like a sea. Still deeper, richer, more divine grow the great walls

and temples, until in the supremeflaming glory of sunset the whole
canyon is transfigured, as if all the life and light of centuries of

sunshine stored up and condensed in the rocks was now being poured
forth as from one gloriousfountain, flooding both earth and sky.

Strange to say, in the full white effulgence of the midday hours the
bright colors grow dim and terrestrial in common gray haze; and the

rocks, after the manner of mountains, seem to crouch and drowse and
shrink to less than half their real stature, and have nothing to say

to one, as if not at home. But it is fine to see how quickly they
come to life and grow radiant and communicative as soon as a band of

white clouds come floating by. As if shouting for joy, they seem to
spring up to meet them in heartysalutation, eager to touch them and

beg their blessings. It is just in the midst of these dull midday
hours that the canyon clouds are born.

A good storm cloud full of lightning and rain on its way to its work
on a sunny desert day is a glorious object. Across the canyon,

opposite the hotel, is a little tributary of the Colorado called
Bright Angel Creek. A fountain-cloud still better deserves the name

"Angel of the Desert Wells"--clad in bright plumage, carrying cool
shade and living water to countless animals and plants ready to

perish, noble in form and gesture, seeming able for anything, pouring
life-giving, wonder-working floods from its alabaster fountains, as if

some sky-lake had broken. To every gulch and gorge on its favorite
ground is given a passionatetorrent, roaring, replying to the

rejoicing lightning--stones, tons in weight, hurrying away as if
frightened, showing something of the way Grand Canyon work is done.

Most of the fertile summer clouds of the canyon are of this sort,
massive, swelling cumuli, growing rapidly, displaying delicious tones

of purple and gray in the hollows of their sun-beaten houses,
showering favored areas of the heated landscape, and vanishing in an

hour or two. Some, busy and thoughtful-looking, glide with beautiful
motion along the middle of the canyon in flocks, turning aside here

and there, lingering as if studying the needs of particular spots,
exploring side canyons, peering into hollows like birds seeding nest-places,

or hovering aloft on outspread wings. They scan all the red
wilderness, dispensing their blessings of cool shadows and rain where

the need is the greatest, refreshing the rocks, their offspring as
well as the vegetation, continuing their sculpture, deepening gorges

and sharpening peaks. Sometimes, blending all together, they weave a
ceiling from rim to rim, perhaps opening a window here and there for

sunshine to stream through, suddenly lighting some palace or temple
and making it flare in the rain as if on fire.

Sometimes, as one sits gazing from a high, jutting promontory, the sky
all clear, showing not the slightest wisp or penciling, a bright band

of cumuli will appear suddenly, coming up the canyon in single file,
as if tracing a well-known trail, passing in review, each in turn

darting its lances and dropping its shower, making a row of little
vertical rivers in the air above the big brown one. Others seem to

grow from mere points, and fly high above the canyon, yet following
its course for a long time, noiseless, as if hunting, then suddenly

darting lightning at unseen marks, and hurrying on. Or they loiter
here and there as if idle, like laborers out of work, waiting to be

hired.
Half a dozen or more showers may oftentimes be seen falling at once,

while far the greater part of the sky is in sunshine, and not a
raindrop comes nigh one. These thundershowers from as many separate

clouds, looking like wisps of long hair, may vary greatly in effects.
The pale, faint streaks are showers that fail to reach the ground,

being evaporated on the way down through the dry, thirsty air, like
streams in deserts. Many, on the other hand, which in the distance

seem insignificant, are really heavy rain, however local; these are
the gray wisps well zigzagged with lightning. The darker ones are

torrent rain, which on broad, steep slopes of favorable conformation
give rise to so-called "cloudbursts"; and wonderful is the commotion

they cause. The gorges and gulches below them, usually dry, break out
in loud uproar, with a sudden downrush of muddy, boulder-laden floods.

Down they all go in one simultaneous gush, roaring like lions rudely
awakened, each of the tawny brood actually kicking up a dust at the

first onset.
During the winter months snow falls over all the high plateau, usually

to a considerable depth, whitening the rim and the roofs of the canyon
buildings. But last winter, when I arrived at Bright Angel in the

middle of January, there was no snow in sight, and the ground was dry,
greatly to my disappointment, for I had made the trip mainly to see

the canyon in its winter garb. Soothingly I was informed that this
was an exceptional season, and that the good snow might arrive at any

time. After waiting a few days, I gladly hailed a broad-browed cloud
coming grandly on from the west in big promisingblackness, very

unlike the white sailors of the summer skies. Under the lee of a rim-ledge,
with another snow-lover, I watched its movements as it took

possession of the canyon and all the adjacent region in sight.
Trailing its gray fringes over the spiry tops of the great temples and

towers, it gradually settled lower, embracing them all with ineffable
kindness and gentleness of touch, and fondled the little cedars and

pines as they quivered eagerly in the wind like young birds begging
their mothers to feed them. The first flakes and crystals began to

fly about noon, sweeping straight up the middle of the canyon, and
swirling in magnificent eddies along the sides. Gradually the hearty

swarms closed their ranks, and all the canyon was lost in gray bloom
except a short section of the wall and a few trees beside us, which

looked glad with snow in their needles and about their feet as they
leaned out over the gulf. Suddenly the storm opened with magical

effect to the north over the canyon of Bright Angel Creek, inclosing a
sunlit mass of the canyonarchitecture, spanned by great white

concentric arches of cloud like the bows of a silveryaurora. Above
these and a little back of them was a series of upboiling purple

clouds, and high above all, in the background, a range of noble cumuli
towered aloft like snow-laden mountains, their pure pearl bosses

flooded with sunshine. The whole noble picture, calmly glowing, was
framed in thick gray gloom, which soon closed over it; and the storm

went on, opening and closing until night covered all.
Two days later, when we were on a jutting point about eighteen miles

east of Bright Angel and one thousand feet higher, we enjoyed another
storm of equal glory as to cloud effects, though only a few inches of

snow fell. Before the storm began we had a magnificent view of this
grander upper part of the canyon and also of the Coconino Forest and

the Painted Desert. The march of the clouds with their storm banners
flying over this sublimelandscape was unspeakableglorious, and so

also was the breaking up of the storm next morning--the mingling of
silver-capped rock, sunshine, and cloud.

Most tourists make out to be in a hurry even here; therefore their
days or hours would be best spent on the promontories nearest the

hotel. Yet a surprising number go down the Bright Angel Trail to the
brink of the inner gloomygranite gorge overlooking the river. Deep

canyons attract like high mountains; the deeper they are, the more
surely are we drawn into them. On foot, of course, there is no danger

whatever, and, with ordinary precautions, but little on animals. In
comfortable tourist faith, unthinking, unfearing, down go men, women,

and children on whatever is offered, horse, mule, or burro, as if
saying with Jean Paul, "fear nothing but fear"--not without reason,

for these canyon trails down the stairways of the gods are less
dangerous than they seem, less dangerous than home stairs. The guides

are cautious, and so are the experienced, much-enduring beasts. The
scrawniest Rosinantes and wizened-rat mules cling hard to the rocks

endwise or sidewise, like lizards or ants. From terrace to terrace,
climate to climate, down one creeps in sun and shade, through gorge

and gully and grassyravine, and, after a long scramble on foot, at
last beneath the mighty cliffs one comes to the grand, roaring river.

To the mountaineer the depth of the canyon, from five thousand to six
thousand feet, will not seem so very wonderful, for he has often

explored others that are about as deep. But the most experienced will
be awestruck by the vast extent of huge rock monuments of pointed

masonry built up in regular courses towering above, beneath, and round
about him. By the Bright Angel Trail the last fifteen hundred feet of

the descent to the river has to be made afoot down the gorge of Indian
Garden Creek. Most of the visitors do not like this part, and are

content to stop at the end of the horse trail and look down on the
dull-brown flood from the edge of the Indian Garden Plateau. By the

new Hance Trail, excepting a few daringly steep spots, you can ride
all the way to the river, where there is a good spacious camp-ground