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THE weather of spring and
summer in the middle region of the Sierra is usually well flecked with rains
and light dustings of snow, most of which are far too obviously joyful and
life-giving to be regarded as storms; and in the picturesque beauty and
clearness of outlines of their clouds they offer striking contrasts to those
boundless, all-embracing cloud-mantles of the storms of winter. The smallest
and most perfectly individualized specimens present a richly modeled cumulus
cloud rising above the dark woods, about 11 A.M., swelling with a visible
motion straight up into the calm, sunny sky to a height of twelve to
fourteen thousand feet above the sea, its white, pearly bosses relieved by
gray and pale purple shadows in the hollows, and showing outlines as keenly
defined as those of the glacier-polished domes. In less than an hour it
attains full development and stands poised in the blazing sunshine like some
colossal mountain, as beautiful in form and finish as if it were to become a
permanent addition to the landscape. Presently a thunderbolt crashes through
the crisp air, ringing like steel on steel, sharp and clear, its startling
detonation breaking into a spray of echoes against the cliffs and canon
walls. Then down comes a cataract of rain. The big drops sift through the
pine needles, plash and patter on the granite pavements, and pour down the
sides of ridges and domes in a network of gray, bubbling rills. In a few
minutes the cloud withers to a mesh of dim filaments and disappears, leaving
the sky perfectly clear and bright, every dust particle wiped and washed out
of it. Everything is refreshed and invigorated, a steam of fragrance rises,
and the storm is finished — one cloud, one lightning stroke, and one dash of
rain. This is the Sierra mid-summer thunderstorm reduced to its lowest
terms. But some of them attain much larger proportions, and assume a
grandeur and energy of expression hardly surpassed by those bred in the
depths of Winter, producing those sudden floods called "cloudbursts," which
are local, and to a considerable extent periodical, for they appear nearly
every day about the same time for weeks, usually about eleven o'clock, and
lasting from five minutes to an hour or two. One soon becomes so accustomed
to see them that the noon sky seems empty and abandoned without them, as if
Nature were forgetting something. 'When the glorious pearl and alabaster
clouds of these noonday storms are being built I never give attention to
anything else. No mountain or mountain range, however divinely clothed with
light, has a more enduring charm than those fleeting mountains of the sky —
floating fountains bearing water for every well, the angels of the streams
and lakes; brooding in the deep azure, or sweeping softly along the ground
over ridge and dome, over meadow, over forest, over garden and grove;
lingering with cooling shadows, refreshing every flower, and soothing rugged
rock brows with a gentleness of touch and gesture wholly divine.
The most beautiful and
imposing of the summer storms rise just above the upper edge of the silver
fir zone, and all are so beautiful that it is not easy to choose any one for
particular description. The one that I remember best fell on the mountains
near Yosemite Valley, July 19, 1869, while I was encamped in the silver fir
woods. A range of bossy cumuli took possession of the sky, huge domes and
peaks rising one beyond another with deep canons between them, bending this
way and that in long curves and reaches, interrupted here and there with
white upboiling masses that looked like the spray of waterfalls. Zigzag
lances of lightning followed each other in quick succession, and the thunder
was so gloriously loud and massive it seemed as if surely an entire mountain
was being shattered at every stroke. Only the trees were touched, however,
so far as I could see, — a few firs two hundred feet high, perhaps, and five
to six feet in diameter, were split into long rails and slivers from top to
bottom and scattered to all points of the compass. Then came the rain in a
hearty flood, covering the ground and making it shine with a continuous
sheet of water that, like a transparent film or skin, fitted closely down
over all the rugged anatomy of the landscape.
It is not long, geologically
speaking, since the first raindrop fell on the present landscapes of the
Sierra; and in the few tens of thousands of years of stormy cultivation they
have been blest with, how beautiful they have become! The first rains fell
on raw, crumbling moraines and rocks without a plant. Now scarcely a drop
can fail to find a beautiful mark: on the tops of the peaks, on the smooth
glacier pavements, on the curves of the domes, on moraines full of crystals,
on the thousand forms of yosemitic sculpture with their tender beauty of
balmy, flowery vegetation, laving, plashing, glinting, pattering; some
falling softly on meadows, creeping out of sight, seeking and finding every
thirsty rootlet, some through the spires of the woods, sifting in dust
through the needles, and whispering good cheer to each of them; some falling
with blunt tapping sounds, drumming on the broad leaves of veratrum,
cypripedium, saxifrage; some falling straight into fragrant corollas,
kissing the lips of lilies, glinting on the sides of crystals, on shining
grains of gold; some falling into the fountains of snow to swell their
well-saved stores; some into the lakes and rivers, patting the smooth glassy
levels, making dimples and bells and spray, washing the mountain windows,
washing the wandering winds; some plashing into the heart of snowy falls and
cascades as if eager to join in the dance and the song and beat the foam yet
finer. Good work and happy work for the merry mountain raindrops, each one
of them a brave fall in itself, rushing from the cliffs and hollows of the
clouds into the cliffs and hollows of the mountains; away from the thunder
of the sky into the thunder of the roaring rivers. And how far they have to
go, and how many cups to fill — cassiope cups, holding half a drop, and lake
basins between the hills, each replenished with equal care — every drop
God's messenger sent on its way with glorious pomp and display of power —
silvery newborn stars with lake and river, mountain and valley — all that
the landscape holds — reflected in their crystal depths. |
