My Interview with an Educated Indian in the Wilds of Oregon:
In the summer of 1902 I was camping, in company with the late Judge
Sterry of Los Angeles, on Spring Creek in the Klamath Indian Reservation
in Southeast Oregon. Spring Creek rises out, of lava rocks and flows in
a southeasterly direction, carrying over 200,000 inches of the clearest,
coldest water I ever saw. In fact, its waters are so clear that the best
anglers can only catch trout, with which the stream abounds, in riffles,
that is where the stream runs over rocks of such size as to keep the
surface in constant commotion, thus obscuring the vision of the fish.
Two miles, or thereabouts, from its source, Spring Creek empties into
the Williamson River. The Williamson rises miles away in a tule swamp,
and its waters are as black as black coffee. Where the two streams come
together, the dark waters of the Williamson stay on the left hand side
of the stream, going down, and the clear waters of Spring Creek on the
right hand side, for half a mile or more. Here some rapids, formed by a
swift declivity of the stream, over sunken boulders, cause a mixup of
the light and dark waters, and from there on they flow intermingled and
indistinguishable.
Nine miles down stream, the Sprague River comes in from the left. It is
as large as the Williamson, and its waters are the color of milk, or
nearly so. The stream flows for miles over chalk beds and through chalk
cliffs, which gives its waters their weird coloring. The union of the
waters of the Williamson and the Sprague Rivers results in the dirty,
gray coloring of the waters of Klamath Lake, into which they empty, and
of the Klamath River, which discharges the lake into the Pacific Ocean.
Killican.
The place where the Williamson is joined by the Sprague is known as the
"Killican." The stream here flows over a lava bottom and is quite wide,
in places very deep and in places quite shallow. There seemed to be
quite an area of this shallow water. The shallow places suddenly dropped
off into pools of great depth, and it was something of a stunt to wander
around on the shallow bed rock and cast off into the pools below. I
tried it and found the lava as smooth and slippery as polished glass.
After sitting down a couple of times in water two feet deep, I concluded
to stay on shore and cast out into the pool. Following this exhilarating
exercise with indifferent success, I noticed approaching a little, old
Indian. He was bareheaded and barefooted. His shirt was open, exposing
his throat and breast. His eyes were deep set, his hair and beard a
grizzly gray. He had a willow fishing pole in one hand and a short bush
with green leaves on it, with which he was whacking grasshoppers, in the
other. He circled around on the bank near me, now and again catching a
hopper. I noticed that he ate about two out of every five that he
caught. The others he kept for bait.
Finally he approached the stream. He paid no attention whatever to me.
He selected a spot almost under me, squatted down upon a flat rock, put
two grasshoppers on his hook, threw it into the stream, and in a very
short time drew out a good six-pound trout. Filled with admiration for
the feat, while he was tying a string through the fish's gills I said to
him, "Muy mahe," which another Indian had told me meant "big trout."
Without looking up or turning his head, he said to me in perfect
English, "What sort of lingo are you giving me, young man? The true
pronunciation of those words is," and then he repeated "Muy mahe," with
just a little twist to his words that I had not given them. Resuming the
conversation he remarked, "Why not speak English? When both parties
understand it, it is much more comfortable. I intended to catch but one
fish, but as you have admired this one, allow me to present it to you
with my compliments." He had turned around now, and held out the
struggling trout, a pleasant smile upon his worn features.
Embarrassed beyond measure, I apologized for attempting to talk to him
in his own language, and accepted the trout. He baited his hook, cast it
into the stream, and in a short time landed a still larger trout.
Without removing it from the hook, he came up the bank to where I was
seated. He laid his fish and rod on the grass, wiped his forehead with
his hand and sat down.
"I never catch more fish, or kill more game than I need for my present
wants," he remarked. "That trout will be ample for my wife and myself
for supper and breakfast, and in fact for all day tomorrow. When he is
gone, I will catch another one."
Then, turning to me, he asked, "From what section of civilization do you
hail?" I told him I was from Los Angeles.
"Ah, Los Angeles," he murmured. "The Queen City of the West and Angel
City of the South. I have read much of your beautiful city, and I have
often thought I would like to visit it and confirm with my own eyes all
I read about it. What a paradise that country must have been for the
Indian before you white men came! I can hardly imagine a land of
perpetual sunshine, a land where the flowers bloom constantly, where
snows never fall. Yes, I would like to go there, but I imagine I never
shall." Then, with an inquiring glance, "What may be your calling?" he
asked.