The Hood River Glacier, Hood River, OR., June 14, 1928, page 4

CHRISTIAN GULER TELLS OF ADAMS
(By Edward C. Miller, automobile editor, in the Sunday Oregonian)

     Christian Guler, a native of Canton Grison, Switzerland, has been in America these 40 past years. Most of these many summers and winters have been spent in that peaceful and charming bit of the Evergreen state which lies south of and is guarded by loft Mount Adams. Christian Guler is fond, very fond, of the Mount Adams country; for he finds the mid summers and the brisk winters strikingly akin to the seasons of the land of his youth.
     "Here the climate of the west and the east Cascade meets," Christian Guler will explain as he puffs an incessantly glowing pipe and with sweeping gesture indicates the reaches of the White Salmon valley in which lie the settlements of the Mount Adams country.
     "We have the warmth of the east, the coolness of the west. We have ample moisture from the Pacific and the bracing dry air of the east. It is cold in the winter time, but has not the chill of your Portland. When the thermometer has registered 20 degrees below zero I have gone to the Willamette valley where the thermometer was much higher and have not shivered until I reached the warmer clime. There is a chill in the western cold -- a chill that goes through your bones -- that we have not in the dryer country.
     "It is so much like Switzerland. Did you see the mountain last night at sunset?"
     We had, indeed, observed that the mountain. A study in glistening white with a mantle of soft crimson.
     "Tell us, Mr. Guler, what were the names of all those wild flowers that we saw on our short side trip yesterday afternoon toward Mount Adams."
     Two of us had made the trip in our Durant "75" - C.A. Carlisle of the H. McDonald company, East Side Durant dealers, and the writer. The road of which we were speaking is off the beaten path and leads through forests some ten miles to the timber line of Mount Adams.
     Mr. Guler smilingly affected a depreciating shrug of his slight shoulders.
     "Ah, now, you must ask Mrs. Guler that question. Come in the house and she will tell you."
     Mrs. Guler, whose hair has the fine whiteness of Adams and her features the freshness of the wild flowers where-of she knows, averred that she was no botanist; but upon earnest entreaty consented to name a few.
     "There are," she said, "the hare's car, the pine lily, sweet william, Indian paint brush, wild honeysuckle, wild orange blossoms, Scotch blue bell, goldenrod -- that will come later - wild daisies, Scotch heather, columbines, swans grass that has a delicious cream hue, wild currant, timber lily or trillium, yellow pond lilies, white and blue anemones."
     "Don't forget the dandelions," suggested Mr. Guler. "Our lawn was yellow with them this spring. It's the wine flower, you know."
     "You mean the wine that flowers," corrected Mrs. Guler. "No, there are so many wild flowers. I can't think of them all."
     The unusual beauty of the forest near Adams had caught our eye. Yellow pines, which in eastern Washington and Oregon are almost entirely free from undergrowth, were tall comrades to green Evergreens. The stately grandeur of the yellow pines mingled with the greenery of the firs and cedars, and withal, a thick carpet of ferns which partook neither of the eastern dearth of undergrowth nor the tangled brush of the west. An open forest rising from a garden of wild flowers and ferns.
     "There are many varieties of trees in that forest," said Mr. Guler, "but you must look closely if you would identify each.
     "Starting from the timberline there is the white bark or nut pine; the mountain hemlock; the pine fir; blue spruce -- that is a little one out there in our garden -- the larch, lodge-pole pine, white pine, yellow pine -- those are the large ones with the yellow bark and prized highly as timber -- the red fir, Douglas fir, red cedar and the blue cottonwood. Those I can think of now."
     Fame of the Mount Adams huckleberries had reached our ears. Every summer, in late August and early September, the Indians from seemingly all of Oregon and Washington gather for a gala fiesta in the huckleberry fields. Literally thousands of Indians -- not hundreds but thousands, we say, bring their families, their horses, their sedans and their teepees, and hold heavy pow-wow. The woods are full of redskins. If you go 25 miles west of Mount Adams and draw a circle with a radius of 15 miles, you will roughly encircle the extent of the huckleberries region. Go where you will, one cannot escape them -- blue huckleberries, brown huckleberries and red huckleberries. The brown are the best eating. And the Indians go wild until the snow flies. A sight well worth seeing, this Indian onslaught on the huckleberries.
     "What other wild berries have you in this country?" We queried.
     "There are the blackberries," said Mrs. Guler.
     "And the gooseberries," said Mr. Guler.
     "And the blackcaps," said Mrs. Guler.
     "And the strawberries --"
     "The wild currants - "
     "Choke cherries - "
     "Cranberries - "
     "And the juniper berries," said Mr. Guler. "That's what they make synthetic gin out of."
     "Shame on you, Christian," said Mrs. Guler.
     Said Christian Guler: "You must see our potatoes in the lava cave. We placed them in the cave last November -- two carloads from Yakima -- and they are just as good as when we put them in. The cave has a temperature of 38 degrees winter and summer. It's a natural refrigerator."
     A two-mile jaunt in the Durant took us east to the town of Guler, (yes, it was named for Mr. Guler), through farms and past a sawmill to the entrance of a lava cave. Since last summer, during which time the "refrigerator" aspect of the cave has been discovered, a wooden structure somewhat larger than a settler's cabin, and with ventilating tower, has been constructed over the cave mouth. A winding staircase leads to the floor of the cave, 30 feet below.
     "Two boys discovered the cave a long time ago," explained the host. "They saw a small hole in this lava protrusion, dropped a stone through and knew it was a cave. The present opening was blasted out. They found the cave extended 200 yards west and half a mile east and south. It makes a right angle turn. Scientists say it was formed by gases in the molten lava spewed out long ago, probably from Mount Adams."
     He lighted two gas lamps and we dropped into fearful darkness and into the cold.
     A towering framework has been constructed in the immense cave, tiers running for perhaps 100 yards along the eastern portion of the recess. Here, on these supports, made gaunt by shadows from the white gas light, where the sacks and boxes of Yakima potatoes. Mr. Guler picked up several of the tubers.
     "Here, feel of them. They are as firm as the day we put them in the cave. Not a sprout. A roof over the framework keeps the cave drippings from the spuds. We have some strawberries in here to that see how long they will keep and the Forest Service is experimenting with dried fruits. A conveyor will be installed and this fall apple growers from White Salmon will store their apples here. It's cheaper to haul them to the cave than to pay for artificial refrigeration. The cave is big enough to store the produce of the whole valley."
     It seemed to us, as we climbed out of the chill air into the sunlight, that W.H. Dean of White Salmon and Charles Coate of Husum, who control the cave, have found a gold mine in this gloomy yet fascinating hole in the ground.
     "Come now," suggested our host, "and see Trout Lake."
     Ho! Now there is a lake for a fisherman that isn't too serious about his business. It lies, and catches the reflection of Mount Adams, a half mile west of Guler, and there a son of Izaak Walton may cast his line or go to sleep in his sun-beaten boat, which ever his fancy dictates.
     Somehow we just can't help yawning whenever we think of Trout Lake, though in truth it is cold enough to keep a swimmer active, being nourished by glaciers. No less than 160 acres of water provides home for hungry trout (so Mr. Guler and others affirm), but the rushes are ambitious where the lake is not; and by huckleberry time, the fishes are bumping their noses against the border vegetation that has all but won the battle. But Lord save a reflective soul with naught to do but sprawl in a rowboat and marvel at the glories of a tottering boat landing, the peerless mountain, an unbroken fringe and far-reaching vista of green timber. 'Tis a bit of water for a sleepy philosopher, and if the sun becomes too warmish, he may stake his craft in the shade of an overhanging and sheltering tree.
     It seems to the writer, after having twice visited the environs of Mount Adams within the past 12 months, that the country is in strange conflict within itself in its offerings to the vacationist. There is the pastoral aspect, a calmness and a restfulness, a serenity that is good. The rambling, yet efficient, irrigation ditches; the shambling chairs on the front porch of the hotel; the all hotel swing big enough for two, where you must pump like the very devil to get any motion. And even Mount Adams. As Mr. Guler said, "It just takes hard work to climb it." A mountaineer counts it no achievement to reach the summit. And of course, Trout Lake, utterly lacking in enterprise.
     Offsetting this lackadaisical atmosphere are the zestful mountain sports. Go climb Mount Adams and work hard at it! Go hunting in season for the game that abounds -- bear, cougar, martin, mink, lynx and deer. Drive east into the mountains and pack into the rarely visited Steamboat lake and the Three Hidden lakes, well stocked with trout. Go fishing in the White Salmon, which tumbles down a canal of its own making, and this in a canyon, from Adams to the Columbia. It is a mad stream and beautiful with silver falls. To these someday will be added winter sports. Three months of ice awaits skaters on Trout Lake; the dry snow of Adams is ideal for toboggans and skiing. A new road to the mountain will provide a toboggan slide ten miles long. There is an ideal spot for an airplane landing. Ambitious country? Rather. And so restful.
     This much for the roads and hotel accommodations. The best route is via the Columbia highway rather than the North Bank highway. Saving of an hour at least will be made by following the Columbia to Hood River, then to White Salmon over the bridge and to Trout Lake and Guler over a good gravel road. Time from Portland in the Durant loaned for the motor log through the courtesy of H. McDonald, was 3½ or 4 hours, easy driving. The Durant, a powerful car, was aided by a 4-speed transmission, but the hills, in truth, are negligible. If time is no object, a trip over the North Bank highway, very good macadam saving in several stretches where construction is under way, is well taking if only for the sake of variety.
     The only hotel near Mount Adams is at Guler. It is more of an old-fashioned home than a hotel, with excellent table fare, served family style. It is essentially a country hotel, but the host is genial and his charges are very reasonable. A good camp ground for auto parkers is available.
     Should you visit Mount Adams, do not fail to make acquaintance with Christian Guler. His knowledge of the country is extensive, his smile most engaging and his company delightful.
     And do not forget, as Mr. Guler reminded us, that there are no snakes near Mount Adams save the "little garter snakes which wouldn't hurt anybody."

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©  Jeffrey L. Elmer