Almost All The Industry Of The Island Is Employed Upon Lumber
And Coal, In Which, So Far As Known, Its Chief Wealth Lies.
Leaving Victoria for Port Townsend, after we are fairly out on the
free open water, Mount Baker is seen rising solitary over a dark
breadth of forest, making a glorious show in its pure white raiment.
It is said to be about eleven thousand feet high, is loaded with
glaciers, some of which come well down into the woods, and never, so
far as I have heard, has been climbed, though in all probability it is
not inaccessible. The task of reaching its base through the dense
woods will be likely to prove of greater difficulty than the climb to
the summit.
In a direction a little to the left of Mount Baker and much nearer,
may be seen the island of San Juan, famous in the young history of the
country for the quarrels concerning its rightful ownership between the
Hudson's Bay Company and Washington Territory, quarrels which nearly
brought on war with Great Britain. Neither party showed any lack of
either pluck or gunpowder. General Scott was sent out by President
Buchanan to negotiate, which resulted in a joint occupancy of the
island. Small quarrels, however, continued to arise until the year
1874, when the peppery question was submitted to the Emperor of
Germany for arbitration. Then the whole island was given to the
United States.
San Juan is one of a thickset cluster of islands that fills the waters
between Vancouver and the mainland, a little to the north of Victoria.
In some of the intricate channels between these islands the tides run
at times like impetuous rushing rivers, rendering navigation rather
uncertain and dangerous for the small sailing vessels that ply between
Victoria and the settlements on the coast of British Columbia and the
larger islands. The water is generally deep enough everywhere, too
deep in most places for anchorage, and, the winds shifting hither and
thither or dying away altogether, the ships, getting no direction from
their helms, are carried back and forth or are caught in some eddy
where two currents meet and whirled round and round to the dismay of
the sailors, like a chip in a river whirlpool.
All the way over to Port Townsend the Olympic Mountains well maintain
their massive, imposing grandeur, and present their elaborately carved
summits in clear relief, many of which are out of sight in coming up
the strait on account of our being too near the base of the range.
Turn to them as often as we may, our admiration only grows the warmer
the longer we dwell upon them. The highest peaks are Mount Constance
and Mount Olympus, said to be about eight thousand feet high.
In two or three hours after leaving Victoria, we arrive at the
handsome little town of Port Townsend, situated at the mouth of Puget
Sound, on the west side. The residential portion of the town is set
on the level top of the bluff that bounds Port Townsend Bay, while
another nearly level space of moderate extent, reaching from the base
of the bluff to the shoreline, is occupied by the business portion,
thus making a town of two separate and distinct stories, which are
connected by long, ladder-like flights of stairs. In the streets of
the lower story, while there is no lack of animation, there is but
little business noise as compared with the amount of business
transacted. This in great part is due to the scarcity of horses and
wagons. Farms and roads back in the woods are few and far between.
Nearly all the tributary settlements are on the coast, and
communication is almost wholly by boats, canoes, and schooners. Hence
country stages and farmers' wagons and buggies, with the whir and din
that belong to them, are wanting.
This being the port of entry, all vessels have to stop here, and they
make a lively show about the wharves and in the bay. The winds stir
the flags of every civilized nation, while the Indians in their long-beaked canoes glide about from ship to ship, satisfying their
curiosity or trading with the crews. Keen traders these Indians are,
and few indeed of the sailors or merchants from any country ever get
the better of them in bargains. Curious groups of people may often be
seen in the streets and stores, made up of English, French, Spanish,
Portuguese, Scandinavians, Germans, Greeks, Moors, Japanese, and
Chinese, of every rank and station and style of dress and behavior;
settlers from many a nook and bay and island up and down the coast;
hunters from the wilderness; tourists on their way home by the Sound
and the Columbia River or to Alaska or California.
The upper story of Port Townsend is charmingly located, wide bright
waters on one side, flowing evergreen woods on the other. The streets
are well laid out and well tended, and the houses, with their
luxuriant gardens about them, have an air of taste and refinement
seldom found in towns set on the edge of a wild forest. The people
seem to have come here to make true homes, attracted by the beauty and
fresh breezy healthfulness of the place as well as by business
advantages, trusting to natural growth and advancement instead of
restless "booming" methods. They perhaps have caught some of the
spirit of calm moderation and enjoyment from their English neighbors
across the water. Of late, however, this sober tranquillity has begun
to give way, some whiffs from the whirlwind of real estate speculation
up the Sound having at length touched the town and ruffled the surface
of its calmness.
A few miles up the bay is Fort Townsend, which makes a pretty picture
with the green woods rising back of it and the calm water in front.
Across the mouth of the Sound lies the long, narrow Whidbey Island,
named by Vancouver for one of his lieutenants.
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