Does anyone Journal their trips like John Muir?

My Wife and I have made a habit of doing a journal every night before we go to sleep on every trip. We write nothing profound, but just the things that happen each day. It is nice to look back on them and remember.

No words but an art sketchbook instead.
www.highsierratopix.com/community/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=13275

(sorry, tried posting the pics here first, but - a bit archaic.)

I have to admit that John Muir is far more superior at the tongue and quill than myself. Not to hijack my own thread but some of his stories in his journal have left me in tears. I could only hope to be as humours and witty in my own writings such that it would bring someone to tears nearly a hundred years later... Though it is a long post and borrowed from John Muir himself, this story is one of my favourites so far...


The drivers and dogs had a lively, laborious time getting the sheep across the creek, the second large stream thus far that they have been compelled to cross without a bridge; the first being the North Fork of the Merced near Bower Cave. Men and dogs, shouting and barking, drove the timid, water-fearing creatures in a close crowd against the bank, but not one of the flock would launch away. While thus jammed, the Don and the shepherd rushed through the frightened crowd to stampede those in front, but this would only cause a break backward, and away they would scamper through the stream-bank trees and scatter over the rocky pavement. Then with the aid of the dogs the runaways would again be gathered and made to face the stream, and again the compacted mass would break away, amid wild shouting and barking that might well have disturbed the stream itself and marred the music of its falls, to which visitors no doubt from all quarters of the globe were listening. "Hold them there! Now hold them there!" shouted the Don; "the front ranks will soon tire of the pressure, and be glad to take to the water, then all will jump in and cross in a hurry." But they did nothing of the kind; they only avoided the pressure by breaking back in scores and hundreds, leaving the beauty of the banks sadly trampled.

If only one could be got to cross over, all would make haste to follow; but that one could not be found. A lamb was caught, carried across, and tied to a bush on the opposite bank, where it cried piteously for its mother. But though greatly concerned, the mother only called it back. That play on maternal affection failed, and we began to fear that we should be forced to make a long roundabout drive and cross the wide-spread tributaries of the creek in succession. This would require several days, but it had its advantages, for I was eager to see the sources of so famous a stream. Don Quixote, however, determined that they must ford just here, and immediately began a sort of siege by cutting down slender pines on the bank and building a corral barely large enough to hold the flock when well pressed together. And as the stream would form one side of the corral he believed that they could easily be forced into the water.

In a few hours the inclosure was completed, and the silly animals were driven in and rammed hard against the brink of the ford. Then the Don, forcing a way through the compacted mass, pitched a few of the terrified unfortunates into the stream by main strength; but instead of crossing over, they swam about close to the bank, making desperate attempts to get back into the flock. Then a dozen or more were shoved off, and the Don, tall like a crane and a good natural wader, jumped in after them, seized a struggling wether, and dragged it to the opposite shore. But no sooner did he let it go than it jumped into the stream and swam back to its frightened companions in the corral, thus manifesting sheep-nature as unchangeable as gravitation. Pan with his pipes would have had no better luck, I fear. We were now pretty well baffled. The silly creatures would suffer any sort of death rather than cross that stream. Calling a council, the dripping Don declared that starvation was now the only likely scheme to try, and that we might as well camp here in comfort and let the besieged flock grow hungry and cool, and come to their senses, if they had any. In a few minutes after being thus let alone, an adventurer in the foremost rank plunged in and swam bravely to the farther shore. Then suddenly all rushed in pell-mell together, trampling one another under water, while we vainly tried to hold them back. The Don jumped into the thickest of the gasping, gurgling, drowning mass, and shoved them right and left as if each sheep was a piece of floating timber. The current also served to drift them apart; a long bent column was soon formed, and in a few minutes all were over and began baaing and feeding as if nothing out of the common had happened. That none were drowned seems wonderful. I fully expected that hundreds would gain the romantic fate of being swept into Yosemite over the highest waterfall in the world.

As the day was far spent, we camped a little way back from the ford, and let the dripping flock scatter and feed until sundown. The wool is dry now, and calm, cud-chewing peace has fallen on all the comfortable band, leaving no trace of the watery battle. I have seen fish driven out of the water with less ado than was made in driving these animals into it. Sheep brain must surely be poor stuff. Compare to-day's exhibition with the performances of deer swimming quietly across broad and rapid rivers, and from island to island in seas and lakes; or with dogs, or even with the squirrels that, as the story goes, cross the Mississippi River on selected chips, with tails for sails comfortably trimmed to the breeze. A sheep can hardly be called an animal; an entire flock is required to make one foolish individual.

I agree completely, not that there's anything wrong with it.  IMHO, that's what should happen.  Jack Kerouac aside, nobody should subject the reader to unedited writing. (See?  I deleted my screed on writing as performance art to avoid wandering too far off topic.)  Anyway, I regret few of my transgressions as much as unleashing a clunky paragraph.

I use to takes notes about the physical conditions like temps, weather, wildlife and such.

Now-a-days, I take lots of photos and use them to augment an account of the trek, regurgitated from memory. Then I come here and and "publish" the verbiage and photos as a trip report.

My journal habits are a mess, but my memory is pretty good, so a few notes scratched into a small notebook and on the map serve well till I get back to the car or home, where I elaborate. Dates, waypoints, elevations, and a life list are essential metadata for some photos. I can wax philosophic when I have more time. I've tried using my phone to take voice notes that are geo-referenced, which would probably work better if I were using the phone as a camera, but battery life is a problem. My next camera body will probably incorporate both GPS and audio, but batteries will still be a limitation. My old Nikormat didn't need no stinking batteries to take photos.

I'm pretty good at making lists, so I sometimes go back and add recollections to my electronic journal about trips that I took a long time ago. This kind of overlaps the Trail Register discussion about photos, which are my primary record of what I saw. Google Earth is another aid for tripping back in time. I'm building my own Atlas and Gazetteer for places that I have, hiked, camped, skied, paddled, and bicycled.