Dear readers,

I’m sure these weeks have been confusing for you given that all this gobbledygook is aimed at literature you don’t have access to, but just to keep you interested, I’m going to fill you in on the vagaries of my class’s reading so you have a clue. Basically, we’re trying to study sublime writing so we can produce it, which is a shit-ton harder than it sounds. And the more and more we study it, I’m realizing that the art can be distilled down into a word formula, even though such a thing sounds sacrilegious on the surface, and I’m getting closer and closer to seeing the equation in its entirety.

This week, we read an essay by Christine Oravec written about John Muir’s writing which ultimately led to the preservation of the burgeoning National Parks System way back in the day, and Muir was able to turn people to his cause by capturing sublimity with his written word. His equation was as follows: take the immediate apprehension of a familiar sublime object (like a mountain), add a sense of overwhelming personal insignificance, couple this with the sense of spiritual exaltation, and boom, you’ve written a spell that’ll transport sublimity into the mind of your reader. And here we go…

Silt

Metal canoes do odd things in Alaskan rivers. The water is grey like flowing clay, and silver aluminum seems to disappear when it’s floating on top. It’s the silt that does this. It’s the fine rock that’s been ground to a powder by living glaciers, and it trickles down the hills until the water is inundated with it; if you fall in, your clothes take it all in and it feels like you’re wearing concrete. And it’s dangerous. It’ll make you heavy and cold and solid with weight, and you’ll sink to where you’ll stay. It’s like boating on top of death—a childhood game of hot-lava where the stakes are for keeps.

I was fourteen the last time I did it with a group of friends, and we were ill-equipped for the rapids we paddled through. There were nine canoes in total, but one of them flipped over (the one caring all the food for our trip), and the two teens inside washed up on an anchored piece of driftwood in the middle of an eddy. They stayed there for two days until they were rescued by a chartered boat—the kid from Poland tried to kill himself with bug spray because it seemed better than drowning, but that’s not where this is going.

The rest of us made it to a sandbar with a half-mile of rapids on each side. We were marooned. Or meatal canoes had fought the water with rigidity instead of bending like the sapling that survives a storm, and rivets had popped. More water was coming in than staying out and our choices turned from plural into singular: we’d have to stay where we were until someone found us. That “someone” turned out to be one of those double-bladed helicopters. It landed and hovered us back to safety—the crew gave us tuna and crackers which felt like a feast after two days’ worth of feeding on multiple vitamins, and the view below was indeed sublime because we would live now, but that’s not the moment in this trip I found to be transitional. I remember sitting in that helicopter, looking out the open door, protected from the raging white-noise by one of the headsets I’d only seen in movies, and thinking back to when I stood on the edge of that sandbar.

I was looking downstream. The river was huge and roaring, and just beyond the island that saved us, the water turned into something that shouldn’t be called a “river.” There were falls and waterlogged trees that’d been ripped from the ground by the rain-fattened flow, and there were rocks waiting to break things. It was all so huge, loud, final. I knew that a boat taken downstream would just be something ferrying me towards an end, but there’s always a chance, especially so if you’re young and invincible. I decided to give it three days, because three is a number we all seem to agree on. That’s how many pigs there were, that’s how many bears there were, that’s how many wishes you get. If that day came, I’d push off and see what happened.

Of course, it didn’t; that helicopter came one day before my deadline, and safety was found. But I remember standing there on the bank, little and young, the opposite of the nature around me, and thinking that somehow, it’s all come to this, whatever “this” was. And I’d found peace in that moment of acceptance, buffeted by the raging torrent on all sides, because there was nothing else to do.

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2 thoughts on “On John Muir

  1. I LOVE it!!

    On Fri, Jul 7, 2017 at 11:54 AM, J.J. Anderson’s Blog wrote:

    > jjamesanderson posted: “Dear readers, I’m sure these weeks have been > confusing for you given that all this gobbledygook is aimed at literature > you don’t have access to, but just to keep you interested, I’m going to > fill you in on the vagaries of my class’s reading so you have ” >

  2. What a well-written post. You have combined many aspects of the sublime into a personal encounter that conveys it in a Muir-esque way. That’s a simplistic description, but I mean it as a big compliment.

    I challenge you to include this post in your final portfolio submission to the class. And I challenge you to make it shorter, to refine and refine it into its essence. Shoot for 300 words or so and see if you can do it.

    Nice work!

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