Dalles. It had been an exceedingly hard day’s run--nearly two hundred
miles with much bad road, stony and deep with dust in places. The dust
was especially annoying during the last twenty-five miles of our run;
the wind was blowing a perfect gale and there were numerous cars on the
road. When we entered The Dalles Hotel our appearance hardly fitted
us for civilized society, but such a plight creates no comment and
attracts little attention. It is too commonplace here--the party that
preceded us and the one that followed were very like unto ourselves
in unkempt appearance. The hotel with its large comfortable rooms
and well-ordered bath was indeed a haven of rest after the day’s
experience and when we had regained the semblance of respectability we
descended to a late dinner, for which we were quite ready. We found
everything about the hotel decidedly first-class and more metropolitan
than is common in towns of five thousand, for that is all the census
books accord to The Dalles. Of course it claims to have gained
considerably since the last enumeration and its private and public
buildings, well-improved streets and general business activity seem to
bear out the contention.
The town is built on a historic site. Old Fort Dalles was a milestone
of pioneer travel, having been established here in 1838 and about the
same time a mission was founded--not by Father Junipero, whose name
always comes to mind in connection with the word in the west, but by
the Methodist Church. The name was given by Canadian voyagers in the
Hudson Bay service--The Dalles signifying gutter or trough, referring
to the chasms between the great glacier-polished sheets of basaltic
rock which break the river into the wild cascades opposite the town.
A short distance above this broken pavement the river is thousands
of feet in width but where it forces its mad passage through these
rocks it is confined to a few yards and where the channels are most
contracted it sweeps through three rifts of rocky floor, each so
narrow that a child might cast a stone across.
[Illustration: OR BON DESCHUTES RIVER CANYON
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
The surrounding country is a fit setting for such a wild and turbulent
scene. On either hand lie monotonous plains, now brown with sunburned
grass and studded with gray sagebrush. To the north rise the rugged
peaks of Washington and eastward is the long sweep of the river valley
guarded by rounded hills. Westward we see the broad bright river,
released from the dreadful turmoil of The Dalles, vanish into the giant
hills over which the majestic white-robed form of Mount Hood stands,
an eternal guardian. It is a scene that never failed to arrest the eye
of the observant traveler from the earliest day and even before his
time the “untutored mind” of the poor Indian was impressed with the
weirdness and beauty of the spot. To account for the strange phenomena
of The Dalles and explain how the mighty river was compressed into the
three deep narrow channels, the savage mind was busy with myth and
legend and, like most of the myths of our aboriginees, there appears to
have been a sub-stratum of truth.
The story tells of the fierce volcanic action once common in this
section when Hood, Adams, and St. Helens were lurid fire mountains and
when a great range of hills ran across the valley where The Dalles
now are, damming the waters of the river into a great inland sea.
Naturally enough, fiends of great power and malignancy were fabled to
have congregated in such a spot and to have had much to do with the
manifestations of fire and water. Here, too, is a hint of geologic
truth, for the fiends were huge monsters with very powerful tails,
probably the dinosaurs and mud pythons of the reptilian age, of which
remains have been found in this region.
These fiends, according to the legend, congregated here when the
volcanic furies were subsiding and chief among them was a master fiend
or devil who had been first in malignancy and hatred. Whether he was
sick and would be a monk, as in the old proverb, we do not know, but
the story is that he proposed to the lesser fiends to give up their
wicked revels and assume the role of beneficent spirits and friends
of man. The increasing peacefulness of the elements, he declared,
foreshadowed better things. Why should they not give up wars and
cannibalism, to which they were so terribly addicted, and seek the
quieter pastimes of peace?
A strange story and a strange sentiment to put in the mouth of a devil,
but the consequence was stranger still. Instead of receiving the
beneficent proposal with favor, the fiends turned on their leader in a
furious rage; pacifism was no more popular in that mythical time than
it is now. “He would beguile us into a crafty peace,” they shrieked as
one, “that he may kill and eat us at leisure. Death to the traitor!”
Alarmed at such a sudden and unanimous uproar, which was followed by
an onslaught of all the legions of fiends, this pre-historic Prince of
Darkness lost no time in taking to his heels, pursued by the howling
pack that thirsted for his blood. Swiftly he sped toward the great
ridge of land that held back the inland sea, seeking doubtless to hide
in the rugged hills to the north. But he was pressed too closely by
his enemies, to whom he seemed sure to fall victim unless saved by
some desperate expedient. Summoning all his vast powers as he crossed
the spot where the river now rages among The Dalles, he smote with
his huge tail upon the smooth flat rocks. A great chasm opened, down
which poured a dreadful torrent from the waters of the inland sea,
tearing boulders to fragment. This frightful performance stopped the
greater part of the fiends, but some of the more venturesome were not
to be deterred. With a bound they crossed the chasm and were again
on the heels of the fleeing devil. In desperation he smote once more
upon the rocks and another and still vaster chasm was opened up and a
still greater torrent poured down it. Still the villains pursued him,
for some of them were agile enough to vault across the second rent,
and the Indian Satan was again in danger. With one last and desperate
effort he dealt the rocks a third smashing blow with his caudal
appendage and a third chasm, twice the width of either of the others,
split the rocks behind him and with the speed of lightning the wild
waters rushed in to fill it.
Only a few of the hardiest of the pursuing fiends dared attempt this
awful maelstrom and they fell far short and were ground to powder by
the furious stream. The fiends who leaped the first and second torrents
now essayed to return, but lacking the zeal of pursuit they, too, fell
short and were swept to destruction. Evidently determined to make a
clean sweep, the myth-makers even doomed the hesitating demons who
refused the first leap, for the bank on which they stood gave way,
precipitating them into the mad stream.
And so the whole race of these troublesome fiends perished. The devil
himself had escaped, however, and paused, panting and overcome, on the
opposite bank to take inventory of himself. He was not unscathed by any
means. His tail, the powerful weapon that had wrought his salvation,
was hopelessly crippled by his last gigantic effort. It was of little
consequence, since his enemies were all dead; he was now free to pursue
the peaceful policy which he had advocated. So, leaping back over
the torrents, he went to his home--wherever that may have been--to
found a new race of demons, all of whom, like himself, had flaccid
tails.
[Illustration: THE DESCHUTES RIVER CANYON
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
Such are the bare outlines of the legend of The Dalles, which shows
no small power of imagination on part of the savage originators. The
fuller details of the story may be found in “Canoe and Saddle,” by the
lamented young New England writer, Theodore Winthrop, who visited this
region about 1857 and no doubt learned the story from the natives at
first hand. Winthrop lost his life in one of the earlier battles of
the Civil War and thus one of the most promising lights of American
letters in that day was forever extinguished. His story of this western
wilderness at the time of his visit is one of the most vivid that has
ever been written and deserves a permanent place in the historical
annals of the Great Northwest.
VI
WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON
Had we known the real character of the road between The Dalles and Hood
River we should never have started on that journey while a light rain
was falling and lowering clouds seemed portentious of much heavier
showers. We had intimations that the road could scarcely be ranked as
a boulevard, but we assumed that the so-called Columbia River Highway
ought to be passable, even in showery weather, and resolved not to be
deterred by the prospect of rain. Luckily for us, the drizzle cleared
and the clouds rifted before we were well out of the town and though we
found some soft spots along the road, we were spared the experience of
trying to negotiate these frightful grades in the rain. We confess that
while we were pretty well inured to mountain roads, this twenty-two
mile stretch of the Columbia Highway occasioned a goodly number of
nervous thrills before we rolled into the trim little village of
Hood River. The grades are long and steep and in places the road is
exceedingly narrow, with a sharp declivity alongside and there are a
number of dangerous turns.
[Illustration: SUNSET ON THE COLUMBIA
Copyright Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]
We had proceeded but a short distance when a decidedly emphatic
signboard admonished us, “Danger! go into low gear,” and low gear
was indeed very necessary for the long, wicked-looking twenty-five
per cent grade before us. Midway in the ascent we were halted by a
commotion ahead of us which we learned had been caused by a head-on
collision--the driver descending the hill having lost control of his
car, due to failure of the brakes. A lively altercation was in progress
into which we declined to be drawn, having no desire for complication
in the damage suit loudly threatened by the aggrieved party. After some
difficulty the road was cleared and we kept on our grind to the summit
of the mighty ridge, only to find another confronting us beyond the
long descent.
During the run to Hood River we caught only fugitive glimpses of the
Columbia, the road keeping mainly to the hills. Most spectacular and
glorious were the vistas from the steep, seven-mile grade descending
into Hood River Valley. We had a wonderful panorama of the greater part
of that prosperous vale with its endless orchards and well-ordered
ranch houses lying between the wooded hill ranges dominated by the
snowy bulk of Mount Hood.
As we descended to the foothills the road entered the apple orchards
and we had the opportunity of viewing the heavily laden trees close
at hand. A record crop was nearly ready for gathering and it seemed as
if it were hardly possible for another apple to find a place on some
of the trees. Every branch and twig was bent with clusters of the dark
red globes and the boughs had to be supported by numerous props. The
air was redolent with the fragrance of the fruit and we realized the
vast extent of the apple industry in the Hood River country. The whole
valley below was covered with just such orchards and they climbed over
most of the rounded foothills. The crop seldom fails and many thousands
of cars of fruit are distributed every year over the entire country.
The orchards in the main were carefully cultivated and looked very
thrifty.
As we continued down the long grade we came once more in sight
of the Columbia with a wide vista down the valley and over the
rugged hills that guard it on either hand. Hood River is a clean,
substantial-looking town of about three thousand people. Besides being
famous for apples, it has the added distinction of being the home
address of the Hon. Billy Sunday when he is recuperating from his
strenuous campaigns against the devil--and Billy’s devil is quite as
crude and primitive as the demon of the Indians who cracked his tail
at The Dalles. Billy has invested a small portion of the proceeds of
soul-saving in an apple ranch a few miles from Hood River, one of
the finest in the valley, a garage man told us. He also gave us the
cheerful information that there were no such mountain grades to be
encountered as those we had just come over. There were twenty miles
of rough and, as it proved, rather muddy road to be covered before we
should come to the splendid new boulevard famous the country over as
the Columbia River Highway.
[Illustration: ONEONTA TUNNEL, COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY
From photo by The Winter Co., Portland, Oregon]
This piece of road, though rather indifferent, passes some delightful
scenery, both of river and shore, and when improved will be a fit link
in the scenic glories of the famous highway. In places the road creeps
through tangles of fern, hazel, and maples, festooned with vines and
brilliant with autumnal red and yellow. At one point we passed beneath
a wonderful bank towering hundreds of feet above us and covered with
a rank, almost tropical tangle of ferns, shrubs, and vines, through
which many clear streamlets trickled down. The rocks and earth were
moss-covered and it was altogether one of the most delightful and
refreshing bits of greenery we ever came across. Again we entered
groups of stately trees crowding closely to the roadside and caught
many entrancing glimpses of the broad, green river through the stately
trunks.
At no place does this part of the road rise to any great height, but
still there were several vantage points affording fine views down the
river. Especially was this true of Mitchell Point, where improvement
is under way. Here a tunnel has been cut for several hundred feet
through the rocky bulwark of Storm Crest Mountain, which gives its
name to the work, and next the river are five great arched windows,
giving an effect very like that of the Axenstrasse on Lake Lucerne. The
Axenstrasse has only three such windows, nor do I think any view from
them is as lovely as that from Mitchell’s Point. Here we had wonderful
vistas of river, hill and forest framed in the great openings, the
river emerald-green and the forests dashed with brilliant colors,
for autumn reds and yellows on the Columbia are quite as bright and
glorious as those of New England. So sheer are the sides of the great
rock which Storm Crest Tunnel pierces that it was necessary to suspend
the engineers from ropes anchored at the summit in order to blast
footings to make the survey. The tunnel, yard for yard, is the most
expensive piece of construction so far completed on the entire road.
Near the place we noted an attractive inn with a glassed-in veranda
overlooking the river, perhaps two hundred feet above it.
[Illustration: COLUMBIA HIGHWAY AT MITCHELL POINT
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
The completed portion of the highway extends fifty-five miles west of
Portland and as construction was still under way, we had to wallow
through a quarter of a mile of sharp crushed stone before coming to
the finished surface--a performance which left deadly marks on tires.
But once on the wide, smooth stretches of this unequalled boulevard,
we drew a deep breath of relief and proceeded in high anticipation
which in no particular outstripped the reality. For the Columbia River
Highway is one of the world’s supreme feats of engineering, commanding
a series of views of one of the greatest and most beautiful rivers in
the world, and affording unsurpassed panoramas of forest, hill, and
mountain.
So great were the difficulties to be surmounted that up to the opening
of this new highway, on July 6, 1915, no passable road along the
river existed between Portland and Hood River. The great mountain
buttresses, which came almost to the water’s edge, and the intervening
ravines effectually blocked the way. It was determined that a boulevard
following the river was not impracticable, but careful estimates placed
the cost at more than $50,000 per mile. Realizing that such a highway
would be a great drawing card for the city as well as the entire
Northwest, a few leading spirits of Portland began an agitation for
its construction. The cost was provided for by a bond issue of two and
one-half million dollars and when local politicians showed anxiety to
get control of the project, the people thwarted them by taking matters
into their own hands. Mr. John B. Yeon, a retired millionaire lumberman
with wide experience in handling large bodies of labor, offered to take
charge of the construction without remuneration. Other rich Portlanders
were alike generous with their gifts of time and money to such an
extent that the highway is almost as great a tribute to civic spirit
and patriotism as to engineering skill.
The chief engineer, Mr. S. C. Lancaster, had been chosen some time
before and, by the munificence of a wealthy citizen, was given the
benefit of a trip to Europe to inspect the famous highways there.
His selection was a most fortunate one, since in addition to his
extraordinary ability as an engineer, he had a true appreciation of
natural beauty and the happy faculty of so adapting his plans to the
landscape as to preserve and make the most of its scenic features and
to turn every superb viewpoint to the best possible advantage.
[Illustration: AROUND TOOTH MOUNTAIN, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
For the Columbia Highway was to be more than a mere wagon road along
the river. It was to reveal and emphasize the marvelous beauty of
the mighty gorge and to be a source of uplift and inspiration to
the fortunate wayfarer who directs his course over it. As a mere
utility, possibly it would not be justified; the great navigable
river and the railways skirting both its shores might meet all the
necessities of transportation and travel. They could not, however,
reveal the scenic beauties of the river valley to the best advantage, a
mission which the highway serves to perfection. This aim Mr. Lancaster
kept in view above everything else, and how well he succeeded only he
who truly admires the grand and beautiful and who travels, many times,
the length of the highway can fully appreciate.
In addition to exploiting the superb scenery along its course, Mr.
Lancaster determined that the new highway must conform to the best
traditions of road building. Its construction must be of the solidest
and most permanent character; it must have no grade greater than five
per cent, no curve less than the arc of a one-hundred-foot circle; it
must be guarded by substantial and artistic balustrades and, finally,
its surface must equal the finest city pavement in smoothness and
durability. That all these requirements were fully met we can testify,
if a touring experience covering hundreds of thousands of miles in
Europe and this country will qualify us to judge.
The actual construction work was begun in 1913 and at the time of our
visit the completed road had reached the western limit of Multnomah
County, forty-seven miles from the Portland postoffice. Hood River
County had also done considerable work--the famous Storm Crest Tunnel
is in this county. Apparently nothing had been done in Wasco County,
where we encountered the steep, long grades out of The Dalles. We were
told that the plan is to carry this highway the whole length of the
Columbia River on the Oregon side, a distance of about three hundred
miles, but if the work is to be done by the counties, it will probably
be long in the building. There is at present no road closely following
the river east of The Dalles beyond Celilo, twenty miles distant, where
the government has expended four millions of dollars in building locks
around the falls of the Columbia. This and many other scenic wonders
beyond The Dalles make it most desirable from the tourist’s point of
view that the projected highway may be carried to completion as soon as
possible. It may seem that I am dealing too minutely with the inception
and history of this wonderful road, but I feel that such details
are not out of place in a book dealing with Oregon. The splendid
achievement of this community in carrying forward this great enterprise
is one that should be widely heralded as an example and inspiration to
others.
[Illustration: FROM INSPIRATION POINT, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY
Painting by H. H. Bagg after copyright photo by Kiser, Portland]
After reaching the finished part of the road, we were scarcely for a
moment out of sight of the great river and the hills, rocks, and
forests that make the wild beauty of its shores. Just across the river
is the barren bulk of Wind Mountain, with the shattered stumps of giant
trees known as the submerged forest at its base. A little farther we
came to Cascade Locks, built by the government around the rapids at
this point. Several steamers daily pass these locks, which have a lift
of eight feet. Beyond them writhes the turbulent green river, which
subsides to placid stretches some distance ahead of us.
Then marvels come thick and fast. We pass on to a wonderful viaduct
swinging around the sheer sides of Tooth Mountain, upon which the
road is supported by airy-looking concrete pillars. Above us tower
perpendicular cliffs crowned by mighty pines, and below us a precipice
quite as sheer falls almost to the river level. Beyond this Eagle Creek
is spanned with a graceful arch of gray stone and near by is the cliff
which Indian tradition tells us was the southern abutment of the Bridge
of the Gods. Table Mountain, a rugged, flat-topped cone rising on the
opposite shore, marks the northern end of the bridge which geologists
say may not have been wholly a myth, for there are signs that a great
dyke once held back the waters of the river at this point.
The quaint Indian legend is worth retelling, since every one who
points out the wonders of the Columbia to a stranger is sure to refer
to it. In early days an Indian father with his two sons came to this
region and the youths had a quarrel over the division of the land. To
settle the dispute the father shot one arrow to the east and another
to the west, bidding the sons make their homes where the arrows fell.
The Great Spirit then erected the vast wall of the Cascades between
the two to prevent farther trouble. From one son sprang the tribe of
the Klickitats and from the other the Multnomahs. The Great Spirit had
built a mighty bridge over the Columbia and given it in charge of a
witch named Loowit, and this same lady was entrusted with the care of
the only fire then to be found in the whole world. When Loowit came to
realize how much fire would benefit the two tribes, she besought the
Great Spirit to permit her to offer it as a gift to the poor Indians.
This he did and the condition of the tribes was wonderfully improved;
they built better lodges, made better clothes and, with the aid of
fire, fashioned implements of metal and utensils of pottery. To reward
Loowit for her benefactions, the Great Spirit offered her any gift she
might choose and with true feminine instinct she asked to be young and
beautiful. Her beauty wrought havoc with the hearts of the chieftains
of the region, but none of them found favor in her eyes until one
day Klickitat came from the south and his rival, Wigeart, from the
north and both paid court to the queen of the great bridge. So evenly
matched were these doughty warriors that Loowit could not decide
between them and a bitter war ensued between their respective tribes.
The whole land was ravaged and fire was used to destroy the comforts
which it had conferred on the Indians. So the Great Spirit repented and
resolved to undo his work. He broke down the mighty bridge, damming
the river into a vast lake, and slew Loowit and her rival lovers. He
determined to give them fitting commemoration, however, and reared as
monuments the great white peaks we see to-day, though our names are
different from what the Indians called them. Loowit sleeps under Mount
St. Helens and Wigeart and Klickitat under Hood and Adams. Surely these
red-skinned heroes were given sepulture fit for the gods themselves.
[Illustration: SHEPPERD’S BRIDGE FROM BENEATH--COLUMBIA HIGHWAY
From photo by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]