The ascent of the trail from the lake to the Lodge was less strenuous than we expected and they told us there was still time to drive over the new road to the summit of the Watchman, about four miles distant. It is a fine, well-engineered road, but in the main keeps away from the rim and presents vistas of endless mountains rather than of the lake. We were not able to reach our goal, for the road was closed about three miles from the Lodge on account of blasting. We turned about with some difficulty and as we retraced our way to the inn we had a superb view of the setting sun across the long array of wooded crests that stretch southward toward Klamath Lake. At Victor Rock, a short distance from the Lodge, we left the car and sought this splendid vantage point to view the lake at sunset. It was disappointing, if anything about Crater Lake could be disappointing, for the sun’s rays did not reach the surface as he sank behind the hills in the southwest. Only a deeper, duller blue settled over the placid water, relieved a little later by the reflection of a full moon. The sense of mystery, however, that is never absent when one views this strange “sea of silence” was deepened when the blue shadows of twilight settled over it and began a ghostly struggle with the pale moonbeams. Verily, you shudder and wonder if there is not some real foundation for these legends of the haunting spirits of Llao and Skell and perhaps—but the glowing windows of the Lodge reminded us that dinner time was at hand, something of more vital interest than speculations about ghosts and demons.
WIZARD ISLAND FROM GARFIELD PEAK
Copyright by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon
A great fire of pine logs was blazing in the huge fireplace and it was grateful, indeed, for there were strong indications of frost in the air. “Better drain your radiator,” was the admonition to our driver, who had garaged the car under a group of huge pines a little distance from the Lodge—no other shelter being ready—but with his usual carefulness he had already anticipated the suggested precaution. After lunch the guests crowded about the fire, reading the day-old newspapers or discussing the various roads over which they had come, there being several other motor parties besides ourselves. A fisherman entered, but the only result of his five-hour cruise was a fine rainbow trout, weighing perhaps six pounds. This started talk about piscatorial matters and we learned that originally there were no fish of any kind in the lake. The principal life was a small crustacean which is found in vast numbers and is probably the basis of the big crawfish story in the legend of Llao and Skell. Mr. U. G. Steele, some thirty years ago, first stocked the lake with young rainbow trout which have thriven greatly, for now the fish are present in large numbers and many have been taken weighing as much as ten pounds. The fish are caught by fishing from vantage points on the shore or by trolling from rowboats. They are usually quick to take the hook and for their size are exceedingly game fighters. A day’s limit is five, which is quickly reached early in the season. So clear is the water that the angler can watch every move of his quarry from the moment it takes the bait until it is finally “landed.”
Naturally, we were curious to know of the origin, the discovery, and the geology of Crater Lake, and soon learned that Uncle Sam has anticipated this curiosity and has issued through the Department of the Interior a number of illustrated booklets and maps which are obtainable at the Lodge. A better plan, no doubt, would be to obtain these and other literature in advance of the trip, but this we had neglected. With this assistance, a few minutes enabled us to learn much of the strange lake and region we were visiting.
The name itself is suggestive of the lake’s origin. Ages ago, probably before higher animal life had appeared on the earth, there was a period of intense volcanic activity on the western coast of North America. A vast range of fire mountains extended from Mount Baker in Washington to Mount Lassen in California and all of them at one time were active volcanos higher and more terrible than Mount Vesuvius ever was. Among these were Mount Ranier, Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Hood, Mount Jefferson, the Three Sisters, Mount McLoughlin, Mount Shasta, and Mount Lassen, of which only the last still shows volcanic activity. Mightier than any of these was the gigantic peak which stood on the site of Crater Lake and which has been called Mount Mazama in honor of the Alpine Club of that name in Portland, whose investigations have contributed much to our knowledge of this region. It must have exceeded fifteen thousand feet in height, overtopping every other peak on the North American continent, and what ages it stood, a sentinel of fire and snow with no human eye to see its awful majesty, we can not know, but it must have been for many thousands of years. Nor can we know with anything like exactness when some vast and almost unthinkable convulsion of nature tore this mighty mountain from its seat and leveled its proud bulk far below the lesser rivals that surrounded it. Nor can we be certain of the exact nature of the disaster that overtook it; whether it gradually disappeared through long ages or as the result of some sudden and awful convulsion is now only a matter of conjecture, though scientific opinion inclines to the latter view. The theory is that terrific internal forces burst through the slopes of the mountain well down its gigantic sides and that the shell, weakened by loss of the molten core, collapsed inwardly and was fused in the white hot lavas. This theory requires the assumption that much of the debris escaped in the shape of gases, leaving the vast pit where the lake now lies.
More generally accepted is the theory of a sudden and terrific explosion which scattered the mountain top broadcast for hundreds of miles around, a fate that overtook the volcano Krakatoa in the South Pacific. In succeeding ages the fiery crater gradually cooled and was finally filled with water from the heavy snows that fall in this region. The lake has no other source of supply and no visible outlet, but since precipitation exceeds any possible evaporation, there must be some subterranean channel by which the water escapes; otherwise the lake would eventually fill to the level of the lowest point of the rim. That all volcanic action has long since ceased is proven by the fact that at a depth of three hundred feet the temperature remains the whole year round only seven degrees above the freezing point.
Such, in rough outline, is the geologic story of this weird region and mysterious lake. When one considers it as he floats on the steel-blue water, it gives rise to strange thoughts and sensations—here, where you drift and dream, laving your hand in the clear, cold water, once raged an inferno of flame so fierce that solid rock fused and flowed like burning oil. A full mile above the highest skyline of the gigantic encircling cliffs once towered a stupendous peak which has vanished as utterly as if it had never existed. Was it all the result of some mysterious sequence of accidents or did some Power plan and direct it all to obtain this
“Fantastic beauty—such as lurks
In some wild poet when he works
Without a conscience or an aim?”