Oregon The Picturesque

I know quite well that there have been books without end dealing with our great Pacific Coast, and I feel that a writer who adds another ought to have some good excuse for such action. I flatter myself that I have sufficient warrant for this modest addition to western literature in that my book will not deal with the widely traveled and much heralded sections of this great country, but to a large extent with its little visited and comparatively unfamiliar regions. Ninety per cent of existing books on California have dealt with San Francisco and the region to the south of that city. None, so far as I can discover, have covered in detail, the vast mountain-studded wonderland that comprises the northern half of California and very few have dealt with the eastern half of Oregon, which undoubtedly can boast of some of the most impressive and picturesque scenery in the whole world. I dislike that overworked—almost banal—“picturesque,” too, but if there is any excuse whatever for its use, surely it is in this connection. If my language is not strong and colorful enough to prove it, I can rest assured that the forty beautiful plates which grace this book will settle the question beyond peradventure. There is only one thing more convincing—a personal visit to this little-known American wonderland, and this, I hope, every one of my readers will find opportunity to accomplish some time or other.

In the title to my book I have given Oregon preeminence,—though I have covered some adjacent territory outside of the state—because I feel that the predominating interest will be centered in this great commonwealth. I believe I have covered nearly everything in the state that will be likely to interest the average tourist and many of those who make the round by motor will no doubt make San Francisco their starting-point, as we ourselves did. In such cases, our opinion is that the routes we pursued through Northern California are well worth while.

In addition to the credit given with each of the splendid photographs reproduced in this book, I wish to reiterate here my obligation to Portland’s masters of the camera, the Winter Co., the Weister Co., and Mr. Fred H. Kiser, who so kindly permitted the use of some of their most beautiful pictures as illustrations.

October 1, 1917.

THE AUTHOR.

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	Page
I	AN UNFAMILIAR WONDERLAND	1
II	TO THE LAND OF SKY-BLUE WATER	23
III	RENO TO KLAMATH FALLS	57
IV	THE MARVELS OF CRATER LAKE	81
V	CRATER LAKE TO THE DALLES	110
VI	WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON	132
VII	THE VALE OF THE WILLAMETTE	162
VIII	GRANTS PASS TO EUREKA	184
IX	EUREKA TO CLOVERDALE	216
	INTO YOSEMITE BY MOTOR	245
	A RUN TO THE ROOSEVELT DAM AND TO THE PETRIFIED FOREST	277

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COLOR PLATES
	Page
BISHOP’S CAP, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	Frontispiece
THE OAKS AT SUNSET	1
A CORNER OF LAKE TAHOE	23
ACROSS LAKE TAHOE	34
CRATER LAKE	81
SHIP ROCK, CRATER LAKE	90
SUNSET ON THE COLUMBIA	132
FROM INSPIRATION POINT, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	140
SHEPPERD’S DELL BRIDGE, COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY	148
THE WILLAMETTE NEAR EUGENE, OREGON	174
ON THE PACIFIC HIGHWAY IN OREGON	176
THROUGH THE DEL NORTE REDWOODS	194
SAND DUNES ON THE NORTH COAST	216
THE MENDOCINO COAST	234
EL CAPITAN, YOSEMITE	245
SOLITUDE—THE ARIZONA NATIONAL FORESTS	277
DUOGRAVURES
ON THE LOWER COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY	12
ON THE PACIFIC HIGHWAY	16
CAVE ROCK, LAKE TAHOE	48
THE ROAD TO CRATER LAKE	84
WIZARD ISLAND FROM GARFIELD PEAK	96
CRATER LAKE—WIZARD ISLAND IN DISTANCE	102
LLAO ROCK, CRATER LAKE	108
SAND CREEK CANYON PINNACLES	110
THE THREE SISTERS, DESCHUTES CANYON	112
THE DESCHUTES NEAR NORTH JUNCTION	116
OVERLOOKING DESCHUTES CANYON. MT. JEFFERSON	120
MT. HOOD FROM TYGH VALLEY	122
OR BON DESCHUTES RIVER CANYON	126
THE DESCHUTES RIVER CANYON	130
ONEONTA TUNNEL, COLUMBIA RIVER HIGHWAY	134
COLUMBIA HIGHWAY AT MITCHELL POINT	136
AROUND TOOTH MOUNTAIN, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	138
SHEPPARD’S BRIDGE FROM BENEATH—COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	142
SHEPPERD’S BRIDGE, COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	146
COLUMBIA RIVER GORGE FROM CHANTICLEER INN	152
COLUMBIA HIGHWAY NEAR EAGLE CREEK	156
PORTLAND AND MT. HOOD	160
ALONG THE COLUMBIA HIGHWAY	162
PRUNE ORCHARDS NEAR DUNDEE, OREGON, WILLAMETTE VALLEY	166
MAPS
MAP SHOWING AUTHOR’S ROUTE	314

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Twenty thousand miles of motoring had made us familiar with most of the highways and byways of California lying south of San Francisco. Some of these roads we covered but once in our wanderings and others many times—only a few outlying sections and odd corners have so far escaped us and these we hope to add to our conquests in due course of time. I do not think it possible for any motor enthusiast ever to grow weary of the wonderland of Southern California with its miles and miles of splendid road, its endless variety of scenery, and its enlivening dash of historic romance. But we had done all this, and when the wanderlust came upon us again we cast about, temporarily, of course—for we felt that Sunset Land would eventually claim us again—for new fields of adventure with our companion of the wind-shod wheels.

And so it happened with us and we found ourselves scanning with no small degree of interest and anticipation maps of the vast mountain-studded country stretching from San Francisco to the Columbia River. We had met infrequent motorists who had penetrated parts of this comparatively unfamiliar region and their tales were enough to arouse our curiosity and to intensify our desire to explore these virgin fastnesses of shining lakes, vast forests, and rugged hills, but the contemplation of such an undertaking caused us some uneasiness and misgiving, we are free to confess.

Here one will not find a system of smooth, well-engineered boulevards, but is confronted by a series of widely dissevered mountain trails which climb long, laborious grades or creep along precipitous slopes, deep with dust in late summer and stony and rough at all times. Indeed, many of the roads we planned to traverse are closed by snowdrifts during the greater part of the year and the preferable time for touring is from July to September inclusive. Later, one may encounter the first showers of the rainy season—as it happened with ourselves—and many of these mountain grades are described as “impassable” in wet weather. One of our informants told us of his harrowing experience in passing a night in his car on a slippery grade of the so-called Pacific Highway in Oregon until daylight and a cessation of the shower made it possible to proceed. He completed his drive to Portland but shipped his car back to San Francisco by steamer—no one but a fool, he said, would wish to drive both ways over such a road.

And yet, when we called on the well-informed Automobile Association in San Francisco, we were assured that the Pacific Highway was the standard route to Portland and when we proposed to proceed north from Lake Tahoe on the eastern side of the Sierras through Central Oregon to The Dalles and to return through Eugene, Grants Pass, Crescent City, and Eureka, we were regarded as being afflicted with a mild species of dementia. We were assured that while it might be possible to make the round with a good car, it was certainly not worth while; we would find rough, stony roads and endless steep grades, and the trip would try any machine and driver to the limit—all of which we found to be verily true save that we can never agree that it wasn’t worth while—a mere matter of opinion, after all.

A few extracts from our road-book covering some of the route seemed to prove that the auto people knew what they were talking about. We found such cheerful information as “Roads poor; many sharp curves and heavy grades up to thirty per cent” and again, “Roads mountainous, heavy grades, sharp curves.” Of the hills about Eureka we were cautioned, “Roads poor, heavy grades up to thirty per cent; sharp curves; use care,” and I might quote similar data concerning our prospective route ad infinitum—but we found that really the worst parts of the road were not charted at all, for the book did not cover our proposed tour in Oregon.

We had, however, set our hearts too fondly on the trip to be easily deterred and we determined to proceed, making careful inquiry of local conditions from town to town; at the worst we would always have the option of retracing our route. We felt sure that our car, a Pierce forty-eight, was equal to any road that any motor-driven vehicle could master—and nobly did it live up to our anticipations; in four thousand miles of strenuous work, chiefly among the mountains, it did not give us a moment’s trouble.

For the greater part of our proposed route we were unable to secure detailed descriptive maps such as cover so many of the main roads on the coast and we had considerable misgivings about being able to find our way, though we may anticipate a little by saying that this misgiving proved quite unfounded. We had no need of such carefully detailed maps and those we were able to secure met every requirement, for we found the roads well signed, even in the loneliest and most remote sections. We were seldom at a loss for our route; we did not go astray a single time and were never delayed to any extent for lack of road information. In the wildest and most thinly inhabited regions there is usually but one road and we found the local garages an unfailing source of reliable information as to the best route to the next town. Indeed, many of them were perfectly familiar with road conditions within a radius of a hundred miles, since in these isolated villages—some of them to be reached only by automobile—the garage men are accustomed to drive customers long distances in all directions. Even the smallest places have one or more garages fairly well equipped to take care of the travelers’ needs. We found it unnecessary to carry an extra supply of gasoline with us, though there were times when we became uneasy lest we should find ourselves short of that very necessary fluid. A gravity-fed car may fail on some of the steep grades, even with a goodly quantity of gasoline in the tank, and this should be borne in mind by the tourist. Cars are not frequent on many of these roads and a shortage of gasoline might prove a very inconvenient matter, to say the least.

At one of the remotest points on our trip we were hailed by a fellow-motorist in distress—twenty-five miles from the nearest supply station and with a tank so nearly empty that he could not climb the grades. He had waited long for a passing car and one or two that had come along could not help him out, being fearful of their own supply. Then he hired a horse of a ranchman and visited the half-dozen houses in the vicinity without success. We were able to spare a gallon or two and he went on his way rejoicing. We always wondered, though, if he did not meet with more grief before he mastered the nine-mile, twenty-five per cent grade before him. Of course, it wasn’t twenty-five per cent all the way, but a twenty-five per cent grade for only fifty yards may be just as much of an obstacle, if your gasoline is low, as one many times as long.

We carried five gallons of water in two canvas-covered canteens, but had little occasion to use it, as our motor seldom heated and we had cool weather on some of the heaviest grades. An extra supply of water may be a prime necessity, however, in very warm weather or in case of motors inclined to heat under heavy work. There are grades where it is a steady, low-gear grind for most cars for miles at a stretch and frequently no water to be had. In such cases the canteen or canvas water bag may prove a God-send, indeed.

With a heavy car one should start out with a new set of tires all around and a couple of spares, also new. Tires for medium and small cars can be found at most of the country garages, but few of them stock the larger sizes. On such a tour one can not afford to take unnecessary chances with tires—it would be exceedingly inconvenient to experience a “blow-out” on a narrow, thirty per cent grade. Some of the runs will keep one busy enough without fooling away time on tires—if it can be helped. So new tires and the best will be economy in the long run. One must be prepared to see them suffer severely from the sharp stones that strew the roads in many places—but we found it possible to make the three-thousand-mile round without a puncture, though our casings were sadly cut and scarred at the end and some of them had apparently reached the limit of their usefulness.

In the recesses of some of these giant hills a serious breakdown is a calamity, indeed. It is impossible to tow the car to a repair shop and it must be abandoned until necessary parts are obtained and repairs completed by the roadside where the accident occurred. We saw quite a number of these abandoned machines and wondered what luck the owners had in getting assistance. In some cases it would have been a serious matter to undertake to walk to the nearest house. In one instance we had the pleasure of giving an unfortunate a lift just as he was starting on a seventeen-mile trudge with a broken axle rod over his shoulder. Another very serious feature of many of these breakdowns was the time it must have required to get the new parts—all of which reflections served to make us doubly thankful for the complete immunity which our sturdy car enjoyed. Undoubtedly, the safest car for such a tour is the heavy, powerful, and practically unbreakable car of the type we used, or the light, agile Ford, for which a full line of parts can be found in even the smaller towns of the remote districts. We did not meet many cars on the greater part of our trip, but of these, fully nine-tenths were Fords. In many cases they carried a complete camping outfit, making the occupants independent of hotels and daily schedules.

As to the hotels encountered in our month’s jaunt through the wilds, we will deal with them in detail as we proceed with our story—but we may generalize by saying that the average was wonderfully good. In towns of a thousand or less we often found comfortable and well-appointed inns where we could get rooms with private bath, and in the medium-sized places the hotels were often truly metropolitan in size and furnishings. In the smaller places the rates for rooms were low and in the larger towns moderate in comparison with city charges. Nearly all the hotels, however, were operated on the so-called European plan—you pay separately for room and meals—and the “high cost of living” was usually strongly in evidence in the restaurants. Although the touring season was nearly past when we began our trip, many resorts being closed at Tahoe and elsewhere, we found the hotels surprisingly well patronized and in a few cases we secured accommodations with difficulty.

Not being familiar with the hotels, it was not always practical to wire for reservation—a practice worth while where one has the necessary information. Sometimes we could get a tip from the hotel people as to the best stopping-place in the next town, but this did not always prove reliable, as the inn-keepers sometimes let personal reasons influence them to recommend a second-rate hotel. Neither can the average hotel directory be depended upon; many of the towns in the section we covered are not even listed and improvement marches so rapidly in this country that any information a few months old may be out of date. We found fine hotels under construction in two or three towns and they are likely to spring up almost overnight anywhere in this country. So, if one is uncertain, perhaps as good a plan as any is to wait until the day’s destination is reached and then make inquiries. This is usually safe if you do not arrive too late in the day; we planned our runs, as a rule, to bring us in well before dark and in several cases we saw later arrivals turned away from our hotel. We reached one good-sized town, where there is only one first-class hotel, about four o’clock in the afternoon and the landlord told us he turned away no fewer than thirty would-be guests after our arrival.

We might remark here that we almost invariably carried our noonday luncheon with us and ate it amidst the best surroundings we could discover at the time. Often no place was at hand anywhere near the luncheon hour where a meal could be secured, or if there happened to be it generally proved a poor one, while a few nicely made sandwiches, with fruit, nearly always to be found in this country, and hot coffee from our thermos bottles, cost less than hotel meals and was far more satisfactory; besides, this plan consumed less time and gave us the advantage of enjoying the great out-of-doors, often with a magnificent scene before us.

As I have intimated, we met a good many fellow-motorists who carried the out-of-door idea to a still greater extent, for they had with them complete camping outfits, including the tents which sheltered them at nightfall. In some parts of the country very delightful camping sites could be found with trees and clear spring water near at hand; but there were long stretches of road where none of these conveniences existed and nothing save barren, stony soil or sagebrush-studded sand greeted the wayfarer’s eyes. Occasionally we passed campers who were making the best of such surroundings, but they did not present the cheerful appearance of those who had lighted upon some grassy glade under a group of fragrant balsam pines. A goodly number of the campers were hunters, for we were in the midst of the season in California and Oregon—we ourselves saw several deer by the roadside and occasionally started a long-tailed pheasant or jack-rabbit from cover. Still more numerous were the beautiful California quail which frequently arose in large flocks as our car brushed through some dense thicket that skirted the roadside. Considering the long distance we traveled through virgin wildernesses, however, we saw little of wild life.

If the hotels along our route averaged quite moderate in charges, the garages did their best to even things up; gasoline is, indeed, a precious fluid in this country, prices ranging from thirty to fifty cents per gallon. We paid the latter figure only once, but thirty-five and forty cents was quite common and lubricating oil was at least fifty per cent above the San Francisco price. When one recalls that in many of these towns supplies have to come by motor truck for long distances, perhaps these high prices are justified. Garage charges for our car ran from fifty to seventy-five cents per night. Fortunately, we are not able to speak from experience as to the cost of repair work, but the average garage seemed very well equipped to take care of anything in this line.

As we have already intimated, only an inconsiderable mileage of the roads covered by our tour has as yet been improved. Most of the counties that we traversed in Northern California and Oregon are vast in extent and but thinly populated. For instance, Lassen and Modoc Counties in California have respectively 4531 and 3823 square miles, with a population of 4802 for the former and 6191 for the latter named. Some of the Oregon counties would not show so great a population in proportion to their area. It would be folly to expect such sparsely inhabited communities, entirely without large cities, to be able to match the great bond issues of the counties of Central and Southern California. They have done much, everything considered, but so vast are the distances and so great the engineering difficulties that the main effort has been to keep the present roads in passable condition rather than to build new ones. A veteran motorist told me that he had covered a good part of these northern roads several years ago and that in going over them a second time recently he could not note any great improvement. Better bridges have been built and the surfacing improved in places, but little has been done to widen the roads or to eliminate the heavy grades. If fine highways with moderate gradients and curves ever penetrate these natural fastnesses, the state will have to do the work.

The present plans of the California Highway Commission contemplate the improvement of the Coast Route—though, with the exception of about a hundred miles, it runs a goodly distance from the coast—practically to the Oregon line—and some of the grading in Humboldt and Mendocino Counties is already done. Much work has also been done on the Pacific Highway, which pursues its course through the central part of the state and branches from this are projected to the county seats of each of the eastern tier of counties. Nothing, however, is promised for the extreme eastern counties in the way of an improved road northward from Lake Tahoe and roughly following the Nevada, California & Oregon Railroad to the Oregon border. Probably such a highway would not be justified, for the population is very scant and the country barren and poor, though it has much to interest the tourist for all that. With the completion of the new highways, much of the present road will be practically abandoned and while this is a consummation devoutly to be wished from most viewpoints, the tourist of the future will miss many of the most glorious mountain vistas that human eye has ever rested upon. For the only way to realize the majesty of the mountains is to climb the mountains, and though that is sometimes strenuous and even dangerous work, it is not without its reward to one who delights in these giant hills.

The success of the second state bond proposition submitted at the general election of 1916, providing fifteen million dollars to complete the highway system, insures that the work as outlined in Northern California will be carried forward as rapidly as possible. This comprises two trunk lines to the northern border: the Pacific Highway, traversing the Sacramento Valley, and the Coast Route, roughly following the ocean to Crescent City. A large part of the former road is already finished, but a much larger proportion of the Coast road is still undone. Besides these, several laterals will connect the county seats not served directly by the main lines, thus reaching the communities east of the Sierras, where no highway is planned. Much of the worst road covered in the tour described in this book will be eliminated when the proposed extensions are completed. This will probably require three years, or until 1920—and we may confidently predict that motor touring will become vastly more popular in this now little-known scenic wonderland.

The highways of Oregon present a still more serious question in that state than the one which California has to solve. With only one-fifth the population and with two-thirds the area of her neighbor, Oregon cannot undertake the vast road improvement plans that are being carried out south of her border. There is as yet little well-improved road in the state; a few pieces of macadam about Portland and down the Willamette Valley—much of it broken and rough—and the wonderful new Columbia River Highway comprising about all of it at this time. A number of the more prosperous counties, however, have voted bonds or are contemplating such a move, especially along the Pacific Highway, so that in the course of four or five years we may expect some appreciable results. But Oregon roads generally are desperately bad and are likely to remain so for some time. There will likely be much improvement in the way of grading and bridges, but surfacing after the splendid fashion of California is far off for the vast majority of Oregon highways. Multnomah County, in which is situated the city of Portland, has by far the greater mileage of surfaced highways and we found considerable road work in progress here. The first move toward a permanent system in this county was the issuance of two and a half millions in bonds, the proceeds of which were used to build the first fifty miles of the Columbia River Highway, and it is to be hoped that other counties will continue the good work until this wonderful road parallels the mighty river its entire length in the state.

We found the leaven of good-roads sentiment working strongly in Oregon during our sojourn in that state, and a little less than a year later it bore substantial fruit in a six-million bond issue which carried by a safe majority. This is avowedly only the entering wedge—it is safe to predict a repetition of California’s experience in adopting a second issue by a far larger popular vote than the first received. Six million dollars will not improve a very large percentage of Oregon’s immense road mileage, but it will serve to give the people of this state a demonstration of the advantages of permanent highways and the good work is sure to gain an impetus that will result in still more liberal provision for carrying it forward.

Efforts in both California and Oregon are at present being centered on the Pacific Highway and in the latter state perhaps half the mileage is improved in some way or other at this time. This is well enough, since this highway traverses the principal centers of population in both states and will no doubt serve the greatest number of people. It does not, however, compare in scenic interest with the coast road and it closely follows the Southern Pacific Railroad, affording one the alternative of seeing the country from the window of a Pullman car, which many will prefer while the highway is in its present state. The Coast road, however, traverses virgin wildernesses that can not be reached by railroad train and whose beauty will reward the somewhat strenuous effort which the motorist must make to penetrate them.

We realize now that our trip was made too rapidly to give us the best opportunity to see and enjoy the marvels of this wonderful region. For unavoidable reasons we could not start before the middle of September and before we made our round we became uneasy on account of the weather. We ran into showers on some of the worst mountain roads in California, the weather with its proverbial perverseness in the Golden State taking a “most unusual” turn. Snow fell in the Tahoe and Crater Lake regions shortly after we left them and with snow these roads are impassable for the average motor car. So one will be easier and practically sure of avoiding adverse weather manifestations if he will start the latter part of July—though the “unusual” may get him even then, since on the year of our tour the Crater Lake road was not free from snow until the first of August. One should plan short daily runs on such a tour and there are many side trips well worth while if there is plenty of time to do them. There are, moreover, many delightful inns and resorts to be found in the region we covered—some of them closed when we reached them—which might well tempt the wayfarer to tarry awhile to rest and enjoy at his leisure the surroundings of forest, lake or mountain stream, as the case may be. There will be many days on the road when such a respite will be very welcome, especially to the feminine members of the party. Excepting Portland, there is no large city in the territory covered by our tour; indeed, in California, north of San Francisco and Sacramento, there is no town larger than Eureka, with perhaps fifteen thousand people, while Eugene and Salem in Oregon and Reno in Nevada have approximately the same population. The situation of these towns and the territory tributary to them puts them nearer to the metropolitan class than the average eastern town of similar size.

Though the tour covered by this book was the most strenuous we have ever made and the lateness of the season compelled more haste than we liked, yet we look back upon the month spent among these rugged hill ranges and wide plains and valleys with unmixed satisfaction. We saw many things that justly may be rated among the wonders of the world. We saw enough to convince us that when this region is penetrated by well-constructed highways, it will divide honors with Southern California as a tourist resort and motorist’s paradise. It is little known at present; all the flood of books poured forth about California have dealt mainly with San Francisco and the country lying south of that city; and Oregon, aside from the Columbia River, has a very scant literature. I can not pretend in the limits of this work to have done the subject anything like full justice. It is a country of magnificent distances, of endless variety and immense and undeveloped resources, and volumes would be necessary should one enter into detail. But with the assistance of our sturdy car we saw much, indeed; we achieved in one month that which in old days would have required months of tedious travel.

We saw Tahoe, the gem of the world’s lakes, in its setting of snow-covered, pine-clad mountains. We saw the strange volcanic plains and hills of Lassen and Modoc Counties with their wide, shallow lakes. We saw Eagle Lake, flashing in the sunset like a sheet of molten silver among the pine forests that crowd up to its very shores. We saw the vast mountain cauldron with its lapis-lazuli sheet of water—the bluest bit of water on this mundane sphere—Crater Lake, with its mighty ramparts of unscaled cliffs and the unmatched vista of mountain forests and lake from the newly built government road. We saw the vast forests of Central Oregon, where in a whole day’s run there is little evidence of human habitation. We saw the great mountain range that skirts the plain covered by this forest, with here and there a stupendous peak, white with eternal snow, piercing the azure heavens. We saw the white, cold pyramid of Mount Hood with the dark belt of pines at its base, stand in awful majesty against a wide band of crimson sky. For a hundred miles we followed the vale of the queen river of the west, mountain-guarded Columbia, and coursed over the famous new highway with its unrivalled panoramas of stream and wooded hills. We pursued the western Willamette through its fertile, well-tilled valley and admired the prosperous, up-to-date towns along the way. We traversed the rough, sinuous trails over the summits of the rugged Cascades into the virgin redwoods of Del Norte and Humboldt Counties. For more than a hundred miles the narrow road twists through these giant trees, coming at times to commanding headlands from which there are endless vistas of shining sea. We visited Eureka, the wonder city of the North, long shut in behind ranges of almost impenetrable hills and dependent on the sea alone—though now it has a railroad and lives in hopes of the coming of the new state highway. We saw Shasta of the eternal snows and Lassen’s smoke-shrouded peak. We followed the rugged coastline of Mendocino County with its stern headlands overlooking leagues of glorious ocean. We coursed through the vast vineyards of the Napa and Santa Rosa Valleys with the terraced hill ranges on either hand showing everywhere the careful tillage one sees in Italy or along the Rhine. We crossed the pine-clad hills that shut in beautiful Clear Lake Valley with its giant oaks and crystal sheet of water—which still lingers in our memories as the loveliest spot in all California. We traversed the great plain of the Sacramento, whose pastoral beauty and quiet prosperity rivals that of the Mississippi Valley.

Nor was the element of historic interest entirely lacking. Old Fort Ross and the names that still cling to a few places about the Russian River reminded us that at one time the Czar nearly added Northern California to his vast domains. We found footprints of the padres at San Rafael and Sonoma and no doubt they would have carried the chain on to the Columbia River had not the Mexicans interfered. We came upon reminders of the terrible privations suffered by the pioneers—for did we not look down on placid Donner Lake, which takes its name from one of the saddest of the endless tragedies that befell the emigrant trains? There are many relics, too, of the romantic days of ’49, and we came upon places where gold is still being mined, though by methods vastly different from those of the panhandlers of Bret Harte. We found many memories of Lewis and Clarke and of Marcus Whitman, who did so much to put Oregon under the Stars and Stripes, and more than once we crossed the trail of Fremont, the tireless Pathfinder.

But why anticipate farther, since I shall endeavor to describe in detail as I proceed with the story of our tour? Even were I to write nothing more, I hope I have proved my contention that it is well worth while to explore this new wonderland—but I trust that I shall find language as I progress to make even more apparent the savage grandeur of these hills, the weird loveliness of the lakes, the majesty of the virgin forests, and the glories of rugged coast and restless ocean.

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There are two routes from Sacramento to Lake Tahoe which carry nine-tenths of the motor travel to that interesting region. Both traverse a picturesque mountain country with a spice of historic and romantic interest and most motor visitors, naturally enough, go by one route and return by the other. That we did not do so was the result of the miscarriage of our plans, due to a break-down of the car we had leased of a Los Angeles dealer for our first trip. This made it necessary to go part of the way by train and when repairs to the car were made, we returned by the route over which we had come. The following year, in our own car, we again visited Tahoe, going from San Francisco by the way of Sacramento and Placerville and continuing our journey northward from the lake.

In each instance we passed the night at Sacramento, which is the best starting point for the day’s run to Tahoe, being about one hundred and twenty miles distant by either route. We were sure of every comfort and convenience here—there are a dozen hotels ranging from good-enough to first-class—and our repeated visits had given us more and more of a liking for Sacramento. It is a clean, beautiful city, practically a seaport, so deep and broad is its mighty tide-water river, which carries a yearly commerce, incoming and outgoing, of an aggregate value of more than fifty million dollars. The surrounding country is very fertile, with greatly varied agricultural and fruit-growing resources which form the basis of the city’s prosperity and assure its future. Its streets and private and public buildings have a truly metropolitan appearance which in the east would indicate a city of much more than fifty or sixty thousand population. The Capitol building, a white marble structure of purely classic lines, stands in a beautiful semi-tropic park of about forty acres. This is beautified with endless varieties of shrubs and trees, among them palms of many species, for the climate is such that orange groves, olives and almonds flourish quite as vigorously as in Southern California. The oranges ripen here from six weeks to two months earlier than in the south, giving the growers the advantage of early markets, and the quality of the fruit is equal to the best. Surrounding the city are endless orchards of peach, pear, prune, apricot, cherry, and many other varieties of fruit trees; and there are extensive vineyards of both wine and table grapes. Dairying, stock-raising, gardening, as well as other branches of farming are carried on—very profitably, if one may judge by appearances. Manufacturing is also done on a considerable scale in the city and vicinity and gold mining in the county is an industry producing about two millions annually. All of which would seem to indicate that Sacramento has not yet reached the zenith of its growth and prosperity. It is favorably situated as to railroads, having a service of three transcontinental lines since the Santa Fe has leased right of way over the Western Pacific. The new state highway enters the city from north and south and a direct route has been opened to San Francisco by the completion of the great Yolo Trestle, shortening the distance by wagon road—thirty miles less than via Stockton and Altamont, formerly the standard route. This great engineering feat bridges the Yolo basin, which is flooded during several months of the year, with a solid concrete causeway twenty-one feet wide and over three miles long, carried on re-enforced concrete piles rising twenty feet above ground. It was completed in about eighteen months and cost a little under four hundred thousand dollars. We ran over it on our last trip to Sacramento and it seemed like a fairy tale indeed to be bowling along twenty feet above the formerly impassable marsh as safely and smoothly as upon an asphalted city boulevard. In addition to the state highway, Sacramento County already has many miles of good road of her own construction, but she is planning still larger things in the immediate future. A highway bond issue of two million dollars was authorized late in 1916 by a majority of nearly four to one, emphatically proving the enlightenment of the citizens of the county on the question of improved roads. The proceeds of this issue will improve practically all the main highways and make Sacramento County one of the favorite touring grounds of the state.

Historically, the capital city is one of the most interesting towns in the state, since it is the oldest settlement of white men in the interior of California. It had a population of more than ten thousand in 1849, though doubtless the majority of the inhabitants were transient gold-seekers. It was the goal of the greater number of emigrants who came overland during the “gold fever” period and was a famous outfitting point for the prospective miners who rushed here because of the proximity of the gold fields. Ten years earlier a colony of Swiss emigrants, under the name of New Helvetia, was established on the present site of the city by Col. John H. Sutter. It soon became better known as Sutter’s Fort, on account of the solid blockhouse built by the founder, which still stands in good repair, now containing a museum of relics of pioneer days. Sutter employed John Marshall, whom he sent to Coloma, some fifty miles east of Sacramento, to build a mill on the South American river. Here Marshall picked up the famous nugget that threw the whole world into a ferment in the late forties and turned the tide of emigration to California.

But perhaps we are permitting our fondness for Sacramento to detain us too long on the subject; it did not prevent us, however, from getting an early start from our hotel on the Auburn road for Tahoe. Out of the city for several miles through a fertile orchard and farm country, we pursued a level, well-improved road which led us toward the great hill range that marks the western confines of the valley. Entering the rounded brown foothills, we kept a steady ascent through scattering groves of oak and pine, with here and there along the way a well-ordered stock farm or fruit ranch. It was in the height of the peach season and a sign at a ranch house gate tempted us to purchase. A silver dime brought us such a quantity of big, luscious, rosy-cheeked fruit that we scarcely knew where to bestow it about the car. It was just off the tree and ripe to perfection, and by comparison with the very best one could buy in a fruit market, it seemed a new and unheard-of variety—ambrosia fit only for the gods. Its fragrance and savoriness linger with us yet and do much to mitigate the recollection of divers disasters and disappointments that overtook us ere we reached our destination. And they told us that so immense was the crop of peaches and pears in this locality that some of this unequalled fruit was being fed to the pigs.

Following a winding but fair road through the hills, we soon came, as we supposed, into the main part of Auburn, for we had taken no pains to learn anything about the town. At the foot of a sharp hill we paused in a crooked street with a row of ramshackle buildings on either side and it was apparent at a glance that the population of the ancient-looking town was chiefly Chinese. A few saloons and one or two huge wooden boarding houses were the most salient features and a small blacksmith shop near the end of the street was labeled “Garage.” We mentally classed “Sweet Auburn” with Chinese Camp and following the road leading out of the place began the ascent of an exceedingly steep hill.

We were not destined to pass old Auburn with so short an acquaintance, for something went wrong with the gearing of the car before we were half way up the hill and we returned perforce to the wretched little garage we had passed, never dreaming that at the crest of the hill was a fine, modern town with one of the best-equipped machine shops we saw outside of the cities. While the proprietor of the garage, who combined in his single person the function of consulting engineer and mechanical repairman, was endeavoring to diagnose our trouble, we learned from a bystander that there was another Auburn on the hilltop with an excellent hotel—welcome news, for apparently chances were strong for passing the night in the town. We found the newer section well built and attractive, with a handsome courthouse, an imposing high school, and a new bank building with tall, classic pillars that would hardly be out of place on Fifth Avenue. Best of all, we found a comfortable hotel, which did much to mitigate the disappointment of our enforced sojourn in the town.

Though the trouble with the car was trifling, much time was consumed by our garage expert in locating it and still more in dissuading him from making a three-days’ job of it by tearing the machine to pieces, which he evinced a lively desire to do. A threat to remove the car to the garage on the hill, however, proved efficacious and by the middle of the afternoon he pronounced the job complete. And here we may pause to remark that before we reached Tahoe we had more serious trouble with this miserable car, which we shall pass over for the double reason that a recital would vex us with harrowing memories and be of no interest to the reader. We only registered a silent, solemn vow with good St. Christopher, the patron saint of all travelers, that our next tour should be made in our own car and we fulfilled our vow a year later in the long jaunt to Portland and return covered by this book.

As it was too late in the day to continue our journey after the car was ready, we contented ourselves with driving about town. The hotel people especially urged us not to miss the view from a second hill which dominated the new town and upon which may be found the homes of Auburn’s Four Hundred. A truly magnificent outlook greeted us from this hillcrest—a far-reaching panorama of the canyon of the American River, intersected by the gleaming stream more than a thousand feet beneath. On either side of the river we beheld range upon range of wooded hills stretching away to the blue haze of the horizon, the rugged wall of the Sierras looming dimly in the far distance. From our point of vantage, we could see the broad vale of the Sacramento to the westward, and, nearer at hand, the foothills intersected by the pleasant valleys with orchards and cultivated fields, dotted here and there with white ranch houses.

Beyond Auburn the road climbs steadily to Colfax, a few short pitches ranging from fifteen to twenty per cent. The surface was good and we were delighted by many fine vistas from the hilltops as we hastened along. At Applegate was a deserted hotel and “tent city,” said to be very popular resorts earlier in the summer. Colfax was the Illinois Town of mining times and still has many buildings dating back to the “days of gold.” The town was given its present name when the steam road came and it is now a center of considerable activity in railroading. Here we heard of a new California industry, for tobacco is grown in the vicinity and cigars made from the home-grown plant may be had at the local shops. There is also a famous vineyard and winery near the town, operated by an Italian colony similar to those of the Napa Valley. There is much beautiful scenery about Colfax. From the nearby summits across long reaches of forest-clad hills, one may see on one hand the mighty ranks of the snow-clad Sierras and on the other the dim outlines of the Coast Range. On exceptionally clear days, they told us, the shining cone of Shasta may be seen, though it is more than one hundred and fifty miles away.

Out of Colfax we continue to climb steadily and soon come upon reminders of the days when this was one of the greatest gold-producing sections of California. The hillsides everywhere show the scars of old-time placer mining. Millions of the precious metal were produced here in the few years following ’49, but operations have long since ceased and the deserted villages are fast falling into ruin. Dutch Flat and Gold Run, now stations on the Southern Pacific, could no doubt have furnished Bret Harte with characters and incidents quite as varied and picturesque as Angel’s Camp or Sonora had his wanderings brought him hither. For the disappearance of the good old golden days, the natives console themselves in this fashion, quoting advertising literature issued by Placer County: “In days gone by the gold mining industry made this section famous. To-day the golden fruit brings it wealth and renown.” And it also holds forth the hope that scientific mining methods may yet find “much gold in the old river beds and seams of gold-bearing rock.”

From Dutch Flat to Emigrant Gap, perhaps a dozen miles, the road climbs continually, winding through pine forests that crowd closely on either hand. Here is one of the wildest sections of the Sierras accessible to motor cars, and the weird beauty culminates at Emigrant Gap, a great natural gash in the Sierras which in early days gave its name to the road by which the great majority of overland emigrants entered California. Near this point, a little distance to the right of the road and some two thousand feet beneath, lies Bear Valley, one of the loveliest vales of the Sierras—in early summer an emerald green meadow—lying between Yuba River and Bear Creek, shut in on every hand by tree-clad slopes. From Emigrant Gap to the summit of the divide, a distance of twenty-seven miles, the road mounts steadily through the pines, winding around abrupt turns and climbing heavy grades—the last pitch rising to thirty per cent, according to our road book, though we doubt if it is really so steep. Crystal Lake and Lake Van Orten are passed on the way, two blue mountain tarns lying far below on the right-hand side of the road. From the summit, at an elevation of a little over seven thousand feet, we have a wonderful view both eastward and westward. Behind us the rugged hills through which we have wended our way slope gently to the Sacramento Valley—so gently that in the one hundred miles since leaving the plain we have risen only a mile and a half. Before us is the sharper fall of the eastern slope and far beneath, in a setting of green sward and stately pines, the placid blue waters of Donner Lake, beautiful despite the tragic associations which come unbidden to our minds.

The Donner party of thirty-one people set out from Illinois in April, 1846, and after almost unbelievable hardships, which caused the death of many of them, arrived in the vicinity of Truckee in October. Here they were overtaken by a terrific snowstorm that made farther progress impossible and they camped on the shores of Donner Lake until the following February. Many other emigrants had joined the party on the way and in spite of the numerous deaths while enroute, eighty-three were snowed in at this camp. Forty-nine of these perished before relief arrived and only eighteen finally survived to reach California. The first crossing by emigrants over this route was made in 1844 and the fate of the Donner party was due to being caught by the early winter rather than the difficulties of the road. Snow fell during that winter to the depth of twenty-two feet, as proven by a stump of a tree cut by the emigrants; and a fall of from ten to twenty feet is not uncommon even now in this vicinity.

Crossing the mountains, one is appalled by the thought of the difficulties encountered by the pioneer who had neither road nor signboard, but must make his way over rugged hills and deep valleys, across wide rivers, and through virgin forests with only a dimly blazed trail to guide him—and even this was often wanting. If a motor trip across the continent even now is not without its difficulties and discomforts, what hardships must the pioneers with the ox-drawn wagons have endured in that far-off day when neither railway nor wagon road entered the savage wilderness and the only inhabitants were hostile Indians and wild beasts.

The descent from the summit of the divide to Truckee is gradual, some twelve hundred feet in nine miles, though there are a few short, steep grades of from fifteen to twenty per cent, according to our authority. It was dark when we reached Truckee, but as there was no chance of going astray on the road to Tahoe Tavern, we determined to proceed. The road for the entire distance of fifteen miles closely follows the Truckee River, a swift, shallow stream fed from the limpid waters of Lake Tahoe. It was a glorious moonlight night and the gleaming river, the jagged hills on either hand, and the dark pine forests, all combined to make a wild but entrancingly beautiful effect. As we later saw the Truckee Canyon by daylight, we have every reason to be glad that we traversed it by moonlight as well.

Tahoe Tavern, with its myriad lights, was a welcome sight, none the less, after an exceedingly strenuous trip, the personal details of which I have forborne to inflict upon the reader. We were given rooms in the new annex, a frame-and-shingle building, and were delighted to find that our windows opened upon the moonlit lake. The mountain tops on the opposite shore were shrouded in heavy clouds through which the moon struggled at intervals, transmuting the clear, still surface of the lake from a dark, dull mirror to a softly lighted sheet of water with a path of gleaming silver running across it. Directly a thunder storm broke over the eastern shore—very uncommon in summer, we were told—and we had the spectacle of clouds and lake lighted weirdly by flashes of lightning. The thunder rolling among the peaks and across the water brought vividly to our minds Byron’s description of a thunderstorm on Lake Geneva in the Alps. For a short time it seemed as if “every mountain peak had found a tongue,” but the storm died away without crossing the lake.

We may as well admit that we failed to carry out our resolution to see sunrise on the lake, for we did not waken until the sun was shining broadly into our window, to which we hastened for a first impression of Tahoe by daylight. We beheld a smooth, steel-blue sheet of water with a sharply defined mountain range in the distance—no suggestion of the color miracle we had heard so much about; we learned that you must see Tahoe from many viewpoints and at many periods of the day to know a few of the myriad phases of its beauty.

Tahoe Tavern, a huge, brown, rambling building in a fine grove of pines, fronts directly on a little bay and commands a glorious outlook of lake and distant mountains. It is a delightfully retired and quiet place, ideal for rest and recuperation, while the surrounding country is unmatched in scenic attractions for those inclined to exploration, whether by steamer, motor, on horseback, or afoot. We found the service and the cuisine equal to the best resort hotels in California—and that is saying a great deal, since California in this particular leads the world. The Tavern’s popularity is evidenced by the fact that the main building, capable of accommodating several hundred guests, has been supplemented by the large annex and even then in season it is well to engage rooms in advance of arrival. Here we found a quiet yet exhilarating spot, the toil and tumult of the busy world shut out by impregnable mountain barriers, where one may repose and commune with nature in her grandest and most enchanting aspects.

After making the acquaintance of the friendly chipmunks about the inn—which have so far overcome their natural timidity as to take morsels from your fingers or even to rifle your pockets in search of peanuts—and laughing at the antics of the blue jays, almost as fearless, we decided to board the excursion steamer, which makes a daily round of the lake. Once out from the shore and well started on our southward journey, we began to realize something of the wonderful colorings that no one who has seen Tahoe can ever forget. About us the water was of the deepest, clearest, ultra-marine blue, shading by many gradations into emerald green near the shores. The colors were more intense than we had ever seen before in any body of water and cannot be entirely due to great depth, for though the bottom of Tahoe in places is nearly two thousand feet below the surface, the hue is deeper than that of the ocean. It is more like liquid, transparent lapis-lazuli, if we may imagine such a thing, than anything else I can think of. No doubt the depth of the water and the deep azure of the skies are the chief elements in producing this glorious effect. Yet, for all its blueness, we could see the bottom of the lake as we steamed along—indeed, they told us that only in the deepest places is the bottom invisible on clear, still days.

We followed the coast at a little distance, stopping at the different stations, chiefly camps and resorts of various degrees. Most of these are along the west side of the lake between Tahoe and Tallac, and scattered between them are many summer villas, chiefly of San Francisco people. This part of the shore is the most picturesque, being well wooded, while much of the eastern side is lined with barren and rocky mountains. At Rubicon Point, mighty cliffs rise high above the lake and their sheer walls extend far beneath the water that laves their base. Here is the deepest, bluest water that we cross, and they tell us one of the best fishing spots. Passing from the ultramarine deeps of the Rubicon Point, we round a sharply jutting promontory and glide into the jade-green waters of Emerald Bay, a long, oval-shaped inlet at the southern end of the lake. Surely, it is rightly named, for here green predominates, from the steep sides of the encircling hills to the very center of the shallow bay. At the upper end of the bay, rising almost sheer from the green water, is a rocky, scantily-wooded island where for many years an eccentric Englishman made his home. Nearly opposite on the shore is Emerald Bay Camp, perhaps the most popular of the many permanent camps around the lake. At Tallac the steamer stops for an hour to give opportunity for luncheon at the huge wooden hotel built many years ago by the late “Lucky” Baldwin. It stands in a grove of splendid pines and on a site in some ways superior to that of the tavern. Certainly the surrounding country is more picturesque and has more to interest the tourist. Just over the hills is the beautiful Fallen Leaf Lake and there are several other jewel-like tarns set in the hills a little to the west, while Cascade Lake and Emerald Bay are within walking distance. During luncheon one of our party expressed disappointment that the coloring of the lake hardly measured up to expectations formed from the enthusiastic descriptions of guidebooks and railroad literature.

“You can never see the color beauties of a lake at their best from a boat,” I declared. “We once had the opportunity of making the Great Glen trip by steamer and a year later of following these splendid Scotch lakes with our car; the effects of color and light which we saw on the latter trip were indescribably the more glorious.”

“Then let’s abandon the boat and hire a car for the return trip to the Tavern,”—a proposition to which all agreed. The car, a good one, was easily secured and we were soon away on what has been described as the most beautiful twenty-five mile drive in the world—a true claim so far as we know; the Columbia River Boulevard or Crater Lake road may rival it for scenic beauty, though these are perhaps too different for fair comparison.

The day was perfect, crystal clear except for a few white clouds drifting lazily across the sky or resting on the summits of the mountains beyond the lake; a day which our driver, an agreeable and intelligent young fellow, declared ideal for seeing Tahoe at its best. For a few miles out of Tallac we ran through a pine forest, catching fugitive glimpses of the blue water through the stately trunks. As we ascended the ridge overlooking Emerald Bay, exclamations of delight were frequent and enthusiastic as the magnificent panorama gradually unfolded to our view. The climax was reached when our driver paused at the summit of the ridge, where the whole of Tahoe spread out before us. Just beneath on one hand lay Emerald Bay; on the other gleamed Cascade Lake—a perfect gem in glorious setting of rock and tree. And the glory of color that greeted our eyes! Exaggerated in descriptions? No mortal language ever conveyed a tithe of its iridescent beauty and never will. One of the ladies exclaimed, “It is like a great black opal,” and knowing her passion for that gem, we recognized the sincerity of her tribute. And, indeed, the comparison was not inapt. There were the elusive, changeful greens and blues, the dark purples, and the strange, uncertain play of light and color that characterizes that mysterious gem. Near the shore line the greens predominated, reaching the deepest intensity in Emerald Bay, just below. Passing through many variations of color, the greens merged into the deep blues and farther out in the lake purple hues seemed to prevail. Along the opposite shore ran the rugged mountain range, the summits touched by cloud-masses which held forth the slightest threat of a summer shower—and, indeed, it came just before we reached the tavern. Overhead the sky was of the deepest azure and clear save for a few tiny white clouds mirrored in the gloriously tinted water. Altogether, the scene was a combination of transcendent color with a setting of rugged yet beautiful country that we have never seen equalled elsewhere and which we have no words to fittingly describe. Even the master artist fails here, since he can but express one mood of the lake—while it has a thousand every day. We have seen the Scotch, Italian and English lakes; we sailed the length of George and Champlain; we admired the mountain glories of Yellowstone Lake; we viewed Klamath and Crater Lakes from mountain heights, but none of them matched the wonderful color variations of Tahoe.

But we are on our way again, descending and climbing long grades which pass through pine forests and come out on headlands from which we gain new and entrancing views of lake and mountains. The road was completed only recently, but it is good in the main, though there are steep pitches and some rough and dusty stretches. At times it takes us out of sight of the lake, but we are compensated by wild and rugged scenery—towering crags and massive walls of gray stone—rising above us on every hand. The road must have presented considerable engineering difficulties; our driver points out a place where a mighty rock of a thousand tons or more was blasted to fragments to clear the way. Far above us on the mountain crests we see gleaming patches of snow which the late summer sun has not been able to dispel. We cross clear mountain streams and wind through groves of pine and spruce. Often as we climb or descend the long grades we come upon new vistas of the lake and mountains and occasionally we ask for a moment’s delay to admire some especially beautiful scene. Then we descend almost to the level of the water, which we see flashing through stately trunks or rippling upon clear, pebbly beaches. We pass various resorts, each surrounded by pines and commanding a beautiful view of the lake. As we approach the Tavern the summer shower that has been threatening begins and to the color glories of sky and lake are added the diamond-like brilliance of the big drops, for the sun is unobscured by the clouds. Beyond a stretch of smooth water, dimmed to dull silver by the blue-gray vapor hanging over it, a rainbow hovers in front of the dim outlines of the distant hills. It was a fitting climax to the most inspiring drive in the many thousands of miles covered by our wanderings.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon and the evening about the Tavern. Especially we admired the casino with its arcade fronting directly on the lake; here amusements of every description tempt the guest who finds time heavy on his hands, but we found more enjoyment in the beautiful scenes from the wide arches. Near by we found a photograph shop in charge of our friend, Valentine of Los Angeles, some of whose splendid pictures adorn this book. He had come to Tahoe before the roads were clear and told us of some desperate work in getting through, spending the night in his car while stuck in a snowdrift.

Circumstances made it impracticable that we remain longer at the Tavern and we left the next morning for Sacramento with the mental resolution that we would come again at our earliest opportunity. That opportunity came a little more than a year later. We again found ourselves in Sacramento on the beginning of the northern tour covered by this book. We had discarded our trouble-making hired car for our own machine, long, low, and heavy, so solidly built that not a single part gave way under the terribly severe conditions of the tour.

Out of Sacramento we followed the new state highway, then almost completed to Placerville. On the way to Folsom we saw much of gold mining under modern conditions. Monstrous floating steam dredges were eating their way through the fields and for miles had thrown up great ridges of stones and gravel from which the gold had been extracted by a process of washing. Something less than two million dollars annually is produced in Sacramento County, mainly by this process, and the cobblestones, after being crushed by powerful machinery, serve the very useful purpose of road-building. Beyond Folsom the highway winds through uninteresting hills covered with short brown grass and diversified with occasional oak trees. We kept a pretty steady upward trend as we sped toward the blue hill ranges, but there were no grades worth mentioning west of Placerville. Before we reached the town we entered the splendid pine forest which continues all the way to Tahoe.

Placerville has little to recall its old-time sobriquet of Hangtown, the name by which it figures in Bret Harte’s stories. Here, indeed, was the very storm center of the early gold furor—but five miles to the north is Coloma, where Marshall picked up the nugget that turned the eyes of the world to California in ’49. Over the very road which we were to pursue out of the town poured the living tide of gold seekers which spread out through all the surrounding country. To-day, however, Placerville depends little on mining; its narrow, crooked main street and a few ancient buildings are the only reminders of its old-time rough-and-tumble existence. It is a prosperous town of three thousand people and handsome homes, with well-kept lawns, are not uncommon. We also noted a splendid new courthouse of Spanish colonial design wrought in white marble, a fine example of the public spirit that prevails in even the more retired California communities. The site of the town is its greatest drawback. Wedged as it is in the bottom of a vast canyon, there is little possibility of regularity in streets and much work has been necessary to prepare sites for homes and public buildings. A certain picturesqueness and delightful informality compensates for all this and the visitor is sure to be pleased with the Placerville of to-day aside from its romantic history. Two fairly comfortable hotels invite the traveler to stop and make more intimate acquaintance with the town, which a recent writer declares is noted for its charming women—an attraction which it lacked in its romantic mining days.

Beyond Placerville the road climbs steadily, winding through the giant hills and finally crossing the American River, which we followed for many miles—now far above with the green stream gleaming through the pines and again coursing along its very banks. There are many deciduous trees among the evergreens on these hills and the autumn coloring lent a striking variation to the somber green of the pines. We had never before realized that there were so many species besides conifers on the California mountains. Maples and aspens were turning yellow and crimson and many species of vines and creepers lent brilliant color dashes to the scene. There was much indeed to compensate for the absence of the flowers which bloom in profusion earlier in the season. We passed several comfortable-looking inns and resorts whose names—Sportsman’s Hall, for instance—indicated retreats for hunters and fishermen.

Georgetown, some forty miles above Placerville, is the only town worthy of the name between the latter place and Tahoe. Beyond here we began the final ascent to the summit of the divide over a road that winds upwards in long loops with grades as high as twenty-five per cent. There were many fine vistas of hill and valley, rich in autumn colorings that brightened the green of the pines and blended into the pale lavender haze that shrouded the distant hills. From the summit, at an altitude of seventy-four hundred feet, we had a vast panorama of lake, forest, and mountain—but I might be accused of monotonous repetition were I to endeavor to describe even a few of the scenes that enchanted us. Every hilltop, every bend in the road, and every opening through the forests that lined our way presented views which, taken alone, might well delight the beholder for hours—only their frequent recurrence tended to make them almost commonplace to us.

The descent to the lake is somewhat steeper than the western slope, but the road is wide with broad turns and we had no trouble in passing a big yellow car that was rushing the grade with wide-open “cut-out” in a crazy endeavor to get as far as possible on “high.” Coming down to Myers, a little supply station at the foot of the grade, we learned that the Tavern and many other resorts were already closed and decided to pass the night at Glenbrook, about midway on the eastern shore of the lake. For a dozen miles after leaving Myers, our road ran alternately through forests and green meadows—the meadows about Tahoe remain green the summer through—finally coming to the lake shore, which we followed closely for the twenty miles to Glenbrook. Most of the way the road runs only a few feet above the water level and we had many glorious vistas differing from anything we had yet seen. In the low afternoon sun the color had largely vanished and we saw only a sheet of gleaming silver edged with clearest crystal, which made the pebbly bottom plainly visible for some distance from the shore. Here an emerald meadow with sleek-looking cattle—there are many cattle in the Tahoe region—lay between us and the shining water; again it gleamed through the trunks of stately pines. For a little while it was lost to view as we turned into the forest which crowded closely to the roadside, only to come back in a moment to a new view—each one different and seemingly more entrancing than the last, culminating in the wonderful spectacle from Cave Rock. This is a bold promontory, pierced beneath by the caves that give its name, rising perhaps one hundred feet above the water and affording a view of almost the entire lake and the encircling mountains. On the western side the mountains throw their serrated peaks against the sky, while to the far north they showed dimly through a thin blue haze. The lake seemed like a great sapphire shot with gold from the declining sun—altogether a different aspect in color, light and shadow from anything we had witnessed before. We paused awhile to admire the scene along with several other wayfarers—pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists who were alike attracted by the glorious spectacle.

Two or three miles farther brought us to Glenbrook, a quiet nook at the foot of mighty hills, pine-clad to the very summits. The hotel is a large but unpretentious structure directly by the roadside and fronting on the lake. In connection with the inn is a group of rustic cottages, one of which was assigned to us. It had a new bathroom adjoining and there was a little sheet-iron stove with fuel all laid for a fire—which almost proved a “life-saver” in the sharp, frosty air of the following morning. The cottage stood directly on the lake shore and afforded a magnificent view of the sunset, which I wish I were able to adequately describe. A sea of fire glowed before us as the sun went down behind the mountains, which were dimmed by the twilight shadows. Soon the shadows gave place to a thin amethyst haze which brought out sharply against the western sky the contour of every peak and pinnacle. The amethyst deepened to purple, followed by a crimson afterglow which, with momentary color variations, continued for nearly an hour; then the light gradually faded from the sky and the lake took on an almost ebony hue—a dark, splendid mirror for the starlit heavens.

The excellent dinner menu of the inn was a surprise; we hardly expected it in such a remote place. They told us that the inn maintains its own gardens and dairy, and the steamer brings supplies daily. The inn keeps open only during the season, which usually extends from May to October, but there is some one in charge the year round and no one who comes seeking accommodations is ever turned away. Though completely isolated by deep snows from all land communication, the steamer never fails, since the lake does not freeze, even in the periods of below-zero weather. We found the big lounging room, with its huge chimney and crackling log fire, a very comfortable and cheery place to pass the evening and could easily see how anyone seeking rest and quiet might elect to sojourn many days at Glenbrook. But Glenbrook was not always so delightfully quiet and rural. Years ago, back in the early eighties, it was a good-sized town with a huge saw mill that converted much of the forest about the lake into lumber. There are still hundreds of old piles that once supported the wharves, projecting out of the water of the little bay in front of the hotel—detracting much from the beauty of the scene.

We were astir in the morning, wondering what the aspect of our changeful lake might be in the dawning light; and sure enough, the change was there—a cold, steel blue sheet of water, rippling into silver in places. Near the shore all was quiet, not a wave lapping the beach as on the previous night. The mountains beyond the lake were silhouetted with startling distinctness against a silvery sky, and on many of the summits were flecks of snow that had outlasted the summer.

We had thought to go on to Reno by the way of Carson City, but we could not bring ourselves to leave the lake and so we decided to go by way of Truckee, even though we had previously covered the road. It proved a fortunate decision, for we saw another shifting of the wonderful Tahoe scenery—the morning coloring was different from that of the afternoon and evening. We had the good fortune to pick up an old inhabitant of Tahoe City whose car had broken down on one of the heavy grades and who told us much about the lake and the country around it. He had lived near Tahoe for more than thirty-five years and could remember the days of the prospectors and saw mills. Nearly all the timber about the lake is of new growth since the lumbering days. This accounts for the absence of large trees except in a few spots which escaped the lumberman’s ax. Yellow pines, firs, and cedars prevail, with occasional sugar pines and some deciduous varieties. It is, indeed, a pity that Tahoe and the surrounding hills were not set aside as a national park before so much of the country had passed into private hands.

A fairly good road has been constructed for nearly three quarters of the distance around the lake and a very indifferent wagon road from Tahoe City to Glenbrook completes the circuit. The latter we did not cover, being assured that it was very difficult if not impassable for motors. Plans are under way for a new road around the northern end of the lake, which will enable the motorist to encircle this wonderful body of water—a trip of about eighty miles—and will afford endless viewpoints covering scenes of unparalleled beauty. The whole of the road about the lake ought to be improved—widened and surfaced and some of the steeper grades and more dangerous turns eliminated. It might then be the “boulevard” that one enthusiastic writer characterizes it, even in its present condition, but in our own humble opinion it has a long way to go before it deserves such a title.

At the Tavern we reluctantly turned away from the lake—it seemed to us as if we could never weary of its changeful beauty—and for the next dozen miles we followed the course of the Truckee River, at no time being more than a few rods distant from it. It is a clear, swift stream with greenish color tones and was still of fair size, though at its lowest ebb. Our road at times ran directly alongside within a few feet of its banks; again a sharp pitch carried us some distance above it and afforded fine views of valley and river. None of the grades were long, but one or two are steep, exceeding twenty per cent. The railroad, a flimsy, narrow-gauge affair, closely parallels the river and wagon road, but it is kept running the year round and keeps the scanty winter population about Tahoe in touch with the world.

Truckee is a typical wild western village with rather more than its share of saloons. These are well patronized, for there is a large working population in and about the town. It is a railroad division; a saw mill near by employs eight hundred men and a large paper pulp factory nearly as many. All of which contribute to make it a lively place and its Chamber of Commerce has organized a winter Ice Carnival for the purpose of giving those Californians who live on the coast and in the great central valleys an opportunity of seeing what real winter is like and enjoying its sports. The carnival opens on Christmas Day and continues until the middle of March. A huge ice palace is devoted to skating and dancing, while tobogganing, skiing and sleighing are the outdoor amusements. They told us that so far the festival has proven a great success, attracting people from every part of the state.

Out of Truckee we ran for fifteen or twenty miles through a barren sagebrush country with only an occasional tumble-down abandoned ranch house to break the monotony of the scene. The road was fine, but it took a sudden turn for the worse when we entered the straggling yellow pine forest that covers the hill range between Truckee and Reno. It was rough and stony in spots and we climbed steadily for several miles. We saw some pretty scenery, however, for the mighty forest rose to the very summits of the rugged hills above us and followed the dark canyon below downward to the river’s edge. Beyond the summit we began the descent of Dog Canyon—whence its poetical designation we did not learn—the longest and steepest straight grade we encountered in several thousand miles of mountaineering. For seven miles or more it drops down the side of the canyon without a single turn, the grades ranging from six to twenty per cent, deep with dust and very rough in places, a trying descent on brakes and driver. We met a few cars scrambling wearily up with steaming radiators and growling gears, but what more excited our sympathies were several canvas-covered wagons drawn by reeking horses that seemed ready to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. At the foot of the grade just beyond the Nevada line, we came into the village of Verdi, directly on the river and evidently the destination of many of the pine logs we had seen along our road, for here was a large saw mill. Beyond Verdi we followed the Truckee, bordered by emerald green alfalfa fields just being mown. The yield was immense, indicating a rich, well-watered soil, but in the main the ranch houses were small and poor, with squalid surroundings. Nearer Reno, however, we noted some improvement and occasionally we passed a neat and prosperous-looking ranch house. Coming into the town we sought the Riverside Hotel, which is rightly named, for it stands directly on the banks of the Truckee. We had difficulty in getting satisfactory accommodations—court was in session and it was opening day of the races, with a consequent influx of litigants and sports. We learned later that Reno is always a busy town and advance hotel arrangements should not be neglected by prospective guests.

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Reno has acquired a nation-wide fame for its “wide open” proclivities and we fear that much of the prosperity we saw on every hand may be due to its liberal though generally deprecated practices. The 1910 census gave the town a population of about ten thousand and if we allow a gain of as much as fifty per cent since then, it is still no more than a good-sized village so far as people are concerned. However this may be, its buildings, public and private, its streets and residences, its shops and hotels, would do credit to the average eastern town of from thirty to fifty thousand. One bank building we especially noted would not be out of place on Fifth Avenue and the courthouse, postoffice, the Y. M. C. A. building, and the theaters are all out of the small-town class. On the ridge east of the river, surrounded by beautiful grounds, are numerous handsome residences built by old-time mining magnates, most of whom are now dead.

Mining was the foundation of Reno’s prosperity and it cuts considerable figure in the commerce of the town at present. The greater part of its business activity, however, is due to the rich farming country that surrounds the city, to the railroad machine shops, which employ over two thousand men, and to several minor manufacturing establishments which in the aggregate employ a considerable number of people. These are resources that may be common to many other live towns, but Reno has several sources of income quite peculiar to itself that an indulgent state legislature, largely composed of Renoans, has made possible by shrewd enactments. Here it is still lawful to race horses as in the good old days with everything wide open and bookmakers galore. A solid month each year is devoted to the speed track, during which time the sportively inclined congregate in Reno from all parts of the West and squander much ready cash in the town. Prize fighting is also permitted and here it was that Robert Fitzsimmons plucked the laurel wreath from the classic brow of Jim Corbet before an appreciative audience of fifty thousand devotees of the manly art from every corner of the country.

But Reno’s great specialty has been the loosening of the matrimonial tie—for a consideration—and many well-known and wealthy people became guests of the town for the six months’ period necessary to secure a divorce. Yielding to outside public sentiment after awhile, the legislature extended the period of residence to one year, hoping, no doubt, to get credit for righteousness—and more cash from seekers after matrimonial freedom. It killed the infant industry, however; evidently the idle rich preferred to endure the tortures of unhappy married life rather than spend a year in Reno, and they quit coming. The legislature hastened to restore the six-month clause in the statute and as a consequence the divorce mills are turning out fair grist again. Our waitress at the hotel pointed out one or two bejeweled females who were “doing time” in Reno to get rid of their incompatible mates, and declared that there was a considerable colony of both sexes in the town waiting for their papers. Some authorities intimate that two thousand dollars is the minimum sum necessary for an outsider to secure a decree in a Nevada court, but doubtless many of the multi-millionaires leave several times that sum behind them, for the citizens do their full duty in providing entertainment that will separate their guests from their cash.

It would hardly be expected that the prohibition wave now sweeping the west coast would be at all likely to cross the Nevada line—in fact, at this writing Nevada is the only state to contest with New Jersey for the doubtful honor of being all wet, where even local option has not succeeded in getting a footing. The saloons of Reno are numerous and palatial and doubtless contribute not a little to the comfort of those of the sporting fraternity who make the town their Mecca. The only attempt at sumptuary legislation is an “anti-treat” law which insists that everyone must drink at his own expense. As to gambling, I was told that this pleasant pastime has been little interfered with since the old mining days, though it is not now conducted so openly except in connection with the races.

As the metropolis and center of population of the state, Reno should logically be the capital, but this honor is held by Carson, a village of five thousand people about twenty miles to the south. Within a radius of fifty miles is grouped perhaps half the population of the state, which, with all its vast area of seventy-five thousand square miles, had but seventy-five thousand people according to the last census. No other state in the Union has such vast areas of uninhabited desert, but the natives will strive to impress upon you that a great future is assured—all that is necessary to make this sagebrush country bloom like the rose is water, and water can be had from artesian wells almost anywhere in the Nevada valleys.

However, it is quite outside my province to write a disquisition on the resources of Nevada, and I have been dwelling on Reno only because it seemed of unusual interest to me and was a stopping-place on our tour. Our hotel, the Riverside, is a huge red-brick structure standing directly on the banks of the Truckee so that its windows overlook the swift stream, which moves so rapidly that it does not lose its clearness even in the town limits. We found the Riverside fairly comfortable—it would have been still more so had we made reservations in advance—and its rates were very moderate as compared with the average Western hotel of its class. Reno occupies an important position in the motor world as a stopping-place on the Lincoln Highway and an outfitting station for much of the surrounding country. It has excellent garages with good repair facilities and its streets were thronged with cars of all degrees.

The next morning we took the road to the north out of the town roughly following the recently completed Northern California & Oregon Railroad, which gives Northeastern California and Southern Oregon an outlet to the Southern Pacific at Reno. The twenty miles in Nevada before reaching the California line gave us an opportunity to see first-hand some of the state’s resources of which they talked at Reno. The road was unexpectedly good, smooth and free from dust, with gently rolling grades. The view was quite unobstructed and permitted speed ad libitum, keeping a sharp lookout, of course, for an occasional rough spot or sandy stretch. A more desolate country than that which stretched away on either hand would be hard to imagine. A wide valley, without even sagebrush or cactus to relieve its barrenness, was guarded on both sides by ranges of bleak, rugged hills which, near at hand, seemed more like vast cinder heaps than anything else. Only the far distance was able to transform the scene and to lend something of “enchantment to the view,” softening the rough outlines with a violet haze and tinging the desert sands with hues of mauve and lavender. Trees and shrubs there were none and there were scant indications of vegetation at any time of the year. At long intervals we passed little deserted ranch houses which indicated that some hopeful soul had once endeavored to develop the “resources” of the country, but had given up in despair and “of his name and race had left no token and no trace.” At one point we crossed Dry Lake, a vast, level saline deposit as hard and white and nearly as smooth as polished marble—an ideal auto race course.

Our first town was Doyle, a lonely little place of half a dozen buildings forty-eight miles north of Reno. Beyond here we entered Long Creek Valley, our road climbing short, sharp pitches and winding about sandstone bluffs with stretches of heavy sand here and there. However, the country soon showed much improvement; there were well-tilled fields and frequent ranch houses, some of them surrounded by green lawns, beautified with flowers. Orchards were common and we saw many apple and pear trees loaded with luscious-looking fruit. The road through this section was fair, though little had been done in the way of permanent improvement. There is only one long grade and when we reached the summit of the hills which it surmounts, we saw a circular valley before us with an irregular hazy-blue sheet of water in the center. Somehow we had pictured the northeastern lakes in our minds as rivals of Tahoe in beauty and color, but never was greater delusion than in the case of Honey Lake, which lay before us. It is a shallow, characterless expanse of shimmering water set in the midst of a great basin surrounded on all sides by naked hills. The shores are flat and marshy and entirely devoid of trees. It is redeemed from complete unattractiveness by a narrow ring of fertile and highly cultivated land from one to three miles wide that completely surrounds it, sloping upwards from the shore line to the hillsides. Fronting the lake at frequent intervals are fairly prosperous-looking farmhouses in the midst of poplar and walnut groves. Cattle raising appeared to be the chief industry, for we saw many herds grazing in the green meadows around the lake. The name, they told us, came from the honey-dew which gathers on the grasses in the vicinity. The lake was alive with wild fowl—ducks, mud hens, herons, and pelicans—but the frequent “No Hunting” signs apprised the sportsman that he was not welcome here. The road runs entirely around the lake, but we chose the west side through Milford, which was fair though very dusty; in wet weather it must be practically impassable for motor cars. In winter there is much snow here, the temperature going sometimes as low as fifteen or twenty degrees below zero, and the lake usually freezes quite solid. Like all the lakes of this section, it is said to be gradually receding, due to the drain of numerous artesian irrigating wells.

Fifteen miles beyond Honey Lake we came into Susanville, where we planned to stop for the night. We had no very pleasant anticipations, to be sure, for the town was rated at one thousand people and we were resigned to put up with primitive accommodations without complaint. We experienced a pleasant surprise on entering the St. Francis, a well-kept hotel where we found all modern conveniences. We narrowly missed being shut out because we failed to make reservations and we saw other would-be guests turned away later in the day.

Susanville is the capital and metropolis of Lassen, a county of vast extent but scant population. Here and in Modoc, the county to the north, the soil is of volcanic origin and Mt. Lassen, the only active volcano in the United States, is just beyond the hills to the west. Serving as a center for such a wide tract of country, the town naturally outclasses places of a thousand people in more populous sections. It has better stores, theaters, garages, and hotels than are usually found in places of its size. The most pretentious residence stands at the head of the main street, a large, crotchety building which they told us was the home of the chief saloonkeeper, who runs a palatial bar down the street. North and west of the town the hills are covered with a magnificent pine forest—a favorite haunt, a local sportsman informed us, of deer and other game. He also told us that we would find a good road through the forest to Eagle Lake, some fifteen miles to the northwest, which he declared the equal of Tahoe for scenic beauty. We had arrived in the town shortly after noon; there was still time to drive to Eagle Lake and the car was ordered forthwith.

We had proceeded but a little way when we came upon a force of men working upon the new state road which is to connect Susanville with the Pacific Highway at Red Bluff, a distance of about one hundred miles, making this country far more accessible to the motorist than at the time of our visit. Three or four miles out of the town we turned from the highway into the forest, following an excellent mountain road which climbs a steady but moderate grade for a distance of twelve miles. On either hand towered gigantic yellow pines, many of which were devoid of branches for a height of nearly one hundred feet. It was clear that a fire had swept through them not so very long ago, destroying the smaller trees and shrubbery and giving the forest a wonderfully cleaned-up appearance. It had apparently done little damage to the big trees, though some of the trunks were charred to a considerable height. Some distance beyond the summit we saw the lake far below us, gleaming in the low afternoon sun and reminding us of a great gem set in the dark pines that crowd up to its shores. It was too late in the day to get much in color effects, but we agreed that Eagle Lake, lovely as it is, has no claim for comparison with Tahoe. The shores of the lake abound with curious caves extending for miles underground, some filled with perpetual ice and others through which icy winds continually roar. Many have never been fully explored and some of the strange phenomena have never been satisfactorily accounted for. The lake teems with trout and bass, affording far better sport for fishermen than the more frequented waters and its shores, still in their native wildness, offer ideal camping sites. Returning to the town, we saw a wonderful sunset through the pines and from occasional points of vantage caught long vistas of wooded hills stretching away to the crimson sky.

The northbound road out of Susanville climbs a barren hill range with grades up to fifteen per cent and there is scarcely a downward dip for over seven miles. Not a tree or shrub obstructs the view from the long switchbacks and we had a magnificent panorama of the town and Honey Lake Valley and the far-reaching wooded hills to the south and west. The road, though unimproved, was excellent and as volcanic rock is the base, it is probably good the year round except when snow prevails. It was not so good beyond the hillcrest; boulders began to crop out, making the descent to Merrillville pretty rough. At the summit we ran into a fine forest of yellow pine, which continued for several miles. We then crossed stony, desolate hill ranges—one after another—alternating with basin-shaped valleys. In one of these valleys, thirty miles from Susanville, is Horse Lake, an ugly, shallow sheet of water three or four miles long with barren, alkali-encrusted shores. A notice was posted by the roadside warning passersby that the water of the lake is poisonous and it certainly looked like it. The soil of some of the valleys looked as if it might be fertile if well watered, but the greater part of it was strewn with ragged volcanic rocks. There were occasional miserable little huts, apparently long deserted, which indicated that at some time a settler had endeavored to wring an existence from the inhospitable earth, and had given up in despair. A few of the more persistent were still engaged in the struggle, but there was little indication of prosperity.

Beyond Horse Lake we climbed a second mighty hill range and from the summit beheld the Madeline Plains, a valley far larger than the ones we had passed. This wide level tract, comprising over one hundred square miles, is encircled by volcanic hills which, despite their ugliness and barrenness when viewed near at hand, faded away in the distance in a wild riot of coloring. Lavender merged into purple and purple deepened to dark blue, which finally shrouded the hills from our view. Farming in this valley appeared to be conducted more successfully, though there is as yet much unimproved land and none of the ranch houses or their surroundings showed signs of prosperity. Madeline, on the edge of the plain, is a dilapidated village of a few dozen people and the big yellow wooden hotel seemed out of all proportion to any business it could hope for. Beyond this for many miles the characteristics of the country continued much the same, hills and valleys alternating until we entered the Pitt River Valley, a dozen miles from Alturas. Here the country began to show considerable improvement, which gradually increased until we came into the town.

Alturas, with about a thousand inhabitants, the capital of Modoc County, is a good-looking town with a handsome courthouse of classic design and a modern high school building. It is the only place in the huge county that can be dignified by being called a town—for Modoc, with its four thousand square miles of area, can muster only six thousand people, most of whom live in the narrow valleys between the volcanic hills or on the plain around the shores of Goose Lake. This section is at present quite inaccessible to motorists, but the new highway to be constructed from Redding will do much to put the county in touch with the rest of the state.

Out of Alturas we followed a level and very good dirt road through a fair-looking farming section to Davis Creek at the lower end of Goose Lake, a distance of twenty-two miles. Goose Lake is the largest of the numerous lakes in this section—about thirty-five miles in extreme length by ten at its greatest width. The road closely follows its shores and beyond Davis Creek ascends a steep grade leading up the mountainside overlooking the lake and affording a glorious view of the fine sheet of water. We saw it from many angles and altitudes as we mounted up, each with its peculiar lighting and coloring—all beautiful and inspiring. We paused to contemplate the scene at a point from which nearly the whole lake was visible. It lay beneath us in the low afternoon sun, glistening blue and silver, the hill range running along the opposite shore wrapped in an indigo haze. The waters of Goose Lake have not the dark, changeful blue of Tahoe, but seem more like the azure monotone of the sky, save where the sunlight threw its white beams across it from the west. Its monotony of color is doubtless due to the fact that it is quite shallow, its depth in no place exceeding eighteen or twenty feet, while the average is probably not more than five or six feet. Around it runs a belt of fertile farm land, broadest on the eastern side. There are many prosperous ranch houses at intervals and great numbers of thrifty-looking sheep and cattle grazed in the meadows which run down to the shore. The water for irrigating is largely drawn from the lake or artesian wells near by. This has caused a steady shrinkage in the lake and, indeed, may cause it to ultimately disappear, an event which the lover of the beautiful in natural scenery must earnestly deplore. For we all agreed that Goose Lake and its setting were very beautiful despite its unprepossessing name—and we recalled how narrowly Tahoe escaped being stigmatized as Lake Bigler. A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, perhaps, but it does seem that Tahoe would lose some of its glory if it bore the unmusical cognomen of the disloyal ante bellum governor.

From the summit of the grade we descended gradually through a fine pine forest to Willow Ranch and from there continued through the level farm lands skirting the shore to the village of New Pine Creek just across the Oregon border. Perhaps if we had been able to anticipate the fate awaiting us at Lakeview we should have paused at the rather unattractive wooden hotel in this diminutive burg. In blissful ignorance, however, we dashed mile after mile over a fairly level but dusty road, expecting every moment to come in sight of Lakeview. We had—I hardly know why—a preconceived notion of a picturesque little town overlooking the lake from a pine-covered bluff and a hotel in keeping with these imaginary surroundings, equipped with everything to bring peace and joy to the soul of the motorist after a rough, dusty run. The road left the lake and the lake gradually receded from view, and still no town; not until we had left the northernmost mud-puddle of Goose Lake six or seven miles behind us did we enter the unattractive, straggling village whose name had so excited our anticipations. We entered the principal hotel with serious misgivings and came out of it with the determination to pass the night in the car rather than to occupy the beds that the unkempt attendant offered us. I forbear farther comment because conditions change so rapidly in these western towns; before my book can be published a new management may turn a dirty, shabby-looking place into a clean, comfortable hotel. It has happened in several instances to my own knowledge and it may happen in Lakeview, Oregon.

A friendly native who appreciated our predicament told us that his people would take us in at their ranch house, some distance in the country, if we couldn’t find decent accommodations in the town. He directed us to another hotel, which was full, but the landlady bestirred herself and secured rooms in a private home where we were comfortably taken care of. Our host was an old resident of the section—a local politician, ranch owner, and an enthusiastic hunter and fisherman. He informed us that the principal resource of the surrounding country was cattle and sheep raising, largely on government land, for which the owner of the stock pays a small annual fee. He declared that there was a fine chance for energetic young fellows to do well in this line and cited an Irish boy of his acquaintance who had cleared six thousand dollars on sheep in the two years just past. The recent extension of the railway to Lakeview, giving direct connection with the main line at Reno, two hundred and forty-four miles distant, had given a great impetus to both farming and stock-raising in this section.

“Why Lakeview for a town from which it is impossible even to see the lake?” we asked.

“Because the lake originally came up to the town,” he replied, “but it has been steadily receding until it is now six miles away.”

There is good fishing in the lake, which is stocked with rainbow trout, though our host declared he much preferred the sport afforded by the streams of the vicinity and some of the stories he told of his catches would certainly stir the blood of anyone addicted to the gentle art of Ike Walton. Quite as good fortune awaits the hunter in the vicinity; deer, bear, and smaller game abound within easy distance of the town. The game laws of both California and Oregon are so very stringent, he declared, that an outsider will do well to post himself thoroughly before undertaking a hunting expedition in either of these states.

Leaving Lakeview early in the morning, we thanked our hosts for their kindness in taking the strangers in—for their exceedingly modest charge showed that it was not done altogether for profit.

“Only a little more than one hundred miles to Klamath Falls,” we were told, “but a rough, heavy road much of the way and a hard day’s run for any car”—all of which we speedily verified by personal experience. The hardest work came in the latter half of the run; for many miles out of Lakeview we bowled along through a sagebrush country with widely scattered habitations and no sign of fellow-motorists. We followed a huge irrigation aqueduct, evidently nearing completion, for some distance and in one place, where it is carried on a high trestle across a valley, the road passes beneath it. The land looked fertile enough and no doubt if the water supply is adequate this irrigation project will change the appearance of things in this section before many years. We passed a pine-covered hill range with heavy and stony grades before reaching Bly, the first village, nearly fifty miles from Lakeview.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

A few miles beyond Crown Point the highway leaves the river and descends in sweeping curves to the broad, prosperous plain which adjoins Portland on the north and west and which evidently produces a good part of the food and milk supply of the city. At the Auto Club headquarters on Sandy River, some eighteen miles from the Portland postoffice, the road swings to the north, following Sandy River for a couple of miles. This route is properly counted as the approach to the Columbia Highway, but we found it closed for improvement at the time. We therefore proceeded via the “Base Line” road, which carried us due west to the heart of the city, where we found the guidance of our friend, the officer, a decided assistance. He declared that the hotel we had selected was one of the best in the city, but admitted that a newer one was probably better. This was the Benson, built by the millionaire whose name is so prominently connected with the Columbia Highway and who has had much to do with private and public enterprise in Portland. Considering our hotel experiences since leaving San Francisco, we felt that we were entitled to the best and so pulled up in front of the Benson, a fifteen-story skyscraper of the New York type. Here our friend bade us adieu with thanks for the “lift” we had given him; and we assured him that he had more than reciprocated by the information he had imparted to us. We also came to the mental conclusion that possibly, after all, a “motor cop” may be a human being!

We asked for good quarters at the Benson but were a little taken aback when we were ushered into a spacious chamber with a wealth of solid mahogany and every modern convenience, including a large tile and enamel bath. We had not asked the rate and settled down with the rather disquieting conclusion that we would be bankrupt when we paid the bill. I may anticipate, however, by saying that the surprise was the other way, for the charge was very moderate—no more than we had often paid for inferior quarters at hotels certainly no better. In any event, it was solid comfort and a most welcome relief to the regime we had been following. We should have been glad to rest a week under such conditions, but the near approach of the rainy season caused us to greatly curtail our sojourn in Portland.

We remained long enough, however, to see a good deal of the fine city and its surroundings. It is a wonderful city, with its three hundred thousand people and magnificent business and public buildings and it is hard, indeed, to realize that only a trifle over seventy years ago two rival sea captains tossed a coin to decide whether the village they were about to found should be called Boston or Portland, in honor of their respective home ports. The Portland skipper won and the Maine town’s name superseded the musical Indian designation of the spot, “Multnomah” (down the great water). Whether the captains realized anything of the possible future of the town they thus flippantly named, is doubtful, but it is easy enough now to see that a city so situated was bound to grow in almost magical fashion. Though a hundred miles from the sea, it is still a seaport, for the tide-water river is a full mile wide here and deep enough for the largest ocean-going vessels. The river drains a territory of two hundred and fifty thousand square miles and is now navigable by good-sized boats for over four hundred miles in the interior. All the transcontinental railroads except the Santa Fe converge at Portland, giving it the best rail service of any city on the coast. The principal shipments are of lumber and wheat; in the former Portland stands unrivalled in the whole world and in the latter under normal conditions rivals—sometimes even surpasses—New York.

The older sections and business portion of the city lie on the level plain at the junction of the Columbia and Willamette, extending on both sides of the latter river. Overlooking this on the north and west are a series of heights, ranging up to twelve hundred feet, which are mainly occupied by the newer residence districts and by several public parks. From Portland Heights, one of the finest of these parks, we had a most inspiring view of the city and much of its environs at sunset on the day of our arrival. The viewpoint was reached by comparatively easy gradients, the road winding through the beautiful park, famous for its varieties of trees. Just below us lay the city, so near at hand that streets and buildings were plainly recognizable, and just beyond the great river and endless hills and mountains.

Climbing a little higher we came to Council Crest, twelve hundred feet above the river, famed as Portland’s “show hilltop.” Here one has much the same view of the city and river as from the Heights and it was perhaps the best point to catch the full majesty of Portland’s “Mountain of Destiny,” silver-crested Hood, standing stern and beautiful against the rosy background of a matchless sunset. It is fifty miles away as the crow flies, but it seems much nearer, so near that in the momentary enthusiasm that fills the beholder, he feels he might reach it on foot in an hour or two. Violet-tinted shadows half hide the lowlands between and serve to obscure everything that might distract attention from the solitary mountain which George Palmer Putnam, an enthusiastic Portlander declares in his charming book, “The Oregon Country,” “somehow breathes the very spirit of the state it stands for; its charm is the essence of the beauty of its surroundings, its stateliness the keynote of the sturdy west. It is a white, chaste monument, radiantly setting for its peoples round about a mark of high attainment.”

On Council Crest, Willamette Heights, King’s Heights, and other elevations, are many of the fine homes of the city, though it hardly seemed to us as if in this regard Portland is the equal of other western cities of her class. In the older residence sections our guide pointed out many matchlessly ugly wooden houses which he said were residences of the early millionaires, many of whom are now dead. He also pointed out in Irvington Addition the homes of many whom he declared were the wealthiest business men of the city, but these places appeared quite modest. In response to our remarks to this effect, our pilot seemed somewhat annoyed and declared that Portland “multis” believed rather in spending their money in business blocks than in residences. Perhaps he is right, for Portland certainly has many astonishingly fine business structures that would do credit to any city in the world. We were especially delighted with a newly completed bank building done in white marble along purely classic lines, quite as fine as anything of the kind we ever saw. Other skyscrapers, the theatres, several hotels, and many public buildings, were architectural masterpieces built with evident disregard for cost. Nearly all of these, we were told, had been erected in the last seven or eight years, and there is no slackening in the march of solid improvement.

Multnomah County has voted a bond issue to improve its main highways, aside from the Columbia River Road, and this work was in progress in many places about the city. There are not many drives aside from the Columbia Highway of great interest to the tourist whose time is limited. We followed well-paved streets to the ferry leading to old Vancouver in Washington, just across the Columbia. We saw workmen giving the finishing touches to the great steel wagon-bridge which now spans the Columbia at this point, forming a most important link in the Pacific Highway. The last spans, which were assembled on the shore, were floated to position on the piers the next day and the stupendous feat of engineering was nearly complete.

There is nothing of particular interest in Vancouver, which was founded nearly a hundred years ago by fur traders of the Hudson Bay Company. It is at present practically a Portland suburb, though the fact that it is in another state will preclude annexation by the larger city. The new bridge will greatly facilitate inter-communication and will probably have an immediate effect in increasing the population and prosperity of Vancouver.

We are accustomed to think of the Columbia Highway as comprising the spectacular stretch of road between Portland and Hood River, but as I have elsewhere intimated, the larger plan of Oregonians contemplates an improved road running along the river from Astoria on the coast to Pendleton, three hundred and thirty miles eastward. The portion from Portland to Astoria has been graded, but at the time of our visit was in poor condition and we considered it hardly advisable to attempt it in face of threatening rains. This road, while commanding much wonderful scenery of river and mountain, does not approach the wild and enchanting beauty of The Dalles road and no attempts will be made to beautify the road bed as has been done to the east of Portland. It will, however, when paved be an easy and delightful run to Astoria, Oregon’s oldest settlement. Near the site of this town, Lewis and Clark camped in 1806 while exploring the Columbia River, and five years later the present town was founded by John Jacob Astor, during the famous expedition of which Washington Irving became historian. In 1812 Astoria was captured by the British, who held it until 1818—a critical period in Oregon history, when the chances of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack appeared about equal. Astoria’s chief industry to-day is salmon fishing and canning, which occupies a season of about one hundred days during the summer and early fall.

From Astoria a circular tour may be pursued along the ocean shore by the way of Gearhart, Tillamook, and Dolph, back to Portland or to Salem if the Pacific Highway is the route to be pursued to the south. This, they told us, is a very rough, trying trip at present, but the proposed highway improvement along much of the route will rapidly alter conditions. The run of fifty miles to Government Camp on the western side of Mount Hood is not difficult and plans are being perfected to carry the road around the southwestern slope of the mountain to Hood River, making the return trip by the Columbia Highway, a total distance of about one hundred and fifty miles.

We left Portland with no little reluctance. We were conscious that we had not seen the City of Roses at its best, coming as we did at the end of summer, when roses, even in Portland, are not very common—though we saw them and were told that they bloom every month in the year. We are already planning a return visit which we hope to make at a more favorable time and under more favorable conditions.

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The old Oregon Territory, comprising the present states of Oregon and Washington, has the unique distinction of being the only part of the United States that was actually acquired by exploration and settlement, and this was not accomplished without lively competition from the British. The New England States were wrested from the unwilling hands of Great Britain and we paid the first Napoleon his price for Louisiana. Spain sold us Florida very reasonably when she saw we were going to take it in spite of her. California, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona were taken at the mouth of the cannon from Old Mexico—pity we didn’t complete the annexation of the rest of that troublesome country at the same time. We paid Russia seven millions for Alaska and thought it a gold brick for a time—Seward’s Folly, they called it—and a little pressure was exercised on Spain to relinquish the Philippines and Porto Rico into our keeping. Oregon alone became ours by right of “discovery,” and this no doubt seemed a curious kind of right in the eyes of the red men who possessed this goodly land.

We need nothing more to tell us where the Oregon pioneers hailed from than the nomenclature of towns and rivers of the eastern part of the state. The Columbia itself was once—and more fitly—the Oregon, which rolled through “the continuous woods and heard no sound save its own dashings” until a Boston sea captain decided to honor the mighty stream with the name of his ship. The New Englander crops out still more significantly in Portland, Salem, Albany, the Willamette, and other names familiar in this region which the “down east” Yankee bestowed in loving memory of the towns and rivers of his native land.

We left Portland by the Pacific Highway, which runs through the heart of this western New England for one hundred and sixty miles, following the valley of the Willamette River. This valley is from twenty to sixty miles wide and is beyond question the garden spot of Oregon, if not of the entire Pacific Coast. The late J. J. Hill, the “Empire Builder,” in one of his last public appearances, at a banquet in Portland, declared, “I consider the Willamette Valley the most favored spot on earth for its size.” Gov. James Withycombe, who for many years was connected with the Oregon State Agricultural College, is responsible for the statement that “The Willamette Valley has a greater variety of agricultural products than any other section of the whole United States.” Possibly both of these authorities may have been somewhat prejudiced—Hill’s railroads and steamships were directly interested in the products of the valley, and a governor is not likely to minify the merits of any part of his state. Still, they are authorities on the matter and the people of the Willamette Valley, at least, are no doubt quite willing to let these pronunciamentos stand unchallenged. Nor are we inclined to dispute such authorities from any knowledge that we ourselves may have for, though we traversed the valley at the most unfavorable period of the year, we were none the less impressed with the evidences of its wonderful beauty, fertility, and great variety of products. The climate, we were told, is very temperate; in winter the freezing point is seldom touched and while summer days are usually pretty hot, the relief of cool nights never fails. As to its fertility and the capability of the valley to sustain a far larger population, an enthusiastic local authority is responsible for the following comparison:

“Populous Belgium, which before the German invasion contained about seven million inhabitants, has an area of only 11,373 square miles, or less than the aggregate area of the eight counties occupying the valley of the Willamette, which have a total of 12,526 square miles. The present population of these counties is about two hundred thousand. There is no reason why they should not contain as large a number of people as Belgium, for the climate of both sections is similar and the soil of the valley, though of different composition, is fully as productive as that of Belgium.”

A roseate forecast, to be sure, but one to which a careful observer might reasonably take exception; for while the whole of Belgium is a level and very fertile plain, more than half the area of the eight counties of the Willamette is occupied by rugged mountains which can never be cultivated except in very limited sections. We can agree, however, more unreservedly with another enthusiast who speaks in terms of scenic beauty and pastoral prosperity rather than square miles and population:

“A broad valley, rich, prosperous, and beautiful to look upon is the Willamette, and a valley of many moods. Neither in scenic charms nor agricultural resourcefulness is its heritage restricted to a single field. There are timberland and trout stream, hill and dale, valley and mountain; rural beauty of calm Suffolk is neighbor to the ragged picturesqueness of Scotland; there are skylines comparable with Norway’s, and lowlands peaceful as Sweden’s pastoral vistas; the giant timber, or their relic stumps, at some pasture edge, spell wilderness, while a happy, alder-lined brook flowing through a boulder-dotted field is reminiscent of the uplands of Connecticut. Altogether, it is a rarely variegated viewland, is this vale of the Willamette.

“You have seen valleys which were vast wheatfields, or where orchards were everywhere; in California and abroad you have viewed valleys dedicated to vineyards, and from mountain vantage points you have feasted your eyes upon the greenery of timberland expanses; all the world over you can spy out valleys dotted with an unvaried checkerboard of gardens, or green with pasture lands. But where have you seen a valley where all of this is mingled, where nature refuses to be a specialist and man appears a Jack-of-all-outdoor trades? If by chance you have journeyed from Medford to Portland, with some excursioning from the beaten paths through Oregon’s valley of content, you have viewed such a one.

“For nature has staged a lavish repertoire along the Willamette. There are fields of grain and fields of potatoes; hop yards and vineyards stand side by side; emerald pastures border brown cornfields; forests of primeval timber shadow market garden patches; natty orchards of apples, peaches, and plums are neighbors to waving expanses of beet tops. In short, as you whirl through the valley, conjure up some antithesis of vegetation and you must wait but a scanty mile or two before viewing it from the observation car.

“As first I journeyed through this pleasant land of the Willamette, a little book, written just half a century ago, fell into my hands, and these words concerning the valley, read then, offered a description whose peer I have not yet encountered:

“‘The sweet Arcadian valley of the Willamette, charming with meadow, park and grove! In no older world where men have, in all their happiest moods, recreated themselves for generations in taming earth to orderly beauty, have they achieved a fairer garden than Nature’s simple labor of love has made there, giving to rough pioneers the blessings and the possible education of refined and finished landscape, in the presence of landscape strong, savage, and majestic.’”

Such is George Palmer Putnam’s estimate of the “Valley of Content,” as he styles it in poetic phrase, and we can testify that his description is true as well as poetic.

But it may be that our enthusiasm for the Willamette Valley is unduly delaying the story of the actual progress of our journeyings which I take it has the “right of way” in this volume.

Out of Portland we encountered considerable highway construction work, which reminded us that Multnomah County is improving other arteries of travel besides the Columbia Highway. Such improvement was certainly needed, for the dozen miles between Portland and Oregon City was badly broken macadam, enforcing a speed limit that put fear of “cops” quite out of the question. The road is fairly level, however, following the river quite closely and crossing it just before it comes into Oregon City. Here we struck the first of many of the ancient covered wooden bridges in this section, doubtless another New England inheritance for which the early inhabitants were responsible. Each of these rickety old structures bore a warning against crossing “faster than a walk,” with threat of a liberal fine for violations, though the infernal clatter of loose boards that seemed to threaten collapse ought to be a most effective deterrent against speeding.

The road leaves Oregon City by a sharp, winding ascent which brought us to a fine, rolling upland with a dim mountain range to our left. The surface, however, was much better, permitting us to do the legal limit of Oregon—twenty-five miles per hour—with entire comfort. The gently rounded hills on either hand were occupied by thrifty-looking ranches, and fruit-laden prune and apple orchards were the most prevalent crop. The former were being gathered and we met many wagons and trucks loaded with the purple fruit, which was being taken to the drying houses. These were odd-looking frame structures with tall, square, latticed towers projecting above the roofs and the odor of the drying fruit was noticeable in this vicinity.

Salem, the state capital, fifty miles from Portland, is the first town of consequence. It is situated directly on the Willamette, which is navigable to this point by good-sized steamboats and two lines ply regularly between Salem and Portland. The population is only sixteen thousand, but still enough to give it second rank among Oregon cities. The general appearance of the town, its shops and stores, which we especially observed while making a few purchases, would give the impression of a much larger place. Salem, like The Dalles, was founded by Methodist missionaries as early as 1840. This was only seventeen years later than the founding of the last Spanish mission in California and we could not help thinking how this beautiful Arcadian valley would have appealed to the Franciscan padres. There were plenty of natives to engage the activities of the missionaries and they are more numerous here to-day than in the vicinity of the old California missions. An industrial training school for Indians is located near the city. The town was incorporated in 1853 and made the state capital in 1860. Its career has been as peaceful and quiet as its name would signify. Indian fighting and mining lawlessness never disturbed its serenity as in the case of so many California towns. To-day it still gives the impression of quiet prosperity and peacefulness with its twenty-five churches and two denominational schools—the Methodist Willamette University, with about five hundred students, and the Catholic Sisters’ Academy, with one hundred and fifty girls in attendance. The state capitol and other public buildings are not very impressive and apparently not so costly as state capitols and public buildings average the country over. There are fifty miles of wide, level, well-paved, tree-bordered streets which in our mind go farther than almost anything else as an index of civic pride and progressiveness.

Beyond Salem the valley widens and becomes monotonously level. On either hand is a dim blue mountain range, above which, eastward, glimmers an occasional snowy peak. The principal crop in this section is wheat, large quantities of which were being hauled to the market. The heavily laden wagons worked havoc with the old stone road, which was very rough in places. We found considerable stretches of loosely scattered crushed rock awaiting the steam roller; this made desperately hard going and wrought havoc with tires. Sometimes we could avoid it by running to one side of the road, but chuck-holes and dust many inches deep made this alternative an unpleasant one. The country was a dead brown hue everywhere except for the enlivening green of occasional fields of alfalfa or well-watered lawns about some of the handsome farmhouses. The soil showed every evidence of fertility and we were assured that crop failures are quite unknown in this favored valley.

Albany, twenty-seven miles from Salem, is a good-looking, well-built town of five thousand people. There is an astonishingly large seven-story hotel which seemed to indicate a busy place. Notwithstanding the opportunities to dine at several apparently excellent hotels along this route, we did not regret that we had picked up a lunch at a Portland delicatessen store. It was more enjoyable than any hotel meal when eaten in the open under a group of towering trees by the roadside—and, incidentally it cost less. The Willamette at Albany affords excellent water power, and this has attracted several manufacturing establishments to the town.

Leaving Albany, the road swings several miles eastward from the river, returning to it at Harrisburg, thirty miles farther south. Here we found a ferryboat propelled by a gasoline launch alongside serving in lieu of a bridge. The service is kept up free of charge by the county and the ferryman told us that the average is two hundred and fifty trips per day. As the river is not very wide here and there appeared to be no great obstacle in the way of bridging it, the ferry seemed a penny-wise makeshift—and this on the much-vaunted Pacific Highway. Certainly one need have no difficulty in keeping on this same Pacific Highway for a more be-signed road we never traveled. At some of the crossings there would be a half dozen different signboards put up by enterprising local business men, auto dealers, and the omnipresent Goodrich Tire Company. And I might incidentally remark that I can conceive of no better advertising to the motorist than these same road signs; I have blessed the Goodrich people more than once when we paused in doubt at the parting of the ways, only to be set aright by their friendly signboards. We came to the conclusion, as the result of much observation, that the best material for the sign is a well-painted pine board about an inch thick. This is little affected by weather, can be easily repainted, and affords little temptation to the wretched outlaw who insists on using the signboard as a rifle target. A rifle bullet will often knock a hole as big as one’s hand in the enamel of a metal sign, while its ravages can hardly be seen on a wooden sign, and a putty plug effects an instant repair when painting. In any event, while few metal signs escaped the vandal’s bullets, we hardly ever saw a wooden board “shot up.” Of course, it is easy enough to say that the vandals who damage road signs should be punished severely enough to break up the practice, but this is a long route to travel in a country where contempt for law is so general. In all of our European travels, some twenty-five thousand miles, we never saw a wilfully damaged signboard.

Twenty miles beyond Harrisburg we found ourselves in the streets of Eugene, a town nearly the size of Salem and quite its equal in metropolitan appearance. It is a live-looking, well-improved town, and, I was going to say, gives the impression of a much larger city, but I fear I am overworking this expression in connection with these western towns. It is none the less true, however; the streets, the stores, the buildings, public and private, would do credit to a city twice as large as Eugene. Here is the state university of Oregon, with nearly a thousand students who no doubt contribute much to the evident activity of the town. The university buildings, beautifully situated on a grassy slope along the Willamette, are mainly of classic design. Like the public buildings at Salem, they impressed us as being rather inferior to what one would expect of a state-supported institution. Eugene is very pleasantly located at the edge of the foothills along the wide, level valley and within full view of the rugged coast range of the Cascades. The streets are wide and well-improved, many of them shaded by Oregon maples, gorgeous with autumn colorings when we saw them.

A shopkeeper directed us to the Osborn Hotel as the best in the town and it proved very satisfactory, indeed. It is a large red-brick structure fronting a public park and located conveniently to the business center of the town. We were given a comfortable room at a moderate rate, but the restaurant prices were quite up to metropolitan standard, though this was mitigated somewhat by the first-class service. The city water was exceedingly unpleasant, having been “doped” with chemicals to counteract impurities. We were assured, however, that it was quite harmless and suffered no ill after-effects from drinking it.

Our run for the day had been a comparatively short one—one hundred and forty miles over roads better than average. We arrived in Eugene early in the afternoon and remarked that we might easily reach Roseburg, eighty miles distant, before dark. We went, of course, on the assumption that the Pacific Highway south of Eugene was quite as good as to the north of the city—an assumption which we found to be sadly at variance with facts. A garage man warned us not to expect a “joy ride” to Grants Pass, for though the actual distance is only a little greater than we covered on the preceding day, the run was much harder. All of which we heard with light-hearted unconcern, for it never entered our heads that on the much-heralded Pacific Highway we should find some of the roughest and most dangerous road since leaving San Francisco.

Out of Eugene we encountered hills, but the going was fair to Cottage Grove, a quiet village which marks the southern extremity of the Vale of the Willamette. We soon entered Pais Creek Canyon and the road degenerated into a rough, winding trail, muddy from a heavy rain which had preceded us only a day or two. The road was often strewn with boulders and cut up into ruts that gave the car an unmerciful wrenching as we crawled cautiously along. In places an effort had been made to get rid of the stones and mud by covering considerable stretches of road with planks, but these were loosely laid and did not mend matters a great deal. The road was often dangerously narrow and there were many sharp turns around blind corners. There was just mud enough to make us uneasy on the grades and to demonstrate the utter impossibility of the road for a heavy car in wet weather.

There was little respite from these conditions in the sixty miles from Cottage Grove to Drain. In places, improvement work was in progress which will do something to smooth out the highway for the motorist of the future. The only redeeming feature was the glorious scenery. We ran along green banks covered with giant ferns whose long fronds swept the car as we passed and we glided beneath closely standing pines under which the ground was carpeted with rank mosses. The prevailing green was varied by the coral-red clusters of honeysuckle berries and the early autumn reds and yellows of the deciduous trees.

A long climb through scattered pine trees and a winding descent brought us to the lonely little village of Drain, wedged in the bottom of the canyon. Here a garage man gave us the cheerful information that the road before us was no better than that over which we had come and thus, being prepared for the worst, we were agreeably surprised to find that our friend had exaggerated somewhat. The road was bad, to be sure, but no match in genuine badness for that north of Drain. We ran through open oak and fir groves on the Calapooia Mountains, very closely following the course of the Southern Pacific Railroad and passing several lonely little stations. We found some road improvement in progress and a few new stretches with properly engineered grades and curves, which gave evidence of the determination of Oregon people to make at least a part of this Pacific Highway worthy of the name.

As we approached Roseburg we found the country well settled, with many thrifty-looking apple orchards on the rolling hills. Roseburg is a good-looking town of five thousand people and we passed two very inviting hotels. A magnificent high school building was under construction and all appearances in the town pointed to prosperity and progressiveness. We took on gasoline at a garage that made the somewhat sweeping claim, “Largest and best-equipped garage between Portland and San Francisco,” but we had no opportunity of testing its facilities.

We would gladly have paused for the night in Roseburg; eighty miles of such road as we had covered was quite enough for one day, in our opinion, but we could not forget that the rainy season was due any time and prudence behooved us to push onward. There were still seventy-six miles between us and Grants Pass and, as it proved, every one of them climbs or descends some giant hill range, for the whole run is through the heart of the Cascade Mountains. There are many steep, winding grades, miles long, much narrow roadway creeping beneath overhanging precipices, with precipices dropping away below, too narrow for passing except at long intervals and often stony and rough in the extreme. The compensating feature is the wonderfully beautiful and picturesque scenery that prevails along the entire run. Wooded hills stretched away to the lavender-tinted horizon or towered far above us as we dropped into the depths of cool, green canyons alongside madly dashing mountain streams—emerald green, crystal clear, or white with foam.

Out of Roseburg we followed the Umpqua River, entering the prosaically named Cow Creek Canyon at Canyonville—but if the name is prosaic there is nothing commonplace about the wild and rugged scenery throughout its entire length. The road frequently descended to the side of the stream, where there were glorious camping sites galore, some of them occupied by motor parties. Green sward, pure cold water, fine trees, and plenty of firewood make this a camper’s paradise and in season the trout fishing is unsurpassed. There are also plenty of deer and bear in these rugged hills and many of the campers were evidently on hunting expeditions, for the season had just begun. Again the road ascended a stiff grade and rose to splendid vantage points above the vexed river. We passed several little villages nestling in the canyon and presenting the same general characteristics. About these were spots of cultivated land and often prune and apple orchards.

Beyond Wolf Creek, a few miles from Grants Pass, we entered the Rogue River Valley, which vies with Hood River in producing the big red apple for which Oregon has become famous and wonderful stories were told us of the yield of these orchards. Many other varieties of fruit are grown here and vineyards flourish. The climate is much the same as that of the Willamette Valley, and general characteristics are much the same except that the Rogue River country is more rolling.

At sunset we came into the wide main streets of Grants Pass—glad indeed that our strenuous run had reached its goal—and cast about anxiously for a hotel. A native directed us to the Josephine, but a bathroom was not to be had there, nor were we particularly prepossessed with the general appearance of the place. The Oxford, farther down the main street, proved a quiet and fairly comfortable haven in charge of a landlady who was kindly attentive. There was no restaurant in connection with this hotel—one of several instances which we found where hotels had given up serving meals, which they declared the least profitable part of the business, despite the high prices which prevail on menus in the west.

We found more of the atmosphere of the “boom” towns in Grants Pass than we noted in any other town since leaving Bend. The citizens seemed to think that the city was on the verge of a great increase in population and prosperity. The reasons for the optimism are attractively set forth in some of the literature circulated by the commercial club, from which I quote a few paragraphs, with slight modifications:

“Upon the north bank of the beautiful Rogue River in Southern Oregon is located the up-to-date, prosperous city of Grants Pass, with a population exceeding six thousand purely American citizens, enjoying the charms of picturesque scenery the equal of which is not to be found elsewhere; the clear, spring-like mountain stream, with its myriads of trout and salmon, coursing along the southern limits of the city boundary, affords means of recreation which only few of the vast American populace are permitted to enjoy.

“Grants Pass is surrounded by rich agricultural and horticultural lands; the low forest-clad hillsides are being rapidly cleared and planted to Tokay grape vineyards and peach, pear, and apple orchards; upon both banks of the Rogue River, for a distance of twenty miles, are large commercial apple orchards, some in full bearing, consisting of the Spitzenberg and Yellow Newton Pippin apples, for which the section is world-famous, and others newly planted or from one to five years old; large tracts of luscious watermelons, nutmegs, and cantaloupes are to be seen interspersed with strawberries, blackberries, and other varieties of small fruit; here a field of corn, nodding its tassels ten and twelve feet high; there a field of hops, smiling fortune to its lucky owner; and again, rolling meadows of alfalfa and bunches of dairy cattle, sleek and trim; the azure blue sky above reaching to the horizon, the lines of which are broken by the majestic peaks of the Coast Range Mountains. Truly has this been called ‘The Italy of America.’

“In the hills close to Grants Pass the sportsman finds grouse, quail, pheasants, and grey squirrels to his hearts content, whilst along the river and creeks the angler forgets all care when casting his fly to the invitation of the rainbow, salmon, and speckled trout, which abound along the numerous riffles and in the deep pools; farther out in the timber-clad mountains the huntsman may find deer, bobcat, bear, and mountain lion. A poor hunter is he who does not have venison for dinner the first day.

“The standing timber of Josephine County is conservatively estimated at nine billion feet of fir, sugar pine, spruce, cedar, and yellow pine. A score or more sawmills are operated in the immediate vicinity of Grants Pass; the product of these mills is manufactured into fruit boxes and building material at the two large factories in the city, which employ several hundred men. Mining for gold and copper is carried on extensively in all parts of the county to a distance of forty miles; the Grants Pass district supplying at the present time over one-half of the gold and copper output of the state. Marble, lime, platinum, fire clay, and asbestos are among the many lesser mineral products.

“The homeseeker looking for an ideal location and an opportunity to become independent in a really charming city and valley should not fail to investigate the merits of Grants Pass and vicinity.”

The completion of a million-dollar sugar factory in the past year had still farther added to the optimism of Grants Pass people. This, we were assured, would mean the distribution of perhaps five hundred thousand dollars annually in the community and reclamation of some six thousand acres of land with an assured income of at least fifty dollars per acre. Irrigation is necessary to grow sugar beets in this section and, fortunately, the water supply is practically unlimited. Naturally, Grants Pass is exceedingly anxious to have an outlet to the sea, which is less than one hundred miles distant across the Cascades—and a bond issue to begin work on a railroad to Crescent City in California has recently been voted. All of which goes to show that Grants Pass is honest in its belief of a great future and that no effort will be omitted by its hustling citizens to realize said future at the earliest possible moment.

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We may admit that it was with considerable misgiving that we left Grants Pass in the early morning for Crescent City on the sea. We had been discouraged in the attempt by the best posted road authorities in San Francisco, who declared that the trip was too difficult to be worth while, and the pleasant young lady who was all there was in sight when we called at the Portland Automobile Club was even more emphatic in her efforts to dissuade us.

“Don’t try it,” she said. “The road by the way of Crescent City and Eureka is a rough mountain trail, with grades as high as thirty-eight per cent and the rains are likely to catch you at any time from now on,”—all of which, we may remark parenthetically, proved true enough.

Over against this was the assurance of a veteran motorist whom we met at Crater Lake Lodge and who had just come from San Francisco over this route, that there was nothing to give the driver of a Pierce Forty-eight a moment’s uneasiness; though the road was very heavy and rough, a staunch, powerful car would have no difficulty. We were also reassured by the garage owner at Grants Pass, who declared that the natives thought little of the run to Crescent City and that a motor stage made the trip nearly every day in the year, though sometimes in bad weather, he admitted, the nearly obsolete but always reliable horse had to give them a lift.

We learned enough, however, to feel sure that considerably heavier work in mountaineering than we had as yet done awaited us, and this naturally caused us some uneasiness. At times when such feelings seized us concerning roads traveled by some one almost daily, we tried to realize the sensations of the pioneers, who confronted these awful solitudes without road or chart and at best with only treacherous savages to guide them over well-nigh impassable trails through mountain and forest. Such reflections made our misgivings about roads and routes seem little short of cowardly, and perhaps at times rather coerced our better judgment.

We covered forty miles out of Grants Pass with little hint of the road terrors we expected to encounter before the close of the day. The road, fair to excellent, ran at first through cultivated fields and apple-laden orchards; then it entered rounded hills, where the forests, fragrant with balsam pine, were interspersed with lovely green valleys dotted with numerous well-improved ranches. There were signs of considerable activity in lumbering and we passed two large sawmills along the way.

At Waldo, a tiny village forty miles from Grants Pass, we recalled that the famous Oregon caves were only twelve miles eastward and regretted that our schedule did not permit a day’s delay to visit them. From here a picturesque trail leads to these so-called Marble Halls of Oregon, deep in the heart of the rugged mountains. These strange caves were discovered some fifty years ago by a hunter who pursued a wounded bear into a cavern in the mountain. The caves have not yet been fully explored, but there is known to be a series of lofty vaulted chambers rivaling those of the Mammoth Cave and hundreds of smaller apartments, with walls, ceilings, and pillars in old ivory and lighter colorings, all as delicately sculptured as though designed and executed by master artists. The roar of subterranean rivers is heard, seemingly overhead, and again beneath one’s feet, echoing from mysterious caverns as yet unentered even by the adventurous guides.

Beyond Waldo our real mountaineering began, and an incident occurred that caused us no small perturbation nor, looking back, can we feel that our uneasiness was unwarranted. Here a stranger walking along the road hailed us and as we paused in response to his signal, asked us to give him a lift to the next town. As he looked fairly reputable and carried no baggage, our first thought was that he might be a ranchman of the vicinity, and as there were four unoccupied seats in the big car, it seemed churlish to refuse, despite whatever distrust we might have of a stranger in such a lonely wilderness. So we bade him climb in beside the driver and began the ascent of the stupendous grade leading over the first great range of the Cascades. For nearly ten miles we followed the rough, stony road which flung its narrow loops around canyon and headland, often with a deep valley alongside. The steep slopes above and below us were clad with mighty pines and through these we caught occasional glimpses of an ever widening prospect. It was only when we reached the summit of the range that the full magnificence of the scene broke upon our astonished vision. A vast panorama of rugged peaks—“a sea of wood in wild, unmeasured miles,” to quote the poet of the Sierras—stretched way inimitably in the thin, clear atmosphere until it was lost in a violet-blue haze.

Our enjoyment of the wonderful scene was not unmixed, however, for by this time it had become clear to us that our self-invited passenger was a lunatic. He had talked much wild and silly chatter about a wonderful invention of his and a great fortune awaiting him in San Francisco, and given evidence by other unmistakable signs that he was more or less demented. It did not seem practicable to attempt to get rid of him at the time and we began the descent with increasing uneasiness as he continued to harass the driver with his wild talk. And if ever a driver needed to keep his head clear it was during this same descent; the road, a mere shelf in the rock, crawls along the precipitous mountainside while a vast abyss yawns below with a mad, boulder-vexed stream at the bottom. It was made far more trying to the nerves by the absence of trees or shrubbery to screen the precipice—a bare foot or two lay between our wheels and a sheer drop of say half a mile.

Our guest noted our perturbation and, turning to the lady, who had shrunk into the smallest possible space in the end of the capacious seat and was studiously refusing to even look at the road, he said,

“Gets on your nerves, doesn’t it? Looks mighty scaly, for a fact!”

It was not made the easier by the knowledge that a lunatic sat beside the driver, harmless, maybe, but we had no way of knowing that he was. In any event, when he wasn’t looking I slipped the Colt automatic, which had been our almost forgotten companion since we started, beneath our car robe, with the resolve that if he should attempt to lay hands on our driver on these appalling roads, there would be something doing. Fortunately, except for his incessant chatter, he was quite inoffensive and we looked forward anxiously to the next station on the road, where we determined to drop him, willy nilly.

It was a long, slow crawl to Patrick’s Creek, to which an occasional signboard directed us, for our cautious driver averaged only seven or eight miles per hour, and, however anxious we were to get rid of our passenger, it was quite enough. The scenery was inspiring and picturesque but the road was more or less nerve-racking every mile of the way. Passing-places were only occasional, but, fortunately, we met no one after leaving Waldo.

Patrick’s Creek Hotel proved a small ranch house close by the road where meals are served and auto supplies sold to tourists. As usual, we had our lunch, but were glad to supplement it with one of the landlady’s home-made pies, which proved excellent indeed. For once we regretted having brought our lunch, since they told us that it was their practice to fry one of the numerous young chickens running about the place, “while you wait.” Here we had the peculiar sensation that comes from paying fifty cents per gallon for gasoline—our top notch, I believe, except in Longwy, France, some years before.

“I get it by parcel post in sealed five-gallon cans,” said the innkeeper, who is also forest ranger in this district, “which is the only way the stage people will accept it for shipment.”

“Do you get much patronage here besides meals?” we asked.

“In the hunting season we do,” he replied, “It’s a famous hunting ground. We could go up on yonder mountainside and start a dozen deer in an hour.”

“You ought to have plenty of venison at your hotel,” we ventured.

“Not a bit of it,” he replied in disgust. “The game law forbids serving it for pay and you are not even allowed to have any portion of a deer’s carcase on hand longer than ten days; you can’t sell it or ship it out of the county—there isn’t much sport in killing the poor brutes under such conditions. Still, hunters come here and kill the limit of three bucks, but most of the venison goes to waste.”

When we resumed our journey our passenger, with considerable rambling talk, expressed his willingness to continue with us to San Francisco and even intimated that we might get a slice of the great fortune he had in prospect there; he evidently did not object to the car or the company and was quite willing to become a permanent member of our party. We succeeded in making him understand that we were not running a stage and that we felt we had done our share in the thirty-five-mile lift we had given him. We offered him a little financial assistance, if needed, but it was indignantly declined. He would soon have wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. And so we bade him a glad farewell, with the mental resolve that we would pick up no more unknown pedestrians. We were afterwards hailed by one or two knights of the road who, no doubt, thought us stingy snobs as we sailed past them in sublime indifference—but we had had our lesson. We saw added reason for such a course when we read later in a San Francisco paper that an autoist had been held up and robbed in the mountains by two foot pads whom he had generously given a ride.

Leaving the inn, we followed the yellow road which we could see far ahead, zigzagging up the rough mountainside before us. It led to another seemingly endless climb over steep, stony grades along the edge of precipitous slopes. A short distance from the hotel we saw a doe eyeing us curiously from the chaparral a few yards from the roadside. She seemed to realize that a lady deer is safe in California, even in the hunting season, for she showed little signs of fear. Had she been legitimate game we might probably have killed her with the Colt.

The climb over a stony road—enough to try every rivet in any car—continued for several miles. On coming to the summit, we did not immediately descend, but continued for many miles, with slight ups and downs, along the crest of the Cascades—or is it the Coast Sierras?—the ranger said the point is still in dispute as to where one ceases and the other begins. It was a narrow, precarious trail that we followed, with only thin shrubbery to screen the forbidding slopes at its side—but what a magnificent and inspiring vista it opened to our delighted vision! Beneath us lay a vast, wooded canyon, thousands of feet in depth, and beyond it stretched an infinite array of pine-clad summits, seemingly without end, for the day was clear as crystal and only a thin haze hid the distance. They are building a new highway that will supersede this mountain trail and future tourists will gladly miss the thrills of the precarious road, but they will also miss much of the grandeur and beauty; to see the mountains one must climb the mountains to their very crests. We shall always be glad that we saw the wild and inspiring vistas from many of these old-time roads which will pass into disuse when the improved highway comes.

Again we angled slowly down into a vast valley and climbed two more ranges before the cool, fresh ocean air struck our faces. To tell of the beauty and charm of the scenes that presented themselves to our eyes would be continual repetition; they were much like those we had encountered ever since entering the mighty hill ranges.

We were conscious of a sudden and overpowering change when we came within a dozen miles of the destination of our day’s run. Here we entered the Del Norte redwoods and many were the exclamations of wonder excited by the majesty and loveliness of these virgin forests. Glorious individual trees, ten to twenty feet in diameter, towering two to three hundred feet above us, crowded up to the roadside, standing so thickly that it was impossible to see ahead for any considerable distance. But most wonderful was the rank—almost tropical—appearance of the undergrowth. The ground was green with velvet moss, and huge ferns with fronds several feet in length, intermingled with the metallic green of the huckleberry bushes. Many other shrubs and plants unknown to us joined to make up this marvelous tangle of greenery, the like of which we had never before seen. Occasionally we came upon a fallen tree cast down by storms of perhaps a century ago, but the dead giant had become the abode of riotous life, for every foot of his great trunk was covered with a rank growth of fern and shrub. We even saw good-sized trees springing out of these long-dead redwoods. We had seen the redwoods of Tuolumne, Santa Cruz, and Mariposa, larger trees but utterly lacking the beauty of the riotous greenery of the groves of Del Norte.

A clear, green river spanned by a high iron bridge served to enhance the charm of the scene. We paused to drink of the ice-cold waters of a little roadside waterfall and to felicitate ourselves that we had not been dissuaded from the Crescent City road. It is a rough, steep, and dangerous road, we may admit, but this glorious forest repays one a thousand times. The accumulation of leaves and pine needles deposited through the centuries had made the soil beneath the trees a deep, soft mould, and to make the road passable it had been “corduroyed” for several miles with redwood slabs, which slowed the car down to a snail’s pace. This was no hardship, however—surely one who does not expect to pass over the road again would never wish to hasten through such delightful scenery.

It was still four miles to Crescent City when we came out of the great forest and for this distance we ran through rather poorly improved farm lands. The ocean, which flashed into view as we approached the town, was indeed a welcome sight after our long exile in the hills. For many miles as we approached the town the trees at frequent intervals had borne signs calling attention to the merits of the Bay View Annex, with the constant reiteration of “hot and cold water” as the chief attraction. So we sought the Bay View, a rambling, wooden building looking out on the harbor and were forthwith assigned to rooms in the “Annex” at the rear. While our quarters were far from elaborate, they were clean and comfortable, though the much-vaunted hot and cold water proved principally cold.

We had leisure to look about the town before supper and while there was little in the plain, straggling, wooden village to excite our interest, we learned that Crescent City has big ambitions and high hopes for the future.

“We have one of the best harbors on the whole western coast, about equally distant from San Francisco and Portland,” said a shopkeeper from whom we made a few purchases. “It is deep enough for ocean-going vessels, so that little dredging will be necessary, and only needs protection of a sea wall to offer safe shelter for a whole fleet of ships. Congress has been interested in the project and only last year a committee of several of the leading members came here to investigate. All agreed that the government could well afford to spend five million dollars to improve the harbor and that the resources of the country about here warrant an appropriation. If this is done and the railroad carried through from Grants Pass, Crescent City will become a city, indeed. There are two hundred billion feet of standing timber within a radius of two hundred miles from Crescent City, most of which would be converted into lumber and find an outlet through Crescent City Harbor. The rich Rogue River Valley, now at the mercy of the Southern Pacific Railroad, will gladly seek a cheaper outlet for its products and though it may not be apparent to a stranger, the agricultural products of Del Norte County are very considerable. Our butter, for instance, is considered the finest in the country and the Palace Hotel at San Francisco will not serve any other. Its excellence is due to the splendid grazing lands watered by an annual rainfall of sixty-eight inches. This also gives you the secret of the wonderful greenness of the great redwood forest which you so admired when coming to our city. Salmon and other fishing and packing are already very extensive and can be increased indefinitely. There are immense deposits of copper and iron ore between here and Grants Pass—particularly in the neighborhood of Waldo. Marble and other building stone are to be found within easy shipping distance. We have the finest summer climate on the Pacific Coast and splendid beaches, so that Crescent City is bound to become more and more of a summer resort—in fact, a great many people come here now in the summer time. Do you think our hopes for Crescent City’s future are ill-founded? Isn’t it reasonable to believe that when this harbor is improved and a railroad completed to both Grants Pass and Eureka that we may fairly expect a city of fifty thousand people or more?”

We did not take issue with our enthusiastic informant, though, indeed, it was hard to imagine a teeming city on the site of the lonely little village; but perhaps the same thing might have been said of Portland or Seattle fifty years ago. A start has really been made toward improving the harbor, for an initial appropriation of three hundred and ninety thousand dollars has been made by the War Department, to which Del Norte County has added the proceeds of a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bond issue. The chief industry of the town at present is lumbering, one company employing five hundred men, but the output is limited by the indifferent shipping facilities.

Crescent City has another ambition which is well worthy of realization—to have a large section of the magnificent forests near the town set aside as a national park. It would, indeed, be a calamity to our whole people to have all of this great grove wiped out by ax and fire, as has occurred near Eureka. The redwood groves already reserved do not and can not match the Del Norte forests in beauty and suitability as a natural playground. Here one can camp under the giants trees and live near to nature indeed, nor will he be troubled by such pests as flies, mosquitoes, scorpions, rattlesnakes, and the like, for they are almost unknown in this section. From our own observation we can heartily second the declaration of a local writer to the effect that—

“The importance of this proposed Redwood Park to Humboldt and Del Norte Counties, the State of California, and to the whole of North America, even to the whole world, can scarcely be estimated. Within comparatively a few generations the giant redwood forests of California will be a thing of the past; the woodsman’s ax and the ravenous sawmills will have swept them away, even as the great pine and hardwood forests of Michigan and Wisconsin have been wiped out of existence.

“A billion or more feet of these giant forests preserved and protected for all time from destruction will form a priceless heritage for future generations—one of the greatest attractions California will then have, for it will bring pilgrims from all over the world. It will not be many generations before all the virgin forests on the North American Continent, save those protected in national and other forest reserves will be wiped out of existence.”

It would be hard to express the chagrin which we felt on looking from the window of the Bay View Annex on the morning following our arrival to find a heavy fog, almost bordering on a drizzle, enveloping everything and even shrouding the near-by ocean from view. We were told that such fogs often lasted a week or more, so it did not seem worth while to wait another day at the Bay View in hope of clear weather. We set out with the forlorn hope that the fog might clear away as the sun rose higher.

For the first four or five miles out of the town we skimmed along over the most perfect boulevard of our tour—a wide, perfectly level, hard, smooth, dust-free surface, yet a road which cost nothing per mile and never had an hour’s work expended upon it by any man. It was the hard, firm, ocean beach which we traversed, so close to the sullen gray water that it lapped our wheels as we glided onward. And lo, we beheld, skipping joyously along on this same beach our unwelcome passenger of the previous day. He had evidently begged or bought transportation from Patrick’s Creek to Crescent City and was now away on a hundred-mile hike to Eureka, unless he could work his nerve on some passing car as he did on us. Nothing daunted by his rebuff at our parting, he cheerfully signified his desire to continue with us for the day, but we bade him hail and farewell without slackening the car’s sharp pace.

Our fine beach road ended all too soon in a wild plunge through the soft deep sand to the mainland, where we almost immediately began the ascent of a stiff, long grade, winding with many sharp turns through the closely standing pines. About midway a large car was parked with a broken axle, leaving barely room to squeeze past. Time and again as we ascended the mighty slope we came out upon bold headlands which on clear days afford endless views of the ocean a thousand feet or more below. We could hear the angry swish of the sea among the broken rocks at the base of the cliff, but the gray mist hid it from our eager eyes. It was, indeed, a disappointment, but we found some compensation as we climbed still higher on the fern-banked road. Near the summit we again entered the mighty redwoods which towered hundreds of feet above us. We were rising above the fog and the weirdly glorious effect of the sun’s rays as they shot through the thin vapor among the hoary trees was as fascinating as it is indescribable. The forest monarchs seemed literally ablaze with pale fire. The dull gray fog merged into a silvery vapor which floated among the titanic trunks and branches and long shafts of light radiated from their tops like a mighty halo. As we continued to ascend the air gradually cleared and a sky of the intensest blue shone above the trees—but it was only due to the altitude, for, coming out on a headland, we beheld the envious fog still shrouding the ocean far below. The sullen booming of the surf and the screams of sea birds came weirdly mingled from the unseen deeps, giving a strange sensation of mystery.

Back into the mighty forest we turned and for many miles followed the winding road, closely bordered by the giant trees. The corduroy on this road was in much better repair, some of it being new and made of closely laid square slabs. Here, again the riotous greenery beneath the trees delighted and amazed us. Fern fronds six feet long were common and moss, shrubbery, and vines flourished in wild profusion everywhere. We emerged on an open headland covered with bronzed fern and scattered shrubs, and strained our eyes for a glimpse of the silver sea through the lightening mass of vapor and we were rewarded with a faint shimmer here and there. Then came more miles of redwoods crowding the road so closely that we found difficulty in passing another car which met us here. The forest was strangely silent; we saw nothing of bird or animal life and only the boom of the ocean when we happened to come near the coast broke upon the uncanny stillness.

Again we came abruptly into the open and a long, sinuous descent brought us to Requa, a forlorn-looking little hamlet on the broad inlet of the Klamath River. They told us that half the people of the village were Indians and those whom we saw wore white man’s clothes and had the appearance of modest prosperity. Salmon fishing and two canneries employ the population during the fishing season. The wide, still river is crossed by ferry, a rude barge propelled by a gasoline launch, lashed alongside and capable of carrying three or four cars.

During our crossing our interest was centered on the ferryman’s daughter, a little miss of seven or eight summers, who swung on the chain at the bow of the boat. Utterly unconscious of her picturesque beauty or that she was being observed, she made one of the most delightful studies we had seen in many a day and made us long for the skill to execute a rapid sketch. Her dark olive, oval face was regular and pleasing in features and her cheeks were tinged with red roses from the fresh sea air. Her heavy black hair was woven in a long braid and coiled about her head. She wore a plain slip of a dress and her deft little fingers were working on a head-dress of red and green cambric, which at times she fitted over her raven tresses with the air of a Fifth Avenue belle judging the merits of the latest Parisian creation in millinery. Then she removed it and eyed it critically; evidently it did not meet her artistic ideals, for she ripped it to pieces and began rearranging the brightly colored scraps.

We were so much interested in her beauty and unconscious antics that we forgot all about the broad, green river we were crossing and therefore paused when we had scrambled up the opposite bank to gaze up the valley. We saw a noble stream, gleaming through the thin vapor that hovered above it and sweeping far up the canyon until it vanished in the densely wooded hills. The picturesque valley is included in the proposed Redwood National Park, which the citizens of Northern California hope to see established before the wholesale slaughter of these forests is begun.

We ran for a good many miles through a flat, swampy country dotted with reedy lagoons, re-entering the redwoods near the Humboldt County line. We encountered a long, steady ascent with grades up to twenty per cent, which ultimately brought us to the ocean, which we had left for a time. The road, with occasional bends to the inland, followed the shore for the remainder of our day’s run and presented a continual panorama of delightful scenery. The sun was still tempered by the soft white mists and the ocean shone like burnished silver in the subdued light. The shore is exceedingly rugged and in many places out in the ocean were mighty detached rocks upon which the incoming waves broke into white, foaming masses.

The redwoods continued for many miles—mighty, symmetrical trees whose dimensions were hard to realize, but many were twenty feet in diameter and upwards of two hundred and fifty feet in height. It was only by comparison with some small object that their colossal size could be realized; we had grown so used to the gigantic that it palled upon our senses. Often they grew in groups, two, three, or more stems from a single base whose dimensions were simply staggering. We could not contemplate the majesty and beauty of these forest giants without a tinge of sadness—we know that the railroad is daily creeping nearer and that unless prompt measures are taken to protect them the time is not far away when only burned and blackened stumps will show where they stood, as we saw nearer Eureka. We parted company with them as one who leaves a very old and wise friend whom he feels that he may never see again, breathing meanwhile the prayer:

There were gayer colors on our road than the dull browns and dark greens of the redwoods, for along the creeks the maples flamed in autumnal scarlet or glowed with yellow gold in the dark forest aisles. We passed through occasional open spaces, where we found belated wild flowers in full bloom—the purple foxglove, daisies, asters, and, more rarely, wild roses or azaleas smiled on us from the roadside. Not all the trees were redwoods, for we passed through closely standing groves where spruce, hemlock, and other varieties predominated.

The road came close to the shore just before we reached Orick, a small village whose inn is a famous resort for hunters and fishermen, and from a considerable eminence we looked down on Freshwater Lagoon, a fine body of water a mile long, literally alive with wild fowl. It is famous for its fishing, as are Big Lagoon and Stone Lagoon, a few miles farther on. Here the sportsman may take cut-throat and steel-head trout to the law’s limit, often in an hour or two, and all kinds of water fowl are plentiful in season. In this vicinity also, they told us, is the best quail shooting on the Pacific Coast—quite enough to distress a devotee of rod and gun whom circumstances forced to hurry onward. There are splendid camping sites galore along this road, sites which appealed even to ourselves, who were never strongly predisposed to camp life.

Trinidad, the next hamlet, dates from Spanish days, when it had the prefix of Puerto—for it is located on a small but deep harbor, where the early seafarers occasionally took shelter. Remains of the old landing-place may still be seen, but no ships disturb the quietude of Trinidad to-day. There is a rustic resort inn here which caters to summer visitors and sportsmen.

So far the road has been natural dirt, ranging from fair to good, and the grades, though often considerable, have not been at all troublesome to the big car. At Trinidad we caught up with the stage which left Crescent City some time ahead of us, and were interested to find that the cars which make this trip nearly every day in the year were of the same manufacture as our own.

Beyond Trinidad the road had mostly been surfaced and some of it was really excellent. The country, however, for some miles was dismal, indeed. Here was every evidence of a great forest fire of comparatively recent occurrence. Great blackened trunks were still standing, interspersed with stumps which showed that the country had been at least partially lumbered before the fire. The effect was melancholy and depressing, indeed, and brought to mind passages of Dante’s Inferno. A few poor little houses, many of them deserted, were scattered at intervals among the blackened stumps, and there were occasional cultivated patches of ground. No doubt the soil is excellent, but it will be many years before the giant stumps can be cleared away and the great holes left when they are burned or dynamited, filled up. We noted on our maps that we were to cross Mad River and imagined a dashing cataract in keeping with the name. We found the most prosaic of tide-water streams, level and almost stagnant, and the name, we were told, only referred to a quarrel between some early settlers in the section.

As we approached Arcata, fourteen miles by road from Eureka, though only half that distance directly across the bay, the country took on a much more prosperous look. The farm houses were neat with carefully kept lawns, and the well-cultivated fields ran down to the seashore. Arcata is a clean, bright-looking town, due to free application of paint to the wooden buildings, for wooden buildings are almost universal. A new eighty-thousand-dollar hotel was pointed to with due pride and one might do quite as well to stop here as in Eureka.

Beyond Arcata fine, level, dairy land prevails, fit for grazing the greater part of the year, and Humboldt County butter is quite as famous as that of Del Norte. Much of this land was originally forested with redwoods, and its splendid state of reclamation at present indicates that the forlorn, fire-blackened section we passed some miles back may have a future before it, after all. Huge redwood stumps remained along the road, each of them bearing a little garden of greenery flourishing upon the decay. The heavy rainfall of winter and the continual fogs of summer keep vegetation thrifty and green almost the entire year.

The road from Arcata skirts the shores of Humboldt Bay, which is nearly land-locked by a slender spit of sand. It is a good-sized body of water, some fourteen miles long and deep enough for ocean-going vessels, but an exceedingly treacherous coast in the vicinity militates against it as a harbor. A few days before our arrival a large steamer had gone to pieces on the rocks near by and a few months later a submarine and the cruiser Milwaukee, which undertook to rescue it, were both destroyed in this neighborhood.

Our first impression on coming into the business part of Eureka was of surprise to see a city of its size and importance almost wholly constructed of wood. The business blocks were nearly all of redwood, sometimes painted and carved to resemble stone, and the hotels, including the Vance, where we stopped, were of the same material. Of course, this is not so strange when one considers that redwood is by far the cheapest and most accessible building stuff in this region, but it is hard to associate permanence and substantial construction with huge wooden blocks in the business section of the city.

We reached our hotel about four o’clock, having been just eight hours in covering the ninety-four miles from Crescent City, including the half-hour we stopped for lunch—practically the same time occupied by the stages in making the trip. This may seem pretty slow, but it is all one should expect on this road if he adheres to sane and conservative driving.

The Vance, despite the rather unfavorable impression made by its wooden exterior, proved well-appointed and comfortable inside. A large, cozily furnished, steam-heated room proved a pleasant haven after a chilly ride—for the wind had blown strongly all day from the sea, and when out of the shelter of the forest, it brought our whole supply of wraps and robes into use. The Vance was the only commercial hotel which we found operating on the “American plan” since leaving San Francisco, and its service throughout was very satisfactory, though its rates could not be classed as cheap. We should say, however, that a thoroughly modern hotel of approved construction would find a fine opening in Eureka.

We found time before dinner to look about the city, which was gaily decorated in bunting and evergreens for an Elks’ Convention to begin the next day. In fact, we had been warned that our lease on our room at the hotel could continue only for the night and our plan of taking a full day’s lay-off at Eureka was thus frustrated. As usual in isolated California towns of any size, the shops and mercantile establishments generally seemed entirely to outclass the population figures, which in case of Eureka are not claimed to exceed fifteen thousand. Like our hotel, the interior of the business buildings was usually much more attractive than the exterior, and it was apparent that the merchants of the town were prepared to take care of all reasonable needs of the inhabitants as well as of transitory visitors. The necessity of this is easily apparent when we recall that San Francisco, the nearest city larger than Eureka, is two hundred and eighty-five miles distant—twelve hours’ ride over the recently completed railway. For Eureka at last has a railway, after having for many years enjoyed—or rather endured—the undesirable distinction of being the largest town in the United States without railroad service. The Northwest Pacific “Scenic Route” reached the town in 1915 and has the distinction, it is said, of being by far the costliest railroad of its length in America, an average of one hundred and thirty thousand dollars per mile having been expended in its construction. For nearly half its length it threads its way through the gigantic canyon of the Eel River, following the stream so closely that it is seldom out of sight. The scenery along this road, a local authority insists, is hardly to be surpassed in the whole country.

“As the train passes over the Eel River Divide, the Pacific, thirty miles distant, is seen, shimmering in the sunlight across a stretch of mighty wooded hills. As the descent along the upper Eel River Valley begins, the views become more and more entrancing. No mountain scenery in the foothills of the Swiss Alps is more beautiful than that which greets the traveler’s eyes along the Eel River.”

Perhaps such a digression on the scenery from a railroad train is out of place in a motor-travel book, but it may be permitted, possibly, in view of the fact that a far greater number of people go to Eureka by train than motor. And those who come by motor, if they pursue the Bell Springs route, will see the same Eel River scenery from even grander viewpoints, since in places the wagon road rises thousands of feet above the railway.

Greater numbers of motor cars will come to Eureka when the new state highway is completed, since the two old roads from the south are as difficult and dangerous as any in California and are considered quite impassable, even for horse-drawn vehicles, when the rains set in. Hence, before the completion of the railroad Eureka was quite cut off from communication with the rest of the world except by the sea and often violent storms rendered even that route precarious. Under such conditions it is marvelous that such an energetic, thriving city could have sprung up. One of the present roads closely follows the coast through Fort Bragg and Garberville, a poorly-kept and little used trail, and the other, farther inland, roughly follows the railroad, crossing the famous Bell Springs grade, which the state highway commission describes as “long the terror of motorists.” The new highway avoids this and will afford a year-round access to the city over safe and easy grades. It will also continue to Crescent City, placing the Humboldt and Del Norte redwoods within easy reach of motorists, all of whom should exert their influence to secure the proposed national park in this section.

Eureka was founded in 1850 by American settlers. The Spaniards appear to have overlooked this harbor and so far as known no ship entered it prior to 1806, when Captain Winship, a fur trader, who learned of the existence of the bay from the Indians, anchored his ship in its sheltered waters. The career of the town has been a quiet one, not even the customary Indian wars disturbing its serenity. There are memories, however, of two distinguished Americans, for Lieut. Ulysses S. Grant was at one time stationed at old Fort Humboldt, slight remains of which may still be seen. It was also in Eureka where the youthful Bret Harte began his career as a journalist—officiating as compositor, printer’s devil, and assistant editor of the “Northern California,” then published in the town. Here he had a rather thrilling experience which might have cost the world one of its rarest literary geniuses—and actually cost him his job on the paper.

During the absence of the editor, he was left in charge of the paper—like Mark Twain under similar circumstances—and, like Mark, he at once proceeded to break over conventions. Outrages of the Whites against the Indians of the surrounding country were then common and were usually winked at by the editor, who thought more of the support of the citizens than the rights of the red man. A particularly cowardly massacre was perpetrated while Harte was in charge of the paper. Just how cowardly may be judged from a letter of one of the offenders, who declared, “We have been searching the mountains, destroying villages, killing all males we could find, and capturing the women and children. We have killed about thirty altogether and now have twenty-eight captives in camp.” No one hated injustice and cruelty more than Bret Harte and in an editorial he scathingly condemned the murderers. This roused the anger of the community and a mob gathered with the avowed purpose of wrecking the newspaper plant and hanging the youthful scribe. Harte showed himself game to the last degree and held the mob at bay with two cocked pistols during probably the longest evening of his life. The timely arrival of a few cavalrymen from the fort probably saved his life, but his love of justice brought him a quick dismissal on the return of the owner of the paper. Perhaps this experience, after all, was a God-send to Harte’s budding genius. Had things gone too smoothly in his first essay at journalism he might have missed the rich experience that came of his nomadic career among the pioneer mining camps and settled down into the quiet ways of a backwoods editor.

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A very dull morning with streets and walks wet from a light, drizzling rain greeted our dismayed vision as we hastily glanced from the hotel windows on rising. The hotel people had duly warned us that they hadn’t a corner left for us for the coming night and we counted it very likely that every hotel and lodging house in Eureka was just as “full up,” as the English say. Furthermore, there was no assurance if it once began to rain that it would let up for a week, for week-long rains are to be expected in Humboldt County in season. And from all we could learn, a long-continued rain meant no thoroughfare for heavy cars through the mountains to the south.

We had a little official information concerning the road over which we must pass, for a bulletin of the California Highway Commission declared, “Eureka can be reached during the summer months only under the most strenuous conditions by means of the road from San Francisco over the summit of the Bell Springs Mountain, elevation 4100 feet above the sea level. After the first rains the road is impassable for motors and even horse-drawn vehicles, traffic on the route being limited to saddle and pack animals. At Dyerville an ascent of 3937 feet begins up and down grades as high as thirty per cent to the summit, a distance of forty-six miles. The descent, up and down grades exceeding twenty per cent, occupies a distance of twelve miles and ends at the foot of ‘Rattlesnake Grade,’ 2686 feet below. The high altitudes on the route afford magnificent views of the surrounding country in all directions, though the average tourist would no doubt gladly forego the scenic advantages of the Bell Springs Mountain to travel a less strenuous route. The terror of the Bell Springs Mountain, however, in the near future will exist only in memory; the pioneer road of Northern California will be superseded by the Coast Line of the new highway system.”

But all this cheerful prospect for the future could not shorten the Bell Springs road one foot or reduce its frightful grades a single inch so far as we were concerned. It lay before us with all its terror and mystery and it was an even gamble whether the heavy clouds would break away or the drizzle settle down into a steady rain. We tried to realize what a thirty per cent grade was really like; we had passed twenty and possibly twenty-five per cent slopes on our trip. “But a thirty per cent grade,” said the dismayed lady member of the expedition, “that’s one third of straight up. Will any car do that?” She was assured that most cars could accomplish this feat if working well and under favorable conditions, but in a rain—the possible consequences were not pleasant to contemplate.

We descended to breakfast in a mood of gloomy indecision. It seemed imperative for us to leave Eureka in any event. We had instructed our driver to be ready at eight o’clock and he was on hand with his usual promptness.

“Will she do a thirty per cent grade?” I asked jokingly, knowing his unwavering faith in the Pierce.

“She’ll do anything she can get traction on,” he said, “but in the mud—” So his thought was the same as our own, but what was the use pursuing an unpleasant subject?

“We’ve four wheel chains, in any event,” I said and the big car glided forth as calmly as if an unbroken boulevard stretched to the metropolis.

As I look back at it now, I must admit that we committed an act of egregious folly in setting out on this trip in face of what looked like an all-day rain. If it had been an all-day rain we might have been marooned many days in these mighty hills, if, indeed, we had not met with deadly disaster of some sort. Even as it was, we had occasion for real anxiety more than once, as will appear in due course of my story. We felt that if the outlook grew more threatening we could stop at Fortuna, another small wooden town twenty miles distant, where fair accommodations may be had.

The twenty miles proved over the best of roads through a level, well-improved country, and when we drove down the main street of the village we were rejoiced to see that the sky had lightened somewhat and the rain almost ceased. A garage man still farther reassured us. “Going to clear off,” he declared in response to our query on weather probabilities as our gasoline tank was being filled to the limit. “O, yes, it would be an ugly job if it should rain, but it ain’t going to rain,” which cheerful assurance we accepted and following his directions proceeded on a road which, besides its real danger in wet weather, proved to afford no decent accommodations for over fifty miles.

Just beyond Fortuna we passed a large, deep pool in the Eel River which is said to afford unequalled sport for fishermen, King Solomon, steel-head, and mountain trout being taken in large numbers even by inexperienced anglers. A number of summer cottages have been built here and the place shows increasing popularity as a summer resort.

We found the new state highway usable between Alton, four miles farther on, and Dyerville, thus enabling us to avoid the hills via Rio Dell and Pepperwood, which have some heavy grades ranging up to twenty-five per cent. The new road was pretty rough and soft in places, as no surfacing had yet been done. A fine new bridge across the Eel was building near Alton, but it was not yet open and a very tortuous detour through deep sand was necessary. Beyond the river we continued for many miles through closely standing redwoods—great columnar trees which would have excited our wonder and admiration to a greater degree had we not seen the more imposing forests of the north.

At Dyerville, a wretched-looking little hamlet of half a dozen buildings, we bade farewell to the new highway. It had been completed some distance beyond this point, but a gap of thirty miles remained to be bridged before it could supersede the Bell Springs road. The new highway follows the south fork of the Eel River and gradually rises until it joins the present road at Cummings, elevation 1414 feet, sixty-nine miles from Dyerville. This will entirely avoid the Bell Springs Mountain and eliminate a climb and descent of nearly three thousand feet. Construction was in progress at the time of our visit and the new bond issue insures the completion of the work, which may be accomplished before my book sees the light. Tourists of the future, with rarest exceptions, will speed over the new boulevard and the Bell Springs road will fall into disuse. We shall always be glad, however—now that it is safely over—that circumstances forced us to climb the rugged mountain, since from its slopes and summit we beheld some of the wildest and most beautiful panoramas to be seen in all California.

Heavy work began immediately after we crossed the river at Dyerville. A long grade zigzagged up the slope of the mountain, closely following the Eel for several miles and affording many magnificent panoramas of the river and rugged ranges of wooded hills that guard it on either hand. Splendid pines crowded closely up to the narrow road and did much to lessen the nervous effects of the long, sharp slope at our side. At the turns of the road, however, there were frequent open spaces which allowed views of ever-increasing grandeur as we ascended; the river, far below, lay in still, green pools or dashed in foaming rapids among the lichen-covered boulders. Beyond were endless hill ranges, cloud-swept here and there, for, though the rain had ceased, the sky was still threatening.

A long descent brought us to the railroad; then the road swung away from the river and followed the crest of the ridge between the Eel and South Fork for the remainder of the day. Another long, heavy grade confronted us with two sharp “hairpin” turns which some facetious wayfarer has dubbed “The Devil’s Elbow,” and we recalled that we had passed a hill in the Scotch Highlands where a like honor had been paid to His Satanic Majesty. We thought the latter bad enough at the time, but it was tame when compared with the twists and grades of this far western trail. The long wheel base of our car made it necessary to back up at several of the turns, an operation which excited lively anxiety on part of our lady passenger. It was disquieting, indeed, to see the rear wheel of the car approach within a foot or two of the high bank at the side of the turn with a twenty per cent slope looming ahead, but the car responded so beautifully to the skill of the driver that she gradually became reassured.

The forest gradually dwindled and beyond Fruitland—there was little except the name on the map to indicate the existence of such a place—we came into a barren, desolate-looking region with little vegetation except scrub trees and shrubs, through which the road kept a general ascent, though there were occasional downward dips. At the foot of one of these we ran on to a most disconsolate party in a Ford which had been stalled for some hours for lack of gasoline. Only one car had passed and the occupants had declined assistance on the ground that they feared a shortage of the very necessary fluid themselves.

“Then I hired a horse,” said the driver, “of the man on the hill yonder and one of our ladies visited the three other houses in this little valley, but couldn’t scare up a pint of gas at any of them. I’ll pay you any price you ask for a gallon or two.”

We freely confessed that price wasn’t the consideration—we feared a shortage ourselves on some of the hills before us. Our car was gravity-fed and it might fail on a steep grade with several gallons in the tank. Still, the obligations of the Golden Rule weighed heavily upon us in such a case and we granted our friend in distress the two gallons he so earnestly prayed for. We declined the dollar he tried to force upon us on the ground that we were not helping him out for worldly gain—we only hoped we wouldn’t run short ourselves.

He assured us that it was only ten miles over a level road to Harris, where he had carelessly neglected to replenish his supply, but I fear that his predicament warped his judgment of distance. It proved a full twenty miles with many steep pitches which caused us no little anxiety and which continually increased, for Harris seemed constantly to recede as we cautiously proceeded over a road that varied from fair to very bad. There were many stony stretches where the car scrambled over good-sized boulders still wet from the mists that at intervals swept across the mountains. It was a wild and lonely road, with no sign of human habitation for many miles; only the long views across the rugged hills redeemed it from dreary monotony.

At one point four fine does contemplated us curiously and with little sign of fear, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards; they, too, seemed to realize that woman’s rights in California are even extended to deer—there is a heavy fine for killing a doe. We were told that these hills are alive with deer, but the exceedingly rugged nature of the country makes hunting very difficult. The road constantly grew more tortuous and arduous and we made many remarks about the tendency of Harris to recede as we advanced—we even began to wonder if we might not have passed it unaware. It was, therefore, with no small relief that we beheld Harris finally heave in sight, but our reviving spirits dropped when we saw a sign posted on the hotel, which is all there is of Harris, “Positively closed for the season,” and could detect no sign of life about the place. Was our expected gasoline supply to fail here with the Bell Springs Mountain now directly before us? A reconnoissance of the place, however, discovered the man in charge, who gleefully filled our tank with forty-cent gas and our apprehensions vanished into thin air.

While we were engaged in this transaction, a Ford car paused and began to disgorge its contents under a group of trees near by—said contents consisting of six people and two dogs, and an endless array of camping and other impedimenta was strapped to the machine at every available projection, almost concealing it from view. An old-fashioned, tin-covered trunk was fastened at the rear and several grips were piled about the engine hood. The wonder of it was that the flimsy-looking car could stand up under it all, even though two of the passengers were rather small children and the dogs not very large. The party proceeded at once to build a fire; a warm dinner and hot coffee were evidently on the program—which reminded us that we had neglected to provide ourselves with our usual lunch on leaving Eureka. The man who supplied gasoline assured us that we would find an excellent hotel still open at Bell Springs, twelve miles farther on; we ought to reach it in an hour, he thought.

“O, yes, some pretty stiff going, to be sure, but nothing to worry that wagon of yours, I guess,” he said.

It proved a steep, stony, winding, wicked dozen miles with one thirty per cent pitch, according to our road maps, all of which drawbacks were mightily accentuated in our minds when the rain commenced again shortly after we left Harris. Tire chains were brought into requisition and after a steady grind of an hour and a quarter, enlivened by no end of nervous thrills, we paused with steaming radiator in front of the attractive-looking Bell Springs Inn. It was about two o’clock and twenty-three miles from Laytonville, where we proposed, rather dubiously, to stop for the night.

“Here’s our only chance for luncheon,” I announced—a matter which a very early and very light breakfast at Eureka no doubt served to keep in my mind.

“I don’t want any lunch,” came from the rear seat. “I want to get out of these terrible hills just as quickly as we possibly can. Whatever induced you to choose this awful road? You always seem to find the worst possible.” To all of which no adequate answer came to my mind.

With a lingering look at the hotel, I gave the word to proceed, not without considerable misgiving, for it was still raining and the information which we had of the road was far from reassuring. True, it was down hill most of the way, but my experience was that it is easier to climb a muddy grade than to descend one. The descent began shortly after leaving the hotel and for some miles we proceeded with extreme caution down narrow switchbacks with sharp turns, some of which required backing. The scenery was magnificent, rugged slopes covered with gigantic pines which often came up to the roadside—but I confess that we did not pay enough attention to the scenery to warrant much descriptive writing. The road grew muddier with the incessant rain and as we came to the steep pitches of Rattlesnake Grade, the car showed an unmistakable tendency to skid, despite the chains on the rear wheels. Few things are so likely to make one’s heart sink as the feeling that a heavy car is not entirely under control on a steep grade, barely wider than the wheels, with a sharp turn on the verge of a precipice every few rods. We stopped and applied chains to the front wheels as well, but even then a tendency to slide on the grades was still noticeable and extreme caution was necessary. And yet the showers had only “greased” the road; I do not believe any car could negotiate these grades in a heavy rain.

Fortune, however, favored us for once, since the rain ceased just as we were wondering if we might not have to spend a supperless night on the road—which we certainly should have been compelled to do had conditions grown much worse. There was a rustic hotel at Cummings, at the foot of Rattlesnake Grade, but in order to carry out our plans for the following day, we felt it advisable to push on to Laytonville, though we realized that night would overtake us before we arrived. We had consumed nearly three hours in covering the twelve miles from Bell Springs, but we hoped to make better time over the thirteen miles still remaining—which we did, as the road was quite dry, though excruciatingly stony and rough. There was one heavy grade, but in the main we followed a canyon with a gradual descent. The road was so narrow that we found great difficulty in passing a belated car which we met, and so rough that a snail’s pace was enforced much of the way.

The canyon was heavily wooded; vines and shrubbery, rich with autumn colorings, grew in rank profusion. Despite the lateness of the season, there were occasional blooms. We saw dogwood and wild rosebushes bearing both blossoms and bright red berries. Huckleberries were common, as were also the pale red clusters of the honeysuckle, and manzanitas. The air was fragrant with the odor of balsam pine and we felt that it would be a delightful run had we not been tired, cold, and hungry. But very tired, cold, and hungry we were and the last few miles done in the dark before we reached Laytonville were long ones, indeed. It was a time when a truly comfortable inn would be as welcome as ever in our wanderings, but we did not hope for such a blessing in Laytonville, an isolated little village of about a hundred people.

The hotel proved a large, wooden building, much larger than the size of the place would lead one to expect, but comforts and conveniences, besides bed and board, were not to be found in its brown, clapboarded walls. No private bath was to be had and no heat in the rooms, though the night was frosty cold. There was a big wood-stove in the public room which was surrounded three or four deep by a crowd made up, I should judge, of village loafers, though there were a few commercial men among them. It was certainly not very inviting for a lady guest and the moving-picture show with which we usually beguiled away dull evenings, was non-existent in Laytonville. Evidently the best program for us was to eat our supper and go to bed. The evening meal, served at a common table in country style, proved far better than we expected. In fact, the pastry was so excellent that our lady manager must needs have the recipe, which the flattered cook was delighted to supply.

After supper I stumbled along the unlighted street to a little general store, hoping to find a hot-water bottle to mitigate the rigors of the climate a little, but the queer old backwoodsman storekeeper declared,

“I’ve heern of them things, but I never had no call for one.”

The store was the queerest jumble I ever saw, groceries, clothing, dry goods, hardware, patent medicines—just a little of each—and endless odds and ends that looked as if they had been twenty-five years accumulating, were piled in hopeless confusion—there seemed a chance of finding anything but what you wanted.

“Yaas,” the old fellow admitted, “thar’s another store in the town, just down the street—just down the street.”

The other store was closed, but the next day we found it a large, well-stocked mercantile concern which evidently did a big volume of business.

Returning to the hotel, I lounged half an hour about the lobby, listening to the conversation, which I soon found was almost wholly made up of humorous anecdotes of the old storekeeper whom I had just visited and who appeared to be a character of considerable local notoriety—an honest, simple-minded old fellow fitter for almost anything than managing a business.

If it was hard to get into the chilly bed at the Laytonville, it was still harder to get up by twilight in the frosty air of the room and wash in ice-cold water—for there was no call bell and we neglected to leave orders for hot water. We rushed through with the process, however, thinking we would hurry down and thaw out by the big wood-stove, but we found it stone cold and the room deserted—and it is safe to say that thousands of cords of wood were rotting within a mile of the inn. The lady indignantly marched into the kitchen, somewhat to the consternation of the powers that presided there—but it was not long until a big fire was roaring in the lobby stove.

A sign above the counter admonished the wayfarer thirsting for information to “Ask Dad—he knows,” referring to the portly landlord, whom we found very jovial and accommodating. He apologized for lack of fire in the morning with some remark about the unreasonable “stumpage” charge of the people who owned the forest about the place and he also deprecated the unwillingness of the owner of the building to do a number of things that would conduce to the comfort of the guests.

When we asked “Dad” about the road to Westport and from thence along the coast, we found he did “know,” all right, for he assured us that it was far better than the main highway to the south. And so we resolved to get back to the sea, for the morning had cleared beautifully and gave promise of a day full of light and color. It is twenty miles to Westport and the road runs through a fine forest all the way, though the redwoods, which are quite common, are only saplings five or six feet in diameter. There is only one grade of consequence—the long descent to the coast, which affords many glorious views of the ocean through occasional openings in the trees.

Westport is a small, bleak-looking lumber town, evidently in a state of decline; there was nothing to detain us there and we were quickly away on the road to the south, which keeps in sight of the ocean for more than one hundred miles, though we were told that it was not then practicable for motors for more than half that distance. The excellence of the road for perhaps thirty miles was an agreeable surprise, a smooth, well graded natural dirt surface very much like a well-dragged Iowa road at its very best—fine in dry weather, but to be avoided when it rains.

We skimmed merrily along, enjoying the salt tang of the breeze and the beauty of Old Ocean in one of his happiest moods. We ran along rather barren-looking headlands, which at times carried us to wonderful vantage-points from which we beheld indescribably glorious views of the sea, resplendent under the pale blue sky of a perfect day. The breeze had swept away the lingering ghosts of yesterday’s fog, revealing a shimmering expanse of water, jade-green near the shore and running through all the shades of green and blue into a deep violet in the far distance. Looking toward the sun it shimmered and coruscated like a sea of molten silver, while along the whole irregular shoreline around the detached rocks and beneath the bold, rugged headlands it rippled in long white breakers or dashed into wind-swept spray. The air was redolent with the fresh, pungent smell of the sea—how we enjoy it when on land and detest it when on shipboard!—and everything conspired to make us glad that we had made the necessary detour to catch this glorious stretch of Mendocino coast.

Fort Bragg, of some three thousand people, seventeen miles from Westport, is the largest and best-appearing town, with handsome public buildings and good-looking shops—clearly the chief business and trading center of this section. It is the terminus of a branch of the Northern Pacific Railroad leading to the main line at Willits, which is doubtless the secret of its superiority to the other coast towns we passed through. It is larger than Ukiah, the county seat, which probably holds the distinction because of its more central situation.

Beyond Fort Bragg we crossed several shallow, emerald-green inlets at the mouth of creek or river, both the descent and the climb a sharp scramble. Three or four of the larger inlets were dammed to a considerable depth and logs were floated from the interior to a busy sawmill near the sea. The coast, however, with the exception of a few picturesque little groves near the sea, is quite denuded of timber. There are a good many farm-houses, some of very comfortable appearance, but the agricultural resources of the country did not impress us as very great. The reddish brown soil did not give any special indication of fertility and live stock was not much in evidence. Directly on the coast in places there is a wide belt of sand dunes which are slowly shifting landward and encroaching on the farms a little each year.

Mendocino City, the next place of any size, is a rather bleak, un-American-looking village of a thousand people. Here we paused for lunch at a large, rambling, wooden hotel which must have been a lively place in the old lumbering and stage-coach days. Now it seemed almost deserted and the well-worn floor of its dismantled bar-room told of the loss of a goodly number of patrons who were formerly wont to come here to assuage their thirst. It was with some misgivings that we entered the place, but the sight of the cleanly, kindly-faced landlady reassured us; and we fared far better than we hoped for in the scrupulously clean dining-room—which led us to again remark on the extremely rare instances where we have found slovenly service or niggardly meals in even the lesser California hotels. The young man who acted as clerk, when he heard that we expected to reach Cloverdale for the night, advised us not to go as far on the coast road as Greenwood, which we planned, but to turn inland at Navarro, six miles north—a change which he declared would save us some bad road.

We had not gotten far from Mendocino when we agreed that it was not especially desirable to pursue the coast road any farther than necessary, for we found it quite unimproved, dusty, and rough, with very steep grades—especially the one leading out of the deep canyon just south of the town. After that, every few miles we met with sharp plunges into deep, narrow canyons, and steep, dusty scrambles out of them, with some very rough going between.

At Little River and Albion, large sawmills were in operation. The former village is a pretty little place, with rose-embowered cottages and apple orchards laden with red and golden globes. The schoolhouse is situated in a group of fragrant pines and everything combined to give the village an air of Arcadian quiet and contentment. Perhaps much of this was only in our imagination, but we did not disturb our pleasant impressions by making useless inquiries.

The coast beyond the village was exceedingly rugged but beautiful and inspiring. Bold, wooded headlands rose above us, a deep violet sea lay in quiet beauty beneath, and we even had to admit that the inlets, with their steep plunges and rattle-trap bridges, were beautiful. Here is, indeed, a country for our artists to discover; they will find the color and rugged beauty of Monterey on a wilder and vaster scale. In fact, we often remarked that the whole coast from Greenwood to Crescent City, with its colorful ocean, its rugged, rock-bound shoreline, its giant forests, and a thousand other sights of beauty and grandeur, offers a field for the landscape painter such as scarcely exists elsewhere in the world.

Albion seems the busiest place we have yet discovered. Its excuse for being is a great sawmill which employs several hundred men and which is supplied with logs by the river and a railroad extending twenty miles into the hills. The shriek of the saws, the hiss of steam, and the rumble of the locomotive, reached us before we descended the steep slope to the inlet upon which the mill is located, and gave us an intimation of the principal activity of the town. There is a pretty little bay into which the river flows and a substantial wharf from which the finished lumber is shipped by schooner. In crossing the river we passed directly through the sawmill yards and had a near view of its giant band-saws traveling through the mighty logs at an astonishing rate.

Two or three miles beyond Albion we came to Navarro, which we found a “deserted village,” indeed, for not a human being could be found about the few gray, weatherbeaten shacks to give us the information we desired about the road. A little farther on, however, a friendly signboard made it clear that this was the point where the hotel clerk had advised us to turn inland. The coast road had been growing continually more wretched and the deep canyon before us did not look very inviting. Besides, it was getting late and to go on to Greenwood would bring us to Cloverdale after dark. We therefore bade a reluctant farewell to the glorious ocean—it seemed as if we could never tire of it—and struck the sandy trail that led sharply into a jungle of small trees and shrubbery. The deep sand and the apparent disuse of the road caused us some apprehension. The road, however, gradually improved as it descended to the Navarro River, passing several poor-looking fruit ranches on the way.

The grade out of the canyon is one of the longest and heaviest that we covered during our entire tour. It has few turns, climbing the canyon side in a straight slope several miles long, at places the rise exceeding twenty-five per cent. It seemed as if it would never end and we grew very apprehensive of our gasoline supply, which we expected to replenish at Greenwood, now eliminated from our route. I confidently looked for the engine to stall for lack of fuel on some of these appalling grades, and whiled the time in imagining what course we should pursue if this happened. I did not reach any satisfactory conclusion, nor have I yet, for we did not meet another car on this road and the nearest gas station was twenty miles away. But it didn’t happen and we replenished our supply at one of the little towns. There were three or four villages on the fifty-mile stretch between the coast and Cloverdale, all of them rather dilapidated and forlorn, though there was much activity at Boonville, where a huge sawmill was in operation. None of the numerous ranches along the road looked very prosperous and perhaps half of the houses were deserted and falling into ruin. This, we were told, did not necessarily mean that the owner had starved out. A great many of them, after “proving up” their claims, had sold out to the large ranchers, who were buying immense tracts in this country.

There was much pretty scenery along the way, rich with autumnal colorings which we might have admired more had we been more comfortable ourselves. But the road was rough and dusty and the wind had risen to a perfect gale which chilled us for all our wraps and blankets. A car was ahead of us for the last several miles and almost strangled us with dust clouds so dense that even trying to pass was out of the question.

We rejoiced with exceeding joy when eight miles from Cloverdale we came into the new state highway, smooth and dust-free. Our chance friend at Crater Lake Lodge had especially admonished us to stop at McCray’s when we reached Cloverdale, and had noted on our maps, “Very comfortable country inn two miles out of Cloverdale.” So we kept a sharp lookout, for a “very comfortable inn” seemed about the acme of our earthly desires at that particular time. We had no difficulty in finding our proposed haven, for a huge, rambling frame building bearing the legend, “McCray’s,” loomed up directly by the roadside and we were received more like expected guests of the family than commercial patrons.

There was a decided atmosphere of home about the rambling old place—originally the McCray Homestead—and one very quickly falls in with the mood of good fellowship that rules everybody connected with the inn. We were ushered into the family sitting-room with its roaring, open fireplace—welcome, indeed, after our ride in the piercing wind—and were cordially greeted by Father McCray, a six-foot-two giant whom the younger generation designated as “Pap.” He introduced us to the other guests, mainly members and close friends of the family, for the season was over, though the inn is kept open the year round. They all proved very pleasant, jovial people and we soon learned how very different are the relations between the McCray’s and their guests from those between the ordinary hotel and its patrons. The inn, we learned, is conducted on quite an extensive scale during the summer, when two hundred people can be entertained in the main building and adjacent cottages. There is a large, well-appointed club-house just across the road, where the guests may pursue dancing and other amusements to their hearts’ content, and there is usually enough going on to thoroughly dispel ennui on part of anyone.

But the crowning feature of McCray’s is the meal service; verily, it brought back recollections of mother at her best in boyhood days on the farm. The delicious conserves, never found in any mere hotel, are made from California fruit right on the premises and nearly everything used is grown on the farm under Pap’s watchful supervision. A few words with Pap are all that is necessary to convince you that no detail of service or entertainment escapes him and that he has more pride in earning the approval of his guests than a mere desire to get their money. We liked McCrays of all degrees and already have plans for a trip in that vicinity again, with the inn as one of our stopping-places. Our only suggestion for improvement is that a locked garage will make the average motorist feel easier than the open shed in which our car was stored during our visit.

The next morning we were away on an easy run to the metropolis through the famous Santa Rosa Valley, with its endless vineyards now laden with their purple harvest. Everywhere were signs of activity on part of the vineyard people and we met many loaded wagons and motor trucks carrying the grapes to the numerous wineries in this vicinity. But I will not write in detail of our last day’s run, since I have covered this country fully in my previous book, “On Sunset Highways.” We reached San Francisco in the early afternoon, having been absent from the golden gate city for nearly a month and our strenuous but delightful and inspiring pilgrimage through the mighty hills and lovely vales of Northern California and the Oregon country was at an end.

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When the writer of this book first visited Yosemite a few years ago, no motor car was allowed to intrude in its sylvan solitudes and it was freely alleged by the stage drivers that the time would never come when this noisy, dust-raising demon would be permitted to frighten their horses and disturb their equanimity. Their attitude was one of decided hostility, though they affected to laugh at the suggestion—the roads were too crooked and narrow and the grades too steep for “automobeels”—no, sir, you’d never see them in Yosemite. Besides, the horses in the park had never seen these pesky machines; they would simply go crazy and dump the coaches over the cliffs. All of which seemed reasonable enough at the time and nothing was farther from my mind than the idea of piloting a car through the devious trails that serve for roads in this sylvan wonderland.

But “tempora mutantur,” indeed. Motor cars in California increased in geometrical ratio and the owners banded themselves together in the live and efficient organization known as the Automobile Club of Southern California. This club contended that no good reason could be urged against admitting motor cars to Yosemite and after a dint of effort succeeded in bringing the Secretary of the Interior to the same point of view. True, the decree was issued with apparent fear and hesitation and the venturesome motorist who wished to explore the park was hedged about with restrictions and hampered with endless red tape regulations. The cars came, nevertheless, though probably as many were deterred by the stringent rules as by the forbidding roads.

The dire results so freely predicted by the stage men did not materialize in any great degree. There were few serious accidents and the motors, as a rule, met with little difficulty in negotiating the roads to and within the park. As a consequence, the rules were relaxed with each succeeding year and many of the most annoying regulations abandoned or reduced to mere formalities. We made our trip in September of the Panama-Pacific year, and during the previous months of the season nearly two thousand cars had preceded us into the park. We did not have to demonstrate that “either set of brakes would lock the wheels to a skid;” in fact, I am very dubious on this point. We did not have to get up at an unearthly hour to enter or leave the park and the time schedule imposed on us was so reasonable that none but the speed maniac would care to exceed it, even had no severe penalty been attached. It was all simple enough and our trials in doing Yosemite by motor lay in a different direction than the rules and regulations, as will appear in due course of my narrative.

There are several routes by which one may enter and leave the park pending the happy day longed for by the Auto Club when a broad, smooth road—“no grades exceeding five per cent”—shall convey the joyful motorist to this Earthly Paradise of the Sierras. You can go from Fresno via Coarse Gold, from Merced via Coulterville, from Stockton via Chinese Camp, or from Madera via Raymond. You can now even reach the park from the east by the new Tioga road, branching off the Sierra Highway at Mono Lake, should you be seeking the wildest and most difficult route of all.

We decided, for reasons which may become apparent as I proceed, to make our entrance by the Madera route and to leave the park with Stockton as our objective. We still have reason to believe that as things stood at the time—or even now—these routes were the most satisfactory and we are quite sure that whatever improvement may be made, the tourist interested in pioneer days of California and fond of wild and impressive scenery should choose the Stockton road at least one way.

We did not get away from Fresno, where we passed the night preceding our start for Wawona, until late in the afternoon. A swift run over the splendid new highway brought us to Madera about four in the evening, but there remained little hope of covering sixty miles of unknown mountain road to Wawona before nightfall. A glance at our maps revealed Raymond, about twenty-five miles farther on—the terminal of a branch railroad from Madera. We decided that Raymond would make a good stopping-point for the night; an early start would easily enable us to reach Yosemite the next day. So we set out over a choppy and very dusty dirt road which was conducive to anything but speed and comfort, but which nevertheless brought us to our objective in the course of an hour.

We found a forlorn-looking hamlet in the edge of the foothills and a glance at the ramshackle wooden hotel was anything but reassuring. A short conversation with the proprietor of a little shack labeled “garage” was not more encouraging. He was very noncommittal about the merits of the hotel and finally said,

“It’s only thirty miles to Miami Lodge—mighty comfortable place; you ought to reach there before it gets dark. Shall I telephone them to hold dinner for you?”

All of which sounded good to us as we contemplated prospective accommodations in Raymond, and with a speedy acquiescence we were away for Miami Lodge. Ten miles per hour, said the garage man, would be a good average for a greenhorn over the road we were to traverse—a ridiculously low estimate, we thought, but we had not proceeded far before we agreed with his conservatism. A narrow and exceedingly tortuous road plunged into the hills, threading its way among giant pines or creeping precariously along steep hillsides and around abrupt corners deep with dust and at times laboriously steep. Now and then it emerged into pleasant little glades and on entering one of these we saw a young mountain lion trotting leisurely toward the thicket. Of course our small rifle was under a pile of baggage, unloaded, and the cartridges in a grip, but we consoled ourselves with remarks about the extreme improbability of hitting him even if we had the gun.

It was sunset by the time we had covered little more than half the distance and while we regarded the approaching darkness with some apprehension, for the road showed no signs of improvement, we forgot it all in our admiration for the enchanting scene. Many were the magnificent vistas opening through the pines skirting our road along the mountainside. Purple hills topped with dark forests stretched away to a crimson sky; shadowy canyons sloped far beneath us, their mysterious deeps shrouded in a soft blue haze. It was a constantly changing yet always entrancing picture until the color faded from the skies and the canyons were blotted out by the gathering blackness. Then the road demanded our undivided attention, for we covered the last ten miles in pitch darkness and our neglected headlights proved in very poor condition.

About dusk we passed a little store and postoffice bearing the poetic name of Grub Gulch and later came to a comfortable-looking roadside inn, the Ahwahnee Tavern, where we should doubtless have stopped had our accommodations not been ordered at Miami Lodge. We learned, however, that this was only six miles farther and we crept cautiously onward over the stiff grades and around the abrupt turns. We were glad indeed when the lights of the Lodge twinkled through the pines and, leaving the old car to shift for herself under the stars, made a hasty toilet and attacked the substantial meal we found ready for us.

The Lodge is a comfortable rustic inn set in the pines on a hillside which slopes down to a clear creek dammed at one point into a small lake. The little valley forms a natural amphitheater surrounded by the forest-clad hills and is altogether a pleasant and restful spot well away from noise and disturbance of any kind. The creek is stocked with rainbow trout and big game is fairly common—attractions which bring many sportsmen to the Lodge. It is easy of access by the Madera-Yosemite auto stages which run daily during the season.

Beyond Miami Lodge we found the road even more trying than it was southward. Heavy grades and sharp turns continued, and deep dust and rough stretches caused much discomfort. We met many motor trucks and several heavy wagons drawn by six or eight horses, which made ticklish work in passing on the narrow grades and which stirred up clouds of yellow dust. As the sun mounted, the day became intolerably hot, making it necessary to elevate our cape top which combined with the dust to interfere with our view of the scenery.

The famous Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods lies a short distance off the main road to Wawona and though we had visited this before, we could not resist the temptation to do the big trees by motor. An attendant at the entrance gate demanded a fee of one dollar and admitted us to a narrow, winding road which steadily climbed a stiff grade for about three miles before we came to the trees. We renewed our acquaintance with the Grizzly Giant, reputed the oldest of living things on this mundane sphere. We found him protected by a high wire fence to ward off fiends suffering from the name-carving mania or souvenir seekers who sought to rob him of a chip or twig. He had not aged perceptibly since our previous visit and looked good for many more centuries, though the late John Muir once declared his belief that the Grizzly Giant had passed his zenith of growth and is now in his decline, a point not yet reached by any other redwood. But the hoar old monarch stands a second visit well indeed, though one may not experience quite the feeling of awe always inspired by the first sight of these mighty trees. It quite overwhelms one to reflect that here is a living thing older than the oldest records of the human race—a life that was in its infancy at the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. So impressive to us was the Giant and the reveries he excited that we hardly gave due attention to his three hundred and sixty-four companions in this grove, the least of which, taken by itself, might well excite the astonishment of anyone who had never before seen a redwood. Of course we had the novel experience of piloting a motor car through the living arch of the Wawona while completing the circle through the grove which brought us again into the road by which we entered.

Wawona is only four miles from the big-tree road, a rough, dusty, and very winding four miles with a good many steep grades, and it was an interesting comparison to recall the trip we made over it in a coach-and-four on our previous visit to the grove. Making due allowance for all the discomforts one experiences in an automobile during a hot, dusty day on difficult mountain roads, our present method of travel made the memory of the snail’s pace and suffocating dust and heat of our former trip to the grove seem more than ever like a nightmare.

We reached Wawona in time for the noonday luncheon at the pleasant old inn which has been the haven of sightseers for nearly half a century. It is delightfully situated in a little vale amidst a group of towering pines and all about it green meadows stretch away to the forest-clad hills that surround it on every hand. Through the valley runs the South Merced, famous for its mountain trout, a delicacy which guests at the inn sometimes enjoy. About the main hotel building are scattered several isolated cottages for the accommodation of guests who may be particular about privacy and plenty of light and air. There are numerous beautiful drives in the vicinity aside from the Mariposa Grove trip. One of these follows the river for some distance and another makes a circuit of the valley.

We had no time for these, as we were intent upon reaching Yosemite for the night and the regulation is that you check in at the final station by six o’clock. About a mile from Wawona we found the cabin of the ranger who issues tickets for the south entrance to the park. The formalities detained us but a few moments, since with the great influx of motor tourists during the exposition year, much of the original red tape was dispensed with. A copy of the rules and regulations was given us and the time of our entrance was stamped upon the ticket to be delivered to the superintendent at Yosemite village. The action of our small rifle was sealed and, with a friendly caution that it would be unwise to exceed the limit, we were ordered to proceed. Knowing something of the trip from previous experience we felt no uneasiness about exceeding the two hours and twenty-seven minutes minimum time allowed for covering the twenty-eight and nine-tenths miles between the station and Yosemite garage. No one but a confirmed speed maniac would care to exceed this very reasonable limit and anyone wise enough to admire the scenery along the road as it deserves to be admired might well consume twice the minimum time.

For some miles after entering the park we climbed the long, steady grade following the South Merced Canyon, always at a considerable distance above the stream, which we could see at intervals through the pines, flashing over its rock-strewn bed. There was scarcely a downward dip in the road for the first half-dozen miles, and we could not but recall the distressing effort of the horses as they toiled painfully upward on our former trip while we sat disconsolately enveloped in smothering clouds of dust. What a contrast we found in the steady, cheerful hum of our engine as it drove our car onward at not less than the permitted speed of fifteen miles, leaving the dust behind us and affording unhindered views of the endless panoramas of canyons and hills. Despite the heat and some murmurs from the back seat about the effect of the too ardent caresses of California sunshine on the complexion, we had lowered the cape top, for no one can get the full effect of the towering pines that skirt this road unless he has the open heavens above him. One will not often come across—even in California—finer individual cedars, sugar pines, and yellow pines than he will see here—splendid arrow-straight shafts several feet in circumference, often rising to a height of two or even three hundred feet. It is, indeed, pleasant to think that they are immune from the lumberman’s ax and guarded carefully against devastating fires. We paused at times in the shade of these forest titans and contemplated the wide range of hills and valleys beyond the canyon—particularly at Lookout Point, some seven or eight miles from Wawona. Here we beheld a seemingly endless panorama of forest-clad hills stretching away until lost in the infinite distance of the lucent afternoon. Once before we had beheld the same scene—at sunset, the hills shrouded in an amethyst haze, the valleys dim with purple shadows, and the sky resplendent with crimson and gold. Nothing could have shown more impressively the wonderful variations of the same landscape at different hours of the day, or proven more completely that one must come many times to see the beauty of Yosemite.

Three or four miles beyond Lookout Point the road branches, the left fork leading to Glacier Point, a distance of fourteen miles. This is a magnificent drive through virgin forests and should not be missed by anyone who has not made the trip. There is an old-fashioned hotel at Glacier Point where one may be fairly comfortable for the night and it is worth while to remain for the night to witness the sunrise over the mountain ramparts of the Valley. We did not undertake this trip, having made it a few years before by stage, but for all that we are sorry now that we let slip an opportunity to view the wonderful Glacier Point panorama a second time and some day, shall have to go back again.

Continuing a few miles farther, we came to the top of the grade leading down into the valley. We recalled it as a stiff, strenuous road, winding around sharp curves and often along the edge of sheer precipices which gave us a great many thrills from our high perch beside the driver of our four-in-hand. We had traversed mountain roads so much worse in the meanwhile that Wawona grade really seemed quite tame from a motor car and even the ladies took only languid interest in its twists and turns. We paused again for the third time at the famous Inspiration Point, and, indeed, we can not help envying those who are fortunate to come into the Yosemite by this road and thus get their first glimpse of the valley from Inspiration Point. Perhaps the view from Glacier Point is as glorious but one is not likely to come upon it so suddenly and is somehow expecting stupendous things, but Inspiration Point bursts on the wayfarer from the Wawona all unaware and he sees unfold before him almost in an instant all the marvelous sights that have made Yosemite a world’s wonder. I have tried elsewhere—in a previous book—to tell something of my impressions when I first viewed this unmatched scene and perhaps I may be pardoned for a short repetition of my words, since I do not know that I can do any better in describing it.

“Inspiration Point! Well named, indeed, for it must surely be a prosaic imagination that does not kindle with enthusiasm at the prospect. ‘It comes up to the brag,’ is what Ralph Waldo Emerson said after contemplating it long in silence—or at least that is what the guide books and railroad literature credit him with having said. It sounds strangely unlike our staid and gentle philosopher, whose language we are wont to admire as the finality in polished English. But it expresses one’s feelings more strongly, perhaps, than fine words. We have been led to expect much; they have assured us and we have often read, that the view from Inspiration Point is surpassed by few panoramas in the world—if, indeed, by any—for grandeur of mountain, cliff, and peak and for beauty of contour and color, and all of these are enhanced by the magic of the hour when we are so fortunate as to see it.

“The valley lies before us in the soft blue haze of the evening shadows, and its encompassing walls and towers are kindled with the purple and golden hues of the sunset. As one contemplates the glittering peaks and domes and the ranges of glowing mountains out beyond, he can realize John Muir’s characterization of the Sierras as the ‘Mountains of Light.’ The grandeur of Inspiration Point seems more of cliffs and spires, of towering walls and mountain peaks, while from Glacier Point one is perhaps more interested in the details of the valley itself. But from either point one may witness a scene that will possess his soul and whose beauty will linger through the years. We regret the necessity which hurries us from the scene, for the pause of the stage coach is but momentary. We have had but a glimpse of a landscape that might well hold one’s rapt attention for hours.”

It is the third time we have viewed this wonderful scene and we have been fortunate in coming each time at a different period of the day—morning and evening and early afternoon. Each has shown us a different phase of the beauty of Yosemite, for the variation of light and consequent changes of coloring have everything to do with the view from Inspiration Point.

We proceeded slowly and cautiously down the steep switchbacks leading to the floor of the Valley, a long, low-gear grind, for regulations forbid disengaging gears on roads in the park. The descent did not seem nearly so precarious as when we first made it in the regulation coach-and-four—the road appeared to have been widened at the turns; maybe this was only in our imagination, due to greater familiarity with mountain roads. We were enough at our ease to enjoy the splendid vistas of the valley and mountains which were presented from a hundred viewpoints as we slowly descended, something that we hardly did the first time. Nor did the time seem so long, though I really doubt if we went down so quickly as our dashing driver piloted his coach-and-four over this three-mile grade on our first trip. We soon found ourselves on the floor of the valley with Bridal Veil Falls waving like a gossamer thread above us—it was in September and the waterfalls were all at lowest ebb. The four miles along the floor to Yosemite was a joy ride indeed and we felt no desire to infringe the low speed limit imposed on motor cars. What though we had seen this wondrous array of stupendous cliffs, domes, pinnacles, and towers many times before, familiarity does not detract from their overpowering majesty and weird changeful beauty.

When we left Wawona we were somewhat fearful that we would be in danger of exceeding the seemingly absurdly low minimum time allowed—two hours and twenty-seven minutes for the twenty-six miles. It seemed as if we couldn’t help beating it without loafing on the way. However, on consulting our timepieces on nearing Yosemite station—there is a heavy fine for coming in ahead of schedule—we found that we had consumed over three hours and had stopped only a few minutes on the way. At the checking station we paid the five dollar fee required of motorists who enter Yosemite and took the car to the official garage forthwith, for absolutely no motoring is permitted in the park except for ingress and egress.

The old Sentinel Hotel had not changed in appearance since our last visit, nor had it improved in service; however, it was comfortable enough for a short stop in warm weather. We had heard many rumors of a new modern hotel to be erected on the site of the Sentinel and one declared that it was to be built and managed by that prince of innkeepers, Frank Miller of the Glenwood Mission Inn—all of which we fondly hoped might prove true. We learned, however, that although Mr. Miller had negotiated with the authorities in regard to building a hotel in Yosemite, he abandoned the scheme when he found that the government would not grant a lease for a period of more than ten years. Later a corporation, the Desmond Company, secured control of the concessions of the park and among their plans, we were told, is the erection of a first-class hotel, though at this writing the work has not begun. The company already has a new hotel at Glacier Point—a great improvement over the barn-like structure with which Yosemite tourists have so long been familiar.

Our excuse for a third trip to Yosemite was chiefly that we wanted to visit it by motor car; we had seen most of the sights and made most of the trail trips and drives, so there was little to do but lounge about in the hotel and vicinity for the rest of the afternoon. I visited the garage, which was merely a huge tent with open sides, where the cars were parked in care of an attendant. There was apparently a very good machine shop which seemed to have plenty of work, for break-downs are exceedingly common. The manager asked us if we would favor him by carrying a new axle to a motorist who was laid up at Crane Flat, near the entrance to the park on the road by which we expected to leave the next morning.

The regulations require that motor cars leave by the Big Oak Flat road between 6:00 A. M. and 4:00 P. M. and the first-named hour found us ready for departure, as we had been warned that an exceedingly strenuous day’s work lay before us. It is only one hundred and twenty-three miles to Stockton; hence we concluded that the strenuousness must be due to something besides long distance—a surmise which we did not have to wait long to verify. About two miles from the hotel, following the main valley road we came to a sign, “Big Oak Flat Route” and turned sharply to the right, crossing the Merced River. Immediately we began a sharp ascent over a dusty trail through thickly standing pines. Coming out of the trees we find ourselves on a narrow road cut in the side of the almost perpendicular cliff. It is fair at first, screened from the precipitous drop alongside by a row of massive boulders which have the psychological effect of making us feel much more at ease, though I doubt if they would be of much use in stopping a runaway car. Nevertheless, they are a decided factor in enabling us to enjoy the wonderful views of mountain and valley that present themselves to our eager eyes as we slowly climb the steep ascent. We are sure that we see many vistas quite equal to the view from the much vaunted Inspiration Point—but they are not so famous because far less accessible.

The road grows rougher and dustier as we climb slowly upward; the boulder balustrade disappears and we find ourselves on a narrow shelf, with infrequent passing places, running along the edge of a cliff that falls almost sheer beneath us. We pause occasionally to contemplate the marvelous scene beneath. The whole floor of the valley is now visible; its giant trees seem mere shrubs and the Merced dwindles to a silver thread; across the narrow chasm we now look down on the Cathedral Spires, the Three Sisters, and Sentinel Rock; we see Bridal Veil Fall swaying like a gossamer against the mighty cliff, and beyond we have an endless vista of forest-clad mountains. Three thousand feet above the valley we enter a forest of mighty pines; the road winds among them in sharp turns and the grades are very steep and deep with dust. We are not very familiar with our car—which we leased from a Los Angeles dealer, and as we near the summit the motor loses power and can not be cajoled into propelling the car over the last steep, dusty pitch. After an hour of fruitless effort, we appealed to the foreman of a road gang which, fortunately for us, was at work close by, and he helped the balky engine out with a stout team of horses.

“What’s the damage?” we gratefully asked of our rescuer.

“Just a bottle of whiskey, stranger, if you happen to have one along.”

We expressed regret at our inability to meet the very modest request and our friend had to be content with coin of the realm instead. Later on an auto expert told us that the particular make of carburetor on this car will not work satisfactorily at an elevation of more than seven thousand feet.

We were still several miles from Crane Flat and the descent proved quite as steep and rough as the climb, but there was no precipice skirting the road to add nervous disquiet to bodily discomfort.

Crane Flat is nothing more than the ranger station on the road and the official took up our “time card”—we came by a safe margin of two or three hours—and removed the seals from our “game getter.” We delivered the axle entrusted to our care, but found that the owner of the broken-down car had accepted the situation philosophically and gone fishing—his third day of this pleasant pastime while waiting for repairs.

Out of the park we hoped for better things in the way of roads, but we soon found the dividing line imaginary in more ways than one. The road speedily became rougher, dustier and steeper than that we had traversed, but, fortunately, it was down hill.

Two or three miles from Crane Flat we came to the Tuolumne Grove of Big Trees, where there are numerous giant redwoods, though not so many or so huge as those of Mariposa. A short detour from the main route took us to the Dead Giant, the most remarkable tree of this grove. It is tunneled like the Wawona tree in Mariposa and we had the sensation a second time of driving through a redwood. The remains of the Dead Giant are one hundred feet high and one hundred and five feet in circumference; scientists estimate that the tree must have been at least forty feet in diameter and perhaps four hundred feet high—larger and higher than any redwood now living. It was destroyed perhaps three hundred years ago by fire or lightning. The General Lawton of this grove is one of the most beautiful redwoods in existence and there is also a Fallen Giant still growing greenly although lying prone, its roots not being entirely severed.

Near the grove is the Tioga road which has recently been completed across the Sierras to Mono Lake on the Sierra Highway so that Yosemite may be reached from the east, although the entrance must be made at the west end of the valley. We met a party that had just made this trip and who declared the road next to impassable at that time.

A few miles beyond Tuolumne Grove one may reach the Hetch Hetchy Valley by a short side trip—a valley which has been styled a miniature Yosemite. It attained a nation-wide celebrity by the fight made to prevent the city of San Francisco from using it as a source of water supply, but San Francisco finally won and an act of congress permits the city to retain the water of the valley by a dam across the entrance. The engineers, however, claim that the work will not destroy the beauty of the valley nor prevent the public from visiting it.

Beyond Tuolumne Grove we still continue to plunge downward over the rough, stony trail which tried every rivet in the car and worked havoc with tires. At one point we had the unpleasant experience of meeting a car coming at high speed around a corner—the road was very narrow and as the newcomer was right upon us a collision seemed inevitable. The wild man at the wheel of the scrambling Ford, however, took long chances, for he ran upon the sidling bank when we had given him the last inch we could squeeze from the outer side of the road. It seemed that he must inevitably turn over on top of us, but the luck that sometimes is said to shield infants and fools—he was certainly no infant—favored him and he rolled back into the road right side up and went plunging along on the narrow grade. My friend, after drawing a deep breath, referred to the crazy driver as the “wild Irishman” and though I protested against the reflection on my remote ancestry, we still identify the road hog who gave us such a scare, by this appellation.

It was lunch time when we reached Sequoia, though we were only twenty-nine miles from Yosemite—a pretty insignificant showing for a half day’s run, from a mileage point of view, but it had been strenuous enough to make us tired and ravenously hungry. And hunger proved a very good sauce for the meal which we got at Crocker’s Hotel, which is about all there is of Sequoia. And I am not complaining of Crocker’s Hotel, either. I think they did very well when one considers that all their supplies must be hauled eighty miles by wagon road—naturally canned stuff and condensed milk prevailed. Another outstanding recollection is that it cost us forty cents per gallon to replenish our gasoline and we could not complain of that under the circumstances. The young fellow who kept the store near the hotel said he “had been the rounds in California,” but Crocker’s Ranch suited him best of any place he had seen. It was interesting to know that anyone could be satisfied in this remote and lonely place; it certainly had the advantage of being near to nature, if that was what our friend was seeking.

Beyond Crocker’s the characteristics of the country were about the same. A rough, dusty trail, winding through pine-clad hills with occasional heavy grades, carried us along for a good many miles. We occasionally passed a remote little station with a general store and “garage” bearing evidence of its origin in an old-time blacksmith shop. Colfax Gate, Smith’s, Garrett, and Big Oak Flat—which showed little reason for the distinction of giving its name to the road—were all of the same type, with nothing to invite even a casual glance from the tourist unless he needed gasoline or oil.

At Priest’s there is a country hotel, a haunt of hunters and ranchmen; but we recall Priest’s chiefly because it gives its name to one of the most beautiful bits of road engineering in California. The old road through this section had some of the steepest grades to be found in a country of steep grades; in fact, it was all but impassable to automobiles as bits of it still to be seen from the new highway will amply prove. The new grade extends for eight miles from Priest’s to Jacksonville, in which distance it descends fifteen hundred feet, but in no place does the gradient exceed five per cent. It follows the very crest of a giant hill range overlooking a beautiful valley some two or three thousand feet below. Alongside there is nothing to break the full sweep of one’s vision—not a tree or even a shrub intervenes between the roadbed and the precipitous slope beneath. Although the road is wide enough for easy passing at any point, the very baldness of its outer edge is enough to give a decided thrill to nervously inclined people and our driver received more advice and caution from the rear seat than had been offered him on far more dangerous roads with occasional rocks or trees alongside.

At Jacksonville the road comes down almost to the level of the Tuolumne River and we found ourselves on the border of the old gold-mining region made famous by the tales of Bret Harte. There are still several placer mines in operation along the river—the road passes a very large one at the foot of Chinese Camp grade, and the river is sullied for miles by the muddy washings from the mill. Chinese Camp grade is one of the worst encountered on our entire trip; it is steep and terribly rough, and dust a foot deep hides the ruts and chuck-holes, so we were compelled to “go it blind.” It was a four-mile plunge and scramble around sharp curves, half smothered and blinded by dense dust clouds which rose before we could get away from them, we made such slow progress over the dreadful road. At the hilltop, however, we were rewarded for our strenuous scramble by a magnificent view of the river canyon and a wide panorama of forest-clad hills with the emerald thread of the Tuolumne winding through them. Contemplation of the magnificent scene and a draught of cold water from our thermos bottle revived our spirits, which had drooped somewhat in the hot, dusty climb to the summit of the grade.

A short distance over a stony trail brought us into the main street of Chinese Camp, if we may so designate the wide, dusty section of road lined with wooden shacks of which every other one seemed a saloon. The appearance of the buildings warranted the guess on our part that there has been little change in this primitive hamlet since Bret Harte visited it, nearly a half century ago. Not far from here are many other camps and villages which found enduring fame in the stories of this most representative of all earlier California writers. Sonora, Angel’s Camp, Tuttletown, San Andreas, Mokelumne, and other places familiar in Harte’s pages may all be reached in a detour of fifty miles or so from the Big Oak Flat road. Most of these towns, like Chinese Camp, have made little progress since they were mirrored in the tales which appeared in the old Overland and Argonaut of San Francisco.

Beyond Chinese Camp we encountered the worst stretch of road of the entire day—a mere trail winding through a rough, boulder-strewn country seemingly having no end or object in view except to avoid the rocks too large to run over. No effort had been made to remove the smaller stones from the way and we had an unmerciful jolting, although we crawled along at a dozen miles per hour. Fortunately, there are no steep grades, and occasionally smoother stretches afforded a little respite. It would be hard to use language, however, that would exaggerate the relief which we felt when, on ascending a sharp little rise, we came upon a splendid paved highway which the road-book declared would continue all the way to Stockton. I think that the last forty miles into the city consumed less time than any ten miles we had covered since leaving Yosemite that morning.

We certainly presented a somewhat disreputable appearance when we came into the town. The car and everything about it, including the occupants, was dirty gray with dust, which I noted was two inches deep on the running boards and perhaps a little less on our faces, while it saturated our clothing and covered our baggage. California hotels, however, are used to such arrivals and we were well taken care of at the Stockton, despite our unprepossessing appearance. A thorough cleaning up, a change of raiment and a good dinner put us at peace with the world and we were soon exchanging felicitations over the fact that we had done Yosemite by motor car.

The route which we had taken, though strenuous enough, as my narrative indicates, is the one used by the majority of motorists going into the park. Of course, earlier in the season this road is not so rough and is freer from dust; one may make the trip to best advantage in July or early August. The time of opening the road varies, but the passes are usually clear of snow by the middle of June, though one is likely to find mud in places for some time after the snow has disappeared.

There are two other roads into the valley besides the Tioga road from the east. One of these leaves Fresno and joins the Madera road a few miles west of Wawona. One may start from either Modesto or Merced for the Coulterville road, which joins the valley road a little beyond El Portal. This road has the steeper grades, some as high as thirty per cent, but it takes one through some magnificent scenery and also passes the Merced Grove of big trees.

When the new route proposed and surveyed by the Automobile Club of Southern California is finally completed, the routes which I have described will probably be obsolete except for the occasional tourist who prefers the strenuous. The new route proceeds from Merced to Mariposa, a distance of forty miles, and is already partially completed. From Mariposa a new route has been surveyed by the club engineers to El Portal, following Bear Creek Canyon, a distance of thirty-three miles. Including the fifteen miles from El Portal, the total distance from the main highway is eighty-eight miles, or considerably less than any existing route. Better still, no grade on the new road will exceed five per cent and it will make Yosemite accessible by motor a much greater part of the year than at present. The completion of this proposed road is brought measureably nearer by the fifteen million dollar bond issue voted in 1916, as the Highway Commission has made the new Yosemite route a part of its pledged program.

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Possibly this chapter is out of place in a book of motor travel on the Pacific Coast, for it has somewhat to do with journeyings by railway train and shifts the scene of action to the barren hills and green valleys of Arizona—the land of mystery and contrast without peer among its sister states. In our goings back and forth to California over the Santa Fe Trail, we had often laid plans to stop at the Petrified Forests near Adamana and to visit Phoenix and the great Roosevelt Dam, which waters the green and fruitful Salt River Valley. It is hard, however, to wrench oneself from a Pullman car before the journey’s end when one has become comfortably located, and so our plans were usually deferred until some indefinite “next time.” Had we taken trouble to ascertain how easily and quickly such plans can be realized, we should no doubt have carried them out much sooner.

Leaving Los Angeles in the afternoon in a through sleeper, we awoke the following morning to see the vivid green of the Salt River alfalfa fields all about us, reaching Phoenix in time for a late breakfast. We were not posted on the hotels of the town, but went to the Jefferson because it was nearest, finding it a modern, fireproof building with well-appointed, comfortable rooms. There was no meal service, however, and we were directed to a restaurant farther down the street. We also inquired about hiring a car to take us to the Roosevelt Dam and the clerk replied that he would have a driver connected with the hotel call on us shortly. This party appeared while we were at breakfast and expressed his willingness to serve us.

“Of course you mean to spend the night at the dam,” he said, “returning tomorrow.”

We assured him that we didn’t mean anything of the sort—that our time in Phoenix was limited to two days and that only one of them could be devoted to the Roosevelt Dam. “They tell us that it is only seventy-five miles distant,” I asserted. “Surely one hundred and fifty miles isn’t much of a drive if we get away by 9:30.”

“You may think differently after you’ve made the trip,” he replied, “but I reckon it can be done if you feel that you can stand it.”

We thought we knew something of bad roads and rough going and felt sure that the trip couldn’t be much worse than many other one-hundred-and-fifty-mile jaunts we had done in a day, and, to get down to business, asked, “What kind of a car have you, and what will you charge us for the drive?”

“I’ve a Dodge,” he replied, “and the regular price for the trip is forty dollars.”

The lady of the expedition had not said much so far but the latter part of the remark aroused her interest and slightly excited her ire. “Forty dollars for one hundred and fifty miles—a six or seven-hour trip!” she exclaimed. “We don’t wish to buy your car, thank you.”

We declined to negotiate farther with a party who was such a palpable would-be robber and on coming out into the street I approached a jovial-looking old fellow in a Ford labeled “for hire,” thinking more of getting a little information than of any likelihood of doing business with him.

“Yes, I can take you to the dam,” he said. “Drive you up to-day and bring you back tomorrow; forty dollars for the round trip.”

“But we want to get back this evening,” we replied, ignoring the unpleasant confirmation of the Dodge driver’s “regular fare.”

“Waal, couldn’t do it in the Ford, but my son has a new Buick six and he can make it all right—but he’d have to charge you fifty dollars.”

We had gotten over the first shock given us by auto rates to Roosevelt Dam and heard this with fairly steady nerves—we were bound to make the trip and a few dollars one way or the other were not to deter us. The young man was hunted up and after some dickering he consented to pilot the new Buick six, the pride of his heart, on her maiden trip to the dam for the regular price, but declared it would be well after dark before he could get us back.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I exclaimed, “that a machine like that will require twelve hours to do one hundred and fifty miles?”

“You’ll know more about it,” he replied, “when you’ve been over the road; besides, we’ll have to stop for lunch and of course you’ll want a little time at the dam.” To all of which we assented—and I may anticipate here enough to say that I do know more about it since I have been over the road and that while forty dollars seems pretty high auto hire for a one-hundred and-fifty-mile trip, I am convinced that it would have taken all of that out of my own car and tires had we made the run in it.

A few preliminaries detained us until nearly ten o’clock, but when we got under way our driver quickly cleared the streets of the town and we were soon skimming merrily along a fine, level road skirting a broad, tree-bordered irrigation canal. This is one of the main arteries carrying the water which gives the valley its green prosperity—an unruffled emerald river eighty feet broad and eight feet deep. We crossed a fine bridge over the Salt River at Tempe, nine miles from Phoenix, and about as far beyond this town we entered Mesa, the second city of the valley. So far we found the road level and good, some of it having been surfaced and otherwise improved.

Beyond Mesa we came quickly out of the cultivated part of the valley, pursuing a good dirt road leading through a sandy stretch of desert, toward the rugged hill range which rears its serrated crests against the silvery horizon. Seen from Phoenix, the mountains that encircle the verdant valley are shrouded in the intensest blue—far away hills of mystery that suggest some fairyland beyond—but as we drew nearer to them the blue shadows vanished and the bald, harsh outlines of mighty wall and towering crag seemingly barred our way. The prevailing colors were dull browns and reds and the slopes were almost devoid of vegetation. Great boulder-like hills are tumbled about as though some giant had flung them in wild confusion to bar the ingress of human trespassers. The road, however, finds a crevice by which to enter the mighty barrier and about midway between Phoenix and the dam it begins its conquest of these forbidding hills. Somewhere we had read that the government had built a “boulevard” through these mountains to the dam and our preconceived notions were of a fair mountain road. We had, therefore, no mental preparation to assist us in enduring one of the crookedest, roughest, rockiest trails we ever bumped over in all our experience. The route we followed was known as the “Apache Trail” in pioneer days and frequently afforded a secure retreat for these troublesome savages when pursued by the U. S. troopers. In converting it into a thoroughfare for vehicles, it would seem that little has been done except to widen the old trail—a real highway to Roosevelt Dam is yet to be built.

The climb begins at the foot of Superstition Mountain, leaving the river some miles to the left. Much of the road is natural granite rock, almost untouched by the hand of man; again it is blasted in the edge of a cliff, though little has been done to finish the surface to any degree of smoothness. We scrambled through the Devil’s Kitchen—a wild array of fantastic, multi-colored rocks—pink, yellow green—withal a beautiful spot spoiled by a senseless name.

We followed the edge of sheer cliffs or skirted sloping hillsides overlooking charming little valleys. From one point we had a far-away glimpse of the vexed river—we crossed the inevitable “hogback” and the grandest panorama of the whole trip burst suddenly upon our astonished vision. It is a vast, oval basin more than a thousand feet in depth, surrounded by parti-colored hills—though golden yellow seems the predominating color—on every side save for the narrow chasm by which the stream makes its escape from the canyon. But from our point of view the creek seemed a silver thread and the pines on the valley floor shrunk to mere shrubs. Our driver pointed out the ranch house where we were to have lunch, though we located it with difficulty, for it seemed no larger than an ordinary dry-goods box. The road here—the only especially creditable piece of engineering on the route—descends the mighty hillside in long, swinging loops and with only moderate grades. It offers many wonderful panoramas of giant crags and towering pinnacles; at times great cliffs rise far above it and again sheer precipices fall away at its side. This wonderful vale of beauty and grandeur goes by the very unpoetical title of Fish Creek Canyon, which again reminds us how unfortunate the pioneers often were in their nomenclature. What a pity that the sense of fitness which clung to the old Indian or Spanish names in the Southwest or the romantic propriety that gave the oriental titles to the palaces of the Grand Canyon was not more common.

At Fish Creek Station, we paused at a plain, rustic roadhouse, where a substantial dinner was served after considerable delay, for the landlady and her daughter appeared to be sole attendants upon ourselves and a dozen or more people who came by the stage. While awaiting the dinner call, we amused ourselves in watching the antics of a pair of young mountain lions confined in a wire cage. They were graceful, playful beasts, somewhat larger than a big cat, and about six months old, our driver said. They were caught in the vicinity, which is noted for big game, and the very rare mountain sheep can be seen on the surrounding cliffs at almost any time. The rocks assume many fantastic shapes against the skyline around the valley and by exercising a little imagination we finally could see the “Lion” and the “Cross” on the distant heights. Leaving the station, the road follows the boisterous creek for some distance, winding among trees and boulders which skirt its banks. Then we again climbed rugged granite hills almost devoid of vegetation, save many queer cacti, often gorgeous with blooms, and finally approached the river, which we followed at no great distance for the rest of the run. We saw it from the heights, whence it appeared like a green, fluttering ribbon, as it dashed over its stony bed. As we proceeded the road dipped down in the valley and finally came to the very banks of the stream, which it closely followed for several miles. It is a broad, beautifully clear river, plunging over the stones in foaming rapids or lying still and deep in emerald green pools. The road had been washed out for some distance by a spring flood and the new work was excruciatingly rough and strewn with razor-edged stones which wrought havoc on the smooth new tires. The scene at this point, however, is one of wild and entrancing beauty. Far above us rose the rocky walls, splashed with reds and yellows; below us the river banks were lined with cottonwoods, aspens, and willows beneath which were green meadows, with prosperous-looking cattle grazing upon them.

The road swings away from the river for some distance and we again entered the hills; we crawled up narrow, steep grades and around the corners of stupendous cliffs. Ere long a deep-voiced roar announced that the object of our pilgrimage was near at hand. As we came out upon a promontory, we got a full view of the mighty arc of stone that shuts the vast wall of water in the heart of the blue hill range before us. Torrents were pouring from the spillways and a rainbow arched the clouds of mist and foam that rose at the base of the three-hundred-foot fall. We paused in wonder and admiration to contemplate the scene—for once the works of man rival the phenomena of nature in beauty and grandeur, though we must confess that the natural background is a very helpful accessory to the wonderful view. Back of the dam the shining blue lake, twenty-five square miles in area, stretches away between the granite hills, which show little traces of vegetation save scattered scrub pines and cedars. Near at hand the reddish-brown volcanic rocks stand out in bold, bare outlines, but gradually softened by the blue mists of the distance, they take on the semblance of fairy towers and domes. Substantial iron bridges two hundred feet long span the spillways on either side of the dam and afford access to a sixteen-foot roadway along the top of the mighty structure.

From the road one gets the most adequate idea of the gigantic dimensions and great solidity of the dam; a few figures illustrating these may be admissable here. The height from lowest foundation is 284 feet; thickness at base, 168 feet; at crest, 20 feet; total length, including spillways, 1080 feet. The cost of the entire work was nine million dollars, of which three and a half millions were spent on the dam alone. Five and one-half years were required to complete the job and formal dedication occurred on the eighteenth of March, 1911, with the redoubtable Teddy himself as master of ceremonies. It was not until nearly four years later that the reservoir was entirely filled. There is enough water in reserve to supply all lands now under the system with sufficient moisture for three years, putting any chance of crop failure from shortage out of the question. About three and a half feet of water annually is required to produce crops in the Salt River Valley and this, with the warm sunshine and fertile soil, brings forth a yield that is amazing to farmers in rain-watered sections. A valuable by-product of the system is the water power available at the dam and at various points on the river. The aggregate will exceed twenty-five thousand horse power, which will ultimately pay for the maintenance of the system, giving the land-owner his water service free.

Crossing the dam, we followed the road for a mile or two to Webb Lodge, a comfortable-looking rustic inn built on a point of land extending well into the lake. A good many Phoenix people come here to spend the week-end and enjoy the excellent fishing. A number of stage tourists also stop at the Lodge for the night, completing the trip to Globe, forty-five miles farther, on the following day. We may confess that the thought of a pause for the night here appealed mightily to us, but our plans did not admit of such a stop, and after a half hour’s rest in the big chairs on the Lodge veranda we signified our readiness for the return trip.

The prospect of immediately retracing our way over the cruel road which we had just covered was not at all alluring and we would recommend to would-be visitors to make arrangements for a through trip to Globe by auto-stage, resuming the railroad there. Our return trip was not entirely without its reward, for we saw many weirdly beautiful effects as the sun went down over the giant hills and the blue shadows veiled the mysterious deeps of the savage ravines. Besides, the viewpoints were so vastly different that it was often hard to believe we were pursuing the road which we followed in coming. The sky was perfectly clear and the western horizon was a vast, burning expanse as the sun disappeared, though there was but little afterglow.

But we were hardly in form to appreciate the weird gradations of light and color and the almost terrifying beauty of the twilight mountains about us. The terrible road had worn the lady of the party to the limit of endurance and our anxiety to get out of the fearful hills constantly increased. It seemed an age before we rounded the black bulk of Superstition Mountains and saw the moonlit Mesa glimmering before us. Even the motor seemed to give a sigh of relief as the car reached the level plain and settled down to a swift, steady pace after the strenuous work in the hills. Mesa and Tempe were quickly passed and we reached the well-lighted streets of Phoenix a little after nine o’clock. The lady was so thoroughly fagged out that she declared there was no possible hope that she would be able to leave the hotel the next day. A night’s rest in a comfortable bed, however, worked wonders and, though there was considerable complaint about sore joints and muscles in the morning, she declared herself ready, after a late breakfast, to carry out our plan to explore the vicinity of Phoenix during the day.

We soon struck a bargain with the old man whose son had piloted us to the dam, to show us, with the assistance of his trusty Ford, what he considered worth while in and about the city. He proved an excellent guide, for he apparently knew every foot of the country by heart, though perhaps he was a little too much of a “booster” to impart unprejudiced information about Phoenix. We found it quite impossible to disabuse him of the idea that we were seeking investments in the valley—he evidently couldn’t conceive of any other reason for the interest we were evincing in the country. He first descanted upon the climate—the practice of every loyal westerner—and we had learned the futility of disputing the asseverations made in such cases.

“I lived in Missouri several years ago and my wife suffered so terribly from rheumatism and other ills that we decided on a change of climate. We moved to Los Angeles and lived there for three years, but there wasn’t much improvement and on the advice of a friend we came to Phoenix a few years ago. My wife is perfectly well now and I feel that I’ve added years to my life. It’s the warm, dry climate that does the business; California is too wet in the winter months. Pretty hot in summer?—Well, yes, but we don’t feel it like you do back east. I stay here the year round and enjoy the weather all the time. The records prove that the sun shines eighty-four per cent of the possible time and there is an average of only thirty-seven rainy days in the year. Yes, it’s good enough for me, and you’ll like it, too, if you decide to come here.”

We first drove about the town and noted the handsome public and private buildings, the wide, well-paved streets, and the many comfortable residences with their pretty grounds. Not many of these could be classed as pretentious, though there are several fine homes on the broad avenue leading to the Government Indian School. The State Capitol, a small but handsome building of classic design, surrounded by ample grounds, is situated in the center of the town. Tucson has given up the claim which it once pressed for the capitol, and no doubt a more adequate structure will be built before many years. There are several imposing public school buildings, classic lines prevailing in the architecture of nearly all of them. A beautiful Y. M. C. A. building with the mission motif predominating, fronts a pretty little park. I have already mentioned the hotels, which of course greatly outclass anything one would be likely to find in an eastern town two or three times as large as Phoenix. Near the city is the Ingleside Country Club, with a handsome club house where winter visitors are made welcome. Nor did our guide permit us to overlook the Insane Asylum adjoining the city and assured us that the big addition then building was made necessary by prohibition, recently adopted in Arizona—leaving us to draw any conclusions we might see fit.

Leaving the town we pursued the broad avenue leading to the Indian school—a splendid road running straight away to the blue mountains, sixty miles distant. It seems to me that I never saw elsewhere mountains so intensely blue as those which surround this Arcadian valley. Perhaps the universal greenness accentuates all colors. Surely it was an earthly Paradise on the day of which I am writing—a bright, fresh day with a light breeze laden with the odors of orange blossoms and new-mown alfalfa. The Indian school is small and the buildings old, but the surroundings seem ideal for teaching the rising generation of red men the ways of civilization.

From the Indian school we drove to some orange groves not far distant and made no attempt to dispute our guide’s emphatic claim that they were quite the equal of the best groves about Riverside or Azusa.

“They can grow any fruit here that can be grown in California,” he declared, “and some that can’t be matured there—dates, for instance. We have frosts sometimes, but I’ve seen worse ones about Los Angeles. Our main crops never fail, though; we can always count on a full yield of grain, alfalfa, sugar beets, or a dozen other staples. And I want to ask you if you ever saw finer cattle than those right before your eyes.”

We followed a road along one of the canals which spread like a network over the valley and furnish unlimited water for the 182,000 acres now under irrigation. About 30,000 additional acres can be reclaimed by pumping water to a slightly higher level and this will comprise about all the available land in the valley. None of it remains in possession of the government and prices of improved land now range from $100 to $500 per acre—very low, our enthusiastic informant asserted, when you consider that a single year’s crop will often pay twenty-five to fifty per cent of the original cost of the land. And this did not seem unreasonable when we saw the enormous crops of wheat and alfalfa which are being harvested—and the latter yields two to six cuttings per year. Of course, there may be another side to the story of Salt River Valley’s prosperity—as there is to nearly everything on this mundane sphere—but our interest was too casual to spur us to any careful investigation.

We were back to our hotel in the early afternoon, after having covered a large part of the roads, good, bad, and indifferent, in the immediate vicinity of the town. If we had time to go farther afield, we were assured that there is much of interest within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles about Phoenix. Tucson, one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, has the State University and one of the oldest and most picturesque of Spanish missions in the Southwest—that of San Xavier Del Bac, still in charge of the Franciscan monks. Granite Reef Diversion Dam is thirty miles to the northeast and just beyond that are the ruins of old Fort McDowell, established in the days of the Apache wars. About it is an Indian reservation where the sons and daughters of these fierce red warriors now pursue the arts of peace—they are famous basket-makers and some of them are prosperous farmers and cattle raisers. The Gila Indian Reservation is seventeen miles to the southwest and is remarkable for its excellent buildings, which were erected by the Indians themselves. One tribe, the Pimas, is noted for its pottery, and its proudest boast is that it has never been at war with the whites.

All of these points may be reached by motor over roads ranging from fair to bad—but whatever their condition, constantly improving, for Arizona, despite her limited population as compared with her vast areas, is making every effort to improve her highways. Our old driver left us at the hotel with the earnest plea that we give the merits of Phoenix as a place to live our careful consideration and we assured him that if we did not become citizens of the town it would not be his fault.

Our plans were already made for a stop at the Petrified Forests of Arizona—for these are in Arizona, though it takes a night’s run on the Santa Fe to reach them in this land of magnificent distances. We were met at the little goods-box station of Adamana by a short, swarthy individual who seized our grips and piloted us to the bungalow-like inn across the track, where the proprietor, Mr. Chester B. Campbell, welcomed us and assured us that in response to our telegram he had reserved “the best in the house for us.” We found the best to be had in the Campbell Hotel quite primitive enough to suit the taste of the most ardent advocate of the simple life; bath-rooms and running water were taboo and telephone and call bells minus in rooms. But things were clean and one is hardly entitled to Waldorf-Astoria accommodations for two-fifty per day—“American plan.”

We barely paused to deposit our baggage in the room assigned to us before signifying to Mr. Campbell our desire to visit the wonders which had brought us to Adamana and we were assured that nearly everything worth while could be done in a day—since Fords had superseded horses and spring wagons. And I suppose it was fortunate for me that this shift in transportation methods had been made; otherwise what excuse could I have found for including the story of our experiences in a chronicle of the motor car? And there was no time lost in “hitching up.” Almost immediately we heard the familiar growl of the Ford engine and were told that our car was ready. We found the swart, stocky individual who met us at the station in charge of the steering wheel and he proved an encyclopaedia of information, useful and otherwise, as well as an artist in piloting the little machine over the sandy wastes.

“We’ll take in the North Sigillaria first,” he declared, “and there’ll be plenty of time after dinner to do the others.”

It was the last of May—a clear, fresh day with a rather stiff breeze, and the desert sand along our route was starred with many beautiful blooms which elicited exclamations of admiration from the ladies of the party. They must needs pause to gather a few of the flowers and inquired as they climbed back into the car,

“Are there any rattlesnakes in this country?”

“Plenty of ’em,” responded our pilot. “I just shipped a big fellow east yesterday.”

“Do you make a business of catching snakes?” I asked.

“Not much—but a young lady who was here said she’d like to have one and I promised to send it,” he replied with the air of a man whose promise is always equal to performance, and went on to regale us with other weird stories of adventure with deadly reptiles.

“Any mountain lions in this section?” I asked, thinking to afford him subject-matter for further stories of his experiences.

“Never heard of any,” he promptly answered.

“Roosevelt in his new book tells about hunting them near the Grand Canyon,” I began, but he interrupted me with a snort of disgust.

“Roosevelt is the biggest —— faker in the whole country. You can bet your life he never hunted mountain lions in Arizona.”

“But I read it yesterday in his new book,” I insisted.

“Mebbe you did—he may write about it, all right, but I’ll gamble this Ford agin a copper cent that he never did it.”

I saw there was no use trying to defend the veracity of our strenuous ex-president to a man with such a righteous horror of a faker and therefore desisted.

In the meanwhile the Ford had scrambled up a short incline to the verge of a gigantic chasm and paused. From the gorgeous colorings—the vivid dashes of red, yellow, purple, orange, and all the gamut of the mingling of these—we might have fancied before us a section of the Grand Canyon in miniature, save that the floor of the great depression was comparatively level. Looking westward down this weird prismatic valley, our view was unobstructed for twenty-five miles or more and the vivid color belts gradually melted into a lavender haze which formed the horizon.

“That’s a corner of the Painted Desert,” said our guide, “and those black stumps and blocks you see down yonder, a mile or so, are pieces of the petrified trees. There’s a trail so you can walk down if you want to.” Nobody exhibited any keen anxiety to hit the trail and the driver confirmed the general disinclination by saying that the trip was hardly worth while; we should see the other forests, far larger and more interesting, at close range. So, after due contemplation of the scene—for this stretch of the Painted Desert is far more worth while than the forest at this point—we gave word for the return.

On the way the driver pointed out the line of the original Santa Fe Trail which we crossed and I made some remark about the improvement in roads and transportation methods which enabled a transcontinental driver only a week before to complete the ocean-to-ocean trip in a little over seven days. Our driver had not heard of this feat and as the purport of my remark percolated to his brain he burst out,

“Don’t believe it; clean impossible for a single driver to do it. He’d have to average five hundred miles a day.”

I assured him, however, that it had been done; that the Los Angeles papers were full of it when we left that city.

“Don’t care if they were; there’s a fake of some sort about it,” and he expressed his disapproval of fakes in general by urging the Ford at a vicious rate over the sandy trail.

As we came near the hotel we saw signs of great activity in the stable yard—the girls mounting saddle horses and cowboys dashing hither and thither in the valley beyond.

“Big cattle round-up to-day,” said our driver, and we were seized with a desire to see as much as possible of said round-up. Mr. Campbell assured us that we still had time before dinner to visit the scene of the round-up and that our driver could take the Ford anywhere a mustang could go. So we struck out across the broad, sandy wash of the Rio Puerco in face of stinging gusts of sand, for the wind had been steadily rising all morning. We pursued our way across the desert toward the scene of activity, jumping over hummocks, plunging in and out of little ravines, and crawling through the sagebrush, but making progress all the time at an astonishing rate.

Our driver in the meanwhile was regaling us with blood-curdling tales of his experiences as a cowpuncher—stories of thrilling fights with Indians, of how he was lost for days in a blizzard to be rescued in last extremity, and similar harrowing adventures. He was interrupted by a cowboy who rode up to us, touching his sombrero to the ladies. “Hello, Gulliver,” he cried, “How’s the Ford for rounding ’em up?” Our pilot now had little to say, but the newcomer was very courteous in answering our queries and explaining the maneuvers of the round-up.

They were now coming in from every side, bringing about a thousand cattle in all—the object being to separate—“cut out”—the cows with young calves for branding and the merchantable steers for shipment to the east. The herd was assembled in a level plain near a corral and the cowboys, some three or four dozen in number, dashed furiously about, dexterously singling out the proper animals and turning them into the corrals. Sometimes a calf, bawling wildly, would bolt for the hills, followed by his terrified mama. It was astonishing how fast and how far the little beast’s spindling legs could carry him, but his pursuer soon had him lassoed and dragged him, in spite of his stiff legs, to the corral. Poor fellow, if he could have realized the fate awaiting him, he would probably have increased his desperate struggles for freedom; a little later he was thrown to the ground and his owner’s brand imprinted on his smooth hide with a red-hot iron.

One of the ladies of our party had a kodak and, being anxious to have a few snaps at closer range, asked one of the cowboys to take the camera and ride nearer the herd.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to work the machine. Say, Gulliver, you take my horse and try it,” which Gulliver did with sublime assurance. In the meanwhile perhaps a dozen girls from the hotel and vicinity came cantering to the scene and were the recipients of most respectful attention on part of the cowboys. A couple of heavy covered wagons came lumbering on the scene a little later and paused beside a pond filled by windmills on the opposite side of the herd.

“Them’s the grub wagons,” said Gulliver, “Shall we drive round and see them get dinner?” To which proposal we readily assented. The two cooks had some difficulty in getting a fire started on account of the wind, which had increased to a veritable gale, driving the sand in stinging gusts. One of the cooks dipped a bucket of water from the pool and poured a quantity of the murky liquid into a dishpan of flour which he vigorously stirred with his hands. He soon had some biscuits which looked quite good and his compeer was busy frying steak in huge pans. Canned vegetables and fruits were produced from the wagons and a very passable meal was soon ready for serving on wooden picnic plates. True, everything was liberally sprinkled with the sand which constantly filled the air, but it was clear from the husky boys flocking in to the repast that Arizona sand isn’t deleterious to the constitution. We were invited to join in the repast, but the ladies decided it was time to return to the hotel and we departed with profuse thanks to our would-be hosts.

We did not fare any too well at the hotel—the help had gone almost en masse to the round-up, leaving most of the work to be done by the proprietor and his wife.

“A round-up means a holiday to almost everyone in Adamana,” explained Mr. Campbell. “It’s no easy matter to keep help at the very best, and when anything occurs to break the monotony of our life, we have to let our people make the most of it.”

We agreed that a chance to see the round-up ourselves more than compensated for any inconvenience we experienced on account of it, and everybody took it good-naturedly.

Gulliver, however, expressed contempt for the round-up; it was hopelessly tame and civilized compared with those of old days, in which he had participated, when every man wore a big gun and cartridge belt and shootings were delightfully common. He was ready after lunch with his Ford to pilot us to the forests lying south of Adamana. Had not our time been limited, we should have demurred; the wind had risen to a perfect gale, clouds of sand obstructed our view, and gave a faint yellow tinge to the sky. Crossing the river wash, the Ford stalled in a fresh sand drift and Gulliver requested us to dismount and “give her a lift.” A little sagebrush thrown under the wheels, an energetic push by the passengers, some vigorous growling, and more or less snorting and scrambling on part of the car brought it out of the drift and we went on our way rejoicing. A wide waste of sand-blown desert stretched before us; not a tree was visible save a few small cottonwoods along the Rio Puerco, which, being interpreted, means “river of mud”—though sand would be more appropriate just now. In the rainy season it often becomes a raging torrent, cutting off access for the time to the southern forests, but Mr. Campbell hoped to have a bridge before long. For six miles we followed the desert trail, often nearly obliterated by the drifting sand. No human habitations were in sight, only rocks and sagebrush-studded sand with fragments of a pre-historic Indian village or two.

The first forest is not of great extent, but is interesting for its famous natural log bridge, sixty feet long, spanning a deep, tree-fringed chasm. The great trunk is four or five feet in diameter and despite earnest protests from the female contingent I walked across it in face of the gale, which was, of course, the only element of danger.

The second forest is larger, comprising about two thousand acres. It has many huge trunks almost intact, including the “Twin Sisters,” the most distinguishing feature of this forest. Gulliver assured us, however, that the third forest, six or seven miles farther, was the one most deserving of our attention and if, when we had done this, we still hankered for petrified forests, we could stop again at the first two on our return. He took occasion to regale us with additional chapters from his personal experiences—some of which might indeed have fitted very appropriately in the career of his namesake. I suggested that he ought to wear goggles to protect his eyes from the sand—one of them was badly blood-shot.

“The sand hain’t got nothing to do with that eye,” he said. “One time when I was on the range I got into a little dispute with another cow-puncher and he shoved his gun in my face. I knocked it to one side but the bullet grazed my cheek, and I got a bad powder burn in the eye.”

“Well, I suppose you didn’t do a thing to that fellow,” I ventured.

“Just took his gun away from him and told him to be more keerful next time—but here’s the third forest. We’ll just leave the Ford and take a little round on foot.”

And, indeed, we soon agreed that one who wishes to see the real wonder and beauty of the petrified forests may well devote most of his time to the third, or Rainbow Forest, as it is known locally. Here are hundreds of huge stone trunks, many five or six feet in diameter, and over two hundred feet long, lying as they fell, but broken by some mighty convulsion into sections a few feet in length. Every detail of the bark is preserved, in some cases in apparently its original colors, so that except for the fractures one might imagine before him a great redwood log of comparatively recent date. But the great marvel of color is seen in fractures—every tint of the prism, with blood-red and golden yellow predominating, combine to astonish and delight the beholder. The grain and annual rings of growth are plainly marked on many of the gigantic blocks, enabling scientists to judge pretty accurately of the age of the trees when destruction overtook them—and some of them had surely attained their millennium. Everywhere on the sands were scattered millions of jewel-like fragments, glittering in the sun and exciting our cupidity to possess specimens of these curious prismatic gems. We picked up what seemed the most beautiful specimens only to discard them for others that happened to strike our fancy more forcibly, and in the end we had stowed away several pounds of the wonderful stone-wood in Gulliver’s Ford. Of course we knew that only the smallest fraction—a few glistening chips—could be taken with us, but Sinbad the Sailor in the valley of diamonds must have experienced much the same feelings as ourselves amidst these exhaustless jewels. For there is no danger of the tourists depleting the supply. Millions of tons, covering square miles in area, are scattered about on the surface and perhaps as much more is buried just beneath it. Commercial exploitation of the wood was prohibited since December 1906, when the forests were made a national monument and the preservation of these wonderful deposits is thus assured for all time to come.

Many solutions have been offered to the question, How did natural forces operate to produce this almost incredible spectacle which our eyes behold? “The wise guys say that these trees grew hundreds of miles from the place,” said Gulliver, “and some big flood washed them here and buried them under a half mile of sand. There they laid a million years or so, changing into stone, and then along comes another flood and washes the sand off from ’em.”

There are other explanations in the books, but perhaps this is as good as any; it all must have happened before the advent of the human race upon earth and before the surface of the earth had assumed the definite shape which now confronts us. Some declare that a great inland sea overwhelmed this prehistoric forest and the petrification took place beneath its waters, which deposited deep layers of rock and sand over the trees. But however it occurred, the great marvel is before our eyes, acres and acres, profusely covered with chalcedony, agate, onyx, cornelian, and amethyst, for all of these are here in color if not in actual composition. Though no habitation now greets the eye—the only structure being a covered platform on a little eminence affording a view of a wide area of this strange prostrate forest—human beings once lived among these weirdly-colored stone trees. Skeletons and rare old potteries are often unearthed and ruins of Aztec villages are found in this vicinity. How these primitive men subsisted here is hard to conjecture, for it would be difficult to imagine a land more inhospitable for the support of animal life.

When we were preparing to return, I asked Gulliver if it were not possible to visit the Blue Forest, to complete our round of the wonders.

“The Blue Forest,” he snorted in disgust, “that’s one of John Muir’s fakes. Nothing there worth seeing and would take you another day; have to make the trip with a team.”

The latter assertion was sufficient to quench our desire to visit the Blue Forest and the question whether it was one of John Muir’s fakes or not became a matter of indifference.

“There’ll still be time for you to visit the hieroglyphics after you get back if you want to,” said Gulliver, “but that’s another trip that even a Ford can’t make; it’s only a four-mile round, though, and the team can do it in an hour. No, I don’t drive the team myself; I just officiate as chauffeur. Alkali Ike will do it about right, though, and he knows more about them hieroglyphics than the fellers that scratched them on the rocks. They’re mighty curious, and you’ll miss it if you don’t see them.”

We didn’t propose to miss it and a small charabanc was ordered forthwith on our return to the hotel, as several others proposed to join our party. The wind was raging stronger than ever and the whole river wash was hidden in clouds of driven sand. Through this we had to pass at a snail’s pace, for it was heavy going. We could scarcely see a foot ahead and the stinging sand filled our eyes and hair and when anyone tried to speak he got a mouthful of it. The driver bowed his head and let the horses wallow along at their own pace until they finally scrambled up the opposite bank.

A few rods beyond the river the driver asked us to dismount and led us among the huge sandstone ledges which overlook the valley. He first conducted us to the prehistoric ruins of an Aztec community house, where walls of rough stone about a foot in height laid in mortar mark the outlines of numerous dwellings which fronted a plaza one hundred and thirty feet wide by two hundred and ten feet long. Near the center of this court has been found a small “kiva” or underground ceremonial chamber similar to those of the pueblos to-day, and the flagstone pavement is still in good preservation.

Near this ruin the hieroglyphics may be seen; they are cut in the stones of the cliffs along the river for the distance of more than a mile. The “cutting,” however, of the smooth sandstone has been done with some hard substance, probably bits of petrified wood, rather than any metal instrument. Some of the carvings are probably symbolical, and the meaning is not easy to decipher. Others, however, tell their story plainly enough. The most ambitious effort is supposed to represent a royal wedding. The figures indicate dancing and rejoicing and the priest may be distinguished by the symbolic “bird of wisdom” which he holds in his hand. There are also representations of flocks and herds and many individual birds and animals, some quite cleverly done. There is a long-legged stork, and what he holds in his bill is evidently intended for a frog, though it might pass for a baby by a stretch of the imagination. Altogether, these strange carvings are as interesting as they are mysterious. Their age can only be guessed at, but few authorities put it at less than a thousand years. No history exists of the people whose lives are represented here; even tradition is silent.

After inspecting the ruins and the hieroglyphics in the immediate vicinity, we were driven for a mile or so beneath the mighty cliffs along the river. At intervals additional carvings were to be seen, often high up on the rocks. Returning, we passed near the scene of the round-up, where a few cowboys were still engaged in branding the calves—a scene which none of the ladies of the party wished to linger over. It was nearly dark when we recrossed the river—if we may use the name for the wide strip of sand where the Puerco rages at rare intervals. The wind had slightly subsided, though the sand was still disagreeable enough.

We were quite ready for a substantial dinner, but things were still badly disarranged at the hotel. A dance always follows a round-up and of course none of the hotel girls were willing to miss such an event. Even the cook had disappeared and the guests had to be satisfied with the efforts of Mr. Campbell and wife, who rose to the occasion in a very creditable manner.

After dinner the guests lounged about the comfortable lobby of the hotel; there was little to attract one to the rooms until he was ready to go to bed. I don’t know whether it was a representative petrified-forest crowd or not, but it was certainly cosmopolitan. There was a Dutch doctor and his wife from Java—exceedingly non-committal on the subject of the European War; a middle-aged English lady, professing to be an invalid but doing the hardest “stunts” everywhere—she even ate the cowboy dinner at the round-up—accompanied by a very intelligent Danish lady as a companion and manager; and several plain American citizens like ourselves from widely scattered sections of the country. The conversation, as may be imagined, was varied and generally interesting. The proprietor, who joined us later, told many entertaining anecdotes of his experiences in the Indian country to which he made frequent visits to purchase blankets for his store. He said that he made it a rule never to decline the hospitality of the Indians or traders, no matter how filthy they might be, since they were sure to resent any squeamishness on part of a visitor.

“I was invited to eat in one shack,” he said, “where conditions beggared description (I fancy the principal dish was dog); and where the table was simply black with flies, but I joined in as if it had been a repast at the Waldorf-Astoria. That’s the only way to get the confidence and the genuine friendship of these people. Of course, I was situated differently from the ordinary tourist, for I have regular dealings with both the Indians and the traders.”

The guests generally joined in expressing the hope that circumstances might not arise to put their good manners to such a test.

Mr. Campbell has occasionally outfitted and conducted parties to the various Indian reservations and particularly to the Moki Snake Dance. On his last excursion to Moki-land he conducted a party of some thirty people at a round rate of two hundred and fifty dollars per head, and the general impression prevailed among them that he was coining money a la Rockefeller. The fact was, he assured us, that so great were the difficulties in securing supplies and especially forage for the horses, that his profits on the trip were negligible.

The round trip to the Navajo country can be made via Ford in two days and Gulliver had orders to be ready to take the “invalid” English lady and her companion on this excursion the following day, but it was deferred on account of the wind storm which raged in even greater fury than the day before.

Campbell is an expert on Navajo blankets, of which he has a very large collection in the little store which he runs in connection with his hotel. There are blankets of all degrees, ranging up to three hundred dollars in price. During the holidays he does a considerable mail-order business in all parts of the country by means of a magazine advertising campaign.

At breakfast we found the serving girls again on the job, looking a little blase after the dissipation of the round-up and dance. They declared the latter a disappointment; it was too tame and uneventful. “Why, there wasn’t even a fight,” said a blonde-haired German damsel who brought our coffee and hot cakes. To elucidate her remark, Mr. Campbell explained that while “gun toting” in Arizona is entirely obsolete and bloodshed quite as uncommon and unpopular as in any part of the country, few dances in Adamana end without a fist-fight between some of the cowboys. Naturally, the men greatly outnumber the maidens and contests for favors are almost sure to result in warlike demonstrations. The ladies have doubtless come to consider these collisions between rivals as in some degree a tribute to the popularity of the female sex and when a dance passes off too peaceably they feel as if their charms have not been adequately appreciated.

We boarded the California Limited about noon to resume our eastward journey. We agreed that the Petrified Forests are well worth while; we are sure that if the traveling public was generally aware how easily these strange stone trees can be reached and how well visitors are taken care of by Mr. Campbell and his helpers—not forgetting the efficient and entertaining Gulliver—a far greater number of passengers would “drop off” for a day or two at Adamana.

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