monopolizes the attention; for we are now in the midst of the Cascade
range, which is a continuation of the Sierra Nevada of California. That
the Columbia should have ever been able to force a passage through this
lofty chain is a marvel. But then marvels abound in this region. Here,
for instance, on the Washington side, is a monstrous basaltic rock,
close by the river, completely isolated, without a trace of connection
with the neighboring ridges. It is called Cathedral Rock, is curiously
marked and furrowed by wind and weather, and covered in patches by
the irrepressible fir-trees, which are larger than they seem at their
great elevation. How did this rock get there? It looks like a mammoth
glacier boulder; but, incalculable as is the force of glaciers, no
ice-river could have ever borne this massive rock on its back. Perhaps
Mt. Hood, in a volcanic fit, hurled it there. But impressive as this
sight is, the passengers should not allow Cathedral Rock to distract
their attention from the surrounding mountain scenery, which is really
much more noteworthy than the rock itself. Near it, to the right, is
a mountain about two thousand feet above the river, which is an exact
copy of Mt. Hood, without its snow; and adjoining it is a unique
mountain of about the same height, but with a summit at least half a
mile long and absolutely level. But it would take volumes to describe
all these imposing mountain formations. Opposite Castle Rock, and
below, are miles of magnificently sculptured palisades, compared with
which those on the Hudson River are of toy-like dimensions. They are
beautifully mottled with green shrubs and mosses and yellow lichens,
and fringed above and below by ribbons of young fir-trees. And to think
that all this superb scenery has been known to civilized man only one
century!
[Illustration: CASTLE ROCK—COLUMBIA RIVER.]
We now approach the famous Cascades of the Columbia, the place where,
according to the Indian tradition, a natural bridge once existed,
formed by the water digging a tunnel for itself through the mountain.
The legend goes on to relate how the rival volcanic monarchs, Hood and
Adams, which face each other on opposite sides of the river, once had a
fight and hurled huge rocks at each other, some of which fell on this
arch which spanned the Columbia, and demolished it. The fragments,
filling the river-bed, created the rapids which now obstruct
navigation. Day excursions from Portland do not go beyond this point;
but tourists who wish to get a glimpse of the Cascades themselves, and
of some of the finest scenery on the river, must leave the boat here
and take another one about five miles up the river, for the Dalles. The
Columbia River boats at present depend for their existence on freight
more than on passengers, and the greatest drawback to the enjoyment
of the Columbia River trip is the tedious delay of an hour or two,
necessitated by loading all the freight on the train which takes us
from the Lower Cascades to the Upper Cascades, on the Washington side,
and then again loading it on the upper boat. However, the mountain
scenery is very fine at this place, and the air so exhilarating that
the offence is greatly mitigated thereby.
The government has been at work for about twenty years constructing a
canal and locks for the boats; but a million dollars are still needed
to complete the task, and meanwhile the building of the railroad on the
Oregon side has rendered its completion a matter of less urgency. The
little six-mile railroad on the Washington side, which connects the two
boats, is the first ever built in the Northwest, and is a curiosity not
only on that account, but also because it affords a good view of the
rapids from the car windows. The fact that the river is here narrowed
to a quarter of its regular width, assists the rocky débris in its bed
in creating a dizzy rush of tumultuous, roaring waters and foaming
waves o’erleaping each other. It contrasts finely with the calm,
majestic movement of the lower Columbia. But it must be admitted that
these rapids are not so grand or exciting as those of the Niagara or
the St. Lawrence; nor do passengers ever get an opportunity to “shoot
the rapids,” as on the last-named river. Not that it is impossible to
do so. One captain has taken down several steamers and smashed only one
so far; but the risk can only be taken in very high water.
Usually the Columbia is very high in early summer, especially when
there are a few hot days, with much snow in the mountains. The
difference between high and low water is forty-two feet, and some care
has to be used, therefore, in building houses near the bank. In 1889,
however, there was no snow in the mountains to melt, as there had
been no snow-storms and hardly any rain in Oregon during the whole of
the preceding winter; consequently the Columbia was lower than it had
been for almost a generation; not quite as low, however, as the rivers
of Europe in 1132 and 1313, when the Rhine and the Danube could be
crossed on foot without wetting the shoes. Fishermen do not like the
low water in the Columbia, because in that state it is so clear that
the salmon succeed in avoiding the traps laid for them, including the
murderous “salmon-wheels,” which are turned by the current and scoop in
the fish, young and old, with the nets attached to them. These wheels
are especially numerous about the Cascades, and do much to hasten the
extermination of the salmon.
Before the advent of civilized man on the banks of the Columbia,
the Cascades used to be the great fishing-place of the Indians, who
congregated here in large numbers to catch and dry their winter supply
of salmon. They were a lazy, cunning, treacherous crew, who gave
the early explorers much trouble, and proved by their actions that
although fish may possibly be good intellectual or brain food, it does
not equally develop the moral faculties. For these tribes used to guard
the narrowest parts of the river, and levy toll on all passersby, very
much like the robber-barons on the Rhine. But that was in the good old
times, a hundred years ago. At present only a handful of these Indians
are left to haunt these regions and fish for their daily bread. The
salmon-wheel has displaced the canoe and spear, and the Indian, who
used to be so hardy that he went about unclothed the greater part
of the year, has become so weakened by the clothing, whiskey, and
vices of “civilization” that old and young are now dying out rapidly
of consumption. In return for all the harm it has done them, the
government allows the Indians the privilege of fishing with spears for
their own sustenance during the “closed” season. Consequently it is
easy in Portland during that season to get salmon “caught by Indians,”
or “in the Rogue River.” It is well to have laws and law-abiding
communities.
One of the most interesting features of the Cascades is that the upper
steamer can be moored quite close to the head of the rapids, where
there are some picturesque islands. This absence of a dangerous current
is due to the great depth of the river. The débris which causes the
rapids has blocked up the channel so effectually that the average depth
of the Columbia is twenty feet greater from the Cascades to the Dalles
than below, although the banks are almost as widely apart. A splendid
view of a black forest scene is obtained from the deck of the upper
steamer before it leaves for the Dalles. It is a sportsman’s paradise,
and a brakeman assured me he had seen two bears at once on one of the
steep banks. For two hours after leaving the Cascades we are still in
the midst of the Cascade Mountains, and the scenery is, if possible,
more inspiring than below the rapids, and the air more exhilarating. It
is interesting to note the way in which the railroad on the right bank
overcomes the rocky obstacles in its path, seeking a winding pathway
around them here, and time and again boldly plunging into a huge rock
partly projecting into the river, forming a picturesque tunnel which
looks like a natural cave. In some places there is so little room for
the track, and the hill-sides are so steep, that, to intercept the
constant shower of stones, a broad roadway had to be constructed a few
hundred yards above the track. Railroads usually mar natural scenery,
but this one only adds to the variety and charm of the Columbia trip,
and Mr. Ruskin himself would hardly venture to object to it. The reason
of this is that the scenery is on such a colossal scale that it cannot
possibly be spoiled by such a tiny thing as a railroad. Indeed, one
needs such a human toy as a railway and a train of cars to bring out by
contrast the true grandeur of this scenery.
As we approach the end of the Highlands, the mountains to the left rise
in gigantic terraces, one, two, and three stories high, resembling the
curious formations in the Grand Cañon region in Arizona. The view of
the highlands down the river must not be missed, as it is finer even
than the view on entering. As already stated, Mt. Hood now emerges
again, as imposing as ever, and the view of it at the Dalles is as fine
as at Vancouver or Portland. But even without this snowy monarch to
follow us up the river all day long, this part of the Columbia would
be one of the most fascinating, which does not allow the attention
to flag even after nine or ten hours of fatiguing sight-seeing. A few
miles below Dalles City is a formation on the right bank (going up)
which is perhaps the greatest curiosity along the whole river. It
is a wonderfully illusive natural fortress, with battlements facing
the river and the regulation watch-tower in the middle. If political
exigencies should ever require a fortress on the middle Columbia, here
it might be constructed, one would think, in one day, by utilizing
nature’s plans.
The river now becomes narrower, and is walled in on both sides by
low but finely sculptured basalt palisades, beautifully carved and
moss-covered in some places. A strong wind seems to blow here almost
constantly, and the water is decked with white-caps, and as turbulent
as the Rhine at the Loreley Rock. We are only a few miles below Celilo,
“the place of the winds,” as the Indians called it. There is no swell,
however, and the boat runs smoothly. Of course, ladies who become
“seasick” in railway cars and stage coaches may find the Columbia in
this place equally trying; but for such persons travelling was not
invented. All, however, should look out for their hats and parasols. I
have never passed up or down this part of the river when one or two of
these commodities were not carried off by the gusts of intoxicated and
intoxicating air. The palisades are marked by a white line showing the
high-water mark of 1889. Twelve feet above is the high-water mark of
1888. Dalles City is not an interesting place in itself, but it is most
delightfully situated, and seems doubly picturesque after a whole day’s
sail up the desolate Columbia, on which evidences of human habitation
are hours apart.
Here ends the second or “middle” portion of the Columbia. As the word
Dalles or “Swift Water” indicates, navigation is here again interrupted
by rapids. Thirteen miles above the Dalles, at Celilo, it used to be
resumed in former days, but since the completion of the railway the
boats of the upper Columbia have been shot down the various rapids,
and are now used in the middle and lower portions of the river. If a
day can be spared, no tourist should fail to visit the Great Dalles,
five miles above Dalles City, where the Columbia, which below and
above is almost a mile wide, is confined in a basaltic channel only
one hundred and seventy-four feet wide in its narrowest place. It is
a river literally “turned on edge,” and its depth at this place has
not yet been determined, owing to the rapidity of the current. In that
portion of the Columbia lying between Celilo and Walla-Walla there is
little interesting scenery along the banks, but tourists returning East
on the Canadian Pacific Railroad once more come across this river,—the
real upper Columbia,—where it again courses amidst snow-mountains, and
where it still is navigable for one hundred and fifty miles. Truly the
Columbia is a sublime river which some day will have its monograph, and
will inspire as much immortal poetry as the Rhine.
[Illustration: THE GREAT DALLES—COLUMBIA RIVER.]
XIII.
OREGON AND WASHINGTON SNOW-PEAKS.
FROM PORTLAND TO TACOMA—VIEWS OF AND FROM MT. HOOD—AMERICAN
SCENERY—ADVANTAGES OF ISOLATION—ASCENT OF MT. ST.
HELENS—MASCULINE AND FEMININE PEAKS—TACOMA AND THE
JUNGFRAU—AMERICAN NAMES FOR AMERICAN MOUNTAINS—INDIAN NAMES—A
HOP VALLEY—CASCADE DIVISION OF THE NORTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD—MT.
TACOMA—ITS FOURTEEN GLACIERS AND FIVE RIVERS.
There is geological evidence that Washington’s great inland sea, Puget
Sound, the Pacific Mediterranean, once extended as far south as the
Willamette Valley in Oregon. To-day, Portland and Tacoma are about one
hundred and fifty miles apart, and the trip may be made either by boat
down the Columbia and through the Straits of Juan de Fuca into the
Sound, or by the branch road of the Northern Pacific Railroad overland.
In either case, if the view is not impeded by smoke or clouds, a
magnificent panorama of snow-peaks is unfolded as the boat or train
moves along. Ruskin’s assertion that “mountains are the beginning
and the end of all natural scenery” is strikingly verified on this
route. Oregon without Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, and the Three Sisters,
Washington without Mts. St. Helens, Adams, and Tacoma, would be robbed
of half their scenic charms. All of these mountains, except Jefferson
and the Three Sisters, are seen to best advantage on this trip,—Hood,
Adams, and St. Helens before reaching the Columbia River (which the
train crosses on a large ferry-boat), and Tacoma at the other end.
Although these peaks resemble each other in standing each in selfish,
proud isolation, far from neighbors, and high above the general crests
of the Cascades, which barely rise to their snow-line; and although
they are all more or less regularly conical in shape, broad at the
base and gradually tapering to a point, there is still quite enough
difference in the details of their conformation to give them a distinct
individuality of appearance. Mt. Hood, as seen from Portland, bears a
striking resemblance to Mt. Hecla in Iceland. The south side, which
slopes more gradually than the north side, is one vast snowfield, with
hardly a dark spot of bare rock, till late in summer. In the forenoon
the mountain often throws such deep shadows that it seems as if the
snow had melted from its sides; but the noon sunlight reveals it all
in its old place. During a long warm summer the snow-line recedes
considerably, but the upper half of the mountain is crowned with
everlasting snow; and it is for this reason that Hood seems larger and
higher than Shasta in summer, though it is half a mile lower: for white
makes every object seem larger or broader than black or gray. Over the
peaks of Washington, Mt. Hood has at present this advantage, that it
alone is accessible by a road; and more than this, a hotel was opened
in 1889 above the snow-line, and only a few hundred yards from the
great glacier; so that Portlanders can transfer themselves half-way up
their favorite mountain in about eight hours by rail and stage.
Mountains are not only the beginning and end of all natural scenery,
but they are the scenic feature of which one is least apt to tire. A
snow-mountain is a fresh object of interest every clear morning. Unlike
a leopard, it constantly changes its spots under the influence of the
sun’s rays; and when these dark patches have become too numerous and
too large to be ornamental, a snow-storm comes along and covers it
with a new white magnifying cloak. Surely the man who has no love of
mountains in his soul is fit for treason, stratagem, and crime.
Mr. James Bryce, who has given us the most just and discriminating work
on this country ever written by an Englishman, but who, as noted in a
previous chapter, speaks somewhat disparagingly of the mountain scenery
of the United States as compared with that of Europe, was nevertheless
compelled to pay his tribute of admiration to “the superb line of
extinct volcanoes, bearing snow-fields and glaciers, which one sees
rising out of vast and sombre forests, from the banks of the Columbia
River and the shores of Puget Sound.” These are encouraging and kind
words, coming from an English source, but they hardly do justice to
the subject. It is not only from the banks of the Columbia and the
Puget Sound region that these giant peaks are visible, but there is
hardly a place in Western Oregon or Washington, elevated above the
level of the forests, whence one does not enjoy a superb view of from
one to six isolated snow-mountains. This isolation must be again and
again emphasized, not only because to it these Oregon and Washington
mountains owe their individuality and unique grandeur, but also because
the view from any one of these isolated peaks is much more striking
and comprehensive than a mountain view in ranges where the peaks are
grouped closely together. Everybody knows that the Rigi owes its
world-wide fame solely to the fact that its isolation enables tourists
to get a comprehensive view of the Swiss Alps from its summit. Now our
North Pacific peaks are even more isolated than the Rigi, which has
the Pilatus for its immediate neighbor, and they are, moreover, twice
as high as Rigi. Imagine, therefore, the grandeur of the view from
their summits. I have made the ascent of some of the highest Swiss
peaks, and of Mt. Hood; and although in the latter case I missed the
bewildering view of closely grouped snow-peaks which meets the eye
on a Swiss summit, there was something to compensate for this in the
superior restfulness, individuality, and comprehensiveness of a Pacific
scene which included only eight or nine isolated snow-peaks, but with
an illimitable ocean of green forests between them. All the Oregon and
Washington peaks were visible, and had the air been perfectly clear,
even Mt. Shasta, two hundred and fifty miles away, might have been
seen with a telescope. Add to this the mountains which encircle the
Umpqua and Rogue River valleys, on the south, and Puget Sound with
the snowy Olympic mountains on the north, and by way of contrast, the
Columbia River and Willamette valleys on the west, and the vast plains
of Eastern Oregon on the opposite side, and you get a faint idea of the
grandeur of the view from the summit of Mt. Hood, provided there is no
smoke or haze in the air.
I cannot stop to describe all the peaks in Oregon and Washington, but
a few remarks on the two best known Washington peaks—St. Helens and
Tacoma—may not be unwelcome while our train is speeding on towards
Puget Sound, through a region which, except for these glimpses of
superb mountains, would be a monotonous ride across a dreary, desolate
forest wilderness.
Mt. St. Helens is so prominent an object as seen from the streets of
Portland, that tourists are apt to fancy that it must be an Oregon
mountain, like Hood. But it must be remembered that the Columbia River,
which forms the boundary between Oregon and Washington, is only twelve
miles distant from Portland, and that East Portland is practically
situated on a peninsula formed by the approaching Willamette and
Columbia rivers. Being farther north than Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens
retains somewhat more of its snowy whiteness in summer; but there is
a place near the summit which is always kept bare by its internal
volcanic heat. The slopes of St. Helens are steeper than those of Hood,
and its conical shape is beautifully symmetrical and smoothly rounded,
as compared with the more rugged Hood, which gives it a feminine
appearance. The Indians have a legend that when St. Helens, Hood, and
Adams were created, they were big women who had one husband in common.
The result was jealousy, and a fight in which St. Helens whipped Hood
and the other mountains, and made slaves of them. In this legend the
Indians did not, I think, show their usual poetic imagination. The
lovely, rounded, and regular appearance of St. Helens should have
suggested a legend in which this mountain was made the wife of the more
irregular, muscular, and sinewy Hood.
St. Helens, although its slopes are steeper than those of Hood, is
considered quite as easy of ascent. But the attempt is very rarely made
at present, because the mountain is so inaccessible,—Woodland, the
nearest place where supplies can be obtained, being nearly fifty miles
away, and the path very indistinct. Two years ago the Oregon Alpine
Club decided to put a copper box and a record book on the summit of
every snow-peak on the Pacific Coast. In pursuance of this object, a
party last summer made an ascent of Mt. St. Helens, of which Mr. W. G.
Steele wrote an interesting account in the _Oregonian_ (July 27, 1889).
About twelve miles from the mountain they came across Trout Lake, in
which two of the party caught one hundred and fifty pounds of trout in
a day. The base of the mountain has an elevation of 4625 feet, and from
this point St. Helens seems higher than Hood, because it rises more
rapidly from the surrounding country. The main summit was found to be
11,150 feet high. “Judging the mountain as it appears from Portland,”
Mr. Steele says, “we had been led to suppose that the summit would
be almost a perfect circle. Instead of that, however, it is slightly
inclined to a square, and probably contains half a section of land, or
rather snow.” Magnificent rugged glaciers were found near the summit,
and on the way up the party made the interesting discovery that beneath
the confused masses of scoria which made up the mountain side, an
immense glacier was concealed, “which day after day moves downward with
its marvellous load, that is being ground into powder or hurled to the
plain below.”
One of the most interesting facts regarding St. Helens is that it has
given more recent evidence of its volcanic origin than any other of the
Pacific peaks; namely, as late as 1853 and 1854, if Winthrop and Swan
may be credited. Corroborative evidence is furnished by the Indian
name of the mountain, Lou-wala-clough, which means, “the Smoking
Mountain.”