In a long line, about noon of this November 25 (Thanksgiving season!) of 1843, amidst flurries of snow, the expedition set forth from the Dalles of the Columbia. The Reverend Mr. Perkins rode out with them for a few miles, to wish them God-speed. Finally he must stop.
“Good-by, good-by, and God bless you,” he said, beginning with the lieutenant, and shaking hands all down the line. “Good-by and good fortune.”
“Good-by,” they responded; and “Au revoir, monsieur.”
The course was south, up the long valley of the Rivière des Chutes, with the white Cascade Mountains on the right, and many an icy stream to ford.
At the headwaters of the River of the Falls a pine forest was entered, December 8; a pine forest cloaking magnificently a yellowish-white soil of pulverized pumice-stone whereon grew not a blade of grass. The Indian guides pointed out, as great curiosities, pine cones a foot and a half long.
Now the trail was good, the weather pleasant, if crisp, but the horses and mules and cattle fared badly for lack of grass. Then, on December 10, from the pines the cavalcade emerged upon a wide green meadow—a lake of grass; and—
“Tlamath Lake! Tlamath Lake! Lac du Tlamath!” welled the glad cheer.
This must be it. Thus the two Indian guides declared it, and by its meadow character it answered to descriptions. The horses and mules and cattle eyed wistfully the green expanse extending to their feet; and they fell greedily to cropping.
Surrounded by timbered slopes was the lake-meadow. It looked peaceful. But according to trapper theories, “Whar thar ain’t any Injuns to be seen, then thar air the most of ’em!” and here in the Tlamath country no chances should be taken needlessly. Moreover, out in the middle of the lake-meadow smokes were rising, and beyond, along the shore, were other smokes.
“Better speak to ’em with the big gun, to tell ’em who we air, hadn’t we, captain?” suggested Kit Carson.