breeds indifference in the people of this coast and the natives to the
devastating forest fires which occur every summer. My Indian guide
amused himself by setting trees on fire in several places, and to
the question why he did this, I could get no satisfactory answer.
He also very kindly tried to amuse me by rolling huge rocks down a
tremendous precipice. I should have been less surprised than hurt had
he thrown me down too, in retaliation for the injury inflicted on him
and his race by the intruding white man, who has reduced the former
lords of this region, where they could hunt and fish to their heart’s
content, to the condition of day-laborers earning their bread by the
sweat of their brow. How galling it must be to the noble savage to
have to dig stumps and level roads while his squaws look on, because,
forsooth, the perverse white man will not permit the squaws to do the
grubbing, and him to look on!
Mr. Sisson took me to a small Indian camp near his house, where he
wanted to engage a man for a job. The young buck was gorgeously arrayed
in a pair of old trousers and a new linen shirt, evidently just arrived
from San Francisco, with its bosom starched stiffly enough for a city
dude. He was obviously conscious of this ornament, and, probably in
consequence of it, wanted more money for the job than Mr. Sisson had
previously paid him. _Noblesse oblige!_ The squaws, young and old, and
the children, were all very fat, dirty, and stupid-looking, and were
crowding around a fire, eating fried meat and flat, round cakes of
dough baked in a pan, looking as if it would give chronic dyspepsia
to an ostrich or a goat. I was also shown an Indian hut where there
had been a dance on the preceding Fourth of July, white visitors being
charged twenty-five cents admission.
One of the most interesting places Mr. Sisson has to show his guests
is the source of the Sacramento River. About a mile from his house,
at a place to which steps lead down from the railway track, the water
rushes out from several springs in a great volume, forming immediately
a trout-brook of respectable size, which hurries away in the new
daylight, as if glad to have escaped its subterranean source. These
springs issue from under Mt. Shasta, and doubtless owe their being to
the melting of snow and glacier ice by the internal volcanic heat—a
worthy origin of so romantic a river as the Sacramento. Near these
springs is a valuable iron-water spring, which also belongs to Mr.
Sisson, and is one of his most important possessions, now that the town
founded by him is getting to be a regular resort for San Franciscans,
Portlanders, and Eastern tourists, not only on account of the view of
Shasta, but because of the beautiful forest scenery, and the excellent
trout-fishing in the neighboring McCloud River. Six large rivers and
many smaller ones are born of Shasta and neighboring peaks, and it
is these icy streams that the trout and the salmon delight in. The
Sacramento itself, however, does not afford any sport in this vicinity.
After leaving Sisson’s, Shasta still remains in sight for some time;
for it takes some time even for a railway to get away from a mountain,
of which it has been remarked that “if it could be sawed off at the
four-thousand-foot level, or five hundred feet above the valley, the
oval plain thus made would be eighty miles in circumference.” Some of
the views of Shasta after leaving Sisson’s are even grander than at
the station, and in certain atmospheric conditions the snow-cone may
be seen floating, as it were, on a mystic haze resembling water. The
aspect of the mountain gradually changes, and what had seemed smooth,
gradual slopes are now seen to be rugged precipices rising one above
the other.
We now approach that mammoth fragrant forest between the Pacific Ocean
and the Cascade Mountains which is known as Oregon, and it becomes
obvious at once that the chief difference between Oregon and California
is comprised in the word RAIN. Shortly after crossing the Oregon line
evidence begins to multiply that we have entered the rain belt. There
are more deciduous trees, more ferns and mosses, more underbrush in the
pine forests, and, most significant of all, more rivers. California
has in its whole coast line of seven hundred miles only one navigable
river, while Oregon, with a coast line of only three hundred and fifty
miles, has four fine navigable rivers,—the Rogue, the Umpqua, the
Willamette, and the Columbia,—with many smaller ones. All of these run
from east to west, except the Willamette, which divides the State by
flowing northward into the Columbia near Portland, thus creating the
fertile Willamette Valley, to which Portland chiefly owes its wealth.
The Willamette has some tributaries which alone would make the fortune
of several counties in Southern California, where nothing can be done
without irrigation; whereas in Oregon no one but vegetable gardeners
ever thinks of such a thing. One of these tributaries is the Pudding
River, along the banks of which many charming scenes may be enjoyed,
and which is full of fish, which, however, have the peculiarity that
they never take a bait. In the Santiam and some of the other rivers the
fishing is excellent, and the creeks are full of trout and of crawfish,
which are delicious, and of which I have caught as many as a hundred
in an hour, with three strings and three pieces of beef. A favorite
form of picnicking in Oregon is to take a sauce-pan and salt, catch a
few hundred of these tender and juicy crawfish, boil them, and enjoy a
feast fit for prelates.
The rain, to which Oregon owes its numerous rivers and creeks, is not
as abundant in the southern as in the northern part of the State.
There is a gradual transition from thirty-two inches at Jacksonville
to thirty-eight at Salem, fifty-three at Portland, and seventy-two
at Astoria. The Rogue River Valley climate has been described as “a
compromise between the droughts of California and the great rain of
the Willamette Valley.” Grapes are raised here equal to the best in
California, and the peaches have been known to fetch higher prices in
the San Francisco market than the California varieties. Melons also are
raised here in great abundance for the Portland market, Northern Oregon
(where the thermometer sometimes does not register above 85° during a
whole summer) being too cold for their successful cultivation. Southern
Oregon is at present but thinly settled; but if its climatic, scenic,
and agricultural advantages were generally known to immigrants, it
would fill up rapidly.
Two large lakes, the Upper and Lower Klamath, will in course of time
become popular resorts of Oregonians, and some miles north of the
Upper Klamath is Crater Lake, which, although much smaller, is by the
Oregonians considered the greatest curiosity on the Pacific Coast, and
which used to be, and still is, regarded as holy ground by the Indians
of the neighborhood. Local authorities tells us that “in the past none
but medicine men visited it; and when one of the tribe felt called to
become a teacher, he spent several weeks at the lake, in prayer to the
Shahulah Tyee.”
Crater Lake lies in the heart of the Cascade Mountains, and at so
great an elevation—6,257 feet—as to be rendered inaccessible, except
in summer, by the depth of the snow in the surrounding forests. It is
about one hundred and twenty miles from Ashland, and may be reached
from that city, or from Medford, by stage. The road follows the banks
of the tumultuous Klamath River, and passes through the Klamath Indian
Reservation, near Fort Klamath, which was abandoned in 1889, as being
no longer necessary. A narrow defile known as Mystic Cañon is also of
interest, and it is well to bear in mind that in the older guide-books
Crater Lake is put down as Mystic Lake. Mystic it certainly is, but
its present name is preferable because more definite; for Crater Lake
is really a body of water which, like Lake Tahoe, fills up a volcanic
orifice. And a most gigantic crater it was, for the circumference of
the lake is more than twenty miles. There is only one place where
one can climb down to the water; the rest of the shore consists of
precipitous walls from fifteen hundred feet to three thousand feet in
height, which are less slanting than they appear in photographs. These
high walls, which are mirrored in the water with their fringe of trees,
effectually shut out the mountain breezes, so that the water is placid,
and rarely ruffled. There is something mysterious about this water; for
it has no visible or discoverable inlet or outlet, and yet it is always
clear and sweet. Fish, however, do not inhabit it, probably because
none ever succeeded in getting there; and even water-fowl, it is said,
avoid this solitary, silent mountain lake. In the middle of the lake
stands an island, about three miles long, of volcanic origin, rising
to a point eight hundred and forty-five feet high, and ending in a
crater four hundred and seventy-five feet in diameter. There are caves
along the shores which may have some connection with the water-supply,
as a current is observable near them. The depth of the lake has never
been ascertained, but it has been sounded for two thousand feet without
reaching bottom.
A few years ago an effort was made to have the Crater Lake region
reserved as the Oregon National Park, and in 1888 a bill to this effect
passed the United States Senate. As there is much valuable timber on
the neighboring mountain ranges, and much fine grazing land, there is
reason to believe that a branch road will ere long connect Crater Lake
with the Oregon and California Railroad; and when that has been built,
every visitor to the Pacific Coast will feel that he can no more afford
to miss this lake than the other two scenic wonders of Oregon—the
Columbia River and Mt. Hood.
Going northward towards Portland, the wonderful fertility of the
Willamette Valley is what chiefly arrests the attention of tourists.
Wood being cheaper than coal in this region, the train frequently stops
to get a fresh load of fuel from the huge piles of timber which at
intervals extend along the road, sometimes a quarter of a mile without
a break. During these stops, some young man may be seen running to
a neighboring wheat or oat field to compare height with the stalks,
sometimes to his disadvantage. But these rich agricultural lands were
all taken up long ago, and the emigrant with a slender purse and a
desire for government land has to seek a region more remote from the
railway. The towns along this route, including Roseburg, Eugene,
Albany, Salem, and Oregon City, have not grown so fast during
the last ten years as Portland, or as the towns of Washington and
California; but the inhabitants confidently believe that their day
will come when the more sensational California and Washington towns
have passed through their boom period, and they modestly claim that
they prefer steady and slow growth to a boom which too often becomes a
retrograde boomerang. At Oregon City, tourists should be on the lookout
for the falls of the Willamette, below which the Indians formerly
used to spear salmon, but which now serve the more prosaic purpose of
furnishing water-power to the woollen mills on the spot, and electric
power to Portland twelve miles away.
[Illustration: CRATER LAKE.]
The Willamette Valley, through which our train has passed on the way
from Roseburg to Portland, is the garden of Oregon. Twenty years ago
wheat and apples were almost exclusively cultivated in this region.
Then the discovery was made that the soil and climate are remarkably
well adapted to hop culture, and most of the farmers at once gave up
their grain-fields and orchards and raised hops. Farmers have their
fashions as well as city folks, and they are just as apt to go to
extremes. The hop-raising business was overdone; prices fell; and now
many of these farmers are returning to their grain and fruit, in which
no other State surpasses Oregon, in quality as well as in quantity.
Concerning Oregon fruit I can speak from personal experience, as I
was brought up near an orchard numbering two thousand apple, pear,
and plum trees. For peaches and grapes the climate of Northern Oregon
is hardly warm enough, and the apples and pears, too, are perhaps a
little _smaller_ than they are in California, but in flavor they are
vastly superior. Indeed, neither in the East nor in any part of Europe
have I ever tasted apples to compare with those of Oregon. They have
a richness and delicacy of flavor which must persuade any one that,
if apples were less abundant, they would be considered superior in
taste and fragrance to those tropical and semi-tropical fruits which
are more highly valued because of their scarcity in our latitude. In
most parts of the East an apple is an apple, and few people know or
care about the names of the different kinds; but an Oregonian would
no more eat certain kinds of apples than he would a raw pumpkin. An
epicure is no more particular in regard to his brands of wine than an
Oregonian is in the choice of his favorite variety of apples; and there
are half-a-dozen kinds which I have never seen at the East, and the
systematic introduction of which in the New York market would make any
dealer’s fortune.
For some reason or other the Oregonians seem less enterprising than
their California neighbors, and instead of sending their fruit East,
they often allow it to rot on the trees—including superb plums, and
Bartlett pears that would fetch eight to ten cents apiece in New York.
Eastern capital is wanted to start transportation enterprises; and a
still more important desideratum in Oregon is a larger population.
The growth of the State has been remarkably slow, considering its
agricultural advantages and its fine climate. In the census of 1880,
the population numbered only 174,767. But there were already “16,217
farms, and their products are tabled at a cash value of $13,234,548,”—a
curious commentary on the exclamation of a member of Congress
forty-five years ago, that he would not “give a pinch of snuff for the
whole Territory.”
Eastern notions regarding the climate of Western Oregon are almost as
widely astray as they are regarding Alaska. Barrows points out that,
although the mouth of the Willamette is two hundred miles further north
than Boston, no ice has been formed on it thicker than window-glass
since 1862; and that in some of the counties snow has not covered the
ground for three consecutive days for a score of years. The rainy
season, which takes the place of the Eastern winter, is trying to the
patience of some; yet this rain is very different from our muggy,
foggy, sultry winter rains in New York. It is known as a “dry” rain,
because however it may drizzle, it does not seem to saturate the air
and depress the spirits by impeding the natural evaporation and healthy
action of the skin. Doubtless this peculiarity of climate is largely
responsible for the remarkably beautiful complexions of Oregon and
Washington women, though something may be due to the fact that, as
children, they live almost entirely on fruit. The heat of Oregon summer
days is not often oppressive, being generally mitigated by a gentle
breeze, and the nights are always cool enough for refreshing sleep.
XI.
PORTLAND AND ITS SEA-BEACHES.
A PICTURESQUE SITUATION—FIVE SNOW-PEAKS IN SIGHT—PORTLAND
VERSUS LOS ANGELES—CLEARINGS—CHINESE ANECDOTES—PROPITIATING THE
GODS—APPRECIATION OF FEMALE BEAUTY—SUMMER RESORTS—YAQUINA BAY AND
LONG BEACH—BATHING IN THE NORTH PACIFIC—CATCHING CRABS AT LOW
TIDE—A SAD ACCIDENT—CLATSOP BEACH AND TILLAMOOK HEAD—AN EXPOSED
LIGHT-HOUSE—IN THE VIRGIN FOREST—OREGON MOSSES, FERNS, AND
TREES—FLOWERS AND BERRIES.
If the greatest commercial advantage which a city can enjoy is to be
situated on a large river, it is equally true that of all possible
æsthetic advantages no other is equal to that of having a scenic
background of snow-mountains. It is to this that so many cities of
France, Spain, Switzerland, and Italy owe their principal charm. To
find anything similar in the United States we have to go far West, and
especially Northwest. Portland, Tacoma, and Seattle are the three most
picturesquely situated cities in the United States, and of these three
I would assign the palm to Portland, from a purely scenic point of
view. For although Mt. Hood does not seem quite so near and imposing
at Portland as Mt. Tacoma does as seen from Seattle or Tacoma, it must
be remembered that the Portlanders have full-size views from their
streets, not only of Hood but also of St. Helens, while the summits of
Tacoma, Adams, and Jefferson are seen from the hills which encircle
the city. And while Portland has no Puget Sound, it is only twelve
miles from the Columbia River, which is scenically superior even to the
“American Mediterranean,” as Puget Sound has been aptly called.
Architectural monuments of importance there are none as yet in
Portland, but the trees and gardens which frame in all the houses are
equally attractive in their way, and, from a sanitary point of view,
more desirable. Garden City or Forest City would seem an appropriate
name for Portland, as seen from the Portland Heights, which every
tourist should visit; and the Cascade Range to the east, with the
Willamette River separating the city from East Portland and Albina,
gives the ensemble a slight resemblance to Stuttgart, if not to
Florence, though neither of those cities can boast of a line of five
volcanic snow-peaks like Portland.
Of Mt. Hood in particular the Portlanders have a magnificent view from
their house-tops or from the heights west of the city. Though it is
about fifty miles away, there is not a hill between to impede the view;
and, as the particular Cascade ridge with which Mt. Hood connects is
of insignificant height, the peak stands revealed from head to foot in
solitary grandeur, with snow reaching down two-thirds of the way even
in August. As previously stated, it is a peculiarity of all the Oregon
and Washington peaks that they thus rise abruptly from the ground,
without any clustering neighbors to lean upon; and this isolation,
combined with the lowness of the snow-line, adds much to their grandeur
and apparent height. With such fine scenery constantly in view, and
with trees and flowers around every house, it is perhaps not surprising
that the wealthy Portlanders have hitherto shown a remarkable
indifference to the condition of their parks and streets. The large
piles of wood in front of every other house appear more useful than
ornamental, and give parts of the city a semi-rural aspect. They make
excellent and cheap fuel, however, and the large quantities of pitch
they contain give them a delightful fragrance. Another peculiarity of
Portland streets is that the blocks are uncommonly small. Fewer streets
and wider ones would have been much more acceptable. The waste of space
involved in the present arrangement is beginning to be felt now that
real estate is rapidly rising in value.
Portland owes its growth and its commercial importance to the fact that
the Willamette River is navigable up to its wharves by the largest
ocean steamers; so that the rich farm products of the Willamette Valley
can be at once shipped to all parts of the world without a long and
expensive railway transportation.
In a book dated 1855—Thornton’s “Oregon and California”—we read that
“ships drawing twelve or fourteen feet of water ascend the Willamette
to the pleasant and flourishing village of Portland, twelve miles
below Oregon City.” This “pleasant and flourishing village” is now a
city of at least sixty thousand, which hotly disputes with Los Angeles
the honor of being the second largest city on the Pacific Coast. The
Los Angeles papers claim seventy thousand for their city and speak
encouragingly of Portland as a promising city of forty thousand;
while the Portland papers reverse these figures, claiming seventy
thousand for their city and generously conceding to Los Angeles forty
thousand. One thing is certain: that Portland is growing very rapidly,
as is proved by official statistics, showing that the grand total of
receipts and payments of money order and postal funds increased more
than a million dollars from June 30, 1888, to June 30, 1889. Portland,
however, has never had a real “boom” like her southern rival, or
like Tacoma and Seattle. Oregon, indeed, has been somewhat unjustly
neglected, being thrown into the shade by her more brilliant neighbors,
California and Washington. Her growth has been gradual, and not by
spurts, but it has been as steady as it has been quiet, and the total
result is surprising. Salem, the State capital, has not, indeed,
greatly outgrown the condition in which it was found a number of years
ago by Mr. Joaquin Miller, who referred to it as “rather thickly
settled for the country, yet far too thinly settled for a city”; but
Portland has always gone on ahead, thanks to the fact that it has
been, and still is, the headquarters for wholesale supplies not only
in Oregon, but in Washington and Idaho. This, combined with the fact
that it is the outlet for one of the richest grain and fruit States
in the Union, accounts for the metropolitan aspect of Portland. Front
Street, where the large wholesale houses are, might be easily taken for
a street in New York or Chicago. Farther away from the river, elegant
rows of residences occupy the ground where a few years ago ferns and
mosses grew, and the festive stump asserted its omnipresence. A large
and magnificent hotel has just been completed, the Portland, one of the
finest and most sensibly constructed in the country, every room being
practically a front room, with plenty of light and air. This hotel
was much needed. I have known tourists to leave Portland disgusted
because they could not get comfortable quarters in the overcrowded
small hotels. Cable and electric roads have also been introduced
recently, and besides all these things, there is evidence of Portland’s
prosperity in the appearance of the daily _Oregonian_, which is at
present compelled to add four pages almost every issue to its usual
eight pages, just as were the Los Angeles papers during the “boom” in
Southern California. The _Oregonian_ is one of the best edited papers
in the United States, liberal in its views, and generally on the right
side of important questions. It has obtained such a firm hold in Oregon
soil that rival papers find it almost impossible to make headway
against it; and Portland is perhaps the only city of its size in this
country which has only one first-class daily paper.