EDITOR SENTINEL:--In response to your request, I will endeavor to furnish you a brief sketch of our late tour to the source of Rogue River, and Fort Klamath.
    On the 27th of July, memorable as the day of the great freshet in Jacksonville, our party, consisting of David Linn, wife and five children, Jas. D. Fay, Miss Anna Fay, Miss Hannah Ralls, J. B. Coates, Capt. John Sutton, Mrs. Caharne Shook and J. M. Sutton, wife and one child, started on an exploring and recuperating expedition to Crater Lake and other points of interest in its vicinity.
    The thermometer stood at 96 in the shade, and the atmosphere was unusually sultry. After traveling some sixteen miles we selected a beautiful spot on the shady banks of Rogue River to camp for the night and the following day, for the purpose of completing some minor details of our outfit. From this point we witnessed in the distance the terrific storm which was devastating Jacksonville and terrifying its inhabitants. We could see the dark and terrible cloud which hung over our devoted town, pouring forth stream after stream of lurid lightning and heavy peals of thunder which was startling, even at our safe distance. On the 29th we moved forward, traveling most of the day over a rough, rocky road, beset with clouds of pumice stone dust. No incident occurred during the day worth a notice, save an adventure with a colony of yellowjackets that had taken up and fortified a strong position about halfway up a steep rocky point of the road. Wagons no. one and two passed over safely, but it was rather amusing to see the horses step "right" over the jackets' nest to dance a hornpipe. This terpsichorean performance so excited the ladies in wagon No. 3 that they with one accord sprang out of the wagon to join in the dance, but owing to the steepness of the ground, they contented themselves with a promenade to the top of the hill. We camped for the night on a fine plateau of pumice dust, adjacent [to] Rogue River. This camp we gave the somewhat starting appellation of Earthquake Camp, from the following circumstance: It was ten o'clock at night--dense clouds of smoke mantled the surrounding hills, together with the melancholy moaning of numerous rapids of the river which ran nearby, gave the whole scene an air of extreme solitude. The women and children had long since retired, and the men were circled around the remnant of our once-bright camp fire, deeply engaged in relating legends of camp life, changing positions occasionally to accommodate the restless smoke. A sudden shock, accompanied by a deep, heavy sound, cut off a half-told story of our very communicative guide, just in time to hear half-suppressed screams from the ladies' department. To those of us who were awake the cause was obvious. A horse had shaken himself! Owing to the light nature of the region it had given a tremulous motion to the ground for rods around. To the ladies, however, who were asleep at the time, it remained a source of mystery and troubled dreams for the remainder of the night, and not until they had related their dreams of volcanoes, earthquakes and quahogs were they advised of the nature of the earthquake.
    This noted landmark is seen from Abbott's, forty miles from Jacksonville. It is situated about three miles from the road, and is probably eight hundred feet high, the last four hundred perpendicular. It derives its name from its shape and its bolted appearance, resembling the flounces on a lady's skirt. It is composed of various strata of different-colored stone, which appears in the distance not more than two feet wide, although in reality they are probably seven or eight. I think a more appropriate name would have been Balmoral Rock. From here we passed over a high, graded mountain, giving us a view of Pimple Head, a high tower-like rock near the river. During the day we crossed Rogue River bridge, thence through dense forests of pine, fir and spruce timber for a distance of eleven miles to Union Creek, a dashing mountain torrent, tributary to Rogue River.
    The submissive patience and calm determination of our baggage master became pleasingly apparent after crossing Rogue River bridge. Before the reader can appreciate all the points of our worthy baggage master, it will be necessary to give a brief description of his outfit. His carriage was what is known among farmers as a "header wagon." It is made with low wheels, coupled six and a half feet apart, the axletree being within one foot of the ground. The bed of this particular wagon was a kind of extempore affair, being made some five inches too narrow for the wagon, the end boards tied in with strings, and no provision made for preventing it slipping forward and back. Thus equipped, our self-imposed baggage master cracked his whip and started mountainward, exulting that no possible bad road could upset his duck-legged wagon. And such indeed proved to be the case throughout the journey. An unlooked-for trouble encountered our baggage wagon on crossing Rogue River. From this point on, the road was made through thick timber and over a soft pumice stone soil, and consequently the road has been beaten down from eighteen to twenty inches, leaving some hundreds of stumps to the mile, too high for our duck-legged wagon to pass over. It was among these stumps that the peculiar virtues of our baggage master shone forth through the clouds of dust which surrounded him and his favorite wagon. Now you would see him packing logs to bridge a stump, again you would see him trying to drive between two trees outside the road just two inches too narrow to pass; next you would see him trying to drive one wheel over the stump, which expedient was three times out of ten successful. I do not hesitate to say that through the ingenuity of the baggage master full one-half of the stumps were passed without striking the axletree of his wagon sufficiently to cause a dead halt. Of course I do not pretend to say that he was so successful for the first fifteen or twenty miles of stump driving. It was only after he had become an expert at the business. But what is most worthy of imitation is the fact that our B.M. did not once become impatient or out of humor, but went through every difficulty with a smile of content on his countenance. This certainly shows the "supremacy of man" over his own accidents.
    We camped on a terrific little torrent, rushing, fretting and foaming down the mountainside at a fall of three feet in ten. One-half mile below us, Union Falls on this little stream is a very pretty object. It falls some forty feet almost perpendicular.
    On the 31st we traveled all day over a very good but stumpy road. During the day we passed through vast forests of dead timber, which had been killed by fire. Among this dead timber in many places the ground was covered with low whortleberry of the most delicious kind. We also passed many small brooks and springs in which the water stood at 40 degrees F., just eight degrees above freezing, while Jacksonville water stands at sixty.
    It seems as though nature has her idiosyncrasies in every country, but nowhere does she develop such singular freaks as on the Pacific Coast. The objects known by the above name are situated on Crack Creek about two miles from its source. They consist of some hundreds of spires composed of material resembling ferruginous cinder with dark metallic fracture. The banks of the creek are some four hundred feet in height, sloping down to an angle of about fifty degrees. The earth of these banks is composed of very loose pumice stone dust which runs down them in continual streams. The needles rise perpendicularly all the way from the creek to the top of the bank. They are evidently dikes of lava, which have penetrated the soft soil at some time, and the channel of the creek has washed away the loose sand and left them standing erect. We camped one mile from the summit of the Cascade Mountains and two and a half miles from Crater Lake at a place known as Sprague's dug-way. At this place a trail has been graded down the precipitous banks of Crack Creek sufficient to pass men and horses. On the next day (Aug. 1st) the order of the day was to find "a Northwest Passage" to Crater Lake whereby we could take our wagons and boat. We started out early in the morning, a party of self-constituted road viewers. After nearly the whole day spent, we succeeded in finding a good route for a wagon road and moved our camp about one-half mile lakewards when we found excellent grass and water. On the next day we cut out the road to the lake, returned and moved camp to within half a mile of that point and in time to haul our boat to the brink of its destination. On the 3rd we took our families in the wagons and soon arrived at the long wished-for point. On alighting from the wagons and reaching the brink, the first exclamation of the ladies was "Look out for the children! Stand back, Cora! Look out for Zetta! Come back, Jimmy! Come back, Peter!"

    To David Linn of Jacksonville belongs the undisputed honor of having launched the first boat on Crater Lake. This event took place on the afternoon of Thursday, August 5, 1869, when the boat was launched and a party composed of Mr. Linn, Lieutenant Small, from Fort Klamath, James D. Fay and James Sutton of Jacksonville took the first boat ride ever made by man on Crater Lake, for the few white men who had visited it previously had no boat or other means of navigating the water of the lake, and the Indians certainly had not for they had such a horror of the great hole in the top of the mountain, thinking it the abode of evil spirits, that they gave Crater Lake a wide berth in their travels. Mr. Linn and his party visited Wizard Island that afternoon, being thus the first persons to visit that wonderful volcanic cone. They climbed to the top of it and brought away as souvenirs pieces of pumice and lava rock of which the cone is formed. Mr. Linn yet has two of the pieces, one being a dark-colored pumice stone.
    Mr. Linn built the boat, which was scow-shaped, 16 feet long and 3½ feet wide, at his planing mill in Jacksonville but did not put it together here, leaving the boards separate and hauling them to Crater Lake. The morning of the day that they made their voyage on the lake they carried the boards down the rugged precipice leading to the water. They had a very hard time getting down to the water's edge, for there was no marked-out trail, and several times, being encumbered with the boards, they were in imminent danger of losing their footing and plunging down into the lake. Arriving at the water's edge, it was but the work of a short time to put the boat together, and soon the waters of Crater Lake were broken by the splash of oars for the first time since that wonderful body of water was formed. Mr. Linn's party remained in camp at the lake for several days, during which they fully explored the lake in their boat. When leaving the lake they took the boat and placed it in a sheltered place on the bank, posting up a notice on the trail telling where it could be found and requesting those using it to return it to its place where it would be sheltered during the winter months from the weather. As to whatever became of the boat Mr. Linn does not know, and as it disappeared long years ago it is probable that some careless, lazy party used the boat on the lake, and leaving it in the water the winter storms wrecked it.
Jacksonville Sentinel, September 4, 1903, page 2

    The first picture ever made of Crater Lake was by Peter Britt of Jacksonville. Mr. Britt, accompanied by his son Emil, who was then a small boy, and Samuel Hall in August 1874 made a trip to Crater Lake for the purpose of taking a picture of the lake, for none had ever been made before, as no other photographer was venturesome enough to undertake so tiresome and expensive a trip as it then was. The road then was more difficult to travel than now, and to haul to Crater Lake their camp outfit and a complete photographic outfit was a big undertaking, for that was before the dry process had been invented and Mr. Britt had an outfit that weighed over 200 pounds, for he had to use the wet process and to take with him a full supply of chemicals, silver baths and other helps and prepare each plate as he used it. Mr. Britt put in the greater part of two days in taking views of the lake, and he succeeded in getting seven negatives, some of which he yet has. The first engraving to appear in a publication was made from a photograph supplied by Mr. Britt and was in the West Shore, an illustrated magazine published in Portland some years ago. Mr. Britt, who is a painter of considerable talent, painted in oil a fine sketch of the lake, which was the first ever made of the celebrated scene. The painting yet hangs in Mr. Britt's studio, and it compares well with those painted in later years by other artists.
"First Boat on Crater Lake," Jacksonville Sentinel, September 4, 1903, page 2

    Well, according to promise, after seeing the sights about Lake Majesty, enjoying the hospitality of the generous "boys in blue" at Fort Klamath, who have enrolled themselves as soldiers under the "banner of temperance," and are now ready to set an example of morality both by precept and example for those who should themselves be the teachers and models, and enjoying many other pleasures and seeing sights too numerous to prelude my article by stating them, I am partly prepared to give them to the readers of the Sentinel, who have not had the exquisite pleasure or could not spare the time to take this trip and see for themselves.
    Let me see, how shall I commence--by stating--? yes, now I have it! It was a very gusty morn somewhere between the 20th of August and middle of September (if you want the exact date call at the P.O. and our P.M. will give it) that fully prepared and equipped with the necessary apparatus for camping we started forth with bright anticipation of what we should see, fully determined to enjoy ourselves in the most approved style. With a hack that moved with a light and graceful motion, and a team that bore well on the bits, we headed for the mountains, took dinner at Madame Caldwell's spring, and camped for the night at Keene Creek, where the kind thoughtfulness of Col. Mason furnished us a spare tent, for which our appreciation was felt if not fully expressed. The Colonel is superintending the construction of the Southern Oregon Wagon Road, and deserves great praise for the manner in which he is doing his work. The Green Spring hill, which has always been a terror to teamsters, being so steep and difficult of ascent, is now traversed by a safe and easy grace; also the descent to Keene Creek is no longer dreaded as of old--but our province is sightseeing, and following our present purpose we pause on the summit of the hill between Keene Creek and Green Spring and look back; our eyes are greeted by a very fine view of several ranges of mountains raising their lofty crests one above the other till far in the distance the dim outlines of the California Coast Range are traced by the eye of the traveler. Pilot Rock looms up grand and gloomy, as if it were a mighty sentinel to guard the pass of the Siskiyous. During the succeeding day nothing occurred to relieve the monotony of the unchanging scenery. The road for thirty miles traverses a densely timbered region seemingly almost level, and were it not for the rocky sections of road one now and then passes over, the traveler might slumber sweetly or indulge in daydreams and lose nothing by deigning the surroundings more than a passing glance. On the third day we got a first glance of Little Klamath Basin from a high bluff overlooking Klamath River. The day was smoky, and the view as as "through a glass darkly"; in the foreground was seen Klamath River winding its tortuous way through tule and marsh, smooth and placid as the bosom of the lake, seen in the dim distance resembling a huge mirror covered with a thick veil and reflecting the rays of the sun through a mist. The scene was one calculated to awaken the muses, or stir to action the soul of a poet.
    With considerable reluctance we descended from the brow of the cliff, resumed our seats in the hack and were soon whirling along through a cloud of alkali dust, forced to refrain from commenting on the sudden change in the topography of the country or submit to a strangling dose of dust prescribed by Dame Earth and administered by the gentle zephyrs which kept us completely enveloped in its cloud. This basin, being well adapted to stock raising, is being rapidly filled up, and agriculture is carried on with a considerable degree of success. One great drawback is the water. Though there is an abundance of it, it is of a very poor quality, and people who have been in the habit of quaffing nature's beverage as it comes "sparkling and bright" from the snow-covered heights of Ashland peaks almost famish ere reaching the pure aqua beyond.
    We reached Linkville about three o'clock p.m., pitched camp above town, and in the cool shades of the evening my wife and I (for be it known that I am a married man now, and wouldn't change places with the Czar of Russia, no sir! not much), well, as I was about to say, my wife and I accepted the kind invitation of our estimable friend H. M. Thatcher to take a boat ride, and soon we were gliding "o'er the waters blue," and not until the song of birds had ceased and the small still hours of night were fast approaching did we moor "our little boat," bid our friend a kind good night and repair to camp.
    Linkville is situated on the bank of Link River at a point where the river loses its identity, merges into a beautiful little lake [and] is henceforth known as Klamath River. The surrounding country presents rather a barren, unproductive and uninviting appearance, but facts do not carry out the impression, and we find that nearly all the fruits, vegetables and grain peculiar to the latitude and climate are successfully produced. Messrs. Nurse & Miller are doing a good business in the mercantile line. Uncle George has in the past year erected a commodious and substantial hotel building and gets good patronage from many of the citizens of the place as well as from travelers and visitors. Linkville is peopled by a class of men who are not only devoted to business but are careful to make visitors feel at home and assist in heightening their enjoyment if they chance to be seeking pleasure.
    Leaving Linkville for Fort Klamath, our road lay over a low range of hills, from the summit of which a fine view can be obtained of Link River Basin, Lost River, Little Klamath Lake, Klamath and Link rivers, Mount Shasta and Mount McLoughlin. Here the admirer of the beauties of nature may feast his eyes unto weariness. Our road for a distance of 9 miles from this point passes through a fine open forest of timber and descends to Big Klamath Lake by an easy grade. Here is a fine ranch, where, when he is at home, Captain Ferris' (the proprietor) jolly face may be seen, and his clear ringing voice is always a pleasant welcome to his many friends. Here the Capt. tells me he raises an abundance of choice vegetables and feels confident that whatever he wishes from the soil he can produce. Looking from the balcony of his house a fine view of the lake is obtained.
    One and a half miles from this place we arrive at a very rough piece of road known as Modoc Point, and he who wishes a thorough shaking, and a severe test of his temper and nervous system, I would advise to take a trip over Modoc Point. We succeeded in passing this terrible ordeal without any nervous injury and, remembering our trip to be a pleasure trip, refrained from the use of any expletives. We arrived at Williams River in time to fix up our camp by firelight. But my article is getting long, and to my readers I expect rather tedious, but as we are now just nearing the principal object of our visit, and that, for which I commenced this article to describe, I will conclude in the next issue by giving a few remarks on Fort Klamath and surroundings, and last but most important of all, Lake Majesty and Rogue River Falls.
Oregon Sentinel, Jacksonville, September 19, 1874, page 2


Oregon Sentinel, Jacksonville, September 26, 1874, page 2

    (The following sketch is copied from the Daily Oregonian of June 28th. We presume it to have emanated from the pen of Judge J. H. Reed. Everyone conversant with the scenery referred to will at once recognize the faithfulness of the description. Our people are so accustomed to looking upon the natural beauties surrounding them that they do not appreciate their charms as do those who visit and view them for the first time, and their description in this instance is by one fully able to appreciae natural beauty and competent to express the truth in a charming way without at all encroaching upon the realm of romance. Of such is the statement following:)
    Of all the varied and beautiful country which is found between Los Angeles and Puget Sound, none is more lovely in climate, more fertile in soil, more varied in products and more exquisite in scenery than the valley of Rogue River in Southern Oregon.
    Jackson County, through which the Rogue River runs, is one of the southern counties of the state. There the almond, the fig and the magnolia, the pride of the South, grow and bloom in the open air. With the Siskiyous on the south, dividing it from California, the Cascades or Sierras on the east, and the Coast Range on the west, and its beautiful prairies--dotted with oak groves and teeming with grain, orchards and vineyards--running up to the foot of the mountains, it presents a scene at once soft and grand like "Beauty sleeping in the lap of Terror." The river itself was originally called Rouge River by the voyageurs of the Hudson Bay Company [not true], then Gold River, and at last it has been doomed to bear the title of Rogue River, a corruption of its first name. [The river was named after the propensities of its natives, not any supposed color.] Some few years ago, it was rumored that at the source of the river in the Cascades a lake had been discovered of such surpassing magnificence that the like had ne'er been seen. On one of our lovely September days of last year it was determined to start out to find the lake and enjoy the mountains. The party consisted of General John E. Ross, "Jimmy" Stewart and the writer. The General is an old Oregonian, and has been in every Indian war from the days of "Old John" and his men, the heroic age of Indian warfare in 1855-'56, until and inclusive of the Modoc troubles. "Jimmy" is a Scotchman, as his royal name would indicate. He has been gamekeeper, sailor, packer and an old "'49" miner. He is a good shot with both shotgun and rifle, Purdy or Winchester, and in the mountains is worth half a regiment of men. Nothing can break that he cannot lash; nothing can happen which is beyond his resources. There is one acknowledged weakness, however, in "Jimmy's" character. His perception of the right of property in dogs is not acute. He recognizes no ownership in a good dog of any species, save in himself. He is not altogether to blame, however, for his acquisitiveness in this particular, as ninety-nine dogs out of a hundred will follow him, "will ye, nil ye."
    Having laid in seven days' provisions, we started up the river, traveling for the first twenty miles through the valley, by farm houses and mills and fields full of horses and cattle and sheep, until we crossed the river. Then the ascent began, which never terminated until we reached the summit of the range, eighty miles away. Higher and steeper becomes the trail, grander the scenery, and the mountains are piled up as you advance in inextricable confusion. Sometimes the river lies below you thousands of feet, looking like a silver thread, and again you are down on its banks with scarcely room between them and the mountain for your animal to walk. At one point, some hundreds of feet above the river, the General remarked, "This point is called 'Gut's defeat.'" Upon inquiry I found that the place had been thus named from an accident which happened there to an old horse belonging to an old pioneer named Hi Abbott, or the Alcalde. It seems that once when returning from a hunt, the old horse with the classic name, being loaded with the carcasses of eight deer, missed his footing and rolled down into the river, deer and all. He was not drowned, however, for as Jimmy said, "He shed his pack in the river and crawled out." But, as Irving says of Braddock, "His is a name forever associated with defeat." This Master Abbott was one of those men created for the purpose of being the forerunners of civilization. When Jacksonville was a mining camp and unbaptized, old Hi undertook to keep the boys awake one night by imitating the cry of a coyote, and moving his leg up and down from behind a log where he was concealed. A fellow named Berry, not liking to be disturbed, took a crack at the coyote with his revolver and shot Hi through the leg and lamed him for life. Just about this time the American idea of law and order and self-government and "all that" broke out in the camp and Hi was elected Alcalde. The old fellow, after some years, went up Rogue River to Flounce Rock, where, notwithstanding his short leg, he became a famous hunter. Flounce Rock is one of the landmarks on the river. At present the country about it is filled with cattle, the mountainsides and valleys being full of grass. The rock itself is perhaps a thousand feet at its base above the little valley which it overhangs, and from its base to its summit is about five hundred feet more. When the country was all under water, or rather when the water was subsiding, there were peculiar marks like water lines made upon the rock, which were thought by the discoverers to resemble the flounces on a lady's dress, hence the name of Flounce Rock. Proceeding up the river and diverging a mile or so from the trail to the right, you come to the falls of the river. Of course the whole stream at this elevation (4,000 feet above the sea) is nothing but a series of rapids; here, however, we have a perpendicular fall of one hundred and ninety-four feet. It has the usual concomitants of all large waterfalls, the roar, the spray and the rainbow, but it has what the others have not, its stupendous forests of fir, white pine, sugar pine, hemlock and yew trees standing around as silent spectators.
    The party moved on from the falls, intending to camp at a camp called Union Creek, tolerably near the summit. Before reaching the place night set in. The weather for two weeks prior to this time had been unseasonably warm, and long before we made our camping place the heavens "were hung with black," and owing to the darkness of the night, increased tenfold by the storm clouds and the dense forest, it was as much as we could do to find our way. In fact we could not have found it save for the sheet lightning which every moment or two absolutely covered the heavens. Just as we reached our camping ground and whilst we were unpacking our things, the storm culminated and the sheet lightning became forked, and then ensued such a scene of unparalleled grandeur as does not often fall to the lot of a man to see. Most men have to look up to see the lightning flash, and wait a moment for the thunder, but here we could look around us and on a level with us and see the chain lightning and look into it and see it as if it were running down like the molten metal that issues from a furnace, the crash and the flash being simultaneous. The isolation, the gigantic trees, the darkness lit up by oft-repeated flashes, and finally rendered more weird-like by the flames of two trees which the lightning had struck and set on fire, together with the sighing of the wind through the firs, and the roaring of the creek over the rapids where we camped, made it impossible to add another circumstance toward the completeness of the storm and its surroundings. We understood afterwards that in the valleys on both sides of the mountains towards the east and towards the west, and a hundred miles apart, people had been looking at the storm and wondering at its fierceness. We were in the midst of it and admiring it.
    Jimmy was proceeding to spread our blankets between two of the very tallest trees in the group. A member of the party suggested that it might not be a safe place, as the trees towered so high, to which Jimmy quietly remarked that if he had to be killed by lightning that night he was going to be dry when he died, and so proceeded with his duties as chambermaid. Our fear of getting wet, however, was unfounded. We had all the beauty of the storm and none of its inconveniences. It went down into the valley and left us above it, not wetting us in the least.
    In the morning we pursued our way with the animals until noon, when we took it afoot for about a mile, which brought us to the rim of the lake. One glance repaid us a thousandfold for all the fatigue and trouble we had taken. The lake first known as Crater Lake, but now, with our national love of dollar-store jewelry and tawdry finery, called by some Lake Sublimity and by others Lake Majesty, lies at an elevation of seven thousand feet above the sea, measured by triangulation. It is seven and a half miles long by five and a half wide, and it has been sounded to a depth of five hundred and fifty feet and no bottom. It is in the summit of the Cascades, as we call them in Oregon, or the Sierras, as they are called in California. The ground recedes in every direction from the rim, and there are no higher peaks in the immediate vicinity. The depth from the rim of the lake down to the water varies from two thousand to four thousand feet, almost perpendicular. In the middle of the lake stands, covered with timber, a conical mountain, fifteen hundred feet high, a perfect sugarloaf, with its concave apex filled with snow, evidently an extinct volcano settled down and sunk, and now surrounded by water. An adventurous party descended the wall which forms the sides of the lake and, making a raft, sounded the depth as far as their fishing lines would reach, and then explored the sunken mountain to its top. There is no beach to the lake, the ground preserving the same inclination under the water as above it. Jimmy descended the precipice forty or fifty feet to disengage a boulder some two feet and a half in diameter from the soil and roll it down. We timed it for precisely one minute by the watch, tracing its course by the eye and by the ear when it disappeared from sight and sound, and we could hear no splash, nor could we see any ripple in the water.
    The storm of the night before had purified the atmosphere, and the sight which met our gaze when we first caught a glimpse of the lake surpassed anything that any of our party had ever seen, and we were all old mountain men. It was not solely grand and terrible, awe-inspiring like the thunderstorm, but it was grandeur tempered with calmness and gentleness and serene beauty. There was not a ripple or the slightest motion in the water, and the General could not be persuaded that it was water that we first saw. He insisted on it that the lake had sunk: He was deceived by the extraordinary clearness of the water and his mistaking the water line as it then was for an old water line such as you see left by high water on all our watercourses. No mirror ever made reflected more perfectly than did the lake. The stupendous banks with every rock, with every obelisk and prism and peculiarity of shape, every mark and cave were as perfect in the water as they were above it, so that it was difficult to tell where the water commenced and the bank ended. Had your name been carved on the wall rock you would have seen it reflected in the water below. Every fleecy cloud and the deep blue of the sky intensified by the water into such a blue as never was seen before were reflected until you felt as if you were above the sky looking down into it.
    The point from which we looked down was two thousand feet above the water beneath us, and that was the lowest place in the rim. You can get no nearer the water without descending the almost-perpendicular sides. The lake looked like an opal, not seeming to us more than a mile or two long and a mile broad.
    From our standpoint, with the lake at our feet, looking up the Cascades north, we could see at long intervals Diamond Peak, the Three Sisters, and Mount Jefferson, covered with their eternal snows, and turning our faces east and south, we had away below us the Modoc country and Klamath Lake, with Sprague River, Williamson's River, Wood River and Annie River threading the desert, and in the far south, grand old Shasta, with his 14,400 feet, and his living glacier, the king of Northern California. Why was not Bierstadt there?
    As the lake is as high as the summit of the mountain pass where the road leads over from Jacksonville to Fort Klamath, and as there are no mountains within a great distance higher than the lake, and the ground is descending on all sides from it, the question naturally arises, how is the lake fed and whence comes this great body of water. The answer may be arrived at by observing how the lake discharges itself. The plateau on which Klamath Lake and the rivers emptying into it is situated on the east of the mountains is 2,000 feet higher than the valley of Rogue River on the west of the mountains. At the foot of the mountains on the east, Wood River, a large river, in whose waters there is never any variation, Annie River and some smaller streams at a distance of 20 or 25 miles from the lake, and at a depth of 5,000 feet below it, all come out from under the mountains. They do not rise like pools or springs; they come out as rivers with a rapid current, and the fish can be seen at any time swimming upstream and under the mountain where the stream breaks out. There is no doubt but that these streams are the outlet of the lake. The whole country is lava and nothing but lava, and the water of the lake percolates through the lava, and finds its way through fissures and crevices until it forms the rivers above mentioned. There is no other visible outlet to the lake, and there can be no other source of the rivers. Is it not then probable that the lake is fed in the same manner that it is discharged, and that it is supplied by subterranean channels, even from the snowy peaks which tower up along the whole range, although they are miles, aye, some of them hundreds of miles distant?
    No Indian ever treads the bank of the lake. There is a tradition that the lake is inhabited by a monster, to obtain a sight of which is death to a red man.
    The whole scene has the look of enchantment--not a fish in the water, not a bird flying over it, not a motion in its glassy surface. Men born and brought up in a mountain country, however rude or unconventional they may be, are more or less all poets. There is many a "mute inglorious Milton" who can feel, but cannot speak, poetry, and few of that class of men will ever stand by Crater Lake for the first time without being silent, and becoming conscious of their own littleness; involuntarily they will look up to Him in whose boiling crucible at the appointed time, rocks, rivers, mountains and woods shall melt together.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, July 7, 1877, page 1.  The article originally ran in the Oregonian, Portland, June 28, 1877, page 4, and was subsequently reprinted in the Ashland Tidings, July 13, 1877, page 1


    FOR CRATER LAKE.--A large party was to leave Ashland this week for Crater Lake, with Capt. O. C. Applegate as pilot, to be joined at Linkville by another crowd. Mr. Wicks, a representative of Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, of New York, was expected to join the expedition and furnish views of the scenery for that enterprising sheet.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, August 24, 1877, page 3  The magazine apparently didn't publish an article about Crater Lake until January 1888.


    Southeastern Oregon offers more substance for the consideration of the average tourist than those unacquainted in the premises may suppose. Endowed with a pleasant and congenial temperature during the sultry summer months, and affording some of the finest and most pleasing scenery, we cannot wonder at the gratification afforded the large and constantly increasing number that annually visit. Here the hunter finds a varied abundance of game; the numerous streams abound in the finny tribes, while everything seems to blend in making this region peculiarly the scene for a short summer journey of recreation.
    Interested by the seemingly romantic stories told and written of Crater Lake, Rogue River Falls and other indigenous scenery, we have taken occasion to see and be satisfied. A modern writer has well written that to neglect seeing what others would travel hundreds of miles to get a glimpse of, would be a mortal sin. And he must have had these in his mind's eye when he penned those truthful words. Enthusiasts are prone to magnify; but, if we make the usual allowance for this fact, it will not be difficult to realize the beauties of these wonders as portrayed by various writers.
    Leaving Jacksonville on the 29th ult., in company with a couple of congenial companions, and duly equipped for a three weeks' cruise, our party started for Lake County, via the Rogue River road. This route is not calculated to particularly inspire the average traveler with thoughts of "the golden way to Heaven," but for a mountain road may be said to be good. Great forests of pine and fir line it on either side, the monotony of which is now and then varied by a ranch appearing at intervals--especially after the bridge across the river is passed. Immense fires have devastated them, and for miles around, in different places, nothing but blighted trees, tall and bare, meet your gaze. Of late years this wild waste has been settled to a considerable extent, some very good stock ranches having been taken up and well improved.
    Strung along in reckless confusion is some of the most picturesque mountain scenery to be met with on the route. Here we find the "Hole-in-the-Ground," a pretty, moss-bedecked precipice a short distance from the road; Flounce Rock, a large stone sitting on the mountain, with curious creases at its base, reminding us of flounces in the dress of our grandmother's days, from which it derives its name; the "Pimple-head," a large rock evidently named in the age of the Cardiff Giant, which hangs pendant and can be moved ad libitum, though repeated efforts have failed to detach it from its place. Other unique and noticeable features on the earth's surface serve to keep up the interest the entire way.
    But the object above all others that captured our admiration and wonder were the inimitable Rogue River Falls, sublime and magnificent in all their beauty. Situated about a mile and a half below the bridge, in a rough and almost inaccessible location, they are being sought after as among the principal wonders native to the Coast. This extravagance of nature is formed by the waters of Mill Creek falling a distance of near two hundred feet to the rocky channel of the river below, which itself rushes fiercely through a series of tortuous declivities at this point, lending to make the scene all the more imposing and romantic. Like successive drifts of fine snow the water tumbles down this great height, forming a beautiful spray, which nurtures a delicate rainbow. As if by contrast, in the immediate neighborhood flourishes an extensive growth of grasses and moss of flashy and variegated colors, adding to the sight. Farther down, Bar Creek attempts a repetition, but is lost in its own insignificance. To us there appears a similarity to the famous Bridal Veil Falls of the Yosemite Valley, a comparison not altogether extravagant. To be appreciated they need only be seen.
    Leaving the main road some twenty miles this side of Fort Klamath, three miles more bring us to the Como of Oregon--Crater Lake. These three are the most expensive miles it has ever been our lot to traverse, and the "Rocky Road to Dublin" surely could not find a worthier continuation. But once there, your anticipations are realized. We do not propose to afflict our readers with a description of the lake. Others before as have painted it in all its resplendent beauty, and we can add nothing to enlarge on that already given. The party from Ashland, headed by O. C. Applegate, was still here, as also L. Shideler and party. The adjacent country is well supplied with fuel and grass; the water, however, is carried a great distance. A spring has recently been discovered near the lake, but the water is not generally used. Deer are plentiful but rarely killed. Some people seem to derive great satisfaction in going down to the water's edge; others clamber up the rugged peaks surrounding and imagine they see a beauteous landscape; but as for us, we have decided to bide our time until elevators and railroads inhabit the region. During our stay, a raft improvised for the occasion, consisting of old logs tied together with suspenders, rags and undergarments, and manned by Capt. Ivan Applegate and Jim McCully, made a trip to the island or crater, situated near the west side of the lake. There is a deception as to the real distance down to the water; but after you make the descent and find yourself at the top again you are apt to painfully realize the fact that "things are not what they seem." One thing surprising is the remarkable growth everything is liable to undergo. The lake gets larger and the peaks shoot higher every time you go there. A few years ago this body of water was ten miles long; now it is fifteen, and still growing. Crater Lake has been selected as a place for Southern Oregon heroes to hand down their names to posterity. Every mound bears some euphonious cognomen, and every tree has been blazed for miles around, upon which the names of these martyrs stand out in bas relief. Not even an unclaimed molehill could we find by which to commemorate the visit of our "noble" party. Passing one day pleasantly here, we left for the land of sagebrush on the morning of the 3rd, of which more will be said in our next.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, September 21, 1877, page 3


    The great attraction on the Pacific Coast being the Rogue River Falls, and Crater Lake on the summit of the Cascade Mountains; my friends thought it wouldn't do for me not to see these wonders of the continent. So we rigged up a wagon and team, tent and camp equipage, with two weeks provisions and started on our 200 miles journey. When I say we, l mean Richard Klippel, Lannes Klippel, Aaron Maegley, Wm. Peninger and myself. We started from Jacksonville Tuesday evening Sept. 4, lodged at Mr. Fisher's where we took in balance of provisions; sack of flour, and 20 bushels of oats for the horses. As we passed out of the fertile Rogue River Valley we entered the so-called twelve-mile desert. This body of land seemed to me as if it had once been the bottom of the sea, and consists of a continuation of gentle hills and valleys. The hills are a sandy, pebbly formation, and the valleys are filled with coarse gravel and round rock.
    We are taking a northeastern course from Jacksonville, and at Bybee's Crossing we ferry from the left side of Rogue River to the right of that stream; we keep on the right for a distance of 44 miles where we cross it once more over a brand-new bridge near Mr. Deskins' ranch and saw mill, one and one-half miles above the falls. Here we halt again for the night, and in the morning we visit the falls, and in doing so we have to pass through a dense growth of timber and underbrush. Having reached the precipice of the falls we had a fine view. It is not an abrupt fall but a succession of falls. The river falls 300 feet in as many yards, and works itself through and overshoots huge boulders of rock. Two hundred yards below is another and by far the finest of this cluster of falls. A large tributary to Rogue River empties its waters into it over its perpendicular left bank which is here 198 feet in height. The deafening sound of the leaping waters, the dampening spray and the multitudinous rainbow tints present a scene both wild and grand. To give a description of the rugged, precipitous Rogue River canyon, so as to impress its magnitude upon persons at a distance, is quite an impossibility for me, and I will have to leave it to your imagination to supply the deficiency of my description.
    In the afternoon of Friday the 7th, we left the camp at Deskins' (the Rogue River bridge near the falls) and drove nine miles farther on our way to Crater Lake, and stopped one and one-half miles this side of Union Creek for the purpose of enjoying a bear and deer hunt, which game abound in all this region of country. Up to this writing (at 2 p.m.) our hunters have brought in but two deer and one lynx (wildcat) but "nary bear." Harvey Deskins is among our hunting party. About a mile from camp he shot a deer, and as he was dragging it down the mountain he came across two cubs (young bears). He tried to capture one, when its mother made her appearance and showed fight for the protection of her offspring, whereupon Mr. Deskins retreated, believing that to be the better part of valor. The most wonderful bear stories are related by these courageous backwoodsmen. I can only believe them by taking a look at their stocks of bear, panther and deer skins. I am thinking of bringing home with me enough bear skins to carpet one or two of our rooms. I asked if there was any danger of exterminating this game, and received as an answer that there would not be in 200 years.
    Reached here at 3 p.m. Went up to the rim of Crater Lake, 8,500 feet above the level of the sea. We looked over an immense precipice 2,290 feet into the blue lake below. We viewed this wonder of the Pacific Coast from different elevations on the western banks. It is six miles across and fifteen long, and a gentle island (mountain peak) rising from the center is covered with a scattering growth of tall fir and pine trees. The top of the peak has a deep hole in it, at the bottom of which lies a bank of eternal snow. As we had no trusted guide to pilot us, and as the surface of the lake appeared to us very ruffled from a storm and the white waves were visible, we did not feel like risking our precious lives in an attempt to descend to the water's edge. A commanding view of the entire lake is afforded from a high rocky point on the northwest. The high rocky walls which surround this remarkable body of water on this high range of mountains, and the great fields of pumice stone that are strewn in great quantities all over this country all go to show that this was once a mighty volcano, which poured out fiery lava in every direction. Huge boulders of burned rock and immense beds of pumice stone could be seen for forty-five miles of our journey ascending the Cascade Mountains. The same is true on the east of this mountain.
    We have passed Fort Klamath, 22 miles from Crater Lake, and Klamath Indian Reservation, 27 miles from Crater Lake. The Indians do not go near this remarkable lake. They maintain that looking down upon its blue waters is certain death to the Indian.
    Many questions are asked and still unanswered concerning this lake. How much higher was this mountain before it exploded? When did the eruption take place? Where does this great body of water come from, and where does it go to? It has no inlet and no outlet. And how deep is it? Owing to the high altitude and cold and snow, we have no account that it has ever been visited in the winter time. The government owes it to the world of science to have this lake and its surroundings thoroughly explored. The explorations so far have all been by private parties and very unsatisfactory.
    We had intended to spend this day and the next in visiting the elevation on its northern boundary and descending to the water's edge, but before daybreak on Monday morning a storm arose and a rain set in, which by eight o'clock turned into a furious snowstorm. We were in a quandary what to do, whether to remain in camp and wait for the storm to subside, or to pull up stakes and strike for the head of Klamath Valley, fifteen miles southeast of the summit of Crater Mountain. There appeared to be every indication of a lasting storm and we concluded to abandon Crater. As we descended the mountain into Eastern Oregon we endured a pelting rain accompanied by a chilling atmosphere. In looking back, the dense clouds were enveloping the mountains in every direction. In passing the Klamath Indian Reservation the next day, we had a fine view of the mountains we had left. They were white with the snows of the previous day.
    On our way to Fort Klamath, we came to the biggest spring on the trip. It bursts forth out of the earth eight feet one way and seventy-five the other and forms what is called Wood River. The waters are very cool and as clear as crystal, and the stream is full of fish. This spring evidently receives its waters from the Crater. The point where it issues from the earth lies an elevation of 2,470 feet above the level of the sea, and is almost twelve miles distant from Crater Lake.
    We passed through the so-called Klamath Marsh, a vast tract of meadow land with thousands upon thousands of head of horses, cattle and sheep. None of this land seemed marshy to us. It is much in the shape of our Missouri prairie bottoms, with only this difference that the streams which flow through it (of which there are quite a number) flow very rapidly.
    From the Rogue River Falls to the U.S. military post, Fort Klamath, a distance of 53 miles, there is not a house to be seen. The country between these points is too varied to attempt a satisfactory description at this moment, and I must reserve it for some other time.
Adam Klippel, "A Missourian's Observations," Ashland Tidings, October 12, 1877, page 1

    "Simon Peter said unto them, I go a fishing. They say unto him, We also go with thee."
    So spake the apostles of old; so also said we, Peter, and Thomas, and James, three modern apostles, mastered by the desire to find "fresh woods and pastures new" in which to spend our summer vacation. A trip to the Old World, with "Cook's tourists " everywhere, was not to be thought of for a moment; in the East nearly every nook and corner of mountain and valley was known to us; and for years past we had wandered at intervals through various parts of California. So this one summer found us fishing for something new. Appeared on the scene one day John, a brother apostle, for years past a denizen of Southern Oregon's wilds, and until now by us long time unseen.
    "Is there," said we to him, "no strange place of which you know, that would be to us 'something new under the sun'?"
    "Yes," said he, without a moment's hesitation; "there is Crater Lake, something probably without a parallel in the scenery of the world. Called at different times by such various names as 'Blue Lake,' 'Mystic Lake,' 'Lake Majesty,' and 'Deep Lake,' its last and most appropriate name of 'Crater Lake' is probably the one it will now bear forever. The deepest clear-water lake on the American continent, reliable soundings by a party of surveyors having been taken to a depth of 2012 feet, it is only to be seen after climbing nearly seven thousand feet above sea level. Comparatively easy of access, and in the midst of scenery really sublime, you will have freedom from the perennial tourist who haunts more beaten paths, besides fishing and hunting for every day you are gone."
    With the prospect of such things before us, who would not have done as we did? With John's consent, he was at once installed as guide and director of our party. Within a week we were in Medford, Oregon, a small railroad station in Rogue River Valley. Wagon, driver, food, blankets and all that goes to form an outfit for mountain travel and camping being procured at that place, the railroad was left behind and our pilgrimage begun. Good weather for weeks to come was assured us, storms never--at least, hardly ever--beginning until late in the autumn, and it was now midsummer.
    After riding a dozen miles down the valley, Rogue River--corrupted from Roque, the Frenchman in whose honor the stream was named [not true--"Rogue" comes from the English, as applied to the local Indians]--was reached and crossed at the foot of  "Table Rock." Here [again, not true], in the days of Oregon's early settlement, were fought many bloody battles between the Indians and whites, and numerous are the tales told of battles fought, dangers incurred and perils braved by the hardy settlers of early days. What a contrast then to the peaceful scene we looked upon!
    Our road now followed for miles along the margin, and no river scenery could be more enchantingly beautiful, with its verdure-clad, willow-lined banks, and the smooth, beautiful water, with trout leaping from still pools, or making their way with mighty splashings through its shoals. As we ascended the valley the river grew gradually narrower; farms and dwellings were fewer and farther between; the forests grew more and more dense, while large boulders betokening volcanic origin were occasionally seen, with now and then a waste of pulverized pumice stone over which to travel.
    At the place known as "Hole in the Ground" [i.e., Natural Bridge], a small stream pours into an opening only totally to disappear, the sound of its waters growing gradually more and more indistinct as it passes out of sight. It is not a chasm, as might be supposed, but literally a "hole in the ground," whose depths no one has yet been able to sound. Flounce Rock lifted a flattened peak above us, its sides befrilled with stony ruffles representing a bygone style in more enduring material than the pages of a fashion journal.
    One encounters queer types of the human family traveling through the woods. It would seem that the ability to conceal one's true character bears a direct ratio to the amount of knowledge. Among these illiterate and poor people generosity or greed, honesty or dishonesty, with many other characteristics, are all freely exhibited. The women of most families, strong and hearty, but rough and uncouth, as a rule do as much outdoor work as any man; plowing, harrowing, sowing, reaping, and mauling rails, with the best of them. The following, which John's wife related as one of her experiences among them on her first trip to the lake, seems worth repeating:
    "We too were going to Crater Lake, traveling the same road over which you will pass. We did our own cooking over a camp fire, but intended to stop for the night at houses we knew of along the road as having accommodations for travelers. One day, being delayed by a balky horse, and unable to make our full day's drive, we were forced to find what stopping place we could. The houses, as you will find, are few and far between, so when we came to a settlement about nine o'clock at night, we knew that here must be our stopping place, whether or no.
    "Going to bed as they do at the same time with the chickens, everyone on the place was fast asleep. My husband got out of the wagon, went to the door, and returned after some time, accompanied by the man of the house, who looked our outfit over by the light of his uplifted lantern, then said:--
    "'I guess you kin fetch up here.' To me--'You come in the haouse an' crawl right in whar I've ben, 'longside my old 'oman, an' us men folks 'll sleep aout in the barn.'
    "I didn't relish the prospect in the least, but followed him, a most unwilling victim, to the 'haouse,' which seemed to consist of but two rooms. The one into which he ushered and left me, with the assurance that 'the old 'oman 'ud be thar purty quick,' was not larger than ten feet by twelve, yet contained a dog, two cats, and a bed where four children lay asleep, two at each end. Their clothes were in little heaps about the floor, evidently left just as each little one had stepped out. With window and doors closed, the air inside is perhaps better imagined than described! A little while after I had seated myself, a rustling sound caused me to turn my head, and I saw the 'old 'oman' entering from the other room. A calico dress, evidently donned in a hurry, for the waist was not buttoned more than half way up, seemed to be almost the only garment she had on: being very short, it left exposed a rather shapely pair of ankles, and two bare feet, hard and brown. A crop of short curly hair stood out on all sides of her head, looking as if brush or comb were unknown articles. She came into the room on tiptoe, sat down on one side of the children's bed (I had the only chair in the room), began swinging her crossed feet, twirling her thumbs, and looking at me without a word. I had said 'good evening' as she entered, but received no reply. Pretty soon I ventured to say we were very sorry to intrude on them, and was proceeding to explain how we had been delayed, when she interrupted me, saying:--
    "'Geth I hain't drethed up much fer comp'ny.'
    "I suggested that full dress could hardly be expected on such short notice as she had received. I never did like to do all the talking, so silence ensued for a few moments, when she said:--
   "'Mith Powers's baby jetht had the measles, an' naow Jane's got 'em.'
    "I expressed my sorrow--and imagine my feelings, for my little girl had never yet been exposed to them.
    "'I s'pose you heern what happened daown to Allen's t'other day?'
    "No, I had not.
    "'Wall, it war twins.'
    "I gasped for breath, and turned the conversation into other channels. Her tongue once unloosened, there was silence no more. Further conversation revealed the fact that she had six children, 'half boys and half girls.' Considering what her life must have been, she was a very youthful-looking woman, so for lack of anything else to say I remarked that she looked very young to be the mother of so large a family. The effect was as unexpected as instantaneous. She quit swinging her feet, folded her hands, sat up very straight, and said: 'O, you jetht ought ter thee me with my falth teeth in!'
    "I had noticed that she lisped badly, but had not missed the teeth.
    "Imagine my feelings when a little later I found that my little girl and I were expected, quite as a matter of course, to share the bed with herself, a child three years old, and a baby of three months. They meant kindly, but I arose with the courage of desperation, ostensibly for the purpose of calling my husband to get me something from the wagon, but in reality to tell him how strong was my determination to share the barn with him, and not 'crawl in with the old 'oman.' We excused ourselves to them on the score of not wishing to discommode them to such an extent, wanting to start very early in the morning, etc., etc. So we spread out some shawls and rugs on the hay, and spent the night in the barn loft, while in the yard below some pigs kept up an incessant grunting and squealing.
    "In the morning, O so early, the commotion among the pigs increased, the roosters crowed, dogs barked, and what with horses, mules, sheep and geese all adding their own particular cry for breakfast, it seemed as if we couldn't get away fast enough. Bad as it was, however, think what it would have been in the 'haouse.'"
    Passing the scene of this incident on our way, we smiled, but did not stop to interview the family.
    After we had traveled about fifty miles, Prospect--formerly called Deskins--was reached, where a post office, sawmill, and three or four cabins constitute the settlement. Our road for a few miles back had passed through the depths of a vast forest of firs and sugar pine trees, of so dense a growth that, though the mill has been in existence almost thirty years, no visible inroads have been made. But for stumps standing here and there, one would imagine the forest untouched. So gigantic is the growth that trees two or three hundred feet in height, with a diameter of from six to ten feet, are no uncommon sight. The lumber is unsurpassed in quality, but the great difficulty in transportation over the rough mountain roads forbids the immense profits that might otherwise be derived from it. A flume company now organizing will do much to change all this.
    Red Blanket Prairie lying near (so called because a red blanket was the price for which it was purchased from the Indians) must become a valuable piece of property, comprising as it does several hundred acres of extremely rich, level soil, naturally fenced by steep and rugged mountains rising on all sides and plentifully watered by numerous streams of clear, cold water. Immense crops of wild hay and grasses are annually cut. When fully cleared and cultivated, it will be a most valuable stock ranch.
    Near this point the rapids are found, where Rogue River tears madly through a deep gorge that it has cut through the lava, falling a distance of over three hundred feet in one and a half miles. It is a grand sight to see it plunging from rock to rock, whirling, eddying, boiling or resting in some protected basin until renewed force is gathered again to go rushing on its way.
    A short distance below the rapids is Rogue River Falls, one of the finest among several to be found in these wild regions. The stream that turns the mill wheel forms this fall, leaping from a perpendicular cliff one hundred and ninety feet high without a break into the river below. The vegetation being so dense on the brink from which it plunges, the source is invisible, so that it seems to spring directly out of the face of the cliff. Completely undisturbed until within the past few years, nature has worked unmolested, until now, trees, rocks, the ground--everything is covered with a mantle of most beautiful moss. Soft and green, varying in depth from four to twelve inches, of many kinds and varied tints, when lit up by the sun shining through the trees it is of indescribable beauty. The finishing touch is added by a fine rainbow formed on clear days in the cloud of spray at the foot of the falls.
    Once more taking up the line of march, we found that our road still ran for miles through "forests primeval," so dense and with trees of such immense size it would almost seem that here was lumber enough for ages to come, were there no other source of supply on the Coast.
    Our way now ran along the edge of Pyramid Canyon [Godfrey Glen], which time and water have washed out to a great depth. It must have been many years ago, for in it grow large forest trees. All through this canyon stand curious rocky columns, measuring at the bottom perhaps thirty or forty feet, with a height of from fifty to over one hundred. Evidently composed of harder material than that which surrounded them, they were preserved to form another of the curious sights to be found in this region.
    Reaching higher altitudes, we left behind the immense growth of sugar pine. The road grew steeper and much more difficult of ascent as we neared the summit of the mountain. Evidences of volcanic action grew more and more apparent, while the road for miles was bordered only by scraggy pines or red hemlock trees, puny and stunted.
    Three miles from the lake we left the main road for one little traveled, so rough and full of sharp angles that, though horses can be driven to the top, it is far better to tether the animals and travel the last few thousand feet on foot.
    The scenery now changed rapidly as we advanced, but no indications of water were to be seen, and indeed the elevation, nearly seven thousand feet above sea level, seemed too great to expect it in any large body. The springs and small streams, so plentiful a short distance back, were all gone, the grass less abundant, the trees stunted, presenting a marked contrast to the luxurious growth of regions left behind but a short time since. Through the trees we had occasional glimpses of some towering peak; but for any opening, or for the lake, we looked in vain. To all appearance it was still in the "far dim distance."
    It has been truly said that
    For when least expecting it, we suddenly emerged from the timber into a large circular opening. The object of our journey was accomplished: the lake lay at our feet.
    We found ourselves almost on the edge of an immense precipice, looking across a wide stretch of water lying almost two thousand feet beneath us. As we stood in silence contemplating the grandeur of the scene, no evidence of life outside our party visible, the stillness and solitude became almost oppressive, and yet it was not at once we could realize just how wonderful it all was.
    Long ago, before all the country round about was covered with ashes, lava and volcanic scoriae, here must have stood one of the grandest mountains in the world. Shorn of its crown, yet almost thirty miles in circumference where we stood, to what lofty heights must it first have reached? Imagine the interior a boiling, seething cauldron--a gigantic witches' kettle eight by twelve miles in extent--with an unknown depth. From its awful mouth shot forth lava in tongues of liquid fire; its bowels of ashes and rock belched for many square miles over the surrounding country. More than thirty miles away the soil for twenty feet in depth is plainly of volcanic origin, beneath which is a dark, rich alluvium. Those miles of desolation, these rocky walls, this vast crater, all bear witness to the terrible convulsions of nature that must have taken place.
    In time its fury was spent, but not until several thousand feet of the top had collapsed, leaving the hollow basin that now forms the lake. A rocky wall from fifteen hundred to three thousand feet in height rises on all sides of the lake, only broken here and there by narrow rifts or passages, which sometimes extend almost from base to summit. The basin is more or less filled with debris, consisting of sand, dirt or boulders broken from the ridges on either side, the slope always at a sharp angle; and woe betide whoever may be between the water's edge and a loosened stone, for when it is once started, its speed accelerating as it moves, detaching others on its way, one might as well hope to stand before a battery of Gatling guns. We spent some time in the fascinating, though rather frightful amusement of sending rocks and boulders into the water. Down they would go, thundering along in a great cloud of dust, with dozens of companions they had started clattering after them. Striking an impeding object, they would bound into the air a hundred feet or more, repeating this again and again, until lost to sight, or till we would see them give a mighty plunge into the water almost three thousand feet below us.
    There is no shore, the lake's walls seeming to rise directly out of the water, except in one place where a bit of sandy soil is dotted with boulders is seen; and so far as known, there is but this one place where the descent to the water's edge can be made. Here there has evidently been a rock slide, which has worn a passage-way where powdered pumice stone and dust lie ankle deep, to be waded through as one goes to and fro. On account of the loose character of the soil, and danger from rolling rocks, great caution in descending must be exercised. The path varies thirty to forty-five degrees from the perpendicular, and as may be imagined, is easier to go down than up. One of our party insisted that he descended in ten minutes, but was two hours returning. This statement, however, should probably be taken cum grano salis.
    In the midst of the lake lies Wizard Island, to which we made a trip in a leaky old boat, left, I believe, by a surveying party. Looking up, one realizes more fully than can be done in any other way, the immense height and steepness of the rocky walls surrounding the lake. Viewed from below, the slide down which we came looked almost perpendicular.
    Reaching the island in safety, we landed upon the loose shingle that surrounded it, upon which volcanic rocks lie piled in wild confusion. The sides are covered with a growth of spruce and and black pine, growing more scattering as we ascended. At the top, nine hundred feet above the water's edge, is an opening nearly five hundred feet in diameter, with a depth of about one hundred and twenty-five. This, before the great collapse, must have been the chimney of the volcano, and judging from the growth of timber within it, has slept for ages. We also found inside it a snow bank, from which our thirst was quenched.
    The water of the lake is extremely cold and very clear, objects far below the surface being readily discerned. Except the melting snow trickling down in quantities insufficient to make a stream of any size, neither inlet nor outlet has yet been discovered for this strange lake. Annie's Creek, with several other streams, which emerge in a body from the sides of this mountain, are supposed to come from the lake, and one branch of Rogue River, it is thought, also has its source therein, for it rushes with great force from the side of the mountain about two miles from the summit, and its waters are of the same peculiar shade of greenish blue as those of the lake.
    Yet is it blue? One could stand for hours, never tiring of the varying lights and shades and play of color on its surface, changeful as a kaleidoscope. Now blue and sunny as Italy's own brightest beauty, or changing even as we look to a darker shade, yes, even to purple. Varying shades of green, brown, crimson, yellow and orange--we saw them all. So smooth and still generally that the rocky margins, trees, clouds, all are reflected with the same unerring precision seen in Yosemite's Mirror Lake--anon comes a soft motion, breaking the surface into ripples: so gentle the breeze, one feels it might be the breath of some Spirit of the Waters.
    The Indians in this section of country have several traditions concerning the lake. One that it is the abode of evil spirits; that whoever looks into its silent depths will soon die, and solemn warning has been given the whites to keep far away, lest harm befall them. Others say it is holy ground, made sacred by the immediate presence of the Great Spirit; that in the past none ever visited it save the medicine men or their pupils. When one of the young men of the tribe received a "call" to become a healer, before becoming a proficient he must first spend weeks upon its shore, fasting and praying to the Saghalie tyee ["the chief above," i.e., God]. Having communed with the dead, seen visions, and dreamed dreams, after his descent from the mountain, and initiation into the mysteries of the medicine dance, he was ever after looked upon with reverence, as having seen the denizens of the Unknown World, and held communion with the Great Spirit. Certain it is that whether from awe and reverence or fear of harm, no inducement can be offered sufficiently strong to get an Indian within sight of its waters.
    All is not yet seen, and still further reward awaits us as compensation for the fatigue of our journey.
    At so great an elevation the surrounding country lies spread before us like a map, and in the clear mountain air objects at an almost incredible distance can be discerned without difficulty. With the aid of good glasses yet more can be seen.
    To the south, but a short distance away, flows Annie's Creek, where there is excellent hunting and fine scenery, abounding in cascades, falls or romantic canyons. At one side are the Cascade Mountains, parts of the range rising from six thousand to ten thousand feet in height. Near them some tiny spots of white are all that can be seen of Fort Klamath, a small post just vacated in obedience to orders from Uncle Sam.
    Off in the southeast a bit of brightness catches the eye, which anyone acquainted with the country knows must be Tule Lake. Just beyond, a long dark line is all that can be seen of the lava beds, scene of the Modoc War. It was in the winter of 1872-73 that the Modoc chief, Captain Jack, and a few braves defied and for a while held at bay a portion of the United States army. It was here, also, that General Canby and Commissioner Thomas were so treacherously murdered by the Indians, for which crime Captain Jack, with others of his tribe, were afterward tried, found guilty and hanged at Fort Klamath.
    Yonder old Shasta, hoary monarch of all the surrounding country, pushes his snow-capped head into the clouds, up and up, till a height of almost fifteen thousand feet is reached. It is supposed to have been at one time an active volcano like the mountain on which we stand. Who knows the passion of love one for the other that may have burned within each fiery heart. In what mighty tones must they have given voice to their affection, trembling from the force of it, throwing their stony kisses or flashing their signals across the country in sheets of flame or lava streams, speaking a language awful if incomprehensible to the mortals agape with fear. But commanded by a force yet mightier than they, one must perish--or was it a heart broken in despair? The other, sending no more messages for all the ages, since stands wrapped in his snowy garb, cold and desolate, a monument of grief and constancy.
    To the southwest, about twenty-five miles away, Mount McLoughlin may be seen, and in spite of its ten thousand feet altitude forms a marked contrast in point of size to Mount Shasta. Off to the west, the course of the Rogue River may be followed for many miles on its journey to the ocean, while a little north, Diamond Peak and Mount Thielsen can be seen above the horizon, and still farther on the Three Sisters, each ten thousand feet high, covered perpetually with snow.
    The secluded situation, away from the usual routes traveled by tourists, keeps the lake still comparatively unknown, but as it is described from one to another the number of its visitors is increasing yearly, and the time is not far distant when it will become one of the regular sights for the tourist in its vicinity. Sufficient interest has already been aroused to cause the President to withdraw all the land surrounding the lake from the public market, and bills have been introduced, if not passed, in Congress, asking for its maintenance and government as a national park. It is certainly a trip well worth taking, for no words can adequately describe this wonderful piece of nature's handiwork. It must be seen to be fully appreciated.
    Aside from the minor points of interest on the road, good hunting is found almost every mile of the journey. Elk, deer, bear, wolves and wildcat are most abundant, besides duck, quail and other small game. Nearly all the streams, the water of which is cold as if direct from the Arctic regions and clear as crystal, abound in mountain trout, while in the larger ones another variety is found, weighing from fifteen to twenty-five pounds each, the name of which is still a subject of dispute.
    One can retrace his way on leaving the lake, or as we did, resume the main road and continue on over the mountains to the railroad at Ashland, where the train may again be taken for home. We learned much hitherto undreamed of as to the resources of Southern Oregon and the country through which we passed. Gold, silver, quicksilver, chrome iron, gypsum, carbonate of lime and kindred minerals are discovered in many places. The miner drawn thither by the gold fever years since still finds ample occupation, for new and rich discoveries are constantly being made. The immigrant is charmed as he hears of the delightful climate, rich soil and large crops, both of grain and many varieties of fruits, successfully raised in the valleys or on the hillsides.
    But to the tourist especially its attractions are great; places visited by few and described by none; hunting and fishing unsurpassed; lofty mountains, weird and majestic, mysterious lakes, splendid waterfalls, all that goes to form grand and beautiful scenery.
Overland Monthly, July 1891, page 19


    It is reported from Central Point, a station on the Southern Pacific four miles west of Medford, Or., that the railroad company has entered into an agreement with F. T. Fradenburgh to carry passengers between that point and Crater Lake in the Cascade Mountains. The distance from the railroad to the lake is eighty miles, and a stage line is to be established between the two points. Mr. Fradenburgh says the railroad has guaranteed him 1,000 passengers at $8 each. He has already purchased sufficient stage coaches to accommodate this number of tourists, and it is his purpose to erect a summer hotel at the lake. In good weather the road to the lake is all right for driving, and the round trip can be made in five days without a change of horses. It is thought that Crater Lake will be a popular resort for tourists and pleasure seekers this summer. The possibility of the reservation of this land by the government for a national park probably accounts for the action taken by the railroad.
"Occidental Melange," Pend d'Oreille News, Sandpoint, Idaho, March 4, 1893, page 1


    I herewith send you an account of a trip to Crater Lake and return, written from notes from Millie Howlett's diary:
    A company consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Chas. Carney and their children, Anna, Thomas and Pansy; Frank, Lillie, Jessie and Josie Gregory, Ella Williams and Alfred Fish, of Central Point, Rev. E. E. Phipps, Miss Bell Cochran, of Medford, Mr. and Mrs. James Lewis and their two children, Walker Lewis and Millie Howlett, collected at the ranch of James Lewis on Wednesday, Aug. 15, 1894, at 8 o'clock, The caravan started via the free ferry; but the guide not being familiar with the roads, and there being no sign boards, we got lost twice the first half day, but with all the drawbacks reached the ferry a little afternoon, and after crossing Rogue River we stopped to eat dinner in one of the dustiest places to be found, with only one small oak tree to make shade and the thermometer at 120°. After partaking of our first dinner camping out, we started on our way in high spirits, but had gone but a short distance when we discovered that two of the teams, that had not been used to hard work, began to show signs of failing, and there we had to "hang up" in a most miserable place; but says the diary: "We had quite a jolly time, as we had a violin and five players, among whom was one lady violinist, Miss Lillie Gregory. Dancing in the sand was fine; the only thing to mar the pleasure of the evening was that Mrs. Carney had the sick headache, but that was soon relieved by a dose of Garfield Tea administered by the camp physician."
    August 16.--All up and feeling fine. Drove past Mr. Gorden's fine ranch situated on Rogue River, 37 miles from the county seat. The surroundings would indicate that there was happiness and contentment there, as he seems to have around him all that would conduct to happiness. Before starting up the mile grade we all stopped to take a rest. Up the grade and around Flounce Rock, one of the most beautiful sights on the route thus far--a large, flat mountain, with its perpendicular walls, appearing to the beholder at a distance like a mammoth old-fashioned bed flounce, with all the richness of its variegation [of] colors. The next place of note on the route is the "Hole in the Ground." This is a short distance to the right of the road near the foot of the grade down Flounce Rock, it being a deep canyon in a comparatively flat tract of land, with its perpendicular walls and tall trees growing at the bottom. The next place noted was the ranch of Hon. Chauncey Nye, situated on the road about half way between Flounce Rock and the Mill Creek Falls. Here we stopped to dinner and by this time discovered that we had not taken enough provisions. After dinner we started for the falls, but found that the road was blocked with timber, so we had to cut our way out through the heavy timber and retrace our steps. On we went as far as the Rogue River bridge, where we stopped to view the rapids. To a person used to a prairie country this is a grand sight, the water falling out on an angle of about 45° over rocks and boulders for a distance of three-quarters of a mile, causing the spray to cover the bridge and filling the air with a fine mist. Satisfying our curiosity there, we proceeded to prospect and camped. Supper over, the two Lewises and Mr. Phipps went to watch a "lick" to try to kill a deer, and after Walker Lewis had sat on a limb of a fir tree, motionless, from 8 o'clock p.m. to l a.m., said: "Well, Jim, I can't stand this any longer," and just then a big buck whistled and off he went just in time to save his bacon; so they started for camp, but got lost and wandered around all night, reaching camp in time for breakfast. Those who remained in camp spent the evening playing cards, reciting stories and sleeping, for some were tired out.
    August 17.--Most of the company went to see the Mill Creek Falls, and to the average Oregonian they are a grand sight, the water falling over a perpendicular wall a depth of 210 feet. Here we concluded to see more of Rogue River so we descended to the water's edge and then jumped from boulder to boulder, witnessing the many curiosities there, among which was one large boulder on rock that the action of the water had cut a hole clear through. Bidding adieu to Rogue River and the falls we proceeded on until we reached Woodruff's on Union Creek at 3:30 p.m. without any dinner or water, as there is no water between Prospect and Union Creek, as hungry as wolves. Here we camped and the men watched the "lick" but caught nothing all that night. Saturday morning we remained in camp and went.to the natural bridge on Rogue River. It is composed of solid rock and is about 60 feet in length by 20 in width. Some of the party had a pony along and led it across the bridge. It is too rough to be useful as a bridge, but it is one of the natural curiosities of that section of the country. Alter dinner some of the younger members of the party started for the Rogue River Falls, and after traveling over brush and rocks, found them, but they do not compare with the Mill Creek Falls, the banks of the river in some places being very deep--from 100 to 150 feet down to the water. In the evening Messrs. Carney and Phipps started for the 5-mile lick; J. Lewis and Frank Gregory went to another that was nearer, and Alfred Fish and Walker Lewis--two of the boys of the camp--went to another, thus leaving Thomas Carney with two guns and a dog to guard the camp and take care of the girls, proving himself an expert at that business.
    August 19.--Got up early to get breakfast for the hunters. They all came in--without meat--except the boys, Al. Fish having fired the fatal shot, so the camp was supplied with meat for awhile. Carney and Phipps brought in the report that they had been lost most all night, but having found a haystack they piled up for the rest of the night. While they, the two last hunters, were eating their breakfast, a photographer [Perry Ellis] came along and took a photo of the camp. From there to White Horse Creek to dinner, arriving there at 5 p.m. as hungry as coyotes. Here is a fine camping place, water excellent.
    Monday morning found us on the road early, and arrived within 1½ miles of Crater Lake at 10:30 a.m.; camped there, but part of the company went right on to the lake and the rest remained to get dinner. On our way from Castle Camp, the last camp on Rogue River to the lake, we passed along Castle Canyon, so named from its natural castles or monuments, which stand as silent sentinels with their heads towering hundreds of feet above the rippling waters of the river, with its perpendicular walls from 1000 to 1500 feet in depth. Here the scenery is grand beyond description. In the far distance you could see Union Peak; off to the west another natural curiosity called "Rabbit Ears." which are two points of rock projecting from another that very much resemble the ears of a rabbit, consequently the name. After dinner off we went to see the lake. On the way up we met some of the party on the way back to camp, but on we went up through snow (August 20th) until we at last reached the banks of that world-renowned summer resort. But the most difficult task was yet to perform, that of descending to the water's edge, a distance of 2500 feet, some of the way down a narrow trail over a precipice that seemed almost perpendicular. Walker Lewis and Millie H. went down to the water alone and arrived in camp in ample time for supper.
    The lake is surrounded by the grandest natural scenery on the Pacific Coast, and in some respects surpasses the scenery of the Alps mountains. The lake itself is surrounded on all sides by almost perpendicular walls of rocks, and these are surrounded by massive peaks on almost every side.
    Among the most prominent mountains surrounding the lake are Mt. Jackson and Mt. Llao on the west; the latter has a tradition that causes all the aborigines of this country to quake with fear at the mention of the name. Mt. Thielsen is in the distance in the northwest; Mt. Scott in the east, while Mt. Cathedral is one of the lake's eastern boundaries. Two miles from the water's edge is the crater. The mountain in which the crater is situated is 845 feet high above the level of the lake's surface. The crater is 400 feet in diameter and 100 feet deep; one can go to the bottom of it on the snow. Mr. Perdue has a boat on the lake for the accommodation of visitors, but when this crowd was there the boat had got away and he was constructing a raft to go out into the lake after it, so we were deprived the privilege of exploring it further.
    That night in camp the time was spent with vocal and instrumental music, there being two vocal music teachers, Messrs. Phipps and Fish. About this time a tree fell and in that pure, clear atmosphere the noise it made startled all hands and they thought that a "bear" was in camp.
    Wednesday morning, the 21st, we started home, a part of the crowd via Ft. Klamath and the rest via the Rogue River route. On the return they camped at Prospect and spent the evening very pleasantly with Messrs. Aiken and Boothby and their families. Also camped at Mr. Gorden's, where they had a dance and those of the party who participated report one of the finest basket suppers of the season.
    We reached home the next day all O.K. The rest of the company arrived via Klamath Falls and Ashland on Monday evening.
    All seem to think they have been well repaid for the trouble of the trip.
Valley Record, Ashland, September 13, 1894, page 1  "Dick" was A. C. Howlett.


    Having just returned from a trip to Klamath County, via Ashland, Klamath Falls, Alkali Valley, Sprague River, Ft. Klamath, Crater Lake and Rogue River, I am able to say something about a trip over the same route.
    We found a gang of road makers this side of Jenny Creek who had done a lot of good work so far through Jackson County. The rocky points were smoothed down, sidelong places leveled and the road straightened. If Klamath County would only do as well as Jackson County, it would not be long until this became a road not to be ashamed of. The crops in Klamath County are short and thin on the ground, but I think they are filling well. I was there in the midst of harvest and when the second crop of alfalfa was nearly ready--the date was July 26th.
    Capt. O. C. Applegate's place at the Lost River gap is the handsomest on the road. The McCurdy place is next. The Caldian place is a model stock ranch. We crossed the Sprague River on the new government bridge, three miles below Yainax agency. Billy Crawford (a half-breed) has the finest ranch. He has a large spring, and a dam below sends water each way for irrigation and stock purposes, a fine, new house, and a barn and sheds to accommodate a large herd of cattle.
    Williamson River is the boss fishing place, but we bought some of the Indians. Mr. Howell, my companion, thought it a pity that the Indians should be allowed to hold so much good land in idleness. I think so too. The best improved section on our trip was seen on the way from Ft. Klamath to Crater Lake. Mrs. Simpson, late of Butte Creek, is in charge of the Vaughn dairy. She makes fine butter and cheese. The Wood River creamery is near the road to the east of the Chinese store, and they utilize the milk from five hundred cows.
    There are a great many trees across the road to the summit, making the road one-fourth longer than formerly--now twenty-four miles from the fort. We found lots of snow around the crater, and that it was impassable for a wagon or buggy, but they go over ten- to twenty-foot snow banks on horseback. I was one of a party of five to go down to the lake in fifteen minutes and return in forty-five. I counted 1500 steps up--glaciers half the way and loose stones and slush the balance. I would not repeat the descent for $100. Others can go down if they are young and supple; as for me I have had enough of Crater Lake for the rest of my life. I am past 63 and crippled, and it takes a better man than I to come up and out sound. The other four were young wen from Malheur County on their way to Medford to trade, and had with them two good wagons and teams.
Medford Mail, August 14, 1896, page 4




    Your Eagle Point correspondent, wife and two daughters, Hattie and Agnes, started from their home in Eagle Point, Wednesday, August 7th, for Klamath County. Had gone but a short distance when we overtook Lawyer Phipps and Dave Phipps, of Medford, headed for the mountains for a hunt. As we started with the calculation of only touching the high places we passed on and soon overtook three more wagons. I recognized some of them as the Jeff Grigsby family, and later on we passed Mr. Cranson and family on their way to Klamath County. In the afternoon we camped for lunch at the Big Butte bridge, a new structure that Mr. Hartman had just put up and one that reflects credit on the builders. Along here we met several loads of lumber on the way out to the valley. Passing on, the first place of note was T. B. Higinbotham's ranch and blacksmith shop, where everything looked as though prosperity had struck them hard, and as we journeyed on we passed by several fine farms and soon reached the top of the grade on the north side of Rogue River at 6:45 p.m., and camped for the night. The next morning we traveled through some fine farms, but most of them had changed so since I last passed over the road, twenty-five years ago, that it was hard for me to locate the old ones, several farms having been located since then. The old Akins sawmill at Prospect shows the effects of the actions of the elements there, that the business done now is less than in years gone by. After leaving Prospect we entered one of the finest bodies of timber in the county, where one sees yellow and sugar pine, fir and yew timber of the finest quality, some of the trees reaching one hundred feet without a limb. At Union Creek we found hay at one cent a pound and here we replenished our stock and went five miles further to Silver Camp for dinner. At this place we met two families from Fresno County, California. They were out looking at the country and had traveled up the coast to Crescent City, thence to Jackson County and were on their way to look over Eastern Oregon. After talking with them for a while one of them remarked that Douglas County was the best advertised of any county in the state, except the Willamette Valley, and that was what they had to go by, but after I left him one of the men remarked to the other, so that my wife heard him, that he had a great notion to go home and move to Jackson County this fall. They appeared to be men of means and are looking for a healthy country and I recommended the Rogue River Valley. Passing on from Silver Camp we met with nothing of interest until we reached Castle Court. Here along the banks of the Rogue River are tall pyramids of sandstone that have stood for ages, but I can see that there is quite a change in the last twenty-five years. That night we camped at the foot of the mountain on the way to Crater Lake. Here we met G. L. Davis and family, and Joseph Davis and family, and Joseph Thomas and wife, they having been to the lake the day before and were returning home. The next morning we ascended the hill to the lake, but I will not attempt a description of the grand scenery as that has been done so often. Remaining there just long enough to take in the sights, we crossed the summit of the mountain and started down the Annie Creek road, and here I will express my surprise that there has been so little said about the grand scenery along the Annie Creek Canyon. Shortly after the stream bursts from its hiding place under the mountain, it enters a deep canyon that it follows for several miles, and along which there is some of the finest sights on the whole route. As we entered the Wood River Valley we noticed a change in twenty-five years; then a vast prairie, now cut up into farms, and many of them have large groves of timber growing on them. Some have been planted, while others have simply grown without any assistance. The stockmen are all busy putting up hay, there being very little farming done here. It is estimated that there will be between seven and eight thousand tons of hay cut this year.
A. C. Howlett, "Eagle Point Eaglets," Medford Mail, August 23, 1901, page 5