THE RIVEK FLOODS 263 



went, on ridges or in hollows, enthusiastic water 

 still flashed and gurgled about my ankles, recalling 

 a wild winter flood in Yosemite when a hundred 

 waterfalls came booming and chanting together 

 and filled the grand valley with a sea-like roar. 

 After drifting an hour or two in the lower woods, 

 I set out for the summit of a hill 900 feet high, with 

 a view to getting as near the heart of the storm as 

 possible. In order to reach it I had to cross Dry 

 Creek, a tributary of the Yuba that goes crawling 

 along the base of the hill on the northwest. It was 

 now a booming river as large as the Tuolumne at 

 ordinary stages, its current brown with mining- 

 mud washed down from many a " claim," and mot 

 tled with sluice-boxes, fence-rails, and logs that 

 had long lain above its reach. A slim foot-bridge 

 stretched across it, now scarcely above the swollen 

 current. Here I was glad to linger, gazing and 

 listening, while the storm was in its richest mood 

 the gray rain-flood above, the brown river-flood 

 beneath. The language of the river was scarcely 

 less enchanting than that of the wind and rain; 

 the sublime overboom of the main bouncing, exult 

 ing current, the swash and gurgle of the eddies, 

 the keen dash and clash of heavy waves breaking 

 against rocks, and the smooth, downy hush of shal 

 low currents feeling their way through the willow 

 thickets of the margin. And amid all this varied 

 throng of sounds I heard the smothered bumping 

 and rumbling of boulders on the bottom as they 

 were shoving and rolling forward against one an 

 other in a wild rush, after having lain still for 

 probably 100 years or more. 



