The Old Oregon Trail takes bold way through some of the very finest
scenery of the West. These new ships of the desert, the passenger
trains, glide gracefully down from the aerial highways of the mountain
passes into the heart of our fertile oases. Whichever way the traveler
turns he sees something absolutely new, and often in strange contrast
with what he has just been beholding. Stately, snow-crowned giants of
the lordly hills, fir-fringed up to timber line, stand motherlike, or
bishoplike, crozier-cragged, shepherding the verdant uplands and the
velvety valleys whose billowy meadows bend beneath the highland
zephyrs or fall before the scythe of the prospering farmer. Now he
beholds the ruggedest of capacious cañons where the rollicking rivers
and rhythmic rills have cut great gorges deep into the rocky ribs of
the tightly hugging hills. Another turn and he sees the hearty herds
transforming themselves automatically into gold for their happy
owners; another turn shows the lazy rivers arising from their age-long
beds and mossy couches to climb the hot hillsides and to toil and
sweat at the command of the lord of this world, as they irrigate his
arid acres. Yet another turn and the wrathful river is carrying on its
breast the tens of thousands of winter-cut logs dancing like straws on
its frothy surface on their way to the busy mills; and the turbulent
streams, their wildness tamed and harnessed, serve the needs of man
like trusted domestic servants.
But this is not the way to view mountains; it is only surface sights
we get in this manner. He who would know the beauties of the hills
must become acquainted with them personally _and on foot_. Anyone can
enjoy the lazy luxury of the cozy precincts of an upholstered,
porter-served car. He may travel horseback or donkey-back, if he cares
to visit only where such sure-footed animals can go. However, when I
want to see the stately things among the unchiseled palaces and
temples where Nature pays homage in the courts of the Divine
Architect, I dismiss all modes of conveyance, and with well-nailed
shoes, rough clothes, a staff, and a lunch, I take the kingdom by
force. When once in, I am royally entertained; for though coy and
apparently hard to woo, Nature is a most delightful companion when
once you are acquainted.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
So sang Longfellow. Bishop Warren said that every peak tempted him as
with a beckoning finger, daring him to a climb.
To those who have never been nearer the unlocked fastnesses of our
eternal American hills than by the too common means above mentioned,
the far-away cliffs of marble or white granite, with their areas of
unmeltable snows and ices, look temptingly down on us in August,
together with the smaller and less inspiring crags. But when we
approach them, even those nearest, how they appear to recede--almost
to run away! The high peaks that looked as though climbing up and
peeping over the heads of the lower ones, either jump down and
bashfully run to hide, or the little ones rise up to protect them. So
it seems as one approaches.
Entering the mountain side by way of a yawning cañon we soon come to a
sheer precipice lying in a deep gorge with perpendicular sides, while,
leaping from the top of the declivity high above our heads, as if from
the very zenith, a stream of crystal water cleaves the air. It is
dashed into countless strands of silvery pearls before it reaches the
deep bed of moss spread down to receive it, and where it lies resting
awhile for its downward journey toward the moon-whipped ocean.
Ah, Longfellow! You have taught us how to climb some mountains, but
here we have to construct our ladders, for anyone less sure of foot
than the chamois or the mountain sheep must stay at the bottom of the
falls. Scylla and Charybdis are stationary now, and the gaping chasm
has swallowed us upward, where we reach an opening into a wide park, a
veritable fairyland. On the top of one of those ponderous laminations
tilted edgewise is the king of the gnomes of the new glen. We call
him Pharaoh. How archly he looks out over his wide domain! His kingly
cap is adorned with a cobra ready to strike, yet out on his ample
breast floats a most royal but un-Pharonic beard. This is one of the
ways the quondam haughty hills have of providing entertainment for the
bold questioner and visitor.
The scenery is always new. High rocks, whose rugged faces look as if
their titanic architect had been surprised and driven away while as
yet his task was not half completed; long gaping gulches lined with an
evergreen decoration of spruce, cedar, manzanita, and mountain
mahogany, are some of the sidelights to be found in a day's journey in
the realms adjacent to the Old Oregon Trail.