Such are the bare outlines of the legend of The Dalles, which shows no small power of imagination on part of the savage originators. The fuller details of the story may be found in “Canoe and Saddle,” by the lamented young New England writer, Theodore Winthrop, who visited this region about 1857 and no doubt learned the story from the natives at first hand. Winthrop lost his life in one of the earlier battles of the Civil War and thus one of the most promising lights of American letters in that day was forever extinguished. His story of this western wilderness at the time of his visit is one of the most vivid that has ever been written and deserves a permanent place in the historical annals of the Great Northwest.
VI
WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON
Had we known the real character of the road between The Dalles and Hood River we should never have started on that journey while a light rain was falling and lowering clouds seemed portentious of much heavier showers. We had intimations that the road could scarcely be ranked as a boulevard, but we assumed that the so-called Columbia River Highway ought to be passable, even in showery weather, and resolved not to be deterred by the prospect of rain. Luckily for us, the drizzle cleared and the clouds rifted before we were well out of the town and though we found some soft spots along the road, we were spared the experience of trying to negotiate these frightful grades in the rain. We confess that while we were pretty well inured to mountain roads, this twenty-two mile stretch of the Columbia Highway occasioned a goodly number of nervous thrills before we rolled into the trim little village of Hood River. The grades are long and steep and in places the road is exceedingly narrow, with a sharp declivity alongside and there are a number of dangerous turns.
SUNSET ON THE COLUMBIA
Copyright Winter Photo Co., Portland, Oregon
We had proceeded but a short distance when a decidedly emphatic signboard admonished us, “Danger! go into low gear,” and low gear was indeed very necessary for the long, wicked-looking twenty-five per cent grade before us. Midway in the ascent we were halted by a commotion ahead of us which we learned had been caused by a head-on collision—the driver descending the hill having lost control of his car, due to failure of the brakes. A lively altercation was in progress into which we declined to be drawn, having no desire for complication in the damage suit loudly threatened by the aggrieved party. After some difficulty the road was cleared and we kept on our grind to the summit of the mighty ridge, only to find another confronting us beyond the long descent.
During the run to Hood River we caught only fugitive glimpses of the Columbia, the road keeping mainly to the hills. Most spectacular and glorious were the vistas from the steep, seven-mile grade descending into Hood River Valley. We had a wonderful panorama of the greater part of that prosperous vale with its endless orchards and well-ordered ranch houses lying between the wooded hill ranges dominated by the snowy bulk of Mount Hood.
As we descended to the foothills the road entered the apple orchards and we had the opportunity of viewing the heavily laden trees close at hand. A record crop was nearly ready for gathering and it seemed as if it were hardly possible for another apple to find a place on some of the trees. Every branch and twig was bent with clusters of the dark red globes and the boughs had to be supported by numerous props. The air was redolent with the fragrance of the fruit and we realized the vast extent of the apple industry in the Hood River country. The whole valley below was covered with just such orchards and they climbed over most of the rounded foothills. The crop seldom fails and many thousands of cars of fruit are distributed every year over the entire country. The orchards in the main were carefully cultivated and looked very thrifty.