Part 4

STREAM, SOUND, OR SEA.

There must ever remain in the mind of the tourist a peculiarly delightful recollection of a day on the majestic Columbia River, the all too short run across that glorious sheet of water, Puget Sound, or the fifty hours' luxurious voyage on the Pacific Ocean, from Portland to San Francisco.

Beginning first with the Columbia River, the traveler will find solid comfort on any one of the boats belonging to the Union Pacific Railway fleet. This River Division is separated into three subdivisions: the Lower Columbia from Portland to Astoria, the Middle Columbia from Portland to Cascade Locks, and the Upper Columbia from the Cascades to The Dalles.

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THE UPPER COLUMBIA.

First Tour.--Passengers will remember that, arriving at The Dalles, on the Union Pacific Railway, they have the option of proceeding into Portland either by rail or river, and their ticket is available for either route.

The river trip will be found a very pleasant diversion after the long railway ride, and a day's sail down the majestic Columbia is a memory-picture which lasts a life-time. It is eighty-eight miles by rail to Portland, the train skirting the river bank up to within a few miles of the city. By river, it is forty-five miles to the Upper Cascades, then a six-mile portage via narrow-gauge railway, then sixty miles by steamer again to Portland. The boat leaves The Dalles at about 7 in the morning, and reaches Portland at 6 in the evening. The accommodations on these boats are first-class in every respect; good table, neat staterooms, and courteous attendants.

This tour is planned for those who may wish to start from Portland by the Union Pacific Railway. Take the evening train from Portland to The Dalles. Arriving at The Dalles, walk down to the boat, which lies only a few yards down stream from the station. Sleep on board, so that you may be ready early in the morning for the stately panorama of the river. Another plan is to give a day to the interesting country in the near vicinity. The Dalles proper of the Columbia begin at Celilo, fourteen miles above this point, and are simply a succession of rapids, until, nearing The Dalles Station, the stream for two and a half miles narrows down between walls of basaltic rock 130 feet across. In the flood-tides of the spring the water in this chasm has risen 126 feet. The word "Dalles" is rather misleading. The word is French, "dalle," and means, variously, "a plate," "a flagstone," "a slab," alluding to the oval or square shaped stones which abound in the river bed and the valley above. But the early French hunters and trappers called a chasm or a defile or gorge, "dalles," meaning in their vernacular "a trough"--and "Dalles" it has remained. There is a quaint Indian legend connected with the spot which may interest the curious, and it runs something on this wise, Clark's Fork and the Snake river, it will be remembered, unite at Ainsworth to form the Columbia. It flows furiously for a hundred miles and more westward, and when it reaches the outlying ridges of the Cascade chain it finds an immense low surface paved with enormous sheets of basaltic rock. But here is the legend:

THE LEGEND OF THE DALLES.

In the very ancient far-away times the sole and only inhabitants of the world were fiends, and very highly uncivilized fiends at that. The whole Northwest was then one of the centres of volcanic action. The craters of the Cascades were fire breathers and fountains of liquid flame. It was an extremely fiendish country, and naturally the inhabitants fought like devils. Where the great plains of the Upper Columbia now spread was a vast inland sea, which beat against a rampart of hills to the east of The Dalles. And the great weapon of the fiends in warfare was their tails, which were of prodigious size and terrible strength. Now, the wisest, strongest, and most subtle fiend of the entire crew was one fiend called the "Devil." He was a thoughtful person and viewed with alarm the ever increasing tendency among his neighbors toward fighting and general wickedness. The whole tribe met every summer to have a tournament after their fashion, and at one of these reunions the Devil arose and made a pacific speech. He took occasion to enlarge on the evils of constant warfare, and suggested that a general reconciliation take place and that they all live in peace. The astonished fiends could not understand any such unwarlike procedure from him, and with one accord, suspecting treachery, made straight at the intended reformer, who, of course, took to his heels. The fiends pressed him hard as he sped over the plains of The Dalles, and as he neared the defile he struck a Titanic blow with his tail on the pavement--and a chasm opened up through the valley, and down rushed the waters of the inland sea. But a battalion of the fiends still pursued him, and again he smote with his tail and more strongly, and a vaster cleft went up and down the valley, and a more terrific torrent swept along. The leading fiends took the leap, but many fell into the chasm--and still the Devil was sorely pursued. He had just time to rap once more and with all the vigor of a despairing tail. And this time he was safe. A third crevice, twice the width of the second, split the rocks, riving a deeper cleft in the mountain that held back the inland sea, making a gorge through the majestic chain of the Cascades and opening a way for the torrent oceanward. It was the crack of doom for the fiends. Essaying the leap, they fell far short of the edge, where the Devil lay panting. Down they fell and were swept away by the flood; so the whole race of fiends perished from the face of the earth. But the Devil was in sorry case. His tail was unutterably dislocated by his last blow; so, leaping across the chasm he had made, he went home to rear his family thoughtfully. There were no more antagonists; so, perhaps, after all, tails were useless. Every year he brought his children to The Dalles and told them the terrible history of his escape. And after a time the fires of the Cascades burned away; the inland sea was drained and its bed became a fair and habitable land, and still the waters gushed through the narrow crevices roaring seaward. But the Devil had one sorrow. All his children born before the catastrophe were crabbed, unregenerate, stiff-tailed fiends. After that event every new-born imp wore a flaccid, invertebrate, despondent tail--the very last insignium of ignobility. So runs the legend of The Dalles--a shining lesson to reformers.

Leaving The Dalles in the morning, a splendid panorama begins to unfold on this lordly stream--"Achilles of rivers," as Winthrop called it. It is difficult to describe the charm of this trip. Residents of the East pronounce it superior to the Hudson, and travelers assert there is nothing like it in the Old World. It is simply delicious to those escaped from the heat and dust of their far-off homes to embark on this noble stream and steam smoothly down past frowning headlands and "rocks with carven imageries," bluffs lined with pine trees, vivid green, past islands and falls, and distant views of snowy peaks. There is no trip like it on the coast, and for a river excursion there is not its equal in the United States.

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD.

Twelve miles below "The Dalles" there is a lonely, rugged island anchored amid stream. It is bare, save for a white monument which rises from its rocky breast. No living thing, no vestige of verdure, or tree, or shrub, appears. And Captain McNulty, as he stood at the wheel and steadied the "Queen," said:

"That monument? It's Victor Trevet's. Of course you never heard of him, but he was a great man, all the same, here in Oregon in the old times. Queer he was, and no mistake. Member of one of the early legislatures; sort of a general peacemaker; everybody went to him with their troubles, and when he said a lawsuit didn't go, it didn't, and he always stuck up for the Indians, and always called his own kind 'dirty mean whites.' I used to think that was put on, and maybe it was, but anyhow that's the way he used to talk. And a hundred times he has said to me, 'John, when I die, I want to be buried on Memaloose Isle.' That's the 'Isle of the Dead,' which we just passed, and has been from times away back the burial place of the Chinook Indians. It's just full of 'em. And I says to him, 'Now, Vic., it's fame your after.' 'John,' says he, 'I'll tell you: I'm not indifferent to glory; and there's many a big gun laid away in the cemetery that people forget in a year, and his grave's never visited after a few turns of the wheel; but if I rest on Memaloose Isle, I'll not be forgotten while people travel this river. And another thing: You know, John, the dirty, mean whites stole the Indian's burial ground and built Portland there. Everyday the papers have an account of Mr. Bigbug's proposed palace, and how Indian bones were turned up in the excavation. I won't be buried alongside any such dirty, mean thieves. And I'll tell you further, John, that it may be if I am laid away among the Indians, when the Great Day comes I can slip in kind of easy. They ain't going to have any such a hard time as the dirty whites will have, and maybe I won't be noticed, and can just slide in quiet along with their crowd.'

"And I tell you," said the honest Captain, as he swung the "Queen" around a sharp headland, and the monument and island vanished, "he has got his wish. He don't lay among the whites, and there isn't a day in summer when the name of Vic. Trevet ain't mentioned, either on yon train or on a boat, just as I am telling it to you now. When he died in San Francisco five years ago, some of his old friends had him brought back to 'The Dalles,' and one lovely Sunday (being an off day) we buried him on Memaloose Isle, and then we put up the monument. His earthly immortality is safe and sure, for that stone will stand as long as the island stays. She's eight feet square at the base, built of the native rock right on the island, then three feet of granite, then a ten-foot column. It cost us $1,500, and Vic. is bricked up in a vault underneath. Yes, sir, he's there for sure till resurrection day. Queer idea? Why, blame it all, if he thought he could get in along with the Chinooks it's all right, ain't it? Don't want a man to lose any chances, do you?"

So much has been said of this mighty river that the preconceived idea of the tourist is of a surging flood of unknown depth rushing like a mountain torrent. The plain facts are that the Lower Columbia is rather a placid stream, with a sluggish current, and the channel shoals up to eight feet, then falling to twelve, fifteen and seventeen feet, and suddenly dropping to 100 feet of water and over. In the spring months it will rise from twenty-five to forty feet, leaving driftwood high up among the trees on the banks. The tide ebbs and flows at Portland from eighteen inches to three feet, according to season, and this tidal influence is felt, in high water, as far up as the Cascades. It is fifty miles of glorious beauty from "The Dalles" to the Cascades. Here we leave the steamer and take a narrow-gauge railway for six miles around the magnificent rapids. At the foot of the Cascades we board a twin boat, fitted up with equal taste and comfort.

THE MIDDLE COLUMBIA.

Swinging once more down stream we pass hundreds of charming spots, sixty miles of changeful beauty all the way to Portland; Multnomah Falls, a filmy veil of water falling 720 feet into a basin on the hillside and then 130 feet to the river; past the rocky walls of Cape Horn, towering up a thousand feet; past that curious freak of nature, Rooster Rock, and the palisades; past Fort Vancouver, where Grant and Sheridan were once stationed, and just at sunset leaving the Columbia, which by this time has broadened into noble dimensions, we ascend the Willamette twelve miles to Portland. And the memory of that day's journey down the lordly river will remain a gracious possession for years to come.

THE LEGEND OF THE CASCADES.

There is a quaint Indian legend concerning the Cascades to the effect that away back in the forgotten times there was a natural bridge across the river--the water flowing under one arch. The Great Spirit had made this bridge very beautiful for his red children; it was firm, solid earth, and covered with trees and grass. The two great giants who sat always glowering at each other from far away (Mount Adams and Mount Hood) quarreled terribly once on a time, and the sky grew black with their smoke and the earth trembled with their roaring. And in their rage and fury they began to throw great stones and huge mountain boulders at one another. This great battle lasted for days, and when the smoke and the thunderings had passed away and the sun shone peacefully again, the people came back once more. But there was no bridge there. Pieces of rock made small islands above the lost bridge, but below that the river fretted and shouted and plunged over jagged and twisted boulders for miles down the stream, throwing the spray high in air, madly spending its strength in treacherous whirlpools and deep seductive currents--ever after to be wrathful, complaining, dangerous. The stoutest warrior could not live in that terrible torrent. So the beautiful bridge was lost, destroyed in this Titan battle, but far down in the water could be seen many of the stately trees which the Great Spirit caused to remain there as a token of the bridge. These he turned to stone, and they are there even unto this day. The theory of the scientists, of course, runs counter to the pretty legend. Science usually does destroy poetry, and they tell us that a part of the mountain slid into the river, thus accounting for the remnant of a forest down in the deep water. Moreover, pieces which have been recovered show the wood to be live timber, and not petrified, as the poetic fiction has it. The Columbia has not changed in the centuries, but flows in the same channel here as when in the remote ages the lava, overflowing, cut out a course and left its pathway clear for all time. Below the lower Cascades a sea-coral formation is found, grayish in color and not very pretty, but showing conclusively its sea formation. Sandstone is also at times uncovered, showing that this was made by sea deposit before the lava flowed down upon it. This Oregon country is said to be the largest lava district in the world. The basaltic formations in the volcanic lands of Sicily and Italy are famous for their richness, and Oregon holds out the same promise for agriculture. The lava formation runs from Portland to Spokane Falls, as far north as Tacoma, and south as far as Snake river--all basaltic formation overlaid with an incomparably rich soil.

The trip from Portland by rail to "The Dalles," if the tourist should chance not to arrive in Portland by the Union Pacific line from the east, will be found charming. It is eighty-eight miles distant. Multnomah Falls is reached in thirty-two miles; Bonneville, forty-one miles, at the foot of the Cascades; five miles farther is the stupendous government lock now in process of building around the rapids; Hood river, sixty-six miles, where tourists leave for the ascent of Mount Hood. It is about forty miles through a picturesque region to the base of the mountain. Then from Hood river, an ice-cold stream, twenty-two miles into "The Dalles," where the steamer may be taken for the return trip. In this eighty-eight miles from Portland to "The Dalles" there are twelve miles of trestles and bridges. The railway follows the Columbia's brink the entire distance to within a few miles of the city. The scenery is impressively grand; the bluffs, if they may be so called, are bold promontories attaining majestic heights. One timber shute, where the logs come whizzing into the river with the velocity of a cannon-ball, is 3,328 feet long, and it is claimed a log makes the trip in twenty seconds.

THE LOWER COLUMBIA.

Second Tour.--While the Upper Columbia abounds in scenery of wild and picturesque beauty, the tourist must by no means neglect a trip down the lower river from Portland to Astoria and Ilwaco, and return. The facilities now offered by the Union Pacific in its splendid fleet of steamers render this a delightful excursion. On a clear day, one may enjoy at the junction of the Willamette with the Columbia a very wonderful sight--five mountain peaks are on view: St. Helens, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Rainier. St. Helens, queen of the Cascade Range, a fair and graceful cone. Exquisite mantling snows sweep along her shoulders toward the bristling pines. Not far from her base, the Columbia crashes through the mountains in a magnificent chasm, and Mt. Hood, the vigorous prince of the range, rises in a keen pyramid some 12,000 feet. Small villages and landing-places line the shores, almost too numerous to mention. There are, of the more important, St. Johns, St. Helens, Columbia City, Kalama, Rainier, Westport, Cathlamet, Knappa, and Astoria at the mouth, a busy place of 6,000 people. Salmon canneries there are without number. It is about 98 miles by the chart from Portland to Astoria. Across the bay is the pretty town of Ilwaco. Ft. Canby and Cape Disappointment look across to Ft. Stevens and Point Adams. From Astoria, one may drive eighteen miles to Clatsop Beach, famous for its clams, crab, and trout, and Ben Holliday's hotel. But the fullest enjoyment is obtained by making a round trip, including a lay-over at Ilwaco all night, and returning to Portland next day, and sleeping on board the boat. A railway runs from the town to the outside beach, a mile and a half distant. There is a drive twenty-five miles long up this long beach to Shoal Water Bay, which is beautiful beyond description. This district is the great supply point for oysters, heavy shipments being made as far south as San Francisco. Sea bathing, both here and at Clatsop Beach, is very fine.

The boats of the Union Pacific Ry. on the Columbia leave nothing to be desired. The "T.J. Potter," a magnificent side-wheel steamer, made her first trip in July, 1888. She is 235 feet long, 35 feet beam, and 10 feet hold, with a capacity of 600 passengers. The saloon and state-rooms are fitted with every convenience, and handsomely decorated. The "Potter" was built entirely in Portland, and the citizens naturally take great pride in the superb vessel. In August, 1888, this steamer made the run from her berth at Portland to the landing stage at Astoria in five hours and thirty-one minutes. Then there are two night passenger boats from Portland down, the "R.R. Thompson" and the "S.G. Reed," both stern-wheelers of large size, spacious, roomy boats, well appointed in every particular. The Thompson is 215 feet long, 38 feet beam, and 1,158 tons measurement. In addition to these, there are two day mail passenger and freight boats; they handle the way traffic; the larger boats above mentioned make the run direct from Portland to Astoria without any landings.

SOME RANDOM NOTES.

A mistaken idea has possessed many tourists that the Puget Sound steamers start from Portland; they leave Tacoma for all points on the Sound, and Tacoma is about 150 miles by rail from Portland.

One steamer sails every twelfth day from Portland to Seattle.

One steamer per month leaves Portland for Alaska, but she touches at Port Townsend before proceeding north.