choose a hill country for storms. there all the business of the weather is carried on above your horizon and loses its terror in familiarity. when you come to think about it, the disastrous storms are on the levels, sea or sand or plains. there you get only a hint of what is about to happen, the fume of the gods rising from their meeting place under the rim of the world; and when it breaks upon you there is no stay nor shelter. the terrible mewings and mouthings of a kansas wind have the added terror of viewlessness. you are lapped in them like uprooted grass; suspect them of a personal grudge. but the storms of hill countries have other business. they scoop watercourses, manure the pines, twist them to a finer fibre, fit the firs to be masts and spars, and, if you keep reasonably out of the track of their affairs, do you no harm.

they have habits to be learned, appointed paths, seasons, and warnings, and they leave you in no doubt about their performances. one who builds his house on a water scar or the rubble of a steep slope must take chances. so they did in overtown who built in the wash of argus water, and at kearsarge at the foot of a steep, treeless swale. after twenty years argus water rose in the wash against the frail houses, and the piled snows of kearsarge slid down at a thunder peal over the cabins and the camp, but you could conceive that it was the fault of neither the water nor the snow.

the first effect of cloud study is a sense of presence and intention in storm processes. weather does not happen. it is the visible manifestation of the spirit moving itself in the void. it gathers itself together under the heavens; rains, snows, yearns mightily in wind, smiles; and the weather bureau, situated advantageously for that very business, taps the record on his instruments and going out on the streets denies his god, not having gathered the sense of what he has seen. hardly anybody takes account of the fact that john muir, who knows more of mountain storms than any other, is a devout man.

of the high sierras choose the neighborhood of the splintered peaks about the kern and king's river divide for storm study, or the short, wide-mouthed canons opening eastward on high valleys. days when the hollows are steeped in a warm, winey flood the clouds came walking on the floor of heaven, flat and pearly gray beneath, rounded and pearly white above. they gather flock-wise, moving on the level currents that roll about the peaks, lock hands and settle with the cooler air, drawing a veil about those places where they do their work. if their meeting or parting takes place at sunrise or sunset, as it often does, one gets the splendor of the apocalypse. there will be cloud pillars miles high, snow-capped, glorified, and preserving an orderly perspective before the unbarred door of the sun, or perhaps mere ghosts of clouds that dance to some pied piper of an unfelt wind. but be it day or night, once they have settled to their work, one sees from the valley only the blank wall of their tents stretched along the ranges. to get the real effect of a mountain storm you must be inside.

one who goes often into a hill country learns not to say: what if it should rain? it always does rain somewhere among the peaks: the unusual thing is that one should escape it. you might suppose that if you took any account of plant contrivances to save their pollen powder against showers. note how many there are deep-throated and bell-flowered like the pentstemons, how many have nodding pedicels as the columbine, how many grow in copse shelters and grow there only. there is keen delight in the quick showers of summer canons, with the added comfort, born of experience, of knowing that no harm comes of a wetting at high altitudes. the day is warm; a white cloud spies over the canon wall, slips up behind the ridge to cross it by some windy pass, obscures your sun. next you hear the rain drum on the broad-leaved hellebore, and beat down the mimulus beside the brook.

you shelter on the lee of some strong pine with shut-winged butterflies and merry, fiddling creatures of the wood. runnels of rain water from the glacier-slips swirl through the pine needles into rivulets; the streams froth and rise in their banks. the sky is white with cloud; the sky is gray with rain; the sky is clear. the summer showers leave no wake.

such as these follow each other day by day for weeks in august weather. sometimes they chill suddenly into wet snow that packs about the lake gardens clear to the blossom frills, and melts away harmlessly. sometimes one has the good fortune from a heather-grown headland to watch a rain-cloud forming in mid-air. out over meadow or lake region begins a little darkling of the sky,—no cloud, no wind, just a smokiness such as spirits materialize from in witch stories.

it rays out and draws to it some floating films from secret canons. rain begins, "slow dropping veil of thinnest lawn;" a wind comes up and drives the formless thing across a meadow, or a dull lake pitted by the glancing drops, dissolving as it drives. such rains relieve like tears.

the same season brings the rains that have work to do, ploughing storms that alter the face of things. these come with thunder and the play of live fire along the rocks. they come with great winds that try the pines for their work upon the seas and strike out the unfit. they shake down avalanches of splinters from sky-line pinnacles and raise up sudden floods like battle fronts in the canons against towns, trees, and boulders. they would be kind if they could, but have more important matters. such storms, called cloud-bursts by the country folk, are not rain, rather the spillings of thor's cup, jarred by the thunderer. after such a one the water that comes up in the village hydrants miles away is white with forced bubbles from the wind-tormented streams.

all that storms do to the face of the earth you may read in the geographies, but not what they do to our contemporaries. i remember one night of thunderous rain made unendurably mournful by the houseless cry of a cougar whose lair, and perhaps his family, had been buried under a slide of broken boulders on the slope of kearsarge. we had heard the heavy detonation of the slide about the hour of the alpenglow, a pale rosy interval in a darkling air, and judged he must have come from hunting to the ruined cliff and paced the night out before it, crying a very human woe. i remember, too, in that same season of storms, a lake made milky white for days, and crowded out of its bed by clay washed into it by a fury of rain, with the trout floating in it belly up, stunned by the shock of the sudden flood. but there were trout enough for what was left of the lake next year and the beginning of a meadow about its upper rim. what taxed me most in the wreck of one of my favorite canons by cloud-burst was to see a bobcat mother mouthing her drowned kittens in the ruined lair built in the wash, far above the limit of accustomed waters, but not far enough for the unexpected. after a time you get the point of view of gods about these things to save you from being too pitiful.

the great snows that come at the beginning of winter, before there is yet any snow except the perpetual high banks, are best worth while to watch. these come often before the late bloomers are gone and while the migratory birds are still in the piney woods. down in the valley you see little but the flocking of blackbirds in the streets, or the low flight of mallards over the tulares, and the gathering of clouds behind williamson. first there is a waiting stillness in the wood; the pine-trees creak although there is no wind, the sky glowers, the firs rock by the water borders. the noise of the creek rises insistently and falls off a full note like a child abashed by sudden silence in the room.

this changing of the stream-tone following tardily the changes of the sun on melting snows is most meaningful of wood notes. after it runs a little trumpeter wind to cry the wild creatures to their holes. sometimes the warning hangs in the air for days with increasing stillness. only clark's crow and the strident jays make light of it; only they can afford to. the cattle get down to the foothills and ground-inhabiting creatures make fast their doors. it grows chill, blind clouds fumble in the canons; there will be a roll of thunder, perhaps, or a flurry of rain, but mostly the snow is born in the air with quietness and the sense of strong white pinions softly stirred. it increases, is wet and clogging, and makes a white night of midday.

there is seldom any wind with first snows, more often rain, but later, when there is already a smooth foot or two over all the slopes, the drifts begin. the late snows are fine and dry, mere ice granules at the wind's will. keen mornings after a storm they are blown out in wreaths and banners from the high ridges sifting into the canons.

once in a year or so we have a "big snow." the cloud tents are widened out to shut in the valley and an outlying range or two and are drawn tight against the sun. such a storm begins warm, with a dry white mist that fills and fills between the ridges, and the air is thick with formless groaning. now for days you get no hint of the neighboring ranges until the snows begin to lighten and some shouldering peak lifts through a rent. mornings after the heavy snows are steely blue, two-edged with cold, divinely fresh and still, and these are times to go up to the pine borders. there you may find floundering in the unstable drifts "tainted wethers" of the wild sheep, faint from age and hunger; easy prey. even the deer make slow going in the thick fresh snow, and once we found a wolverine going blind and feebly in the white glare.

no tree takes the snow stress with such ease as the silver fir. the star-whorled, fan-spread branches droop under the soft wreaths—droop and press flatly to the trunk; presently the point of overloading is reached, there is a soft sough and muffled drooping, the boughs recover, and the weighting goes on until the drifts have reached the midmost whorls and covered up the branches.

when the snows are particularly wet and heavy they spread over the young firs in green-ribbed tents wherein harbor winter loving birds.

all storms of desert hills, except wind storms, are impotent. east and east of the sierras they rise in nearly parallel ranges, desertward, and no rain breaks over them, except from some far-strayed cloud or roving wind from the california gulf, and these only in winter. in summer the sky travails with thunderings and the flare of sheet lightnings to win a few blistering big drops, and once in a lifetime the chance of a torrent. but you have not known what force resides in the mindless things until you have known a desert wind. one expects it at the turn of the two seasons, wet and dry, with electrified tense nerves. along the edge of the mesa where it drops off to the valley, dust devils begin to rise white and steady, fanning out at the top like the genii out of the fisherman's bottle. one supposes the indians might have learned the use of smoke signals from these dust pillars as they learn most things direct from the tutelage of the earth. the air begins to move fluently, blowing hot and cold between the ranges. far south rises a murk of sand against the sky; it grows, the wind shakes itself, and has a smell of earth. the cloud of small dust takes on the color of gold and shuts out the neighborhood, the push of the wind is unsparing. only man of all folk is foolish enough to stir abroad in it. but being in a house is really much worse; no relief from the dust, and a great fear of the creaking timbers. there is no looking ahead in such a wind, and the bite of the small sharp sand on exposed skin is keener than any insect sting. one might sleep, for the lapping of the wind wears one to the point of exhaustion very soon, but there is dread, in open sand stretches sometimes justified, of being over blown by the drift. it is hot, dry, fretful work, but by going along the ground with the wind behind, one may come upon strange things in its tumultuous privacy. i like these truces of wind and heat that the desert makes, otherwise i do not know how i should come by so many acquaintances with furtive folk. i like to see hawks sitting daunted in shallow holes, not daring to spread a feather, and doves in a row by the prickle-bushes, and shut-eyed cattle, turned tail to the wind in a patient doze. i like the smother of sand among the dunes, and finding small coiled snakes in open places, but i never like to come in a wind upon the silly sheep. the wind robs them of what wit they had, and they seem never to have learned the self-induced hypnotic stupor with which most wild things endure weather stress. i have never heard that the desert winds brought harm to any other than the wandering shepherds and their flocks. once below pastaria little pete showed me bones sticking out of the sand where a flock of two hundred had been smothered in a bygone wind. in many places the four-foot posts of a cattle fence had been buried by the wind-blown dunes.

it is enough occupation, when no storm is brewing, to watch the cloud currents and the chambers of the sky. from kearsarge, say, you look over inyo and find pink soft cloud masses asleep on the level desert air; south of you hurries a white troop late to some gathering of their kind at the back of oppapago; nosing the foot of waban, a woolly mist creeps south. in the clean, smooth paths of the middle sky and highest up in air, drift, unshepherded, small flocks ranging contrarily. you will find the proper names of these things in the reports of the weather bureau—cirrus, cumulus, and the like and charts that will teach by study when to sow and take up crops. it is astonishing the trouble men will be at to find out when to plant potatoes, and gloze over the eternal meaning of the skies. you have to beat out for yourself many mornings on the windy headlands the sense of the fact that you get the same rainbow in the cloud drift over waban and the spray of your garden hose. and not necessarily then do you live up to it.