But, after all, the wonder of Crown Point is the view from its summit, which is conceded to be the most beautiful and impressive along the whole course of the highway. Our vision had unobstructed range for thirty-five miles in either direction. Mile-wide, the green waters of the Columbia lay beneath us, stretching away on each hand like a vast silver ribbon until it vanished in the blue haze of the distance. On either side rose the mighty hills and rugged castellated cliffs, dark with the verdure of the pines and splashed here and there with the crimson and gold of woodbine and maple. Out beyond the cliffs and hills ran the titan ranks of the Cascades, guarded by shining, snow-clad sentinels. Looking down the river the scene is not so rugged and awe-inspiring but none the less pleasing in its pastoral beauty. A blue haze hangs over the city of Portland, twenty-five miles to the westward, and shrouds the low hills of Washington on the opposite shore.
“You are fortunate in the day,” said our guide. “This subdued sunlight gives much better effects of light and color than a perfectly clear sky and you are lucky to escape the fogs—not at all uncommon here.”
We had ourselves remarked earlier in the day on the peculiarly striking effects of light and color caused by the varicolored clouds which covered much of the heavens; we had noted from several viewpoints the vast white cone of Mount Hood against a broad band of silvery sky with masses of steel blue vapor hovering above its summit. The wonderful color effect was also remarked upon by an artist who was endeavoring to depict them on his canvas. Grays, steel blues and luminous whites with patches of pale azure shading to crystal near the horizon formed the dominating color notes of the sky—a day not too brilliant and one that showed the magnificent scene at its best.
COLUMBIA RIVER GORGE FROM CHANTICLEER INN
From photo by The Weister Co., Portland, Oregon
The wild and rugged scenery of the river reaches its climax at Crown Point and beyond this, except in the neighborhood of the unhappily named Rooster Rock, the highway is devoid of spectacular features. Near Rooster Rock is an attractive rural inn, The Chanticleer, typical of many inns and resorts along the highway. Another, Forest Hall, is a duplicate of one of the hospitable old-time Southern mansions and here, for the modest sum of two dollars, you will be served by aristocratic colored people with a genuine Southern chicken dinner and it has the reputation, our friend declared, of being worth the price. Many of these inns are first-class in every particular and enjoy good patronage owing to the great popularity of the highway with local people as well as to the large number of tourists.
A few miles beyond Crown Point the highway leaves the river and descends in sweeping curves to the broad, prosperous plain which adjoins Portland on the north and west and which evidently produces a good part of the food and milk supply of the city. At the Auto Club headquarters on Sandy River, some eighteen miles from the Portland postoffice, the road swings to the north, following Sandy River for a couple of miles. This route is properly counted as the approach to the Columbia Highway, but we found it closed for improvement at the time. We therefore proceeded via the “Base Line” road, which carried us due west to the heart of the city, where we found the guidance of our friend, the officer, a decided assistance. He declared that the hotel we had selected was one of the best in the city, but admitted that a newer one was probably better. This was the Benson, built by the millionaire whose name is so prominently connected with the Columbia Highway and who has had much to do with private and public enterprise in Portland. Considering our hotel experiences since leaving San Francisco, we felt that we were entitled to the best and so pulled up in front of the Benson, a fifteen-story skyscraper of the New York type. Here our friend bade us adieu with thanks for the “lift” we had given him; and we assured him that he had more than reciprocated by the information he had imparted to us. We also came to the mental conclusion that possibly, after all, a “motor cop” may be a human being!
We asked for good quarters at the Benson but were a little taken aback when we were ushered into a spacious chamber with a wealth of solid mahogany and every modern convenience, including a large tile and enamel bath. We had not asked the rate and settled down with the rather disquieting conclusion that we would be bankrupt when we paid the bill. I may anticipate, however, by saying that the surprise was the other way, for the charge was very moderate—no more than we had often paid for inferior quarters at hotels certainly no better. In any event, it was solid comfort and a most welcome relief to the regime we had been following. We should have been glad to rest a week under such conditions, but the near approach of the rainy season caused us to greatly curtail our sojourn in Portland.
We remained long enough, however, to see a good deal of the fine city and its surroundings. It is a wonderful city, with its three hundred thousand people and magnificent business and public buildings and it is hard, indeed, to realize that only a trifle over seventy years ago two rival sea captains tossed a coin to decide whether the village they were about to found should be called Boston or Portland, in honor of their respective home ports. The Portland skipper won and the Maine town’s name superseded the musical Indian designation of the spot, “Multnomah” (down the great water). Whether the captains realized anything of the possible future of the town they thus flippantly named, is doubtful, but it is easy enough now to see that a city so situated was bound to grow in almost magical fashion. Though a hundred miles from the sea, it is still a seaport, for the tide-water river is a full mile wide here and deep enough for the largest ocean-going vessels. The river drains a territory of two hundred and fifty thousand square miles and is now navigable by good-sized boats for over four hundred miles in the interior. All the transcontinental railroads except the Santa Fe converge at Portland, giving it the best rail service of any city on the coast. The principal shipments are of lumber and wheat; in the former Portland stands unrivalled in the whole world and in the latter under normal conditions rivals—sometimes even surpasses—New York.