THE DALLES, OREGON.
I quote from my journal:
"The Dalles, Oregon, Camp No. 16, March 10.—Arrived last night all in
a muss, with load out of the wagon, but the mate had his men put the
bed on, and a number of the willing boys helped to tumble all loose
articles into the wagon while Goebel arranged them, leaving the boxes
for a second load. Drove nearly three-quarters of a mile to a camping
ground near the park, selected by the citizens; surprised to find the
streets muddy. Cattle impatient and walked very fast, necessitating my
tramping through the mud at their heads. Made second load while Goebel
put up the tent, and went to bed at 10:00 o'clock, which was as soon as
things were arranged for the night. No supper or even tea, as we did
not build a fire. It was clear last night, but raining this morning,
which turned to sleet and snow at 9:00 o'clock.
"March 11.—Heavy wind last night that threatened to bring cold weather;
ice formed in the camp half an inch thick; damper of stove out of
order, which, with the wind, drove the smoke out of the stove and
filled the tent full of smoke, making life miserable. In consequence of
the weather, the dedication ceremonies were postponed."
Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the landmark
committee that upon my arrival at The Dalles I would be pleased to
have their co-operation to secure funds to erect a monument in their
city. What should they do but put their heads together and provide one
already inscribed and in place and notify me that I had been selected
to deliver the dedicatory address, and that it was expected the whole
city would turn out to witness the ceremonies. But, alas, the fierce
cold wind spoiled all their well-laid plans, for the dedication had to
be postponed. Finally, upon short notice, the stone was duly dedicated
on the 12th of March, with a few hundred people in attendance with
their wraps and overcoats.
Before leaving Seattle I had the oxen shod, for which I was charged the
unmerciful price of $15, but they did such a poor job that by the time
I arrived at The Dalles all the shoes but one were off the Dave ox, and
several lost off Twist, and the remainder loose, and so I was compelled
to have the whole of the work done over again at The Dalles.
This time the work was well done, all the shoes but one staying on for
a distance of 600 miles, when we threw the Dave ox to replace the lost
shoe, there being no stocks at hand. The charge at The Dalles was $10,
thus making quite an inroad upon the scant funds for the expedition.
I felt compelled to have them again shod at Kemmerer, Wyoming, 848
miles out from The Dalles, but soon lost several shoes, and finally at
Pacific Springs had the missing shoes replaced by inexperienced hands,
who did a good job, though, for the shoes stayed on until well worn.
OUT FROM THE DALLES.
At 3:30 p. m. on March 14 I drove out from The Dalles. I have always
felt that here was the real starting point, as from here there could be
no more shipping, but all driving. By rail, it is 1,734 miles from The
Dalles to Omaha, where our work on the old Trail ends. By wagon road
the distance is greater, but not much, probably 1,800 miles. The load
was heavy as well as the roads. With a team untrained to the road, and
one ox unbroken, and no experienced ox driver, and the grades heavy,
small wonder if a feeling of depression crept over me. On some long
hills we could move up but one or two lengths of the wagon and team
at a time, and on level roads, with the least warm sun, the unbroken
ox would poke out his tongue. He was like the young sprig just out of
school, with muscles soft and breath short.
[Illustration: The First Boulder Marked.]
CAMP 27—MARCH 27.
As we drew into camp a young man with eight horses approached the
creek. "What do you do with so many horses, lad?" I queried, as the
drove passed with their heads down and traces dangling around their
bodies. "Why, I have been harrowing in wheat today, up on the hill;
it's pretty tough work at that." "No, you see our horses are not
large," responding to an inquiry about eight horses to one harrow,
"and besides you see they are not in very good condition; the fact is,
our feed has run short and we have put them on short rations," and
the horses looked it, with their heads down as they came away from
the creek. "Why, we usually harrow 35 acres for a full day's work,
sometimes; but 40 acres is called a big day's run." "Yes, I can plow
seven acres a day, which is a fair day's work—too much, perhaps, with
this team, but with a good, strong team one can easily turn over eight
acres." "Let me see," he continued, in response to further inquiries;
"let me see. I think with what winter wheat we have in there'll be over
400 acres; we expect a yield of 20 bushels an acre, but some have got
as high as 30." "Why, we got a dollar last year right here," this in
response to a question as to price.
A nearby neighbor who had 600 acres in wheat said they expected a good
yield this year as there "had been 14 inches rainfall already for the
season, while the average was but 10."
"Well, of course it's a pretty good business with wheat at a dollar,"
which was in evidence at the next camp where a new fifteen hundred
dollar automobile was snugly housed ready for use. This man had 1,200
acres of land. "Why, yes, of course we have neighbors; Neighbor R——
lives but two miles off and then there's Neighbor B—— not three."
When reminded that when I was a boy anyone living three miles away was
considered out of the neighborhood: "Yes, but things is different in
Oregon," which I readily admitted, having just passed a schoolhouse
with but seven scholars, and remembered the six hundred or eight
hundred and twelve hundred acre farms we had passed.
I was also reminded of my boyhood days when father spoke approvingly if
I plowed two acres a day, and to harrow ten acres was the biggest kind
of a day's work. I queried in my mind which was the best condition of
things, the big farms and farming a business proposition, or the small
farms with the home surroundings. I had been told that "that man over
there has been there twenty-six years and don't raise fruit enough for
his own use." Money-making was his object and he had no time to "fool
with fruit trees or garden truck." Then I was reminded of the time we
cut the wheat with a sickle, or maybe with the hand cradle, and thresh
it out with horses on the barn floor. Sometimes we had a fanning mill,
and how it would make my arms ache to turn the crank; then at other
times if a stiff breeze sprung up the wheat and chaff would be shaken
loosely from an elevation and the chaff would be blown away, or if all
other means failed two stout arms at either end of a blanket or a sheet
would move it as a fan to "clean" the wheat.
Now we not only see the gang plows with eight horses plowing eight
acres a day and hear that the gasoline traction engine is doing even
better than that, and not only see the harrow cover 40 acres a day
instead of 10, but see the great combination harvester garner thirty
acres a day and instead of the flail, thresh it as well and sack it
ready for the mill or warehouse—no shocking, no stacking or housing—all
in one operation, preparing the grain ready for market. What a change
this, in three-quarters of a century, the span of one life.
As we traveled eastward and the Blue Mountains came in distant view
and half a day's brisk travel brought us within close proximity of
wheat fields well up to approaching the snow line, the country became
less broken, the soil seemed better, the rainfall, we were told, being
better, the yield of wheat greater and fifty bushels is reported as
not an unusual crop. We began to see the red barns, the comfortable
farmhouse (wide apart though, for the farms are large) and ten horses
to the team the rule and oftentime three teams in a field each turning
three furrows instead of one as in the olden times. Finally as we
approached the Walla Walla Valley the scene changed, the large farms
disappeared, the small holdings became the rule and orchards were to be
seen everywhere as we pass that historic point, the site of the tragedy
of Whitman, and are soon in camp in the very heart of the thriving city
of Walla Walla.
PENDLETON, OREGON.
A fourteen days' drive to Pendleton, Oregon, 138½ miles, without
meeting any success in interesting people to help in the work, was not
inspiring. On this stretch, with two assistants, the Trail was marked
with boulders and cedar posts at intersections with traveled roads,
river crossings and noted camping places, but no center of population
was encountered until I reached the town of Pendleton. Here the
Commercial Club took hold with a will, provided the funds to inscribe
a stone monument, which was installed, and on the 31st of March
dedicated it, with over a thousand people present. Here one assistant
was discharged, the camera and photo supplies stored, a small kodak
purchased, and the load otherwise lightened by shipping tent, stove,
stereopticon and other et ceteras over the Blue Mountains to La Grande.
On that evening I drove out six miles to the Indian school in a fierce
wind and rain storm that set in soon after the dedication ceremonies,
on my way over the Blue Mountains.
A night in the wagon without fire in cold weather and with scant supper
was enough to cool one's ardor; but zero was reached when the next
morning information was given out that eighteen inches of snow had
fallen on the mountains. However, with the morning sun came a warm
reception from the authorities of the school, a room with a stove in it
allotted us, and a command to help ourselves to fuel.
THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.
Before this last fall of snow some had said it would be impossible for
me to cross, while others said it could be done, but that it would
be a "hard job." So I thought best to go myself, investigate on the
spot, and "not run my neck into a halter" (whatever that may mean) for
lack of knowing at first hands. So that evening Meacham was reached by
rail, and I was dumped off in the snow near midnight, no visible light
in hotel nor track beaten to it, and again the ardor was cold—cool,
cooler, cold.
Morning confirmed the story; twenty inches of snow had fallen, but was
settling fast. A sturdy mountaineer, and one of long experience and an
owner of a team, in response to my query if he could help me across
with his team said, "Yes, it's possible to make it, but I warn you it's
a hard job," and so the arrangement was at once made that the second
morning after our meeting his team would leave Meacham on the way to
meet me.
"But what about a monument, Mr. Burns?" I said. "Meacham is a historic
place with Lee's[23] encampment in sight."
"We have no money," came the quick reply, "but plenty of brawn. Send
us a stone and I'll warrant you the foundation will be built and the
monument put in place."
A belated train gave opportunity to return at once to Pendleton. An
appeal for aid to provide an inscribed stone for Meacham was responded
to with alacrity, the stone ordered, and a sound night's sleep
followed—ardor rising.
MEACHAM, OREGON.
I quote from my journal: "Camp No. 31, April 4 (1906).—We are now on
the snow line of the Blue Mountains (8:00 p. m.), and am writing this
by our first real out-of-door campfire, under the spreading boughs of
a friendly pine tree. We estimate have driven twelve miles; started
from the school at 7:00 (a. m.); the first three or four miles over a
beautiful farming country, and then began climbing the foothills, up,
up, up, four miles, and soon up again, reaching first snow at 3:00
o'clock. The long uphill pull fagged the ox Dave, so we had to wait on
him, although I had given him an inch the advantage on the yoke."
True to promise, the team met us, but not till we had reached the snow,
axle deep, and had the shovel in use to clear the way. But by 3:00 p.
m. we were safely encamped at Meacham, with the cheering news that the
monument had arrived and could be dedicated the next day, and so the
snowfall had proven a blessing in disguise, as otherwise there would
not have been a monument provided for Meacham. Ardor warming.
But the summit had not been reached. The worst tug lay ahead of us.
Casting all thoughts of this from mind, all hands turned to the
monument, which by 11:00 o'clock was in place, the team hitched up,
standing near it, and ready for the start as soon as the order was
given. Everybody was out, the little school in a body, a neat speech
was made by the orator from Pendleton, and the two teams to the one
wagon moved on to the front to battle with the snow. And it was a
battle. We read of the "last straw that broke the camel's back." I
said, after we had gotten through, "I wonder if another flake of snow
would have balked us?" But no one answered, and I took it for granted
they didn't know. And so we went into camp on the hither side of the
summit. Ardor warmer.
LA GRANDE, OREGON.
The sunshine that was let into our hearts at La Grande (Oregon) was
refreshing. "Yes, we will have a monument," the response came, and they
did, too, and dedicated it while I tarried. Ardor normal.
LADD'S CANYON.
I again quote from my journal:
"Camp No. 34, April 11.—We left La Grande at 7:30 (a. m.) and brought
an inscribed stone with us to set up at an intersection near the mouth
of Ladd's Canyon, eight miles out of La Grande. At 1:00 o'clock the
school nearby came in a body and several residents to see and hear.
The children sang "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean," after which I
talked to them for a few moments. The exercises closed with all singing
"America." We photographed the scene. Each child brought a stone and
cast it upon the pile surrounding the base of the monument."
CAMP No. 34.
At this camp, on April 12, the Twist ox kicked me and almost totally
disabled my right leg for a month, and probably has resulted in
permanent injury. Much had to be left undone that otherwise would have
been accomplished, but I am rejoiced that it was no worse and thankful
to the kind friends that worked so ardently to accomplish what has been
done, an account of which follows.
BAKER CITY, OREGON.
The citizens of Baker City lent a willing ear to the suggestion to
erect a monument on the high school ground to perpetuate the memory of
the old Trail and to honor the pioneers who made it, although the trail
is off to the north six miles. A fine granite shaft was provided and
dedicated while I tarried, and an inscribed stone marker set in the
Trail. Eight hundred school children contributed an aggregate of $60 to
place a children's bronze tablet on this shaft. The money for this work
was placed in the hands of the school directors. Two thousand people
participated in the ceremony of dedication on the 19th, and all were
proud of the work. A wave of genuine enthusiasm prevailed, and many of
the audience lingered long after the exercises were over.
[Illustration: OREGON TRAIL MONUMENTS. Center, Baker City, Ore.; Upper
Left, Boise, Idaho; Lower Left, Boulder Mark; Right, Ezra Meeker.]
A photograph of the Old Timer was taken after the ceremonies of the
dedication, and many a moistened eye attested the interest taken in the
impromptu reunion.
OLD MOUNT PLEASANT, OREGON.
Sixteen miles out from Baker City at Straw Ranch, set an inscribed
stone at an important intersection. At Old Mount Pleasant I met the
owner of the place where I wanted to plant the stone (always, though,
in the public highway) and asked him to contribute, but he refused
and treated me with scant courtesy. Thirteen young men and one lady,
hearing of the occurrence, contributed the cost of the stone and $6
extra. The tent was filled with people until 9:00 o'clock at night.
The next day while planting the stone, five young lads came along,
stripped off their coats, and labored with earnestness until the work
was finished. I note these incidents to show the interest taken by the
people at large, of all classes.
DURKEE, OREGON.
The people of Durkee had "heard what was going on down the line," and
said they were ready to provide the funds for a monument. One was
ordered from the granite works at Baker City, and in due time was
dedicated, but unfortunately I have no photograph of it. The stone was
planted in the old Trail on the principal street of the village.
HUNTINGTON.
Huntington came next in the track where the Trail ran, and here a
granite monument was erected and dedicated while I tarried, for which
the citizens willingly contributed. Here seventy-six school children
contributed their dimes and half-dimes, aggregating over $4.
After the experience in Baker City, Oregon, where, as already related,
800 children contributed, and at Boise, Idaho, to be related later,
over a thousand laid down their offerings, I am convinced that this
feature of the work is destined to give great results. It is not the
financial aid I refer to, but the effect it has upon children's minds
to set them to thinking of this subject of patriotic sentiment that
will endure in after life. Each child in Baker City, or in Huntington,
or Boise, or other places where these contributions have been made,
feel they have a part ownership in the shaft they helped to pay for,
and a tender care for it, that will grow stronger as the child grows
older.
VALE, OREGON.
It was not a question at Vale, Oregon, as to whether they would erect a
monument, but as to what kind, that is, what kind of stone. Local pride
prevailed, and a shaft was erected out of local material, which was not
so suitable as granite, but the spirit of the people was manifested.
Exactly seventy children contributed to the fund for erecting this
monument (which was placed on the court house grounds) and participated
in the exercises of dedication on April 30.
FOOTNOTE:
[23] Jason Lee, the first missionary to the Oregon country with four
assistants, camped here in September, 1834, at, as he supposed, the
summit of the Blue Mountains, and ever after the little opening in the
forests of the mountains has been known as Lee's encampment.