Indian Canon, through which I climbed, was choked with snow that had been shot down in avalanches from the high cliffs on either side, rendering the ascent difficult; but inspired by the roaring storm, the tedious wallowing brought no fatigue, and in four hours I gained the top of a ridge above the valley, 8000 feet high.

And there in bold relief, like a clear painting, appeared a most imposing scene.
Innumerable peaks, black and sharp, rose grandly into the dark blue sky, their bases set in solid white, their sides streaked and splashed with snow, like ocean rocks with foam; and from every summit, all free and unconfused, was streaming a beautiful silky silvery banner, from half a mile to a mile in length, slender at the point of attachment, then widening gradually as it extended from the peak until it was about 1000 or 1500 feet in breadth, as near as I could estimate.

The cluster of peaks called the "Crown of the Sierra," at the head of the Merced and Tuolumne rivers,--Mounts Dana, Gibbs, Conness, Lyell, Maclure, Ritter, with their nameless compeers,--each had its own refulgent banner, waving with a clearly visible motion in the sunglow, and there was not a single cloud in the sky to mar their simple grandeur.

Fancy yourself standing on this Yosemite ridge looking eastward.

You notice a strange garish glitter in the air.