The commander of the “America” was fond of salmon fishing; the waters of the Oregon were said to be stocked with salmon: the fishing would be excellent. The mighty “Ekewan,” monarch of salmon, would fall a victim to flies, long famous on waters of Tweed or Tay. Alas! for the perverseness of Pacific salmon. No cunningly twisted hackle, no deftly turned wing of mallard, summer duck, or jungle cock, would tempt the blue and silver monsters of the Columbia or the Cowlitz Rivers. In despair, his lordship reeled up his line, took to pieces his rod, and wrote in disgust to his brother (a prominent statesman of the day) that the whole country was a huge mistake; that even the salmon in its waters was a fish of no principle, refusing to bite, to nibble, or to rise. In fine, that the territory of Oregon, was not worthy of a second thought. So the story runs. If it be not true, it has its birth in that too true insularity which would be sublime, if it did not cost us something like a kingdom every decade of years.
Such has been the past of Oregon. It still retains a few associations of its former owners. From its mass of forest, from its long-reaching rivers, and above its ever green prairies, immense spire-shaped single peaks rise up 14,000 feet above the Pacific level. Far over the blue waters they greet the sailor’s eye, while yet the lower shore lies deep sunken beneath the ocean sky-line. They are literally the “shining mountains” of Carver, and seamen say that at night, far out at sea, the Pacific waves glow brightly ’neath the reflected lustre of their eternal snows.
These solitary peaks bear English titles, and early fur-hunter, or sailor-discoverer, have written their now forgotten names in snow-white letters upon the blue skies of Oregon.
But perhaps one of these days our cousins will change all that.
Meantime, I have wandered far south from my lofty standpoint on the snowy ridges of the Bald Mountains in Northern New Caledonia.
Descending with rapid strides the mountain trail, we heard a faint signal-call from the valley before us. It was from the party sent on the previous evening, to await our arrival at the spot where Rufus had left his worn-out horses a week before. A few miles more brought us within sight of the blue smoke which promised breakfast—a welcome prospect after six hours forced marching over the steep ridges of the Bald Mountains.
Two Indians, two miners, two thin horses, and one fat dog now formed the camp before the fire, at which we rested with feelings of keen delight. Tom, the “carrier” Indian, and Kalder, my trusty henchman, had breakfast ready; and beans and bacon, to say nothing of jam and white bread, were still sufficient novelties to a winter traveller, long nourished upon the sole luxury of moose pemmican, to make eighteen miles of mountain exercise a needless prelude to a hearty breakfast. The meal over we made preparations for our march to the south. In round numbers I was 300 miles from Quesnelle. Mountain, forest, swamp, river, and lake, lay between me and that valley where the first vestige of civilized travel would greet me on the rapid waters of the Frazer River.
Through all this land of wilderness a narrow trail held its way; now, under the shadow of lofty pine forest; now, skirting the shores of lonely lakes; now, climbing the mountain ranges of the Nation River, where yet the snow lay deep amid those valleys whose waters seek upon one side the Pacific, upon the other the Arctic Ocean. Between me and the frontier “city” of Quesnelle lay the Hudson’s Bay Fort of St. James, on the south-east shore of the lake called Stuart’s. Here my companion Rufus counted upon obtaining fresh horses; but until we could reach this half-way house, our own good legs must carry us, for the steeds now gathered into the camp were as poor and weak as the fast travel and long fasting of the previous journey could make them. They were literally but skin and bone, and it was still a matter of doubt whether they would be able to carry our small stock of food and blankets, in addition to their own bodies, over the long trail before us.
Packing our goods upon the backs of the skeleton steeds, we set out for the south. Before proceeding far a third horse was captured. He proved to be in better condition than his comrades. A saddle was therefore placed on his back, and he was handed over to me by Rufus in order that we should “ride and tie” during the remainder of the day. In theory this arrangement was admirable; in practice it was painfully defective. The horse seemed to enter fully into the “tying” part of it, but the “riding” was altogether another matter. I think nothing but the direst starvation would have induced that “cayoose” to deviate in any way from his part of the tying. No amount of stick or whip or spur would make him a party to the riding. At last he rolled heavily against a prostrate tree, bruising me not a little by the performance. He appeared to have serious ideas of fancying himself “tied” when in this reclining position, and it was no easy matter to disentangle oneself from his ruins. After this I dissolved partnership with Rufus, and found that walking was a much less fatiguing, and less hazardous performance, if a little less exciting.
We held our way through a wild land of hill and vale and swamp for some fifteen or sixteen miles, and camped on the edge of a little meadow, where the old grass of the previous year promised the tired horses a scanty meal. It was but a poor pasturage, and next morning one horse proved so weak that we left him to his fate, and held on with two horses towards the Nation River. Between us and this Nation River lay a steep mountain, still deep in snow. We began its ascent while the morning was yet young.