After snow-storms come avalanches, varying greatly in
form, size, behavior and in the songs they sing; some on the smooth
slopes of the mountains are short and broad; others long and river-like
in the side canyons of yosemites and in the main canyons, flowing in
regular channels and booming like waterfalls, while countless smaller
ones fall everywhere from laden trees and rocks and lofty canyon walls.
Most delightful it is to stand in the middle of Yosemite on still clear
mornings after snow-storms and watch the throng of avalanches as they
come down, rejoicing, to their places, whispering, thrilling like birds,
or booming and roaring like thunder. The noble yellow pines stand hushed
and motionless as if under a spell until the morning sunshine begins to
sift through their laden spires; then the dense masses on the ends of
the leafy branches begin to shift and fall, those from the upper
branches striking the lower ones in succession, enveloping each tree in
a hollow conical avalanche of fairy fineness; while the relieved
branches spring up and wave with startling effect in the general
stillness, as if each tree was moving of its own volition. Hundreds of
broad cloud-shaped masses may also be seen, leaping over the brows of
the cliffs from great heights, descending at first with regular
avalanche speed until, worn into dust by friction, they float in front
of the precipices like irised clouds.
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