We left Portland on the night train for San Francisco. I took my gull, the Captain we called him, into the sleeper with me. He was asleep when I placed his basket under my berth, but about midnight he awoke and squawked frightfully.

I rang for the porter but before he arrived the Captain had awakened nearly every one in the car. Angry voices were heard inquiring what that “screeching, screaming thing,” was.

An old gentleman thrust his red night capped head out of his berth next to mine and angrily demanded of me where that nasty beast came from. When I politely told him he said he wished that I had had the good sense to leave it there. Then he said something that sounded dreadfully like swear words, but being such an old gentleman I’ve no doubt that my ears deceived me.

At any rate it was something about sea gulls in general and my own in particular. His red flannel cap disappeared and presently I heard him snoring away up in G. Now my poor gull only squawked on low C. After that the Captain traveled in the baggage car with the trunks and packages.

Traveling south from Portland one passes farms and orchards until the foot of the Sierra Nevada range is reached. Most of the farms are well improved. Many of the orchards are bearing, while others are young.

Here and there in the mountains are cattle ranches. These mountains are not barren, rugged rocks like the Selkirks of Alaska. Here there is plenty of pasture to the very summit of the mountains.

Wolf Creek valley is one vast hay field. Up we go until the far-famed Rogue River valley is reached. This noble valley lying in the heart of the Sierras reminds one of the great Mohawk valley of New York.

Ashland is the center of this prosperous district. The Southern State Normal School is located here.

The seventh annual assembly of the Southern Oregon Chautauqua will convene in Ashland in July. This assembly is always well attended. Farmers bring their families and camp on the grounds. The program contains the names of musicians prominent on the coast. Among the lecturers are the names of men and women prominent in their special fields. Frank Beard, the noted chalk talk lecturer, will be present. So you see that the wild and woolly west is not here, but has moved on to the Philippines.

When the passenger train stops at the station of Ashland a score of young fruit venders swarm on the platform, crying plums, cherries, peaches and raspberries at fifteen cents a box. When the train-bell rings fruit suddenly falls to ten cents and when the conductor cries “All aboard” fruit takes a downward plunge to five cents a box, but the fruit is all so delicious that you do not feel in the least cheated in having paid the first price. “Look here, you young rascal,” said a newspaper man, who travels over the road frequently to one of the young fruit dealers, “I bought raspberries of you yesterday at five cents a box.” “O no you didn’t, mister, never sold raspberries at five cents a box in my life sir, pon honor.” In less than three minutes this young westerner was crying “Nice ripe raspberries here, five cents a box.” “Why,” said I, “I thought you told the gentleman that you never sold berries at five cents a box.” “No, Madam, I didn’t, pon honor,” and the little rogue really looked innocent.

Leaving Ashland with three big engines we climb steadily up four thousand one hundred and thirty feet to the summit of the range.

The Rogue River valley spreads out below us in a grand panorama of wheat, oats, barley fields and orchards. Down the southern slope the commercial interest centers in large saw-mills and cattle ranches.

Off to the east lie the lava beds where Gen. Canby and his companions were so treacherously assassinated by the Modoc Indians under the leadership of Captain Jack and Scar Faced Charley.

Crossing the Klatmath River valley the dwelling place in early days of the Klatmath Indians, the engines make merry music as they puff, puff, puff in a sort of Rhunic rhyme to the whir of the wheels as they groan and climb three thousand nine hundred feet to the summit of the Shasta range. There is something wonderfully fascinating about mountain climbing. Whether by rail over a route laid out by a skilled engineer; on the back of a donkey over a trail just wide enough for the feet of the little beast, or staff in hand you go slowly up over rocks and bowlders, or around them, clinging to trees and shrubs for support. The very fact that the train may without a moment’s notice plunge through a trestle or go plowing its way down the mountain side; the donkey lose his head and take a false step; the shrub break or a bowlder come tearing down the rock-ribbed mountain and crush your life out, thrills the blood and holds the mind enthralled as a bird is held enchanted by the charm of the pitiless snake.

Throughout the mountains mistletoe, that mystic plant of the Druids, hangs from the limbs and trunks of tall trees.

It was with an arrow made from mistletoe that Hoder slew the fair Baldur.

All day long snow-covered Mt. Shasta has been in sight and toward evening we pass near it on the southern side of the range and stop at the Shasta Soda Springs. The principal spring is natural soda water. This is the fashionable summer resort of San Francisco people, who come here to get warm, the climate of that city being so disagreeable during July and August that people are glad to leave town for the more genial air of the mountains.

It certainly is odd to have people living in the heart of a great city ask you during these two months if it is hot out in the country. “Out in the country” means forty or fifty miles out, where there is plenty of heat and sunshine. At Shasta Springs, however, the weather is cooler. The climate is delightful, the water refreshing and the strawberries beyond compare. Boteler, known as a lover of strawberries, once said of his favorite fruit: “Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.”

Just beyond the springs stand the wonderful Castle Crags. Hidden in the very depths of these lofty Crags lies a beautiful lake. This strange old castle of solid granite, its towers and minarets casting long shadows in the moonlight for centuries, is not without its historic interest, though feudal baron nor chatelaine dainty ever ruled over it. Joaquin Miller, in the “Battle of Castle Crag,” tells the tale of its border history.

Not far away at the base of Battle Rock a bloody battle was once fought between a few whites and the Shasta Indians on one side and the Modoc Indians on the other.

The Indians of California say that Mt. Shasta was the first part of the earth created. Surely it is grand enough and beautiful enough to lay claim to this pre-eminence. When the waters receded the earth became green with vegetation and joyous with the song of birds, the Great Manitou hollowed out Mt. Shasta for a wigwam. The smoke of his lodge fires (Shasta is an extinct volcano) was often seen pouring from the cone before the white man came.

Kmukamtchiksh is the evil spirit of the world. He punishes the wicked by turning them into rocks on the mountain side or putting them down into the fires of Shasta.

Many thousands of snows ago a terrible storm swept Mt. Shasta. Fearing that his wigwam would be turned over, the Great Spirit sent his youngest and fairest daughter to the crater at the top of the mountain to speak to the storm and command it to cease lest it blow the mountain away. She was told to make haste and not to put her head out lest the Wind catch her in his powerful arms and carry her away.

The beautiful daughter hastened to the summit of the peak, but never having seen the ocean when it was lashed into a fury by the storm wind, she thought to take just one peep, a fatal peep it proved. The Wind caught her by her long red hair and dragged her down the mountain side to the timber below.

At this time the grizzly bears held in fee all the surrounding country, even down to the sea. In those magic days of long ago they walked erect, talked like men and carried clubs with which to slay their enemies.

At the time of the great storm a family of grizzlies was living in the edge of the forest just below the snow line. When the father grizzly returned one day from hunting he saw a strange little creature sitting under a fir tree shivering with cold. The snow gleamed and glowed where her beautiful hair trailed over it. He took her to his wife who was very wise in the lore of the mountains. She knew who the strange child was but she said nothing about it to old father grizzly, but kept the little creature and reared her with her own children.

When the oldest grizzly son had quite grown up his mother proposed to him that he marry her foster daughter who had now grown to be a beautiful woman.

Many deer were slain by the old father grizzly and his sons for the marriage feast. All the grizzly families throughout the mountains were bidden to the feast.

When the guests had eaten of the deer and drank of the wine distilled from bear berries and elder berries in moonlight at the foot of Mt. Shasta, when the feast was over, they all united and built for their princess a magnificent wigwam near that of her father. This is “Little Mt. Shasta.”

The children of this strange pair were a new race,—the first Indians.

Now, all this time the great spirit was ignorant of the fate of his beloved daughter, but when the old mother grizzly came to die she felt that she could not lie peacefully in her grave until she had restored the princess to her father.

Inviting all the grizzlies in the forest to be present at the lodge of the princess, she sent her oldest grandson wrapt in a great white cloud to the summit of Mt. Shasta to tell the Great Spirit where his daughter lived.

Now when the great Manitou heard this he was so happy he ran down the mountain side so fast that the snow melted away under his feet. To this day you can see his footprints in the lava among the rocks on the side of the mountain.

The grizzlies by thousands met him and standing with clubs at “attention” greeted him as he passed to the lodge of his daughter.

But when he saw the strange children and learned that this was a new race he was angry and looked so savagely at the old mother grizzly that she died instantly. The grizzlies now set up a dreadful wail, but he ordered them to keep quiet and to get down on their hands and knees and remain so until he should return. He never returned, and to this day the poor doomed grizzlies go on all fours.

A wonderful feat of jugglery, but a greater was that of the Olympian goddess who changed the beautiful maiden Callisto into a bear, which Jupiter set in the heavens, and where she is to be seen every night, beside her son the Little Bear.

The angry Manitou turned his strange grandchildren out of doors, fastened the door and carried his daughter away to his own wigwam.

The Indians to this day believe that a bear can talk if you will only sit still and listen to him. The Indians will not harm a bear. Now for the meaning of those queer little piles of stones one sees so frequently in the Shasta mountains. If an Indian is killed by a bear he is burned on the spot where he fell. Every Indian who passes that way will fling a stone at the fated place to dispel the charm that hangs over it.

“All that wide and savage water-shed of the Sacramento tributaries to the south and west of Mt. Shasta affords good bear hunting at almost any season of the year—if you care to take the risks. But he is a velvet-footed fellow, and often when and where you expect peace you will find a grizzly. Quite often when and where you think that you are alone, just when you begin to be certain that there is not a single grizzly bear in the mountains, when you begin to breathe the musky perfume of Mother Nature as she shapes out the twilight stars in her hair, and you start homeward, there stands your long lost bear in your path! And your bear stands up! And your hair stands up! And you wish you had not lost him! And you wish you had not found him! And you start for home! And you go the other way glad, glad to the heart if he does not come tearing after you.”[1]

Downward from Mt. Shasta flows the Sacramento river. For thirty miles it goes tumbling over bowlders and granite ledges on its way to the sea. In mid-summer the Sacramento caÑon is a paradise of umbrageous beauty, a region of forest and groves, of leafy shrubs, delicate ferns, mosses and beautiful flowers, of roaring, tumbling rivers, shining lakelets and dancing trout streams.

Up in the mountains the dewberries are ripe. They are about the size of currants, but farther down the slope they are larger. Blackberries are also plentiful, also the black raspberry, called by the Indians succotash.

The coniferous forests of the Sierra Nevada range are the most beautiful in the world. Here, where the granite domes which are so striking a feature of the Sierras, we find the most beautiful little meadows lying on the tops of the dividing ridges or on their sloping sides. These meadows are all aglow with wild flowers, rank columbines, stately larkspur, daisies and the lovely lupines, beds of blue and white violets, many strange grasses and beautiful sedges, and the glory of them all, the lily.

The magnificent sunset of the mountains, the afterglow resting on their summits, the many clouds of various hues, borrowing the tints of the rainbow,

resting on the snowy peaks, lend an enchantment to the scene that might entice the elf king Oberon himself and all his crew of Pixies and Imps back to earth.

Doubtless God might have created a more magnificent range of mountains than the Sierras, but doubtless God never did.

“There ain’t nothing like fresh air and the smell of the woods. There’s always a smell from trees dead, or living, and the air is better where the woods be.”