From the Dalles down, the river plows its way through the Cascade Mountains, which on either side appear like towered battlements, while waterfall after waterfall pour their tribute down the mountain sides to swell the on-flowing stream. Twelve miles below is Memaloose Island, which is the ancient burial place of the Chinook Indians, who held it as a sacred spot, guarded, as they maintained, by spirits of the river. The gorge proper begins twenty miles below the Dalles, and thirty miles further are the cascades, but between these there is an incomparable panorama of grandeur and beauty, for the river is broken by many giant bowlders, around which the swift-rushing water is lashed into fury. Still further below, and around the next interval of six miles, where portage by rail is necessary, the scenery becomes even more exquisite, with islands that are so wind-swept as to be entirely devoid of vegetation, while scores of lovely falls line the river, such as Horse-Tail, a clearly defined stream that pours down a height of 200 feet, and Multinomah, a strip, or veil, of spray, that falls 850 feet perpendicularly. There are, besides these, others almost equally surprising and beautiful, such as Bridal Veil and Oneonta, both of which dash down over cliffs brilliantly green with mosses, and are reflected in their full length in the crystalline river into which they fall, while the soft coloring of bluest sky and blending tints of emerald pines give to the scene an intimation of fairy-land. Just below these, in stately procession, are Castle Rock, that shoots up 1,000 feet; Rooster Rock, a dizzy pinnacle of stone amid-stream; Cape Horn, frowning from shore, and lifting its brow 500 feet above the river, while the Pillars of Hercules, twin shafts of basalt, grand, massive and sublime, act as guardians before this watery realm of wonderland.

Twenty-five miles from the palisades, and reached by means of comfortable stages over a good road, is Mount Hood, one of the loftiest, as well as the most impressive, dead volcanoes to be found anywhere in the world, of which it has been written: “The view from the summit of Hood is one of unsurpassed grandeur, and probably includes in its range a greater number of high peaks and vast mountain chains, grand forests and mighty rivers, than any other mountain in North America. Looking across the Columbia, the ghostly pyramids of Adams and St. Helens, with their connecting ridges of eternal snow, first catch the eye; then comes the silent, lofty Ranier, with the blue waters of Puget Sound and the rugged Olympia Mountains for a background; and away to the extreme north (nearly to H. B. M.’s dominions), veiled in earth mists and scarcely discernible from the towering cumuli that inswathe it, lies Mount Baker. Looking south over Oregon, the view embraces the Three Sisters (all at one time), Jefferson, Diamond Peak, Scott, Pit, and, if it be a favorable day, and you have a good glass, you may see Shasta, 250 miles away. The westward view is down over the lower coast range, the Umpqua, Calapooya, and Rogue River Mountains, with their sunny upland valleys, and away out over the restless ocean. In the opposite direction, across the illimitable plains of Eastern Oregon, to the Azure Blue Mountains; down, almost to the foot of this mountain, ‘rolls the Columbia,’ through the narrow, rugged gorge of ‘The Dalles,’ 250 miles of its winding course being visible. The entire length of the great Willamette Valley, with its pleasant, prosperous towns and gently-flowing river, its broad, fertile farms, like rich mosaics, with borders of dark-green woodlands, is spread out in great beauty under the western slope of Mount Hood.”

The Columbia is not only famed for its peerless scenery, and as being a main artery in Pacific coast commerce, but it is equally noted as affording the most profitable salmon fishing in the world. Hundreds of people are engaged in this industry, and vast wealth has been amassed by some of the large companies who run immense canneries in connection with the fisheries. At certain seasons the fish appear in such prodigious numbers, on their way up stream to the spawning grounds, that they almost crowd each other out of the water. The most successful way of taking the fish at such times is by the use of wheels attached to the end of a scow, which, being set in motion, scoop them up and deposit them in the boat, and so rapidly that thousands are thus taken in an hour. The fish continue their run up-stream as far as the water will allow, and so determined are they that they perform many amazing feats to gain the headwaters, crossing shoals, darting through the swiftest cascades, and even leaping up and over falls of considerable height. The Indians, familiar with the instincts of the salmon, in the season take great numbers by means of spears, which they cast with astonishing accuracy. A chief fishing place is Salmon Falls, where the river is a mile wide and plunges over a wall fully twenty feet high, extending from shore to shore. Notwithstanding this height, the salmon gather in the whirlpool below and suddenly dart up the falls like a flash of light, their tails waving with such rapidity that they are carried up and over the falls. It is while making these leaps that the Indians spear the fish, killing immense numbers, not only for food, but through sheer wantonness, at times fairly filling the river with the dead beauties.

A SIDE-TRIP TO CRATER LAKE.

Before leaving San Francisco, one of our photographers expressed a very great desire to visit Crater Lake, one of the most remarkable bodies of water on the face of the earth, and so urgent were his pleadings, that it was decided he should make the trip, while the rest of the party continued on to Portland, to perform the work of photographing points of interest thereabouts, and on the Columbia River. In pursuance of this arrangement, he left us at a station called Medford, on the Southern Pacific Railroad, and from that place rode over to Jacksonville, capital of Jackson county, Oregon, a distance of five miles, to make his preparations for a journey to the lake. Jacksonville is a town of about 1,000 inhabitants, off the railroad, but on the military road that leads to Crater Lake, some seventy miles distant northeast, and thence to Fort Klamath. It was not difficult to procure necessary conveyance, but for safety it was deemed advisable to pack the cameras on a donkey, probably the surest-footed and most reliable animal that ever submitted back to a burden. Three men accompanied our photographer, with one road-wagon and a light buggy, hauling the necessary camping outfit, and being well prepared, the party started from Jacksonville on the 15th of April, 1891. The road follows Rogue River the entire distance, along which is some very beautiful scenery, and not a few wild gorges, which were photographed. There are a number of post-offices on the way, Deskins being the most northern, beyond which, and for nearly thirty miles, to the lake, there is a wilderness of mountain and caÑon, unrelieved by any signs of human habitation. Crater Lake is in the western part of Klamath county, and is in the Klamath Indian reservation, a region that is distinctively volcanic, diversified by lakes, marshes and mountains, with the soil so mixed with scoriÆ that it is harsh and unproductive. It was not until noon of the second day that the vicinity of the lake was reached, approach to it being indicated by a bank of clouds that hung over one spot, like a fog gradually lifting, beneath which was manifestly a large body of water. A suitable camping place was soon found, and the tent being set up and dinner disposed of, the work of exploring and photographing the lake was energetically begun. Fortunately, the weather was propitious and the season favorable, for otherwise clambering over so rough a region with the precious burden of delicate cameras would have been next to impossible. The snow falls to very great depths on the high ridge which surrounds the lake, and spring rains are at times so heavy here that the precipitous sides are gashed deeply by the cataracts thus produced.

The Klamath Indians have many traditions about the lake, one of which is to the effect that in earlier years it was the haunt of great numbers of water-devils, who watched its shores and drew into its mysterious depths all luckless persons who ventured near its banks. For this reason it was not until recently that any Indian could be prevailed upon, by the promise of however great a reward, to approach near the lake, though they were glad to guide travelers to its vicinity.

The first sight of this marvelous body of water excites unbounded awe and immeasurable wonder. The surface is 6,250 feet above sea level, but notwithstanding this great elevation, it is enclosed by cliffs that rise from 1,000 to 2,000 feet, and the greater part are vertical. At times, viewed from the summit of the walls, both the skies and mountainous surroundings are mirrored in the unrippled surface of the lake, until it is really difficult to distinguish the line of separation between the real and the reflection.

Crater Lake is egg-shaped, being seven miles in length by six in breadth, and in the southwest portion there is an island which rises out of the water to the amazing height of 850 feet. But this is not its only remarkable feature, for the island is circular in shape, with a scant vegetation on its sides, and in the center is a crater known as the Witch’s Caldron, which is 100 feet deep and nearly 500 feet in circumference. Here, then, we have the now smokeless chimney of what was once an active volcano, out of which poured a fiery mass that ran down the steeps and became congealed in the lake, for the base of the island is of ashes and vitrified rocks, evidencing the intense heat which once prevailed within and around it.

On the shore, north of Wizard Island, is a rock that juts up 2,000 feet, and its side is so perpendicular that one standing upon its summit can drop a stone into the lake, nearly half a mile beneath. It is not at all surprising that this wonderful lake should be the subject of much superstitious dread among the Klamaths, and among the traditions and tales which these simple Indians tell is the following: A long time ago, a band of Klamaths, while hunting deer, which have always been abundant in this region, came suddenly upon the lake. They had often traveled over the same district, without discovering either lake or depression, and now, suddenly beholding so large a body of water, surrounded by towering walls, they perceived in it the work of the Great Spirit, but were not able to interpret its significance. All but one of the Indians fled in terror from the place, but the bravest determined, if possible, to ascertain the wishes of the Great Spirit, and, accordingly, he proceeded to the very brink of the lofty walls, and there built a camp-fire, to wait the Spirit’s call. Long he waited, until weary at last he lay down and slept; while he was thus sleeping he had a vision and heard mysterious voices, but he was not able to understand what was said, or to clearly discern the shape or appearance of his unearthly visitors. But as often as he slept he perceived, in his dreams, the indistinct forms of what half-appeared to resemble human bodies, and plainly heard voices, but they were strange tongues. Charmed by these visions, the Indian remained, day after day, and week after week, upon the precipice of the lake, leaving his camp-fire only to slay a deer for subsistence, until at length he descended to the surface of the lake and bathed in its crystal and mysterious waters. Instantly he felt his strength marvelously increased, and thereafter saw that the weird visions of his dreams were inhabitants of the lake, having human forms, but whether they were spirits of good, or devils of evil, he knew not. Familiarity, however, at length made him careless, and on one occasion he caught a fish in the lake, with the intention of using its flesh for food, but no sooner had he killed the fish than a thousand water-devils rose up out of the depths of the lake, and, seizing the unfortunate brave carried him through the air to the top of the cliffs. Here they cut his throat and cast his body headlong into the water, 2,000 feet below, where it was devoured by the angered devils.

The Klamath Indians believed that the water-spirits had not fully satisfied their revenge by this one bloody act, but would similarly destroy any Indian who had the temerity to approach the lake.

Near the base of a cliff on the south side of the lake stands a solitary rock, probably 100 feet high by 200 in length, and nearly the same in breadth, that, while not seen by the present generation of Indians, it is nevertheless known to them, and is a special object of superstitious dread. They consider it as a peculiarly ferocious monster, but are unable to describe its characteristics. It stands in the lake, entirely alone, and about fifty yards from shore. Standing on the cliffs, about five miles to the west and looking across the lake, this strange rock is plainly visible in the sunlight, its rugged peaks reaching aloft, giving it the appearance of a full-rigged ship at anchor. Should a cloud pass before the sun as the shadow strikes the rock it will recede from view as effectually as though it had ceased to exist. This illusion has prompted some one to call the rock the Phantom Ship.

Another equally interesting optical illusion is thus described by W. G. Steel, F.A.G.S., who made an exploration of the lake with a corps of United States surveyors: “One day while at work on the lake, my attention was called to what seemed to be a tall, full-bearded man standing on the southern portion of Llao Rock’s summit. One foot was placed a little forward of the other and the knee slightly, but naturally bent, while before him stood a gun. His hands were clasped over the muzzle as he gazed intently to the north. Just behind him stood a boy, apparently about fifteen years of age. They seemed entirely too natural not to be flesh and blood, and yet persons at that distance would not be visible to the naked eye, as we were two miles out on the lake. Day after day, as our work progressed, their position remained the same, and in the absence of a better excuse, we decided them to be trees.

“It is hard to comprehend what an immense affair it is. To those living in New York City I would say, Crater Lake is large enough to have Manhattan, Randell’s, Ward’s and Blackwell’s Islands dropped into it side by side, without touching the walls, or Chicago or Washington City might do the same. Our own fair city of Portland, with all her suburbs, from City Park to Mount Tabor, and from Albina to Sellwood inclusive, could find ample room on the bottom of the lake. On the other hand, if it were possible to place the lake, at its present elevation, above either of these cities, it would be over a mile up to the surface of the water, and a mile and three-quarters to the top of Llao Rock. Of this distance, the ascent would be through water for 2,000 feet. To those living in New Hampshire, it might be said the surface of the water is twenty-three feet higher than the summit of Mount Washington.”

The shore of Crater Lake has many remarkable indentations of slender arms and beautifully formed bays, and on one side there is a grotto running back some thirty feet and twenty feet inside, spanned by a graceful arch about eight feet high, forming an admirable shelter as well as a curious alcove in the rock, where the water is some twelve feet deep. The lake itself measures a little more than 2,000 feet in depth in places, but soundings show that there are peaks below the surface representing cinder cones, and which once evidently stood high above the surface. The whole lake is thus a reminder of mighty forces and the relic of terrible convulsions. What an immense affair it must have been ages upon ages ago, when, long before the hot breath of a volcano soiled its hoary head, standing as a proud monarch, with its feet upon the earth and its head in the heavens, it towered far, far above the mountain ranges, aye, looked far down upon the snowy peaks of Hood and Shasta, and snuffed the air beyond the reach of Everest. Then streams of fire began to shoot forth, great seas of lava were hurled upon the earth beneath. The elements seemed bent upon establishing hell upon earth and fixing its throne upon this great mountain. At last its foundation gave away and it sank forever from sight. Down, down, down deep into the bowels of the earth, leaving a great, black, smoking chasm, which succeeding ages filled with pure, fresh water, giving to our day and generation one of the most beautiful lakes within the knowledge of man.

It may in truth be declared that Crater Lake is one of the grandest points of interest on earth. Here all the ingenuity of nature seems to have been exerted to the fullest capacity to build one grand, awe-inspiring temple within which to live and from which to gaze upon the surrounding world and say: “Here would I dwell and live forever. Here would I make my home from choice; the universe is my kingdom, and this my throne.”

AWAY TO THE NORTH, AND THENCE TO ALASKA.

Our trip up the Columbia, and along the Willamette as far as Willamette Falls, was delightful beyond any one’s ability to describe; but though wonder succeeded wonder, and kept us as under a spell of enchantment, there were other surprises in store which were to hold our interest and even add something to our astonishment. Returning to Portland, we might have carried out our original resolution to take the steamer at that point direct for Alaska, but we very wisely made a change in our plans, by which we proceeded by rail to Vancouver, stopping en route, however, to continue our work of photographing mountains, valleys and glaciers.

Tacoma was our first stop after leaving Portland, and a very beautiful city it is, admirably and commercially situated at the head of navigation in Puget’s Sound. Mount Tacoma appears to be in the very front-yard of the city, so wonderfully clear is the air, though in fact it is forty miles away. The Sound is astir with the white wings of sailing vessels, and streaked with the black trails of ocean-going steamers, while the blue waters are begirt with the dark green of heavy forests, making a picture of almost incomparable beauty. There is romance in the very air, a kind of dreamy vision of the long ago, when this was the happy land of the Siwashes, who come before us again in the pretty legends which linger still upon the lips of this almost extinct tribe. They tell us of a Saviour who once came to them, riding in a copper canoe, out of the bleak desolation of the icy north, and who, first calling all the tribes together, preached to them the gospel of unselfish service and righteousness. He taught them the beatitudes, and was first to declare that man was possessed of an undying spirit, which lived forever, in pleasure or pain, according to the measure of his deserving. The Indians listened with reverent attention until this Saviour exhorted them to live in brotherly unity, one with another, and to avoid all strife, for he who shed human blood would feel the vengeance of the Great Spirit. This teaching so incensed the war-like tribes that they seized the Saviour and nailed his body to a tree, where it remained nine days. Then behold, there came a great storm of hail, accompanied by thunders that rent the earth and leveled the forests. In the midst of this mighty cataclysm of natural forces the Saviour appeared again, resurrected unto full life, and speaking to the winds and the thunders, in an instant the storm was hushed, and a great peace and burst of sunshine bathed the earth. After this the reincarnated Saviour renewed his preaching and continued to teach immortality for many weeks, until at last he ascended to the skies in a cloud.

These same Indians have also a tradition of the deluge, which bears a striking similarity to the Genetic account. They assert that many thousands of years ago a great rain fell upon the earth, such as was never before or since known; that such torrents of water were poured out of the sky that the world became a universal sea, with no spot of dry land anywhere visible. In this all-prevailing flood every human being perished except one man who took refuge on Mount Tacoma. As the water rose, he was driven higher and higher, until at last he reached the summit; but still the sea advanced; it covered the loftiest point of the mountain, then rose above his feet, his knees, and finally reached to his waist, when, to prevent him from being swept away, the Great Spirit turned his feet to stone, and he thus became anchored on the peak. Then the rain ceased, and the waters were gradually assuaged, but the man could not yet move from his position. At last the waters were again within their beds, the fields bloomed, the forests put forth with new life, and the world became musical with song of bird and the lullabies of flowing streams. Then a profound sleep fell upon the man, and while he slept the Great Spirit took a rib from his side, and from it made a beautiful woman. When he woke his feet were no longer stone, but strong with vigor, and at once he started down the mountain; but scarcely had he taken the first step when he saw before him the lovely woman who was given to him for wife. The Great Spirit now directed the couple to the foot of Tacoma, where he had planted a garden, and in this paradise he commanded them to abide and replenish the world.

THE GREAT GLACIER, SIDE VIEW, SHOWING GRINDING OF THE FACE OF THE MOUNTAINS.—The grinding force of a glacier, as it moves down the side of a mountain, is strikingly illustrated in this splendid photograph. At the point of the glacier will be observed an accumulation of stones and dÉbris wrenched from their places higher up by the resistless grinding force of the immense body of ice, moving steadily and irresistibly into the valleys below, cutting its way like an immense plow as it goes. The numerous photographs and printed descriptions of these wonders of the northern latitudes, in Glimpses of America, add a large degree of interest and value to this work.