which formed the approaches of the mighty bridge and the white summits
yonder which mark the resting places of the unfortunate lovers?
Still, there is another story to the effect that when Hood and Adams
were yet fire mountains they quarreled and the vast rock, hurled by
the former at his adversary, fell short and wrecked the bridge.
Marvelous stories! but not so wonderful as the realities that greet our
eyes in the same region--the steam road below us with its luxurious
transcontinental train and the Columbia River Highway with the machines
that glide so smoothly and swiftly over its splendid surface.
At Bonneville--reminiscent of Washington Irving--are the fish
hatcheries where salmon and trout are propagated to repopulate the
river and mountain streams. A good-sized park has been set aside in
connection with the work and this, with the hatcheries, is open to all.
Beyond Bonneville the road drops almost to the river level, a
beautiful, nearly straight stretch guarded by a concrete balustrade of
artistic design. We have a grand vista down the river from this point
with a splendid view of Castle Rock on the Washington side, a vast,
conical rock nearly a thousand feet high, with sides so sheer that
even the hardy pines can scarcely find footing. Its summit was long
considered insurmountable, but it was recently scaled by a venturesome
climber. It can be seen for many miles in either direction.
Not the least enchanting of the highway’s glories are the waterfalls
which flutter from sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet, swaying like
silver ribbons and filling the air with their weird music. The first
of these was Horsetail Falls, a rather unpoetic name for the silver
cascade which dashes for two hundred feet down the side of a sloping
cliff. It is less than three miles farther to Multnomah Falls, the gem
of all the Columbia cataracts, but in that short distance there is much
to enchant and overawe the beholder.
At Oneonta Creek the road builders encountered a vast cliff two hundred
and five feet high, rising sheer a few feet from the water’s edge.
The railway had taken all available space and Mr. Lancaster, nothing
daunted, drove a tunnel through the solid rock. So great was the
danger that the necessary blasting would tumble tons of loose rock on
the railroad that the weak places in the cliff were reenforced with
concrete before beginning the work. A strikingly picturesque touch
is given to Oneonta Cliff by a lone fir which crowns its summit in
solitary majesty--there is no other vegetation except shrubbery.
Near this point is some of the wildest and most grotesque scenery along
the whole road. On the Washington side is Cape Horn and Cigar Rock--a
tall slender pinnacle whose shape suggests the name--which loom like
mighty monuments erected by some titan fire god when the demons of our
legends ruled the land. These stern cliffs, mottled with the rainbow
colorings of autumn and splashed with the soft green of velvet moss
and waving ferns, reach their culminating beauty at the spot where
Multnomah Falls pours its crystal flood over a ledge nearly a thousand
feet above the highway--a sheer fall of eight hundred and forty
feet--into a rocky basin and a second plunge of seventy feet to the
green pool by the roadside.
At a point well above the second fall is a graceful concrete
bridge--the gift of a Portland millionaire--reached by a flight of
steps and affording a wonderful close-at-hand view of the fall as well
as a wide panorama of the valley. We paused here for a better view
of the scene and a drink of the clear, ice-cold water. As we were
about to proceed an officer in khaki approached us. We had no guilt
on our conscience--fifteen miles had been our limit on the Columbia
Highway--and we awaited his coming with equanimity.
“Could you give a fat man a lift to Portland?” he asked, and
then apologized, saying he had mistaken us for some one of his
acquaintances. We urged him, however, to come right along--a motor cop
ought to be a splendidly posted guide--and we proved quite right in
this surmise. A little conversation revealed the interesting fact that
some years ago he came to Portland from the county where the writer
spent his boyhood.
[Illustration: SHEPPERD’S BRIDGE, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY
From photo by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]
“I sold my share in a good Iowa farm,” he said, “and invested the
proceeds--some twenty thousand dollars--in a dozen acres near Portland
in a section that they told me was sure to boom--but it hasn’t as yet.
And so I go on waiting and hoping and paying taxes--holding down a
job as motor cop in the meanwhile. O yes, they are mighty strict in
enforcing the speed limit; there are six officers on the highway with
peremptory orders to arrest any driver exceeding twenty-five miles per
hour. No, we don’t make many arrests; local people know the rules and
generally observe them and we usually give strangers fair warning. You
will see how necessary this is when I tell you that there were six
thousand cars on this fifty-mile road last Sunday, and for all our care
there was one serious accident.” Then he told us the history of the
highway and many interesting facts concerning it which I have tried
to recount in the preceding pages. He was even posted on the Indian
legends--just the kind of a courier we needed.
There are four or five waterfalls in the half dozen miles after passing
Multnomah, beautiful, limpid columns of leaping water--Wahkeena Falls,
Mist Falls, Bridal Veil Fall, Tookey Falls and Latourelle Falls--each
of which might attract much attention and admiration were it situated
in some spot less replete with scenic wonders, but they seem almost
commonplace amidst such surroundings. Here, also, is Benson Park,
a tract of land including Larch Mountain, donated by Mr. Benson of
Portland. A trail has been built to the summit of the mountain, 4095
feet above the sea, and the river at this point is only a few feet
above sea level. Here may be gained one of the most extensive views
along the whole course of the highway. One’s vision covers vast tracts
of mountains reaching to Ranier, over one hundred miles to the north,
as well as endless panoramas up and down the river. The summit may be
reached by a mule-back ride of several miles--which we deferred until
some more favorable occasion.
“You will want to stop here,” said our friend when we came to a
beautiful bridge swinging across a crystal stream dashing at the bottom
of a deep ravine, green with fern and moss. “This is Shepperd’s Dell
and you must get the view from beneath the bridge.”
[Illustration: SHEPPERD’S DELL BRIDGE, COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY
Copyright Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]
We descended the stone steps leading down into the ravine and found
ourselves surrounded by a scene of perfect sylvan loveliness. A
picturesque waterfall came dashing from the ponderous crags above us
into a green, moss-bordered pool from which a clear stream ran among
the mottled boulders beneath the bridge. Ferns, shrubs, and trees
covered the cliffs to the summit and the effect of sun and shadow upon
these and the waterfall was indescribably beautiful. Turning toward the
bridge, a different but none the less enchanting scene met our view.
Framed in the wide arch of the graceful structure was a delightful
panorama of river and mountain to which the viewpoint lent a peculiar
charm.
“Shepperd’s Dell is named after the donor of this site,” said our
guide, “Mr. George Shepperd, a poor teamster of Portland, who gave
it in memory of his wife. His disinterested generosity when he had
a chance to demand payment from the county for the right of way
illustrates the spirit of willing help toward this great enterprise
that prevailed among our people, from the millionaire to the
day-laborer.”
With reluctance we left this delightful spot to proceed on our journey.
A mile farther we came to the magnificent bridge spanning Latourelle
Creek, a triple-arched structure two hundred and forty feet long and
one hundred feet above the stream. We remarked on the unique design of
this bridge and our guide told us that no two on the entire highway
follow exactly the same lines, thus giving a pleasing variation.
Opposite this bridge is Latourelle Falls, another of the beautiful
Columbia cataracts, pouring from a cliff two hundred and twenty-four
feet in height.
“We are now approaching what is considered the masterpiece of Columbia
Highway engineering,” said the officer. “The great promontory before us
is Crown Point, over seven hundred feet in height. Before Mr. Lancaster
tackled the problem all plans contemplated getting around this cliff
rather than over it. In accordance with his consistent aim to secure
the most spectacular scenery from the new road, Mr. Lancaster declared
he would scale the cliff, though he was assured that this proposition
had all been threshed over many times and found quite impossible. But
the impossible was done; by patient calculation and careful surveying
and the adoption of some rather revolutionary engineering tactics, the
highway was swung over the great rock without infraction of the limit
of grade or curve. You will see what I mean as you ascend the grade.”
We began the ascent shortly after leaving Latourelle Bridge and without
shifting a gear or accelerating our speed we steadily climbed upward,
swinging around a maze of curves. As we approached the summit our guide
bade us look backward. “See the figure eight,” he cried, and, sure
enough, the outlines of the road below us appeared as a double loop
which from our viewpoint strikingly resembled a gigantic figure eight.
At the summit the road describes a perfect circle, but to maintain the
radius of one hundred feet it was necessary to support a part of the
road-bed on concrete piers built from the lower shelves of the rock. In
the center of the circle “Vista House” is to be erected as a memorial
to the pioneers of Oregon and dedicated to the use and convenience of
travelers on the highway.
But, after all, the wonder of Crown Point is the view from its summit,
which is conceded to be the most beautiful and impressive along the
whole course of the highway. Our vision had unobstructed range for
thirty-five miles in either direction. Mile-wide, the green waters
of the Columbia lay beneath us, stretching away on each hand like a
vast silver ribbon until it vanished in the blue haze of the distance.
On either side rose the mighty hills and rugged castellated cliffs,
dark with the verdure of the pines and splashed here and there with
the crimson and gold of woodbine and maple. Out beyond the cliffs
and hills ran the titan ranks of the Cascades, guarded by shining,
snow-clad sentinels. Looking down the river the scene is not so rugged
and awe-inspiring but none the less pleasing in its pastoral beauty. A
blue haze hangs over the city of Portland, twenty-five miles to the
westward, and shrouds the low hills of Washington on the opposite shore.
“You are fortunate in the day,” said our guide. “This subdued sunlight
gives much better effects of light and color than a perfectly clear sky
and you are lucky to escape the fogs--not at all uncommon here.”
We had ourselves remarked earlier in the day on the peculiarly striking
effects of light and color caused by the varicolored clouds which
covered much of the heavens; we had noted from several viewpoints the
vast white cone of Mount Hood against a broad band of silvery sky with
masses of steel blue vapor hovering above its summit. The wonderful
color effect was also remarked upon by an artist who was endeavoring to
depict them on his canvas. Grays, steel blues and luminous whites with
patches of pale azure shading to crystal near the horizon formed the
dominating color notes of the sky--a day not too brilliant and one that
showed the magnificent scene at its best.
[Illustration: COLUMBIA RIVER GORGE FROM CHANTICLEER INN
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
The wild and rugged scenery of the river reaches its climax at Crown
Point and beyond this, except in the neighborhood of the unhappily
named Rooster Rock, the highway is devoid of spectacular features. Near
Rooster Rock is an attractive rural inn, The Chanticleer, typical of
many inns and resorts along the highway. Another, Forest Hall, is a
duplicate of one of the hospitable old-time Southern mansions and here,
for the modest sum of two dollars, you will be served by aristocratic
colored people with a genuine Southern chicken dinner and it has the
reputation, our friend declared, of being worth the price. Many of
these inns are first-class in every particular and enjoy good patronage
owing to the great popularity of the highway with local people as well
as to the large number of tourists.
A few miles beyond Crown Point the highway leaves the river and
descends in sweeping curves to the broad, prosperous plain which
adjoins Portland on the north and west and which evidently produces a
good part of the food and milk supply of the city. At the Auto Club
headquarters on Sandy River, some eighteen miles from the Portland
postoffice, the road swings to the north, following Sandy River for
a couple of miles. This route is properly counted as the approach to
the Columbia Highway, but we found it closed for improvement at the
time. We therefore proceeded via the “Base Line” road, which carried
us due west to the heart of the city, where we found the guidance of
our friend, the officer, a decided assistance. He declared that the
hotel we had selected was one of the best in the city, but admitted
that a newer one was probably better. This was the Benson, built
by the millionaire whose name is so prominently connected with the
Columbia Highway and who has had much to do with private and public
enterprise in Portland. Considering our hotel experiences since leaving
San Francisco, we felt that we were entitled to the best and so pulled
up in front of the Benson, a fifteen-story skyscraper of the New York
type. Here our friend bade us adieu with thanks for the “lift” we
had given him; and we assured him that he had more than reciprocated
by the information he had imparted to us. We also came to the mental
conclusion that possibly, after all, a “motor cop” may be a human being!
We asked for good quarters at the Benson but were a little taken
aback when we were ushered into a spacious chamber with a wealth of
solid mahogany and every modern convenience, including a large tile
and enamel bath. We had not asked the rate and settled down with the
rather disquieting conclusion that we would be bankrupt when we paid
the bill. I may anticipate, however, by saying that the surprise was
the other way, for the charge was very moderate--no more than we had
often paid for inferior quarters at hotels certainly no better. In any
event, it was solid comfort and a most welcome relief to the regime we
had been following. We should have been glad to rest a week under such
conditions, but the near approach of the rainy season caused us to
greatly curtail our sojourn in Portland.
We remained long enough, however, to see a good deal of the fine city
and its surroundings. It is a wonderful city, with its three hundred
thousand people and magnificent business and public buildings and it
is hard, indeed, to realize that only a trifle over seventy years ago
two rival sea captains tossed a coin to decide whether the village they
were about to found should be called Boston or Portland, in honor of
their respective home ports. The Portland skipper won and the Maine
town’s name superseded the musical Indian designation of the spot,
“Multnomah” (down the great water). Whether the captains realized
anything of the possible future of the town they thus flippantly named,
is doubtful, but it is easy enough now to see that a city so situated
was bound to grow in almost magical fashion. Though a hundred miles
from the sea, it is still a seaport, for the tide-water river is a full
mile wide here and deep enough for the largest ocean-going vessels. The
river drains a territory of two hundred and fifty thousand square miles
and is now navigable by good-sized boats for over four hundred miles
in the interior. All the transcontinental railroads except the Santa
Fe converge at Portland, giving it the best rail service of any city
on the coast. The principal shipments are of lumber and wheat; in the
former Portland stands unrivalled in the whole world and in the latter
under normal conditions rivals--sometimes even surpasses--New York.
The older sections and business portion of the city lie on the level
plain at the junction of the Columbia and Willamette, extending on both
sides of the latter river. Overlooking this on the north and west are a
series of heights, ranging up to twelve hundred feet, which are mainly
occupied by the newer residence districts and by several public parks.
From Portland Heights, one of the finest of these parks, we had a most
inspiring view of the city and much of its environs at sunset on the
day of our arrival. The viewpoint was reached by comparatively easy
gradients, the road winding through the beautiful park, famous for its
varieties of trees. Just below us lay the city, so near at hand that
streets and buildings were plainly recognizable, and just beyond the
great river and endless hills and mountains.
[Illustration: COLUMBIA HIGHWAY NEAR EAGLE CREEK
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
Climbing a little higher we came to Council Crest, twelve hundred
feet above the river, famed as Portland’s “show hilltop.” Here one
has much the same view of the city and river as from the Heights and
it was perhaps the best point to catch the full majesty of Portland’s
“Mountain of Destiny,” silver-crested Hood, standing stern and
beautiful against the rosy background of a matchless sunset. It is
fifty miles away as the crow flies, but it seems much nearer, so near
that in the momentary enthusiasm that fills the beholder, he feels he
might reach it on foot in an hour or two. Violet-tinted shadows half
hide the lowlands between and serve to obscure everything that might
distract attention from the solitary mountain which George Palmer
Putnam, an enthusiastic Portlander declares in his charming book, “The
Oregon Country,” “somehow breathes the very spirit of the state it
stands for; its charm is the essence of the beauty of its surroundings,
its stateliness the keynote of the sturdy west. It is a white, chaste
monument, radiantly setting for its peoples round about a mark of high
attainment.”
On Council Crest, Willamette Heights, King’s Heights, and other
elevations, are many of the fine homes of the city, though it hardly
seemed to us as if in this regard Portland is the equal of other
western cities of her class. In the older residence sections our
guide pointed out many matchlessly ugly wooden houses which he said
were residences of the early millionaires, many of whom are now dead.
He also pointed out in Irvington Addition the homes of many whom he
declared were the wealthiest business men of the city, but these
places appeared quite modest. In response to our remarks to this
effect, our pilot seemed somewhat annoyed and declared that Portland
“multis” believed rather in spending their money in business blocks
than in residences. Perhaps he is right, for Portland certainly has
many astonishingly fine business structures that would do credit to any
city in the world. We were especially delighted with a newly completed
bank building done in white marble along purely classic lines, quite
as fine as anything of the kind we ever saw. Other skyscrapers, the
theatres, several hotels, and many public buildings, were architectural
masterpieces built with evident disregard for cost. Nearly all of
these, we were told, had been erected in the last seven or eight years,
and there is no slackening in the march of solid improvement.
Multnomah County has voted a bond issue to improve its main highways,
aside from the Columbia River Road, and this work was in progress
in many places about the city. There are not many drives aside from
the Columbia Highway of great interest to the tourist whose time is
limited. We followed well-paved streets to the ferry leading to old
Vancouver in Washington, just across the Columbia. We saw workmen
giving the finishing touches to the great steel wagon-bridge which now
spans the Columbia at this point, forming a most important link in the
Pacific Highway. The last spans, which were assembled on the shore,
were floated to position on the piers the next day and the stupendous
feat of engineering was nearly complete.
There is nothing of particular interest in Vancouver, which was founded
nearly a hundred years ago by fur traders of the Hudson Bay Company. It
is at present practically a Portland suburb, though the fact that it is
in another state will preclude annexation by the larger city. The new
bridge will greatly facilitate inter-communication and will probably
have an immediate effect in increasing the population and prosperity of
Vancouver.
We are accustomed to think of the Columbia Highway as comprising the
spectacular stretch of road between Portland and Hood River, but as I
have elsewhere intimated, the larger plan of Oregonians contemplates
an improved road running along the river from Astoria on the coast to
Pendleton, three hundred and thirty miles eastward. The portion from
Portland to Astoria has been graded, but at the time of our visit was
in poor condition and we considered it hardly advisable to attempt
it in face of threatening rains. This road, while commanding much
wonderful scenery of river and mountain, does not approach the wild
and enchanting beauty of The Dalles road and no attempts will be made
to beautify the road bed as has been done to the east of Portland. It
will, however, when paved be an easy and delightful run to Astoria,
Oregon’s oldest settlement. Near the site of this town, Lewis and Clark
camped in 1806 while exploring the Columbia River, and five years
later the present town was founded by John Jacob Astor, during the
famous expedition of which Washington Irving became historian. In 1812
Astoria was captured by the British, who held it until 1818--a critical
period in Oregon history, when the chances of the Stars and Stripes and
the Union Jack appeared about equal. Astoria’s chief industry to-day
is salmon fishing and canning, which occupies a season of about one
hundred days during the summer and early fall.
From Astoria a circular tour may be pursued along the ocean shore by
the way of Gearhart, Tillamook, and Dolph, back to Portland or to
Salem if the Pacific Highway is the route to be pursued to the south.
This, they told us, is a very rough, trying trip at present, but the
proposed highway improvement along much of the route will rapidly alter
conditions. The run of fifty miles to Government Camp on the western
side of Mount Hood is not difficult and plans are being perfected to
carry the road around the southwestern slope of the mountain to Hood
River, making the return trip by the Columbia Highway, a total distance
of about one hundred and fifty miles.
[Illustration: PORTLAND AND MT. HOOD
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]
We left Portland with no little reluctance. We were conscious that we
had not seen the City of Roses at its best, coming as we did at the end
of summer, when roses, even in Portland, are not very common--though
we saw them and were told that they bloom every month in the year. We
are already planning a return visit which we hope to make at a more
favorable time and under more favorable conditions.
VII
THE VALE OF THE WILLAMETTE