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Charles Francis Saunders (1859–1941)

Autore di Edible and Useful Wild Plants of the United States and Canada

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Comprende il nome: Charles F. Saunders

Opere di Charles Francis Saunders

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The book's title is a misnomer: The Southern Sierras of California, by regionally revered botanist, naturalist, and outdoorsman, Charles Francis Saunders, isn't referring to the majestic southern Sierra Nevadas encompassing Yosemite Valley and Kings Canyon National Park -- rugged alpine terrain of gigantic domes, gargantuan Sequoias centuries old, and Tolkien-like, multi-tiered waterfalls, made famous by the writings of John Muir and photography of Ansel Adams -- but to the less celebrated, less elevated, and lesser traveled trio of mountain ranges flanking the cities and suburbs of Los Angeles, San Bernardino, and Palm Springs.

These three ranges, the San Gabriels (or, "Sierra Madre," as they were called at the dawn of the Twentieth Century in Saunders' day), San Bernardinos, and San Jacintos, are instead the focus of The Southern Sierras of California. What John Muir did for the Sierra Nevadas, promoting their conservation, Charles Francis Saunders did for the mountains of southern California. Both writers enjoyed relaying their adventures in exciting, sometimes melodramatic, prose. Not long after the shelterless, sub-zero night of exposure John Muir survived on Mount Whitney (elev. 14,495 feet) by "dancing" all night on the summit to ward off hypothermia and to keep himself halfway warm, Saunders wrote about the harrowing time he barely survived on the summit of "Greyback" (a.k.a., "San Gorgonio Peak," the highest point in southern California, at 11,502 feet). Greyback is a mountain I can see from my house on clear days. I made it to the top of the peak during a fourteen hour day hike in 1995 that also happened to be the same day O.J. Simpson was acquitted of double-homicide. On what had been an otherwise uneventful hike to the summit of Greyback, in the "High Peaks" chapter of The Southern Sierras of California, Saunders described how the weather turned traitor on him:

"Suddenly there was a crash of thunder and a blinding flash. The bolt stunned the guide, and sent him plumb crazy, so I had to hold him by force to the ground for half an hour, or he would have thrown himself off the mountain. A second bolt that followed killed Wheeler instantly, ripping his clothes to shreds and leaving him almost naked. Then a third bolt struck close to me while I was struggling with Dobbs, who cried like a baby and was calling for his mother. I couldn't make him realize what had happened. Other bolts followed striking here and there on neighboring buttes, and I was with a dead man and a lunatic on my hands, and no help so far as I knew within a dozen miles, and the mountain wild with storm."

While Saunders survived the ordeal, I wish the same could be said of his legacy. For unless one is a botanist with an obsessive interest in the history of all botanists from yesteryear, or an intrepid hiker such as yours truly, obsessively interested in the history of his local mountains, the name, Charles Francis Saunders, will inevitably elicit blank stares. And yet his naturalist's prose could be just as poetic, just as impressive (though rarely as reflective or philosophical), as John Muir's—that eccentric and wildly vivacious mountain man who danced barefoot all night long in the snow one night in order to stay alive, and to this day remains universally known. Which as far as criticism goes, is like claiming Maxim Gorky wasn't as great or influential a writer as Tolstoy. Yet as much as I identify with and respect the profound legacy of John Muir, I much prefer reading Charles Francis Saunders, because the mountains Saunders traveled, I too have traveled extensively. What were known as "trail resorts" in Saunders' time—essentially backcountry bed-and-breakfasts run by hearty Mom-and-Pops, accessible only by hiking in or riding horseback, their rustic accommodations constructed from the sun bleached bones and exposed ligaments of weathered wilderness itself -- are now the eroded foundations of stone cottages, fascinating ruins that I have set up camp upon numerous times for a night in the woods. Fancy that -- the exact spot where I've hammered tent spikes into the ground, Charles Francis Saunders lodged in cozy comfort, a century ago.

Consider forested Orchard Camp, the former "trail resort" in the hulking shadow of Mount Wilson, a mere three miles north of, by historic path, the encroaching mansions of Sierra Madre's, Arcadia's, and Glendora's arson-prone canyon cul-de-sacs; imagine a night there under oaks and alders and the spell of a sylvan stream, reading what Charles Francis Saunders wrote about Orchard Camp by candlelight, in the mosquitoey hologram of your flashlight ….

I have.

~~~~~

Orchard Camp: Then.
Orchard Camp: Now.
… (altro)
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absurdeist | 1 altra recensione | Jan 26, 2014 |
The title of Charles Francis Saunders' regional outdoor classic is a misnomer: "The Southern Sierras of California" refers not to the Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains farther north in Central California, but to its lesser (elevation-wise) mountain nieces and nephews surrounding what have now, ninety-seven years removed from publication, become the greater Los Angeles / Inland Empire / and San Diego suburban megalopolis.

In my teens and twenties I explored Saunders' Southern Sierras extensively, just about every weekend, whether it was up a remote canyon in search of a waterfall or abandoned mine shaft, following the tracks of "The Railway to the Clouds," visiting the ruins of "trail resorts," or huffing it to the summit of some obscure peak (like the top of Vetter Mountain, where I proposed to my then girlfriend (and now my wife) thirteen years ago, at sunset).

Saunders' Sierras include the following mountain ranges: The Santa Monicas above Point Mugu and Malibu; the San Gabriels (my favorite So. CA range) though now so fire gutted as to be nearly unhikable, including Mount Baldy, described aptly by Saunders as the "desert island in the sky," and it is (I've been to the top five times); the San Bernardinos, home to Big Bear and the largest population of year-round residents in any national forest in the United States, whose "Greyback" (San Gorgonio Mountain) towers over every mountain in the south half of the state (been to the top of it too!) at 11,502 feet, so high that it's the only mountain in So. CA whose snow melt forms a seasonal lake (a "tarn"); the San Jacintos south of Palm Springs; the Santa Rosas; and then the back country peaks in San Diego County, best represented around the rustic town of Julian.

That's a mouthful of mountains forming an aerial triangle-view over Southern California, stretching some two hundred miles in length. And Charles Francis Saunders, traveling on foot (sometimes horseback) wrote about every scenic nook and cranny of it, circa 1913, in "The Southern Sierras of California".

Into San Andreas canyon he went (south of Palm Springs) and its hidden oasis of a waterfall framed by palms.

Up the water polished rocks and natural water slides of The Narrows in the East Fork of San Gabriel Canyon. Great place to skinny-dip, by the way, if you're still young, in the summer after a hot backpack in, in the refreshing boulder-walled swimming holes (though beware of rattlesnakes that swim!).

Along idling Malibu Creek in the heart of the Santa Monicas, trekked Saunders, the future site of several Hollywood film productions.

A harrowing journey to the top of "Greyback" during a thunderstorm -- with no place to hide -- a trip in which one member of the traveling party died:

"Suddenly there was a crash of thunder and a blinding flash. The bolt stunned the guide, and sent him plumb crazy, so I had to hold him by force to the ground for half an hour, or he would have thrown himself off the mountain. A second bolt that followed killed Wheeler instantly, ripping his clothes to shreds and leaving him almost naked. Then a third bolt struck close to me while I was struggling with Dobbs, who cried like a baby and was calling for his mother. I couldn't make him realize what had happened. Other bolts followed striking here and there on neighboring buttes, and I was with a dead man and a lunatic on my hands, and no help so far as I knew within a dozen miles, and the mountain wild with storm." - from the Higher Peaks chapter.

Saunders "vacationed" also at most of the San Gabriel Mountains long forgotten "trail resorts," -- Camp Colby, in particular, Saunders writes about, where a hot home cooked meal and a bed and good company awaited the intrepid traveler. Only one such trail resort from the "Great Hiking Era" (1890s - 1930s) so popular among weekending Los Angelenos during Saunders' day, remains in operation, Sturtevant Camp. See this link for details: http://www.sturtevantcamp.org/

Saunder's prose is a bit more flowery than his more famous contemporary, John Muir (maybe because Saunders was a botanist?), but even though he's less poetic and philosophical than Muir, he was still a fine writer. If Muir was Leo Tolstoy, then Charles Francis Saunders was Ivan Turgenev. Apples and oranges.

If you're a hiking addict (as I once was) living in Southern California as I've lived here since I was a kid, how fascinating is it walking the same trails Saunders walked (and John Muir too) observing, based on his vibrant descriptions of the scenery, how little has changed in the undeveloped swaths of wilderness over a century. And it's just plain fun, also, exploring the stone block ruins and foundations of "trail resorts" from a bygone, almost forgotten era in Southern California History, in which Saunders, now a relatively unknown figure, overshadowed by outdoorsmen more famous than he, once slept and unwound from a long day on the trail. Days when the mountains around Los Angeles were as wild and isolated as the Alaskan wilderness.

(Pictures and more outdoor links mentioned above soon to be added)
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absurdeist | 1 altra recensione | Jun 27, 2009 |

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Opere
17
Utenti
160
Popolarità
#131,702
Voto
½ 3.5
Recensioni
2
ISBN
21

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