Part 9
So far as present indications point, our people have all made good use of their time and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The kind brothers, of Golden Gate and El Capitan Divisions and the many good people of Oakland and San Francisco who contributed so much toward our pleasure are at the present time subjects of the warmest praise and most flattering comments, as incidents connected with our visit are being talked over and discussed. I hear Brother Springer telling in a pleasing and animated manner of a visit he and some others made to the palatial residence and grounds of Lucius Booth, Esq. “Mr. Booth gave us,” says Brother Springer, “the freedom of his magnificent lawn and park, that were beautified and adorned with all kinds, varieties, and colors of plants, fruits, and flowers. We were shown by Mr. Booth what he told us is the greatest curiosity to be found, located in his park, two strong natural springs, only eighteen inches apart; the flow of water from each is about equal. From one spring gurgles a stream of sulphur water, pungent to the smell and taste, with no indications of iron in its composition, while from the other flows a stream strongly impregnated with iron, but with no sign of a particle of sulphur in its ingredients. It is a puzzle to the scientific world, and naturalists pronounce it a ‘marvelous freak of nature.’”
I hear many of our people speak in the highest terms of Brother R. L. Myers, secretary and treasurer of Golden Gate Division 364, who devoted himself so faithfully and earnestly to the interests of our party. Brothers Maxwell, Reagan, Waddington, and a number of others also speak in glowing terms of the courtesy shown them by members of the Board of Trade.
We leave Oakland at 7.40 Pacific time (10.40 Eastern), attached to a five-car train called the “Portland Flyer,” which makes the trip from Oakland to Portland every five days. Engine 1793, in charge of Engineer J. Edwards, is drawing the train, which is conducted by D. H. McIntire; the brakemen are W. J. Mitchell and H. B. Stewart. A ride of 26 miles brings us to Port Costa, where the engine and ten cars are run on to the ferryboat “Salina” and transported across the strait of Carquicons to the old town of Benicia, at one time the capital of California.
The “Salina” is the largest ferryboat ever constructed, being 424 feet long, 116 feet wide, and 18 feet deep; its capacity is forty-four cars and an engine, regardless of size or weight. So smoothly does the “Salina” run that there is not a tremor, jar, or motion to tell you she is moving. Engine 1793 will run us to Davis, a distance of 77 miles.
It has grown dark, a matter we always regret, for we never get tired watching the fleeting, ever-varying landscape. With prospects of mountains for to-morrow, we seek our little bed.
MONDAY, MAY 24th.
Arose early this morning while it was hardly yet light, not wishing to miss any of the grand scenery that I know we must be nearing. Very few of our people are up, and making my way to the smoker I find the conductor who is running the train. He is a newcomer, an entire stranger, but I find him a very agreeable gentleman. “Where are we, captain?” I inquire. “Well,” he answers pleasantly, “you are on the famous Shasta Route of the Southern Pacific Railroad, bound from San Francisco, Cal., to Portland, Ore., a distance of 772 miles. You have traveled about 200 miles in your sleep. We left Red Bluff a short time ago and are now approaching Redding, 260 miles from San Francisco and over 500 from Portland.” “Where did you take charge of our train, please, and what is the number of your engine and the names of your crew?” I ask; “I’m trying to keep a little record of things as we go along,” I add by way of explanation, as he looks askance at me. “I took your train at Red Bluff; have engine 1769, Engineer J. Clark. I can’t tell you the fireman’s name; my name is G. E. Morgan, and my brakemen are J. Cook and J. Duncan. We take you to Ashland, a run of 206 miles. It will be necessary for us to get a helper engine shortly, for we have uphill work through here.”
“What stream of water is this, captain?” I ask, as I look out of the window and see a large surging, gurgling, dashing stream of water that seems to be rushing past at a mile a minute gait. “That is the Sacramento River, a stream whose course you ascend for 307 miles and cross eighteen times between Sacramento and Sisson,” he answers, rising and leaving the car as the train slows up and stops at a station.
I follow, get off, and look around. On the right the leaping, tumultuous waters of the Sacramento throw spray in your face as you stand and watch them churning and foaming in resistless might as they sweep madly onward toward the bay; on the left is the station and town of Redding. Several of our people are up and out on the ground. We can see that the town is a thriving business-looking place, and the station is a neat, substantial building. Our engine is taking water and the men are loading the tender with wood. “Why do you burn wood instead of coal in your engines?” I ask Conductor Morgan, who is standing near. “For the sake of economy, I suppose,” he replies. “Wood is plenty and cheap, while coal is very scarce and expensive.”
As we continue on our way I am reminded of Conductor Morgan’s assertion that “wood is plenty,” for we see thousands of cords piled up along the railroad track ready for use or awaiting shipment, and all the hills and slopes and mountain sides within our range of vision are covered with immense forests of pine and spruce. It is wild, picturesque mountain scenery and we all enjoy it.
Our train stops again, and looking out we see a name above the little station door that makes us think of home. It is the beloved, familiar Chester county name of Kennet. We notice that it is spelled with only one “t,” but it is “Kennett,” all the same. Stepping off, I see them attaching a helper engine and get its number, 1902.
As we start again I step on board, and entering the smoker encounter Brakeman Cook. “I suppose we have some climbing to do,” I remark; “I see you’ve got an extra engine.” “Yes,” he responds, “from here to Sisson is 61 miles, and in that distance we make an ascent of 2884 feet, at one point having a grade of 168 feet to the mile.” Passing Castle Crag we see in the distance its bald, bare bluffs and peaks of rugged, towering granite, and nestling in the shadow of the ridge can be seen its picturesque hotel, a resort where those needing mountain air for health, or mountain solitude for repose or pleasure, can find a safe, secure retreat.
From this point we catch our first glimpse of grand Mt. Shasta, 60 miles away. We stop at Dunsmuir twenty minutes for our engines to renew their supply of wood and water, and several passengers from the “Portland Flyer,” taking advantage of the delay, went into a nearby hotel and got lunch. A boy on the station platform with a large four-pound trout that he had just caught, and which was still flapping its tail, attracts the attention of Brothers Sloane and Haas, who want the train held four hours while they go fishing, but the proposition is voted down. A beautiful large lawn slopes from the Dunsmuir Hotel to the railroad, on which tame mountain deer are browsing. Three miles from Dunsmuir we reach Mossbrae Falls and Shasta Soda Springs. Our train stops, and with cups, mugs, jugs, bottles, buckets, and pitchers we make a break for the fountain. There is plenty of water there, and oh, how cold and sparkling and invigorating it is! We drink our fill and fill our vessels and load the train, but it would not be missed had we taken ten thousand times as much. A roofed and stone-walled well that is inexhaustible is fed by hundreds of little streams and rivulets and jets that flow and spurt from the moss-covered mountain side, while here and there a spring more powerful than the rest sends its slender column full fifty feet in the air and then descends in a shower of mist around you.
Where is the artist that can picture the beauty of Mossbrae Falls, a mighty mountain side covered to its summit with giant pines, terminating at its base in a sheer wall a hundred feet in height, its face covered and festooned with bright green moss, through which descends in a silvery sheen of spray the outpour from a thousand gushing springs? From here to Sisson, a distance of 25 miles, our engines have trying uphill work. There are mountains everywhere, mountains ahead of us and mountains behind us, mountains above us and mountains below us, mountains to the right and mountains to the left, but they are not the bald, bare, treeless kind, for everywhere you look, except when you cast your eye to Shasta’s crown, you will see a magnificent growth of pines and cedars, shrubbery and ferns. You have always to look up or else look down. Looking up you can scarcely ever see the pine-clad summits, for your eye rests on the top of the car window before it reaches half way up the mountain side; looking down you are all right, if you don’t get dizzy, for in many places you can look down upon the tops of the tallest trees a thousand feet below.
With breath of flame and lungs of iron those powerful iron steeds puff and cough and climb, and the long ten-car train, following their laborious lead, winds and worms in and out and around those narrow paths, traced and hewn in the mighty Sierra Nevada’s rugged sides by persistent resistless Progress, ever guided, ever urged by the indomitable will, restless perseverance, mechanical ingenuity, and scientific skill of man. We climb and climb and worm and wind until Sisson’s heights are reached, at an elevation of 3555 feet, and then we rest awhile--rest to feast our eyes on Shasta’s indescribable majesty and grandeur.
This is the nearest point the railroad runs to that gigantic mound, and it is twelve miles on an air line from where we sit and stand to the glistening, snow-crowned crest of that mighty monarch. Why we should so sensibly feel his presence and he so far away is a conundrum no one asks; we only look and feel, and silently wonder what it is we feel. It must be awe, for that which is great, we are told, inspires awe, and Shasta is very, very great. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty-two feet is the estimated height of this colossal giant that pokes his apex in the sky. Were it possible to grade him down or slice him off to one-half his height he would make a plateau 75 miles in circumference and 25 miles across; but it is time to go. The manager says, “Git on,” and bidding adieu to Shasta we “git.”
One mile from Sisson Conductor Morgan points to a little mountain spring that wouldn’t slake the thirst of a nanny goat, and says, “There’s the head waters of the Sacramento River, which is 307 miles from where it empties into the bay.” The road now is making some wonderful curves and bends to get around insurmountable heights and across unbridgeable chasms. We have just finished a run of about eight miles, described almost a complete S, and are only one mile and a half from where we started. At Edgewood helper engine No. 1902 is detached, for it is now down grade to Hornbrook, a distance of 40 miles, with a drop at places of 170 feet to the mile.
At Hornbrook engine No. 1907 was attached to assist to Siskiyou, a distance of 24 miles, with an ascent of 190 feet to the mile. As we approach State Line we cross the old Portland stage trail, and at 3.03 P. M. Eastern (12.03 Pacific) time we cross the State Line and enter Oregon, having traveled 1136 miles through the State of California. We pass Gregory Siding, where two freight wrecks had recently occurred. The wrecking crew are still on the ground, having evidently just put engine No. 1503 on the track, for it is standing there as we pass, covered with mud. We here have in view Pilot Rock, a great bare bluff that stands out and alone like a huge sentinel guarding the gateway of the valley, and famous in the early history of this locality as the scene of stirring Indian warfare. Manager and Mrs. Wyman are on the engine enjoying an unobstructed view of this marvelous mountain ride. We have just had our last look at California scenery, for rounding a bend as we pass Pilot Rock, the last view of majestic Shasta bursts upon our vision, reposing in sublime and solemn grandeur 50
miles away. Another curve, the picture fades, the curtain falls, and exit California.
Still climbing the rugged sides of Siskiyou, and drawing nearer and closer to its summit, our train, as though despairing of ever reaching the top, plunges suddenly into its rocky ribs. The depths of despair can be no darker than the gloomy obscurity of this yawning hole in the mountain wall; for 3700 feet through “Tunnel 13” our train pierces the heart of Siskiyou before emerging into daylight on the opposite side. Here the summit of the grade is reached at an elevation of 4130 feet. Leaving engine No. 1907 behind we now commence the descent of the northern slope of the Siskiyou Mountain, amidst scenery of beauty and grandeur. Arriving at Ashland 5.10 P. M. Eastern (2.10 P. M. Pacific) time, a stop of twenty minutes is given and a change of engines is made.
Bidding goodbye to Conductor Morgan and his crew, who deserve our highest praise for the able manner in which our train was handled, and who did much toward making the trip interesting by the useful information imparted, we speed on our way again with engine 1361 in charge of C. C. Case and fired by Robert McCuan; Conductor Edward Houston, Baggagemaster R. W. Jameson, Brakeman H. Ballard, who take us to Portland, 341 miles. Leaving Ashland, we pass a number of gold mines in operation on the rugged hillside, and swing around into Rogue River Valley, a rich farming and fruit-growing district, producing, it is said, some of the finest fruits grown in Oregon. A stop of a few minutes is made at Grant’s Pass, attaching engine No. 1759 to assist up the hill to West Fork, 47 miles. Twenty minutes is allowed at Glendale to enable the passengers of the “Portland Flyer” and the crew to partake of lunch at “The Hotel Glendale.” Soon after leaving Glendale we enter a wild ravine, inclosed by towering hills covered to their summits with great pine timber. “Mr. Jameson,” I ask of the baggagemaster, an agreeable old gentleman, “has this wild spot a name?” “This is Cow Creek Cañon; the stream of water you see is Cow Creek, which runs the entire length of the cañon, 35 miles,” is the answer.
The farther we penetrate this narrow gorge the more are we impressed with the solitude of its mighty pine-clad sides, that commence at the creek on one hand and at the railroad on the other and rise upward in a steep slope for over 2000 feet, covered to the very crests with giant Oregon pines. We arrive at the little station of West Fork, the only station in the cañon, and engine No. 1759 is detached and sidetracked. There is gold hidden in these mighty hills, and here and there we see a mine, the principal one, the Victoria, being located near West Fork. Two miles north of this point we are shown where occurred in 1890 the largest landslide ever known in the history of railroads. An immense section of the mountain side becoming loosened, slid down into the bottom of the cañon, burying 900 feet of the railroad to the depth of 100 feet, and damming the creek, formed a lake 60 feet deep and one mile long. The buried track was abandoned and the road built across the creek along the foot of the opposite sloping wall of the cañon. We can plainly see the great mass of earth and rocks and trees that cover the buried track, and which forms a striking instance of what might occur at any time to roads that run through such mountain cañons. It is growing dark as we emerge from the fastness and solitude of this Oregon wilderness, but can easily discern that it is a change for the better, for we enter a valley teeming with fields of waving grain and orchards of thrifty trees. We stop at Roseburg for ten minutes, where another change of engines is made, and when we start on our way again at 12.10 A. M. Eastern (9.10 P. M. Pacific) time, it is quite dark.
Leaving Roseburg, we have engine No. 1355, with Engineer Montgomery at the throttle. Having a grade for 15 miles between Drains and Cottage Grove, we get Engineer Connelly, with engine No. 1516, as helper. Conductor Houston and his crew continue with us to Portland.
TUESDAY, MAY 25th.
Arrived at Portland this morning at 8.00 Eastern (5.00 Pacific) time, and after breakfast we met Morton Young, Esq., of Portland. Mr. Young is a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91, O. R. C., and an earnest and enthusiastic member of the order, though not in railway service at the present time, having been fortunate in real estate speculation and able now to retire from active business cares. Brother Young kindly escorts a number of our party over the East Side Electric Railway to Oregon City, which is a pleasant ride of 14 miles. We climb the great wooden stairway leading up to the bluffs that overlook the city and obtain a magnificent view of all the surrounding country. Looking down upon the falls of the Willamette River, we are impressed with the grandeur of this Niagara of the Pacific. Descending from this alluring point of observation, we visit the great electric plant located at the falls, deriving its power from the waters of the Willamette and supplying Oregon City, Portland, and all the outlying districts with light and power. From the windows of the power house we obtain a much nearer view of the falls. The Willamette River at this point is about half a mile in width and the falls, in the form of a semi-circle, extend from shore to shore with an average height of 40 feet. It is estimated that the horse-power capacity of this great volume of leaping, dashing, roaring water is second in the world to that of Niagara. The great power house, with walls of solid concrete, is located on the west side of the river, just below the falls, and has a capacity of 12,000 horse power. It is owned and operated by the Portland General Electric Company, a corporation organized in 1892 with a capital of $4,250,000.
We cannot remain long in one place and are unable to give this interesting city the attention we would like, but we can see as we traverse one of its principal thoroughfares that it is up to date in its accommodations and improvements. We pass the Electric Hotel, and from its appearance we are sure it is first class in every respect, and had we the opportunity or occasion to partake of its hospitality we are confident we would be well taken care of by the proprietors who manage the establishment, Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Robinson. We visit the fish market and are interested in the salmon just brought in, that range in weight from five to fifty pounds, the streams through this part of the country abounding with this species of fish. The ladies, intent on
procuring souvenirs, visit a number of the stores as we go along. On the river banks are located numerous mills and factories. Arriving at the point where we take the electric line for Portland and finding a car waiting, we get aboard and start again on the delightful 14-mile trolley ride. Among the passengers in the car is a lady whose pleasant countenance invites confidence, and Mrs. Shaw has entered into conversation with her. I am busy looking off across the country, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, and have given their talk no attention. Brother Young has just pointed out Clackamas Heights and is now trying to show us the snow crown of Mt. Hood, but his Honor is so mixed up with the vapory clouds that hang around the horizon that he cannot be located. A nudge from Mrs. S. invites my attention, and as I turn she introduces her new-found friend, Mrs. Robinson, of the Electric Hotel, Oregon City. Mrs. Robinson is a bright conversationalist and entertained us with some facts about the city and its surroundings.
“Do you like Oregon City?” some one asks. “I not only like it,” answers Mrs. Robinson, “but I am proud of it. It is a town with a history. The site of Oregon City was first located in the year 1829 by Dr. John McLoughlin, an agent of the Hudson Bay Company, who established a trading post here. It was here a few years later that the Methodists built the first Protestant church erected on the Pacific slope. The Oregon _Spectator_, the first newspaper published on the Pacific coast, was printed here in 1846 on a press brought from the Sandwich Islands. We have a climate,” she continued, “that never goes to extremes; we seldom have freezing weather, and snow, if it comes, only lasts a few hours. I have gathered roses in my yard on Christmas, for very rarely the cold is severe enough to destroy our flowers. We have not grown so rapidly as some of the younger cities of the Northwest, but we have all the natural advantages and facilities to insure and encourage progress and development. We have excellent graded schools that are well attended, and as an evidence of the educational importance of our city, the Willamette Valley Chautauqua Association holds its annual convention or assembly at Gladstone Park, not far from Oregon City. These meetings are largely attended, thousands coming from all parts of the Pacific coast. The people will commence to gather for these meetings next week, and I expect we will have our hands full; but here’s where I get off,” and rising as the car stops she bids us goodday and steps off.
We have reached Portland, and after proceeding a few blocks under the guidance of Brother Young, we leave the electric road and board a cable car for Portland Heights, a high eminence overlooking the city and commanding a magnificent view of all the surrounding country for many miles. We gaze down upon three rivers, the Columbia, Willamette, and Clackamas, and follow with our eyes their sinuous windings as their waters gleam and glimmer in the sun. We can plainly see the hoary crests of Mt. Adams and Saint Helens, but clouds still hovering on the eastern horizon keep Mt. Hood hidden from our sight. With the perversity of human nature, that is always hankering for what is beyond its reach, we want a look at Mt. Hood. “We came up here to see it,” says Mrs. Dougherty, “and if
it’s only a wee glimpse I want it.” So do we all, and we keep our gaze riveted on the spot where Brother Young says it will appear, if it shows at all.
“Mt. Hood is 70 miles away,” says Brother Young, “but on a perfectly clear day a person from here can see it very plainly.” The clouds showing no inclination to favor us, we descend from the Heights, get aboard a car, and start for the station, where we arrive about 1.30 P. M., and find the most of our people gathered there; they also have spent a very pleasant morning taking in the sights of Portland and gathering souvenirs.
Brothers Maxwell and Reagan, of the excursion executive committee, have not been idle, but calling upon Superintendent J. P. O’Brien, of the Oregon River and Navigation Company Rail Lines, have arranged for an excursion this afternoon up the banks of the Columbia River to Cascade Locks and return.