[Illustration: THE COLUMBIA]
Portland had lately been nearly destroyed by fire, consequently I had not a good opportunity of judging of the town. It is, however, beautifully situated on the Willamette River, and is surrounded by magnificent forests. There are some delightful drives through the woods, one especially to a place called the White House, through a succession of glades and glens full of splendid trees and sweet-scented shrubs, and with views of peculiar quiet loveliness.
The Willamette runs into the Columbia River about twelve miles below Portland; so, taking the morning steamer, I prepared to ascend that river, which for grandeur of scenery is not surpassed by any river (with the exception, perhaps, of the Fraser) on the American continent.
We started so early that a grey fog swallowed up everything, and the only objects visible were the paddle-boxes and the funnel.
We steamed very slowly and cautiously down the Willamette, and as we approached the junction of that river with the Columbia the mist lifted. As it slowly crept back to the shores and up the hills and away to the north, mountains, sky and river came out with intense brilliancy and colour under the rays of the rising sun.
Wonderful forests extended from the far distance down to the very edge of the river. Beeches, oaks, pines, and firs of enormous size formed a sombre background, against which the maple and ash flamed out in their early autumn tints. On the north, the four stately snow-crowned mountains, Rainier, St. Helen’s, Jefferson, and Adams lifted themselves, rose-flushed, high up in the heavens; the great river flowed rapidly and smoothly between mountain shores, from a mile to a mile and a quarter apart, and the bold rocky heights towered thousands of feet in the air.
The mountains line the river for miles. When occasionally a deep ravine opens you catch a glimpse of distant levels, bounded, in their turn, by the never-ending chain of mountains.
There is a rare combination, too, of beauty about these mountains; vegetation and great variety of colour heightening the picturesque effect of the huge masses of bold bare rock. Now and then the cliffs impeded the flow of the river, which then ran, disturbed and dangerous, between rocky islands and sand-bars. Often the agitated waters became gradually calm and formed long narrow lakes, without any apparent outlet, until a sudden turn showed a passage through the lofty walls into another link of the water-chain.
Sometimes a cataract of marvellous beauty came leaping down the rocks from a height of 200 and 300 feet.
The Multanomah Falls in particular are most beautiful, possessing both the swift resistless rush of the downpour of water and that broken picturesque outline which is the principal charm of a fall.
Castle Rock, a huge boulder with basaltic columns like those of Staffa, stands out grandly and alone from a feathery mass of cotton-wood, whose golden splendour rivals in beauty that of the spreading dark green boughs of the pines, whilst the contrast of colour heightens the effect of each brilliant hue.
On the crest of the rock a fringe of pine trees, growing out of the bare stone and dwarfed to insignificance, shows the vast height of this rifted dome.
And now we are approaching Cape Horn, whose ramparts rise sheer and straight, like a columnar wall, 800 feet high.
This majestic portal forms a worthy entrance to the cascades. Fierce, seething rapids extend for six miles up the river, and the track of the “portage” runs near the water’s edge for the entire distance. The river is narrowed here by lofty heights of trap rock, and the bed itself is nothing but sharp gigantic rocks, sometimes hidden by the water and sometimes forming small islands, between which the foaming torrent rushes with tremendous uproar.
Near where the “portage” begins, a relic of Indian warfare, in the shape of an old block-house, stands under the fir-trees.
A small party of white men held a very large body of Indians at bay for several days in 1856; and as the provisions ran short, a grand attack was made on the red men, who were totally routed with great slaughter.
The scene in this gorge is wild in the extreme. Passing Rooster Rock, the mountain-sides approach each other, and the river flows faster and fiercer; the pillared walls rise sometimes to a height of nearly 3,000 feet, and the wind roaring through the ravine beats up huge waves and adds to the wild grandeur of the view. Whenever the mountains recede to the south, Mount Hood fills the horizon. Rising 14,000 feet, its snow-covered head shines out magnificently against the blue sky, with unvarying grandeur and a strangely attractive form.
Soon we pass an Indian burial-ground called Caffin Rock, a more desolate slope, covered with rude monuments of rock and circular heaps of piled grey stones.
Dalles City, where we now arrive, ranks as the second place of importance in Oregon. It takes its name from the “dales” or rough flag-stones, which impede the river, making narrow crooked channels, and thereby causing another “portage” for a distance of fifteen miles. Above the town the scene changes; the cliffs disappear, and from splendid forests and mountains we pass into a region of sand and desert. One tall pillar of red rock, overlooking the sandy waste, stands up forlorn and battered, as if it were the last fragment of a giant peak; and numbers of birds hovering over it seem to regard it as their special observatory.
Hot white sand is everywhere, and the wind scatters it about in a most uncomfortable manner, covering the track and half-stifling you in its blinding showers. The river scenery is very fine all along this passage, the Dalles being a succession of rapids, falls, and eddying currents.
Although it was late in the season hundreds of salmon were still ascending, and on the flat shore-rocks were several Indian lodges; their occupants busily engaged in spearing and catching the fish.
Their usual mode of catching salmon is by means of nets fastened to long handles. They erect wooden scaffolds by the riverside among the rocks, and there await the arrival of the fish--scooping up thirty or forty per hour. They are also very skilful at spearing them; rarely missing a fair mark.
At one of the falls we saw a most treacherous contrivance. A large tree with all its branches lopped off had been brought to the edge of the river and there fastened, with its smaller end overhanging the foaming fall. A large willow basket, about ten feet deep and over twenty feet in circumference, was suspended at the end. The salmon in its efforts to leap the fall would tumble in the basket, and an Indian seated in it would then knock the fish on the head with a club and throw it on shore.
This mode requires relays of men, as they soon get almost drowned by the quantity of spray and water. Very often, between two and three hundred salmon are caught in a day in this manner. We saw about twenty, averaging in weight from five to twenty pounds, caught in the hour during which we watched the process. But the hook-nosed salmon--coarse, nasty fish--were the most abundant. They always appear in the autumn, and are found everywhere. The salmon are in their greatest perfection in the Columbia River towards the end of June. The best variety is called the “chinook,” and weighs from twenty to forty pounds. This species is generally accompanied in its ascent by a smaller variety, weighing on an average about ten pounds, and which is also extremely good eating. Gradually as the salmon go higher and higher up the river, their flesh changes from a bright red to a paler colour until it becomes quite white. There are such enormous quantities of them that they can be easily jerked on shore with a stick, and they actually jostle each other out of the water. It is estimated that over 500,000 salmon were taken out of the Columbia River during the year 1872. There is a perfectly true story of a traveller who, when riding, had to cross a stream running from the Cascade Mountains, at a spot where the fish were toiling up in thousands; and so quickly were they packed as to impede the progress of the horse, which became so frightened as almost to unseat his rider.
When the salmon are caught, the squaws cure them by splitting them and drying the pieces upon wickerwork scaffoldings. Afterwards they smoke them over fires of fir branches. The wanton destruction and waste of these fish is terrible. In the season the Indians will only take the fish in the highest condition, and those that do not satisfy their fastidious tastes are thrown back mutilated and dying into the water. Even when they have killed sufficient to last them for years, they still go to the falls and catch and spear all they can, leaving the beautiful silvery salmon to rot on the stones. Salmon ought certainly to have “Excelsior” for a motto. Always moving higher and higher, they are never content, but continue the ascent of the river as far as possible. They go on till they drop, or become so weak and torn from rubbing against the rocks and against one another, that they are pushed into shallows by the stronger ones and die from want of water. Out of the hosts that ascend the rivers, it is generally supposed that a very small proportion indeed ever find their way back to the sea.