The Hood River Glacier, Hood River, OR., August 3, 1889, page 2
COMMUNICATED
Hood River, Or., July 24, 1888
Editor, Hood River Glacier:
Having a curiosity to again climb the steep grades of
old Hood, and view the improvements that have been going on during the past
summer, and the proposition being numerously seconded by a number of interested
parties, arrangements were duly made, conveyance secured, and a bright morning
in July found us on the road. The traveling was unusually good for this time
of the year, as wood hauling so far has been unusually light, the farmers
having paid more attention to their farms and less to wood; than heretofore.
After crossing Hood river the dust was bad, until we reached the top of the
Booth hill where dust gives way to stumps and brush. From Booth's will be
the beginning of the stage company's road at Baldwin homestead. The traveling
was very fair for this notoriously wretched piece of road. Where under the
sun the road taxes of that district are worked is a mystery to everyone but
them -- selors. The Stage Co.'s road from Baldwin homestead to the bridge,
can be greatly improved by keeping on directly south on the county road,
instead of turning down on the sandy river bottoms.
Arriving at the bridge we made camp on the west side
near the river. The bridge across the East Fork is a substantial structure
of about 120 feet in length and a sixty foot span across the mainstream,
was built by Stranahan Bros., and is a credit to both builders, and the owners.
Here the stage road proper begins, and then work is apparent
on every hand, in good bridges and broad and well worked grades.
About two miles from the bridge in a heavy body of timber,
we met the leaders of a large band of sheep; we could not turn and the sheep
would not turn, nor give the road, and so we had to remain in our wagon for
nearly half an hour, and enjoy as best we could, the detention and aroma
of about 2800 head of "Mary's little school mates" that marched by in single
file. These animal incursions of marauding sheep man into our little valley
is an outrage that not be longer endured. The supply of grass is already
scant for our own limited number of stock, and when these piratical bands
of sheep are driven in upon us the result is that our stock is starved out,
and comes home in the fall poor and unfit to enter into our rigorous winters.
I understand that it has been practically demonstrated in some localities
east of us, that saltpeter sowed plentifully during June and July brings
forth fruit (sheep) meat for repentance, and I believe it so - try it brethren.
The "Elk-beds" station is our next stopping place, where
we were cordially greeted by our old friend Dallas. After watering our horses
and eating a hasty lunch, we start again on our final pull for "Eliot glacier."
As we approach the mountain the grades got heavier, our panting horses require
frequent rests, our party impatient to reach the end of our journey alight
and take a more direct route by the old road, while I with my heavily loaded
team, wind lazily up the zig-zag road. The grade upon the whole is a great
improvement upon the old one, but still there is room for improvement. A
very just criticism would be that when so large an amount of money was to
have been expended, a competent corps of engineers should have been sent
out and a regular grade established. This could have been done as the broad
even side of the mountain would allow it, and at no great increase of cost,
but a vast improvement to the road.
But the road has an end. The new hotel looms up before
me perched on the summit of "Photographers Hill," then in the foreground
"Eliot" glacier as its monstrous contorted, misshapen body of ice and rocks,
while beyond it and in full view stands Oregon's pride - Mt. Hood.
Other camp is made among the village of snowy tents that
dot but the groves. Many friends gather around our evening fire with eager
questions of friends at home, and news of fire and flood. Our day's work
is done and we sink to sleep drinking in the pure mountain air.
Early morning finds us with lunch basket in hand, climbing
up not "the golden stairs" but the sharp broken rocks that form the mountain
and cover the lower portion of the glacier. This past, we reached the smooth
solid ice, with its hundreds of miniature rivers and creeks racing in their
crystal bed. Further along we come to immense crevasses that cause you to
step back and listen in awe to the infant Hood river rushing down its rocky
bed beneath the glacier, hundreds of feet below. Still further up gigantic
blocks of frozen snow stand towering above us, evidence of power immeasurable
that has riven it into myriads of fantastic shapes. On land again we have
evidences of our altitude in the gnarled and twisted trunks of pines two
and three feet in diameter, that have defied the storms of ages and still
have not grown higher than your shoulder. At your feet, see, there is a Lupin
in full bloom, that at your home grows higher than your head, but here you
can cover the mature plant, bloom and all, with a divided walnut shell.
The beauty of the old camp is gone. Its primitive wilderness
has passed away forever. Thousands of mischievous sheep have shorn its billowy
hills of their wealth of grasses and flowers. The woodsman's ax and destructive
fires have wasted the stately forest, the grader's pick and shovel have completed
the ruin of nature's works.
The hotel, perched upon the extreme summit of Photographer's
point, overlooks the entire surrounding country, and affords a view unsurpassed
anywhere in the world. From the south extreme you have the whole north fall
of the mountain from the summit to the doorstep -- "Eliot" glacier from its
very inception on the cloud-capped peak to its terminus, a perpendicular
wall of ice 400 or 500 feet high. In the north there are Mts. Adams, Rainier
and St. Helens that look like fleecy clouds floating on an ocean of deepest
blue, while to the west at your feet, fades away the Cascade range into the
distant Willamette valley. Eastward the silvery thread of the Columbia can
be traced as far as Umatilla, and the shadowy form of the Blue mountains
in the dim distance. On the left at your feet is a chasm where over 2000
feet below roars the torrent of the middle fork. A mile below at Stranahan's
falls it leaps sheer 200 feet to its rocky bed below.
A queer, quaint, old-fashioned house is "Cloud-Capped
Inn." Colonel, let me congratulate you. Queen Anne never tested her royal
shins before as grand a fireplace as that in the middle room. No expense
has been spared, everything that comfort and convenience can suggest has
been added. Water brought in 2 inch main furnishes an abundance of the clearest
and purest liquid that was ever placed to mortal lips.
But the sun sinks low in the west, our horses are impatient
of delay, and there are hours of the cool evening drive between us and our
homes.
TEND.
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© Jeffrey L. Elmer