28 Recreations of a Sportsman 



Siskiyous to Pokegema is by the side of the 

 Klamath River into a country of rushing waters, 

 where beautiful falls break out of the forest and 

 go tumbling down into the valley. The little 

 engine ascends by a switchback, and stops in 

 the very heart of the range, where you take the 

 six-horse stage into the black forest of Oregon, 

 as it grows deeper and denser and darker. The 

 soil is deep red, the pigment of ancient trees 

 ground up, and away as far as the eye can 

 reach, around the edge of the world, this forest 

 goes, a splendid virile thing. 



The road winds in and out to avoid the big 

 trees. It skirts tremendous chasms, clatters 

 down into canons of abysmal depth, climbs the 

 lofty heights until you are a mile above the sea, 

 plunges into deeps of verdure until you are sur- 

 rounded by mountains, shut in by the deep and 

 silent forest. For an hour the road is among 

 the trees. Suddenly they open up, and a splen- 

 did vista of mountains, range after range, reaches 

 away, the canons filled with blue diaphanous 

 haze that Monet paints, and deep, far below 

 you, a winding trout stream from which you 

 never stray many miles. Sometimes you look 

 down upon it from a vast height; now you are 

 almost beside it, and literally follow it to 

 Klamath Lake, which it drains, rising far away, 

 virtually in the great springs on the slopes of 

 Mazama. 



