It was a beautifully clear, still morning when we crossed the mountain above the yurt, and wound around through bare open valleys, among high hills, toward the seacoast.  The sun had risen over the eastern hill-tops, and the snow glittered as if strewn with diamonds, while the distant peaks of the Viliga, appeared—­

  “Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance
  Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air”—­

as calm and bright in their snowy majesty as if the suspicion of a storm had never attached to their smooth white slopes and sharp pinnacles.  The air, although intensely cold, was clear and bracing; and as our dogs bounded at a gallop over the hard, broken road, the exhilarating motion caused the very blood in our veins

  “—­to dance
  Blithe as the sparkling wine of France.”

About noon we came out of the mountains upon the sea beach and overtook the postilion, who had stopped to rest his tired dogs.  Our own being fresh, we again took the lead, and drew rapidly near to the valley of the Viliga.

I was just mentally congratulating myself upon our good fortune in having clear weather to pass this dreaded point, when my attention was attracted by a curious white cloud or mist, extending from the mouth of the Viliga ravine far out over the black open water of the Okhotsk Sea.  Wondering what it could be, I pointed it out to our guide, and inquired if it were fog.  His face clouded up with anxiety as he glanced at it, and replied laconically, “Viliga dooreet,” or “The mountains are fooling.”  This oracular response did not enlighten me very much, and I demanded an explanation.  I was then told, to my astonishment and dismay, that the curious white mist which I had taken to be fog was a dense driving cloud of snow, hurled out of the mouth of the ravine by a storm, which had apparently just begun in the upper gorges of the Stanavoi range.  It would be impossible, our guide said, to cross the valley, and dangerous to attempt it until the wind should subside.  I could not see either the impossibility or the danger, and as there was another yurt or shelter-house on the other side of the ravine, I determined to go on and make the attempt at least to cross.  Where we were the weather was perfectly calm and still; a candle would have burned in the open air without flickering; and I could not realise the tremendous force of the hurricane which, only a mile ahead, was vomiting snow out of the mouth of that ravine and carrying it four miles to sea.  Seeing that Leet and I were determined to cross the valley, our guide shrugged his shoulders expressively, as much as to say, “You will soon regret your haste,” and we went on.