rapids, we find that at the left the heights recede and inclose a strip of level, sandy land, in the midst of which stands a solitary mountain (of basalt) called Castle Rock, about fourteen hundred feet in altitude. How it came there, is the question which the beholder first asks himself, but which, so far, has never been satisfactorily answered.
A mile or two beyond Castle Rock, situated on this bit of warm, sandy bottom-land, is the little mountain hamlet known as the Lower Cascades. Why it is that one name is made to serve for so many objects, in the same locality, must ever puzzle the tourist in Oregon. At the Cascades the tautology threatens to overwhelm us in perplexity. Not only is it the Cascade Range, which the cascades of the river cut in twain, but there are no less than three points on the north side, within a distance of six miles, known as the Lower, Middle, and Upper Cascades. Pretty as the name is, we weary of it when it is continually in our mouth.
It is a pretty spot, too, this Lower Cascades, surrounded by majestic mountains, and bordered by a foaming river; charmingly nestled in thickets of blossoming shrubbery, and can regale its guests on strawberries and mountain-trout. Here the Oregon Steam Navigation Company have a wharf and warehouse; and here we take our seats in the cars which transfer us to the Upper Cascades, and another steamer. We find the change agreeable, as a change, and enjoy intensely the glimpses of the rapids we are passing, and the wonderful luxuriance of vegetation on every side, coupled with the grandeur of the towering mountains.
At the Middle Cascades is a block-house, reminding us of the Indian war of 1855–6, and another one at the Upper Cascades. It is rare now to see an Indian
