BOISÈ CITY TO THE COLUMBIA.
Idaho, one of the latest of our new Territories, was formed by
lopping off the eastern prolongations of Oregon and Washington,
and calling the incipient state by that euphoneous name. Lewiston,
the head of navigation then, _via_ the Columbia, was originally
its capital; but the "shrieks of locality" demanded a more central
position, and so Boisè City secured the honor. We found it (Nov.,
1860) a mushroom town of log and frame buildings, but thoroughly
alive every way. Three years before, there was nothing there but
the Boisè bottoms, and a scattered ranch or two. Now she boasted
three thousand inhabitants, two daily newspapers, stage-lines in all
directions, and ebullient prosperity. A hotel, of large capacity,
that was to "take the shine" out of all the rest, was just being
completed. The Episcopalians and Presbyterians already had their
churches up, and the Methodists were expecting soon to build theirs,
though then worshipping temporarily in the Court House. Excellent
free-schools, to accommodate all the children and more, abounded,
and the sermon we heard on Sunday was chiefly a "pitching into"
Brigham Young, largely for the want of these. The preacher had been
down to Salt Lake, spying out the land for missionary purposes, and
had returned filled with hearty unction against the whole system of
Mormonism. Boisè City was then the centre of the mining regions of
Idaho, though not _of_ them--like Denver, as related to Colorado.
The mines were chiefly miles away, at Owyhee, Ruby, Idaho City, and
Silver City; but all business sprang from and converged here at
Boisè, as the most central point, all things considered, and most
of the "bricks" dropped first into her lap. Mining operations were
mostly over for that season, and the streets and saloons of Boisè
were thronged with rough miners, _en route_ for the Columbia, or
even California, to winter and return. They claimed they could save
money by this temporary exodus--the price of living was so high in
Idaho--and at the same time escape the rigor of the climate. With
expansive hats, clad chiefly in red-shirts, and "bearded like a
pard," every man carried his bowie-knife and revolver, and seemed
ready for any emergency. They were evidently a rougher crowd, than
the Colorado miners, and in talking with them proved to be from
California, Arizona, Nevada, Oregon, Frazer's River, Montana,
and about everywhere else, except Alaska. Your true miner is a
cosmopolite, who has "prospected" everywhere, from the British
Dominion to Mexico, and he is always ready to depart for any new
"diggings," that promise better than where he is, on half a day's
notice, no matter how far. His possessions are small, soon bundled
up or disposed of, and he mocks at the old maxim, "A rolling stone
gathers no moss," though usually he is a good exemplification of it.
The chief business of Boisè, just then, seemed to be drinking
whiskey, and gambling. The saloons were the handsomest buildings
in town, and were thronged at all hours of the day and night.
The gamblers occupied corners of these, and drove a brisk trade
unmolested by anybody. The restaurants were also important points
of interest, and gave excellent meals at not unreasonable prices,
all things considered. Here at Boisè, our U. S. greenbacks for the
first ceased to be "currency," and the precious metals became the
only circulating medium. It did one's eyes good to see our old gold
and silver coins in use once more, though gold and silver "dust" was
also a recognized medium of exchange. All the stores, restaurants,
and saloons kept a delicate pair of scales, and their customers
carried buck-skin or leather bags of "dust," from which they made
payment, and into which they returned their change. Disputes now and
then arose, from the "dust" offered not being up to the standard;
but these were usually settled amicably, unless the "dust" proved
basely counterfeit, and then the saloons sometimes flashed with
bowie-knives, or rung with revolvers.
Here, also at Boisè, for the first, we met John Chinaman. Quite a
number of the Celestials had already reached Idaho from California,
_via_ the Columbia, and were scattered through the towns, as waiters,
cooks, launderers, etc. A few had sought the mines, but not many,
as they preferred the protection of the towns. Along with the rest,
these Chinese miners were also migrating to the Columbia and beyond;
and as they paid their stage-fare and rode, while many others footed
it to the "River," of course, we augured well of them. The imbecile,
brutal, and barbarous laws of the whole Pacific Coast, where Chinamen
are concerned, it appeared, however, were still in force in Idaho.
A good illustration of their practical workings had just occurred
over in Owyhee, or somewhere there, and should be recorded here.
Three or four ruffians over there, it appears, had set upon an
unoffending Chinaman at Work in the mines, and had first abused and
insulted him, and then robbed and killed him. Other miners, hearing
of the circumstances, arrested the murderers and took them before an
Idaho Dogberry, who promptly liberated them on the ground, that no
Anglo-Saxon was present at the transaction, and that the Chinamen
(who were) were incompetent as witnesses, as against white men! This
was good Idaho Law and Justice, no doubt. But it was too strong for
the indignant miners, and the same day Judge Lynch amended it, by
_hanging_ all the miscreants in the nearest gulch. This was rude law,
and rough justice, no doubt; but was it not infinitely better, than
the absurd and inhuman code of the Pacific Coast?
Idaho, as a whole, seemed then to be at a stand-still, and her
merchants, as a rule, were sighing for the flush times of '63 and
'64, when our miners were on the rush there. Her total yield of the
precious metals for '66 was computed at about $5,000,000, against
Montana's $15,000,000. Ross Browne, indeed, with "conspicuous
inexactness," reported Idaho at $15,000,000 that year; but nearly
everybody seemed to think this at least three times too much--Mr.
Halsey, who was a good judge, especially. Her "placer" mines, or
"diggings," it was thought, were already well exhausted, and her
quartz-mining will always prove very expensive, because of the
scarcity of fuel, and the heavy cost of transportation. Railroads, it
was hoped, would cheapen both of these items in the future, but as
yet they seemed distant. From the Columbia to Boisè City, was only
about three hundred miles, and yet the charge then for transportation
over this short distance was _more than half_ the charge from the
Missouri to Salt Lake, some twelve hundred miles. This was explained,
as one result of their coin basis, and of the high price of wages,
and everything else in Idaho. But the fact remained, as an ugly
circumstance, for Boisè to digest.
Fort Boisè, on the outskirts of the town, was headquarters of
military affairs in Idaho, but had ceased to be of much importance.
The Territorial Legislature had already applied to the proper
Department at Washington, for the post buildings, for use of the
Territorial Government, and the troops were ready to vacate any
day. We stopped there a week, studying Idaho affairs generally, and
were delightfully entertained by the post-officers. One of them had
been stationed in California, at Benicia Barracks, when the war
broke out, and he gave us an interesting account of the attempted
Rebel movement there, which the sudden arrival of Gen. Sumner on the
Coast so effectually squelched. Another was a Baltimorean, who by
reading the _Tribune_ had become a staunch Republican, and was one
of the intensest Union men I ever met. One day a Paymaster happened
along, whose baggage a fortnight before had been robbed of $65,000
in greenbacks, and an equal amount in vouchers, while he was taking
supper at Fort Boisè. At first, he was paralyzed to lose such an
amount, in that wild region. But subsequently he struck a "lead,"
and followed it up with the pertinacity of a sleuth-hound, until
he recovered most of the money and vouchers, and arrested all the
thieves. His success was simply wonderful for Idaho, and his story
sounded more like romance than sober reality, as he told of the
long chase and final capture, with the finding of his greenbacks
in carpet-bags, knapsacks, etc., buried by the roadside, and some
even under the ruts of the very roadway. While halting there, the
news also reached us by telegraph of the November elections East,
and the final outcome of Mr. Johnson's "Swinging round the circle!"
Army officers though we were, we could not repress a mild hurrah,
and how intensely proud we felt of the loyal North! Surely we were
a great and noble people, after all. Step by step--_nulla vestigia
retrorsum_--we had overcome all obstacles, in the name of Humanity
and Justice; and now, evidently, our reactionary leaders had better
take care how they trifled with the Republic! We talked it all over
among ourselves, as we sat around the camp-fires, at that distant
post in Idaho; and thanked God for America, and that there was "life
in the old land yet!"
Recruited up again pretty well by our stay at Boisè, we left there
Nov. 19th for Umatilla and the Columbia. Stages ran three times a
week, but they were going so crowded, and the roads were reported so
heavy, that I deemed it more advisable to proceed by ambulance. It
was three hundred miles, and by ambulance it would take three times
as long; but this would give me an opportunity of resting at night,
and I feared to venture on otherwise, anxious as we were to reach
the Columbia before winter set in. Our route lay substantially down
the valley of the Boisè, and other tributaries of the Snake, to the
Snake at Farewell Bend, and thence across the Blue Mountains to the
Umatilla, and down that to the Columbia. The chief tributaries of
the Snake just there were the Boisè, Pratt's River, Burnt River,
and Powder River, and we traversed the valleys of each of these
successively. These valleys were all substantially alike, and
consisted usually of bottoms from two to three miles wide, very
fertile throughout, but all requiring irrigation, except for grass
which grew tolerably well without this. Here and there irrigation had
been resorted to, to some extent, with fine crops in return; but only
a very little of the land had yet been brought under cultivation.
Generally, beyond these bottoms, on either side, were elevated
benches or plateaus, from five to six miles in width, extending back
to the outlying bluffs or mountains. These were covered chiefly with
the inevitable sage-brush and grease-wood; but the soil looked fat
and fertile enough, and evidently required only patient irrigation,
to become as prolific as the fields of Utah. Water for this might be
supplied in part from the rivers mentioned, and in part perhaps from
the neighboring cañons, if they be not dry cañons. The chief drawback
of the country to the Snake, indeed, seemed to be the scarcity of
timber, for fencing and building purposes. For fuel, coal had been
discovered, both at Farewell Bend and near Boisè City; but timber
for other purposes was everywhere scarce and dear. In the valley
of the Boisè, "Shanghai" fences were frequent, such as we had seen
in eastern Kansas; but the Idahoans used thongs instead of nails,
to fasten the boards or rails to the posts--hides evidently being
cheaper there, than hardware.
The valley of the Snake, most sinuous of rivers, as its name well
indicates, proved scarcely better, than where we had crossed it
several hundred miles farther up, a fortnight or so before. But
the Snake itself had now swelled into a broad and majestic river.
We travelled down its banks for ten or twelve miles, and found its
rocky and precipitous bluffs came quite down to the river generally;
and where this was not the case, there were often only great banks
of sand, whirled into such sheltered places by the winds of ages.
Indifferent timber appeared here and there, but not much to speak
of. The road wound along close to the bluffs, and was often quarried
out of them, without room for more than one team to pass at a time.
We passed one such place by moonlight, with the bluff high above
and the river deep below, but fortunately got through safely. We
reasoned, that the usual trains would have gone into camp by sundown,
and took the chances for any accidental travellers like ourselves. It
was a beautiful night, with the moon out in all her glory, walking
a cloudless sky and filling the cañon of the Snake with a flood
of light; but we were not sorry when we heard the lowing of the
cattle, and the wee-hawing of the mules, belonging to the trains
in camp beyond. It was eight P. M., (Nov. 20th), when we reached
Farewell Bend, and here crossed the Snake again on a stout ferry-boat
propelled by the current.
Farewell Bend--a hamlet of half a dozen houses--is so called, because
here the Snake makes a sudden turn north, and goes off in a wide
circuit through the mountains of Idaho and Oregon, instead of keeping
straight on to the Columbia, as it seems it should have done. Here,
too, is where the great Emigrant Trail, from the Missouri to the
Columbia, finally leaves the Snake, and hence also perhaps the name
to this bend. The Snake, or Lewis' Fork of the Columbia, as it is
sometimes called, altogether is a right noble stream--by far the
largest in all that region--and it seemed would yet be made available
for navigation, though now badly beset with reefs and rapids. A
steamboat had already been built at Farewell Bend, to run up to the
neighborhood of Boisè and beyond; but that was her first season,
and the results were yet to be seen. It was said, that by starting
early in the season, she could reach a point within about two hundred
miles of Salt Lake, and thus communicate with a vast region there,
then comparatively isolated. A fine vein of good bituminous coal had
just been opened in the overhanging bluff at Farewell Bend, and here
was fuel cheap for all the country up the Snake. Below Farewell Bend
there were rapids that would have to be circumvented by slack-water
navigation or railroad portages, the same as on the Columbia. But
with this done, the Snake had long stretches of navigable waters,
that needed only population and business to make them teem with
commerce. The same Company, that made the Columbia navigable, also
built the boat at Farewell Bend, and doubtless intended to push the
enterprise, though what they have since accomplished I can not say.
The Snake is the western boundary of Idaho, and, having crossed it
at Farewell Bend, we were now fairly in Oregon. We soon struck the
valley of Burnt River, and followed it up for many miles. At first,
it abounded in wild and rocky cañons, that seemed to have no outlet;
but farther on, it widened out, and frequent ranches dotted its
broad and fertile bottoms. Powder River valley, the next beyond, was
more promising still. This contained thousand of acres of rich grass
lands, and hundred of settlers had already pre-empted homes there.
Cattle and sheep were grazing along the bottoms in considerable
numbers, and the adjacent mountains, we were told, abounded in
timber for all necessary purposes. At Baker City, in the heart of
Powder River valley, we halted one day for dinner, and found a brisk
little town of perhaps five hundred inhabitants or so. It contained
two quite respectable hotels, and at one of them we got a plain
but excellent dinner. Just in the suburbs, we found a ten stamp
quartz-mill in full blast, much to our surprise, yielding--it was
said--a clear profit of $4,000 in coin per month. The ores came from
a silver mine, ten or twelve miles away in the mountains, and the
mill was located here to take advantage of Powder River, which was
here really a fine stream.
Farther on, after a long and tedious drive up and across a stony
"divide," we came suddenly out on Grande Ronde valley, and were amazed
at its beauty and fertility. At first view, it seemed almost circular,
and looked like a vast bowl hollowed out of the mountains there.
Mountains bristling with pine or fir-trees rimmed it in on all sides,
while in their midst the valley reposed, as if a dried up lake. Some
thirty miles in length, by twenty-five in width, it contains over six
hundred square miles of the very washings of the mountains--the whole
as rich and fertile as a garden. Cedar, fir, pine, and oak abound in
the embracing mountains; but the valley itself is as bare of timber,
as an Illinois prairie. Numberless springs burst out of the mountain
sides, and coalescing into streams gridiron the valley--uniting at last
in Grande Ronde River, which flows thence to the Snake. In places,
we were told, there are hot mineral springs also, but we saw none of
these. The edges of the valley--seemingly like the rim of a plate--were
already sprinkled well with ranches, while horses, cattle, and sheep by
the thousand were grazing off in the bottoms. But few houses appeared
in the bottoms yet--the settlers apparently preferring to hug the
mountains. The wheat crop of the valley that year alone was computed
at half a million of bushels, and large quantities of oats, barley,
potatoes etc., had been raised besides. Indian corn, or maize, however,
had never flourished well, and it was doubted if it would--it being so
far north. Even here, though, irrigation had to be resorted to for most
summer crops, but down in the bottoms grass grew luxuriantly without
this. Grande Ronde, indeed, resembles the great parks of Colorado,
only her soil is far finer, and if cultivated to the full, along with
Powder River and Burnt River, would alone supply Idaho with pretty
much all she needs. We met old settlers there, who years before had
emigrated thither from Missouri and Illinois, tempted by the wondrous
beauty and fertility of the place, and one could not wonder at their
choice of a home. In all that region we saw nothing like Grande Ronde,
and indeed but few places to compare with it from the Missouri to
the Columbia. Its only drawback seemed to be the severe winds, which
prevail there much of the year. It appeared strange, that a valley so
embosomed in mountains should be troubled so with winds. But it seemed
to be a sort of funnel, and they said the winds were often fierce and
continuous there, for long periods together. Nevertheless, unless these
approximate to hurricanes or tempests, we could only say, "Blessed be
the man who dwells in Grande Ronde!"
Le Grande, the county-seat, we found to be a thriving town of a
thousand or so inhabitants, and the largest and busiest place by
far since leaving Boisè. At the foot of the Mountains, where the
road from the Columbia debouches into Grande Ronde, it caught a
large amount of trade and travel that way, and also did considerable
business with several gold and silver mines in the adjacent
mountains. These mines, it seemed, were not believed to amount to
much; but they helped to sustain and build up Le Grande, and so were
welcomed. Just then the town was discouraged somewhat, by the recent
transfer of the mail-route to Uniontown. But as the county-seat, with
two weekly papers, and Grande Ronde to back her, she would evidently
continue to prosper, notwithstanding her loss of the stages. A smart
church, and a really fine public-school-house, graced the plateau
beyond the town--both of which spoke volumes for Le Grande. The main
street, however, was almost impassable for the deep and unctuous mud;
but by keeping straight ahead, and a little careful manœuvring, we
managed to reach "Our House," the most respectable looking hotel, at
last. Here they gave us excellent accommodations for the night, and
the next morning we started to cross the Blue Mountains.
We had left Boisè with a four-mule team, but at the end of the
first day our lead-mules gave out, and we had to hire a pair of
ponies to take their places. These ponies--the only animals we
could secure--were bright and active little nags, and with them at
the head we posted along, at the rate of forty or fifty miles per
day very readily. But at Powder River, one of them becoming lame,
we were compelled also to drop the other, and this reduced us to
only our original wheel-mules--a pair of large, but antiquated,
and sorry-looking donkeys, that entertained grave constitutional
objections to any gait faster than a walk. When we struck a bit of
extra good road--especially if a little down hill--our driver usually
managed, by much pounding and profanity, to persuade them into a mild
trot. But when we reached the bottoms, or if a "divide" appeared,
they speedily gravitated again into their natural creep. We were all
day long making our last twenty-six miles out from Le Grande, and it
was clear we would never get over the Blue Mountains with this pokey
team, if the roads were as reported. Fortunately, at Le Grande, we
succeeded in hiring a fresh team, of four fine and spirited horses,
and with these we swung out of the town (Nov. 24th) on a good round
trot--a delightful contrast to our snail-like pace on coming in. We
had sighted the Blue Mountains--the northern prolongation of the
Sierra Nevadas--two days before, soon after leaving Baker City,
and all along had got ugly accounts of the condition of the roads
there. Their bald summits already showed snow here and there, and
for a day or two another snow-storm had been lowering in the sky,
much to our anxiety. But as we rolled out of Le Grande, the sun came
out bright and clear, and with our ambulance stout and strong, and
our high-stepping steeds, all the auspices seemed to change in our
favor. We soon struck the Le Grande river, and followed this up for
several miles, through wild and picturesque cañons, or along the
shelving sides of the mountains, where often two teams could hardly
pass. The Le Grande carried us well up and into the Mountains, and
every hour the scenery became grander and wilder. Grande Ronde valley
soon passed out of sight; but, as we ascended, from various points
we caught exquisite views of the wide-stretching ranges and valleys
beyond. Farther up, we became environed with hills and gorges,
covered thick with gigantic fir-trees, though here and there a clump
of cedars or pines appeared. All along we met the wild snow-drop,
loaded down with its berries, and in sheltered nooks saw the wild
currant, with here and there harebells, though these were rare. The
mountain-laurel also occurred frequently; but the great predominating
growth was the Oregon fir, from the size of a bamboo cane to the
leafy monarch, "fit to be the mast of some great admiral." The
road was constructed on the cork-screw principle--much around to
get a little ahead--but after countless twistings and turnings,
we at length reached the summit, long after noon. Here we found a
comparatively level plateau, some two or three miles in width, with
only a few scattered fir-trees, swept keenly by the wind, from which
we slowly descended over the remains of a once corduroyed road to
"Meacham's." We arrived at "Meacham's" about 4 P. M.--only twenty-six
miles from Le Grande, after all; but as it was still twelve miles to
"Crawford's," the next ranch, at the northern foot of the Mountains,
it seemed imprudent to venture on that day.
As to the wagoning, I need scarcely say, it well exemplified, with
abounding emphasis, "Jordan's a hard road to travel!" The roads,
indeed, as a whole, after we got up into the Mountains, were simply
execrable, and our ride in that respect anything but romantic. All
along the route, we found freight-trains, bound for Boisè City and
the Mines, hopelessly "stalled." Some of the wagons with a broken
wheel or axle, had already been abandoned. Others were being watched
over by their drivers, stretched on their blankets around huge fires
by the roadside, smoking or sleeping, patiently awaiting their
comrades, who had taken their oxen or mules to double-up on some team
ahead, and would return with double teams for them to-morrow or next
day, or the day after--whenever they themselves got through. Snow had
already fallen on the Mountains, once or twice that season; we found
several inches of it still in various places, and the air and sky
both threatened more, as the day wore on. Yet these rough freighters
looked upon the "situation" very philosophically, and appeared quite
indifferent whether they got on or stayed. If it snowed, the forest
afforded plenty of wood, their wagons plenty of provisions, and their
wages went on just the same; so where was the use of worrying? This
seemed to be about the way they philosophized, and accustomed to the
rude life of the Border, they did not mind "roughing it" a little. An
old army friend used often to parade a pet theory of his, that a man
could not associate much with horses, without directly deteriorating.
"The horse," he would say, "may gain largely, but it will only be at
the expense of the man. Our cavalry and artillery officers always
were the wickedest men in the service, and all because of their
equine associations. The animals, indeed, become almost human; but in
the same proportion, the men become animals!" I always thought him
about half-right; but if this be true as to intimacy with horses,
what must be the effect on men of long and constant association with
mules or oxen! I thought I saw a good deal of this in mule-drivers
in the army, in Virginia and Tennessee; but a harder or rougher
set, than the ox-men or "bull-whackers" (as they call themselves)
of the Plains and Mountains, it would be difficult perhaps to find,
or even imagine. On the road here in the Blue Mountains, with their
many-yoked teams struggling through the mud and rocks, of course,
they were in their element. _Outré_, red-shirted, big-booted,
brigand-looking ruffians, with the inseparable bowie-knife and
revolver buckled around their waists, they swung and cracked their
great whips like fiends, and beat their poor oxen along, as if they
had no faith in the law of kindness here, nor belief in a place of
punishment hereafter. And when they came to a really bad place--in
crossing a stream, or when they struck a stump or foundered in a
mud-hole--it is hard to say whether their prodigious, multiplied,
and many-headed oaths were more grotesque or horrible. To say "they
swore till all was blue," would be but a feeble comparison; the whole
Mountains corruscated with sulphur! Some few of the trains consisted
only of horse and mule teams; but ox-teams seemed most in favor, and
slow as they were, we took quite a fancy to them--they appeared so
reliable. When the roads were good, they averaged ten or twelve miles
per day, and subsisted by grazing; when they became bad, they managed
to flounder through any how--some way or other. At extra bad places,
the teams were doubled or trebled up, and then the wagon was bound
to come, if the wood and iron only held together. Twenty or thirty
yoke of oxen straining to the chains, with the "bull-whackers" all
pounding and yelling like mad, their huge whip-lashes thick as one's
wrist cracking like pistols, was a sight to see--"muscular," indeed,
in all its parts. The noise and confusion, the oaths and thwacks and
splashing of the mud, made it indeed the very hell of animals; but,
for all that, the wagon was sure to reach _terra firma_ at last, no
matter how heavily loaded, or pull to pieces. We had great sympathy
for the patient, faithful oxen, and wished for Mr. Henry Bergh and
his Cruelty-Prevention Society many a time that day. Here, indeed,
was some explanation of the high rates of freight from the Columbia
to Boisè; and Idaho would find it to her interest to improve such
routes of transportation forthwith.
I need scarcely add, it was a hard day on our noble horses, but they
carried us through bravely. Our ambulance was a light spring carriage,
with only L., myself and the driver, and could not have weighed over
fifteen hundred pounds, baggage and all; yet it was just as much as
the four gamey horses wanted to do to haul us along. It was a steady,
dragging pull throughout, after we were well into the Mountains, with
scarcely any let-up; up-hill, of course, most of the way, with deep
mud besides; chuck-holes abounding, and quagmires frequent; in and
out, and around freight-trains "stuck" in the road; and on arriving at
"Meacham's," our gallant team, though by no means exhausted, yet seemed
very willing to halt for the night. How we congratulated ourselves on
securing them, before quitting Le Grande! Had we started with our pair
of dilapidated donkeys, we would never have got through; but would
probably have had to camp out in the Mountains over night, and send
back for another team, after all. Once in rounding a rocky hillside,
above a yawning chasm, our "brake" snapped short off, early in the
forenoon; and again, in one of the worst quagmires, our drawing-rope by
which the leaders were attached broke, and we would no doubt have been
hopelessly ship-wrecked, had it not been for our forethought on leaving
Le Grande. Fortunately, accustomed to army roads on the Peninsula and
in Tennessee, we laid in a supply of rope and nails there, with a good
stout hatchet, and these now stood us in excellent stead. With these
we soon repaired all damages satisfactorily, and went on our way--not
exactly rejoicing; but rather with grave apprehensions lest we should
break down entirely, far away from any human habitation, and have to
pass a supperless night by the roadside, or around a roaring fire, with
wolves, bears, and such like "varmints" perhaps uncomfortably near
about us.
So, it was, we were glad to be safe at "Meacham's," at last, and to
sit down to the generous cheer he gave us at nightfall. Though 8,000
feet or more, above the sea, and built wholly of logs, it was the
cleanest, cheeriest, and best public-house we had yet seen in either
Oregon or Idaho, outside of Boisè City; and even the "Overland"
there indeed set no better table, if as good. We did ample justice
to the luscious venison, sausage, and pumpkin-pies, that they gave
us for dinner at 6 P. M.--having breakfasted at 6 A. M., and eaten
nothing since. Mr. Meacham himself, our genial host, was a live
Oregonian, who had come thither from Illinois several years before,
and with his brother now owned this ranch, and the road over the
Blue Mountains--such as it was. Bad as it was just then, it had cost
them a good deal of money, first and last; and being the shortest
road from navigation on the Columbia to Idaho and Montana, it had
paid well in other years, when there was a "rush" of miners to
those regions. But the emigration thither had now fallen much off,
and besides a competing road had been opened from Wallula on the
Columbia--flanking the Mountains in part--to Uniontown in Grande
Ronde valley, and so beyond, which it was believed would hurt the
Meacham Road seriously. The mail now went this new road, and trade
and travel it was thought would be apt to follow the stage-coaches.
Yet Mr. Meacham was not discouraged. He was a plucky, wide-awake man,
some forty years of age, with brown hair and stubborn-looking beard,
and in general looked like a person who could take care of himself
well, travel or no travel. His wife was a really interesting lady,
with several well-bred children; and in the evening, when we asked
for something to read, he surprised us by producing a file of the
_N. Y. Times_, Greeley's American Conflict, and Raymond's Abraham
Lincoln. He had been a candidate for the Oregon Legislature at the
recent election, and though running much ahead of his ticket, had
been beaten by a small majority. He explained, that "the left wing
of Price's army" was still encamped in that part of Oregon, and that
the Oregon democracy generally were only a step removed from Gov.
Price and Jefferson Davis. The early settlers there, he said, had
been mostly "Pikes" from Missouri, and they still clung to their
old pro-slavery (and therefore Confederate) ideas. In '61, many of
them had indeed favored secession, and later in the war when Price's
forces were finally routed in Missouri, hundreds of his soldiers
deserted and made for Oregon, where they already had acquaintances or
friends. We had heard something of this before, and now understood
what was meant by the popular expression--even at Salt Lake--that
"the left wing of Price's army was encamped" in Idaho and Oregon!
Later in the evening, he gathered his little ones about us, and would
have us talk about army experiences, during the war and afterwards,
and affairs East generally. In return, he gave us his experiences
West and incidents of border-life, by the hour together. Thus we
spun yarns by his ample fire-side, until the "wee sma' hours" and
after--the fir-logs blazing and roaring welcome up his wide-throated
chimney--when he showed us to a cosy room, and an excellent bed,
clean and sweet beyond expectation even.
During the night, I was awakened by the rain pattering on the roof,
just over our heads; but this soon ceased, and the next morning we
had several inches of snow, with huge flakes still falling. This
was a bad outlook; nevertheless, we decided to go on, as it was
impossible to say how long the storm would last, or how severe it
would become. We did not want to be "snow-bound" there, and besides
we thought we could reach "Crawford's" anyhow, as it was but twelve
miles or so, and that would take us well out of the Mountains. We
left "Meacham's" accordingly at 7 A. M., with our horses fresh and
keen after their night's rest, and got along pretty well for a couple
of miles or so, when suddenly, in drawing out of a chuck-hole,
one of our wheels struck a stump, and "smash" went our king-bolt.
Down came the ambulance kerchuck in the snow and mud; out went the
driver over the dashboard _a la_ bull-frog, but still clinging to
the ribbons; while L. and I sat wrapped in our great-coats and robes
on the back seat, at an angle of forty-five degrees or so. Here was
a pretty predicament, surely! On top of the Blue Mountains, broken
down in a quagmire, the snow falling fast, and no house nearer than
"Meacham's!" Fortunately, our gamey horses did not frighten and run
away, or we would have been infinitely worse off. Tumbling out, we
presently ascertained the extent of our damages, and all hands set to
work to repair them. Now it was, that our forethought at La Grande
again handsomely vindicated itself. With our hatchet we cut props for
the ambulance, and lifted it up on these; and then found, that though
part of the king-bolt was broken off and the balance badly bent, it
could yet be hammered into shape sufficiently to carry us forward
again, with careful driving. It took an hour or more of sloppy and
hard work, before we got the bolt back again into its place and
every thing "righted up;" and then, as an additional precaution,
with our good rope we lashed the coupling-pole fast to our fore
axle-tree besides. Altogether it made a rough looking job, but it
appeared stout and strong, and we decided to venture it anyhow. The
rest of the way out of the Mountains, however, we proceeded very
cautiously. The snow continued to fall right along, and concealed the
bad places, so that the roads were even worse, than the day before,
if possible. At all extra-bad spots, or what seemed so, L. and I got
out and walked; and even when riding, we tried to help the driver
keep the best track, by a sharp lookout ahead and on either side. Our
ambulance, however, rolled and pitched from quagmire to chuck-hole,
like an iron-clad at sea; and repeatedly when out walking I stopped
deliberately, just to see how beautifully she would capsize, or else
collapse in a general spill, like a "One-Horse Shay!" All around us
was the dense forest: all about us, that unnatural stillness, that
always accompanies falling snow; no human being near; no sound, but
our panting horses and floundering ambulance; no outlook, but the
line of grim and steely sky above us. "There she goes! This time
sure! See what a hole!" And yet by some good luck, she managed to
twist and plunge along through and out of it all, in spite of the
mud and snow; and at last landed us safely on the high bald knob,
that overlooks "Crawford's," and the valley of the Umatilla. We had
about ten miles of this execrable travelling, expecting any moment
to upset or break down; and when at last we got fairly "out of the
wilderness," it was a great relief. We had an ugly descent still,
of two miles or more, before we reached the valley; but this was
comparatively good going, being downhill, and besides the snow above
had been only rain here.
The view from this bald knob or spur, as we descended, was really
very fine. Just as we rounded its brow the clouds broke away, and
the sun came out for awhile quite brilliantly. Far beneath us, vast
plateaus, like those between Bear River and Boisè City, stretched
away to the Columbia; and in the distance, the whole region looked
like a great plain or valley. To the north-east, we could follow for
miles the road or trail to Walla-Walla, as it struck almost in a
straight line across the plateaus; to the northwest, we could mark
in the same way the route to Umatilla. At our feet, and far away to
the west and north, we could trace the Umatilla itself, as it flowed
onward to the Columbia. Beyond all these, to the north and west
still, a hundred and fifty miles away, sharp against the sky, stood
the grand range of the Cascade Mountains, with their kingliest peaks,
Adams, Hood, St. Helens, and Rainier, propping the very heavens. On a
bright, clear day, this view must be very fine; as it was, we caught
but a glimpse or two of it, just enough to make us hunger for more,
when the clouds shut in again, and we hastened on. Now that we were
out of the forest, the wind blew strong and keen in our faces, with
no fir-trees to break it, and for a half hour or so we shivered with
the cold; but it also spurred up our gallant horses, and we were
soon whirling out of the foot-hills, at a rapid rate. We drew up at
"Crawford's" at 1 P. M., and here halted to lunch and to bait our
animals--well satisfied, after all, with our morning's work.
An hour afterwards we started again, and now bowled along famously.
Our route lay down the valley of the Umatilla, and as the road was a
little sandy, the rain had made it just good for travelling. L. and I,
with our baggage and driver, were no load at all for four such gamey
nags, especially over a descending grade, and soon after dark we rolled
into "Wells' Springs"--42 miles from "Meacham's." Here we encountered
a motley crowd of teamsters, miners, and others, all very rough, _en
route_ to Idaho and Montana. "Wells' Springs" was a shabby ranch, and
we had no intention of stopping there, but were unable to go on--one of
our horses becoming suddenly sick. The house was dirty, and the supper
poor and badly cooked; so that we could readily believe the slouchy,
slatternly landlady, when in the course of the meal she remarked to
one of her rough guests, "O, we never care for puttin' on _style_
here! Only for raal substantials!" Supper over, there was a general
smoke and talk, and how those rough fellows did talk! At bedtime, we
were put into a little closet, partitioned off from the rest, while
the main crowd quartered around "loose" on the floor outside. The last
thing we heard, two "bull-whackers" were disputing as to who I was--one
insisting I was Gen. Grant, and the other contending I was only
Inspector-General U. S. A.! We soon went heavily to sleep; the next
morning, when I awoke, the same chaps were disputing still!
[Illustration: OREGON INDIAN.]
Next morning, our sick horse was better, but still not himself. We
left "Wells' Spring," however, at 7 A. M. on a walk, but soon
achieved a trot, and were getting on quite satisfactorily again, when
our ambulance struck a stone and smash went one of the rear springs.
Two of its leaves showed old breaks, and it was a mystery how it ever
stood the rough and tumble drive across the Mountains. Again our Le
Grande rope came into play, and breaking a box to pieces we happened
to have along, we soon succeeded in splicing up the spring, so as to
make it hold. An hour's drive more, however, over a descending road,
took us into Umatilla without further accident, and we hauled up at
the _Metropolitan_, at 11 A. M. having come eighteen miles. We were
just too late for the tri-weekly boat, down the Columbia to Portland,
which we had been aiming at for a week--she having left an hour or
so before. If it had not been for our break-down in the Mountains,
or for our sick horse, we would have made Umatilla either early in
the morning, or late the night before, and thus saved two days. As it
was, there was no use lamenting it--we had done our best--and besides
a little time for rest and writing was not unwelcome.
After emerging from the Blue Mountains at "Crawford's," our route
thence to the Columbia was chiefly down the valley of the Umatilla.
This was not over a mile or two in width usually, with high outlying
plateaus, that showed only sand, sage-brush and grease-wood, with here
and there a rocky butte. Population was very scarce, though we passed
a few fine ranches along the Umatilla, that looked to be doing well,
and off on the plateaus we saw several large flocks of sheep--thousands
in number--grazing under their shepherds. Just beyond "Crawford's,"
the Umatilla and Walla-Walla Indians have a Reservation twenty miles
square, of the best lands in the valley, and the government has agents
there, teaching them to farm, raise stock, etc. Their farming did not
seem to amount to much, but their horses, cattle, and sheep, by the
thousand, all looked well. Both of these tribes together now numbered
only about a thousand souls, and were said to be steadily decreasing.
We saw scores of them on the road, scurrying along on their little
ponies--all of them peaceable and friendly. They were larger and
stouter, than our Ute friends on the Rio Grande; but did not seem
endowed with half their fierceness and grit. The whole district, from
Crawford's to the Columbia, lacked regular rains in summer, and hence
farming to be successful required irrigation, as much as in Utah. For
this, the Umatilla itself might be made to suffice, a thousand fold
more than it did. Draining a wide region of country, it rushed with
a rapid descent to the Columbia, and hereafter should be utilized
not only to irrigate largely, but also to drive numerous mills and
factories, that ought then to throng its banks. Long before reaching
the Columbia, it is but little better than a broad raceway; and for
miles, as we drove along, it seemed the beau-ideal of a natural
water-power. Some day, in the not distant future, when all that region
settles up, an Oregon Lowell will yet hum with spindles there, and its
woolen-cloths and blankets become world-renowned.
It will be seen, we were seven days and a half in getting through from
Boisè City, though expecting to make it in six. The stages advertised
to make it in three, but the last one had been out five, with the
passengers walking much of the way at that. A party of Irish miners we
overtook on the road, footing it from Montana to the Columbia, indeed,
raced with us for several days, following us sharply into Le Grande
and beating us into "Meacham's;" but after that, we distanced them.
At Umatilla, people said, we would have found a better road and made
quicker time, if we had come by Uniontown, instead of crossing the
Mountains; but our driver insisted "Meacham's" was the best road, and
we had been guided of course by his superior wisdom.
This driver of ours, by the way, was something of a character. An
Ohioan, so long ago as '49, he had joined the first rush to California,
and soon succeeded in picking up $30,000, or so. Thence he went to
Frazer River, on the first wave, and in a few months sunk pretty much
all he had previously made. Then he mounted a mule, and with pick-axe
and wash-pan "prospected" all over the Pacific Coast, landing at last
in Idaho. Here he had again picked up a few thousands, and had just
concluded a freight contract with a mining company at Owyhee, that he
thought was going to "pay big." But it did not commence until spring,
and meanwhile he was trying his hand at the lively business in Boisè.
While on the coast he had lived in California, Nevada, British America,
Washington, Oregon, and now Idaho; had camped out in the mining
regions; shot grizzlies in the Sierra Nevadas; trapped beaver on the
Columbia; wandered with the Indians for months together; and "roughed
it" generally. He had but one eye--had lost the other, he said, in
a battle with the Indians, one arrow hitting him there, and another
passing through his body; yet he rode seventy miles afterwards on a
mule, supported by his comrades--the pure air of that region and his
Buckeye grit carrying him through. This was his story, without its
embellishments. But he was a person of fine Western imagination; and
somewhat, I fear, addicted to "romancing."
But, good-bye, driver--John Wilful, well-named! Good-bye, mustangs
and donkeys! Good-bye, stage-coaches and ambulances! Two thousand
four hundred miles of their drag and shake, of their rattle and
bang, across the Plains and over the Mountains, had given us our
fill of them. We had had runaways, we had had breakdowns, and about
every stage experience, except a genuine upset, and how we happened
to escape _that_ will always remain a mystery. Our romance of
stage-coaching, I must say, was long since gone. There before us now
lay the lordly Columbia, with visions of steamboats and locomotives.
And looking back on our long jaunt, with all its discomforts and
dangers, it seemed for the moment as if nothing could induce us to
take it again. Hereafter, we felt assured, we should appreciate the
comfort and speed of eastern travel more, and pray for the hastening
of all our Pacific Railroads. With a grand trunk line now overland,
through Utah, it can not be long before a branch will be thrown
thence to the Columbia, substantially by the route we travelled; and
when that is done, the ride from Salt Lake to Umatilla will be soon
accomplished. The region nowhere presents any serious obstacle to a
railroad, except the Blue Mountains; and a Latrobe, or a Dodge, would
soon flank or conquer these.