a few white spots on the highest ridges, where the depth from drifting
has been greatest, or where the rate of waste has been diminished by

specially favorable conditions as to exposure. Only the great
volcanic cones are truly snow-clad all the year, and these are not

numerous and make but a small portion of the general landscape.
As we approach Oregon from the coast in summer, no hint of snowy

mountains can be seen, and it is only after we have sailed into the
country by the Columbia, or climbed some one of the commanding

summits, that the great white peaks send us greeting and make telling
advertisements of themselves and of the country over which they rule.

So, also, in coming to Oregon from the east the country by no means
impresses one as being surpassingly mountainous, the abode of peaks

and glaciers. Descending the spurs of the Rocky Mountains into the
basin of the Columbia, we see hot, hundred-mile plains, roughened here

the there by hills and ridges that look hazy and blue in the distance,
until we have pushed well to the westward. Then one white point after

another comes into sight to refresh the eye and the imagination; but
they are yet a long way off, and have much to say only to those who

know them or others of their kind. How grand they are, though
insignificant-looking on the edge of the vast landscape! What noble

woods they nourish, and emerald meadows and gardens! What springs and
streams and waterfalls sing about them and to what a multitude of

happy creatures they give homes and food!
The principal mountains of the range are Mounts Pitt, Scott, and

Thielson, Diamond Peak, the Three Sisters, Mounts Jefferson, Hood, St.
Helen's, Adams, Rainier, Aix, and Baker. Of these the seven first

named belong to Oregon, the others to Washington. They rise singly at
irregular distances from one another along the main axis of the range

or near it, with an elevation of from about eight thousand to fourteen
thousand four hundred feet above the level of the sea. From few

points in the valleys may more than three or four of them be seen, and
of the more distant ones of these only the tops appear. Therefore,

speaking generally, each of the lowlandlandscapes of the State
contains only one grand snowy mountain.

The heights back of Portland command one of the best general views of
the forests and also of the most famous of the great mountains both of

Oregon and Washington. Mount Hood is in full view, with the summits
of Mounts Jefferson, St. Helen's, Adams, and Rainier in the distance.

The city of Portland is at our feet, covering a large area along both
banks of the Willamette, and, with its fine streets, schools,

churches, mills, shipping, parks, and gardens, makes a telling picture
of busy, aspiring civilization in the midst of the green wilderness in

which it is planted. The river is displayed to fine advantage in the
foreground of our main view, sweeping in beautiful curves around rich,

leafy islands, its banks fringed with willows.
A few miles beyond the Willamette flows the renowned Columbia, and the

confluence of these two great rivers is at a point only about ten
miles below the city. Beyond the Columbia extends the immense breadth

of the forest, one dim, black, monotonous field with only the sky,
which one is glad to see is not forested, and the tops of the majestic

old volcanoes to give diversity to the view. That sharp, white,
broad-based pyramid on the south side of the Columbia, a few degrees

to the south of east from where you stand, is the famous Mount Hood.
The distance to it in a straight line is about fifty miles. Its upper

slopes form the only bare ground, bare as to forests, in the landscape
in that direction. It is the pride of Oregonians, and when it is

visible is always pointed out to strangers as the glory of the
country, the mountain of mountains. It is one of the grand series of

extinct volcanoes extending from Lassen's Butte[31] to Mount Baker, a
distance of about six hundred miles, which once flamed like gigantic

watch-fires along the coast. Some of them have been active in recent
times, but no considerableaddition to the bulk of Mount Hood has been

made for several centuries, as is shown by the amount of glacial
denudation it has suffered. Its summit has been ground to a point,

which gives it a rather thin, pinched appearance. It has a wide-flowing
base, however, and is fairly well proportioned. Though it is

eleven thousand feet high, it is too far off to make much show under
ordinary conditions in so extensive a landscape. Through a great part

of the summer it is invisible on account of smoke poured into the sky
from burning woods, logging camps, mills, etc., and in winter for

weeks at a time, or even months, it is in the clouds. Only in spring
and early summer and in what there may chance to be of bright weather

in winter is it or any of its companions at all clear or telling.
From the Cascades on the Columbia it may be seen at a distance of

twenty miles or thereabouts, or from other points up and down the
river, and with the magnificent foreground it is very impressive. It

gives the supreme touch of grandeur to all the main Columbia views,
rising at every turn, solitary, majestic, awe-inspiring, the ruling

spirit of the landscape. But, like mountains everywhere, it varies
greatly in impressiveness and apparentheight at different times and

seasons, not alone from differences as to the dimness or transparency
of the air. Clear, or arrayed in clouds, it changes both in size and

general expression. Now it looms up to an immenseheight and seems to
draw near in tremendousgrandeur and beauty, holding the eyes of every

beholder in devout and awful interest. Next year or next day, or even
in the same day, you return to the same point of view, perhaps to find

that the glory has departed, as if the mountain had died and the poor
dull, shrunken mass of rocks and ice had lost all power to charm.

Never shall I forget my first glorious view of Mount Hood one calm
evening in July, though I had seen it many times before this. I was

then sauntering with a friend across the new Willamette bridge between
Portland and East Portland for the sake of the river views, which are

here very fine in the tranquil summer weather. The scene on the water
was a lively one. Boats of every description were gliding, glinting,

drifting about at work or play, and we leaned over the rail from time
to time, contemplating the gay throng. Several lines of ferry boats

were making regular trips at intervals of a few minutes, and river
steamers were coming and going from the wharves, laden with all sorts

of merchandise, raising long diverging swells that make all the light
pleasure craft bow and nod in heartysalutation as they passed. The

crowd was being constantly increased by new arrivals from both shores,
sailboats, rowboats, racing shells, rafts, were loaded with gayly

dressed people, and here and there some adventurous man or boy might
be seen as a merry sailor on a single plank or spar, apparently as

deep in enjoyment as were any on the water. It seemed as if all the
town were coming to the river, renouncing the cares and toils of the

day, determined to take the evening breeze into their pulses, and be
cool and tranquil ere going to bed.

Absorbed in the happy scene, given up to dreamy, randomobservation of
what lay immediately before me, I was not conscious of anything

occurring on the outer rim of the landscape. Forest, mountain, and
sky were forgotten, when my companion suddenly directed my attention

to the eastward, shouting, "Oh, look! look!" in so loud and excited a
tone of voice that passers-by, saunterers like ourselves, were

startled and looked over the bridge as if expecting to see some boat
upset. Looking across the forest, over which the mellow light of the

sunset was streaming, I soon discovered the source of my friend's
excitement. There stood Mount Hood in all the glory of the alpenglow,

looming immensely high, beaming with intelligence, and so impressive
that one was overawed as if suddenly brought before some superior

being newly arrived from the sky.
The atmosphere was somewhat hazy, but the mountain seemed neither near

nor far. Its glaciers flashed in the divine light. The rugged,
storm-worn ridges between them and the snowfields of the summit, these

perhaps might have been traced as far as they were in sight, and the
blending zones of color about the base. But so profound was the

general impression, partialanalysis did not come into play. The
whole mountain appeared as one gloriousmanifestation of divine power,

enthusiastic and benevolent, glowing like a countenance with ineffable
repose and beauty, before which we could only gaze in devout and lowly

admiration.
The far-famed Oregon forests cover all the western section of the

State, the mountains as well as the lowlands, with the exception of a
few gravelly spots and open spaces in the central portions of the

great cultivatedvalleys. Beginning on the coast, where their outer
ranks are drenched and buffeted by wind-driven scud from the sea, they

press on in close, majestic ranks over the coast mountains, across the
broad central valleys, and over the Cascade Range, broken and halted