The Oregon Journal, Portland, OR., June 6, 1915, section 4, page 7

JOURNEYS IN THE TROUT LAKE COUNTRY
By Fred Lockley

     How many residents of Portland have climbed Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens or Mt. Adams?
     How many have visited Crater Lake, or the Marble Halls of Oregon?
     How many have viewed the vision of beauty unrolled from Crown Point on the Columbia River?
     How many have taken lunch at Rhododendron Tavern or taken a bath at Sheppard's Springs or have been to Witholt or have walked down Canon Beach or have climbed the winding stairs of the lighthouse at Cape Foulweather? When you start to enumerate the beauty spots of Oregon they crowd into your mind by the dozen and the score. A few days ago I took the stage at White Salmon for Trout Lake. The drive of 28 miles is a panorama of natural beauty. "Jerry" the stage driver has not been to America very long. He comes from Holland. I handed him a stick of gum. He took it rather doubtfully and said, "I will chew it for you a little while." I saw an amused look come over his face, so I asked, "What's the joke, Jerry?" He laughed and said, "I was thinking what a funny mistake I make when I first came to this country two years ago. Always I see the women and the girls chewing. In our country we only chew at the table when we eat. We do not think it polite to chew away from the table. I watched them closely. They chew and chew and chew, but never swallow and they put nothing in their mouths. I think to myself, they must have the toughest candy in this country I ever saw. After a long while I learn what they work so hard on is called gum. I never saw any gum till I come here. We do not have it in Holland. Then I learn all my sympathy is wasted; the young girls like to chew it. I have tried it already several times, but it seems to me too much like wasting one's energy, so I soon spit it out. "When I first come here, I think this is the strangest country in the world. To put up barbed wire fences to cut the stock seems very strange. We used ditches for fences. Our horses are large and quiet. They have never been educated to act like yours. What do you call it? Yes, that is it -- buck. Ours do not know how to do that bucking. In my country everything is finished, the houses are very old, the orchards are grown, but here you have little houses of wood which are always burning up, the orchards are young, you put down a street and then tear it up to put gas or water or sewers or something else under it. Everybody is always in a hurry. Our forests are all trimmed, they have walks and seats. Here you have vast forests; no old people come out to pick up the fagots that are going to waste, as they do in my country. Here even the poor people get big wages. Here a man is poor, but he buys an automobile, so people will not know he is poor. In our country the poor people know they are poor and they know others know it. "They do not buy automobiles. They save for a long time and when they have saved six or eight gulden -- that is about $300 or $400 -- they take their family on an excursion on a canal boat. They take their lunch along. They plan for their trip a long time ahead, and they talk about it for a long time afterwards. Here the poor man can go out and hunt and fish. In my country the well-to-do pay a big license to hunt or fish. They own estates and when they hunt their hired men drive the rabbits or pheasants past the hunting stand so they may shoot."

THROUGH ORCHARD ISLAND

     As Jerry told me about his homeland we were passing through a beautiful country of orchards and strawberry fields. Here and there we could see groups of tents on the edge of the timber. "They are strawberry pickers from Portland," said Jerry. Here and there we passed an old-time farm where the moss covered rails of the fence were overgrown with sweet briar in bloom. In the fence corners the waxlike, blue flowers of the camas nodded gently in the almost imperceptible breeze. A thousand wee dabs of red among the green leaves showed where the wild strawberries were ripe. Clumps of oak crowned the summits of the knolls, interspersed with stretches of evergreen. Great masses of cumulus clouds rested on the vividly green summits of the rolling hills. The mingled odor of the wild lilac and ripe strawberries, with the faint suggestion of balsam from the nearby evergreens, made the air taste like new wine. After crossing the river at Husum and changing the mall, we soon entered the heavier forest, and at Old Henry's cabin we met the other stage, where we changed teams and drivers. The new driver's name was Perry. "Yes, I have been in this country up here for quite a while," he said in answer to my question. "I used to work in the logging camps when this country was mostly blazed trails. Take a fellow that lives in the woods all the time, he gets so he notices things a city man never sees. See that spruce tree there with the new light green growth coming out. It always seems to me like a lace trimming on a green velvet dress. Then look at those young pine trees with the whitish new growth sticking straight up from the end of every limb. Don't they look for all the world like a Christmas tree covered with Christmas candles, only instead of bursting into flame, they will burst into vivid green and make new growth. Do you see those two pines near together? One is a red pine and the other a yellow pine. You can tell them apart because the bark of the yellow pine is softer than that of the red pine. The red pine bark is almost as good as coal to burn. It makes an intense heat and lasts a long time." As we went along Perry pointed out to me the difference between the bull pine and the black pine and showed me cedar and yew, yellow fir and red fir, white fir and alder. As our team took us steadily upward the road ran between thick growth of massive barked pines and firs, whose boughs interlocked nearly 200 feet above. It made the road seem like some dim aisle on the road to yesterday.

IN NATURE'S WONDERLAND

     We'll go a bit out of our way," said Perry, "I want to show you the Bear Valley Bridge. We drove to the center of the bridge and stopped. "I never get tired of looking down into this gorge," said Perry. "If the world was a pie you would think some one had cut a deep gash in the pie crust with a sharp knife, wouldn't you? See how that gray green rugged rock is covered with a mass of red flowers that hang down on their long stems like snapdragons. See how that cedar has grown almost to the top of the gorge and how its flat branches have grown into the crooks in the rocks as if they were arranged as a decoration. See how the waterway below looks like milk, only it has a greenish tint. Then look at the white of the trilliums against the reds and yellows of the moss and the stain on the rock. The settlers used to cross this gorge on a foot log." Presently we came to a group of log cabins. "This is my winter camp." said Perry. "Hunters often stop overnight with me here around the Christmas holidays. I am no hand to hunt. I never kill game unless I am out of meat. But the town hunters put in all their time hunting. Last winter they had seven deer at one time hung up on yonder game tree near the cabin. I generally keep a sleigh or two here. We have four or five feet of snow on the level in winter, so for three or four months we have good sleighing. Yes, this is a mighty good camp. It is always changing. Right now this woods all around here are putting out their brightest green and the open spaces are bright with violets, honeysuckle, lilacs and harebells. Pretty soon the blackberry blossoms will be gone and in a little while the black caps, blackberries and huckleberries will be ready to be gathered; a little later the squirrels will be busy as beavers getting in their winter's supply of hazel nuts and pine nuts, and then soon will come the snow to turn everything clean and white and beautiful. Then you can see the tracks of the martin and mink, the bobcats and cougars, the grouse and pheasants, the deer and all the rest of the out-of-door folks in the snow. No, I never get tired of the woods, for there is no pretense or bluffs here. Nature don't try to lie to you or deceive you."  Presently we came to Wright's bridge, where at the bottom of a deep fissure through the lava rock a bright thread of silver shows where the White Salmon river is hurrying seaward, its clear snow-formed waters beaten to froth and foam by their rapid descent from the not-far-distant mountain. The Trout Lake valley soon opened up, and in place of the deep dim aisles of the forest, we trotted briskly through a level valley of rich made land. Here and there were huge rocks or piles of red, yellow or gray soft material. "These odd different colored piles on the level fields have been thrown there from Mt. Adams. They are altogether different material than the soil hereabout," said Perry. "A pile of red stuff like that six or seven feet high goes down into the ground about the same depth. Some of the farmers have dug out and removed the claylike piles and filled the holes with good soil. Mt. Adams sure was feeling gay and festive when it bombarded this whole district with those big balls of clay." We stopped at Trout Lake postoffice, left the mail and trotted on, passing a small hotel which Mrs. Hilda Jones, the manager, has made famous by her hospitality and her cooking. Her fried trout and fried chicken are no finer than her thoughtful attention to the comfort of her guests. The hotel's success is built on the personality of its gracious hostess, Mrs. Jones. The stage drew up at the hotel at Guler on the banks of Trout Creek and only a few hundred rods from Trout Lake.

IN THE TROUT LAKE COUNTRY

     Just before sunset I happened to step out on the front porch of the hotel. The mists had cleared away, leaving Mt. Adams a radiant vision silhouetted against the azure blue of the evening sky. The parting rays of the sun bathed the mountain in a pink effulgence as though the mountain was lit from within. Meadow and stream, lake and tree fringed shore, distant and darkening woods and the glory of the mountain touched with the tender pink of the Alpen-gluh made a picture worthy the brush of a master. Next day Dr. A.G. Belsheim, Henry Thode, Christian Guler and myself, in Dr. Belsheim's auto, went out to visit the lava caves and the ice caves. We went through a fairyland of verdure and beauty. The forest is full of open parks, where the ground is carpeted thickly with violets and a profusion of other wildflowers. About two miles or less from the lake we stopped in a park-like opening in the woods at the mouth of the lava cave. Going down a ladder we lit our pitch-pine torches and started for the end of the cave, three-quarters of a mile distant. Soon we were out of sight of the opening and stumbling along over the rough lava floor. The lava had cooled in waves and billows so that one had need to pay heed to his going. The tunnel looks as though it had been cut out when the rocks were still liquid. A train of cars could readily make its way through the tunnel-like cave. As the torch bearers held their blazing fagots high the turpentine in them fell in blazing smoke wreaths. Here and there on the sides great masses of lava had sealed off almost blocking the tunnel in places. From the size of a lava bubble to the size of a washtub the lava had oozed out from the sides and formed in fantastic masses. If this cave were a thousand miles away in place of at our very door we would go to see it. Five more miles through a road of a thousand beauties brought us to the ice caves. In the very entrance of the ice cave where the sunlight strikes at midday were a mass of long-stemmed snow-white trilliums. Lighting new pitch pine torches, we forced our way between great stalactites of glittering ice. As Henry Thode made his way back of a forest of icicles and called back to us, it seemed as is we were in the palace of Sinbad, the sailor, or the treasure house of the gnomes and elves. The flaring torch made every icicle glisten like a thousand diamond tiaras. What need to describe the lake, the trout fishing and the beauty of the place. It must be seen to be appreciated.

This article also contains a photograph of Trout Creek with Mt. Adams in the background.

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©  Jeffrey L. Elmer