Cruisings in the Cascades Part 3

Abrupt basaltic walls, 500 to 1,000 feet high and nearly perpendicular, rise from the water's edge on either side. On the more sloping faces of these, vegetation has obtained root-room, little bunches of soil have formed, and various evergreens, alders, water hazels, etc., grow vigorously. Half a foot of snow had lately fallen on the tops of these mountains, and a warm, southwest wind and the bright sun were now sending it down into the river in numerous plunging streams of crystal fluid. For thousands of years these miniature torrents have, at frequent intervals, tumbled down here, and in all that time have worn but slight notches in the rocky walls.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TRIBUTARY OF THE HARRISON.]

Shrubs have grown up along and over these small waterways, and as the little rivulets come coursing down, dodging hither and thither under overhanging clumps of green foliage, leaping from crag to crag and curving from right to left and from left to right, around and among frowning projections of invulnerable rock, glinting and sparkling in the sunlight, they remind one of silvery satin ribbons, tossed by a summer breeze, among the brown tresses of some winsome maiden. I took several views of these little waterfalls, but their transcendent beauty can not be intelligently expressed on a little four-by-five silver print.

Several larger streams also put into the Harrison, that come from remote fastnesses, and seem to carve their way through great mountains of granite. Their sh.o.r.es are lined with dense growths of conifers, and afford choice retreats for deer, bears, and other wild animals.

At three o'clock in the afternoon we rounded a high point of rocks that jutted out into the river, and another beautiful picture--another surprise, in this land of surprises--lay before us. Harrison Lake, nestling among snowy peaks and dotted with basaltic islands, reflected in its peaceful depths the surrounding mountains as clearly as though its placid surface had been covered with quicksilver. This lake is about forty miles long, is fed by the Lillooet river and numerous smaller streams. Silver creek, which comes in on the west side, twenty miles north of the hot springs, is a beautiful mountain stream of considerable size. A quarter of a mile above its mouth, it makes a perpendicular fall of over sixty feet. It is one of the most beautiful falls in the country. Near the head of the lake, and in full view from the springs, old Mount Dougla.s.s, clad in perpetual snow and glacial ice, towers into the blue sky until its brilliancy almost dazzles one's eyes. Though forty miles away, one who did not know would estimate the distance at not more than five, so clearly are all the details of the grand picture shown. It is said that from the glaciers on this peak come the streams whose waters give their peculiar milky cast to Harrison Lake and Harrison river. Near the base of Mount Dougla.s.s is an Indian village of the same name, and the Hudson Bay Fur Company formerly had a trading post in the neighborhood, which they called Fort Dougla.s.s. This Indian village is the home of my prospective guide, and from it he has adopted his unpoetic cognomen.

Half a mile to the right of where we entered the lake, the famous hot springs, already mentioned, boil out from under the foot of a mountain, and discharge their steaming fluid into the lake. The curative power of these waters has been known to the natives for ages past, and the sick have come from all directions, and from villages many miles away, to bathe in the waters and be healed. All about the place are remains of Indian encampments, medicine lodges, etc. The tribes in this vicinity are greatly exercised over the fact of the white man having lately a.s.serted ownership of their great sanitarium, and having a.s.sumed its control. Mr. J. R. Brown has erected over the springs a large bath-house, and near that a commodious hotel. He has cut a road through a pa.s.s in the mountains to Aga.s.siz station, on the Canadian Pacific Railway, five miles distant, so that the springs may now be easily reached by invalids wishing to test their curative properties. Soon after my arrival at the springs, I climbed the mountain to the east of the hotel, and pa.s.sed the time pleasantly, until sunset, viewing the beautiful scenery in the neighborhood.

On the following morning I took a boat and rowed up the east sh.o.r.e of the lake, in hope of getting a shot at a deer, but though I saw plenty of fresh signs all along the sh.o.r.e no game was visible. I spent the afternoon looking anxiously for my promised guide, but he came not. I again amused myself, however, taking views of the scenery, but found on developing the negatives that I had not been eminently successful with either Mount Dougla.s.s or Mount Chiam. Snowy mountains are about the most difficult objects in all nature to photograph, especially if you attempt to include anything beside the snowy peaks in the picture; for they are so intensely white, and the sky or even clouds that form the background are so light and afford so slight contrast, that it is next to impossible to get good sharp pictures of them. The landscape about the mountains is sure to offer some dark objects, perhaps deep shadows, and even the mountain itself nearly always has bare rocks and dark, gloomy canons, and to get these and the dazzling whiteness of the snow and ice on the same plate is decidedly difficult. Of course we see many fine photographs of snow-covered mountains, but if taken with a clear sky or with light clouds for background, there is generally more or less retouching necessary, and more or less doctoring in printing, with tissue paper, gla.s.s screens, etc., in order to obtain the results we see in the prints. I made some fair views of both these peaks, but not such as an enthusiastic amateur might wish. Of the lower mountains, where at that time there was no snow, of the lake, the islands, etc., I got very satisfactory pictures. I went up the road, toward the railway station, a mile or more, where it pa.s.ses through one of those grand forests for which this country is so famous, where--

"Those green-robed senators of mighty woods Dream, and so dream all night without a stir."

There I made views of some of the giant cedars, the dense moss-hung jungles, the great fir trees, etc. In these dark, densely-shaded woods I had to take off the flying shutter and make time exposures. I gave three to five seconds to each plate. In the prints the trees and other objects nearest to the lens are of course over-exposed, but the details in the shadows and objects in the extreme distance are clearly and beautifully brought out. For these time exposures I placed the camera on some convenient log, stump, or stone, in lieu of a tripod. In two instances I seated the rear end of the instrument on the ground, with the lens bearing up through the tops of the trees. The whitened trunk and broken, straggling arms of one great old dead fir--one that has flourished in this rich soil and drawn sustenance from the moist, ozone-laden atmosphere of these mountains for hundreds of years, but has lived out his time and is now going the way of all things earthly--forms the subject of one of the best and most interesting pictures of the whole series. The tops of several other trees--birch, maple, etc., that stood near the fir--are also shown in the picture. It can best be seen and appreciated by holding it above your head, looking up at it, and imagining yourself there in the forest, looking up through the tops of the giant trees into the blue ethereal dome of heaven.

CHAPTER IX.

In the morning I got up early to look for Dougla.s.s Bill, thinking and hoping he might have landed during the night, but no one had seen him and there was no strange canoe in the harbor. After breakfast, in order to kill time, I climbed the mountain east of the hotel to a height of about a thousand feet. It is heavily timbered, and I found plenty of fresh deer-signs within plain sound of the hammers wielded by the carpenters at work on the hotel, but failed to get a shot. I returned at eleven o'clock, but Bill had not yet shown up. Three other Indians were there, however, with three deer in their canoe, which they had killed on the opposite side of the lake the day before. I now concluded that Mr.

Major's confidence in Bill was misplaced; that he was not going to keep his contract, and was, in short, as treacherous, as unreliable, and as consummate a liar as other Indians; so I entered into negotiations with these three Indians to get one or two of them to go with me. But they had planned a trip to New Westminster, to sell their venison, and I could not induce any one of them to go, though I offered big wages, and a premium on each head of game I might kill, besides. They said that if I wished they would take me to their village--which is five miles down the river--and that there were several good goat hunters there whom I could get. I accepted their offer of transportation, stepped into the canoe, and we pulled out. As we entered the shoal water in the river I asked for a pole, and impelled by it and the three paddles we sped down the stream at a rapid rate.

There was a cold, disagreeable rain falling and a chilly north wind blowing. This storm had brought clouds of ducks into the river, among them several flocks of canvas backs. The Indians, who were using smooth-bore muskets, killed several of these toothsome fowls. One flock rose ahead of us and started directly down the river, but by some kind of native intuition the Indians seemed to know that they would come back up the opposite sh.o.r.e. They dropped their guns, caught up the paddles and plied them with such force that every stroke fairly lifted the light cedar canoe out of the water, and we shot across the river with the speed of a deer. Sure enough, after flying a hundred yards down stream the ducks turned and, hugging the sh.o.r.e, undertook to pa.s.s up the river on the other side, but we cut them off, so that they had to pa.s.s over our heads. At this juncture the two muskets carried by the two young men cracked and three canvas backs dropped, limp and lifeless, into the water within a few feet of us.

We arrived at the hut occupied by this family at noon. It stands on the bank of the river, half a mile above the village of Chehalis, and as we pulled up, two old and two young squaws and nine small Indians, some of them mere papooses in arms (but not in long clothes--in fact, not in any clothes worth mentioning), came swarming out to meet us. Their abode was a shanty about twelve feet square, made by setting four corner posts into the ground, nailing cross-ribs on, and over these clapboards riven from the native cedars, and the roof was of the same material. The adult members of this social alliance had been engaged in catching and drying salmon during the recent run; the heads, entrails and backbones of which had been dumped into the river at their very door. There being no current near the sh.o.r.e they had sunk in barely enough water to cover them, and lay there rotting and poluting the water used by the family for drinking and cooking. Cart-loads of this offal were also lying about the dooryard, and had been trampled into and mixed up with the mud until the whole outfit stunk like a tanyard.

Within was a picture of filth and squalor that beggars description. The floor of the hut was of mother earth. A couple of logs with two clapboards laid across them formed the only seats. On one side was a pile of brush, hay, and dirty, filthy blankets, indiscriminately mixed, on which the entire three families slept, presumably in the same fashion. Near the centre of the hut a small fire struggled for existence, and that portion of the smoke that was not absorbed by the people, the drying fish and other objects in the room, escaped through a hole in the centre of the roof. The children, barefooted and half-naked, came in out of the rain, mud, and fish carrion, in which they had been tramping about, and sat or lay on the ground about the fire, looking as happy as a litter of pigs in a mud hole. On poles, attached by cedar withes to the rafters, were hung several hundred salmon, absorbing smoke, carbonic acid gas from the lungs of the human beings beneath, and steam from the cooking that was going on. It is understood that after this process has been prolonged for some weeks these once n.o.ble fishes will be fit for the winter food of the Siwash.

Some of the houses in Chehalis are neat frame cottages; in fact, it is a better-built town, on the whole, than the village of Harrison River already described; but these better houses all stand back about a quarter of a mile from the river, and the inhabitants have left them and gone into the "fish-houses," the clapboard structures, on the immediate river bank. Some of these shanties are much larger than the one mentioned above, and in some cases four, five, or even six families hole up in one of these filthy dens during the fish-curing season.

As a matter of fact, there are salmon of one variety or another in these larger rivers nearly all the year, but sometimes the weather is too cold, too wet, or otherwise too disagreable in winter for the n.o.ble red man to fish with comfort, and hence all these preparations for a rainy day. After the fishes are cured they are hung up in big out-houses set on posts, or in some cases built high up in the branches of trees, in order to be entirely out of the reach of rats, minks, or other vermin, and the members of the commune draw from the stock at will. The coast Indians live almost wholly on fish, and seem perfectly happy without flesh, vegetables, or bread, if such be not at hand, though they can eat plenty of all these when set before them. If one of them kills a deer he seldom or never eats more of it than the liver, heart, lungs, etc. He sells the carca.s.s, if within a three days' voyage of a white man who will buy venison.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SALMON BOXES IN TREES.]

One of the young men already mentioned went with me down to one of the big fish-houses and called out Pean, a man about fifty years of age, who he said was a good goat hunter and a good guide. They held a hurried conversation in their native tongue, at the close of which the young man said Pean would go with me for two dollars a day. I asked Pean if he could talk English, and he said "yes," but this proved, in after experience, to be about the only English word he could speak. He rushed into the hut, and in about three or four minutes returned with his gun, powder-horn, bullet-pouch, pipe, and a small roll of blankets, and was ready for a journey into the mountains of, he knew not how many days.

His canoe was on the river bank near us, and as we were stepping into it I asked him a few questions which he tried to answer in English, but made a poor stagger at it, and slid off into Chinook.

Just then another old Indian came up with a canoe-load of wood. I asked him if he could speak English--"wah-wah King George"; and he said "Yes."

I then told him I had hired this other man to go hunting with me and asked him if he knew him.

"Oh, yes," he said; "me chief here. All dese house my house. All dese people my people. No other chief here." I said I was delighted to know him, shook hands with him, gave him a cigar, and inquired his name.

"Captain George," he said; "me chief here."

"Is he a good hunter?" pointing to Pean.

"Yes, Pean good hunter; good man. He kill plenty sheep, deer, bear."

With this additional certificate of efficiency and good character I felt more confidence in Pean, and stepping into the canoe was once more _en route_ to the mountains.

Still, I felt some misgivings, for my past experience with the fish eaters had taught me not to place implicit faith in their statements or pretensions, and the sequel will show how well grounded these fears were.

CHAPTER X.

The Flathead nation, to which nearly all the Puget Sound Indians belong, may almost be termed amphibians; for though they can, and do in some cases, live inland exclusively, they are never happy when away from the water. They are canoeists by birth and education. A coast Indian is as helpless and miserable without a canoe as a plains Indian without a horse, and the Siwash (Chinook for coast Indian) is as expert in the use of the canoe as the Sioux, Crow, or Arapahoe in the use and control of his cayuse. Almost the sole means of travel, of intercommunication among these people, and between themselves and the whites, is the canoe.

There are very few horses owned in any of the coast tribes, and these are rarely ridden. When a Siwash attempts to ride a horse he climbs onto it kicking and grunting with the effort, much as an Alabama negro mounts his mule, and sits him about as gracefully. But let the Siwash step into his canoe, and he fears no rapid, whirlpool, nor stormy billow. He faces the most perilous water and sends his frail cedar sh.e.l.l into it with a skill and a consciousness of mastery that would put to the blush any of the prize winners in our Eastern canoe-club regattas. The canoes are models of nautical architecture. They are cut and carved from the cedar trees which bounteous Nature, in wise provision for the wants of Her children, has caused to grow so plentifully and to such prodigious size in the Sound country. They are of various sizes and lengths, owing to the uses for which they are intended. If for spearing salmon or for light traveling, they are cut from a tree twenty to twenty-four inches in diameter, and are not more than twelve to fifteen feet long. If for attending nets and bringing in the catch, they are generally longer, and if for freighting and long-distance traveling, they are of immense size and capable of carrying great burdens. A tree of the size wanted is selected, perfectly sound and free from knots, and a log of the desired length cut off. The log is hollowed, carved out to the desired shape, then trimmed and tapered outside until it is a mere sh.e.l.l, scarcely more than an inch thick anywhere.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN OCCIDENTAL GONDOLA.]

It is then filled with water, a fire is built near in which rocks are heated and thrown into the canoe until the water boils. This is continued until the wood is thoroughly cooked and softened, when the water is turned out, the canoe is spread at the centre, braced out to nearly twice its natural width or diameter, and left to dry. This gives it "sheer" and enables it to ride a heavy sea like a lifeboat.

Handsomely carved figureheads are attached to some of the large canoes, and the entire craft is painted, striped, and decorated in gay colors.

I measured one of these cedar canoes that was thirty-four feet long and five and a half feet beam, and was told by its owner that he had carried in it four tons of freight on one trip, and two cords of green wood on another. It would carry fifty men comfortably and safely. There are not many of the Indians that can make the larger and better grade of canoes, and the trade is one that but few master.

There is one famous old canoe builder near Vancouver, to whom Indians go from distances of a hundred miles or more when they want an extra fine, large, light canoe. For some specimens of his handiwork he gets as high as $80 to $100. The Indians throughout Washington Territory and British Columbia do considerable freighting for whites, on streams not navigable for steamers, and they take freight up over some of the rapids where no white man could run an empty canoe.

Some of these Flatheads are industrious and are employed by the whites in salmon canneries, lumbering and logging operations, farming, etc.

Steamboat men employ them almost exclusively for deck hands, and they make the best ones to be had in the country; better than either whites or Chinamen. They are excellent packers by education. In this densely-timbered country horses can not, as a rule, be used for packing, and the Indians, in going across country where there is no watercourse, pack all their plunder on their backs. Whites traveling in the woods also depend on Indians to pack their luggage; consequently it is not strange that the latter become experts at the business, and it is this schooling that makes them valuable as deck hands. They are not large men, but are tough, sinewy, and muscular. An average Siwash will pick up a barrel of flour or pork, a case of dry goods, or other heavy freight weighing three hundred pounds or more, roll it onto his back, and walk up a gang-plank or a steep river-bank as easily as a white man would with a barrel of crackers.

No work is too dirty or too hard for them. They are obedient to orders and submissive to discipline, but their weak point, like that of all Indians, is their inordinate love of whisky. Quite frequently, after working a few weeks or months, they quit and go on a drunken debauch that ends only when their money is gone. Their dress is much the same, in general, as that of the whites in this region, with the exception that the Indians wear moccasins when hunting. This footgear is little in favor here with white hunters, owing to there being so much rainfall, and so much wading to do. Rubber boots are indispensable for hunting in most seasons, and a rubber coat should also be included in every hunter's outfit. I found the Hannaford ventilated rubber boot the most comfortable and perfect footgear I have ever worn. You can scarcely walk a mile in any direction in this country at any time of year, on mountains or lowlands, without encountering water. Moccasins soon become soaked, and are then the most uncomfortable things imaginable. I asked one of my guides why he did not wear rubber boots instead of moccasins, and he replied:

"O, I dunno. De moxicans cheaper, mebbe. I mek him myself. Can't mek de boots."

This is about the only use the Indians make of buckskin. It is not popular with them as a material for clothing, on account of the vast amount of rainy weather.

It has been said they make cloth from the wool of the goat, but, so far as I could learn, they make very little, if any of it, of late years. I saw some blankets that Indians had woven from this wool, but they were very coa.r.s.e. They have no machinery for spinning; the yarn is merely twisted by hand, and is so coa.r.s.e and loose that it would not hold together a week if made into a garment and worn in the woods. Of course, a fair article of yarn, and even cloth, may be, and has been, made entirely by hand, but these people have neither the skill, the taste, nor the industry to enable them to do such work. A coa.r.s.e hair grows with the wool on the goat, and the squaws do not even take the trouble to separate it, but work both up together, making a very uncouth-looking fabric, even if thick, warm, and serviceable.

As a cla.s.s, these Indians appear to be strictly honest, toward each other at least. They leave their canoes, guns, game, or in fact, any kind of property, anywhere they choose, without the slightest effort at concealment, and always feel perfectly sure of finding it on their return. About the only case of pilfering I ever heard of, while among them (and I took special pains to investigate) was when John asked me for some fish-hooks, and said in explanation:

"I had plenty hooks, but I reckon Seemo he steal all my hooks."

"Why, does Seymour steal?" I inquired. He looked all around to see if Seymour was within hearing, and not seeing him, replied:

"You bet. He steal my hooks, too."

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SIWASH AND HIS MORNING'S CATCH.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN INDIAN SALMON FISHERY.]