The Klickitat County Agriculturist, Goldendale, WA., September 1, 1900, page 3

AT TROUT LAKE
Enchanting Scenes at this Noted Summer Resort

     Mrs. Inez Filloon, well known in Goldendale, now of The Dalles, has the following fine descriptive article of Trout Lake in a recent issue of the Mountaineer of that city. Mrs. Filloon had spent two weeks at this resort - as she does every season:
     Trout Lake, Aug. 11. - It is summertime and the lazy, dreamy laughter is in the throat of the brook, and all around Mt. Adams the clouds lay piled like so many big pearls; the sweet pale green of the meadows, dotted with white daisies and blue brook-lime, melts into the shadows of the great-green willows, the tall spears of the forest blend in with the azure above them, the goldenrod nods its yellow plumes, and the purple aster grows in great masses at its feet, making a poem in purple and gold, and we know his summer, merry, jolly summer.
     This afternoon we walked around the upper part of Trout Lake, following the red road around the base of the hills, and noted the delicate, feathery ferns that cover the ugly logs and unsightly places. The thimble berries with its large leaves that surmount its brilliant, delicious red berries, the pink fire weed, raising phoenix like from the ashes of a "forest primeval," and wild black berry vines clambering over blackened logs, their berries now ripening and being carried away to some hidden retreat by the saucy chipmunk with his chops just as full as they can hold of his berry gathering; an old fence built long ago and fast falling into decay is made a "thing of beauty" by the tall, yellow spikes of the goldenrod, spoken of before, and it catches the first kiss of the sun as he peeps over the purple hills in the east. Everywhere in our rambles we come across great masses of the goldenrod and purple aster in close communion. Did you ever notice that in nature's garden purple and gold flowers are among the first in spring and the last in the fall?
     The great creamy flowers of the ocean spray nod to us as we pass by, and again the blue bells, identical with the blue bell of the bonny Scotland, is here, in the half shady places, modest and unobtrusive, bending gracefully. In the real early morning, when over half the world is asleep, the fairies are busy with the work of nature, and if you get up early, just before the sun is wide awake, and after the moonlight is almost all gone, when the world is bathed in dew, the mountain world, when the odor of the pine, fir and hemlock are everywhere, you will hear the blue bells ringing the sweetest chimes echoing across lake and meadow, and if you will look under the thimble berries leaves near you will see the fairies dancing to the music of the bells, clad in gowns of spider webs trimmed with dew pearls and you wonder that you do not get up early and learn from nature's book instead of staying in bed till all the poetry of the morning is absorbed by the sun.
     Here it is a little marshy place, and filled by a large leafed plant, vulgarly called "skunk cabbage," and on the tiny bank are sword and lemon ferns, and as we are resting on the little bridge that crosses the marsh, a little bird, then another and another still, comes down to drink, and then to bathe. We are quite still, so that the little fellows may not be startled, then when they have bathed and refreshed themselves, they fly away not knowing how very near to them had been the human folk with great big rifles, but who would not hurt them for the world. We walked on and came to a deserted ranch where the thistle flourish in a rosy purple that fairly glows out of its dusty grey by the road side, but the sun sinks into the golden west and leaves the world in darkness and to me, so that when we walk back over the long road and through the sweet clover meadow, we see the camp fire glowing, throwing its reflection in the water of the creek that flows past "Kamp Kontent," and we hear the dip of the oar on the lake and the notes of the mallard who has been to "lodge," the crickets and katydid in making their own music in the pine woods across the meadow.

The Klickitat County Agriculturist, Goldendale, WA., September 8, 1900, page 3

ECHOES FROM TROUT LAKE
Nature in all its Moods and Fancies - Ocean and Mountain Contrasted

By Mrs. Inez Filloon
(Continued from last week)
Trout Lake, Aug. 11, 1900

     Do I love the mountains better than I do the ocean? This question reminds me of a similar one asked me when I was a child, as to which I loved the better, father or mother. I loved both; one just the same as the other. When at the seaside I go down the long wet stretch of sandy beach at 4 a.m. and hear the tide sobbing as it retreats; the dull, distant boom of the breakers is born in on the breeze as it comes toward the land. * * * * I love the ocean -- its powers, its vastness, its gentle moods, its wild temper when it comes in and carries us on its mane, and brings us back again; when it takes us up, tosses us about as boy does a ball, and then when we are done with the surf we feel like a new being, and we vow again our love for the mighty deep and drink in the sea air in deep, long drawn breaths, with head up-lifted and shoulders thrown back, and go to breakfast ready for anything edible, and telling our hostess we have the appetite of hungry wolves. We do not need to tell her in words - she knows it for we leave on the table only dishes and silverware!
     Then in our rambles we see the rhododendron bells and peep down into their pink depths. * * * * We look out across the miles of salt water and see the smoke from some freight or passenger vessel going to San Francisco or Portland. We climb the white sand cliffs and weave stories from the fabric of our brains about the people who use to inhabited this [Newport] country; the Alseas as the entertained the tribes of other nations; the pale-faces also who do now entertainment at this seaside in a different, yet some-what the same way - only the modern ways are somehow improved. Feasting, music, and conversation, boating on the bay and long rides in well-filled hampers of luncheon fill the fleeting days now, -- where the red man and dusty maiden once feasted; and for music had the tom tom, and the weird songs of the maidens; and boat racing in canoes; and long rides on "cuitans." I wonder if they, too, love the ocean?
     We climb the hills to see the sun as he flings back to us his last lingering good-bye; and then the god of day bathes the Pacific in silver and gold, sprinkled with diamonds, and over the whole he throws a veil of rose and purple; every wave gleaming, flashing and dancing in the sunlight. . . . Then the golden orb goes down lower and lower over the horizon to awaken another world; and then the brilliancy fades only to bring on the hushed tones of light - the grey only found in an ocean sky. -- But these somber tones are not for long; for on looking back toward the bay the silver moon, round and full, is creeping up through and over the tall pines; and then he throws his reflection in the blue waters of the bay, making a scene long to be remembered. And then the silver track is seen upon the ocean; and we wonder which is the more beautiful, sunrise or moonrise upon an old ocean! Another question hard for me to answer - for I love it all.
     Nature in all its moods and fancies is grand, and appeals to me when even in the dull-dry, hot desert. There is some-thing beautiful to me in the grey-yellow sagebrush, and the yellow stretch of dry, hot sands melts into the quivering horizon to meet the blue sky above.
     And the mountains! The grand old hills and more imposing peaks! Of course I love them, too! Who so dull of all Nature that could not find a thrill of admiration and love for the Creator above, who made the everlasting hills! Even if we could not see, we could hear the winds sighing and moaning through the trees; we could hear the rustle of the leaves as the gentle breezes blow; we could hear the wooddoves cooing -"there'll be plenty of tomorrow's my love, my love; there's only one today my love, my love"; we could listen to the sweetest music ever heard - as we sit beside the purling brook with a song in his throat as it goes tumbling on over gray stones, past ferns, and the blue bells. And even if we could not see the foam and jewels of the waterfall we could hear its music; we could hear the tinkle of the bells borne by Moll and Bess, as they stand knee deep in the grass and tender rushes, or when they come up the dusky lanes at milking time; and we could hear the black crows "caw! caw! caw!" from the tops of the willows where their nests are; we could hear the hum of the bees in the red clover, and the chirp of the katydid and the cricket at sundown; and the deep tones of a watchdog would be borne to us on the warm evening air coming across the meadows from some farm. But when we can both hear and see all the beauties of the mountains, when we can see the sunset glow on the snow mountains and the purple evening tints on the deep forests and in the canyons we have much to be thankful for; and we have even more to thank the Giver of all of this beauty, for if we really feel a deep love for Nature down in our hearts - when we study Nature - then we have made a good foundation on which to build our lives and to be of more help to those around us.
     I do not care for dissecting flowers and plants -- but take them as they come with their perfume and color and in masses. So it is with the ocean and mountain. Not why they are, but as they are, with the message of the winds, the murmur of the ocean, the rosy glow in the east at dawn, and the woods with their mysterious silences. --- I can only answer the question at the beginning by saying, -- find anything in nature I do not love.

INEZ FILLOON.

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©  Jeffrey L. Elmer