Part 16

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.

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.”

About thirty miles south of the city of Tacoma, Mt. Tacoma suddenly emerges into sight from behind the trees which had previously hidden it from the passengers on the Northern Pacific train, and soon it stands before them in life size, and follows them up to the Sound, with that peculiar ease which mountains that are supposed to be firmly rooted in the soil have in keeping up with an express train,—frisking around it, now on one side, now on another, like a gambolling white elephant. From this point of view the mountain bears some resemblance to the Jungfrau; but whereas that beautiful Swiss peak weakens the impression of her grandeur and power by putting her arms for support on the neighboring Mönch and Ebenefluh, almost equal to her in height, Tacoma stands in solitary grandeur, appearing more sublimely isolated even than Hood or Shasta; for the range on which it rises seems merely a hill. And whereas the tourist who sees the Jungfrau at Mürren, or the Matterhorn at Zermatt, or Mont Blanc at Chamounix, is already five or six thousand feet high, and therefore gazes at a mountain whose summit is only eight or nine thousand feet above him, Tacoma, on the other hand, is seen from the very level of the sea, and therefore rears the whole of its three miles of sloping snow-fields and glaciers before the awed spectator. Its exact height is 14,444 feet, or just four feet higher than Shasta. But thanks to its magnifying snow-mantle, which never disappears, and the fact that it is seen from ocean level, it seems much higher and grander than California’s finest peak. Tacoma, indeed, is the king of all our mountains, from the tourist’s and artist’s point of view; for although Fairweather and St. Elias in Alaska are higher still, they are beyond the range of excursion steamers, and are, moreover, generally buried behind clouds; while Mt. Whitney in Central California is almost equally inaccessible in the Sierra wilderness, and in beauty of outlines does not bear comparison with Tacoma for a moment, lacking as it does its fine conical shape and the advantage of isolation.

Such being the case, it is surely the height of absurdity to continue naming the grandest mountain in the United States after an obscure English lord. When Vancouver first discovered all these North Pacific mountains, in 1792, he had a perfect right to name them after anybody he pleased; but Washington now happens to belong to the United States, and every American with a spark of patriotic feeling in his constitution must feel that Anglo-mania could not show a more humiliating form than in the disposition still shown by many persons on the Pacific Coast, to use Lord Rainier’s name in designating the king of all our mountains. The same objection might be urged against Hood, which bears the name of Lord Hood; but in this case it happens that the name is appropriate, for this peak is hood-shaped, and the uninformed always fancy that to this fact it owes its name; so it may be allowed to stand. Louwala, too, would be a more musical and acceptable name than St. Helens, and there is no reason on earth why a mountain in Washington should bear the name of a British ambassador in Madrid. But in this case also the matter may be overlooked, since the name St. Helens, like the shape of the mountain itself, has a vague feminine suggestiveness. But for Rainier there is no excuse whatever, as we have an infinitely more euphonious name for it in Tacoma, which, moreover, designates the mountain’s character exactly; for in the Indian dialect it means “the mountain.” The fact that the Northern Pacific Railroad, which really “created” the State of Washington, by first developing its resources, always has Mt. Tacoma on its maps, has already done much to popularize this musical name, and to oust the memory of the English lord; and if all tourists of taste will unite in tabooing Rainier, they will soon succeed in effacing that name from all the maps. Tacoma cannot fail to triumph in the long run, just as the attempt made some time ago to name Lake Tahoe after a governor of California failed, the original Indian name being instinctively and unanimously preferred by tourists to such an ugly word as Bigler. Even the Seattle people will find that they will gain more in the estimation of other Americans if they will allow a sentiment of national patriotism to override the local pride and jealousy of a neighboring town which now make them act in a very silly manner when you use the expression “Mount Tacoma.”

To those Pacific Coast people who stubbornly cling to such words as Rainier and Bigler, I commend chapter twenty-three of Washington Irving’s “Astoria,” where he laments “the stupid, commonplace, and often ribald names entailed upon the rivers and other features of the Great West by traders and settlers.... Indeed, it is to be wished that the whole of our country could be rescued as much as possible from the wretched nomenclature inflicted upon it by ignorant and vulgar minds; and this might be done, in a great degree, by restoring the Indian names,” which are “in general more sonorous and musical.”