Throughout the afternoon we did little else than watch these ever-changing forms of falling water, until toward evening, when we walked up to see the Merced. I never beheld such a rapid rise in any river; from a mere brook, hiding itself away under overhanging banks and among shrubby islands, it sprang in one night to the size of a full, large river, flowing with the rapidity of a torrent and whirling in its eddies huge trunks of storm-blown pines. As twilight gathered, the scene deepened into a most indescribable gloom; dark-blue shadows covered half the precipices, and sullen, unvaried sky stretched over us its implacable gray. There was something positively fearful in this color; such an impenetrable sky might overarch the Inferno. As we looked, it slowly sank, creeping down precipices, filling the whole gorge; coming down, down, and fitting the cliffs like the piston of an air-pump, till within a thousand feet of us it became stationary, and then slowly lifted again, clearing the summit and rising to an almost infinite remoteness. Slowly a few hard, sharp crystals of snow floated down.
Later the air became intensely chilly, and by dark was full of slowly falling snow, giving prospect of a great mountain storm which might close the Sierras. On the following morning we determined at all costs to pack our remaining instruments and escape. The ground was covered with snow to the depth of seven or eight inches, and through drifting fog-banks we could occasionally get glimpses and see that every cliff was deeply buried in snow. We had still a few barometrical observations along the Mariposa trail which were necessary to complete our series of altitudes; and I started in advance of Gardiner and Clark to break the trail, expecting that when I stopped to make readings they would easily overtake me. Two hours’ hard work was needed to reach the ascent. It was not until noon that I made Inspiration Point, snow having deepened to eighteen inches, entirely obliterating the trail, and had it not been for the extreme frequency of our journeys I should never have been able to follow it; as it was, with occasional mistakes which were soon remedied, I kept the way very well, and my tracks made it easy for the party behind. Having reached the plateau, I made my two barometrical stations, and then started alone through forests for Westfall’s cabin. Every fir-tree was a solid cone of white, and often clusters of five or six were buried together in one common pile. Now and then a little sunlight broke through the clouds, and in these intervals the scene was one of wonderful beauty. Tall shafts of fir, often one hundred and eighty feet high, trimmed with white branches, cast their blue shadows upon snowy ground.
At about four o’clock, after nine hours of hard tramping, I reached Westfall’s cabin, built a fire, and sat down to warm myself and wait for my friends. In half an hour they made their appearance, looking haggard and weary, declaring they would go no farther that night. They led their mule into the cabin, and unpacked, and began to make themselves comfortably at home.
About five the darkness of night had fairly settled down, and with it came a gentle but dense snow-storm. It seemed to me a terrible risk for us to remain in the mountains, and I felt it to be absolutely necessary that one, at least, should press on to Clark’s, so that, if a really great storm should come, he could bring up aid. Accordingly, I volunteered to go on myself, Clark and Gardiner expressing their determination to remain where they were at all costs.
At this juncture Cotter’s well-known voice sounded through the woods as he approached the cabin. He had been all day climbing from Clark’s, and had come to lend a hand in getting the things down. He was of my opinion that it was absolutely necessary for one of us, at least, to go back to Clark’s, and offered, if I thought best, to try to accompany me. I had come from Yosemite and he from Clark’s, having travelled all day, and it was no slight task for us to face storm and darkness in the forest, and among complicated spurs of the Sierra.
We ate our lunch by the cabin fire, bade our friends good-night, and walked out together into the darkness. For the first mile there was no danger of missing our way,—even in the darkness of night Cotter’s tracks could be seen,—but after about half an hour it began to be very difficult to keep the trail. The storm increased to a tempest, and exhaustion compelled us to travel slower and slower. It was with intense anxiety that we searched for well-known blazed trees along the trail, often thrusting our arms down in the snow to feel for a blaze that we knew of. If it was not there we had for a moment an overpowering sense of being lost; but we were ordinarily rewarded after searching upon a few trees, and the blaze once found animated us with new courage. Hour after hour we travelled down the mountain, falling off high banks now and then, for in the dark all ideas of slope were lost. It must have been about midnight when we reached what seemed to be the verge of a precipice. If our calculations were right, we must have come to the edge of the South Fork Cañon. Here Cotter sank with exhaustion and declared that he must sleep. I rolled him over and implored him to get up and struggle on for a little while longer, when I felt sure that we must get down to the South Fork Cañon. He utterly refused, and lay there in a drowsy condition, fast giving up to the effects of fatigue and cold. I unbound a long scarf which was tied round his neck, put it under his arms like a harness, and, tying it round my body, started on, dragging him through the snow, to see if by that means I might not exasperate him to rise and labor on. In a few minutes it had its effect, and he sprang to his feet and fell upon me in a burst of indignation. A few words were enough to bring him to himself, when the old, calm courage was reasserted, and we started together to make our way down the cliff. Happily we at length found the right ridge, and rapidly descended through forest to the river side.
Believing that we must still be below the bridge, we walked rapidly up the bank until at last we found it, and came quickly to Clark’s. We pounded upon the cabin door, and waked up our friends, who received us with joy, and set about cooking us a supper.
It was two o’clock when we arrived, and by three we all went off again to our bunks. My anxiety about Gardiner and Clark prevented my sleeping. Every few minutes I went to the door.
Before dawn it had cleared again, and remained fair till the next noon, when the two made their appearance. No sooner were they quietly housed than the storm burst again with renewed strength, howling among the forest trees grandly. Snow drifted heavily all the afternoon, and through the night it still fell, reaching an average depth of about two feet by the following morning.
We were up early, and packed upon the animals our instruments, note-books, and personal effects, leaving all the blankets and heavy luggage to be gotten out in the following spring. We toiled slowly and heavily up Chowchilla trail. The branches of the great pines and firs were overloaded with snow, which now and then fell in small avalanches upon our heads. Here and there an old bough gave way under its weight, and fell with a soft thud into the snow. We took turns breaking trail, Napoleon, the one-eyed mule, distinguishing himself greatly by following its intricate crooks, while the bravest of us, by turns, held to his tail. There is something deeply humiliating in this process. All the domineering qualities of mankind vanished before the quick, subtle instinct of that noble animal, the mule, and his superior strength came out in magnificent style. With a sublime scorn of his former master, he started ahead, dragging me proudly after him. I had sometimes thrashed that mule with unsympathetic violence, and I fancied it was something very like poetic justice thus submissively to follow in his wake.