GOLD HILL, Or., Jan. 8.--(Special.)--The woes of other postmasters since the establishment of the parcel post are lost upon Postmaster Hammersley, of this city, who declines to admit that even a dozen scrambled eggs in a mail sack can compete for official discomfort with three quarts of very "gooey" varnish mixed thoroughly throughout a sack of second-class mail.
    The sack in question arrived from the south yesterday, and the first dip into its recesses brought forth a sticky fistful of a certain famous brand of floor varnish. Three one-quart cans, unboxed, had lost their lids in transit and mixed freely with the contents of the sack, in direct defiance of the regulations. Patrons of the office received their mail an hour later than usual, and with a fine shellac finish.
Morning Oregonian, Portland, January 9, 1913, page 12

    Fears that John Hammersley, of Grants Pass, missing government hunter, had been killed by wolves in Jackson County were set at rest yesterday when he reached Wimer, Jackson County, after having been for days away from his cabin on Willow Flat, near the Green Mountains, and after having covered miles of territory in pursuit of predatory animals.
    It was reported here at a late hour last night that the Gold Hill victim of wolves was John Dorando, a prospector.
    News that Mr. Hammersley was safe was telephoned to his brother, T. E. Hammersley, Portland detective, from Gold Hill yesterday afternoon.
    The belief that Hammersley had been killed by wolves resulted from the discovery of human bones on Evans Creek near the missing hunter's cabin by two timbermen last Friday. Nearby were the bodies of three wolves which apparently had been shot by the man in the death struggle.
    John Hammersley, for whom searching parties had been hunting several days, reached Wimer yesterday, and it was not until then that he discovered the anxiety that his long absence had caused. When he learned of the report that he had been killed by wolves he immediately telephoned to his brother-in-law, Dr. W. P. Chisholm, of Gold Hill, announcing his safety. He told his brother-in-law that he would reach Grants Pass, where his wife is, sometime last night.
Morning Oregonian, Portland, January 31, 1917, page 8

    Fulfilling his prediction that John Hammersley, government hunter reported killed by wolves in Jackson County, was not dead but would show up today to send his monthly report to Pendleton, E. F. Averill, district inspector of predatory animals, yesterday afternoon received a telegram declaring that there was no truth in the published story of Hammersley's death.
    Hammersley showed up yesterday at Wimer to learn that he was supposed to have been eaten by wolves. He stated that he had been absent from his cabin on Willow Flats for four or five days on a cougar hunt. He at once telephoned the news of his safety to Gold Hill.
    Reports reaching Portland state that the bones found have been identified as those of John Duranda, a prospector of Grants Pass. He probably perished in the mountains and was afterwards discovered by wolves.
East Oregonian, Pendleton, January 31, 1917, page 1


Inspired by the disappearance of John Hammersley:
    One winter day in the wooded wilds of the Umpqua Mountains in Southern Oregon, John Burch, a government hunter, was plodding his weary way over a new fall of snow, on a tour of inspection over his district. His legs were encased in waterproof leggins, laced above the knees, and shoes of the timbermen type; about his gaunt frame hung a short leather jacket lined with felt. Plainly, he had paid but little attention to his attire, except for comfort. He carried a late-modeled Winchester rifle strapped over his shoulder; his field glasses hung in a leather case by his side.
    Chained to the hunter's waist was Bruce, an old hound that had been his boon companion for five years. The dog was sired by a bloodhound, imported by his master from old Kentucky. His dam was a black and tan hound, who had lost her life in a battle with the crafty panther in these very mountains. All during his career old Bruce had led a charmed life. His puppyhood comrades had all fallen on the trail, the victim of their foe. The old hero had survived them all. He was of a lank frame, sense wonderfully developed, of great strength and endurance. He knew but one master; his comrades feared and respected his superior authority. Keen on the trail, swift on foot, and valorous, the old fighter had never met defeat; every child was his friend and playmate.
    Chained to the old hound were four young dogs of the same breed. The hunter called them his "pups." Since waddling puppies the youngsters had been under the artful tutorship of old Bruce. They had ofttimes been on the trail and in the din of battle, being well versed in the art of the old master. The hounds were all uneasy, clamoring for the fray. The hunter and his faithful dogs had been very successful in ridding the range of the presence of their foe. It had been a fortnight since the pack had had the sport of chasing the panther to his lair.
    It was some task for the hunter to keep pace as his feet followed the chained animals as they forged ahead in the unbroken path. Suddenly they emerged from the deep recesses of the dense forest into a large clearing which had been made by a forest fire. The view from the opening was high upon the mountainside, far above their return route to camp. The hoary evergreen forest, fringed with the lingering morning mist, greeted the eye of the hunter to the vanishing point in the far-reaching uplands.
    The sunshine glistened brightly upon the snow, and with the brisk walking it had splashed the lean cheek of the hunter with a lustrous pink. Halting, he removed his fur cap from his head; his unkempt brown hair hung crinkly and moistly on the edge of his forehead. Of a medium size and erect figure, vitality merrily rippled in his blue, contented eyes.
    Removing his powerful field glasses from their case he placed them to his eyes, sweeping his vision over the vast mountain slope. While surveying his surroundings, he was interrupted by the whining of old Bruce. Lowering the glasses he turned to the old dog, which continued his whining, with his entire body in a tremor while he sniffed the balmy air and cast his gaze toward their rear. "Well, oldtimer, what is your trouble now?" remarked the hunter as he raised the glasses to continue the survey of the mountains. The hunter was well aware that the old dog with his keen scent or ear had detected the presence of some animal. Lowering the glasses, he returned them to the case dangling at his side, then moving a few paces back, sat down upon a log at the edge of the clearing. He bade the dogs "lie down," which command they obeyed by crouching down on the snow, then quietness for a few moments reigned over the animated scene in the mountain wilderness. Hark! Faintly; then harsher came the sound of the deep howl of the timber wolf, far to their rear. Instantly, the young dogs detected the distant call as it clearly wafted over the vast stillness. Springing quickly to their feet, joined by old Bruce, the dogs crowded around their master, whining for their freedom to begin the chase.
    "Timber wolves! Dern their pesky hides! It's the first time this winter I've heard that familiar beckon in this neck of the woods. Lordy! she's been some storm; it's driving them down from above," remarked the hunter, gesturing to his dogs as he slowly arose to his feet from the seat on the snow-covered log. "Move on, old timer," commanded the hunter, addressing old Bruce, as he pointed to the western slope with his staff which he had cut by the wayside early in the journey. The old dog tightened his chain and led the way as directed.
    The hunter had been in these mountains for the past three years as government hunter, and for sixteen years before as a homesteader and hunter, and knew well all the haunts and habits of the game and animals. He had established his camp and headquarters at Willow Flat, a few miles to the south down the mountainside, and was situated at the junction of two neighboring streams, which headed far above in the summit of the divide. It was the terminal of the wagon road leading from the valley below, and was only accessible with vehicles during the summer season. The camp was the key to all that immense territory, and was the distributing point for the hunter, game warden, and all who visited this wonderful game preserve.
    The hunter had served with distinction in the late Spanish war, with the Second Oregon, as corporal, in the Philippines. After the war and his discharge from the army he located on and acquired under the soldier's homestead act a claim situated near his present camp. The claim was covered with a valuable growth of Oregon fir, and like most of the homesteaders, attracted by the fancy prices offered for standing timber, the hunter sold his tract to non-resident timber purchasers. These timber barons are now holding their valuable assets until the time comes when the iron horse will transport this timber to the valleys below, then on to the markets of the world. A decade before many hundreds of the claim holders covered this large region; it was now unmarked by habitation, destitute of human beings, save and excepting this lonely government hunter.
    This far-reaching woodland had reverted to the noblemen of the forest--the deer and elk. The wild animals, as tenants, for ages past had roamed over these grass- and rill-covered uplands. Nature, a mother kind to all, who so bountifully provided this pasture for the game, also made it the happy hunting ground of the red man, timber wolf and panther, and these aboriginals of the woods, with their crude and cunning mode of capture, were unable to reduce the number of these prolific herds.
    These lofty Umpqua Mountains extend across the southern part of the state, a distance of one hundred miles, and are the connecting chains of mountains which run east and west between the Cascades on the east and the Coast Range on the west. The gentle slopes of the Umpquas extend a distance of from twenty to thirty miles on the south to the Rogue River Valley, and on the north to the Umpqua Valley. The Umpqua and Cascade mountains are the source of the waters which feed the streams in the valleys below. The home of the sportive trout, the little rill and the mighty mountain torrent flowing from these lofty peaks form the two snow-fed rivers, the Rogue and Umpqua, which glide onward to the Pacific.
    The deer in these mountains are increasing rapidly in number. Hundreds are killed annually by the hunter in the open season, under the regulation of the State Game Commission. The elk, but few remain; in former years the gun of the skin hunter, assisted by the timber wolf and panther, nearly exterminated this noble game animal. The state, assisted by the government, came to the rescue of the fast-disappearing elk and saved the remnant of the former herds in these mountains. But, almost too late, so few were left when the slaughter was stopped that the number could be counted on the fingers of the hands, but since protected from the gun of the hunter they are slowly increasing in number from that small herd. The game wardens of the state patrol this preserve for the poacher during the accessible season, while the government employs the special hunter throughout the year to capture the predatory animals that prey upon his wards.
    The hunter, a person of considerable education, student of nature and writer, was born forty years before in an adjoining county. A son of the hardy pioneer, he grew to manhood with the instinct of the hardy race, who built an empire in the golden West. The wilds of the mountains, the gun, the horse and dog, were the lords of his fancies. When on the trail, his eye and ear was ever on the alert; instinct seemed to guide the hunter through the dense and tangled forest. Possessed of an iron muscle, great power of endurance, he was master of all the arts of woodcraft; and one of the most skillful riflemen in the country.
    Hunting and trailing the mountain lion, in his home and adjoining states with his pack of trained hounds, the hunter became the hero of many a chase and capture. The hunter, his dogs and their trophies, were starred in the films; his pen was famous for his magazine stories. The government, attracted by his success, employed him as a special hunter to destroy the enemy of the game and stationed him in these mountains. And Uncle Sam doled out regular rations for the hunter and his dogs and horses, also furnished all the ingenious contrivances known to man for the capture of the foe of the game, while the hunter's wife and four small children resided in one of the valley towns at the foot of the mountain slope. The mother and children annually joined the hunter in his haunts during the summer months. The hunter usually made regular trips to the nearest settlement in the valley below for supplies, a distance of twenty miles, and with each trip out he mailed to his publishers an installment of his serial, "The Waif of the Umpquas."
    The shades of the closing day were covering the dreary mountain slope. For several miles on their path towards camp the hunter and his dogs were frequently interrupted by the near approach of the wolves in their rear. At every outbreak of the deep note of the wolves the young fighters would halt and attempt to retrace their steps to meet and challenge their enemy, and it was with some difficulty that the quartet were induced to proceed. With an occasional thrust of the staff, or a kick from the hunter's foot, accompanied by his harsh command, the unruly fellows sullenly went onward.
    The timber wolf, ranging regularly through the year in this section in former times, was very destructive to the cattle upon this summer range; many of them were killed annually by the wolves. The cattlemen, with the assistance of the hunter and trapper, waged a war of extermination upon the wolf. The wolves now visiting this section of the mountains range far to the east in the Cascades. It only makes its appearance in this section when the heavy snowfall drives the deer down from the summits and the distant Cascade Mountains; it follows the deer down and ranges back with them as the snow line recedes.
    During the summer months these wolves prey upon the breeding does in the thickets; they follow the mother to her foundling and capture the fawn. The wolf's favorite method of foraging is to range with the panther in the vicinity of the licks and watering places of the deer. After the panther makes a capture from aloft, the wolf drives the victor from its spoils, and devours the carcass of the deer. The deer in the early spring season range on the southerly high peaks of the mountains, where the snow first disappears, while the snow on the north slope remains at a great depth, and with the early spring freezing and thawing causes a crust to form on the top of these immense snow beds. The wolves by an organized system drives the deer from their hiding places in the adjoining thickets out upon the crust-covered snow. The crust breaks with the deer, making it a helpless victim of the pursuers. The wolves creep out in pursuit of the deer on top of the crust, pounce upon the struggling animal in the snow pit, and begin eating the poor victim while still alive.
    This timber wolf is of a dirty, grizzly color during the summer season, and as winter appears its coat turns nearly white. Its average weight at maturity is usually over a hundred pounds. It is possessed with an extra large and broad head, with powerful jaws crushing the bones of its victim and swallowing them with a gulp. It is not very ferocious, due to the plentifulness of game; they do not as a rule attack a human being. On account of the constant warfare waged against this wolf by the hunter and trapper, it will not unheedingly expose itself, but it is not a coward by any means. It is brave when occasion demands it, when necessary to gain its point. Instances are of record in these mountains when the wolf has risked and lost its life to save a wounded mate from the assault of either man or beast.
    The hunter and dogs, marching in single file down the mountain slope, arrived on the old government trail, which leads past the door of the hunter's cabin. This deep-trod landmark was constructed by the government while conducting military expeditions in these mountains before the country was settled--in the days of the red man. The old trail extended over the mountains through Goulway Gap, the lowest pass in the summits, and in the time before the advent of the vehicle, it was the only thoroughfare between the distant valleys for the traveler journeying up and down the Pacific Coast. The long and tiresome tramp during the day over the hampered path in the snowbound mountains had sharpened the appetite of the hungry hunter. His only subsistence during the day had been his morning meal at dawn, excepting an occasional handful of snow from the pathway to quench his thirst. It was a feeling of relief that the hunter experienced as he stepped into the old familiar highway, and with visions of an unobstructed trail to the journey's end and the comforts of the cabin home it impelled him to urge the dogs to quicken their pace.
    Striding down the trail at a point where the timber grew thinner, again the hunter and his companions were disturbed by their pursuers. The deafening howl came from a short distance away--to their right above the trail--in a clump of young firs. At the sound of the alarm the young dogs with a sniff and yelp bounded toward the thicket, dragging old Bruce and casting the hunter down into the snow. "L-o-o-rdy! L-o-o-rdy! " loudly exclaimed the chattering hunter, as he regained his feet and shook the snow from his person. "Git out, you pups!" again screamed the angry hunter, as he swung his arms and staff over his head. "Beat it! Blow!" he commanded the dogs, as he thrust at them with his staff, and with a warning growl from old Bruce the young hounds retreated down the pathway, with the hunter and old Bruce in the rear.
    In a short time the hunter and his companions arrived at a point on the trail where the fir timber grew thicker, the underbrush having disappeared, and again they were abruptly interrupted by the howl of the wolf sounding down the trail, directly in their front. "Dern yer! I'll bet fifteen cents I'll puncture your pesky hide for this," angrily muttered the hunter as he halted, dropping his staff in the snow, and by a rapid change ducked over, slipping the strap that supported the gun over his head and shoulders, and the gun was ready for service. Just then the young dogs set up a yelp, again defying the authority of their master by attempting to bolt down the trail. "Lie down, you pups! Dern yer, can't you keep quiet for a moment?" the hunter commanded and interrogated, as he raised his gun and waved it in a threatening manner over the young dogs. At this old Bruce, with a snarly growl, settled back on his chain, leaning against the hunter's legs, and with distorted bodies, their hair ruffled on their backs crouched down in the snow, sullenly snarling and obeying the command. Lowering his gun to his waistline, the hunter then peered down the trail and viewed their disturber, poised, in the act of repeating his call. Quick as a flash the hunter raised the Winchester, and with a sharp crack, a yelp of pain, the wolf leapt skyward, then dropping disappeared in the snow on the trail.
    "Dern yer, I've won!" chirped the hunter in glee, as he quickly dropped his gun on the snow, then stooping down he unhooked the chain from the dogs. "Now go! you pups, go!" he shouted as he stood holding the chain in his hands watching the dogs file down the trail at a rapid pace towards the shot wolf. The dogs had just got under way when the wolf sprang to its feet, staggered for a moment, saw the dogs approaching, then with a bound it started down the trail, emitting with each leap a mournful howl of distress, with the hounds nearly upon it.
    Instantly, from four quarters in the distance, came the sound of the dismal answer to the mournful wail of the wounded wolf. The hunter at this alarm threw the chain over and around his shoulder with one hand, and with the other grasped his rifle from the snow, then with a bound started down the trail in pursuit of the retreating animals. They soon disappeared from his sight at a point where the trail entered into a dense thicket, and in a few moments the dogs' baying sounded beyond. The hunter increased his pace and soon arrived in a little glen beyond the thicket on the old trail. The twilight gushed through the tops of the lofty firs into the little clearing and cast its light upon the coming combat.
    The fearless dogs, with a galloping sidestep, were circling around their victim. Every avenue of escape attempted by the wolf brought it face to face with its powerful adversary, while others were snapping at its rear. The approach of the hunter prompted the dogs to close the circle and charge upon their foe, and with a joint move forward they closed in upon the wolf, whirling with a yelp of defiance. The next moment, with a wail of anguish, the bloodthirsty grip of the powerful jaws of the fighters were fastened upon the vitals of their victim. The work of death was done.
    The shadows of the evening were fast falling upon the scene in the wooded glen on the old mountain trail. His thoughts absorbed in the savage butchery of the dogs, the hunter was unmindful of the lurking danger so near at hand. He was in the act of unwinding the chain from around his body to make the dogs secure again, and to proceed on the journey to the camp, when, "Whoop! whoop!" the twilight air was filled with the deafening roar, as the woods resounded with a mighty din. Volley after volley of the dismal howl of the wolves sounded in the trail above. The cool hunter moved a few paces up the trail to a point which gave him a full view of the approach on the shaded trail above. He raised his gun ready to fire, well knowing that an effective shot repeated several times would check the advent of the angry wolves.
    At the first alarm of danger, the faithful dogs rallied to the defense of their master, who had just gained his position on the trail, when with a loud whirling whoop, the companions of the dead wolf made their appearance on the trail, tracking the blood-stained track of the wounded wolf--three in the lead--a vicious horde following a few feet in the rear. With a sharp crack sounded the report of the hunter's gun--the leader dropped to the snow; again voiced the gun--its victim fell. The swarming wolves in the rear, with vengeance bent, bolted over and past their fallen companions, and with a chorus of spitty snarls, they bristled the coarse and dirty hair along their spines and halted, facing the brave hunter and his faithful companions a few feet away. The dogs, with old Bruce slightly in the lead, stood abreast in front of the hunter, braced with bowed backs, showing their teeth with a resentful growl. Again the hunter raised his trusty rifle, and with deadly aim he covered the foremost of his ferocious foes. "Snap!" replied the gun--it was empty.
    Winter was drawing to a close, the snow had done its work, and was fast disappearing. Again the little wooded glen on the old mountain trail was an animated scene. Two lonely miners passing over the old thoroughfare reached the shady nook and halted! What is this on the snow? At their feet lay the carcass of the timber wolf. Peering down the pathway--(it gave evidence of a mighty struggle)--a few feet ahead lay another grizzly form--beyond was a third--a story of a tragedy. Advancing down the trail on the further side of their gruesome find--the melting snow was strewn with the strand of the garment--here and there--the bone of the victim--as the wild beasts had left them after the horrible feast. In the center of the circle, in the trampled snow, lay a Winchester rifle--its breech was gaping. On the stock of the gun was carved, "John Burch--Government Hunter."
The Oregon Sportsman, January 1918, pages 18-24


    The War Stamp meeting Friday night was attended by a large crowd that listened with enrapt attention and applauded vigorously every time the speakers dealt the Kaiser an oratorical blow.
    The program began with a song by little Miss Violet Olson, of Woodburn, who played her own ukulele accompaniment. She was recalled by a storm of applause. She was followed by Wendell Kent with a xylophone selection; Mrs. Kent, his mother, accompanied him.
    Chairman Sadler then introduced Joseph Hammersley, deputy county attorney of Multnomah County, who delivered an address straight from a heart overflowing with patriotic sentiment and enthusiasm. Mr. Hammersley has a son at the front and knows what that means to the parents and relatives of our soldiers. He made a splendid address amid repeated outbursts of patriotic applause.
Aurora Observer, Aurora, Oregon, July 4, 1918, page 1


    GOLD HILL, Jan. 16.--(Special)--John B. Hammersley, Gold Hill's ex-postmaster, mayor, recorder, marshal and editor of the Gold Hill News, like the bad penny has returned to his old tramping ground after an absence of two years. Hammersley won great distinction and become famous after his return from military service in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War, as government hunter killing and trapping mountain lions and wolves with a pack of trained dogs. Hammersley was the government hunter reported to have been killed and devoured by the timber wolves in Upper Evans Creek a few years ago. He later appeared in a distant frontier settlement unharmed. The press reports of the incident shocked the whole Northwest and was the inspiration of Kellogg's "Umpqua Tragedy" (above).
Medford Mail Tribune, January 17, 1923, page 3


Medford Mail Tribune, January 24, 1923, page 5

    Sale of the Weller Apartments at 315 N.E. 28th Avenue by Tessie M. Hammersley to a Portland attorney, Arthur D. Jones, was reported last week by Fred E. Arnold, realtor, who handled the transaction.
    The Weller is a modern two-story and basement brick and frame structure containing 16 units, including 15 of two rooms, one of four rooms and a store space on the ground floor.
    The sale price was reported to be approximately $30,000; Mr. Jones purchased the property as an investment.
    Mr. Arnold reports that well-selected multiple-dwelling properties are at the top of the list as a real estate investment at this time.
Oregonian, Portland, July 19, 1942, page 24.  The building is still standing as of November 2019.

    Portland, Ore., June 19.--(AP)--Joseph L. Hammersley, 71, former deputy district attorney for Multnomah County, died yesterday. He was a native of Eugene and studied law under Judge H. K. Hanna of Jacksonville. He practiced in Gold Hill until 1911, when he came here. His widow, Tessie, and three children by a previous marriage, survive.
Medford Mail Tribune, June 19, 1942, page 12