als 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 canyon architecture, spanned
by great white concentric arches of cloud like the bows of a silvery
aurora. 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 sublime landscape was unspeakably glorious, 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 gloomy granite 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,