“Why Lakeview for a town from which it is impossible even to see the lake?” we asked.
“Because the lake originally came up to the town,” he replied, “but it has been steadily receding until it is now six miles away.”
There is good fishing in the lake, which is stocked with rainbow trout, though our host declared he much preferred the sport afforded by the streams of the vicinity and some of the stories he told of his catches would certainly stir the blood of anyone addicted to the gentle art of Ike Walton. Quite as good fortune awaits the hunter in the vicinity; deer, bear, and smaller game abound within easy distance of the town. The game laws of both California and Oregon are so very stringent, he declared, that an outsider will do well to post himself thoroughly before undertaking a hunting expedition in either of these states.
Leaving Lakeview early in the morning, we thanked our hosts for their kindness in taking the strangers in—for their exceedingly modest charge showed that it was not done altogether for profit.
“Only a little more than one hundred miles to Klamath Falls,” we were told, “but a rough, heavy road much of the way and a hard day’s run for any car”—all of which we speedily verified by personal experience. The hardest work came in the latter half of the run; for many miles out of Lakeview we bowled along through a sagebrush country with widely scattered habitations and no sign of fellow-motorists. We followed a huge irrigation aqueduct, evidently nearing completion, for some distance and in one place, where it is carried on a high trestle across a valley, the road passes beneath it. The land looked fertile enough and no doubt if the water supply is adequate this irrigation project will change the appearance of things in this section before many years. We passed a pine-covered hill range with heavy and stony grades before reaching Bly, the first village, nearly fifty miles from Lakeview.
This is a trading station of a dozen or two buildings at the eastern boundary of the huge Klamath Indian Reservation. For several miles we had been passing the noble red men with all kinds of conveyances—on horseback, in lumber wagons, spring wagons, carriages, and even two or three automobiles. Most of them were well dressed in civilized store clothes, usually with a dash of color—a red bandanna or necktie or a sporty hat band—and their horses and equipment showed evidences of prosperity. Many pleasantly saluted as they made way for us to pass and, altogether, they seemed far removed from the traditional painted savage of the old-time wild and woolly West. The storekeeper at Bly said they were coming from an Indian fair and all were returning sober so far as we could see. He said that many of them were well-to-do cattlemen and farmers and that he depended on them for most of his trade. We passed many of their farm cottages beyond Bly and the lady of our party, who had once been connected with the Indian service, interviewed one of the women—we were going to say “squaws” but it almost seems inappropriate. She was accorded the most courteous treatment by the occupants of the little cabin; her queries were answered in good English and she declared that everything about the place was clean and well-ordered.
“Going to Crater Lake—what for?” she was asked. “We going to Crater Lake, too, next week for huckleberries, much huckleberries, at Crater Lake; Indians all go there.”
Several miles of level though rough and dusty road after leaving Bly brought us to another heavily forested hill range with more steep and stony grades. We paused under a big pine to eat the lunch we had picked up in Lakeview, congratulating ourselves on our foresight, for we were hungry and the wayside inn is wanting on this trail. We were truly in the wild at this point. No railroad comes within fifty miles; the nearest settler was many miles away—and that settler a Klamath Indian. At the foot of the long grade we came to a sluggish, green-tinted stream—Lost River—which we followed nearly to our destination. They call it Lost River since it vanishes from sight in the vast marshes of Tule Lake to the south.
The last twelve miles out of Klamath Falls were the most trying of a hard day’s run. The road bed was hidden in a foot of flour-like white limestone dust—deep enough to effectually hide the unmerciful chuck-holes and to make driving a blind chance. A snail’s pace—from the motorist’s point of view—was enforced. A dense gray dust cloud enveloped us and the stifling heat was unrelieved by the fresh breeze that a sharp pace always sets up. As if to make a test of the limits of our endurance, we were compelled to work our way through a herd of two thousand cattle that were being driven along the road. We know there were two thousand of them, for a local paper next day made mention of this particular herd and the number. Those who have tried to pass a hundred cattle on a road fairly free from dust can imagine what we endured; those who have never passed cattle on a road can know nothing about it. When we finally worked our way out of the stifling dust cloud, it would have been difficult to recognize the race or color of the occupants of the car—we would surely have passed for anything but members of the Caucasian race. As we rolled on to the broad, asphalted street leading into Klamath Falls, dust begrimed, everything—our faces, clothing, and baggage—was enveloped by a dirty gray film. It covered the car from the radiator to tail light—lay an inch deep on the running boards—and fell in heavy flakes from the wheels.
We had been assured of first-class accommodations in the town, but were not expecting such a splendid, metropolitan hotel as the White Pelican; it seemed almost presumptuous for such grimy, besmirched individuals as ourselves to seek quarters in so cleanly and well-ordered a place. We were reassured, however, by a sign over the entrance, “Automobile togs are fashionable at this hotel,” which seemed to indicate that others before us had been subject to similar misgivings and needed a little assurance of welcome on the part of the hotel people. In any event, no insinuating remarks or even smiles greeted our plight, and a light, airy, beautifully furnished room was assigned us with a perfectly appointed bath which afforded us every facility for removing such Oregon real estate as still adhered to our persons. Just how thorough our dust bath had been was shown by the fact that some of it penetrated our suit cases, though protected by an outer trunk and an oilcloth covering—a thing that had not previously happened during our tour.