Copyrighted by the Century Co., 1894.
The most magnificent storm phenomenon I ever saw, surpassing in showy
grandeur the most imposing effects of clouds, floods, or avalanches,
was the peaks of the High Sierra, back of Yosemite Valley, decorated
with snow-banners. Many of the starry snow-flowers, out of which these
banners are made, fall before they are ripe, while most of those that
do attain perfect development as six-rayed crystals glint and chafe
against one another in their fall through the frosty air, and are
broken into fragments. This dry, fragmentary snow is still further
prepared for the formation of banners by the action of the wind. For,
instead of finding rest at once, like the snow which falls into the
tranquil depths of the forests, it is rolled over and over, beaten
against rock-ridges, and swirled in pits and hollows, like boulders,
pebbles, and sand in the pot-holes of a river, until finally the
delicate angles of the crystals are worn off, and the whole mass is
reduced to dust. And whenever storm-winds find this prepared snow-dust
in a loose condition on exposed slopes, where there is a free upward
sweep to leeward, it is tossed back into the sky, and borne onward
from peak to peak in the form of banners or cloudy drifts, according
to the velocity of the wind and the conformation of the slopes up or
around which it is driven. While thus flying through the air, a small
portion makes good its escape, and remains in the sky again as vapor.
But far the greater part, after being driven into the sky again and
again, is at length locked fast in bossy drifts, or in the wombs of
glaciers, some of it to remain silent and rigid for centuries before
it is finally melted and sent singing down the mountainsides to the
sea.
Yet, notwithstanding the abundance of winter snow-dust in the
mountains, and the frequency of high winds, and the length of time the
dust remains loose and exposed to their action, the occurrence of
well-formed banners is, for causes we shall hereafter note,
comparatively rare. I have seen only one display of this kind that
seemed in every way perfect. This was in the winter of 1873, when the
snow-laden summits were swept by a wild "norther." I happened at the
time to be wintering in Yosemite Valley, that sublime Sierra temple
where every day one may see the grandest sights. Yet even here the
wild gala-day of the north seemed surpassingly glorious. I was
awakened in the morning by the rocking of my cabin and the beating of
pine-burs on the roof. Detached torrents and avalanches from the main
wind-flood overhead were rushing wildly down the narrow side canyons,
and over the precipitous walls, with loud resounding roar, rousing the
pines to enthusiastic action, and making the whole valley vibrate as
though it were an instrument being played.
But afar on the lofty exposed peaks of the range standing so high in
the sky, the storm was expressing itself in still grander characters,
which I was soon to see in all their glory. I had long been anxious to
study some points in the structure of the ice-cone that is formed
every winter at the foot of the upper Yosemite fall, but blinding
spray by which it is invested had hitherto prevented me from making a
sufficiently near approach. This morning the entire body of the fall
was torn into gauzy shreds, and blown horizontally along the face of
the cliff, leaving the cone dry; and while making my way to the top of
an overlooking ledge to seize so favorable an opportunity to examine
the interior of the cone, the peaks of the Merced group came in sight
over the shoulder of the South Dome, each waving a resplendent banner
against the blue sky, as regular in form, and as firm in texture, as
if woven of fine silk. So rare and splendid a phenomenon, of course,
overbore all other considerations, and I at once let the ice-cone go,
and began to force my way out of the valley to some dome or ridge
sufficiently lofty to command a general view of the main summits,
feeling assured that I should find them bannered still more
gloriously; nor was I in the least disappointed. Indian Canon, through
which I climbed, was choked with snow that had been shot down in
avalanches from the high cliffs on either side, rendering the ascent
difficult; but inspired by the roaring storm, the tedious wallowing
brought no fatigue, and in four hours I gained the top of a ridge
above the valley, 8,000 feet high. And there in bold relief, like a
clear painting, appeared a most imposing scene. Innumerable peaks,
black and sharp, rose grandly into the dark blue sky, their bases set
in solid white, their sides streaked and splashed with snow, like
ocean rocks with foam; and from every summit, all free and unconfused,
was streaming a beautiful, silky, silvery banner, from half a mile to
a mile in length, slender at the point of attachment, then widening
gradually as it extended from the peak until it was about 1,000 or
1,500 feet in breadth, as near as I could estimate. The cluster of
peaks called the "Crown of the Sierra," at the head of the Merced and
Tuolumne rivers,--Mounts Dana, Gibbs, Conness, Lyell, Maclure, Ritter,
with their nameless compeers,--each had its own refulgent banner,
waving with a clearly visible motion in the sun glow, and there was
not a single cloud in the sky to mar their simple grandeur. Fancy
yourself standing on this Yosemite ridge looking eastward. You notice
a strange garish glitter in the air. The gale drives wildly overhead
with a fierce, tempestuous roar, but its violence is not felt, for you
are looking through a sheltered opening in the woods as through a
window. There, in the immediate foreground of your picture, rises a
majestic forest of silver fir blooming in eternal freshness, the
foliage yellow-green, and the snow beneath the trees strewn with their
beautiful plumes, plucked off by the wind. Beyond, and extending over
all the middle ground, are somber swaths of pine, interrupted by huge
swelling ridges and domes; and just beyond the dark forest you see the
monarchs of the High Sierra waving their magnificent banners. They are
twenty miles away, but you would not wish them nearer, for every
feature is distinct, and the whole glorious show is seen in its right
proportions. After this general view, mark how sharply the dark,
snowless ribs and buttresses and summits of the peaks are defined,
excepting the portions veiled by the banners, and how delicately their
sides are streaked with snow, where it has come to rest in narrow
flutings and gorges. Mark, too, how grandly the banners wave as the
wind is deflected against their sides, and how trimly each is attached
to the very summit of its peak, like a streamer at a masthead; how
smooth and silky they are in texture, and how finely their fading
fringes are penciled on the azure sky. See how dense and opaque they
are at the point of attachment, and how filmy and translucent toward
the end, so that the peaks back of them are seen dimly, as though you
were looking through ground glass. Yet again, observe how some of the
longest, belonging to the loftiest summits, stream perfectly free all
the way across intervening notches and passes from peak to peak, while
others overlap and partly hide each other. And consider how keenly
every particle of this wondrous cloth of snow is flashing out jets of
light. These are the main features of the beautiful and terrible
picture as seen from the forest window; and it would still be
surpassingly glorious were the fore and middle grounds obliterated
altogether, leaving only the black peaks, the white banners and the
blue sky.
Glancing now in a general way at the formation of snow-banners, we
find that the main causes of the wondrous beauty and perfection of
those we have been contemplating were the favorable direction and
great force of the wind, the abundance of snow-dust, and the peculiar
conformation of the slopes of the peaks. It is essential not only that
the wind should move with great velocity and steadiness to supply a
sufficiently copious and continuous stream of snow dust, but that it
should come from the north. No perfect banner is ever hung on the
Sierra peaks by a south wind. Had the gale that day blown from the
south, leaving other conditions unchanged, only a dull, confused,
fog-like drift would have been produced; for the snow, instead of
being spouted up over the tops of the peaks in concentrated currents
to be drawn out as streamers, would have been shed off around the
sides, and piled down into glacier wombs. The cause of the
concentrated action of the north wind is found in the peculiar form of
the north sides of the peaks, where the amphitheaters of the residual
glaciers are. In general, the south sides are convex and irregular,
while the north sides are concave both in their vertical and
horizontal sections; the wind in ascending these curves converges
toward the summits, carrying the snow in concentrating currents with
it, shooting it almost straight up into the air above the peaks, from
which it is then carried away in a horizontal direction.
This difference in form between the north and south sides of the peaks
was almost wholly produced by the difference in the kind and quantity
of the glaciation to which they have been subjected, the north sides
having been hollowed by residual shadow-glaciers of a form that never
existed on the sun-beaten sides.
It appears, therefore, that shadows in a great part determine not
only the forms of lofty icy mountains, but also those of the
snow-banners that the wild winds hang on them.