Life on Three Arch Rocks Reser¬ 
vation.—I. 
On Oct. 14, 1907, President Roosevelt set 
aside the first wild bird reservation on the Pa¬ 
cific Coast for the protection of sea fowl. This 
is a small group of unsurveyed islands about 
a mile off the coast of Oregon, forty miles 
south of the Columbia River, near Netarts Bay. 
They are known as Three Arch Rocks Reser¬ 
vation. 
Herman T. Bohlman and I first visited these 
rocks in the summer of 1901. At that time some 
sea lion hunters were camping on the shore op¬ 
posite. They were shooting sea lions that lived 
in large numbers about the rocks, for the pur¬ 
pose of marketing the oil and skins. The sea 
birds that lived on the rocks were disturbed dur- 
we intended to hazard a camp on the ledges of 
one of the rocks where, with the least possible 
disturbance to the birds, we could watch them 
carefully for several days in succession and 
collect a good series of photographs. 
The only way the rocks could be reached was 
by a small boat. In 1903, when we visited the 
place, we found no one along the beach who 
cared to take the risk of helping us. But we 
found a fourteen-foot dory at Netarts. Now 
it was evident that if we camped on the rocks, 
we had to have a supply of fresh water, tent 
and clothing for stormy weather, some fuel for 
cooking, and provisions enough for emergency. 
Besides this, we had to have our heavy camera 
equipment. 
We were in a dilemma either way. This boat 
was too light to carry such a load, to say 
sou’wester that brought a steady drizzling rain 
and lashed the white-caps as high as ever. We 
were wet half the time, but did not catch cold. 
We soon got into a sort of amphibian state, 
where a condition of water-soak seemed part of 
our normal environment. When it rained all 
day .we sometimes went to bed and slept our 
clothes dry. It rains nine months of the year, 
and one of the natives said “it was a little apt 
to be showery the other three.” But where 
Oregon holds back the Pacific, this is the price 
paid for the magnificent covering of green, the 
grand forests of fir that spread from the surf- 
beaten slope back over the summits of the Coast 
Range. 
For sixteen days we lay in camp while the 
waves throbbed incessantly like the pulse of a 
living world. Often we lay awake at night 
WAITING ON THE BEACH FOR AN OPPORTUNITY TO ROW OUT TO THE ROCKS. ONE OF THE THREE ARCH ROCKS WHOSE HEIGHT IS ABOUT 3 OO FEET. 
From photographs by Herman T. Bohlman. 
ing the breeding season to a considerable extent 
by those who shot them and egged indiscrimi¬ 
nately. They were bothered even more by ex¬ 
cursions from Tillamook, a small coast town. 
During the summer a tug boat made frequent 
trips, and on Sundays it was a great occasion 
for “sportsmen.” They took guns and ammu¬ 
nition, and as the boat steamed in about the 
rocks, they shot the thickly flying birds right 
and left. This served as a kind of a big wild 
pigeon shoot. 
During the past few years this slaughter has 
been stopped, and the birds have been well pro¬ 
tected. Now no one is allowed about the rocks 
except by special permission. George W. 
Phelps, of Netarts, has been acting as warden 
for the past two years, and has carefully 
guarded the wild life in this locality. 
After we got out first glimpse of what these 
rocks contained, we decided to return as soon 
as convenient in order to make a more care¬ 
ful study and photograph the great numbers of 
sea fowl that lived there. This could not be 
done in a day, or in several hurried trips, so 
nothing of passing the barrier of big breakers 
that never cease to pound in along the beach 
in rapid succession. Granting we could reach 
the smooth water beyond the high-rolling surf, 
the boat was then too heavy to hoist to a ledge 
high enough above the tide line to protect it 
from the waves. 
The first difficulty we met finally by making 
two trips, with our equipment wrapped in water¬ 
tight bags; the second, by raising the boat with 
block and tackle to a ledge twelve feet above 
the water. This involved landing upon a rocky 
shelf at the foot of a precipitous cliff at sea. 
It was necessary to wait until conditions were 
favorable. We expected to get on the rocks in 
a calm spell; we hoped to get off before our 
provisions were all gone. 
We pitched our 4x7 tent on the beach among 
the drift, opposite the big rocks. Although it 
was the latter part of June, the sea winds were 
cold and the rain continuous. Occasionally the 
sun would break from the clouds for a day and 
raise our hopes by diminishing the size of the 
rollers, but this was sure to be followed by a 
hearing the rain beat on the canvas and listen¬ 
ing to the wind, trying to imagine the growl 
of the surf was growing fainter. Every morn¬ 
ing we crawled out in the gray light to see if 
we could detect a sufficient gap in the on-com¬ 
ing line of combers. We lay on the sand by 
the hour looking at the world beyond the 
breakers with our field-glasses; the longer we 
looked the more alluring the rocks became. 
Then one morning when we were impatient 
of waiting, we made a trial of driving our boat 
through the lowest place in the surf barrier. 
We waded in with our little dory until she 
floated. Watching our chance, when the waves 
were smallest, we jumped to our oars. The 
nose of the boat plowed through the foam of 
the first and the second breaker, but they tossed 
her like a tooth-pick. She shot at the third 
like a hunter at a fence, but failed to reach the 
top before it combed. Crash! came half a ton 
of green, foaming water rolling down my back. 
We swerved a little to the right, and another 
monster rose like magic. Tons of the next 
wave piled over us, and the third tossed us 
