Chapter III: Part 3

This is a trading station of a dozen or two buildings at the eastern boundary of the huge Klamath Indian Reservation. For several miles we had been passing the noble red men with all kinds of conveyances--on horseback, in lumber wagons, spring wagons, carriages, and even two or three automobiles. Most of them were well dressed in civilized store clothes, usually with a dash of color--a red bandanna or necktie or a sporty hat band--and their horses and equipment showed evidences of prosperity. Many pleasantly saluted as they made way for us to pass and, altogether, they seemed far removed from the traditional painted savage of the old-time wild and woolly West. The storekeeper at Bly said they were coming from an Indian fair and all were returning sober so far as we could see. He said that many of them were well-to-do cattlemen and farmers and that he depended on them for most of his trade. We passed many of their farm cottages beyond Bly and the lady of our party, who had once been connected with the Indian service, interviewed one of the women--we were going to say “squaws” but it almost seems inappropriate. She was accorded the most courteous treatment by the occupants of the little cabin; her queries were answered in good English and she declared that everything about the place was clean and well-ordered.

“Going to Crater Lake--what for?” she was asked. “We going to Crater Lake, too, next week for huckleberries, much huckleberries, at Crater Lake; Indians all go there.”

Several miles of level though rough and dusty road after leaving Bly brought us to another heavily forested hill range with more steep and stony grades. We paused under a big pine to eat the lunch we had picked up in Lakeview, congratulating ourselves on our foresight, for we were hungry and the wayside inn is wanting on this trail. We were truly in the wild at this point. No railroad comes within fifty miles; the nearest settler was many miles away--and that settler a Klamath Indian. At the foot of the long grade we came to a sluggish, green-tinted stream--Lost River--which we followed nearly to our destination. They call it Lost River since it vanishes from sight in the vast marshes of Tule Lake to the south.

The last twelve miles out of Klamath Falls were the most trying of a hard day’s run. The road bed was hidden in a foot of flour-like white limestone dust--deep enough to effectually hide the unmerciful chuck-holes and to make driving a blind chance. A snail’s pace--from the motorist’s point of view--was enforced. A dense gray dust cloud enveloped us and the stifling heat was unrelieved by the fresh breeze that a sharp pace always sets up. As if to make a test of the limits of our endurance, we were compelled to work our way through a herd of two thousand cattle that were being driven along the road. We know there were two thousand of them, for a local paper next day made mention of this particular herd and the number. Those who have tried to pass a hundred cattle on a road fairly free from dust can imagine what we endured; those who have never passed cattle on a road can know nothing about it. When we finally worked our way out of the stifling dust cloud, it would have been difficult to recognize the race or color of the occupants of the car--we would surely have passed for anything but members of the Caucasian race. As we rolled on to the broad, asphalted street leading into Klamath Falls, dust begrimed, everything--our faces, clothing, and baggage--was enveloped by a dirty gray film. It covered the car from the radiator to tail light--lay an inch deep on the running boards--and fell in heavy flakes from the wheels.

We had been assured of first-class accommodations in the town, but were not expecting such a splendid, metropolitan hotel as the White Pelican; it seemed almost presumptuous for such grimy, besmirched individuals as ourselves to seek quarters in so cleanly and well-ordered a place. We were reassured, however, by a sign over the entrance, “Automobile togs are fashionable at this hotel,” which seemed to indicate that others before us had been subject to similar misgivings and needed a little assurance of welcome on the part of the hotel people. In any event, no insinuating remarks or even smiles greeted our plight, and a light, airy, beautifully furnished room was assigned us with a perfectly appointed bath which afforded us every facility for removing such Oregon real estate as still adhered to our persons. Just how thorough our dust bath had been was shown by the fact that some of it penetrated our suit cases, though protected by an outer trunk and an oilcloth covering--a thing that had not previously happened during our tour.

After we had restored ourselves to the semblance of respectability with a bath and change of raiment, there was still time to walk about the town before dinner. It is built mainly along a broad, well-paved street and both public and private buildings are rather better than usual in towns of five thousand. The stores, shops, and theaters are above the average, the school buildings are handsome and substantial, and a new courthouse of imposing, classic design was nearing completion at a cost of a quarter of a million dollars. The chief source of the apparent prosperity of the town is the lumbering business with a pay roll of more than one hundred thousand dollars monthly. Klamath Falls is also the gateway to Crater Lake, to which the tide of travel is constantly increasing, and it lays claim itself to being something of a summer resort. The White Pelican Hotel, which, we were assured, cost nearly four hundred thousand dollars, is built over a mineral spring with a temperature near the boiling point and waters closely resembling Carlsbad in mineral constituents. There are elaborate baths and a swimming pool in connection with the hotel and its beautiful appointments and excellent service make it a delightful home for any who wish to take advantage of the waters. Motorists will find the White Pelican Garage, just across the street, quite the equal of the hotel for excellent service and up-to-date equipment. In fact, both hotel and garage would do credit to a place ten times the size of Klamath Falls. To be sure, Klamath Falls expects to be a place of ten times its present size in the somewhat indefinite future--several railroad projects are now under way which, when complete, will make accessible much more of the thirty-one billion feet of standing timber in the county and double the amount of productive irrigated land. All of which seems to justify the emphatic claims of the town’s Chamber of Commerce that “Klamath Falls is bound to grow, bound to grow on account of her great resources, timber, irrigated lands, water power, Nature’s play ground (America’s Switzerland) and railroad development!”

From photo by Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]

IV

THE MARVELS OF CRATER LAKE

We left Klamath Falls early in the morning with high anticipation. Our destination was one of the great objectives of our tour, for were we not to see Crater Lake, which no competent authority would omit from a list of the seven greatest wonders of America, if not, indeed, of the whole world? The run, every mile of the way, is beautiful and inspiring, a fit introduction to the grand climax that greets you at the end. A few miles out of the town the road took us to the shores of Klamath Lake, which we followed to the northern extremity--a distance of some twenty-five miles. While by no means a perfect highway, we rejoiced to find it free from the bottomless dust that strangled us when entering the town--a few sandy stretches and a stony spot here and there were only pleasant variations compared with our experiences of the previous clay.

A short distance out of the town we passed two immense sawmills on the lake shore where the huge logs cut on the surrounding hills and floated to the mills are converted into merchantable lumber. Great log-rafts could be seen moored along the banks or being towed by little steam tugs. A railroad closely following the shore line gives outlet to the finished product. Klamath Lake is now playing a similar part in lumbering to that which Tahoe underwent thirty years ago and we must confess that it does not add to the beauty of the scene. Yet we realized when we ascended the long grades which brought us to splendid vantage points commanding practically the whole lake, that Klamath was very beautiful and picturesque--not the equal of Tahoe, it is true, but a lake that would attract many pilgrims on its own account were it not overshadowed by more famous rivals.

The day was rather dull and gave little opportunity to judge what the play of color might be under a bright, clear sky, but the lake is shallow and probably the blue monotone that we saw on Goose Lake would prevail under such conditions. On the opposite side the purple hills come up to the very shore and beyond them the wooded crests stretch out in a vast panorama to the blue haze of the horizon. Below us was an extensive marsh covered with reeds through which a monster steam dredge was eating its way and rapidly converting the reed-covered swamp into wonderfully fertile grain fields, some of which were already bearing bountiful harvests. Between the main body of the lake and Pelican Bay, an offshoot at the northern end, we crossed Williamson River, a broad, clear, full-flowing stream whose still surface was occasionally ruffled by the breeze.

Leaving the lake we sped onward over a level and fairly good road winding through meadows studded with pine trees and passing Klamath Agency, the capital of the Indian Reservation. Fort Klamath is a town of three hundred people just outside the reservation. The Indian trade and the outfitting and supplies required by tourists make it a lively place during the season--from July to September inclusive. The principal resource of the roundabout country, an obliging garage owner informed us, is cattle raising, in which most of the people of the town are interested directly or indirectly. It is a wonderful grazing country, since the grass is green the year round except when covered by snow, and wild hay provides winter feed in abundance.

The road begins a steady ascent after leaving Fort Klamath, rising over three thousand feet in the twenty miles between the town and Crater Lake Lodge on the rim of the lake. The whole distance is through pine forests and the road was only fair until we reached the confines of the park. After entering the park we were delighted to find a splendid new road that might almost be described as a boulevard had recently been built by the government. It is wide, smooth, and beautifully engineered and we were told is to be hard surfaced in due time. It passes some magnificent scenery, following for several miles the canyon of Annie Creek, whose commonplace name gives little suggestion of the stupendous gorge through which the diminutive stream dashes. It is a vast, precipitous chasm hundreds of feet in depth, almost rivaling the canyon of the Yellowstone in size, though it lacks the glorious color of the latter. For eight miles the road follows this gigantic gorge and from many points we had glimpses of its pine-studded depths. At one point it widens into the “Garden of the Gods” with green meadows and sparkling waterfalls. Along the sides of the canyon are curious formations--columns, pinnacles, and weirdly carved forms--all composed of igneous rock from which the surrounding gravel has at some time been washed away. Splendid pines border the road throughout the park and most of the commoner varieties of conifers are seen--red cedar, hemlock, spruce, white pine, yellow pine, sugar pine, Douglas, silver, and red firs, and other species--and many varieties of deciduous trees are also represented. There were some fine individual specimens, but in the main the trees along the road were smaller, as though they might be a second growth upon a burned area. Six or seven miles after entering the park we came to the official Crater Lake station, where Uncle Sam’s representative issued the proper permits and collected a moderate fee. While this necessary business was being transacted, the lady of the party was besieged by a score of hungry chipmunks that came from crannies about the ranger’s cabin, having learned that auto visitors are likely to have some odd scraps of lunch about their car.

From photo by Kiser’s Studio, Portland, Oregon]

Just after leaving the station, we crossed Annie Creek Canyon, passing Annie Spring Camp on the opposite side, where tourists who prefer the out-of-doors can secure a floored tent and have access to a community dining room. Here we began a steady three-mile ascent to Crater Lake Lodge over the splendid new road recently completed by the government. Despite the rise of two or three hundred feet to the mile, heavy grades and sharp turns are avoided and there is room everywhere for easy passing. Heavy forests skirted the road; only occasionally was it possible to catch a panorama of rugged peaks through a momentary opening in the crowded ranks of somber pines.

Near our destination we came into an open space which revealed Crater Lake Lodge standing at the summit of a sharp incline. It is a long, gray building of rustic design, the first story of native stone with frame construction above. It was not completed at the time of our visit, which doubtless accounted for some of the shortcomings that we noticed during our stay. Inside there is a great rustic lounging room with an immense fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log--a very necessary convenience in a climate where there is frost every month in the year.

We were assigned a room fronting on the lake and here it was that we had our first view of this wonderful natural phenomenon. We had resolved not to let our first impression be one of piecemeal glimpses--we did not even look toward the lake until we reached the splendid vantage-point afforded from our open windows. The lodge stands on an eminence nearly fifteen hundred feet above the surface of the lake, commanding almost the entire lake as well as much of the surrounding country. My first impression is recorded in our “log book” to the effect that “no comparison seems to me so adequate as to imagine a huge, flawless lapis lazuli set in a rugged wall of variegated cliffs whose predominating color is pale lavender.” We did not at first observe the slight emerald ring running around the shore--we forgot the play of light and shadow over the still surface; our only thought and wonder was about the blue, the deepest, strangest, loveliest blue we had ever seen in any body of water; Tahoe, Como, Constance, are blue--bluer than the clearest skies--but their blue is not that of Crater Lake. Around it runs a jagged wall of precipitous cliffs, ranging from five hundred to two thousand feet in height and out beyond these lay an endless array of majestic mountains dominated by the spire-like peak of Mount Thielsen. It is six miles to the opposite shore, but so clear is the atmosphere that the wall comes out with startling distinctness and the mountains beyond stand wonderfully clear against the pale horizon. The clouds, which overcast the sky when we left Klamath, had vanished and we beheld the glorious spectacle of lake and mountains in the full splendor of the noonday sun.

When our first shock of admiration and surprise had softened a little, we observed details more carefully. To the right was Wizard Island, a cinder cone rising more than nine hundred feet from the water--it did not appear so high to us. It was covered with straggling pines and its truncated top showed where the crater in the strange island might be found. In front of the hotel the slope from the rim was less precipitous than elsewhere and we noticed a trail winding down to the water’s edge--we learned later the only practicable descent to the lake. At the foot of this trail there is a lovely green cove; we had overlooked it in the overmastering impression of blue that had seized us at first. Then we noticed the faint emerald rim elsewhere along the shore, where the cliffs were not so abrupt, and became slowly aware that there was more of color variation than we first imagined. A slight breeze swept the surface and a ripple of silver ran across the dark blue expanse. In the shadow of the almost perpendicular cliffs, the blue deepened to dark purple, while in the shallow bays and coves around the shores it shaded into pale green.

Our attention was diverted from the fascinating scene by a call for dinner and we descended to the dining-room, a huge apartment with finish and wainscoating in rough pine bark. On one side the windows commanded a view of Eagle Cove and a large part of the lake and cliffs, while on the other, down a vast canyon bounded by mighty hills, on clear days one may see Klamath Valley, with its shimmering lake fifty miles away, and under especially favorable conditions the gleaming pyramid of Mt. Shasta, one hundred miles distant.

The view, we agreed, was much better than the meal, of which we have not the pleasantest recollection, but we made some allowance for confusion resultant on the incomplete state of the hotel. Conditions should be better when everything is in order; with proper management, the Lodge has in it the possibilities of a most delightful resort during the season, which is usually short--from July to October. On the year of our visit the road was not open until August first, snow being ten feet deep about the Lodge on July fourth. One can not remain here after October first without taking chances of being shut in for the winter, sudden and heavy snowfalls being probable at any time.

After lunch we descended the trail leading from the Lodge to Eagle Cove and took the motor-launch trip around the lake. The descent is more than a thousand feet straight down and by the exceedingly devious trail must be many times that distance. The downward trek was strenuous and the return still more so; burros are to be employed later for guests who dislike to undertake the trip on foot. In many places the trail was covered by huge snowbanks which had lingered during the whole summer, and these, with the mud and water, often made considerable detours necessary. Time will come, no doubt, when the trail will be improved and made easier, but we found it an exceedingly hard scramble for people unused to strenuous effort.

From the launch one sees many aspects of the lake not to be had from any viewpoint on the rim. In the first place you become aware of the marvelous clearness of the water, despite its almost solid blue appearance from the shore. They told us that a white object, such as an ordinary dinner plate, for instance, could be plainly seen at a depth of one hundred and fifty feet. Fishermen can see the gamy rainbow trout, the only variety found in the lake, sport about the bait in the crystal water. One imagines from the rim that a tumbler of the water dipped from the lake would show a cerulean tint, but it proves as colorless and clear as the air itself. It follows that the contour of the bottom may be seen in many places, though the great depth of the water generally makes this impossible. The deepest sounding made so far, 1996 feet, is declared by authorities to be the record for any body of fresh water.

From painting by H. H. Bagg]

The surface was as placid as a mill pond save for occasional ripples from the slight breeze. Above us towered the steep cliffs and as we drew nearer to them dashes of bright color--brilliant yellows and reds--came out in the glowing sunlight. Far above us the rugged outlines loomed against the pale azure skies and only from beneath can one get an adequate idea of the stupendous height and expanse of these mighty walls. From Eagle Cove we followed the southern shore past Castle Crest, Garfield Peak and Vidal Crest--the latter rising 1958 feet above the lake, the highest point on the rim and corresponding strangely to the greatest known depth of the water. Beyond these rises the sheer wall of Dutton Cliff and just in front of it, cut off by a deep but narrow channel, the weird outlines of the Phantom Ship. The name does not seem especially applicable to the solid, rocky pinnacles that tower a hundred feet above the blue water, roughly suggesting the outlines of an old double-masted sailing ship, but they told us that under certain conditions of light and shadow the rock seemed to fade from sight against the background of Dutton Cliff--a fact responsible for its ghostly name. Though the rugged spires seem almost vertical, they have been scaled by adventurous climbers, a feat not likely to tempt the average tourist.

Perhaps a mile farther brought us opposite Kerr Notch, the lowest point on the rim, and some distance beyond this rose the stern outlines of Sentinel Rock. Cloud Cap Bay lies almost beneath the mountain of the same name, which was later to afford us a vantage point for a panorama of the whole lake and surrounding country. The Wine Glass, which next engaged our attention, is a queer slide of red sandstone shaped like a huge goblet against the walls of Grotto Cove. Round Top is a dome-shaped rock rising above the Palisades, a precipice extending from Grotto Cove to Cleetwood Cove, a distance of nearly two miles. Near the latter point, geologists declare, the last great flow of lava occurred, evidenced by vast masses of black volcanic rock.

Pumice Point, projecting sharply into the lake, cuts Cleetwood Cove from Steel Bay, over which towers the legend-haunted peak of Llao Rock, rising nearly two thousand feet above the water. Even to-day many Indians of the vicinity regard Crater Lake with superstitious fears and in olden times only their conjurors and medicine men dared approach the silent shores of the strange blue water. So it is not surprising that some of their legends linger about it still and that Llao Rock was reputed the home of a powerful fiend who once held mysterious sway over the region about the lake. His subjects were giant crawfish whose practice was to seize in their cruel claws any stranger who approached their haunts and to drag him under the bottomless waters. Llao and his retainers did not have everything their own way, however, for Skell, a powerful rival demon, dwelt in the fastnesses of Klamath marshes far to the south and he waged deadly and unrelenting war against the guardian of Crater Lake. Llao, however, after ages of struggle, marked by mighty feats of prowess and enchantment, finally gained the advantage and tore Skell’s heart from his body. To celebrate his victory he gave the reeking heart to his followers, who played a savage ball game with it, hurling it from mountain to mountain in their glee. But Skell’s swift eagles seized their master’s heart in mid-air and carried it to his antelopes, who, with the speed of the wind, bore it over the mountain ridges to his old haunts in the Klamath marsh. There, wonderful to relate, Skell’s body grew about the heart again and, stronger than ever, he planned vengeance against his victorious enemy. Lying in wait, he captured Llao and to prevent any miraculous reincarnation of his rival, the cunning Skell cut him into shreds which he cast into the mysterious cauldron of Crater Lake. The gluttonous crawfish imagined that their master had demolished his rival and feasted joyously upon the remains, only to learn, when a few days later the head of Llao was cast into the lake, that they had devoured their chieftain. Perhaps they died of grief for their unwitting offense, but be that as it may, there are none of them to-day in the blue waters of Crater Lake. But the head of Llao, the Indians assert, is still in evidence to prove their legend, though white men may call it Wizard Island. Llao’s soul dwells in the rock bearing his name and sometimes he ventures forth to stir up a storm on the placid waters which were once his own.

But here is Wizard Island just before us, a symmetrical cinder cone rising seven hundred and sixty-three feet above the lake and covered with a sparse growth of stunted pines. Geologists tell a different story of its origin from the wild legend we have just related, but surely it is quite as wonderful. They say that ages ago expiring volcanic forces pushed the island up from the floor of the crater--and it was only one of many miniature crater-mountains thus formed, though all the others are hidden by the waters of the lake. One may scramble up the steep slope of the island and descend into the crater--a depression one hundred feet deep by five hundred in width. At its base the island is perhaps two-thirds of a mile in diameter and it is separated from the rim by a narrow channel which bears the name of the victorious Skell of the Indian legend. On the landward side of the island is a black, rough lava bed and in one of its hollows is a dark, sinister-looking tarn with the weird name of Witches’ Pool. As some one has remarked, we therefore have a crater within a crater and a lake within a lake. Just opposite the island rise the Watchman and Glacier Peak, both of which exceed eight thousand feet in height, and whose sides slope at a very sharp angle down to the surface of the lake.

Our starting point, just below the Lodge, is only a mile or two from Wizard Island, and the entire round which we have described can be made in from two to four hours, according to the desire of the tourist. It is indeed a wonderful trip and if I have written of it in only a matter-of-fact way, it is because the temptation to dwell on the exhaustless theme of its weird beauty is likely to lead one to monotonous repetition. No one can satisfactorily describe Crater Lake or adequately express in words the subtle atmosphere of mystery and romance that hovers about it; one can only hope to convey enough of these things to his reader to induce him to make a personal pilgrimage to this strange and inspiring phenomenon of nature.

The ascent of the trail from the lake to the Lodge was less strenuous than we expected and they told us there was still time to drive over the new road to the summit of the Watchman, about four miles distant. It is a fine, well-engineered road, but in the main keeps away from the rim and presents vistas of endless mountains rather than of the lake. We were not able to reach our goal, for the road was closed about three miles from the Lodge on account of blasting. We turned about with some difficulty and as we retraced our way to the inn we had a superb view of the setting sun across the long array of wooded crests that stretch southward toward Klamath Lake. At Victor Rock, a short distance from the Lodge, we left the car and sought this splendid vantage point to view the lake at sunset. It was disappointing, if anything about Crater Lake could be disappointing, for the sun’s rays did not reach the surface as he sank behind the hills in the southwest. Only a deeper, duller blue settled over the placid water, relieved a little later by the reflection of a full moon. The sense of mystery, however, that is never absent when one views this strange “sea of silence” was deepened when the blue shadows of twilight settled over it and began a ghostly struggle with the pale moonbeams. Verily, you shudder and wonder if there is not some real foundation for these legends of the haunting spirits of Llao and Skell and perhaps--but the glowing windows of the Lodge reminded us that dinner time was at hand, something of more vital interest than speculations about ghosts and demons.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

A great fire of pine logs was blazing in the huge fireplace and it was grateful, indeed, for there were strong indications of frost in the air. “Better drain your radiator,” was the admonition to our driver, who had garaged the car under a group of huge pines a little distance from the Lodge--no other shelter being ready--but with his usual carefulness he had already anticipated the suggested precaution. After lunch the guests crowded about the fire, reading the day-old newspapers or discussing the various roads over which they had come, there being several other motor parties besides ourselves. A fisherman entered, but the only result of his five-hour cruise was a fine rainbow trout, weighing perhaps six pounds. This started talk about piscatorial matters and we learned that originally there were no fish of any kind in the lake. The principal life was a small crustacean which is found in vast numbers and is probably the basis of the big crawfish story in the legend of Llao and Skell. Mr. U. G. Steele, some thirty years ago, first stocked the lake with young rainbow trout which have thriven greatly, for now the fish are present in large numbers and many have been taken weighing as much as ten pounds. The fish are caught by fishing from vantage points on the shore or by trolling from rowboats. They are usually quick to take the hook and for their size are exceedingly game fighters. A day’s limit is five, which is quickly reached early in the season. So clear is the water that the angler can watch every move of his quarry from the moment it takes the bait until it is finally “landed.”

Naturally, we were curious to know of the origin, the discovery, and the geology of Crater Lake, and soon learned that Uncle Sam has anticipated this curiosity and has issued through the Department of the Interior a number of illustrated booklets and maps which are obtainable at the Lodge. A better plan, no doubt, would be to obtain these and other literature in advance of the trip, but this we had neglected. With this assistance, a few minutes enabled us to learn much of the strange lake and region we were visiting.

The name itself is suggestive of the lake’s origin. Ages ago, probably before higher animal life had appeared on the earth, there was a period of intense volcanic activity on the western coast of North America. A vast range of fire mountains extended from Mount Baker in Washington to Mount Lassen in California and all of them at one time were active volcanos higher and more terrible than Mount Vesuvius ever was. Among these were Mount Ranier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Hood, Mount Jefferson, the Three Sisters, Mount McLoughlin, Mount Shasta, and Mount Lassen, of which only the last still shows volcanic activity. Mightier than any of these was the gigantic peak which stood on the site of Crater Lake and which has been called Mount Mazama in honor of the Alpine Club of that name in Portland, whose investigations have contributed much to our knowledge of this region. It must have exceeded fifteen thousand feet in height, overtopping every other peak on the North American continent, and what ages it stood, a sentinel of fire and snow with no human eye to see its awful majesty, we can not know, but it must have been for many thousands of years. Nor can we know with anything like exactness when some vast and almost unthinkable convulsion of nature tore this mighty mountain from its seat and leveled its proud bulk far below the lesser rivals that surrounded it. Nor can we be certain of the exact nature of the disaster that overtook it; whether it gradually disappeared through long ages or as the result of some sudden and awful convulsion is now only a matter of conjecture, though scientific opinion inclines to the latter view. The theory is that terrific internal forces burst through the slopes of the mountain well down its gigantic sides and that the shell, weakened by loss of the molten core, collapsed inwardly and was fused in the white hot lavas. This theory requires the assumption that much of the debris escaped in the shape of gases, leaving the vast pit where the lake now lies.

More generally accepted is the theory of a sudden and terrific explosion which scattered the mountain top broadcast for hundreds of miles around, a fate that overtook the volcano Krakatoa in the South Pacific. In succeeding ages the fiery crater gradually cooled and was finally filled with water from the heavy snows that fall in this region. The lake has no other source of supply and no visible outlet, but since precipitation exceeds any possible evaporation, there must be some subterranean channel by which the water escapes; otherwise the lake would eventually fill to the level of the lowest point of the rim. That all volcanic action has long since ceased is proven by the fact that at a depth of three hundred feet the temperature remains the whole year round only seven degrees above the freezing point.

Such, in rough outline, is the geologic story of this weird region and mysterious lake. When one considers it as he floats on the steel-blue water, it gives rise to strange thoughts and sensations--here, where you drift and dream, laving your hand in the clear, cold water, once raged an inferno of flame so fierce that solid rock fused and flowed like burning oil. A full mile above the highest skyline of the gigantic encircling cliffs once towered a stupendous peak which has vanished as utterly as if it had never existed. Was it all the result of some mysterious sequence of accidents or did some Power plan and direct it all to obtain this

“Fantastic beauty--such as lurks
In some wild poet when he works
Without a conscience or an aim?”

The first white man to stumble upon this astounding spectacle was John W. Wellman, who led an exploring party to this region in 1853. They were searching for a certain Lost Cabin gold mine which proved as mythical as DeLeon’s Fountain of Youth. No gold did they discover in these giant hills, but they gave the world something better than gold in bringing to light one of the supremest of natural wonders. Not the slightest premonition did they have of their wonderful find.

“We suddenly came in sight of water,” declares Wellman, “and were much surprised, as we did not expect to see any lakes in this vicinity. Not until my mule stopped within a few feet of the rim did I look down and I believe if I had been riding a blind mule I would have gone over the edge to my death.”

The discoverers had a lively dispute over a name for the lake and finally decided to settle by vote whether it should be called Mysterious Lake or Deep Blue Lake. The latter name won, but in 1869 a visiting party from Jacksonville renamed it Crater Lake, which now seems obviously the logical title.

It was not until 1902 that Crater Lake National Park was created by an Act of Congress. This comprises in all two hundred and forty-nine square miles which include many beautiful and interesting natural phenomena besides the lake itself. Several of these one may see when entering and leaving the park and others may be reached by special trips from the Lodge. Many of the mountain peaks in the vicinity may be scaled on muleback over safe and fairly easy trails. Union Peak, about eight miles south of Crater Lake, is one of the favorite trail trips. This is peculiar in that it is not a cinder cone like most of its neighbors, but the solid core of an extinct volcano--a very steep, conical mountain 7689 feet high. Scott Peak, three miles east of the lake, is the highest point in the vicinity, 8938 feet, and overlooks Cloud Cap, which the new government road ascends. Mount Thielsen, 9250 feet, the spire-like peak twelve miles to the north, may also be reached by a trail, passing beautiful Diamond Lake, a favorite spot for campers.

From photo by Kiser’s Studio, Portland, Oregon]

The greater number of visitors come to the park by the automobile stages, which run regularly on alternate days during the season from Medford, on the main line of the Southern Pacific in Oregon, and from Klamath Falls over the route covered by ourselves. The former route, known as the Rogue River road, follows the river of that name through a wonderfully picturesque mountain country. Out of Medford for a good many miles the route passes through a prosperous fruit-farming country, where the famous Rogue River apples are produced. The highway climbs gradually out of the valley into the foothills and as it leads up the gorge of the river, the scenery constantly takes on a wilder aspect, culminating in the virgin wilderness where thunder the Great Falls of the Rogue. The Indians of this section had a strange custom with reference to these falls, for it was agreed that no brave of the Klamath, Shasta, or Rogue River tribes should ever approach within sound of the roaring waters. A little farther up the river is a natural lava bridge one hundred feet in length. At Prospect, the only station on the road, luncheon is served and then the ascent to the crest of the Cascade is begun. The road is edged with giant evergreens, for here is one of the greatest yellow pine forests in the world, though other varieties of conifers are also common. Steadily, the road climbs upward, winding along the steep slopes of the Cascades and affording wide views in every direction over densely wooded highlands. About twenty miles from the lake the road leaves the river and turns into Castle Creek Canyon. Crossing the western boundary of the park, the ascent becomes steeper and steeper until the summit is attained, from which, like a great blue jewel in a sunken setting, the tourist gets his first vision of Crater Lake. The road is usually very rough and dusty, especially late in the season; plans are now under way for its improvement, though the early accomplishment of the work can hardly be hoped for.

The Klamath Falls road, which was the route pursued by ourselves, averages better and is fully as picturesque. The usual plan is to come by the Medford road and leave by Klamath Falls, where the tourist may take the Shasta branch of the Southern Pacific for Weed on the main line. The stages do not run beyond Klamath Falls.

A third route known as the Dead Indian Road leaves the Pacific Highway at Ashland and joins the Klamath Falls route at Fort Klamath. The altitudes traversed by this road average lower than the others, generally less than five thousand feet. It passes within a few miles of Mount McLoughlin, the highest peak of the entire region, and skirts Pelican Bay at the extreme northern end of the main body of Klamath Lake. Here E. H. Harriman, the late railroad magnate, built a summer home which has now become a station on the road known as Harriman Lodge. It is a singularly wild and beautiful section and Pelican Bay is the most famous fishing “ground” in Oregon. Only a few tourists, however, come by this route, as the condition of the road is usually poor and the distance is greater than either of the alternate routes. In describing the routes by which the lake may be reached, I am writing only from the motorist’s point of view. Those who prefer to come by train will probably find it cheaper and more expeditious to go to Fort Klamath and take the stage to Crater Lake Lodge.

While I was ascertaining the data which I have just been transcribing, the guests had gradually retired to their rooms and we soon followed suit. Despite the very crisp air--there is no heat in the guest rooms of Crater Lake Lodge--we threw open our windows and contemplated the weird beauty of the lake by the light of a full moon. Color had given way to dull, mysterious monotone--the lake had become an ebon mirror reflecting the moon and stars in its sullen deeps. And such starlight I never saw elsewhere. The stars flamed and corruscated like diamonds and the lake reflected them in almost undiminished luster, lending a weird splendor to the scene. We were back at our posts at the windows to watch sunrise on the lake, but it was distinctly disappointing. We saw only a sheet of dull silver which gradually changed to blue as the sun rose over the rim. Possibly at other seasons, under different conditions, sunrise on Crater Lake may be a spectacle worth shivering in the frosty air to witness, but we agreed that the scene is far more inspiring when viewed by starlight.

There was a great spitting and sputtering of motors out under the pines as we descended the stairs, for the very crisp weather made starting no easy task, and when we left the Lodge an hour later, one or two of the refractory engines were still resisting every effort to set them going. Taking on a supply of forty-five-cent gasoline and pausing for one last look at the blue wonder-water before us, we glided down the little vale into the pines. We followed the road by which we came for a short distance until we reached the Sand Creek “cut off” which enabled us to regain the main road to Bend without returning to Fort Klamath. It also gave us the opportunity to ascend the new government road to the summit of Cloud Cap, an experience that we prize more than any other at Crater Lake. The road is part of the new highway which is ultimately to complete the circuit of the lake, a distance in all of thirty-eight miles. This road is about half finished at the present time, extending from the summit of Cloud Cap on the east to the peak of the Watchman on the west. It is being built with moderate grades and wide turns, broad enough everywhere for easy passing. It does not closely follow the lake at all points--that would be hardly possible and certainly not desirable. One of the delightful features of the road is the disappearance of the lake when one turns into the hills and its reappearance in new and often surprising aspects as various vantage points overlooking it are reached. It strikes the senses differently and more forcefully after the change afforded by a few minutes in the wooded hills. The distance from the Lodge to Sand Creek Canyon is about seven miles; here the road branches off to Kerr Notch on the rim, four or five miles farther, at which point the ascent of Cloud Cap begins. A splendid new road--it almost deserves the much-abused term “boulevard”--climbs to the summit in long, sweeping grades ranging from five to twelve per cent, yet so smooth and splendidly engineered as to require only high-gear work for a moderately powered car.

I have already described our impressions of the marvels of Crater Lake to the best of my ability and I can only say that the series of vistas presented in our ascent of Cloud Cap were far beyond any we had yet witnessed. In sheer magnificence, in inspiring beauty and in overwhelming mystery--never absent in any view of Crater Lake--I have seen little else that could compare with the seven-mile run. At times we caught only glimpses of the blue water and mighty cliffs through a group of trees; then we came out upon some bold headland where the lake lay shimmering beneath our gaze with an endless panorama of cliffs and peaks beyond. But the crowning spectacle greeted us from the summit, where from an elevation of two thousand feet above the surface our vision covered almost the entire lake and the greater part of its rugged shore line with an almost unlimited sweep over the surrounding country. Here a new and strange color aspect entranced us--the main body of the water took on a deep purple hue, fading into violet and blue with faint streakings of emerald green near the shores. Light lavender was the prevailing color tone of the encircling cliffs in the floods of morning sunlight, while dark blues prevailed where the shadows fell. Out beyond stretched the densely wooded hills with here and there a commanding peak on which snow flecks still lingered. Looking down the slope which we had ascended, we saw Lake Klamath in the far distance, shining silver-bright in its setting of forest and marsh and beyond it endless hills which were gradually lost in a purple haze.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

It was a panorama that held us for some time, despite the fact that our run for the day was to be a long one, over roads for which no one had spoken a good word. Reluctantly and lingeringly we gave the word to depart. I find in my “log book” set down on the spot: “One of the most glorious and inspiring drives in all our experience and all that its most enthusiastic admirer has ever claimed for it”--a judgment we are still willing to let stand. Soberly the big car retraced its way down the long slopes and we soon bade farewell to Crater Lake, wondering hopefully if we should not some time have the joy of seeing its weird beauty again. A few miles through dense forests brought us to the eastern limit of the park, where we surrendered our permit to Uncle Sam’s representative and struck the dusty trail to Bend, our destination for the night--about one hundred and twenty miles distant from the confines of the park.

V

CRATER LAKE TO THE DALLES

On leaving Crater Lake Lodge we were admonished not to miss the Sand Creek Canyon Pinnacles, which we would pass just outside the park. Sand Creek Canyon is a vast ravine several hundred feet in depth with walls so steep that only an experienced mountain climber would dare attempt the descent. At a point nearly opposite the eastern boundary of Crater Lake Park, a multitude of slender sculptured spires ranging up to two hundred feet in height rise from the sides and bottom of the tremendous chasm. These weird gray needles of stone are cores of lava rock left standing after the surrounding sand and silt had been carried away by the floods which cut this mighty chasm in the sandy plain of Central Oregon. A sign, “The Pinnacles,” apprised us of our proximity to these curious natural phenomena; they are not visible from the road, being hidden in the depths of the canyon. They seem strange and uncanny in the noonday sun and we wondered how weird and awe-inspiring they must appear when the pale moonlight filters into the deeps of the great gulch. At the bottom of the canyon a clear stream dashes through a fringe of good-sized pines with here and there a little green paddock. In one of these we saw the only wild animal life--except small birds and chipmunks--since we had left Reno. A doe eyed us timorously and then slipped into the cover of the trees. They told us that there were many deer in this region but they are chary of appearing along the main-traveled roads.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

For many miles after leaving Crater Lake we pursued a natural dirt road, innocent of any attempt at improvement save an occasional log culvert or bridge over a dry gully or small stream. It was fair, however, except for occasional sandy spots and at times good speed was possible over its long, level stretches, for there is scarcely a five per cent grade between the park and Bend. Nearly the whole distance it runs through forests, chiefly the worthless lodge-pole or “Jack” pine, which grow almost as thickly as they can stand. One wonders that they have escaped the fires of whose deadly work we so frequently saw distressing evidences among the more valuable varieties of evergreens. We ran through these uninteresting trees for more than fifty miles without a single village or even ranch house to break the monotony. It was as wild and lonely a country as we had so far traversed and yet in a little shack by the road we passed a station of the Bell Telephone Company--a reminder of the wonderful ramifications of the wires of this great organization. No railroad had as yet penetrated this wilderness but one from Klamath Falls to Bend was projected, which will open up a vast territory to farming and stock-raising. Even now there are many cattle in this country and we frequently saw notices referring to stock ranges posted on the trees. Sheep are also common and in one place we passed a drove of many thousands of them.

Crescent, about seventy miles from Fort Klamath, the only village on the road, has a dozen scattering houses, a store or two, the omnipresent sheet-iron garage, and a big wooden hotel. For some distance about the town the Jack pines were being cleared and preparations made to till the land, though little had actually been done as yet in the way of producing crops. Beyond Crescent we followed the course of the Deschutes River to Bend, a distance of nearly fifty miles. The river here was only an ordinary stream and gave little hint of the stupendous scenery that skirts it beyond Bend. On our left, beyond the river, ran the main range of the Cascades and a little ahead rose the snow-clad peaks of the Three Sisters and Mount Jefferson. A few miles from Bend we came into a region once the seat of great volcanic activity. Here we passed Black Butte, a great conical hill of volcanic rock about which lie huge ridges of black lava with edges as sharp as broken glass.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

On entering Crook County, about thirty-five miles from Bend, it became evident that improved highways were to be the order of the day in this section, but said improvement had not progressed far enough to be of any benefit to us. A wide, straight road had been graded through the giant pines that cover this section, but no rain had fallen since the work was completed and the new “highway” was a wallow of bottomless yellow dust which concealed myriads of distressing chuck-holes. After trying the new road for a little while, we again sought the old, meandering trail and stuck to it as far as possible. However, for a good many miles there was no alternative and we plunged along, leaving a blinding dust-cloud behind us--a fine, alluvial dust that hovered in the air many minutes after we had passed. Fortunately for us, the road was clear ahead and if anyone was behind us he has our unstinted commiseration. We did not go scot-free ourselves by any means, for it was quite impossible to get away from the dust which the front wheels stirred up and it soon covered the car and its occupants with a yellow film. Nearer Bend the road improved somewhat and no doubt after the grades have been thoroughly settled by the rains, they will be smoothed and perhaps surfaced, in which case the road would be unsurpassed, as it is quite level and straightaway.

Much active lumbering is being done about Bend, and the fine yellow pines through which we passed were being slaughtered at a terrific rate. Temporary railroads were laid among the trees and logging engines were hauling trains loaded with the mighty boles that had fallen victim to the ax--or, more properly, the saw, which is generally used in felling these big trees. We learned later that this industry is chiefly responsible for the surprise which we experienced on arriving at Bend. The 1910 census listed the town’s population at five hundred and we were wondering if we could hope for decent accommodations in a village of that size located in a comparative wilderness. It was an agreeable surprise, therefore, to find a town of four or five thousand inhabitants with many evidences of progressiveness and prosperity. True, a good deal of the straggling old village was still in evidence, but the fine new buildings in course of construction made it clear that such structures would soon elbow the ragged old wooden shacks out of existence. A beautiful bank building that would grace the main street of a city of fifty thousand was under way, as was also a fine mercantile building of white glazed brick with white tile trimming.