TUESDAY, MAY 25th.
Arrived at Portland this morning at 8.00 Eastern (5.00 Pacific) time, and after breakfast we met Morton Young, Esq., of Portland. Mr. Young is a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91, O. R. C., and an earnest and enthusiastic member of the order, though not in railway service at the present time, having been fortunate in real estate speculation and able now to retire from active business cares. Brother Young kindly escorts a number of our party over the East Side Electric Railway to Oregon City, which is a pleasant ride of 14 miles. We climb the great wooden stairway leading up to the bluffs that overlook the city and obtain a magnificent view of all the surrounding country. Looking down upon the falls of the Willamette River, we are impressed with the grandeur of this Niagara of the Pacific. Descending from this alluring point of observation, we visit the great electric plant located at the falls, deriving its power from the waters of the Willamette and supplying Oregon City, Portland, and all the outlying districts with light and power. From the windows of the power house we obtain a much nearer view of the falls. The Willamette River at this point is about half a mile in width and the falls, in the form of a semi-circle, extend from shore to shore with an average height of 40 feet. It is estimated that the horse-power capacity of this great volume of leaping, dashing, roaring water is second in the world to that of Niagara. The great power house, with walls of solid concrete, is located on the west side of the river, just below the falls, and has a capacity of 12,000 horse power. It is owned and operated by the Portland General Electric Company, a corporation organized in 1892 with a capital of $4,250,000.
We cannot remain long in one place and are unable to give this interesting city the attention we would like, but we can see as we traverse one of its principal thoroughfares that it is up to date in its accommodations and improvements. We pass the Electric Hotel, and from its appearance we are sure it is first class in every respect, and had we the opportunity or occasion to partake of its hospitality we are confident we would be well taken care of by the proprietors who manage the establishment, Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Robinson. We visit the fish market and are interested in the salmon just brought in, that range in weight from five to fifty pounds, the streams through this part of the country abounding with this species of fish. The ladies, intent on
procuring souvenirs, visit a number of the stores as we go along. On the river banks are located numerous mills and factories. Arriving at the point where we take the electric line for Portland and finding a car waiting, we get aboard and start again on the delightful 14-mile trolley ride. Among the passengers in the car is a lady whose pleasant countenance invites confidence, and Mrs. Shaw has entered into conversation with her. I am busy looking off across the country, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, and have given their talk no attention. Brother Young has just pointed out Clackamas Heights and is now trying to show us the snow crown of Mt. Hood, but his Honor is so mixed up with the vapory clouds that hang around the horizon that he cannot be located. A nudge from Mrs. S. invites my attention, and as I turn she introduces her new-found friend, Mrs. Robinson, of the Electric Hotel, Oregon City. Mrs. Robinson is a bright conversationalist and entertained us with some facts about the city and its surroundings.
“Do you like Oregon City?” some one asks. “I not only like it,” answers Mrs. Robinson, “but I am proud of it. It is a town with a history. The site of Oregon City was first located in the year 1829 by Dr. John McLoughlin, an agent of the Hudson Bay Company, who established a trading post here. It was here a few years later that the Methodists built the first Protestant church erected on the Pacific slope. The Oregon Spectator, the first newspaper published on the Pacific coast, was printed here in 1846 on a press brought from the Sandwich Islands. We have a climate,” she continued, “that never goes to extremes; we seldom have freezing weather, and snow, if it comes, only lasts a few hours. I have gathered roses in my yard on Christmas, for very rarely the cold is severe enough to destroy our flowers. We have not grown so rapidly as some of the younger cities of the Northwest, but we have all the natural advantages and facilities to insure and encourage progress and development. We have excellent graded schools that are well attended, and as an evidence of the educational importance of our city, the Willamette Valley Chautauqua Association holds its annual convention or assembly at Gladstone Park, not far from Oregon City. These meetings are largely attended, thousands coming from all parts of the Pacific coast. The people will commence to gather for these meetings next week, and I expect we will have our hands full; but here’s where I get off,” and rising as the car stops she bids us goodday and steps off.
We have reached Portland, and after proceeding a few blocks under the guidance of Brother Young, we leave the electric road and board a cable car for Portland Heights, a high eminence overlooking the city and commanding a magnificent view of all the surrounding country for many miles. We gaze down upon three rivers, the Columbia, Willamette, and Clackamas, and follow with our eyes their sinuous windings as their waters gleam and glimmer in the sun. We can plainly see the hoary crests of Mt. Adams and Saint Helens, but clouds still hovering on the eastern horizon keep Mt. Hood hidden from our sight. With the perversity of human nature, that is always hankering for what is beyond its reach, we want a look at Mt. Hood. “We came up here to see it,” says Mrs. Dougherty, “and if
it’s only a wee glimpse I want it.” So do we all, and we keep our gaze riveted on the spot where Brother Young says it will appear, if it shows at all.
“Mt. Hood is 70 miles away,” says Brother Young, “but on a perfectly clear day a person from here can see it very plainly.” The clouds showing no inclination to favor us, we descend from the Heights, get aboard a car, and start for the station, where we arrive about 1.30 P. M., and find the most of our people gathered there; they also have spent a very pleasant morning taking in the sights of Portland and gathering souvenirs.
Brothers Maxwell and Reagan, of the excursion executive committee, have not been idle, but calling upon Superintendent J. P. O’Brien, of the Oregon River and Navigation Company Rail Lines, have arranged for an excursion this afternoon up the banks of the Columbia River to Cascade Locks and return.
Getting lunch at a near-by restaurant, we are soon all ready for the start. Our three sleepers are attached to a regular train that leaves at 2.45 P. M. “Are all our people here?” asks Manager Wyman, surveying the crowd. “There are four or five that are absent, I believe,” answers Secretary Maxwell, as he nips the northeast corner off a plug of tobacco. “Sloane and Haas are not here, I know,” speaks out Brother Terry, “for they went out with a boy in a boat to watch the salmon shoot the falls of the Willamette and haven’t got back yet.” “Time’s up; can’t wait; all aboard,” shouts the conductor, and away we go, bound for a trip of 45 miles through the marvelous and unsurpassed scenery of the Columbia River. Superintendent O’Brien is with us, his private car being attached to the train. Chief Dispatcher E. N. Campbell, C. R. Holcomb, Esq., and Brother M. Young also accompany the party. L. J. Hicks, photographer, of Portland, is along in his professional capacity; we are also accompanied by the Portland Hotel orchestra, comprised of the following gentlemen: G. H. Parsons, J. Seltenraick, F. Boyd, William Livinston, Prof. E. F. Fleck, who render admirable and pleasing music. Many are the expressions of delight as we catch fleeting glimpses of the wonderful scenery. “You will have a better view on the return trip,” advises Mr. O’Brien, “for we will then run slow and make an occasional stop.” Arriving at Cascade Locks, we are given twenty minutes to visit the great locks which the Government is about completing, at a cost of nearly $1,500,000, to enable vessels to reach the highest navigable point of this most remarkable river.
Time is up to start on our return trip, and reaching the train we find O. R. & N. engine No. 73 coupled to the train, with Engineer A. Curtis and Fireman Jo. Wilson in the cab and Conductor J. A. Allison standing near ready to move off as soon as we are ready to go. In a minute we are all on, and the train goes slowly down the great Columbia, whose current, always rapid, is augmented and increased twofold by the melting snows in the mountains, and surges past in an angry, turbid torrent. From the rushing waters of the mighty river on one side we look up on the other side to the towering cliffs and crags and peaks that rise in majesty and grandeur 3000 feet in the air, their summits fringed with pines that look like ferns as they wave against the sky, while here and there, from out those walls of rock, mountain streams gush forth, and falling hundreds of
feet, their waters descend in showers of rainbow-tinted spray.
“Well,” remarks Mr. O’Brien, as he sees we are almost speechless with rapture and delight, “that’s something you don’t see in Pennsylvania or Jersey every day in the year.” “No,” I respond, “nor anywhere else in the world on any day of the year.” “I really believe there is no scenery in the whole wide world more intensely absorbing than your Columbia River scenery, Mr. O’Brien,” says Mrs. Mattson, and the Doctor, standing near, smiles down upon her his approval. “We will now turn our attention to something more practical than towering mountains and leaping waterfalls,” says Mr. O’Brien, as the train comes to a stop. “We will show you how our salmon are coaxed out of the water.”
Leading the way, we follow him down the river bank to its edge and on to a platform or wharf extending for several feet into the water, where a large wheel is slowly revolving that looks something like the side wheel of an old-fashioned ferryboat or the large overshot water wheel of an old-time sawmill, except that it turns backward, and as the scoops or buckets rise out of the water they bring the fish along, should any of them be so unfortunate as to get caught. When the scoop rises to a certain height the fish slip out into an incline trough or chute (something like the “boys” had fun with at Sutro’s) and are dumped into a bin under the platform. “We are not catching many at the present time,” says the man who is operating the trap, “the river is too high and muddy and the fish are not running very lively.” Opening a trap door, he allows us to peer down into the bin, where we see a lot of fish of various sizes. He kindly gave us several for our dining car, an act we all highly appreciate.
We next stop at Multnomah Falls, where one of those mountain streams pouring over the face of a cliff has a sheer descent of 950 feet. Here the party is arranged in a group on a grassy slope, with the falls as background, and photographed by Mr. Hicks. “Mr. Hicks, will all those beautiful rainbows we see there show in the pictures you have taken?” asks Mrs. Matthews of the photographer. “No,” replies Mr. Hicks, “that is beyond our art. No camera will picture nor can artist paint the gorgeous coloring and beautifully blended tints that you see in the dashing spray of Multnomah Falls.” “I don’t know about that,” answers Brother Mart. Houston, who is always of a practical turn of mind. “I believe George Cope, of Chester County, could do it, for a man who can paint the pretty spots of a trout or all the colors of autumnal foliage and never miss a tint can come pretty close to Multnomah Falls.” “He ought to come out here and paint it, then,” responds Brother Bob Foulon; “for a reproduction of Multnomah Falls on canvas as we see it to-day could not be surpassed by any painting in the world.” We all echo Brother Foulon’s sentiments, and feel as we get aboard the train that it has been our privilege to look upon a scene of unequaled loveliness and grandeur.
We again stop and are photographed at the Pillar, an enormous column of rock standing alone between the river and the railroad, upon the summit of which is growing a great pine tree, 1000 feet in the air. We get back to the depot about 7.30 and find McDonald has a sumptuous dinner awaiting us, which we all
heartily enjoy. Mr. O’Brien and Brother Young take dinner with us, and our people show their appreciation of the courtesy and kindness of these gentlemen by giving them three rousing cheers. After supper Manager E. Lyons, of the Union Depot, escorts a number of the “boys” to the luxurious quarters of the Commercial Club, where we are royally entertained for three hours, returning to the train about midnight.