TRIP THROUGH THE NATCHESS PASS.
The latter part of August, 1854, James K. Hurd, of Olympia, sent me
word that he had been out on the immigrant trail and heard that some
of my relations on the road were belated and short of provisions. He
advised me that I should go to their assistance, and particularly if
I wanted to be sure they should come direct to Puget Sound over the
Cascade Mountains, and not go down the Columbia River into Oregon.
How it could be, with the experience of my brother Oliver to guide
them, that my people should be in the condition described was past
my comprehension. However, I accepted the statement as true and
particularly felt the importance of their having certain knowledge as
to prevailing conditions of an over-mountain trip through the Natchess
Pass. But how could I go and leave wife and two babies on our island
home? The summer had been spent clearing land and planting crops,
and my finances were very low. To remove my family would cost money,
besides the abandonment of the season's work to almost a certain
destruction. The wife said at once, and without a moment's hesitation,
to go, and she and Mrs. Darrow, who was with us as nurse and companion
friend, would stay "right where we are until you get back," with a
confidence in which I did not share. The trip at best was hazardous
to an extent, even when undertaken well prepared and with company. So
far as I could see, I might have to go on foot and pack my food and
blanket on my back, and I knew that I would have to go alone. I knew
some work had been done on the road during the summer, but was unable
to get definite information as to whether any camps were yet left in
the mountains, and did not have that abiding faith in my ability to get
back that rested in the breast of the little, courageous wife, but I
dared not impart my forebodings to harass and intensify her fears and
disturb her peace of mind while absent. The immigration the previous
year, as related elsewhere, had encountered formidable difficulties
in the mountains, narrowly escaping the loss of everything, if not
facing actual starvation. Reports were current that the government
appropriation for a military road had been expended, and that the road
was passable for teams, but a like report had been freely circulated
the previous year, with results almost disastrous to those attempting
to come through. I could not help feeling that possibly the same
conditions yet existed. The only way to determine the question was to
go and see for myself; meet my father's party and pilot them through
the pass.
It was on the third day of September of 1854 that I left home. I had
been planting turnips for two days, and made a memorandum of the date,
and by that fix the date of my departure. Of that turnip crop I shall
have more to say later, as it had a cheering effect upon the incoming
immigrants.
At Steilacoom there was a character then understood by few, and I may
say by not even many to the end, in whom, somehow, I had implicit
confidence. Dr. J. B. Webber, afterwards of the firm of Balch & Webber,
of Steilacoom, the largest shipping and mercantile firm on the Sound,
was a very eccentric man. Between him and myself there would seem
to be a gulf that could not be closed. Our habits of life were as
diametrically opposite as possible for two men to be. He was always
drinking; never sober, neither ever drunk. I would never touch a drop,
while the doctor would certainly drink a dozen times a day, just a
little at a time, but seemingly tippling all the time. Then, he openly
kept an Indian woman in defiance of the sentiment of all the families
of the community. It was with this man that I entrusted the safekeeping
of my little family. I knew my wife had such an aversion to this class
that I did not even tell her with whom I would arrange to look out for
her welfare, but suggested another to whom she might apply in case of
need. I knew Dr. Webber for long years afterwards, and until the day
of his horrible death with delirium tremens, and never had my faith
shaken as to the innate goodness of the man. Why these contrary traits
of character should be, I cannot say, but so it was. His word was as
good as his bond, and his impulses were all directly opposite to his
personal habits. Twice a week an Indian woman visited the cabin on the
island, always with some little presents and making inquiries about the
babies and whether there was anything needed, with the parting "alki
nika keelapie" (by and by I will return); and she did, every few days
after my absence.
When I spoke to Webber about what I wanted, he seemed pleased to be
able to do a kind act, and, to reassure me, got out his field glasses
and turned it on the cabin across the water, three miles distant.
Looking through it intently for a moment and handing the glass to me,
said, "I can see everything going on over there, and you need have no
uneasiness about your folks while gone," and I did not.
With a 50-pound flour sack filled with hard bread, or navy biscuit,
a small piece of dried venison, a couple of pounds of cheese, a tin
cup and half of a three point blanket, all made into a pack of less
than forty pounds, I climbed the hill at Steilacoom and took the road
leading to Puyallup, and spent the night with Jonathan McCarty, near
where the town of Sumner now is.
McCarty said: "You can't get across the streams on foot; I will let you
have a pony. He is small, but sure-footed, and hardy, and will in any
event carry you across the rivers." McCarty also said: "Tell your folks
this is the greatest grass country on earth; why, I am sure I harvested
five tons of timothy to the acre this year." Upon my expressing a
doubt, he said he knew he was correct by the measurement of the mow in
the barn and the land. In after years, I came to know he was correct,
though at the time I could not help but believe he was mistaken.
The next day found me on the road with my blanket under the saddle, my
sack of hard bread strapped on behind the saddle, and myself mounted to
ride on level stretches of the road, or across streams, of which, as
will appear later, I had full forty crossings to make, but had only one
ahead of me the first day. That one, though, as the Englishman would
say, was a "nasty" one, across White River at Porter's place.
White River on the upper reaches is a roaring torrent only at all
fordable in low water and in but few places. The rush of waters can be
heard for a mile or more from the high bluff overlooking the narrow
valley, or rather canyon, and presented a formidable barrier for a
lone traveler. The river bed is full of boulders worn rounded and
smooth and slippery, from the size of a man's head to very much larger,
thus making footing for animals uncertain. After my first crossing,
I dreaded those to come, which I knew were ahead of me, more than
all else of the trip, for a misstep of the pony meant fatal results
in all probability. The little fellow, though, seemed to be equal
to the occasion. If the footing became too uncertain, he would stop
stock still, and pound the water with one foot and finally reach out
carefully until he could find secure footing, and then move up a step
or two. The water of the river is so charged with the sediment from the
glaciers above, that the bottom could not be seen—only felt—hence the
absolute necessity of feeling one's way. It is wonderful, the sagacity
or instinct or intelligence, or whatever we may call it, manifested by
the horse. I immediately learned that my pony could be trusted on the
fords better than myself, thereafter I held only a supporting, but not
a guiding rein, and he carried me safely over the forty crossings on my
way out, and my brother as many on the return trip.
Allen Porter lived near the first crossing, on the farther side, and
as this was the last settler I would see and the last place I could
get feed for my pony, other than grass or browse, I put up for the
night under his roof. He said I was going on a "Tom fool's errand,"
for my folks could take care of themselves, and tried to dissuade me
from proceeding on my journey. But I would not be turned back and the
following morning cut loose from the settlements and, figuratively
speaking, plunged into the deep forest of the mountains.
The road (if it could be properly called a road) lay in the narrow
valley of White River, or on the mountains adjacent, in some places
(as at Mud Mountain) reaching an altitude of more than a thousand feet
above the river bed. Some places the forest was so dense that one could
scarcely see to read at midday, while in other places large burns gave
an opening for daylight.
During the forenoon of this first day, while in one of those deepest
of deep forests, where, if the sky was clear, and one could catch a
spot you could see out overhead, one might see the stars as from a deep
well, my pony stopped short, raised his head with his ears pricked
up, indicating something unusual was at hand. Just then I caught an
indistinct sight of a movement ahead, and thought I heard voices, while
the pony made an effort to turn and flee in the opposite direction.
Soon there appeared three women and eight children on foot, coming
down the road in blissful ignorance of the presence of any one but
themselves in the forest.
"Why, stranger! Where on earth did you come from? Where are you going
to, and what are you here for?" was asked by the foremost woman of the
party, in such quick succession as to utterly preclude any answer,
as she discovered me standing on the roadway holding my uneasy pony.
Mutual explanations soon followed. I soon learned their teams had
become exhausted, and that all the wagons but one had been left, and
this one was on the road a few miles behind them; that they were
entirely out of provisions and had had nothing to eat for twenty hours,
except what natural food they had gathered, which was not much. They
eagerly inquired the distance to food, which I thought they might
possibly reach that night, but in any event the next morning early.
Meanwhile I had opened my sack of hard bread and gave each a cracker,
in the eating of which the sound resembled pigs cracking dry, hard corn.
Of those eleven persons, I only know of but one now alive, although, of
course, the children soon outgrew my knowledge of them, but they never
forgot me.
Mrs. Anne Fawcet, the spokesman of the party, I knew well in after
years, and although now eighty years old[6] (she will pardon me for
telling her age), is living in good circumstances a mile out from
the town of Auburn, nearly twenty miles south of Seattle, and but a
couple of miles from the scene of the dreadful massacre at the outbreak
leading to the Indian war of 1855, where the gallant Lieutenant
Slaughter lost his life.
Mrs. Fawcet can scarcely be called a typical pioneer woman, yet there
were many approaching her ways. She was of too independent a character
to be molded into that class; too self-reliant to be altogether like
her neighbor housewives; and yet was possessed of those sturdy virtues
so common with the pioneer—industry and frugality, coupled with
unbounded hospitality. The other ladies of the party, Mrs. Herpsberger
and Mrs. Hall, I never knew afterwards, and have no knowledge as to
their fate, other than that they arrived safely in the settlement.
But we neither of us had time to parley or visit, and so the ladies
with their children, barefoot and ragged, bareheaded and unkempt,
started down the mountain intent on reaching food, while I started up
the road wondering or not whether this scene was to be often repeated
as I advanced on my journey. A dozen biscuits of hard bread is usually
a very small matter, but with me it might mean a great deal. How far
would I have to go? When could I find out? What would be the plight of
my people when found? Or would I find them at all? Might they not pass
by and be on the way down the Columbia River before I could reach the
main immigrant trail? These and kindred questions weighed heavily on my
mind as I slowly and gradually ascended the mountain.
Some new work on the road gave evidence that men had recently been
there, but the work was so slight one could easily believe immigrants
might have done it as they passed. Fifteen thousand dollars had been
appropriated by Congress for a military road, which report said would
be expended in improving the way cut by the immigrants and citizens
through the Natchess Pass during the summer of 1853. I saw some of the
work, but do not remember seeing any of the men, as I stuck close to
the old trail, and so my first camp was made alone, west of the summit
and without special incident. I had reached an altitude where the
night chill was keenly felt, and, with my light blanket, missed the
friendly contact of the back of the faithful ox that had served me so
well on the plains. My pony had nothing but browse for supper, and was
restless. Nevertheless I slept soundly and was up early, refreshed and
ready to resume the journey.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] Since these lines were penned the good lady died at the age of 88.