Part 10

Getting lunch at a near-by restaurant, we are soon all ready for the start. Our three sleepers are attached to a regular train that leaves at 2.45 P. M. “Are all our people here?” asks Manager Wyman, surveying the crowd. “There are four or five that are absent, I believe,” answers Secretary Maxwell, as he nips the northeast corner off a plug of tobacco. “Sloane and Haas are not here, I know,” speaks out Brother Terry, “for they went out with a boy in a boat to watch the salmon shoot the falls of the Willamette and haven’t got back yet.” “Time’s up; can’t wait; all aboard,” shouts the conductor, and away we go, bound for a trip of 45 miles through the marvelous and unsurpassed scenery of the Columbia River. Superintendent O’Brien is with us, his private car being attached to the train. Chief Dispatcher E. N. Campbell, C. R. Holcomb, Esq., and Brother M. Young also accompany the party. L. J. Hicks, photographer, of Portland, is along in his professional capacity; we are also accompanied by the Portland Hotel orchestra, comprised of the following gentlemen: G. H. Parsons, J. Seltenraick, F. Boyd, William Livinston, Prof. E. F. Fleck, who render admirable and pleasing music. Many are the expressions of delight as we catch fleeting glimpses of the wonderful scenery. “You will have a better view on the return trip,” advises Mr. O’Brien, “for we will then run slow and make an occasional stop.” Arriving at Cascade Locks, we are given twenty minutes to visit the great locks which the Government is about completing, at a cost of nearly $1,500,000, to enable vessels to reach the highest navigable point of this most remarkable river.

Time is up to start on our return trip, and reaching the train we find O. R. & N. engine No. 73 coupled to the train, with Engineer A. Curtis and Fireman Jo. Wilson in the cab and Conductor J. A. Allison standing near ready to move off as soon as we are ready to go. In a minute we are all on, and the train goes slowly down the great Columbia, whose current, always rapid, is augmented and increased twofold by the melting snows in the mountains, and surges past in an angry, turbid torrent. From the rushing waters of the mighty river on one side we look up on the other side to the towering cliffs and crags and peaks that rise in majesty and grandeur 3000 feet in the air, their summits fringed with pines that look like ferns as they wave against the sky, while here and there, from out those walls of rock, mountain streams gush forth, and falling hundreds of

feet, their waters descend in showers of rainbow-tinted spray.

“Well,” remarks Mr. O’Brien, as he sees we are almost speechless with rapture and delight, “that’s something you don’t see in Pennsylvania or Jersey every day in the year.” “No,” I respond, “nor anywhere else in the world on any day of the year.” “I really believe there is no scenery in the whole wide world more intensely absorbing than your Columbia River scenery, Mr. O’Brien,” says Mrs. Mattson, and the Doctor, standing near, smiles down upon her his approval. “We will now turn our attention to something more practical than towering mountains and leaping waterfalls,” says Mr. O’Brien, as the train comes to a stop. “We will show you how our salmon are coaxed out of the water.”

Leading the way, we follow him down the river bank to its edge and on to a platform or wharf extending for several feet into the water, where a large wheel is slowly revolving that looks something like the side wheel of an old-fashioned ferryboat or the large overshot water wheel of an old-time sawmill, except that it turns backward, and as the scoops or buckets rise out of the water they bring the fish along, should any of them be so unfortunate as to get caught. When the scoop rises to a certain height the fish slip out into an incline trough or chute (something like the “boys” had fun with at Sutro’s) and are dumped into a bin under the platform. “We are not catching many at the present time,” says the man who is operating the trap, “the river is too high and muddy and the fish are not running very lively.” Opening a trap door, he allows us to peer down into the bin, where we see a lot of fish of various sizes. He kindly gave us several for our dining car, an act we all highly appreciate.

We next stop at Multnomah Falls, where one of those mountain streams pouring over the face of a cliff has a sheer descent of 950 feet. Here the party is arranged in a group on a grassy slope, with the falls as background, and photographed by Mr. Hicks. “Mr. Hicks, will all those beautiful rainbows we see there show in the pictures you have taken?” asks Mrs. Matthews of the photographer. “No,” replies Mr. Hicks, “that is beyond our art. No camera will picture nor can artist paint the gorgeous coloring and beautifully blended tints that you see in the dashing spray of Multnomah Falls.” “I don’t know about that,” answers Brother Mart. Houston, who is always of a practical turn of mind. “I believe George Cope, of Chester County, could do it, for a man who can paint the pretty spots of a trout or all the colors of autumnal foliage and never miss a tint can come pretty close to Multnomah Falls.” “He ought to come out here and paint it, then,” responds Brother Bob Foulon; “for a reproduction of Multnomah Falls on canvas as we see it to-day could not be surpassed by any painting in the world.” We all echo Brother Foulon’s sentiments, and feel as we get aboard the train that it has been our privilege to look upon a scene of unequaled loveliness and grandeur.

We again stop and are photographed at the Pillar, an enormous column of rock standing alone between the river and the railroad, upon the summit of which is growing a great pine tree, 1000 feet in the air. We get back to the depot about 7.30 and find McDonald has a sumptuous dinner awaiting us, which we all

heartily enjoy. Mr. O’Brien and Brother Young take dinner with us, and our people show their appreciation of the courtesy and kindness of these gentlemen by giving them three rousing cheers. After supper Manager E. Lyons, of the Union Depot, escorts a number of the “boys” to the luxurious quarters of the Commercial Club, where we are royally entertained for three hours, returning to the train about midnight.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 26th.

Everybody is astir in good time this morning, for we are soon to bid adieu to this great city of the far Northwest, where we have been so kindly treated and royally entertained. The warmhearted brothers of Mt. Hood Division No. 91, O. R. C., along with the officers of the different transportation companies, will long be remembered for their generous manner toward us. “Views of Portland, Oregon, and the Columbia River,” a beautiful pamphlet souvenir issued by Mt. Hood Division, was presented to each member of our party, and is highly prized. In connection with the pamphlet is “a ticket of welcome” of coupon form, and is quite lengthy, but all right, the first clause of which reads, “This contract with coupons attached entitles the holder to a hearty welcome and a first-class reception on entering the State of Oregon, and the courtesies of the Southern Pacific Company, the Oregon Railroad and Navigation Company, and the Northern Pacific Railway.

R. KOEHLER, E. P. ROGERS, General Manager S. P. A. G. P. A., S. P.

E. MCNEILL, B. CAMPBELL, Pres. & Mgr. O. R. & N. Traffic Mgr. O. R. & N.

W. H. HULBURT, J. W. KENDRICK, G. P. A., O. R. & N. Co. Genl. Mgr. N. P. Ry.

J. H. HANNAFORD, C. S. FEE, Genl. Traffic Mgr. N. P. Ry. G. P. A., N. P. Ry.”

There are five clauses in the contract. The last clause reads, “The Reception Committee will not be responsible for the loss of any diamonds (kings and queens excepted), baggage, meals, or sleep on this run.

J. M. POORMAN, J. W. CROCKER, Sec. & Treas. C. C.

“MT. HOOD DIVISION No. 91, O. R. C.”

There are six coupons, each reading to and fro over a line between different points of interest, and bearing at the bottom the name of the superintendent over whose line it reads. The whole is a nicely gotten up affair and a valued addition to our collection of souvenirs.

We leave here at 8.45 A. M., and the hour of departure being at hand (as is always the case), a number of our new-found friends are at hand to see us off. All along our route we have been constantly reminding the people who we are by a yell we give in concert, with a vim that would drown the racket of a college football team; and now, gathered in a bunch, we let go:--

“Who are we? O. R. C.

“Pennsylvania employé.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!” The ladies of our party are ready and let go:--

“Who are we? Who are we?

“The wives and the daughters of the O. R. C.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!”

And now the cooks and waiters gathered at the windows and on the platform of the “Lafayette” let go:--

“Who are we? P. P. C.

“The cooks and the waiters of the O. R. C.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!”

With all this din ringing in their ears the good people of Portland see our train pulling away from their beautiful station. As they wave their adieus we pass from their sight on a run of 146 miles over the Northern Pacific Railway to Tacoma, Wash. N. P. engine No. 617 is drawing us, managed by Engineer F. W. Bockerman and fired by H. Deam. The conductor is Henry Buckley and the brakemen are H. Harkins and Tom Martin; Mr. Martin is a young man from Chester County, Pennsylvania, who has come West to seek his fortune, and has accepted the position of a brakeman with the expectation of rising in the ranks, and we wish him success.

From Portland to Goble, 39 miles, we follow the Columbia River, which is very high, and much of the low land is submerged. We can see buildings surrounded by water that have been vacated, and we are reminded of the El Paso flood. We look beyond this desolating waste of water and in the far distance can see the glistening summits of Mt. Hood and Saint Helens. Reaching Goble, our train is run on to the great ferry steamer “Tacoma,” transported across the Columbia River to Kalama, and into the State of Washington. Leaving Kalama, we pass through a fine farming country, where agricultural industries seem to be extensively carried on. After passing Centralia, which is a flourishing town of about 3000 inhabitants, we have a splendid view of Mt. Rainier for several miles while we sweep across the Yelm prairie. A short stop is made at Roy to pick up Brothers B. W. Johnson and S. H. Ewalt, of Mt. Tacoma Division No. 249, O. R. C., who are members of committee on entertainment, and who promise to show us the city of Tacoma after our arrival there. The country through here seems to be rich in natural resources, for bordering the fertile valleys can be seen heavily timbered hills and here and there a coal mine in operation.

Arriving in Tacoma at 4.40 P. M. Eastern (1.40 P. M. Pacific), we are immediately taken out by Brothers Johnson and Ewalt to see the town and are joined by A. F. Haines, passenger agent of Northern Pacific Railway, Capt. A. Thompson, of the Portland _Oregonian_, C. P. Ferry, Esq. (who bears the distinguished title of “Duke of Tacoma”), and a member of the Chamber of Commerce, L. Ceasar, Esq., president of Tacoma Bank and a member of the Board of Trade. The first place we visit is the County Court House. “This,” says Mr. Ferry, “is one of the finest buildings in Tacoma, which, you know, is the county seat of Pierce County. We had to have a court house and thought we would build a good one; it cost $400,000.” We amused ourselves looking through the museum located in this building, many of the relics and works of art having been contributed by Mr. Ferry, who collected many of them in foreign countries through which he has traveled. We spent half an hour in the Court House and then entered into a street car, which took us a much-enjoyed ride through the city to Point Defiance Park.

To form a true conception of a Washington forest one has but to visit this wonderful park. Such majestic trees we never saw before, many of them six and eight feet in diameter and estimated to be 300 feet in height, great

pines and cedars, natural growth of the soil, and amongst them, growing in wild profusion, great ferns six feet in height. In inclosures can be seen deer, elk, and bear, natives of the wilds. Through this great forest park bridle paths lead in all directions, and about 80 miles of bicycle track is built. The park is situated on a high eminence overlooking Puget Sound. By a series of steep paths and stairs we descend to the beach. The sound is a great body of water with hardly a ripple on its surface. A half hour is spent here gathering pebbles and shells, and then we head for the smelter, half a mile up the beach.

A boathouse furnishes rowboats for those who want them, and a number avail themselves of this opportunity to avoid a tiresome walk. Those who walk ascend again the steps and steep pathway, and going along the forest walk they arrive at the smelter the same time as those who rowed. We are taken through the great hot, smoky building and shown the treatment ore receives in all its stages from the smelter to the crucible. This immense plant, owned and operated by the Tacoma Smelting and Refining Company, handles gold, silver, and copper ore, and has an annual output of over $900,000. A train of cars await us when we emerge from the works, flat cars, fitted up with seats for the occasion; upon these we climb, and find as we are slowly taken along the sound front that no conveyance could afford a better view. Tacoma has 12 miles of a water front, upon which splendid wharves, great warehouses, monster elevators, immense saw and flour mills are built, the whole 12 miles being lined with industries of this character.

This trip over, we return to our train and find dinner awaiting us, after which our train is run to the steamboat landing and we are taken aboard the “City of Kingston,” belonging to the Northern Pacific Railway, for a trip of 28 miles to Seattle. We can hardly realize as the boat leaves the wharf that our visit to Tacoma is over, so rapidly were we hustled along; but we are highly pleased with the treatment we received and feel that Tacoma is a wonderful place and her people will make her still more wonderful by their thrift, their push, and activity. They have our best wishes for their future progress and advancement.

The “City of Kingston” is a splendid boat and rides like a feather over the waters of the sound, and from the expressions of delight on every hand it is evident our people are enjoying the trip. The boat is in charge of Engineer G. H. Lent and a gentlemanly purser, who have won the goodwill of our party by kindly allowing us the freedom of the boat and showing us through many of the elegantly-furnished state rooms with which the boat is equipped. Arriving at Seattle, we are loaded in a large cable car and taken through the city for about four miles and back again. It is so dark we cannot see the town and can only enjoy the ride. We are taken to the station, where we wait for half an hour for our train to arrive, which has been sent from Tacoma to overtake us. We are all pretty thoroughly tired out, and are glad when at about eleven o’clock our train arrives, and we are soon making ourselves comfortable inside. M. M. Davis, Esq., a press representative of Seattle, and Conductor Thomas Doyle in search of an “item” gave us a short call just after our train came over from Tacoma. Brother Reagan and “Alfalfa” are the only ones I see as

I leave the “refreshment corner” in the “combined” to seek repose in the “Marco.” Our train is still standing at Seattle and the hour is close to midnight.

THURSDAY, MAY 27th.

Getting up this morning about 7.30, I find we are crossing another desert--at least it has that appearance. We have left Ellensburg and are running through a dry, sandy country along the Yakima River. Here and there we pass a ranch where plots of land under irrigation are being cultivated, and from the fertile appearance of these irrigated tracts it would seem that this country needs but plenty of water to make it a blooming paradise. This much I discover by looking out the window while waiting my turn to wash and comb, for Brothers Terry, Brown, and Horner are ahead of me this morning. We work on the principle “first come first served,” and all good naturedly wait when there is nothing else to do. Completing my toilet, I go to the smoker and find the genial conductor who is running the train, and learn that he is a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91; name, W. B. Hale.

“I took charge of your train at Ellensburg,” he says, on being asked the question, “and am going with you as far as I can. We have engine No. 333, run by Engineer Brant, who will take us to Pasco, 122 miles.” “This is a barren-looking country for stock raising,” I remark, as I see a large drove of cattle kicking up the dust in the desert as we pass them; “what do they live on?” “Those cattle are from away back toward the hills, where there is plenty of ‘bunch grass’ that they feed on, and are coming to the irrigation canal for water, or perhaps they are being driven to the railroad station for shipment. You would be surprised at the amount of stock shipped from North Yakima, Prosser, and Kennewick,” is the reply. “There seems to be no trouble about growing plenty of stuff where there is water,” I venture to assert, seeing a verdant-looking plantation, like an oasis in the desert, a short distance away. “Lack or scarcity of water is the only hindrance to agricultural industry,” is the answer, “and this drawback is being rapidly overcome by the construction of large irrigating canals by companies formed for that purpose.”

“Breakfast is now ready in the dining car,” chimes the welcome voice of Conductor McDonald at the open door. Several of our people had entered the smoker during the last half hour, and all arise as one person at the music of that well-known voice, that always brings “tidings of great joy.” “I think Mr. McDonald has the loveliest voice, for a man,” is the flattering remark of Mrs. Matthews as we make a break for the diner. Not one of us but what thinks so too, but of course we know Mrs. Matthews is thinking of the song McDonald sang to us a few evenings before.

“There’s a tramp hidden between the ice chests under this car beating his way, I heard some one say awhile ago,” says Manager Wyman at the breakfast table. As we finish eating the train stops at the little station of Kiona and we all get out to see the stowaway. Sure enough he’s there. In a narrow space between the ice chests, about 16 inches wide, he has placed a board on the dining-car ladder which is kept there, and crawled in on it, a place so narrow that he cannot change his position

or turn. We can see him all covered with dust, but he does not move, and we are not sure that he is alive, for this Yakima dust is something terrible and he has certainly got a dose of it. One of the dining-car boys brought him out some bread and meat, a can of water, and a sponge to protect his mouth and nostrils from the dust. We can see that he is alive when these things are pushed into him, for he reaches out a hand as far as he can to receive them. After passing Kennewick we cross the Columbia River and are soon at Pasco, where a stop is made to change engines. While this is being done we persuade our “mascot” to come from beneath the car. As he crawls from his hiding place and straightens up Brother Ristein, who has his kodak ready, takes a snap. We can see through the ginger-colored Yakima dust on his face that he is a negro. “What’s your name?” I ask. “John Bell, sah.” “Where do you live?” asks Brother Matthews. “Al’bama, sah.” “Where did you get on this car?” asks Manager Wyman. “Tacoma, sah.” “How did you get to Tacoma?” asks Brother Dougherty. “Cargo hosses, sah.” “Where do you want to go, now?” asks Conductor Hale. “Montana, sah.” “Well, crawl in your hole; we’re going to start,” replies Captain Hale, and turning to Manager Wyman continues, “We may as well allow him to keep his place, for soon as you rout him out there will be another one ready to crawl in. It’s impossible to get through this part of the country without being troubled with hoboes.”

We leave Pasco at 12.55 Eastern (9.45 Pacific) time with engine No. 405, Engineer Tom Allen and Fireman W. W. Thompson, who run us to Spokane, 146 miles. Much of the country through which we are now passing is very dry and barren-looking, but we are informed by Captain Hale that it is considered a rich grazing district. From Lind to Sprague, a distance of 45 miles, many large herds of horses and cattle are seen. Just before reaching Sprague we run for two miles on the border of Spring Lake, a fine body of water that looks very refreshing after so many miles of dry and dusty territory. We stop at Sprague a few minutes for water and notice the place has had a very serious fire not long since.

“Captain,” I ask, addressing Brother Hale, who is near by, “what has happened to Sprague?” “The town was nearly wiped out about a year ago by a very bad fire,” is the reply, “and it is a great pity, for Sprague was a pretty little place and a thriving town. It is the county seat of Lincoln County, and had a population of about 2000. It is the headquarters of the Idaho Division of the Northern Pacific Railway, and the company’s machine shops and roundhouse were completely destroyed and all those engines ruined,” and he points to where can be seen about a dozen locomotives, burned and warped, standing on the tracks that had been the interior of the roundhouse and shops.

Another run of 25 miles through good farming and grazing territory, interspersed with considerable timber land, brings us to Cheney, where we again make a short stop. Since crossing the Columbia our course has been upward, and from an elevation at Kennewick of 350 feet we have now reached 2300 feet. Cheney is a growing business place of 1200 inhabitants. It is nicely located on the great plateau of the Columbia and surrounded for many miles with rich farm land and abundant timber.