Charles Russell Scrapbook Images

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You may not care for these marines but I have always had a failing for them. The “whoosh” of the waves against the eternal rock wall and the whisper of the surf as it chases each foamy ripple up the stretches of sand effect me like a chord of music.
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Off shore a short distance crowning a huge rock was a scaffolding from some old abandoned project. White caps continued to roll in in white surges, battering against the wall. Festoons of lacy white decorated the rocky rampart and streamers of misty spume laid their clammy hands across my face.
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I couldn’t just tear myself away from the scene. I hung over the parapet and watched the play of wind and waves. I climbed all around the rocks near the water’s edge and had a marvelously good time.
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Passing on finally I came in view of the famous Seal Rocks. These rocky pyramids rise above the water a short distance from shore. Several huge bulls looled at ease on the rocks attended by their harems and numbers of young ones. the youngsters were quite playful – rollicking in and out of water while their elders looked calmly on.
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As I climbed the path leading to Cliff House I couldn’t refrain from glancing back at the tumbling surf. Then resolutely I passed around the bend and looked down on the long stretches of Cliff House Beach.
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Again the wonderful picture of the surf etched shoreline stretched away as far as one could see. Wave after wave curling in to dash to a white smother of foamy wavelets chasing each other up the close packed beach sand. Behind the seawall were the tawdry reaches of the Amusement Park – a western Coney Island.
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I could not pass the opportunity for a stroll on the Beach. Waves pounding in and ever reaching shoreward with filmy fingers to caress the white beach sand. It was so beautiful – I had to contemplate it over a hamburger and coffee.
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From San Francisco I had to go to Portland, Oregon and elected the Shasta Route. Soon we were lost in the foothills of the Coast Ranges. I spent much of my time in the Observation Car and managed several shots of the passing landscape as we slipped by.
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Many times my eye was better than the camera for distant mountains were sometimes shrouded in mist which did not record well on the film.
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Mountains unfolding into great ranges. Forests marching up the slopes. Valleys smoking with fog and on into the northern reaches of the Golden State.
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We are now climbing steadily winding around the shoulders of the mountains. At times we can easily see the locomotive and several cars of our own train. My post is still in the Observation Car. Too bad – Shasta will be obscured by this mist. Many mountains already appear decapitated by the low hanging clouds.
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The way becomes more tortuous. Steaming slowly upward for several miles we made many hairpin turns and on looking down the mountain we saw a few hundred feet below, the track we had traversed a short time previously.
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The highway followed our course for some distance and wriggled and squirmed like some wounded snake. Pines everywhere clothed the rocky slopes. It was beautifully wild, hemmed in by the ever present ranges. “What hath God wrought?”
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Still twisting upward. What grand Christmas trees – though of course you would need a cathedral to put them in. Such pines, stretching upward in tapering length almost to the blue. We still wriggle onward.
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We now enter that long defile known as Cow Creek Canyon. It is narrow, dark and densely wooded. The roadbed curves continually following the water course. What a hunter’s paradise this must be.
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Cow Creek is a diminutive stream which meanders along through the wooded canyon. Sometimes it runs smoothly along and tarries by clear pools and then again it brawls along over stony, rocky course that makes you think of trout and a rod and line.
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Small as it is, Cow Creek must be very old to have carved such a canyon through the years.
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And still Cow Creek continues. It begins to widen out now as we appear to be reaching the end. To the clickety-clack of the wheels over rail joints we rush on toward our destination.
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The Klamath River brings another type of virgin beauty with the rugged background of forest clad mountain, the groves of pine and the clearings peeping out.
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After my business in Portland was concluded I planned to fly to Seattle to visit Boeing Aircraft but after flying halfway there, the fog shut in so low that we were hedge-hopping over pine trees in the valleys and pilot decided to call it a day and bring us back to Portland. Smart fellow – he didn’t want any part of a crash and the soup might have been miles high.

I finally reached Seattle by night train, saw Boeing and took the night train for Spokane. Arriving there I found that connections for Salt Lake City made it necessary for me to leave in the evening. Looking around the city, I discovered that a football game was scheduled between Gonzaga University and Whosis College (or something) so I decided to go. It was a good game and I cheered both sides
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One of the short stops enroute from Spokane to Salt Lake City was Huntington , Oregon. I took a little stroll and admired the mountains hemming in the town.
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A little farther south we crossed the Snake River which is quite a sizable stream even at that point. The river wound its way along the foot of a range. Scattered along the river were numerous rocky islets.
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Tunnels are a part of the daily lot of the Rocky Mountain traveler and my experience was no different than the others. We had taken several brief plunges through spurs of the range but now we really took a dive. Through the blackness we hurtled and I felt that odd oppressiveness which one feels when underground. After what seemed an age we burst forth into the sunlight amid a cloud of steam and smoke.
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At last I am in the home of the Normans – Salt Lake City. The old patriarch – Brigham Young stands on his pedestal while behind him the great Norman Temple flings its spires skyward. This is one of the cleanest cities I have ever seen.