Travels in Alaska by John Muir

In the late 1800s, John Muir made several trips to the pristine, relatively unexplored territory of Alaska, irresistibly drawn to its awe-inspiring glaciers and its wild menagerie of bears, bald eagles, wolves, and whales. Half-poet and half-geologist, he recorded his experiences and reflections in Travels in Alaska, a work he was in the process of completing at the time of his death in 1914. As Edward Hoagland writes in his Introduction, “A century and a quarter later, we are reading [Muir’s] account because there in the glorious fiords . . . he is at our elbow, nudging us along, prompting us to understand that heaven is on earth—is the Earth—and rapture is the sensible response wherever a clear line of sight remains.”

This Modern Library Paperback Classic includes photographs from the original 1915 edition.

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Why I Picked It Up

I love explorer narratives a whole lot. For one, I'm a travel writer for my day job (and in my ambition) and want to see everything. For another, I relish a physical challenge and so-called "earned beauty," and in every similar book—like recently Peter Matthiessen and Erling Kagge—there's such relief and contrast baked into the end of a long day. These small, simple heavens define the crux of their pursuits. That's what I want: the awe of a natural glory, with some novelty as a bonus. And I am deeply jealous of those encountering the unexplored. Unfortunately, I’m cliché in that if you quote something about trees or vastness or curiosity to me, I’ll probably swoon.

This year, I read plenty of Arctic exploration and a fair dose of forestry. Sensory, grounded, real. So yeah, I was going to snag this one from the used bookstore when I spied it.

Personally, I've been fascinated by Alaska lately. I've never been there, to the Pacific Northwest, or to Vancouver, and for some reason, that slice of the world has captivated me—perhaps because my winter ventures have been so gratifying recently.

Scotland, Iceland, Quebec. I have an itchiness to visit the North Pole after devouring Erling Kagge's latest, so Alaska follows under a similar Northern glory umbrella. All that verdant, luxurious imagery. Plus, my no. 1 bucket list item for years has been to see the Northern Lights.

Voice & Tone

I knew I'd be a goner straight from the introduction. Edward Hoagland had such a gorgeous way of describing John Muir's adventures, and I jotted down his book to visit because I adored his phrasing so much. John Muir, for example, was "diligent first and a dreamer second."

John Muir himself is deeply invested in the ecology of his landscapes: moss and trees and glaciers. I adored his anecdotes of villagers thinking he was a little weirdo for spending all day crouched by a stump, and similar. I have great affection for those who never lose their childlike sense of wonder and joy, especially within nature, which is why I'm a Mary Oliver girl through and through too.

Travels in Alaska is lovely, and slightly repetitive. The sections of the book each cover various trips. Muir's style is observational, without much personal commentary unless religious. Often, he'll just describe what he's uncovering in a given day, whatever obstacles they face, usually paired with a transcendent moment of beauty that he credits to the majesty of God.

On that note, he often travels with missionaries whose goal is to convert the indigenous folks. Thus far, I haven't felt that any white male explorer before the 1960s handles any of those encounters all that well within their writing: either unbearably rude and dismissive, and/or condescendingly surprised by complexity or humanity. Grain of salt, time period, etc. Muir, considering his orientation, is okay enough on that front versus some others, but you always have to consider the history and context vs. looking at the language as a member of the 21st century.

Overall Thoughts

Muir—as the introduction so beautifully states—is so joyful and giddy in his pursuit. The descriptions can start to blur together some, but reverence punctures all of them. You have to admire the gratitude behind his observations, and I'm inclined towards that reflective beauty more so than explorer narratives seemingly fueled by escapism (although both are necessary.) I'll read more Muir, and will have to be in a mood of self-imposed patience through some passages that (wonderfully) wax poetic about icebergs on yet another hike.

For fans of:

The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen; Upstream by Mary Oliver; After the North Pole by Erling Kagge; etc,.