“As first I journeyed through this pleasant land of the Willamette, a little book, written just half a century ago, fell into my hands, and these words concerning the valley, read then, offered a description whose peer I have not yet encountered:
“‘The sweet Arcadian valley of the Willamette, charming with meadow, park and grove! In no older world where men have, in all their happiest moods, recreated themselves for generations in taming earth to orderly beauty, have they achieved a fairer garden than Nature’s simple labor of love has made there, giving to rough pioneers the blessings and the possible education of refined and finished landscape, in the presence of landscape strong, savage, and majestic.’”
Such is George Palmer Putnam’s estimate of the “Valley of Content,” as he styles it in poetic phrase, and we can testify that his description is true as well as poetic.
But it may be that our enthusiasm for the Willamette Valley is unduly delaying the story of the actual progress of our journeyings which I take it has the “right of way” in this volume.
Out of Portland we encountered considerable highway construction work, which reminded us that Multnomah County is improving other arteries of travel besides the Columbia Highway. Such improvement was certainly needed, for the dozen miles between Portland and Oregon City was badly broken macadam, enforcing a speed limit that put fear of “cops” quite out of the question. The road is fairly level, however, following the river quite closely and crossing it just before it comes into Oregon City. Here we struck the first of many of the ancient covered wooden bridges in this section, doubtless another New England inheritance for which the early inhabitants were responsible. Each of these rickety old structures bore a warning against crossing “faster than a walk,” with threat of a liberal fine for violations, though the infernal clatter of loose boards that seemed to threaten collapse ought to be a most effective deterrent against speeding.
The road leaves Oregon City by a sharp, winding ascent which brought us to a fine, rolling upland with a dim mountain range to our left. The surface, however, was much better, permitting us to do the legal limit of Oregon—twenty-five miles per hour—with entire comfort. The gently rounded hills on either hand were occupied by thrifty-looking ranches, and fruit-laden prune and apple orchards were the most prevalent crop. The former were being gathered and we met many wagons and trucks loaded with the purple fruit, which was being taken to the drying houses. These were odd-looking frame structures with tall, square, latticed towers projecting above the roofs and the odor of the drying fruit was noticeable in this vicinity.
Salem, the state capital, fifty miles from Portland, is the first town of consequence. It is situated directly on the Willamette, which is navigable to this point by good-sized steamboats and two lines ply regularly between Salem and Portland. The population is only sixteen thousand, but still enough to give it second rank among Oregon cities. The general appearance of the town, its shops and stores, which we especially observed while making a few purchases, would give the impression of a much larger place. Salem, like The Dalles, was founded by Methodist missionaries as early as 1840. This was only seventeen years later than the founding of the last Spanish mission in California and we could not help thinking how this beautiful Arcadian valley would have appealed to the Franciscan padres. There were plenty of natives to engage the activities of the missionaries and they are more numerous here to-day than in the vicinity of the old California missions. An industrial training school for Indians is located near the city. The town was incorporated in 1853 and made the state capital in 1860. Its career has been as peaceful and quiet as its name would signify. Indian fighting and mining lawlessness never disturbed its serenity as in the case of so many California towns. To-day it still gives the impression of quiet prosperity and peacefulness with its twenty-five churches and two denominational schools—the Methodist Willamette University, with about five hundred students, and the Catholic Sisters’ Academy, with one hundred and fifty girls in attendance. The state capitol and other public buildings are not very impressive and apparently not so costly as state capitols and public buildings average the country over. There are fifty miles of wide, level, well-paved, tree-bordered streets which in our mind go farther than almost anything else as an index of civic pride and progressiveness.
Beyond Salem the valley widens and becomes monotonously level. On either hand is a dim blue mountain range, above which, eastward, glimmers an occasional snowy peak. The principal crop in this section is wheat, large quantities of which were being hauled to the market. The heavily laden wagons worked havoc with the old stone road, which was very rough in places. We found considerable stretches of loosely scattered crushed rock awaiting the steam roller; this made desperately hard going and wrought havoc with tires. Sometimes we could avoid it by running to one side of the road, but chuck-holes and dust many inches deep made this alternative an unpleasant one. The country was a dead brown hue everywhere except for the enlivening green of occasional fields of alfalfa or well-watered lawns about some of the handsome farmhouses. The soil showed every evidence of fertility and we were assured that crop failures are quite unknown in this favored valley.
Albany, twenty-seven miles from Salem, is a good-looking, well-built town of five thousand people. There is an astonishingly large seven-story hotel which seemed to indicate a busy place. Notwithstanding the opportunities to dine at several apparently excellent hotels along this route, we did not regret that we had picked up a lunch at a Portland delicatessen store. It was more enjoyable than any hotel meal when eaten in the open under a group of towering trees by the roadside—and, incidentally it cost less. The Willamette at Albany affords excellent water power, and this has attracted several manufacturing establishments to the town.
Leaving Albany, the road swings several miles eastward from the river, returning to it at Harrisburg, thirty miles farther south. Here we found a ferryboat propelled by a gasoline launch alongside serving in lieu of a bridge. The service is kept up free of charge by the county and the ferryman told us that the average is two hundred and fifty trips per day. As the river is not very wide here and there appeared to be no great obstacle in the way of bridging it, the ferry seemed a penny-wise makeshift—and this on the much-vaunted Pacific Highway. Certainly one need have no difficulty in keeping on this same Pacific Highway for a more be-signed road we never traveled. At some of the crossings there would be a half dozen different signboards put up by enterprising local business men, auto dealers, and the omnipresent Goodrich Tire Company. And I might incidentally remark that I can conceive of no better advertising to the motorist than these same road signs; I have blessed the Goodrich people more than once when we paused in doubt at the parting of the ways, only to be set aright by their friendly signboards. We came to the conclusion, as the result of much observation, that the best material for the sign is a well-painted pine board about an inch thick. This is little affected by weather, can be easily repainted, and affords little temptation to the wretched outlaw who insists on using the signboard as a rifle target. A rifle bullet will often knock a hole as big as one’s hand in the enamel of a metal sign, while its ravages can hardly be seen on a wooden sign, and a putty plug effects an instant repair when painting. In any event, while few metal signs escaped the vandal’s bullets, we hardly ever saw a wooden board “shot up.” Of course, it is easy enough to say that the vandals who damage road signs should be punished severely enough to break up the practice, but this is a long route to travel in a country where contempt for law is so general. In all of our European travels, some twenty-five thousand miles, we never saw a wilfully damaged signboard.