CHAPTER VII.
THE GORGE OF THE COLUMBIA.
We arrive now at what the tourist must ever regard as the most interesting portion of the river—the gorge of the Columbia. Here wonder, curiosity, and admiration combine to arouse sentiments of awe and delight in the beholder. Entering by the lower end of the gorge, we commence the passage, of fifty miles or more, directly through the solid mountain range of the Cascades. The snow-peaks, which looked so lofty at the distance of eighty miles, as we approach them gradually sink into the mountain mass, until we lose sight of them entirely. The river narrows, and the scenery grows more and more wild and magnificent.
Fantastic forms of rock—some with names by which they can be recognized—begin to attract our attention. Crow's Roost is a single, detached rock on the right, which time and weather are slowly wearing down to the "needle" shape, so common among the trappean formations. It stands with its feet in the river, at the extremity of a heavily wooded point; and in the crevices about its base, and half-way up, good-sized firs are growing. Above the Crow's Roost the mountains tower higher and higher. Frequently from lofty ledges and terraces of rock silvery water-falls are seen descending, hundreds of feet, to some basin hidden by intervening curtains of wooded ridges. From the steamer's deck they look like mere ribbons; some of them, indeed, are dashed into invisible spray before they reach a level.
One of the handsomest of these falls has been named the Horse-tail, by somebody more given to ponies than to poetry. It has a straight descent, of several hundred feet, to a basin hidden from view, whence it descends by another fall to the level of the bottom-land, and forms another basin, or pool, among the dense growth of Cottonwood, ash, and willow, which everywhere fringe the banks of the river.
Nearly opposite this foil is a high, precipitous wall of reddish rock, coming quite down to the river, and curving in a rounded face, so as to form a little bay above. This is the Cape Horn of the lower Columbia—a point where the Wind Spirit lies in wait for canoes and other small craft, keeping them weatherbound for days together. Fine as it is, steaming up the Columbia in July weather, there are times when storms of wind and sand make the voyage impossible to any but a steam-propelled vessel. It is at our peril that we invade the grand sanctuaries of Nature in her winter moods. The narrow channel of the river among the mountains, the height of the overhanging cliffs—which confine the wind as in a funnel—and the changes of temperature to which, even in summer, mountain localities are subject, make this a stormy passage at some periods of the year.
Sitting out upon the steamer's deck, of a summer morning, we are not much troubled with visions of storms: the scene is as peaceful as it is magnificent. Steaming ahead, straight into the heart of the mountains, each moment affords a fresh delight to the wondering senses. The panorama of grandeur and beauty seems endless. As we approach the lower end of the rapids, we find that at the left the heights recede and inclose a strip of level, sandy land, in the midst of which stands a solitary mountain (of basalt) called Castle Rock, about fourteen hundred feet in altitude. How it came there, is the question which the beholder first asks himself, but which, so far, has never been satisfactorily answered.
A mile or two beyond Castle Rock, situated on this bit of warm, sandy bottom-land, is the little mountain hamlet known as the Lower Cascades. Why it is that one name is made to serve for so many objects, in the same locality, must ever puzzle the tourist in Oregon. At the Cascades the tautology threatens to overwhelm us in perplexity. Not only is it the Cascade Range, which the cascades of the river cut in twain, but there are no less than three points on the north side, within a distance of six miles, known as the Lower, Middle, and Upper Cascades. Pretty as the name is, we weary of it when it is continually in our mouth.
It is a pretty spot, too, this Lower Cascades, surrounded by majestic mountains, and bordered by a foaming river; charmingly nestled in thickets of blossoming shrubbery, and can regale its guests on strawberries and mountain-trout. Here the Oregon Steam Navigation Company have a wharf and warehouse; and here we take our seats in the cars which transfer us to the Upper Cascades, and another steamer. We find the change agreeable, as a change, and enjoy intensely the glimpses of the rapids we are passing, and the wonderful luxuriance of vegetation on every side, coupled with the grandeur of the towering mountains.
At the Middle Cascades is a block-house, reminding us of the Indian war of 1855–6, and another one at the Upper Cascades. It is rare now to see an Indian at this point, where once they lived in large numbers, and had a famous fishing station; and where, in still earlier times, they exacted toll from whoever passed that way.
The fall of the river in the five miles of rapids is about sixty feet; but nowhere is there a perceptible fall of many feet together. The bed of the stream seems to be choked up with rocks, in such a manner as to suggest recent volcanic agency. At the Upper Cascades the river widens out again in a lake-like expanse, made picturesque with islands and handsomely wooded shores. In truth, all that portion of the Columbia, between the Upper Cascades and the Dalles, might very correctly be termed a lake—so little current has it, and so uniformly great is the depth of water—averaging forty feet, or twice the depth of the river below the rapids. From this fact, and that of the submergence of a belt of trees on either side of the river, for a long distance, the character of the hinderance to the flow of the Columbia may be very readily conjectured. At some period, long subsequent to the passage of the river through these mountains—a passage which evidently it forced for itself—by some violent means, a great quantity of rock was thrown into the bed of the stream, and, by forming a dam, raised the level of the water to its present height.
An effort has been made to secure the aid of Congress in removing this impediment to navigation. Great as would be the benefit, in a commercial point of view, of removing the dam at the Cascades, it presents itself unfavorably to the mind of the worshiper at Nature's shrines—one of whose happiest emotions must ever spring from the thought, that it is impossible for Man ever to intermeddle with the eternal majesty of scenes like these.
The material to be removed consists of a conglomerate of fragments of trap-rock, mixed with sand and earth. Embedded in this conglomerate are trunks of trees, often silicified—sometimes only carbonized, and sometimes both together. Of this silicified wood, there are many fragments to be found about the Cascades, embedded in the sand of the bottom-land. Of the trees standing submerged in the margin of the river, none of them are at all petrified; though, from the common occurrence of the fragments spoken of, the belief commonly obtains, that this is a petrified forest. The silica, which has entered into the pores of the silicified wood was, probably, derived from veins of that earth contained in the mass of conglomerate thrown into the river from the mountains at the time of the formation of the rapids.
From the deck of the steamer waiting for us at the end of the railroad portage, a beautiful picture is spread out on every side. The river seems a lake dotted with islands, with low shores, surrounded by mountain walls. Almost the first thing which strikes the eye is an immensely high and bold, perpendicular cliff of red rock, pointed at top with the regularity of a pyramid, and looking as if freshly split off from some other half which has totally disappeared. The freshly broken appearance of this cliff, so different from the worn and mossy faces of most of the rocks that border the river, suggested to the savage one of his legends concerning the formation of the Cascades: which is, that Mount Hood and Mount Adams had a quarrel, and took to throwing fire-stones at each other; and, with their rage and struggling, so shook the earth for many miles around, that a bridge of rock which spanned the river at this place was torn from its mountain abutments, and cast in fragments into the river. So closely does legend sometimes border on scientific fact!
While we are making this grave reflection upon the scientific truth of legends, some one presents us with a story, in rhyme, which he assures us is the true, original Indian legend of the formation of those other notable points on the river—the Dalles, Horse-tail Falls, Crow's Roost, as also the Falls of the Wallamet and Mount Hood. Making all due allowance for poetic license in some of the details, the story and the manner of its telling are worthy of notice; and we give it as a pleasing chapter of the early, romantic history of this romantic country.
THE SONG OF KAMIAKIN.
Should you ask me where I caught it—
Caught this flame and inspiration—
Should you ask me where I got it—
Got this old and true tradition—
I would answer, I would tell you:
Where the virgins of the forest
Sit with quills thrust through their noses,
Eating calmly cricket hashes;
Where the tar-head maid reposes;
Where the proud Columbia dashes,
Hearing nothing but his dashing.
Hias skookum[1] Kamiakin,
Of the vale of Klikatata—
Which I know each nook and track in
As well as Johnny knew his Daddy—
Was the chief of all the Siwash,
And the great high-cockalorem—
As his fathers were before him—
Of the winding Wallametta,
Which I sing—and say it surely
As the jingling Juniata
Sounds as well; but 'tis unpretty,
Poets of the sunset sea-rim
Flying off to Acropolis—
Very absurd it is, and silly—
While the glassy Umatilla,
And the classic Longus Thomas,
And the grassy Tuda-Willa,
All do flash and flow before us.
Well, my hero Kamiakin
Was in love; you know such folly
Must go in, or something's lacking
In all great, good rhymes emetic.
Now, she dwelt in Walla Walla;
But her Ma was awful stuck up;
And her pious Dad, ascetic,
'Gainst our hero got his back up;
And he swore on stacks of bibles,
Higher than the hay you stack up,
He would sue for breeches, libels;
He would sue him, shoot him, boot him—
That, in fact, he didn't suit him—
Didn't vote the proper ticket.
Now it cost him like the nation
Going from the land of cider
(You know how these Navigation
Fellows charge a horse and rider);
And, though he was law-abiding,
To be treated thus about her
He declared was rather binding,
And that he wouldn't go without her.
So he strode a cayuse charger
With white eyes, also white as
Foam of creamy, dreamy lager
From her nostrils to her caudle;
With a woolly sheepskin folding
Back behind his jockey saddle,
Where the girl could ride by holding.
Then while Dad on the piazza
Read the latest act of Andy,
And the maid on her piano
Trilled a ditty for some dandy,
"Chaco, chaco, cumtux mika?"[2]
From afar in tones coyote.
"Ah, you bet you, cumtux nika,"[3]
Sang the maiden sotto voce.
With this sign the chieftain sought her,
For the old man's bull-dog Touzer
Would have made it rather hot for
Kamiakin, Thane of Chowder.
Night and day they flew like arrows,
Till they passed by sweet Celilo:
"Bully," cried the chief; "tomollo's
Sun will see us hias lolo."[4]
But the old man missed his daughter;
Vowing he would catch and score them,
Took the steamer, and by water
Reached the Dalles the day before them.
"Stop, you bummer," yelled the Daddy,
While the chief fled to the river;
And the Dad pursued, and had a
Henry-rifle, bow and quiver.
Then the chief wished him a beaver—
Big or little, didn't mind him—
But the gal, would you believe her,
Stuck like wax, tight on behind him.
Then she waved a wand of willow,
And behold the mighty river
(For the maiden was a fairy)
All did surge and shake and shiver,
Till the banks did kiss, or nearly,
And confine the foaming billow:
So they crossed without a ferry.
"Come back, come back, O Pickaninny—
Back across the stormy water,"
Cried the old man, like a ninny.
One hand skewed her water-fall up,
While the other held her garter,
As they set off at a gallop.
O! she looked majestic, very,
As she answered, "Nary, nary!"
And the river so is flowing,
Though wider washed a foot or so,
For this was in the gleaming, glowing,
Gilded, golden long-ago.
Then they fled far down the river,
But the old man came upon them,
And she cried, "O Lord, deliver!"
And she blew a silver trumpet,
And she cried, "O hiac—jump it,"
Till the cayuse jumped the river—
Jumped the awful yawning chasms—
With the lovers both astride her.
Ah, enough to throw in spasms
Belles of this sweet land of cider!
But the Daddy, hot and snarling
At the chief and chieftain's darling,
Hip and thigh smote with his sabre,
While the cuitan was crossing,
And her silver tail was tossing;
And her long tail, white and shaggy,
Cleft, where Tam o' Shanter's Carlin
Caught the tail of faithful Maggie.
And that horse-tail still is flowing
From the dark rim of the river,
Drifting, shifting, flowing, going,
Like a veil or vision flurried,
But is never combed or curried,
As a body can diskiver.
"Verbum sat," now yelled the daughter,
As she with her lover vamosed;
And the Dad sat in the water
'Till he chilled and died, and so was
Turned to stone forever arter.
Now this Dad a noble Crow was,
And a chief of fame and power,
And is known unto this hour
As the "Crow-Rock" or the "Crow-Roost."
Well, they traveled in a canter
'Till they reached the sweet Wallamet,
And cried, "Boatman, do not tarry;
We will give three pound of salmon
If you'll row us o'er the ferry."
But he answered, "Nary, nary."
Then the maiden cried out, "Dam it,"
And the stream was dammed instanter.
So the chieftain reached his nation,
And his mother gave a party—
Gave a July celebration—
And they dinnered very hearty,
All on house and salmon smoky,
And then danced the hoky-poky.
But her troubles grew the thicker,
As in truth so did the maiden,
For the chief began to lick her,
And distract her with upbraiding;
But she had to grin and bear it,
For the gods had got so mad, they
Said she never should repass the
Place she left her dear old Daddy
So she went up in the hill-tops
At the head of the Molalla,
For to look at Walla Walla;
And by magic spells and hoo-doo—
For, you know, she was a fairy—
She did manage soon to rear a
Mountain like the pile of Cheops.
And Siwash, who saw her mammuk,[5]
Called the peak "Old Mountain Hoo-doo."
But there came a Jewish peddler,
Packing head-gear, hoods, and "small tings"
(Says the Almanac McCormick).
And who didn't care three fardings
For this clear and true tradition—
As the learned like me and you do—
And made the gross abbreviation
Of Mt. Hood from Mountain Hoo-doo.
After this pleasant flight of imagination, we feel more than ever prepared to appreciate and enjoy our day's travel amid scenes so suggestive, only regretting that the author of the poem is unknown to us.
Badinage aside, the grandeur of the Columbia, for some miles above the Cascades, is so great and overpowering that one feels little disposed to attempt description. The Hudson, which has so long been the pride of America, is but the younger brother of the Columbia. Place a hundred Dunderbergs side by side, and you have some idea of these stupendous bluffs; double the height of the Palisades, and you can form an idea of these precipitous cliffs. Elevate the dwarfed evergreens of the Hudson highlands into firs and pines like these, and then you may compare. Considering the history, together with the scenery of this river, there is no other so complete in the impressions it conveys of grandeur.
Down this river, sixty-six years ago, floated those adventurous explorers, Lewis and Clarke. Seven years later the survivors of that part of the Astor expedition which came overland, were struggling along these wild mountain shores, among inhospitable tribes, trying to reach the fort at the mouth of the river. A few years later still, the "brigade" of the Hudson's Bay Company, annually, floated down from their hunting-grounds in the Rocky Mountains, jubilant at the prospect of soon reaching head-quarters—singing and dipping their oars in time, while their noisy gayety was echoed and re-echoed from these towering mountain walls.
Twenty-eight years ago, the first large immigration of actual settlers for Oregon came down from the Dalles in boats, furnished them by the Hudson's Bay Company, with much toil and danger, and some loss of life. To-day, we tourists gaze and dream at our leisure, from the deck of a first-class steamer, with all our wants anticipated. In another lustre, or in less time than that, the travel and trade of one-third of the continent may be borne upon this great highway of Nature, to and fro, between Orient and Occident.
But we have forgotten to observe the notable places. "This," says our Captain, "is Wind Mountain. The Indian name answers to our word enchanted, from the fact, probably, that when the wind is foul it is impossible to pass here with their canoes." On the south side, a few miles above the Cascades, is the beautiful place of Mr. Coe—a fruit farm among the foot-hills, and facing the Columbia. Here grow such delicious peaches as are rarely ever raised west of the mountains. A little settlement, at the foot of the mountains, is called Hood River, from being near the junction of that river with the Columbia. Opposite the mouth of Hood River a very fine view of Mount Hood is obtained. So near does it seem, that we see the glistening of the snow where its cliffs reflect the sun. Nearly opposite, the White Salmon enters, cold from the snows of Mount Adams, a glimpse of which we catch between the cleft heights of the river's gorge.
The farther we depart from the heart of the mountains the more marked is the change in the character and quantity of the timber. Firs have entirely disappeared, while spruce and pine have taken their places. The form, too, of the highlands is changed, being arranged in long ridges, either parallel with the river or at right angles to it, but all very extensive, and forming benches, dotted only with trees, instead of being heavily wooded, as on the western side of the range. The climate, also, is changed, and a dryness and warmth quite different from the western climate are observable.
More and more the basaltic formation constantly becomes visible, protruding from the hills on either side, and often appearing to wall in the river. Frequently it divides for a little space, leaving the prettiest natural slips for boats, and a clean, sandy beach, on which to make a landing; but only in a few instances have they been taken possession of, settlements along the river being rare. Occasionally, however, some hardy settler has taken up a farm on the narrow strip of alluvial land at the foot of the mountains; and doubtless a great many more might find homesteads in eligible situations along the river, where their nearness to market would enhance their value.
On nearing the Dalles the country opens out more and more, the terraced appearance continuing quite to that city, and the basalt here presenting a columnar formation. We come now to the last, and by far the most singular, portion of the gorge of the Columbia—the Dalles of the river. The river here flows for fifteen miles through a narrow channel, cut in solid trap-rock, and more or less tortuous. To eyes accustomed to the broad expanse of the lower Columbia, it is difficult to recognize the same river in the narrow, dark current that flows between walls of black, volcanic rock for so many miles above the Dalles. The river here not being navigable, by reason of its strong, swift current, its whirlpools and sunken rocks, we are forced to make our observations from the windows of the Oregon Steam Navigation Company's car, which makes the portage to Celilo. The outlook, fortunately, is a good one; and we travel right along the river-bank nearly the whole distance.
What a strange scene it is! Sand, rock, and water—not uncommon elements in a pleasing picture; but here it is not pleasing—it is uncanny to a degree. We catch ourselves wondering how deep here must be a stream only forty yards wide, which in other places is two thousand yards wide, and deep enough to float any kind of a ship; for we can not help fancying that what the river here lacks in breadth it makes up in depth. But we are not aware that soundings have ever been taken in the Dalles.
Boats have gone through this passage. In low-water the barges of the Hudson's Bay Company used to run the Dalles. One or two steamers have been brought through at a low stage of water; but it is a very perilous undertaking—much more perilous than going over the Cascades at high-water. We make our observations, and conclude we should not like to take passage on this particular portion of the Columbia. How it swirls, how it twirls, how it eddies and boils; how it races and chases, how it leaps, how it toils; how one mile it rushes, and another it flows, as soft as a lovesong sung "under the rose;" how in one place it seethes, in another is still, and as smooth as the flume of some sleepy old mill. A rock-entroughed torrent like none else, we pledge; and, in truth, is a river set up on its edge.