The slow crumbling of the rocks, and the setting free of those constituents which are soluble, the work of the streams in gathering the rock waste into the lakes, the dry air and the heat of the long summer days, have all conspired together to give us these valuable deposits in the dried-up lakes of the Great Basin.
No portion of the earth seems to be without value to man. The great bodies of water are convenient highways. The rich valleys and timbered mountains offer useful products. Even the deserts, where living things of every description find the struggle for existence very hard, become indispensable. If the climate in the Great Basin had been moist, the salts would not have been preserved, but would have been carried away to the ocean, from which only common salt could have been recovered in commercial quantities.
Formed of calcareous tufa
The crossing of the Great Basin was dreaded by the early emigrants on their way to the Pacific coast. In many cases the locations of the few springs and water-courses were unknown, and the journey over the vast barren stretches was fraught with danger.
Stand upon a mountain in the desert some clear day in summer and you will see range after range, with intervening sandy wastes, stretching away to the horizon. The air below is tremulous with heat, and every living thing that can move has sought the shade of some rock or cliff. The plants seem almost dead, for the little springs, hidden at rare intervals in the deep cañons, are of no use to them.
What transformations would be wrought upon these desert slopes if it were possible for the soil to receive and retain large quantities of water! Forest-covered mountains, green hillsides, rippling streams, lakes, farms, orchards, and towns would appear as if by magic.
Frémont, "the Pathfinder," did greater service than any other man in making known the geographic features of the Cordilleran region. In the fifth decade of the last century, while California still belonged to Mexico and the pioneers were turning their attention to the Oregon country, Frémont organized and conducted three exploring expeditions under the direction of the government. When in California upon the third expedition he took part in the skirmishes which resulted in the transference of this section to the United States.
A fourth expedition, undertaken by Frémont on his own account, resulted disastrously. The explorers foolishly tried to cross the Rocky Mountains in the middle of winter, but had to give up the attempt after many of the party had died from cold and starvation.
It is hard for us to realize, now, that only sixty years ago the territory lying between the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific coast was practically unknown. Try to imagine the feelings of emigrants, bound for the gold-fields of California, who have pushed into the Great Basin without knowing where to look for grass or water. They are camped by a spring of alkaline water scarcely fit to drink; their weary animals nibble at the scanty grass about the spring; far ahead stretches the pathless desert which they must cross; upon their choice of a route their very lives will depend.
Now it is all changed. The whole region is crossed and recrossed by wagon roads and railways. Many mining towns are scattered through the mountains which dot the seemingly boundless expanse of desert, while in every place where water can be found there are gardens, green fields of alfalfa, and herds of cattle.
Before the year 1840 some knowledge had been acquired of the borders of the Great Basin. Trappers and explorers had crossed the Rocky Mountains and had gone down the Columbia River. There were Spanish settlements in New Mexico, Arizona, and along the coast of California.
Frémont's first expedition had taken him to the summit of the Rocky Mountains in northwestern Wyoming. In 1843 he started upon the second expedition. He was at that time commissioned to cross the Rockies, descend the Columbia to Fort Vancouver, and return by a route farther to the south, across the unknown region between the Columbia and the Colorado rivers.
Let us follow the little band of explorers led by Captain Frémont as day after day they made their way across what was then a trackless waste, and see what troubles they encountered because of the inaccuracy of the maps of that period.
Leaving Fort Vancouver, upon the lower Columbia, for the return trip, the party ascended the river to The Dalles and then turned southward along the eastern side of the Cascade Range. They soon entered upon a region never before traversed by white men. At the time when autumn was giving place to winter, without reliable guides or maps, they were to cross the deserts lying between them and the Rocky Mountains.
Showing the Buenaventura River
They met with no great difficulties until they had gone as far south as Klamath Lake. "From this point," Frémont says, "our course was intended to be about southeast to a reported lake called Mary's, at some days' journey in the Great Basin, and thence, still on southeast to the reputed Buenaventura (good chance) River, which has had a place on so many maps, and countenanced the belief in the existence of a great river flowing from the Rocky Mountains to the Bay of San Francisco."
Figure 47 shows one of the maps to which Frémont refers. How interesting it is! Compare it with a good map in your geography and you will readily see that it is very misleading. The Sierra Nevada, one of the greatest mountain ranges in the United States, hardly appears, while traced directly across the map is the great Buenaventura River which Frémont expected to find and follow eastward toward its source near the Rocky Mountains.
If this river had really been where it was mapped, it is likely that Frémont would have had no trouble, for if hard pressed he could have followed the stream down to the ocean. But a wall of snow-covered mountains lying in the way made matters very different.
Winter was coming on when the party entered what is now northwestern Nevada, looking for the Buenaventura River. For several weeks they toiled on, often through the snow. Concerning this part of the journey Frémont says: "We had reached and run over the position where, according to the best maps in my possession, we should have found Mary's lake or river. We were evidently on the verge of the desert, and the country was so forbidding that we were afraid to enter it."
The party then turned south, still hoping that the river might be discovered. After a time they came upon a large lake and travelled for many miles along its eastern shore. One camp was made opposite a tall, pyramid-shaped island, the white surface of which made it conspicuous for a long distance. Frémont was much impressed by the resemblance of the island to the pyramids of Egypt and so named the body of water Pyramid Lake. At the southern end of the lake the travellers found a large stream flowing into it (now known as the Truckee River), and followed along its banks for some distance; but as the river turned toward the west, they left it and struck out across the country.
Frémont says again, "With every stream I now expected to see the great Buenaventura, and Carson (Kit Carson, the famous scout) hurried eagerly to search on every one we reached for beaver cuttings, which he always maintained we should find only on waters which ran to the Pacific."
But all the streams flowed in the wrong direction, until at last the explorers grew weary of hunting for the river which had no existence. Although it was the middle of the winter, Frémont determined to cross the lofty Sierras which rose like a white wall to the west. Once over the mountains, he hoped to gain the American settlements in the Sacramento Valley, where already Sutter's Fort had been established.
The party ascended Walker River, dragging, with great difficulty, a howitzer which they had brought with them. The snows grew deeper as storm succeeded storm. Feeling that they were really lost, the disheartened men at length abandoned the gun, at a spot which has since been named Lost Cañon.
When their own provisions were nearly gone, the party obtained some pine nuts and also several rabbits from the Indians. A dog which had been brought along made one good meal for the wayfarers. An Indian who had been persuaded to act as guide pointed out the spot where two white men, one of whom was Walker, a noted frontiersman, had once crossed the mountains; but the guide made them understand that it was impossible to cross at that time of the year, saying, in his own language, "Rock upon rock, snow upon snow."
although they could advance only by breaking paths through the snow, and were reduced to eating mule and horse flesh, yet the Frémont party pushed on. Finally they reached the summit of the mountains and turned down by the head of a stream flowing westward, which proved to be the American River. After three weeks more of terrible suffering they came out of the mountains at Sutter's Fort, where they obtained supplies and had an opportunity to rest and recruit.
Frémont now recognized the incorrectness of the maps which had so nearly caused the destruction of the party. As he says in his notes: "No river from the interior does, or can, cross the Sierra Nevada, itself more lofty than the Rocky Mountains... There is no opening from the Bay of San Francisco into the interior of the continent."
When the return journey was begun the party did not recross the high Sierras, but turned southward through the San Joaquin Valley and gained the Mohave Desert by the way of Tehachapai pass. The route now led eastward across the deserts and low mountain ranges of California and southern Nevada, until at last Great Salt Lake was reached.
Among the many geographical discoveries of the expedition was the demonstration of the existence of the Great Basin. In his report, Frémont, while speaking of its vast sterile valleys and of the Indians which inhabit them, says: "That it is peopled we know, but miserably and sparsely ... dispersed in single families ... eating seeds and insects, digging roots (hence their name) [Digger Indians], such is the condition of the greater part. Others are a degree higher and live in communities upon some lake or river from which they repulse the miserable Diggers.
"The rabbit is the largest animal known in this desert, its flesh affords a little meat.... The wild sage is their only wood, and here it is of extraordinary size—sometimes a foot in diameter and six or eight feet high. It serves for fuel, for building material, for shelter for the rabbits, and for some sort of covering for the feet and legs in cold weather. But I flatter myself that what is discovered, though not enough to satisfy curiosity, is sufficient to excite it, and that subsequent explorations will complete what has been commenced."
The most interesting geographical feature of Utah is the Great Salt Lake. Few tourists now cross the continent without visiting the lake and taking a bath in its briny waters. This strange body of water has, however, been slowly growing smaller for some years, and probably will in time disappear. A study of the history of the lake may throw some light upon the important question of its possible disappearance, and it will certainly bring out many interesting facts.
We do not know with certainty who was the first white man to look upon this inland sea, although it is supposed to have been James Bridger, a noted trapper, who in 1825 followed Bear River down to its mouth. He tasted the water and found it salt, a fact which encouraged him in the belief that he had found an arm of the Pacific Ocean.
More than two hundred years ago there were vague ideas about a salt lake situated somewhere beyond the Rocky Mountains. In 1689 Baron Lahontan published an account of his travels from Mackinac to the Mississippi River and the region beyond. He states that he ascended a westerly branch of the river for six weeks, until the season became too late for farther progress. He reports meeting savages who said that one hundred and fifty leagues beyond there was a salt lake, "three hundred leagues in circumference—its mouth stretching a great way to the southward."
This imaginative story aroused interest in the West. In a book published in 1772, devoted to a description of the province La Louisiane, the possibility of water communication with the South Sea is discussed as follows: "It will be of great convenience to this country, if ever it becomes settled, that there is an easy communication therewith, and the South Sea, which lies between America and China, and that two ways: by the north branch of the great Yellow River, by the natives called the river of the 'Massorites' (Missouri), which hath a course of five hundred miles, navigable to its head, or springs, and which proceeds from a ridge of hills somewhat north of New Mexico, passable by horse, foot, or wagon, in less than half a day. On the other side are rivers which run into a great lake that empties itself by another navigable river into the South Sea. The same may be said of the Meschaouay, up which our people have been, but not so far as the Baron Lahontan, who passed on it above three hundred miles almost due west, and declares it comes from the same ridge of hills above mentioned, and that divers rivers from the other side soon make a large river, which enters into a vast lake, on which inhabit two or three great nations, much more populous and civilized than other Indians; and out of that lake a great river disembogues into the South Sea."
In 1776 Father Escalante travelled from Santa Fé far to the north and west. He met Indians who told him of a lake the waters of which produced a burning sensation when placed upon the skin. This was probably Great Salt Lake, but it is not thought that he himself ever saw it. The Escalante Desert, in southern Utah, once covered by the waters of the lake, is named after this explorer.
Nothing more seems to have been learned of the lake after its discovery by Bridger until in 1833 Bonneville, a daring leader among the trappers, organized a party for its exploration. Washington Irving, in his history of Captain Bonneville, says of the party, "A desert surrounded them and stretched to the southwest as far as the eye could reach, rivalling the deserts of Asia and Africa in sterility. There was neither tree, nor herbage, nor spring, nor pool, nor running stream, nothing but parched wastes of sand, where horse and rider were in danger of perishing."
although decreasing in area so rapidly, Great Salt Lake is still the largest body of water in the western part of the United States, and the largest salt lake within its boundaries. It has a length of seventy miles and a maximum width of nearly fifty miles.
Desolate, indeed, must have appeared the surroundings of the lake, with its salt-incrusted borders, as the Mormon emigrants gained the summit of the Wasatch Range and looked out over the vast expanse to the west. But as the slopes at the foot of the mountains seemed capable of producing food for their support, they stopped and made their homes there. Now in this same region, after half a century, one can ride for many miles through as beautiful and highly cultivated a country as the sun ever looked down upon. In the early days the barren plains were broken only by mountains almost as barren, which rose from them like the islands from the surface of the Great Salt Lake. The only pleasing prospect was toward the east, where stood the steep and rugged Wasatch Range, with its snow-capped peaks. From its deep cañons issued large streams of pure, cold water, which flowed undisturbed across the brush-covered slopes, then unbroken by irrigating ditches, and at last were lost in the salt lake.
One might think that streams of water apparently so pure would at last freshen the lake, but in reality they are carrying along invisible particles of mineral matter which add to its saltness day by day. The dry air steals away the water from the lake as fast as it runs in, but cannot take the minerals which it holds in solution.
Great Salt Lake is still considered very large, but at one time it was ten times its present size, while still longer ago there was no lake at all. Without a basin there can be no lake, and at that far-away time, as we have already learned, the Great Basin did not exist, and the streams, if there were any, ran away to the ocean without hindrance.
When the Great Basin was formed by a breaking and bending of the crust of the earth, many a stream lost its connection with the ocean and went to work filling up the smaller basins, thus giving rise to the lakes which have already been described. The largest of these bodies of water, and in some respects the most interesting, is Great Salt Lake.
Foot of the Wasatch Range
This lake, lying close to the lofty Wasatch Range, received so much water from numerous streams during the Glacial period that it slowly spread over thousands of square miles, overrunning the desert valleys and making islands of the scattered mountain ranges. It extended from north to south across Utah, into southern Idaho and almost to the Arizona line, until this body of water, which arose from so small beginnings, had become a veritable inland sea, three hundred miles long, one hundred miles wide, and one thousand feet deep.
By the time the lake had covered an area of twenty thousand square miles the lowest point in the rim of the basin was reached and the overflow began. No map will tell you where the outlet was, for no river exists there now. If you could explore the shore lines of this ancient lake, which has been called Bonneville after the noted trapper, you would find two low spots in the mountains which hem the waters in, one upon the south, facing the Colorado River, the other on the north toward the Snake River. The one on the north happened to be a little lower, so that the break occurred there. First as a little, trickling stream, then as a mighty, surging river, the water poured northward down the valley of a small stream, widening and deepening it until, passing the spot where now the town of Pocatello stands, it joined the Snake River.
This old outlet is now known as Red Rock Pass, and it forms an easy route for the Oregon Short Line from Salt Lake City to the plains of southern Idaho. The old river-bed is marked by marshes and fertile farms.
With an outlet established, Lake Bonneville could rise no higher, and its waves began the formation of a well-defined terrace or beach, just as waves are sure to do along every shore. The level of the water could not remain permanently at the same height, for the rocks at the outlet were being worn away by the large volume of water which flowed over them. In the course of years the level of the lake was lowered four hundred feet. The sinking was not uniform, but took place by stages, while at each period of rest the waves made a new beach line. The lake during all this time must have been a beautiful sheet of fresh water filled with fish. Its shores, also, must have been much richer in vegetation than they are now.
Outlet of Lake Bonneville
The water remained for a long time at the level of four hundred feet below its highest stage. This fact is evident from the width of the wave-cut terrace, which is the most prominent of all those that mark the old levels along the sides of the mountains. Finally, for some reason the climate began to change, the streams supplied less water to the lake, and the evaporation from its surface became greater because the air was drier. As a result the lake was lowered to such an extent that it lost its outlet. The mighty river flowing down through Red Rock Cañon grew smaller and at last dried up altogether.
In this manner the lake was again cut off from the ocean, as it had been during its earlier history. The waters still continued to recede, but not at a uniform rate. During periods of greater rain its level remained stationary, so that the waves added new terraces to those already formed.
As the lake had no outlet and was decreasing in volume, the water became salty, for the minerals brought by the streams could no longer be carried away. The fish either died or passed up into the purer waters of the inflowing streams.
The water of the present lake is so salt that in every four quarts there is one quart of salt, and the preparation of this commodity by a process of evaporating the water in ponds has become an important industry. The water is the strongest kind of brine and it is impossible for a bather to sink in it. One floats about upon it almost as lightly as wood does upon ordinary water. After bathing it is necessary to wash in fresh water to remove the salt from the body.
The dry bed of the former Lake Bonneville stretches far to the south and west of the present lake, and forms one of the most barren and arid regions in the United States. It is sometimes called the Great American Desert.
Why is the lake receding now? Some people think that the climate is growing still more arid, and that the lake will eventually disappear. Others think that its shrinkage is the result of irrigation, for a large part of the water from the streams which supply it is now taken out and turned upon the land. There is still another reason which may account for the low water. The lake is known to rise and fall during a series of wet and dry years. When first mapped, in the middle of the last century, it was about as low as it is now. Then it gradually rose for a number of years and lately has again been falling.
The story of Great Salt Lake has been much more complicated than the statement given above, but this is sufficient for our purpose.
Irrigation has made a garden spot of a large part of the old bed of Lake Bonneville, but much of the beauty and attractiveness of this region would be lost if the present lake should give place to a bed of glistening salt. Let us hope that it will remain as it is.
The Skagit is not one of the great rivers of the world, for very little of its course lies outside the boundaries of a single state. It is, however, none the less interesting. Few rivers with a length of only one hundred and fifty miles present so great a variety of instructive features. We shall certainly learn more from a study of the Skagit than from many a better known and more pretentious river.
Innumerable torrents, fed by the glaciers of the Cascade Range, pour down the rocky slopes and lose themselves in the wooded cañons below. The cañon streams, of much greater size, flow less impetuously over gentler slopes, and are frequently blocked by boulders and logs. These streams unite in one broad, deep river, which moves on quietly to its resting-place in Puget Sound. Its name, Skagit, is of Indian origin and means wild cat.
By following the Skagit River and a tributary stream, one can go from the bare and snowy summit of the Cascade Range down through dense forests, and come out at last upon a magnificent delta, where a fertile plain is slowly but steadily encroaching upon the waters of the sound. What contrasting scenes are presented along the few short miles of the course of the river! A trip from its source to its mouth will be worth all the trouble it involves, although the trail is often disagreeably wet and sometimes dangerous.
There is no grander scenery in the United States than that of the Cascade Range; nor are there more dense forests than those found upon its western slope. The range is hidden in almost perpetual clouds and storms, and they are fortunate who can reach its summit upon a pleasant day.
The forests of fir and hemlock have gained a foothold nearly to the summit of the range. Upon the little benches and in the protected nooks the trees grow thriftily, and dense groves are found up to an elevation of nearly five thousand feet; but upon the more exposed and rocky slopes stunted trunks show the effect of a constant struggle with the rocks and winds. Upon other slopes, too high for the trees to grow, there are low shrubs and arctic mosses; but above all rise precipitous crags and peaks, utterly bare except for the glaciers nestling among them.
Under the shade of the upland forests the moss is damp and the wood wet, so that it is difficult to make a comfortable camp or to build a fire. But these discomforts are not worthy of consideration in view of the inspiration which one gains by the outlook from some commanding point upon the summit of the mountain range.
All about are jagged, splintered peaks. Upon every gentle slope there rests, within some alcove, a glistening mass of snow and ice. A score of these glaciers are in sight. They are supplied in winter by the drifting snows, and yield in summer, from their lower extremities, streams of ice-cold water. A multitude of streams raise a gentle murmur, broken occasionally by a dull roar as some glacier, in its slow descent, breaks upon the edge of a precipice and its fragments fall into the cañon below.
From a position upon the summit above the point where the Skagit trail crosses the mountains may be seen a little lake, on the surface of which remains some of last winter's ice not yet melted by the August sun. If the climate were a little colder, the basin would be occupied by a glacier instead of a lake. All about the lake there are steep, rocky slopes, more or less completely covered with low arctic plants and stunted, storm-beaten hemlocks. From among the trees at the foot of the lake rises the roof of a miner's log cabin, and a few hundred feet beyond a small, dark opening in the face of a cliff shows where the miner is running a tunnel in his search for gold.
Far below, and heading close under the sharp crest of the range, are densely wooded cañons. The fair weather is passing, and it is necessary to find the trail and descend. Clouds are sweeping across the ridges and peaks, and soon the whole summit will be covered by them.
From a point a little east of the summit the clouds present a grand sight at the gathering of a storm. Higher and higher they pile upon the ocean face of the mountains. At the bottom they are dark and threatening, but the thunder-heads above can be seen bathed in the bright sunlight. For a time the clouds hang upon the summit as if stopped by some invisible barrier; perhaps they are loath to pass into the drier air of the eastern slope. But finally they move on, and rain or snow soon envelops the whole landscape.
The trail descends rapidly for four thousand feet to Cascade River, a tributary of the Skagit. It is a steep and slippery way, and in many places it is not safe to ride the horses. The sub-arctic climate of the summit is left behind, and one is soon surrounded by dense and luxuriant vegetation. Such a change as this, in a short distance, shows how greatly elevation affects climate and plant growth.
Upon every hand there is the sound of rushing water. From the cliffs ribbon-like cascades are falling. The rivulets unite in one stream, which roars and tumbles down the cañon over logs and boulders. The trail crosses and recrosses the torrent until the water becomes too deep for fording, and then it leads one to a rude bridge made of two logs with split planks laid across them.
As the cañon widens, the trail leads farther from the river and through dense forests. The woods are so silent that they become oppressive, and the air is damp, for the sunlight is almost excluded. The tall trees, fir, hemlock, and spruce, with now and then a cedar, stand close together. Shrubs of many kinds are crowded among them, while mosses and ferns cover the ground. The fallen trunks are wrapped in moss, and young trees are growing upon them, drawing their nourishment from the decaying tissues. In the more open spots grow the salal bushes with their purple berries, the yellow salmon berries, and the blue-black huckleberries.
It is difficult to get an idea of the density of a Washington forest, or of the character of the streams, unless one has actually taken a trip through the region. If one wishes to escape the forest by following the streams, he will find the path blocked by fallen trees. It is necessary continually to climb over or under obstructions, and the traveller is fortunate if he does not fall into the cold water. Upon the banks it is even worse; one must struggle through dense prickly bushes and ferns, and be tripped every few rods. Though the forest may appear at first to offer an easier way, it will soon be found that creeping and crawling through the undergrowth of bushes and young trees is exceedingly tiresome, and one will gladly return to the muddy trail, thankful for its guidance.
The mountains become less precipitous and the cañon widens to a valley, until at last the trail comes out at a clearing where the Cascade River joins the Skagit. At this point, known as Marble Mountain, there is a ferry, also a store and several other buildings. The cleared fields seem a relief after many miles of dense forest, but such openings are infrequent, for few settlers have yet pushed far into the forests of the Skagit valley. To make a clearing of any size, tear out the stumps, and prepare the land for cultivation, requires many years of hard labor.
How silently and yet with what momentum the river sweeps on! The water is clear in summer, but in winter it must be very muddy, for the Skagit is building one of the largest deltas upon Puget Sound.
At Marble Mountain the traveller may, if he wishes, leave his horses, hire an Indian canoe, and float down the river to the nearest railroad station. The ride in the cedar canoe, with an Indian at the stern carefully guiding it past snags and boulders, is one of the pleasantest portions of the trip. The winding river is followed for nearly fifty miles. There is mile after mile of silent forest, the solitude broken only here and there by camps of Indians who are spending the summer by the river, fishing and picking huckleberries. Now and then a call comes from one of these camps, and in spite of the danger of being swamped by the swift current, the canoe is turned toward the shore, but the stop is only for a moment.
At last a new railroad grade comes in sight, with gangs of men at work. The valley of the Skagit contains one of the finest bodies of timber in Washington, and the railroad is being built for the purpose of reaching this timber. There is little other inducement for the building of a railroad; for beside a few summer visitors, the only inhabitants are the scattered prospectors and miners.
We enter the train at a little town in the woods and are soon speeding down the valley toward the mouth of the river. Clearings appear in the forest, and at last the view opens out over extensive meadows which stretch away, almost as level as a floor, to the waters of the sound. Here and there the meadows are broken by forest trees or irregular groups of farm buildings. Rich lands form the delta of the Skagit River. The value of these natural meadows was quickly recognized by the early settlers, for not only was the land exceedingly fertile, but it did not have to be cleared in order to be transformed into productive grain-fields.
For centuries, ever since the melting of the great glaciers which once descended the Cascade Range and crept down the sound, the river has been building this delta. It grew rapidly, for immense accumulations of gravels and clays were left by the retreating glaciers. The delta has already spread westward into the sound, until it has enveloped some of the smaller islands. The forests growing upon these islands, which rise from the surface of the delta plain, are in picturesque contrast to the fields dotted with stacks of grain.
The delta is now practically joined to the eastern side of the San Juan Islands. The railroad reaches the islands by means of a trestle across the intervening tidal flats, delivering its load of logs at the mills and leaving the passengers at the town of Anacortes, where they may take one of the many steamers passing up and down the sound.
Enveloping former islands in Puget Sound
Of all the deltas now forming about Puget Sound that of the Skagit is the largest and most interesting. One might think that the forests would so protect the slopes that erosion would not be rapid, but the valleys of all the tributary streams appear deeply filled with rock fragments, which have, for the most part, accumulated from the higher portions of the range, where frost and ice are slowly tearing down the cliffs. At each period of flood some of this material is passed on to the river, which in turn drops it upon the borders of its delta.
The Skagit River, from its source to its mouth, takes the traveller through varying climates and life zones, from the barren crest where the miner is the only inhabitant, down through forests where the lumberman is busy, until it leaves him upon the rich meadows of its delta.
Chelan is the largest and most beautiful of our mountain lakes. The lake itself is most attractive, and the basin in which it lies has had an interesting history, so that it is well worth study.
Notwithstanding the beauties of this lake, it is not widely known, for it is situated far away from the main lines of travel, in a remote cañon of the Cascade Range. Fortunately the lake and the rugged mountains about it have been included in a forest reserve, so that they will be kept in all their wild natural beauty.
The Columbia River, in its crooked course across the state of Washington, follows for some distance the junction of the vast treeless plateau of the central portion and the rugged, forest-clad slopes of the Cascade Range. We have already learned how the plateau grew to its present extent through the outpouring of successive floods of lava which swept around the higher mountains like an ocean.
Many cañons furrow the eastern slope of the Cascade Range, and terminate in the greater cañon of the Columbia at the edge of the lava. One of these cañons, deeper and longer than the rest, has been blocked by a dam at its lower end. Beautiful Lake Chelan lies in the basin thus formed. It begins only three miles from the Columbia River, but winds for sixty miles among the rugged and steep-walled mountains, terminating almost in the heart of the range.
The lake can be reached either by crossing the mountains from Puget Sound, over a wet and difficult trail, or by ascending the Columbia River from Wenache, the nearest railroad station. The trip can be made from the latter point either upon the stage or river steamer. The wagon road is very picturesque, winding now under lofty cliffs with the river surging below, now along the occasional patches of bottom land where in July the orchards are loaded with fruit.
The first sight of Lake Chelan is disappointing, for at the lower end, where the wagon road stops, there is little to suggest the remarkable scenery farther back in the mountains. Rolling hills, covered with grass and scattered pine trees, slope down to the lake, while here and there farmhouses appear.
One cannot help asking at the first view what there is about Lake Chelan which has made it, next to Crater Lake, the most noted body of water upon the Pacific slope of the continent. But wait a little. Either hire a rowboat and prepare with blankets and provisions for a camping trip about the shores; or if the time is too short for carrying out that plan, take the little steamer which makes tri-weekly trips to the hotel at the head of the lake. Long before you reach the upper end you will begin to appreciate the grandeur of the lake scenery in its setting of steep-walled mountains.
Little of Lake Chelan can be seen at one time, for its course among the mountains to the west is a very crooked one. The noisy steamer leaves the town at the foot of the lake and in the course of ten miles steeper slopes begin to close in upon us. Many little homes are scattered along this portion of the lake, wherever there is a bit of land level enough to raise fruit and vegetables.
Now the mountains become more rugged and rise more steeply from the water's edge. The steamer is very slow; it takes all day to make the sixty miles, but no one is sorry. Occasionally the whistle is sounded and the boat heads in toward the land, where some camping party is on the lookout for mail or a supply of provisions.
The lake averages less than two miles in width, and seems all the narrower for being shut in between gigantic mountains. For some miles we pass under the precipitous cliffs of Goat Mountain, where formerly numerous herds of mountain goats found pasturage.
At every bend in the lake the views become more grand and inspiring. Here is a dashing stream, roaring in a mad tumble over the boulders into the quiet lake—a stream which has its source perhaps a mile above, in some snow-bank hidden from sight by the steep, rocky walls. Next a waterfall comes into view, pouring over a vertical cliff into the lake. Occasionally snow-clad peaks appear, but only to disappear again behind the near mountains. What pleasant spots we notice for camping by the ice-cold streams! They are full of brook trout, while larger fish are to be found in the lake.
At the head of this body of water there is a little hotel for the accommodation of visitors, and the Stehekin River, which is steadily at work filling up the lake, hurries past its doors. Since the melting of the glacier which once filled the cañon, the river has built a delta fully half a mile out into the water.
The lake has the appearance of filling an old river valley or cañon. Perhaps the latter is the better name because the bed is so narrow and deep. This cañon winds among the mountains just like other cañons in which rivers are flowing, but it has no outlet at the present time. In some way a dam has been formed, and the cañon, filling with water to the top of the dam, has become a lake.
Soundings have shown that the water is fourteen hundred feet deep; that is, a little more than a quarter of a mile. With the exception of Crater Lake, in Oregon, this is the deepest body of water in the United States. It is also interesting to note that the bottom of the lake is fully three hundred feet below the level of the ocean.
How could a river cut a channel for itself so far below the ocean level? Rivers cannot do work of this kind unless they have a swift current; moreover, as they empty into the ocean, their beds must be above sea level. Some people think that the great glacier, which certainly at some time occupied the depression in which the lake lies, dug out the cañon. This glacier was over three thousand feet in thickness, for the rocks are grooved and polished to a height of nearly two thousand feet above the surface of the water. It is, nevertheless, improbable that the glacier did anything more than deepen and widen the cañon somewhat. It was certainly made, as we at first supposed, by a river which flowed through it at some remote period. At that time the land of our Pacific coast must have stood many hundred feet higher than it does now.
The surface of Lake Chelan is a little more than three hundred feet above the bed of the Columbia River, which flows through a deep cañon only three miles distant. If we could remove the dam of glacial boulders and gravel at the lower end of the lake, the water would be lowered only three hundred feet. The lake would not be drained, for it is very much deeper. Now here is another puzzle for us: the bottom of the lake is more than one thousand feet below the level of the Columbia. We shall have to go still farther back into the past to get a satisfactory explanation this time.
Hundreds of thousands of years ago there was no plateau filling central Washington, and no Columbia River crossing it. The Cascade Range stood where we see it to-day, and the region of the plateau was a broad valley, toward which flowed the streams that had already cut cañons upon the eastern side of the range. These streams probably united in a river emptying westward into the Pacific by a course now unknown. The shores of the ocean were farther west than at present, for the land stood higher.
The cañon of Lake Chelan was made by a river of this period, which through many long years gradually deepened and enlarged its channel. The river worked just as we see rivers working at the present time, for throughout all the history of the earth rivers have not changed their habits. Then came the long period of volcanic eruptions. Our Northwest was flooded by fiery lava, which built up the Columbia plateau and buried under thousands of feet of rock the old river valley into which the cañon of Chelan emptied.
Then streams of water began to flow over the plateau from the higher mountains above the reach of the lava. These streams formed the Columbia River, which sought the easiest way to the sea, and finally excavated a cañon for hundreds of miles. In a portion of its course the river came close to the edge of the Cascade Range. The ancient cañon of Lake Chelan had been dammed up by the lava, and a lake occupied a portion of the former bed of the river. The Columbia could not cut its channel deep enough to drain the lake, and there it remained.
Then another change came: the climate grew cold and heavy snows gathered upon the Cascade Range. The snow did not all melt during the summers, but went on increasing from year to year. The masses of snow moved gradually down the mountain slopes, growing more and more icy until they became true glaciers.
In this manner it came about that a river of ice occupied the cañon in which the old lake lay, and, displacing its waters, scraped and ground out the bottom and sides. The moving ice deposited the waste material at the lower end of the cañon, where it joined the Columbia River, the cañon of which was also occupied by a glacier coming from farther north. When the glacier began to retreat up the Chelan cañon, it left a great mass of rock débris, forming a dam between its basin and the Columbia. After the ice had disappeared, water collected in the cañon above the dam, and the narrow, deep lake was formed, enclosed within granite walls.
As the snows melted, forests spread over the mountains, the bear, deer, and mountain goats came back again, while the streams, bringing down earth and rocks, began their work of filling up the lake. This task they will succeed in accomplishing some day unless something unforeseen happens to prevent. A valley, composed partly of meadow and partly of boulder-covered slopes, will then have taken the place of the lake.
The explorers and early settlers found a native race occupying nearly every portion of our continent. These people had many characteristics in common and were all called Indians. It is believed that they came originally from Asia, but their migration and scattering occurred so long ago that they have become divided into many groups, each having its own language and customs.
In the western portion of the country, where the surface is broken by numerous barriers, such as mountains and deserts, almost every valley was found to be occupied by a distinct group of Indians called a "tribe." The language of each tribe differed so much from the languages of adjoining tribes that they could with difficulty understand one another. These tribes were almost continually at war.
The Indians upon the Pacific slope were generally found to be inferior in most respects to those living in the central and eastern portions of the continent. One might suppose that the tribes possessing the fair and fertile valleys of California would be the most advanced in civilization, but such was not the case. Many of them were among the most degraded upon the continent. They seemed unable to adapt themselves to the white man and his ways, and in the older settled districts they have now nearly disappeared. In the newer portions of the Northwest and along the coast toward Alaska the Indians have not yet come into so direct contact with the white men, and remain more nearly in their primitive condition.
When the Indians of central California were first seen, they wore but little clothing, and knew how to construct only the simplest dwellings for protection from the weather. They did not cultivate the soil, nor did they hunt a great deal, although the country abounded with game. Along the larger streams fish was an important article of food, but in other places, acorns, pine nuts, and roots constituted the main supplies. The acorns were ground in stone mortars and made into soup or into a kind of bread. These Indians have often been called Diggers because they depended so largely for their living upon the roots which they dug.
It would seem natural that about San Francisco Bay the natives should have used canoes, but, according to early travellers, they had none. When they wished to go out upon the water they built rafts of bundles of rushes or tules tied together.
At favorable points along the shore the Indians collected for their feasts, and these spots are now indicated by heaps of shells, in some places forming mounds of considerable size. Many interesting implements have been dug from these mounds, or kitchen middens as they are sometimes called. In the mountains the sites of the villages are marked by chips of obsidian (a volcanic glass used in making arrow-tips) and by holes in the flat surfaces of granitic rocks near some spring or stream. These holes were made for the purpose of grinding acorns or nuts.
Many of the Indian tribes developed great skill in the weaving of baskets, which they used for many different purposes. The baskets are still made in some places, and are much sought after because of their beauty.
The Indians of northern California in building their homes dug round, shallow holes, over which poles were bent in the form of a half-circle, and then tied together at the top. Bark was laid upon the outside, and earth was thrown over the whole structure.