PIONEER LIFE IN PUYALLUP VALLEY.
The immigration of 1853 through the Natchess Pass settled in the
Puyallup Valley. Although they had been on the Plains all summer and
needed rest, imperative necessity compelled them to immediately make a
road through the forest to the county town of Steilacoom, sixteen miles
away and situated on the borders of Puget Sound.
Soon after the road was built one of them, John Carson, established a
ferry and later built the first bridge across the Puyallup. He was an
enterprising, intelligent man, yet nevertheless exceedingly careless in
business as likewise of his person. Eighteen months before I moved to
the valley, I crossed the river at his place and found him nailing on
the third course of shingles to cover a new house that he had built.
He came down off the roof and I remained with him for a couple of
hours, most of the time in the orchard, for even at that early day we
were both deeply interested in fruit culture. I willingly acknowledge
that he could teach me a great deal on the subject. A year later I
visited him again. The row of shingles, the nail bag and even the
hatchet remained as he had left it on the occasion of my first visit,
notwithstanding he and his family were living in the hovel of one room
and a loft—the remains of a block house that had been erected in the
Indian war times. The lower story was so low that his wife, who was
a tall woman, could not stand up straight except between the rough
hewed joists, as attested in numerous places by the red hair from the
lady's head coming in contact with slivers from the rough-hewed logs.
Not much difference existed between the two as to personal habits of
cleanliness, or rather lack of cleanliness, and yet I never knew a
more altruistic worker than this same Emma Darrow Carson. When, in
early days, we established a Good Templars' Lodge, for the sake of the
children, Mrs. Carson, rain or shine, would always attend and always
do her part to make the meetings interesting.
Nearby lived my neighbor, Walker, who though very strict in religious
matters, nevertheless would not join in upbuilding the lodge for the
reason he and his wife both were opposed to secret societies. One
could readily see that Mrs. Walker believed "cleanliness was next to
godliness" by a look into her house, where I often told her it would
seem she was looking after the invisible dirt, so persistent she
seemed in the care of her house. She was an industrious, religious,
conscientious lady and was always welcomed in our own cabin, where she
often came to spend an hour with another pioneer's wife who likewise
practiced the time-honored proverb.
These two extreme cases will show to the reader that even in the cabins
there can be as wide variance in habits as in the more pretentious
homes. A goodly number of the pioneer women would become helpers in the
field and gardens whether the men folks of the household thought it was
just the proper thing to do or not. The flower gardens soon appeared
in every dooryard to enliven the homes and spread contentment in the
household.
For years the pioneers led a strenuous life with but little money
return, so little it would seem almost incredible if given, and yet
there was no "moping" or complaining, for there seemed to be a will
to make the best of things possible and enjoy life as time passed.
And, why not? The youngsters (and "greybeards" as well) soon began to
look forward with anticipated pleasure to the coming of a holiday,
Fourth of July, Christmas or what not, and make weeks of preparation
for them, enjoy the occasion while passing and enjoy the memory of the
experiences for weeks following.
Let us look in on a Fourth of July celebration. A grove has been
selected and the "boys" in their "'teens" have cleared away the brush,
built a speaker's stand, fixed up the tables and plenty of seats. The
girls have baked the cakes and pies, picked the berries and flowers and
provided other "nick-nacks" to fill in, while the mothers have baked
the chickens, made the salads and provided the substantials until the
tables fairly groaned under the load of bountiful supplies. It was
the rule that everybody should have something to do. One of the older
boys, or perhaps a girl, would be appointed to read the Declaration
of Independence; another, to deliver the address; another to read an
original essay, or a poem, with music sandwiched in between, sometimes
with a chorus of the very young ones, or perhaps a solo—enough of these
exercises to go round. The old melodion, now in the Washington State
Historical Building at Tacoma, that has long ago lost its voice, was
then thought to be a marvel of sweet tones and served to drown whatever
discord might creep in from the flute and violin. When the evening
came the small folks could have their dance "all by their lone", while
the greater lords and ladies had naught to do but look on or organize
somewhere else, which they often did. All this tended to build up a
feeling of confidence in themselves in the minds of the youngsters and
cultivate a social atmosphere that could not have been attained in
any other way. All of these "youngsters" have grown up to manhood and
womanhood or sleep beneath the sod of the valley. If perchance the eye
of any one of them catches this writing they will for the moment say
"give me back the Fourth of July celebration of Puyallup of fifty years
ago."
Seven years passed after the first settlement was made before we had a
postoffice. All the trading was done at Steilacoom, which was sixteen
miles distant from the river crossing. Any one going out to the market
town (Steilacoom) was expected to bring the mail for everybody and
leave it at the ferry or carry it on up the valley for those living
beyond. Finally a postoffice was established and named Franklin, and
my next door neighbor, J. P. Stewart, was appointed postmaster. He
established the office near the ferry landing and brought in a stock
of goods to trade on. The whole stock might easily have been hauled
in one load of an ordinary farm wagon. He came very near losing the
postoffice, stock of goods and his life from a great freshet that came,
the like of which has not since been seen to this day. The headwaters
of the Puyallup issue out from under a great glacier of Mount Rainier,
probably no more than eight thousand feet above sea level and but
forty miles distant from the present city of Puyallup. The avalanches
from the great mountain are wonderful to contemplate. I saw the effect
of one in British Columbia once where a swath of dense forest trees
had been cut off close to the ground, where not uprooted, and carried
to the lower lands, a mixture of timber, stone and snow, packed,
apparently, as solid as a rock. In this particular instance the front
mass had been carried beyond the bottom and up the slope of at least
twenty-five degrees on the opposite side, several hundred feet on the
mountain side, by the irresistible force of the mass behind. At the
time of which I write, there undoubtedly had been a huge dam formed by
an avalanche until a vast accumulation of water finally broke loose
and came down the valley, seemingly carrying everything before it. A
tremendous roar of water came, accompanied with a crash of timber not
easily described. Mr. Walker, who stood on the bank of the river a mile
above, told me he saw great balm trees caught with some obstructions
under the roots and the timber lifted bodily by the force of the
water and forced end over end with an indescribable crash to terrify
the onlooker. Water running on the lower ground back of Stewart soon
formed an island and left him alone without any means of escape, as the
ferry had been carried away. A big, high balm stump furnished the only
refuge of safety and there he stayed all night and part of the next day
without food or sufficient clothing, chilled to the "marrow bone", for
he was in his shirt sleeves when the crash came. When the water receded
so he could, the postoffice, store and all were speedily removed to
a place of safety. It was common remark that when Stewart moved the
postoffice he simply put it on his back and walked off with it.
Those who have seen the glacier describe it as a wonder. The water
issues out as from a great cavern into which one can walk upright
for quite a way. This is the first glacier discovered in the United
States. Doctor Tolmie, then the chief factor of the Hudson's Bay
Company at Nisqually, ascended the Puyallup in 1833 and discovered the
huge glacier and wrote in the fort journal an account of his trip. For
sixty years since I first saw the Puyallup River, this great mill has
been grinding away and sluicing out fine particles of the mountain,
sufficient in quantity to whiten the water almost a milk-white color.
When the glacier is most active, a glass of the water left standing
over night will show sediment in the bottom thick as a sheet of writing
paper. We are led to wonder how long this has been grinding, how long
it will take to grind away the mountain. We are told the continual
dropping of water will wear away a stone. Will not this grinding
finally grind away the whole mountain? Can we guess how long it has
taken to fill up this valley? We know the deposit off the mouth of the
Puyallup River is fully six hundred feet deep; that the Puyallup Valley
at its junction with the Stuck Valley was once an arm of the Sound; and
the latter valley with the White River (so called because of the milky
whiteness of its water coming from the same mountain), and Duwamish
Valley to the salt waters of the Sound at Elliott Bay, where again it
is met, the bay six hundred feet deep just off from the mouth of the
river, was also once a part of the Sound. How long before Commencement
Bay, Elliott Bay and Admiralty Inlet will have met the same fate as
the Puyallup, Stuck and Duwamish valleys, and the cities of Tacoma and
Seattle be dredging a channel through Admiralty Inlet?
But let us look to the story of Puyallup. The marvelous fertility of
the soil has been told over and over again until the very name has
become famous across the sea. I once measured a hop root eleven feet
long that had been exposed by the cutting away of the river bank and
thus leaving it exposed to view where it had reached a point seven
feet under the surface of the land. The little band of pioneers had
come into a heritage beyond their wildest dreams; the ages of decaying
leaves falling from the deciduous growth of the balm, alder and ash had
mingled with the silt of the mountain until a soil not surpassed in
richness was found—so rich we may cease to wonder that Walker might dig
his bucket full of potatoes from one hill.
Let us look in on this little colony two years after their arrival in
the autumn of 1853. Their clearing had widened sufficiently to let
the sun in but not so wide as to afford a continuous view to see each
other's cabins or see the great mountain. No money had come into the
valley in return for their crops, for the double reason that as yet
there was but little to spare, and even if there had been a surplus
they could not have gotten it to the market because of the lack of
a road over which a load could be hauled. I will tell one little
incident that will illustrate. Anyone passing through the fir forest
will remember the wonderful size of surface roots of the fir trees, in
some places running out part above the surface and nearly as big as a
man's body. One day when I was driving a cart over the road mentioned
the pioneers had opened, the wheels passed over and left the cart bed
resting solidly on the big root, and so, in the common expression of
the county, I was "stuck". This will give a faint idea of what an early
day road was like.
In places a glimpse of smoke from a neighbor's cabin might be seen or
the sound of voices heard. All were busy in their clearing, "making
hay while there was sun", before the winter rains set in. At nightfall
of the evening of October 28, 1858, just two years after their arrival
in the valley, the pioneers were startled by the news that in the
neighboring valley of White River the settlers had all been massacred
by the Indians. The scene of this massacre was no more than ten miles
distant from the nearest cabin in the Puyallup—a ride, as the trail
run, of less than two hours. Consternation seized every mind. It was
natural to believe the Indians would be over on them when daylight
came, even if not before. The pioneers were scattered, illy armed,
encumbered with their families and in no condition to resist an attack.
The fort (Steilacoom) was fifteen miles distant from the nearest cabin
and the river lay between with no means of crossing teams or wagons
except by the long detour of what was known as the "upper road", that
is, the military road, and by fording the river. For most of the
settlers the ford would not be reached before daylight of the next
day, and even then it would be doubtful if the stage of the river
would permit of crossing. The only alternative seemed to take the
most direct route over the road they had themselves opened soon after
their arrival in the valley. Without concert of action (for none was
possible, scattered as they were in their cabins) the movement began in
the night. Women, with children in their arms, almost immediately upon
receipt of the dreadful news, started on the perilous trip, the men
carrying their guns and such clothing or bedding as could hastily be
selected and bundled up into packs. At Carson's two canoes and a small
boat afforded all the means of crossing. The two canoes had been lashed
together and finally a wagon gotten across and a team that swam across
the river. By midnight many had crossed and had at once began the weary
journey to the fort. Daylight overtook them, strung out for miles on
the road or either crossing at the ferry or waiting their time when
they could cross. The "upper settlement" in the forks of the river, the
Lanes, Whitesels and others nearer the military road, fared better, for
they could cross the south fork with their teams and wagons and take
considerable of their belongings with them and some provisions as well,
while the throng on the lower road could not. Such was the condition
of affairs on the morning of the 29th. I had started with my family
in the early morning, as fully told in "The Reminiscences—The Tragedy
of Leschi", and reached the fort six or more hours before any of the
Puyallup people from either settlement began to arrive.
But the Indians did not come to harass the fleeing settlers. They
turned their guns on the small volunteer force that had just reached
a camping place at the foot of the bluff on the military road a mile
east of the ford of the main river (Puyallup) that had been sent out
by Acting-Governor Mason—Governor Stevens being absent negotiating the
Blackfeet Indian treaty. The horses of this force had been run off
and the men cooped up in a cabin by the Indians following the killing
of Cornell and McAllister, preceding the massacre a day, all of which
is given in detail in the "Tragedy" and will not be repeated here
further than to give the context to the scenes that followed. Of the
indescribable scenes of confusion that followed; the dilemma of the
pioneers as to where to go for safety; how to subsist; the incursion of
nineteen men to the Puyallup to rescue some of the abandoned property
and provisions of the pioneers, is all told in "The Tragedy of Leschi."
Looking back over the vista of these fifty-eight years that have passed
and which now again come so vividly in mind reviving old-time memories,
I can truly say with General Sherman that "war is hell", whether
between brothers of the same race or with the native race blindly
wreaking vengeance upon innocent people who were their true friends.
The Indians held possession of the country adjacent to the Puyallup
Valley for several months. Most of the settlers' cabins were burned,
their fences destroyed, their stock run off or killed, crops
appropriated, leaving the valley a scene of desolation and solitude as
before the advent of the white man but little over two years before.
But what to do after arriving at the so-called fort (Steilacoom), which
was no fort at all but merely an encampment in a few log huts and where
neither comfort nor safety was vouchsafed, was the question confronting
the pioneers. For myself, I will say that my brother Oliver and father,
Jacob R. Meeker, with the three families, withdrew from the garrison,
proceeded to the town of Steilacoom, built a strong log block house and
took care of ourselves. That block house stands there in Steilacoom to
this day, weather-boarded on the outside and ceiled inside so that the
passing visitor will not recognize it, and is almost forgotten by the
generation now occupying the town.
In two years' time a majority of the settlers had returned to their
homes while a few hesitated because of the fear of further outbreak
of the Indians (which never came), but here and there one abandoned
his claim and did not return. But the handicaps remained. Soon the
clearings produced vastly more products than could be consumed at home;
the market at Steilacoom was restricted and at best difficult to reach,
and so certain crops became a burden to producers instead of a profit.
A road could easily be opened down the valley to Commencement Bay to
the point now known as the Tide Flats within the city limits of Tacoma,
but there was then only a waste of waters confronting the pioneers,
for this was long before Tacoma was thought of or even the name,
except in the brain of that eccentric traveler and delightful writer,
Winthrop, whose works disclosed his fine writing, after his death on
the battlefield of Chantilly.
Ten long years elapsed before a change came, except as the clearings
became larger and stock increased, for the dairy brought prosperity
to the few and encouraged others to continue the strife. Within this
period hops had been introduced and set a new standard of industry and
wrought a marvelous change.
Finally a store was opened at the "Reservation" where the government
agency had been established and a road opened to it from the up-river
settlements, but the road extended no further, and all freight was
carried out of the river in canoes, or later, in lighters to the mill
wharf that had been built in 1869 and where a limited market had been
found.
Opposite the point where the Indian school was later established a
drift obstructed the river for more than a thousand feet so completely
that a person could cross over the channel anywhere. Two more drifts
further up, but not so extensive, completely blocked the channel.
A theory gained currency that the river could be navigated with
small boats once the drifts were removed, and they were removed by
the pioneers, but no navigation followed and the $1,500 put into the
enterprise became a total loss, except for the timber logging camps
that were established and thrived for a while.
We now pass over another ten years' period to the building of the
Northern Pacific Railroad up the valley to the coal veins in the
mountains, ending at the time at the point named Wilkeson. Twenty years
before close observers noted the fact that float coal could be found
on the bars of the Puyallup River. These small pieces, not bigger than
a pea, became a matter of dispute as to whether the substance was coal
or not. Finally, early in the seventies, a "chunk" as big as a man's
fist was found imbedded in the gravel between the roots of a balm tree
that had lodged, part of it burned, and all doubts removed as to the
existence of coal on the headwaters of the river. John Gale prosecuted
a diligent search and was rewarded by finding the vein to which the
railroad was built.
The building of the railroad opened up the valley and give
encouragement to those who had bided their time so long. The time had
arrived when there came to be a money value to land. So long as the
country was not subdivided, settlers could not obtain title to their
land and transfers would become confusing as each had surveyed his own
claim under the donation act. This act gave the head of a family 160
acres, and the same to the wife in her own right. Such delays on the
part of the Government that followed seemed now almost incredible. I
did not receive the patent for my donation claim for thirteen years
after my settlement was made, and others had a similar experience
and even a longer period. But with the coming of the surveys and the
advent of the hops, values rose and became established at a rate that
pioneers had never dreamed of and yet had advanced from year to year,
or rather for the whole period, to a point that would then have seemed
unthinkable. The first subdivision surveys by the Government were
made in Puyallup during the year 1864. J. P. Stewart and George W.
Sloan took the contract. Neither was well suited for the work, Stewart
being too nervous and Sloan scarcely responsible for his acts. Up to
the time of the survey all claims outside of the first taken under the
donation act were mere squatters' claims upon the public land, but no
recognition of any right could be had at the land office, then, as
now, at Olympia. No serious trouble followed in adjusting the lines
followed, as the donation claim lines were respected and had in fact
for many years served as a guide to later claimants. As soon as the
surveys were made, all parties made for the land office, the donation
claimants to "prove up" the pre-emptions, and homesteaders to make
application for their respective rights. I did not go with the rush
for the reason that I wanted to take my claim under the homestead law,
which required an outlay of sixteen dollars, and "for the life of me"
I couldn't raise that much money. The fact was that, almost literally
speaking, there was no money in the valley. Finally, becoming uneasy
lest some one might "slip in" and pre-empt from under me, I walked to
Olympia and pre-empted where the fee was but a dollar, and held under
the entry for several months until money could be obtained, when a
homestead was located upon the same land, thus expending both rights
for the lack of $16.00. This to many would seem ludicrous, but the
actors looked upon the serious side, and did not wish to take any
chances of losing their homes. A few years later I sold one crop of
hops for $75,000, which now looks as incredible as the other fact of
inability to raise even so small an amount as $16.00. In the chapter on
hops the reader will be told the whole story of the $75,000 hop crop.
The reader may well wonder why I walked from Puyallup to Olympia, a
distance of thirty-five miles, and back out of sympathy for conditions
that would seem to call for such a "sacrifice" of personal comfort. To
such, let me disabuse their minds, for it was indeed a pleasant day, if
not of recreation—a day of self-communion with pleasant thoughts of
the past and bright anticipations as to the future. Fatigued? Yes, but
just enough to enjoy rest. Can we enjoy rest without first experiencing
fatigue and withal with good appetite for a frugal meal? I did not
think of it then as anything out of the ordinary, and for that matter
do not now, as it was only one of the strenuous day's experiences of
the time, besides to me long walks are conducive to good health—not so
long a walk as that to Olympia, but the one or two hours' brisk walk in
communion with nature and oneself.
I remember another walk from Puyallup to Olympia in 1870, where I first
met Judge Roger S. Greene, who was then on the bench as Chief Justice
of the Territory. I remained some time in Olympia, overlooking my first
stagger at book making, an 80-page pamphlet, "Washington Territory West
of the Cascades",[31] of which I had 5,000 copies printed, all of which
went into circulation in the Eastern States. When I got through with
this work I walked back home.
I still love to walk. Leaving the house (1120 North Thirty-eighth
Street, Seattle), a few days ago, the fresh air felt so good I
continued my walk to First Avenue, at the foot of Madison, in an hour
and five minutes—three miles and perhaps a little more; nothing very
remarkable about these walks except I attribute my continued good
health to this open air exercise and would like to encourage anyone,
the young people in particular, to the end that they may do likewise. I
have no doubt that I walked over two thousand miles on my recent trips
across the continent with the ox-team, part of the time from necessity
but often for a camping place, frequently four or six miles. The oxen
usually would travel two miles an hour while my easy gait would be
three, so that by timing myself I could easily tell how far I was ahead
and how long it would take the oxen to catch up. But the long walk was
across the Plains in 1852, after the teams weakened and the dust became
intolerable in the wagon on the Plains in early days. Then is when the
walking became wearisome, so wearisome that I lost my weight rapidly,
though apparently not any strength.
But as a forced walk, that is, one taken mechanically where one can
see nothing except the road ahead of him and think of nothing but
the mechanical action, soon becomes tiresome and will lose much of
the benefit that comes from an exhilarating walk where one scarcely
remembers the road and only sees nature if in the country or pleasant
things if in the city, and then of the bright side of life, and casts
unpleasant subjects from his mind; then is when the long walk becomes a
"joy forever."
Of the social side of life in the early pioneer days, much can be
truthfully written worthy of emulation by the present day generation.
The reader will doubtless bear in mind that the author is of a
generation nearly gone, and, measured with the average length of life,
two whole generations have passed and a third nearly so, and hence will
hesitate to accept the conclusions as coming from an unbiased source.
We so often see pessimism manifested by unsuccessful elderly persons
that the world is ready to accept as a fact that age brings with it a
pessimistic spirit, and hence the writing by an old man of younger days
is like looking where distance lends enchantment. I am not conscious
of looking on life other than in my younger days—the bright, hopeful
side, where right and honesty is the rule and wrong and dishonesty
the exception. The isolation of the pioneers from the outside world
had a tendency to draw them together as one great family. While of
course a great disparity of habit, thrift, morals and intellectual
attainments existed, yet the tendency undeniably was to look with a
lenient eye upon the shortcomings of others as between brothers or
parents and child. There were none too high not to associate with the
least of his neighbors and none too low not to look with respect upon
his more successful neighbor. I remember but one divorce case in the
whole period under review, and this long after their family had been
born to them and some of them married—sad case, that not only brought
universal condemnation to one of the parties but financial ruin to
both, and although in affluent circumstances at the time, both finally
died penniless and, as we might say, filled paupers' graves—a sorry but
just retribution to one and a sad ending to the other. Cruel as it may
appear to some of my readers, I am always ready to exclaim, "would that
it were thus to all that seek to dissolve the sacred bonds of matrimony
for light and trivial cause", as we see so prevalent in this day,
that is sapping the very foundation of good morals from under later
generations.
Without preaching the doctrine, there comes a feeling to pervade the
minds of many that "he is my brother" and acted accordingly. There came
very near being socialism at the outset, on the Plains, to help the
weaker. Of course, I do not mean to be understood that selfishness, or
that ill-feeling between individuals did not exist, but would have the
reader understand that the great body of the pioneers were altruistic
in their actions and forgiving in spirit. When this much is said, it
would almost seem to cover the religious life as well as the social.
Indeed, such to a great extent was the case. The pioneers at once built
schoolhouses but no churches. Teachers were employed for the schools,
but no preachers, except itinerants who came at times, prompted by the
religious zeal that was in them. These were indeed strenuous times,
but the experiences tended to the development of a better manhood and
womanhood than to lead a life of affluence and idleness.
But two of the adults of that day remain—I mean of those with families:
Willis Boatman and the author.
The following letter from my old time friend and pioneer, Edward J.
Allen, now 86 years old,[32] so vividly portrays the ways of those
early days, yet with cheerful optimism, that it brings to mind memories
of the past, needs no comment at my hand other than to invite a careful
reading:
"NOVEMBER 28, 1908.
"MY DEAR OLD PIONEER—I am glad to know that you have taken up the
Pioneer branch of the Exposition, as it insures that it will be
best presented.
"Someone else might take up the scheme and study out a fair
presentation of the old days, but with you it will require no
study, not even a test of memory, for you have kept the past
in close and loving remembrance, while you have held an active
interest in the ever changing present.
"You link together today and yesterday.
"Long may you wave.
"I want greatly to get out to the great show and am endeavoring
to shape things that I may. It would be a delight in many ways,
and maybe my last chance to see what is left of the Old Guard.
"And I would like to see my old friend Meeker, amid the
surroundings that become him most, and in the impersonations of
the old days that the next generation, nor those to come can ever
know, for the waste places of the earth are being inhabited, and
the old ways are lost ways, and may never be known again. We
that were of them know that the world grows better and we do not
wish the dial to now reflect only the shadows of the past, but
there are times when the old simple ways are ways to regret, even
though we accept the truth that progress means betterment. But
in the betterment, we lose some things we miss greatly and would
love to retain. There is nothing more humanizing, nothing more
tending to the brotherhood of man, than much interdependence.
"In those days while there was of necessity great self-reliance,
there was also much wholesome dependence upon our neighbors, in
all the matters of daily life the need was felt, and the call was
answered.
"The day, in the last extremity, when death invades the household
doubtless the last rites are better cared for in the skilled
hands of the "funeral director" than by the kindly neighbors
who in the earlier times came with tender thought and kindly
intention to you in your affliction. It brought you close
together. If there were need to be tolerant to some blemishes in
their general make up, you felt you were constrained to exercise
such tolerance, for you had accepted their services in your need.
"You knew them at their best and always remembered they had such
a best.
"We lose this in our larger life, and it is a serious loss, as
are all things that separate us from our fellow man, when our
need is to be brought closer together. In all large gains we have
to accept some losses.
"It is the remembrance of this feature of primitive days that
make them so dear to us."
"E. J. ALLEN."
FOOTNOTES:
[31] Now so rare that $25.00 has been paid for a copy in two instances.
[32] Since deceased at the age of 93.