Spaces We Hold Dear

There are men who build cities. And there are men who insist on protecting the unbuilt.

April 21 marks the birth of John Muir in 1838, in Dunbar. He would cross an ocean as a boy and spend the rest of his life walking: Sometimes literally toward places most others passed by or tried to tame.

He arrived in a country moving fast. Forests cleared. Rail laid. Industry rising. The logic of the age was simple: use what you can reach. Muir saw something else. Not resources, but sanctuaries. Not obstacles, but cathedrals.

He wandered first through Wisconsin, then farther west, until he reached the Sierra. There, in Yosemite Valley, the scale of things reordered him. Granite, water, sky, forces older than any nation, indifferent to ownership, resistant to reduction.

He wrote about it the way others prayed. Not as a scientist alone, though he was observant and exacting, but as someone convinced that wild places carried a kind of moral weight. That to lose them was not just practical loss, but something quieter, harder to name.

He did not work alone. Through the Sierra Club, he helped give structure to a growing instinct: That preservation required more than admiration. It required action. Laws. Boundaries. A willingness to say no.

He found an ally, at times, in Theodore Roosevelt. The two men walked together in Yosemite. They talked under trees, among glaciers and firelight. Out of those conversations came decisions that would shape a system of national parks, imperfect and evolving, but real.

Muir was not without his limits. His vision could be narrow in places, his reverence for wilderness sometimes overlooking the people who had lived within it long before him. That tension remains part of the story. Preservation, like progress, is rarely clean.

But the through line holds. That some spaces should remain, if only so that we remember what we are not.

This poem originally appeared in Red, White & Verse.

Spaces we hold Dear
 
Before the rise of steel and smoke, and mankind’s fevered pace,
America’s natural wonders were a breathtaking embrace.
Majestic mountains kissing the sky, rivers running wild and free,
Rolling prairies and deep woods, a stunning tapestry.
 
Beneath a clear dome, where eagles dared to soar,
Lay landscapes untouched, a world to explore.
A nation rich in beauty, from sea to shining sea,
The whispering wind through the pines, nature’s symphony.
 
In Dunbar’s green he first drew breath, in 1838,
John Muir, a Scottish lad of no small fate.
A voyage across the ocean’s great expanse
Led him to Wisconsin’s fertile, vibrant dance.
 
A worker of many trades was he,
Engineer, farmer, all to fund his journey free.
His heart found rhythm in the wild’s sweet song,
In nature’s book, he found where he belonged.
 
His prose, a mirror of his love so deep,
Words that could make the hardest hearts weep.
Mountains of California, Summer in the Sierra,
His cherished volumes, void of any error.
 
In the majesty of mountains tall and valleys wide,
Muir’s spirit, with the wilderness, did collide.
Explorations penned in each passionate dispatch,
A lasting testament, with time, none could match.
 
Together with like-minded souls, he took a stand,
Formed the Sierra Club, protectors of our land.
Their vision, as clear as a mountain spring,
For nature’s preservation, their voices would sing.
 
From Yosemite’s grandeur to Sequoia’s towering might,
His influence turned these visions into a sight.
Protected and cherished for all to see,
These natural wonders, for eternity.
 
Friend to Roosevelt, the president of his day,
Through correspondence, they sought nature’s way.
Their letters of plans and dreams did chart,
A noble mission, from the heart.
 
In Los Angeles, his journey found its sunset,
On Christmas Eve 1914, the stage was set.
Yet, his spirit, in the wild, it dances still,
On each leaf, each feather, each hill.
 
Muir’s legacy in words and deeds prevails,
His love for nature, in our hearts, never fails.
In every tree, every stone, every azure lake,
We see his reflection in the beauty we partake.
 
Now safeguarded within our nation’s heart, these natural wonders stand,
Preserved in parks, like sacred art, testament to this great land.
Each canyon, geyser, waterfall, each meadow, peak, and tree,
Kept for the awe of one and all, for eternity.
 
These preserved realms of wilderness, they whisper tales of yore,
And offer to our busyness, a peace we can’t ignore.
They fuel our souls, calm our minds, their importance crystal clear,
In every American heart, one finds these spaces we hold dear.