Painting by H. H. Bagg after copyright photo by Kiser, Portland
After reaching the finished part of the road, we were scarcely for a moment out of sight of the great river and the hills, rocks, and forests that make the wild beauty of its shores. Just across the river is the barren bulk of Wind Mountain, with the shattered stumps of giant trees known as the submerged forest at its base. A little farther we came to Cascade Locks, built by the government around the rapids at this point. Several steamers daily pass these locks, which have a lift of eight feet. Beyond them writhes the turbulent green river, which subsides to placid stretches some distance ahead of us.
Then marvels come thick and fast. We pass on to a wonderful viaduct swinging around the sheer sides of Tooth Mountain, upon which the road is supported by airy-looking concrete pillars. Above us tower perpendicular cliffs crowned by mighty pines, and below us a precipice quite as sheer falls almost to the river level. Beyond this Eagle Creek is spanned with a graceful arch of gray stone and near by is the cliff which Indian tradition tells us was the southern abutment of the Bridge of the Gods. Table Mountain, a rugged, flat-topped cone rising on the opposite shore, marks the northern end of the bridge which geologists say may not have been wholly a myth, for there are signs that a great dyke once held back the waters of the river at this point.
The quaint Indian legend is worth retelling, since every one who points out the wonders of the Columbia to a stranger is sure to refer to it. In early days an Indian father with his two sons came to this region and the youths had a quarrel over the division of the land. To settle the dispute the father shot one arrow to the east and another to the west, bidding the sons make their homes where the arrows fell. The Great Spirit then erected the vast wall of the Cascades between the two to prevent farther trouble. From one son sprang the tribe of the Klickitats and from the other the Multnomahs. The Great Spirit had built a mighty bridge over the Columbia and given it in charge of a witch named Loowit, and this same lady was entrusted with the care of the only fire then to be found in the whole world. When Loowit came to realize how much fire would benefit the two tribes, she besought the Great Spirit to permit her to offer it as a gift to the poor Indians. This he did and the condition of the tribes was wonderfully improved; they built better lodges, made better clothes and, with the aid of fire, fashioned implements of metal and utensils of pottery. To reward Loowit for her benefactions, the Great Spirit offered her any gift she might choose and with true feminine instinct she asked to be young and beautiful. Her beauty wrought havoc with the hearts of the chieftains of the region, but none of them found favor in her eyes until one day Klickitat came from the south and his rival, Wigeart, from the north and both paid court to the queen of the great bridge. So evenly matched were these doughty warriors that Loowit could not decide between them and a bitter war ensued between their respective tribes. The whole land was ravaged and fire was used to destroy the comforts which it had conferred on the Indians. So the Great Spirit repented and resolved to undo his work. He broke down the mighty bridge, damming the river into a vast lake, and slew Loowit and her rival lovers. He determined to give them fitting commemoration, however, and reared as monuments the great white peaks we see to-day, though our names are different from what the Indians called them. Loowit sleeps under Mount St. Helens and Wigeart and Klickitat under Hood and Adams. Surely these red-skinned heroes were given sepulture fit for the gods themselves.
SHEPPERD’S BRIDGE FROM BENEATH—COLUMBIA HIGHWAY
From photo by Fred H. Kiser, Portland, Oregon
A weird story, but true, no doubt, for can we not see the great cliffs which formed the approaches of the mighty bridge and the white summits yonder which mark the resting places of the unfortunate lovers? Still, there is another story to the effect that when Hood and Adams were yet fire mountains they quarreled and the vast rock, hurled by the former at his adversary, fell short and wrecked the bridge. Marvelous stories! but not so wonderful as the realities that greet our eyes in the same region—the steam road below us with its luxurious transcontinental train and the Columbia River Highway with the machines that glide so smoothly and swiftly over its splendid surface.
At Bonneville—reminiscent of Washington Irving—are the fish hatcheries where salmon and trout are propagated to repopulate the river and mountain streams. A good-sized park has been set aside in connection with the work and this, with the hatcheries, is open to all.
Beyond Bonneville the road drops almost to the river level, a beautiful, nearly straight stretch guarded by a concrete balustrade of artistic design. We have a grand vista down the river from this point with a splendid view of Castle Rock on the Washington side, a vast, conical rock nearly a thousand feet high, with sides so sheer that even the hardy pines can scarcely find footing. Its summit was long considered insurmountable, but it was recently scaled by a venturesome climber. It can be seen for many miles in either direction.