The falls are formed by a line of dark rock, which stretches diagonally across the stream. The river was low when I passed it, and all the water was discharged at three jets. Two of these were near the eastern shore; the other was near the western shore, and fell into the chasm which divides the rocky plain before named, from the cliffs of the falls. At the mouth of this chasm {204} my Indians unloaded their canoe, dragged it up the crags, and having borne it on their shoulders eight or ten rods, launched it upon a narrow neck of water by the shore; reloaded, and rowed to the deep water above. The scene, however, was too interesting to be left so soon, and I tarried awhile to view it. The cataract roared loudly among the caverns, and sent a thousand foaming eddies into the stream below. Countless numbers of salmon were leaping and falling upon the fretted waters; savages almost naked were around me, untrained by the soothing influences of true knowledge, and the hopes of a purer world; as rude as the rocks on which they trod; as bestial as the bear that growled in the thicket. On either hand was the primeval wilderness, with its decaying and perpetually-renewing energies; nothing could be more intensely interesting. I had passed but a moment in these pleasant yet painful reflections, when my Indians, becoming impatient, called me to pursue my voyage. A mile above the falls a large creek comes in from the west. It is said to rise among the mountains near the Columbia, and to run south and south-east and eastwardly through a series of fine prairies, interspersed {205} with timber.[5] Above the falls, the mountains rise immediately from the water’s edge, clothed with noble forests of pine, &c.; but at the distance of fifteen miles above, their green ridges give place to grassy and wooded swells on the west, and timbered and prairie plains on the eastern side. This section of the river appeared navigable for any craft that could float in the stream below the falls. It was dark when I arrived at the level country; and emerging suddenly in sight of a fire on the western bank, my Indians cried “Boston! Boston!” and turned the canoe ashore to give me an opportunity of speaking with a fellow countryman. He was sitting in the drizzling rain, by a large log-fire—a stalwart six foot Kentucky trapper. After long service in the American Fur Companies, among the rocky mountains, he had come down to the Willamette, accompanied by an Indian woman and his child, selected a place to build his home, made an “improvement,” sold it, and was now commencing another. He entered my canoe and steered across the river to a Mr. Johnson’s.[6] “I am sorry I can’t keep you,” said he, “but I reckon you’ll sleep better under shingles, than this stormy sky. Johnson {206} will be glad to see you. He’s got a good shantee, and something for you to eat.”