Tomahawk Day x Day - Old Outboard Motors: 1925 - Part 1 Continued - Across the Continent by Motor Boat (with Evinrude Big Twins)

On up the Columbia from a few miles above Vancouver to Waushougal, Washington, the going was just a twenty mile battle against white water; up and around, or over, salmon wheels, or scooting through eddies in dangerous proximity with the shore.

Nevertheless, we ended that days cruising at Waushougal, the first day out of Portland with a total of 42 miles put behind us - and of which 28 miles had been accomplished up the raging Columbia.

Leaving Waushougal early the next morning we began the ascent of the great canyon where the Columbia breaks through the Cascade Mountain range. From scenic viewpoint this portion of the river is one of the most exquisite things on the face of the earth, but for us, with the water now at the 38 foot flood stage, and confined between rock, precipitous walls, the word DEFEAT seemed to be written all over the landscape. All along the Columbia from Astoria to the foot of the Cascade Range we'd been told of the terrors of Cape Horn.

Everybody with whom we talked had told what a terrible place Cape Horn was - a high bluff on the Washington side of the stream at the edge of the Cascade Range, with the river boiling down around it, and where we could almost certainly anticipate disaster.

We recalled that Cape Horn at the tip of South America was notorious as a graveyard for water craft - and we were assured by the crepe hangers that Cape Horn on the Columbia was a befitting namesake for the one on the island of Tierra del Fuego.

So we left Waushougal that morning with all manner of apprehensions over the fact that the dreaded Cape Horn was just ten miles upstream around a bend in the river.

We bucked several miles of terrific water after leaving Washougal, and the inaugurated a new principal in Columbia River Navigation. Although the Columbia along this portion is confined between rock cliffs, there is a little bottom land on both sides of the stream during low water. This bottom land, of course, had been obliterated by the high water. Only a few tree tops sticking out here and there where the bottom lands really were.

They were bottom lands in the true sense of the term - being in the bottom of the river. We began running through the lands, finding water which was virtually an elongated swamp, but practically free of current. In navigating through these areas and keeping on a general course upstream we got lost several times, hung up in a fish net once, and stalled on two barbed wire fences. Another time we traveled for about four miles up a lovely piece of swamp land expecting expecting to find a hole out into the river again, but only to find ourselves in a blind bay, from which we had to retrace the route we had followed in. Cruising through the woods in an effort to find the river, we passed through a submerged farm, rescued a half starved tom cat from the protruding roof of a barn, and finally came out on the river at that foot of Cape Horn.

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Had we contemplated Cape Horn for a thrill, we'd have been doomed to disappointment, for it was a tame place compared with the descriptions we'd heard of it. All it really amounted to was a ragged promontory of almost perpendicular, reddish, volcanic rock, with the broad Columbia sweeping around it. The current looked formidable, but with steering boldly into it, we were delighted to find we had nearly a quarter of a mile per hour of headway left against the current. Thus, getting around Cape Horn proved a matter of merely cruising for an hour and a half.

There were moments when we scarcely moved at all, but inch by inch we gained ground until the infamous Capo de Hornos finally slid astern. All this time Lewis and Clark had been doing their work at exactly one hundred percent efficiency. Had one or both motors failed all the upstream gains made in one and a half hours would have been lost in about two minutes.

After battling up the river for a few miles we came to the foot of the Garrison Rapids, went ashore, and surveyed the entire torrent for the two and a half to three odd miles of its length. Salmon wheels appeared to be the worst factor we had to attend with. There was a fine line of eddies along the Oregon shore half way up the rapids. If we followed that line of backwash to the top, it seemed we should be able to swing back to the Washington side without losing sufficient ground to bring us in below an impassable wheel and weir that jutted out on that shore half way up.

If this plan worked out in practice as in theory, we'd be able to catch another line of eddies that would be able to take us up the rapids, and to the foot of the more formidable Cascade Rapids above. The only way to determine the success of the plan was to try it. Forthwith, we shoved off and gave Lewis and Clark the full throttle and headed across the river at an angle of about 60 degrees.
We were swept downstream by the current, but managed to drop into the tail of the eddies on the Oregon side. Then we began going upstream. Although we were tossed about, and dangerously near the rocky shore sometimes, by the swirling currents of the eddies; we gained the top of the line. Here the full force of the rapids shot out from the end of a rocky point as a six foot wall of water resembling the jet from the nozzle of a monstrous fire hose.
We regarded this torrent cautiously, put on our life preservers, and then swung out of the eddies.

In spite of the fact we did not swing over into the main current until we dropped down the eddies to a point where the main force of the jet around the point was somewhat spent, it felt as if we had bumped into a stone wall when the current caught the bow of the Transcontinental. We recovered from this first slap, got headed across the river at an angle of 45 degrees, and with the boat dancing like a cork in the seething white water, sped for the Washington shore. We moved crawfish fashion at least a half mile down the river in making the crossing, but managed to squeak into the eddies on the Washington with a margin of ten feet downstream yet to spare. Had we missed the eddies we'd have been in a fine kettle of fish - for immediately below was a semi-submerged salmon wheel and weir clogged with all manner of logs and debris, with the current going over and around it like a mill race. Losing our power at that instant would have precipitated disaster for no power under heaven could have kept us out of the salmon wheel in event of such a mishap. Moreover, going into the salmon wheel would have been the end of Transcontinental and probably her crew.

Running the eddies to the top of the rapid was then comparatively easy. We gained the top aided by the backlash of the current along the shore, and then had about a mile of fairly easy going to the foot of the Cascade Rapids. The Cascades are genuine Honest to Agnes rapids. Here the Columbia drops down a rock-bound canyon 27 feet perpendicularly in a distance of three miles. In Portland I had talked with several men who claimed to have shot the Cascades in canoes or other types of watercraft, but at Bonneville, Oregon, and several other points near the rapids, I also talked with old residents who emphatically assured me that no human ever went down the Cascades - and lived to tell about it. Moreover, with 38 feet of flood water thundering down the canyon the rapids looked like a fine place for some dejected mortal contemplating suicide.

We arrived at the foot of the rapids opposite Bonneville, Oregon about five o'clock in the afternoon - too late in the day to attempt anything other than a survey of the torrent that day. We therefore crossed the river and tied up in the backwater estuary of Bonneville Creek, and pitched camp on the property of the Oregon State Fish Hatchery - after obtaining permission of the hatchery superintendent. The following day being Sunday, we decided to spend the day studying the rapids and endeavoring to outline some plan by which we might get the boat up the two and a half miles torrent to Cascade Locks.

Several years ago the Federal Government attempted to open the Columbia to commercial navigation by building locks at Celilo Falls. Millions were spent on the project that was supposed to have been completed just prior to America's entry into the World War. But, to the present day steamboats on the Columbia above Vancouver are as exactly as numerous as three-toed pterydactyls in the New York Zoo. The present canals lack much of carrying shipping around the natural obstructions to navigation, and until the canals are extended to really accomplish the desired results shippers of the Columbia River Valley might as well cry for the moon as for steamboats to carry their commerce on the river.

Cascade Rapids

We talked with the lock keeper at Cascade Locks, who has done little of anything but hold his job since the locks were built. He told us he'd be on hand to lock us through if we could ever get up to the first lock but he didn't think there was burglars chance of our making it unless we were willing to wait for the spring freshet to pass. He also assured us there was probably no boat on the river capable of ascending the lower rapids to enter the locks. We would also encounter the same identical condition on up the river at Celilo.

Early next morning we decided to attempt the rapids - not under our own power, but in tow of the most powerful tug boat on that section of the river. Attempting to ascend the rapids under our own power would not only have been useless, but utterly foolhardy. In Bonneville we fell in with a young Finn by the name of Alfred Westlund, who was employed as a boatman by a local cannery company. His job was to collect the fish from the various fish wheels along that section of the river, and he had a boat built and powered for that special duty in foaming white water. He thought he could pull us up the rapids to the locks, and was willing to try it.

Cascade Rapids

Transcontinental was rigged with ropes to form almost a net around her, and then the cockpit cover was battened down after the boat had been stripped of motors and every ounce that was removable. When everything was ready we shoved out of Bonneville Creek with Transcontinental in tow, and all hands aboard the tug attired in life preservers. The way we started out looked mighty encouraging. The tug was built to climb white water like a salmon. She sailed off up the rapids almost like she'd been navigating in still water. But, there was faster water ahead, and we soon got nice into it. We encountered places where the river was merely a series of aquatic terraces of foaming spray. The powerful tug began jumping and plunging until it was extremely difficult even to remain on her after deck. There were times when she climbed green columns of water precisely as I have seen salmon and trout do in going up a waterfall.

Meanwhile Transcontinental was almost out of sight in the spray at times, and the tow line that held her was as tight as a fiddle string. For one hour the tug thrashed the water - gaining upstream inch by inch. She got to within a half mile of the locks. We could see the lock gates, but by that time the scenery along the banks had ceased to move, then began slipping back. Never in all my boating experience have I seen such masterly handling of a craft as that young Finn displayed. He tried one side of the river and then the other, but could make no progress whatever. Several times we made slight gains but only to be washed back again.

Finally the boatman shook his head - "It can't be done." he exclaimed. With that he shoved the wheel hard over, and we spun around like a pin wheel. The current struck us a resounding smack to the starboard side. Water rushed over the deck of the tug. We got headed downstream, slid down a terrifying chute of white water, and plunged into an eddy with the pilot obviously having lost steering control of the craft. In less time it takes to tell it the tug was lifted on a comber and crashed broadside against the perpendicular rock cliff of the Washington shore. Rocks rained down upon our decks, and for a breathless split second the tug quivered like a winged bird. Then she got back into the stream and we began going down the rapids like an express train making up a belated schedule.

The young Finn stood at the wheel with his jaw set as if he were trying to bite a piece of sole leather in two. He was about the color of a polar bear, and spoke not a word until we reached the foot of the rapid. When we finally swung into a landing at Bonneville Creek, he said:
"Well boys, I'm sorry we couldn't make it, but I'm glad to be back here safely. I can't swim a stroke." "What would happen to you if you ever got overboard, or lost your boat?" asked Mr. Wilton.
"I'd drown," laconically replied the boatman, - "Just the same as you'd do regardless of how good a swimmer you may be."

Cascade rapids had baffled us completely, and further progress up the Columbia was impossible. The only alternative was to make a minor portage - a portage of three miles, which would bring us into the river above the rapids. Forthwith, we went to the Bonneville Garage and recruited a couple men with a motor truck. Then, bringing the truck alongside a low mud bank in Bonneville Creek we ran a line from the boat to the truck and hauled the craft out of the water with the power of the land vehicle. An hour later we backed the truck to the water's edge above the rapids, skidded the boat off into the river, and began installing motors and stowing gear preparatory to getting under way again. By the time we were ready to get under way the entire forenoon was gone. Although we found fairly placid water above the rapids it still continued to exert a tremendous push downstream which left us very little headway after we had overcome the current.

Nevertheless, we made twenty-five miles up the river that afternoon, through some of the most beautiful scenery of the entire Columbia River Valley, and arrived in front of Hood River, Oregon, a little before sundown. Due to the tremendous stage of the river we had some difficulty in finding the celebrated apple town. The city is built on a piece of slightly elevated ground back of a great flood plain along the south shore of the Columbia. This flood plain was entirely submerged except for the treetops protruding out. No portion of the city is visible from the surface of the river.

We fumbled around around over the treetops of the bottomland until we found an open water lagoon that appeared to be the estuary of the Hood River. Ascending it, we found a boat load of Celilo Indian fishermen, who in broken English informed us that we were in Hood River alright, and all we had to do was to go on for a mile or so to the town. But, to save our souls we couldn't tell Hood River from the rest of the flooded region. We got lost twice, blundered around over the treetops for a mile or more, and finally drew up at the foot of a cinder path directly in front of the railroad station.

Do you believe I found this photo!?

It was our misfortune to arrive at Hood River at a time far removed from the apple harvest. For, it should be mentioned here that the Hood River Valley, of which the town of Hood River is the business center; is to apples what Fresno is to raisins, Bethlehem to steel, or Akron to rubber. Better apples never grew on trees. If Adam and Eve had lived in the Hood River Valley instead of the Garden of Eden the story of their temptation would be easier to understand. Hood River is also the home of Billy Sunday, the famous evangelist. He gave the valley a lot of valuable publicity by settling down there to grow the infamous fruit which the Book of Genesis tells us is responsible for the downfall of mankind.

Although we got an early start out of Hood River next morning we encountered such a terrific current in the rock-walled canyon of the Columbia between there and The Dalles that our progress upstream was often a matter of inches per minute. We worked the eddies along the shores as best we could, but this section of the river is quite tortuous. Thus, the lines of eddies were usually short, and our crossings from one side of the river to the other in search of eddies - extremely numerous. Every time we crossed the river we were swept downstream. Then, to make things worse a strong wind began blowing up the river about nine o'clock in the morning which seemed bent upon rolling the current back to where it came from. We pulled into The Dalles at noon, drenched to the skin by flying spray, cold and hungry. Celilo Rapids, Celilo Falls, and the non-functioning Celilo Canal were just above us.

The newspaper reporters found us almost as soon as we got tied up at the local ferry landing. The story of our arrival at The Dalles went on the press wires, and we learned later our families at home heard of us through the papers before our telegrams filed at the same time were delivered. The newspaper men were greatly interested in seeing us go up Celilo Rapids and Celilo Falls - but, they were doomed to disappointment. They furnished us an automobile to go out and study the rapids- to say nothing of the falls, which were completely obliterated by the high water, convinced us that our chances for getting up were about the same as those for the proverbial wax cat in Hades. If we could ever reach the entrance of the Celilo Canal we could make it - but, there was the rub. With a flood of water running for nearly two miles below the canal entrance at a speed of something like twenty-five miles per hour our little packet with a speed of about eight knots was a forlorn hope. Moreover, in a river which was running like a mill race through the canyon with a perpendicular rock walls all thought of lining the boat up the shore was out of the question.

Just below the entrance to the Celilo Canal there was a salmon cannery in operation. They had a tug, used for visiting the various fish wheels, which had a speed of about 22 knots. I spoke with the cannery superintendent, and he assured us that if we could get our boat up above the second rapid he'd see that we got a tow into the canal. he assured us, however, that if the tug were sent down the rapids to get us, it would be unable to return to that section of river until the high water passed. That, he declared, would be the equivalent to closing the cannery for a period of six weeks. It would throw a hundred people out of work.

Above the Celilo Canal we faced the John Day Rapids, the Umatilla Rapids, and then a string of various and sundry rapids - so numerous that on the Government charts they ran short of names, and gave the rapids numbers.

In spite of the discouraging outlook we decided to make one desperate effort to get into the Celilo Canal. We shoved off from The Dalles, and after a two hour battle succeeded in getting up through the first rapid. In the second rapid we encountered precisely the the condition we'd anticipated namely water that was flowing downstream at about three times our best speed in still water. We were making fair progress upstream until we passed out of the last line of eddies. Then we began going downstream at something like 16 miles per hour
with Lewis and Clark doing all they had upstream. There was no alternative but to swing around and go with the current. In less time it takes to tell about it, we were wallowing over tremendous swells and going downstream at terrific speed. I have no means of telling how fast we were traveling, but I do know we ran ahead of speeding motor cars that were traveling along the Columbia River Highway in the direction of The Dalles.

While we might have portaged around the Celilo Rapids and Celilo Falls, such a portage would have brought us face to face with new difficulties a few miles further up the river. If we waited six weeks for the flood to pass we might reasonably expect to get on up the remaining portion of the Columbia, into the Snake River, and on up to Lewiston, Idaho, which we had contemplated as the point from which to begin our portage over the continental divide.

But, there are only a certain number of weeks in a temperate zone summer. We still had more than 5000 miles of aquatic traveling to do east of the continental divide. If we waited for the flood to pass we could expect to run into some disastrous fall wether in the Great Lakes, and even frozen waters before we could hope to reach New York. The entire success of our attempt to cross the continent by water therefore seemed to hinge upon the advisability of lengthening our portage over the continental divide. If we kept on battling up the Columbia we'd spend the major portion of the summer making pitiful mileage. That would cause us to miss high water in the upper Mississippi River - a thing as disastrous as getting wrecked in the Columbia would have been.

The only logical thing to do seemed to lengthen the portage. This we did by dropping back to The Dalles from Celilo in order to get a shipping point on a railroad division. The arrangements for the portage were quickly made at The Dalles. Officials of the Oregon-Washington Railroad were more than willing to cooperate with us. They got us a special box car for the boat and equipment and agreed to spot it straight through to Fort Benton, Montana, as a manifest shipment. We then trucked the motors and all the equipment to Ernie Thompson's Garage were it was boxed for shipment. The boat was dragged out of the water, trucked to the freight house, and stowed in the boxcar on specially built cradles turned out by the kindly garage man.

Oregon-Washington Railroad freight house

That evening we crossed the Columbia on the ferry to Grand Dalles, Washington, and boarded a train to Fort Benton. All the nightmares, scenic beauty, and battling up the Columbia were just memories of the past. Our next boating would be a downhill slide of 2280 miles in the Missouri.

1910-ish?

June 13th found us in the little town of Fort Benton, Montana, with Transcontinental tied up on the shore of the swift Missouri. It is doubtful if anything since the last buffalo stampede had stirred up more interest and excitement.