One of
the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the Sierra
occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one of the
tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and the trees had
been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day was intensely pure, one
of those incomparable bits of California winter, warm and balmy and full of
white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the purest influences of the spring,
and at the same time enlivened with one of the most bracing wind-storms
conceivable. Instead of camping out, as I usually do, I then chanced to be
stopping at the house of a friend. But when the storm began to sound, I lost no
time in pushing out into the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature
has always something rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly
greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.
Read the rest of John Muir's "Wind-Storm in the Forests," here.
Read the rest of John Muir's "Wind-Storm in the Forests," here.
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