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.