I have alluded to the influence of the wind upon the upper portion of the fall. It often reminds me of the writhings of an immense serpent, when two or three opposing currents of air are blowing it from side to side. Sometimes a blast of wind sways it wholly out of its accustomed course, with the exception of a few hundred feet of its uppermost portion, and lays bare nearly the whole surface of the rock which it covers in its undisturbed descent, but hiding for a minute another portion. Now large clouds of spray are thrown out from one side, and then from the other, still forever falling; now the whole fall is spread out to twice, or thrice, its usual width, and the next moment, as the wind subsides, it becomes straightened and narrowed to its usual proportions. These continued changes add exceedingly to the beauty, and even grandeur, of the fall, and one never wearies of beholding it as it pours, crashing and roaring, down its enormous wall of rock.
"Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes,
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness, and a strength from thee."
The rounded summits of many of the mountains of the Yosemite Valley, which gives them a domelike appearance, constitutes one of its peculiarities. The North and South Domes have been often described and painted. Situated on opposite sides of the lower Valley at its eastern extremity, and forming portions of its two great walls, they are not the least of its most prominent objects. Indeed, the South Dome is the highest point around the Valley, and rises to an altitude of nearly five thousand feet above the plain.
A tremendous disruption of this mountain is apparent on its western face, where it has been cleft from its summit, perpendicularly down to a depth of two thousand feet, and the western portion thrown off and hurled down the mountain, at whose base it lies in fragments, a huge heap, a mountain of itself.
What a sublime, a terrifying spectacle would here have presented itself to a spectator standing on the North Dome and looking across the Valley, to behold a part of the mountain before him two thousand feet in depth, starting from its foundation, breaking away from the firmer portion, and falling, rolling, grinding, crashing, down the mountain side, with the roar and shaking of a terrible earthquake, and dashing into millions of fragments, until it reached the plain, three thousand feet below its starting point. I can imagine what overwhelming emotions would seize him as he beheld the mountain falling, and in dread and horror thinking the end of the world was approaching, and that the mountain on which he stood might fall next.
This is a region of wonders. They meet us at every step. The Valley itself is a vast aggregate of wonders. There was a time when it was elevated to a level with the walls that now surround it, when the Merced flowed along at a height of two or three thousand feet above its present bed, and before the Yosemite and all these falls were created.
It is an interesting question, How came the Valley lowered to its present depth? Without a very deep investigation of the subject, I have formed an opinion in opposition to that of many persons, who attribute it to an earthquake; that at some remote period a deluge occurred here, and that the Valley was formed by the torrents that swept through it, carrying away the earth, and leaving the bare walls in their present wild desolation, with the newly created cataracts pouring down their sides.