THE RIVER FLOODS
The Sierra rivers are flooded every spring by the melting of the snow
as regularly as the famous old Nile. They begin to rise in May, and in
June high-water mark is reached. But because the melting does not go on
rapidly over all the fountains, high and low, simultaneously, and the
melted snow is not reinforced at this time of year by rain, the spring
floods are seldom very violent or destructive. The thousand falls,
however, and the cascades in the cañons are then in full bloom, and
sing songs from one end of the range to the other. Of course the snow
on the lower tributaries of the rivers is first melted, then that on
the higher fountains most exposed to sunshine, and about a month later
the cooler, shadowy fountains send down their treasures, thus allowing
the main trunk streams nearly six weeks to get their waters hurried
through the foot-hills and across the lowlands to the sea. Therefore
very violent spring floods are avoided, and will be as long as the
shading, restraining forests last. The rivers of the north half of the
range are still less subject to sudden floods, because their upper
fountains in great part lie protected from the changes of the weather
beneath thick folds of lava, just as many of the rivers of Alaska lie
beneath folds of ice, coming to the light farther down the range in
large springs, while those of the high Sierra lie on the surface of
solid granite, exposed to every change of temperature. More than ninety
per cent. of the water derived from the snow and ice of Mount Shasta is
at once absorbed and drained away beneath the porous lava folds of the
mountain, where mumbling and groping in the dark they at length find
larger fissures and tunnel-like caves from which they emerge, filtered
and cool, in the form of large springs, some of them so large they give
birth to rivers that set out on their journeys beneath the sun without
any visible intermediate period of childhood. Thus the Shasta River
issues from a large lake-like spring in Shasta Valley, and about two
thirds of the volume of the McCloud River gushes forth suddenly from
the face of a lava bluff in a roaring spring seventy-five yards wide.
These spring rivers of the north are of course shorter than those of
the south whose tributaries extend up to the tops of the mountains.
Fall River, an important tributary of the Pitt or Upper Sacramento, is
only about ten miles long, and is all falls, cascades, and springs from
its head to its confluence with the Pitt. Bountiful springs, charmingly
embowered, issue from the rocks at one end of it, a snowy fall a
hundred and eighty feet high thunders at the other, and a rush of
crystal rapids sing and dance between. Of course such streams are but
little affected by the weather. Sheltered from evaporation their flow
is nearly as full in the autumn as in the time of general spring
floods. While those of the high Sierra diminish to less than the
hundredth part of their springtime prime, shallowing in autumn to a
series of silent pools among the rocks and hollows of their channels,
connected by feeble, creeping threads of water, like the sluggish
sentences of a tired writer, connected by a drizzle of “ands” and
“buts.” Strange to say, the greatest floods occur in winter, when one
would suppose all the wild waters would be muffled and chained in frost
and snow. The same long, all-day storms of the so-called Rainy Season
in California, that give rain to the lowlands, give dry frosty snow to
the mountains. But at rare intervals warm rains and warm winds invade
the mountains and push back the snow line from 2000 feet to 8000, or
even higher, and then come the big floods.
I was usually driven down out of the High Sierra about the end of
November, but the winter of 1874 and 1875 was so warm and calm that I
was tempted to seek general views of the geology and topography of the
basin of Feather River in January. And I had just completed a hasty
survey of the region, and made my way down to winter quarters, when one
of the grandest flood-storms that I ever saw broke on the mountains. I
was then in the edge of the main forest belt at a small foot-hill town
called Knoxville, on the divide between the waters of the Feather and
Yuba rivers. The cause of this notable flood was simply a sudden and
copious fall of warm wind and rain on the basins of these rivers at a
time when they contained a considerable quantity of snow. The rain was
so heavy and long-sustained that it was, of itself, sufficient to make
a good wild flood, while the snow which the warm wind and rain melted
on the upper and middle regions of the basins was sufficient to make
another flood equal to that of the rain. Now these two distinct
harvests of flood waters were gathered simultaneously and poured out on
the plain in one magnificent avalanche. The basins of the Yuba and
Feather, like many others of the Sierra, are admirably adapted to the
growth of floods of this kind. Their many tributaries radiate far and
wide, comprehending extensive areas, and the tributaries are steeply
inclined, while the trunks are comparatively level. While the
flood-storm was in progress the thermometer at Knoxville ranged between
44° and 50°; and when warm wind and warm rain fall simultaneously on
snow contained in basins like these, both the rain and that portion of
the snow which the rain and wind melt are at first sponged up and held
back until the combined mass becomes sludge, which at length, suddenly
dissolving, slips and descends all together to the trunk channel; and
since the deeper the stream the faster it flows, the flooded portion of
the current above overtakes the slower foot-hill portion below it, and
all sweeping forward together with a high, overcurling front, debouches
on the open plain with a violence and suddenness that at first seem
wholly unaccountable. The destructiveness of the lower portion of this
particular flood was somewhat augmented by mining gravel in the river
channels, and by levees which gave way after having at first restrained
and held back the accumulating waters. These exaggerating conditions
did not, however, greatly influence the general result, the main effect
having been caused by the rare combination of flood factors indicated
above. It is a pity that but few people meet and enjoy storms so noble
as this in their homes in the mountains, for, spending themselves in
the open levels of the plains, they are likely to be remembered more by
the bridges and houses they carry away than by their beauty or the
thousand blessings they bring to the fields and gardens of Nature.
On the morning of the flood, January 19th, all the Feather and Yuba
landscapes were covered with running water, muddy torrents filled every
gulch and ravine, and the sky was thick with rain. The pines had long
been sleeping in sunshine; they were now awake, roaring and waving with
the beating storm, and the winds sweeping along the curves of hill and
dale, streaming through the woods, surging and gurgling on the tops of
rocky ridges, made the wildest of wild storm melody.
It was easy to see that only a small part of the rain reached the
ground in the form of drops. Most of it was thrashed into dusty spray
like that into which small waterfalls are divided when they dash on
shelving rocks. Never have I seen water coming from the sky in denser
or more passionate streams. The wind chased the spray forward in
choking drifts, and compelled me again and again to seek shelter in the
dell copses and back of large trees to rest and catch my breath.
Wherever I went, on ridges or in hollows, enthusiastic water still
flashed and gurgled about my ankles, recalling a wild winter flood in
Yosemite when a hundred waterfalls came booming and chanting together
and filled the grand valley with a sea-like roar.
After drifting an hour or two in the lower woods, I set out for the
summit of a hill 900 feet high, with a view to getting as near the
heart of the storm as possible. In order to reach it I had to cross Dry
Creek, a tributary of the Yuba that goes crawling along the base of the
hill on the northwest. It was now a booming river as large as the
Tuolumne at ordinary stages, its current brown with mining-mud washed
down from many a “claim,” and mottled with sluice-boxes, fence-rails,
and logs that had long lain above its reach. A slim foot-bridge
stretched across it, now scarcely above the swollen current. Here I was
glad to linger, gazing and listening, while the storm was in its
richest mood—the gray rain-flood above, the brown river-flood beneath.
The language of the river was scarcely less enchanting than that of the
wind and rain; the sublime overboom of the main bouncing, exulting
current, the swash and gurgle of the eddies, the keen dash and clash of
heavy waves breaking against rocks, and the smooth, downy hush of
shallow currents feeling their way through the willow thickets of the
margin. And amid all this varied throng of sounds I heard the smothered
bumping and rumbling of boulders on the bottom as they were shoving and
rolling forward against one another in a wild rush, after having lain
still for probably 100 years or more.
The glad creek rose high above its banks and wandered from its channel
out over many a briery sand-flat and meadow. Alders and willows
waist-deep were bearing up against the current with nervous trembling
gestures, as if afraid of being carried away, while supple branches
bending confidingly, dipped lightly and rose again, as if stroking the
wild waters in play. Leaving the bridge and passing on through the
storm-thrashed woods, all the ground seemed to be moving. Pine-tassels,
flakes of bark, soil, leaves, and broken branches were being swept
forward, and many a rock-fragment, weathered from exposed ledges, was
now receiving its first rounding and polishing in the wild streams of
the storm. On they rushed through every gulch and hollow, leaping,
gliding, working with a will, and rejoicing like living creatures.
Nor was the flood confined to the ground. Every tree had a water system
of its own spreading far and wide like miniature Amazons and
Mississippis.
Toward midday, cloud, wind, and rain reached their highest development.
The storm was in full bloom, and formed, from my commanding outlook on
the hilltop, one of the most glorious views I ever beheld. As far as
the eye could reach, above, beneath, around, wind-driven rain filled
the air like one vast waterfall. Detached clouds swept imposingly up
the valley, as if they were endowed with independent motion and had
special work to do in replenishing the mountain wells, now rising above
the pine-tops, now descending into their midst, fondling their arrowy
spires and soothing every branch and leaf with gentleness in the midst
of all the savage sound and motion. Others keeping near the ground
glided behind separate groves, and brought them forward into relief
with admirable distinctness; or, passing in front, eclipsed whole
groves in succession, pine after pine melting in their gray fringes and
bursting forth again seemingly clearer than before.
The forms of storms are in great part measured, and controlled by the
topography of the regions where they rise and over which they pass.
When, therefore, we attempt to study them from the valleys, or from
gaps and openings of the forest, we are confounded by a multitude of
separate and apparently antagonistic impressions. The bottom of the
storm is broken up into innumerable waves and currents that surge
against the hillsides like sea-waves against a shore, and these,
reacting on the nether surface of the storm, erode immense cavernous
hollows and cañons, and sweep forward the resulting detritus in long
trains, like the moraines of glaciers. But, as we ascend, these
partial, confusing effects disappear and the phenomena are beheld
united and harmonious.
The longer I gazed into the storm, the more plainly visible it became.
The drifting cloud detritus gave it a kind of visible body, which
explained many perplexing phenomena, and published its movements in
plain terms, while the texture of the falling mass of rain rounded it
out and rendered it more complete. Because raindrops differ in size
they fall at different velocities and overtake and clash against one
another, producing mist and spray. They also, of course, yield unequal
compliance to the force of the wind, which gives rise to a still
greater degree of interference, and passionate gusts sweep off clouds
of spray from the groves like that torn from wave-tops in a gale. All
these factors of irregularity in density, color, and texture of the
general rain mass tend to make it the more appreciable and telling. It
is then seen as one grand flood rushing over bank and brae, bending the
pines like weeds, curving this way and that, whirling in huge eddies in
hollows and dells, while the main current pours grandly over all, like
ocean currents over the landscapes that lie hidden at the bottom of the
sea.
I watched the gestures of the pines while the storm was at its height,
and it was easy to see that they were not distressed. Several large
Sugar Pines stood near the thicket in which I was sheltered, bowing
solemnly and tossing their long arms as if interpreting the very words
of the storm while accepting its wildest onsets with passionate
exhilaration. The lions were feeding. Those who have observed
sunflowers feasting on sunshine during the golden days of Indian summer
know that none of their gestures express thankfulness. Their celestial
food is too heartily given, too heartily taken to leave room for
thanks. The pines were evidently accepting the benefactions of the
storm in the same whole-souled manner; and when I looked down among the
budding hazels, and still lower to the young violets and fern-tufts on
the rocks, I noticed the same divine methods of giving and taking, and
the same exquisite adaptations of what seems an outbreak of violent and
uncontrollable force to the purposes of beautiful and delicate life.
Calms like sleep come upon landscapes, just as they do on people and
trees, and storms awaken them in the same way. In the dry midsummer of
the lower portion of the range the withered hills and valleys seem to
lie as empty and expressionless as dead shells on a shore. Even the
highest mountains may be found occasionally dull and uncommunicative as
if in some way they had lost countenance and shrunk to less than half
their real stature. But when the lightnings crash and echo in the
cañons, and the clouds come down wreathing and crowning their bald
snowy heads, every feature beams with expression and they rise again in
all their imposing majesty.
Storms are fine speakers, and tell all they know, but their voices of
lightning, torrent, and rushing wind are much less numerous than the
nameless still, small voices too low for human ears; and because we are
poor listeners we fail to catch much that is fairly within reach. Our
best rains are heard mostly on roofs, and winds in chimneys; and when
by choice or compulsion we are pushed into the heart of a storm, the
confusion made by cumbersome equipments and nervous haste and mean
fear, prevent our hearing any other than the loudest expressions. Yet
we may draw enjoyment from storm sounds that are beyond hearing, and
storm movements we cannot see. The sublime whirl of planets around
their suns is as silent as raindrops oozing in the dark among the roots
of plants. In this great storm, as in every other, there were tones and
gestures inexpressibly gentle manifested in the midst of what is called
violence and fury, but easily recognized by all who look and listen for
them. The rain brought out the colors of the woods with delightful
freshness, the rich brown of the bark of the trees and the fallen burs
and leaves and dead ferns; the grays of rocks and lichens; the light
purple of swelling buds, and the warm yellow greens of the libocedrus
and mosses. The air was steaming with delightful fragrance, not rising
and wafting past in separate masses, but diffused through all the
atmosphere. Pine woods are always fragrant, but most so in spring when
the young tassels are opening and in warm weather when the various gums
and balsams are softened by the sun. The wind was now chafing their
innumerable needles and the warm rain was steeping them. Monardella
grows here in large beds in the openings, and there is plenty of laurel
in dells and manzanita on the hillsides, and the rosy, fragrant
chamoebatia carpets the ground almost everywhere. These, with the gums
and balsams of the woods, form the main local fragrance-fountains of
the storm. The ascending clouds of aroma wind-rolled and rain-washed
became pure like light and traveled with the wind as part of it. Toward
the middle of the afternoon the main flood cloud lifted along its
western border revealing a beautiful section of the Sacramento Valley
some twenty or thirty miles away, brilliantly sun-lighted and
glistering with rain-sheets as if paved with silver. Soon afterward a
jagged bluff-like cloud with a sheer face appeared over the valley of
the Yuba, dark-colored and roughened with numerous furrows like some
huge lava-table. The blue Coast Range was seen stretching along the sky
like a beveled wall, and the somber, craggy Marysville Buttes rose
impressively out of the flooded plain like islands out of the sea. Then
the rain began to abate and I sauntered down through the dripping
bushes reveling in the universal vigor and freshness that inspired all
the life about me. How clean and unworn and immortal the woods seemed
to be!—the lofty cedars in full bloom laden with golden pollen and
their washed plumes shining; the pines rocking gently and settling back
into rest, and the evening sunbeams spangling on the broad leaves of
the madroños, their tracery of yellow boughs relieved against dusky
thickets of Chestnut Oak; liverworts, lycopodiums, ferns were exulting
in glorious revival, and every moss that had ever lived seemed to be
coming crowding back from the dead to clothe each trunk and stone in
living green. The steaming ground seemed fairly to throb and tingle
with life; smilax, fritillaria, saxifrage, and young violets were
pushing up as if already conscious of the summer glory, and innumerable
green and yellow buds were peeping and smiling everywhere.
As for the birds and squirrels, not a wing or tail of them was to be
seen while the storm was blowing. Squirrels dislike wet weather more
than cats do; therefore they were at home rocking in their dry nests.
The birds were hiding in the dells out of the wind, some of the
strongest of them pecking at acorns and manzanita berries, but most
were perched on low twigs, their breast feathers puffed out and keeping
one another company through the hard time as best they could.
When I arrived at the village about sundown, the good people bestirred
themselves, pitying my bedraggled condition as if I were some benumbed
castaway snatched from the sea, while I, in turn, warm with excitement
and reeking like the ground, pitied them for being dry and defrauded of
all the glory that Nature had spread round about them that day.