THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 279 
bit as attractive in another way. They lead through the pine forests 
for which the Deschutes country is famous. There are 20 billion 
feet of this pine tributary to Bend and most of it presents a park 
like appearance that is not found in any other section of the west. The 
pine forest is found all the way to Crater Lake. The road does not 
run through it the entire distance, but creeps in and out of it, as if 
loath to leave its sheltering shade. 
It is not the intention of this sketch to tell of the details of the 
trip. Suffice it to say that we drove leisurely as a proper respect for 
wives and children should demand. After laying up two hours for 
lunch we turned off the main road up Sand Creek. For the next 20 
miles the road is one constant rise. This road leads past the famous 
Pinnacles, one of Oregon’s greatest scenic wonders, and a most 
impressive and inspiring sight. Thousands of these sharp pointed 
rocks line the canyon—the product of some quiet but persistent 
erosion. We drove direct to the crater’s rim. Looking down into 
its blue waters we all felt the presence of Omnipotent power, felt by 
the Indians of old who attributed to it the abode of the Great Spirit. 
None can look upon Crater Lake and be unmoved. It does not have 
the appealing charm of human qualities found in Odell Lake, which 
we visited later, neither has it laughter or smiles. It represents 
majesty alone. It is not appealing—it is forbidding—and yet compell- 
ing. You thought the painter in oils or the painter in words had over- 
drawn the blueness of the water—and the first glance makes you 
condemn them as artists. The waters are blue; blue, I tell you, just 
blue—washerwoman’s blue of Monday morning, the biue of the clear- 
est spring sky, the blue of the maiden’s eye that is blue to the lover’s 
adoring look, just blue. 
We looked from many angles. High above us towered Eagle 
Point. Shall we climb it? Leaving the rest of the party at the hotel 
we started out as though we intended to trot up to the fountains on 
Mount Tabor back of the home in Portland. But we did not trot. 
The 7,000-foot altitude is not inducive to trotting. In a few moments 
my heart was beating a tatoo that threatened my ribs with destruc- 
tion and the lungs sounded like a Ford in the last stages of despair— 
if a Ford ever gets there. We made Eagle Point, however, and were 
well repaid for the trip. At its crest we met a party of six, three 
young men and three young ladies who had just returned from a trip 
entirely around the rim, which had taken three days to make. They 
looked full of pep and were larking along merrily. When asked if it 
was worth the time and work the chorus was “It sure was, but never 
again, never again.” At some point the alleged trail around the rim 
rises to over 8,000 feet altitude. 
The moon was full and we saw the lake at moonlight when all 
‘ its forbidding majesty is veiled in a soft veil of white. It is enchant- 
ing then. One desires to go closer but the cold night air drives 
watchers indoors where a roaring fire is the center of as cosmopolitan 
a group of people as ever gathered under one roof, and that roof on 
the roof of the world. Railroad president, lumber magnate, cattleman, 
rancher, merchant, traveler, banker, clerk, laborer, they are all there 
under one roof. 
Beds are good and inviting. The high altitude makes one drowsy. 
In a very few moments the roaring fireplace has become a mass of 
embers and the last night hawk, the fellow who never goes to bed as 
long as there is any left to sit up with, knocks the ashes from his 
pipe, yawns, and goes upstairs. Without, Crater Lake smiles a little 
at the pigmies who have dared to climb to her brink to look upon a 
