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Jackson
County 1904
Jackson.--Population, 13,628. Jackson
County has 199,183 acres in a public reserve,
out of a total area of 1,779,662 acres. Of her
total area, 1,273,529 acres have passed from the
government, leaving a total of 306,952 acres of
unappropriated land, of which 229,077 acres are
surveyed and 77,875 acres unsurveyed. The latter
is timber, grazing and fruit. There is some
building stone in the county of an excellent
quality. Mining for gold is extensively
followed. The land is rolling, mountainous and
level. Rogue River furnishes an excellent water
power. The roads are good. Some coal is found.
Pine and fir timber abound. Rogue River is used
for floating logs and lumber. The fuel is wood,
which brings from $4 to $6 per cord. Wheat is
the principal product. There is a poor house,
occupied by fourteen males. The general health
is good. Climate fine. County seat,
Jacksonville. R. P. Neil, of Medford, Oregon,
cut 70 tons of alfalfa hay from 16 acres of land
in Jackson County in July 1904. The ground is
what is known as the black, sticky land. No
irrigation. Jackson County peaches find a ready
sale in New York and Boston.
First Biennial Report of the Bureau of Labor Statistics and Inspector of Factories and Workshops of the State of Oregon from June 3, 1903 to September 30, 1904, Oregon State Printing Department, 1905, page 90
Thriving Centers of Southern Oregon Population
Few towns or cities in the state of Oregon have enjoyed a healthier
growth during the past few years, have a brighter prospect ahead of
them, or [are] endowed with greater natural advantages for becoming a
city of permanent importance than Grants Pass, the county seat of
Josephine County. Grants Pass is located 286 miles south of Portland,
and is directly on the main line of the Southern Pacific. The elevation
of the town is 960 feet in the business section, the resident portion
being from 100 to 200 feet above this. The city has at present a
population of about 4,200, there being over 1,000 pupils enrolled in
the three schools of the town.GRANTS PASS. The name of the city would indicate that Grants Pass occupies a "pass" in the mountains, but this is misleading and is far from the truth. The city, while located at the southern end of the railroad and wagon road through the mountains, is itself located in a pretty and verdant vale of the lower Rogue River Valley, and nestles cozily between the bank of the Rogue River and the hills that slope back gently to the higher mountains. Grants Pass has been growing, growing, growing steadily, surely, substantially since the time of its incorporation in 1887. It is the hub and center for all of the Southern Oregon mining district, comprising Josephine County and a portion of Jackson and Curry, as well as a part of Douglas. Within this vast mineral demesne are the many already rich, and the growing mines of the Southern Oregon mineral zone. Grants Pass, being the center, enjoys the golden fruit of the district's bounteous harvest. Into Grants Pass the treasure streams empty, and this envious and excellent natural advantage accounts for the healthy growth the city has enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy. The business section of the town, consisting as it does of two- and three-story brick buildings almost exclusively, bespeaks the thrift and permanence of the place. There are two banks, three brick hotels, two large department stores, and three newspapers, to say nothing of the scores of other stores and business houses of perhaps lesser importance. The Sugar Pine Door and Lumber Company's factory, employing from forty to fifty men, is also located in Grants Pass, as is the factory and lumber yards of Williams Brothers & Kendall, which, with the outlying mills, employ a large number of men. The lumber from the fourteen or more sawmills of the county is all hauled and shipped from the central yards in Grants Pass. Many of the big orange orchards of Southern California derive their entire supply of boxes from the sugar pine box factory in Grants Pass. Aside from the extensive timber and lumbering business about Grants Pass, the city derives a large revenue from the fruit orchards, melon fields, hay and stock ranches, hop yards and vineyards. The river bottom lands of the Rogue and Applegate are well adapted to the growing of melons and berries and alfalfa. Some 500 or 600 acres are devoted to watermelons alone in Josephine County each season, and many carloads of this very popular fruit are shipped from this city. The melons are large and of exceptionally fine flavor. Then some 500 acres are planted to hops about Grants Pass, the several yards employing immense crews of men, women and children during the picking season. The apple, peach, prune and other orchard trees bear well here. One of the big apple orchards of the county, located on Applegate River, about six miles from Grants Pass, is owned by Consul Henry Miller, of this city, who is now stationed at Niu Chwang, China, and who disposes of nearly his entire crop of Newtown pippins in the markets of the Orient. As the pages of this issue of Mineral Wealth will treat in detail of the mines surrounding Grants Pass, no attempt will be made here to say anything of this, the greatest of the several industries of which Grants Pass is the center. But the foregoing hint of conditions here fully suffices to show the remarkable possibilities of Grants Pass, "The Golden City of Southern Oregon." ASHLAND.
It has been said by an observer that "an important mining region
usually enjoys no other resource." This rule, however, will not apply
to the Pacific Coast, from Central California to British Columbia. On
the contrary, the district extending from Central California across the
Oregon boundary, which has produced more gold than any like area of
which we have history, can make unusual claim for varied natural
favors, conducive to material prosperity.Rich valleys spread in broad expanse from mountain to sea, or smaller laterals studded with happy homes, emerge from the eternal hills. Orchards and farms, grazing lands, and then the magnificent forests of pines, clothing the higher foothills, all prove that the observer quoted in the beginning had never visited the most prolific gold-producing section in the world. Strange as it may seem, the name of Oregon is not associated to any great extent with mining, though the region immediately north of the California-Oregon boundary is a continuation of California fields, with a wealth of metal occurring under like geological conditions. The first important point across the California line is Ashland--only twenty miles from the boundary. A number of mines are operated near this beautiful city of homes, schools and churches, but its support is varied in character; orchard, farm and manufacturing contribute to the prosperity of the community. Ashland has a population of fully 3,500 people. The state normal school is located here, and the environments of education and refinement are further enhanced by its selection as the meeting point of the Southern Oregon Chautauqua, and its members have here constructed a "tabernacle," in which its meetings are held. Eighty-four miles to the west is the Pacific Ocean, the city in a beautiful setting of mountains and valley, is 2,000 feet above sea level, with a climate all that can be desired. The view of Ashland presented herewith, was taken from a point which inspired the following pen picture by a member of the National Editorial Association on the occasion of the Association's excursion through Oregon: "From the Chautauqua building a walking climb of five minutes will carry the pedestrian to a hilltop perch from whence is obtained a view which for scenic beauty cannot be excelled. From this spot one looks down upon the little 'Granite City,' and out upon the valley beyond. Many an exclamation of surprised delight has been uttered at this spot. Before the visitor lies a picture of beauty that defies the skill of the artist to represent, or the word-painter to describe. With face to the north and eyes toward the valley, the little city is revealed, nestling half hidden in the luxuriance of nature's growth, among gardens and orchards, where flourishes the peach in all its luscious glory, with an accompaniment of apples, pears, plums, prunes, apricots, cherries, etc., berries ad libitum, and flowers of variety, beauty and fragrance to sate the most fastidious queen; while there is ever present the music of water, rising through the treetops that fringe and border the limpid mountain torrent below. The valley with its farms, gardens and orchards, its many streams bordered with the fantastic adornments that nature has seen fit to clothe them in, spreads out a little beyond, where it would seem that the Almighty has intended perfect contentment to be found. Beyond these there rises a majestic framework of mountains, adorned with fragments of evergreen forests of pine and fir, relieved by ridges, canyons and pinnacled cliffs, among which spots of sunshine and cloud-shadow chase each other in and out, picturing alternately with light and shade these billowy monuments to the power and munificence of Him whose works we see, and whose bounties we enjoy. Behind us rise by terrace and cliff the rugged Siskiyous--the 'granite range'--to a height of 8,000 feet, covered with luxuriant forests and crested with snow. From thence comes the perennial flow of sparkling water, cold as a winter's morning and pure as the dawn of youth; a life-giving and sustaining element to the valley below. Sparkling, leaping and singing over its rugged bed of pebbles and boulders, it seems a thing of life, rejoicing in its mission of mercy; an instrument of music, waking the stillness to a fit accord with the fragrance of fruit and flowers." MEDFORD.
This town occupies a position in Jackson County, Oregon, similar to
that of Montague in Siskiyou County, and Redding in Shasta County,
California. These three towns represent the chief centers of railroad
traffic for their respective counties, and, singularly enough, each has
superseded, at least to some extent, an old-time mining town situated
in each case six or eight miles from the railroad, and to the west.
Yreka is still the center of commerce for Siskiyou County, and
Jacksonville has also managed to hold her own quite well. These towns
were able to do this by building short branch railroads to the Southern
Pacific line. But the old town of Shasta in Shasta County was
handicapped from doing this because of the natural and topographical
conditions. Medford, like Redding, has seen phenomenal growth.Medford should be ranked as the best business point in Jackson County, and further than that is declared by some unbiased people to be the town of greatest energy and enterprise in Southern Oregon. It is the center of an excellent fruit, stock, dairy, hay and grain district, and is by no means inclined to allow the mining resources of Jackson County to go unnoticed either. The famous Olwell fruit farm, whose apples are alike noted in Europe and the Orient, is located within four miles of Medford. The fruit possibilities of this district have only recently been brought much to light, and it is an easy prediction that this locality will someday be rated with the best fruit-producing section of the Pacific Coast. The stock, hay and dairying industries are all being developed, and as already implied, the geographical situation of Medford marks it for one of the coming interior towns of the state of Oregon. The business men are alive also to the timbering resources of eastern Jackson County, or all that district drained by the upper Rogue River, and occupying the western slope of the Cascade Mountains. It is evident that the business interests will unite, if necessary, to extend an electric road to tap that territory. Toward the establishment of a big lumber and box factory now operating at Medford, the business men went down into their pockets and contributed the sum of $3,000. Toward the establishment of a foundry and machine shop they did the same for $1,000. A prominent business man told the writer that the town could be depended upon to raise $10,000, if necessary, to land the Blue Ledge railroad at Medford. All this shows an excellent spirit for a town of scarce 3,000 people. It is this spirit that has made Medford what it is and has given it its high standing among the Coast's interior towns. JACKSONVILLE.
The time-honored and historic old mining town of Southern Oregon,
Jacksonville, is still the county seat of Jackson County, and also the
center of some little mining activity. Two of Southern Oregon's biggest
placer mines, the Sterling and the Vance, are within a radius of eight
or ten miles, as also two of its most promising quartz leads, the Opp
and the Oregon Belle. The Blue Ledge copper district, moreover, is
believed by some to be more tributary to Jacksonville than any other
point. It has been these mining conditions, as well as the prestige of
county seatship, that have combined to keep Jacksonville where she is,
in spite of her isolation from the Southern Pacific railroad, which
came to her when the surveys for that line left Jacksonville a distance
of six miles to one side, a distance which, however, is spanned by a
stub broad-gauge railway owned by a private party, Barnum & sons,
and having the name of the Rogue River Valley Railroad.The town is situated on Jackson Creek, where that rich stream of the early days emerges from the foothills into the Rogue River Valley, and occupies at once the point of advantage, the gateway between that rich and fertile valley on the east and the famous Applegate mining country on the west. Neither is the spirit of improvement or enterprise entirely dead, a fact evidenced by the handsome new $12,000 brick school house, completed a year or two ago. The climatic conditions are ideal, the material resources are unexcelled, all ensuring Jacksonville an excellent chance of continuing to hold a front rank with the other Southern Oregon towns of today. The question of water supply, which has in late years become one of some concern to the town, is today being solved by the enterprising efforts, in a private way, of the county's assessor, Mr. Peter Applegate, and son, who by a system of shafts and tunnels are already able to accumulate about half enough for a very ample city supply. GOLD HILL.
Gold Hill is the railroad point and center of interest for quite a
mining and farming district, and is especially noted for a number of
rich pockets or bunches of high-grade rock that have been found within
a radius of six or eight miles of the town. These pockets may or may
not be the oxidized or surface portions of deep quartz ledges. They
unfortunately have given the whole district the reputation of being
"pockety," a reputation that can be offset only by a substantial output
on the part of her best prospects. These today are the Braden, Lucky
Bart, Bill Nye, the Millionaire, the Alice, and others of this class.
And these are the properties that will effect this change of reputation.Gold Hill, like her sister towns on the railroad--Central Point, Talent, Phoenix and others--is supported also by grain, fruit and stock ranching, but, more fortunate than they, she has a point decidedly to her advantage in her mines. SOUTHERN OREGON MAGNIFICENT RESOURCES
This issue of Mineral Wealth is
devoted, in the main, to that district referred to, in a general way,
as Southern Oregon. While Oregon has never attracted the attention of
the mining world as a distinctively mineral state, nevertheless, the
Eastern Oregon district, as well as the region known as Blue River and
Bohemia, and also the district covered by this issue are today of
unquestioned mineral importance, and when compared with like areas of
mining territory elsewhere the state does not suffer by comparison.The Southern Oregon district, comprising Jackson, Josephine, and also parts of Curry counties, is, in fact. but a continuation of the Northern California mineral region, the state line passing over what promises to become some of the most important mineral deposits of the Pacific Coast. Geological conditions are not determined by artificial geographical boundaries, yet it is unquestionably true that comparatively few mining men are well enough posted on the situation to associate Southern Oregon with the mines of Northern California--the latter now by far the most prolific region of the Golden State. The location of a good mine, or a good mining district, should make no difference, save as it relates to the question of accessibility. Even though the name of Oregon is not associated with big mines as is that of California, Nevada and the various other Rocky Mountain and Coast mineral states, this fact should not mitigate against the state, but should rather create a desire to determine its proper rank in the list of metal-producing commonwealths. Happily, this attitude is now coming to prevail, and the regions named are rapidly winning a position as important mining territory. The larger mines are being put in operation, and the state of Oregon will soon take a place with her sister states as a state where the mining industry is of truly great importance. Judicious publicity is what the mining industry of the state of Oregon needs, and this issue of Mineral Wealth will, we believe, be of vast benefit to the industry in general and Southern Oregon in particular--the character and distribution of the publication assures this desideratum. Mining, as a business, is unlike other callings--particularly the mining of gold. There is no competition in this industry, the mint coins all the gold which may be offered by the miner, and there is no fluctuation from $20.67 an ounce, its coinage value. There is, moreover, a self-acceleration in gold mining that is found nowhere else. No place is the old saying more true that "Nothing succeeds like success." A miner welcomes a neighbor; the advent of a new operator in a district adds ultimately to the sum total of knowledge of the district. Geological conditions are better understood, metallurgical problems more easily solved and the cost of operation and production correspondingly lessened. Among broad and liberal operators this is looked upon as a most important and valuable means of contribution to the common knowledge of the district which in turn is used to the mutual benefit and advantage of all. To every established community in a mining region, the development and operation of a new mine is equivalent to the installation of a factory employing a similar number of people--in fact, it is of more importance, as the wage paid is, as a rule, larger, and the product of the mine is more lasting than the product of the average factory, with its benefits therefore more widely distributed. The statement that everyone residing in a mining region is interested in the welfare and progress of the mining industry is, therefore, not far fetched, and where the product consists of money metals this is doubly true. It behooves every individual to encourage the development of this great industry, and encourage also every agency organized to promote its welfare. Mining has evolved from the purely speculative, and is now recognized by the first financiers of the world as one of the most profitable fields for safe investment. The value of the minerals annually produced in the United States exceeds $1,300,000,000. The United States census shows it to be the most profitable industry of the country, producing more value per capita than do even the manufactures. This is the industry to which the chief value of Southern Oregon attaches, and the importance of that district is rapidly extending and making itself felt in the mining world. Mining regions have not always been favored by nature as Southern Oregon. The presence of mineral alone is not usually the only requisite to make the industry profitable. The surrounding conditions must be somewhat congenial otherwise, and in this respect Southern Oregon has no superior anywhere. Timber, water, climatic conditions and favorable opportunities for transportation facilities--all these are available to the operator. Within easy reach of the mines are produced cereals and fruits to feed an empire. In short, few regions are blessed with so magnificent a foundation for lasting prosperity as Southern Oregon. Mineral Wealth, Redding, August 1, 1904, pages 2-6
PAPERS IN SOUTHERN OREGON.
People in general are loath--at least, slow--to appreciate the value of
their local papers. The Southern Oregon weeklies and semi-weeklies
(there are as yet no dailies) are accomplishing no little good in the
advancement of their respective districts and deserve the liberal
support of their communities. Grants Pass has three papers, the Oregon Mining Journal, the Rogue River Courier and the Oregon Observer; Ashland has three, the Tribune, the [Tidings] and the Record; Medford has two, the Mail and the Southern Oregonian; Jacksonville has two, the Sentinel and the Times; and Gold Hill and Glendale each have one, the News.Mineral Wealth, Redding, August 1, 1904, page 57 A TRIP ACROSS THE SISKIYOU MOUNTAINS
Rogue River Courier, Grants Pass, August 18, 1904, page 1Southern Oregon and Northern California Have Abundance of Magnificent Scenery. E. S. VanDyke in the Evening Telegram Describes a Southward Trip.
The never-ending glories of the Adirondacks have been told and retold
by writers of fantastic humor and the dreamers of poetic dreams; the
snow-capped peaks of the old world have been scaled and rescaled, both
in poetry and in prose, and even here on our own Pacific Coast the
beauties of the Yellowstone Park and the Yosemite Valley have already
been presented many times to the public by vivid pen pictures snatched
from some admirable brain.
But of Oregon, with its snow-capped mountain peaks, its dashing mountain rivers leaving vast and unexplored canyons in their flow onward to the Pacific, little has as yet been written; and of Southern Oregon, the Italy of the state, comparatively nothing. Yet here in this secluded little paradise, with its Italian skies, its unanimity [sic--sublimity?] of climate, its vast mineral wealth of gold and copper, its abundance of all varieties of fruit, and, above all this its sturdy, resolute citizens, nature has displayed some of her grandest handiwork. Many inspiring bits of scenery such as the great gorge of the Rogue River, the giant caves of Josephine County, and that wonderful world-famous mirror of the Indian gods, Crater Lake, combine to give to this chosen district an enchantment in the minds of the old settlers. And especially are they dear, as they are nearly all hallowed with a crown of Indian lore. The Siskiyou Mountains, perhaps the grandest of all this charm of scenery, lie along the southern boundary of the state, and may be said to bind Oregon and California together, since they extend partly into Northern California, and thus form the connecting link of the two states. Leaving Grants Pass, a thriving little city of about 4000 inhabitants, nestled close on the bosom of Southern Oregon hills, at about noon, we begin the journey which, during the course of the day, is to take us over the Siskiyous on down into the state of California. For about ten miles the railroad follows the bends and curves of Rogue River, a mischievous little stream, laughing and chattering like a child at play on its way seaward, and now we begin to catch occasional glimpses of rare beauty. Here at our left arises a gigantic cliff, perhaps 1000 feet high, its sides showing the warring and beating of the elements on its surface for thousands of years. Its top is as smooth as marble, and here is the famous council table of the Rogue River Indians. We can almost see the mighty chieftains as they meet there night after night, with their strange customs and dances, either to smoke the peace pipe or to listen to the wild harangue of one of their number inciting them to war with the Klamaths in the south. For a moment the huge rocks of a canyon obstruct our view, but now we are out in the glorious sunlight again, and right before us is Jackson County's metropolis--Ashland, the last city on the Southern Pacific lines in Oregon. At Ashland our train takes on new engines of a much larger type than those of the valley country, massively and powerfully built. Now we begin the ascent in earnest, and the three engines on our train as they puff, puff, puff seem like some great monster Titans as they wearily toil up the slope of their Olympus. One almost pities them, for as the huge drive wheels push on and on, at the pulsations of their mighty hearts one can almost hear them groan with their gigantic labor. But now we are nearing the summit, and as we look hundreds of feet beneath us on either side we can see in horseshoe bends and curious circles the winding tortuous way over which we have made our climb. There to the east is a pretty little valley, with a farm house almost overgrown with the fields of alfalfa; here a modest farmer lives, to all intents and purposes eking out a scanty existence from his little farm and bringing up his family to follow in his footsteps. Little does he know of the maddening rush and hustle of the busy world beyond his narrow sphere--yet "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Now we have reached the summit of the mountains, a little over 4000 feet above the sea level, and can look away in all directions upon a perfect sea of mountain peaks beneath us. At the summit stands the little station of Siskiyou, a picturesque little place built right over a cliff, and in this isolation one or two families must spend a part of their lives. We are on the down grade and can hear no more the labored breathing of the engines, and we give a sigh of relief that their trouble is ended. A long wail from the whistle reminds us that we are nearing the wonderful Siskiyou tunnel, and almost before we can realize it we are plunged into the bowels of the earth. Once more into daylight, and we are whirled along over high steel trestles that make one shrink with terror, until the sound of the whistle again tells us that we are nearing a little station. As the train draws up--back on the hills, and almost surrounded with mock orange and its native forests of pine and fir, stands a rustic little summer resort called Colestin. Here the people of Southern Oregon come to spend their summers and to build up their physical bodies with the health-giving waters of the springs. Around the train are gathered perhaps 100 people from the hotel and camps who have come down to witness the one excitement of the day--the arrival of the train. A few miles on again and in the distance we see--Shasta, the most beautiful of mountains. Clear, cold and white as a specter, it rises before us, and seems to pierce the ethereal dome above it with its regal head; 14,444 feet above the sea level, it stretches its kingly crown to meet the empyrean above it, and its lofty efforts cannot but inspire its observer with a feeling of wonder and admiration, and cause him to long to emulate its magnificence and purity. But now we have crossed the line, and are rapidly nearing the Sacramento Valley; so as this stretch is only to portray a little of the scenery of Southern Oregon, we still stop at the summer resort of Shasta Retreat, while in the hazy distance the train dashes along toward the sunset city of the West--San Francisco. The Sea of Silence
Niagara, Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Crater Lake! Neither one
of these matchless and magnificent names of the world has anything like
a counterpart or parallel in Europe, Asia or Africa. Nor are they in
the least alike. Each is entirely unique. As to which one of the five
may inspire the deepest awe, dread, admiration akin to the devoutest
worship of God depends much on the mood, temperament and taste of the
beholder.By JOAQUIN MILLER Illustrated from drawings by Grace R. Fountain, of Portland, and from photographs by Carl R. Caudle, United States Examiner of Surveys Niagara, majestic Niagara, with its thunder and rush and roar, is perhaps at first blush the most startling and terrible to the stranger. But its unrest, to some at least, soon becomes intolerable, and as there is nothing to which we may turn for relief we soon turn away and pass on. Niagara is simply Niagara. That is all. You must and will see Niagara. Midwinter is best, when all the mystery has the added glory of gleaming masses of ice and snow; but even then the monotonous roar and ceaseless unrest hurt to the heart. Yellowstone is vast and varied and unique. She will last, and last the stranger longer than any other. The various and half-tame wild beasts give relief and will ever have a singular fascination. The last time I was there a bevy of little English sparrows hopped along in the wood before us till they came to a big, lean buffalo lying with his head the other way, looking back as if he feared he might still be pursued from across the line of the park, which he had evidently but lately crossed. But he had no fear of the uniforms, and the guardians of the park rode quietly around him, while the chirping sparrows hopped upon and all over him, even to his horns. Finally, a little English cock-sparrow perched on a lifted horn of the great American buffalo. The painter, all peoples, in truth, who really love grandeur in color will haunt the Grand Canyon of the Colorado to the end. Yosemite, pulsing, throbbing, foaming, fuming, will be popular, too popular, as Niagara once was, some say, for real lovers of nature. But Yosemite is "a house of many mansions," and anyone who will take his blankets and go apart, as President Roosevelt did, need not be crowded or made to complain of too much company, either on the floor or in the clouds of the great Grizzly. Crater Lake lies a few leagues from the northern line of California, on the summit of the Oregon sierra, popularly known by the effeminate name of the Cascades. The mountain peaks of the Oregon and Washington end of this mighty mountain range far exceed in splendor those of the Sierra Madre or the Sierra Nevada, and it is absurd that they should be cut off from the great range of snow peaks reaching from Mexico to Alaska. It were quite as reasonable to cut off the Rocky Mountains at the Canadian line and give the northern end another name as to call the Oregon sierras the Cascades. The whole range is simply a series of snow peaks--"saw," or "saw-teeth," as the Spaniards first named them; the Sierra Madre, the Sierra Nevada and the Oregon sierra making the appropriate and poetical name, the Sierras. An Oregon pioneer by the name of Hall I. Kelly, a graduate of Harvard and a prolific writer, who died only a few years ago at Lowell, gave the weak local name, Cascades, to the Oregon sierra. He also named all the prominent peaks of Oregon and Washington, after our line of presidents up to his time, but only a few of these names are now used. The name, Oregon, is rounded down phonetically, from Aure il agua--Or-agua, Or-a-gon, Oregon--given probably by the same Portuguese navigator that named the Farallones after his first officer, and it literally, in a large way, means cascades: "Hear the waters." [Miller's etymology is unsupported and very unlikely.] You should steam up the Columbia and hear and feel the waters falling out of the clouds of Mount Hood to understand entirely the full meaning of the name Aure il agua, Oregon. Crater Lake was first made known to the white man by Hillman, a young gold hunter. He measured the lake with his eye and named it Lake Majesty. He was a young man of culture and fortune from Louisiana, where he now lives, and took to the mountains for the love of adventure. But the tales of terror which the Indians told about evil spirits hereabouts made him cautious, and perhaps helped to magnify his stories. His reports to the press at Jacksonville, then a city with many newspapers, gave the lake a double dimension. He asserted that no man ever had or ever would be able to set foot at the water's edge. William Gladstone Steel, a native of Ohio and a mountain climber of about forty years' experience, was the first man to make any determined effort to conquer Crater Lake to civilization. He brought his club here (the Mazamas), surveyed, published descriptions, and for many years urged with great zeal and ability the establishment of a national park. In 1902 the President proclaimed Crater Lake and surrounding lands a park, and appointed a superintendent. On August 8 the stars and stripes were hoisted as the federal surveyors, Indian superintendents, senators of Oregon, presidents of universities and members of Congress gathered to hear the inspired words of the most eloquent preacher in Oregon, proclaiming the story and glory of the new park. Much credit is due the President, who promptly took the matter in his own hand with characteristic energy; much, very much, is due to William Gladstone Steel for persistent hard work in establishing this noblest natural park in the Republic, and the most unique park under the path of the sun. I had been advised that the governor, senators, university presidents and the great preacher, as well as others whom I wanted to meet, were to set out for this mountain Mecca at a certain time, and hastened to join the caravan at Medford, Oregon. Our transportation equipment consisted of five carriages, or hacks, and three heavy freight wagons. We had a following of three distinguished persons on "wheels" [i.e., bicycles]. It may as well be set down here as elsewhere that they made the eighty miles, more or less, from Medford to Crater Lake with no great discomfort, sometimes behind, but mostly ahead of the happy, and oftentimes hilarious, procession. The features of the trip are the roaring Rogue River waters, the splendid pine and fir forests and the seas of wildflowers. The Rogue River Falls have power enough to pull all the engines and cars that could be packed on a line from that point to Portland. They are buried in the densest green wilderness in all the world, a wilderness without track or trail of any sort. To make your way along the perilous mountain steep to get a good look at the falls you have to climb, every few rods, over a huge fallen trunk pitching headlong toward the precipice. The monotony is only broken now and then by having them piled up. These falls mark the limits of three different tribes. From time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary it had been agreed that no Klamath, Shasta or Rogue River Indian should ever set foot within sound of these falls. Hence there is no track or trail. The dreamful and indifferent white successor of the savage seems quite content to preserve the old traditions. A second object of interest is the natural bridge, on the same river, half a day's journey further on. The bridge is not passable for carriages, but horses can be led across the depressed and rugged lava bed which marks the rough causeway or viaduct. Oddly enough, the river enters a natural tunnel to the right, and three or four hundred feet below debouches from the left. The structure is not at all imposing, as it sags and hangs so low that it is not noticeable till you almost stand upon it. However, it is a natural bridge, made from the rivers of lava that once flowed from the mighty mountain peaks where now lies Crater Lake. In places the roads are heavy and dusty with pulverized pumice and debris blown from the ancient volcano, and in some other places they are intolerably "bumpy," from naked lava; but the road of forests and flowers was, in the main, a pleasant one. We had the best-natured gang of pilgrims that ever climbed a mountain. A better-tempered crowd never tented by the way before. Perhaps it is the spicy odor of pine, cedar, tamarack, fir, yew, juniper, hemlock, and indeed almost every resinous tree you can name that gives life to the lungs and makes old people young on this densely wooded highway; I don't know. Earth hath bubbles as the water has,
It is a long, long and maybe absurd step from the scene of the greatest
tragedy that ever shook the continent to the witches' bubbling
cauldron, but, somehow, unfit as the lines of Macbeth may be, they
would not down as I sat under a towering black hemlock and looked over
the rim into Crater Lake, two thousand feet below; for it was once a
boiling cauldron of lava, as surely as Kilauea of Hawaii is now.And these are of them. This volcano here, or rather the ruins of it, a mighty, magnificent colosseum, truly, for it is miles in circumference and is now known as Mount Mazama, must have had a beginning. But it was far, far back, and Mount Mazama, which loomed 15,000 feet in the air above where tranquil, restful, Sabbath-like Crater Lake now lies, must have been old, old and maybe in ashes long before St. Helens, Hood and the rest of our snow peaks arose. Mount Shasta, dimly in sight to the south, must have been like a babe in arms, if at all, when this mighty mountain, builded of the Oregon sierras, made its final and astounding exit from the stage of action. Learned men have agreed that this mountain was much more magnificent in its proportions, as well as higher, than Mount Shasta, and that it housed an energy far surpassing any other one mountain in the whole story of volcanoes, so far as they have been able to read it. And profound men from all parts of the curious world have been coming here in numbers for more than a quarter of a century. And they have agreed wonderfully well as to the one inspiring story and the tremendous tragedy, except as to the final outcome of the last act. Some say that after boiling and bubbling for incalculable ages, sending rivers of lava north and south and east and west, and heaping up a cone of fire that almost defied the stars, it suddenly disappeared, sank thousands of feet below into the bottomless pit which it had for ages so persistently digged and digged. Others say that the cone was suddenly blown to fragments and hurled broadcast over the land in a single moment, as suddenly as the booming of a battle gun. They point to many examples of this sort. Notably, we have the recent explosion of Pelee in the West Indies, where also a great mountain was truncated and dissolved into dust and ashes. I think this mountain here must have blown up, like the cones of Java and the West Indies. Why? Because I find fragments of glacial rock all about the rim. Not fifty yards from the flagpole, to the south, are broken bits of rock hard as steel, yet polished and smooth as glass. In a walk of half a mile along this ridge which divides the headwaters of Klamath and Rogue rivers you can see many specimens of polished rock; some concave, some convex, some furrowed and grooved, some as clean cut as a pane of glass, some large and porous, some light and fragmentary, but all bearing the mark that can never be mistaken by any familiar with the ice fields of Alaska. It must be borne in mind that while summoning these dead witnesses to court one can take as evidence only the coffin-lid of the dead mountain, and only the polished surface of the lid; not the body, not the coffin, only the smooth, glistening veneering of the lid, burnished and made bright by ages of descending, ice-bound debris. Now it is possible that these polished fragments are of the glacier itself, making debouchment here, but not probable. Some of the grooved, black granite fragments are too massive. But adieu to the past! The present, the beauty, grandeur, glory of the bluest of blue lakes lying at our feet, these make constant challenges, as the butterflies from the flower fields, as if in Mariposa, fan our faces, and we shall turn to these with a pleasure akin to passion. In the first place, there are no Indian trails near this high altar of devotion. No Indian has ever set foot here or near here, since when? No doubt the story of the explosion, like the story of the Flood, handed down by tradition, had something to do with their fears. But they had peopled the lake with goblins, sea monsters, and so on; one of the chiefs had been cut to ribbons by one of the demons and hurled from a towering cliff into the lake. However, Captain Applegate, who has had charge of the Klamath reservation for a whole generation, induced a few half-civilized Indians to come with him to the lake a year since, but only a few would look on it, and that with reluctance. One very old man kept his hands clasped and his head held down all the way from the reservation, a day's ride distant. When they reached the camp, close by the lake, he stole away and hid behind a tent. Mr. Steel wanted to move and when the men took down his tent, along with the others, the poor old man got up, shook his head and bowing his face in his hands set out on a run through the wilderness for home. It was a dreadful journey, no trail, as I have said, and it was feared that he might perish. But he got home, leaving no track in the white man's road, for he never set foot in it. And because of this old superstition among old Indian hunters the fishing and shooting on the roads to and from this place are the very best to be encountered on the continent. But few, if any, of the new generation are so foolish. The chief of police at the reservation of, now, 1,500 Indians, brought us our mail daily. The great trees that gather on the rim of this rare wonder of the world are, in the main, black hemlock. few alpine pines try to find a footing, but the lord and master by the Sea of Silence is the somber black hemlock. A day's ride below, down the rocky, lava-strewn road, there are larch, yew, cedar, fir and yellow pine standing in the order named, enough to pay twice for the building of a railroad, holding lumber enough to fence a piece of the whole earth. The flowers here are many, their names manifold. To begin with, the forget-me-not, blue, pink, white, hangs the snowbank, plentiful as if the edge of a harvest-field. The most conspicuous plant here is the hellebore, a glorious grower that is not afraid of the snow, but grows half way to your waist right against any of the many snowbanks that spot and dot the plateau on which we pitched tent near the flag hoisted but yesterday. This newest national park looks more like a park, to begin with, than any other that we have, even with all the cost and care bestowed on others. It is a constant marvel here to see the blue and white lupine, the crimson honeysuckle, and dazzling, bright yellow dandelion disputing with the tardy snow for a footing in mid-August. The air here, spiced with the odor of stately hemlocks under a glaring hot sun, is something astonishing in its vigor-giving qualities. Our young men, and pretty women as well, are up with the sun and out till twilight. I have yet to hear the word "weary" from anyone, but the fine, vigorous air is on the lips of our observant and learned university men at every meal. The lake? The Sea of Silence? Ah yes, I had forgotten--so much else; besides, I should like to let it alone, say nothing. It took such hold of my heart, so unlike Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, when first seen, that I love it almost like one of my own family. But fancy a sea of sapphire set around by a compact circle of the great grizzly rock of Yosemite. It does not seem so sublime at first, but the mote is in your own eye. It is great, great, but it takes you days to see how great. It lies two thousand feet under your feet, and as it reflects its walls so perfectly that you cannot tell the wall from the reflection in the intensely blue water, you have a continuous and unbroken circular wall of twenty-four miles to contemplate at a glance, all of which lies 2,000 feet, and seems to lie 4,000 feet below! Yet so bright, yet so intensely blue is the lake that it seems at times, from some points of view, to lift right in your face. In fact, the place has long been called by mountaineers, along with many other names, Spook Lake. And it is a fact that the pioneers passing this way, seeing no Indian trails or marks of any sort, went around and let it all severely alone. The one thing that first strikes you after the color, the blue, blue even to blackness, with its belt of green clinging to the bastions of the wall, is the silence, the profound, pathetic silence, the Sunday-morning silence that broods at all times over all things. The huge and towering hemlocks sing their low monotone away up against the sky, but that is all you hear, not a bird, not a beast, wild or tame. It is not an intense silence, as if you were lost, but a sweet, sympathetic silence that makes itself respected, and all the people are as if at church. The sea bank, the silent sea bank, is daily growing to be a city of tents. You discern tents for miles, but you do not hear a single sound. Men do not even chop wood here. They find broken boughs of fallen forests and keep their camp-fires going without the sound of ax or hammer, a sort of Solomon's temple. Mountaineers in the olden days believed that the blue waters would never be approached. But a United States senator yesterday made his way down the wall not far from camp, came to the waters and, plunging in, swam far out. He reports the water as comparatively warm, not nearly so harsh and cold as the waters of the Pacific at his home, Astoria. Of course, this is not the first man to descend the precipitous wall; many men have been before him, boats have been lowered, only to be broken and swamped by the storms of winter, but I believe this is the first man to descend deliberately and take a bath in "the bottomless Spook Lake," as it was called in the fifties and sixties. Crater Lake resents familiarity. I have seen newly arrived people crowd in numbers to the bastions, talking and laughing loudly. They soon grow silent and break up and wander away singly or in quiet couples. Of course there are critics. There will be critics in the New Jerusalem, if we all get there. It was my habit to go alone to the lake each morning. Once a man, fresh from the "States," followed me and came up to my side out of breath, saying, "I told my wife last night that there is just one thing wanting here to make this perfect, and that is a big waterfall, foaming down out of Mount Mazama." I sought another clump of hemlock for my meditations and left him alone. Why, such a man as that would rise up from a champagne dinner and go eat a raw turnip! This is the only retreat I ever saw where the days are too short for my work and the nights too short for rest. We are up at five, as a rule, and, as a rule, sit around our great camp-fire listening to talks, sermons, lectures from some of the very many wise souls here, and then retire at ten or eleven. We are a sort of traveling Chautauqua. And, somehow, all night the awful tragedy that was played on these very boards where I repose, away back in the morning of the world, is re-enacted; the mighty mountain bubbling, the cone of fire that knocks its forehead against the stars, the rivers of lava that flowed toward the four points of the compass, the towering candelabra that lighted the world, the sudden burst of eloquence, the wild, fiery, desperate last utterance, the last word, the explosion, the collapse, the conclusion. Curtain! Silence! The people come and go almost daily here, as at other places, but they mostly stay a week or fortnight. The one boat of the reservation is busy all the time. There is the Phantom Ship, there is the Island, the Cave, the Echo, the Hour Glass and the Haunted House. The thousand and one "best points of view" from the rim of the crater keep you busy from morning till night. But surely there is no one "best point of view," no more than Milton is better than Shakespeare, or Job better than both. Each has its own "points," that is all. The plan is now to build, have the government build, a drive around the lake, so that all these points may be considered in a single day from a carriage. And a great hotel is planned! And a railroad must be made to whisk you through the life-and-vigor-giving evergreen forests of Arden. Well, so be it, if you must so mock nature and break this hush and silence of a thousand centuries, but I shall not be here. No hotel or house or road of any sort should ever be built near this Sea of Silence. All our other parks have been surrendered to hotels and railroads. Let us keep this last and best sacred to silence and nature. That which is not worth climbing to see is not worth seeing. Sunset, September 1904, pages 396-404 Last revised March 10, 2025 |
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