But
about midnight the temperature suddenly rose to 42 degrees, carrying
the snow-line far beyond the Valley walls, and next morning Yosemite
was rejoicing in a glorious flood. The comparatively warm rain falling
on the snow was at first absorbed and held back, and so also was that
portion of the snow that the rain melted, and all that was melted by the
warm wind, until the whole mass of snow was saturated and became sludgy,
and at length slipped and rushed simultaneously from a thousand slopes
in wildest extravagance, heaping and swelling flood over flood, and
plunging into the Valley in stupendous avalanches.
Awakened by the roar, I looked out and at once recognized the
extraordinary character of the storm. The rain was still pouring in
torrent abundance and the wind at gale speed was doing all it could with
the flood-making rain.
The section of the north wall visible from my cabin was fairly streaked
with new falls--wild roaring singers that seemed strangely out of place.
Eager to get into the midst of the show, I snatched a piece of bread for
breakfast and ran out. The mountain waters, suddenly liberated, seemed
to be holding a grand jubilee. The two Sentinel Cascades rivaled the
great falls at ordinary stages, and across the Valley by the Three
Brothers I caught glimpses of more falls than I could readily count;
while the whole Valley throbbed and trembled, and was filled with an
awful, massive, solemn, sea-like roar.
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