All things were dreamlike in dimness, of course, but he could make out terrific cloud effects, as the clouds gushed over the summit and down the slope a little way like the smoke of enormous guns; and again a pyramid of mist was like a false mountain before him, a mountain that took on movement and rushed to overwhelm him, only to melt away and become simply a shadow among shadows above his head.
Once or twice before the dawn, he rested, not from weariness perhaps, but from lack of breath, turning his back to the west and bowing his head.

Walking into the wind it had become positively difficult to draw breath! Still it gained power incredibly.

Up the side of Scalped Mountain it was a steady weight pressing against him rather than a wind.

And now and then, when the weight relaxed, he stumbled forward on his knees.
For there was now hardly any shelter.

He was approaching the timberline where trees stand as high as a man and little higher.
Dawn found him at the edge of the tree line.