So we come, in less than a century, from the death-dogged snow-shoers of the Donner Party to the carefree week-end skiers dotting the mountain-sides with bright costumes. Above the place where little Stanton sat to smoke his last pipe, Cisco beacon flashes out to Donner beacon. Where John Denton, plucky Yorkshireman, waited in the snow for death, the streamlined trains slide by. And over that camp where the poor emigrants ate the forbidden meat, the pilots of the wide-winged planes follow the whining Reno beam to Blue Canyon, where—turning—they set their last course for the airports of the Bay.
6
Like Casey Jones, the Road Superintendent kissed his wife and started out for the day’s work. He was not a railroad man, and the hour was not half-past four. Nevertheless, the comparison is sound; for about the Superintendent and his job gathered something of that matter-of-fact heroism which makes the song of Casey Jones the epic of the American working-man.
He drove slowly along the highway; he was inspecting, not traveling. CALIFORNIA—U.S. 40 stared at him from the neat shield-shaped markers. He passed between the slender bright-orange snow-stakes standing at hundred-foot intervals on both sides of the highway. He saw a stake leaning over, and got out to straighten it. A car with a Minnesota license slowed down beside him.
“What those stakes for, brother?” called an abrupt voice.
“Snow-stakes,” said the Superintendent, but the face into which he looked was blank. “You see, when there’s snow—deep—the snow-plows have to steer by these stakes.”
“Say—you kidding us, brother. It’s January—where’s your snow? Why we had fifteen inches in one storm the other day. You telling us about snow?”
The car started forward suddenly, but the Superintendent heard a woman’s voice trail back from it.
“Those things must be eight feet high. Just like California!”
He drove on, a little disgruntled. People from northern states always made trouble—thought they knew everything about driving in snow. He’d like to see that crowd now, getting around Windy Point on a bad day. Fifteen inches of snow—why, man, on Donner Pass you figure snow by feet, not inches!
Well, that was MINNESOTA anyway. CALIFORNIA and NEVADA didn’t count. He got NEW YORK, and ILLINOIS before reaching the Lake Tahoe turn-off. Noting “foreign” licenses was an unbreakable habit of no practical importance; it was perhaps a sign of his pride in the great highway which he served. UTAH, OREGON. A big gasoline truck thundered by; its trailing chain struck sparks. Then went a towering van with a trailer; half a dozen special licenses spattered its rear-end. A streamlined transcontinental bus speeded toward him. A big truck passed, laden with bulging sacks; “Idaho potatoes, or onions,” he thought. PENNSYLVANIA, NEBRASKA. Yessir, he’d bet, considering how high it went, U.S. 40 carried more traffic than any other road in the world. And he was the one who saw that it got through, summer or winter. ALBERTA, MISSOURI.
He passed the Donner monument; the refreshment stand was boarded up for the winter. Dirty remnants of snowdrifts lay here and there. Now the road skirted along the Lake; it was unfrozen; glittering in the sun, it did not seem even very wintry. At the western end of the Lake he came to the gates which at his word would be closed across the highway. Beside the road the big sign read: Snow conditions over Donner Summit—U.S. 40, and then below in large letters ROAD OPEN TO ALL TRAFFIC.
By now he was in the shadow of the Pass. The ground was thinly snow-covered; little windrows of snow thrown aside by the plows (remnants of the November storm) lay at each edge of the pavement. Beyond the gates, the grade began. He passed the six-thousand-foot marker and turn-out. The road clung to the side of the gorge, curve after curve. A heavy truck came down, back-firing. Too fast, that fellow. He passed a jalopy—ARKANSAS. It was steaming hard from the radiator. Migrant-laborers they looked like, not many on this road, in winter anyway.
He went by Big Shot where the road had been blasted out of a great granite cliff—a bad place here for snowslides. The snow was getting deeper as he ascended, but still the ridiculous-looking orange stakes stood up high, even where the plows had piled snow against them.
Rocky Point brought a puff of wind, and then he swung back into the quiet of the little hollow around which the road swung in the Horseshoe. He was right beneath the crags now; high above, he saw the Bridge. He heard the mutter of a plane overhead; a locomotive whistled from somewhere. ILLINOIS (had that one already); COLORADO; MICHIGAN.
Windy Point always lived up to its name—some trick of the slopes around it probably. From the Point he saw the snowsheds of the railroad, and the line of many-wired telephone poles which plunged right down the face of the Pass without needing to twist and turn like the road. He was almost above timber-line now; trees were stunted and grew only in sheltered spots.
Between Windy Point and the Bridge he passed men working along the road. He tooted his horn gently, and waved at them as he went by. In the rear-view mirror he noted that they did not hurry to return to work, but stood talking and lighting cigarettes. No matter. They knew as well as he that shovels would never keep Donner Pass open. Still, you couldn’t just let men sit around the bunk-house all day, playing poker—had to make a gesture of keeping them at work. Let them loaf a little while they could. They’d work hard when they needed to.
He came to the Bridge. Two cars had halted at the turn-out, and some women were oh-ing and ah-ing at the view of the lake and of the road twisting down the face of the Pass. UTAH again, and TENNESSEE.
He swung around the last loop, drove through a cut deep-blasted in granite, and came to the big garage of the Maintenance Station. The building was chiefly an immense, high-pitched roof of corrugated iron designed to resist snow. It looked ridiculous now, like the snow-stakes. Not more than three feet of dirty-looking old snow was piled up under the eaves.
Inside, he walked down along the row of four great rotary plows, giving them a quick inspection which he knew was useless. They fairly glistened with readiness. Tire-chains were already on, and spare chains hung in place. The great truck-like bodies were piled with gravel for weight to give traction. But in the blunt noses, the cutting edges of the great augers were dim with the rust of disuse. On the opposite side of the garage were the push-plows with their big, twelve-foot shares, and the single V-plow. Ready to roll!
In the work-shop too many men were standing around with little to do. The whole set-up made the Superintendent think of a military post with the garrison built up to war strength and waiting for the oubreak of hostilities.
“Hello,” he greeted the Day Foreman. “Everything O.K.?”
“The machines are O.K. all right, but the men not so good—goin’ stale. Can’t keep ’em busy.” He dropped his voice. “Swenson and Peters started a fight last night, but we pulled ’em apart.”
The Superintendent’s jaw thrust suddenly forward. “Can’t have any of that stuff,” he said, and started for the bunk-house.
The bunk-house was only a hundred feet from the garage, but connecting them was a tunnel-like passageway for protection against the snow.
Peters was out working, but the Superintendent took Swenson into the wash-room. He was six inches shorter than the big Swede and forty pounds lighter, but he was boss and he laid down the law. Swenson was properly apologetic, and the Superintendent said to forget about it but not to do it again. You couldn’t be too hard on the men; they needed their jobs; Peters had a wife and three kids down in the Valley.
Driving on westward along the highway, the Superintendent was still thinking about it. Come a good snow-storm, and Swenson would be swamping and Peters operating in the same rotary, thick as thieves. Funny—the machines could stand lying around idle, but the men couldn’t. Well, machines meant more than men on this job. MICHIGAN again. He could fire a couple of men and get others. But if he smashed a rotary in a storm, he might lose the road.
West of the Summit the road descended much less ra
pidly, and was less spectacular; but it was just as hard to keep clear. The Superintendent let his car glide along more swiftly. At Norden and Soda Springs and Fox Farm there were respectable depths of snow; but on south slopes in the bright sun the snow was melting and trickles of water ran across the highway. Near Rainbow Tavern the Superintendent took off his coat. As he drove, he noted the condition of the pavement and the shoulders, making sure that nothing would interfere with the work of the plows.
Finally he pulled up at the little corrugated-iron garage which the road-men had dubbed Tin Bam. He got out of the car to stretch. The sun was brilliant overhead; the air was spring-like. The longer the storms held off, some people said, the harder they hit. But the Superintendent cared little for weather-lore—or for official forecasts either. When snow fell, you just turned out your plows and started throwing it off the highway. He cast an unnecessarily defiant look at the harmless, clear blue sky. Let ’er come!
7
The Junior Meteorologist began to map the Pacific area with a feeling of almost paternal interest as to whether Maria had survived the perils of babyhood. As he filled in the map, he saw a small storm in about the expected position, but he reserved judgment.
Sylvia had moved out over the Atlantic beyond range of his map. Reports from Port Nelson, God’s Lake, and Fort Hope vaguely indicated that Felicia was centering over Hudson Bay. Cornelia was beating in fury against the south Alaskan coast. Antonia was not developing as he had expected; she had suddenly matured, and moving off sharply to the north was entering Bering Sea. And certainly—yes—that small storm well to the east of Japan could be nothing else than Maria.
Already, the J. M. noted, Maria was showing personality. She was fast-moving, having traveled a thousand miles in twenty-four hours. This meant an average rate of over forty miles an hour, and yet none of the reporting ships indicated a wind of more than twenty-five miles; Maria, therefore, must be moving as a wave. As another individual quality, Maria was keeping a little to the south of the previous storm-track. He attributed this immediately to the influence of Antonia, which from her position in Bering Sea partly blocked the more northerly route. But he shook his head. Such reasoning got nowhere; it only raised the next question: what caused Antonia to behave as she did? He thought of his old professor’s saying: “A Chinaman sneezing in Shen-si may set men to shoveling snow in New York City.”
He decided that in general Maria might be called a normal child. She had certainly grown in healthy fashion. Along with this growth had come a sharp lowering of pressure, brisker winds, and heavier rainfall. Nevertheless Maria was still young and undistinguished. Along her cold front she might be kicking up some respectable local squalls, but elsewhere ship-captains would log nothing more than Fresh Breeze and Moderate Sea. And as for size, a storm only a thousand miles in diameter rated in the Pacific as a half-grown child. Nevertheless, the J. M. still felt his paternal discoverer’s partiality: “A darn good little storm,” he felt himself wanting to say to someone.
His map was finished, and he called the Chief over.
“Hn-n? Anything special?” said the Chief.
Then the words popped out before they could be suppressed: “Fine little storm developing there east of Japan!”
The Chief looked, and the J. M. was embarrassed at his own enthusiasm, almost an emotional partisanship, certainly not scientific.
“Where’d she come from?” said the Chief in his matter-of-fact voice.
“Incipient yesterday, north of Titijima.” The words were professional, but hardly concealed the tone of pride.
The Chief glanced back at the map of the preceding day. “Hn-n? Yes. I should say you’re right. A fast mover!”
But the Chief naturally showed no special interest in Maria. His eyes swept back and forth. Then they rested upon the Canadian Northwest. He turned to the map of the preceding day, again studied the same region, and then came back to it on the current map. Beginning to be curious, the Junior Meteorologist watched the glance shift to Cornelia in the Gulf of Alaska, then pass on to Antonia and again to Maria, come back through the vast Pacific High to California, sweep over the United States, move north to Felicia over Hudson Bay, and finally return to the point of departure. But after this rapid circuit of nearly half the northern hemisphere the only comment was the usual, non-committal, “Hn-n?”
For a few seconds the Chief still bent over the map, and the lines on his forehead creased as if he tried to solve the problem. Then seeming to feel an explanation in order, he remarked shortly: “Too many unknowns.”
He straightened up. “That’s a very neat map you’ve drawn. Pressure rising a little at Coppermine—did you notice?” And retreating to his own office, the Chief shot behind him a final arrow: “About time, too!”
8
A proud City, set upon hills, pearl-gray in the winter sun, swept clean of smoke and dust by the steady wind from the sea. Last warder of the West, a City looking forth upon that vast water where West in the end became East, space so wide as if to defeat Time the ancient, and cause the calendar to lose a day. A City bearing the Phoenix for its symbol, proud that like the Phoenix it had more than once sprung to life from its own ashes. A City of towers and banners.
From those towers the great banners stood out stiff in the northwest wind. These were not the national flag; that emblem you might see floating modestly from the squat Customs House, the very wind stolen from it by the tall surrounding towers. (One might think of some medieval city where feudal strongholds rose defiant, one against another, commanding the King’s own palace.) Highest of all, as if it ruled the City, flew the blue banner of Telephone. Across a narrow street the two lords of oil flouted each other—red and yellow against blue and white. Maroon of Grand Hotel, crimson and black of the Bank, blue of Power-Light, blue and gold of the Railroad. One might have said that these and their like were the rulers of the City and the World.
Yet one might well look again. Was it perhaps by some inter-company agreement that all the banners streamed off to the southeast? No, not the Board of Directors, not even the stockholders voting as one man, could make their flag fly to the north. The Chief Engineer himself could not contrive that miracle.
From sources too mighty and too far removed for even the great companies to manipulate, that wind drew its power and assumed its direction—from the contrast of ocean and continent, from the whirling of the earth, from the sun itself. That air had come on a long journey. Northeastward from the doldrums of the equator it had moved, miles high above the ocean in the great upper current of the anti-trades. Upon a spiral two thousand miles long it had flowed back to earth around the gentle swirl of the Pacific High. Now it was swinging southward until it would doubtless join the wide sweep of the trades, reach again the doldrums, and exploding into thunderstorms rise to the upper atmosphere and start north once more.
Upon this very day the directors of Power-Light meeting in their room on the sixteenth floor had just heard a discouraging report about the depleted water-reserves in their hundred and more artificial lakes. The directors would gladly have paid many thousands of dollars to any man who could alter the direction of that flag by ninety degrees and bring in a southwester. But they did not even consider such a solution. Instead, with long faces, they approved the expenditure of certain huge sums for the operation of auxiliary steam power-houses.
Upon the sidewalks of the City, people on the shady side drew their coats around them, but on the sunny side they felt cosily warm. The cool clean air filled the lungs; there was vigor in it. Shrewd merchants put forward their best displays, and quoted the proverb: “Do business with men when the wind is in the northwest.” At street-corners the eddies of air set men clutching at their hats, women at their skirts. “Fine day . . . Fine weather . . . Bracing. . . . Good for golf. . . . Puts life in a fellow.”
High upon the towers, in the sweep of the far-traveled wind, the great banners stream
ed out steadily southeastward.
THIRD DAY
1
In an age all too familiar with war the yearly cycle of the weather is well imagined in terms of combat. It is a war in which a stronghold or citadel sometimes beats off assault after assault. More often the battle-line shifts quickly back and forth across thousands of miles—a war of sudden raids and swift counterattacks, of stern pitched battles, of deep forays and confused struggles high in the air. In the Northern Hemisphere the opponents are the Arctic and the Tropics, North against South. Uncertain ally to the South—now bringing, now withdrawing aid—the sun shifts among the signs of the zodiac. And the chief battle-line is known as the Polar Front.
There is no discharge in that war, nor shall be until the earth grows cold. Yet every spring as the sun swings north through Taurus, it renews the forces of the South, and they sweep forward as if to final victory. Night vanishes from the Pole, and in unbroken day Keewatin and Siberia grow warm. The northern forces shrink back into their last stronghold over the ice-cap. The sun moves from Cancer to Leo. The Polar Front is no longer a well-marked battle-line; few and weak storms, mere guerrilla skirmishes, move along it close to the pole.
Then, as if thinking the victory won or as if wishing to preserve some balance of power, the sun withdraws into Virgo and Libra. Again night falls over the Arctic. The northern ranks re-form and advance. But the forces of the South still feel the sun at their backs and will not be routed. The line of the Polar Front becomes sharply marked—cold polar air to the north, warm tropical air to the south. And along the Front, like savage champions struggling in the death grapple, the storms move in unbroken succession.
Storm Page 5
