American History Tellers - National Parks - The Business of Nature | 1

Episode Date: August 15, 2018

America's greatest National Parks are truly one of our country's greatest treasures. But many beautiful landmarks have ugly histories. Over the next few episodes, we’ll learn how good intentions sometimes lead to tragic and violent ends, and how in some instances, dirty business dealings would lead to the preservation of many of our countries greatest natural wonders.Support this show by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's March 21st, 1851, a little before 5 p.m. The sun is low in the sky behind a rock formation, but you know it's going to be gone in about an hour or two. The last weeks have been a blur. You're a soldier in the Mariposa Battalion, led by Major James D. Savage, on orders from the California governor.

Ever since the gold rush, miners have been pouring into the state, and that's led to skirmishes with the local Indians, a tribe called the Awaniches. They've been striking back to defend their land, making raids on white settlements. But your duties as a messenger have kept you away from that battalion. A lot has happened since you left.

Fellow soldier is getting you caught up. Chief Tenaya turned himself in three days ago. He said the rest of the tribe was on its way, that he was accepting Major Savage's demand for surrender. But no one showed up. Is he stalling? Savage thinks so. He says it's a trap.

We're headed back to the valley to hunt them down. Now? I just arrived. Well, we're just leaving. You remount your horse, saddle sore and hungry. But it's not a long trek before you find them. 72 women and children, old people and babies, exhausted from marching through the snow to reach the battalion. But no young men, no braves. You take the opportunity to dismount,

get yourself out of that saddle. Nope, sorry, back on your horse. Major Savage is out for blood. We're on the hunt for the men. He's out for revenge, you mean. I would be too. His business attacked and his employees murdered? It's true. Last December, some Indians attacked his store on the Fresno River and killed the two men in charge. So you remount, leaving the 72 Awanichi stragglers under guard and head out in pursuit of the missing Braves. Soon, the ravine you're following narrows in the mountains.

You know Indians could attack at any moment, and this would be the perfect place to spring an ambush. But right now, you take in a long breath through your nose. Your friend looks at you. You smell something? No, it's just that the air, it just smells good. He squints. This isn't the first time he's looked at you like that. The air. It just smells good. He squints. This isn't the first time he's looked at you like that. He doesn't seem to appreciate any of this. Do you know where we are? Sierra Nevada. I know

that, but it feels like we're lost. We're not lost. We'll find those Braves. You think they're out there? Of course. Savage says so. You look away embarrassed, but you can tell your friend's starting to question if you are lost. This is uncharted territory, so neither of you really know what you're getting yourself into. You hear an abrupt order to halt, and you remember your mission. Your pulse quickens, and you listen carefully. Could it be the Braves? Did they find them? Before you can react, the medic with your group, Dr. Bunnell, rides toward the front to see what the holdup is.

He comes to a stop at the opening of the ravine and slowly climbs off his horse. Dread makes your stomach flip over, but you have to see for yourself. You carefully nudge your horse forward. Then you see. Not Indian braves or a pile of bodies. It's a valley, unlike anything you've ever seen. You doubt anyone you know has ever seen anything like this. Granite cliffs speckled with snow disappear into the clouds. Pine trees blanket

the valley floor. Off in the distance, a rainbow appears in the mist, rising off a waterfall, pouring into the rocks a thousand feet below. You turn to Dr. Bunnell standing beside you. Tears are streaming down his face. Suddenly, you understand. Suddenly, it's clear why the Awanichis have been fighting so hard to protect their land, why they've been willing to kill for it, and you know in the same moment that they've already lost it. Once word gets out about this place, more people like you will come, and it won't take long. This is the closest thing to heaven you've seen in this lifetime. Others will feel the same way. And once a white man gets possession of this place, he's not going to give it up.

Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly? Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Saatchi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On our show, we'll take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now. Later that night, around the campfire, Dr. L. H. Bunnell would propose naming the area the battalion had discovered after the Native American tribe they were removing, as a kind of tribute. The rest of the men agreed it was only right. But at the time, white settlers knew the Awanichi tribe by a different name, the Yosemites,

and so the area they uncovered became known as Yosemite Valley. It's unclear if Bunnell would ever learn the real translation of the word Yosemite. It means those who kill. The Mariposa battalion did not find the braves they were looking for on that first trip. In frustration, they burned the Awanichi villages and destroyed the provisions the tribe had left behind. When the battalion returned, they discovered Tenaya and the 72 Awanichis they had left behind, under insufficient guard, had escaped. Two months later, another company from the Mariposa battalion returned to finish the work. Eventually, Chief Tenaya was forced to

surrender, and his people were taken to the Fresno River Reservation. He would beg to return, and eventually received permission, only to be killed in Yosemite by another tribe. With his death, the era of the Awanichis largely came to an end, but the battle for control of Yosemite was just beginning. Over the next six episodes, we'll look at the history of some of America's greatest national parks. We'll learn how good intentions sometimes led to tragic and violent ends. And in some instances, dirty business dealings would lead to the preservation of many of our country's greatest natural wonders. In this episode, we'll learn how land, forcibly stolen from Native Americans, was brought to the attention of Americans by one man. And how he fought tooth and nail to make sure the world knew it belonged to him.

By 1849, the gold rush was in full swing. Enterprising young men from around the world were racing to the American West in hopes of finding the perfect plot and hitting it rich. James Hutchings was one of them. Born in England, Hutchings was tall with a prominent chin and mischievous eyes. At 28, he decided to travel to America and try his luck mining for gold. Hutchings spent his first year in the San Carlos mine in California. But after spending a sweltering summer and brutal winter struggling to make enough to just feed himself, he quickly decided the life of a miner wasn't for him. But he loved the surrounding wilds, particularly the high mountains of the Sierra. He stayed in the area. Over the coming years, he would also spend time as a newspaper correspondent and land speculator. Eventually, he heard tales about the adventures of the Mariposa Battalion

and the mysterious Yosemite Valley the soldiers had discovered four years earlier. Upon their return, they had described immense looming cliffs and the kind of beautiful untamed wild only heard about in children's stories. But it was the talk of a thousand-foot waterfall that would make Hutchings and a few friends take a week off in the summer of 1855 and venture into virtually unknown lands. When they finally found the Yosemite Valley, it was more beautiful than Hutchings could have even imagined. Rolling meadows were surrounded by steep granite walls. Domes and spires littered the valley floor, and forested slopes ended in plunging waterfalls. The beauty was so indescribable that even Hutchings,

who journaled devoutly, couldn't log his thoughts for five days. But once he returned home, he began telling anyone willing to listen about the enormous Dome Mountain and the waterfall that dwarfed Niagara. He wanted the world to know of the astounding beauty California had to offer. In 1856, a year after his visit to the Yosemite Valley, Hutchings released the first volume of Hutchings Illustrated California Magazine. In an early issue, he explained the publication's purpose, to portray California's beautiful scenery and curiosities, to speak of its mineral and agricultural products, to tell of its wonderful resources and commercial advantages, and to give utterance to the inner life and experience of its mineral and agricultural products, to tell of its wonderful resources and commercial advantages,

and to give utterance to the inner life and experience of its people. Hutchings would become California's most prolific publisher of scientific literature, publishing everything from periodicals to almanacs. He invited artists and writers to experience Yosemite firsthand, even commissioning the famed artist Thomas Ayers to create illustrations for his magazine. The men spent several days touring Yosemite firsthand, even commissioning the famed artist Thomas Ayers to create illustrations for his magazine. The men spent several days touring Yosemite and creating what would become the first sketches of the valley. Hutchings wanted every American to experience Yosemite, and his enthusiasm worked. Delighted visitors flocked in from around the country. Hutchings started making extra money

giving tours, and as his publishing business reached peak profit, Hutchings realized it might be possible to have his cake and eat it too. He imagined a future where he could enjoy his favorite place year-round and also make a successful living. After all, the people at Niagara had done it, and their waterfall wasn't a tenth the size of his. In the first half of 1864, Hutchings got his chance. The Upper Hotel in the Valley went up for sale, and Hutchings knew he needed to have it. Several poor investments, including a defunct gold mine and a bad real estate investment in San Mateo, had hurt Hutchings' bank account, but Hutchings felt certain that the string of bad luck was behind him. Tourism to Yosemite was steadily increasing, and this venture was sure to

be a winner. The Upper Hotel sat on the southern side of the valley between Sentinel Bridge and the Four Mile Trail. Hutchings sold his publishing business for a nice profit, bought the hotel, and renamed it Hutchings House. And so, in May of 1864, the newly married Hutchings moved to Yosemite, with him his pregnant 17-year-old wife, Elvira. Soon after, she would give birth to a rambunctious baby girl, and they would name her Florence. Before long, the new business was in full swing, and Hutchings' house was open and ready for visitors. Hutchings had filed his claim for the property with the United States Land Office. Yosemite was unsurveyed, and according to the law,

filing a claim was all a man needed to do to name territory as his own, and Hutchings saw himself as the father of this mythical, rough land. But he was happy to share his knowledge and wisdom with anyone, for a price. Imagine it's the summer of 1864. You recently move back home to San Jose after graduating from Harvard Law School. You have plans to work at your father's firm, but he says you can spend the summer experiencing the world a bit. You're grateful for the luxury, as most of the country's in turmoil due to the war between the North and South raging in the East. You ask your best friend if he has any idea of where to go. He mentions reading an article about the natural marvels

a ways east in a valley called Yosemite. So the two of you board the newly completed San Francisco and San Jose Railroad and head north, then set your sights east. After three more days of travel by horse, you finally find your hotel, Hutchings House. After two days of exploration, you wake, dress, and make for the veranda to admire the landscape.

Hutchings' pretty wife, Elvira, sits in a rocker, soothing the sleeping newborn. Morning, Mrs. Hutchings. She shushes you with a finger, but smiles apologetically as you head to the outside breakfast table. Your friend looks annoyed as you sit down across from him. He forgot to make coffee again. Again? Again. At least you remembered breakfast this morning.

You look down at the stewed vegetables. While you weren't expecting accommodations befitting the Queen of England, you weren't anticipating the kind of lodgings that you found. Ramshackle walls and a leaky roof. And the food. He's a nice person, but this Hutchings is not much of a host. I know. Yesterday, I asked him what time supper would be ready. He wandered over to the window and started telling me about the local birds. You would think that with what he charges, he could have help, right? $3.50 for a hotel room. Hotel?

It's a shack. Blankets for bedroom dividers? Those window panes are barely held in place. Did you ask Hutchings if he could show us how to get to the standpoint of silence he was talking about that first day? He said he would show us, for $5 a day. And then if we wanted to rent a horse, those are $2.50 each. $2.50 for a horse?

This is getting expensive. This was the type of experience the average tourist had when they visited Yosemite in those early days. Hutchings wasn't the only one making money. Other hotels had sprouted all over the valley as people began to realize the financial possibilities. And with the increase in visitors, there was a growing fear it could one day become the same kind of embarrassing tourist trap as Niagara Falls. By 1864, Niagara Falls was way past being overdeveloped. Every inch was covered in kitschy souvenir shops. Flamboyant hucksters were charging astronomical prices to see the falls from what they called the perfect view, but those lookouts were tarnished by tacky billboards and flashy

buildings. Niagara had such a poor reputation that Europeans held it up as the epitome of everything wrong with America. Here was an uncouth nation that had transformed a national treasure into a sideshow for the sake of a dollar. Some Americans agreed with this assessment. Unbeknownst to Hutchings, wheels were being set in motion to prevent Yosemite from succumbing to the same fate. Four months before Hutchings bought his hotel, a novel proposal was introduced in Washington. The bill came from John Conniss, California's junior senator. One of his constituents, Captain Israel Ward Raymond, had written to Conniss urging him to introduce legislation that would protect the Yosemite Valley. He had become alarmed by the rapid influx of settlers and tourists and wanted Connors to pass a bill that

would keep the area free of development. In a letter, he begged Connors, prevent its occupation. Let the wonders of Yosemite be inalienable forever. Connors listened. Using Ward's own language, he proposed that 60 square miles of federal land be preserved and protected from private ownership and development. Let the grant be inalienable forever. Both Yosemite and a newly discovered grove of giant sequoias nearby, the Mariposa Grove, would be given to the state of California for public use forever. And so, in the spring of 1864, the Civil War's bloodiest year, the House and

Senate passed a tiny bill with no objections. On June 30th of that year, it was signed into law by President Abraham Lincoln, just six weeks after James Hutchings had poured his life savings into buying the Upper Hotel. The bill had passed Congress, but it still required approval from the California State Legislature. There was one problem. The legislature wasn't going to be meeting again until 1866, two years from then. In the meantime, the newly elected California governor, Frederick Lowe, issued an interim proclamation of acceptance. Yosemite was no longer federal land. It belonged to the state of California to remain open, free, and protected from development by private individuals. For now. The state legislature

could still deny the grant when they reconvened. But what did that mean for people like James Hutchings? At the time he bought the Upper Hotel, the law merely required settlers to file claims for unsurveyed land at the United States Land Office, which is exactly what he did. And the state of California wasn't exactly ecstatic about their new acquisition. Money was stretched tight as it was, and the state did not have the resources for a new expense like land maintenance. But there was an even bigger problem. The grant demanded that the governor appoint a board of commissioners to oversee the project. There wasn't anyone available who had ever run a project of this scale before, except one, who had moved to California a year earlier.

Frederick Law Olmsted had gained fame as the radical designer of Central Park in New York. Around the country, he was considered the leading mind on land usage and natural conservation. Placed in charge of a board of eight other commissioners, Olmsted tasked himself with analyzing the land given to California by the grant. Then, in 1865, he presented his findings to the rest of the board. The document was titled Yosemite and Mariposa Grove, a Preliminary Report. Olmsted argued that untouched landscapes were capable of providing people of any age with refreshing rest and reinvigoration. He stressed that natural wonders such as these were good,

perhaps essential for the soul. True democracy had an obligation to provide means of protection for all its citizens in the pursuit of happiness. That meant, he argued, that the establishment by government of great public grounds for the free enjoyment of the people is thus justified and enforced as a political duty. But Olmsted also saw commercial benefits to protecting Yosemite. He argued that building tourism to state parks could help strengthen the economy at a local, state, and even national level. The Olmsted report also gave a practical guide for building roads and shelter for tourists while creating regulations whose goal would be to protect the dignity of the scenery. Olmsted's report is still

considered one of the most powerful and important documents on the need for conservation ever written. But in 1866, Olmsted resigned from the Yosemite Park Commission so he could continue refining his design for Central Park in New York. Trusting in the good intentions of his fellow commissioners, Olmsted left one of America's greatest environmental treasures in their hands. However, once Olmstead was across state lines, the commission immediately buried his report. Its recommendations were too expensive. Following them would divert funds from important departments, departments led by them, the other commissioners. That same year, with Olmstead gone, James Hutchings would lobby hard to defend his claim on the Yosemite Valley. What he could not have predicted was the passion of the new park's ranger,

Galen Clark, or his zeal for Olmsted's vision. Clark would take his mission to protect the park as a sacred duty, and if he didn't hurry, men like Hutchings would flood in and exploit Yosemite for all it was worth. Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula. We'll reveal how author Bram Stoker raided ancient folklore,

exploited Victorian fears around sex, science, and religion, and how even today we remain enthralled to his strange creatures of the night. You can binge all episodes of The Real History of Dracula exclusively with Wondery+. Join Wondery+, and The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's

passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today? Who created that bottle of red Sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge? Did you know that the Air Jordans were initially banned by the NBA? We'll explore all that and more in The Best Idea

Yet, a brand new podcast from Wondery and T-Boy. This is Nick. This is Jack. And we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast. We've identified the most viral products of all time. And they're wild origin stories that you had no idea about. From the Levi's 501 jeans to Legos. Come for the products you're obsessed with. Stay for the business insights that are going to blow up your group chat. Jack, Nintendo, Super Mario Brothers, best selling video game of all time. How'd they do it?

Nintendo never fires anyone. Ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Imagine it's fall of 1866. You have been sent to Yosemite on an investigation for your employer, the Board of Commissioners.

While this is business, you expected it to feel more like a vacation than work. Unfortunately, you didn't realize how ill-equipped for the outdoors you actually are. Your shoe has split open and you've run out of food. You've been following the map all morning, and while you think you're holding it right side up, you aren't entirely sure. Though you know the name of your destination, the Wawona Meadowlands, your horse seems to have more of a sense of direction than you do. Suddenly, you hear a voice. You look lost. You spin around to see a friendly, bearded mountain man sitting on a horseback atop the rock wall. Yes, yeah, I'm a little lost. Well, now you're

found. You look hungry. Let's head to the house. You are hungry. Having incorrectly managed your food rations, you haven't eaten since yesterday morning. Following the man down a path, he points out local flora and fauna and takes your mind off your empty stomach. You ride just a short way further until, there it is, a rustic cabin sitting just off the riverbank. The man points over behind his home. You can let your horse over there to graze, she won't wander too far. The inside of the cabin is homey and warm. A rocking chair sits in front of the fireplace where embers still burn from this morning's meal. A bookshelf filled with rare books graces the far wall.

The man gestures for you to sit and gets to work rustling up something in the kitchen. He's a welcoming host. First time visiting Yosemite? You nod. You wonder if you should identify yourself, but you're curious to get the real story first. So as you hand you bear meat and some local vegetables, you ask casually, How's it living out here? Run into many poachers? For the first time, you see the light in his eyes dim. He shakes his head. You wouldn't believe it. Hunters enter every day. While I'm chasing them off, loggers move in. And when I start for the loggers, the hunters return.

No matter how hard I try, this repeats day after day. People only see this place, this magical place, as a way to make a buck. He takes a seat for the first time. Have you read Olmsted's Yosemite and the Mariposa Grove Report? He starts to describe the report with a passion you've only seen in preachers, explaining how it lays out rules and regulations for preserving the beauty of everything around you. Back at the office, no one took the report seriously. Over the next week, you rest and finally get to enjoy the natural spectacle around you.

One day, the man teaches you how to tell apart a bird's mating chirp from its declaration of territory. The next day, he shows you the 3,000-year-old sequoias in the Mariposa Grove. He explains that he was the first white man to discover them. Finally, healed and restored, you head back to the office. Your host doesn't know who you are, or that for the last week you've been evaluating his performance, but he'll be getting a glowing review. The savior in the woods was Galen Clark. He served as the first park ranger in Yosemite. After nearly 21 months of surveys, discussions, grandiose plans, and more discussions, the California State Legislature finally approved the federal land transfer on April 2, 1866.

Yosemite was now officially a state park, and the first requirement of the grant was that the park commissioners appoint a park ranger. In the eyes of the park commissioners, there was only one possible choice. Galen Clark had come to California over a decade earlier, following the tragic death of his wife. She had died just nine days after giving birth, leaving behind Clark and their five children. After settling his children with relatives in Massachusetts, Clark had headed west to make his fortune in the gold rush. He had started out as a packer at the Mariposa Ditch Company,

but it was his first tour of Yosemite Valley with a guide named James Hutchings that had left Clark astonished. He knew this was a place where he wanted to return. It was only the second tour Hutchings had ever given, but it would shape both men's lives for years to come. Clark would eventually become a major advocate for preservation and restricting private land rights. But two years after that first tour, in 1857, Clark's health had taken a sudden turn for the worse. He suffered lung hemorrhages, likely a sign of tuberculosis, a near-death sentence at the time.

Hoping for the best but assuming the worst, Clark had moved to Yosemite, believing the mountain air would help his condition. And if it didn't, at least he would be able to find peace, spending his final days in the valley that had so captivated him. Settling in the Wawona Meadowlands, Clark had built himself a crude but cozy log cabin. It had come to take the name Clark's Station and provided a safe haven and useful stop for government surveyors and tourists alike. As a welcoming host, he often served as cook, guide, scientist, and philosopher to visitors of the valley. He preached about protecting the landscape before people like Hutchings could irreversibly change it. And with each day he lived in Yosemite, Clark's celebrity and influence grew. So, once California had accepted the grant

from the federal government, the commissioners turned to him, the only man they could imagine protecting their new park. Galen Clark's official title would be Guardian of Yosemite. With the question of who was to serve as park guardian out of the way, the commissioners turned to their next task. It would prove substantially more difficult to sort out. What to do about people who had staked claims in the Yosemite Valley before it had been converted into protected land? First and foremost on the commissioners' minds was Hutchings. Initially, it seemed a solution had already been written into the Yosemite Park Act. The bill's author, Senator Connis, had taken into consideration that allowing hotels

or small businesses inside the park might not only be valuable, but essential parts of tourism. The act allowed private citizens to build and operate tourist accommodations within the park boundaries on leases of 10 years. The park commissioners approached Hutchings and explained the situation. He would be welcome to maintain his existing property within Yosemite Valley. He could lease the land for a decade at a dollar per year. He just couldn't own it. Hutchings was furious. He refused to accept the commissioner's offer. The way Hutchings interpreted the law, the park commissioners were infringing on the basic property rights of every American citizen.

If you could take away the land he rightfully owned, he argued, you could take away any person's property. And this was valuable land with large meadows and scenic views. Hutchings did not want to give it up. Many people considered it the best site in the valley for building. Plus, Hutchings' magazine and the art he commissioned had driven the visitors to Yosemite in the first place. Now, he risked being cut out of a tourism industry he had helped build. In fact, had Hutchings not started promoting the valley for tourism, it's entirely possible the decision to preserve Yosemite might never have happened. Hutchings was well-connected in Sacramento, and now he began leveraging those ties for a political fight. In early 1868, his allies in the state legislature passed a bill to exempt Hutchings

from the new law. The governor vetoed the bill, so the legislature overrode the veto and asked Congress to ratify the exemption. The House of Representatives complied. By the middle of that same year, Galen Clark could see that the legislature intended to allow Hutchings to continue his private development, but the Park Guardian was determined to protect Yosemite even from its own operators. Olmstead's list of recommendations from two years earlier had been ignored, so Galen Clark went directly to the source. He wrote to Frederick Olmstead, then back in New York,

charging the commissioners with corruption and backdoor dealings. Dear sir, your report, which was at one time adopted at a meeting of the commissioners in the Valley, was suppressed by the combined action of some of the commissioners in San Francisco and the governor and never presented to the legislature. The state geological survey has worked for its own immediate interest in getting appropriations and has worked against the interests of the Yosemite Valley. It would be better for the valley if these clashing interests could be entirely separated. Clark asserted that if the California government wasn't willing to take proper care of Yosemite, maybe the federal government should take it back.

Although the legislature has done all in their power to throw away this munificent gift from Congress, yet we would appeal to Congress to not sanction their action in the matter, but to either compel the state to preserve it for the great purpose for which it was intended, or else, as she has forfeited her right to it, to take it back and reserve it still as a national park for public resort and recreation. Will you not still, so far, take interest in the matter as to use your great influence with the Congress to have them protect this valley from the encroachments of private claims, that it may be forever kept free for the great public as a national park. Furious with his old colleague's decision to suppress his report, Olmsted took his fight to the press. He wrote a public letter in the New York Evening Post affirming the value of Yosemite as a public good. It is the will of the nation,

as embodied in an act of Congress, that this scenery shall never be private property, but that like certain defensive points upon our coast, it shall be held solely for public purposes. Olmstead's article helped start a petition to defeat the congressional bill granting Hutchings his exemption. The move worked. The Senate refused to vote on the bill the House had passed, effectively killing it. For the moment, at least, the side of conservation had won. But Hutchings remained confident of his eventual legal success. He turned to more pressing matters. If he intended to expand his natural tourism business,

he'd need a sawmill for lumber and someone to run it. He placed an ad looking for the right man. On March 28, 1868, a scruffy-looking Scotsman hopped off a boat onto a San Francisco dock. Approaching a carpenter on the street, the man asked for the quickest way out of town. When the carpenter questioned where he wanted to go, the Scotsman replied simply, anywhere that is wild. The carpenter pointed him east, and John Muir, future father of the conservation movement, never turned back. Muir had come to California after being nearly blinded in a factory accident a year earlier and decided to devote the rest of his life to nature. He took work as a sheepherder

and soon met Hutchings. The two hit it off. Hutchings had taken a liking to the environmental enthusiast, and his wife and daughter got along with Muir as well. By this point, Hutchings' daughter Florence was five years old. She would grow to be quite a tomboy. She went by floy and loved to collect frogs, learn bird calls, and rough it in the woods. She would even show disapproval by growling like a bear. She was the first white settler born in the valley, and she was a Yosemite girl to the core. Muir treated Floyd like a little sister. He felt she was smart and mischievous, so he took to calling her Squirrel. Years later, when he wrote about her in his books, he referred to her as the Untamed One.

Muir viewed the Hutchings family as his own, and in return, they treated him the same. He was hired to run the sawmill, and he began making improvements around Hutchings House. Muir also began exploring Yosemite alone. He fostered a reputation as a guide and expert on the valley. He became good friends with park guardian Galen Clark. Hutchings and Muir were good partners. With Muir's help, Hutchings House was becoming an even greater financial success. But as Hutchings moved into the 1870s,

things were about to get considerably harder for him, both legally and personally. an even greater financial success. But as Hutchings moved into the 1870s, things were about to get considerably harder for him, both legally and personally. The denial of Hutchings' exemption meant that now he was technically squatting on public land. Hutchings didn't care. He continued expanding his hotel, building out the original structure to add another bedroom, a workshop, and a winter cottage for his family. There was little

Galen Clark could do except watch. In the meantime, Hutchings filed a lawsuit against the state of California. He lost again. But he wasn't done fighting. This was theft of private property and federal overreach. He stood to lose everything, his claim, his hotel, his livelihood, all due to a notion that commerce was the enemy of conservation, a notion he thought was misguided. He filed an appeal, and eventually he received word of a victory. The United States Supreme Court had agreed to hear his case. He had already taken his case to the California legislature,

to the House of Representatives, to the U.S. Senate. Now, he would take it to the highest court in the land. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the depths of the internet is The Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses, and specific instructions for people's murders.

This podcast is the true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those who lives were in danger. And it turns out, convincing a total stranger

someone wants them dead is not easy. Follow Kill List on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to kill list and more exhibit c true crime shows like morbid early and ad free right now by joining wandery

plus check out exhibit c in the wandery app for all your true crime listening in the pacific ocean halfway between peru and new ze Zealand lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn. And it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reached the age of 10 that would still have heard it.

It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones, and for almost two years, I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn trials I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely, Pacific island to

the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Imagine it's June 16th, 1871. The air is starting to cool as the sun goes down. You were expecting him back earlier this afternoon, but he loves to wander and explore every nook and cranny of the park. Sometimes he'll explore the valley for two, three days on end and cover over 50 miles.

It amazes you that after almost two years, he can still find so much wonder in nature. You sometimes wish your husband still had that sense of awe. That's when you see him, John Muir, making his way through the young, the growth, leaves, and pine needles stuck in his beard. He looks up at you and calls out, You miss me? There's always reason to miss you. Today it's a loose window frame. The two of you laugh. There's always something to fix or improve,

and your husband's skills aren't entirely up to the task. The one on the south of the big tree room? Yes, that's the one. I knew that one was going to be a problem. Best it happens now, though, than in the fall. The big tree room he is talking about is the newest addition he made to the hotel. It is a kitchen and sitting room built around the base of a 75-foot-tall live incense cedar tree. Every guest remarks on how enchanting it is. Since arriving, he's upgraded every part of your husband's hotel. Where bedsheets once hung to divide sleeping quarters, he replaced them with wood planks, giving travelers actual privacy. He even replaced the wobbly glass panes your husband had installed with actual windows that don't rattle with the wind. You follow him into

the big tree room. Along the way, a guest asks if he will still give them a tour in the morning. People ask for John Muir more than your husband these days. Some say they travel to Yosemite just for him. As he takes to repairing the window, he asks, how's Squirrel doing? Getting dirtier by the day. No matter how much I try to clean her, she just gets covered in more dirt the next morning. And much of this is his doing. He's always encouraging your daughter to explore and learn. You know you shouldn't abide it, but he's just the kind of man your husband wants to be but isn't. Your husband is a good man, and you care for him. But John Muir is the kind of man that people want to be with. This is how some historians believe James Hutchings' wife, Elvira, felt about John Muir.

The two became close over his two years working for Hutchings' house. She loved how he treated her daughter. She loved how he fixed her home. She loved the way he held the valley in an almost spiritual regard. Muir wasn't the most physically striking man she'd ever seen, but he was a man's man, and he had an intensity that would make any person take pause. Unfortunately for Elvira, Muir was not attracted to her. He was so focused on his naturalistic observations that he may not have thought of her as much more than a sister. This does not mean that

rumors didn't circulate. Though James Hutchings and John Muir had been famously close friends, Muir was abruptly fired two years after Hutchings hired him. Some believe that Muir may have had an affair with Elvira, but most believe the firing came down to just jealousy. Hutchings' envy of the closeness between Muir and his wife, and of Muir's growing fame. Hutchings had always viewed himself as the man who built Yosemite, and yet travelers now came from far and wide to take tours with his younger rival. Visitors viewed Muir as the real expert of the region. In early 1871, Muir claimed he had discovered a glacier in Yosemite. Most believed this impossible, including Hutchings, who had been writing about and exploring Yosemite for almost two decades. But Muir was right. There was a glacier, and not just one.

He would later write about them in the New York Tribune. When it came time for Hutchings to write his own book, In the Heart of the Sierras, he would slight Muir by never referring to him by name. In Hutchings' narrative, Muir was just a good practical sawyer. But to the rest of the world, Muir was the expert, the real sage of the land. Hutchings was just a hotelier.

In 1872, after six years of arguing that the government should not be allowed to take someone's land, Hutchings' case landed in the United States Supreme Court. His lawyer argued the importance of land ownership and the rights of every American citizen. That December, the Supreme Court gave their verdict in Hutchings v. Lowe. They cited against Hutchings. The court ruled Congress had every right to establish the Yosemite Grant, and the move did not violate Hutchings' homestead claims. Just because federal lands were available for settlement did not force the government to release the lands to private individuals.

The court noted, Hutchings v. Lowe affirmed the constitutionality of national parks created from public lands, setting a legal precedent. The case would prove to be one of the most important moments for conservation in American history. After Hutchings lost the Supreme Court case, the state of California agreed to give him $24,000 as compensation for his lost homestead claim, about half a million dollars in today's money. Still, Hutchings refused to leave, and in 1875, a sheriff evicted him from his hotel. Out of sympathy, Galen Clark offered to let Hutchings store some of his things in an empty building in the valley. Hutchings took him up on the offer and reopened his hotel, complete with telegraph and post office. Clark

was livid and asked Hutchings to leave. When he refused again, he was permanently banished from the park. Things went downhill for Hutchings after he left the valley. He and his family returned to San Francisco, where Elvira immediately divorced him. In 1881, his daughter Florence, Squirrel, died in a freak accident on a Yosemite trail. Galen Clark continued in his position as park guardian until 1880, when a turnover in leadership at the Board of Commissioners led him to being fired. For Hutchings, it was a reversal of fortune. The new administrators turned to him and appointed Hutchings to the post.

His success was short-lived, though. The Board was put off by Hutchings' tactless, imperious attitude. Four years later, he was fired, too. The Park Commissioners came crawling back to Galen Clark. In 1889, at the age of 75, he once again took up the reins as guardian of Yosemite. He would eventually retire happily in 1897 and pass away shortly before his 96th birthday with his daughter by his bedside in Oakland. Before his death, Clark dug his own grave, planted with seedling sequoias from the Mariposa Grove he had discovered decades earlier. And in 1902, at age 82, Hutchings died in a wagon accident on the Big Oak Flat Road in Yosemite. They buried him next to his daughter

on the mountainside near Yosemite Falls, the waterfall that had first captivated him. His funeral was held in the big tree room in what was once his hotel, and in Hutchings' mind, always would be. To some, Hutchings died an opportunist, set on profiteering off land meant to remain free and open for future generations. He lacked the purity of intention of Galen Clark or John Muir. But in his own mind, at least, Hutchings died a pioneer and a hero, a businessman whose flair for publicity had revealed one of the nation's richest natural treasures to everyday people. Without him, and without the threat of the tourism he helped grow,

Yosemite might never have been saved. With the creation of Yosemite, the idea of national parks had taken hold in the public's mind. But for future parks to flourish, battles would have to be fought. On the next episode of American History Tellers, Yosemite inspires the creation of the first national park in Wyoming. But with no plan in place to care for the more than 2 million acres of wilderness, a complete failure of good intentions threatens to destroy Yellowstone National Park.

If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. I hope you've enjoyed this episode of American History Tellers. American History Tellers is hosted, sound designed, and edited by me,

Lindsey Graham for Airship. Additional production assistance by Derek Behrens. History Tellers. American History Tellers is hosted, sound designed, and edited by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Additional production assistance by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by Jarrett Palmer, edited and produced by Jenny Lauer, produced by George Lavender. Our executive producer is Marshall Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store.

Or maybe you're with your secret lover. Or maybe you're robbing a bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable.

The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariouslyfree on Wondery+. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.