John Muir never liked the word “hike.” Even in the 19th century, American society’s connection to nature had grown increasingly shallow, people’s time outdoors rigid and hasty. Muir, on the other hand, preferred to saunter. “Sauntering meant taking your time, valuing what you see,” says Tad Shay, lead interpretive ranger at John Muir National Historic Site in Martinez, California. “It meant stopping to enjoy the view of a lake, not running past it.”
Born in 1838 in the seaside town of Dunbar, Scotland, Muir began his love affair with nature at a young age. But his father believed that anything that distracted from Bible studies was frivolous and punishable. Muir’s restless spirit made him especially prone to lashings.
In 1849, Muir’s father sacrificed the family’s wealth in Dunbar for a harsh farming life in America, claiming an 80-acre plot of land in central Wisconsin. It was in this pastoral wilderness—its open skies, frozen meadows, and thousands of migrating birds—that Muir found his own religion.
As he grew older, his curiosity took shape in the form of quirky, man-made inventions, like his wooden “loafer’s chair,” meant to improve posture by either collapsing or setting off blanks from a pistol if anyone dared to slump in the seat. He found work inventing labor-saving machinery and making carriage parts. But at the age of 28, his life took a dramatic turn. One day, he was working on a machine when the tool he was using slipped and struck him in the eye. Muir spent the next six weeks half-blind in a darkened room, wondering if he’d ever regain his sight. When he did, he saw the world—and his purpose—in a new light. “This affliction has driven me to the sweet fields,” he said. “God has to nearly kill us sometimes, to teach us lessons.”
Muir was nearly 30 the first time he ventured into California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. He was overwhelmed by the landscape, scrambling down steep cliff faces to get a closer look at the waterfalls, whooping and howling at the vistas, jumping tirelessly from flower to flower. “We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us,” he wrote.
Muir quickly found work as a sheepherder to keep this precious place near. Guiding his flock through the foothills and into higher elevations, he began his lifelong courtship with the Sierra Nevada. He spent much of his thirties alone in the mountains, carrying a tattered blue journal that he filled with sketches, scientific observations, and soulful writing.
Although he preferred living on society’s fringe, he also longed for human companionship. Muir began publishing his writing in 19th-century travel publications that East Coast tourists read on trains bound for the West. Soon, famous scientists and writers joined him in the Sierra Nevada. Ralph Waldo Emerson affected Muir deeply, as did President Teddy Roosevelt, whom Muir invited on a camping trip in the sequoia forest with one stipulation: No politics allowed. Roosevelt went on to establish Yosemite as a national park in October 1890.
“We like to say that Muir got the ball rolling for the National Park System,” Shay says. Four more significant designations would follow, thanks to Muir’s influence: Grand Canyon, Mount Rainier, Petrified Forest, and Sequoia. America would come to know Muir as “The Father of Our National Parks.”
When he neared 40, Muir’s friends pressured him to return to society. It was during this time that he met a woman named Louie Strentzel, daughter of a prominent medical doctor and horticulturalist with a large fruit orchard, part of which is now preserved by John Muir National Historic Site. Muir proposed several years later.
Muir became a loyal, dedicated husband and father of two daughters. But his heart remained wild, and Louie understood that—so occasionally she’d remark on his restlessness and shoo him back up into the Sierra Nevada. Often his daughters would accompany him on trips into the high country. But in December 1914, all of it ended when Muir came down with a case of pneumonia from which he would never recover. He died on Christmas Eve.
Today at Muir’s ranch, park rangers pick fruit from the orchards—peaches, pears, and oranges, to name a few—and leave it in baskets for visitors to enjoy on strolls around the property. Wildflower and bird-watching walks trace the same routes that Muir once traversed with his daughters. The 14-bedroom Victorian mansion exhibits the original desk where he wrote.
In his 76 years, Muir published more than 300 articles and 12 books. He moved a president to create the U.S. Forest Service and cofounded the Sierra Club, which helped establish several new national parks years after his death, and now boasts 1.3 million members.
It’s quite a legacy for a man who was so adamant about taking his time.
“Our lives are so rapid these days,” Shay says. “Perhaps the best way to honor Muir is simply to slow down and appreciate nature for its beauty.”
