LETTER FROM MARK HUBBARD.

ROGUE RIVER VALLEY, OREGON.
    Jan. 15, '96.

MARK HUBBARD.

Estherville Democrat, Estherville, Iowa, January 22, 1896, page 3


    James McNeill, formerly of this place, is now viewing the wonders of California. In a letters to Wm. Cain, of Richmond, he describes many things of interest that will pay all to read. Here is the letter:
    We have a little more cause to remember that part of our journey (from
Portland to San Francisco) than any other. Indeed, we will not soon forget the night we spent in the Siskiyou Mountains. At about 9 o'clock on the night of the 29th, we left Portland for San Francisco on the Southern Pacific. Our train was a heavy one, consisting of ten cars, including mail and express cars, all well filled and equipped. Our course was up the valley of Willamette, of which valley and river
we had but a glimpse, and that by moonlight only. The next day found us in the Rogue River Valley and at Grants Pass, a very pretty little city, for dinner. In this valley we saw many ranches, orchards and homelike places. Everything was green and growing, and the day beautiful. It was a great relief to see the green earth again, after looking for days on plains and mountains covered with snow. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at Ashland, the last important city on our road, in Southern Oregon. Here we took on an extra engine and commenced to climb the Siskiyou Mountains which are a spur of the Sierra Nevada, running westward toward the coast. They are perhaps from ten to twelve thousand feet high and very ragged. To the southward we could see abundance of snow, but did not think of getting into it again. All the same, within two hours we were climbing around the sides of snow-clad mountains, looking down upon the green valley, through which we had been traveling a good part of the day. Our ascent continued with little interruption until 6:30 o'clock, when we reached Siskiyou Station, the highest point on the road. Leaving the station we passed through a tunnel nearly two miles in length and came out on the other side of the mountains to find rain coming down in torrents. lo less than half hour our train came to a stand still caused by a land slide ahead. While waiting for the track to be cleared we took the opportunity to reconnoiter the situation. It looked anything but safe and desirable. We were hugging the side of the mountain with barely three feet of space to spare. On one side and two thousand feet below us, a mountain torrent, swollen by the heavy rains, was tearing its way to some distant valley. On the other rose an almost perpendicular wall of rock. The rattle of the rain on the roof of our car, the roar of the torrent beneath us, and the distant booming of occasional landslides, all combined to make our situation look anything but cheerful. But we were not destined to remain here all night, as many surmised. Within an hour we were again moving, but slowly and cautiously. In our car, filled with people accustomed to travel, one heard neither laughter nor ordinary conversation. No one ordered his berth made up or felt in the least inclined to sleep. I presume everyone, like myself, was thinking, "What if one of those miserable laudslides or restless boulders should take it into its head to rush down upon our train?"
    I imagine there are few places in all these mountains where such a happening
would mean less than utter destruction to passengers, crew and train. From 7 o'clock till long after midnight our situation changed but little. There was the same constrained quietness within, and the deafening roar of the elements without. Our train twisted and turned, wound around towering precipices and over roaring canyons, stopping frequently for the removal of earth and rocks from the tracks, or for the examination of bridges or trestles, with always the roar of waters above and waters beneath us. Finally weariness got the better of watchfulness, and one by one our company sought their berths and tried to sleep. I must have slept, for I was all at once aware that it was broad daylight and that we were speeding down the Sacramento Valley with a broad expanse of level land on one side of us and a tremendous river on the other. We ran into Sacramento, not disgusted that we were six hours behind time, but glad that we were there at all and alive. It is said that no bad accident has ever happened to the Southern Pacific in these mountains, and that such is the excellency of the train service here and the precaution against accident that no passenger has been killed on this part of the road. Be that as it may, I am satisfied that those in charge of our train were among the best and most level-headed of railroad men, and that on their part no pains were spared to ensure our comfort and safety. From Sacramento to San Francisco we made the run with
miles of water on either side of us. I was anxious for Mrs. McNeilI to see the beautiful lands and farms that lie between these two cities, but we could only now and then get a glimpse of the green, so mightily did the waters prevail.
    Our first afternoon in the Pacific Coast city was spent in a comfortable room of the Russ Home, wondering if the rain would ever let up. Next morning, however, the sun came up in a cloudless sky and promised us a fine and glorious day. And so it proved to be. No wind, no clouds, nothing but bright, mellow sunshine and agreeable warmth, with clean streets, green lawns and oceans of flowers everywhere. After thirty days of intense cold, snow and rain, we seemed all at once ushered into a veritable dreamland of beauty and splendor.
    Having set out early to make a day of it, we boarded a cable car at the foot of California Street and rode three miles through the finest part of the city. We were then transferred to a motor car and within thirty minutes landing at the Cliff House, beyond the Golden Gates and on the very brink of a real ocean, the largest in the world--a body of water containing 77,000,000 of square miles and surpassing in extent the combined area of all the continents and islands of the earth.
    We spent the day wandering through the world-renowned Sutro Park, or sitting on the balcony of the Cliff House, looking out over the ocean, and thinking, "How little and helpless we are, after all." Here thousands of sea lions may be seen, buffeted by the waves or sunning themselves on the rocks, while their eternal yelping may at all times be heard above the roar of the ocean's wave. There is nothing in nature that overpowers me like the ocean. I can look at a mountain peak, however lofty, and talk of its grandeur and sublimity. I can gaze into the deepest canyon and think of its age and origin. Before the ocean I am dumb. It is difficult for me to speak, or even think in its presence. Those who say I cannot remain in one place or lie quiet for five minutes at a time should see me in the presence of the ocean.
    San Francisco is a beautiful city, built on many hills, with broad, clean streets and neatly kept lawns. It has been called the city of palaces, and it certainly deserves the name. Nowhere in our land may you see finer business blocks, hotels and private residences. The latter, however, are by far the most sightly and handsome.
    We left San Francisco for Los Angeles and arrived at this place on the evening of the 28th ult., and here we are surrounded by orange and lemon groves till you can't rest. I may have something to say about Southern California and its cities when I know more about them. Yours,
Hagerstown Exponent, Hagerstown, Indiana, February 26, 1896, page 2

Talent, Ore., 4-18-'96.

Very respectfully,
    S. Sherman.

ROGUE RIVER VALLEY.
A Description of its Soil, Climate and Products.

JOHNNIE JOHNSON.

MAZAMA'S OUTING.
They Climb Mt. Pitt, Visit Crater Lake and Have an Interesting Trip.

    Our train had an observation car from Dunsmuir to Ashland, that is from 9 in the morning to 6 in the afternoon. After we had lost sight of Mt. Shasta, we struck the Siskiyou Range. The scenery here is uninterrupted for more than 100 miles. Nothing but rocks, canyons and mountains clothed with a bristling coat of pine and fir. About the most wonderful thing in this part of the country is the freak of engineering it required to run a road through such mountains and valleys. In one place the road descends 2,300 feet in seventeen miles. Just over the line in Oregon it descends 4,100 feet in eight miles. You put your head out of the car window on
the right, twist your neck around and look almost perpendicularly above, and you will see the shelf that the train passed over twenty minutes ago; then look out of the other side down the steep mountain, 2,000 feet or more, and you will catch from time to time a glance of the shelf that you are going over twenty minutes later. This road, literally speaking, is a three-ply road. It has three strands, double and twisted. In this portion of the mountains it is laid out somewhat on the plan of
doughnut. It is looped around itself two or three times, dives down at one side, comes up in the middle of the strands, falls out over the outside line, and runs down through a deep canyon on a kind of a corkscrew plan.
    About this place we struck Ashland. Ashland is the first town of importance in Oregon. It is the gate to the Rogue River Valley and it is reputed to be the best valley for fruit in either the West or Northwest. It has the appearance of a fertile and fruitful valley. There were several fruit stands at the station, and here I got some Hungarian prunes nearly two inches in diameter. I also got some peaches known as the strawberry peach. I had been looking for these peaches through California, but found them very scarce. They are white with pink cheek, large and luscious, and remind one of the best peaches of New York and Ohio. They were fully an inch in the drupe. The yellow peach, the big California yellow peach, seems to have the right of way in this country. All other kinds are scarce. To me the big, pompous, well-dressed California yellow peach is about as luscious and juicy as a baseball. While I was admiring and praising the fruit, a dealer said that I must not take it as a specimen or sample of the Rogue River country. "The season this year has been unfavorable, the fruit started too early and was injured by the severe weather." I thought if this was the result of a failure. I would like to see Rogue River fruit when at its best. They say here that California ships fruit from this part of Oregon to the east under the California brand.
    Out of the Rogue River Valley we passed into the Umpqua Valley. Coming through these valleys and over the Siskiyou Mountains, the weather was exceedingly hot. If you complain of anything out here, the natives say: "That is something unusual. You have struck us in rather an unfortunate time. I have never seen anything like this before. I am in this country going on twenty years, and never remember of seeing it so hot and dry." Of course there is nothing wrong or unnatural in this. For the most part they say that everywhere. Taking the country, however, on its general merits, it needs few apologies; still I believe this hot weather is common in these parts of Oregon »nd California. All day long the thermometer hanging over our seat in the Pullman registered 100 degrees, notwithstanding the ventilation and current of air in the car, yet in this heat and wilting sun, the trees look fresh and are of a deep and healthy green.
J. F. Nugent, "Nugent in California," Daily Iowa Capital, Des Moines, September 17, 1896, page 8


Dear INDICATOR:
    Do you want to catch a trout? If so, I can tell you where to go. But as you are so far away, let me take you and all our readers upon a trouting trip I recently took. We are to go for some of the finest fish that swim.
    Take a map of late date. Look at Southern Oregon and find the Rogue River (by the way this river was so named before l came to dwell upon its banks), find the city of Grants Pass. It lies nestling among surrounding mountains. Here I am at present domiciled in the M.E. parsonage. Have a good charge, fine people, excellent climate, and so am happy.
    I think my proclivities toward the sport of angling are known to some of the people of your vicinity. If I have any one weakness more reprehensible than another it is a special delight in inveigling a fish to bite at a hook and to surprise the simple thing by throwing him out on the bank. Let me say, however, that these Oregon trout do not inveigle worth a cent. They are by no means as simple as your eastern "bullheads," or your Kankakee "dogfish." I once deemed it "rare sport forsooth" to sit on the banks of the sluggish Kankakee and with a wriggling worm on my hook catch a few mud cats or pull out a lazy dogfish. Since coming into these western lands and tasting the sports of the angler along these rushing, roaring, foaming, splashing, dashing, mountain streams, you could not run fast enough to coax me to throw a hook with a worm on it into your stagnant pools or sluggish streams back in old Indiana. Bah! Let the indolent sleepy fisherman if he likes sit yawning in his boat by the hour on Clear Lake waiting for a nibble of a "pumpkinseed" or a "bluegill"; let him if he prefers to fight Kankakee mosquitoes and spend a day after a half dozen "mud cats." No more of that in mine. Give me the indolent fly, or the spinner spoon, the split-bamboo rod just a trifle larger than a good buggy whip, the plunging mountain torrent, with its boiling pools, and rocky beds, its dangerous banks, its icy waters and its swarming trout that have eyes as sharp as those of the eagle, that seem to even be able to see you when you start from home and constantly watch your every maneuver from the time you start till you fling your fly into the boiling pool just above his nose, as you try to fool him in believing a luscious morsel has accidentally dropped within his reach. Then if you can by hook or crook inveigle him to jump for it and can hook him strongly you have no lazy "bullhead" at the other of your line, neither is it a "pumpkinseed" that will accommodate you by immediately surrendering and willingly slide out to the bank for you. You must fight for it if you master him. The instant he feels the prick of the hook, if he is a good-sized one, your reel makes merry music as your line runs swiftly out. Now comes the time for skill on your part. He must be persuaded to stop before all your line is out or off he goes with [the] hook or tears loose. He hopes for a kink in your line or that you will inadvertently give him a straight pole instead of the bend of it. He must be kept from rubbing his nose against a rock or you lose him. Look out now, for he is making for that sunken limb that he may wind your line around it for a solid tug at it, for if so he gives a rush, pulls out the hook gives his tail a saucy flip and then laughs a fishy laugh at you from some pool farther down the stream. Take care now or he gets into that deep pool where he is making for where he will sulk on you at the bottom and refuse to come up at at your bidding. Now after trying his many well-known arts to outwit you he pauses in his endeavors to learn what you propose to do with him. You reel in slowly thinking the fight is now over and that he has surrendered. You are badly mistaken. In an unguarded moment you inadvertently give a slackness to your line, a thing he has been patiently waiting for, when with a flash he whirls his tail against your line, flirts the hook cut of his mouth and is as as free as is the bird which cleaves the air above your head. Well, possibly after about ten thousand have outwitted you, you may be able to land one and you feel as proud as a conquerer.
    The trout of this river at this season of the year are known as the salmon trout. They follow the salmon up from the ocean at spawning time and feed upon their roe. They run in weight from one to fifteen pounds. What magnificent fish they are, beautiful, gamey, sly, cunning, quick, and as fine fish to eat as swim. They take fly, spoon or salmon eggs. Well, now about that trip I promised you. The crack fisherman of all this valley is the pastor of the Presbyterian church [Robert McLean] of this city. It seems strange that a rigid Presbyterian takes so strongly to water as does this fellow. Soon after my arrival at this place, I suppose rumor reached him that the new Methodist preacher who had just arrived proposed to compel him to divide up the honors of angling and not attempt to carry them all. At least I soon received from him a kind invitation to cast a fly with him in the upper waters of this river. Deeming it a good time to demand a dividing of the honors of successful angling, I accepted. On election day after trying to help save the country we betook ourselves to conveyance for an upriver trip twenty-five miles away to the salmon beds where this expert knew the sharpest trout of creation were just spoiling for some verdant fisherman to try a contest with them. Our way led mostly along the side of this lovely mountain stream. We would wind around cliff and rocky crag, down into darkening chasm and woody dale, then up some steep slope to plunge again down into some frightful canyon, on over exhausted placer mining grounds where a million dollars in gold had been taken out of a few acres of ground some time ago, on we went till gaining the summit of a high ridge when a lovely sight burst upon our view. Before us for miles away stretched a lovely valley off towards the east and south with old Mount Pitt rising two miles high in glistening grandeur with his fresh garments of newly fallen snows crowning his brow and shoulders fifty miles directly east of us.
    I endeavored to impress my companion as we rode along by relating stories of my expertness in catching bass and pike in eastern waters. Seeing that they seemed to strike him as stale and uninteresting, I turned to more exciting accounts of the capture of trout along the the streams in the northern woods skirting the base of old Mount Hood, and in the limpid waters of the Santiam coming from the everlasting snows of Mount Jefferson and the Three Sisters of the Cascade Range, farther to the south. I noticed as I thought a peculiar twinkle to his eye and a smile of distrust upon his countenance as I dwelt upon my former success. I surmised finally that the old maxim was perhaps running through his mind viz: "The proof of the pudding is chewing the string," so I concluded to hold in reserve any more evidences of my skill till we should reach the banks of the river. It was a wise conclusion. I should have thus concluded sooner. I have learned this since coming west; you cannot "stuff" these western fellows.
    Do you recall the old recipe for cooking a trout? It begins: "First catch him." It is well that the author laid down that in the beginning; it so often saves the cook much useless preparation.
    By four o'clock with rod and reel, fly and spoon, line and snell, I stood ready to listen to terms of capitulation from my staunch Presbyterian yoke-fellow that he would divide equally the honors with me without compulsion on my part. I waited. He did not then divide. So with a scientific whirl I cast my first fly into the rushing water. My friend watched with interest. And would you believe me when I say the very first cast I made, no trout rose in response? Neither, I think, did any even deign to wink at my fly for the next five hundred casts I made. I changed flier, going from "Brown Hackle" to "Royal Coach," then to the "Professor," back to "Brown Hackle" with a red body, then to the spoon, and back to fly, only to grow desperate as the twilight began to deepen. I think not a trout in the whole Rogue River even flipped a fin towards jumping at my hook. As darkness deepened I concluded to ascend the stream to where my friend was standing in midstream hip deep and note his results. Three as pretty fish as I ever saw were strung up weighing from three to five pounds as trophies of his success over me. Whistle as merrily as I might and appear as unconcerned as it was in my power to do, that evening, I know that he could detect my secret admiration of his abilities, and deep chagrin over my flat failure. As we were to fish during the next forenoon I concluded under the circumstances not to ask then for a division of the honors. I thought best to wait. I waited. It was best.
    By daylight next morning attired for the fray, and dressed in wading pants water tight to my waist, borrowed from a friend, I sallied forth to fine fishing grounds downstream a mile, hinting to my friend that if he met with no satisfactory luck by noon he might come down and help me carry back my catch to the buggy. I fished till noon and he did not come. I presume he thought there was no special need of his coming. He was right. There was none. I had not landed a scale. Sometime however about nine o'clock an old trout, out of pure pity, I think, commiserating [with] my discouragement and well knowing I never could land him anyway, twitched my spoon. My reel spun around and line ran out for a hundred feet or more. I was nearly jerked out of my breeches, and that old trout after dreadfully near drowning me curled his tail around against my line, reminding me of a saucy boy with thumb to his nose and fingers wiggling, yanked the hook out of his mouth and with a derisive grin dove down to relate his exploits to his finny companions. No, I did not swear. But I want to say it was dreadful hard on a fellow's constitution.
    Well, about noon I went back upstream to my partner. I sat on the bank and took notes. Why, I believe that fellow could catch fish in a rain barrel. It was surprisingly strange to me how hungry trout were around him. I waded right out beside him. Trout within thirty feet of where I stood would grab that fellow's hook and not a single trout would deign to blink an eye at mine.
    As a final result twelve as pretty fish as I ever looked at were strung up to take home, weighing from three to ten pounds. How many did I catch? Now please do not be too inquisitive. I let the other fellow drag them ashore, but I got to help clean them and carry them to the buggy all the same.
The Indicator, Westville, Indiana, November 19, 1896, page 2


    It was on the thirtieth of September which we left our home in Oregon which was situated in a small valley called the Spencer Creek Valley. After bidding our many friends adieu we started south for Tehama Co. California. Our first day of travel took us to Cartwright. Where we camped was a beautiful stream. On the next day we crossed the Calapooia Mtns. Which are six miles across after we reached the summit. We traveled down a small branch on the left side of the road, this stream is Peasant Creek. There are several saw mills on this stream. Seven miles from the foot of these mtns. to Drain Station after reaching Drain Station we traveled down a creek called Pass Creek. Then we crossed the railroad came into a beautiful creek bottom the creek is on the left side of the road and is called Elk Creek. After reaching the creek we crossed a hill called Yoncalla Hill. This creek runs on on our left and a railroad on its bank 'tis a beautiful place for fishing and rowing this is called the Snowden Springs. After descending Yoncalla Hill we came out into Yoncalla Valley and about a mile from the base of the hill is a beautiful farm with a large house on the right of the road and a barn on the left this is Applegate's farm. He is a very noted gentleman. At a distance of about three miles is a station called Yoncalla. It seems to be a very pretty place in the spring and autumn but the land looks very much like a adobe, there is several prune orchards on the north side of the town. Our second camp was about six miles south of Yoncalla at the base of Rice Hill on the north side. One of our neighbors, a young man of about twenty three years, came to Rice Hill with us. Next morning while we were eating breakfast a footman came along and ask for breakfast. After we sat him down to eat he put syrup in his coffee instead of sugar and seemed very talkative. He gave Pa a knife for his breakfast too. While he was eating our friend came and bid us farewell and he turned his face once more for the north. We finished getting ready and was once more on our road. In a few moments we traveled across the hill came through another valley surrounded by hills covered with oak trees there was a large number of fruit trees in it we crossed another hill and while descending this hill we saw a young lady dressed in red and wearing a blue cap riding a black horse and driving ten head of cows, but what was most queer was her manner of riding for she rode in the new way or rode astride. But on farther do south we found that quite the style only they wore bloomers. Well in about twelve miles from Yoncalla we came to a small stream called Umpqua. It has a very peculiar bed is all rocks and are shaped very smooth, some of them are just like stone walks while others are rough and rugged. One half or one mile from Umpqua Creek to a very pretty little town called Oakland. We went southwest through a lane about two miles and then the road crosses under the railroad trestle and turned south again. There was a hop yard south of Oakland on the right side of the road. After crossing under the railroad we came out in another small valley. We traveled down a small hill and came to a small river called the North Fork of the Umpqua River where our third night was spent. We camped on the south side of this river in sight of a small village which is called Willoughby and another in a short distance south of it called Winchester. We had a very pretty location that night the river was north, a hill southeast of us and we were camped almost in an orchard that was not fenced but it happened that grapes were all the fruit that was there. Well there is a small part of the valley I did not speak of our camp here was five miles from Roseburg. At Umpqua the Washington travelers that you saw camped with us they started next morning before us but we overtook them before we reached Roseburg. When we reached Roseburg we traveled through Jackson Street crossed the Roberts Mountain and camped the fourth night at Myrtle Creek had a caller, that traveler who took breakfast with us at Rice Hill. This time he called just as we sat at supper but he was stopping at the hotel. Nine miles from Myrtle Creek is a small village called Canyonville,. and it is at the foot of a canyon which is eleven miles through, we took dinner in this canyon. We camped that night at the foot of hill after we descended the hill south we were told this is Canyonville Canyon. Well there we were overtaken by those Washington travelers again Papa shod their black horse that morning before we left camp, After traveling twelve miles we came to a small village called Wolf Creek. It is thirty-three miles from Wolf Creek to Grants Pass. Our sixth camp was at a place called Jump Off Joe and that is only nine miles from Grants Pass. We drove into a pine grove that night and it was almost dark when we camped. We had to buy hay of a stingy Dutch man. Well next day when we went through Grants Pass we did not see anything worth speaking of only a monkey sitting upon a chicken coop when we first drove into the town, and when we got on Main Street we saw a little boy with two dogs hitched to a little wagon and he was driving them and riding on the sidewalk. But for it being a pretty place it is not any prettier than Yoncalla Valley around Grants Pass, and not so nice in my estimation. Our seventh camp was twelve miles from Central Point on the north side of Central Point on Rogue River. We passed a place where there was mining going on in the river. There was a good deal of mining going on on Rogue River at that time in that part. On the next day we moved two miles north of Medford. I liked the location of both Central Point and Medford. When we passed through Central Point the band was playing some very pretty music, but just at the north of the town we passed the race track and the stalls where were some race horses and that was a pretty sight for me. Where we camped next was on Bear Creek and we were very late that night getting camped. Next morning we passed some hot springs where the steam was just rolling in the air. That day at noon we stopped at the foot of the Siskiyou Mtns. and there was eleven wagons there and all were going south. We had a great time that afternoon. Some of their teams were very slow and we were behind them all and when we got half way up the hill we came to a toll gate. There all the men went to see the keeper to see if they could not get through for naught but failed. Well we stopped there near an hour and thirty minutes. While we was there the train rolled around the hill below us for a long time, the railroad has many more turns there than on Rice Hill. After we came up near the top of the mtns. we saw where the tunnel ran through the hill and saw where it came out on the other side. Well it is a wonderful sight to cross the Siskiyou Mtns. but stop I guess we came through Ashland before we crossed the mtns. That is a pretty town. We got provisions there to cross the mountains. Our ninth camp was at the foot of the Siskiyou Mtns. on the south side. We reached the top of the mtns. just about dusk. We had a fine evening ride down them, the moon was up and the evening star shone bright. We saw Mount Shasta all white with snow when we started down the mountain and when we reached the bottom we camped on a small branch still the eleven wagons were to gather in one camp and not over fifty yards apart. Next morning all were on the road ahead of us but we soon took the lead of all but two wagons We traveled along a river a part of the way and crossed it at Pokegama a small town on the opposite side of where there are some lumber mills then we went over a hilly scape of land and passed in sight of one or two villages one of them is Ager, then we came in where Mr. Hoyt lives, this is in Shasta County We camped about three miles from Mr. Hoyt's place, our camp was six miles north of Montague. This is our tenth night of travel. Our eleventh camp was three and one-half miles from Edgewood and that day was a day well to be remembered. For the country I could not say much but the wind blew a hurricane all day and the dust just fogged in our faces until we could hardly see one wagon ahead of the other. We traveled most of the day on the railroad. The cars came up behind us once very close to where we crossed the track. We had just crossed and as the cars passed they scared the horses some but they did not run. Well we traveled through the alkali dust tried to get horse feed at one place but failed, had to travel as late as six o'clock. About five o'clock Ernest was walking, tried to get into the wagon while it was moving and he fell the hind wheel over him some way over his head and arm and leg, blackened his right cheek and eye and causing lameness in his right leg. It was not more than an hour until we found horse feed and camped, put our horses in a barn that night. It began raining just as we stopped and Pa and Alfred and George were taking care of the horses. Charley and I were left to pitch our tent, the wind was blowing and the rain just pouring down upon us, every time we would get the tent up the wind would take it down. We pulled off two straps and tore the front of it and I sat down to mend it and got my head dripping wet. Got the tent mended Papa & George came and we all raised it and got things in, built a fire and it quit raining and the stars came out bright as ever and we stayed up until late to get dry and about nine o'clock an old man and his son came along with a load of lumber. He came from Sisson. They stopped at our campfire to warm and chatted with the old folks quite a while. They had four miles farther to go to get home well that finished our eleventh night's encampment next morning. We arose very much refreshed from our previous day of travel when we drove three and one-half miles. We drove through a pretty little village called Edgewood, it is situated just in the edge of the woods. After we traveled through Edgewood about a quarter of a mile, we came into a pretty pine grove. We traveled through it and through the woods most all the way to Sisson, passing saw mills every few miles that was our coldest day of travel. We were in sight of Mt. Shasta all the time and it looked as if it was not more than five miles from us all the time but they say it was farther than that from any part of the road. There was some very pretty mountains in around there. They were higher than Spencer Butte and were almost bare only small brush could be seen all over them. They were evergreen and a kind of moss grew in patches on the ground. It is very pretty too. That night we reached Sisson. Before we got to Sisson we passed some half-breed Indians' houses and saw the kids playing in the yard. Father went and asked those Indians about hay for our horses and inquired the road. We went one mile to Sisson drove through the town and camped with some of our friends which were also traveling south, there being six wagons of them. We had a quite a large crew there. Sisson was our twelfth camp. Father and Charley Shaw began trying to find some of our relatives there. We stayed one day in Sisson. Father and Will Cox started over in Squaw Valley but were told the folks were gone back to Oregon. So they came back to camp and gave up their search. The next morning very much refreshed we started on our journey south. That day we took dinner near the source of the Sacramento River one-half mile from Dunsmuir and that night we camped at a place called Sweetbrier which is a summer resort. They have a stove, platform and a grove filled with seats for picnics and dances but stop I must go back a few miles. Before we came to Dunsmuir we passed the Palace Hotel and a summer resort a few miles. Upon a hill above the hotel there is a lot of rooms built along in a row and a bathhouse off a few yds. from the rooms. When we got there I got out and went to find the mineral spring but failed to find it. I went and looked through the bath house and could not find the water so we went on down the hill nearly a mile and one-half to the Palace Hotel. There we found the soda water. Stopped our wagons and all got a drink of soda water but none of us but the old folks liked it. Next day after we camped at Sweetbrier camp we traveled down the Sacramento and across some queer grades one wagon would go around one hill while one was coming around the other. And they would not be more than about fifty yds. from each other. We passed by a hill with some large rock cliffs they resembled pictures of rocks on large waterfalls only they were on a high hill. That night we camped on Indian Creek. After we reached the bottom of a hill we camped on that creek with a hill on one side and a bridge on the other. Next night we camped on the McCloud River passed a fishery but we did not get any fish for they had none caught at the time and no camp ground near. We went on a mile and camped on a place just large enough for one camp but we all camped and spent the night there on a hillside. Next morning we crossed another large hill and came down to the McCloud and Pit River ferry they run together just above the ferry. There we struck a very good ferry man who advised us to take the saddle off our riding horse and take him across cheaper. We crossed first and Mr. Simmons last and just as he was driving off the boat one of his wagons broke down. We all waited until he got his wagon together again and traveled on to Buckeye and camped that night. We were then six miles from Redding. Drove down next morning by nine o'clock that being Saturday. Put our horses in the pasture and stayed until Wednesday and the men went in search for work. We lived on grapes while there for we had been given orders to help ourselves in a vineyard and of course coming from a country where grapes are not raised these were quite a delightful treat to us all. Finding work at the Iron Mountain mines. We started on Wednesday morning up the Sacramento River drove seven miles and camped. We left Mr. Simmons at Redding. We stayed at the mines until November the eleventh. Then we came on back to Redding to our old camp ground. That night our kind friends Mr. White and son had a camp fire burning and wood prepared for us. I forgot to mention we were quite late getting into Redding the electric lights were already lit and the town looked beautiful. Next morning we started on for Tehama quite thankful we were out of the mining district for the sulfur smoke was fearful at our camp at the mines. We came through Cottonwood late and camped on a creek that runs through the village, had a pretty camp there in the creek bottom. There was a nice farm in that part of the country it had some of the most beautiful oak trees I ever saw. Next night we camped at Red Bluff or just south of Red Bluff in a creek bottom under a bridge. And the next day we drove on to Tehama that being Saturday. And we drove into the south end of Tehama and stopped with my aunt's family which we were looking for at Sisson. They had evidently gotten out of work at Squaw Valley and gone to Tehama. We stayed overnight and Sunday we had a house rented and moved in on Sunday. So this finishes our journey from our dear old Spencer Creek home to a new home in Tehama. And I am glad to say we located in a very pretty little town but were not so much in love with the ways of the people.
    Kind reader, I hope you won't go blind before you get through reading this. It is possible I could have written many more facts about what happened but for fear it would be too tiresome I just sketched a few of the happenings of the journey.
Lane County Historian, Summer 1987, pages 23-29


    PORTLAND, Ore., Jan. 10.--(AP)--Oswald West, a patriarch of Oregon politicians, told the churchmen's forum here of the days when Oregon legislators reputedly sold votes for $3,000 each.
    "I worked in Bush's bank in Salem at the time," the ex-governor said.
    "When large bills were withdrawn by politicians, I took the numbers of them and learned a lot of politics by watching which of the legislators' wives brought the bills in for change."
    The standard price of a vote was $3,000, he said, but some sold for less.
    "But during the last 25 years I believe a large majority of our legislators are honest and sincere," observed West, who is a familiar figure in legislative corridors.
Medford Mail Tribune, January 10, 1936, page 11