Poet of the Sierras

Joaquin Miller, it was said after his death in 1913, was fond of all animals except dogs.

Along U.S. 27, there's a stone on the side of the road marking Miller's connection to Liberty and Union County, where he was born in 1837.

(Miller allegedly later on said he wasn't born in Liberty at all but on a wagon headed west … and a full four years later. So, 1837 or 1841 … your choice.)

When he was 12, he traveled west with his family, first to Oregon and later to California when gold was dug up at Sutter's Mill.

Miller was born with the uninspiring name of Cincinnatus Heine Miller and became Joaquin because it was easier to spell. Later on, he became known as the “Poet of the Sierras.”

In 1915, after his death, Union and Wayne counties collaborated on some kind of memorial marker to the poet, who dreamed Utopian dreams and managed a life that cemented him as one of the more curious people to come out of Liberty.

As the freak events of history conspired, the weirdest part of the story from the U.S. 27 perspective was -- in 1950, a motorist went off the road and trashed the monument. Yeah, 15 miles of wide open highway and the guy had to hit Joaquin Miller's plaque. 

Miller gained his fame in the 1880s in the richly self-important area not far from San Francisco where his work became widely appreciated. Such was the life of the poet in Miller's time. As an eccentric, he had the opportunity to promote a form of awareness that found favor among the elite of his time.

To say that he was influential is understating it. In the tradition of Carl Sandburg, Walt Whitman, Will Rogers … Miller was well known.

A far cry from the dusty road between Liberty and Richmond where he was purportedly born. The guy may have been born humble, but there's no evidence he lived that way. He appears to have had substantial wealth as his fame grew.

Miller ascribed to the belief that there truly was an “American” literature.

“Will we ever have an American literature? Yes, when we leave sound and words in the winds. American science dashes along at fifty, sixty miles an hour but American literature still lumbers along in the old fashioned English stage coach at ten miles an hour and sometimes with a red-coated outrider blowing a horn. We have not time for words. When the Messiah of American literature comes he will come singing so far as may be in words of one syllable.”

SELECTED POETRY