the party reached the summit only at seven o'clock. The descent after
nightfall required seven hours. The risk was great. Over the collar of
ice near the summit, at a grade of more than sixty degrees, the
twenty-five men and women slowly crept in steps cut by the leaders, and
clutching a single fifty-foot rope. Later came the bombardment of loose
rocks, as the party scattered down the slope. I quote from an account by
Frank B. Riley, secretary of the club, who was one of the leaders:
The safety of the entire party was in the keeping of
each member. One touch of hysteria, one slip of the
foot, one instant's loss of self-control, would have
precipitated the line, like a row of bricks, on the
long plunge down the ice cliff. Eight times the party
stood poised on its scanty foothold while the rope was
lowered. When, after an hour and a half, its last
member stepped in safety upon the rocks, there yet lay
before it five hours of work ere the little red eyes
below should widen into welcoming campfires.
Over great ridges, down into vast snowfields, for
hours they plunged and slid, while scouts ahead
shouted back warning of the crevasses. On, out of the
icy clutch of the silent mountain, they plodded. And
then, at last, the timber, and the fires and the hot
drinks and the warm blankets and the springy hemlock
boughs!
[Illustration: North side of St. Helens in winter, seen from Coldwater
Ridge, overlooking Spirit Lake. Shows the long ridge called "the
Lizard," because of its shape, with "the Boot" above it. On the
northeast slope is "Black Butte," probably a secondary crater.]
[Illustration: St. Helens, north side, seen from one mile below snow
line. Note the slight progress made by the forest upon the scant soil of
the pumice ridges; also, how greatly the angle of the sides, as viewed
here at the foot of the peak, differs from that shown in Dr. Lauman's
fine picture taken on Coldwater Ridge, five miles north. Both show the
mountain from the same direction, but the near view gives no true idea
of its steepness. Black Butte is on the left.]
[Illustration: Glacier scenes, north side of Mount St. Helens, east of
the "Lizard."]
Even this was not the most noteworthy adventure of the outing. One
evening, while the Mazamas gathered about their campfire at Spirit Lake,
a haggard man dragged himself out of the forest, and told of an injured
comrade lying helpless on the other side of the peak. The messenger and
two companions--Swedish loggers, all three--had crossed the mountain the
morning before. After they gained the summit and began the descent, a
plunging rock had struck one of the men, breaking his leg. His friends
had dragged him down to the first timber, and while one kept watch, the
other had encircled the mountain, in search of aid from the Mazamas.
Immediately a relief party of seven strong men, led by C. E. Forsyth of
Castle Rock, Washington, started back over the trailless route by which
the messenger had come. All night they scaled ridges, climbed into and
out of canyons, waded icy streams. Before dawn they reached the wounded
laborer. Mr. Riley says:
It was impossible to carry the man back through the
wild country around the peak. Below, the first cabin
on the Lewis River lay beyond a moat of forbidding
canyons. Above slanted the smooth slopes of St.
Helens. Placing the injured man upon a litter of
canvas and alpine stocks, they began the ascent of the
mountain with their burden. The day dawned and grew
old, and still these men crawled upward in frightful,
body-breaking struggle. Twelve hours passed, and they
had no food and no sleep, save as they fell
unconscious downward in the snow, as they did many
times, from fatigue and lack of nourishment. At four
o'clock, Anderson was again on the summit. Then,
without rest, came the descent to the north. Down
precipitous cliffs of ice they lowered him, as
tenderly as might be; down snow-slopes seared with
crevasses, shielding him from the falling rocks; over
ridges of ragged lava, until in the deepening darkness
of the second night they found themselves again at
timber. But in the net-work of canyons they had
selected the wrong one, and were lost. Here, at three
o'clock, they were found by a second relief party, and
guided over a painful five-mile journey home.
[Illustration: Finest of the St. Helens glaciers, north side, with Black
Butte on left. It is proposed to call this "Forsyth glacier," in honor
of C. E. Forsyth, leader in a memorable rescue.]
It was day when camp was reached. In an improvised hospital, a young
surgeon, aided by a trained nurse, both Mazamas, quickly set the broken
bones. Then they sent their patient comfortably away to the railroad and
a Portland hospital. Before the wagon started, Anderson, who had uttered
no groan in his two days of agony, struggled to a sitting posture, and
searched the faces of all in the crowd about him.
"Ay don't want ever to forget how you look," he said simply; "you who
have done all this yust for me."
It is fitting that such an event should be commemorated. With the
approval of Mr. Riley and other Mazamas who were present at the time, I
would propose that the north-side glacier already described, the most
beautiful of the St. Helens ice-streams, be named "Forsyth glacier," in
honor of the leader of this heroic rescue.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, ASAHEL CURTIS
Road among the Douglas Firs.]
[Illustration: Ships loading lumber at one of Portland's large mills.]
III.
THE FORESTS
By HAROLD DOUGLAS LANGILLE
As the lowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the
element of water at all, so even in his richest parks
and avenues he cannot be said to have truly seen
trees. For the resources of trees are not developed
until they have difficulty to contend with; neither
their tenderness of brotherly love and harmony, till
they are forced to choose their ways of life where
there is contracted room. The various action of trees,
rooting themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to
look into ravines, hiding from the search of glacial
winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare sunshine,
crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams,
climbing hand in hand the difficult slopes, gliding in
grave procession over the heavenward ridges--nothing
of this can be conceived among the unvexed and
unvaried felicities of the lowland forest.--_Ruskin:
"Modern Painters."_
[Illustration: Outposts of the Forest. Storm-swept White-bark Pines on
Mount Hood.]
STAND upon the icy summit of any one of the Columbia's snow-peaks, and
look north or west or south across the expanse of blue-green mountains
and valleys reaching to the sea; your eyes will rest upon the greatest
forest the temperate zone has produced within the knowledge of man. Save
where axe and fire have turned woodland into field or ghostly "burn,"
the mantle is spread. Along the broad crests of the Cascades, down the
long spurs that lead to the valleys, and across the Coast Range, lies a
wealth of timber equaled in no other region. The outposts of this great
army of trees will meet you far below.
[Illustration: Alpine Hemlocks at the timber-line on Mt. Adams. Mt. Hood
in distance.]
Rimming about your peak, braving winds and the snows that drift in the
lee of old moraines, and struggling to break through the timber-line,
six thousand feet above the sea, somber mountain hemlocks (_Tsuga
mertensiana_) and lighter white-bark pines (_Pinus albicaulis_) form the
thin vanguard of the forest. They meet the glaciers. They border the
snow-fields. They hide beneath their stunted, twisted forms the first
deep gashes carved in the mountain slopes by eroding streams. Valiant
protectors of less sturdy trees and plants, their whitened weather-sides
bear witness to a fierce struggle for life on the bleak shoulders of the
peaks.
[Illustration: Mazama Party resting among the sub-alpine firs in a
flower-carpeted "park" at the foot of Mount St. Helens]
Make your way, as the streamlets do, down to the alpine glades, on the
high plateaus, where anemone, erythronium and calochortus push their
buds through lingering snow-crusts. The scattered trees gather in their
first groups. Just within their shelter pause for a moment. Vague
distance is narrowed to a diminutive circle. The mystery of vastness
passes. Sharp indeed is the division between storm-swept barren and
forest shelter.
[Illustration: A Lowland Ravine. Cedars, Vine Maples, Devil's Club and
Ferns, near Mount St. Helens.]
Here ravines, decked with heather, hold streams from the
snowdrifts--streams that hunt the steepest descents, and glory in their
leaps from rock to rock and from cliff to pool. If it be the spring-time
of the mountains--late July--the mossy rills will be half concealed
beneath fragrant white azaleas that nod in the breezes blowing up with
the ascending sun and down with the turn of day. Trailing over the
rocks, or banked in the shelter of larger trees, creeping juniper
(_Juniperus communis_), least of our evergreens, stays the drifting
sands against the drive of winds or the wash of melting snows.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, KISER
The "Noble" Fir.]
Along the streams and on sunny slopes and benches are the homes of the
pointed firs. Seeking protection from the storm, the spire-like trees
cluster in tiny groves, among which, like little bays of a lake, the
grassy flowered meadows run in and out, sun-lit, and sweet with rivulets
from the snows above. If you do not know these upland "parks," there is
rare pleasure awaiting you. A hundred mountain blossoms work figures of
white and red and orange and blue in the soft tapestry of green. In
such glades the hush is deep. Only the voice of a waterfall comes up
from the canyon, or the whistle of a marmot, the call of the
white-winged crows and the drone of insects break the stillness.
[Illustration: Dense Hemlock Forest, lower west slope of Mount Hood.]
[Illustration: Mount Hood from Ghost-tree Ridge. Whitened trunks of
trees killed by forest fires.]
[Illustration: An Island of Color in the Forest. Rhododendrons and Squaw
Grass on the west slope of Mount Hood.
"The common growth of mother-earth
Suffices me,--her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears."--Wordsworth.]
The outer rank of hemlock and fir droops its branches to the ground to
break the tempest's attack. Within, silver or lovely fir (_Abies
amabilis_) mingles with hardier forms. Its gray, mottled trunks are
flecked with the yellow-green of lichen or festooned with wisps
of moss down to the level of the big snows. And here, a vertical
mile above the sea, you meet the daring western hemlock (_Tsuga
heterophylla_), which braves the gale of ocean and mountain alike,
indifferent to all but fire. It is of gentle birth yet humble spirit. It
accepts all trees as neighbors. You meet it everywhere as you journey to
the sea. But on the uplands only, in a narrow belt like a scarf thrown
across the shoulders of the mountain, sub-alpine fir (_Abies
lasiocarpa_) sends up its dark, attenuated spires, in striking contrast
with the rounded crowns of its companions.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, ASAHEL CURTIS
Group of Red Cedars, five to eight feet in diameter.]
[Illustration: On the road to Government Camp, west of Mount Hood.
Broadleaf Maple on extreme right; Douglas Firs arching the roadway, and
White Fir on left.]
A little lower, the transition zone offers a noteworthy intermingling of
species. Down from the stormy heights come alpine trees to lock branches
with types from warmer levels. Here you see lodgepole pine (_Pinus
murrayana_), that wonderful restorer of waste places which sends forth
countless tiny seedlings to cover fire-swept areas and lava fields with
forerunners of a forest. Here, too, you will find western white pine
(_Pinus monticola_), the fair lady of the genus, whose soft, delicate
foliage, finely chiseled trunk, and golden brown cones denote its
gentleness; and Engelmann spruce (_Picea Engelmannii_) of greener blue
than any other, and hung with pendants of soft seed cones, saved from
pilfering rodents by pungent, bristling needles.
Here also are western larch or tamarack (_Larix occidentalis_); or,
rarely, on our northern peaks, Lyall's larch (_Larix Lyallii_), whose
naked branches send out tiny fascicles of soft pale leaves; and Noble
fir (_Abies nobilis_), stately, magnificent, proud of its supremacy over
all. And you may come upon a rare cluster of Alaska cedar (_Chamæcyparis
nootkatensis_), here at its southern limit, reaching down from the
Coast range of British Columbia almost to meet the Great sugar pines
(_Pinus lambertiana_) which come up from the granite heights of the
California sierra to play an important role in the southern Oregon
forests.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, WEISTER
Where man's a pygmy.
A Noble Fir, 175 feet to first limb.]
Across the roll of ridge and canyon, you see them all; and when you come
to know them well, each form, each shade of green, though far away, will
claim your recognition. Yonder, in a hollow of the hills, a cluster of
blue-green heads is raised above the familiar color of the hemlocks.
Cross to it, and stand amidst the crowning glory of Nature's art in
building trees. About you rise columns of Noble firs, faultless in
symmetry, straight as the line of sight, clean as granite shafts. Carry
the picture with you; nowhere away from the forests of the Columbia can
you look upon such perfect trees.
[Illustration: Firs and Hemlocks, in Clarke County, Washington.]
Westward of the Cascade summits the commercial forest of to-day extends
down from an elevation of about 3,500 feet. Intercepted by these
heights, the moisture-laden clouds are emptied on the crest of the
range. Eastward, the effects of decreasing precipitation are shown both
in species and in density. Tamarack, white fir and pines climb higher on
these warmer slopes. Along the base of the mountains, and beyond low
passes where strong west winds drive saturated clouds out over level
reaches, western yellow pine (_Pinus ponderosa_) becomes almost the only
tree. Over miles of level lava flow, along the upper Deschutes, this
species forms a great forest bounded on the east by rolling sage-brush
plains that stretch southward to the Nevada deserts. Beyond the
Deschutes drainage, where spurs of the Blue mountains rise to the levels
of clouds and moisture, the forest again covers the hills, spreading far
to the east until it disappears again in the broad, treeless valley of
Snake river. North of the Columbia the story is the same. From the lower
slopes of Mt. Adams great rolling bunch-grass downs and prairies reach
far eastward. Here and there, over these drier stretches, stand single
trees or clusters of western juniper (_Juniperus occidentalis_).
[Illustration: Fifty-year-old Hemlock growing on Cedar log. The latter,
which was centuries old before it matured and fell, was still sound
enough to yield many thousand shingles.]
But on the west slope of the Cascades, and over the Coast range, the
great forests spread in unbroken array, save where wide valleys have
been cleared by man or hillsides stripped by fire. Here, in the land of
warm sea winds and abundant moisture, the famous Douglas fir
(_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_), Pacific red cedar (_Thuja plicata_) and
tideland spruce (_Picea sitchensis_) attain their greatest development.
These are the monarchs of the matchless Northwestern forests, to which
the markets of the world are looking more and more as the lines of
exhausted supply draw closer.
[Illustration: Sawyers preparing to "fall" a large Tideland Spruce.]
Douglas fir recalls by its name one of the heroes of science, David
Douglas, a Scotch naturalist who explored these forests nearly ninety
years ago, and discovered not only this particular giant of the woods,
but also the great sugar pine and many other fine trees and plants. As a
pioneer botanist, searching the forest, Douglas presented a surprising
spectacle to the Indians. "The Man of Grass" they called him, when they
came to understand that he was not bent on killing the fur-bearing
animals for the profit to be had from their pelts.
[Illustration: Sugar Pine, Douglas Fir, and Yellow Pine.]
The splendid conifer which woodsmen have called after him is one of the
kings of all treeland. The most abundant species of the Northwest, it is
also, commercially, the most important. Sometimes reaching a height of
more than 250 feet, it grows in remarkably close stands, and covers vast
areas with valuable timber that will keep the multiplying mills of
Oregon and Washington sawing for generations. In the dense shade of the
forests, it raises a straight and stalwart trunk, clear of limb for a
hundred feet or more. On the older trees, its deeply furrowed bark is
often a foot thick. Trees of eight feet diameter are at least three
hundred years old, and rare ones, much larger, have been cut showing an
age of more than five centuries.
To these areas of the greatest trees must come all who would know the
real spirit of the forest, at once beneficent and ruthless. Here nature
selects the fittest. The struggle for soil below and light above is
relentless. The weakling, crowded and overshadowed, inevitably deepens
the forest floor with its fallen trunk, adding to the humus that covers
the lavas, and nourishing in its decay the more fortunate rival that has
robbed it of life. Here, too, with the architectural splendor of the
trees, one feels the truth of Bryant's familiar line:
The groves were God's first temples.
The stately evergreens raise their rugged crowns far toward the sky,
arching gothic naves that vault high over the thick undergrowth of ferns
and vine maples. In such scenes, it is easy to understand the woodsman's
solace, of which Herbert Bashford tells in his "Song of the Forest
Ranger:"
I would hear the wild rejoicing
Of the wind-blown cedar tree,
Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing
Ancient epics of the sea.
Forest aisles would I be winding,
Out beyond the gates of Care;
And in dim cathedrals finding
Silence at the shrine of Prayer.
* * * * *
Come and learn the joy of living!
Come and you will understand
How the sun his gold is giving
With a great, impartial hand!
How the patient pine is climbing,
Year by year to gain the sky;
How the rill makes sweetest rhyming
Where the deepest shadows lie!
[Illustration: Yellow Cedar, with young Silver Fir.]
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, GIFFORD
One of the Kings of Treeland--A Douglas Fir.]
Fir, spruce and cedar you will see along the slopes of the Cascades in
varying density and grandeur, from thickets of slender trees reclaiming
fire-swept lands to broken ranks of patriarchs whose crowns have swayed
before the storms of centuries. Among the foot hills, the pale gray
"grand" or white firs (_Abies grandis_) rear their domes above the
common plane in quest of light, occasionally attaining a height of 275
feet, while the lowly yew (_Taxus brevifolia_), of which the warrior of
an earlier time fashioned his bow, overhangs the noisy streams. In the
same habitat, where the little rivers debouch into the valleys, you may
see the broad-leaf maple, Oregon ash, cottonwood, and a score of lesser
deciduous trees on which the filtered rays of sunshine play in softer
tones.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, JAS. WAGGENER, JR.
Firs and Vine Maples in Washington Forest.]
Here and there in the Willamette valley you meet foothill yellow pine
(_Pinus ponderosa var. benthamiana_), near relative of the western
yellow pine. Oregon oak (_Quercus garryana_) occurs sparingly throughout
the valleys, or reaches up the western foothills of the Willamette,
until it meets the great unbroken forest of the Coast Range.
[Illustration: Towing a log raft out to sea, bound for the California
markets.]
The dense lower forests are never gaily decked, so little sunlight
enters. But in early summer, back among the mountains, you may find
tangles of half-prostrate rhododendron, from which, far as the eye can
reach, the rose-pink gorgeous flowers give back the tints of sunshine
and the iridescent hues of raindrops. Mingled with the flush of "laurel"
blossoms are nodding plumes of creamy squaw grass, the beautiful
xerophyllum. Often this queenly upland flower covers great areas,
hiding the desolation wrought by forest fires. Its sheaves of fibrous
rootstocks furnish the Indian women material for their basket-making;
hence the most familiar of its many names. The varied green of
huckleberry bushes is everywhere. They are the common ground cover.
[Illustration: A "Burn" on the slopes of Mount Hood, overgrown with
Squaw Grass. Such fire-swept areas are quickly covered with mountain
flowers, of which this beautiful cream-colored plume is one of the most
familiar. Its roots yield a fiber used by the Indians in making
baskets.]
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, GIFFORD
A Noble Fir.]
In valley woodlands, the dogwood, here a tree of fair proportions,
lights up the somber forest with round, white eyes that peer out through
bursting leafbuds, early harbingers of summer. The first blush of color
comes with the unfolding of the pink and red racemes of flowering wild
currant. Later, sweet syringa fills the air with the breath of orange
blossoms; and spirea, the Indian arrowwood, hangs its tassels among the
forest trees or on the bushy hills. But the presence of deciduous trees
and shrubs, as well as their beauty, is best known in autumn, when
maples brighten the woods with yellow rays; when dogwood and vine maple
paint the fire-scarred slopes a flaming red, and a host of other
color-bearers stain the cliffs with rich tints of saffron and russet and
brown.
Coming at last to the rim of the forest, you look out over the sea,
where go lumber-laden ships to all the world. Close by the beach,
dwarfed and distorted by winds of the ocean, and nourished by its fogs,
north-coast pine (_Pinus contorta_) extends its prostrate forms over the
cliffs and dunes of the shore, just as your first acquaintance, the
white-bark pine, spreads over the dunes and ridges of the mountain. They
are brothers of a noble race.
[Illustration: Western White Pine.]
You have traversed the wonder-forest of the world, and on your journey
with the stream you may have come to know twenty-three species of
cone-bearers, all indigenous to the Columbia country. Of these, one is
Douglas fir, nowise a true fir but a combination of spruce and hemlock;
seven are pines, four true firs, two spruces, two hemlocks, two
tamaracks or larches, two cedars, two junipers, and the yew.
[Illustration: A Clatsop Forest. On extreme right is a Silver Fir,
covered with moss; next are two fine Hemlocks, with Tideland Spruce on
left.]
So many large and valuable trees of so many varieties can be found
nowhere else. A Douglas fir growing within the watershed of the Columbia
is twelve feet and seven inches in diameter. A single stick 220 feet
long and 39 inches in diameter at its base has been cut for a flagpole
in Clatsop county. A spruce twenty feet in diameter has been measured.
Such immense types are rare, yet in a day's tramp through the Columbia
forests one may see many trees upwards of eight feet in diameter. One
acre in the Cowlitz river watershed is said to bear twenty-two trees,
each eight feet or more at its base. Though no exact measurements can be
cited, it is likely that upon different single acres 400,000 feet, board
measure, of standing timber may be found. And back among the Cascades,
upon one forty-acre tract, are 9,000,000 feet--enough to build a town.
Manufactured, this body of timber would be worth $135,000, of which
about $100,000 would be paid to labor.
[Illustration: A Carpet of Firs; 300,000 feet, cut on one acre in a
Columbia forest.]
Along the Columbia you will hear shrill signals of the straining engines
that haul these gigantic trees to the rafting grounds. Up and down the
broad river ply steamboats trailing huge log-rafts to the mills. Each
year the logging railroads push farther back among the mountains, to
bring forth lumber for Australia, the Orient, South America, Europe and
Africa. Many of our own states, which a few years ago boasted
"inexhaustible" forests, now draw from this supply.
[Illustration: Winter in the forest. Mount Hood seen from Government
Camp road. Twenty feet of snow.]