A Summer Trip
By John Smith
Vancouver Independent
September 8, 1881

The heavy leaden clouds hanging low down in the sunless western sky warms us as we ride in an open boat, facing a stiff down stream wind with a certainty of getting thoroughly wet before the half of our return voyage is accomplished. This will be anything but a pleasant termination of the days trip, however pleasant and "a ride o'er the bounding deep" may be to people alive to the beauties of a picturesque sea and landscape, when all nature cheers and every prospect pleases, but to make the best of circumstances is now the only thing to do and it is done with as much cheerfulness as can be assumed considering the fact that we had started forth that morning in the light summer attire, with anticipations of a clear day drawn from the past weeks experience of balmy air and cloudless skies. 

Seated at the stern of the boat, my companion voyager at the oars, we push gently out into the stream and passing the only wharf the town affords, thread our way through the piles left standing upon which, in days gone by, was built a sawmill; but now, like the machine shops and other industries of the place has been transferred to Tacoma, or some other point where a more extended field of operations is presented to the ambitious owners leaving, Kalama alone in her glory. 

As an industrial center she "is dead, her garlands fled" without the faintest hope of a resurrection, and why should there be? So situated that a commercial career was an impossibility, not having the excuse of a rich and populous agricultural district at her back, a certainty to all thoughtful people that the permanent terminus of the Northern Pacific could never be here, as it is hemmed in by rugged hills and built on a flat unsightly strip of ground along the waterfront where a reputable view of the Columbia and surrounding country cannot be had. 

But if Kalama has retrograded in public improvements and general progress, the people in the county of which it is the seat have not; as witness the following facts: The opening of new farming districts, steam navigation of her rivers, increased road, school tax and liquor license; purchase and insurance of the Kazano, a pretentious hotel in palmy days, now a courthouse and jail, and at the present time a competent coterie of county officials to administer affairs. 

The auditors semi-annual statement as presented at the last county commissioners court, we are told, placed the actual indebtedness of Cowlitz, at $2,156,90, which allowing for the non-recovery of a considerable portion of the funds embezzled by the late sheriff, and the necessary expenditures is a very fair financial showing for this little county. We have now left Kalama far in our rear and are skirting along close to the shore that in places reaches down to the waters edge in low marshy, willow and poplar fringed tracts, and rises abruptly to
a considerable height. 

We turn first one rocky point then another that juts out boldly and at whose base the seething hissing waters pour by in their mad rush to the sea; a curious accident or intention of nature or man I noticed in connection with one of these walls, and that was a cave or tunnel with its mouth so very the level of the water that each wave sent out by our boat as it cleft its way through its liquid element went splashing into its murky recesses.

A series of inquiries relative to it elicited the following information: It was cut into the bluff to the depth of 30 or 40 feet by Vancouver worthies, with the avowed purpose of discovering whether there was a bed of coal existing here. Further on our attention was drawn to a queer collection of nondescript houses evidently built out of the debris of wrecked buildings swept down the Columbia in its annual rise, and secured by the proprietor of the forlorn habitations. 

There was a rootless barn partly filled with moldy hay that leaned to one side as if it had strength to do so, while something like a dozen shabby one-windowed, one-doored shanties with a depressed look, not one any better than the other, were huddled up with wonderfully patched and put together appearing fences, and scrubby trees in a stumpy bramble-grown field hardly intensified the scarecrow aspect of the whole. 

We learned that this was the abode of a Dutchman known as "Ahlace the Miser." It is popularly supposed that he has large sums of money hidden away. These little shanties had been put up and occupied at intervals by his children, who were from time to time driven from the parental roof-tree by the old miser's excessive penuriousness and cruelty. The clouds are now pouring their garnered fullness down in torrents and it becomes a prime necessity for us to seek shelter.

After redoubling our efforts at the oars, we soon arrived at the fisherman's cottage where we land and are hospitably received; a lull in the storm; a clearer looking sky, and a hope that the clouds may pass in another direction, determines us to "pursue the even tenor of our way" and seating ourselves in the skiff are soon "paddling our own canoe" toward a safe haven, when again that irrepressible storm overtakes us with renewed violence.

Talk about the 40 days and 40 nights rain; we are certain that for the time "our" storm continued the 40 days affair pales into utter insignificance. The water ran in streams down our spinal column; the thin shawl spread over our lap is soaked, while our boat is taking water in such quantities that it is necessary for us to bail out; we turn to the shore, get out, dispose of ourselves under the dripping branches of a gnarled crooked tree, our drenched clothes hanging in chilling folds around our limp forms.

Thus we watch, and wait for a calmer moment in which to venture forth. It comes at last; without further incident we make our way to that haven where dry clothes, a warm supper, etc., await us. The next morning clad in other habiliments I step aboard the Toledo from the Martin's Bluff wharf and by 4 o'clock that day find myself safely ensconced in a comfortable room at a hotel in the metropolis of the Northwest and wherein I awoke next morning; unlike a certain doughty Oregon editor who visited the city once upon a time and returning home electrified his readers in the paper next issue by stating that he went to bed at the St. Charles and arose with the morning light at the National.

By 10am, I have transferred self, packages and parcels to the Latona, that which loaded with human freight and otherwise, is soon steaming La Centre-ward "with a gray plume trailing fleecy and pale" in its wake. It is a glorious day; soft, hazy clouds hang on the western horizon, while a canopy of heavens' own blue spread overhead seems mirrored in the sun-kissed waters below; out on the bosom of the broad Columbia the steamer makes its way, stopping here and there, to put off or take on passengers and freight. 

The captain and purser in one, floats round to our side for fares, and by the beaming smile and kindly word we know he is still the "son of his old self." Dinner is announced and we are borne along by the crowd almost without volition of our own into the small neatly-kept dining saloon, where, wedged in between some Lewis river celebrities, and attended by a jewel of a waiter, we dispose of a suppositional two-bits worth of Latona fare and listen in unmoved calm to an animated discussion of Lewis river products, people, and perfections.

With dinner over, we wend our way toward the bow of the boat where we find seats and agreeable companionship. We all mutually agreed that the weather is warm and the dining saloon's soup was extraordinary. We then remarked on the way in which the boat winds its onward course perfectly charming, like a "stout" individual manipulating the keys of an accordion who might play something more modern. We commented on the Lake river scenery; criticized St. Helen's architecture; and assented to the proposition to "go below just to break the monotony of the journey." To do so, we find boxes and bales, a little of this, more of that, and most of the other.

Here we discover a change of employees and see Mr. Crawford meditatively seated on baling rope. As we make our way to the end of the boat, we are received courteously by the benevolent engineer, who dispenses morning papers, information concerning the machinery, and rhubarb, pulled from a basket sitting near, our little party. Returning to the upper regions as we are nearing a house with a wharf attached called Pekin; and after a short pause we are under way again. We pass the mouth of the north fork of the Lewis river, and are soon fairly in the east fork, and after a few short miles, it stops again.

This time we get off and foot our way home.