The narrow Alpine zone of peaks and snow that forms the crest of the Rocky Mountains has its own individual elemental moods, its characteristic winds, its electrical and other peculiarities, and a climate of its own.  Com-monly its days are serene and sunny, but from time to time it has hail and snow and showers of wind-blown rain, cold as ice-water.  It is subject to violent changes from clear, calm air to blizzard.
 I have enjoyed these strange, silent heights in every season of the year.  In climbing scores of these peaks, in crossing the passes, often on snowshoes, and in camping here and there on the skyline, I have encountered these climatic changes and had numerous strange experiences.  From these experiences I realize that the transcontinental aviator, with this realm of peak and sky, will have some delightful as well as serious surprises.  He will encounter stern conditions.  He may, like a storm-defying bird, be carried from his course by treacherous currents and battle with breakers or struggle in vain in the monstrous, invisible maelstroms that beset this ocean of air.  Of these skyline factors the more imposing are wind, cold, clouds, rain, snow, and subtle, capricious electricity.
 High winds are common across the summits of these mountains; and they are most prevalent in winter.  Those of summer, though less frequent and much more short-lived, are a menace on account of their fury and the suddenness with which they surprise and sweep the heights.
 Early one summer, while exploring a wide alpine moorland above the timber-line, I—and some others— had an experience with one of those sudden storm-bursts.  The region was utterly wild, but up to it straggling tourists occasionally rode for a view of the surrounding mountain world.  All alone, I was studying the ways of the wild inhabitants of the heights.  I had spent the calm, sunny morning in watching a solitary bighorn that was feeding among some boulders.  He was aged, and he ate as though his teeth were poor and walked as though afflicted with rheumatism.  Suddenly this patriarch forgot his age and fled precipitately, with almost the speed of frightened youth.  I leaped upon a boulder to watch him, but was instantly knocked headlong by a wild blast of wind.  In falling I caught sight of a straw hat and a wrecked umbrella falling out of the sky.  Rising amid the pelting gale of flung hail, ice-water, and snow, I pushed my way in the teeth of the storm, hoping for shelter in the lee of a rock-pile about a hundred yards distant.  A lady's disheveled hat blew by me, and with the howl of the wind came, almost drowned, excited human utterances.  Nearing the rock-pile, I caught a vague view of a merry-go-round of man and horse, then a glimpse of the last gyration, in which an elderly Eastern gentleman parted company with a stampeded bronco.
 Five tourists had ridden up in the sunshine to enjoy the heights, and the suddenness and fierceness of the storm had thrown them into a panic and stampeded their horses. They were drenched and severely chilled, and they were frightened.  I made haste to tell them that the storm would be brief.  While I was still trying to reassure them, the clouds commenced to dissolve and the sun came out.  Presently all were watching the majestic soaring of two eagles up in the blue, while I went off to collect five scattered saddle-ponies that were contentedly feeding far away on the moor.
 Though the winter winds are of slower development, they are more prolonged and are tempestuously powerful.  Occasionally these winds blow for days; and where they follow a fall of snow they blow and whirl this about so wildly that the air is befogged for several hundred feet above the earth.  So violently and thickly is the powdered snow flung about that a few minutes at a time is the longest that one can see or breathe in it.  These high winter winds come out of the west in a deep, broad stratum that is far above most of the surface over which they blow.  Commonly a high wind strikes the western slope of the Continental Divide a little below the altitude of eleven thousand feet.  This striking throws it into fierce confusion.  It rolls whirling up the steeps and frequently shoots far above the highest peaks.  Across the passes it sweeps, roars down the cañons on the eastern slope, and rush-es out across the plains.  Though the western slope below eleven thousand feet is a calm zone, the entire eastern slope is being whipped and scourged by a flood of wind.  Occasionally the temperature of these winds is warm.
 These swift, insistent winds, torn, intercepted, and deflected by dashing against the broken skyline, produce currents, counter-currents, sleepy eddies, violent vertical whirls, and milling maelstroms that are tilted at every angle.  In places there is a gale blowing upward, and here and there the air pours heavily down in an invisible but almost crushing air-fall.
 One winter I placed an air-meter in Granite Pass, at twelve thousand feet altitude on the slope of Long's Peak.  During the first high wind I fought my way up to read what the meter said.  Both the meter and my-self found the wind exceeded the speed limit.  Emerg-ing above the trees at timber-line, I had to face the unbroken fury of the gale as it swept down the slope from the heights above.  The region was barren of snow.  The wind dashed me with sandblasts and pelt-ed me with gravel volleys that were almost unbearable.  My face and wrists were bruised, and blood was drawn in many places where the gravel struck.
 Seeking rest and shelter from this persistent punishment, I approached a crag and when only a few yards away was struck and overturned by the milling air-current around it.  The air was so agitated around this crag that its churnings followed me, like disturbed water, under and behind the large rock-fragments, where shelter was hoped for but only partly secured.
 On the last slope below the meter the wind simply played with me.  I was overthrown, tripped, knocked down, blown explosively off my feet and dropped.  Sometimes the wind dropped me heavily, but just as often it eased me down.  I made no attempt to stand erect; most of the time this was impossible and at all times it was very dangerous.  Now and then the wind rolled me as I lay resting upon a smooth place.  Advancing was akin to swimming a whirlpool or to wrestling one's way up a slope despite the ceaseless opposition of a vigorous, tireless opponent.
 At last I crawled and climbed up to the buzzing cups of the meter.  So swiftly were they rotating they formed a blurred circle, like a fast-revolving life-preserver.  The meter showed that the wind was passing with a speed of from one hundred and sixty-five to one hundred and seventy miles an hour.  The meter blew up—or, rather, flew to pieces—during a swifter spurt.
 The wind so loudly ripped and roared round the top of the peak that I determined to scale the summit and experience its wildest and most eloquent efforts.  All my strength and climbing knowledge were re-quired to prevent my being literally blown out of converging rock channels through which the wind gushed; again and again I clung with all my might to avoid being torn from the ledges.  Fortunately not a bruise was received, though many times this was narrowly avoided.
 The top of the peak, an area of between three and four acres and comparatively level, was in an easy eddy, almost a calm when compared with the wind's activities below and near by.  Apparently the wind-current collided so forcefully with the western wall of the peak that it was thrown far above the summit before recovering to continue its way eastward; but against the resisting spurs and pinnacles a little below summit-level the wind roared, boomed, and crashed in its determined, passionate onsweep.
 The better to hear this grand uproar, I advanced to the western edge of the summit.  Here my hat was torn off, but not quite grasped, by the upshooting blast.  It fell into the swirl above the summit and in large circles floated upward at slow speed, rising directly above the top of the peak.  It rose and circled so slowly that I threw several stones at it, trying to knock it down before it rose out of range.  The diameter of the circle through which it floated was about one hundred and fifty feet; when it had risen five, or perhaps six, hundred feet above the summit it suddenly tumbled over and over as though about to fall, but instead of falling it sailed off toward the east as though a carrier pigeon hurrying for a known and definite place in the horizon.
 Some of the gulf-streams, hell-gates, whirl-pools, rough channels, and dangerous tides in the sea of air either are in fixed places or adjust themselves to winds from a different quarter so definitely that their location can be told by considering them in connection with the direction of the wind.  Thus the sea of air may be partly charted and the position of some of its dangerous places, even in mountain-top oceans, positively known.
 However, there are dangerous mountain-top winds of one kind, or, more properly, numerous local air-blasts, that are sometimes created within these high winds, that do not appear to have any habits.  It would be easier to tell where the next thunderbolt would fall than where the next one of these would explode.  One of these might be called a cannon wind.  An old prospector, who had experienced countless high winds among the crags, once stated that high, gusty winds on mountain-slopes "sometimes shoot off a cannon".  These explosive blasts touch only a short, narrow space, but in this they are almost irresistible.
 Isolated clouds often soften and beautify the stern heights as they silently float and drift among peaks and passes.  Flocks of these sky birds frequently float about together.  On sunny days, in addition to giving a charm to the peaks, their restless shadows never tire of readjusting themselves and are ever trying to find a foundation or a place of rest upon the tempestuous topography of the heights below.  Now and then a deep, dense cloud-stratum will cover the crests and envelop the summit slopes for days.  These vapory strata usually feel but little wind and they vary in thickness from a few hundred to a few thousand feet.  Sometimes one of these rests so serenely that it suggests an aggregation of clouds pushed off to one side because temporarily the sky does not need them elsewhere for either decorative or precipitative purpose.  Now and then they do drop rain or snow, but most of the time they appear to be in a procrastinating mood and unable to decide whether to precipitate or to move on.
 Commonly the upper surfaces of cloud-strata appear like a peaceful silver-gray sea.  They appear woolly and sometimes fluffy, level, and often so vast that they sweep away beyond the horizon.  Peaks and ridges often pierce their interminable surface with romantic continents and islands; along their romantic shores, above the surface of the picturesque sea, the airship could sail in safe poetic flight, though the foggy depths below were too dense for any traveler to penetrate.
 One spring the snow fell continuously around my cabin for three days.  Reports told that the storm was general over the Rocky Mountain region.  Later investigations showed that that cloud and storm were spread over a quarter of a million square miles.  Over this entire area there was made a comparatively even deposit of thirty inches of snow.
 All over the area, the bottom, or under surface, of the cloud was at an altitude of approximately nine thousand feet.  My cabin, with an altitude of nine thousand, was immersed in cloud, though at times it was one hundred feet or so below it.  Fully satisfied of the widespread and general nature of the storm, and convinced of the comparatively level line of the bottom surface of the cloud, I determined to measure its vertical depth and observe its slow movements by climbing above its silver lining.  This was the third day of the storm.  On snowshoes up the mountainside I went through this almost opaque sheep's-wool cloud.  It was not bitterly cold, but cloud and snow combined were blinding, and only a ravine and instinct enabled me to make my way.
 At an altitude of about twelve thousand feet the depth of the snow became suddenly less, soon falling to only an inch or so.  Within a few rods of where it began to grow shallow I burst through the upper surface of the cloud.  Around me and above there was not a flake of snow.  Over the entire storm-area of a quarter of a million square miles, all heights above twelve thousand had escaped both cloud and snow.  The cloud, which thus lay between the altitudes of nine thousand and twelve thousand feet, was three thousand feet deep.
 When I rose above the surface of this sea the sun was shining upon it.  It was a smooth sea; not a breath of wind ruffled it.  The top of Long's Peak rose bald and broken above.  Climbing to the top of a commanding ridge, I long watched this beautiful expanse of cloud and could scarcely realize that it was steadily flinging multitudes of snowflakes upon slopes and snows below.  Though practically stationary, this cloud expanse had some slight movements.  These were somewhat akin to those of a huge raft that it becalmed in a quiet harbor.  Slowly, easily, and almost imperceptibly the entire mass slid forward along the mountains; it moved but a short distance, paused for some minutes, then slowly slid back a trifle farther than it had advanced.  After a brief stop the entire mass, as though anchored in the centre, started to swing in an easy, deliberate rotation; after a few degrees of movement it paused, hesitated, then swung with slow, heavy movement back.  In addition to these shifting horizontal motions there was a short vertical one.  The entire mass slowly sank and settled two or three hundred feet, then, with scarcely a pause, rose easily to the level from which it sank.  Only once did it rise above this level.
 During all seasons of the year there are oft-recurring periods when the mountains sit in sunshine and all the winds are still.  In days of this kind of transcontinental passengers in glass-bottomed airships would have a bird's-eye view of sublime scenes.  The purple forests, the embowered, peaceful parks, the drifted snows, the streams that fold and shine through the forests,—all these combine and cover magnificently the billowed and broken distances, while ever floating up from below are the soft, ebbing, and intermittent songs from white water that leaps in glory.
 Though the summits of the Rocky Mountains are always cool, it is only in rare, brief times that they fall within the frigid spell of Farthest North and become cruelly cold.  The climate among these mountain-tops is much milder than people far away imagine.
 The electrical effects that enliven and sometimes illuminate these summits are peculiar and often highly interesting.  Thunderbolts—lighting-strokes—are rare, far less frequent than in most lowland districts.  However, when lightning does strike the heights, it appears to have many times the force that is displayed in low-land strokes.  My conclusions concerning the infre-quency of thunderbolts on these sky-piercing peaks are drawn chiefly from my own experience.  I have stood through storms upon more than a score of Rocky Mountain summits that were upward of fourteen thousand feet above the tides.  Only one of these peaks was struck; this was Long's Peak, which rises to the height of 14,256 feet above the sea.
 Seventy storms I have experienced on the summit of this peak, and during these it was struck but three times to my knowledge.  One of these strokes fell a thousand feet below the top; two struck the same spot on the edge of the summit.  The rock struck was granite, and the effects of the strokes were similar; hundreds of pounds of shattered rock fragments were flung horizontally afar.  Out of scores of experiences in rain-drenched passes I have record of but two thun-derbolts.  Both of these were heavy.  In all these instances the thunderbolt descended at a time when the storm-cloud was a few hundred feet above the place struck.
 During the greater number of high-altitude storms the cloud is in contact with the surface or but little removed from it.  Never have I known the lightning to strike when the clouds were close to the surface or touching it.  It is, however, common, during times of low-dragging clouds, for the surface air to be heavily charged with electrical fluid.  This often is accom-panied with strange effects.  Prominent among these is a low pulsating hum or an intermittent buz-z-z-z, with now and then a sharp zit-zit!  Sometimes accompanying, at other times only briefly breaking in, are sub-dued camp-fire cracklings and roarings. Falling snow-flakes, during these times, are occasionally briefly luminous, like fireflies, the instant they touch the earth.  Hair-pulling is the commonest effect that people experience in these sizzling electrical storms.  There is a straightening of the hairs and apparently a sharp pull upon each.  As John Muir has it, "You are sure to be lost in wonder and praise and every hair of your head will stand up and hum and sing like an enthusiastic congregation."  Most people take very gravely their first experience of this kind; especially when accom-panied, as it often is, with apparent near-by bee-buzzings and a purplish roll or halo around the head.  During these times a sudden finger movement will produce a crackling snap or spark.
 On rare occasions these interesting peculiarities become irritating and sometimes serious to one.  In "A Watcher on the Heights", in "Wild Life on the Rockies", I have described a case of this kind.  A few people suffer from a muscular cramp or spasm, and occasionally the muscles are so tensed that breathing becomes difficult and heart-action disturbed. I have never known an electrical storm to be fatal.  Relief from the effects of such a storm may generally be had by lying between big stones or beneath shelving rocks.  On one occasion I saw two ladies and four gentlemen lay dignity aside and obtain relief by jamming into a place barely large enough for two.  In my own case, activity invariably intensified these effects; and the touching of steel or iron often had the same results.  For some years a family resided upon the slope of Mt. Teller, at an altitude of twelve thousand feet.  Commonly during storms the stove and pipe were charged with fluid so heavily that it was a case of hands off and let dinner wait, and sometimes spoil, until the heavens shut off the current.
 The sustaining buoyancy of the air to aerial things decreases with altitude.  In this "light" air some motor machinery is less efficient than it is in the lowlands.  It is probable that aviators will always find the air around uplifted peaks much less serviceable than this element upon the surface of the sea.  But known and unknown dangers in the air will be mastered, and ere long the dangers to those who take flight through the air will be no greater than the dangers to those who go down to the sea in ships.  Flying across the crest of the continent, above the crags and cañons, will be enchanting, and this journey through the upper air may bring to many the first stirring message from the rocks and templed hills.
 

Directory of Stories by Enos A. Mills

Copyright 2001 by Enos Mills Cabin, Temporal Mechanical Press
Email the web designer