Time is up to start on our return trip, and reaching the train we find O. R. & N. engine No. 73 coupled to the train, with Engineer A. Curtis and Fireman Jo. Wilson in the cab and Conductor J. A. Allison standing near ready to move off as soon as we are ready to go. In a minute we are all on, and the train goes slowly down the great Columbia, whose current, always rapid, is augmented and increased twofold by the melting snows in the mountains, and surges past in an angry, turbid torrent. From the rushing waters of the mighty river on one side we look up on the other side to the towering cliffs and crags and peaks that rise in majesty and grandeur 3000 feet in the air, their summits fringed with pines that look like ferns as they wave against the sky, while here and there, from out those walls of rock, mountain streams gush forth, and falling hundreds of
[Illustration: MT. ST. HELENS, FROM PORTLAND.]
feet, their waters descend in showers of rainbow-tinted spray.
“Well,” remarks Mr. O’Brien, as he sees we are almost speechless with rapture and delight, “that’s something you don’t see in Pennsylvania or Jersey every day in the year.” “No,” I respond, “nor anywhere else in the world on any day of the year.” “I really believe there is no scenery in the whole wide world more intensely absorbing than your Columbia River scenery, Mr. O’Brien,” says Mrs. Mattson, and the Doctor, standing near, smiles down upon her his approval. “We will now turn our attention to something more practical than towering mountains and leaping waterfalls,” says Mr. O’Brien, as the train comes to a stop. “We will show you how our salmon are coaxed out of the water.”
Leading the way, we follow him down the river bank to its edge and on to a platform or wharf extending for several feet into the water, where a large wheel is slowly revolving that looks something like the side wheel of an old-fashioned ferryboat or the large overshot water wheel of an old-time sawmill, except that it turns backward, and as the scoops or buckets rise out of the water they bring the fish along, should any of them be so unfortunate as to get caught. When the scoop rises to a certain height the fish slip out into an incline trough or chute (something like the “boys” had fun with at Sutro’s) and are dumped into a bin under the platform. “We are not catching many at the present time,” says the man who is operating the trap, “the river is too high and muddy and the fish are not running very lively.” Opening a trap door, he allows us to peer down into the bin, where we see a lot of fish of various sizes. He kindly gave us several for our dining car, an act we all highly appreciate.