About noon, after a morning of almost incessant rain, we reached the Cascades, the head of navigation. Here, a _portage_ has to be made, as the river for more than two miles flows over the rocks, whirling and boiling in a succession of rapids, similar to those in the river St. Lawrence. This is the great salmon fishery of the Columbia river, the season for which commences in this month, when the fish descend[1] the river in incredible numbers. The banks are inhabited by the remains of some of the Indian tribes, who display their skill in catching the salmon, which they dry for exportation. As we passed up, we found them scattered along the shore employed in this work. Little bridges are thrown out over the rocks, on which the Indians post themselves, with nets on hoops, to which long handles are attached. With these they scoop up the fish and throw them on the shore. They are then pounded fine between two stones, cured, and tightly packed in bales of grass matting lined with dried fish skin, in which state they will keep for years. The process is precisely the same as it was when described by Lewis and Clarke. The aboriginal village of Wish-ram, at the head of the narrows, which they mention as being the place of resort for the tribes from the interior to barter for fish, is yet in existence. We still notice, too, the difference which the early explorers observed, between these Indians and those of the plains. The latter, living on horseback, are finely developed, and look like warriors; the former, engaged only in their canoes or stooping over the banks, are low in stature and seem to have been dwarfed out of all manhood. In everything noble they are many degrees below the wild tribes on the plains. Footnote 1: As the fish go _up_ the river to spawn, this is evidently a slip of the pen for "ascend." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We walked for about three miles, until we had passed the Cascades, and then took another little steamer which was to carry us to the Dalles. The scenery above is similar to that which we had already passed. In one place the mountains seem to come down to the river, ending in a huge rock perfectly steep, which has received the name of Cape Horn. Above, the precipices are covered with fir and white cedar; two small cascades, like silver lines, leap from point to point for a distance of one hundred and fifty feet, while below, in the deep shadow the waters seem to sweep around the rocks with a sullen sound. About ten at night we reached the end of our journey.