Mount Rainier Part 11

To this day, people who visit the northern slopes and parks of the mountain become familiar with the Bailey Willis trail and from Moraine Park they get a view of the wonderful Willis Wall named in his honor.

The Puyallup River, which empties into Puget Sound near New Tacoma, heads in three glaciers on Mount Tacoma. During the summer months, when the ice and snow on the mountains are thawing, the water is discolored with mud from the glaciers and carries a large amount of sediment out to Commencement Bay. If the Coast Survey charts are correct, soundings near the centre of the bay have changed from one hundred fathoms and "no bottom" in 1867, to eighty fathoms and "gray mud" in 1877. But when the nights in the hills begin to be frosty, the stream becomes clearer, and in winter the greater volume of spring water gives it a deep green tint.

For twenty miles from the Sound the valley is nearly level. The bluffs along the river are of coa.r.s.e gravel, the soil is alluvium, and a well sunk a hundred feet at the little town of Puyallup pa.s.sed through gravel and sand to tide mud and brackish water. From the foot-hills to its mouth the river meanders over an old valley of unknown depth, now filled with material brought down by its several branches. About eighteen miles above its mouth the river forks, and the northern portion takes the name of Carbon River; the southern was formerly called the South Fork, but it should retain the name of Puyallup to its next division far up in the mountains. A short distance above their junction both Carbon River and the Puyallup escape from narrow, crooked canons, whose vertical sides, one hundred to three hundred feet high, are often but fifty feet apart. From these walls steep, heavily timbered slopes rise two hundred to eight hundred feet to the summits of the foot-hills. These canons link the buried river basin of the lower stream with the upper river valleys. The latter extend from the heads of the canons to the glaciers. They are apparently the deserted beds of mightier ice rivers, now shrunk to the very foot of Mount Tacoma.

From New Tacoma the entire course of the Puyallup and part of Carbon River are in view. Across Commencement Bay are the tide marshes of the delta; back from these salt meadows the light green of the cottonwoods, alder and vine-maple mark the river's course, till it is lost in the dark monotone of the fir forest. No break in the evergreen surface indicates the place of the river canons; but far out among the foot-hills a line of mist hangs over the upper valley of Carbon River, which winds away eastward, behind the rising ground, to the northern side of Mount Tacoma. Milk Creek, one of its branches, drains the northwest spur, and on the western slope the snows acc.u.mulate in two glaciers, from which flow the North and South Forks of the Puyallup.

These streams meet in a level valley at the base of three singular peaks, and plunge united into the dark gateway of the canon.

A trip to the grand snow peak from which these rivers spring was within a year a very difficult undertaking. There was no trail through the dense forest, no supply depot on the route. No horse nor donkey could accompany the explorer, who took his blankets and provisions on his back, and worked his way slowly among the towering tree trunks, through underbrush luxuriant as a tropic jungle. But last summer a good horse trail was built from Wilkeson to Carbon River, crossing it above the canon, sixteen miles below the glacier, and during the autumn it was extended to the head of the Puyallup. Wilkeson is reached by a branch railroad from New Tacoma. It is on a small tributary of Carbon River, called Fletts Creek, at a point where the brook runs from a narrow gorge into a valley about a quarter of a mile wide. Coal mines are opened at this point. The horse trail climbs at once from Wilkeson to the first terrace, four hundred feet above the valley; then winds a quarter of a mile back through the forest to the second ascent of a hundred feet, and then a mile over the level to the third. Hidden here beneath the thick covering of moss and undergrowth of the primeval forest, fourteen hundred feet above the present ocean level, are ancient sh.o.r.e lines of the sea, which has left its trace in similar terraces in all the valleys about the Sound.[23] Thence the trail extends southward over a level plateau. Carbon River Canon is but half a mile away on the west, and five miles from Wilkeson the valley above the canon is reached. The descent to the river is over three miles along the hillside eastward.

From Wilkeson to the river the way is all through a belt of forest, where the conditions of growth are very favorable. The fir trees are ma.s.sive, straight and free from limbs to a great height. The larger ones, eight to twelve feet in diameter on a level with a man's head, carry their size upward, tapering very gradually, till near the top they shoot out a thick mat of foliage and the trunk in a few feet diminishes to a point. One such was measured; it stands like a huge obelisk 180 feet, without a limb, supporting a crown of but forty feet more. The more slender trees are, curiously enough, the taller; straight, clear shafts rise 100 to 150 feet, topped with foliage whose highest needles would look down on Trinity spire. Cedars, hemlocks, spruce and white fir mingle with these giants, but they do not compete with them in height; they fill in the s.p.a.ces in the vast colonnades.

Below is the carpet of deep golden green moss and glossy ferns, and the tangle of vines and bushes that cover the fallen trunks of the fathers of the forest.

The silence of these mountains is awesome, the solitude oppressive.

The deer, the bear, the panther are seldom met; they see and hear first and silently slip away, leaving only their tracks to prove their numbers. There are very few birds. Blue jays, and their less showy gray, but equally impudent, cousins, the "whiskey jacks," a.s.semble about a camp; but in pa.s.sing through the forest one may wander a whole day and see no living thing save a squirrel, whose shrill chatter is startling amid the silence. The wind plays in the tree tops far overhead, but seldom stirs the branches of the smaller growth. The great tree trunks stand immovable. The more awful is it when a gale roars through the timber; when the huge columns sway in unison and groan with voices strangely human. It is fearful to lie in the utter darkness of a stormy night, listening to the pulsating rush of the wind, the moan of the forest and the crash of uprooted giants upon the ground--listening with bated breath for the report which may foretell the fall of yonder tall decaying shaft, whose thick, deep cleft bark blazed so brightly on the now dying camp fire. The effect of one such storm is seen in Carbon River Valley, above and below where the trail crosses. The blast followed the stream and the mountain slope on the south side; over an area eight miles long and a half a mile to a mile wide the forest is prostrate. Single trees stand gaunt and charred by a recent fire, but their comrades are piled like jackstraws, the toys of the tornado. Over and under each other they lie, bent and interlaced, twenty, thirty feet deep. Pigmy man strained his eyes to see their tops, when they stood erect; now he vainly stands on tiptoe to look over them in their fallen majesty.

To the head of Carbon River from the bridge, on which the trail crosses it, is about sixteen miles. The rocky bed of the river is 100 to 200 yards wide, a gray strip of polished boulders between sombre mountain slopes, that rise sharply from it. The stream winds in ever-shifting channels among the stones. About six miles above the bridge Milk Creek dashes down from its narrow gorge into the river.

The high pinnacles of the spur from which it springs are hidden by the nearer fir-clad ridges. Between their outlines shines the northern peak of Mount Tacoma, framed in dark evergreen spires. Its snow fields are only three miles distant, but Carbon River has come a long way round. For six miles eastward the undulating lines of the mountains converge, then those on the north suddenly cross the view, where the river canon turns sharply southward.

Three miles from this turn is Crescent Mountain, its summit a semi-circular gray wall a thousand feet high.[24] At sunset the light from the west streams across the head of Milk Creek and Carbon River, illuminating these cliffs as with the glow of volcanic fires, while twilight deepens in the valley. The next turn of the river brings Mount Tacoma again in view. Close on the right a huge b.u.t.tress towers up, cliff upon cliff, 2,500 feet, a single one of the many imposing rock ma.s.ses that form the Ragged Spur between Carbon River and Milk Creek. The more rapid fall of the river, the increasing size of the boulders, show the nearness of the glacier. Turning eastward to the south of Crescent Mountain, you pa.s.s the group of trees that hide it.

This first sight is a disappointment. The glacier is a very dirty one.

The face is about 300 feet long and thirty to forty feet high. It entirely fills the s.p.a.ce between two low cliffs of polished gray rock. Throughout the ma.s.s the snows of successive winters are interstratified with the summers' acc.u.mulations of earth and rock.

From a dark cavern, whose depths have none of the intense blue color so beautiful in creva.s.ses in clear ice, Carbon River pours out, a muddy torrent. The top of the glacier is covered with earth about six inches deep, contributed to its ma.s.s by the cliffs on either side and by an island of rock, where a few pines grow, entirely surrounded by the ice river. The eye willingly pa.s.ses over this dirty ma.s.s to the gleaming northeast spur of the mountain, where the sunlight lingers after the chill night wind has begun to blow from the ice fields.

The disappointment of this view of the glacier leaves one unprepared for the beauty of that from Crescent Mountain. The ascent from a point a short distance down the river is steep, but not dangerous. The lower slopes are heavily timbered, but at an elevation of 4,000 feet juniper and dwarf pine are dotted over the gra.s.sy hillside. Elk, deer and white mountain goats find here a pleasant pasture; their trails look like well trodden sheep paths on a New England hill. A curious badger-like animal, sitting erect on his hind legs, greets one with a long shrill whistle that would make a schoolboy envious, but trots quickly away on nearer approach. The crest of the southwest rim of the amphitheater is easily gained, and the grandeur of the view bursts upon you suddenly. Eastward are the cliffs and canons of the Cascade Range. Northward forest-covered hill and valley reach to Mount Baker and the snow peaks that break the horizon line. Westward are the blue waters of the Sound, the snow-clad Olympics and a faint soft line beyond; it may be the ocean or a fog bank above it. Southward, 9,000 feet above you, so near you must throw your head back to see its summit, is grand Mount Tacoma; its graceful northern peak piercing the sky, it soars single and alone. Whether touched by the glow of early morning or gleaming in bright noonday, whether rosy with sunset light or glimmering ghost-like, in the full moon, whether standing out clear and cloudless or veiled among the mists it weaves from the warm south winds, it is always majestic and inspiring, always attractive and lovely. It is the symbol of an awful power clad in beauty.

This northern slope of the mountain is very steep, and the consolidated snow begins its downward movement from near the top.

Little pinnacles of rock project through the ma.s.s and form eddies in the current. A jagged ridge divides it, and part descends into the deep unexplored canon of White River, probably the deepest chasm in the flanks of Mount Tacoma. The other part comes straight on toward the southern side of Crescent Mountain, a precipice 2,000 feet high; diverted, it turns in graceful flowing curves, breaks into a thousand ice pyramids and descends into the narrow pa.s.s, where its beauty is hidden under the ever-falling showers of rock.

This rim you stand upon is very narrow; a hundred feet wide, sometimes less, between the cliff that rises 2,000 feet above the glacier and the descent of a thousand feet on the other side. Snow lies upon part of this slope; stones, started from the edge, leap in lengthening bounds over its firm surface and plunge with a splash into the throat of the lakelet that lies in the amphitheater. The ice slope, dipping into the clear water, pa.s.ses from purest white to deepest blue as it pa.s.ses out of sight in the depths of the basin.

A two days' visit to this trackless region sufficed only to see a small part of the magnificent scenery. White River Canon, the cliffs of Ragged Spur, the northern slope of Mount Tacoma, where the climber is always tempted upward, might occupy him for weeks. Across the snow fields, where Milk Creek rises, is the glacier of the North Fork of the Puyallup, and the end of the horse trail we left at Carbon River is within six miles of its base. When a trail is built up Carbon River, the way across this divide will be found, and, with comfortable stopping places on the two rivers, the tourist can pa.s.s a delightful week amid scenery we now cross the ocean to Switzerland to see.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] The terraces to which reference is here made are not the work of the sea, but of lakes whose waters gathered between the mountain slopes and retreating glaciers of the ice period. See the article by H. I. Bretz. Geol. Survey of Wash., Bull. 8, 1912.

[24] The amphitheaters which the young geologist mistook for craters are now known to be glacier basins eroded by ice.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAJOR EDWARD STURGIS INGRAHAM.]

X. DISCOVERY OF CAMP MUIR, 1888

BY MAJOR E. S. INGRAHAM

Major Edward Sturgis Ingraham has visited the mountain annually since 1888. He has ascended to the summit seven times and has spent as many nights in the crater. It was he who gave to a number of the prominent features of the Park their beautiful and enduring names.

On his first ascent in 1888 the party included John Muir, most famous naturalist of the Pacific Slope. Since he found a sheltered pumice patch and suggested camping there for the night, Major Ingraham called it Camp Muir, now well known to all climbers.

Major Ingraham prepared an account of the ascent which was published in The Puget Sound Magazine for October, 1888. That magazine has long since ceased to be issued. It was edited by the editor of this present work, who has rescued the article from the rare and almost forgotten files.

After an extensive career as superintendent of schools, printer, militia officer and miner, Major Ingraham has been devoting his later years to the boy scout work, in which his love for the mountains plays an important part.

A glacier on the mountain bears the name of Ingraham. How that came to be, is related by him as follows: "One time when I was on the mountain encamped at the Camp of the Clouds, Professor I. C. Russell and another man, both in their shirt sleeves, came tottering into my camp at early morning. They had been caught upon the summit and had spent a shivering night in the crater. I treated them the best I knew how and they departed. When their maps came out I found that a beautiful glacier had been named for me--Ingraham Glacier."

Mount Rainier, one of Nature's masterpieces, is the most striking object of grandeur and beauty amidst the unsurpa.s.sed scenery of Washington Territory. Occupying nearly a central position geographically in the Territory, it is alike an object of pride to the inhabitants of the Great Plain of the Columbia and to the dwellers on Puget Sound. There are other peaks that command our attention, but it is to the old monarch that we turn with unfeigned pride and exclaim, "Behold a masterpiece!"

The height of Mount Rainier, as estimated by triangulation, is 14,444 feet. This height was verified by barometer in the hands of one party that reached the summit in the month of August of the present year.

From many points of view it appears a single peak; but in reality it is composed of three peaks of nearly the same height. These peaks may be designated as northern, crater and southern. They are not in direct line, but occupy apexes of an obtuse-angled triangle. The northern peak is a cone, with its apex about two miles from the summit of crater peak; the southern peak is somewhat flattened on top, and is about one and one-half miles from crater peak. Crater peak, as the name suggests, has two large craters, with well-defined rims--one sloping slightly towards the northeast, and the other towards the southwest. The culminating point of this peak is a sugarloaf-shape ma.s.s of pure snow, about one hundred feet above all adjacent points.

The northern and southern peaks are inaccessible, except from crater peak, owing to the precipitous condition of their sides, which are so steep that snow will not cling to them except in small patches. Down these sides, during some seasons of the year, avalanches go thundering almost hourly with a roar that makes the tourist shudder with fear.

The volcanic condition of Mount Rainier is everywhere apparent. For miles before the base is reached vast quant.i.ties of ashes, forming the greater part of the soil of that region, plainly tell of extensive eruptions; the immediate foothills are covered with ma.s.ses of red and black lava; while pumice is found in great abundance upon some of the ridges. All these evidences suggest that, long ages ago, Rainier was the scene of volcanic activity of immense magnitude. Ascend to the top, behold the two well-defined craters, with their rims perfect; descend those walls, and try to count the many jets of steam constantly puffing forth their sulphurous odors, and one is led to believe that Rainier has been active at a comparatively recent period.

Mount Rainier, with its many glaciers, is the source of the princ.i.p.al rivers of Western Washington. From the summit of the three peaks the snow forges its way downward until it is compressed into ice; the ice in turn is compressed until it a.s.sumes that peculiar blue tint that characterizes ice under great pressure. These ice streams move slowly down the valleys, about one foot in twenty-four hours, conforming to their beds. Where the bed is inclined, the glacier breaks into innumerable ma.s.ses, somewhat regular, with great yawning creva.s.ses between. While crossing one of the White River glaciers below an ice-fall I had to stand clear of a dozen bowlders that came rolling down from the brink, telling very forcibly that the glacier was moving. These glaciers plow their way down the valleys to an elevation of between 3000 and 4000 feet, and there dissolve into water. Some of them terminate in a gentle incline; others present a high wall of clear ice, with the river issuing from an immense cave; still others deposit vast quant.i.ties of stones and earth, forming what is called the "terminal moraine." The glaciers of the northern peak, five in number, form the Puyallup and its princ.i.p.al tributary, the Carbon; the twelve glaciers of the eastern slope of crater peak yield the icy waters of the White and Cowlitz; the glaciers of the southern peak form the several sources of the Nisqually. The glaciers are from one to two miles in width, and from six to twelve miles in length. Like the rivers which they form, they themselves have tributaries. When two glaciers unite, their inside lateral moraines join and form a medial moraine.

The ascent of Mount Rainier is difficult and dangerous. Three different parties have reached the summit from the south side--namely, Hazard Stevens and P. B. Van Trump in 1870; P. B. Van Trump, James Longmire and Mr. Bailey, in 1883; and a party of seven, of which the writer was the projector, in August of the present year. A party of three from Snohomish claim to have reached the summit by the northeast side in the summer of 1884. Several others and myself have made two attempts to reach the summit from that side, but came to an impa.s.sable creva.s.se at an elevation of about 14,000 feet on both occasions.

On the morning of the 10th of last August a party of eight gentlemen left Seattle for Yelm with the necessary equipments and provisions for a two weeks' sojourn among the eternal hills. At Yelm we secured the necessary horses to convey our outfit to the snow line on the south side. The day at Yelm was clear and beautiful--Mount Rainier never looked so grand before. Its three peaks stood out in bold relief against the sky, while its walls of ice sparkled with resplendent beauty. During the morning and evening the play of colors around its base, extending in graduated bands far towards the zenith, made our artist groan aloud because of his inability to transfer them to canvas. It took us three days from the time we left Yelm to reach the Longmire Mineral Springs. These springs were discovered by Mr. James Longmire in 1883. They number twenty-five or more, and are heavily charged with carbon dioxide and other gases that combine to make the water a very pleasant drink as well as a health-giving beverage.

Around each spring is an incrustation of soda compounds deposited by the water. One spring, over which a rude bath-house has been constructed, pours forth a large quant.i.ty of water at a temperature of 85 Fahr. A bath in this water is pleasant and invigorating. The view from the springs is very beautiful. On the right is the swift flowing Nisqually; on the left, a solid white wall of basaltic rock rises to a height of nearly one thousand feet; while in front, seeming only a mile away, Mount Rainier stands in silent majesty. There were several visitors at the springs. In the near future these springs will be sought by hundreds of invalids. We would gladly have remained at the springs for several days, but, with the old monarch so near, we could not delay. The next day found all of the party but two on the tramp.

That day's work was to ascend to Camp of the Clouds, distant about five miles from the springs. It was no small task. The trail is steep and rugged, and has been traveled but little. About three miles from the springs it crosses the Nisqually. From that point for a mile it is one of the steepest trails I have ever traveled. When the top was reached we were regaled by the sight and odor of flowers that surpa.s.sed description in odor and variety. From this point to Camp of the Clouds, two miles further on, our path was literally strewed with beautiful flowers. This entire region is a paradise for the botanist, and the flowers deserve a much fuller description.

At last, after four days of hard tramping, we have reached permanent camp at an elevation of about 6,000 feet. Here we unpack, pitch our tent and turn our jaded horses loose. Here we wish all our friends with us, and here we would gladly remain a month in deep enjoyment of the grandeur and beauty around us, but our time is limited and our friends far away.

Monday noon, August 14th, we carefully prepare for the ascent. It is light artillery now--a pair of blankets, a small supply of provisions, princ.i.p.ally chocolate, and our Alpine staves complete the outfit. With cheerful hearts and steady nerves we begin the climb. It is our purpose to ascend to a height of about 10,000 feet and there make camp for the night. Soon we pa.s.s the timber line. Our pathway now lies over the eternal snow, broken only by a projecting spur of the mountain.

After five hours of hard climbing, we come to a ridge covered with sand and pumice. From the presence of the latter we know it to be a spot comparatively free from wind, for, on account of the lightness of the pumice, it is easily blown away. Here we decide to camp. Two by two we go to work preparing our beds. This we do by clearing away the loose stones from a s.p.a.ce about three by six feet, stirring the sand up with our pikes and making a wall of rocks around the cleared place.

After a half hour's toil we declare our beds prepared. Hastily partaking of a little chocolate and hardtack, we "turn in," although the hour is early; but the wind is rising and the sharp, stinging cold is upon us. After pa.s.sing a miserable night, we break camp at 4:30 o'clock. Throwing aside our blankets and part of our provisions, we begin the final ascent. Our course takes us along the crest of a rocky ridge and beneath a perpendicular wall of basalt over a thousand feet in height. Here the courage of one of the party failed him, and he concluded to go no farther. The most dangerous part of the ascent is along the base of this cliff. The earth pitches at an angle of 35 from its base, and at three particular places this incline is not over six feet wide, ending in a perpendicular jump-off of fifteen hundred feet to the Nisqually glacier below. After a half hour's crouching and crawling we get past this dangerous part of our undertaking. We must now ascend almost perpendicularly one thousand feet to the top of this wall. Ordinarily steps have to be cut in the snow and ice, but on this occasion the snow lay in little drifts that served as steps. Up this ladder of snow and ice, prepared by the winds, we climb, pausing every few steps "to take breath." The top is reached at last. Upon consulting our barometer we find we are 12,000 feet above the sea level. A halt is ordered to put six steel brads in the sole of each boot, to prevent us from slipping on the ice and hard snow that we must now encounter.

From the crest of this cliff the incline of the mountain to the summit is less than at any other point and consequently fewer creva.s.ses, the terror of the mountaineer. Bracing ourselves for the final effort, we resumed the march. On account of the continuous ascent and the rarity of the atmosphere we have to rest every twenty or thirty steps. Still ascending, avoiding the creva.s.ses by a zigzag path, we at last reach the last one, or what might more properly be called the first creva.s.se. This creva.s.se is formed by the first breaking off of the snow as it begins to slide down the mountain. The upper side is often a perpendicular wall of hard snow from ten to fifty feet high. This same creva.s.se, for it extends half way round the mountain, prevented our further progress on two previous occasions, when attempting to reach the summit from the northeast slope. Luckily on this occasion we found a bridge that afforded us a safe pa.s.sage over. From this point we can see a clear path to the summit. Upward we climb to where the rim of the crater seems but a few hundred feet away. Look! there is a jet of steam right ahead; one grand effort and I sit upon the rim of the crater. I shout a word of triumph which sounds strangely shrill to my companions below, who, one by one, soon gain my exalted position.

The feeling of triumph that filled the heart of each one as he gained that sublime height can be realized by no one who has not been in a similar position.

s.p.a.ce precludes an extensive description of the view from our elevated position; Washington, Oregon and the Sound and sea lay below us. A roll of clouds extending entirely around the horizon somewhat obstructed the prospect, yet added to the beauty of the scene. Mts.

Baker, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, and Jefferson appeared above the clouds; the Cascade and Olympic ranges, Puget Sound and numerous river basins appeared below, while the smoke of distant cities completed the scene. Reluctantly turning from this grand panorama of nature, I gave my attention to an examination of the craters. There are two, elliptical in shape, and from one-half to three-fourths of a mile across. Their rims are bare outside, and in to an average depth of thirty feet from the crest. This is owing to the internal heat and escaping steam, which issues from a hundred jets within the circ.u.mference of the craters. The steam escapes in intermittent jets from little orifices about three-fourths of an inch in diameter. The walls of the crater in some places are quite warm, all of which plainly indicates that Mount Rainier is a volcano, not extinct but slumbering.

The amount of steam that escapes from the crater at any one time varies with the atmospheric pressure. In fact, Mount Rainier is a reliable barometer, foretelling a storm with certainty. Everyone who has noted the appearance of the mountain from time to time is familiar with the peculiar white cloud that is frequently seen suspended just above the summit, while no other clouds are in sight. This peculiar cloud, caused by the condensation of escaping steam, is called "Rainier's cap," and is the forerunner of a storm. There was considerable snow in the craters, but it had the appearance of having recently fallen. I believe, should it cease to snow for two or three months, the crater would become entirely bare inside; but this is not possible, for it snows on Mount Rainier even in midsummer.

Our party spent about two hours on the summit. We would gladly have tarried longer, but the clouds were gradually approaching from all points, and we did not care to take the chance of spending a night in the crater. Our descent in some places was even more dangerous than the ascent, owing to the falling rock. I recall with a shudder the successful dodging of a shower of bowlders on their way down from the top of a cliff two thousand feet above. They were singing as merrily as a cannon ball just shot from a thirty-pounder as they pa.s.sed my head.

Our party left the summit about two o'clock, and some of us reached "Camp of the Clouds" by six o'clock, descending in four hours the same distance that we were twelve hours in covering on the upward climb.

The names of the party making this very successful ascent are: John Muir, P. B. Van Trump, A. C. Warner, D. W. Ba.s.s, N. O. Booth, C. V.

Piper and E. S. Ingraham.