CRUISE ON PUGET SOUND.
By the time the tide had turned, night had come and we were in a
quandary as to what to do; whether to camp in our boat, or to start
out on unknown waters in the dark. Our Indian visitors began making
preparations to proceed on their journey, and assured us it was all
right ahead, and offered to show us the way to good camping grounds in
a big bay where the current was not strong, and where we would find a
great number of Indians in camp.
It did not occur to us to have any fear of the Indians We did not
at all depend on our prowess or personal courage, but felt that we
were among friends. We had by this time come to know the general
feeling existing between Indians and whites, and that there was no
trouble, as a class, whatever there might be as to individuals. I do
not want my reader to understand we thought we were doing an heroic
act in following a strange party of Indians into unknown waters and
into an unknown camp of the natives after dark, or that I think so
now. There was no danger ahead of us other than that incident to the
attempt of navigating such waters with so frail a boat, and one so
unsuited in shape as well as build, for rough waters, and by persons so
inexperienced on the water.
Sure enough, a short pull with a favorable current, brought us through
the Narrows and into Commencement Bay and in sight of numerous camp
fires in the distance. Our Indian friends lazily paddled along in
company, while we labored vigorously with our oars as we were by this
time in a mood to find a camp where we could have a fire and prepare
some food. I remember that camp quite vividly, though cannot locate it
exactly, but know that it was on the water front within the present
limits of the city of Tacoma. A beautiful small rivulet came down a
ravine and spread out on the beach, and I can remember the shore line
was not precipitous and that it was a splendid camping ground. The
particular thing I do remember is our supper of fresh salmon. Of all
the delicious fish known, give me the salmon caught by trolling in
early summer in the deep waters of Puget Sound; so fat that the excess
of oil must be turned out of the pan while cooking. We had not then
learned the art of cooking on the spit, or at least, did not practice
it. We had scarcely gotten our camp fire under way before a salmon was
offered us, but I cannot recall what we paid, but I know it was not a
high price, else we would not have purchased. At the time we did not
know but trolling in deep water for this king of fish was the only way,
but afterwards learned of the enormous quantities taken by the seine
direct from salt water.
Two gentlemen, Messrs. Swan and Riley, had established themselves on
the bay, and later in the season reported taking two thousand large
fish at one haul with their seine, three-fourths of which were salmon.
As I have a fish story of my own to tell of our experience later, I
will dismiss the subject for the present.
We were now in the bay, since made famous in history by that observing
traveler, Theodore Winthrop, who came from the north a few months
later, and saw the great mountain, "a cloud compeller," reflected in
the placid waters of the Sound, "Tacoma"[4] as he wrote, Rainier, as we
saw it. A beautiful sight it was and is whatever the name, but to us it
was whatever others said it was, while Winthrop, of a poetic mind, was
on the alert for something new under the sun, if it be no more than a
name for a great mountain.
Winthrop came in September, while we were in the bay in June, thus
ante-dating his trip by three months or more. To Winthrop belongs the
honor of originating the name Tacoma from some word claimed to have
been spoken by the Indians as the name of the mountain. As none of the
pioneers ever heard the word until many years afterwards, and not then
until after the posthumous publication of Winthrop's works ten years
after his visit, I incline to the opinion that Winthrop coined the word
out of his imaginative brain.
[Illustration: Mount Tacoma.]
We again caught sight of the mountain the next day, as we approached
the tide flats off the mouth of the Puyallup River. We viewed the
mountain with awe and admiration, but gave no special heed to it, more
than to many other new scenes engaging our attention. It was land we
wanted whereby we might stake a claim, and not scenery to tickle our
fancy. Yet, I doubt if there lives a man, or ever did, who has seen
that great mountain, but has been inspired with higher thoughts, and
we may say higher aspirations, or who has ever tired looking upon this
grand pile, the father of five great rivers.
We floated into the mouth of the Puyallup River with a vague feeling
as to its value, but did not proceed far until we were interrupted by
a solid drift of monster trees and logs, extending from bank to bank
up the river for a quarter of a mile or more. We were told by the
Indians there were two other like obstructions a few miles farther up
the river, and that the current was "de-late-hyas-skoo-kum," which
interpreted means that the current was very strong. We found this to be
literally true during the next two or three days we spent on the river.
We secured the services of an Indian and his canoe to help us up the
river, and left our boat at the Indian's camp near the mouth.
The tug of two days to get six miles up the river, the unloading of our
outfit three times to pack it over cut-off trails, and the dragging
of our canoe around the drifts, is a story of constant toil with
consequent discouragement, not ending until we camped on the bank of
the river within the present limits of the little thriving city of
Puyallup, founded afterwards by me on a homestead claim taken many
years later. The little city now contains over six thousand inhabitants
and is destined to contain many thousand more in the lapse of time.
The Puyallup Valley at that time was a solitude. No white settlers were
found, though it was known two, who lived with Indian women, had staked
claims and made some slight improvements—a man by the name of Hayward,
near where the town of Sumner is now located, and William Benson, on
the opposite side of the river, and a mile distant from the boundaries
of Puyallup. An Indian trail led up the river from Commencement Bay,
and one westward to the Nisqually plains, over which pack animals could
pass, but as to wagon roads, there were none, and as to whether a
feasible route for one could be found only time with much labor could
determine.
When we retraced our steps, and on the evening of the third day landed
again at the mouth of the river after a severe day's toil of packing
around drifts and hauling the canoe overland past drifts, it was
evident we were in no cheerful mood. Oliver did not sing as usual while
preparing for camp, or rally with sallies of wit and humor as he was
wont to do when in a happy mood. Neither did I have much to say, but
fell to work mechanically preparing the much needed meal, which we ate
in silence, and forthwith wrapped ourselves in our blankets for the
night, but not for immediate slumber.
We had crossed the two great states of Illinois and Iowa, over hundreds
of miles of unoccupied prairie land as rich as anything that "ever laid
out of doors," on our way from Indiana to Oregon, in search of land on
which to make a home, and here, at what we might say "at the end of our
rope" had found the land, but under such adverse conditions that seemed
almost too much to overcome. It was a discouraging outlook, even if
there had been roads. Such timber! It seemed an appalling undertaking
to clear it, the greater portion being covered with a heavy growth of
balm and alder trees, and thick tangle of underbrush besides, and so,
when we did fall to sleep that night, it was without visions of new
found wealth.
And yet, later, I did tackle a quarter section of that heaviest
timber land, and never let up until the last tree, log, stump, and
root disappeared, though of course, not all of it by my own hands.
Nevertheless, with a goodly part, I did say, come, boys, and went into
the thickest of the work.
But, of the time of which I am writing, there was more to consider
than the mere clearing, which we estimated would take thirteen years
of solid work for one man to clear a quarter-section; the question of
going where absolutely there were no neighbors, no roads, no help to
open them, and in fact, without a knowledge as to whether a feasible
route could be found, compelled us to decide against locating.
A small factor came in to be considered. Such swarms of mosquitoes
we had never seen before. These we felt would make life a burden,
forgetting that as the country became opened they would disappear.
I may relate here a curious phenomenon brought to light by after
experience. My donation claim was finally located on high table land,
where no surface water could be found in summer for miles around, and
there were swarms of mosquitoes, while on the Puyallup homestead taken
later, six miles from the mouth of the river, and where water lay on
the surface, in spots, the whole summer long, we seldom saw one of
these pests there. I never could account for this, and have long since
ceased to try; I only know it was so.
If we could have but known what was coming four months later, doubt
not, notwithstanding our discouragement, we would have remained and
searched the valley diligently for the choicest locations. In October
following, there came the first immigrants that ever crossed the
Cascade Mountains, and located in a body nearly all of the whole
valley, and before the year was ended had a rough wagon road out to the
prairies and to Steilacoom, the county seat.
As I will give an account of the struggles and trials of these people
later in this work, I will here dismiss the subject by saying that no
pioneer who settled in the Puyallup Valley, and stuck to it, failed
finally to prosper and gain a competence.
We lingered at the mouth of the river in doubt as to what best to do.
My thoughts went back to the wife and baby in the lonely cabin on the
Columbia River, and then again to that bargain we had made before
marriage that we were going to be farmers, and how could we be farmers
if we did not have the land? Under the donation act we could hold three
hundred and twenty acres, but we must live on it for four years, and
so it behooved us to look out and secure our location before the act
expired, which would occur the following year. So, with misgivings and
doubts, we finally, on the fourth day, loaded our outfit into our skiff
and floated out on the receding tide, whither, we did not know.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Winthrop, in his delightful book, "The Canoe and the Saddle,"
describing his trip from Port Townsend to Nisqually, in September,
1853, says:
"We had rounded a point and opened Puyallup Bay, a breath of sheltered
calmness, when I, lifting sleepy eyelids for a dreamy stare about, was
suddenly aware of a vast white shadow in the water. What cloud, piled
massive on the horizon, could cast an image so sharp in outline, so
full of vigorous detail of surface? No cloud, as my stare, no longer
dreamy, presently discovered—no cloud, but a cloud compeller. It was a
giant mountain dome of snow, swelling and seeming to fill the aerial
spheres as its image displaced the blue deeps of tranquil water.
The smoky haze of an Oregon August hid all the length of its lesser
ridges, and left this mighty summit based upon uplifting dimness. Only
its splendid snows were visible, high in the unearthly regions of
blue noonday sky. The shore line drew a cincture of pines across its
broad base, where it faded unreal into the mist. The same dark girth
separated the peak from its reflection, over which my canoe was now
pressing, and sending wavering swells to scatter the beautiful vision
before it.
"Kindly and alone stood this majesty, without any visible consort,
though far to the north and to the south its brethren and sisters
dominated their realms, each in isolated sovereignty, rising from
the pine-darkened sierra of the Cascade Mountains—above the stern
chasm where the Columbia, Achilles of rivers, sweeps, short lived
and jubilant, to the sea—above the lovely valley of the Willamette
and Ningua. Of all the peaks from California to Frazier River, this
one was royalest. Mount Regnier, Christians have dubbed it in stupid
nomenclature, perpetuating the name of somebody or nobody. More
melodiously the Siwashes call it Tacoma—a generic term, also applied to
all snow peaks."