the john muir exhibit - writings - steep_trails - chapter 17
Chapter 17
Puget Sound
Washington Territory, recently admitted
22
into the Union as a State,
lies between latitude 46 degrees and 49 degrees and longitude 117
degrees and 125 degrees, forming the northwest shoulder of the united
States. The majestic range of the Cascade Mountains naturally divides
the State into two distinct parts, called Eastern and Western
Washington, differing greatly from each other in almost every way, the
western section being less than half as large as the eastern, and,
with its copious rains and deep fertile soil, being clothed with
forests of evergreens, while the eastern section is dry and mostly
treeless, though fertile in many parts, and producing immense
quantities of wheat and hay. Few States are more fertile and
productive in one way or another than Washington, or more strikingly
varied in natural features or resources.
Within her borders every kind of soil and climate may be found -- the
densest woods and dryest plains, the smoothest levels and roughest
mountains. She is rich in square miles (some seventy thousand of
them), in coal, timber, and iron, and in sheltered inland waters that
render these resources advantageously accessible. She also is already
rich in busy workers, who work hard, though not always wisely,
hacking, burning, blasting their way deeper into the wilderness,
beneath the sky, and beneath the ground. The wedges of development
are being driven hard, and none of the obstacles or defenses of nature
can long withstand the onset of this immeasurable industry.
Puget Sound, so justly famous the world over for the surpassing size
and excellence and abundance of its timber, is a long, many-fingered
arm of the sea reaching southward from the head of the Strait of Juan
de Fuca into the heart of the grand forests of the western portion of
Washington, between the Cascade Range and the mountains of the coast.
It is less than a hundred miles in length, but so numerous are the
branches into which it divides, and so many its bays, harbors, and
islands, that its entire shoreline is said to measure more than
eighteen hundred miles. Throughout its whole vast extent ships move
in safety, and find shelter from every wind that blows, the entire
mountain-girt sea forming one grand unrivaled harbor and center for
commerce.
The forest trees press forward to the water around all the windings of
the shores in most imposing array, as if they were courting their
fate, coming down from the mountains far and near to offer themselves
to the axe, thus making the place a perfect paradise for the
lumberman. To the lover of nature the scene is enchanting. Water and
sky, mountain and forest, clad in sunshine and clouds, are composed in
landscapes sublime in magnitude, yet exquisitely fine and fresh, and
full of glad, rejoicing life. The shining waters stretch away into
the leafy wilderness, now like the reaches of some majestic river and
again expanding into broad roomy spaces like mountain lakes, their
farther edges fading gradually and blending with the pale blue of the
sky. The wooded shores with an outer fringe of flowering bushes sweep
onward in beautiful curves around bays, and capes, and jutting
promontories innumerable; while the islands, with soft, waving
outlines, lavishly adorned with spruces and cedars, thicken and enrich
the beauty of the waters; and the white spirit mountains looking down
from the sky keep watch and ward over all, faithful and changeless as
the stars.
All the way from the Strait of Juan de Fuca up to Olympia, a hopeful
town situated at the head of one of the farthest-reaching of the
fingers of the Sound, we are so completely inland and surrounded by
mountains that it is hard to realize that we are sailing on a branch
of the salt sea. We are constantly reminded of Lake Tahoe. There is
the same clearness of the water in calm weather without any trace of
the ocean swell, the same picturesque winding and sculpture of the
shoreline and flowery, leafy luxuriance; only here the trees are
taller and stand much closer together, and the backgrounds are higher
and far more extensive. Here, too, we find greater variety amid the
marvelous wealth of islands and inlets, and also in the changing views
dependent on the weather. As we double cape after cape and round the
uncounted islands, new combinations come to view in endless variety,
sufficient to fill and satisfy the lover of wild beauty through a
whole life.
Oftentimes in the stillest weather, when all the winds sleep and no
sign of storms is felt or seen, silky clouds form and settle over all
the land, leaving in sight only a circle of water with indefinite
bounds like views in mid-ocean; then, the clouds lifting, some islet
will be presented standing alone, with the topes of its trees dipping
out of sight in pearly gray fringes; or, lifting higher, and perhaps
letting in a ray of sunshine through some rift overhead, the whole
island will be set free and brought forward in vivid relief amid the
gloom, a girdle of silver light of dazzling brightness on the water
about its shores, then darkening again and vanishing back into the
general gloom. Thus island after island may be seen, singly or in
groups, coming and going from darkness to light like a scene of
enchantment, until at length the entire cloud ceiling is rolled away,
and the colossal cone of Mount Rainier is seen in spotless white
looking down over the forests from a distance of sixty miles, but so
lofty and so massive and clearly outlined as to impress itself upon us
as being just back of a strip of woods only a mile or two in breadth.
For the tourist sailing to Puget Sound from San Francisco there is but
little that is at all striking in the scenery within reach by the way
until the mouth of the Strait of Juan de Fuca is reached. The voyage
is about four days in length and the steamers keep within sight of the
coast, but the hills fronting the sea up to Oregon are mostly bare and
uninviting, the magnificent redwood forests stretching along this
portion of the California coast seeming to keep well back, away from
the heavy winds, so that very little is seen of them; while there are
no deep inlets or lofty mountains visible to break the regular
monotony. Along the coast of Oregon the woods of spruce and fir come
down to the shore, kept fresh and vigorous by copious rains, and
become denser and taller to the northward until, rounding Cape
Flattery, we enter the Strait of Fuca, where, sheltered from the ocean
gales, the forests begin to hint the grandeur they attain in Puget
Sound. Here the scenery in general becomes exceedingly interesting;
for now we have arrived at the grand mountain-walled channel that
forms the entrance to that marvelous network of inland waters that
extends along the margin of the continent to the northward for a
thousand miles.
This magnificent inlet was named for Juan de Fuca, who discovered it
in 1592 while seeking a mythical strait, supposed to exist somewhere
in the north, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific. It is about
seventy miles long, ten or twelve miles wide, and extends to the
eastward in a nearly straight line between the south end of Vancouver
Island and the Olympic Range of mountains on the mainland.
Cape Flattery, the western termination of the Olympic Range, is
terribly rugged and jagged, and in stormy weather is utterly
inaccessible from the sea. Then the ponderous rollers of the deep
Pacific thunder amid its caverns and cliffs with the foam and uproar
of a thousand Yosemite waterfalls. The bones of many a noble ship lie
there, and many a sailor. It would seem unlikely that any living
thing should seek rest in such a place, or find it. Nevertheless,
frail and delicate flowers bloom there, flowers of both the land and
the sea; heavy, ungainly seals disport in the swelling waves, and find
grateful retreats back in the inmost bores of its storm-lashed
caverns; while in many a chink and hollow of the highest crags, not
visible from beneath, a great variety of waterfowl make homes and rear
their young.
But not always are the inhabitants safe, even in such wave-defended
castles as these, for the Indians of the neighboring shores venture
forth in the calmest summer weather in their frail canoes to spear the
seals in the narrow gorges amid the grinding, gurgling din of the
restless waters. At such times also the hunters make out to scale
many of the apparently inaccessible cliffs for the eggs and young of
the gulls and other water birds, occasionally losing their lives in
these perilous adventures, which give rise to many an exciting story
told around the campfires at night when the storms roar loudest.
Passing through the strait, we have the Olympic Mountains close at
hand on the right, Vancouver Island on the left, and the snowy peak of
Mount Baker straight ahead in the distance. During calm weather, or
when the clouds are lifting and rolling off the mountains after a
storm, all these views are truly magnificent. Mount Baker is one of
that wonderful series of old volcanoes that once flamed along the
summits of the Sierras and Cascades from Lassen to Mount St. Elias.
Its fires are sleeping now, and it is loaded with glaciers, streams of
ice having taken the place of streams of glowing lava. Vancouver
Island presents a charming variety of hill and dale, open sunny spaces
and sweeps of dark forest rising in swell beyond swell to the high
land in the distance.
But the Olympic Mountains most of all command attention, seen
tellingly near and clear in all their glory, rising from the water's
edge into the sky to a height of six or eight thousand feet. They
bound the strait on the south side throughout its whole extent,
forming a massive sustained wall, flowery and bushy at the base, a
zigzag of snowy peaks along the top, which have ragged-edged fields of
ice and snow beneath them, enclosed in wide amphitheaters opening to
the waters of the strait through spacious forest-filled valleys
enlivened with fine, dashing streams. These valleys mark the courses
of the Olympic glaciers at the period of their greatest extension,
when they poured their tribute into that portion of the great northern
ice sheet that overswept the south end of Vancouver Island and filled
the strait with flowing ice as it is now filled with ocean water.
The steamers of the Sound usually stop at Esquimalt on their way up,
thus affording tourists an opportunity to visit the interesting town
of Victoria, the capital of British Columbia. The Victoria harbor is
too narrow and difficult of access for the larger class of ships;
therefore a landing has to be made at Esquimalt. The distance,
however, is only about three miles, and the way is delightful, winding
on through a charming forest of Douglas spruce, with here and there
groves of oak and madrone, and a rich undergrowth of hazel, dogwood,
willow, alder, spiraea, rubus, huckleberry, and wild rose. Pretty
cottages occur at intervals along the road, covered with honeysuckle,
and many an upswelling rock, freshly glaciated and furred with yellow
mosses and lichen, telling interesting stories of the icy past.
Victoria is a quiet, handsome, breezy town, beautifully located on
finely modulated ground at the mouth of the Canal de Haro, with
charming views in front, of islands and mountains and far-reaching
waters, ever changing in the shifting lights and shades of the clouds
and sunshine. In the background there are a mile or two of field and
forest and sunny oak openings; then comes the forest primeval, dense
and shaggy and well-nigh impenetrable.
Notwithstanding the importance claimed for Victoria as a commercial
center and the capital of British Columbia, it has a rather young,
loose-jointed appearance. The government buildings and some of the
business blocks on the main streets are well built and imposing in
bulk and architecture. These are far less interesting and
characteristic, however, than the mansions set in the midst of
spacious pleasure grounds and the lovely home cottages embowered in
honeysuckle and climbing roses. One soon discovers that this is no
Yankee town. The English faces and the way that English is spoken
alone would tell that; while in business quarters there is a staid
dignity and moderation that is very noticeable, and a want of American
push and hurrah. Love of land and of privacy in homes is made manifest
in the residences, many of which are built in the middle of fields and
orchards or large city blocks, and in the loving care with which these
home grounds are planted. They are very beautiful. The fineness of
the climate, with its copious measure of warm moisture distilling in
dew and fog, and gentle, bathing, laving rain, give them a freshness
and floweriness that is worth going far to see.
Victoria is noted for its fine drives, and every one who can should
either walk or drive around the outskirts of the town, not only for
the fine views out over the water but to see the cascades of bloom
pouring over the gables of the cottages, and the fresh wild woods with
their flowery, fragrant underbrush. Wild roses abound almost
everywhere. One species, blooming freely along the woodland paths, is
from two to three inches in diameter, and more fragrant than any other
wild rose I ever saw excepting the sweetbriar. This rose and three
species of spiraea fairly fill the air with fragrance after a shower.
And how brightly then do the red berries of the dogwood shine out from
the warm yellow-green of leaves and mosses!
But still more interesting and significant are the glacial phenomena
displayed hereabouts. All this exuberant tree, bush, and herbaceous
vegetation, cultivated or wild, is growing upon moraine beds outspread
by waters that issued from the ancient glaciers at the time of their
recession, and scarcely at all moved or in any way modified
by post-glacial agencies. The town streets and the roads are graded in
moraine material, among scratched and grooved rock bosses that are as
unweathered and telling as any to be found in the glacier channels of
Alaska. The harbor also is clearly of glacial origin. The rock
islets that rise here and there, forming so marked a feature of the
harbor, are unchanged roches moutonnees, and the shores are grooved,
scratched, and rounded, and in every way as glacial in all their
characteristics as those of a newborn glacial lake.
Most visitors to Victoria go to the stores of the Hudson's Bay
Company, presumably on account of the romantic associations, or to
purchase a bit of fur or some other wild-Indianish trinket as a
memento. At certain seasons of the year, when the hairy harvests are
gathered in, immense bales of skins may be seen in these unsavory
warehouses, the spoils of many thousand hunts over mountain and plain,
by lonely river and shore. The skins of bears, wolves, beavers,
otters, fishers, martens, lynxes, panthers, wolverine, reindeer,
moose, elk, wild goats, sheep, foxes, squirrels, and many others of
our "poor earth-born companions and fellow mortals" may here be found.
Vancouver is the southmost and the largest of the countless islands
forming the great archipelago that stretches a thousand miles to the
northward. Its shores have been known a long time, but little is
known of the lofty mountainous interior on account of the difficulties
in the way of explorations -- lake, bogs, and shaggy tangled forests.
It is mostly a pure, savage wilderness, without roads or clearings,
and silent so far as man is concerned. Even the Indians keep close to
the shore, getting a living by fishing, dwelling together in villages,
and traveling almost wholly by canoes. White settlements are few and
far between. Good agricultural lands occur here and there on the edge
of the wilderness, but they are hard to clear, and have received but
little attention thus far. Gold, the grand attraction that lights the
way into all kinds of wildernesses and makes rough places smooth, has
been found, but only in small quantities, too small to make much
motion. Almost all the industry of the island is employed upon lumber
and coal, in which, so far as known, its chief wealth lies.
Leaving Victoria for Port Townsend, after we are fairly out on the
free open water, Mount Baker is seen rising solitary over a dark
breadth of forest, making a glorious show in its pure white raiment.
It is said to be about eleven thousand feet high, is loaded with
glaciers, some of which come well down into the woods, and never, so
far as I have heard, has been climbed, though in all probability it is
not inaccessible. The task of reaching its base through the dense
woods will be likely to prove of greater difficulty than the climb to
the summit.
In a direction a little to the left of Mount Baker and much nearer,
may be seen the island of San Juan, famous in the young history of the
country for the quarrels concerning its rightful ownership between the
Hudson's Bay Company and Washington Territory, quarrels which nearly
brought on war with Great Britain. Neither party showed any lack of
either pluck or gunpowder. General Scott was sent out by President
Buchanan to negotiate, which resulted in a joint occupancy of the
island. Small quarrels, however, continued to arise until the year
1874, when the peppery question was submitted to the Emperor of
Germany for arbitration. Then the whole island was given to the
United States.
San Juan is one of a thickset cluster of islands that fills the waters
between Vancouver and the mainland, a little to the north of Victoria.
In some of the intricate channels between these islands the tides run
at times like impetuous rushing rivers, rendering navigation rather
uncertain and dangerous for the small sailing vessels that ply between
Victoria and the settlements on the coast of British Columbia and the
larger islands. The water is generally deep enough everywhere, too
deep in most places for anchorage, and, the winds shifting hither and
thither or dying away altogether, the ships, getting no direction from
their helms, are carried back and forth or are caught in some eddy
where two currents meet and whirled round and round to the dismay of
the sailors, like a chip in a river whirlpool.
All the way over to Port Townsend the Olympic Mountains well maintain
their massive, imposing grandeur, and present their elaborately carved
summits in clear relief, many of which are out of sight in coming up
the strait on account of our being too near the base of the range.
Turn to them as often as we may, our admiration only grows the warmer
the longer we dwell upon them. The highest peaks are Mount Constance
and Mount Olympus, said to be about eight thousand feet high.
In two or three hours after leaving Victoria, we arrive at the
handsome little town of Port Townsend, situated at the mouth of Puget
Sound, on the west side. The residential portion of the town is set
on the level top of the bluff that bounds Port Townsend Bay, while
another nearly level space of moderate extent, reaching from the base
of the bluff to the shoreline, is occupied by the business portion,
thus making a town of two separate and distinct stories, which are
connected by long, ladder-like flights of stairs. In the streets of
the lower story, while there is no lack of animation, there is but
little business noise as compared with the amount of business
transacted. This in great part is due to the scarcity of horses and
wagons. Farms and roads back in the woods are few and far between.
Nearly all the tributary settlements are on the coast, and
communication is almost wholly by boats, canoes, and schooners. Hence
country stages and farmers' wagons and buggies, with the whir and din
that belong to them, are wanting.
This being the port of entry, all vessels have to stop here, and they
make a lively show about the wharves and in the bay. The winds stir
the flags of every civilized nation,
while the Indians in their long-beaked canoes glide about
from ship to ship, satisfying their curiosity or trading with the crews.
Keen traders these Indians are,
and few indeed of the sailors or merchants from any country ever get
the better of them in bargains. Curious groups of people may often be
seen in the streets and stores, made up of English, French, Spanish,
Portuguese, Scandinavians, Germans, Greeks, Moors, Japanese, and
Chinese, of every rank and station and style of dress and behavior;
settlers from many a nook and bay and island up and down the coast;
hunters from the wilderness; tourists on their way home by the Sound
and the Columbia River or to Alaska or California.
The upper story of Port Townsend is charmingly located, wide bright
waters on one side, flowing evergreen woods on the other. The streets
are well laid out and well tended, and the houses, with their
luxuriant gardens about them, have an air of taste and refinement
seldom found in towns set on the edge of a wild forest. The people
seem to have come here to make true homes, attracted by the beauty and
fresh breezy healthfulness of the place as well as by business
advantages, trusting to natural growth and advancement instead of
restless "booming" methods. They perhaps have caught some of the
spirit of calm moderation and enjoyment from their English neighbors
across the water. Of late, however, this sober tranquillity has begun
to give way, some whiffs from the whirlwind of real estate speculation
up the Sound having at length touched the town and ruffled the surface
of its calmness.
A few miles up the bay is Fort Townsend, which makes a pretty picture
with the green woods rising back of it and the calm water in front.
Across the mouth of the Sound lies the long, narrow Whidbey Island,
named by Vancouver for one of his lieutenants. It is about thirty
miles in length, and is remarkable in this region of crowded forests
and mountains as being comparatively open and low. The soil is good
and easily worked, and a considerable portion of the island has been
under cultivation for many years. Fertile fields, open, parklike
groves of oak, and thick masses of evergreens succeed one another in
charming combinations to make this "the garden spot of the Territory."
Leaving Port Townsend for Seattle and Tacoma, we enter the Sound and
sail down into the heart of the green, aspiring forests, and find,
look where we may, beauty ever changing, in lavish profusion. Puget
Sound, "the Mediterranean of America" as it is sometimes called, is in
many respects one of the most remarkable bodies of water in the world.
Vancouver, who came here nearly a hundred years ago and made a careful
survey of it, named the larger northern portion of it "Admiralty
Inlet" and one of the long, narrow branches "Hood's Canal'" applying
the name "Puget Sound" only to the comparatively small southern
portion. The latter name, however, is now applied generally to the
entire inlet, and is commonly shortened by the people hereabouts to
"The Sound." The natural wealth and commercial advantages of the
Sound region were quickly recognized, and the cause of the activity
prevailing here is not far to seek. Vancouver, long before
civilization touched these shores, spoke of it in terms of unstinted
praise. He was sent out by the British government with the principal
object in view of "acquiring accurate knowledge as to the nature and
extent of any water communication which may tend in any considerable
degree to facilitate an intercourse for the purposes of commerce
between the northwest coast and the country on the opposite side of
the continent," vague traditions having long been current concerning a
strait supposed to unite the two oceans. Vancouver reported that he
found the coast from San Francisco to Oregon and beyond to present a
nearly straight solid barrier to the sea, without openings, and we may
well guess the joy of the old navigator on the discovery of these
waters after so long and barren a search to the southward.
His descriptions of the scenery -- Mounts Baker, Rainier, St. Helen's,
etc. -- were as enthusiastic as those of the most eager landscape lover
of the present day, when scenery is in fashion. He says in one place:
"To describe the beauties of this region will, on some future
occasion, be a very grateful task for the pen of a skillful
panegyrist. The serenity of the climate, the immeasurable pleasing
landscapes, and the abundant fertility that unassisted nature puts
forth, require only to be enriched by the industry of man with
villages, mansions, cottages, and other buildings, to render it the
most lovely country that can be imagined. The labor of the inhabitants
would be amply rewarded in the bounties which nature seems ready to
bestow on cultivation." "A picture so pleasing could not fail to call
to our remembrance certain delightful and beloved situations in old
England." So warm, indeed, were the praises he sung that his
statements were received in England with a good deal of hesitation.
But they were amply corroborated by Wilkes and others who followed
many years later. "Nothing," says Wilkes, "can exceed the beauty of
these waters and their safety. Not a shoal exists in the Straits of
Juan de Fuca, Admiralty Inlet, Puget Sound or Hood's Canal, that can
in any way interrupt their navigation by a 74-gun ship. I venture
nothing in saying there is no country in the world that possesses
waters like these." And again, quoting from the United States Coast
Survey, "For depth of water, boldness of approaches, freedom from
hidden dangers, and the immeasurable sea of gigantic timber coming
down to the very shores, these waters are unsurpassed,
unapproachable."
The Sound region has a fine, fresh, clean climate, well washed both
winter and summer with copious rains and swept with winds and clouds
that come from the mountains and the sea. Every hidden nook in the
depths of the woods is searched and refreshed, leaving no stagnant
air; beaver meadows and lake basin and low and willowy bogs, all are
kept wholesome and sweet the year round. Cloud and sunshine alternate
in bracing, cheering succession, and health and abundance follow the
storms. The outer sea margin is sublimely dashed and drenched with
ocean brine, the spicy scud sweeping at times far inland over the
bending woods, the giant trees waving and chanting in hearty accord as
if surely enjoying it all.
Heavy, long-continued rains occur in the winter months. Then every
leaf, bathed and brightened, rejoices. Filtering drops and currents
through all the shaggy undergrowth of the woods go with tribute to the
small streams, and these again to the larger. The rivers swell, but
there are no devastating floods; for the thick felt of roots and
mosses holds the abounding waters in check, stored in a thousand
thousand fountains. Neither are there any violent hurricanes here, At
least, I never have heard of any, nor have I come upon their tracks.
Most of the streams are clear and cool always, for their waters are
filtered through deep beds of mosses, and flow beneath shadows all the
way to the sea. Only the streams from the glaciers are turbid and
muddy. On the slopes of the mountains where they rush from their
crystal caves, they carry not only small particles of rock-mud, worn
off the sides and bottoms of the channels of the glaciers, but grains
of sand and pebbles and large boulders tons in weight, rolling them
forward on their way rumbling and bumping to their appointed places at
the foot of steep slopes, to be built into rough bars and beds, while
the smaller material is carried farther and outspread in flats,
perhaps for coming wheat fields and gardens, the finest of it going
out to sea, floating on the tides for weeks and months ere it finds
rest on the bottom.
Snow seldom falls to any great depth on the lowlands, though it comes
in glorious abundance on the mountains. And only on the mountains
does the temperature fall much below the freezing point. In the
warmest summer weather a temperature of eighty-five degrees or even
more occasionally is reached, but not for long at a time, as such heat
is speedily followed by a breeze from the sea. The most charming days
here are days of perfect calm, when all the winds are holding their
breath and not a leaf stirs. The surface of the Sound shines like a
silver mirror over all its vast extent, reflecting its lovely islands
and shores; and long sheets of spangles flash and dance in the wake of
every swimming seabird and boat. The sun, looking down on the
tranquil landscape, seems conscious of the presence of every living
thing on which he is pouring his blessings, while they in turn, with
perhaps the exception of man, seem conscious of the sun as a
benevolent father and stand hushed and waiting.
[Back to chapter 16]
·
[Forward to chapter 18]