# All Over Oregon and Washington/Chapter 30

CHAPTER XXX.
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
No great and general forms of Nature impress themselves upon the memory or imagination more than mountains. The ocean alone rivals them in this respect. Those nations, like the Swiss, who have been born and bred in the shadow of, or even in sight of, cloud-piercing heights, never take kindly to countries of a smoother aspect. In a few generations, Oregon will undoubtedly possess, for this reason, a people distinguished for patriotism.
We have found the Oregon mountains everywhere, west of the summit of the Cascade Range,, densely covered with forest, even up to the line of perpetual snow. Considering the impenetrable nature of the forest, this would alone render a passage through them very difficult. Yet this difficulty is not the only one. From the summit of the Cascades to the open country at their base, is a distance of from forty to sixty miles. Not, indeed, a smooth descent, nor a succession of parallel ridges; but a bewildering chaos of mountains, thrown together in such confusion that engineering is dismayed at the task of finding a pass among them.
Yet all the earliest roads into Western Oregon were surveyed by the hardy pioneers, who knew very little of scientific engineering. With a bravery and perseverance most heroic, they struggled with and overcame the obstacles that met them on the last portion of a ​long and exhausting overland journey. The location of a road from Dalles to Oregon City nearly cost two brave men their lives; but they secured their object. The first train of immigrant wagons which came over this road made from eight to ten miles per day; their forces being occupied most of the time in widening the track—for the pioneers had found it too much labor to open a very broad highway for those who were to follow.
The most skillful driving did not prove skillful enough to guide the staggering oxen through the way provided by the road-makers; and the constant tendency of a forward wheel to run up a tree, on one side or the other, was very trying to the drivers. But if the wagons would run up trees on ascending ground, what was their course when they came to an incline of nearly sixty degrees on the descending side, with a heavy load urging the jaded oxen from behind?
As succeeding trains gradually widened the way, a new difficulty arose. It was better to be stopped by a tree than not to be stopped at all, or to find one's team rushing down the side of a mountain, like an avalanche, to certain death and destruction; To overcome this danger, good-sized trees were attached by chains to the rear of the wagon, with the branches left on, to act like grappling-irons, and in this manner the descent was made in safety. But woe to the careless or the unlucky wight whose improvised "brake" became uncoupled. The best he could hope for, in that case, was that a fore-wheel would dash up a tree, even if an upset was the consequence.
It sometimes happened that the oxen struck their heads against a solid fir-trunk; in which case, their proprietor became suddenly minus that pair of oxen, ​and plus a great many fragments of wagon and contents. Notwithstanding which pioneer incidents, very good roads now exist over the mountains in various places.
There is no dry season on the summit of the Cascade Kange: hence trees that belong to the coast region re-appear above the region of firs, such as the black spruce, which, fed by the sea-fogs that drift over from the sea and are caught in the mountain-tops, grow abundantly. Pines, larches, dwarf junipers, and occasional cedars also flourish at a height of over five thousand feet. Looking at the mountains from the valley of Western Oregon, we see no bare peaks until we come to the snow-line. The numerous snow-peaks seem to shoot up out of evergreen forests: the more so as all the snow-capped mountains rise from the eastern side of the range.
The ascent of the snow-peaks from the western side is necessarily attended with much difficulty, except in the case of Mount Hood. The road before referred to, as leading to the Dalles, passes around the base of this grand mountain. At Mountain Meadows, the highest point on the Dalles road, we seem to be just at the foot of it, where, disengaging itself from the company of lesser peaks, it springs up clear and free, a pyramid of rock and ice, thousands of feet higher than its neighbors—bold in outline, clear-cut, symmetrical, inexpressibly grand.
For a little distance above the meadows, the mountain appears belted with a dark girdle of trees. Above and beyond that, all is sharply defined in white and black; glistening snow-fields reaching up and up, scarred here and there with projecting needles and cliffs of basalt, or seamed for immense distances by ​rocky ridges and yawning chasms of blackness. So cold, hard, and immovable it looks, that it is difficult to attribute to its volcanic forces the upheaval of this vast basaltic and plutonic mass over which we are traveling.
But this frozen aspect is a deceitful one, as we are aware, since our own eyes have beheld the fiery column shooting up from the old crater, followed by great volumes of dense, black smoke. The grand old mountain is not often stirred in these centuries of peace; but it holds within its bosom fires that have never gone out since the morning of creation.
The ascent of Mount Hood, owing to the road, is not difficult. Every summer parties go up it, and many memorials are deposited there of these visits. August, or the latter part of July, is the most favorable time to make the ascent, when the snow is neither too hard nor too soft. The earlier one can go with safety, the better; as there is likely to be, late in the season, a good deal of smoke from burning forests, which obscures the view. In clear weather, the panorama which can be enjoyed from the summit of Mount Hood is worth a journey across the continent to behold.
Mount St. Helen, though in Washington Territory, is reckoned among the Oregon mountains, because it is visible not only from the Columbia River, but from the heart of the Wallamet Valley. Not so high as Mount Hood, it is remarkable for the symmetry of its rounded dome. It is not difficult of ascent, except on account of the intervening forests. It is approached by following the north fork of the Cathlapootle or Lewis River, which enters the Columbia opposite the mouth of the Lower Wallamet. As the melting of snow in the mountains swells this stream to a rapid torrent in the early part of summer, the undertaking ​must be postponed to the last of the warm season. Even then it is a very rugged and dangerous trip, though it has been accomplished by a few old mountain men.
One of these related to us how, while endeavoring to reach a certain bald, black spot on the west side, known as "the bear," he lost his footing, and went, as he expressed it, "kiting" down the side of the mountain, expecting nothing else but to be dashed to pieces. Fortunately there are few crevasses on this mountain; and, coming to softer snow, he was able to check his speed, and regain his footing. He found that "the bear" was a black rock, kept bare by hot springs, which burst out at this place.
Mount St. Helen has been frequently known, since the settlement of the country, to throw out steam and ashes; scattering the latter over the country for a hundred miles, and obscuring the daylight (on one occasion) so that it was necessary to burn candles.
Fine gold is found in such quantities on the Cathlapootle River that many attempts have been made to prospect at the foot of this mountain. But these attempts have always been frustrated by the obstacles already mentioned. In time the mineral wealth of the Cascade Range will be developed; not, however, until the population has been greatly augmented, and the necessary gradual clearing up of the country opens the way.
Mount Adams, almost directly cast of Mount St. Helen, and visible from the Wallamet Valley, like the Oregon snow-peaks, rises from the eastern side of the range, and can be reached from the more open country on that side without any great exertion. It is one of the most imposing of the snow mountains in ​appearance, although not one of the highest. The best views of it are to be obtained from the hills near Dalles City.
From the Columbia and Wallamet rivers one gets just a glimpse of Mount Rainier, the grandest peak of the Cascade Range, being 14,444 feet in height. Seen at this distance, and obstructed by St. Helen, no proper idea of its magnificence can be obtained. It is only when the divide which separates the Cowlitz River from the Puget Sound country has been passed that its beautiful proportions can be estimated.
From the prairies south of the Sound, it seems to have a triple summit; this appearance being caused by the wearing away of the mountain about its craters, two in number. That it is an immense upheaval is evident from the breadth of its base, which is twenty-five or thirty miles. It has been ascended, with great labor in getting to its foot. Above the region of forest are beautiful green meadows, spangled with flowers of the most brilliant dyes, dotted over with small groves of balsam fir. In the depressions between these green ridges snow lies, even in August, making a charming contrast with their emerald brightness; and above them towers the broken, icy pinnacles of Rainier. From its summit may be seen the glaciers filling its gorges, crossed again and again by deep crevasses.
Mount Baker is another lofty snow-peak of Washington Territory, though so far north as to be seen only from the Sound, or the Straits of Juan de Fuca. More active as a volcano than the other peaks, it has suffered loss of height and change of form, consequent on the falling in of the walls of its crater, within the last five years. This mountain, too, has been ascended—an interesting account of which appeared in Harper's Magazine about two years ago.
​About centrally situated, with regard to the Oregon division of the Cascade Range, is a group of snow-peaks called the Three Sisters, which may be ascended without difficulty from the eastern side. Indeed, in order to get a well-formed idea of the shape of the mountains it is necessary to see them from this side.
Starting from the Dalles, and keeping toward the south until we strike the Des Chutes River at the Warm Springs Reservation, we find ourselves directly abreast of Mount Jefferson, with a complete and beautiful view of it. There is no labor in traveling over the piney slopes of the mountains here. It is more like riding through interminable parks, with little or no undergrowth, a dry soil, abundance of flowers, and occasional small game. Three or four days' easy travel, through a country abounding in natural wonders, brings us to the Three Sisters.
They stand in a triangular group, the base of the triangle being toward the west. Though perfectly distinct peaks—the northernmost being highest—they are connected near their base by lesser intervening elevations. Accustomed as we have become to mountains, the Three Sisters force from us the profoundest expressions of admiration and delight. So lofty, so symmetrical, so beautifully grouped! Nor are there wanting adjuncts, which augment the interest of the scene. At the foot of the group stands a single needle of basalt several hundred feet in height, in its grim, black hardness looking like a sentinel guarding the Olympian heights above.
We prepare to ascend the north Sister. By reason of the greater general elevation of the country on the eastern side of the Cascade Range, and the more gradual slopes also, the toil of an ascent is greatly ​diminished. By keeping along a ridge we find it comparatively easy to clamber up. Two of our party, however, decide to attempt a more abrupt ascent.
As we course along our rocky ridge we watch the adventurers on the snow-field. After climbing over a sharp slope of broken rock, they come upon an incline of nearly eighty degrees—in fact, the snow-field appears concave to us—and commence crawling up it. By great exertions, and cutting steps in the snow with their hunting-knives, they reach the edge of the first crevasse, where we see them pause, holding on to the edge, and looking into it. They can proceed no farther. The crevasse is fifteen feet across, and hundreds deep. Could they throw themselves over, they must inevitably slide back into it, from the glassy surface above.
Starting cautiously to return, and holding back by striking their heels in the snow, making but slight impressions, first one, then the other, loses his hold, and down they go—swiftly, swiftly, ever more swiftly—darting like arrows from their bows, straight down the steep incline, toward the rocks below the snow-line. The younger and more active contrives to draw his hunting-knife from its scabbard, and, by striking it into the hard snow, to check his speed. What a grip he has! We laugh, while we are trembling with excitement, to see him swing quite round the knife-hilt, like a plummet at the end of a string swung in the fingers. He has arrested his descent in time to avoid the rocks.
Not so his clumsier companion, who comes down, luckily, heels foremost, among the rocky debris at the bottom. His bruises, though many, are not dangerous; and this little experience teaches our young ​friends the needful prudence. They are content thenceforth to take the "longest way round," which is the surest way to the object of their desires. After two or three hours of clambering, we reach the line of perpetual snow.
Just below it is a belt of cedars, with tops so flat that we walk out on them a distance of twenty feet, either side their trunks. Early in their struggle for existence their tops have been broken off by the wind, and the weight of many winters' snows has retarded their upright growth, until the result of a century of aspiration is a ludicrously short stump, and immensely long and broad limbs. In this region we find a few stunted "mountain mahogany" trees; but we are quite above the pines.
Above this, in the snow, or rather in the thin layer of soil deposited in places among the rocks where the sun's action prevents the snow from accumulating, are several varieties of flowering plants with which we are familiar; the blossoms, however, are but the miniature copies of their valley kindred. So fragile, of such delicate hues are they, that a feeling of tenderness is inspired by their lonely position on this bleak summit; and we ask ourselves: For whose eye has all this beauty been spread, age after age, where human footsteps never come? Let those who believe every thing terrestrial "was made for man," search those places of earth where only God is, and study their adornments.
The view from the peak of our mountain is one long to be remembered. To the north of us stretches the Cascade Range, with its wilderness of mountains, from six to eight thousand feet in height, overtopped by Mount Jefferson and Mount Hood. To the south, the same wilderness of mountains is seen over the tops of ​the other Sisters, with Diamond Peak, South Peak, Mount Pitt, and, far distant, one which we fancy may be Shasta.
To the east, spread away immense plains, with their river-courses marked as on a map, and bounded by the Blue Mountains. Just below is the Des Chutes, and on the other side of it, not far off, is the extinct crater of a volcano, its remaining walls being only two or three hundred feet high. All around it the country is covered with black cinders, ashes, and scoria. Turning toward the west, we behold the lovely Wallamet Valley, with its numerous small rivers, its hills and plains, and beyond it the blue wall of the Coast Mountains.
We resolve to return to the pine woods to camp, and with to-morrow's dawn to climb once more to the summit, to behold "morning on the mountains." The spectacle compensates for the extra toil. When we arrive, there is a veil of mist hanging between the valley and the mountain-top. We know that they in the valley see nothing of the summits; while we of the summits can discern nothing below this floating sea of vapor. How beautiful! It is as if out of a sea of golden-tinted mist are springing islands of dark-green—some of them crowned with glittering snow—and overhead a cloudless heaven. With every moment some new and beautiful, but almost imperceptible, change comes over the misty ocean in which are bathed those isles whose shores are abrupt mountain-sides; and, in turn, all tints of gold, rose, amber, violet, float before our enchanted eyes.
Not long the scone remains. An August sun quickly disperses the gossamer clouds, unveiling for us the scene of yesterday in its morning sharpness of outline, ​with high lights and deep shadows in the foreground, and with a soft, illusory glimmer in the deep distance. "We hardly wait for the full blaze of day on the picture, preferring to remember it in this more striking aspect.
Along the crests of the mountains are frequent lakes, some of which occupy old burnt-out craters; others may have been formed by the damming up of springs by lava overflows; others by a change in the elevation of certain districts, leaving depressions to be filled by the melting of snows, or by mountain springs and streams. These lakes occur generally where signs of recent volcanic action in the neighborhood are most numerous, as in the vicinity of Mount Jefferson, the Three Sisters, and Diamond Peak.
Pumice, cinders, scoria, and volcanic glass, with other evidences of eruption comparatively recent, abound all along the eastern base of the Cascade Range, and extend some distance through the central portion of Eastern Oregon. The traveler and scientific man must ever be amply repaid for the labor of exploring the country east of the mountains, by the great and varied wonders which meet him at almost every step of his journey.
It does not prejudice a country, either, that it is of volcanic formation; for, wherever the soil has had time to form, it is sure to be of that warm and fertile nature that produces every thing in abundance, and quickly. Probably the eastern slopes of the Cascades will sometime be celebrated for their grapes and peaches, as now the foot-hills of the Sierras are. In both instances, the soil and climate are identical.