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.