as we descended the stairs, for the very crisp weather made starting
no easy task, and when we left the Lodge an hour later, one or two of
the refractory engines were still resisting every effort to set them
going. Taking on a supply of forty-five-cent gasoline and pausing for
one last look at the blue wonder-water before us, we glided down the
little vale into the pines. We followed the road by which we came
for a short distance until we reached the Sand Creek “cut off” which
enabled us to regain the main road to Bend without returning to Fort
Klamath. It also gave us the opportunity to ascend the new government
road to the summit of Cloud Cap, an experience that we prize more than
any other at Crater Lake. The road is part of the new highway which is
ultimately to complete the circuit of the lake, a distance in all of
thirty-eight miles. This road is about half finished at the present
time, extending from the summit of Cloud Cap on the east to the peak
of the Watchman on the west. It is being built with moderate grades
and wide turns, broad enough everywhere for easy passing. It does not
closely follow the lake at all points--that would be hardly possible
and certainly not desirable. One of the delightful features of the road
is the disappearance of the lake when one turns into the hills and its
reappearance in new and often surprising aspects as various vantage
points overlooking it are reached. It strikes the senses differently
and more forcefully after the change afforded by a few minutes in the
wooded hills. The distance from the Lodge to Sand Creek Canyon is about
seven miles; here the road branches off to Kerr Notch on the rim,
four or five miles farther, at which point the ascent of Cloud Cap
begins. A splendid new road--it almost deserves the much-abused term
“boulevard”--climbs to the summit in long, sweeping grades ranging from
five to twelve per cent, yet so smooth and splendidly engineered as to
require only high-gear work for a moderately powered car.
I have already described our impressions of the marvels of Crater
Lake to the best of my ability and I can only say that the series of
vistas presented in our ascent of Cloud Cap were far beyond any we
had yet witnessed. In sheer magnificence, in inspiring beauty and in
overwhelming mystery--never absent in any view of Crater Lake--I have
seen little else that could compare with the seven-mile run. At times
we caught only glimpses of the blue water and mighty cliffs through
a group of trees; then we came out upon some bold headland where the
lake lay shimmering beneath our gaze with an endless panorama of
cliffs and peaks beyond. But the crowning spectacle greeted us from
the summit, where from an elevation of two thousand feet above the
surface our vision covered almost the entire lake and the greater
part of its rugged shore line with an almost unlimited sweep over the
surrounding country. Here a new and strange color aspect entranced
us--the main body of the water took on a deep purple hue, fading into
violet and blue with faint streakings of emerald green near the shores.
Light lavender was the prevailing color tone of the encircling cliffs
in the floods of morning sunlight, while dark blues prevailed where
the shadows fell. Out beyond stretched the densely wooded hills with
here and there a commanding peak on which snow flecks still lingered.
Looking down the slope which we had ascended, we saw Lake Klamath in
the far distance, shining silver-bright in its setting of forest and
marsh and beyond it endless hills which were gradually lost in a purple
haze.
[Illustration: LLAO ROCK, CRATER LAKE
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
It was a panorama that held us for some time, despite the fact that
our run for the day was to be a long one, over roads for which no
one had spoken a good word. Reluctantly and lingeringly we gave the
word to depart. I find in my “log book” set down on the spot: “One of
the most glorious and inspiring drives in all our experience and all
that its most enthusiastic admirer has ever claimed for it”--a judgment
we are still willing to let stand. Soberly the big car retraced its
way down the long slopes and we soon bade farewell to Crater Lake,
wondering hopefully if we should not some time have the joy of seeing
its weird beauty again. A few miles through dense forests brought us
to the eastern limit of the park, where we surrendered our permit to
Uncle Sam’s representative and struck the dusty trail to Bend, our
destination for the night--about one hundred and twenty miles distant
from the confines of the park.
V
CRATER LAKE TO THE DALLES
On leaving Crater Lake Lodge we were admonished not to miss the Sand
Creek Canyon Pinnacles, which we would pass just outside the park. Sand
Creek Canyon is a vast ravine several hundred feet in depth with walls
so steep that only an experienced mountain climber would dare attempt
the descent. At a point nearly opposite the eastern boundary of Crater
Lake Park, a multitude of slender sculptured spires ranging up to two
hundred feet in height rise from the sides and bottom of the tremendous
chasm. These weird gray needles of stone are cores of lava rock left
standing after the surrounding sand and silt had been carried away by
the floods which cut this mighty chasm in the sandy plain of Central
Oregon. A sign, “The Pinnacles,” apprised us of our proximity to these
curious natural phenomena; they are not visible from the road, being
hidden in the depths of the canyon. They seem strange and uncanny in
the noonday sun and we wondered how weird and awe-inspiring they must
appear when the pale moonlight filters into the deeps of the great
gulch. At the bottom of the canyon a clear stream dashes through a
fringe of good-sized pines with here and there a little green paddock.
In one of these we saw the only wild animal life--except small birds
and chipmunks--since we had left Reno. A doe eyed us timorously and
then slipped into the cover of the trees. They told us that there were
many deer in this region but they are chary of appearing along the
main-traveled roads.
[Illustration: SAND CREEK CANYON PINNACLES
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
For many miles after leaving Crater Lake we pursued a natural dirt
road, innocent of any attempt at improvement save an occasional log
culvert or bridge over a dry gully or small stream. It was fair,
however, except for occasional sandy spots and at times good speed was
possible over its long, level stretches, for there is scarcely a five
per cent grade between the park and Bend. Nearly the whole distance
it runs through forests, chiefly the worthless lodge-pole or “Jack”
pine, which grow almost as thickly as they can stand. One wonders that
they have escaped the fires of whose deadly work we so frequently saw
distressing evidences among the more valuable varieties of evergreens.
We ran through these uninteresting trees for more than fifty miles
without a single village or even ranch house to break the monotony. It
was as wild and lonely a country as we had so far traversed and yet in
a little shack by the road we passed a station of the Bell Telephone
Company--a reminder of the wonderful ramifications of the wires of this
great organization. No railroad had as yet penetrated this wilderness
but one from Klamath Falls to Bend was projected, which will open up a
vast territory to farming and stock-raising. Even now there are many
cattle in this country and we frequently saw notices referring to stock
ranges posted on the trees. Sheep are also common and in one place we
passed a drove of many thousands of them.
Crescent, about seventy miles from Fort Klamath, the only village
on the road, has a dozen scattering houses, a store or two, the
omnipresent sheet-iron garage, and a big wooden hotel. For some
distance about the town the Jack pines were being cleared and
preparations made to till the land, though little had actually been
done as yet in the way of producing crops. Beyond Crescent we followed
the course of the Deschutes River to Bend, a distance of nearly fifty
miles. The river here was only an ordinary stream and gave little hint
of the stupendous scenery that skirts it beyond Bend. On our left,
beyond the river, ran the main range of the Cascades and a little ahead
rose the snow-clad peaks of the Three Sisters and Mount Jefferson.
A few miles from Bend we came into a region once the seat of great
volcanic activity. Here we passed Black Butte, a great conical hill
of volcanic rock about which lie huge ridges of black lava with edges
as sharp as broken glass.
[Illustration: THE THREE SISTERS, DESCHUTES CANYON
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
On entering Crook County, about thirty-five miles from Bend, it became
evident that improved highways were to be the order of the day in this
section, but said improvement had not progressed far enough to be of
any benefit to us. A wide, straight road had been graded through the
giant pines that cover this section, but no rain had fallen since the
work was completed and the new “highway” was a wallow of bottomless
yellow dust which concealed myriads of distressing chuck-holes. After
trying the new road for a little while, we again sought the old,
meandering trail and stuck to it as far as possible. However, for a
good many miles there was no alternative and we plunged along, leaving
a blinding dust-cloud behind us--a fine, alluvial dust that hovered
in the air many minutes after we had passed. Fortunately for us, the
road was clear ahead and if anyone was behind us he has our unstinted
commiseration. We did not go scot-free ourselves by any means, for
it was quite impossible to get away from the dust which the front
wheels stirred up and it soon covered the car and its occupants with
a yellow film. Nearer Bend the road improved somewhat and no doubt
after the grades have been thoroughly settled by the rains, they will
be smoothed and perhaps surfaced, in which case the road would be
unsurpassed, as it is quite level and straightaway.
Much active lumbering is being done about Bend, and the fine yellow
pines through which we passed were being slaughtered at a terrific
rate. Temporary railroads were laid among the trees and logging engines
were hauling trains loaded with the mighty boles that had fallen
victim to the ax--or, more properly, the saw, which is generally used
in felling these big trees. We learned later that this industry is
chiefly responsible for the surprise which we experienced on arriving
at Bend. The 1910 census listed the town’s population at five hundred
and we were wondering if we could hope for decent accommodations in a
village of that size located in a comparative wilderness. It was an
agreeable surprise, therefore, to find a town of four or five thousand
inhabitants with many evidences of progressiveness and prosperity.
True, a good deal of the straggling old village was still in evidence,
but the fine new buildings in course of construction made it clear
that such structures would soon elbow the ragged old wooden shacks
out of existence. A beautiful bank building that would grace the main
street of a city of fifty thousand was under way, as was also a fine
mercantile building of white glazed brick with white tile trimming.
Our hotel proved rather better than we expected from its outward
appearance, though our room was somewhat dingy and a private bath was
not to be had. The meal service, however, was excellent. We remarked
that Bend would afford a fine opening for a new and really modern hotel
and only a few days later I read in a Portland paper that such an
enterprise had actually been begun by a local company. The Deschutes
River, a clear, swift stream, runs through the town and the new inn
will have an ideal location on its banks. Bend’s prosperity is, of
course, due to lumbering--one great saw mill employing a thousand
men. So vast are the yellow pine tracts about the town that it will
be long before this resource fails. Farming and stock raising are
also being carried on to a considerable extent in the vicinity and
these industries are bound to grow in importance in such a fertile and
well-watered section.
Another factor contributing to the activity of Bend may be found in
the numerous auto-stage lines that radiate from the town. It is the
terminus of the railroad from the north and passengers’ mail and
freight for the interior towns to the south and west are largely
transferred by automobile. Here they talk of jumps of fifty to two
hundred miles in a day much as a San Francisco commuter might speak of
a trip to Oakland or Berkeley. The auto-stage agency in our hotel was
in charge of a dapper, effervescent little fellow whose nationality
we might have guessed even if he had not advertised himself as
“Frenchy” on the card which he obsequiously offered us. We had no
need of “automobile transportation” so we did the next best thing and
patronized a boot-blacking stand which this same expatriated Frenchman
was running--we were going to say “on the side,” though it may have
been his main business, for that matter. While with the touch of an
artist he put a mirror finish on our pedal extremities, he told us with
a good deal of pride that his son was in the trenches somewhere in
France, fighting to expel the invaders.
Bend, though much the largest town in the county, is not the county
seat. This is at Prineville, forty miles to the northeast and nearly
the same distance from the railroad. The logical thing would appear to
be to move the county capital to Bend within the next few years. Taken
altogether, Bend seems to be a town with an assured future and one
where moderate fortunes are likely to be made.
[Illustration: THE DESCHUTES NEAR NORTH JUNCTION
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
Leaving Bend for the north early the next morning, we followed the
Deschutes River for several miles, crossing it three or four times.
It is an extraordinarily beautiful stream, broad, clear, swift, and
so shallow that the mossy boulders over which it dashes are clearly
visible and a keen eye can often detect brightly tinted trout darting
among them. Our road kept near the river for a great part of the day
and in places we were fairly overawed by the wild and stupendous
scenery of the vast canyon through which it courses. Some one has
called it the Grand Canyon of the Northwest, and we who have seen
the Arizona Wonderland can not feel that such a characterization is
altogether far-fetched. Perhaps the element of complete surprise may
have tended to give us a somewhat exaggerated impression, for we never
had the slightest hint of what we were to see. We went to the Grand
Canyon of Arizona expecting much and were not disappointed; we ran
unawares upon the Grand Canyon of the Deschutes and our amazement
may have warped our judgment to some extent. Still, I find reference
to this very region in a recent book by a well-posted Oregonian who
declares it “the most stupendously appealing river scenery in all the
Northwest--this same Canyon of the Deschutes,” and remember that this
same Northwest is the country where “rolls the Oregon,” commonly known
as the Columbia, in all its majesty. At one point, not so very far
from Bend, was the scenery especially overwhelming in its grandeur. I
wish I might adequately describe it, but I doubt if any printed page
could ever convey a true idea of such a spectacle. I can only hope
to direct attention of the tourist to this almost unknown wonder of
America and to assure him that he will never regret a trip between Bend
and The Dalles, which may be made by either motor or rail. In fact,
the railroad follows the bottom of the canyon and in many ways affords
better opportunities to view the scenery than does the wagon road.
The canyon at the point of which I speak is a vast, rugged chasm
many hundreds of feet in width and perhaps a thousand in depth, with
precipitous, rocky walls almost as gorgeously colored as those of the
Grand Canyon itself. At the bottom dashes the vexed river--a writhing
thread of emerald--as though it were in mad haste to escape from such
deadly turmoil. Our road ascended to a vantage point where we could
look for miles down the valley over a panorama of weird peaks whose
crests were surmounted with a multitude of fanciful shapes, pinnacles,
domes, and strange, outlandish figures in stone which the imagination
might fitly liken to a thousand things. Near at hand the hills seemed
harsh and forbidding, but in the distance their drab colors and
rugged outlines were softened by a violet haze that transmuted their
sternness into ethereal beauty. The center of the plain skirted by
these weird hills was rent by the vast chasm of the river canyon, its
sides splashed with gorgeous colorings. Against the silvery horizon to
the westward ran the serrated summits of the Cascades, dominated by
the cold white peaks of the Three Sisters and, farther still, in lone
and awful grandeur, the vast white cone of Mount Hood. And this same
glorious mountain dominated our vision at intervals during the entire
day until we saw it stand in crowning beauty against the wide, crimson
band of the sunset.
Our road soon left the river canyon, though we coursed through the
Deschutes Valley the greater part of the day. The road varied greatly
from fair alluvial dirt surface through great wheatfields to a wretched
stony trail that wound around precipices, forded rock-bottomed streams
and climbed over rugged hills. For a considerable distance we followed
a stream at the bottom of a canyon, fording it several times over a
trail so primitive and neglected that at times it was difficult to find
it at all, but there was no danger of going astray--no one could climb
the precipitous walls that shut us in.
Coming out of the canyon we crossed a hill range into a beautiful
little valley dotted with several prosperous-looking ranch houses.
In front of one of these, under the shade of the immense Lombardy
poplars that surrounded it, we paused for our mid-day lunch. About
the house was a beautifully kept lawn which the owner was watering at
the time. He told us that there was plenty of water for irrigating in
the valley if the rains happened to be too scant and a big yield was
always sure from the wonderfully fertile soil. A small field--about
thirty acres--near his house had just yielded over two thousand bushels
of prime barley and other crops were in like proportion. Fruit trees
thrive, as was evidenced by several heavily laden pear trees near
the house. The greatest drawback was distance from the railroad and
poor wagon roads, making transportation very difficult. This was best
overcome by feeding the products of the farm to cattle, which could
carry their own carcases to a shipping point.
Our road swung still farther from the Deschutes River; we crossed
one rugged hill range after another with the inevitable cultivated
valley between. The upland plains had been tilled in spots and the
irregular yellow patches where the wheat had just been harvested gave
a curious effect to the distant hilltops. Evidently much of the soil
was not tillable--probably due to volcanic ash--which accounted for
the irregularity and scattered aspect of the wheatfields. The heavy
wagons carrying the wheat to market had wrought havoc with the roads,
which were full of chuck-holes and distressingly dusty.
[Illustration: OVERLOOKING DESCHUTES CANYON, MT. JEFFERSON
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
Upon one of the highest and bleakest of the hill ranges, we came into
the village of Shaniko--our first town in nearly a hundred miles--a
place of three or four hundred people. It is, however, one of the
oldest settlements of this section and until a few years ago a great
staging center for freight and passengers from The Dalles. The coming
of the Columbia Southern Railroad, of which Shaniko is the terminus,
changed all this and led to the rapid settlement of the surrounding
country, which now produces wheat in considerable quantities. In spite
of the dignity thrust upon it by being made the terminus of a railroad,
Shaniko is a forlorn-looking place, bleak and dusty, with a half-dozen
stores and the inevitable hotel--a huge, red-brick structure seemingly
out of all proportion to the probable needs of the town. The garage
was deserted and it was with some difficulty that we located the owner
to replenish our gasoline supply. He directed us to proceed by way of
Maupin, Tygh Valley, and Dufur, to The Dalles, rather than follow the
railway line.
For twenty-five miles out of the town we ran through the huge, rounded
hills, curiously mottled with the irregular golden patches of the
wheatfields against the reddish brown soil. At Maupin we came back to
the Deschutes, here a lordly river, spanned by a long, high bridge
which afforded fine views of stream and canyon in both directions.
Here again we were directed to take the new Tygh Valley road and had
more reasons than one to be glad that we did, for we saw some splendid
canyon scenery and a wonderfully engineered road through the hills. A
few miles from Maupin we entered Tygh Valley Canyon. A long, steep, and
very rough grade led downward between the stupendous walls of shattered
igneous rock--red and dull brown, splashed with spots of golden yellow.
The sides were rugged in the extreme, and barren except for a few scrub
cedars which clung precariously to the steep slopes. At the bottom of
the canyon many varieties of trees flourished and here and there were
green paddocks.
In one of the greenest of these nooks, at the point where the road
reaches the floor of the canyon, is the village of Tygh Valley, as
snug and sheltered as Shaniko was bleak and windswept. There was a
picturesque little church with a tall spire and the place seemed
reminiscent of New England rather than the far west.
[Illustration: MT. HOOD FROM TYGH VALLEY
Copyright by The Winter Co., Portland, Oregon]
“And what is the most distinctive thing about Tygh Valley?” we later
asked a friend who frequently visits the town and he as promptly
answered, “Rattlesnakes; the canyon is one of the greatest habitats
of this interesting reptile in the whole country. The last time I was
there a local character who makes a practice of hunting the snakes
had just come in with the carcases of forty-five of them, which he
was proudly displaying on the street. He makes a good revenue from
the oil, which is in great demand, and the skins are worth from fifty
cents to a dollar each. The snake hunter once started to breed the
reptiles to increase his gains but the citizens objected. They thought
there were quite enough rattlesnakes in the canyon without raising them
artificially. Since then the hunter has confined himself to catching
the denizens of the wild and is doing Tygh Valley a good service in
reducing the number of the pests.”
We ourselves, however, saw nothing of the valley’s aboriginal
inhabitants, though we might have looked more closely for them had we
known of their presence.
Almost immediately after leaving the town we began our climb out of the
canyon, ascending one of the longest grades that we found in all our
wanderings. This road is a wonderful piece of engineering, swinging its
wide ribbon in long loops around and over the giant hills and affording
some awe-inspiring vistas of barren summits and wooded canyons. It is a
road of thrills for the nervously inclined, for in places at its sides
the slopes drop almost sheer for a thousand feet or more and there are
many abrupt turns around cliff-like headlands. But for all that it is
an easy road, smooth, fairly free from dust, and with no rise greater
than seven or eight per cent. May they do more road work of this kind
in Oregon!
At the summit we paused and caught our breath at the panorama that
suddenly broke on our vision. An endless sea of blue mountains
stretched out to meet the sunset and dominating them all rose the awful
bulk of Mount Hood, sharply silhouetted against a wide stretch of
crimson sky. There was something awful and overpowering in its lonely,
inaccessible majesty--the sunset and the mystery of the blue shadows
that enveloped its feet gave it something more than the fascination
which the lone snow-covered mountain ever has for the beholder--its
relative isolation from other peaks giving it an added grandeur and
individuality. Mount Hood, for example, with an altitude of 11200 feet,
is far more impressive than Mount Whitney, the culminating peak of a
range, though its actual height is 3300 feet greater.
And so, as we contemplated this mystery mountain looming in lonely
majesty in the fading twilight, we could not wonder that Indian myth
and legend made it the subject of many a weird tale. It dominated
the western horizon during the remainder of our run except at short
intervals and presented many fascinating changes of color and light
ere it faded away in the darkness. From a hilltop several miles out of
The Dalles we caught our first glimpse of the Columbia in its mad dash
through the narrow straits that give the name to the town. The valley
and surrounding hills were bleak and cheerless in the extreme and in
the gathering shadows of the distance the mad tumult of the waters was
hardly visible, but if the first view was distinctly disappointing, the
unfavorable impression was to be effaced by our later acquaintance with
the noble river.