As the lowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the element of water at all, so even in his richest parks and avenues he cannot be said to have truly seen trees. For the resources of trees are not developed until they have difficulty to contend with; neither their tenderness of brotherly love and harmony, till they are forced to choose their ways of life where there is contracted room. The various action of trees, rooting themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding from the search of glacial winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare sunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing hand in hand the difficult slopes, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward ridges—nothing of this can be conceived among the unvexed and unvaried felicities of the lowland forest.—Ruskin: "Modern Painters."

Rimming about your peak, braving winds and the snows that drift in the lee of old moraines, and struggling to break through the timber-line, six thousand feet above the sea, somber mountain hemlocks (Tsuga mertensiana) and lighter white-bark pines (Pinus albicaulis) form the thin vanguard of the forest. They meet the glaciers. They border the snow-fields. They hide beneath their stunted, twisted forms the first deep gashes carved in the mountain slopes by eroding streams. Valiant protectors of less sturdy trees and plants, their whitened weather-sides bear witness to a fierce struggle for life on the bleak shoulders of the peaks.

Make your way, as the streamlets do, down to the alpine glades, on the high plateaus, where anemone, erythronium and calochortus push their buds through lingering snow-crusts. The scattered trees gather in their first groups. Just within their shelter pause for a moment. Vague distance is narrowed to a diminutive circle. The mystery of vastness passes. Sharp indeed is the division between storm-swept barren and forest shelter.

Here ravines, decked with heather, hold streams from the snowdrifts—streams that hunt the steepest descents, and glory in their leaps from rock to rock and from cliff to pool. If it be the spring-time of the mountains—late July—the mossy rills will be half concealed beneath fragrant white azaleas that nod in the breezes blowing up with the ascending sun and down with the turn of day. Trailing over the rocks, or banked in the shelter of larger trees, creeping juniper (Juniperus communis), least of our evergreens, stays the drifting sands against the drive of winds or the wash of melting snows.

Along the streams and on sunny slopes and benches are the homes of the pointed firs. Seeking protection from the storm, the spire-like trees cluster in tiny groves, among which, like little bays of a lake, the grassy flowered meadows run in and out, sun-lit, and sweet with rivulets from the snows above. If you do not know these upland "parks," there is rare pleasure awaiting you. A hundred mountain blossoms work figures of white and red and orange and blue in the soft tapestry of green. In such glades the hush is deep. Only the voice of a waterfall comes up from the canyon, or the whistle of a marmot, the call of the white-winged crows and the drone of insects break the stillness.

The outer rank of hemlock and fir droops its branches to the ground to break the tempest's attack. Within, silver or lovely fir (Abies amabilis) mingles with hardier forms. Its gray, mottled trunks are flecked with the yellow-green of lichen or festooned with wisps of moss[127]
[128]
[129] down to the level of the big snows. And here, a vertical mile above the sea, you meet the daring western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla), which braves the gale of ocean and mountain alike, indifferent to all but fire. It is of gentle birth yet humble spirit. It accepts all trees as neighbors. You meet it everywhere as you journey to the sea. But on the uplands only, in a narrow belt like a scarf thrown across the shoulders of the mountain, sub-alpine fir (Abies lasiocarpa) sends up its dark, attenuated spires, in striking contrast with the rounded crowns of its companions.

A little lower, the transition zone offers a noteworthy intermingling of species. Down from the stormy heights come alpine trees to lock branches with types from warmer levels. Here you see lodgepole pine (Pinus murrayana), that wonderful restorer of waste places which sends forth countless tiny seedlings to cover fire-swept areas and lava fields with forerunners of a forest. Here, too, you will find western white pine (Pinus monticola), the fair lady of the genus, whose soft, delicate foliage, finely chiseled trunk, and golden brown cones denote its gentleness; and Engelmann spruce (Picea Engelmannii) of greener blue than any other, and hung with pendants of soft seed cones, saved from pilfering rodents by pungent, bristling needles.

Here also are western larch or tamarack (Larix occidentalis); or, rarely, on our northern peaks, Lyall's larch (Larix Lyallii), whose naked branches send out tiny fascicles of soft pale leaves; and Noble fir (Abies nobilis), stately, magnificent, proud of its supremacy over all. And you may come upon a rare cluster of Alaska cedar (ChamÆcyparis nootkatensis), here at its southern limit, reaching down from the Coast range of British Columbia almost to meet the Great sugar pines (Pinus lambertiana) which come up from the granite heights of the California sierra to play an important role in the southern Oregon forests.

Across the roll of ridge and canyon, you see them all; and when you come to know them well, each form, each shade of green, though far away, will claim your recognition. Yonder, in a hollow of the hills, a cluster of blue-green heads is raised above the familiar color of the hemlocks. Cross to it, and stand amidst the crowning glory of Nature's art in building trees. About you rise columns of Noble firs, faultless in symmetry, straight as the line of sight, clean as granite shafts. Carry the picture with you; nowhere away from the forests of the Columbia can you look upon such perfect trees.

Westward of the Cascade summits the commercial forest of to-day extends down from an elevation of about 3,500 feet. Intercepted by these heights, the moisture-laden clouds are emptied on the crest of the range. Eastward, the effects of decreasing precipitation are shown both in species and in density. Tamarack, white fir and pines climb higher on these warmer slopes. Along the base of the mountains, and beyond low passes where strong west winds drive saturated clouds out over level reaches, western yellow pine (Pinus ponderosa) becomes almost the only tree. Over miles of level lava flow, along the upper Deschutes, this species forms a great forest bounded on the east by rolling sage-brush plains that stretch southward to the Nevada deserts. Beyond the Deschutes drainage, where spurs of the Blue mountains rise to the levels of clouds and moisture, the forest again covers the hills, spreading far to the east until it disappears again in the broad, treeless valley of Snake river. North of the Columbia the story is the same. From the lower slopes of Mt. Adams great rolling bunch-grass downs and prairies reach far eastward. Here and there, over these drier stretches, stand single trees or clusters of western juniper (Juniperus occidentalis).

But on the west slope of the Cascades, and over the Coast range, the great forests spread in unbroken array, save where wide valleys have been cleared by man or hillsides stripped by fire. Here, in the land of warm sea winds and abundant moisture, the famous Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga taxifolia), Pacific red cedar (Thuja plicata) and tideland spruce (Picea sitchensis) attain their greatest development. These are the monarchs of the matchless Northwestern forests, to which the markets of the world are looking more and more as the lines of exhausted supply draw closer.

Douglas fir recalls by its name one of the heroes of science, David Douglas, a Scotch naturalist who explored these forests nearly ninety years ago, and discovered not only this particular giant of the woods, but also the great sugar pine and many other fine trees and plants. As a pioneer botanist, searching the forest, Douglas presented a surprising spectacle to the Indians. "The Man of Grass" they called him, when they came to understand that he was not bent on killing the fur-bearing animals for the profit to be had from their pelts.

The splendid conifer which woodsmen have called after him is one of the kings of all treeland. The most abundant species of the Northwest, it is also, commercially, the most important. Sometimes reaching a height of more than 250 feet, it grows in remarkably close stands, and covers vast areas with valuable timber that will keep the multiplying mills of Oregon and Washington sawing for generations. In the dense shade of the forests, it raises a straight and stalwart trunk, clear of limb for a hundred feet or more. On the older trees, its deeply furrowed bark is often a foot thick. Trees of eight feet diameter are at least three hundred years old, and rare ones, much larger, have been cut showing an age of more than five centuries.

To these areas of the greatest trees must come all who would know the real spirit of the forest, at once beneficent and ruthless. Here nature selects the fittest. The struggle for soil below and light above is relentless. The weakling, crowded and overshadowed, inevitably deepens the forest floor with its fallen trunk, adding to the humus that covers the lavas, and nourishing in its decay the more fortunate rival that has robbed it of life. Here, too, with the architectural splendor of the trees, one feels the truth of Bryant's familiar line:

The stately evergreens raise their rugged crowns far toward the sky, arching gothic naves that vault high over the thick undergrowth of ferns and vine maples. In such scenes, it is easy to understand the woodsman's solace, of which Herbert Bashford tells in his "Song of the Forest Ranger:"

Fir, spruce and cedar you will see along the slopes of the Cascades in varying density and grandeur, from thickets of slender trees reclaiming fire-swept lands to broken ranks of patriarchs whose crowns have swayed before the storms of centuries. Among the foot hills, the pale gray "grand" or white firs (Abies grandis) rear their domes above the common plane in quest of light, occasionally attaining a height of 275 feet, while the lowly yew (Taxus brevifolia), of which the warrior of an earlier time fashioned his bow, overhangs the noisy streams. In the same habitat, where the little rivers debouch into the valleys, you may see the broad-leaf maple, Oregon ash, cottonwood, and a score of lesser deciduous trees on which the filtered rays of sunshine play in softer tones.

Here and there in the Willamette valley you meet foothill yellow pine (Pinus ponderosa var. benthamiana), near relative of the western yellow pine. Oregon oak (Quercus garryana) occurs sparingly throughout the valleys, or reaches up the western foothills of the Willamette, until it meets the great unbroken forest of the Coast Range.

The dense lower forests are never gaily decked, so little sunlight enters. But in early summer, back among the mountains, you may find tangles of half-prostrate rhododendron, from which, far as the eye can reach, the rose-pink gorgeous flowers give back the tints of sunshine and the iridescent hues of raindrops. Mingled with the flush of "laurel" blossoms are nodding plumes of creamy squaw grass, the beautiful xerophyllum. Often this queenly upland flower[135]
[136] covers great areas, hiding the desolation wrought by forest fires. Its sheaves of fibrous rootstocks furnish the Indian women material for their basket-making; hence the most familiar of its many names. The varied green of huckleberry bushes is everywhere. They are the common ground cover.

In valley woodlands, the dogwood, here a tree of fair proportions, lights up the somber forest with round, white eyes that peer out through bursting leafbuds, early harbingers of summer. The first blush of color comes with the unfolding of the pink and red racemes of flowering wild currant. Later, sweet syringa fills the air with the breath of orange blossoms; and spirea, the Indian arrowwood, hangs its tassels among the forest trees or on the bushy hills. But the presence of deciduous trees and shrubs, as well as their beauty, is best known in autumn, when maples brighten the woods with yellow rays; when dogwood and vine maple paint the fire-scarred slopes a flaming red, and a host of other color-bearers stain the cliffs with rich tints of saffron and russet and brown.

Coming at last to the rim of the forest, you look out over the sea, where go lumber-laden ships to all the world. Close by the beach, dwarfed and distorted by winds of the ocean, and nourished by its fogs, north-coast pine (Pinus contorta) extends its prostrate forms over the cliffs and dunes of the shore, just as your first acquaintance, the white-bark pine, spreads over the dunes and ridges of the mountain. They are brothers of a noble race.

You have traversed the wonder-forest of the world, and on your journey with the stream you may have come to know twenty-three species of cone-bearers, all indigenous to the Columbia country. Of these, one is Douglas fir, nowise a true fir but a combination of spruce and hemlock; seven are pines, four true firs, two spruces, two hemlocks, two tamaracks or larches, two cedars, two junipers, and the yew.

So many large and valuable trees of so many varieties can be found nowhere else. A Douglas fir growing within the watershed of the Columbia is twelve feet and seven inches in diameter. A single stick 220 feet long and 39 inches in diameter at its base has been cut for a flagpole in Clatsop county. A spruce twenty feet in diameter has been measured. Such immense types are rare, yet in a day's tramp through the Columbia forests one may see many trees upwards of eight feet in diameter. One acre in the Cowlitz river watershed is said to bear twenty-two trees, each eight feet or more at its base. Though no exact measurements can be cited, it is likely that upon different single acres 400,000 feet, board measure, of standing timber may be found. And back among the Cascades, upon one forty-acre tract, are 9,000,000 feet—enough to build a town. Manufactured, this body of timber would be worth $135,000, of which about $100,000 would be paid to labor.

Along the Columbia you will hear shrill signals of the straining engines that haul these gigantic trees to the rafting grounds. Up and down the broad river ply steamboats trailing huge log-rafts to the mills. Each year the logging railroads push farther back among the mountains, to bring forth lumber for Australia, the Orient, South America, Europe and Africa. Many of our own states, which a few years ago boasted "inexhaustible" forests, now draw from this supply.

Since 1905 Washington has been the leading lumber-producing state of the Union, and Oregon has advanced, in one year, from ninth to fourth place. The 1910 production of lumber in these states was 6,182,125,000 feet, or 15.4 per cent. of the total output of the United States. The same states, it is estimated, have 936,800,000,000 feet of standing merchantable timber, or a third of the country's total.

This is the heritage which the centuries of forest life have bequeathed. Only the usufruct of it is rightfully ours. Even as legal owners, we are nevertheless but trustees of that which was here before the coming of our race, and which should be here in great quantity when our trails have led beyond the range. Our duty is plain. Let us uphold every effort to give meaning and power to the civil laws which say: "Thou shalt not burn;" to the moral laws which say: "Thou shalt not waste." Let us understand and support that spirit of conservation which demands for coming generations the fullest measure of the riches we enjoy. For although the region of the Columbia is the home of the greatest trees, centuries must pass ere the seedlings of to-day will stand matured.

Reforestation is indispensable as insurance. Let us see to it that the untillable hills shall ever bear these matchless forests, emerald settings for our snow-peaks. On their future depends, in great degree, the future of the Northwest. As protectors of the streams that nourish our valleys, and perennial treasuries of power for our industries, they are guarantors of life and well-being to the millions that will soon people the vast Columbia basin.