By Frederick S. Oliver, Amanuensis
By Frederick S. Oliver, Recorder
I
I
If there are "sermons in stones and books in the running brooks," then is "Tchastel's" craggy pile a noble library in veritas. In it the vastness, the grandeur and the solemnity of, nature are expressed in mystic numbers carved in the eternal granite. On those stony, stratified pages Nature's students may read the doings of the gnomes, Mother Earth's treasurers. Here, too, in characters of lava, is writ Pluto's kingly record. Aye! 'tis indeed Nature's own volume, bound between covers of snow and ice; and marking the treasures thereof is a silvery ribbon whose ends hang out of the vast tome, at the north one end, at the south the other, the name of the one "McCloud" river, and of the other the "Sacramento." Again, two lesser markers are in this sublime epic, viz.: "Pitt" and 'Shasta" rivers. A volume of poems should bear poetic title; so shall this. Can we bestow one more appropriate than the aboriginal appellation, "Ieka," a name retained and used by the earliest white mer whose eyes gazed on that land, far northern California, land of romance, of gold and of adventure; retained through that intuitive recognition of eternal fitness which pioneer and trapper have ever, in all lands, exhibited toward existent nomenclature. For years the noble mountain bore, for white as for aborigine, the name it had fetched from out the night of time, as its sister peak far to the north, Mt. Rainier, retained its primal christening of "Tacoma." But, alas, for human conceit! Alas, for man's vain discontent, unable to let well enough alone! To the one snowy mount came a Russian trapper, and thereafter "Ieka" was no more on the tongues of men, unless, indeed, it was still lovingly murmured by the dusky Modoc and his savage bride. To the other glittering peak went an egotistic Englishman. His lordship found "Tacoma" so beastly savage, "doncher know," and so over its Indian appellate he tacked his own patronymic. Time evens all things and "ever is justice done." The patriotic Americanism of the Northern Pacific Railroad topographers reinstated on the company maps musical "Tacoma," tossed to rubbish the imported name, and rebuked one egotist's vanity. That "Shasta Buttes" will ever know a parallel experience is problematical; if not, 'tis perhaps as well, for American gratitude willingly concedes the privilege of nomination of this proud peak to its friend, and, in the '60s, champion of our national autonomy -------- Russia. So much for a kind of mental view, past and present, of this pride of the crags and peaks.
If stones and streams hold wisdom, then "Tchastel's" rugged mountain is truly a grand library. Its vast, majestic, and solemn nature is expressed in mysterious numbers carved into eternal granite. On these rocky, layered pages, students of nature can read about the work of Earth's hidden treasurers. Here too, in characters of lava, Pluto's royal history is written. Indeed, it's Nature's own book, bound in snow and ice, with a silver ribbon marking its treasures—the McCloud River at one end and the Sacramento at the other. Two smaller markers in this epic are the Pitt and Shasta rivers. A book of poems deserves a poetic title, so let's use the original Native American name, "Ieka." Early white settlers in far northern California—a land of romance, gold, and adventure—kept this name, recognizing its timeless appropriateness as pioneers and trappers often do with existing names. For years, this noble mountain kept its ancient name for both natives and newcomers, just as its northern sister, Mt. Rainier, kept its original name "Tacoma." But human vanity intervened. A Russian trapper came to one snowy peak, and "Ieka" faded from use, except perhaps among the Modoc people. An arrogant Englishman visited the other glittering peak, found "Tacoma" too savage-sounding, and slapped his own name on it. Yet time brings justice: The Northern Pacific Railroad's patriotic mapmakers restored "Tacoma" to their maps, discarding the imported name and rebuking one man's ego. Whether "Shasta Buttes" will ever experience a similar change is uncertain. If not, it's probably fine, as Americans are grateful to Russia, their 1860s ally in preserving national autonomy, and willingly grant them the honor of naming this proud peak. So concludes this mental survey, past and present, of this craggy, towering wonder.
II
2
On the old wagon road which existed ere ever iron rails linked Oregon's greatest city to the metropolis of the Golden West, there still stands, as for thirty years, not many miles from the State line, a station established for stage line uses, and "run" by "Daddy Dollarhyde." A lonely place, hidden amongst towering pines, which make regal raiment for the great "Siskiyou Ridge" of the Coast Range extending in gloomy grandeur not miles, but hundreds of miles, Dollarhyde's appeals to the heart of the traveler' as Saharan oasis, to the weary caravan. "'Tis a lodge in some vast wilderness," and in the days of this second "Shasta Scene" (A. D. 1884) was the only footprint of civilization for many a long mile.
On the old wagon road that existed before railroad tracks connected Oregon's largest city to San Francisco, there still stands, as it has for thirty years, a station not far from the state line. Established for stagecoach use and run by "Daddy Dollarhyde," this lonely place is hidden among towering pines that clothe the great "Siskiyou Ridge" of the Coast Range. The ridge extends in gloomy grandeur for hundreds of miles. Dollarhyde's appeals to weary travelers like an oasis in the Sahara. It's "a lodge in some vast wilderness," and in 1884, when this story takes place, it was the only sign of civilization for miles around.
Leaving Dollarhyde's, the road wound as directly as possible up a two-mile stretch of exceedingly steep mountain. Up this steep, long before aught but hinted dawn lit those grand ridges, a youth, on foot and alone, was climbing. A tramp? Temporarily; down below, at Dollarhyde's, the rest of his party yet slept. Up, up he toiled, stopping when the love of nature prompted him to "bold communion with her visible forms," and listen to her "various language"; pausing, the better to enjoy the exhilarating freedom, the beauty of the piny slopes, the whirr of the early grouse, and the chattering of squirrel and chipmunk. Once, enchanted by the exquisite charm of a crystal spring that leapt into and across the road, he stayed his step; and again, he stood gazing afar down into the gloom of a great canyon, which became lost to view "in the dawn's early light." The summit at last! But still no sun in the sky. All beneath was yet quietly resting 'neath the sway of Morpheus. Ah! what is that? Away in the south is a huge, dim mass, dull gray below, but, where its peak holds aloft the sky, 'tis rosy, glowing pink. As the youth gazes, spellbound, Old Sol dispels the valley glooms, thrusts aside the night, and the new day is born. The rose tints are gone, but also the gray, and in their place appears a giant, pointed cone of purest white, albeit streaked at its base with black lines, each some awful gorge. It rises not like other mountain piles, from ranges rivalling its own height; no, all alone it stands forth from its high plateau, piercing heaven's blue, from base to summit, eleven thousand feet, from ocean's plane to apical peak thirty-five hundred more--Shasta, O, Mt. Shasta.
Leaving Dollarhyde's, the road wound steeply up the mountain for two miles. Long before dawn, a young man climbed this path alone on foot. A vagrant? No, just temporarily separated from his sleeping companions below. He ascended steadily, pausing to commune with nature and appreciate its beauty. The youth savored the freedom of the pine-covered slopes, the whirring grouse, and the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks. A crystal spring leaping across the road captivated him, and he stopped to gaze into a vast canyon fading in the early light. Finally reaching the summit, he found the sun had not yet risen. The world below still slumbered. Suddenly, he spotted a massive shape to the south: dull gray at its base, but pink where its peak touched the sky. As he watched, transfixed, the sun dispelled the valley's gloom, ushering in a new day. The rosy tints vanished, revealing a giant, white cone streaked with black gorges at its base. Unlike other mountains, it stood alone on its high plateau, piercing the blue sky. From sea level to its apex, it rose 14,500 feet—Mount Shasta in all its glory.
III
3
Of the youth, what? A year later we find him suffering a violent fever, the "gold-fever," which yet lingers in that region of once famed mines; lingers, though it be now A. D. 1890. Away up on a mountain's side with pick, pan and shovel he has camped where a little gold may always be found; where hope whispers he may find a "pile" some time and--fortune.
A year later, we discover the young man gripped by a fierce obsession—the "gold fever"—which still persists in that area of once-famous mines, even now in 1890. He's set up camp high on a mountainside, armed with pick, pan, and shovel, in a spot where small amounts of gold can always be found. There, hope whispers that he might someday strike it rich and find his fortune.
All through that region forest fires have raged many weeks; all the valleys lie hidden under a pile of smoke. But the miner on the mountain is above it all, and as he labors looks out over the undulating surface of the silvery, smoky. ocean, down below. He sees a strange sight. No waves disturb this sea, which, nearly a mile deep, extends away beyond scope of vision. Two or three islands dot its expanse; these are all that is left to see of lofty mountain peaks whose bases are hidden. Perchance the words "smoke-ocean" seem figurative. Look heavenward from its bottom down in the valleys; the sun, appearing like a globe of blood, needs no colored glass to shield too sensitive eyes. Now go aloft to the miner on the mountain, looking down on, but seeing not, Yreka (town). With him again gaze at the "islands"; one only of them is not black in hue. It is the largest; sharp-summited, white, shrouded in eternal snows, Mt. Shasta rises, a noble island in the murky ocean about it, nine thousand feet.
Throughout the region, forest fires have raged for weeks, shrouding all the valleys in a thick blanket of smoke. The miner on the mountain, however, stands above it all. As he works, he gazes out over the undulating surface of a silvery, smoky ocean below. It's an extraordinary sight. This sea, nearly a mile deep and stretching beyond the horizon, remains perfectly still. A few islands dot its expanse—the only visible parts of towering mountain peaks whose bases are hidden beneath the smoke. The term "smoke-ocean" may seem metaphorical, but it's not far from reality. From the valleys below, the sun appears as a blood-red orb, requiring no special glasses to shield sensitive eyes. Now, imagine joining the miner on the mountain, looking down towards the hidden town of Yreka. From this vantage point, most of the "islands" are dark silhouettes. But one stands out—the largest one. Sharp-summited and white, eternally snow-capped Mount Shasta rises majestically, a stunning island in the murky ocean surrounding it, towering 9,000 feet above.
IV
4
Night. Otherwise the same scene. Our miner sits in his tent door, meditating on the novel beauty of the scene before, below him. A north breeze has rolled the smoky sea silently away and left no sign. Beneath the tent outspreads a vast abyss, dark, silent, "the night's Plutonian shore." Our miner's fancy fills it with golden phantoms. Only the stars, "night's tall tapers," lighten the gloom. But far away east, over ranges of lesser mountains, dim shapes couched in the darkness, far away, miles real as well as seeming, familiar shadowy shape of vast, uncertain size appears to shut from sight vision of some awful conflagration. Look! It grows, it brightens, till on the charmed eyes bursts a sudden, intense spark, then a full flame in Ieka's side--'tis the moon at its roundest! And now Ieka's snows glow in its ray like molten silver, the dark abyss before, beneath the tent lightens, the phantoms flee, while over all, sublime, glorious, supreme, rises Shasta's argent image.
Night. The scene remains unchanged. The miner sits at his tent entrance, contemplating the striking beauty before him. A northern breeze has silently swept away the smoky haze, leaving no trace. Below the tent, a vast, dark, and silent abyss stretches out—a scene reminiscent of "the night's Plutonian shore." The miner's imagination populates this void with golden apparitions. Only the stars, like "night's tall tapers," pierce the darkness. In the far east, beyond ranges of smaller mountains, dim shapes lie in the darkness. Miles away, both in reality and perception, a familiar shadowy form of uncertain size seems to block the view of some tremendous blaze. Suddenly, it grows and brightens, until a spark bursts forth, followed by a full flame on Ieka's side—it's the full moon rising! Ieka's snows now gleam like molten silver in the moonlight. The dark chasm before the tent brightens, and the imagined phantoms vanish. Above it all, Shasta's silver silhouette rises, sublime, glorious, and dominant.
V
There are innumerable instances of children who have been raised by wild animals. These cases range from those that are well-documented to others that are merely legendary. Some of the most famous examples include children nurtured by wolves, bears, gazelles, and even panthers. While it's tempting to romanticize these situations, the reality is often harsh. These feral children typically struggle to adapt to human society later in life. They face significant challenges in learning language, walking upright, and developing social skills. One of the most renowned cases is that of Amala and Kamala, two girls allegedly discovered in 1920 living with wolves in Bengal, India. However, the authenticity of this story has been questioned by scholars. A more recent and better-documented example is that of John Ssebunya from Uganda. In 1991, he was found living with monkeys and is believed to have spent several years in their company. After his rescue, John managed to learn human language and behavior, though he still exhibited some monkey-like tendencies. These cases, while fascinating, raise complex questions about human nature, socialization, and the boundaries between humans and animals. They continue to captivate the public imagination and spark debates among scientists and anthropologists alike.
Traveling, southward, miner no more, the youth bends his course. A year agone the golden phantoms died, the mine caved in, and "no man knows that sepulcher" in the wilds of Siskiyou. Winter wet had extinguished the flames and laid the smoky sea. But the succeeding summer saw all aglow again, matched by the lightnings of heaven. Our traveler is at the very base of Ieka Butte, and he and his steed crawl along the slopes and vales in the bed of the fireborn ocean of smoke as do crustacea on the bottoms of aqueous seas. A flaw of wind decreases the denseness of the clouds, and above his head he sees an indistinct shape, lit feebly by the smoke-smothered moon, at its full now, as on that other night, a year ago. Beautiful through the murky air it is not; but when told that the point dimly seen overhead is the smoke-free, gleaming crest of Shasta, fifteen miles away as the crow flies, e'en though we gaze at it from its own base, we feel an indescribable sense of awe. And we liken the mount, with the flaming forests glowing at its feet and its own muffled form rising in obscured grandeur, to a silent sentinel by his watchfire, wrapped around with his cloak, and meditating on the trust he has kept, lo! these many ages, still keeps, and forever!
Traveling southward, no longer a miner, the young man charts his course. A year ago, the golden dreams faded, the mine collapsed, and its location was lost to the Siskiyou wilderness. Winter rains had doused the flames and cleared the smoky air. But the following summer, fires raged again, rivaling the lightning strikes above. Our traveler now stands at the foot of Ieka Butte, he and his horse inching along slopes and valleys through a sea of smoke, like crustaceans on the ocean floor. A gust of wind briefly thins the haze, revealing an indistinct shape above, dimly lit by the smoke-veiled full moon, just as it was a year ago. Though not beautiful in this murky air, we're told that the faint point overhead is Shasta's smoke-free, gleaming peak, fifteen miles away as the crow flies, even though we're at its base. This knowledge fills us with awe. We compare the mountain, with burning forests at its feet and its form rising in obscured majesty, to a silent sentinel by his watchfire, wrapped in his cloak, contemplating the vigil he has kept for countless ages, still keeps, and will forever maintain.
VI
6
Returned from the far south, and in camp. In camp at the timber line on Tchastel's side, awaiting the nightfall, and through the long afternoon gazing out over a wealth of scenery not in word power to paint. To the north "Goose Nest" mountain, its crater ever full of fleecy snow, rears itself aloft eleven thousand feet. Down yonder in that gemlike valley is the lovely town of Sissons; down, to our traveler, albeit on a plane seven thousand feet above the ocean. Night. But not in a tent door. No, on muleback, he and a companion are toiling upwards. There is no moon, no wind, no sound, save a few strange noises arising from the nether regions. No moon, yet plenty of light, since the snow seems self luminous, so that objects appear against it in sharp silhouette. How black the bleak rocks and ledges! And those glimmerings of light afar in the night, what are they? Lamps; lamps miles away, thousands of feet lower, yet in seeming not so far off. It is cold; oh, so frightfully cold, numbing the mind! And still-as the grave. No sounds now arise to the ear; 'tis too high for aught save silence. So cold; and yet midday sun heats reflect from the snows as from a mirror, and then the temperature if fearful to feel, yet the snow melts not. Here is a hot, sulphur spring, one-thousand feet below the apex. Warm your chilled hands in the hot mud, wipe them quickly, lest they freeze, and climb on. Your eyes, could you see them, congested as they are in the rarefied atmosphere, the color of liver, would horrify you. Your breathing pains you; your heartbeats sound like the thuds of a piledriver; your throat is afire from thirst. No matter; here is the top! Two o'clock a. m. in July, 188-. As yet no light, but faint dawn. But ere long the soul is awestricken by a weird glow in the cut, which lights nothing. The beholders are filled with a strange disquiet; see the waxing light, and--in a fearful wonder, almost terror---see the great sun, scarce heralded by the aerial rarity, spring from. beneath the horizon. Yet all below is in "the darkest hour before the dawn." No ridges, no hills appear, no valleys, nothing but "night's deep darkness." We seem to have lost the world, and, for the nonce, are free of time! The planet is swallowed up, leaving the mountain top's half acre sole visible spot of all the Universe, save only the fearful splendor of Helios. Understand now, for you may, the sensations of Campbell's "last man." The world all gone, and self and comrade alone on a small spot in midair, whereon the almost rayless sun casts cold beams of strange, weird brightness. Look north. Afar in the night axe four cones of light, Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, Mt. Tacoma, and St. Helen's tall torch, all peers of our Ieka. As the Day King soars higher lesser peaks appear, then long black ridges, ranges of vast extent, begin near by, only to lose themselves in distant darkness.
Back from the far south and camped at the tree line on Tchastel's slope, we await nightfall. The afternoon stretches on as we gaze at a breathtaking panorama that words can't do justice. To the north, "Goose Nest" mountain rises 11,000 feet, its crater eternally filled with soft snow. Below in a jewel-like valley lies the charming town of Sissons, which seems low to us despite being 7,000 feet above sea level. Night falls. We're not at our tent, but on muleback, climbing higher with a companion. There's no moon, no wind, no sound except for strange noises from below. The moonless night is still bright, the snow seeming to glow, creating sharp silhouettes. The rocks and ledges appear pitch black. Distant glimmers of light are lamps, miles away and thousands of feet below, yet they seem close. It's bitterly cold, numbing the mind. The silence is absolute, too high for any sound. Midday sun reflects off the snow like a mirror, creating unbearable heat, yet the snow doesn't melt. A hot sulfur spring appears 1,000 feet below the peak. We warm our frozen hands in the hot mud, wiping them quickly to prevent freezing, and continue climbing. Our eyes, if we could see them, would be horrifyingly congested and liver-colored from the thin air. Breathing is painful, heartbeats sound like pile drivers, and our throats burn with thirst. But we've reached the top! It's 2 a.m. in July 188-, with faint dawn approaching. Soon, a strange glow appears, illuminating nothing. We feel uneasy as the light grows, and then – in fearful wonder, almost terror – we see the sun suddenly spring up, barely announced by the thin air. Everything below remains in utter darkness. We seem to have lost the world, freed from time itself. The planet has vanished, leaving only our half-acre mountaintop visible in the universe, save for the sun's fearsome splendor. Now we understand Campbell's "last man" – the world gone, just us on a small spot midair, where the nearly rayless sun casts cold, eerie light. Looking north, we see four distant cones of light: Mount Hood, Mount Adams, Mount Tacoma, and St. Helen's tall torch, all equal to our Ieka. As the sun rises, smaller peaks appear, followed by long black ridges and vast mountain ranges, stretching from nearby into the distant darkness.
Now the void of night vanishes, hills stand forth, silvery spots and streaks appear as the dawn lights lakes and rivers, and at last, no fog obscuring, in the distant west, seventy miles away, is seen a great gray plain, the Pacific's broad expanse. To the south, interrupted streaks of silver show where flow Pitt and Sacramento rivers, while over two hundred miles away behold an indentation of California's central coast, marking the Golden Gate, and San Francisco's world-famed bay.
As night fades, the hills emerge. Lakes and rivers sparkle in the early light, appearing as silver patches and lines. In the clear distance, 70 miles to the west, the vast gray expanse of the Pacific Ocean comes into view. To the south, the Pitt and Sacramento rivers trace silver paths across the landscape. Over 200 miles away, an indentation in California's central coast marks the iconic Golden Gate and San Francisco's renowned bay.
VII
7
Beside a roaring, dashing mountain torrent, failing in myriad cascades of foam white as drifted snow, interspersed with pools of quiet water, deep, trout-filled, blue, reflecting flowery banks and towering pine-crested ridges, "ribs of the planet," we pause. The day is hot, but the waters of this branch of McCloud river axe cold -as the pristine snows of Shasta from which they flow to our feet and thence away.
Near a thundering mountain stream, cascading in countless waterfalls of snow-white foam, we stop. The stream is dotted with deep, quiet pools, rich with trout. These blue waters mirror the flower-covered banks and the soaring, pine-topped ridges—"ribs of the planet." The day is hot, but this branch of the McCloud River runs cold, fresh from Shasta's pure snows, flowing past us and onward.
We recline on the brink of a deep blue crystal pool, idly casting pebbles into and shivering the image of a tall basalt cliff reflected from the mirror-calm surface.
We lounge at the edge of a deep, crystal-clear blue pool, lazily tossing pebbles into the water. The ripples disturb the mirror-like surface, distorting the reflection of a towering basalt cliff.
What secrets perchance are about us? We do not know as we lie there, our bodies resting, our souls filled with peace, nor do we know until many years are passed out through the back door of time that that tall basalt cliff conceals a doorway. We do not suspect this, nor that a long tunnel stretches away, far into the interior of majestic Shasta. Wholly unthought is it that there lie at the tunnel's far end vast apartments, the home of a mystic brotherhood, whose occult arts hollowed that tunnel and mysterious dwelling: "Sach" the name is. Are you incredulous as to these things? Go there, or suffer yourself to be taken as I was, once! See, as I saw, not with the vision of flesh, the walls, polished as by jewelers, though excavated as by giants; floors carpeted with long, fleecy gray fabric that looked like fur, but was a mineral product; ledges intersected by the builders, and in their wonderful polish exhibiting veinings of gold, of silver, of green copper ores, and maculations of precious stones. Verily, a mystic temple, made afar from the madding crowd, a refuge whereof those who, "Seeing, see not," can truly say:
What secrets might surround us? As we rest, our bodies at ease and our souls peaceful, we're unaware that the tall basalt cliff hides a doorway. Only years later do we learn that a long tunnel stretches deep into majestic Shasta's heart. We don't suspect that at the tunnel's end lie vast chambers, home to a mystic brotherhood whose occult arts carved this hidden dwelling, called "Sach." Skeptical? Go there yourself, or let yourself be taken as I was! See with more than mortal eyes the jeweler-polished walls, though excavated as if by giants; floors covered in long, fleecy gray material that resembles fur but is mineral in nature; ledges intersected by the builders, their polish revealing veins of gold, silver, and green copper ores, speckled with precious stones. Truly, it's a mystic temple far from the chaos of the world, a sanctuary where those who "seeing, see not" can honestly say:
"And no man knows . . . "And no man saw it e'er."
"And nobody knows... And nobody ever saw it."
Once I was there, friend, casting pebbles in the stream's deep pools; yet it was then hid, for only a few are privileged. And departing, the spot was forgotten, and to-day, unable as any one who reads this, I cannot tell its place. Curiosity will never unlock that secret. Does it truly exist? Seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you. Shasta is a true guardian and silently towers, giving no sign of that within his breast. But there is a key. The one who first conquers self, Shasta will not deny.
I once stood by a stream, tossing pebbles into its deep pools. This place was hidden, known only to a select few. When I left, I forgot its location, and now, like anyone reading this, I can't recall where it was. Mere curiosity won't uncover this secret. Does it really exist? As the saying goes, "Seek and you shall find; knock and the door will be opened." Mount Shasta stands as a silent sentinel, revealing nothing of what lies within. But there is a way in. To the person who first masters themselves, Shasta will grant access.
This is the last scene. You have viewed the proud peak both near and far; by day, by night; in the smoke, and in the clear mountain air; seen its interior, and from its apex gazed upon it and the globe stretched away 'neath your feet. 'Tis a sight of God's handiwork, sublime, awful, never to be forgotten; and as thy soul hath rated itself with admiration thereof, in that measure be now filled with His Peace.
This is the final scene. You've seen this majestic peak from various angles and distances, in daylight and darkness, through haze and in crisp mountain air. You've explored its interior and stood at its summit, looking down at the world spread out below. It's an unforgettable glimpse of God's creation—awe-inspiring and humbling. As you've been filled with wonder at this sight, may you now be equally filled with His peace.