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.