IN THE BIG SNOW.
The winter of 1889-90 is memorable in California as the winter of "the
big snow." In the latter part of January the Central Pacific line over
the Sierra Nevada was blockaded, and three or four passenger trains
were imprisoned in the drifts for more than two weeks. Passing through
the blockade and over the range afoot, I walked at times above the tops
of the telegraph poles, and think it no exaggeration to estimate the
depth of snow at the higher altitudes at 25 feet. Drifts in the
canyons must have been more than double the depth of the snow on a
level. The storm was general and the snowfall throughout the mountain
region was extraordinary, not only for quantity but for rapidity. It
can snow more inches to the hour in the high Sierra than feet to the
week anywhere else, and the big storm of 1890 broke all previous
records.
Miners' cabins in the gulches and hunters' shacks on the mountains were
buried in a night and the occupants had to tunnel their way out. Deer
fled from the slopes down into secluded glens which had been their safe
refuge from Sierra storms before, but the white death followed them and
softly folded its feathery wings about them. In the spring the dead
deer were found in hundreds where they had "yarded" safely through many
winters before the big snow. Warm weather before the storm had brought
the bears out of their holes and set them to foraging for grub. The
snow fell lightly and no crust formed for some time, and bruin could
not wallow through it. The best he could do was to get under the lee
of a log or ledge, take another nap and nurse his inconvenient
appetite. Being a philosopher, bruin did the best he could and trusted
the god of the wild things to do the rest.
Upon the long western slope of a big sprawling mountain in Sierra
county a Grizzly dam and two gaunt cubs of the vintage of '89 were
caught in the big snow miles away from the deep gulch in which they had
passed the winter. No doubt that dam was weatherwise enough to sense
the coming storm in time to have returned to the den, but neither beast
nor man could have guessed what a thick blanket of white the gray
clouds were about to lay upon the land. When the flakes began to fall
thickly Mother Grizzly quit digging roots and turning over rocks, and
sought shelter. The long slope was smooth and bare, but down near the
foot was a fallen pine with upturned roots, and into the hollow where
the roots had been, under the lee of the matted mass of fibre and dirt,
Mother Grizzly led her babies and there made her bed for the night. It
was a longer night than the old bear expected. It lasted until the
next day's westering sun made a pale, bluish glimmer through the upper
part of the drift that covered the fallen tree and filled up the
hollow. The warmth of their bodies had kept an open space around the
bears, and the upturned roots of the pine had prevented the snow from
piling high directly over them, while causing it to drift and form an
enclosing barrier in front of the shallow pit made by the uprooting of
the tree. Mother Grizzly arose and struggled toward the dim glimmer of
light, but she could not break her way out. The snow was light and dry
and would not pack, and her buffetings only brought a feathery smother
down upon her and the cubs. All she accomplished was to let down the
frail roofing of the den and get a glimpse of the sky. She tried to
climb up the drift, but sank out of sight and had to back out of the
smother. Digging was futile, for the snow offered scarcely more
resistance than foam.
So Mother Grizzly gave up her attempt to escape and busied herself with
making the hollow as comfortable as possible for a long stay. She
scraped down to the dirt and packed the snow about the sides of the
lair, stowed the cubs against the back of the den and curled herself in
front of them and waited for better times to come.
It is a proverb of the Spaniards that "who sleeps, dines," and bears
attest its truth, for it is their experience through the long, cold
weeks of winter, when the snow is deep and no food is to be got at.
Doubtless the old she bear was content to go to sleep again and forget
her hunger, but it may be supposed that the cubs had not learned the
philosophy of necessity, and kept her awake with fretful demands which
she could not satisfy. Had the family remained holed up in the winter
den and not been tempted out by mild weather to break the long fast,
probably the desire for food would have remained dormant, but the taste
of food awakened appetite, and exercise sharpened it and created
insistent necessity for its satisfaction. The normal period of
hibernation having passed, dreams were no longer acceptable substitutes
for dinner. So the hungry, worrying cubs would not let their dam
sleep, and she soon became as ravenous as they and impatient of
imprisonment.
Every day Mother Grizzly tried the barrier to find a way out, but for
more than two weeks the snow was without a crust that would sustain the
weight of a dog, and she could only flounder into the drift a few feet
and struggle out again. Then a light drizzle of rain came, and the
next night there was a sharper tingle in the air, a promise of cold
weather, and crust began to form. In a day or two more it would be
firm enough to travel upon, and the old Grizzly would lead her starving
cubs down into the foothills and hunt for a stray calf or a sheep with
which to feed them.
The big snow obliterated mountain roads and trails, and the mail was
carried to many of the smaller mountain settlements by men on
snowshoes, who took the shortest feasible routes and found smooth
traveling a dozen or fifteen feet above the rough, rock-strewn ground.
A Sierra carrier on skis--the long, wooden Norwegian snowshoes--with a
letter pouch strapped to his shoulders, was tempted by the light crust
to leave the ridge and shorten his journey by making a cut-off down the
long, smooth slope. A minute's swift rush down that slope would save
hours of weary plodding above the heads of the gulches.
The carrier studied the stretch of gleaming white carefully to select
his course, and determined on a line passing a little below the roots
of the fallen pine, which were indicated by a slight fold in the
blanket of snow. Setting his steel-shod staff under his left arm pit
to serve as brake and rudder and throwing his weight upon it, the
carrier ranged his skis parallel, the right in advance a few inches,
fixed his attention upon the range mark he had chosen, gave a slight
push with the staff and got under way. The crust bore his weight
easily, and in two seconds he was gliding swiftly. In five seconds
more he was speeding like an arrow from the bow, and the ringing of the
steel staff point against the crust arose in a high clear note above
the grating sound of the sliding skis.
Mother Grizzly heard the strange sound, which was unlike anything of
which she knew the meaning, and cuffing the whining cubs into instant
silence, she started cautiously up the barrier to see what was going on
or what danger menaced. Her frequent attempts to get out of the hole
had made an inclined trench, which came to the surface a few yards from
the protruding tree roots, and when she reached the upper end and put
her head above the crust she saw a man rushing down the mountain
straight toward her with the speed of a falling stone.
The green glint came into the grizzly's eyes, her teeth clashed
together in quick, sharp strokes, like the chattering of a chilled
bather, and she lunged forward and upward to meet the charge. If the
man saw her at all, it was too late to swerve from his course or swing
his staff forward for a weapon. His right ski passed under the bear's
foreleg and he flew headlong over her, hurtled through the air and
crashed through the snow crust a dozen yards beyond her. One of the
skis was broken and torn from his foot, and even if his leg had not
been broken he would have been helpless where he fell.
[Illustration: She Lunged Forward to Meet the Charge.]
Mother Grizzly and the starving cubs broke their fast, and two or three
days later they went away over the frozen snow to the foothills. The
men who went out in search of the missing carrier, and followed his
trail to the fallen pine, brought back the mail pouch and something in
a grain sack. They told me what they found, but it was not a pleasing
tale and it is best that it be not retold.