" 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 wind 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 canons, 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 the 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.
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