THE NEW YORK FUBLIC LIBRARY

No.

195

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

A

LAKE

LTHOUGH our Great West became known in its general features many years ago, its special scenic attractions have to be rediscovered from time to time to make them familiar to the country at large. And it is quite a remarkable fact that some of the most extraordinary of all Nature's achievements in our New West are not generally known to the traveling public. A few great names, as the Yellowstone, the Columbia River, the Yosemite, Mount Tacoma, and Alaska, have been re

peated so much that people in the East think that these exhaust the list.

Most notable among these neglected wonders, is Lake Chelan. "Where is it?" is the first question. In the central part of the State of Washington. "What is it?" is the next. It is a lake of glacial water, seventy miles long, from one to three miles wide, and in many places a thousand or twelve hundred feet deep. It occupies the center of a basin trenched out of the very heart of the Cascade Mountains

by some stupendous glacier in the glacial epoch. The entire basin is over a hundred miles long, probably twenty-five in greatest width, and at the upper part about six thousand feet deep. Outside of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, there is no such gouge" in the face of the earth on the five continents. Reference to a map will aid the reader in forming a distinct impression of the character, as well as the location, of this marvel of Nature's workmanship.

The best route to Lake Chelan is via the Great Northern Railroad to Wenatchee, on the Columbia River, and thence by steamboat up that "Achilles of Rivers" to Chelan Falls. Thence to the lake is only five miles, and this distance is pleasantly covered by stage in a very short time.

If the tourist be willing to accept a seat with the author in a light spring-wagon, drawn by a span of mules across the vast plateau of the Columbia, up higher and higher across the plain of waving bunchgrass, until he reaches the highlands beyond the Grand Coulée, he will discern, clear-cut, white and blue, against the azure sky, a hundred miles away, a chain of snowy peaks, bold and serrated even in the far distance. Those peaks are the cradle of the lake. As the traveler with the mule-team reaches the Columbia, he looks down, awe-struck, at the swift and savage grandeur of the river, two thousand feet below.

We cross the swirling stream on a cable ferry which twists and quivers in the grip of the waters, but which safely lands us on the western shore. And here we see the deep blue though foam-flecked waters of a river which comes roaring into the greater stream. This is the Chelan River, the outlet of the lake. It is a cataract throughout its brief course of five miles, having a fall of three hundred and fifty feet.

Across the rough belt of hill-slope between the Columbia and the lake, and suddenly, over a shoulder of grassy hill, we discern our goal. Like all remarkable works of nature or art, this has that characteristic look of a serene eternity, as though it had been waiting there for our coming from the beginning of time, and would continue to wait in like manner for

ever for those who should come after. Soft, sinuous lines of gentler slopes rise in the purpling distance to bolder heights of azure, and these in turn break in long waves against the eternal frost of the Glacier Peaks, Castle Mount, and their wintry brotherhood. Lapping lazily against its jutting barriers, lies a long stretch of shimmering water, so clear, so blue, so bright, caressed by sun and wind, that the eyes almost droop and the head almost nods even in the moment of eager expectancy, at the hypnotic, dream-impelling charm.

This first glance, with its witchery of soothing airs and fragrance of balm-tree, and its woven tapestries of light and shade, gives little hint of the fierce energies of the cradled prisoner when lashed by some storm let loose on the glacial heights above. Within an hour, as we shall discover if we ply the lake for long, the soft smile may become the austerest frown, and the steep banks whitened with the foam of the lake's surging. Then the only safety for the oarsman is to turn his prow with all speed to some one of the not frequent little harbors which break the granite margin.

There are two little towns, Chelan and Lakeside, at the mouth of the lake, where refreshment for man and beast may be obtained in abundance, of excellent quality, and at moderate price. At these places also may be hired small boats, and here are the headquarters of the two little steamboats that carry mails and passengers up and down the lake. As usually the case among boating people in the Far West, where the sycophancy and tipping customs of old resorts have obtained no lodgment, these steamboat folk are intelligent, independent, and obliging, quick to resent patronage, and equally quick to do favors for any one relying on them.

The common way to "do" the lake is to go by steamer about forty miles up and then cast off in small boats, which thenceforward will be equipage, storehouse, and chief companion for the tourist. As we leave the little landing at Lakeside, we cannot fail to note the clearness of the water, through which the white sand of the bottom seems like drifted snow. With increasing depth it shades into the purest