When all else was buried in cloud we watched the great west range. Weird and strange, it seemed shaded by some dark eclipse. Here and there through its gaps and passes serpent-like streams of mist floated in and crept slowly down the cañons of the hither slope, then all along the crest, torn and rushing spray of clouds whirled about the peaks, and in a moment a vast gray wave reared high, and broke, overwhelming all.
Just for a moment every trace of vapor cleared away from the east, unveiling for the first time spurs and gorges and plains. I crept to a brink and looked down into the Whitney Cañon, which was crowded with light. Great, scarred and ice-hewn precipices reached down four thousand feet, curving together like a ship, and holding in their granite bed a thread of brook, the small sapphire gems of alpine lake, bronze dots of pine, and here and there a fine enamelling of snow.
Beyond and below lay Owen’s Valley, walled in by the barren Inyo chain, and afar, under a pale, sad sky, lengthened leagues and leagues of lifeless desert.
The storm had even swept across Kern Cañon, and dashed high against the peaks north and south of us. A few sharp needles and spikes struggled above it for a moment, but it rolled over them and rushed in torrents down the desert slope, burying everything in a dark, swift cloud.
We hastened to pack up our barometer and descend. A little way down the ice crust gave way under Pinson, but he saved himself, and we hurried on, reaching safely the cliff-base, leaving all dangerous ground above us.
So dense was the cloud we could not see a hundred feet, but tramped gayly down over rocks and sand, feeling quite assured of our direction, until suddenly we came upon the brink of a precipice and strained our eyes off into the mist. I threw a stone over and listened in vain for the sound of its fall. Pinson and I both thought we had deviated too far to the north, and were on the brink of Whitney Cañon, so we turned in the opposite direction, thinking to cross the ridge, entering our old amphitheatre, but in a few moments we again found ourselves upon the verge. This time a stone we threw over answered with a faint, dull crash from five hundred feet below. We were evidently upon a narrow blade. I remembered no such place, and sat down to recall carefully every detail of topography. At last I concluded that we had either strayed down upon the Kern side, or were on one of the cliffs overhanging the head of our true amphitheatre.
Feeling the necessity of keeping cool, I determined to ascend to the foot of the snow and search for our tracks. So we slowly climbed there again and took a new start.
By this time the wind howled fiercely, bearing a chill from snow-crystals and sleet. We hurried on before it, and, after one or two vain attempts, succeeded in finding our old trail down the amphitheatre slope, descending very rapidly to its floor.
From here, an exhausting tramp of five hours through the pine forest to our camp, and on down the rough, wearying slopes of the lower cañon, brought us to the plain where José and the horses awaited us.
From Lone Pine that evening, and from the open carriage in which I rode northward to Independence, I constantly looked back and up into the storm, hoping to catch one more glimpse of Mount Whitney; but all the range lay submerged in dark, rolling cloud, from which now and then a sullen mutter of thunder reverberated.