An experience in an actual sand storm is food upon which the
reminiscent may ruminate many a day, being much more pleasant in
memory than in the making. First come the scurrying outriders, lithe
and limber whisking gusts, dancing and whirling like Moslem
dervishes, coyly brushing the traveler or boldly flinging fierce
fistfuls of dirt into his eyes; then off with a swish of invisible
skirts--vanishing possibly in the same direction whence they came.
They go leaving him wiping his astonished eyes disgustedly, for the
act was so sudden and tragic as to excite tears. Before he is aware of
it other and stronger gusts duplicate the dastardly deed of the first
wingless wizard of the plains, and the hapless voyager is left
gasping. Almost immediately there are to be seen the regular "desert
devils," as they are called, bringing a dozen or more whirling columns
of yellow silt rapidly through the air, each pirouetting on one foot,
assuming meanwhile all sorts of fantastic shapes.
Now for the fierce onset. Like blasts of a blizzard, the shrapnel of
the desert is hurled into eyes, face, ears, and nostrils; little
rivers pour down the back and fill every discoverable wrinkle and
cranny of the clothing with their gritty load.
If in summer, buttoning the clothing is suffocation, and the
perspiration soon makes one a mass of grime; if in winter, it is not
so unbearable, for a comfortable fencing can be made against the sand
and the cold.
The whole landscape is obliterated by and by, and the trails are so
often drift-filled that unless one is himself accustomed to such
methods of travel or has an experienced plainsman as his driver and
guide, there is danger of becoming lost, or so out of the way that
night may overtake him and compel a waterless camp for himself and
team.