From painting by H. H. Bagg
A long climb through scattered pine trees and a winding descent brought us to the lonely little village of Drain, wedged in the bottom of the canyon. Here a garage man gave us the cheerful information that the road before us was no better than that over which we had come and thus, being prepared for the worst, we were agreeably surprised to find that our friend had exaggerated somewhat. The road was bad, to be sure, but no match in genuine badness for that north of Drain. We ran through open oak and fir groves on the Calapooia Mountains, very closely following the course of the Southern Pacific Railroad and passing several lonely little stations. We found some road improvement in progress and a few new stretches with properly engineered grades and curves, which gave evidence of the determination of Oregon people to make at least a part of this Pacific Highway worthy of the name.
As we approached Roseburg we found the country well settled, with many thrifty-looking apple orchards on the rolling hills. Roseburg is a good-looking town of five thousand people and we passed two very inviting hotels. A magnificent high school building was under construction and all appearances in the town pointed to prosperity and progressiveness. We took on gasoline at a garage that made the somewhat sweeping claim, “Largest and best-equipped garage between Portland and San Francisco,” but we had no opportunity of testing its facilities.
We would gladly have paused for the night in Roseburg; eighty miles of such road as we had covered was quite enough for one day, in our opinion, but we could not forget that the rainy season was due any time and prudence behooved us to push onward. There were still seventy-six miles between us and Grants Pass and, as it proved, every one of them climbs or descends some giant hill range, for the whole run is through the heart of the Cascade Mountains. There are many steep, winding grades, miles long, much narrow roadway creeping beneath overhanging precipices, with precipices dropping away below, too narrow for passing except at long intervals and often stony and rough in the extreme. The compensating feature is the wonderfully beautiful and picturesque scenery that prevails along the entire run. Wooded hills stretched away to the lavender-tinted horizon or towered far above us as we dropped into the depths of cool, green canyons alongside madly dashing mountain streams—emerald green, crystal clear, or white with foam.
Out of Roseburg we followed the Umpqua River, entering the prosaically named Cow Creek Canyon at Canyonville—but if the name is prosaic there is nothing commonplace about the wild and rugged scenery throughout its entire length. The road frequently descended to the side of the stream, where there were glorious camping sites galore, some of them occupied by motor parties. Green sward, pure cold water, fine trees, and plenty of firewood make this a camper’s paradise and in season the trout fishing is unsurpassed. There are also plenty of deer and bear in these rugged hills and many of the campers were evidently on hunting expeditions, for the season had just begun. Again the road ascended a stiff grade and rose to splendid vantage points above the vexed river. We passed several little villages nestling in the canyon and presenting the same general characteristics. About these were spots of cultivated land and often prune and apple orchards.
Beyond Wolf Creek, a few miles from Grants Pass, we entered the Rogue River Valley, which vies with Hood River in producing the big red apple for which Oregon has become famous and wonderful stories were told us of the yield of these orchards. Many other varieties of fruit are grown here and vineyards flourish. The climate is much the same as that of the Willamette Valley, and general characteristics are much the same except that the Rogue River country is more rolling.
At sunset we came into the wide main streets of Grants Pass—glad indeed that our strenuous run had reached its goal—and cast about anxiously for a hotel. A native directed us to the Josephine, but a bathroom was not to be had there, nor were we particularly prepossessed with the general appearance of the place. The Oxford, farther down the main street, proved a quiet and fairly comfortable haven in charge of a landlady who was kindly attentive. There was no restaurant in connection with this hotel—one of several instances which we found where hotels had given up serving meals, which they declared the least profitable part of the business, despite the high prices which prevail on menus in the west.
We found more of the atmosphere of the “boom” towns in Grants Pass than we noted in any other town since leaving Bend. The citizens seemed to think that the city was on the verge of a great increase in population and prosperity. The reasons for the optimism are attractively set forth in some of the literature circulated by the commercial club, from which I quote a few paragraphs, with slight modifications:
“Upon the north bank of the beautiful Rogue River in Southern Oregon is located the up-to-date, prosperous city of Grants Pass, with a population exceeding six thousand purely American citizens, enjoying the charms of picturesque scenery the equal of which is not to be found elsewhere; the clear, spring-like mountain stream, with its myriads of trout and salmon, coursing along the southern limits of the city boundary, affords means of recreation which only few of the vast American populace are permitted to enjoy.
“Grants Pass is surrounded by rich agricultural and horticultural lands; the low forest-clad hillsides are being rapidly cleared and planted to Tokay grape vineyards and peach, pear, and apple orchards; upon both banks of the Rogue River, for a distance of twenty miles, are large commercial apple orchards, some in full bearing, consisting of the Spitzenberg and Yellow Newton Pippin apples, for which the section is world-famous, and others newly planted or from one to five years old; large tracts of luscious watermelons, nutmegs, and cantaloupes are to be seen interspersed with strawberries, blackberries, and other varieties of small fruit; here a field of corn, nodding its tassels ten and twelve feet high; there a field of hops, smiling fortune to its lucky owner; and again, rolling meadows of alfalfa and bunches of dairy cattle, sleek and trim; the azure blue sky above reaching to the horizon, the lines of which are broken by the majestic peaks of the Coast Range Mountains. Truly has this been called ‘The Italy of America.’