CROSSING THE KLAMATH RIVER—HOW TO SWIM MULES—SIS-KY-OUE
INDIANS—EMIGRANT FORD—TROUT BALING—A BEAVER
TOWN—BREEDING-GROUNDS OF THE PELICANS AND VARIOUS
WATER-BIRDS—PURSUED BY KLAMATH INDIANS—INTERVIEW WITH
CHIEF—THE DESERT PRONG HORNED ANTELOPES—ACORNS AND
WOODPECKERS—YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRDS—SNAKE SCOUT—ARRIVAL AT CAMP
OF COMMISSION—END OF JOURNAL.
_May 17th._—Leave this sandy waste, cross over a low divide, and
descend into a narrow gulley, named Bogus Hollow. Creep along between
high craggy peaks for ten miles to reach the Klamath river, a wide,
rapid stream that I have to cross, but how, just now is a puzzler. The
banks are high; not a tree grows along its sides, or near by, wherewith
to make either canoe or raft. I follow on its course for eight miles;
the river makes a sudden bend, and in the angle on the opposite side I
can see the charred remains of a log-shanty, amidst a clump of trees,
one of which has been felled so as to fall across the river, and forms
a rude footbridge. We unpack the mules, carry all the packing-gear and
provisions on our own backs to the other side, an operation requiring
steady heads and sure feet, the footway a single tree, and not even a
handrail to steady the crosser. All safely over, and no mishap.
The next operation is to swim the mules, a very simple process if
properly managed; a risky and dangerous one if due precautions are
neglected. The strength of the current must be estimated, so that the
mules may be driven up-stream far enough, to ensure their not being
washed farther down the opposite side, than where you are desirous they
should land, and the place selected for them to land should always
have a shelving shore. Supposing you have a canoe, the bell-horse,
deprived of his bell, is towed by the canoe across the stream; a
packer, standing in the canoe, keeps ringing the bell violently; the
mules, that have followed their leader to the edge of the stream, are
prevented galloping along the river-bank by the packers; at last, in
sheer despair, they dash into the water and swim towards the clanging
bell; nothing can be seen but long ears and noses, or heard save the
tinkling bell, the splashing water, and a medley of snorts, ranging
from a shrill whistle to a sound compounded of creak and groan, gasped
from the older, asthmatical, short-winded mules. If we have no canoe,
the bell-horse is ridden into the water; when the rider feels the horse
begins to swim, he grasps the mane with his left hand, floats from off
the horse’s back, swims with his legs as in ordinary swimming, whilst
with the right he splashes the water against the horse’s face, thus
keeping the animal’s head always up-stream. On reaching the opposite
side, when the horse’s feet touch the ground, the man again drops
astride, and rides it out, ringing the all-potent bell with all his
might.
I learn from my guide that a settler ‘squatted’ where we cross about
a year before, built the shanty, made the footbridge, and put in some
grain-crops; but the Indians discovered, killed, and scalped him, burnt
his shanty, and carried his wife away prisoner—not a cheering story,
considering I am going through their very strongholds.
_May 18th._—A sharp frosty morning; very cold, sleeping in the open
air. Get away soon after sun-up. Leave the flat grassy valley, and
ascend the timbered slopes of the Sis-ky-oue mountains. Follow a bad
Indian trail, through barren gorges, and along rocky ledges, for twenty
miles; observe lots of deer-tracks, but no deer. Descend the northern
slope, arrive at the Emigrant’s Ford, and come plump upon a large
encampment of Sis-ky-oue Indians. Fifteen miles to the next water; the
sun rapidly sinking; men and mules tired. At all risks, I camp near the
redskins.
The Emigrant Ford is a wide lake-like expanse of the Klamath river,
that spreads out over a level plateau on emerging from a basaltic
gorge, through which the river finds its way for some distance. The
walls of rock shutting it in being deep and almost vertical, reaching
the water in the cañon is an impossibility. As the river widens out it
shallows sufficiently for ox-teams and waggons to get through it; and,
being almost the only fordable place, was always chosen by emigrant
trains coming to Oregon and California.
The remains of half-burnt waggons and human bones still bleaching in
the sun, makes one shudder to think of the terrible fate of the weary
wanderer, cut off at this fatal spot by the Indians. Their plan was
to remain concealed until the trains were all safely through, then to
swoop down upon them, while scattered and disordered by crossing, cut
loose the oxen, kill the men, carry off the women and children, if
girls, burn the waggons, and secure all that suited them in the shape
of plunder.
The Indians near my camp were fishing in a small mountain-stream, if
baling out fish by the bucketful could be called fishing. Round-fish
(_Coregomis quadrilateralis_) and brook-trout (_Fario stellatus_) were
in such masses (I cannot find a better word) that we dipped out, with
baskets and our hands, in ten minutes, enough fish to fill two large
iron pails that we carried with us. How such hosts of fish obtain
food, or where they find room to deposit their ova, are mysteries. The
Indians were splitting and drying them in the sun strung on long peeled
rods.
_May 19th._—Had no trouble with these Indians. Hire two of them to
aid me in again crossing the Klamath river, where it runs from the
upper into the lower Klamath lake. For the first four miles we ascend
a steep mountain, rather thickly timbered. Killed a grey deer, and
saw a splendid herd of wapiti; but the bell frightened them, so I did
not get a shot. Cross the ridge, and descend on an open grassy flat,
surrounding the lower Klamath lake, which I should say, at a rough
guess, is thirty miles in circumference. It is in reality more like a
huge swamp than a lake; simply patches of open water, peeping out from
a rank growth of rushes at least twelve feet in height.
I should think this place must be the ‘head centre’ of the entire
beaver population of Oregon; in some of the patches of open water,
there certainly was not room to jam in even a tiny beaver cottage of
the humblest pretensions, although the open space occupied by the town
was many acres in extent. The trees, although a good half-mile from the
water, were felled in all directions, as if busy emigrants had been
making a clearing. The branches, lopped from the fallen trees, had been
dragged by these busy animals along the well-beaten roads, that led in
all directions, from the timber to the rushes, through which roads were
also cut, to gain an easy access to the water.
The branches, many of them large and heavy, are dragged by the
beavers—backing along the roads, two or three often assisting in
tugging a single branch—until the water is reached; then they seize
it with their chisel-like teeth, and using their powerful tails, both
as rudders and screw-propellers, float it out, to be employed in
building their dome-shaped residences. But of this more at length, when
referring to the habits of the beaver.
Wildfowl too are here, in great variety and abundance. For the first
time I see the breeding-ground of the Rough-billed Pelican (_Pelecanus
erythrorynchus_). Their nests were on the ground, amidst the rushes,
but unluckily I did not succeed in finding an egg. The nest is simply a
confused heap of rushes, with a lot of down and feathers in the centre.
On the water these huge birds swim as easily, buoyantly, and gracefully
as swans; and in fishing, do not swoop down from a height, as does the
brown pelican, but thrust their heads under water, and regularly spoon
up small fish with their immense pouched beaks.
Where could one find a more enjoyable sight, whether viewed with the
eye of a naturalist or lover of the picturesque? Before me is the reedy
swamp, with its open patches of water, glittering like mirrors in the
bright sunlight, rippled in all directions by busy beavers: some making
a hasty retreat to their castles, others swimming craftily along, crawl
on to the domes and peep at the intruder. Dozing on the sandbanks round
the margin of the pools, or paddling with ‘oary feet’ on the smooth
water, are numbers of snowy pelicans: the bright orange encircling
the eyes, and colouring the pouch, legs, and feet, looks like flame,
contrasted with the white feathers, so intensified is the color by
the brilliancy of the sun-rays. Pintails, shovellers, stockducks,
the exquisitely coloured cinnamon teal, the noisy bald-pate, and a
host of others, are either floating on the water or circling round
in pairs, quacking angry remonstrances at such an unjustifiable
prying into their nuptial haunts. Overhead, vying with the swallows
in rapidity and grace of flight, countless Terns (_Sterna Fosteri_)
whirl in mazy circles: their black heads, grey and white liveries, and
orange-yellow beaks, show to great advantage against the sombre green
of the swallows, amid which they wing their way. Behind me, and far to
the right, the Sis-ky-oue Mountains, in many a rugged peak, bound the
sky-line, their slopes descending in an unbroken surface of pine-trees
to the grassy flats at their base. To my left, the river that feeds
this rushy lake winds through the green expanse, like a line of twisted
silver, far as the eye can scan its course; along its bank my string of
mules, in dingy file, pace slowly on: the tinkle of the bell-horse, but
faintly audible, bids me hasten after them, and leave a scene the like
of which I shall never perhaps gaze on again. I did not see any nests
of the Tern, although I have but little doubt they breed about these
lakes.
Follow the stream and pass a second kind of rushy lake, not nearly
so large as the one behind, and reach the southern end of the great
Klamath lake, out of which pours a rapid stream, two hundred yards in
width, and very deep; camp on its edge, and set to work to discover
some means of crossing.
The smoke of my camp-fire has barely reached above the trees, when
Indians are seen coming from all directions, some on horseback, others
on foot; and canoes in fleets dot the lake, that stretches away until
lost in the distance, like a fresh-water ocean. I feel very uneasy. The
two Sis-ky-oues have gone, vanished mysteriously. Hastily collect dry
wood and light a circle of fires, within which I enclose my mules. I am
mobbed by ugly half-naked demons, who are evidently doubtful whether
to be friends or foes. By aid of my guide, I manage to bargain for two
canoes.
_May 20th._—Never laid down all night. Kept the packers guarding my
mules, stationing a man between each of the fires. Indians in full
force at sun-up. In two hours cross all my stores in the canoes; swim
the mules, and without any accident we are safely over the river.
This tribe, the Klamath Indians—the chief of whom, Le-lake, is a man
of considerable influence—number about 2,000, and own large herds of
horses and cattle. They are nearly always at war, and are the terror of
emigrants. The men are well-grown and muscular; they wear little more
than the breech-cloth, and most of them still use the bow and arrow.
The squaws are short in comparison with the men, and for Indians have
tolerably regular features. The men use no saddles, and a strange sight
it is to see a number of these demons nearly naked, painted from their
heads to their waists, all colours and patterns, skying and whirling
round upon their half-tamed beasts, yelling and shouting, with no
apparent object that I could discover but that of exhibiting themselves
and trying to frighten me.
The morning is dark and cloudy, with a sharp keen wind. Keep close to
the shore of the lake, which for the first fifteen miles is shut in by
high mountains. The trail winds along the side of this mountain, in
some places over bare rock, at others loose rolling stones render it
very dangerous and difficult to get over. Emerging on an open sandy
plain, about seven miles in width, we cross it, still close to the
lake. Then hill again, but not so steep. Reaching an open prairie
covered with grass, camp on a small stream, with decent wood on its
banks. During the whole day I was beset and worried by Indians riding
in among my mules, galloping forward, then back again, from one end of
the train to the other, in a most excited state.
Immediately on camping I am again thronged, so ride on to see the chief
at his lodge, about four miles from camp; having first enclosed my
mules in a ring of fires, and desired my men, in case I do not return
in two hours, to abandon the mules and escape as best they can. I find
the chief’s lodge, in the centre of a very extensive Indian village,
situated on the bank of a swift stream. All the lodges are dome-shaped;
like beaver-houses, an arched roof covers a deep pit sunk in the
ground, the entrance to which is a round hole; through it I descend
into the sable dignitary’s presence, his lodge differing from the
others only in being rather larger, and having more dogs and children
round it.
Face to face I stand alone with the dreaded chief—more like bearding
a hog in its stye than the Forest Monarch, or the Scottish Douglas,
in his stronghold. On a few filthy skins squats a flabby, red-eyed,
dirt-begrimed savage, his regal robe a ragged blanket tied round his
waist. Sot and sensualist are legibly written on his face, and greed,
cruelty, and cunning visible in every twist of the mouth and twinkle
of the piglike eyes. My heart misgives me when I think my men, the
government property, and my own life, are entirely in the hands of this
degraded beast.
Addressing him in Chinook, which he fortunately understood, I explained
what my mission was, asked him what he meant by sending armed braves in
full war-paint, without any squaws, amongst my mules and men; that I
was a ‘King George’s’ chief, and what was more, that another and a much
greater chief was awaiting my arrival on the banks of the Columbia,
and if I failed to come when so many suns had set over the hills, he
would seek me, and if harm had befallen me, would surely burn up all
the lodges, drive off the horses, kill the braves, and perhaps hang the
chief.
Handing me the all-potent pipe, he replied—‘I am your brother; my
heart is good; my people are assembling for a war-trail; I mean you no
harm. Give me two bags of flour, to pay me for the grass your mules
eat.’ This I consent to, bolt through the hole like a fox, and gallop
with all speed back to my camp. Not one word of all this do I believe;
but take additional precautions to guard my mules, and quietly await
the tide of events. About dusk the chief arrives in full war-paint,
which consists of alternate stripes of vermilion and white, arranged
in all sorts of directions, and extending from his waist to his hair.
We smoked together; the pipe passing round the circle of ‘braves’ (that
might have been more justly styled ‘ragged ruffians,’ if they had worn
clothes), the chief’s bodyguard.
The chief of course wanted everything he saw, as a present; but this,
at all hazards, I sternly refused. Finding nothing more was to be
obtained by fair means, on receiving the promised payment, he left for
the village.
The lake near which I am camped is a magnificent sheet of water, forty
miles in length, with an average breadth of fifteen, shut in by steep
hills not very heavily timbered, between which are fine open grassy
valleys. Wildfowl in swarms dot its surface, and it abounds with
fish—so the Indians tell me.
_May 21st._—Another sleepless night, morning dark; a cold icy wind
nearly freezes one’s blood; start as soon as we can see. The chief
tells me I can ford the stream near his lodge, but, doubtful of its
truth, canter on ahead of the mules, and try it. Just as I thought,
deep water; a ruse to get my mules swimming, and when scattered, to
pounce upon and steal them. Ride back towards my train, puzzled what
course to pursue. An Indian gallops from amidst the trees, chasing two
horses with a lasso, catches one, and proceeds rapidly down-stream. I
follow quietly, about a half-mile; then he rides into the river, and,
without wetting his horse’s sides, gets on the other side.
This is a grand discovery. Gallop to my train. Ride in triumph through
the ford, followed by the bell-horse and mules, and bow impudently to
the flabby old deceiver, staring at me wonderingly as I pass up the
opposite side of the stream.
Without stopping to rest, I push on over a swampy country, with little
clumps of alder and cottonwood-trees, like islands, here and there,
for twenty-four miles; keep as close as possible to the edge of the
river, until we reach a large morass, from which it heads. Here I camp.
Although I have not seen the trace of an Indian since leaving the
village, still I feel sure they will follow up my trail.
Light fires as usual, and keep strict watch over the wearied and
hungry mules. The men are tired and sleepy; but, jaded as I am in mind
and body, contrive to keep them up to their sentry-duty. They get an
alternate sleep—I get none.
_May 22nd._—Passed a miserably cold night. Blowing nearly a gale
of wind. Found all right in the morning. At daybreak get the mules
together, and begin saddling. Two mules managed to slip off about fifty
yards from us, when a sudden yell told me they were gone. The Indians
had followed, and been concealed close to me in the bush all night,
afraid to make an attack, but waiting a chance to stampede the band;
this, from my having lighted fires, and kept watch, they were prevented
from doing; however, they made good the two that strayed. I started
after them, but deemed it prudent not to go too far. They also managed
to steal a coat from my packmaster, with $100 in the pocket.
From the high water the trail through the swamp is impassable, so I
have to go round it, keeping along on the small ridges, where birch
and alder grow; continuing this for about eighteen miles, and crossing
several deep creeks and swamps, through which the poor mules are
literally dragged, get on to higher and comparatively dry land, two
miles of which brings me to the entrance of what my guide calls the
desert. The distance across it, he says, is forty miles, with but one
chance of water. Into this barren waste I did not think the Indians
would follow, so make up my mind to push on, although my men and mules
are fearfully fagged. I thought the Indians intended to pursue us to
the edge of this wilderness, and when off our guard, worn-out for want
of sleep, killing us, and driving off the band of mules.
I am in the very paradise of the prong-buck (_Antilocapra Americana_).
In bands of twenty or thirty they gallop close up to the mules,
halt, have a good look, and suddenly scent danger; the leading bucks
give a loud whistling snort, then away they all scamper, and rapidly
disappear. We shot as many as we needed, but at this time the does we
killed were heavy in fawn.
The size of the prong-buck, when fully grown, is somewhat larger than
the domestic sheep; but its legs, being proportionably much longer,
give it a greater altitude. The neck is also of greater length, and the
head carried more erect. The hind-legs are longer than the fore ones;
a wise provision, not only tending to give additional fleetness, but
materially assisting it in climbing steep precipices and rocky crags,
up and down which it bounds with astonishing speed and security.
The back is a pale dun colour; a transverse stripe between the eyes;
the lip, and each side the muzzle, and a spot beneath the ear, dark
reddish-brown; the entire underparts, the edges of the lips, a large
and most conspicuous patch on either side the tail, pure white. The
white meeting the brown of the back about midway on the sides, forms a
well-defined waving line. Horns, hoofs, and nose black. The horns (so
marked a feature in the prong-buck) are placed very far back, and much
compressed in a lateral direction to about a third of their height,
where they give out a thin triangular bracket-shaped prong, projecting
upwards and forwards. Above this snag, the horns have a shiny surface,
are rounded, and taper gradually to a sharp tip, bent into a hook. The
horns vary greatly in the males. I have sometimes shot them with the
prong hardly developed, sometimes springing from the horn near the tip,
and in others growing close to the head, where it is always uneven and
warty. The female is devoid of horns, or only has them in a rudimentary
condition.
The eyes of the prong-buck are black, large, and expressive, but not a
trace exists of a larmier or crumen, a glandular opening beneath the
eyes, so conspicuous in the generality of deer. The hoofs are narrow
and acute, but no trace exists of the supplementary hoofs usually found
in all ruminants, situated just above the pasterns, at the back of the
legs. The ears are very long, and well adapted to catch the faintest
sound. The hair is coarse, crimped or wavy; growing in a tuft on the
forehead, and during summer in a mane on the neck and back of the male.
About the posterior third of the back is an opening like the tear-gland
in the face of a deer, from which a musky-smelling secretion
continually oozes. The animal has also the power of erecting the hair
of the white patches on its rump, as a peacock spreads its tail, or
a wolf bristles its back. This power of elevating, or apparently
_puffing-out_, these snowy markings, adds immensely to the general
beauty of the prong-buck. When wooing, or striving to make the most
favourable impression on his harem of does, or when in defence of his
wives he rushes at some intrusive rival, the snowy round patches are
‘ruffed’ to treble their natural size.
The geographical distribution of the prong-buck is rather extensive.
North it is found as far as the northern branches of the Saskatchewan,
53° N. lat. It ranges over all the plains from the Missouri to the
eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains; southerly into Mexico, as far as
the mouth of the Rio Grande; through Oregon and California, and into
Washington Territory, along the banks of the Columbia, to the Spokan
river.
Their favourite haunts appear to be the grassy prairies, that extend
hundreds of miles without a break through Texas and Oregon, dotted
everywhere with small patches of timber. As the eye wanders over the
limitless tract of prairie, these small isolated belts and clumps of
trees exactly resemble beautifully-wooded islands, studding a sea of
waving grass. Here the prong-buck wanders in herds of from sixty to
seventy; naturally shy, approaching them is not by any means an easy
matter; on the least alarm the males give the shrill whistling snort,
toss their graceful heads, sniff the air, stamp with their forefeet,
then bound away like the wind; the herd circle round at first,
then wheel up again in tolerable line, have another look, and, if
apprehensive of danger, dash off, and seldom stop until safe from all
risk of harm.
There are two methods of hunting them practised by the Indians, on
horseback and on foot. If the former, three or four mounted savages,
armed with bows, arrows, and lassos, approach from different points, so
as to get a herd of antelopes between them on the open prairie. They
then ride slowly round and round the herd, each time diminishing the
circle: the terror-stricken beasts huddle closer and closer together,
and appear perfectly bewildered. When, by this manœuvre, the Indians
have approached sufficiently near, each throws his unerring lasso, then
shoots arrows at the flying herd. As many as six are often killed and
caught at one circling.
On foot the crafty savage, getting the wind of the herd, crawls along
the grass, and every now and then lies on his back, and elevates his
two legs into the air. Attached to the heel of each mocassin is a strip
of ermine-skin, which floats like a pennant. The antelopes soon notice
it, stand, and look; down go the heels, and on the Indian crawls;
and if the herd does not come towards him, he gets a little nearer.
In a short time their curiosity tempts them to approach slowly and
cautiously towards the two feet, which are performing every variety of
strange evolution. Near enough, they too soon discover their error;
the twang of the string and whistling arrow, that goes up to the
feather-end in the chest of the foremost male, warns the others to fly,
and leave their leader and king a prey to the wily redskin.
We are on the sandy waste, and right well does it merit its name
desert, for a more dismal barren wilderness cannot be imagined; its
surface is all pumice and cinders, with nothing growing on it but a
few sage-bushes and dwarfed junipers. Every step the animals make is
fetlock-deep; and dust, that nearly chokes and blinds us, comes from
every direction. On, and on, and on we go, but no change, no hope of
water.
Just before dark—when I begin to think I have been guilty of an awful
mistake, and brought needless misery on both men and animals—I push
ahead of the train, in hope of finding water, for the guide is utterly
lost. Suddenly I descry the tracks of the prong-buck in the sand;
hope revives, water must be near at hand! Carefully I follow on their
tracks, that lead down a sloping bank of scoria, and slags of lava,
through a narrow gorge, with rocks on either side that look as if they
had been burnt in a limekiln—to come out into a narrow valley, where
the sight of trees, grass, and water makes my heart leap with delight.
Back I spur to meet the lagging train, toiling on, parched with
thirst, blinded with dust; hungry, weary, and exhausted. I guide them
to the valley, and at the sight of water, men and mules seem to gain
new life, rush wildly towards it, plunge in, and drink as only the
thirst-famished can. Unsaddle and let the mules feed for two hours,
then light five fires, and keep them closely herded, although I have
but very little dread of farther pursuit. Supped on grilled antelope,
and got a few hours’ sleep.
_May 23rd._—All safe; no sign of being followed. Off at dawn; fifteen
miles more of this horrid waste, and we begin ascending a ridge of
mountains, which I find is the watershed of the streams flowing into
the Columbia on one side and into the Klamath river on the other;
strike the headwaters of the Des Chutes or Fall river, and camp in a
fine grassy prairie belted with pine—the _Pinus ponderosa_. Here I
determine to remain two days, to allow resting-time for men and animals.
_May 25th._—All wonderfully recruited; rest and good feeding soon
repair a healthy body, be it man’s or quadruped’s. I stroll off with my
gun, and observe that numbers of the pine-trees are completely studded
with acorns, just as nails with large heads were driven into doors in
olden days. I had seen a piece of the bark filled with acorns in San
Francisco, and was there informed it was the work of a woodpecker,
but, to tell the truth, thought I was being hoaxed; but here I am in
the midst of dozens of trees, with acorns sticking out all over their
trunks; it is no hoax, for I saw the birds that did it, and shot two
of them. This singular acorn-storer is the Californian woodpecker
(_Melanerpes formicivorus_), evidently of very social habits. They
assemble in small flocks, climbing rapidly along the rough bark of the
pitch-pine, rapping here and there, with their wedgelike beaks, to
scare some drowsy insect; inducing it to rush out, to be nipped, or
speared, with the barbed tongue, ere half-awake; others, sitting on the
topmost branches of the oaks and pines, continually darted off after
some fugitive moth or other winged insect, capturing it much in the
fashion of the flycatchers. The harsh and discordant voice is made up
for in beauty of plumage. A tuft of scarlet feathers crowns the head,
and contrasts brilliantly with the glossy bottle-green of the back
and neck; a white patch on the forehead joins, by a narrow isthmus of
white, with a necklet of golden-yellow; the throat is dark-green, and
the underparts of a pure white.
As I look over these stores of acorns, I am at a loss to think for
what purpose the birds place them in the holes. In Cassin’s ‘Birds of
America’ he quotes from Dr. Heerman and Mr. Kelly’s ‘Excursions in
California.’ Both writers positively state that these birds stow away
acorns for winter provisions, and the latter that he has seen them
doing it: ‘I have frequently paused from my chopping to watch them with
the acorns in their bills, and have admired the adroitness with which
they tried it at different holes, until they found one of its exact
calibre.’
I have seen the acorns in the holes, and the birds that are said to
put them there, and have no right to doubt the statements of other
observers; but it seems strange to me, that I cannot find a single
acorn exhibiting any evidence of being eaten during the winter. These
were stored on the previous fall; winter has passed away, and yet not a
seed has been eaten, as far as I can see. I opened the stomachs of the
two birds I shot, but not a trace of vegetable matter was in either of
them. Subsequently I killed and examined the stomachs of a great many
specimens, but never detected anything save insect remains.
Does this woodpecker _ever_ eat acorns? I think _not_. More than
this, when the insects die, or go to sleep during the cold, snowy,
biting winter months, the woodpeckers, like all other sensible birds,
go southwards, and have no need to store up a winter supply, as do
quasi-hibernating mammals. Then it occurred to me, that if they really
do take the trouble to bore holes, a work of great time and labour,
and into every hole carefully drive a _sound_ acorn that they never
make any use of, it is simply idle industry. As a rule, birds are not
such thriftless creatures. I had no opportunity of watching the birds
in acorn-time—hence this storing is still to me a mystery that needs
further explanation.
I came suddenly on a flock of yellow-headed blackbirds (_Xanthocephalus
icterocephalus_), sitting on a clump of bushes skirting a small
pool. As they sit amidst the bright-green foliage, they remind me
of blossoms; the intense black of the body-plumage shows out so
conspicuously against the orangelike yellow of the head, that the
colours seem too defined for a bird’s livery, and more like the freaks
of colouring Nature indulges in when tinting orchideous flowers. I
imagine this to be their utmost range northwards, for I never saw them
after, although they are frequent visitors to Texas, Illinois, and
Mexico. Strike the trail of a grizzly, follow it for some distance, but
fail in coming up with my large-clawed friend.
_May 26th._—I find I shall have to ferry the Des Chutes river. Send on
four of my men ahead, to collect timber for a raft. Find, on arriving
at the river-bank, that a heap of dry timber has been collected.
With axes and an auger—and here let me advise all who travel with
packhorses or mules never to go without a three-inch auger—we soon
build a raft 12 feet long by 6½ feet wide; the timber is fastened
together with wooden trenails.
The stream makes a bend at this spot, and does not run quite so
swiftly, about eighty yards wide, with a dry bank on the side we are,
but swampy on the opposite. We launch our raft; she floats like a
boat, make ropes fast to her, and stow a coil on board; with one man I
commence crossing, paddling with rough oars hewn from a pine-branch.
They pay-out rope as we near the opposite bank; twice we whirl round,
and come very near being a wreck, but right again. We are over. Now we
make fast our rope, and the men on the other side haul her back; and
thus we tug her from side to side, heavily freighted; we have made a
very successful crossing, neither losing nor damaging anything. The
mules swam the river, and also got safely over.
_May 27th._—Fine morning: made an early start; kept close along on
the course of the river for about twenty miles, following a ridge
lightly timbered. The opposite or east bank is an enormous mass of
black basaltic rock, extending several miles in length. The top is
like a table, reaching as far as one could see, quite black, and not
the vestige of a plant visible. The black expanse had exactly the
appearance of a bed of rocks, over which the tide ebbed and flowed.
Crossed a creek fifteen miles from camp, deep and swift, and about
fifteen yards wide; five miles beyond this cross another creek, about
half the size. Leave the timber and come out on a wide sandy kind of
desert, covered with wild-sage and stunted juniper-trees, frightfully
dusty, and most tiresome for the mules; no chance of camping until
quite over it, which is twenty miles. After a weary march reach a
creek, where I stop; a capital camping-ground, with fine grass and
water. Passed close along the bases of the Three Sisters, lofty
mountains, at this time covered with snow. Saw a great many abandoned
lodges, but no Indians. The sandy places were quite alive with the
Oregon horned toad (_Tapaya Douglassii_), which is a lizard really very
harmless, and particularly ugly. Every stream too was thronged with
beaver.
_May 28th._—Mules all in at 4 A.M. Got off in good time: weather
not nearly so cold. Looked over the creek, but saw no gold, but any
quantity of beaver-workings; trees four feet round had been cut down by
them. Passed through a tract of lightly-timbered land and open grassy
valleys; crossed a small creek about eight miles from camp, descending
rapidly all the way for about eighteen miles.
Came on to the top of a high basaltic mountain, that seemed to offer an
almost perpendicular descent into a deep gorge or _cañon_. I rode right
and left, but discovering no better place, down we went; how the mules
managed to scramble to the bottom without falling head over heels I
know not, but we got safely down. I believe it would have been utterly
impossible to have got up over it a second time. Through the gorge ran
a large swift stream, called by the Indians Wychus creek, in which we
found a good fording-place and got over it; safely camped about a mile
below the place we forded. The camp was completely shut in by almost
vertical cliffs of basalt and tuffa, covered thickly with what I take
to be ancient river-drift; the cliffs were, I should say, quite 100
feet high.
The great black _butte_ down which we scrambled was a volcano, and
an active one too, not a very long time ago; streams of lava, just
like slag, that had run in a molten state as if from out a huge glass
furnace, reached from its summit to its base; and the red cindery
earth, on either side this congealed stream, told plainly enough
how fearfully hot it must have been. One would imagine this district
was entirely volcanic, the great desert-waste we crossed being
composed of pumice, scoria, and ashes. Perhaps these lesser hills were
safety-valves to the more conspicuous mountains in the coast-range of
British Columbia and Washington Territory—Mounts Baker, Rainier, St.
Helens, and others.
Several pillars, composed of a kind of conglomerate, quite away from
all the surrounding rocks, stand as if man had hewn or rather built
them—ghostly obelisks, that have a strange and unusual look. I suppose
the portions that once joined them to the mass, from which they were
detached, must have been crumbled off by Time’s fingers, and these
solitary pedestals left as records. Round them, too, were scores of
tiny heaps of boulders, built, as I am informed, by the Snake Indians,
who suppose these pillars are the remains of spirits that have been
turned into stone; but for what object they really pile up these
little altars I could never discover, though the Indians tell you as a
powerful ‘_medicine_’; but who can say what that means?
_May 29th._—All night it rained in torrents, and I do not think I
ever saw so dark a night; the rain put out all our fires, and I could
neither see men or mules, although close to them. Got the mules
together at 7 A.M., but did not make an early start, in consequence
of the men being tired from want of sleep: we managed to start at
eight o’clock. Our first task was to get out of the gorge. It was a
most tedious and even dangerous job, for the ground was loose, and
constantly broke away from under the mules’ feet, but at last we
managed to scramble to the top.
For twenty miles farther it was a continued series of uphill and
downhill, all loose basaltic ground, and very hard to travel over.
Descending a long sandy hill we came to an Indian reserve (the Warm
Spring reservation) and we encamp. The house is a large quadrangular
building of squared blocks, loopholed for shooting through. Six white
men live here, and the Indians on the reservation are the Des Chutes
tribe; they cultivate a small quantity of ground very badly. All hands
are in a great state of ferment. A band of Snake Indians have just made
a raid on the reservation, driven off seventeen head of stock, and are
hourly expected to return. This is cheering, considering I must pass
the night here. But, luckily, no Indians came.
_May 30th._—I should be seventy miles from the camp I am to join;
start with one man as a companion at three o’clock in the morning. The
silver stream of light from the unclouded moon illumines the trail we
follow as brightly as sunshine. The mules are to follow. As day dawns
an open plain is seen, spreading far away right and left, and along it
a horseman gallops towards us.
As he nears I make him out to be an Indian on a skewbald horse. We
stop and parley, and I find he is a Snake scout; both horse and rider
are splendid specimens of their kind. A circle of eagle’s feathers
fastened to the skin of the ermine surrounds his head, and long raven
black hair covers his neck: a scarlet blanket, elaborately beaded,
hangs from his shoulders; a broad wampum-belt contains his knife and
powder-horn, and in his right hand he bears a rifle. But very little
paint daubs his shining-red skin, through which every muscle stands out
as if cast in bronze; he is a handsome savage, if there ever was one.
As we ride in opposite directions, I cannot help thinking that men and
mules will stand but little chance if all the Snakes are like to this
sable warrior. Reached a cabin at the Tye creek after doing forty-five
miles, where we remained for the night.
_May 31st._—Ride in amidst the tents of the Commission, anxiously
awaiting my arrival. The following day men and mules arrive safely. So
ended my journey through the wilder part of Oregon, having accomplished
a hazardous, wearisome journey, making my way a distance of several
hundred miles without any trails, or, if any, simply trails used by
Indians to reach their hunting or fishing-grounds; sleeping during
the whole time in the open air, a saddle my only pillow. Apart from
the anxiety, harass, and want of rest, and the necessity of guarding
against the hostile Klamaths, to save the mules and our scalps, we all
enjoyed the journey thoroughly, not even a cold resulting from the
exposure.