We set our mark that day at one hundred pounds each--one hundred pounds of the finest fish of the Rockies [sic]. When we weighed up at the end of the seven hours' angling, Tom had one hundred and twenty; I had one hundred and three pounds. Not bad fishing that. Yet neither of us had "beat the record," for amateurs have been known to hook their two hundred pounds a day from the turbulent waters of Rogue River. As a fishing stream the "Tra-het," or "Evil Waters," as the Indians called it, certainly belongs to a class of its own.
    The Rogue is a Southern Oregon river, and men who love real fishing come a long way to cast their lines into the restless current. Naturally enough, fishermen, those who have lived on or near its banks for years, have the best success in fishing from the Rogue. That is because they know the old river's whims; moreover, they have learned the "just how and when and what" of catching the fish that belong to this stream. Be it known the Rogue has many qualities peculiarly its own. No matter how good a fisherman you may be, or how many medals you may wear as an expert angler on other waters, you must "begin at the beginnin'" when you shy your bait over the Rogue's eddies and pools. I've seen men come all the way from Los Angeles to fish for a season on the Rogue, and go away cursing the stream in seven different languages. The fault was all their own. They tried to fish on Rogue River as they had fished elsewhere. It won't work, gentlemen. As a veteran of the rod and line told me several years ago, "When you're on the Rogue, do as the Rogues do."
    Among the fish that abound in this stream are the famous silverside (salmon), rainbow and mountain trout. The stream is easily accessible. One may get off the train at Medford, Gold Hill, or Grants Pass, and be on fine fishing grounds within an hour. There are few, if any, "favorite riffles." There are places, of course, where trout are more abundant, but the angler may strike the stream at almost any point, select his own riffles, and soon be filling his basket--if he knows how. As a matter of truth, Rogue River is but a grown-up mountain brook. Its source is the everlasting snows of the Cascades, and it is but a leap or two from its head in Crater Lake Park to Gold Hill or Grants Pass. It affords the finest fly fishing of any American stream. I got this from men who have angled in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Maine. It is claimed by those who know that even the world-famous Restigouche is outclassed by this queen fishing stream of the West.
    The silversides and rainbows rise freely to the fly, as freely as brook trout in a well-stocked stream. The exciting and fascinating feature of fishing on the Rogue is that the angler never knows whether the next one will weigh a mere pound or twenty. This uncertainty keeps him constantly on the qui vive. The large fish are just as plentiful as the small ones, and take the fly with the same snapping eagerness. It is no unusual thing for a fisherman, during either the winter or summer season, to catch all he can carry after from five to six hours angling. Exceptional catches of from sixty to one hundred pounds have been made in two hours.
    The steelhead (salmon) is one of the gamiest fish of the Rogue. It attains a size of from two to six pounds. It will rise as freely and fight as furiously as the eastern bass or the "ouananiche" of Maine and Canada; moreover, it is a much better fish.
    The swiftness of the Rogue and the multitude of rapids does not allow angling from a boat, except on a few short sections of river near Grants Pass and Gold Hill. The successful angler hits the stream in high boots, in winter time, or eliminates the boots and all clothes "below the belt" if in summer. Boots, however, are best for all seasons, for the water is ice-melted and not pleasant wading even in midsummer. The angler wades the stream either up or down, casting out toward midcurrent, placing his flies upon the water in the same manner as casting for speckled trout on smaller mountain brooks, except that the flies are allowed to sink an inch or two below the surface, and then by constant twitching of the rod are made to imitate the action of a struggling insect. When Mr. Silverside or Rainbow takes it, he loses no time in making a dash for midstream. If he is a small fellow, well and good; but if he has a weight of fifteen to twenty pounds you won't get him out with that one quick swish of the rod. And that is one of the things that makes fishing on the Rogue very, very different. That is why you must have plenty of line. The rod does not matter.
    Rogue River anglers use the same weight rods as are in vogue in eastern waters--No. 6 specially tied flies (Royal Coachman and Jungle Cock preferred), exceptionally good nine-foot leaders, and from eighty to one hundred yards of line. Don't get this wrong; I said yards and not feet. This may seem like entirely too much line, but even with this length the angler is often given a merry time as well as a long chase trying to keep up with his fish, for the Rogue is wide in most places, and Mr. Steelhead or Silverside makes a dash for the deep waters midstream as he takes the fly. Out there he "lies down," or sulks. When routed from this he starts up- or downstream as suddenly and swiftly as if shot from a catapult. Unless the angler has a long line and a good one, he will sure lose his fish.
    Chinook salmon are plentiful in the Rogue during the summer season. Formerly they were seined by hundreds and thousands of tons for commercial purposes, but this past year a law was passed in the state prohibiting the taking of fish from the Rogue by any means other than hook and line. The real fisherman's method, where a hook was not used, was to take this royal fish by spoon. Fifty- and sixty-pound salmon are landed by this method, but not till after a battle of from a half to a full hour. The man who gets in a hurry drawing a forty-or fifty-pound salmon from the Rogue will be sure to sacrifice half his line and ultimately lose the game.
    In fishing for salmon the angler needs a good heavy bait of angleworms or salmon eggs, a flexible but stout rod, and at least 300 yards of line.
    A splendid feature of Rogue River fishing that the local angler thinks but little about, but which meets with high favor with the man from abroad, is the absolute freedom from annoying insects. Such pests as blackflies, gnats and mosquitoes are unknown on the Rogue. So the fisherman, even though baldheaded, may fish in the shade without his hat, and put in all his time fishing rather than fighting flies.
Camp and Trail, Columbus, Ohio, April 13, 1912, page 1


    Starting from Gold Hill Monday, accompanied by Frank Avery, whose mission it was to obtain signatures for a rural free delivery mail route. After crossing the beautiful Rogue we are traversing through a district locally known as "Garden Row," where such prominent heads of families are located as J. E. Davidson, Haight, McClellan, Ritter, Crawford, Cook, etc. After interviewing the above residents, we find E. Savage busily engaged cultivating the blossoming orchard which so many people are minutely observing daily with the remark, "How beautiful." We are now headed for Galls Creek where upon approaching the mouth of that stream we find O. E. Blackington, Robt. Cook, Jas. Burns and W. H. Edmonds loading timber for the construction of the footbridge across Rogue River on C Street. Their signatures were readily given for better mail service.
    Upon approaching the fertile valley of Galls Creek, we find the residents busily engaged with their daily labors, which are very diversified indeed, as mining, both placer and quartz, has been continuously carried on since the early settlement of the country, as well as farming, stock raising, etc. We then retraced our steps to the place of beginning and, after a brief repast, wended our way to the Foots Creek district, where we found the newly settled district of Riverside as busy as bees, and most favorablY observed by the passerby, as those people are to be commended for their neatness, from the construction of a dwelling to the planting of trees, shrubbery and plants. We have now reached Foots Creek store, where we find Mr. Elliott, the merchant, and assistants in pleasant moods and by observations doing a thriving business. We are now on the famous Foots Creek, not made so by the name, but by the many resources for which it is noted. We reach the home of the Champlins, where we find Charles, the superintendent, assisted in the culinary department by our former townsman, Ad Graham. After extending the hand of good fellowship I was invited to the cellar, where Ad had a nice pitcher of buttermilk of which the writer partook of in no small quantity. It was then the kennels were visited, much to my gratification, where a pair of purebred Russian wolf hounds were found and, to say the least, are sure beauties.
    Our next halt was made near the Carter and Howard mine, where we met the former and wife, also Mr. Howard, who were out for a little constitutional on the mountainside after a day's work spent in the tunnel, where they report that a quartz vein exists of no small dimensions and richness. From there we go to Chamberlain Carr's, thence to Johnny Donegan's, when the shadow of night was approaching and, after the usual salutation, asked to be fed and lodged for the night. After a few excuses as to being a bachelor and having no spare beds in which to lodge "especially" town folks, it looked for a few minutes to Frank and I that a night's drive or camp fire would be our lot, so I informed Johnny that I was an ex-bear hunter, not high-toned, and could eat and sleep as such any old place. So we were made welcome and spent a most comfortable and pleasant night.
    After visiting many residents along the proposed route, of which space will not permit me to enumerate, we reach Draper post office, where we are royally entertained by Mr. McReynolds and family.
    We now start across the dividing range to the right-hand fork of Foots Creek and to the Lance placer mine where Messrs. Cook, Bottoms & Co., the lessees, were engaged in making their spring cleanup and, judging by the three or four gold nuggets we saw, two of which were as heavy as a $20 piece, the boys will be well recompensed for their labors. Here we retrace to the Mattis lane and visit the residents settled along the creek until we are again at the junction of the two roads of which I have just written.
Gold Hill News, May 4, 1912, page 5  Almost certainly written by John B. Hammersley.


Daily Reporter:
    It has been some time since I have written anything for the readers of this good little daily, which is read with avidity and interest by us, even though the news contained in it is five days old when we receive it.
    Since I last wrote, my father has passed into that bourne from which no traveler returns; likewise, Miss Harriette Clark, a classmate, class of 1879, and a score of intimate friends and acquaintances, in and about Martinsville. It was with decided pleasure and satisfaction that we read the accounts of these sicknesses, deaths and funerals, which tended to temper our sadness and grief by giving us information as to the kindness of relatives, friends, and neighbors. Owing to the fact that the entire country, almost, was enfolded in heavy snow storms, and trains were blockaded in mountain fastnesses at the time of my father's sickness, we were unable to be at his bedside, or to attend the funeral. Many friends have written us since and told us of the kind ministrations, and assured us that we were in their thoughts during the time. There was much consolation in knowing this, and we gratefully acknowledge our appreciation of such friends.
    The change in ownership of The Reporter was indeed a surprise, for F. T. Singleton and I were rather brought up together in the Republican and Reporter office, and are conversant with some of the terms used therein--viz, "type lice," "left-hand shooting stick," etc. [pranks played on printing apprentices], and have used, in common with the entire editorial and office force the office towel [euphemism for a bludgeon], which used to stand in corner within easy reach of a brawny compositor, for use at a moment's notice as a potent force in pacifying some belligerent coming up to say, "Who writ that piece?"
    Frank has made some advancement in learning the ways of the world, since he left the "crawfish bogs of Ireland," for even now he is at the convention, or rather, at the sitting of the national committee of the Republican Party in Chicago, hobnobbing with Jim Watson, master pervert.
    By way of diversion from this, I just wish that Kin Hubbard knew how my tongue is hanging out for a peep at some of his pictures, and a chance to "waste the oil" in poring over some of his linguistic potpourri relative to this meet, in particular, and things in general.
    I have seen but a single copy of the Indianapolis News since I cast anchor in the Rogue River Valley, after being agent for The News for thirty years at Martinsville--and, strange as it may seem to you, I am, from an apparently reliable source, informed that The News has resumed publication if, indeed, it did not continue publication without cessation. My information was derived from The Daily Reporter when a recent issue spoke of my worthy successor, H. H. Nutter, as having been awarded a prize for best increase in new subscribers obtained during a given time. The Indianapolis News is one of the best metropolitan dailies in the Middle West, and is deserving of a good representative in Martinsville, and there will be no sore spots on me if Huitt gets a prize each day in the year. I recall with pleasure that during my thirty years pastorate as agent I was several times the victim of the generosity of The News for similar conduct in hustling after new subscribers. I was enabled to tell the time of day from a silver watch; sleep on a folding bed; ride a Pathfinder bicycle; was given a passport to and from the World's Fair at Chicago in 1893; then again to the Fair of similar dimensions in St. Louis in 1904, unlimited time for seeing the entire extravaganza--having been handed a new thousand-mile ticket with instructions to go any route I pleased, return via, as I pleased, with all expenses paid, from the time I stepped aboard the interurban at Martinsville going, until I disembarked from it on my return. Mirabile dictu:--I save the best until the last. Owing to a perfect clamor of insistent importuning on the part of the entire News force, from "devil" to boiler plate maker, scissors editor, cart-pusher--the majority of subscribers, and the vast concourse of window bulletin fiends--I was given more than half a column writeup in the News, with a cut of myself to give tone to the several editions issued that day. A clipping of this, including the margin at top of page, headlines and cut, reposes serenely between the pages of the family Bible, where it is liable to be less molested and will be the better preserved for lineal descendants, and future historians to make copious extracts from and enlarge upon, as they may deem that the News failed to do justice to the subject. Who knows but that Huitt may get honorable mention in the News, after thirty years service?
    As regards Oregon with regard to climate, probabilities, possibilities, doings, and to be dones--she is right in the forefront of the procession of progress, with the chief banner floating from her masthead. The dispenser of weather for the past year, and especially for six months past, has been decidedly enamored with the Rogue River Valley, giving us cloudy nights or rain during the budding and blooming season, then warm sunshine that orchardists might attend to spraying, pruning, planting, haying--nor has said dispenser ceased vigilance, for we have been treated to timely and generous rains all through the season, and now we are confronted with the calamity of having to cut three crops of alfalfa, without irrigation; to thin apples, plums, pears, prunes and apricots more than half in order that the big fellows will not have to put themselves to shame by crowding the smaller ones off their perch. The successful orchardist leaves apples no closer than six inches apart on the branches, but I am told that the tenderfoot who has dropped in here from the East is, at first, rather averse to such procedure for fear that, by the time fruit has fallen--as it always does--there will not have been enough left on the tree. It is just such treatment, though, that enables the Rogue River Valley to supply the fruit bins of King George of England, the ward heelers that compose the national committee of the Republican Party, and others of us that have not attained such distinction as yet.
    Some weeks ago King George placed his order with an acquaintance of mine for a number of boxes of pears to be sent to him when ready.
    The people of this valley are assured of bumper crops of all kinds, and you can imagine the broadness of smiles that bedeck our countenances. Speaking of the unusual, generous rainfall, coming to us opportunely, this summer--it never happened this way, to such an extent, before our coming to this place and casting our lot with them. Had the boosters, for instance, thought that our coming would bring about such a boon for those dependent on growing crops and fruit, they would no doubt have sent for us sooner. Rain has been falling most of the time for the past ten hours; not pouring, but rather gently falling, so that the earth is allowed to store it away for the coming dry, hot weather which is sure to come within a day or two, and give the command--"back to the alfalfa."
    A public market, established recently, is helping to solve the problem confronting the entire country--"the high cost of living." The day before the market opened with a splendid display of home-grown vegetables, fruits and meats, one of our employees paid fifteen cents for a cucumber, shipped in from California. The day the market opened, the operator of a single booth sold more than three hundred cucumbers at five cents each. Our people thought the problem had been effectually solved, but after a strenuous diet of six weeks on cucumbers three times a day, they have grown less toothsome to some of us, and owing to recent development of an infection of our Adam's apple, our apples have become so enlarged that we can no longer swallow the cucumbers whole.
    Come out and we will plug a watermelon that will make one of Hi Avery's look and feel like a "poor boy at a corn shuckin'."
Daily Reporter, Martinsville, Indiana, June 29, 1912, page 2  "Plugging" a watermelon meant surreptitiously cutting a section out of someone else's melon and leaving it on the vine.

    It is with a sense of relief that the county seat visitor, on official business bent, turns from the busy courtroom, where the air is befogged with tobacco smoke and legal technicalities, to a quiet contemplation of the surrounding city. Jacksonville resembles an old-fashioned new England village, some of the houses having fireplace chimneys and small-paned windows, the roofs greened over with the moss of many years. It is said that some of the oldest inhabitants have moss on their north sides, but this is only hearsay. These oldtimers love to sit in sunny places and slowly consume plugs of eating tobacco, while they recall the stirring days of sixty years ago, when Jacksonville was a wild and woolly western mining camp, the chief city of Southern Oregon. It was only a couple of years after the forty-niners made their memorable rush for the California diggings that gold was discovered near Jacksonville, since which time ten million dollars' worth of the yellow metal has been taken from the bosom of mother earth in Southern Oregon. That is the estimate of C. C. Beekman, Jacksonville's venerable banker and most notable figure. Coming to this place ten years before the Civil War began, he carried the mail from Yreka, traveling by night to avoid the Indians. While engaged in this and various other enterprises young Beekman lived a clean and frugal life, saving his money until enabled to start a bank, which he is still operating, although now in his 85th year. The Beekman Bank is the oldest business house between Yreka and Salem and is worthy of being preserved by the state historical society as an interesting relic of pioneer days. The first object to catch the visitor's eye is a huge brass balance scales which cost $1,000 and is so nicely adjusted on its jeweled bearings that it will turn at a quarter of a grain, yet is large enough to weigh several pounds. Hanging on the wall are framed signs which seem strangely out of date in this day and age. "Gold dust shipped to the Atlantic states and insured." There is a large steel engraving, appropriately inscribed, advertising a stagecoach line. The Wells, Fargo Express Company has had an agency here for more than forty years. There is an old wooden bench that has been in continuous use by patrons of the bank since 1855. There is no metal screen above the counter, and it was with difficulty that the writer convinced one of Ashland's leading business men that this quaint little shop was really a bank. As a matter of fact it is one of the safest and solidest financial institutions of Oregon. Panics come and panics go, but Beekman's Bank remained undisturbed.
    The present discounting of county warrants reminds Mr. Beekman of Civil War times, when greenbacks were bought at 40 to 90 cents on the dollar. From the cavernous recesses of the ancient, stone-walled vault a number of golden nuggets were produced, some of them curiously shaped and worth $200 each.
    As the aged banker slowly performed his self-allotted tasks, talking interestingly of pioneer days, I asked the good old man why he did not retire from active business.
    "I've tried to," he replied, "but they won't let me, these oldtimers. They know nothing about checks, passbooks and the new way of doing business. They insist that I stay here and hand them their money whenever they want it, as I've always done."
    Jacksonville has four saloons, which means that it is far more plentifully supplied with these hellholes than is Medford, population considered. Much of the poverty and destitution here is doubtless directly due to these booze joints, which give nothing of value in return for the many thousands of dollars which they take from the people every year.
    There is an old brewery, which now stands idle, the local red-noses preferring to drink Schlitz, the beer that made Milwaukee infamous, or some other outside brew. This is a good place to controvert that old chestnut about there being no more drinking and drunkenness in a saloon town than in a prohibition place. The writer hasn't seen a drunken man during the three years he has resided in Ashland, yet observed one the first day he came to the county seat. Another day a farmer was observed driving home with a load of tile, so drunk that a bystander remarked that there wouldn't be much tile left at the end of the journey. However, brighter days are in store for Jacksonville. The better half of its citizens now have the ballot, and the splendid victory which their Ashland sisters recently won over the forces of evil has put new courage into the reform element here. Jackson County saloons may make their last stand at this place, where for more than half a century they have debauched and robbed the people, but the chances are that within a few years the infamous traffic will be relegated to the realm of past evils.
    During the past year or so Jacksonville has taken on a new lease of life. Several blocks of cement sidewalk have been laid, a fine brick business block erected, and a splendid school house built on a hill which overlooks the town and valley, an ideal site for an educational institution. This is one step toward the attainment of that ideal, "A school house on the hill and no saloons in the valley." The semi-annual teachers' examinations are being held here this week, some fifty pedagogues, present and prospective, being put through the sweat-box. The writer has given a list of over 200 questions, some of which would puzzle even an editor, which the teachers are struggling to answer correctly.
    Jacksonville has the cleanest, prettiest, most attractive, orderly and best-kept post office in the state. It is really a marvel along all these lines and reflects great credit upon its master, John Miller. Not a speck of dirt, dust or litter can be found anywhere. The woodwork is all varnished and kept spotlessly clean. The walls are decorated with pictures and hunting specimens, while plants and shrubs adorn the windows, lobby and office interior. There is a good-sized lemon tree bearing many ripe fruits, one of which is handed to every patron who gets gay. The office is now in mourning, owing to the death Thursday morning of Mrs. Miller, who did much to help her husband magnify his calling.
Ashland Tidings, December 23, 1912, page 8

    Since writing you from Olympia, we have journeyed 400 miles south into Oregon. We spent one week in Olympia and found it to be a most beautiful little city, situated as it is upon the banks of Puget Sound, surrounded by low hills covered with evergreens of all descriptions, and fifty miles to the southeast stands Mt. Rainier, showing high above all and cutting the very clouds. This mountain is the highest in the United States and is always capped in snow.
    Our journey from Olympia was uneventful, because it was made in the late evening. We arrived in Portland, Oregon, about 10:30 and left there a few minutes past midnight, so we lost the opportunity of seeing a great deal of the scenery throughout Oregon. We arrived in West Fork at noon and found Mr. Lewis here to meet us. He had had a tramp of thirty-nine miles down the river trail in order to get to this place. To an Easterner a trail is a rather hazy idea. I have done a great deal of climbing in my life, but I have never encountered anything like this. It is absolutely impossible to go through these mountains, except where a trail has been blazed. The place that we expect to go into camp is about nine miles from here, as the crow flies, but we will have to follow a mountain trail of twenty-three miles to reach the same place. The reason Mr. Lewis had the long walk of thirty-nine miles was because there has been a heavy snow in the mountains for the past three days. There are six and seven feet of snow on the mountaintops now, so we will be forced to stay at this place till the trail is opened. It is hoped that we will get out of here by Friday or Saturday. Mr. Lewis came by the river trail, which landed him at a little lumber town named Merlin, and from there he had to take the train here, a distance of thirty miles.
    West Fork is the name of the station here, but its post office is called Dothan. After we go into the mountains, our mail will come to this place and then be packed by burros over the mountain trail. When one speaks of a train here they usually refer to these strings of small burros that are so sure-footed. When we start we will have five of these little animals. Three will be loaded with packs and the other two will be used as saddle animals when our feet give out. After a time a man gets used to this mountain travel and can walk a great ways, but at first he is well called a "tenderfoot." We had to have boots made for mountain climbing. These are made of moose hide and come just below the knee, are waterproof, and altogether the finest boot that can be gotten. The soles are full of heavy hobnails, or it would be impossible to get a footing. Corduroy and like material is the only clothing that will not be literally torn to pieces as one goes over the narrow trails.
    Yesterday we went to Grants Pass, which is the county seat of Josephine County, fifty miles from here, and took out our hunting and fishing licenses. In this state licenses must be held by everyone, both resident and nonresident. The fishing on Rogue River is superb. The very best mountain trout in the world, besides many kinds of salmon and other fish. The hunting here is said to be inferior to none in the United States. The woods are full of deer, bear, cougars, wolverines, coyotes, etc. Of my hunting and fishing experiences I will tell you at a later time.
    A word about this little station and hotel, where we are now stopping, and I will close for this time. The elevation here is 1046 feet. All of West Fork that there is is the railroad station and the hotel. The hotel is a general meeting place for the hunters and trappers within a radius of forty miles. We are situated in the canyon of Cow Creek, surrounded on all sides by lofty mountains. Here in the valley it is like summer time and flowers are in bloom in profusion everywhere. If this was California one wouldn't be surprised at that, but let us remember that Oregon is as far north as either Ohio or Northern New Jersey, and yet the spring is far advanced here. It is peculiar, though, to see the flowers blooming on all the low slopes of the mountains, and farther up to see snow, and on the very mountaintops, the heavy snow that I spoke of before. This station gets its name from a small mountain stream that empties into Cow Creek at this place.
West Fork, Oregon, March 19, 1912.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, April 5, 1912, page 2


    Since writing you last we have come over into the heart of the Rogue River Mountains. These mountains are along Rogue River, which should be spelled "Rouge" River, as it was first named by the French, because of its muddy red color. [This etymology is incorrect.] All along this river are placer mines, and it is the sluice water from these mines that keeps the river in its muddled condition fully one-half the year. This river is noted for its salmon and trout fishing and one can fish for these two species the year around. It is necessary in this state, though, that
everyone, both resident and nonresident, get a license to fish.
    At half-past eight on Monday morning, March 25th, we left West Fork with our pack train of five burros (a small kind of donkey). As there was still too much snow on the Dutch Henry trail, it was necessary for us to go by a longer route, so we came in over the government mail trail. For nine miles we gradually ascended the mountains and were soon into the snow region. In many places we waded through snow three feet deep. To really appreciate mountain scenery, there is no way like walking through them by trail as we did. As we would approach each range we would think that at last we had reached the summit, and yet every time there would be a still higher range looming ahead of us. The highest point that we passed over on foot was an elevation of 3,600 feet. At one point we looked towards the southeast into a great valley, fringed on all sides by precipitous mountains clothed in pines and gorgeous verdure, and then as we let our eyes travel up the mountain heights, at the very crest, we got a glimpse of Mount Shasta, over one hundred miles away in California. [More likely they saw Mount McLoughlin.] Mount Shasta has one single peak piercing the horizon, while Mount Rainier has three. It is said that Mount Rainier is an extinct volcano; at least it has a true crater.
    After we had traveled for seventeen and a half miles we came to the cabin of a squaw man, where we spent the night. Our meals were cooked by a full-blooded Klamath Indian squaw, and then she sat at the table with us. Who would have thought I should have ever eaten with Indians! The tribal tattoo mark of the Klamath Indians is three bands of blue color, extending from the inner part of the lower lip underneath the chin. This peculiar mark, like unto three broad figure ones, has given this tribe a local name of one hundred and elevens. We spent a pleasant night and then on Tuesday morning early started for Horse Shoe Bend, by way of Rogue River Canyon. Our trip was a repetition of the day before and exceeded it only in that the mountains were steeper, and in many places the trail fairly clung to the sides of the embankments and a single false step would have precipitated us hundreds of feet down into the depths of the canyon. Every once in awhile we could get a glimpse of the river whirling and swirling, roaring and tearing its way towards the ocean. During the middle of the afternoon we arrived at Horse Shoe Bend, our destination. Really I think the spot they have chosen for the camp the most beautiful that I have yet seen. The river at this place makes a great, abrupt bend, and on both sides of the peninsula thus formed the river for a mile flows in the same direction. The camp itself is situated on the side of a mountain, 110 feet higher than the river, with the mountain rising sheer behind it for thousands of feet. Facing the camp is the bluff of the peninsula, covered with great rocks and with castellated peaks rising so high that it seems incomplete unless crowned with some German feudal castle. From the camp we have a great view up and down the river. At the left on a bar in the river is located the Horse Shoe Bend placer mine. The water force with which they operate this is carried by flumes from sources a half mile away in both directions. A great deal of gold has already been taken from this mine and they are expecting large returns again this year. The mining will close about June, as the water supply gets less at that time. Many beautiful specimens of jasper and agate are to be found among the stones on the bar, and I have already started what will be a fine collection. I have had two fishing expeditions and caught two dozen rainbow trout. I have yet to get a deer, but we are going on a hunt for them this morning. I will tell you of my first deer another time. A chance has come to get this letter into Merlin, thirty-two miles from here, so I must close for this time.
Horse Shoe Bend, Oregon, April 1, 1912.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, April 12, 1912, page 2


    As I promised some time ago to tell you of my first deer hunt, I will now take pleasure in doing so. The deer are plentiful, but, owing to the quantities of dry leaves in the underbrush, it is very difficult to stalk them, unless one gets up very early in the morning, goes a great distance into the wilder parts of the mountains, and counts no obstacle too hard to be overcome. It is true that at night the deer come down to the river, but they get back into the mountains as soon as they can see, which is before man can. We had talked over carefully as to what our first trip should cover, and finally decided on the region near the once-famous Bear Camp.
    Our party consisted of my sister, her husband, and myself. We were equipped with Winchester 25, 35 and 32, 40's. These are the best guns for deer, and do equally well should one encounter a bear or a cougar. On account of the dense underbrush through which we would have to penetrate, we were dressed in heavy khaki trousers (my sister as well as we two men), heavy leather boots, hobnailed, and stout woolen shirts. Even dressed as we were, you will find that we couldn't cope with the underbrush as we found it.
    We started one morning about four o'clock, and carefully threaded our way into the mountain path, into which we had been directed. As I said before, our plan was to reach Bear Camp, or rather its near vicinity. To reach this point we had the choice of two routes: we could go over the regular trail, five miles around by the headwaters of Big Windy Creek, or follow a well-defined old deer trail, leading in almost a straight line over about six miles of ragged and trackless ranges of rocky mountains that lay in successive ridges across our course the entire way.
    The natural instincts of deer lead them by the safest and most easily followed routes across the mountain ranges from one feeding ground to another. These trails are usually well defined and easily followed, but this time there had been a heavy fall of snow a day or two previous, followed by rains and a rise in temperature, so that the slush made the walking very insecure and our progress slow and tiresome.
    Before leaving our camp in Rogue River Valley, an old ranchman gave us the clearest instructions concerning the old deer trail, and how to distinguish it from the many false trails threading the mountain regions. As there were three of us in the party and that is too great a number to do the best hunting together, my sister and I decided to follow the straight trail, while her husband was to make a detour and meet us upon a specified mountain ridge. Although we knew this to be a difficult thing to do, yet we had so carefully noted what the old ranchman had told us that we didn't think we could make a mistake. We separated and agreed to meet about three miles up the mountains. My sister and I had scarcely entered the mountain fastness when it became evident to us that we had already missed our way, and must either retrace our steps or run the risk of finding our way across the mountains with no landmarks to guide us, trusting to luck to again find the lost trail further on. We decided to adopt the latter course, and at once pushed forward to the limit of endurance. Our course led over mountain ranges from one-half to a mile in height, covered with scrubby trees and underbrush, while the snow lay fully two feet deep on the mountains and scarcely any in the valleys, although that nasty slush was in many places, making every step a hardship. After our descent of the first mountain into the valley beyond, we fully realized the risk we had assumed in our attempt to cross these wild ranges entirely devoid of landmarks and full of perils, and if it wasn't that we had that faraway range, where we were to meet my brother in-law, in constant view, we would have many times attempted to retrace our steps, and even this, at this stage, might have been a mighty difficult thing to do. We even felt uncertain as to how far we had come and just what distance that ridge was yet ahead of us. Yet we pushed forward, and step by step slowly scaled hillside after hillside, dodging huge ledges of barren rocks, and pulling ourselves over steep and dangerous barriers, till each successive summit was gained, and then across the hilltop and down the other side. Each range seemed more steep and dangerous than the last, yet we plodded on through that snow and slush, often through thorns and brambles that cut and tore our garments. The day was already well advanced and the sun fast rising above the treetops. We crossed one more ridge, and there loomed up before us the ridge where we were to meet my brother-in-law. At this moment a welcome sound greeted our ears. It was a shot, and using that for our guide we soon came up with the other member of our party, and we were certainly a lucky couple. We were severely chided for not sticking closer to the trail and watching the blazed marks in the trees that had been placed there for the very purpose of keeping one from straying.
    We found that my brother-in-law had shot a fine specimen of a cinnamon bear and by the time we had this skinned and the best meat packed into our pack sack, it was high time we started for home. My sister and I had had such a time "finding ourselves" that we hadn't thought of shooting anything. Her husband reminded us that it was unlawful to shoot deer at this time of year anyhow and that we would have to confine ourselves to bears and cougars. We didn't much care by this time, for about all we wanted was to try and get home. Mr. Lewis was well acquainted with that country, and we were soon on the old deer trail and started for home. It must have been about three in the afternoon when we left the ridge and it was well past seven before we arrived back at Rogue River Valley. Never was I so glad to see any place before as I was to see the cabin there in the shadow of the mountain. We soon had a rousing fire and something to eat and it wasn't long before we were ready to turn in. I had had the most strenuous walk of my life, the most exciting experience of trying to "find myself," and what I still insist on calling "my first deer hunt," though our only deer was a bear.
    There are many varieties of deer in the United States and the wildest and fleetest of them all is the blacktailed deer. This is the kind that we have here in Oregon. The season for hunting deer will not open till August. Then I may get a chance to get a fine buck. It is against the law in this state to kill a doe or to kill any deer at a lick. I hope, later in the summer, to go to one of these salt licks and watch for the deer, hoping to get a good snapshot of them in their native haunts. We read in the papers that hundreds of deer died from starvation this past winter in the Middle West, because of the deep snows and cold. That, they do not have to contend with here, for this country is a veritable paradise for deer the year round, in that the vegetation is always green and no matter how much snow or how cold it may be on the mountain summits, it is always mild in the valleys.
    I will write you again soon, telling you of the trout of Rogue River and my experiences in catching them.
Horse Shoe Bend, Ore., May 20, 1912.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, June 7, 1912, page 3


    When the fisherman has tasted all the sweets that lie along the pathway of the little streams; has seen the time pass by that he could pull his "law allowance" of small fry from the swirling pool in an hour or so, and has fished every creek in his and adjacent states where cold water runs, he has one fond anticipation to look forward to--the day when he may drop his fly in Rogue River in Western Oregon.
    The fishing season opened here in Oregon on April 1st, one of the balmiest days of the spring. (In Rogue River and its tributaries fishing for trout is permitted the entire year.) All nature was abloom, and sweet incense perfumed the air. The trout felt the inspiration and rose to the fly greedily. I am stopping, as you are aware, for the summer in the Rogue River Mountains, about 195 miles south of Portland and fifty miles from the Pacific Coast. The country surrounding the cabin is ideal for the fisherman and the camera fiend. For those who wish to hunt deer and bear, in their seasons, no better place than this region can be found. The cabin stands on a flat in the side of the mountains, surrounded by heavy timber and precipitous mountain ridges. The beautiful Rogue River flows on the western side of the cabin and other streams run into it nearby, giving a wide extent of country in which to fish.
    That there are trout in the river is putting it mildly. They are there in bushels and basketfuls, and the most inexperienced person cannot fail to catch a few. They are very large, some reaching four and a half and even seven pounds. Salmon and steelheads run, off and on, throughout the entire year, and the settlers on the river need never be fish-hungry.
    I went one afternoon and caught thirty-five in about an hour. They were all of fair size and gamy. The law in Oregon restricts one from taking over seventy-five trout in a single day, so I concluded I had had enough and returned home to find a delicious supper awaiting me.
    Rogue River is a picturesque stream, and many bits of scenery along its banks are well worthy the brush of an artist or the skill of the camerist. Its densely wooded, precipitous banks offer a safe retreat from the heat of midday, and there is nothing to equal the exhilaration of fishing from a rock in midstream in the cool of the morning. The water swirls and foams around the rock and sings the beauties of the ice-capped hills in the Cascades, whence it came. The trout dart through the foamy veil of the water for the fly and all the stream is immaculate activity. Its beauty is surpassed by no other waters in the state.
    The word "trout" is of French origin, "truite" in modern French, and still earlier from the late Latin word, "trutta," which became "trucha" in Spanish-speaking countries. In Europe the name trout in all its forms is used for black-spotted fishes only, those with red spots, as we shall see later, being called by other names. All the true trout have come to America from Asia, and none have naturally crossed the great plains. Their original parentage, no doubt, was from some sort of a landlocked salmon, their original birthplace perhaps not a thousand miles from the Baltic Sea. Since that time of their birthday, very long ago, trout have traveled up and down the rivers, down into the sea and up another river, until they have reached from Scotland to Chihuahua, from Montana to the Pyrenees, and whosoever seeks them honestly anywhere in all this range shall find exceeding great reward. Whether he catches trout or not, it does not matter, he will be a better man for the breath of the forests and the wash of the mountain streams in which the trout makes its home.
    There are many varieties and subvarieties of trout, but I shall attempt to describe only the three varieties that are met with in Rogue River, although authorities differ somewhat as to the distinction between our so-called Oregon brook trout and the rainbow trout.
    The largest of all trout is the steelhead, sometimes called the salmon trout, and this name is not inappropriate. The salmon trout of England is, however, merely a sea-run example of the European brook trout or brown trout. From the other trout the steelhead is best known by its short head, the length of the head along the side being contained four and one-half to five times in the length of the body from the tip of the snout to the base of the caudal fin. The scales in the steelhead are rather small, averaging about 150 in a lengthwise series from head to tail. The dorsal fin is low, and it has usually but three or four rows of dark spots. There are no teeth on the base of the tongue, the usual series lying around the outer edge.
    The steelhead trout does not go very far from the sea, except in the large rivers, its habits in this regard being more like the salmon than those usual among trout. The old fishes do not, however, die after spawning. When in salt water the steelhead is very silvery, but in fresh water the spots appear, and in the small streams it is almost as spotted as the rainbow trout. It reaches a weight of sixteen to twenty pounds.
    There has been much discussion as to whether the steelhead is a species really distinct from the rainbow trout. Very careful comparison of specimens leaves no doubt that the two are distinct. The steelhead is usually slenderer than the rainbow trout, less spotted, has less red on the side, and reaches a larger size.
    The trout "par excellence" of Oregon, found in almost every permanent brook, is the rainbow trout. He has larger scales than the others, usually 125 to 130 in a lengthwise row. The head is larger than in any other of the trout, its length being contained from three and one half to four times in the full length of the body. In little streams the rainbow is mature at six inches, but in larger streams and the estuaries it reaches a weight of six to eight pounds. In coastwise streams it runs up the streams in March to spawn, like a salmon, being able to leap over small waterfalls. The rainbow on the whole is probably the gamiest of all the trout, taking a fly eagerly and responding also to the lure of a grasshopper or a salmon egg.
    In Oregon and Washington there is a trout which is scarcely distinguishable from the rainbow trout. It reaches, so far as I know, only a small size. I have seen none weighing a pound. The mouth is smaller than any other of the trout, and the dorsal fin is less spotted than in the true rainbow.
    There is one other variety of trout that is sometimes found in the Rogue River that I must not overtook. That is the Dolly Varden trout. As it appears in the rivers it is one of the most beautiful of all the trout. Dark steel-blue above, with round spots of crimson on its sides and over its back, while its fins are trimmed in front, as in chars generally, with crimson and white. It is always found in cold, clear waters. Its size depends upon its food. It may weigh, when mature, anywhere from six ounces to twelve pounds. The little ones are brightest in color.
    The Dolly Varden is much more voracious than the true trout. In the Alaska streams they devour millions of salmon eggs, as well as young salmon. It is the greatest enemy the salmon breeder finds. It is gamy, vigorous, and takes the hook freely, with a fly, an insect, a salmon egg or a scarlet petal from some mountain flower.
    After all is said about fish, and trout in particular, the true angler is not the one who loves to fish, or who catches fish, or catches many fish, or many large fish. The true angler is one who loves fish well enough to know one kind from another. "It is good luck to any man," so Izaak Walton tells us, "to be on the good side of the man that knows fish."
May 25, 1912.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, June 14, 1912, page 2  Gerwick continues his essay in praise of the trout in the next week's issue.


    Rogue River is said to be the chief asset of Oregon. Not because of its gold mines, but because of its tremendous water power. It rises in the Cascades in Central Oregon and flows south and westerly and empties into the Pacific Ocean. It is not a wide river but very deep and carries an enormous volume of water, even in midsummer. Fed, as it is, by the melting snows of the Cascades, its water is very cold and is a typical home for trout. In past ages, as with all mountain streams, Rogue River was much wider and has gradually cut its way deep down into the mountains. When I speak of "old channel" a little later you will understand that it is this old riverbed to which I refer.
    You will be interested in knowing how Rogue River was named. Rogue isn't a bad name for it if we mean treacherous currents and hidden rocks, but it was not thus named. It was called by the early French "Rouge," because of its deep red color when mining is going on and waste material is being dumped into the river. [Still not true. There was no mining going on when the "early French" passed through.] The early settlers in this territory, not being able to pronounce the French "Rouge," called it Rogue, and soon the spelling, too, was changed. In very old geographies you will find it called Gold River and some once recognized it as the Illinois. [The state legislature changed the name to "Gold River" in the session of 1853-54, but it didn't take.]
    No one has ever been able to find definite sources for the enormous amount of free gold that is found in the placer mines along the Rogue. Of course some quartz ledges have been located and mined and in one instance, that of the Gold Bug mine, enormous quantities of gold have been taken out. It is estimated that $800,000.00 in gold has been taken from this one mine. There are several other successful quartz mines that should be mentioned, namely, the Oriole, the Golden Wedge, the Green Back, the Copper Stain and the Benton mines. But quartz mining, as we all know, is an expensive proposition. Machinery must be used to crush the ore; various means used to separate the gold-bearing ore from the waste; then cyanide used to precipitate the gold, and so on, until the gold is free and marketable.
    There are two distinct classes of placer mines, those in the bars along the present bed of the river and those in the old channel. The old channel mines show forth more gold and coarser, because the heavier gold was first washed down the river. Where the old channel is bare rock and loose gravel there is no use in mining; but the rich mines are found where landslides have occurred and covered deep these old river beds. In this way the gold was imprisoned and of a necessity forced to remain till the placer miner takes it forth. These landslides were enormous, in many cases filling up the entire river bed and forcing the river to seek a new course. Great rocks, weighing tons, were tossed down the mountainsides as if they were pebbles, and the miner must contend with these great stones. Dynamite must be used to break them to pieces and a derrick erected to get these pieces out of the way. Many of these boulders are of the hardest composition and an ordinary blast of dynamite has little or no effect upon them. I was told by one miner that he had used thirty sticks of giant powder on one boulder.
    Water is the chief necessity in placer mining. There are known to be several rich deposits of gold along the Rogue, but as no water is available it cannot be mined profitably. True, water could be carried miles, but a man has to consider what his returns will be. Can he afford to invest $20,000 in order to get out $10,000? This is the proposition that confronts them in one place that I know of. That is the one great trouble with mining. A miner knows he has gold and a company is formed. Money is spent and a few improvements are made. The miner then sees the absolute necessity of additional pipe lines, dams, sluices, derricks, etc. before he can mine satisfactorily. Before he realizes it, an enormous sum has been expended. Stockholders wonder why no dividends are forthcoming. They begin to think that they have been defrauded. An investigation is made. It is found that there is gold in the mine. No doubt about that. But more money had to be used to extract that gold than there was gold in the mine. And so, many have lost faith in gold mines and their exploitation.
    Few mines are conducted by practical engineers. If all mines were crosscut and a careful estimate made of the mine and what its probable output would be, then one could calculate on the amount to be invested and what would be the cheapest and most practical way to extract the gold.
    If the names would mean anything to the reader, I could cite mine after mine along Rogue River and elsewhere, from which profits have not and never will be made. It has been said that the man who can find the way to extract placer gold without going to great expense, can make money, but otherwise he had better leave placer mining alone.
    One of the largest placer mines along the Rogue is the Old Channel mine. It is said they took out $25,000 one year. But their equipment was so expensive and the difficulties encountered in mining were so great, that it has not proven a profitable investment. Once in a while someone will stumble on a pocket of gold and he is considered very lucky indeed, but the man who toils at his little mine, year in and year out, has usually as much at the end of his toiling as at the beginning.
    It is no trouble to find "colors" along Rogue River. One can take a pan and scrape together some moss and sand from the bedrock and after panning will find from one to fifty specks of gold dust. But, when one gets this, what has he? It would take thousands of these specks to weigh a few grains. Anyone wanting merely to get gold colors, in order to say he has panned out gold, should certainly come to Rogue River. It is estimated that over a million dollars in gold washes down the Rogue annually and is swept into the sea. At the mouth of Rogue River is the county seat of Curry County, Gold Beach. It was named from its golden sands. Gold is found in the sand there and three or four men manage to eke out an existence by "rocking" gold from the sand.
    A rocker is a wooden box of two pieces, patterned after an old-fashioned cradle. The top part is removable; a sheet of iron perforated with half-inch holes is placed in this top part; underneath are two trays covered with canvas to catch the gold and sand that filters through the metal above. The material to be washed is placed in the top on the perforated metal, and water poured on this; at the same time a rocking motion is given to the rocker and the gold filters through, leaving the waste in the top box. This is dumped. After a half hour or so the inner trays will be full of sand and gold. This is put into pans and washed until nothing remains but black sand and gold. This black sand is metallic and more or less iron, so remains with the heavy gold.
    I presume you have wondered how the gold was collected. In the mines where the flumes and sluices are used, on the day of the "cleanup," pans are used to wash out the black sand and gold, just as with the rocker. Quicksilver is put into the vessel containing the black sand and gold and quickly forms an amalgam with the gold. After all the gold has been amalgamated in this way the resultant metal is smelted and the mercury goes off in fumes, leaving the pure gold. This gold has a curious sponge-like appearance, and it is in this form that it is always referred to by assayists and others as sponge gold. Rogue River gold is valued at four cents a grain, or a little over $18 an ounce. Someone has asked how the gold here was marketed. It is used the same as money in paying bills and wages, and any bank in the West will receive the gold at full value.
    I would like to give you a little idea of the general appearance of a placer mine and will take as an example the Francis mine here at Horse Shoe Bend. It is a gravel bar, partially old channel, of perhaps five or six acres in extent. From eight to ten feet of gravel and boulders have been deposited on the bedrock, and the gold is mixed all through this deposit. In making an opening into a bar for a mine, it is best to take the lower end, just below the rapids. An excavation is then made back into the bar and it becomes necessary to wash all the gravel and boulders. As I have stated before, water is brought to the mines in most cases a great distance and at an enormous expense. Here at Horse Shoe Bend, on the side of the river where the mine is located, was dug a ditch, and in many places a flume had to be constructed of wood, at least a half mile in extent, bringing to the mine water from two mountain creeks. This water is used for the "giant," which is the name given the huge nozzle through which the water is forced against the material to be washed. One can thus realize what an enormous pressure is acquired. But there must be another stream of water for the "elevator."
    The elevator, as its name implies, is an apparatus constructed so as to elevate, by water pressure, the material washed from the sides of the mine and from which the gold is to be taken. Enormous water power must be had for this elevator. In the case of the Horse Shoe Bend mine, water is brought from Jenny Creek, a mile away, on the opposite aide of the river from the mine. A ditch had to be dug the entire distance; flumes had to be constructed in several places; then, when all this was done, a way must be made to get that water across the river. It was necessary to construct a suspension bridge high enough to escape all the extreme rises of the river in the winter season. This bridge was completed last year. It is 275 feet long. about twenty-five feet above the water, and has a carrying capacity of ten tons. The water is conveyed over the bridge in cast iron pipes and then on to the mine. This is the source of supply for the elevator. The boxes in which the gold is collected are called sluice boxes There are three kinds of sluice boxes, the "block," the "pole" and the "Hungarian riffle." Each miner has his preference, though the pole is universally liked. The block method, as is implied in its name, is merely great blocks of wood placed side by side in the box, so that when water flows over this, carrying the sand and gravel, the gold, being heavier, will settle between the blocks. In the pole sluice box, stripped fir trees are placed lengthwise and the gold drops between the poles. In the Hungarian riffle, strips of wood are placed crosswise in the sluice box. Two or three of these boxes are placed on the nearer side of the elevator, and on the farther side a sufficient number to carry the waste out into the river.
    The giant nozzle plays against the sides of the excavation and washes the material to the bottom of the mine into the first sluices, where, caught in the current of water hurrying towards the elevator, it is hurled through this, the gold washed from the stones, and then collects as it passes on down through the various sluice boxes. A "cleanup" is held every month or so and then the rocker and pan, which I described before, are used.
    Several good mines are being exploited along modern lines. That is, a careful estimate is being made of the amount they are supposed to contain and an efficient and practical way developed by which to extract the gold. In such a mine one need not fear to venture an investment. But let us all beware of the mine of which we know nothing except the argument of a prospectus or the futile promises of a promoter.
Horse Shoe Bend, Oregon, June 29, 1912.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, July 19, 1912, page 3


    Although I wrote you of my trip in through the mountains of Oregon, my trip out was so widely different that I thought you would be interested in knowing of it. The shortest distance from our camp to the railroad is twenty-one miles. During the fall and spring this trail is frequently traveled, but in summer, when it is too hot on the mountain ridges, and in winter, when the snow is too deep, it is necessary to travel a long distance around in order to arrive at the same destination. So, coming out, it became necessary for us to walk thirty-eight miles, twenty-four of which we walked the first day and the other fourteen the following morning. We stopped overnight at Whiskey Creek, where there is a promising quartz gold mine. We were taken through the workings of this, which we found most interesting and entirely different from the placer mining with which we were so familiar. This inspection of the mine was early the morning after we arrived.
    Besides walking the twenty-four miles, I had carried a pack of twenty-five pounds weight, and as one mile in mountain walking is equal to three on fairly level ground, you can get some idea of what that twenty-four-mile walk meant to me. Between Horse Shoe Bend and Whiskey Creek the trail winds along the river at an average height of two hundred feet, but as it approaches Bunker Canyon one ascends to twice that height in order to descend the precipitous sides of that canyon. This is done by means of "switchbacks" or "zigzags." That is, the trail would descend at a forty-five degrees angle, bearing to the right, then, after a short distance, at the same angle bearing to the left, and so on till the bottom of the canyon is reached. This "switchback" method is used throughout the mountains as the only way to ascend and descend precipitous places. After leaving Bunker Canyon we abandoned the trail for a mile and followed the river bottoms. The bedrock of this river was very rough, and in one place it was necessary for us to cling to a rocky wall white we traversed a narrow ledge of five inches in width, a fall from which would have plunged us into the river. As Rogue River is at all times dangerous on account of its swift current and treacherous rapids, a fall into its waters would mean almost certain death. The bedrock of the river, while mostly serpentine and conglomerate, is interspersed with enormous boulders of quartz and jasper. It was while we were following this course that we came across panther tracks, and it must have been a very large animal also.
    We passed several fishermen looking for salmon with a spear. This means of taking salmon is unlawful, and yet nearly everyone does so, being so far removed from danger of interfering wardens. At Whiskey Creek we found they had been successful in getting a salmon of thirty-seven pounds weight, and the steaks we had from this were most delicious. The meat is a beautiful deep rose color and is highly nitrogenous [i.e., proteinaceous].
    We had left Horse Shoe Bend at 4:30 in the afternoon, with the intention of escaping the heat of the day but expecting to arrive at our destination before night fell, in this we were disappointed, as it grew dark about 8:30 when we were still two miles from Whiskey Creek. Fortunately it was moonlight, and we could dimly see the trail lying along the dark side of the mountain, in the shadow of the fir trees, as if it were a light-colored ribbon thrown carelessly among the pine needles. It was impossible to see any rocks that might lie in the trail, and many a stumble and fall we had. Even at that, this was preferable to having had to walk in the hot sun of broad day.
    We left our friends at Whiskey Creek at 4:30 the morning of July 28th, with the intention of reaching tunnel seven, where we could get a Southern Pacific train at 10:25. Whiskey Creek in Rogue River Valley is separated from tunnel seven in Cow Creek Valley by a ridge of the Rogue River Mountains, the highest peak of which is Mount Reuben, with an elevation of 6,000 feet. From where we left Rogue River to the top of Mount Reuben the trail covers eight and a half miles. For the first two and a half miles we approached the Benton mines by "switchbacks" and a narrow trail. Both the Benton mines and the Gold Bug, of which I spoke once before, are two of the richest quartz mines in Oregon. The first mentioned is being developed and an offer of $350,000 has been refused for it. This mine is owned by the Lewises, of Portland, Oregon. It is estimated that over three-fourths of a million of dollars has been taken from the Gold Bug mine, which is on the opposite side of the canyon from the Benton mines.
    It was at the Benton mines that we encountered the wagon road that is the admiration of the country thereabout. As stated before, it is quite a distance to railroad service, and in this case it is twenty-five miles to Glendale, the nearest shipping point. It was, therefore, necessary for these mine people to build a wagon road up and over the mountain ridge, whereby the ore could be taken to the railroad. This was finally accomplished at the enormous expense of $1,000 per mile. As the road extends the full twenty-five miles, it is referred to as the $25,000 road. It has a grade average from two percent to twelve percent, on the very summit of the ridge. As we mounted higher and higher into the mountains, we could look back and see the road winding below us in many folds and loops. Some wag having passed that way had pinned this notice to a tree:
    The scenery is magnificent. Mountain peaks and mountain ridges in every direction as far as the eye can reach. In the dim north the shadowy peaks of Mount Bolivar and Saddle Peak; in the south the Siskiyou Range, dividing Oregon from California; in the distant southeast the shadowy outlines of Mount Shasta. As one stands on the top of Mount Reuben, and gazes into the canyons on every side, here and there are the indistinct outlines of a gold mine perched on the side of a mountain as a fly clings to a wall--the bottoms of the canyons a deep blue, so hazy and indistinct that one cannot even distinguish the outlines of the trees. In none of my travels have I seen the mountains so rugged and ranges so jumbled in all directions so irregularly as in Oregon. That is why it has been so tersely, though irrelevantly, said "that the Creator had made the world in six days, and had carefully smoothed out the eastern part of North America, and not knowing what to do with the rest of the earth, had dumped it on the Pacific Coast."
    We passed many hunting camps. The open season for deer in Oregon is from August 1st till November 1st, so the hunters were flocking into the country, many even anticipating the season. It seemed that the deer sensed they were being hunted, and had mounted into the highest ridges and most inaccessible places. At the very top of Mount Reuben we found the earth literally tramped into a wallow by thousands of deer hoofs. Here and there was stamped the imprint of the hoof of some enormous buck. One must not shoot the does or fawns at any time, under a heavy fine.
    From the top of the ridge to tunnel seven is a distance of five and a half miles. This we made in one and a half hours. Traveling downhill is quite rapid, though more or less tiresome. One can make so much quicker time than in the ascent, and so many "cutoffs" can be taken; that is, going straight down the mountainside from one loop of the trail to the next lower loop, thereby cutting out two lengths or "zigzags." This we did in several places. We arrived at tunnel seven shortly after 10 o'clock, and caught a northbound Pacific train for West Fork. The arrival at tunnel seven completed a thirty-eight-mile walk in two days, or, to be more exact, all that distance in fifteen and a half hours.
    I left West Fork late that evening for Portland and arrived there early the next morning As we approached Portland we followed the valley of the Willamette River and noted its importance in the logging industry. Great rafts of logs were floating in the stream and we passed several very large sawmills. At one in particular the rivermen were clambering over the logs as carelessly as you and I walk the streets, and the logs were floating free in the swift river current. A man would run out the length of a log and by rapid use of his pike pole or peavy would steer the log to the mouth of a chute, where he would leap from the log just as it would be grasped by the endless chain that carried it to the hungry maw of the great saws. From these great lumber yards boards are shipped all over the world, Portland, Tacoma and Seattle being the greatest distributing points for the lumber industry.
    Noteworthy in both Oregon and Washington are the great farms made so wonderfully fertile by irrigation systems. Where once were forests, now a veritable flower bed of vegetation covers the earth. An Easterner has no conception of the size that both vegetables and fruit and flowers attain in the West. I had always heard that everything in the West was so prolific in growth. Now I know this to be true. I have seen many potatoes that were large enough for three and four people to make a hearty meal on one of them. I saw blackberries that were three and a half inches long and almost an inch through, and the plums are so large that they are pared and sliced and served as we do peaches in the East. Every kind of  fruit is proportionately large. As to flowers, the field daisy attains a diameter from two to two and a half inches, and I've seen the most gorgeous roses I ever gazed upon growing out in the dooryards, seemingly without any care or attention. Not in any hothouse in the East have I seen such roses as I find growing everywhere in the gardens here; such delicate varieties in color and such magnificent clusters of them, many as large as small dinner plates. The city of Portland annually has its Rose Festival, and it is there that one truly sees roses in all their perfection.
    One of the greatest projects of the West at present is the Pacific Highway, which is to be an automobile road extending along the Pacific Coast from Vancouver, B.C. to San Diego, California. The northern portion is well under way and many parts already in use. The road running the length of the state of California, in fact, the length of the famous Santa Clara Valley, is so wonderful that it would cause Mr. John Macadam, were he still alive, to lift his hat in admiration. It is really a restoration of El Camino Real, that historic highway which the Spanish conquistadors built, close on a century and a half ago, for the purpose of linking up the one and twenty missions which the indefatigable Father Serra established between San Diego in the south and Sonoma in the north, and which did more to open up California to colonization and commerce than any undertaking except the completion of the Southern Pacific. When completed, this highway, for which the state has recently appropriated the goodly sum of $18,000,000, will be 700 miles long, 75 feet wide, and as smooth and drainable as a ship's deck. Both scenically and historically it will be one of the world's great highways, taking rank with the Corniche Road along the Riviera, the Great North Road which runs from London up into Scotland, and the Appian Way. If that road were being built in the prosaic East, I am perfectly sure that they would cheapen it by calling it the Shore Road or the State Pike, but it speaks well for California's leaning toward the picturesque and the appropriate that she has decided to cling to the historic name of El Camino Real--the Royal Road, the King's Highway. Such is the spirit in the West.
Woodstown Monitor-Register, Woodstown, New Jersey, September 27, 1912, page 2