southwest Cathedral slope. Accordingly, one fine morning I set out
alone, and descended through chaparral and over rough _débris_ slopes to
the stream, which at this time, unlike the other upland brooks, flowed
freely, though with far less volume than in summer. At this altitude
only such streams as derive their volume wholly from melting snow dry up
in the cold autumnal and winter months; spring-fed brooks hold their
own, and rather increase as cold weather advances.
It was a wild gorge down which I tramped, following the stream-bed,
often jumping from block to block, or letting myself down by the
chaparral boughs that overhung my way. Splendid walls on either side
rose steep and high, for the most part bare, but here and there on shelf
or crevice bearing clusters of fine conifers, their lower slopes one
vast wreck of bowlders and thicket of chaparral plants.
Not without some difficulty I at length got to the brink, and sat down
to rest, looking over at the valley, whose meadows were only a thousand
feet below; a cool, stirring breeze blew up the Merced Cañon, swinging
the lace-like scarf of foam which fell from my feet, and, floating now
against the purple cliff, again blew out gracefully to the right or
left. While I looked, a gust came roaming round the Cathedral Rocks,
impinging against our cliff near the fall, and apparently got in between
it and the cliff, carrying the whole column of falling water straight
out in a streamer through the air.
I went back to camp by way of the Cathedral Rocks, finding much of
interest in the conoidal structure, which is yet perfectly apparent, and
unobscured by erosion or the terrible splitting asunder they have
suffered. Upon a ridge connecting these rocks with the plateaus just
south there were many instructive and delightful points of view,
especially the crag just above the Cathedral Spires, from which I
overlooked a large part of valley and cliff, with the two sharp, slender
minarets of granite close beneath me. That great block forming the
plateau between the Yosemite and Illilluette cañons afforded a fine
field for studying granite, pine, and many remarkably characteristic
views of the gorge below and peaks beyond. From our camp I explored
every ravine and climbed each eminence, reaching at last, one fine
afternoon, the top of that singular, hemispherical mass, the Sentinel
Dome. From this point one sweeps the horizon in all directions. You
stand upon the crest of half a globe, whose smooth, white sides, bearing
here and there stunted pines, slope away regularly in all directions
from your feet. Below, granite masses, blackened here and there with
densely clustered forest, stretch through varied undulations toward you.
At a little distance from the foot of the Half-Dome, trees hold upon
sharp brinks, and precipices plunge off into Yosemite upon one side, and
the dark, rocky cañon of Illilluette upon the other. Eastward, soaring
into clouds, stands the thin, vertical mass of the Half-Dome.
From this view the snowy peak of the Obelisk, flattened into broad,
dome-like outline, rises, shutting out the more distant Sierra summits.
This peak, from its peculiar position and thin, tower-like form, offers
one of the most tempting summits of the region. From that slender top
one might look into the Yosemite, and into that basin of ice and granite
between the Merced and Mount Lyell groups. I had longed for it through
the last month’s campaign, and now made up my mind, with this inspiring
view, to attempt it at all hazards.
A little way to the east, and about a thousand feet below the brink of
the Glacier Point, the crags appeared to me particularly tempting; so
in the late afternoon I descended, walking over a rough, gritty surface
of granite, which gave me secure foothold. Upon the very edge the
immense, splintered rocks lay piled one upon another; here a mass
jutting out and overhanging upon the edge, and here a huge slab pointed
out like a barbette gun. I crawled out upon one of these projecting
blocks and rested myself, while studying the view.
From here the one very remarkable object is the Half-Dome. You see it
now edgewise and in sharp profile, the upper half of the conoid fronting
the north with a sharp, sheer, fracture-face of about two thousand feet
vertical. From the top of this a most graceful helmet curve sweeps over
to the south, and descends almost perpendicularly into the valley of the
Little Yosemite; and here from the foot springs up the block of Mount
Broderick,--a single, rough-hewn pyramid, three thousand feet from
summit to base, trimmed upon its crest with a few pines, and spreading
out its southern base into a precipice, over which plunges the white
Nevada torrent. Observation had taught me that a glacier flowed over the
Yosemite brink. As I looked over now I could see its shallow valley and
the ever-rounded rocks over which it crowded itself and tumbled into the
icy valley below. Up the Yosemite gorge, which opened straight before
me, I knew that another great glacier had flowed; and also that the
valley of the Illilluette and the Little Yosemite had been the bed of
rivers of ice; a study, too, of the markings upon the glacier cliff
above Hutchings’s house had convinced me that a glacier no less than a
thousand feet deep had flowed through the valley, occupying its entire
bottom.
It was impossible for me, as I sat perched upon this jutting rock mass,
in full view of all the cañons which had led into this wonderful
converging system of ice-rivers, not to imagine a picture of the glacier
period. Bare or snow-laden cliffs overhung the gulf; streams of ice,
here smooth and compacted into a white plain, there riven into
innumerable crevasses, or tossed into forms like the waves of a
tempest-lashed sea, crawled through all the gorges. Torrents of water
and avalanches of rock and snow spouted at intervals all along the cliff
walls. Not a tree nor a vestige of life was in sight, except far away
upon ridges below, or out upon the dimly expanding plain. Granite and
ice and snow, silence broken only by the howling tempest and the crash
of falling ice or splintered rock, and a sky deep freighted with cloud
and storm,--these were the elements of a period which lasted
immeasurably long, and only in comparatively the most recent geological
times have given way to the present marvellously changed condition.
Nature in her present aspects, as well as in the records of her past,
here constantly offers the most vivid and terrible contrasts. Can
anything be more wonderfully opposite than that period of leaden sky,
gray granite, and desolate stretches of white, and the present, when of
the old order we have only left the solid framework of granite, and the
indelible inscriptions of glacier work? To-day their burnished pathways
are legibly traced with the history of the past. Every ice-stream is
represented by a feeble river, every great glacier cascade by a torrent
of white foam dashing itself down rugged walls, or spouting from the
brinks of upright cliffs. The very avalanche tracks are darkened by
clustered woods, and over the level pathway of the great Yosemite
glacier itself is spread a park of green, a mosaic of forest, a thread
of river.
VIII
A SIERRA STORM
From every commanding eminence around the Yosemite no distant object
rises with more inspiring greatness than the Obelisk of Mount Clark.
Seen from the west it is a high, isolated peak, having a dome-like
outline very much flattened upon its west side, the precipice sinking
deeply down to an old glacier ravine. From the north this peak is a
slender, single needle, jutting two thousand feet from a rough-hewn
pedestal of rocks and snow-fields. Forest-covered heights rise to its
base from east and west. To the south it falls into a deep saddle, which
rises again, after a level outline of a mile, sweeping up in another
noble granite peak. On the north the spur drops abruptly down,
overhanging an edge of the great Merced gorge, its base buried beneath
an accumulation of morainal matter deposited by ancient Merced glaciers.
From the region of Mount Hoffmann, looming in most impressive isolation,
its slender needle-like summit had long fired us with ambition; and,
having finished my agreeable climb round the Yosemite walls, I concluded
to visit the mountain with Cotter, and, if the weather should permit, to
attempt a climb. We packed our two mules with a week’s provisions and a
single blanket each, and on the tenth of November left our friends at
the head-quarter’s camp in Yosemite Valley and rode out upon the
Mariposa trail, reaching the plateau by noon. Having passed Meadow
Brook, we left the path and bore off in the direction of Mount Clark,
spending the afternoon in riding over granite ridges and open stretches
of frozen meadow, where the ground was all hard, and the grass entirely
cropped off by numerous herds of sheep that had ranged here during the
summer. The whole earth was bare, and rang under our mules’ hoofs almost
as clearly as the granite itself.
We camped for the night on one of the most eastern affluents of Bridal
Veil Creek, and were careful to fill our canteens before the bitter
night-chill should freeze it over. By our camp was a pile of pine logs
swept together by some former tempest; we lighted them, and were quickly
saluted by a magnificent bonfire. The animals were tied within its ring
of warmth, and our beds laid where the rain of sparks could not reach.
As we were just going to sleep, our mules pricked up their ears and
looked into the forest. We sprang to our feet, picked up our pistols,
expecting an Indian or a grizzly, but were surprised to see, riding out
of the darkness, a lonely mountaineer, mounted upon a little mustang,
carrying his long rifle across the saddle-bow. He came directly to our
camp-fire, and, without uttering a word, slowly and with great effort
swung himself out of his saddle and walked close to the flames, leaving
his horse, which remained motionless, where he had reined him in. I saw
that the man was nearly frozen to death, and immediately threw my
blanket over his shoulders. The water in our camp kettle was still hot,
and Cotter made haste to draw a pot of tea, while I broiled a slice of
beef and pressed him to eat. He, however, shook his head and maintained
a persistent silence, until at length, after turning round and round
until I could have thought him done to a turn, in a very feeble, broken
voice he ejaculated, “I was pretty near gone in, stranger!” Again I
pressed him to drink a cup of tea, but he feebly answered, “Not yet.”
After roasting for half an hour, in which I fully expected to see his
coat-tail smoke, he sat down and drank about two quarts of tea. This had
the effect of thawing him out, and he remembered that his horse was
still saddled and very hungry. He told us that neither he nor the animal
had had anything to eat for three days, and that he was pushing
hopelessly westward, expecting either the giving out of his horse, or
death by freezing. We took the saddle from his tired little mustang,
spread the saddle-blanket over his back, and from the scanty supply of
grain we had brought for our own animals gave him a tolerable supper. It
is wonderful how in hours of danger and privation the horse clings to
his human friend. Perfectly tame, perfectly trusting, he throws the
responsibility of his care and life upon his rider; and it is not the
least pathetic among our mountain experiences to see this patient
confidence continue until death. Observing that the logs were likely to
burn freely all night, we divided our blankets with the mountaineer, and
Cotter and I turned in together. In the morning our new friend had
entirely recovered from his numb, stupid condition. Recognizing at a
glance his whereabouts, and thanking us feelingly for our rough
hospitality, he headed toward the Mariposa trail, with quite an
affecting good-by.
After breakfast we ourselves mounted and rode up a long, forest-covered
spur leading to the summit of a granite divide, which we crossed at a
narrow pass between two steep cliffs, and descended its eastern slope in
full view of the whole Merced group. This long abrupt descent in front
of us led to the Illilluette Creek, and directly opposite, on the other
side of the trough-like valley, rose the high sharp summit of Mount
Clark. We were all day in crossing and riding up the crest of a sharply
curved medial moraine which traced itself from the mountain south of
Mount Clark in a long, parabolic curve, dying out at last in the bottom
of the Illilluette basin. The moraine was one of the most perfect I have
ever seen; its smooth, graded summit rose as regularly as a railway
embankment, and seemed to be formed altogether of irregular bowlders
piled securely together and cemented by a thick deposit of granitic
glacier-dust. Late in the afternoon we had reached its head, where the
two converging glaciers of Mount Clark and Mount Kyle had joined,
clasping a rugged promontory of granite. To our left, in a depression of
the forest-covered basin, lay a little patch of meadow wholly surrounded
by dense groups of alpine trees, which grew in clusters of five and six,
apparently from one root. A little stream from the Obelisk snows fell in
a series of shallow cascades by the meadow’s margin. We jumped across
the brook and went into camp, tethering the mules close by us. One of
the great charms of high mountain camps is their very domestic nature.
Your animals are picketed close by the kitchen, your beds are between
the two, and the water and the wood are always in most comfortable
apposition.
For the first time in many months a mild, moist wind sprang up from the
south, and with it came slowly creeping over the sky a dull, leaden bank
of ominous-looking cloud. Since April we had had no storm. The
perpetually cloudless sky had banished all thought, almost memory, of
foul weather; but winter tempests had already held off remarkably, and
we knew that at any moment they might set in, and in twenty-four hours
render the plateaus impassable. It was with some anxiety that I closed
my eyes that night, and, sleeping lightly, often awoke as a freshening
wind moved the pines. At dawn we were up, and observed that a dark,
heavy mass of storm-cloud covered the whole sky, and had settled down
over the Obelisk, wrapping even the snow-fields at its base in gray
folds. The entire peak was lost, except now and then, when the torn
vapors parted for a few moments and disclosed its sharp summit, whitened
by new-fallen snow. A strange moan filled the air. The winds howled
pitilessly over the rocks, and swept in deafening blasts through the
pines. It was my duty to saddle up directly and flee for the Yosemite;
but I am naturally an optimist, a sort of geological Micawber, so I
dodged my duty, and determined to give the weather every opportunity for
a clear-off. Accordingly, we remained in camp all day, studying the
minerals of the granite as the thickly strewn bowlders gave us material.
At nightfall I climbed a little rise back of our meadow, and looked out
over the basin of Illilluette and up in the direction of the Obelisk.
Now and then the parting clouds opened a glimpse of the mountain, and
occasionally an unusual blast of wind blew away the deeply settled
vapors from the cañon to westward; but each time they closed in more
threateningly, and before I descended to camp the whole land was
obscured in the cloud which settled densely down.
The mules had made themselves comfortable with a repast of rich
mountain-grasses, which, though slightly frosted, still retained much of
their original juice and nutriment. We ourselves made a deep inroad on
the supply of provisions, and, after chatting awhile by the firelight,
went to bed, taking the precaution to pile our effects carefully
together, covering them with an india-rubber blanket. Our bivouac was
in the middle of a cluster of firs, quite well protected overhead, but
open to the sudden gusts which blew roughly hither and thither. By nine
o’clock the wind died away altogether, and in a few moments a thick
cloud of snow was falling. We had gone to bed together, pulled the
blankets as a cover over our heads, and in a few moments fell into a
heavy sleep. Once or twice in the night I woke with a slight sense of
suffocation, and cautiously lifted the blanket over my head, but each
time found it growing heavier and heavier with a freight of snow. In the
morning we awoke quite early, and, pushing back the blanket, found that
we had been covered by about a foot and a half of snow. The poor mules
had approached us to the limit of their rope, and stood within a few
feet of our beds, anxiously waiting our first signs of life.
We hurried to breakfast, and hastily putting on the saddles, and
wrapping ourselves from head to foot in our blankets, mounted and
started for the crest of the moraine. I had taken the precaution to make
a little sketch-map in my note-book, with the compass directions of our
march from the Yosemite, and we had now the difficult task of retracing
our steps in a storm so blinding and fierce that we could never see more
than a rod in advance. But for the regular form of the moraine, with
whose curve we were already familiar, I fear we must have lost our way
in the real labyrinth of glaciated rocks which covered the whole
Illilluette basin. Snow blew in every direction, filling our eyes and
blinding the poor mules, who often turned quickly from some sudden gust,
and refused to go on. It was a cruel necessity, but we spurred them
inexorably forward, guiding them to the right and left to avoid rocks
and trees which, in their blindness, they were constantly threatening to
strike. Warmly rolled in our blankets, we suffered little from cold, but
the driving sleet and hail very soon bruised our cheeks and eyelids most
painfully. It required real effort of will to face the storm, and we
very soon learned to take turns in breaking trail. The snow constantly
balled upon our animals’ feet, and they slid in every direction. Now and
then, in descending a sharp slope of granite, the poor creatures would
get sliding, and rush to the bottom, their legs stiffened out, and their
heads thrust forward in fear. After crossing the Illilluette, which we
did at our old ford, we found it very difficult to climb the long, steep
hillside; for the mules were quite unable to carry us, obliging us to
lead them, and to throw ourselves upon the snow-drifts to break a
pathway.
This slope almost wore us out, and when at last we reached its summit,
we threw ourselves upon the snow for a rest, but were in such a profuse
perspiration that I deemed it unsafe to lie there for a moment, and,
getting up again, we mounted the mules and rode slowly on toward open
plateaus near great meadows. The snow gradually decreased in depth as we
descended upon the plain directly south of the Yosemite. The wind
abated somewhat, and there were only occasional snow flurries, between
half-hours of tolerable comfort. Constant use of the compass and
reference to my little map at length brought us to the Mariposa trail,
but not until after eight hours of anxious, exhaustive labor--anxious
from the constant dread of losing our way in the blinding confusion of
storm; exhausting, for we had more than half of the way acted as
trail-breakers, dragging our frightened and tired brutes after us. The
poor creatures instantly recognized the trail, and started in a brisk
trot toward Inspiration Point. Suddenly an icy wind swept up the valley,
carrying with it a storm of snow and hail. The wind blew with such
violence that the whole freight of sleet and ice was carried
horizontally with fearful swiftness, cutting the bruised faces of the
mules, and giving our own eyelids exquisite torture. The brutes refused
to carry us farther. We were obliged to dismount and drive them before
us, beating them constantly with clubs.
Fighting our way against this bitter blast, half-blinded by hard,
wind-driven snow-crystals, we at last gave up and took refuge in a dense
clump of firs which crown the spur by Inspiration Point. Our poor mules
cowered under shelter with us, and turned tail to the storm. The
fir-trees were solid cones of snow, which now and then unloaded
themselves when severely bent by a sudden gust, half burying us in dry,
white powder. Wind roared below us in the Yosemite gorge; it blew from
the west, rolling up in waves which smote the cliffs, and surged on up
the valley. While we sat still the drifts began to pile up at our backs;
the mules were belly-deep, and our situation began to be serious.
Looking over the cliff-brink we saw but the hurrying snow, and only
heard a confused tumult of wind. A steady increase in the severity of
the gale made us fear that the trees might crash down over us; so we
left the mules and crept cautiously over the edge of the cliff, and
ensconced ourselves in a sheltered nook, protected by walls of rock
which rose at our back.
We were on the brink of the Yosemite, and but for snow might have looked
down three thousand feet. The storm eddied below us, sucking down
whirlwinds of snow, and sometimes opening deep rifts,--never enough,
however, to disclose more than a few hundred feet of cliffs.
We had been in this position about an hour, half frozen and soaked
through, when I at length gathered conscience enough to climb back and
take a look at our brutes. The forlorn pair were frosted over with a
thick coating, their pitiful eyes staring eagerly at me. I had half a
mind to turn them loose, but, considering that their obstinate nature
might lead them back to our Obelisk camp, I patted their noses, and
climbed back to the shelf by Cotter, determined to try it for a quarter
of an hour more, when, if the tempest did not lull, I thought we must
press on and face the snow for an hour more, while we tramped down to
the valley.
Suddenly there came a lull in the storm; its blinding fury of snow and
wind ceased. Overhead, still hurrying eastward, the white bank drove on,
unveiling, as it fled, the Yosemite walls, plateau, and every object to
the eastward as far as Mount Clark. As yet the valley bottom was
obscured by a layer of mist and cloud, which rose to the height of about
a thousand feet, submerging cliff-foot and _débris_ pile. Between these
strata, the cloud above and the cloud below, every object was in clear,
distinct view; the sharp, terrible fronts of precipices, capped with a
fresh cover of white, plunged down into the still, gray river of cloud
below, their stony surfaces clouded with purple, salmon-color, and
bandings of brown,--all hues unnoticeable in every-day lights. Forest,
and crag, and plateau, and distant mountain were snow-covered to a
uniform whiteness; only the dark gorge beneath us showed the least
traces of color. There all was rich, deep, gloomy. Even over the snowy
surfaces above there prevailed an almost ashen gray, which reflected
itself from the dull, drifting sky. A few torn locks of vapor poured
over the cliffedge at intervals, and crawled down like wreaths of smoke,
floating gracefully and losing themselves at last in the bank of cloud
which lay upon the bottom of the valley.
On a sudden the whole gray roof rolled away like a scroll, leaving the
heavens from west to far east one expanse of pure, warm blue. Setting
sunlight smote full upon the stony walls below, and shot over the
plateau country, gilding here a snowy forest group, and there a
wave-crest of whitened ridge. The whole air sparkled with diamond
particles; red light streamed in through the open Yosemite gateway,
brightening those vast, solemn faces of stone, and intensifying the deep
neutral blue of shadowed alcoves.