Just as a Bede Bible and a “quart of seed wheat” saved the British
Isles to Christianity; so “the Book” and another “quart of seed wheat”
carried in by the Reverend Spalding, saved Oregon to the United States,
notwithstanding the Russian Bear, the British Lion and the bull of
Alexander the VI. in which he delivered over all North America to Spain.
“Good old times those were when kings thrust their hands into the New
World, as children do theirs into a grab bag at a fair, and drew out a
river four thousand miles long, or an ocean, or a tract of wild land
ten or fifteen times the size of England.”
The king of Spain sold Louisiana to France for money to buy his
daughter a wedding present and for one brief while France had hopes of
planting her lilies in the Walla Walla Valley. France, however, had met
her Waterloo in America, on the Plains of Abraham.
Then came England denying the validity of the old Franco-Spanish title
under which we claimed the Oregon country, but the same policy that
lost to Great Britain her thirteen colonies, lost to her this princely
domain.
American and English settlements contrasted strangely. The one emigrant
came with his traps and snares, the other with his plow and quart of
seed wheat. The one came for the fortune which he might carry out of
the country, the other to make a home for himself and his children. So,
the English trapper with his snares and the Indian with his pogamoggan
retreated before the advance of American civilization.
In 1836 Mrs. Whitman, wife of Dr. Whitman, wrote from Fort Vancouver
that the Hudson Bay Co. had that year four thousand bushels of wheat,
four thousand bushels of peas and fifteen hundred bushels of oats and
barley, besides many root vegetables, also poultry, cattle, hogs and
sheep.
The metropolis of the valley is Walla Walla. It is a well-built town
having a population of several thousand. Many of the stores and
business blocks are of brick. Its streets are wide. In the suburbs is a
military post, also a college established by the Congregational church
in honor of Dr. Marcus Whitman, the well known missionary who was
massacred at his mission near Walla Walla in 1847. So died the brave,
patriotic Whitman.
In 1813 England, basing her claims on Drake’s discoveries, captured
Astoria and for years kept her hands on the Oregon country, to be
thwarted at last by one brave American.
The story of Marcus Whitman’s life should be enshrined in the heart of
every school-boy in America.
From the busy thriving city of Spokane, the center of the agriculture
empire of the Pacific Coast, to Missoula along the headwaters of the
Columbia is a most interesting journey. High above, the grim Cascades
rear their shaggy heads. Magnificent pines lift their crested heads
skyward. The Columbia, “rock-ribbed and mighty,” sweeps on, now
placidly, now whirling and eddying, tossing its waters up in foamy
spray, now breaking into white cascades, beautiful as Schauffhausen
on the noble Rhine. The rugged rocks along the shore are hidden by
festoons of grape and wild honeysuckle vines, while the bright salmon
berry adds a touch of color.
Here is a bit of western fiction, a study in evolution that would
interest a Haeckel. These berries falling into the water float away
into brown pools and shady nooks and there change into the red fish
known as salmon.
The gentleman who told me this wonderful tale of magic assured me that
it was true, and that the Fish Commission had made a report of it. Like
the tale of the banshee, however, he had never seen it but he knew
people who had.
Scientific errors should be corrected, so I will give you the facts
about the salmon trout. It was that mischievous god Loke, who to escape
the vengeance of Thor hid himself in a cave, but when he heard the
thundering voice of that noble god,
“He changed himself into a salmon trout
And leaped in a fright in the Glommen.”
Slippery as a salmon is a common adage in Norseland.
The most beautiful spot in this region is Lake Pend d’Oreille. The
scenery of this lovely lake rivals that of Lake George. Its blue waters
bathe the brown feet of rugged mountains.
It is early morning on Lake Pend d’Oreille; the mountain breeze,
the gentle swish of the water as it laps the shore, the white,
graceful-moving sail-boat all entice you for a day’s fishing. Tired of
this sport you sail over and rest under the wonderful Blue Slide. The
mountain bordering on the lake at this point has crumbled away, sending
down its bowlders into the lake. From the boat you look up a smooth
incline plane two thousand feet, above which rises the precipice itself
another thousand feet. The slide is covered with a pale blue clay,
while the precipice itself is a mixture of granite and clay tinged with
iron. Large pines grow on the very edge of the precipice.
The junction of Clear Water and the Snake rivers in Idaho is a place
of historic interest. We are now in the country traversed by Lewis and
Clarke.
The history of the great Northwest is wonderfully fascinating. The
history of no part of this great territory is more tragic than that of
Montana. Her savage tribes, her cosmopolitan population called into
existence by her fur trade and mining industry, all combined to produce
in Montana a peculiar phase of civilization, but she has beaten dirks
and bowie knives into plowshares and now follows the gentle arts of
peace. A magnificent mountain range, lovely valley, beautiful river
and a delicate, graceful flower--Bitter Root. Bitter Root is the state
flower of Montana and lends its name to the river, mountains and valley
of its native heath, growing most luxuriantly in Bitter Root valley.
This valley is one of the most beautiful as well as the most productive
in the state. Lying at the eastern foot of the Bitter Root Mountains
it is shielded from the cold, west winds. The climate is fine while
the soil in most places is rich and deep. Timothy and clover grow
luxuriantly. Baled hay brings from seven to ten dollars per ton at the
railroad station. Dairy farming and poultry raising are profitable
industries. Butter sells at forty cents per pound in the winter and
twenty cents in the summer. Eggs bring the same price. Butte, Helena
and other mining centers supply the market for Bitter Root Valley.
Bitter Root orchards are immune from disease. The leas ophis has
appeared but as yet has done no injury. Bitter Root Mountains were the
stronghold of the Nez Perce Indians.
[Illustration: ENTERING HELL GATE CAÑON.]
Hell Gate cañon is one of the most picturesque in the Rocky Mountains.
It is wild and beautiful. Its fir-clad slopes rise thousands of feet
high. A lion steals stealthily along, noiselessly as Fear herself, owl
answers owl from the tall trees, and soft shadows lend enchantment to
the light of the pale moon that hurries you along like Porphyro’s poor
guide on the eve of St. Agnes, with agues in your brain.
Deer Lodge lies in a beautiful valley, sun-browned now, with just a
hint of autumn’s grays and purples.
John Bozeman was a noted frontiersman in the early days of Montana.
His name is perpetuated by Bozeman’s pass, Bozeman’s creek and
Bozeman city, all in Gallatan valley. This valley, once the bloody
battle-ground of the Blackfeet, the Bannacks, the Crows and the Nez
Perce Indians is now one of the widest known and best cultivated in the
state.
Helena, the capital of Montana, is a thriving, prosperous city. Through
the Gate of the Mountains we enter a little valley called Paradise.
Like a beautiful dream this lovely valley lies in the cold bosom of the
rugged mountains; which, looming high above, shield it from the wintry
blast.
[Illustration: LIBERTY CAP AND OLD FORT YELLOWSTONE.]
Mighty cañons, rock-ribbed, gloomy and dark, have been gouged out of
the very hearts of the cold, gray mountains that pierce the blue of
heaven. But this sun-lit vale, too fair for the abode of man, lies just
as nature left it, blue canopied, the cool green grass and murmuring
Yellow Stone.
The Devil in a merry mood one day, coasted down the mountain at
Cinnebar, scorching blood red a wide, smooth slide that would delight
the daring heart of a tobogganist.