of making another ascent; but an investigation into the state of our
provisions, together with the condition of the party generally,
determined us to begin our return on the morning of the eighth day.
The two soldiers had eaten all their bread but one cracker each. The
doctor and I had enough left, so that by a redistribution we had four
crackers each, with which to return over a space that had required
seven days of travel coming. We, of course, expected to be a shorter
time getting back; but let it be ever so short, our prospect for
something to eat was proportionately much more limited. We had more
meat than bread, thanks to the deer the Indian had killed, and we
depended greatly on his killing more game for us going back: but this
dependence, too, was cut off; the Indian was snow-blind, and needed
our help to guide him. His groans disturbed us during the night, and
what was our astonishment in the morning to find his eyelids closed
with inflammation, and so swollen that he looked as if he had been in
a free fight and got the worst of it. He could not have told a deer
from a stump the length of his little old rifle.
Our camp was about 1,000 or 1,500 feet below the last visible shrub;
water boiled at 199°, and, according to an approximate scale we had
with us, this indicated an elevation of 7,000 feet. We estimated the
highest peak to be over 12,000 feet high. I greatly regretted not
being able to get the boiling-point on the top, but it was impossible
to have had a fire in such a wind as prevailed round the summit.
As we returned we had more leisure to examine and clearer weather to
see the glacier than we had coming up. There was no medial moraine;
but an icy ridge parallel to the lateral moraines, and about midway
between them, extending as far as we ascended the glacier. The lateral
moraines were not continuous, but were interrupted by the walls of the
spurs where they projected into the glacier; between these points the
lateral moraines existed. The glacier sloped away from the ridge to
the moraines, more or less sharply, and it was no easy matter to get
off the ice, owing to the steepness of the moraine. The ice melted by
reflection from the face of the moraine, and formed a difficult
crevasse between it and the glacier. Bowlders of every shape and size
were scattered over the face of the glacier. Large ones were propped
up on pinnacles of ice; these were evidently too thick for the sun to
heat through. The small bowlders were sunk more or less deeply, and
surrounded by water in the hot sun; but they evidently froze fast
again at night.
The noise produced by the glacier was startling and strange. One might
suppose the mountain was breaking loose, particularly at night.
Although, so far as stillness was concerned, there was no difference
between day and night, at night the noise seemed more terrible. It was
a fearful crashing and grinding that was going on, where the granite
was powdered that whitened the river below, and where the bowlders
were polished and partially rounded.
The great stillness and solitude were also very oppressive; no
familiar sounds; nothing except the whistle of the animal before
mentioned and the noise of the glacier's motion was to be heard, and
if these had not occurred at intervals the solitude would have been
still more oppressive. We were glad to get down again to the
Nesqually, where we could hear its roar and see its rushing waters.
The other members of the party were so tired and worn, however, that
they seemed to observe but little, and as we were now on our homeward
way, their thoughts were set only on our camp on the Mishawl, with its
provisions and promise of rest.
The first day we passed two of the camps we had made coming up, and
reached a point where we remembered to have seen a great quantity of
blackberries. It was quite dark by the time we reached the little spot
of dead timber--which seems to be the favorite haunt of the creeping
bramble in this country--and to gather our supper of berries we built
a fire at the foot of a large dead tree. Speedily the flames were
climbing to the top of the withered branches, and casting a cheerful
light for a hundred yards round. But what we found very convenient for
gathering berries proved to be a great annoyance when we wanted to
sleep. During the night we were constantly moving our place of rest,
at first on account of the falling embers, and finally for fear of the
tree itself.
Blackberries are refreshing so far as the palate is concerned; but
they are not very nourishing. We took our breakfast on them, and
continued down the Nesqually from six in the morning until six in the
evening, traveling slowly because of the difficult undergrowth and our
worn-out and exhausted condition. We passed another of our camps, and
finally stopped at what evidently had been an Indian camp. The cedar
bark, always to be found in such places, we anticipated would make a
shelter for us in case of rain, which the clouds promised us.
No rain fell, however, and we resumed our march, continuing down the
river five or six miles farther than where we first struck it, to a
point where the hills came close up and overhung the water. There we
camped, expecting that an easy march on the morrow would enable us to
reach our camp on the Mishawl. We ate our last morsel, and the next
morning I was awakened by the conversation of the two soldiers. They
were evidently discussing the subject of hunger, for the Irishman
said: "I've often seen the squaws coming about the cook-house picking
the pitaties out of the slop-barrel, an' I thought it was awful; but I
giss I'd do it mesilf this mornin'."
The morning of the eleventh day we left the Nesqually to cross over to
the Mishawl, and traveled on the mountain all day, until we reached
the stream at night completely exhausted. We should have stopped
sooner than we did, but we were almost perishing with thirst, not
having had any water since we left the Nesqually in the morning. What
we took along in our canteens was exhausted in the early part of the
day. We were not more than two miles from the camp in the prairie, and
notwithstanding that we had had nothing to eat all day, except a few
berries we had picked by the way, we were so exhausted that we lay
down to sleep as soon as we had quenched our thirst.
We started up-stream the next morning, thinking we had reached the
Mishawl below our camp; but soon discovering our mistake, we turned
down. At this point the Irishman's heart sunk within him, he was so
exhausted. Thinking we were lost, he wanted to lie down in the stream
and "drownd" himself. He was assured that we should soon be in camp,
and we arrived there very soon after, before the men left in charge of
the horses were up.
Our first thought was of something to eat. I cautioned all about
eating much at first; but from subsequent results am inclined to think
my advice was not heeded. I contented myself with a half cracker, a
little butter, and weak coffee; and an hour after, when I began to
feel the beneficial effects of what I had eaten, I took a little more
substantial meal, but refrained from eating heartily.
After a short rest we caught our horses, and the doctor and I rode
into Steilacoom, where we arrived after a hard ride late in the
afternoon. As we approached the post, we met on the road a number of
the inhabitants with whom we were well acquainted, and who did not
recognize us. Nor were we surprised when we got a glimpse of our faces
in a glass. Haggard and sunburnt, nearly every familiar feature had
disappeared. Since the loss of my hat, my head-dress was the sleeve of
a red flannel shirt, tied into a knot at the elbow, with the point at
the arm-pit for a visor. Our clothes were in rags; one of the doctor's
pantaloon-legs had entirely disappeared, and he had improvised a
substitute out of a coffee-sack. In our generally dilapidated
condition none of our acquaintances recognized us until we got to the
post. We passed for Indians until we arrived there, where we were
received by the officers with a shout at our ludicrous appearance.
They were all sitting under the oak-trees in front of quarters,
discussing what had probably become of us, and proposing means for our
rescue, when we came up.
I felt the effects of the trip for many days, and did not recover my
natural condition for some weeks. The doctor and I went to the village
next morning, where the people were startled at our emaciated
appearance. We found that the doctor had lost twenty-one pounds in
weight in fourteen days, and I had lost fourteen pounds in the same
time. The doctor, while we were in the village, was taken with violent
pains in his stomach, and returned to his post quite sick. He did not
recover his health again for three months.
The two soldiers went into the hospital immediately on their return,
and I learned that for the remainder of their service they were in the
hospital nearly all the time. Four or five years after, Carroll
applied to me for a certificate on which to file an application for a
pension, stating that he had not been well since his trip to the
mountain. The Indian had an attack of gastritis, and barely escaped
with his life after a protracted sickness. I attribute my own escape
from a lingering illness to the precautions I took in eating when
satisfying the first cravings of hunger, on our return to camp.
We are not likely to have any competitors in this attempt to explore
the summit of Mount Rainier. Packwood and McAllister, two citizens of
Pierce County, Washington Territory, explored up the Nesqually, and
crossed over to the head of the Cowlitz River, and thence by what was
called Cowlitz Pass (since called Packwood Pass), to the east side of
the mountains, searching for a trail to the mining regions of the
upper Columbia. More recently, surveyors in the employ of the Pacific
Railroad Company have been surveying through the same route for a
railway passage.
When the locomotive is heard in that region some day, when American
enterprise has established an ice-cream saloon at the foot of the
glacier, and sherry-cobblers may be had at twenty-five cents half-way
up to the top of the mountain, attempts to ascend that magnificent
snow-peak will be quite frequent. But many a long year will pass away
before roads are sufficiently good to induce any one to do what we did
in the summer of 1857.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] His name is honored in Wapowety Cleaver overlooking the Kautz
Glacier.
[18] I have no doubt that the south branch of the Nachess, which flows
to the east into the Columbia, and that the Puyallup and White rivers,
which flow west into Puget Sound, have similar sources in glaciers,
from the fact that in July they are all of a similar character with
the Nesqually, muddy, white torrents, at a time when little rain has
fallen for months.--Kautz.
[19] The burrow was made by the marmot and the split-hoof tracks in
the loose earth were made by mountain goats.
[20] He here gives evidence that he had not reached the summit.
[Illustration: GENERAL HAZARD STEVENS.]
VI. FIRST SUCCESSFUL ASCENT, 1870
BY GENERAL HAZARD STEVENS
General Hazard Stevens was born at Newport, Rhode Island, on
June 9, 1842. His father was Major General Isaac I. Stevens,
and his mother, Margaret (Hazard) Stevens, was a
granddaughter of Colonel Daniel Lyman of the Revolution. In
1854 and 1855, while the son was only thirteen years of age,
he accompanied his father, then the first governor of
Washington Territory, on treaty-making expeditions among the
Indian tribes. Later he accompanied his father into the Union
Army as an officer on his father's staff. He was severely
wounded in the same battle where his father was killed while
leading the charge at Chantilly, September 1, 1862.
Hazard Stevens continued in the army, and at the end of the
war he was mustered out as a brigadier general of volunteers.
He then returned to Washington Territory and went to work to
support his mother and sisters. On August 17, 1870, he and P.
B. Van Trump made the first successful ascent of Mount
Rainier.
In 1874, he followed the other members of the family back to
Boston where he remained until his mother's death, a few
months ago. He then returned to Puget Sound, and is now a
successful farmer near Olympia.
His companion on the ascent, P. B. Van Trump, remained in
Washington. For a number of years he was a ranger at Indian
Henry's Hunting Ground in the Mount Rainier National Park.
There he was a quaint and attractive figure to all visitors.
In 1915, he returned East to live among kinsfolk in New York
State.
The names of both Stevens and Van Trump have been generously
bestowed upon glaciers, creeks, ridges, and cañons within the
Mount Rainier National Park.
General Stevens prefers to call the mountain Takhoma. The
full account of the ascent was published by him under the
title of "The Ascent of Mount Takhoma" in the Atlantic
Monthly for November, 1876. It is here reproduced by
permission of the editor of that magazine.
Mr. Van Trump made several ascents after that first one, and
in 1905 General Stevens also made a second ascent. He
searched in vain for the relics he had deposited at the
summit thirty-five years earlier. The rocks that were bare in
1870 were under snow and ice in 1905.
When Vancouver, in 1792, penetrated the Straits of Fuca and explored
the unknown waters of the Mediterranean of the Pacific, wherever he
sailed, from the Gulf of Georgia to the farthest inlet of Puget Sound,
he beheld the lofty, snow-clad barrier range of the Cascades
stretching north and south and bounding the eastern horizon. Towering
at twice the altitude of all others, at intervals of a hundred miles
there loomed up above the range three majestic, snowy peaks that
"Like giants stand
To sentinel enchanted land."
In the matter-of-fact spirit of a British sailor of his time, he named
these sublime monuments of nature in honor of three lords of the
English admiralty, Hood, Rainier, and Baker. Of these Rainier is the
central, situated about half-way between the Columbia River and the
line of British Columbia, and is by far the loftiest and largest. Its
altitude is 14,444 feet, while Hood is 11,025 feet, and Baker is
10,810 feet high. The others, too, are single cones, while Rainier, or
Takhoma,[21] is an immense mountain-mass with three distinct peaks, an
eastern, a northern, and a southern; the two last extending out and up
from the main central dome, from the summit of which they stand over a
mile distant, while they are nearly two miles apart from each other.
Takhoma overlooks Puget Sound from Olympia to Victoria, one hundred
and sixty miles. Its snow-clad dome is visible from Portland on the
Willamette, one hundred and twenty miles south, and from the
table-land of Walla Walla, one hundred and fifty miles east. A region
two hundred and fifty miles across, including nearly all of Washington
Territory, part of Oregon, and part of Idaho, is commanded in one
field of vision by this colossus among mountains.
Takhoma had never been ascended. It was a virgin peak. The
superstitious fears and traditions of the Indians, as well as the
dangers of the ascent, had prevented their attempting to reach the
summit, and the failure of a gallant and energetic officer, whose
courage and hardihood were abundantly shown during the rebellion, had
in general estimation proved it insurmountable.
For two years I had resolved to ascend Takhoma, but both seasons the
dense smoke overspreading the whole country had prevented the attempt.
Mr. Philomon Beecher Van Trump, humorous, generous, whole-souled, with
endurance and experience withal, for he had roughed it in the mines,
and a poetic appreciation of the picturesque and the sublime, was
equally eager to scale the summit. Mr. Edward T. Coleman, an English
gentleman of Victoria, a landscape artist and an Alpine tourist, whose
reputed experience in Switzerland had raised a high opinion of his
ability above the snow-line, completed the party.
Olympia, the capital of Washington Territory, is a beautiful,
maple-embowered town of some two thousand inhabitants, situated at the
southernmost extremity of Puget Sound, and west of Takhoma, distant in
an air line seventy-five miles. The intervening country is covered
with dense fir forests, almost impenetrable to the midday sun, and
obstructed with fallen trees, upturned roots and stumps, and a perfect
jungle of undergrowth, through which the most energetic traveler can
accomplish but eight or nine miles a day. It was advisible to gain the
nearest possible point by some trail, before plunging into the
unbroken forest. The Nisqually River, which rises on the southern and
western slopes of Takhoma, and empties into the sound a few miles
north of Olympia, offered the most direct and natural approach. Ten
years before, moreover, a few enterprising settlers had blazed out a
trail across the Cascade Range, which followed the Nisqually nearly up
to its source, thence deflected south to the Cowlitz River, and
pursued this stream in a northeastern course to the summit of the
range, thus turning the great mountain by a wide circuit. The
best-informed mountain men represented the approaches on the south and
southeast as by far the most favorable. The Nisqually-Cowlitz trail,
then, seemed much the best, for the Nisqually, heading in the south
and southwest slopes, and the Cowlitz, in the southeastern, afforded
two lines of approach, by either of which the distance to the
mountain, after leaving the trail, could not exceed thirty miles.
One August afternoon, Van Trump and I drove out to Yelm Prairie,
thirty miles east of Olympia, and on the Nisqually River. We dashed
rapidly on over a smooth, hard, level road, traversing wide reaches of
prairie, passing under open groves of oaks and firs, and plunging
through masses of black, dense forest in ever-changing variety. The
moon had risen as we emerged upon Yelm Prairie; Takhoma, bathed in
cold, white, spectral light from summit to base, appeared startlingly
near and distinct. Our admiration was not so noisy as usual. Perhaps a
little of dread mingled with it. In another hour we drove nearly
across the plain and turned into a lane which conducted us up a
beautiful rising plateau, crowned with a noble grove of oaks and
overlooking the whole prairie. A comfortable, roomy house with a wide
porch nestled among the trees, and its hospitable owner, Mr. James
Longmire, appeared at the door and bade us enter.
The next morning we applied to Mr. Longmire for a guide, and for his
advice as to our proposed trip. He was one of the few who marked out
the Nisqually-Cowlitz trail years ago. He had explored the mountains
about Takhoma as thoroughly, perhaps, as any other white man. One of
the earliest settlers, quiet, self-reliant, sensible, and kindly, a
better counselor than he could not have been found. The trail, he
said, had not been traveled for four years, and was entirely illegible
to eyes not well versed in woodcraft, and it would be folly for any
one to attempt to follow it who was not thoroughly acquainted with the
country. He could not leave his harvest, and moreover in three weeks
he was to cross the mountains for a drove of cattle. His wife, too,
quietly discouraged his going. She described his appearance on his
return from previous mountain trips, looking as haggard and thin as
though he had just risen from a sick-bed. She threw out effective
little sketches of toil, discomfort, and hardship incident to mountain
travel, and dwelt upon the hard fare. The bountiful country breakfast
heaped before us, the rich cream, fresh butter and eggs, snowy,
melting biscuits, and broiled chicken, with rich, white gravy,
heightened the effect of her words.
But at length, when it appeared that no one else who knew the trail
could be found, Mr. Longmire yielded to our persuasions, and consented
to conduct us as far as the trail led, and to procure an Indian guide
before leaving us to our own resources. As soon as we returned home we
went with Mr. Coleman to his room to see a few indispensable
equipments he had provided, in order that we might procure similar
ones. The floor was literally covered with his traps, and he exhibited
them one by one, expatiating upon their various uses. There was his
ground-sheet, a large gum blanket equally serviceable to Mr. Coleman
as a tent in camp and a bathtub at the hotel. There was a strong rope
to which we were all to be tied when climbing the snow-fields, so that
if one fell into a chasm the others could hold him up. The "creepers"
were a clumsy, heavy arrangement of iron spikes made to fasten on the
foot with chains and straps, in order to prevent slipping on the ice.
He had an ice-axe for cutting steps, a spirit-lamp for making tea on
the mountains, green goggles for snow-blindness, deer's fat for the
face, Alpine staffs, needles and thread, twine, tacks, screws,
screwdriver, gimlet, file, several medical prescriptions, two boards
for pressing flowers, sketching materials, and in fact every article
that Mr. Coleman in his extensive reading had found used or
recommended by travelers. Every one of these he regarded as
indispensable. The Alpine staff was, he declared, most important of
all, a great assistance in traveling through the woods as well as on
the ice; and he illustrated on his hands and knees how to cross a
crevasse in the ice on two staffs. This interview naturally brought to
mind the characteristic incident related of Packwood, the mountain man
who, as hunter and prospector, had explored the deepest recesses of
the Cascades. He had been engaged to guide a railroad surveying party
across the mountains, and just as the party was about to start he
approached the chief and demanded an advance to enable him to buy his
outfit for the trip. "How much do you want?" asked the chief, rather
anxiously, lest Packwood should overdraw his prospective wages. "Well,
about two dollars and a half," was the reply; and at the camp-fire
that evening, being asked if he had bought his outfit, Packwood,
thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew forth and exhibited with
perfect seriousness and complacency his entire outfit,--a jack-knife
and a plug of tobacco.
Half a dozen carriages rattled gayly out of Olympia in the cool of the
morning, filled with a laughing, singing, frolicking bevy of young
ladies and gentlemen. They were the Takhoma party starting on their
adventurous trip, with a chosen escort accompanying them to their
first camp. They rested several hours at Longmire's during the heat
of the day, and the drive was then continued seven miles farther, to
the Lacamas, an irregular-shaped prairie two miles in length by half a
mile in breadth. Here live two of Mr. Longmire's sons. Their farms
form the last settlement, and at the gate of Mr. Elkane Longmire's
house the road ends. A wooded knoll overlooking the prairie, with a
spring of water at its foot, was selected as the camp-ground. Some of
the party stretched a large sail between the trees as a tent, others
watered and fed the horses, and others busied themselves with the
supper. Two eager sportsmen started after grouse, while their more
practical companions bought half a dozen chickens, and had them soon
dressed and sputtering over the fire. The shades of night were falling
as the party sat down on the ground and partook of a repast fit for
the Olympians, and with a relish sharpened by the long journey and a
whole day's fast.
Early in the morning Mr. Longmire arrived in camp with two mules and a
pack-horse, and our mountain outfit was rapidly made up into suitable
bales and packed upon the horse and one of the mules, the other mule
being reserved for Longmire's own riding. We assembled around the
breakfast with spirits as gay and appetites as sharp as ever. Then,
with many good-bys and much waving of handkerchiefs, the party broke
up. Four roughly clad pedestrians moved off in single file, leading
their pack animals, and looking back at every step to catch the last
glimpse of the bright garments and fluttering cambrics, while the
carriages drove rapidly down the road and disappeared in the dark,
sullen forest.