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The Californian Illustrated Magazine, San Francisco Printing Co., San Francisco, CA., February 1893 issue, page 292
Includes photographs

ON THE COLUMBIA
By Laura B. Starr

The Dalles, that narrow passage in the Cascade mountains, through which the mighty Columbia River forces its way to the sea, is eighty miles up the river from Portland, and can be reached, as the tourist may elect, by rail or steamer.
The country through which rolls the Oregon does not depend for interest entirely upon the beauty of the natural scenery. Within the past two decades, this mighty river, with its yawning chasm, and roaring torrents of foam-flecked water, has heard various sounds besides that of "its own dashing.''
The early settlers had many a romantic and tragic encounter with "Lo! the poor Indian," who objected to having his fish caught, his game shot and his land taken away from him. The dangers braved and the privations endured by pioneers in this or any other new country are terrible to hear about, even after the lapse of years. What, then, must they have been to the active participants?
It was in the gray light of curly dawn when we found ourselves driving through a pelting rain, disagreeable enough to deter any but the most determined tourists from sight-seeing. We were assured by the weather-wise that, no matter how the rain came down in Portland, it was sure to be fine weather at The Dalles, for the sun is always shining east of the mountains.
Through the fog and mist we could see the outlines of the mountains across the river enveloped in gray, nebulous masses which continually shifted, changing the panorama at every turn. As the train sped on through gorges and around the base of the mountains, it now and then gave us a vast outlook of the river and foothills beyond, then an interior view of wooded hills, bare rocks and castellated heights.
All along the Oregon side of the river are numerous waterfalls that leap from the brow of the high basaltic cliffs which form the Columbia gorge, and dash themselves in showers of spray into rocky pools at the base of the bluffs. There are five of these within a few miles - Multnomah, Bridal Veil, Latourelle, Horsetail and Oneonta. The best known of these is Multnomah; the fall is 800 feet high, and is one of remarkable beauty. It is divided into two sections; the first about 700 feet high, is extremely beautiful. The train slows up as we pass this and Bridal Veil Falls. But we see "as through a glass, darkly," for the sparkle and glint of the sunshine is lacking.
From this point the mountains close in upon the river, and steep, tall forests gather round us. Through the trees as we speed along, we catch glimpses of snowy crests rising heavenward, and again the river stretches out before us, smooth as a sea of glass.
Another turn of the kaleidoscope, and the sun breaks out, gilding the snow-capped hills and dome of Mt. Hood with a refulgent light. A bow of promise "sheds its brilliant coloring across the rushing, roaring waters and far up the mountain height. The river narrows its confines and the scenery grows grander every moment."
As we near the Cascades, Pyramid Mountain comes into view on the north side of the river. The whole side of a rather sharp peak has fallen away, leaving a perfectly smooth surface, which from a distance looks not unlike one of those great piles built by Pharaoh; hence the name Pyramid Mountain. How high the abrupt side of the peak is cannot be stated, but it would seem to be not less than 1,000 feet, and may be twice that, since altitudes are dwarfed wonderfully by a little distance. Doubtless the shaving off, or sliding away of the side of this mountain was an accompaniment, or a direct result of the cataclysm that burst the gorge of the Columbia through the Cascade Mountains. This was done, as scientists believe and Indian tradition states, during a sudden outburst of volcanic activity by Mts. Hood and Adams.
Through a narrow gorge measuring but a hundred and fifty feet, rush the mad waters of the Columbia -- waters which less than fifty away widen into a river measuring two miles and a half across, while at its mouth, five miles must he traveled from shore to shore.
The town of The Dalles is picturesquely situated on a bend of the river above the Upper Cascades. A greater portion of it was burned not long since, so that there was little to be seen from the car window save a blackened picture of desolation.
A few Indians stalked stolidly about while the train waited; they were sullen looking and dirty; clothed in the ill-made, cheap rags of civilization, and were anything but the typical Indians that we had pictured to ourselves.
At Celilo twelve miles beyond The Dalles, we leave the train and find ourselves among the brown foothills, in full view of one of the finest gorges in the river; the waters pour in from four directions, to rush madly down a narrow defile to the Cascades below. Here we had a closer view of the huge fish-wheels which are scattered all along the banks, and which are curiously constructed of wire; in fact they look like woven-wire mattresses curved and caught to the shaft. They are, moreover, nothing but a series of nets arranged on the periphery of a wheel in such a way that one of the nets is always in the water, and is kept in constant operation by the current. The opening of the net is made of considerable length and as wide as possible, while the bottoms are inclined inward in such a way that when the net rises from the water and approaches the top of the wheel, the fish slide from it by gravitation into a trough, and thence into a box on the shore. The wheel is automatic in every particular, and runs day and night.
Varied and peculiar are the methods of fishing employed on the Columbia. Familiar to all is the picture we all knew years ago, in which the noble savage, with spear poised in hand, stands in the water at the base of a cascade, up which scores of salmon are leaping. This scene may yet be witnessed, they tell us, on the Columbia at Kettle Falls and other points, where Indians assemble every summer to catch and dry fish for their winter's food. A picturesque scene, indeed, is this camp of aborigines by day or night. Another primitive method is that of dip-netting, which is carried on by the Indians at the Dalles and Cascades. "Upon a rude scaffolding, built so as to project a short distance over the channel, at a point where there is a runway for the fish, with water of a less velocity than farther out in the stream, stands the Indian fisherman, grasping a long pole, at the end of which is an ordinary dip-net. With a long sweep of his arm he thrusts the net into the water and quickly passes it down stream, the opening ready to enclose any luckless fish it may encounter. If unsuccessful, he immediately makes another dip, keeping it up until he either catches a fish or ceases for a few minutes to rest. In this manner the natives catch fish for their own use, as well as for sale at the canneries. In either case the squaws are used as beasts of burden, and the catch intended for the family larder is taken by those silent workers to a convenient spot, split open, cleaned and then laid out or hung up in the sun to dry, while the cannery fish are put into a large gunny-sack, which is held in place on the squaw's back by a strap around the forehead, and are thus conveyed to the packing-house. A great many dips can be made in an hour, and the quantity caught in this way is surprising. At the Dalles 22,000 pounds, fully 1,000 fish, have been caught by four nets, and that number of nets have taken 800,000 pounds in one season.
"At the mouth of the Columbia, and for more than fifty miles up the stream, the methods just described are not practicable, but nets, seines and traps are used. First in importance is the gillnet, operated from a boat. No less than 1,600 of these are in use on the river, the majority of them just inside the bar. Two men operate together, one of them being the fisherman and the other his boat puller. A net is usually 1,800 feet long and twenty to thirty feet wide, with wooden floats on the upper edge and metal sinkers on the lower, the meshes being four and one-half inches, large enough to permit the small fish to pass through, while the large ones are caught by the gills. With great care the net is paid out into the water so as not to foul it, and then is permitted to float some distance with the tide or current, when it is again hauled into the boat and the fish removed. It seems almost impossible for fish to run this gauntlet of nets, aggregating 545 miles in length, and costing not less than $300,000 a year, as they have to be renewed each season, yet that they do is proved by the great numbers that finally reach the spawning grounds. Some fishermen own their own boats and nets, worth about $400, and others operate boats belonging to the canneries, the former receiving about $1 each for their fish, and the latter sixty cents. Prices vary in different seasons, but this is the average. Skill and bravery are both required by the bar fishermen, and annually half a hundred of them lose their lives among the breakers. In their rivalry to get tile first chance at the fish as they enter the river, they crowd down upon the very verge of the bar, and every few days a boat is swamped in the breakers. Occasionally the luckless men are rescued by the crew of the lifeboat at Cape Hancock, but the majority pay for their temerity with their lives.
"Fish-traps or pound-nets constitute the next most important method of fishing near the mouth of the river, the location of a majority of these being Baker's Bay, lying north of the channel and bar. A trap is constructed by driving a row of piles from the shore or shoals toward the deep water where the fish are running, at the outer end the piles forming a rectangular enclosure or pound. On the piles is laid a netting of wire or twine, with a two-inch mesh, in such a manner as to prevent the passage of the fish and lead them into the pound, from which they cannot escape and can be easily removed. Between the owners of the pound-nets and the gill-net fishermen there is constant friction, the latter deeming the 'pounds' an infringement upon their rights to catch fish."
Another method of fishing is shown, and consists of operating the old-fashioned seine from the shore, or sand bars. A seine is about 800 or 900 feet in length, with two and one-half and three-inch meshes, and is used near the head of the estuary, above the fishing-grounds of the gill-nets and traps. Seine fishing presents a peculiar aspect to one passing by in a steamer. Men, horses and boats are seen moving about in the shallow water, either placing the seine in position or dragging it in with its load of struggling fish.
Salmon has ever formed the staple food of all the native tribes dwelling within the reach of any of the streams flowing into the Pacific Ocean from the Sacramento to the Yukon. Even such tribes as the Shoshones, living as far in the interior as Eastern Idaho, depended largely upon the annual run of salmon in the Snake River, as did tribes living toward the head-waters of other tributaries of the Columbia and Fraser rivers. Salmon was also an article of barter between the river tribes and those not so favorably located, who sold ponies and the skins of wild animals to the fishermen in exchange for the rank-smelling, sun-dried royal chinooks. Each tribe had its favorite fishing places, generally near some rapids or obstruction in the stream, where they encamped for weeks at a time during the summer season, laying in a supply of fish for the winter. The methods of fishing were various, and were adapted to local peculiarities. Traps, spears, arrows, dip-nets and other means of capturing or killing the fish were used, and in the shallow waters near the source of the streams, "driving" was often resorted to. By this is meant that the Indians formed a line and waded out into the water, gradually closing in toward the shore in the form of an arc and driving the fish in a confused heap into a small space, where they were caught in the hands and thrown upon the bank.
Their universal method of preserving salmon is to dry it in the sun. This work is always done by the squaws, the noble Siwash deeming it beneath his dignity. In order to protect the winter's store from the sharp teeth of the skulking coyote, whose sensitive nostrils would easily detect the whereabouts of an object much less redolent than this desiccated salmon, the fish is either buried in the ground, stored in some safe enclosure, or placed amid the spreading boughs of some lofty fir, to be drawn upon as need requires.
The little settlement of Celilo is situated on a broad mesa or table-land surrounded by foothills; there are but few buildings here, a cannery, three or four dwelling-houses and quarters for the Chinamen who are employed in the cannery. The Indian village consists of a dozen or more "wicki-ups," inhabited by probably twice that number of families, for they herd together like cattle.
There is no hotel here, and the wandering pilgrim has no choice but to seek shelter at the house of the "village Hampden." His wife is an original character, and adds zest to the hours of waiting for the train by her stories of early days and her experience with the Indians. We prowl about among the tepees in search of baskets, arrowheads and other curios, but alas and alas! too many have been before us; there is nothing left.
We were very fortunate, though, in having arrived in time to witness the funeral services held over the body of a two-months-old Indian baby. These services were protracted for two or three days; we came in on the home-stretch and saw the little one placed in its grave. As these Indians are renegades from many tribes-those who refuse to live on the reservations -- it was impossible to learn to which tribe these ceremonies belonged.
They had been dancing, at intervals, for thirty-six hours. It was a queer sort of a step, a teetering up and down, by which the head Indian and foot squaw slowly advanced to meet each other, then crossed over, something after the fashion of money-musk. This they kept up until they nearly fell from exhaustion after resting a short time they were up and at it again.
When the dancing was finished they arranged themselves in two lines inside the tepee along the edges of a mat, men on one side and women on the other. An old Indian who declared he was 8,000 years old held the baby, which was wrapped up in a white fur rug.
Another Indian, a tall, fine looking fellow, stood at the head of the line and held a drum and bell. Each person went up and shook hands with the baby, whereupon the Indian at the head, beat the drum and rang the bell. If the corpse had been that of a grown person the bell would have been fastened to his wrist, so that the hand-shaking would have tingled it without the aid of the head Indian.
This ceremony concluded, they all sat down, and an old Tyee Chief passed along the line, tying an eagle's feather into the scalp-lock of each one. Then they rolled the baby up in another white rug and carried it over the hills to the burying-ground. The assembled Indians then enveloped themselves in their blankets and rode away on their ponies, singing a funeral dirge in most monotonous and discordant voices.
When a buck dies, the ceremonies are prolonged far beyond those accorded to the child; then the corpse is strapped to a plank, which is tied to his horse, and the two head the procession to the grave. He is buried in a sitting posture, with blankets and other valuables beside him. His poor horse, after having been without food from the time his master died, is scrubbed for hours with brush and water, then strangled and left on the grave.
A few years ago it was their custom to have a salmon-dance each year during the salmon season. At this time they dressed in their best and danced coutinously for a whole week. So many died after this week of exercise that at last Chief Schemire forbade them to have more.
The steamer leaves The Dalles as an early hour in the morning, giving the tourist an opportunity of seeing the glorious rising of the sun as it some up over the mountain top. The river is studded with islands which at times seemed likely to impede the progress of the steamer, for they apparently stood right across our pathway, but in the twinkling of an eye, the tinkling of the pilot's bell, we had encircled then by gliding through a narrow, half hidden channel, and lo! they were far behind us.
At the Upper Cascades we leave the steamer and make a portage of six miles to the first navigable point below the Lower Cascades, where we take another steamer. The water is very low and we can easily see the stepping-stones from which this point takes the name of the Dalles.
Between the two cascades we get a view of the block-house, said to have been built and occupied by General Sheridan when he was out here fighting the Indians. It is built in the Form of a Greek cross, with low over-hanging eaves: it is half sunken away, and is fast falling to pieces.
Thirteen miles below The Dalles we passed a small rocky island set directly in the center of the river, to the right of the steamer channel. This was known to the aborigines from time immemorial as "Memaloose alahee," land of the dead. This land has for centuries been used as a cemetery by the Klickitat tribe. Great numbers of skulls and bones are to be seen here after high water, floating. about among the drift-wood and making a gruesome sight.
Special interest attaches to this island on account of its being the resting-place of one of Oregon's pioneers. "Vic" Trevett was a firm friend of the red men, and often expressed a wish to be buried among them. Trevett died in San Francisco in January, 1883; in deference to his wish his body was brought in March of same year and placed in a dead house above ground on the "Isle of the Dead." The handsome shaft of light gray granite, thirteen feet in height, surmounting a base of masonry and measuring eight feet, is constructed of the local basalt rock. A marble tablet inserted in the base bears the simple inscription, "Vic Trevett."
Castle Rock, bristling with turrets and towers; Indian Head, with the scalp-lock plainly visible; the Pillars, with their cone-shaped peaks, from the center of one of which grows a single Douglas fir, and Cape Horn, we pass in quick succession in the evening twilight, for the night comes on apace in this latitude at this season of the year. The view of each was all too short and tantalizing, and we heartily anathematized the circumstances that brought us here during the rainy season instead of during the summer months when the climate and sunshine are incomparable. However the view in bad weather is better than none at all.
At the confluence of the Columbia and Willamette rivers we could, if the day were fine, see the snow capped mountains of Hood, Adams, Rainier, St. Helens and Jefferson. As it is, we catch a glimpse of their gigantic peaks towering heavenward above the clouds. The gray cloud and fog effects upon mountain, sky and river were beautiful, and would have delighted the eye of an artist. In spite of the rain, the fog and the sullen skies, we were enchanted with the scenery; it is beautiful, diversified and grand beyond the power of pen or brush to paint. The Rhine, celebrated in song and story from time immemorial, and the Hudson, so dear to the heart of every loyal New Yorker, are "weighed in the balance and found wanting."
Both in its historical and commercial aspects the entrance to the Columbia River deserves attention. The Columbia is an important stream in the commerce of the Pacific Coast -- more important than all others combined. This fact has been recognized by the Government, which has expended large sums to render the entrance passable for the deepest draught vessels, and to remove the obstructions farther up the stream that prevent its continuous navigation from the great producing interior to the ocean. The river enters a bay, or inward curve of the ocean, and is at its mouth an estuary ten miles wide, so that it has no appearance being the mouth of a river, when viewed from the deck of a vessel approaching it from the open ocean. On the north is Cape Hancock, a bold headland called by the English navigators "Cape Disappointment," and by the Spaniards "Cabo de San Roc." A low point, terminating in a sand spit, encloses it at the south, called "Point Adams," though named "Cabo de Frondoso" by the Spaniards. Although for years before the Columbia was discovered it was believed that a mighty river flowed from the Rocky Mountains westward to the Pacific in that latitude, the bay-like appearance of its mouth prevented its discovery by even such a famous and energetic explorer as Captain Vancouver, who visited it in 1792 for the special purpose of ascertaining whether a river really did exist there, and went away firmly convinced that such was not the case. Heceta, a Spanish explorer, passed it by in 1775 and named it "Encenada de Asuncion" (Assumption Inlet.) Although he made no attempt to enter it, he gave it as his opinion that a river existed there, and Spanish maps thereafter marked the mouth of a river there, and called it "Encenada de Heceta" and "Rio de San Roc." A few days after Vancouver turned away in disappointment, Captain Robert Gray, in the American ship Columbia, on the eleventh day of May, 1792, crossed the bar and safely anchored in the broad estuary ten miles above. He remained in the river nine days, ascending it twenty-five miles, bestowed upon it the name of his vessel, gave the two capes the names they bear, and then sailed north on a fur-trading voyage. Thus to an American belongs the honor of the actual discovery.