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 200 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.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313