not the pleasantest recollection, but we made some allowance for
confusion resultant on the incomplete state of the hotel. Conditions
should be better when everything is in order; with proper management,
the Lodge has in it the possibilities of a most delightful resort
during the season, which is usually short--from July to October. On the
year of our visit the road was not open until August first, snow being
ten feet deep about the Lodge on July fourth. One can not remain here
after October first without taking chances of being shut in for the
winter, sudden and heavy snowfalls being probable at any time.
After lunch we descended the trail leading from the Lodge to Eagle Cove
and took the motor-launch trip around the lake. The descent is more
than a thousand feet straight down and by the exceedingly devious trail
must be many times that distance. The downward trek was strenuous and
the return still more so; burros are to be employed later for guests
who dislike to undertake the trip on foot. In many places the trail was
covered by huge snowbanks which had lingered during the whole summer,
and these, with the mud and water, often made considerable detours
necessary. Time will come, no doubt, when the trail will be improved
and made easier, but we found it an exceedingly hard scramble for
people unused to strenuous effort.
From the launch one sees many aspects of the lake not to be had from
any viewpoint on the rim. In the first place you become aware of
the marvelous clearness of the water, despite its almost solid blue
appearance from the shore. They told us that a white object, such as
an ordinary dinner plate, for instance, could be plainly seen at a
depth of one hundred and fifty feet. Fishermen can see the gamy rainbow
trout, the only variety found in the lake, sport about the bait in
the crystal water. One imagines from the rim that a tumbler of the
water dipped from the lake would show a cerulean tint, but it proves
as colorless and clear as the air itself. It follows that the contour
of the bottom may be seen in many places, though the great depth of
the water generally makes this impossible. The deepest sounding made
so far, 1996 feet, is declared by authorities to be the record for any
body of fresh water.
[Illustration: SHIP ROCK, CRATER LAKE
From painting by H. H. Bagg]
The surface was as placid as a mill pond save for occasional ripples
from the slight breeze. Above us towered the steep cliffs and as
we drew nearer to them dashes of bright color--brilliant yellows
and reds--came out in the glowing sunlight. Far above us the rugged
outlines loomed against the pale azure skies and only from beneath
can one get an adequate idea of the stupendous height and expanse of
these mighty walls. From Eagle Cove we followed the southern shore past
Castle Crest, Garfield Peak and Vidal Crest--the latter rising 1958
feet above the lake, the highest point on the rim and corresponding
strangely to the greatest known depth of the water. Beyond these rises
the sheer wall of Dutton Cliff and just in front of it, cut off by a
deep but narrow channel, the weird outlines of the Phantom Ship. The
name does not seem especially applicable to the solid, rocky pinnacles
that tower a hundred feet above the blue water, roughly suggesting the
outlines of an old double-masted sailing ship, but they told us that
under certain conditions of light and shadow the rock seemed to fade
from sight against the background of Dutton Cliff--a fact responsible
for its ghostly name. Though the rugged spires seem almost vertical,
they have been scaled by adventurous climbers, a feat not likely to
tempt the average tourist.
Perhaps a mile farther brought us opposite Kerr Notch, the lowest point
on the rim, and some distance beyond this rose the stern outlines of
Sentinel Rock. Cloud Cap Bay lies almost beneath the mountain of the
same name, which was later to afford us a vantage point for a panorama
of the whole lake and surrounding country. The Wine Glass, which
next engaged our attention, is a queer slide of red sandstone shaped
like a huge goblet against the walls of Grotto Cove. Round Top is a
dome-shaped rock rising above the Palisades, a precipice extending
from Grotto Cove to Cleetwood Cove, a distance of nearly two miles.
Near the latter point, geologists declare, the last great flow of lava
occurred, evidenced by vast masses of black volcanic rock.
Pumice Point, projecting sharply into the lake, cuts Cleetwood Cove
from Steel Bay, over which towers the legend-haunted peak of Llao Rock,
rising nearly two thousand feet above the water. Even to-day many
Indians of the vicinity regard Crater Lake with superstitious fears and
in olden times only their conjurors and medicine men dared approach
the silent shores of the strange blue water. So it is not surprising
that some of their legends linger about it still and that Llao Rock
was reputed the home of a powerful fiend who once held mysterious sway
over the region about the lake. His subjects were giant crawfish whose
practice was to seize in their cruel claws any stranger who approached
their haunts and to drag him under the bottomless waters. Llao and his
retainers did not have everything their own way, however, for Skell, a
powerful rival demon, dwelt in the fastnesses of Klamath marshes far to
the south and he waged deadly and unrelenting war against the guardian
of Crater Lake. Llao, however, after ages of struggle, marked by mighty
feats of prowess and enchantment, finally gained the advantage and tore
Skell’s heart from his body. To celebrate his victory he gave the
reeking heart to his followers, who played a savage ball game with it,
hurling it from mountain to mountain in their glee. But Skell’s swift
eagles seized their master’s heart in mid-air and carried it to his
antelopes, who, with the speed of the wind, bore it over the mountain
ridges to his old haunts in the Klamath marsh. There, wonderful to
relate, Skell’s body grew about the heart again and, stronger than
ever, he planned vengeance against his victorious enemy. Lying in wait,
he captured Llao and to prevent any miraculous reincarnation of his
rival, the cunning Skell cut him into shreds which he cast into the
mysterious cauldron of Crater Lake. The gluttonous crawfish imagined
that their master had demolished his rival and feasted joyously upon
the remains, only to learn, when a few days later the head of Llao was
cast into the lake, that they had devoured their chieftain. Perhaps
they died of grief for their unwitting offense, but be that as it may,
there are none of them to-day in the blue waters of Crater Lake. But
the head of Llao, the Indians assert, is still in evidence to prove
their legend, though white men may call it Wizard Island. Llao’s soul
dwells in the rock bearing his name and sometimes he ventures forth to
stir up a storm on the placid waters which were once his own.
But here is Wizard Island just before us, a symmetrical cinder cone
rising seven hundred and sixty-three feet above the lake and covered
with a sparse growth of stunted pines. Geologists tell a different
story of its origin from the wild legend we have just related, but
surely it is quite as wonderful. They say that ages ago expiring
volcanic forces pushed the island up from the floor of the crater--and
it was only one of many miniature crater-mountains thus formed, though
all the others are hidden by the waters of the lake. One may scramble
up the steep slope of the island and descend into the crater--a
depression one hundred feet deep by five hundred in width. At its
base the island is perhaps two-thirds of a mile in diameter and it is
separated from the rim by a narrow channel which bears the name of the
victorious Skell of the Indian legend. On the landward side of the
island is a black, rough lava bed and in one of its hollows is a dark,
sinister-looking tarn with the weird name of Witches’ Pool. As some one
has remarked, we therefore have a crater within a crater and a lake
within a lake. Just opposite the island rise the Watchman and Glacier
Peak, both of which exceed eight thousand feet in height, and whose
sides slope at a very sharp angle down to the surface of the lake.
Our starting point, just below the Lodge, is only a mile or two
from Wizard Island, and the entire round which we have described can
be made in from two to four hours, according to the desire of the
tourist. It is indeed a wonderful trip and if I have written of it in
only a matter-of-fact way, it is because the temptation to dwell on
the exhaustless theme of its weird beauty is likely to lead one to
monotonous repetition. No one can satisfactorily describe Crater Lake
or adequately express in words the subtle atmosphere of mystery and
romance that hovers about it; one can only hope to convey enough of
these things to his reader to induce him to make a personal pilgrimage
to this strange and inspiring phenomenon of nature.
The ascent of the trail from the lake to the Lodge was less strenuous
than we expected and they told us there was still time to drive over
the new road to the summit of the Watchman, about four miles distant.
It is a fine, well-engineered road, but in the main keeps away from the
rim and presents vistas of endless mountains rather than of the lake.
We were not able to reach our goal, for the road was closed about three
miles from the Lodge on account of blasting. We turned about with some
difficulty and as we retraced our way to the inn we had a superb view
of the setting sun across the long array of wooded crests that stretch
southward toward Klamath Lake. At Victor Rock, a short distance from
the Lodge, we left the car and sought this splendid vantage point to
view the lake at sunset. It was disappointing, if anything about Crater
Lake could be disappointing, for the sun’s rays did not reach the
surface as he sank behind the hills in the southwest. Only a deeper,
duller blue settled over the placid water, relieved a little later by
the reflection of a full moon. The sense of mystery, however, that is
never absent when one views this strange “sea of silence” was deepened
when the blue shadows of twilight settled over it and began a ghostly
struggle with the pale moonbeams. Verily, you shudder and wonder if
there is not some real foundation for these legends of the haunting
spirits of Llao and Skell and perhaps--but the glowing windows of the
Lodge reminded us that dinner time was at hand, something of more vital
interest than speculations about ghosts and demons.
[Illustration: WIZARD ISLAND FROM GARFIELD PEAK
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
A great fire of pine logs was blazing in the huge fireplace and it
was grateful, indeed, for there were strong indications of frost in
the air. “Better drain your radiator,” was the admonition to our
driver, who had garaged the car under a group of huge pines a little
distance from the Lodge--no other shelter being ready--but with his
usual carefulness he had already anticipated the suggested precaution.
After lunch the guests crowded about the fire, reading the day-old
newspapers or discussing the various roads over which they had come,
there being several other motor parties besides ourselves. A fisherman
entered, but the only result of his five-hour cruise was a fine
rainbow trout, weighing perhaps six pounds. This started talk about
piscatorial matters and we learned that originally there were no fish
of any kind in the lake. The principal life was a small crustacean
which is found in vast numbers and is probably the basis of the big
crawfish story in the legend of Llao and Skell. Mr. U. G. Steele, some
thirty years ago, first stocked the lake with young rainbow trout which
have thriven greatly, for now the fish are present in large numbers
and many have been taken weighing as much as ten pounds. The fish are
caught by fishing from vantage points on the shore or by trolling from
rowboats. They are usually quick to take the hook and for their size
are exceedingly game fighters. A day’s limit is five, which is quickly
reached early in the season. So clear is the water that the angler can
watch every move of his quarry from the moment it takes the bait until
it is finally “landed.”
Naturally, we were curious to know of the origin, the discovery,
and the geology of Crater Lake, and soon learned that Uncle Sam has
anticipated this curiosity and has issued through the Department
of the Interior a number of illustrated booklets and maps which are
obtainable at the Lodge. A better plan, no doubt, would be to obtain
these and other literature in advance of the trip, but this we had
neglected. With this assistance, a few minutes enabled us to learn much
of the strange lake and region we were visiting.
The name itself is suggestive of the lake’s origin. Ages ago, probably
before higher animal life had appeared on the earth, there was a period
of intense volcanic activity on the western coast of North America. A
vast range of fire mountains extended from Mount Baker in Washington
to Mount Lassen in California and all of them at one time were active
volcanos higher and more terrible than Mount Vesuvius ever was. Among
these were Mount Ranier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Hood,
Mount Jefferson, the Three Sisters, Mount McLoughlin, Mount Shasta, and
Mount Lassen, of which only the last still shows volcanic activity.
Mightier than any of these was the gigantic peak which stood on the
site of Crater Lake and which has been called Mount Mazama in honor
of the Alpine Club of that name in Portland, whose investigations
have contributed much to our knowledge of this region. It must have
exceeded fifteen thousand feet in height, overtopping every other peak
on the North American continent, and what ages it stood, a sentinel of
fire and snow with no human eye to see its awful majesty, we can not
know, but it must have been for many thousands of years. Nor can we
know with anything like exactness when some vast and almost unthinkable
convulsion of nature tore this mighty mountain from its seat and
leveled its proud bulk far below the lesser rivals that surrounded
it. Nor can we be certain of the exact nature of the disaster that
overtook it; whether it gradually disappeared through long ages or as
the result of some sudden and awful convulsion is now only a matter of
conjecture, though scientific opinion inclines to the latter view. The
theory is that terrific internal forces burst through the slopes of the
mountain well down its gigantic sides and that the shell, weakened by
loss of the molten core, collapsed inwardly and was fused in the white
hot lavas. This theory requires the assumption that much of the debris
escaped in the shape of gases, leaving the vast pit where the lake now
lies.
More generally accepted is the theory of a sudden and terrific
explosion which scattered the mountain top broadcast for hundreds of
miles around, a fate that overtook the volcano Krakatoa in the South
Pacific. In succeeding ages the fiery crater gradually cooled and
was finally filled with water from the heavy snows that fall in this
region. The lake has no other source of supply and no visible outlet,
but since precipitation exceeds any possible evaporation, there must
be some subterranean channel by which the water escapes; otherwise the
lake would eventually fill to the level of the lowest point of the rim.
That all volcanic action has long since ceased is proven by the fact
that at a depth of three hundred feet the temperature remains the whole
year round only seven degrees above the freezing point.
Such, in rough outline, is the geologic story of this weird region and
mysterious lake. When one considers it as he floats on the steel-blue
water, it gives rise to strange thoughts and sensations--here, where
you drift and dream, laving your hand in the clear, cold water, once
raged an inferno of flame so fierce that solid rock fused and flowed
like burning oil. A full mile above the highest skyline of the gigantic
encircling cliffs once towered a stupendous peak which has vanished
as utterly as if it had never existed. Was it all the result of some
mysterious sequence of accidents or did some Power plan and direct it
all to obtain this
“Fantastic beauty--such as lurks
In some wild poet when he works
Without a conscience or an aim?”
The first white man to stumble upon this astounding spectacle was John
W. Wellman, who led an exploring party to this region in 1853. They
were searching for a certain Lost Cabin gold mine which proved as
mythical as DeLeon’s Fountain of Youth. No gold did they discover in
these giant hills, but they gave the world something better than gold
in bringing to light one of the supremest of natural wonders. Not the
slightest premonition did they have of their wonderful find.
“We suddenly came in sight of water,” declares Wellman, “and were much
surprised, as we did not expect to see any lakes in this vicinity. Not
until my mule stopped within a few feet of the rim did I look down and
I believe if I had been riding a blind mule I would have gone over the
edge to my death.”
The discoverers had a lively dispute over a name for the lake and
finally decided to settle by vote whether it should be called
Mysterious Lake or Deep Blue Lake. The latter name won, but in 1869
a visiting party from Jacksonville renamed it Crater Lake, which now
seems obviously the logical title.
It was not until 1902 that Crater Lake National Park was created by
an Act of Congress. This comprises in all two hundred and forty-nine
square miles which include many beautiful and interesting natural
phenomena besides the lake itself. Several of these one may see when
entering and leaving the park and others may be reached by special
trips from the Lodge. Many of the mountain peaks in the vicinity may
be scaled on muleback over safe and fairly easy trails. Union Peak,
about eight miles south of Crater Lake, is one of the favorite trail
trips. This is peculiar in that it is not a cinder cone like most of
its neighbors, but the solid core of an extinct volcano--a very steep,
conical mountain 7689 feet high. Scott Peak, three miles east of the
lake, is the highest point in the vicinity, 8938 feet, and overlooks
Cloud Cap, which the new government road ascends. Mount Thielsen,
9250 feet, the spire-like peak twelve miles to the north, may also be
reached by a trail, passing beautiful Diamond Lake, a favorite spot for
campers.
[Illustration: CRATER LAKE--WIZARD ISLAND IN DISTANCE
From photo by Kiser’s Studio, Portland, Oregon]
The greater number of visitors come to the park by the automobile
stages, which run regularly on alternate days during the season from
Medford, on the main line of the Southern Pacific in Oregon, and from
Klamath Falls over the route covered by ourselves. The former route,
known as the Rogue River road, follows the river of that name
through a wonderfully picturesque mountain country. Out of Medford for
a good many miles the route passes through a prosperous fruit-farming
country, where the famous Rogue River apples are produced. The highway
climbs gradually out of the valley into the foothills and as it leads
up the gorge of the river, the scenery constantly takes on a wilder
aspect, culminating in the virgin wilderness where thunder the Great
Falls of the Rogue. The Indians of this section had a strange custom
with reference to these falls, for it was agreed that no brave of the
Klamath, Shasta, or Rogue River tribes should ever approach within
sound of the roaring waters. A little farther up the river is a natural
lava bridge one hundred feet in length. At Prospect, the only station
on the road, luncheon is served and then the ascent to the crest of
the Cascade is begun. The road is edged with giant evergreens, for
here is one of the greatest yellow pine forests in the world, though
other varieties of conifers are also common. Steadily, the road climbs
upward, winding along the steep slopes of the Cascades and affording
wide views in every direction over densely wooded highlands. About
twenty miles from the lake the road leaves the river and turns into
Castle Creek Canyon. Crossing the western boundary of the park, the
ascent becomes steeper and steeper until the summit is attained, from
which, like a great blue jewel in a sunken setting, the tourist gets
his first vision of Crater Lake. The road is usually very rough and
dusty, especially late in the season; plans are now under way for its
improvement, though the early accomplishment of the work can hardly be
hoped for.
The Klamath Falls road, which was the route pursued by ourselves,
averages better and is fully as picturesque. The usual plan is to come
by the Medford road and leave by Klamath Falls, where the tourist may
take the Shasta branch of the Southern Pacific for Weed on the main
line. The stages do not run beyond Klamath Falls.
A third route known as the Dead Indian Road leaves the Pacific Highway
at Ashland and joins the Klamath Falls route at Fort Klamath. The
altitudes traversed by this road average lower than the others,
generally less than five thousand feet. It passes within a few miles
of Mount McLoughlin, the highest peak of the entire region, and skirts
Pelican Bay at the extreme northern end of the main body of Klamath
Lake. Here E. H. Harriman, the late railroad magnate, built a summer
home which has now become a station on the road known as Harriman
Lodge. It is a singularly wild and beautiful section and Pelican Bay
is the most famous fishing “ground” in Oregon. Only a few tourists,
however, come by this route, as the condition of the road is usually
poor and the distance is greater than either of the alternate routes.
In describing the routes by which the lake may be reached, I am writing
only from the motorist’s point of view. Those who prefer to come by
train will probably find it cheaper and more expeditious to go to Fort
Klamath and take the stage to Crater Lake Lodge.
While I was ascertaining the data which I have just been transcribing,
the guests had gradually retired to their rooms and we soon followed
suit. Despite the very crisp air--there is no heat in the guest rooms
of Crater Lake Lodge--we threw open our windows and contemplated the
weird beauty of the lake by the light of a full moon. Color had given
way to dull, mysterious monotone--the lake had become an ebon mirror
reflecting the moon and stars in its sullen deeps. And such starlight
I never saw elsewhere. The stars flamed and corruscated like diamonds
and the lake reflected them in almost undiminished luster, lending a
weird splendor to the scene. We were back at our posts at the windows
to watch sunrise on the lake, but it was distinctly disappointing. We
saw only a sheet of dull silver which gradually changed to blue as the
sun rose over the rim. Possibly at other seasons, under different
conditions, sunrise on Crater Lake may be a spectacle worth shivering
in the frosty air to witness, but we agreed that the scene is far more
inspiring when viewed by starlight.