County, is a good-looking town with a handsome courthouse of classic
design and a modern high school building. It is the only place in the
huge county that can be dignified by being called a town--for Modoc,
with its four thousand square miles of area, can muster only six
thousand people, most of whom live in the narrow valleys between the
volcanic hills or on the plain around the shores of Goose Lake. This
section is at present quite inaccessible to motorists, but the new
highway to be constructed from Redding will do much to put the county
in touch with the rest of the state.
Out of Alturas we followed a level and very good dirt road through
a fair-looking farming section to Davis Creek at the lower end of
Goose Lake, a distance of twenty-two miles. Goose Lake is the largest
of the numerous lakes in this section--about thirty-five miles in
extreme length by ten at its greatest width. The road closely follows
its shores and beyond Davis Creek ascends a steep grade leading up
the mountainside overlooking the lake and affording a glorious view
of the fine sheet of water. We saw it from many angles and altitudes
as we mounted up, each with its peculiar lighting and coloring--all
beautiful and inspiring. We paused to contemplate the scene at a point
from which nearly the whole lake was visible. It lay beneath us in the
low afternoon sun, glistening blue and silver, the hill range running
along the opposite shore wrapped in an indigo haze. The waters of Goose
Lake have not the dark, changeful blue of Tahoe, but seem more like
the azure monotone of the sky, save where the sunlight threw its white
beams across it from the west. Its monotony of color is doubtless due
to the fact that it is quite shallow, its depth in no place exceeding
eighteen or twenty feet, while the average is probably not more
than five or six feet. Around it runs a belt of fertile farm land,
broadest on the eastern side. There are many prosperous ranch houses at
intervals and great numbers of thrifty-looking sheep and cattle grazed
in the meadows which run down to the shore. The water for irrigating is
largely drawn from the lake or artesian wells near by. This has caused
a steady shrinkage in the lake and, indeed, may cause it to ultimately
disappear, an event which the lover of the beautiful in natural scenery
must earnestly deplore. For we all agreed that Goose Lake and its
setting were very beautiful despite its unprepossessing name--and we
recalled how narrowly Tahoe escaped being stigmatized as Lake Bigler.
A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, perhaps, but it does
seem that Tahoe would lose some of its glory if it bore the unmusical
cognomen of the disloyal ante bellum governor.
From the summit of the grade we descended gradually through a fine
pine forest to Willow Ranch and from there continued through the level
farm lands skirting the shore to the village of New Pine Creek just
across the Oregon border. Perhaps if we had been able to anticipate
the fate awaiting us at Lakeview we should have paused at the rather
unattractive wooden hotel in this diminutive burg. In blissful
ignorance, however, we dashed mile after mile over a fairly level but
dusty road, expecting every moment to come in sight of Lakeview. We
had--I hardly know why--a preconceived notion of a picturesque little
town overlooking the lake from a pine-covered bluff and a hotel in
keeping with these imaginary surroundings, equipped with everything to
bring peace and joy to the soul of the motorist after a rough, dusty
run. The road left the lake and the lake gradually receded from view,
and still no town; not until we had left the northernmost mud-puddle of
Goose Lake six or seven miles behind us did we enter the unattractive,
straggling village whose name had so excited our anticipations. We
entered the principal hotel with serious misgivings and came out of
it with the determination to pass the night in the car rather than
to occupy the beds that the unkempt attendant offered us. I forbear
farther comment because conditions change so rapidly in these western
towns; before my book can be published a new management may turn a
dirty, shabby-looking place into a clean, comfortable hotel. It has
happened in several instances to my own knowledge and it may happen in
Lakeview, Oregon.
A friendly native who appreciated our predicament told us that his
people would take us in at their ranch house, some distance in the
country, if we couldn’t find decent accommodations in the town.
He directed us to another hotel, which was full, but the landlady
bestirred herself and secured rooms in a private home where we were
comfortably taken care of. Our host was an old resident of the
section--a local politician, ranch owner, and an enthusiastic hunter
and fisherman. He informed us that the principal resource of the
surrounding country was cattle and sheep raising, largely on government
land, for which the owner of the stock pays a small annual fee. He
declared that there was a fine chance for energetic young fellows to do
well in this line and cited an Irish boy of his acquaintance who had
cleared six thousand dollars on sheep in the two years just past. The
recent extension of the railway to Lakeview, giving direct connection
with the main line at Reno, two hundred and forty-four miles distant,
had given a great impetus to both farming and stock-raising in this
section.
“Why Lakeview for a town from which it is impossible even to see the
lake?” we asked.
“Because the lake originally came up to the town,” he replied, “but it
has been steadily receding until it is now six miles away.”
There is good fishing in the lake, which is stocked with rainbow trout,
though our host declared he much preferred the sport afforded by the
streams of the vicinity and some of the stories he told of his catches
would certainly stir the blood of anyone addicted to the gentle art of
Ike Walton. Quite as good fortune awaits the hunter in the vicinity;
deer, bear, and smaller game abound within easy distance of the town.
The game laws of both California and Oregon are so very stringent, he
declared, that an outsider will do well to post himself thoroughly
before undertaking a hunting expedition in either of these states.
Leaving Lakeview early in the morning, we thanked our hosts for their
kindness in taking the strangers in--for their exceedingly modest
charge showed that it was not done altogether for profit.
“Only a little more than one hundred miles to Klamath Falls,” we were
told, “but a rough, heavy road much of the way and a hard day’s run for
any car”--all of which we speedily verified by personal experience. The
hardest work came in the latter half of the run; for many miles out
of Lakeview we bowled along through a sagebrush country with widely
scattered habitations and no sign of fellow-motorists. We followed
a huge irrigation aqueduct, evidently nearing completion, for some
distance and in one place, where it is carried on a high trestle across
a valley, the road passes beneath it. The land looked fertile enough
and no doubt if the water supply is adequate this irrigation project
will change the appearance of things in this section before many years.
We passed a pine-covered hill range with heavy and stony grades before
reaching Bly, the first village, nearly fifty miles from Lakeview.
This is a trading station of a dozen or two buildings at the eastern
boundary of the huge Klamath Indian Reservation. For several miles we
had been passing the noble red men with all kinds of conveyances--on
horseback, in lumber wagons, spring wagons, carriages, and even two or
three automobiles. Most of them were well dressed in civilized store
clothes, usually with a dash of color--a red bandanna or necktie or a
sporty hat band--and their horses and equipment showed evidences of
prosperity. Many pleasantly saluted as they made way for us to pass
and, altogether, they seemed far removed from the traditional painted
savage of the old-time wild and woolly West. The storekeeper at Bly
said they were coming from an Indian fair and all were returning sober
so far as we could see. He said that many of them were well-to-do
cattlemen and farmers and that he depended on them for most of his
trade. We passed many of their farm cottages beyond Bly and the lady
of our party, who had once been connected with the Indian service,
interviewed one of the women--we were going to say “squaws” but it
almost seems inappropriate. She was accorded the most courteous
treatment by the occupants of the little cabin; her queries were
answered in good English and she declared that everything about the
place was clean and well-ordered.
“Going to Crater Lake--what for?” she was asked. “We going to Crater
Lake, too, next week for huckleberries, much huckleberries, at Crater
Lake; Indians all go there.”
Several miles of level though rough and dusty road after leaving Bly
brought us to another heavily forested hill range with more steep and
stony grades. We paused under a big pine to eat the lunch we had picked
up in Lakeview, congratulating ourselves on our foresight, for we were
hungry and the wayside inn is wanting on this trail. We were truly
in the wild at this point. No railroad comes within fifty miles; the
nearest settler was many miles away--and that settler a Klamath Indian.
At the foot of the long grade we came to a sluggish, green-tinted
stream--Lost River--which we followed nearly to our destination. They
call it Lost River since it vanishes from sight in the vast marshes of
Tule Lake to the south.
The last twelve miles out of Klamath Falls were the most trying of
a hard day’s run. The road bed was hidden in a foot of flour-like
white limestone dust--deep enough to effectually hide the unmerciful
chuck-holes and to make driving a blind chance. A snail’s pace--from
the motorist’s point of view--was enforced. A dense gray dust cloud
enveloped us and the stifling heat was unrelieved by the fresh breeze
that a sharp pace always sets up. As if to make a test of the limits of
our endurance, we were compelled to work our way through a herd of two
thousand cattle that were being driven along the road. We know there
were two thousand of them, for a local paper next day made mention
of this particular herd and the number. Those who have tried to pass
a hundred cattle on a road fairly free from dust can imagine what we
endured; those who have never passed cattle on a road can know nothing
about it. When we finally worked our way out of the stifling dust
cloud, it would have been difficult to recognize the race or color of
the occupants of the car--we would surely have passed for anything but
members of the Caucasian race. As we rolled on to the broad, asphalted
street leading into Klamath Falls, dust begrimed, everything--our
faces, clothing, and baggage--was enveloped by a dirty gray film. It
covered the car from the radiator to tail light--lay an inch deep on
the running boards--and fell in heavy flakes from the wheels.
We had been assured of first-class accommodations in the town, but were
not expecting such a splendid, metropolitan hotel as the White Pelican;
it seemed almost presumptuous for such grimy, besmirched individuals as
ourselves to seek quarters in so cleanly and well-ordered a place. We
were reassured, however, by a sign over the entrance, “Automobile togs
are fashionable at this hotel,” which seemed to indicate that others
before us had been subject to similar misgivings and needed a little
assurance of welcome on the part of the hotel people. In any event, no
insinuating remarks or even smiles greeted our plight, and a light,
airy, beautifully furnished room was assigned us with a perfectly
appointed bath which afforded us every facility for removing such
Oregon real estate as still adhered to our persons. Just how thorough
our dust bath had been was shown by the fact that some of it penetrated
our suit cases, though protected by an outer trunk and an oilcloth
covering--a thing that had not previously happened during our tour.
After we had restored ourselves to the semblance of respectability
with a bath and change of raiment, there was still time to walk about
the town before dinner. It is built mainly along a broad, well-paved
street and both public and private buildings are rather better than
usual in towns of five thousand. The stores, shops, and theaters are
above the average, the school buildings are handsome and substantial,
and a new courthouse of imposing, classic design was nearing completion
at a cost of a quarter of a million dollars. The chief source of the
apparent prosperity of the town is the lumbering business with a pay
roll of more than one hundred thousand dollars monthly. Klamath Falls
is also the gateway to Crater Lake, to which the tide of travel is
constantly increasing, and it lays claim itself to being something
of a summer resort. The White Pelican Hotel, which, we were assured,
cost nearly four hundred thousand dollars, is built over a mineral
spring with a temperature near the boiling point and waters closely
resembling Carlsbad in mineral constituents. There are elaborate baths
and a swimming pool in connection with the hotel and its beautiful
appointments and excellent service make it a delightful home for any
who wish to take advantage of the waters. Motorists will find the White
Pelican Garage, just across the street, quite the equal of the hotel
for excellent service and up-to-date equipment. In fact, both hotel
and garage would do credit to a place ten times the size of Klamath
Falls. To be sure, Klamath Falls expects to be a place of ten times
its present size in the somewhat indefinite future--several railroad
projects are now under way which, when complete, will make accessible
much more of the thirty-one billion feet of standing timber in the
county and double the amount of productive irrigated land. All of which
seems to justify the emphatic claims of the town’s Chamber of Commerce
that “Klamath Falls is bound to grow, bound to grow on account of her
great resources, timber, irrigated lands, water power, Nature’s play
ground (America’s Switzerland) and railroad development!”
[Illustration: CRATER LAKE
From photo by Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]
IV
THE MARVELS OF CRATER LAKE
We left Klamath Falls early in the morning with high anticipation.
Our destination was one of the great objectives of our tour, for were
we not to see Crater Lake, which no competent authority would omit
from a list of the seven greatest wonders of America, if not, indeed,
of the whole world? The run, every mile of the way, is beautiful and
inspiring, a fit introduction to the grand climax that greets you at
the end. A few miles out of the town the road took us to the shores of
Klamath Lake, which we followed to the northern extremity--a distance
of some twenty-five miles. While by no means a perfect highway, we
rejoiced to find it free from the bottomless dust that strangled us
when entering the town--a few sandy stretches and a stony spot here and
there were only pleasant variations compared with our experiences of
the previous clay.
A short distance out of the town we passed two immense sawmills on
the lake shore where the huge logs cut on the surrounding hills and
floated to the mills are converted into merchantable lumber. Great
log-rafts could be seen moored along the banks or being towed by little
steam tugs. A railroad closely following the shore line gives outlet
to the finished product. Klamath Lake is now playing a similar part
in lumbering to that which Tahoe underwent thirty years ago and we
must confess that it does not add to the beauty of the scene. Yet we
realized when we ascended the long grades which brought us to splendid
vantage points commanding practically the whole lake, that Klamath was
very beautiful and picturesque--not the equal of Tahoe, it is true, but
a lake that would attract many pilgrims on its own account were it not
overshadowed by more famous rivals.
The day was rather dull and gave little opportunity to judge what the
play of color might be under a bright, clear sky, but the lake is
shallow and probably the blue monotone that we saw on Goose Lake would
prevail under such conditions. On the opposite side the purple hills
come up to the very shore and beyond them the wooded crests stretch out
in a vast panorama to the blue haze of the horizon. Below us was an
extensive marsh covered with reeds through which a monster steam dredge
was eating its way and rapidly converting the reed-covered swamp into
wonderfully fertile grain fields, some of which were already bearing
bountiful harvests. Between the main body of the lake and Pelican Bay,
an offshoot at the northern end, we crossed Williamson River, a broad,
clear, full-flowing stream whose still surface was occasionally ruffled
by the breeze.
Leaving the lake we sped onward over a level and fairly good road
winding through meadows studded with pine trees and passing Klamath
Agency, the capital of the Indian Reservation. Fort Klamath is a town
of three hundred people just outside the reservation. The Indian
trade and the outfitting and supplies required by tourists make it a
lively place during the season--from July to September inclusive. The
principal resource of the roundabout country, an obliging garage owner
informed us, is cattle raising, in which most of the people of the
town are interested directly or indirectly. It is a wonderful grazing
country, since the grass is green the year round except when covered by
snow, and wild hay provides winter feed in abundance.
The road begins a steady ascent after leaving Fort Klamath, rising over
three thousand feet in the twenty miles between the town and Crater
Lake Lodge on the rim of the lake. The whole distance is through pine
forests and the road was only fair until we reached the confines of the
park. After entering the park we were delighted to find a splendid
new road that might almost be described as a boulevard had recently
been built by the government. It is wide, smooth, and beautifully
engineered and we were told is to be hard surfaced in due time. It
passes some magnificent scenery, following for several miles the canyon
of Annie Creek, whose commonplace name gives little suggestion of the
stupendous gorge through which the diminutive stream dashes. It is a
vast, precipitous chasm hundreds of feet in depth, almost rivaling the
canyon of the Yellowstone in size, though it lacks the glorious color
of the latter. For eight miles the road follows this gigantic gorge
and from many points we had glimpses of its pine-studded depths. At
one point it widens into the “Garden of the Gods” with green meadows
and sparkling waterfalls. Along the sides of the canyon are curious
formations--columns, pinnacles, and weirdly carved forms--all composed
of igneous rock from which the surrounding gravel has at some time
been washed away. Splendid pines border the road throughout the park
and most of the commoner varieties of conifers are seen--red cedar,
hemlock, spruce, white pine, yellow pine, sugar pine, Douglas, silver,
and red firs, and other species--and many varieties of deciduous trees
are also represented. There were some fine individual specimens, but
in the main the trees along the road were smaller, as though they
might be a second growth upon a burned area. Six or seven miles after
entering the park we came to the official Crater Lake station, where
Uncle Sam’s representative issued the proper permits and collected a
moderate fee. While this necessary business was being transacted, the
lady of the party was besieged by a score of hungry chipmunks that
came from crannies about the ranger’s cabin, having learned that auto
visitors are likely to have some odd scraps of lunch about their car.
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO CRATER LAKE
From photo by Kiser’s Studio, Portland, Oregon]
Just after leaving the station, we crossed Annie Creek Canyon, passing
Annie Spring Camp on the opposite side, where tourists who prefer the
out-of-doors can secure a floored tent and have access to a community
dining room. Here we began a steady three-mile ascent to Crater Lake
Lodge over the splendid new road recently completed by the government.
Despite the rise of two or three hundred feet to the mile, heavy
grades and sharp turns are avoided and there is room everywhere for
easy passing. Heavy forests skirted the road; only occasionally was
it possible to catch a panorama of rugged peaks through a momentary
opening in the crowded ranks of somber pines.
Near our destination we came into an open space which revealed Crater
Lake Lodge standing at the summit of a sharp incline. It is a long,
gray building of rustic design, the first story of native stone with
frame construction above. It was not completed at the time of our
visit, which doubtless accounted for some of the shortcomings that we
noticed during our stay. Inside there is a great rustic lounging room
with an immense fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log--a very
necessary convenience in a climate where there is frost every month in
the year.
We were assigned a room fronting on the lake and here it was that
we had our first view of this wonderful natural phenomenon. We
had resolved not to let our first impression be one of piecemeal
glimpses--we did not even look toward the lake until we reached the
splendid vantage-point afforded from our open windows. The lodge
stands on an eminence nearly fifteen hundred feet above the surface
of the lake, commanding almost the entire lake as well as much of the
surrounding country. My first impression is recorded in our “log book”
to the effect that “no comparison seems to me so adequate as to imagine
a huge, flawless lapis lazuli set in a rugged wall of variegated cliffs
whose predominating color is pale lavender.” We did not at first
observe the slight emerald ring running around the shore--we forgot
the play of light and shadow over the still surface; our only thought
and wonder was about the blue, the deepest, strangest, loveliest
blue we had ever seen in any body of water; Tahoe, Como, Constance,
are blue--bluer than the clearest skies--but their blue is not that
of Crater Lake. Around it runs a jagged wall of precipitous cliffs,
ranging from five hundred to two thousand feet in height and out
beyond these lay an endless array of majestic mountains dominated by
the spire-like peak of Mount Thielsen. It is six miles to the opposite
shore, but so clear is the atmosphere that the wall comes out with
startling distinctness and the mountains beyond stand wonderfully clear
against the pale horizon. The clouds, which overcast the sky when we
left Klamath, had vanished and we beheld the glorious spectacle of lake
and mountains in the full splendor of the noonday sun.
When our first shock of admiration and surprise had softened a little,
we observed details more carefully. To the right was Wizard Island,
a cinder cone rising more than nine hundred feet from the water--it
did not appear so high to us. It was covered with straggling pines
and its truncated top showed where the crater in the strange island
might be found. In front of the hotel the slope from the rim was less
precipitous than elsewhere and we noticed a trail winding down to the
water’s edge--we learned later the only practicable descent to the
lake. At the foot of this trail there is a lovely green cove; we had
overlooked it in the overmastering impression of blue that had seized
us at first. Then we noticed the faint emerald rim elsewhere along
the shore, where the cliffs were not so abrupt, and became slowly
aware that there was more of color variation than we first imagined. A
slight breeze swept the surface and a ripple of silver ran across the
dark blue expanse. In the shadow of the almost perpendicular cliffs,
the blue deepened to dark purple, while in the shallow bays and coves
around the shores it shaded into pale green.
Our attention was diverted from the fascinating scene by a call for
dinner and we descended to the dining-room, a huge apartment with
finish and wainscoating in rough pine bark. On one side the windows
commanded a view of Eagle Cove and a large part of the lake and cliffs,
while on the other, down a vast canyon bounded by mighty hills, on
clear days one may see Klamath Valley, with its shimmering lake fifty
miles away, and under especially favorable conditions the gleaming
pyramid of Mt. Shasta, one hundred miles distant.