MONDAY, MAY 24th.
Arose early this morning while it was hardly yet light, not wishing to miss any of the grand scenery that I know we must be nearing. Very few of our people are up, and making my way to the smoker I find the conductor who is running the train. He is a newcomer, an entire stranger, but I find him a very agreeable gentleman. “Where are we, captain?” I inquire. “Well,” he answers pleasantly, “you are on the famous Shasta Route of the Southern Pacific Railroad, bound from San Francisco, Cal., to Portland, Ore., a distance of 772 miles. You have traveled about 200 miles in your sleep. We left Red Bluff a short time ago and are now approaching Redding, 260 miles from San Francisco and over 500 from Portland.” “Where did you take charge of our train, please, and what is the number of your engine and the names of your crew?” I ask; “I’m trying to keep a little record of things as we go along,” I add by way of explanation, as he looks askance at me. “I took your train at Red Bluff; have engine 1769, Engineer J. Clark. I can’t tell you the fireman’s name; my name is G. E. Morgan, and my brakemen are J. Cook and J. Duncan. We take you to Ashland, a run of 206 miles. It will be necessary for us to get a helper engine shortly, for we have uphill work through here.”
“What stream of water is this, captain?” I ask, as I look out of the window and see a large surging, gurgling, dashing stream of water that seems to be rushing past at a mile a minute gait. “That is the Sacramento River, a stream whose course you ascend for 307 miles and cross eighteen times between Sacramento and Sisson,” he answers, rising and leaving the car as the train slows up and stops at a station.
I follow, get off, and look around. On the right the leaping, tumultuous waters of the Sacramento throw spray in your face as you stand and watch them churning and foaming in resistless might as they sweep madly onward toward the bay; on the left is the station and town of Redding. Several of our people are up and out on the ground. We can see that the town is a thriving business-looking place, and the station is a neat, substantial building. Our engine is taking water and the men are loading the tender with wood. “Why do you burn wood instead of coal in your engines?” I ask Conductor Morgan, who is standing near. “For the sake of economy, I suppose,” he replies. “Wood is plenty and cheap, while coal is very scarce and expensive.”
As we continue on our way I am reminded of Conductor Morgan’s assertion that “wood is plenty,” for we see thousands of cords piled up along the railroad track ready for use or awaiting shipment, and all the hills and slopes and mountain sides within our range of vision are covered with immense forests of pine and spruce. It is wild, picturesque mountain scenery and we all enjoy it.
Our train stops again, and looking out we see a name above the little station door that makes us think of home. It is the beloved, familiar Chester county name of Kennet. We notice that it is spelled with only one “t,” but it is “Kennett,” all the same. Stepping off, I see them attaching a helper engine and get its number, 1902.
As we start again I step on board, and entering the smoker encounter Brakeman Cook. “I suppose we have some climbing to do,” I remark; “I see you’ve got an extra engine.” “Yes,” he responds, “from here to Sisson is 61 miles, and in that distance we make an ascent of 2884 feet, at one point having a grade of 168 feet to the mile.” Passing Castle Crag we see in the distance its bald, bare bluffs and peaks of rugged, towering granite, and nestling in the shadow of the ridge can be seen its picturesque hotel, a resort where those needing mountain air for health, or mountain solitude for repose or pleasure, can find a safe, secure retreat.
From this point we catch our first glimpse of grand Mt. Shasta, 60 miles away. We stop at Dunsmuir twenty minutes for our engines to renew their supply of wood and water, and several passengers from the “Portland Flyer,” taking advantage of the delay, went into a nearby hotel and got lunch. A boy on the station platform with a large four-pound trout that he had just caught, and which was still flapping its tail, attracts the attention of Brothers Sloane and Haas, who want the train held four hours while they go fishing, but the proposition is voted down. A beautiful large lawn slopes from the Dunsmuir Hotel to the railroad, on which tame mountain deer are browsing. Three miles from Dunsmuir we reach Mossbrae Falls and Shasta Soda Springs. Our train stops, and with cups, mugs, jugs, bottles, buckets, and pitchers we make a break for the fountain. There is plenty of water there, and oh, how cold and sparkling and invigorating it is! We drink our fill and fill our vessels and load the train, but it would not be missed had we taken ten thousand times as much. A roofed and stone-walled well that is inexhaustible is fed by hundreds of little streams and rivulets and jets that flow and spurt from the moss-covered mountain side, while here and there a spring more powerful than the rest sends its slender column full fifty feet in the air and then descends in a shower of mist around you.
Where is the artist that can picture the beauty of Mossbrae Falls, a mighty mountain side covered to its summit with giant pines, terminating at its base in a sheer wall a hundred feet in height, its face covered and festooned with bright green moss, through which descends in a silvery sheen of spray the outpour from a thousand gushing springs? From here to Sisson, a distance of 25 miles, our engines have trying uphill work. There are mountains everywhere, mountains ahead of us and mountains behind us, mountains above us and mountains below us, mountains to the right and mountains to the left, but they are not the bald, bare, treeless kind, for everywhere you look, except when you cast your eye to Shasta’s crown, you will see a magnificent growth of pines and cedars, shrubbery and ferns. You have always to look up or else look down. Looking up you can scarcely ever see the pine-clad summits, for your eye rests on the top of the car window before it reaches half way up the mountain side; looking down you are all right, if you don’t get dizzy, for in many places you can look down upon the tops of the tallest trees a thousand feet below.
With breath of flame and lungs of iron those powerful iron steeds puff and cough and climb, and the long ten-car train, following their laborious lead, winds and worms in and out and around those narrow paths, traced and hewn in the mighty Sierra Nevada’s rugged sides by persistent resistless Progress, ever guided, ever urged by the indomitable will, restless perseverance, mechanical ingenuity, and scientific skill of man. We climb and climb and worm and wind until Sisson’s heights are reached, at an elevation of 3555 feet, and then we rest awhile—rest to feast our eyes on Shasta’s indescribable majesty and grandeur.
This is the nearest point the railroad runs to that gigantic mound, and it is twelve miles on an air line from where we sit and stand to the glistening, snow-crowned crest of that mighty monarch. Why we should so sensibly feel his presence and he so far away is a conundrum no one asks; we only look and feel, and silently wonder what it is we feel. It must be awe, for that which is great, we are told, inspires awe, and Shasta is very, very great. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty-two feet is the estimated height of this colossal giant that pokes his apex in the sky. Were it possible to grade him down or slice him off to one-half his height he would make a plateau 75 miles in circumference and 25 miles across; but it is time to go. The manager says, “Git on,” and bidding adieu to Shasta we “git.”
One mile from Sisson Conductor Morgan points to a little mountain spring that wouldn’t slake the thirst of a nanny goat, and says, “There’s the head waters of the Sacramento River, which is 307 miles from where it empties into the bay.” The road now is making some wonderful curves and bends to get around insurmountable heights and across unbridgeable chasms. We have just finished a run of about eight miles, described almost a complete S, and are only one mile and a half from where we started. At Edgewood helper engine No. 1902 is detached, for it is now down grade to Hornbrook, a distance of 40 miles, with a drop at places of 170 feet to the mile.
At Hornbrook engine No. 1907 was attached to assist to Siskiyou, a distance of 24 miles, with an ascent of 190 feet to the mile. As we approach State Line we cross the old Portland stage trail, and at 3.03 P. M. Eastern (12.03 Pacific) time we cross the State Line and enter Oregon, having traveled 1136 miles through the State of California. We pass Gregory Siding, where two freight wrecks had recently occurred. The wrecking crew are still on the ground, having evidently just put engine No. 1503 on the track, for it is standing there as we pass, covered with mud. We here have in view Pilot Rock, a great bare bluff that stands out and alone like a huge sentinel guarding the gateway of the valley, and famous in the early history of this locality as the scene of stirring Indian warfare. Manager and Mrs. Wyman are on the engine enjoying an unobstructed view of this marvelous mountain ride. We have just had our last look at California scenery, for rounding a bend as we pass Pilot Rock, the last view of majestic Shasta bursts upon our vision, reposing in sublime and solemn grandeur 50
miles away. Another curve, the picture fades, the curtain falls, and exit California.
Still climbing the rugged sides of Siskiyou, and drawing nearer and closer to its summit, our train, as though despairing of ever reaching the top, plunges suddenly into its rocky ribs. The depths of despair can be no darker than the gloomy obscurity of this yawning hole in the mountain wall; for 3700 feet through “Tunnel 13” our train pierces the heart of Siskiyou before emerging into daylight on the opposite side. Here the summit of the grade is reached at an elevation of 4130 feet. Leaving engine No. 1907 behind we now commence the descent of the northern slope of the Siskiyou Mountain, amidst scenery of beauty and grandeur. Arriving at Ashland 5.10 P. M. Eastern (2.10 P. M. Pacific) time, a stop of twenty minutes is given and a change of engines is made.
Bidding goodbye to Conductor Morgan and his crew, who deserve our highest praise for the able manner in which our train was handled, and who did much toward making the trip interesting by the useful information imparted, we speed on our way again with engine 1361 in charge of C. C. Case and fired by Robert McCuan; Conductor Edward Houston, Baggagemaster R. W. Jameson, Brakeman H. Ballard, who take us to Portland, 341 miles. Leaving Ashland, we pass a number of gold mines in operation on the rugged hillside, and swing around into Rogue River Valley, a rich farming and fruit-growing district, producing, it is said, some of the finest fruits grown in Oregon. A stop of a few minutes is made at Grant’s Pass, attaching engine No. 1759 to assist up the hill to West Fork, 47 miles. Twenty minutes is allowed at Glendale to enable the passengers of the “Portland Flyer” and the crew to partake of lunch at “The Hotel Glendale.” Soon after leaving Glendale we enter a wild ravine, inclosed by towering hills covered to their summits with great pine timber. “Mr. Jameson,” I ask of the baggagemaster, an agreeable old gentleman, “has this wild spot a name?” “This is Cow Creek Cañon; the stream of water you see is Cow Creek, which runs the entire length of the cañon, 35 miles,” is the answer.
The farther we penetrate this narrow gorge the more are we impressed with the solitude of its mighty pine-clad sides, that commence at the creek on one hand and at the railroad on the other and rise upward in a steep slope for over 2000 feet, covered to the very crests with giant Oregon pines. We arrive at the little station of West Fork, the only station in the cañon, and engine No. 1759 is detached and sidetracked. There is gold hidden in these mighty hills, and here and there we see a mine, the principal one, the Victoria, being located near West Fork. Two miles north of this point we are shown where occurred in 1890 the largest landslide ever known in the history of railroads. An immense section of the mountain side becoming loosened, slid down into the bottom of the cañon, burying 900 feet of the railroad to the depth of 100 feet, and damming the creek, formed a lake 60 feet deep and one mile long. The buried track was abandoned and the road built across the creek along the foot of the opposite sloping wall of the cañon. We can plainly see the great mass of earth and rocks and trees that cover the buried track, and which forms a striking instance of what might occur at any time to roads that run through such mountain cañons. It is growing dark as we emerge from the fastness and solitude of this Oregon wilderness, but can easily discern that it is a change for the better, for we enter a valley teeming with fields of waving grain and orchards of thrifty trees. We stop at Roseburg for ten minutes, where another change of engines is made, and when we start on our way again at 12.10 A. M. Eastern (9.10 P. M. Pacific) time, it is quite dark.
Leaving Roseburg, we have engine No. 1355, with Engineer Montgomery at the throttle. Having a grade for 15 miles between Drains and Cottage Grove, we get Engineer Connelly, with engine No. 1516, as helper. Conductor Houston and his crew continue with us to Portland.