They are quite white.
It is snowing, yet so softly as not to be felt, and as the fog melts the flakes fall faster.
"Let us go on," says Gondocori.

"Better roll down the precipice than be frozen to death.

And if we stop here much longer, and the snow continues, the pass beyond will be blocked, and then we must die of hunger and cold, for there is no going back." So we move on, slowly and noiselessly, amid the fast-falling snow, like a company of ghosts, every man conscious that his life depends on the sagacity and sure-footedness of his mule.

And it is wonderful how wary the creatures are.

They literally feel their way, never putting one foot forward until the other is firmly planted.