Chapter IV: Part 4

Our hotel proved rather better than we expected from its outward appearance, though our room was somewhat dingy and a private bath was not to be had. The meal service, however, was excellent. We remarked that Bend would afford a fine opening for a new and really modern hotel and only a few days later I read in a Portland paper that such an enterprise had actually been begun by a local company. The Deschutes River, a clear, swift stream, runs through the town and the new inn will have an ideal location on its banks. Bend’s prosperity is, of course, due to lumbering--one great saw mill employing a thousand men. So vast are the yellow pine tracts about the town that it will be long before this resource fails. Farming and stock raising are also being carried on to a considerable extent in the vicinity and these industries are bound to grow in importance in such a fertile and well-watered section.

Another factor contributing to the activity of Bend may be found in the numerous auto-stage lines that radiate from the town. It is the terminus of the railroad from the north and passengers’ mail and freight for the interior towns to the south and west are largely transferred by automobile. Here they talk of jumps of fifty to two hundred miles in a day much as a San Francisco commuter might speak of a trip to Oakland or Berkeley. The auto-stage agency in our hotel was in charge of a dapper, effervescent little fellow whose nationality we might have guessed even if he had not advertised himself as “Frenchy” on the card which he obsequiously offered us. We had no need of “automobile transportation” so we did the next best thing and patronized a boot-blacking stand which this same expatriated Frenchman was running--we were going to say “on the side,” though it may have been his main business, for that matter. While with the touch of an artist he put a mirror finish on our pedal extremities, he told us with a good deal of pride that his son was in the trenches somewhere in France, fighting to expel the invaders.

Bend, though much the largest town in the county, is not the county seat. This is at Prineville, forty miles to the northeast and nearly the same distance from the railroad. The logical thing would appear to be to move the county capital to Bend within the next few years. Taken altogether, Bend seems to be a town with an assured future and one where moderate fortunes are likely to be made.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

Leaving Bend for the north early the next morning, we followed the Deschutes River for several miles, crossing it three or four times. It is an extraordinarily beautiful stream, broad, clear, swift, and so shallow that the mossy boulders over which it dashes are clearly visible and a keen eye can often detect brightly tinted trout darting among them. Our road kept near the river for a great part of the day and in places we were fairly overawed by the wild and stupendous scenery of the vast canyon through which it courses. Some one has called it the Grand Canyon of the Northwest, and we who have seen the Arizona Wonderland can not feel that such a characterization is altogether far-fetched. Perhaps the element of complete surprise may have tended to give us a somewhat exaggerated impression, for we never had the slightest hint of what we were to see. We went to the Grand Canyon of Arizona expecting much and were not disappointed; we ran unawares upon the Grand Canyon of the Deschutes and our amazement may have warped our judgment to some extent. Still, I find reference to this very region in a recent book by a well-posted Oregonian who declares it “the most stupendously appealing river scenery in all the Northwest--this same Canyon of the Deschutes,” and remember that this same Northwest is the country where “rolls the Oregon,” commonly known as the Columbia, in all its majesty. At one point, not so very far from Bend, was the scenery especially overwhelming in its grandeur. I wish I might adequately describe it, but I doubt if any printed page could ever convey a true idea of such a spectacle. I can only hope to direct attention of the tourist to this almost unknown wonder of America and to assure him that he will never regret a trip between Bend and The Dalles, which may be made by either motor or rail. In fact, the railroad follows the bottom of the canyon and in many ways affords better opportunities to view the scenery than does the wagon road.

The canyon at the point of which I speak is a vast, rugged chasm many hundreds of feet in width and perhaps a thousand in depth, with precipitous, rocky walls almost as gorgeously colored as those of the Grand Canyon itself. At the bottom dashes the vexed river--a writhing thread of emerald--as though it were in mad haste to escape from such deadly turmoil. Our road ascended to a vantage point where we could look for miles down the valley over a panorama of weird peaks whose crests were surmounted with a multitude of fanciful shapes, pinnacles, domes, and strange, outlandish figures in stone which the imagination might fitly liken to a thousand things. Near at hand the hills seemed harsh and forbidding, but in the distance their drab colors and rugged outlines were softened by a violet haze that transmuted their sternness into ethereal beauty. The center of the plain skirted by these weird hills was rent by the vast chasm of the river canyon, its sides splashed with gorgeous colorings. Against the silvery horizon to the westward ran the serrated summits of the Cascades, dominated by the cold white peaks of the Three Sisters and, farther still, in lone and awful grandeur, the vast white cone of Mount Hood. And this same glorious mountain dominated our vision at intervals during the entire day until we saw it stand in crowning beauty against the wide, crimson band of the sunset.

Our road soon left the river canyon, though we coursed through the Deschutes Valley the greater part of the day. The road varied greatly from fair alluvial dirt surface through great wheatfields to a wretched stony trail that wound around precipices, forded rock-bottomed streams and climbed over rugged hills. For a considerable distance we followed a stream at the bottom of a canyon, fording it several times over a trail so primitive and neglected that at times it was difficult to find it at all, but there was no danger of going astray--no one could climb the precipitous walls that shut us in.

Coming out of the canyon we crossed a hill range into a beautiful little valley dotted with several prosperous-looking ranch houses. In front of one of these, under the shade of the immense Lombardy poplars that surrounded it, we paused for our mid-day lunch. About the house was a beautifully kept lawn which the owner was watering at the time. He told us that there was plenty of water for irrigating in the valley if the rains happened to be too scant and a big yield was always sure from the wonderfully fertile soil. A small field--about thirty acres--near his house had just yielded over two thousand bushels of prime barley and other crops were in like proportion. Fruit trees thrive, as was evidenced by several heavily laden pear trees near the house. The greatest drawback was distance from the railroad and poor wagon roads, making transportation very difficult. This was best overcome by feeding the products of the farm to cattle, which could carry their own carcases to a shipping point.

Our road swung still farther from the Deschutes River; we crossed one rugged hill range after another with the inevitable cultivated valley between. The upland plains had been tilled in spots and the irregular yellow patches where the wheat had just been harvested gave a curious effect to the distant hilltops. Evidently much of the soil was not tillable--probably due to volcanic ash--which accounted for the irregularity and scattered aspect of the wheatfields. The heavy wagons carrying the wheat to market had wrought havoc with the roads, which were full of chuck-holes and distressingly dusty.

Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

Upon one of the highest and bleakest of the hill ranges, we came into the village of Shaniko--our first town in nearly a hundred miles--a place of three or four hundred people. It is, however, one of the oldest settlements of this section and until a few years ago a great staging center for freight and passengers from The Dalles. The coming of the Columbia Southern Railroad, of which Shaniko is the terminus, changed all this and led to the rapid settlement of the surrounding country, which now produces wheat in considerable quantities. In spite of the dignity thrust upon it by being made the terminus of a railroad, Shaniko is a forlorn-looking place, bleak and dusty, with a half-dozen stores and the inevitable hotel--a huge, red-brick structure seemingly out of all proportion to the probable needs of the town. The garage was deserted and it was with some difficulty that we located the owner to replenish our gasoline supply. He directed us to proceed by way of Maupin, Tygh Valley, and Dufur, to The Dalles, rather than follow the railway line.

For twenty-five miles out of the town we ran through the huge, rounded hills, curiously mottled with the irregular golden patches of the wheatfields against the reddish brown soil. At Maupin we came back to the Deschutes, here a lordly river, spanned by a long, high bridge which afforded fine views of stream and canyon in both directions. Here again we were directed to take the new Tygh Valley road and had more reasons than one to be glad that we did, for we saw some splendid canyon scenery and a wonderfully engineered road through the hills. A few miles from Maupin we entered Tygh Valley Canyon. A long, steep, and very rough grade led downward between the stupendous walls of shattered igneous rock--red and dull brown, splashed with spots of golden yellow. The sides were rugged in the extreme, and barren except for a few scrub cedars which clung precariously to the steep slopes. At the bottom of the canyon many varieties of trees flourished and here and there were green paddocks.

In one of the greenest of these nooks, at the point where the road reaches the floor of the canyon, is the village of Tygh Valley, as snug and sheltered as Shaniko was bleak and windswept. There was a picturesque little church with a tall spire and the place seemed reminiscent of New England rather than the far west.

Copyright by The Winter Co., Portland, Oregon]

“And what is the most distinctive thing about Tygh Valley?” we later asked a friend who frequently visits the town and he as promptly answered, “Rattlesnakes; the canyon is one of the greatest habitats of this interesting reptile in the whole country. The last time I was there a local character who makes a practice of hunting the snakes had just come in with the carcases of forty-five of them, which he was proudly displaying on the street. He makes a good revenue from the oil, which is in great demand, and the skins are worth from fifty cents to a dollar each. The snake hunter once started to breed the reptiles to increase his gains but the citizens objected. They thought there were quite enough rattlesnakes in the canyon without raising them artificially. Since then the hunter has confined himself to catching the denizens of the wild and is doing Tygh Valley a good service in reducing the number of the pests.”

We ourselves, however, saw nothing of the valley’s aboriginal inhabitants, though we might have looked more closely for them had we known of their presence.

Almost immediately after leaving the town we began our climb out of the canyon, ascending one of the longest grades that we found in all our wanderings. This road is a wonderful piece of engineering, swinging its wide ribbon in long loops around and over the giant hills and affording some awe-inspiring vistas of barren summits and wooded canyons. It is a road of thrills for the nervously inclined, for in places at its sides the slopes drop almost sheer for a thousand feet or more and there are many abrupt turns around cliff-like headlands. But for all that it is an easy road, smooth, fairly free from dust, and with no rise greater than seven or eight per cent. May they do more road work of this kind in Oregon!

At the summit we paused and caught our breath at the panorama that suddenly broke on our vision. An endless sea of blue mountains stretched out to meet the sunset and dominating them all rose the awful bulk of Mount Hood, sharply silhouetted against a wide stretch of crimson sky. There was something awful and overpowering in its lonely, inaccessible majesty--the sunset and the mystery of the blue shadows that enveloped its feet gave it something more than the fascination which the lone snow-covered mountain ever has for the beholder--its relative isolation from other peaks giving it an added grandeur and individuality. Mount Hood, for example, with an altitude of 11200 feet, is far more impressive than Mount Whitney, the culminating peak of a range, though its actual height is 3300 feet greater.

And so, as we contemplated this mystery mountain looming in lonely majesty in the fading twilight, we could not wonder that Indian myth and legend made it the subject of many a weird tale. It dominated the western horizon during the remainder of our run except at short intervals and presented many fascinating changes of color and light ere it faded away in the darkness. From a hilltop several miles out of The Dalles we caught our first glimpse of the Columbia in its mad dash through the narrow straits that give the name to the town. The valley and surrounding hills were bleak and cheerless in the extreme and in the gathering shadows of the distance the mad tumult of the waters was hardly visible, but if the first view was distinctly disappointing, the unfavorable impression was to be effaced by our later acquaintance with the noble river.

We were glad indeed to come into the well-lighted streets of The Dalles. It had been an exceedingly hard day’s run--nearly two hundred miles with much bad road, stony and deep with dust in places. The dust was especially annoying during the last twenty-five miles of our run; the wind was blowing a perfect gale and there were numerous cars on the road. When we entered The Dalles Hotel our appearance hardly fitted us for civilized society, but such a plight creates no comment and attracts little attention. It is too commonplace here--the party that preceded us and the one that followed were very like unto ourselves in unkempt appearance. The hotel with its large comfortable rooms and well-ordered bath was indeed a haven of rest after the day’s experience and when we had regained the semblance of respectability we descended to a late dinner, for which we were quite ready. We found everything about the hotel decidedly first-class and more metropolitan than is common in towns of five thousand, for that is all the census books accord to The Dalles. Of course it claims to have gained considerably since the last enumeration and its private and public buildings, well-improved streets and general business activity seem to bear out the contention.

The town is built on a historic site. Old Fort Dalles was a milestone of pioneer travel, having been established here in 1838 and about the same time a mission was founded--not by Father Junipero, whose name always comes to mind in connection with the word in the west, but by the Methodist Church. The name was given by Canadian voyagers in the Hudson Bay service--The Dalles signifying gutter or trough, referring to the chasms between the great glacier-polished sheets of basaltic rock which break the river into the wild cascades opposite the town. A short distance above this broken pavement the river is thousands of feet in width but where it forces its mad passage through these rocks it is confined to a few yards and where the channels are most contracted it sweeps through three rifts of rocky floor, each so narrow that a child might cast a stone across.

From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]

The surrounding country is a fit setting for such a wild and turbulent scene. On either hand lie monotonous plains, now brown with sunburned grass and studded with gray sagebrush. To the north rise the rugged peaks of Washington and eastward is the long sweep of the river valley guarded by rounded hills. Westward we see the broad bright river, released from the dreadful turmoil of The Dalles, vanish into the giant hills over which the majestic white-robed form of Mount Hood stands, an eternal guardian. It is a scene that never failed to arrest the eye of the observant traveler from the earliest day and even before his time the “untutored mind” of the poor Indian was impressed with the weirdness and beauty of the spot. To account for the strange phenomena of The Dalles and explain how the mighty river was compressed into the three deep narrow channels, the savage mind was busy with myth and legend and, like most of the myths of our aboriginees, there appears to have been a sub-stratum of truth.

The story tells of the fierce volcanic action once common in this section when Hood, Adams, and St. Helens were lurid fire mountains and when a great range of hills ran across the valley where The Dalles now are, damming the waters of the river into a great inland sea. Naturally enough, fiends of great power and malignancy were fabled to have congregated in such a spot and to have had much to do with the manifestations of fire and water. Here, too, is a hint of geologic truth, for the fiends were huge monsters with very powerful tails, probably the dinosaurs and mud pythons of the reptilian age, of which remains have been found in this region.

These fiends, according to the legend, congregated here when the volcanic furies were subsiding and chief among them was a master fiend or devil who had been first in malignancy and hatred. Whether he was sick and would be a monk, as in the old proverb, we do not know, but the story is that he proposed to the lesser fiends to give up their wicked revels and assume the role of beneficent spirits and friends of man. The increasing peacefulness of the elements, he declared, foreshadowed better things. Why should they not give up wars and cannibalism, to which they were so terribly addicted, and seek the quieter pastimes of peace?

A strange story and a strange sentiment to put in the mouth of a devil, but the consequence was stranger still. Instead of receiving the beneficent proposal with favor, the fiends turned on their leader in a furious rage; pacifism was no more popular in that mythical time than it is now. “He would beguile us into a crafty peace,” they shrieked as one, “that he may kill and eat us at leisure. Death to the traitor!”

Alarmed at such a sudden and unanimous uproar, which was followed by an onslaught of all the legions of fiends, this pre-historic Prince of Darkness lost no time in taking to his heels, pursued by the howling pack that thirsted for his blood. Swiftly he sped toward the great ridge of land that held back the inland sea, seeking doubtless to hide in the rugged hills to the north. But he was pressed too closely by his enemies, to whom he seemed sure to fall victim unless saved by some desperate expedient. Summoning all his vast powers as he crossed the spot where the river now rages among The Dalles, he smote with his huge tail upon the smooth flat rocks. A great chasm opened, down which poured a dreadful torrent from the waters of the inland sea, tearing boulders to fragment. This frightful performance stopped the greater part of the fiends, but some of the more venturesome were not to be deterred. With a bound they crossed the chasm and were again on the heels of the fleeing devil. In desperation he smote once more upon the rocks and another and still vaster chasm was opened up and a still greater torrent poured down it. Still the villains pursued him, for some of them were agile enough to vault across the second rent, and the Indian Satan was again in danger. With one last and desperate effort he dealt the rocks a third smashing blow with his caudal appendage and a third chasm, twice the width of either of the others, split the rocks behind him and with the speed of lightning the wild waters rushed in to fill it.

Only a few of the hardiest of the pursuing fiends dared attempt this awful maelstrom and they fell far short and were ground to powder by the furious stream. The fiends who leaped the first and second torrents now essayed to return, but lacking the zeal of pursuit they, too, fell short and were swept to destruction. Evidently determined to make a clean sweep, the myth-makers even doomed the hesitating demons who refused the first leap, for the bank on which they stood gave way, precipitating them into the mad stream.

And so the whole race of these troublesome fiends perished. The devil himself had escaped, however, and paused, panting and overcome, on the opposite bank to take inventory of himself. He was not unscathed by any means. His tail, the powerful weapon that had wrought his salvation, was hopelessly crippled by his last gigantic effort. It was of little consequence, since his enemies were all dead; he was now free to pursue the peaceful policy which he had advocated. So, leaping back over the torrents, he went to his home--wherever that may have been--to found a new race of demons, all of whom, like himself, had flaccid tails.

From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]

Such are the bare outlines of the legend of The Dalles, which shows no small power of imagination on part of the savage originators. The fuller details of the story may be found in “Canoe and Saddle,” by the lamented young New England writer, Theodore Winthrop, who visited this region about 1857 and no doubt learned the story from the natives at first hand. Winthrop lost his life in one of the earlier battles of the Civil War and thus one of the most promising lights of American letters in that day was forever extinguished. His story of this western wilderness at the time of his visit is one of the most vivid that has ever been written and deserves a permanent place in the historical annals of the Great Northwest.

VI

WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON

Had we known the real character of the road between The Dalles and Hood River we should never have started on that journey while a light rain was falling and lowering clouds seemed portentious of much heavier showers. We had intimations that the road could scarcely be ranked as a boulevard, but we assumed that the so-called Columbia River Highway ought to be passable, even in showery weather, and resolved not to be deterred by the prospect of rain. Luckily for us, the drizzle cleared and the clouds rifted before we were well out of the town and though we found some soft spots along the road, we were spared the experience of trying to negotiate these frightful grades in the rain. We confess that while we were pretty well inured to mountain roads, this twenty-two mile stretch of the Columbia Highway occasioned a goodly number of nervous thrills before we rolled into the trim little village of Hood River. The grades are long and steep and in places the road is exceedingly narrow, with a sharp declivity alongside and there are a number of dangerous turns.

Copyright Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]

We had proceeded but a short distance when a decidedly emphatic signboard admonished us, “Danger! go into low gear,” and low gear was indeed very necessary for the long, wicked-looking twenty-five per cent grade before us. Midway in the ascent we were halted by a commotion ahead of us which we learned had been caused by a head-on collision--the driver descending the hill having lost control of his car, due to failure of the brakes. A lively altercation was in progress into which we declined to be drawn, having no desire for complication in the damage suit loudly threatened by the aggrieved party. After some difficulty the road was cleared and we kept on our grind to the summit of the mighty ridge, only to find another confronting us beyond the long descent.

During the run to Hood River we caught only fugitive glimpses of the Columbia, the road keeping mainly to the hills. Most spectacular and glorious were the vistas from the steep, seven-mile grade descending into Hood River Valley. We had a wonderful panorama of the greater part of that prosperous vale with its endless orchards and well-ordered ranch houses lying between the wooded hill ranges dominated by the snowy bulk of Mount Hood.

As we descended to the foothills the road entered the apple orchards and we had the opportunity of viewing the heavily laden trees close at hand. A record crop was nearly ready for gathering and it seemed as if it were hardly possible for another apple to find a place on some of the trees. Every branch and twig was bent with clusters of the dark red globes and the boughs had to be supported by numerous props. The air was redolent with the fragrance of the fruit and we realized the vast extent of the apple industry in the Hood River country. The whole valley below was covered with just such orchards and they climbed over most of the rounded foothills. The crop seldom fails and many thousands of cars of fruit are distributed every year over the entire country. The orchards in the main were carefully cultivated and looked very thrifty.

As we continued down the long grade we came once more in sight of the Columbia with a wide vista down the valley and over the rugged hills that guard it on either hand. Hood River is a clean, substantial-looking town of about three thousand people. Besides being famous for apples, it has the added distinction of being the home address of the Hon. Billy Sunday when he is recuperating from his strenuous campaigns against the devil--and Billy’s devil is quite as crude and primitive as the demon of the Indians who cracked his tail at The Dalles. Billy has invested a small portion of the proceeds of soul-saving in an apple ranch a few miles from Hood River, one of the finest in the valley, a garage man told us. He also gave us the cheerful information that there were no such mountain grades to be encountered as those we had just come over. There were twenty miles of rough and, as it proved, rather muddy road to be covered before we should come to the splendid new boulevard famous the country over as the Columbia River Highway.

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

This piece of road, though rather indifferent, passes some delightful scenery, both of river and shore, and when improved will be a fit link in the scenic glories of the famous highway. In places the road creeps through tangles of fern, hazel, and maples, festooned with vines and brilliant with autumnal red and yellow. At one point we passed beneath a wonderful bank towering hundreds of feet above us and covered with a rank, almost tropical tangle of ferns, shrubs, and vines, through which many clear streamlets trickled down. The rocks and earth were moss-covered and it was altogether one of the most delightful and refreshing bits of greenery we ever came across. Again we entered groups of stately trees crowding closely to the roadside and caught many entrancing glimpses of the broad, green river through the stately trunks.

At no place does this part of the road rise to any great height, but still there were several vantage points affording fine views down the river. Especially was this true of Mitchell Point, where improvement is under way. Here a tunnel has been cut for several hundred feet through the rocky bulwark of Storm Crest Mountain, which gives its name to the work, and next the river are five great arched windows, giving an effect very like that of the Axenstrasse on Lake Lucerne. The Axenstrasse has only three such windows, nor do I think any view from them is as lovely as that from Mitchell’s Point. Here we had wonderful vistas of river, hill and forest framed in the great openings, the river emerald-green and the forests dashed with brilliant colors, for autumn reds and yellows on the Columbia are quite as bright and glorious as those of New England. So sheer are the sides of the great rock which Storm Crest Tunnel pierces that it was necessary to suspend the engineers from ropes anchored at the summit in order to blast footings to make the survey. The tunnel, yard for yard, is the most expensive piece of construction so far completed on the entire road. Near the place we noted an attractive inn with a glassed-in veranda overlooking the river, perhaps two hundred feet above it.

From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]

The completed portion of the highway extends fifty-five miles west of Portland and as construction was still under way, we had to wallow through a quarter of a mile of sharp crushed stone before coming to the finished surface--a performance which left deadly marks on tires. But once on the wide, smooth stretches of this unequalled boulevard, we drew a deep breath of relief and proceeded in high anticipation which in no particular outstripped the reality. For the Columbia River Highway is one of the world’s supreme feats of engineering, commanding a series of views of one of the greatest and most beautiful rivers in the world, and affording unsurpassed panoramas of forest, hill, and mountain.

So great were the difficulties to be surmounted that up to the opening of this new highway, on July 6, 1915, no passable road along the river existed between Portland and Hood River. The great mountain buttresses, which came almost to the water’s edge, and the intervening ravines effectually blocked the way. It was determined that a boulevard following the river was not impracticable, but careful estimates placed the cost at more than $50,000 per mile. Realizing that such a highway would be a great drawing card for the city as well as the entire Northwest, a few leading spirits of Portland began an agitation for its construction. The cost was provided for by a bond issue of two and one-half million dollars and when local politicians showed anxiety to get control of the project, the people thwarted them by taking matters into their own hands. Mr. John B. Yeon, a retired millionaire lumberman with wide experience in handling large bodies of labor, offered to take charge of the construction without remuneration. Other rich Portlanders were alike generous with their gifts of time and money to such an extent that the highway is almost as great a tribute to civic spirit and patriotism as to engineering skill.

The chief engineer, Mr. S. C. Lancaster, had been chosen some time before and, by the munificence of a wealthy citizen, was given the benefit of a trip to Europe to inspect the famous highways there. His selection was a most fortunate one, since in addition to his extraordinary ability as an engineer, he had a true appreciation of natural beauty and the happy faculty of so adapting his plans to the landscape as to preserve and make the most of its scenic features and to turn every superb viewpoint to the best possible advantage.

From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]

For the Columbia Highway was to be more than a mere wagon road along the river. It was to reveal and emphasize the marvelous beauty of the mighty gorge and to be a source of uplift and inspiration to the fortunate wayfarer who directs his course over it. As a mere utility, possibly it would not be justified; the great navigable river and the railways skirting both its shores might meet all the necessities of transportation and travel. They could not, however, reveal the scenic beauties of the river valley to the best advantage, a mission which the highway serves to perfection. This aim Mr. Lancaster kept in view above everything else, and how well he succeeded only he who truly admires the grand and beautiful and who travels, many times, the length of the highway can fully appreciate.

In addition to exploiting the superb scenery along its course, Mr. Lancaster determined that the new highway must conform to the best traditions of road building. Its construction must be of the solidest and most permanent character; it must have no grade greater than five per cent, no curve less than the arc of a one-hundred-foot circle; it must be guarded by substantial and artistic balustrades and, finally, its surface must equal the finest city pavement in smoothness and durability. That all these requirements were fully met we can testify, if a touring experience covering hundreds of thousands of miles in Europe and this country will qualify us to judge.

The actual construction work was begun in 1913 and at the time of our visit the completed road had reached the western limit of Multnomah County, forty-seven miles from the Portland postoffice. Hood River County had also done considerable work--the famous Storm Crest Tunnel is in this county. Apparently nothing had been done in Wasco County, where we encountered the steep, long grades out of The Dalles. We were told that the plan is to carry this highway the whole length of the Columbia River on the Oregon side, a distance of about three hundred miles, but if the work is to be done by the counties, it will probably be long in the building. There is at present no road closely following the river east of The Dalles beyond Celilo, twenty miles distant, where the government has expended four millions of dollars in building locks around the falls of the Columbia. This and many other scenic wonders beyond The Dalles make it most desirable from the tourist’s point of view that the projected highway may be carried to completion as soon as possible. It may seem that I am dealing too minutely with the inception and history of this wonderful road, but I feel that such details are not out of place in a book dealing with Oregon. The splendid achievement of this community in carrying forward this great enterprise is one that should be widely heralded as an example and inspiration to others.

Painting by H. H. Bagg after copyright photo by Kiser, Portland]

After reaching the finished part of the road, we were scarcely for a moment out of sight of the great river and the hills, rocks, and forests that make the wild beauty of its shores. Just across the river is the barren bulk of Wind Mountain, with the shattered stumps of giant trees known as the submerged forest at its base. A little farther we came to Cascade Locks, built by the government around the rapids at this point. Several steamers daily pass these locks, which have a lift of eight feet. Beyond them writhes the turbulent green river, which subsides to placid stretches some distance ahead of us.

Then marvels come thick and fast. We pass on to a wonderful viaduct swinging around the sheer sides of Tooth Mountain, upon which the road is supported by airy-looking concrete pillars. Above us tower perpendicular cliffs crowned by mighty pines, and below us a precipice quite as sheer falls almost to the river level. Beyond this Eagle Creek is spanned with a graceful arch of gray stone and near by is the cliff which Indian tradition tells us was the southern abutment of the Bridge of the Gods. Table Mountain, a rugged, flat-topped cone rising on the opposite shore, marks the northern end of the bridge which geologists say may not have been wholly a myth, for there are signs that a great dyke once held back the waters of the river at this point.

The quaint Indian legend is worth retelling, since every one who points out the wonders of the Columbia to a stranger is sure to refer to it. In early days an Indian father with his two sons came to this region and the youths had a quarrel over the division of the land. To settle the dispute the father shot one arrow to the east and another to the west, bidding the sons make their homes where the arrows fell. The Great Spirit then erected the vast wall of the Cascades between the two to prevent farther trouble. From one son sprang the tribe of the Klickitats and from the other the Multnomahs. The Great Spirit had built a mighty bridge over the Columbia and given it in charge of a witch named Loowit, and this same lady was entrusted with the care of the only fire then to be found in the whole world. When Loowit came to realize how much fire would benefit the two tribes, she besought the Great Spirit to permit her to offer it as a gift to the poor Indians. This he did and the condition of the tribes was wonderfully improved; they built better lodges, made better clothes and, with the aid of fire, fashioned implements of metal and utensils of pottery. To reward Loowit for her benefactions, the Great Spirit offered her any gift she might choose and with true feminine instinct she asked to be young and beautiful. Her beauty wrought havoc with the hearts of the chieftains of the region, but none of them found favor in her eyes until one day Klickitat came from the south and his rival, Wigeart, from the north and both paid court to the queen of the great bridge. So evenly matched were these doughty warriors that Loowit could not decide between them and a bitter war ensued between their respective tribes. The whole land was ravaged and fire was used to destroy the comforts which it had conferred on the Indians. So the Great Spirit repented and resolved to undo his work. He broke down the mighty bridge, damming the river into a vast lake, and slew Loowit and her rival lovers. He determined to give them fitting commemoration, however, and reared as monuments the great white peaks we see to-day, though our names are different from what the Indians called them. Loowit sleeps under Mount St. Helens and Wigeart and Klickitat under Hood and Adams. Surely these red-skinned heroes were given sepulture fit for the gods themselves.

From photo by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

A weird story, but true, no doubt, for can we not see the great cliffs which formed the approaches of the mighty bridge and the white summits yonder which mark the resting places of the unfortunate lovers? Still, there is another story to the effect that when Hood and Adams were yet fire mountains they quarreled and the vast rock, hurled by the former at his adversary, fell short and wrecked the bridge. Marvelous stories! but not so wonderful as the realities that greet our eyes in the same region--the steam road below us with its luxurious transcontinental train and the Columbia River Highway with the machines that glide so smoothly and swiftly over its splendid surface.

At Bonneville--reminiscent of Washington Irving--are the fish hatcheries where salmon and trout are propagated to repopulate the river and mountain streams. A good-sized park has been set aside in connection with the work and this, with the hatcheries, is open to all.

Beyond Bonneville the road drops almost to the river level, a beautiful, nearly straight stretch guarded by a concrete balustrade of artistic design. We have a grand vista down the river from this point with a splendid view of Castle Rock on the Washington side, a vast, conical rock nearly a thousand feet high, with sides so sheer that even the hardy pines can scarcely find footing. Its summit was long considered insurmountable, but it was recently scaled by a venturesome climber. It can be seen for many miles in either direction.

Not the least enchanting of the highway’s glories are the waterfalls which flutter from sheer cliffs for hundreds of feet, swaying like silver ribbons and filling the air with their weird music. The first of these was Horsetail Falls, a rather unpoetic name for the silver cascade which dashes for two hundred feet down the side of a sloping cliff. It is less than three miles farther to Multnomah Falls, the gem of all the Columbia cataracts, but in that short distance there is much to enchant and overawe the beholder.

At Oneonta Creek the road builders encountered a vast cliff two hundred and five feet high, rising sheer a few feet from the water’s edge. The railway had taken all available space and Mr. Lancaster, nothing daunted, drove a tunnel through the solid rock. So great was the danger that the necessary blasting would tumble tons of loose rock on the railroad that the weak places in the cliff were reenforced with concrete before beginning the work. A strikingly picturesque touch is given to Oneonta Cliff by a lone fir which crowns its summit in solitary majesty--there is no other vegetation except shrubbery.

Near this point is some of the wildest and most grotesque scenery along the whole road. On the Washington side is Cape Horn and Cigar Rock--a tall slender pinnacle whose shape suggests the name--which loom like mighty monuments erected by some titan fire god when the demons of our legends ruled the land. These stern cliffs, mottled with the rainbow colorings of autumn and splashed with the soft green of velvet moss and waving ferns, reach their culminating beauty at the spot where Multnomah Falls pours its crystal flood over a ledge nearly a thousand feet above the highway--a sheer fall of eight hundred and forty feet--into a rocky basin and a second plunge of seventy feet to the green pool by the roadside.

At a point well above the second fall is a graceful concrete bridge--the gift of a Portland millionaire--reached by a flight of steps and affording a wonderful close-at-hand view of the fall as well as a wide panorama of the valley. We paused here for a better view of the scene and a drink of the clear, ice-cold water. As we were about to proceed an officer in khaki approached us. We had no guilt on our conscience--fifteen miles had been our limit on the Columbia Highway--and we awaited his coming with equanimity.

“Could you give a fat man a lift to Portland?” he asked, and then apologized, saying he had mistaken us for some one of his acquaintances. We urged him, however, to come right along--a motor cop ought to be a splendidly posted guide--and we proved quite right in this surmise. A little conversation revealed the interesting fact that some years ago he came to Portland from the county where the writer spent his boyhood.

From photo by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon]

“I sold my share in a good Iowa farm,” he said, “and invested the proceeds--some twenty thousand dollars--in a dozen acres near Portland in a section that they told me was sure to boom--but it hasn’t as yet. And so I go on waiting and hoping and paying taxes--holding down a job as motor cop in the meanwhile. O yes, they are mighty strict in enforcing the speed limit; there are six officers on the highway with peremptory orders to arrest any driver exceeding twenty-five miles per hour. No, we don’t make many arrests; local people know the rules and generally observe them and we usually give strangers fair warning. You will see how necessary this is when I tell you that there were six thousand cars on this fifty-mile road last Sunday, and for all our care there was one serious accident.” Then he told us the history of the highway and many interesting facts concerning it which I have tried to recount in the preceding pages. He was even posted on the Indian legends--just the kind of a courier we needed.

There are four or five waterfalls in the half dozen miles after passing Multnomah, beautiful, limpid columns of leaping water--Wahkeena Falls, Mist Falls, Bridal Veil Fall, Tookey Falls and Latourelle Falls--each of which might attract much attention and admiration were it situated in some spot less replete with scenic wonders, but they seem almost commonplace amidst such surroundings. Here, also, is Benson Park, a tract of land including Larch Mountain, donated by Mr. Benson of Portland. A trail has been built to the summit of the mountain, 4095 feet above the sea, and the river at this point is only a few feet above sea level. Here may be gained one of the most extensive views along the whole course of the highway. One’s vision covers vast tracts of mountains reaching to Ranier, over one hundred miles to the north, as well as endless panoramas up and down the river. The summit may be reached by a mule-back ride of several miles--which we deferred until some more favorable occasion.

“You will want to stop here,” said our friend when we came to a beautiful bridge swinging across a crystal stream dashing at the bottom of a deep ravine, green with fern and moss. “This is Shepperd’s Dell and you must get the view from beneath the bridge.”

Copyright Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon]

We descended the stone steps leading down into the ravine and found ourselves surrounded by a scene of perfect sylvan loveliness. A picturesque waterfall came dashing from the ponderous crags above us into a green, moss-bordered pool from which a clear stream ran among the mottled boulders beneath the bridge. Ferns, shrubs, and trees covered the cliffs to the summit and the effect of sun and shadow upon these and the waterfall was indescribably beautiful. Turning toward the bridge, a different but none the less enchanting scene met our view. Framed in the wide arch of the graceful structure was a delightful panorama of river and mountain to which the viewpoint lent a peculiar charm.

“Shepperd’s Dell is named after the donor of this site,” said our guide, “Mr. George Shepperd, a poor teamster of Portland, who gave it in memory of his wife. His disinterested generosity when he had a chance to demand payment from the county for the right of way illustrates the spirit of willing help toward this great enterprise that prevailed among our people, from the millionaire to the day-laborer.”

With reluctance we left this delightful spot to proceed on our journey. A mile farther we came to the magnificent bridge spanning Latourelle Creek, a triple-arched structure two hundred and forty feet long and one hundred feet above the stream. We remarked on the unique design of this bridge and our guide told us that no two on the entire highway follow exactly the same lines, thus giving a pleasing variation. Opposite this bridge is Latourelle Falls, another of the beautiful Columbia cataracts, pouring from a cliff two hundred and twenty-four feet in height.

“We are now approaching what is considered the masterpiece of Columbia Highway engineering,” said the officer. “The great promontory before us is Crown Point, over seven hundred feet in height. Before Mr. Lancaster tackled the problem all plans contemplated getting around this cliff rather than over it. In accordance with his consistent aim to secure the most spectacular scenery from the new road, Mr. Lancaster declared he would scale the cliff, though he was assured that this proposition had all been threshed over many times and found quite impossible. But the impossible was done; by patient calculation and careful surveying and the adoption of some rather revolutionary engineering tactics, the highway was swung over the great rock without infraction of the limit of grade or curve. You will see what I mean as you ascend the grade.”

We began the ascent shortly after leaving Latourelle Bridge and without shifting a gear or accelerating our speed we steadily climbed upward, swinging around a maze of curves. As we approached the summit our guide bade us look backward. “See the figure eight,” he cried, and, sure enough, the outlines of the road below us appeared as a double loop which from our viewpoint strikingly resembled a gigantic figure eight.

At the summit the road describes a perfect circle, but to maintain the radius of one hundred feet it was necessary to support a part of the road-bed on concrete piers built from the lower shelves of the rock. In the center of the circle “Vista House” is to be erected as a memorial to the pioneers of Oregon and dedicated to the use and convenience of travelers on the highway.

But, after all, the wonder of Crown Point is the view from its summit, which is conceded to be the most beautiful and impressive along the whole course of the highway. Our vision had unobstructed range for thirty-five miles in either direction. Mile-wide, the green waters of the Columbia lay beneath us, stretching away on each hand like a vast silver ribbon until it vanished in the blue haze of the distance. On either side rose the mighty hills and rugged castellated cliffs, dark with the verdure of the pines and splashed here and there with the crimson and gold of woodbine and maple. Out beyond the cliffs and hills ran the titan ranks of the Cascades, guarded by shining, snow-clad sentinels. Looking down the river the scene is not so rugged and awe-inspiring but none the less pleasing in its pastoral beauty. A blue haze hangs over the city of Portland, twenty-five miles to the westward, and shrouds the low hills of Washington on the opposite shore.

“You are fortunate in the day,” said our guide. “This subdued sunlight gives much better effects of light and color than a perfectly clear sky and you are lucky to escape the fogs--not at all uncommon here.”

We had ourselves remarked earlier in the day on the peculiarly striking effects of light and color caused by the varicolored clouds which covered much of the heavens; we had noted from several viewpoints the vast white cone of Mount Hood against a broad band of silvery sky with masses of steel blue vapor hovering above its summit. The wonderful color effect was also remarked upon by an artist who was endeavoring to depict them on his canvas. Grays, steel blues and luminous whites with patches of pale azure shading to crystal near the horizon formed the dominating color notes of the sky--a day not too brilliant and one that showed the magnificent scene at its best.

From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon]

The wild and rugged scenery of the river reaches its climax at Crown Point and beyond this, except in the neighborhood of the unhappily named Rooster Rock, the highway is devoid of spectacular features. Near Rooster Rock is an attractive rural inn, The Chanticleer, typical of many inns and resorts along the highway. Another, Forest Hall, is a duplicate of one of the hospitable old-time Southern mansions and here, for the modest sum of two dollars, you will be served by aristocratic colored people with a genuine Southern chicken dinner and it has the reputation, our friend declared, of being worth the price. Many of these inns are first-class in every particular and enjoy good patronage owing to the great popularity of the highway with local people as well as to the large number of tourists.