests By John Muir

A reading from John Muir’s “A Wind-Storm in the Forests,” published in The Mountains of California in 1894. Muir’s vivid account carries us into a Sierra forest alive with wind, movement, sound, and light. This reading invites you to listen to the language and experience the energy of the landscape, followed by a brief opportunity to notice what feels alive or in motion in your own environment and in yourself.

Transcript

Find a position that feels comfortable and take a moment to settle. For the next few minutes, Simply listen and allow yourself to be carried into a forest alive with wind, Movement, Sound, And light. This is John Muir's A Windstorm in the Forests from the Mountains of California, Published in 1894. One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the Sierra occurred in December 1874 when I happened to be exploring one of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and the trees had been thoroughly rain washed and were dry again. The day was intensely pure, One of those incomparable bits of California winter, Warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, Redolent of all the purest influences of the spring, And at the same time enlivened with one of the most bracing windstorms conceivable. Instead of camping out, As I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions, Nature has always something rare to show us, And the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof. It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious sunshine came pouring over the hills, Lighting the tops of the pines and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine tassels and bright green plumes that went flashing past in the sunlight like birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness, Nothing less pure than leaves and ripe pollen and flecks of withered bracken and moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or three minutes, Some uprooted, Partly on account of the loose water. Soaked conditions of the ground. Others broken straight across where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures of the various trees made a delightful study. Young sugar pines, Light and feathery as squirrel tails, Were bowing almost to the ground, While the grand old patriarchs, Whose massive bowls had been tried in a hundred storms, Waved solemnly above them. There are long, Arching branches streaming fluently on the gale. And every needle thrilling and ringing and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas spruces with long sprays drawn out in level tresses and needles massed in a gray, Shimmering glow presented a most striking appearance as they stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madroneos in the duetels with their red bark and large, Glossy leaves tilted every way, Reflected the sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the silver pines were now the most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires, 200 feet in height, Waved like supple goldenrods, Chanting and bowing low as if in worship. While the whole mass of their long, Tremulous foliage was kindled into one continuous blaze of white-sun fire. The force of the gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to its roots with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. Nature was holding high festival, And every fiber of the most rigid giants thrilled with excitement. I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music in motion, Across many a glen, From ridge to ridge, Often halting in the lee of a rock for shelter. Or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones of individual trees, Spruce and fir and pine and leafless oak, And even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. Each was expressing itself in its own way. Singing its own song. In making its own peculiar gestures, Manifesting a richness of variety to be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The coniferous woods of Canada and the Carolinas and Florida are made up of trees that resemble one another about as nearly as blades of grass and grow close together in much the same way. Coniferous trees in general seldom possess individual character, Such as is manifest among oaks and elms. But the California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species than any other in the world. And in them we find not only a marked differentiation into special groups, But also a marked individuality in almost every tree, Giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious. Take a moment to notice where you are now. What in your environment feels alive or in motion? And what do you notice in yourself in response?