IN THE COAST RANGE. 



A. \Y. BITTING. 



One day in the latter part of August, 

 1897, found me on board a Santa Fe train 

 en route to join a friend in camp in the 

 mountains of Southwestern Oregon, 40 

 miles from the coast. After leaving New 

 Mexico the trip through Arizona and Cali- 

 fornia was new to me. Occasionally I 

 caught sight of small game from the car 

 windows and the ever changing aspect of 

 the country was of great interest. All too 

 soon I reached Grant's Pass, Oregon, 

 where I was cordially greeted by my friend 

 A. Early next morning we set out, each 

 mounted on a tough mountain pony, fol- 

 lowed by 3 large burros carrying our 

 camp outfit. We crossed beautiful Rogue 

 river, a rushing mountain stream stocked 

 with salmon and trout and said to hold in 

 the crevices of the rocky bottom much 

 glittering gold. Entering the foothills of 

 the range, we followed the stage road 20 

 of the 50 miles to camp. Our way wound 

 in and out of beautiful groves of tall pines, 

 spruce and other evergreens, madrone, 

 pepper, hazel and many varieties of trees 

 and shrubs unfamiliar to me. Salmon, 

 sarvis, red, black and blue huckleberries and 

 other wild fruit were met with all along 

 the way, and there was abundance of wild 

 oats and grass for the horses. Large 

 grey squirrels pretended to be scared at 

 our intrusion and hurriedly scampered up 

 the trees, and the tamer and more plenti- 

 ful pine squirrels scolded us from the 

 limbs of trees overhanging the road above 

 us. While squirrels have furnished sport 

 for innumerable hunters and filled many 

 a camp kettle in time past, they are free 

 from danger as far as I am concerned. 

 Other game animals and birds may be just 

 as innocent and deserving of protection, 

 but I have the strongest attachment for 

 squirrels and have ceased to find pleasure 

 in destroying them. 



By noon we came to a large branch of 

 Rogue river, then at a low stas-e of water. 

 While A. selected a restine place and cared 

 for the animals, I adjusted my Bristol rod 

 and took a stroll down the stream. Com- 

 ing to a likely pool I dropped a brown 

 hackle over its foaming surface and it had 

 hardly touched the water when it was 

 taken with a rush. I was out of practice 

 and taken by surprise. I came near losing 

 my first Coast range trout ; but with the 

 sweet singing of the reel, my old time 

 skill came back. After a few wild lunges 

 and struggles for freedom a one pound 

 fighter came to land. Several smaller ones 

 followed, out of the same pool, and al- 

 though the sport was most alluring, I had 



enough for our dinner and rolled up my 

 line. We soon had them in the pan, siz- 

 zling over a fire of pine cones. 



To fry trout or any small fish properly, 

 rub salt on the inside, roll in corn meal, or 

 cracker dust, put in plenty of lard or equiva- 

 lent and fry slowly over a slow fire. They 

 will not burn then. The idea advanced 

 by young campers that when cooked in 

 much fat the fish absorb it and become 

 greasy is incorrect. 



The markings on these trout and on all 

 I caught afterward in the streams of the 

 Coast range consisted of dark, grayish, 

 block like figures, instead of the bright red 

 spots I had been so familiar with in New 

 Mexico and Pennsylvania. The Coast 

 range trout are gamy and in streams where 

 not plentiful and that have been fished over 

 they are very wild. 



After a delicious dinner of trout, huckle- 

 berries and sugar, with condensed milk, 

 thanks to the individual who first thought 

 ot condensing milk, we resumed our trip. 

 The road gradually lead higher into the 

 range. Huge rocks, covered with luxuriant 

 mosses, ferns, vines and flowers, lined the 

 road. Small streams of crystal water 

 rushed headlong down the mountain sides, 

 forming sparkling cascades in their course; 

 and the banks were lined with flowering 

 shrubbery and ferns of many kinds and 

 sizes. Water ousels disported themselves 

 in the spray under overhanging boulders 

 and fallen trees, while humming birds and 

 wild bees sucked sweets from the innumer- 

 able flowers. The scenery was so enchant- 

 ing that it was with the greatest reluctance 

 we could move along. 



Toward evening we reached the town 

 site of Selma. I say site, because there 

 was more site than town. The latter con- 

 sisted of one house, comprising postoffice, 

 store and general information bureau for 

 the neighborhood. The trail to camp there 

 diverged from the stage road and a mile 

 farther brought us to Mr. T's, where we 

 out up for the night. The supper and 

 breakfast set before us by Mrs. T. were 

 most excellent. 



Next morning we hit the trail early, 

 following Deer creek to its junction with 

 the Illinois river, and then down the valley 

 of the latter stream. Not much valley 

 along these mountain streams, as the moun- 

 tains generally come down precipitously, 

 close to the water's edge, and in following 

 the streams, long detours are often neces- 

 sary. These are the roughest and most 

 tumbled of mountain ranges I ever saw. 

 Deer, cougar aricl wildcat tracks were fre- 



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