Source of book: I own this.
Have any of my readers heard of Ardis Walker before? If you haven’t heard of him - and his wife Gayle - you really should get to know them.
Believe it or not, Bakersfield and Kern County weren’t always considered the backwards retrogressive uncouth members of the California family. For a time, we actually aspired to be a “progressive community” and put the memories of the mistreatment of the Okies during the dust bowl behind us. Don’t believe me? This sign actually existed, and I have friends who remember it.
Not only that, Bakersfield claims as its own the former California governor and later Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Earl Warren. Yeah, that Earl Warren, who orchestrated the unanimous decision in Brown v. Board of Education. His court would go on to establish the series of precedents that today’s retrogressives HATE with a fury that is only matched by their racism and misogyny. Gideon v. Wainwright (right to counsel in a criminal case), Griswold (right to privacy and contraception), Roe v. Wade (freedom from forced pregnancy), and Loving (right to marry outside one’s race.)
While Warren is justifiably famous, Ardis Walker should also be remembered as a great progressive figure from Kern County.
Ardis was a relative of the infamous “Shooting Walker Clan” - his father Bill was the only brother not believed to have killed at least one man. Uncle Tom killed Uncle Newt before turning his gun on himself. Despite all the hullabaloo and bad publicity, Ardis managed to enroll at USC at age 24, and earn his engineering degree. He worked in that field for a few years, before switching to journalism, writing for a couple of local papers. He met and married Gayle, who taught at a local school.
From there, Ardis proceeded to spend time in local politics, and ran a hotel up in Kernville. He also wrote poetry and non-fiction, and became active in the conservationist movement. During his stint as a county supervisor, he was instrumental in the establishment of California State University Bakersfield.
And that is just part of his local impact. But there is more! Ardis testified in favor of the Wilderness Act (signed by President Carter) and ensured that the Golden Trout Wilderness and others in central California were protected. While Gayle wasn’t as visible, her work behind the scenes was important to the effort as well.
So, there is your local history lesson of the day.
I ran across this book in the discards for our local library. (And don’t get me started on how Kern has the lowest per-capita library funding in the state, or how our former District Attorney literally argued that every library in the county should be closed before her office lost a single dollar in the budget.) It was sad to see it there, but I was glad to rescue it and add it to my collection.
Sierra Nevada Sequence is a set of 31 sonnets about Ardis’ beloved Sierra Nevada mountains and its flora and fauna. In addition to the 31 official poems, there is a sonnet dedication to Gayle, and an epilogue (also a sonnet) entitled “Vale.” This particular book contains the woodcut illustrations by Kirk Martin, and is number 290 of a limited run of 1000 signed by the author. I believe the original binding was replaced with that generic library hardback stuff from the 1970s. In any case, it is in excellent shape, and feels like a bit of history with Ardis’ kind of messy signature at the back.
I am a big fan of sonnets, so I understood why Walker chose the form for this sequence. It is a bit difficult to describe them. There are some lines that feel awkward, but not badly awkward, and they are not on the level of the great masters of the form. But they are pretty good, which is more than I can say of plenty of lesser poets of the Victorian Era. Some are particularly lovely. All of them show an eye and ear for the magic of the mountains, and I felt Walker was successful at bringing to life particular places I know myself, or particular animals and plants, and the experiences of different moods in the Sierras.
Here are the ones that I liked best, although I could certainly have chosen more than these.
Asylum
Men tremble at their tasks if they but hear
The pounding pulse of wild winds passing by.
At thunder-clap they drop to earth and lie
Prostrate beneath a soul-engulfing fear.
Like conflagrations worldly hatred sear
Their souls. Pained hearts their dull forbodings cry
Against dark clouds that bank the sombre sky.
Their stifled prayers arise, for doom seems near.
But men will walk the wilderness again
To heal the tortured mind. The firmaments
Sound harmonies eternal they can store
In troubled hearts. Above the starry plain
Sierra crests will lure pale penitents
With peaks all tipped in gold forevermore.
In our own troubled times, it does my heart good to go to the mountains. I feel what he is saying here.
The next one is definitely a favorite, on the same note.
Nativity
When faith expires I swear that I will go
Beyond the plain to where sierras rise;
A contrite heart will climb to meet the skies;
My eyes will seek a star whose hallowed glow
Lured wise men once. I, viewing all below
With vision almost Godly, will surmise
That works of peace hold greater enterprise
Than war-worn creeds embattled men must know.
Beside a secret spring on some far hill,
With song of bird and sigh of ancient pine
To mend my faith, the solitude will start
New symphonies for troubled minds, good will.
There all my hopes will shape a charm divine
To cleanse dull eyes, to lift a heavy heart.
I have been close to Rock House Basin, and want to hike there, if we can have a fall without so many wildfires. The whole southeastern sierra is a unique and often forbidding place, but with an isolated beauty of its own.
Night in Rock House Basin
The sounds of night move softly on the land.
Wind whispers through the sage. A night bird cries.
On misty shades that mound against the rise,
A full moon crests; it shears its golden band
Along the jet-black ridge. On banks of sand
Beside the wash its pale reflection lies.
Far, far away, nose lifted toward the skies,
A lone coyote calls. We understand.
In our wild hearts untamed by mart or mall
We, too, sing out our primal ecstasy,
Our spirits lifted in a cosmic rite
Of wilderness. Beyond the mountain wall
Is din of traffic. Here our dreams are free
To join the wilding symphonies of night.
Those unmistakable times of day and night feature prominently in the sequence, as do the various animals that haunt them. Here is another one I thought was particularly good.
Dusk Magic
What rarer ecstasy than wild bird song;
Or muted call of quail where, high and still,
A lonely hawk soars above a lonely hill;
Or spectral echoes where coyotes through
The air with melancholy? These belong
In far retreats we search beside each rill
For healing balm a wilderness can spill
On souls distraught by universal wrong.
What new adventure of the spirit lies
Beyond a mountain or across a vale?
Our path is dim, deserted long ago.
We walk where wild things move with mild surprise.
Our solitude inspires a vision pale
Of wanderers at peace in alpine glow.
The last one I want to feature is bittersweet right now. The Golden Trout Wilderness, that gem that Ardis Walker fought so hard for, was devastated by the Castle Fire in 2021, which also burned much of the area around the community my wife grew up in. Hundreds of mature sequoias were killed (trees that, pre-climate-change, lived for thousands of years.) I haven’t visited that wilderness since then, in part because the trails were closed until they could be cleared of hazards - a daunting task in such incredibly rugged and remote terrain. Even if we stop damaging the environment further, these places will not be the same as they were during my lifetime. Still, some of the burned areas had more moderate temperatures, and that burning is beneficial. This last poem is about a unique resident of the watershed. The Kern River originates behind Mt. Whitney, and flows to disappear in the southern San Joaquin Valley. (Formerly in a seasonal lake, but these days, most us diverted for irrigation.) It has lacked a connection to the ocean, and thus developed its own species of trout over the many thousands of years since before the last ice age.
Golden Trout
From primal shores, down ages dimly past
You fled your salt tide for our rendezvous.
What geologic eons nurtured you
In utter isolation where, at last,
You shed the steelhead, then the rainbow east
To match the sunset, don its oureate hue?
Across your par-mark shines the yellow spew
Of clouds embroiled on mountains dim and vast.
An errant soul, enamored of your spell,
Beholds the ancient miracles in store
Where meadowlands bear sun-reflecting dreams,
By devious ways, in ages none can tell,
I, too, migrated from a primal shore
To win perfection in your golden streams.
There are a few sonnets about bird species too, but I didn’t want to quote the entire book. It isn’t easy to find these days, unfortunately, but if you run across a copy, it is worth picking up.
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