The Mystery of Everett Ruess

by W. L. Rusho

  I went back to school in January and finished the semester last month. It seems ages ago.

  I have been taking a self-prescribed course in human relations, and have taken a more than usual interest in music of late. Music means more to me than any other art, I think. Have you been enjoying your violin? I have several friends with fine victrolas and recorded music, and I have some myself and can borrow more. I’ve been reading heavily too—philosophy, poetry, travel, psychology, etc.

  Also, I have been writing occasionally. You might be interested in an essay I wrote today. I’ll quote you a portion.

  “Work is a malevolent goddess, made impossibly conceited by unlimited and untempered flattery. She does not even make any effort to attract new lovers, knowing that no matter how insolent and indifferent she is to them, they will cast themselves on her sacrificial pyre unasked.

  “It may not mean much to her who has everything she could want already, but I am vain enough to hope that she is nettled when, strolling insouciantly through her temple, I raise my eyebrows in amused contempt as I look at her marble eyelids, and walking with a slight swagger, feeling her hostile eyes boring through my back, I saunter gracefully out of the dim, reeking temple. When I am bowled over and trampled upon by the contemptible fools who rush madly to cast themselves upon her pyre, my face flushes to the roots of my hair, but I do not look back to see the evil leer in the eyes of the thwarted goddess as I pick myself up, flick decorously at my smirched clothes, and thread my way past the pitiable throngs swarming to her sacrificial altar.

  “Although thousands are going in and I am the only one going out, I go my way firm in my inner convictions, though for a second there is a wry twist to my lips and a swifter beating of the heart in unwilling trepidation, as I pause at the portals. Then, nostrils dilated in derision as I meet the eyes of the malignantly leering goddess for the last time, I go forth alone into the outer sunlight where I meet no one save straggling contemptible fools who are hastening anxiously to the temple, eyeing me askance as they pass. It may be that I am more pathetic in my solitary independence than they in their submission, but I have left the temple irrevocably behind me. Lone and proud I fare forth into the sunlight.”

  That is just one section and really is not self-explanatory, but maybe it will amuse you.

  In a month or so when it is hot, I am going to shoulder my pack and go up into the Sierras, with some rice and oatmeal, a few books, paper, and paints. It will be good for me to be on the trail again. A friend of mine is just preparing for a trip to Utah, and it is hard for me to stay. After the Sierras, I may stay in San Francisco and have the experience of another city. Perhaps later I’ll be up the Coast. Next year I expect to spend almost the whole year in the red wastes of the Navajo country, painting industriously.

  Let me end on the same note with which I began and say that I was certainly glad to have your letter, and let me hear from you again.

  Your friend,

  Everett

  Burro and hogan. Painting by Everett Ruess.

  March 31

  836 N. Kingsley Dr.

  Hollywood

  Dear Bob [surname unknown],

  How little you know me to think that I could still be in the University! How could a lofty, unconquerable soul like mine remain imprisoned in that academic backwater, wherein all but the most docile wallow in a hopeless slough! You do me wrong, Robin; my noble spirit is crestfallen at the knowledge of such misinterpretation.

  It seems that eons have elapsed since the academic episode was closed, though it is less than two months. I was no quitter, but stayed on the sinking ship ’till the end of the semester, acquitting myself honorably if not creditably. I was awarded Ds in history, philosophy, and military drill, though I think I got more than most V students out of those classes. I did well in geology, and I was surprised to receive a B in English. I had not turned in any essay cards or notes and was remiss in several other respects. Needless to say, my opinion of Mr. Bock has risen greatly. I am obliged to respect him highly for his judgment and vision. In spite of all his shortcomings and handicaps he was able to see that here was a student of unusually high calibre! Let us congratulate him on his insight!!

  I don’t think you were at the school when T. S. Eliot, our poet of decadence, spoke. It was quite amusing, and he matched my conception of J. Alfred Prufrock (you should read his love song if you haven’t).

  Even after climbing out of the maelstrom of college, I find that life is still awhirl, though no longer a swirl. I have, however, been on several Bacchic revels and musical orgies. (Admire the irreproachable logic of my sentence and thought sequences, or else turn aside and hide your smiles.)

  The Tahitian idyll died of itself. A friend invited me to stay on his plantation there, but I decided that I am too young and vital to let the lotus blood get into my veins. Furthermore, I don’t have the small agglomeration of cash which would so greatly facilitate the venture. Also, I was disillusioned about the islands in several respects.

  As it is, I have been passing time pleasantly, reading copiously, studying personalities, working out blockprints, and dabbling with the typewriter. I’m enclosing a recent essay which may amuse you. Also, I’ve had my fill of concerts, and seen Wigman and Kreutzberg gyrate fluently.

  In a month or so, when the lowlands are swimming in the heat, I am hitting the trail again, this time to traverse the length of the Sierras with a few books, pencil, paper, and paints, and some rice and jerky in my packsack. After the mountains, I expect to peruse San Francisco.

  If chance, will, or destiny blows me out your way, I’ll visit you, be sure. Meanwhile, do you make a similar resolve regarding me, and let me know how you react to this febrile frippery.

  Your friend,

  Everett

  While in the Sierras, Everett made first mention of the depression that was to recur, apparently with increasing frequency. In this letter he states, “Every once in a while I feel quite ecstatic, but I slip out of such moods quite easily.” In the next letter he writes to his family, “No, I am in no danger of a nervous breakdown at present,” as if it was a potential threat of which his parents and brother were aware. The general mood of his letters, however, was still cheery and replete with by now typical Everett Ruess lyric prose on the beauties of nature.

  By June 1933, Everett was in the Sierras, fording swollen rivers, climbing trails by moonlight, and riding through rapidly melting alpine snowbanks.

  June 8

  Dear Waldo,

  Thus far, I have been free of watches and clocks. I never wonder what time it is, because for myself it is always time to live. I’ve had a number of new experiences, not all intense, but nevertheless enjoyable. I’ve been meeting people and climbing trails. I was in a snowstorm on a mountain top a few days ago. Life is pleasant, but things will not finally resolve themselves till I hit the trail for Kern Canyon in a week or so. At the present, the high country is choked with snow. I traded a print for some credit in the store here, and I have a possible buyer for a painting I made on Sunset Rock. I’ve met several boys from the reforestation camps. They are not a bad lot, but I couldn’t bear to be tied down. What I miss most here is intellectual companionship, but that is always difficult to find, and I have met a few interesting individuals.

  Don’t leave your problems to be solved by Time—the solution might be adverse.

  Your brother,

  Everett

  [Salutation and date missing.]

  Right now I am sitting on a hill overlooking the Marble Fork of the Kaweah River. The colors are glorious—fleecy white clouds, a clear blue sky, distant blue hills flecked with snow, tall pines all around me, monstrous grey glacial boulders, and patches of sunlit moss on the fir trees. The snowwater rushes and pounds through its rocky channel, tumbling frothily into lucent green pools.

  Here I seem to be in my element. Save for the lack of intellectual companionship, which is not utter, and is troublesome wherever I am, and for a few trifling d
isturbances, I have nothing to lament. More than ever before, I have succeeded in stopping the clock. I need no timepiece, knowing that now is the time to live.

  I have lived intensely on several occasions here. Down in Three Rivers, below in the cow country, I rode thirty-five miles in one day, fording a river so swollen with snows that I had to put my feet on the saddle horn. I rode my horse up cliff banks, over unknown canyon trails by moonlight, watched the stars as he groped over the darkened path, and climbed to a lonesome cabin on the skyline. Later I loped for miles on a winding river road, following its pale gleam under tunnels of foliage.

  Again I climbed the mountain pass, fought a snowstorm, and scraped through three feet of snow to recover broken trail signs. Then I set my feet and slithered down long snowy aisles, swerving and careening past groves of writhed, snakelike, tortured aspens, and past willow trees with bark of coppery sheen, incense cedar, red fir, and white fir.

  A Life

  A life

  Is a mirror

  Reflecting the road over which it passes.

  Sometimes

  When it rains

  The mirror itself is reflected in the road.

  —Everett Ruess

  June 16

  Giant Forest

  Sequoia National Forest

  Dear Family,

  Yesterday I hiked about fifteen miles, up to Heather Lake, Asted Lake, Emerald Lake, and the Watch Tower where I watched an eagle in its nest. I was accompanying the ranger, and I stopped to make some sketches. The sun on the snow was blinding, and I had to squint. My face and arms were snowburnt. The aspens are just leafing. On the mountain slopes, they grow twisted and writhed like tortured snakes. The snowflowers are out, and the snow is melting rapidly. However, the high passes are still choked with snow, and I won’t be able to start for Kern Canyon until almost July. At the present my burros are pastured in Willow Meadow, and I am camped at Lodgepole on the Marble Fork of the Kaveah. I have to move, though, and I think I shall pack up to Willows Meadow or some upland meadow, tomorrow, and stay there for a week or ten days. This morning I came down past Sherman Tree and walked through the forest around Circle Meadow. I took a plunge in a little stream in the redwoods. The sun was warm and the trees were splendid.

  Things are just getting under way up here. Earl McKee drove up with Ord Loverin this morning. Loverin has the stock and pack trip concession here, and he is just preparing to bring in his horses. Spring has not yet truly arrived, here. The waterfalls are foaming and plunging down the granite slopes.

  I have had little time for idleness as yet. I’ve been over the trails in several directions, and crossed the park boundary once. I know most of the people here and two of the rangers I find quite intelligent. I met the naturalist today. He has just come, and his two assistants will arrive later. It would almost be a good idea to carry a fountain pen and a bottle of ink, wouldn’t it?

  My health and complexion have greatly improved, and every once in a while I feel quite ecstatic, but I slip out of such moods quite easily. I hope everything is proceeding harmoniously with you, and let me hear something from you.

  Love to all,

  Everett

  July 5

  Giant Forest

  Sequoia National Park

  Dear Family,

  When I came down from the hack country, I found the park overrun with holiday tourists. They even came over on my side of the river with their radios and gas lamps, and it was like sleeping on a park bench in Pershing Square. Now they have all gone home, and there is peace again.

  I haven’t done much painting of late, but I sold a couple of prints the other day. The one of the eucalyptus and the last one of the cypresses on the coastline are quite popular. If you have a chance, you might print some more and send me them.

  Today I am loading up on supplies. What with films and other expenses, I will just manage nicely. I’ll have some books and things to mail back when I return.

  No, I am in no danger of a nervous breakdown at present. How about you?

  Love from Everett

  August 20

  Deadman Canyon

  Sequoia National Forest

  Dear Mother,

  Everything has been proceeding beautifully, and at present I am in the most interesting little canyon I have found in the Sierras. Parallel to it is Cloud Canyon. They converge below to form Roaring River, which flows into King’s River.

  The elevation here is 10,000 feet, and above is Elizabeth Pass and the Copper Mine, at nearly 13,000 feet. Golden trout and rainbow are in the stream, which flows under snowbanks at its head. There are no fir or sugar pine at this elevation—only lodgepole pine and quaking aspen.

  For the last few days, I have been camping with Andy Ferguson and his grandson. He has been in these mountains for fifty years, and was the first to plant trout in the streams. He also started the copper mine above here. In his long and somewhat checkered career, as he says, he has done everything from preaching to bartending.

  Betsy and Grandma are enjoying the short hair grass. Grandma bogged down in a morass once, but struggled out again.

  A pack train headed for Giant Forest is coming by, so I’ll give them this note.

  Love from Everett

  For a couple of hours I watched the fire. I find sleep unpleasant. I do not yield consciousness without a struggle, as I sleep poorly. I call sleep temporary death.

  In a while I begin to feel better. I chanted Navajo and enjoyed the thought of return [to northern Arizona]. I thought of the prints I would cut in San Francisco. Then my soul floated out in song. Cesar Franck’s Symphony carried me away, and Brahms and Beethoven followed. Finally, seeing the dreamy mists in the mysterious dark lake with guarding mountains, I succumbed to sleep.

  —Diary entry in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, August 28

  August 30

  Castle Crags

  Dear Doris [Myers],

  I have been feeling so happy and filled to overflowing with the beauty of life, that I felt I must write to you. It is all a golden dream, with mysterious, high, rushing winds leaning down to caress me, and warm and perfect colors flowing before my eyes. Time and the need of time have ceased entirely. A gentle, dreamy haze fills my soul, the rustling of the aspens lulls my senses, and the surpassing beauty and perfection of everything fills me with quiet joy and a deep pervading love for my world.

  My solitude is unbroken. Above, the white, castellated cliffs glitter fairy-like against the turquoise sky. The wild silences have enfolded me unresisting.

  Beauty and peace have been with me, wherever I have gone. At night I have watched pale granite towers in the dim starlight, aspiring to the powdered sky, tremulous and dreamlike, fantastical in the melting darkness.

  I have watched white-maned rapids, shaking their crests in wild abandon, surging, roaring, overwhelming the senses with their white fury, only to froth and foam down the current into lucent green pools, quiet and clear in the mellow sunlight.

  On the trail, the musical tinkle of the burro bells mingles with the sound of wind and water, and is only heard subconsciously.

  On the lake at night, the crescent moon gleams liquidly in the dark water, mists drift and rise like lifting enchantments, and tall, shadowed peaks stand guard in watchful silence.

  These living dreams I wish to share with you, and I want you to know that I have not forgotten.

  Love from Everett

  Granite Towers. Blockprint by Everett Ruess.

  [Salutation and date missing.]

  During the last few weeks, I have been having the time of my life. Much of the time I feel so exuberant that I can hardly contain myself. The colors are so glorious, the forests so magnificent, the mountains so splendid, and the streams so utterly, wildly, tumultuously, effervescently joyful that to me at least, the world is a riot of intense sensual delight. In addition to all, the people are genial and generous and happy, and everyone seems to be at his best.

  With a pack of groceries on my bac
k, I swung irresistibly up the starlit road between the pillared redwoods. I drank at a rushing mountain stream, and strode gallantly up, singing some Dvorak melodies till the forest boomed with my rollicking song. Then the transmuted melody of Beethoven, Brahms, and the Bolero rang through the listening forest. I rocked from side to side of the road. I spun around in circles, looking up at the stars, and swung exultantly down the white pathway to adventure. Adventure is for the adventurous.

  Oh, I have lived intensely, drinking deep! One day I rode thirty-five miles over mountain trails with cowboy comrades. We forded the swollen rivers putting our feet on the saddle, plunging through the foamy, buffeting snow water, rolling like ships in a heavy sea. We galloped up cliff sides and found our way over unknown trails in the starlight. While my horse groped his way up the darkened mountainside far above the rushing stream, I leaned back in my saddle looking at the towering ranges, the looming ridge above, the intensely brilliant stars, and the waning moon.

  We delivered a horse to an outrider at a battered old cabin on the skyline, then in the dim starlight, in the hours before dawn, we came down the mountain. We loped for miles, swerving and wheeling at kill speed on a winding river-road, following its pale gleam through tunnels of foliage.

  Then I was in a snowstorm on the mountain top, helping a ranger from Alaska to probe for and recover [trail] signs broken and buried in the snow. We sat on our feet and slid down the snowy slopes speeding uncontrollably past mountain lakes, thickets of writhing, snakelike, contorted aspens, and cherry and willow with bark of coppery sheen.

  I swam in a deep pool below one waterfall and above another. The granite sides were so slippery that I could hardly draw myself out when I had frolicked enough.

  With great enjoyment I read of the unrestrained exploits of Gargantua, Granzousiers, Picrochole, and the monk. The other night I ate a Gargantuan mess of sandwiches and fried yams while I read about Pantagruel and Panurge, how they discomfited lmpgarva and his giants.[12] When the fire faded the embers took on a more intense glow, the trees loomed higher, and the starlight poured straight down.