By way of rusticating, we took a horseback ride up the valley. Passing through Phoenix, its former dilapidated appearance presented some cheering signs of rising from the ashes; as we noticed a commodious building going up and a brick store repairing and fitting up. We learned that the building is to be used for a flouring mill under the auspices of Mr. Wimer, who owns and has in operation in the place one of the best flouring establishments in the valley; whose energy and enterprise goes far towards keeping the business of the place up. In a new store, a stock of goods will be opened soon by our wealthy townsman, Mr. T. G. Reames, who promises to accommodate the public with good bargains, on the principle of "quick sales and small profits." Thomas' well-known habits of fair and square dealing may well ensure him the patronage of the community.
    A short hour's ride brought us to the Hot Sulphur Springs on the roadside about two miles below Ashland. Here we found a bath house and tub, improvised by the kind owner for the use of those visiting, or rather stopping, on the wayside, as no resort has yet been induced to its waters; the open accommodations were indulged in to our delightful refreshment. These waters are insufficiently warm to be comfortable and bracing to the system, and will doubtless one day be a favorite resort. As to the mineral properties of the water, sulphur seems to be the base, and if the alkaline properties are not too strong, it may serve as a valuable tonic; but certainly for bathing purposes it is truly delightful.
    Ashland presents the appearance of a live, neat little mountain town, with marks of thrift and enterprise on every hand. The many well-improved farms and beautiful residences along on the road above the town bespeak the taste and energy of the inhabitants. This is truly a desirable portion of the valley; the beautiful running streams and wooded hill slopes that shut it in closely on both sides blend the beautiful in nature with a truly romantic aspect.
    Leaving the main stage road just below the Mountain House, a ride of three miles drew us up at the Soda Springs Hotel, kept by Dr. M. Colwell for a watering resort and wayside hotel. Here we were so struck with the immediate refreshing effects of the sparkling and effervescing waters of this remarkable spring, we concluded to stop a few days--not that we were "tormentingly unhealthy"--but just to keep from getting in that unpleasant fix. These waters are certainly of the rarest quality; boiling up through a rock fissure, they send forth a strong fountainhead, equal in taste and far superior in effect to any artificial soda fountain; after drinking a few drafts one becomes quite fond of it and craves it as the most favorite beverages. We learn that it has proved as near a panacea for disease as any mineral water ever found.
    We feel assured that the debilitated would run no risk in trying it, as we heard of many truthful instances of its efficacy--having reached almost hopeless cases, where artificial drugs had failed. The accommodations of the house are neat and comfortable, and the table well supplied with everything a reasonable epicurean could wish; besides, the proprietor is a thorough and skillful physician, whose services can be called to patients requiring medical attendance. We feel assured that as soon as the character of these waters are known that this will be one of the first watering places on the Coast. On our return we met many of our farmers and stock men who report this one of the most favored seasons for their interest. The fine stretch of flourishing grain fields and fat, lowing herds on green hillsides testified to our minds that we occupy a most desired spot, and all that we want to make it so is to call it make it our fixed home. We met the Hon. Jesse Applegate on his way to finish up the survey of the Klamath Basin. We also met our worthy County Surveyor, J. S. Howard, assisted by Mr. Wm. Turner, just going out on a surveying tour to sectionize the mountain country lying west of the road, which contains large belts of fine timber. The recent rush for timber lands has demanded the survey of this rough section of our county; and if the fervor on the land question rages as it has the past few months, these lands will soon find a market. And our people can congratulate themselves on this appreciation of our soil and timber, which is giving our material interest a true growth.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, April 29, 1871, page 2


    I left Portland at 3 o'clock in the afternoon of May 1, and after a railway ride of five hours through the valley of the Willamette, arrived at Albany. On my former visit it was cloudy, and I did not see the four grand mountains--St. Helens, Adams, Hood and Jefferson--all visible at once, with their diadems of perpetual snow. Few valleys in the world can offer such a sight, much less one with such a climate and such a soil. If all men had the hearts of poets, even without the brains, what fabulous prices these fields would command.
    I was born and reared among the finest scenery of the Susquehanna, where rugged highland and cultured lowland, rock-faced precipice, and broad, bright rivers blend with the works of art, to make a landscape worthy of the painter's canvas and the minstrel's song, and I have seen nature elsewhere in some of her grandest aspects, but never before did I so thoroughly realize the soul-lifting presence of the beautiful. Perhaps the balmy breath of May, heavy with the incense of flowers, and the happy thought that I was homeward-bound rendered "more beautiful that which was so.''
    But who shall describe these glorious mountains? Words cannot picture them, therefore I will scarcely attempt "to wreck my thoughts upon expression." Light, fleecy clouds wreathed their sides, or rested upon their summits. For the three hours that Hood was in sight, almost without a change, a white mist was pivoted on its sharp and lofty peak. As we neared Albany I saw Jefferson for the first time in all its grandeur. He was then only fifty miles away!
    As I looked upon the broad and beautiful valley, in the warm light of a May Day sun, I thought of the hundreds of thousands who in a few years would till its fruitful fields and enjoy its temperate climate. In Pennsylvania every acre would be worth $200, which is fifteen times its present value. Here a failure of crops has never been known.
    At Albany we were crowded into a mail coach, and after a night and day ride of fifty-five hours arrived at this town. For the first few hours we were kept awake by the chronic scoldings of a young California widow, with two small children, both of them older than John Rodgers' youngest. She imprecated everybody in Oregon, from the Governor of the state up to the stage driver, because by a change of programme she had been obliged to tarry in Albany twenty-four hours at an expense of five dollars, which an unprincipled publican had charged her for boiled beans, according to her account the only fare attainable at his hostelry. From the amount of gas elaborated in her case I am convinced that boiled beans would prove an economical substitute for bituminous coal in the manufacture of that article. Her objurgations were finally silenced by a good-natured army surgeon dry-nursing one of her babies. As he was going East to be married, his kindness was not entirely disinterested. He was indulging in a little preliminary practice.
    Early in the morning we reached Eugene City, where we exchanged our blatant widow for a good breakfast. She was going to visit her uncle, who kept a pig ranch in the neighborhood. I infer that he does not raise beans from the fact that the telegraph has announced no great commotion in that quarter.
    During the afternoon we passed the summit that divides the Willamette and Umpqua valleys. If I had not been told that the latter was a valley I would not have suspected it, for it contained no level land. It was down one hill and up another, too decidedly rolling to come up to my idea of a valley. On the summit of a roll, about as high as the Alleghenies, I asked a long-legged Dutchman, who was familiar with the neighborhood, when we should come to it. He told me we had been in it for three hours!
    Late in the afternoon of the second day after crossing another summit, we descended into the beautiful Rogue River country--one of the most genial and productive valleys on the Pacific Slope, where winter is almost unknown, and where the summer nights are warm enough to ripen Indian corn. Here grapes grow in perfection, and even the fig is cultivated, and if the summers were not so dry it would be one of the gardens of the world. As in the Willamette, there has never been a failure of cereal crops. At three in the morning we reached Jacksonville.
    After a rest of a few hours, and a late breakfast at the hotel of a garrulous and accommodating French woman, whose misfortune it was to have a drunken Irishman [John Guilfoyle] for an appendage (he was too low down in the scale of manhood to be called a husband) we started for Fort Klamath in a two-horse light carriage, euphemistically called a buggy. As the greater portion of our journey lay through a wilderness, we were accompanied by a guide on horseback. For twenty-three miles south we followed the stage route through the lovely valley; thence four miles east to a lonely inn, kept by a quondam doctor of medicine [Dr. Matthew Caldwell of the Wagner Soda Springs Hotel], who still dispensed mineral waters to hypochondriac and ailing females from the neighboring town and hamlets. There were several mineral springs on the place, one of which was strongly impregnated with iron. Here we found the best of fare, and much we required it for the journey of the next day.
    Twelve hours without rest brought us to the end of it, and we had made only thirty-five miles. But such a road you never saw, and I hope I never shall again, except on horseback or on foot. How that wagon got through will always remain a mystery to me. As it was we broke two double-trees--one in pulling out of a creek, in which we came near drowning. The carriage stood on end as we descended its perpendicular bank into five feet of water. If it had turned over upon us in that swift mountain torrent this letter would have borne a different postmark, and been forwarded by "spook'' express.
    When I came to descend the rocky bed of a stream at an angle of fifty degrees, for a distance of two hundred yards, with not an inch to spare on either side between the massive boulders, I thought I had attained the climax of a wagoner's woe, but a seven-mile stretch the next day satisfied me "that the longer a man lives in this world the more he finds out."
    We began the day by ascending a steep and high mountain, one of the Cascade Range, not less than six thousand feet above tide; nor did we get five hundred feet below this level until near the end of our day's journey. And here from this mountain I heard the first thunder since I came to Oregon, more than ten months ago. It rolled below me, over the Link River country, to the east. By six o'clock we reached the first house, where our unfed horses very naturally stopped, especially when the unfed driver (your correspondent) pulled instinctively on the lines.
    This lonely homestead on the swift-rolling Klamath was "Brown's." I felt related to [Ozro Thomas] Brown when I found he had once lived in Pennsylvania, and the sentiment of consanguinity was not diminished by the cornucopious supper and breakfast set before us by the hefty Mrs. Brown. How she could gather such a variety of good things in that almost inaccessible spot is another source of wonder to me! Why should she exert herself so much when there is no opposition? I commend Mrs. Brown above all the caterers whom it has been my misfortune to meet in Oregon, always excepting the Dutch tavern-keeper at Aurora, before mentioned in these annals.
    Six o'clock next morning found us two miles on our journey, with 45 yet before us. Along the Klamath River we saw scattered farmhouses, and at Link River, 17 miles from Brown's, a small hamlet, consisting of a tavern, a store, and a blacksmith shop. Link River connects the Upper and Lower Klamath lakes. We crossed it by a free bridge, built by a private citizen called "Uncle George Nurse," who owns the contiguous property. In this neighborhood are several boiling sulfur springs--hot enough to cook eggs, and with water enough to run a big saw-mill. And here for the first time I saw Shasta, the monarch of California mountains. If I had not known he was a hundred miles away I would have thought he was less than ten, he loomed up so grandly with his triple peak of snow. He looked like Hood, with Adams and St. Helens, less lofty, leaning against him. The sight of him, in conjunction with Mrs. Brown's supper and breakfast, compensated as for all the hazards and hardships of the way. So blend the sentimental and the sensuous in making up the sum of human happiness--varying in their proportions in individual cases, as swine or angel chances to preponderate.
    After dining at a lowly and lonely hut on the borders of the lake, we struck the worst seven miles of road on the face of the earth, either at the present time or in the ages past. By road I mean a track for vehicles of more than one wheel. The first and best mile of it lay through a swamp, which is the edge of the lake--one of those amphibious arrangements that combine in unequal parts earth and water, with a sprinkling of skunk cabbage. Our host of the hut told us we would find the road beyond this good, only a little stony. I did not appreciate what an inveterate wag he was until we came to it.
    But it was cruel to wag on such a subject, considering the frail character of our vehicle. After getting out of the mud and water, we encountered a piece of natural turnpike that could have furnished raw material for the pyramids of Egypt and the walls of Babylon, and left enough to build stone fences around Horace Greeley's farm and the desert of Sahara. The lowest grade was eleven hundred feet to the mile, and the smallest cobblestone weighed two tons and a quarter. The route was pleasantly varied by a quagmire, in which the stumps of colossal fir trees were mingled with leviathan boulders. Here we ruptured another double-tree on the stump of a single-tree, and were compelled to finish the day's journey with a tow line. I may state here, that this lovely and fertile section is a part of the territory generously surrendered by our beneficent government to the original owners as a reservation. The generosity will be more manifest when I come to speak of the climate. The greater portion of this piece of road is never muddy, even after the wettest rain.
    At the end of it we found a smooth and level country, which extended all the way to our destination. This region is inhabited by the Klamath Indians, who live on fish, horseflesh, and the eggs of wild waterfowl. We encountered but one more obstacle, a wide and rapid river, which we had to ford, as, through ignorance of the way, we missed the ferry. In this stream of melted snow we found Indians standing in three feet of water, fishing with rod and line. After leading our horses and lifting our wagon down the ungraded bank, we had no difficulty in getting over, some kindly Indians on horseback leading the way. On the opposite bank we saw some good-looking young squaws, with fish bones, on which were strung blue and white beads, stuck through their noses. Squaws to be good-looking must be very young. They are old at thirty, repulsive at forty, and hideous beyond description at fifty.
    By keeping our tow line on the stetch, we reached the agency just as darkness began to hide the ill-defined track. Here we found substantial government buildings and a kindly welcome, and, what was equally important, a double-tree architect, who wrought for us on Sunday, notwithstanding the advent of a zealous Methodist preacher, who had traveled hundreds of miles on horseback to minister to them. It was their first "stated preaching,'' and if all persons entertain my views of that region it will be their last.
    The Upper Klamath Lake is 4,200 feet above the sea. At the agency they have frost every month in the year. Only five miles further, and at the same elevation, at Fort Klamath, the average temperature is 5 deg. colder. When the snow is only a few inches deep at the agency, it may be two feet at the fort. So remarkable a difference can only be accounted for by the greater proximity of the mountains, which are snow-covered nearly all the year. Of course, in such a climate wheat, oats, and hay are the only available crops, and yet it is three degrees south of Portland. Its elevation and its location, east of the Cascades, explain its unfavorable temperature. But nature is munificent even in this rude land. The trees are huge and abundant. I saw pines and firs six feet in diameter, at an altitude of nearly six thousand feet. The lakes, rivers, and brooks are alive with fish and waterfowl.
    The mink, beaver, pine marten, fisher, and other fur-bearing animals are numerous. While I was at the agency an old squaw brought in more than a bushel of the eggs of water hens and wild ducks. She carried them on her head in a dilapidated shoe box. Captain Ferree gave her $3 for the lot. As he picked it up to carry it home the bottom fell out and made a mingling of white and yellow equal to anything I had ever seen in the neighborhood of a fort or a mission house. I consoled him with the remark that I had seen the bottom fall out of much bigger speculations, and reminded him of the folly of having "too many eggs in one basket."
    The next morning, leaving our wagon in the hands of the artisan, we started for the fort on horseback--a dreary and desolate spot for the habitation of educated gentlemen and refined ladies, and yet such are compelled to live here. Officers stationed here console themselves with the reflection that any future change must be for the better. But the government seldom troubles itself to disturb its military servants, unless they are comfortable. Comfort, being enervating, is inconsistent with the service. Of course there are some fortunate exceptions. After transacting our business, which was very agreeable to the soldiers and post trader, and subsequently profitable to the copper-colored ladies in the neighborhood, we returned to the agency. That night I dreamed of stony buttes, stumpy quagmires, and mountain torrents with precipitous banks.
    On our return, we found the ferry--a rope article in charge of an Indian. The second house beyond the river is the palace of Blow, a subchief. It is about 8 by 12, one story high, built of logs, and illuminated through one pane of glass. Blow is a fine-looking fellow 45 years old, and the owner of the only beautiful Indian woman I have ever seen--not merely beautiful by contrast but absolutely so. She was the daughter of a former head chief who hanged himself not long ago, for love, as proof that the red man is capable of civilization, and equal to its heaviest responsibility. To this tender-hearted father, Blow paid $700 for his daughter, $500 in cash, and $200 in horses at $20 a head. It was all he had except a flintlock shotgun, a fishing rod and line, and three old beaver traps. He is delighted with his bargain, for in addition to his wife, he now has a six-month-old baby that he sets down in his inventory at $800.
    No doubt some impecunious progenitor of a large family of females, when he reads this article, will wish he was an Indian. It does seem a little hard that it generally requires more money to get rid of an educated young white woman than those businesslike red fellows realize in disposing of their copper-colored, illiterate progeny. The following equation is not flattering to our palefaced beauties:
    Red squaw--$700--white squaw x $800 x pile of new clothes x house and lot x furniture, etc.
Sunbury Gazette, Sunbury, Pennsylvania, June 17, 1871, page 1

    A correspondent of the Oregonian, over the signature of "A.L.L.," writes the following series of letters to that paper, giving graphic and excellent descriptions of the country traversed by him:
    Jackson County contains a larger area than the state of Massachusetts. In fertility, range of productions, climate and minerals, it is superior to that rugged state. But these are gifts of nature. Whether this will ever equal that in wealth, culture and influence is a problem to be solved by the people themselves.
    The county embraces eight thousand square miles, extending across the Cascade Mountains eastward, including the lake region of Oregon. There are several large valleys in this county, the most prominent of which are the Klamath and Goose Lake valleys on the east, and the Rogue River on the west.
    Travelers on the stage pass through this region in the night, and are therefore unacquainted with its beauties by actual sight. The writer has passed through it three times, and although he had heard of its attractions, had no opportunity to behold them. The glimpses of it which the stage traveler catches do not disclose the best part of the valley.
    Mountain ranges define it on every side. The isolation is complete. But the valley is so broad that it produces no sensation of confinement. The southern boundary presents for the most part a precipitous barrier; on the other sides are gentle slopes, climbing to a great height, and rounded in verdant beauty. Some of these tops are clothed with grass of greenest hue, and some with giant firs, which in the distance look like shrubs. Anon, a bolder summit overtops the rest, crowned with spotless white.
    Between these towering ridges is spread out one of nature's fairest scenes. It is a broad plain intersected by the swift-flowing river, descending into it from the Cascade Range by a canyon of extraordinary wildness, through which it plunges with many a lofty leap. Into it from point to point flow the affluents which drain the adjacent vales, all bordered with deciduous and evergreen trees and oak openings, groups of trees and groves, with lordly pine and fir overtopping them with staid precision, [which] diversify the prospect. In various directions appear isolated hills, some of which from peculiarity of form are worthy of a nearer inspection.
    This valley is only a part of the area which may be properly designated the Rogue River region. There are other well-defined valleys which take their names from streams that empty into the river. All of these contain numerous settlements.
    The isolated position of these valleys naturally prompts the inquiry how they came to be so extensively settled. The wide range of production, ease of cultivation and genial and salubrious climate give the explanation.
    The capacity of the soil has been tested for twenty years. All sorts of grain, every variety of fruit known to the temperate zone, and some belonging to the tropics, grow and flourish here. Indian corn, so fickle in most places on the coast, is here a regular crop. Livestock was out on exhibition, worthy of highest prizes. Splendid horses, strong, sleek, ponderous cattle, thick-set fleeces crop the rich pasture, and the ever-grunting swine is pushing snout into more redundant fatness.
    The climate is captivating. Some days in summer are very warm, but a hot term does not last long, and the mountains furnish delightful and very accessible retreats. The rains of winter are frequently suspended by cloudless skies, when sparkling sunshine and balmy breezes repel depression and make breathing a luxury. Rev. M. A. Williams, who has kept a meteorological record regularly for twelve years, reports a highly agreeable state of wind and weather, a remarkable equability of temperature, and a combination of climatic qualities which are highly favorable to health and longevity. Mr. Colver, who is known throughout the state, and knows it by intelligent observation, selected this valley for a home after having traveled all the states of the Union, except two. He raises upon his splendid farm a great variety of fruits of delicious flavor, and regards the valley as able to compete with any agricultural region on the coast.
    Mr. S. D. Van Dyke, formerly a member of the Legislature, gives good reasons for a high estimate of the capabilities of this region.
    These are examples of views and opinions which are universally entertained by the inhabitants, and appear to be quite reasonable to strangers.
    The larger part of Jackson County lies east of the Cascade Range. The pass through the mountains presents some sublime views, mingled with some of nature's strangest freaks. Beyond it, on an elevated plateau among the mountains, is the "Dead Indian Country," which received its name from an occurrence which took place in the time of Indian hostilities. On this extensive tableland snow falls early and stays till May. But the grass grows under the snowy fleece, and when that covering is melted off makes amends for delay. The droves of cattle, which left the shortened herbage of the plains as the spring advanced, and cropped the grass as they ascended towards the summit of the hills, wend their way in summertime through the pass and plunge into the luxuriant pasturage provided on that elevated plain. Thither not only the droves but the families also go and camp out for a season. Leaving artificial tastes at home, they seek natural luxuries. Putting an arrest upon fin and wing and hoof, and levying an income tax upon vine and berry bush, they luxuriate in the choicest gifts of nature. The mountain air exhilarates. Rest on the bosom of Mother Earth recruits exhausted energies. Communion with nature in her unprofaned haunts tends to independence of character and simplicity of life.
    Beyond this, on the lake level, is Fort Klamath, and six miles from it the Klamath Indian Reservation. Further still is Lost River and Goose Lake.
    Near the Dead Indian country is Sunken Lake, a great natural curiosity. Mr. James S. Howard, surveyor of Jackson County, related to the writer some particulars respecting it, which he obtained by personal examination. It occupies a very lofty elevation, and exhibits with its surroundings a desolate scene. It must be fed by subterranean springs, since no visible stream, except rills from melted snow, ever enter it. Below it, and at a considerable distance from it, two streams glide away from it in opposite directions, one to Klamath River and lake, the other to Rogue River. If these proceed from this mountain reservoir, as is highly probable, they find their way out through subterranean cavities. The first view of it is very grand and thrilling. It discloses a chasm, like a vast excavation, in the depths of which the silent waters reflect the surrounding gloom. Perpendicular cliffs, like walls of masonry, rise from the water's edge and prohibit all access to it, except in two places, and the lowest point which overhangs the chasm Mr. Howard estimated at 830 feet from the surface of the water. Its form is elliptical. The narrow diameter he reckoned at five miles, and the long one at eight miles across. The great gulf looks like the crater of a vast volcano, whose fires were extinguished by an irruption of water. And from this resemblance it is proposed to call it Crater Lake. A picture of this curiosity, probably the only one ever taken, is now on exhibition at Mr. Shanahan's in Portland. The painter, Mr. [James M.] Sutton, now a resident of Portland, estimates the diameter at five or six miles by twelve miles. But I must return to more utilitarian themes.
    As I was coming this way, men were looking northward. Here their gaze was divided. They were looking northward, and also towards the east. They were all looking for the locomotive. The announcement of a new railroad connection is received with enthusiasm. The California Pacific Eastern Extension Company proposes to enter Jackson County, near Goose Lake, send a branch track into this valley, and another to Ogden to connect with the Union Pacific. The Oregon Central will place this valley on the main coast line, and the new project will give it a direct connection through the transcontinental line, with the vast network of railroads on the Atlantic side. The prospect is very bright. These connections will undoubtedly be made, and all of Western Oregon and Washington, and the North Pacific Coast, will share in the benefit. Starting from Portland, travelers can then pass through to the Eastern States without change of cars, or being at the outset marked as way passengers, to be set down by a branch railroad to wait for the train.
    The settlement of this valley is connected with gold mining. Mr. Colver's surveys led to the discovery of rich placer diggings 20 years ago. [Samuel Colver is not known to have any connection with the discovery of gold in Jackson County.] And the search for the precious metal in the surrounding mountains led to the discovery of gold quartz, silver, iron, lead and inexhaustible supplies of coal. Here are the ores of both precious and useful metals, and here is the coal to smelt them. Salt springs and medicinal waters also abound.
    A vast amount of gold has been lifted from its native deposits and carried out to enrich other localities--making the valley by so much poorer instead of wealthier. This seems to be the fate of mining localities. The yellow stream hastens to get away. It should be arrested, and made to irrigate the soil whence it first flowed. But no arbitrary law can effect this. The course which wealth takes is like the course of trade--it flows where it can be used and equivalents rendered for it. It is the old law of exchange and circulation, as inflexible as a law of nature. What the mining districts need, then, is an intelligent population, sustaining the institutions and promoting the ends of modern civilization, engaged in diversified pursuits, with cultivated tastes, happy families, attractive homes, and local attachments. Such a community manipulates the law of circulation within itself, as well as beyond. It keeps the golden stream meandering in every direction, sending off supplies on every hand, percolating the soil and distilling its drops like the dew.
    The foundations of such a society are laid in this valley. The men and women are here who helped to lay them, and now measure its course with joy. All honor to them! May they live to pluck the golden fruit!
    It is well that the precious deposits of this state have not all been extracted. Western Oregon is probably as richly endowed with valuable minerals as any portion of the globe of similar extent of surface, and no doubt the supply is inexhaustible. The introduction of varied industries will demand the extraction of these minerals, to be used at home or wrought for other markets.
    Western Oregon is beginning to feel the mighty movements of our age. She hears the locomotive [blowing] the bugle of a grand march. Its sonorous blast is awaking strange echoes in nature's solitudes. A few years of wise legislation, supported by intelligent and patriotic cooperation, will make her an empire in herself. Her three great valleys, interlinked by social and commercial, as well as political ties, uniting their advantages with those of the mountains and the sea, now invite an enlightened immigration to share in developing these inexhaustible resources.

    Yesterday we indulged in some general remarks about Oregon scenery. We now have something to say of a few of the particular scenes of much natural beauty or scenery in the southern portion of the state. At the store of Geo. W. Hillman, on First Street, above Morrison, can be seen two paintings, executed by an Oregon artist, named Sutton, which represent scenes in Jackson County. One is of landscape nature, and gives a pretty view of the noted Table Rock with the waters of Rogue River laving its precipitous basaltic base, and adjacent to it a portion of the valley which takes its name from the river. The artist, for one who may be termed an amateur, has done well, and yet it is no harsh dispraise to remark that he has omitted to present the beautiful and grand natural scenery he has attempted to the best advantage, or as a more experienced landscape painter would present it. Still, to those who have never seen the scenery in all its native beauty and grandeur, the painting will appear very well worth looking at or possessing.
    The other painting is of a large waterfall [Mill Creek Falls] near the head of Rogue River, far up in the rugged mountain gorge. The scene is splendidly wild. The falls are nearly one hundred and fifty feet in height, and the large volume of water leaps from the contracted rift above with one grand plunge into the seething basined chasm below. The deep and narrow mountain gorge, down into which the sunbeams radiate only during midday, is well delineated, and the artist discovers his manifest fondness for natural scenery in the fidelity with which he has treated the details of his praiseworthy picture--the rocks and trees and vegetation. It is singular that, although Rogue River Valley and the mountain regions for miles about there in every direction have been for twenty years explored and located and inhabited, these falls were discovered only a year or two ago. For years teamsters and travelers had passed over the road not more than half a mile from the verge of the great bold rock off which the waters plunge, and they had heard the tremendous roar which reverberated and echoed from the deep chasm into which these waters fall, but as it was known that the gorge was very steep and wild and narrow for a mile or more above, they all supposed the roaring and crashing sounds proceed from the angry torrent as it rushed and foamed down the river's rocky bed. But one fine day about two years ago, a teamster in hunting his stray animals wandered down into the gorge, and there discovered the falls. They are called, we believe, the Falls of Rogue River--a name at once appropriate and likely to last.
    A look at these paintings will well repay one for the walk from any portion of the city to Hillman's Art Gallery. There are likewise other sketches in watercolors and ordinary crayon in his collection of scenery in Oregon and in Washington Territory. The watercolor sketch of Snoqualmie Pass is a charming bit of art, well executed, and is worthy of a place among the art collections of our citizens.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, September 2, 1871, page 1

    The following we take from the S.F. Bulletin of Sept. 15th. It is from the pen of Mr. Hugh Small, a gentleman of culture, who has recently visited this section of country:
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, September 23, 1871, page 2

    Table Rock Valley comprises that portion of country in Jackson County north of Rogue River, in the vicinity of Table Rock. The arable land contained therein is about equal to the Boise Creek Valley, in the same county; but being separated from the main thoroughfare, it has heretofore attracted but little notice. The expectation that the railroad will pass east of Table Rock has caused much excitement of late. Parties, mostly speculators, have gobbled up the best portion of the country. Yet there remains much good land subject to preemption or homestead.
    The time is not far distant when there will be extensive and valuable improvements in this part of Jackson County. It is contemplated to extend a water ditch of sufficient capacity for manufacturing and irrigating purposes from Hamar's ferry, on Rogue River, to the mouth of Sams Creek, a distance of about 25 miles. This done, it will open up to agriculture a large section of land which is now comparatively of little value, besides creating water power for mills and machinery to any extent desired.
    The timber upon the mountains, north of the valley, is not excelled in the state.
    Coal of excellent quality has been found in several localities, and is supposed to exist in large deposits; but little prospecting has been done, however, as yet, to develop that valuable mineral.
    Grazing is the principal occupation and yields better returns for the capital invested than any other employment.
    It is not necessary for me to say that Jackson County is the banner county this year for its yield of cereals, in proportion to the amount. Some corn in Table Rock Valley will compare favorably with the best crops in Iowa or Missouri.
    I think the climate in Southern Oregon much better than in the Willamette for those who have weak lungs. There is less cloudy weather in winter, and perhaps a few degrees colder. The summers are much like the Willamette.
    The White Sulphur Springs in Sams Valley (a portion of Table Rock Valley, situated at the west of lower Table Rock) possesses rare medical properties, and in time will be a favorite resort for invalids. The health has been excellent for the past year, very few cases of sickness having occurred in this portion of Jackson County.
    I would suggest to those who wish to try a different climate from the Willamette and escape from the rain and fogs there, and dread the severe cold of Eastern Oregon, to try this part of the state. All kinds of produce being abundant and cheap. Peaches, apples, pears, plums and grapes grow well here. Game in the mountains is easily captured, giving pastime to the sportsmen. Let me say, in conclusion, to those who are seeking homes, health or amusement, come and see us.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, October 14, 1871, page 1


    The steamship Del Norte lay at the wharf in San Francisco, her engine in motion, that everything might be found in working order. The crowded gang plank, the hurrying to and fro of trunk-laden porters, the leave-taking on the crowded deck, all betokened that her departure was at hand.
    The slowly revolving wheels caused the good ship to surge against the pier, as if struggling to escape from the confusion that reigned around, but the strong hawsers, with a tension like bars of iron, still held her in check. The hoarse roar of steam through the 'scape pipe tells of boilers straining with thirty pounds' pressure, and drowns the voice of the captain who seems to be enacting a pantomime upon the starboard wheelhouse. Of a sudden the steam is shut off, and now the voice of the captain is heard:
    "All aboard! Let go your bow hawser! Haul in that gangplank!"
    And giving one pull of the bell, the wheels revolve more rapidly, she swings off from the crowded dock, and takes her departure amid the waving of handkerchiefs on board and on shore.
    The Del Norte was the regular steam packet, plying between San Francisco and the northern coast of California. She was a staunch craft of some six hundred tons burthen, built expressly for the route, and had for her motive power one of the oscillating engines of the late Panama steamer Republic. In fact the ship was built for the engine and shaft, and not the engine for the ship, and to the eye she appeared too narrow for a comfortable sea boat. Business called me to the most northern town in the state (Crescent City) and, in company with a lady companion, I had joined the motley crowd on board the Del Norte, and put to sea on a quiet morning in May. Our first destination was Humboldt Bay, a point some two hundred and thirty miles up the coast.
    We had on board a company of U.S. troops on their way to some of the military posts in the north, besides the usual assortment of passengers to be found on such a trip. As we passed the frowning "Heads" of San Francisco, and entered upon the long swell of the Pacific Ocean, the rolling of the boat proved I was not mistaken in my estimate of her seagoing qualities.
    The wind piped from the northwest, and we made straight for Point Reyes, some twenty-five miles distant, passing which, we took a detour further inland to gain what protection we could from the long swells coming from the north, and which were somewhat hindered in force by the various projecting headlands along the coast.
    The landsman's terror, mal de mer, had now thinned our ranks, and those of us who had before shaken hands with Neptune had the bountifully spread table all to ourselves, interrupted, to be sure, with now and then an "O my!" from some adjoining stateroom. I was disappointed in our steamer; five knots was all she could make against the wind and sea, and unless the weather moderated, a long voyage seemed in prospect.
    Slowly we skirted along the shore, the lofty pines and redwoods studded the mountain sides of the Coast Range, and here and there a settlement near the shore where a landing was possible; night soon fell around us, rolling and tossing on our weary way. The voyage seemed as though it would be uneventful, and the captain informs us he seldom finds the weather any different when bound north, but on the homeward trip, of course what is now adverse becomes a fair wind and sea. Point Arenas, a low sandy point, one hundred miles from San Francisco, was passed after midnight, and we coursed along the shores of Mendocino. In the morning the white buildings of Mendocino City, a considerable lumber station, reflected the beams of the rising sun, but the weather was much the same as yesterday, and the whole coast seemed a continuous line of surf.
    Cape Mendocino, some one hundred miles from Point Arenas, is called the Cape Horn of the Pacific, and that point once passed, the wind is more moderate, and the sea smoother. Another night arrived; the regular thump, thump, thump, of the paddle wheels, the coughing of the steam as it rushed through the cylinder valves, and the creaking and rolling of the ship permitted only a restless sleep, and our second morning dawned, at last, after a night of interminable length. On deck at sunrise, I found the steamer heaving directly for Humboldt Bay Lighthouse. The wind had died away to a zephyr, the sea has lost its lumpy character, and we rode with more comfort.
    Arrived off the bar, the smoke from the mills at Eureka, in Humboldt Bay, was plainly discerned, rising above the intervening sand ridges and, stopping the engine for the first time since leaving port, the gun was fired for a pilot.
    The bar of Humboldt Bay is the great bugbear of the northern coast; many shipwrecks have here occurred, and many lives lost. A year or two since a tugboat from San Francisco, in endeavoring to cross the bar, was thrown literally end over end, and all hands met with a watery grave; the boat at last drifting bottom up into the quiet waters of the inner bay.
    We can only enter here at high tide, and the tugboat with pilot on board will only attempt the passage of the bar at high water. Often was our gun loaded and fired, but no heed was paid to the summons till the tide permitted the passage of the bar.
    We lay some three hours in waiting till at last a line of blackened smoke inside the beach told us of the approach of the tug. We watched her with interest as she crossed the bar, the sea now breaking feather-white across the entrance. The little Mary Ann would lift her bow on the top of a huge billow till we could see her keel for half her length, and then in the hollow of the sea could just discern the smokestack. Timid passengers were ordered below, hatches put on, cabin door locked, and everything prepared for an encounter with the breakers. The pilot is now alongside.
    "How much water on the bar, pilot?"
    "Twelve feet, probably. How much water do you draw?"
    "Nine feet."
    A distance of only three feet between our keel and the treacherous sands, and settling down in this heavy swell we should be uncomfortably near the bottom.
    "Does the boat ever touch the ground, captain?"
    "Yes, she has done so, but not heavily; a stout blow would end her days."
    I confess to a sinking of heart as the ship was headed for the entrance, and I heard the order to "give her full steam and hook her in."
    A few moments sufficed to place us among the outer breakers, and for a moment we seemed engulfed, but with all the speed she could muster the steamer hurried onward; an ugly sea gathered astern of us, threatening to poop us, with what result God only knows. But it breaks before it reaches us, and the Del Norte quietly lifts her stern and allows the billow, now shorn of its power, to pass under us.
    It required but a few minutes to pass the ordeal, but they were moments big with danger apparently, and we breathed easier only after they had passed. Ten minutes sufficed to place us across the bar and within the quiet waters of the landlocked bay.
    How sailing vessels, lumber laden, ever pass over this bar is a mystery; they are always towed in and out by the tugboat, and must choose a time when the sea is smoother to make the passage in safety.
    The town of Eureka is situated some eight miles from the entrance of the bay, and is a place of considerable importance. Its chief export is lumber, and four or five mills in active operation gave a bustling appearance to the town as we approached. The arrival of the semi-monthly steamer is an event of importance to the Eurekans, hemmed in as they are by the rugged mountains, over which, to the nearest settlements, there is at best but a single trail; they are therefore more or less dependent on the steamer for communication with the outer world. Quite a large fleet of vessels arrive and depart, but their voyages are long compared with the steamer, and particularly in winter months. With such a rough bar, the people are long without news from the city.
    The bar once passed, the Bay of Humboldt resembles a placid lake; fine wharves jut out into the water, and lumber-loading vessels moored up and down the front of the town give it the appearance of a place of import. Humboldt County has become famous for its potatoes, and tons of them are shipped yearly to the city, always maintaining advanced prices. The spires and towers of three or four churches rise above the ornamental trees with which every house seems surrounded. Neat white cottages are sprinkled here and there, and gardens bloom with geraniums, roses, lilies and buds which in the Eastern States would be termed tender plants, and the place as seen from shipboard has a very picturesque appearance, and seems of no inconsiderable size.
    A ramble through the town confirms our estimate of its importance. We visit the lumber mills, to see trees six feet in diameter drawn from the water up the long inclined ways to the sharp-whetted saws, like a bullock to the shambles. The logs are mostly of large size, the smaller ones being the exception; the lumber people handle the huge timbers with ease, and by the aid of machinery place it in position with a single movement of the hand. These men are nearly all from the state of Maine, generally six feet in their stockings, all bone and muscle, their feet thrust into a number thirteen boot, and their persons encased in the universal red or blue flannel shirt. The town has of course the usual number of tippling shops, yclept saloons, or what is more modern, sample rooms, with the billiard table attachment, a post office, now thronged because steamer day, and a Wells, Fargo & Co. Express Office. This latter is a feature in all California towns. No village is complete without it, and it becomes of more importance than the post office.
    Eureka seems advantageously situated for the business carried on. It is the head of the navigable waters of the bay for vessels of any considerable draft of water, and is surrounded by the native forests; in fact the site of the town itself was once a forest. The bay extends some ten miles above Eureka, but the water is shoal, say four or five feet deep. The town of Arcata is situated at the head of the bay, with a daily stage line to Eureka. A small wheezy little steamer of half pony power also plies between the two places.
    The logs for the mills are floated down from the headwaters of the bay and the tributary streams during the freshets of spring. The steamer is usually detained at Eureka some twenty-four hours, discharging freight and waiting for tides. Most of our passengers disembark here, and as the poor souls came on deck, after two days of fasting and a dismal conflict with upturned stomachs, they presented a forlorn appearance.
    In due time the shrill whistle called our pilot on board; the tug had already proceeded to sea to relieve us of his presence after we should have passed the dreaded bar. Our passenger line now comprised but a baker's dozen, including two or three who were to land at Trinidad, a point some fifteen miles north, while the rest were bound for Crescent City, the end of our route.
    We found the bar less formidable than before, and the steamer being light we had no difficulty in gaining an offing, although rolling fearfully and creating a temporary panic.
    A smooth sea favored us, and in two hours' time we approached the landing at Trinidad, an open roadstead, surrounded by huge rocks, over which the sea rolled in a smother of foam. It is only in fine weather and smooth sea that a landing can be made here. The little cove is sheltered from the northwest winds, but from the southeast the storms roll in with fury, and effectually bar communication with the settlement except by land.
    Trinidad was located at the time of the discovery of fine gold in the sands of the beach, a few miles further to the north. The Gold Bluff excitement was an institution in its day, and ranks with Fraser River and the dozen other gold excitements that have periodically stirred the hearts of Californians. Gold was found mingled with the black sand of the beach, immediately beneath the high bluffs that formed the background thereabouts. Its presence was, and continues to be, a mystery. Where it comes from no one seems able to determine, and yet its existence is proved. Thousands of miners flocked to this spot, disembarking at Trinidad, where immediately a settlement sprang up, and during the prevalence of the excitement had a rapid growth.
    The beach at Gold Bluffs was lined with gold-seekers in those early days. Gold was found, but not in quantities to suit, and the adventurers left one by one in disgust. Up to this day, parties are engaged in gold mining on this spot. After a heavy storm the black sand is freely deposited up and down the beach, and is hastily sacked by miners at low tide, and packed on mules to fresh water, where it is washed for gold. The amount of dust is not large, and but few now engage in the search. At Trinidad the anchor was dropped underfoot, a gun fired to arouse the dormant inhabitants, and we visited the shore in our boat, with the purser and passengers, who were to land here. A few boxes and bales of freight were transported in the single lighter that came off from the shore in response to the summons from our ten-pounder.
    A single sawınill of limited capacity is all that Trinidad can boast of in the way of business enterprise, and this mill maintains a precarious existence. The difficulties of shipping lumber from this point are great. The treacherous sea gives scarcely time for the embayed craft to slip her cables in time of danger, and the decaying frames of more than one wrecked vessel, looking like the skeletons of some sea monster, lie along the narrow strip of beach.
    Trinidad has evidently seen its best days, and will ere long be passed by, even by the steamers, as too unimportant to notice. Detained but two hours, the anchor was weighed and our prow was once more headed northward for Crescent City, some forty-five miles distant. The coast all the way from this point is rugged and mountainous, the summits crowned with pines and redwoods, the country everywhere well timbered. We now pass the famous Gold Bluff. The long line of beach is backed by bluff high lands, and many suppose the gold is washed from the bluffs; but frequent and diligent prospecting of these bluffs fails to find traces of gold in them. These "diggins" are now claimed by a San Francisco capitalist, who employs men and mules to scour the beach after every storm, but his efforts are attended with indifferent success.
    Our engine was slowed down, in order that we might not reach our port before sunrise, and a fourth night on board was inevitable. We went below, to find the same narrow bunk, the same glazed portholes, looking in daylight like a glaring eye, kept constantly closed lest the ocean element find occasional entrance, and in consequence a stifled atmosphere in the cabin saloon. The same creaking of bulkheads, and the same noisy plunge of the piston, jarring the boat from stem to stern; the same dip, dip, dip of the paddles, and the same noise of waters hissing in our wake, lulled us into a sort of forgetfulness hardly akin to sleep, to be awakened at dawn by the sudden report of the gun, announcing our near approach to our destination.
    On deck in a moment, and here is Crescent City. A deep indenture in the shoreline formed the bay, open from the south through a narrow entrance, but hemmed in on all other sides by huge rocks and long-reaching reefs, feather white with ocean spray. Point St. George, on the north, completely protected the bay from the northerly winds and sea, and at its northern extremity stood a white tower surmounted by the lighthouse, which was just winking out its last rays as the morning dawned upon us. The bay was crescent-shaped (hence the name), and was skirted with pines, standing in regular order, most of them decayed and leafless, while the background rose in regular hills and mountains thick with this universal timber. Seen through the glass, the houses appeared built on the water's edge, and following the curve of the bay. Here and there the Stars and Stripes were flung to the breeze, announcing the arrival of the vessel. As we steamed up to the buoy through the narrow entrance, moving slowly among the sunken rocks, the whole town seemed astir, and when the anchorage was reached, the beach was lined with townspeople to witness the landing. A large and commodious boat approached, in which we were to be conveyed to the shore for the moderate sum of one dollar each. The steamer made fast to the buoy some two miles from shore, and we were to be transferred to the beach by means of the boat. Bidding adieu to our worthy captain, and nothing loth to leave our floating prison, we took seats in the boat, men, women and children, and pulled shoreward. The craft was heavily laden, the baggage being thrust most unceremoniously among us, and but two oarsmen to propel us onward. But the bay was smooth, and the gentle swell broke upon the beach in modest ripples. Just outside the landing the boat was stopped, and the hat passed around for the fares, our boatmen only recognizing the "bird in the hand" principle. Toiling onward again, our heavily laden craft at last touched the beach, but at some little distance from terra firma proper, and a horse and dray were backed into the water, and we duly transferred by this agency from boat to shore.
    Here then was Crescent City--in former years a place of great activity in trade; the headquarters for supplies to mining districts hereabouts, and the seaport at which all freight for Southern Oregon and Northern California was landed. The northern part of California was most accessible from this point, and a brisk and thriving city sprang up like magic. The opening of interior communication with San Francisco, and the settlement of the northern section of the state, the establishment of post routes and wagon roads, proved at last too serious a competition, and the decline of Crescent City commenced. At this date the steamer in her semi-monthly trips brings up only about one hundred tons of freight destined for the interior, and reached from this place by a wagon road, built over the mountains to Waldo in Oregon, sometimes called, and in fact better known as "Sailor Diggings," a distance of about sixty miles, crossing in this distance the coast range of mountains and penetrating to the valleys beyond. Crescent City seemed to consist of two parallel streets running around the curve of the bay; the buildings on the front street sufficiently removed from high water mark to be secure from any encroachments from the sea, and yet in places protected by heavy-timbered bulkheads, built to check the ravages and undermining which might be the result of winter storms.
    The beach in front of the town was liberally strewn with driftwood for its entire length. Large trees and small formed a barrier so impassable that a roadway had to be cut through this debris at regular intervals. This driftwood furnished the town with an abundant supply of fuel, brought as it were, to their very doors, and was all deposited in a single winter, during a heavy freshet that had occurred some years previous. It had been floated from the Klamath River to the sea, and brought by the tides and ocean currents to this, its final resting place; its arrival must have constituted a grand spectacle as it tossed madly over the reef, held fast in the iron grip of the wild breakers. A commodious wharf that had been built under the shelter of Point George was carried away by the drift timber, and has never been rebuilt. The bay is so situated (open to the south), that in the winter months the prevalence of southeast storms causes a heavy surf continually, and a landing here to be an impossibility for about four months of the year. During this long period the inhabitants depend solely upon the solitary mail rider with his weekly bag for information from the outer world. No telegraphic communication nearer than Jacksonville, in Oregon, one hundred and thirty miles distant. The appearance of the bay in winter borders on the sublime, the seething waters rush madly to the beach, and the numerous rocks and crags are but huge masses of sea foam. In late fall and early spring, not unfrequently does the steamer make her appearance in the offing, but the pitiless surf forbids a near acquaintance, and she departs again, and is soon lost to sight, but to memory dear.
    This place is the county seat of Del Norte County. It has its courthouse, a plain wooden structure, one or two brick buildings, the usual number of saloons, and the all-important Wells, Fargo & Co.'s office. Every other merchant seems to be a forwarding agent, and the mule teams loading up their transmountain freight give some appearance of business. Built upon the beach, the streets are sandy and heavy, the buildings generally have a dilapidated look and are sadly in need of paint. The old scarred and lifeless pine trees form a background to the picture, and altogether Crescent City presents few attractions. The steamer remains here only long enough to discharge and take on board freight before starting on her return voyage, and I confess to a feeling of loneliness, as if my last friend had deserted, when she fired her signal gun and headed seaward.
    Crescent City harbor is susceptible of great improvement. As before remarked, it is open only to the south, with a narrow entrance, and surrounded elsewhere by a long line of reefs, nearly bare at low tide.
    On these reefs a breakwater could readily be built, and thus form an almost landlocked harbor. In the southeast storms of winter the sea roars and dashes over the reef into the bay, and the whole line from north to south is buried in foaming breakers that come tumbling upon the beach beyond. Were this natural barrier surmounted by a breakwater, to arrest the furious beating over into the bay, the harbor would afford shelter and safe anchorage the year round. Crescent City itself is not, perhaps, of sufficient importance to warrant such an expenditure for its protection, but the fact is, there is no harbor of refuge along the whole coast from San Francisco to Columbia River, a distance of six hundred miles, and the bar of the Columbia is always impassable in heavy weather. This place is situated about midway between San Francisco and the Columbia, and a breakwater would enable steamers and vessels to find a safe anchorage in winter weather. It is the only place on this extent of coast where nature has rendered it possible to construct a harbor. Based upon this view, Congress has been petitioned on the subject, and a survey was ordered. Here the matter apparently rests; no one is public-spirited enough to "push things," and it looks as if the breakwater would never be built. Crescent City is a port of entry and has its custom house official, whose principal business is to draw his regular salary.
    Located about two miles from town, on the beach, are gold washings; a small stream finds an outlet here, and the water is used by miners in washing out the sand. Fine gold is found mingled with the black sand of the beach, but not covering a large area of surface. It is worked by the old-fashioned flume process, and those engaged are making good wages in the enterprise. The existence of gold here is as mysterious as at Gold Bluff, and parties have prospected the beach up and down, but, save in this one spot, the search has not rewarded the seekers. The query arises, does the presence of this small freshwater stream have anything to do with this matter?
    Indians abound in this region. The Klamath tribe are quite numerous, both here and in the vicinity, and in former years have been so troublesome that Uncle Sam has established a post some six miles from town at the head of a beautiful valley, and usually numbering one hundred troops. The Indians, like all in California, are squalid-looking objects, clinging to their old habits and customs, living in underground or mud-built huts, half clad, and usually wrapped in a blanket, probably a gift from Uncle Sam. Hair coarse and bristling, and their time spent in wandering up and down the town in search of "muckamuck" (food). Many of them have been gathered into the government reservation, some fifteen miles from town in a secluded valley, and presided over by government agents. Some three hundred are here collected together, and provided with daily rations, carrying on farm work, but with no ambition beyond their daily bread. The race is fast dying out; they are indolent and entirely useless, and hang around the settlements eking out a miserable existence. Indian maidens and warriors of romance were never drawn from these regions. Newcomers are persistently followed about by these creatures, and it makes one feel at least a little nervous to be continually met in his travels by the vacant stare and idiotic laugh of "Lo."
    Foreseeing that something must be done to avert the total annihilation of this place, the inhabitants of Crescent City since my visit have erected a large corporation sawmill, and the town is now actively engaged in the lumber trade. A new era seems dawning, and the happy results of this enterprise will doubtless cause the erection of other mills, and the timber lands being inexhaustible, this place will become an important lumber port. Lumber can be shipped from this place, however, only during the summer months, and the accumulated stock of winter work will give employment to quite a fleet during the shipping season. At the date of our visit, not a vessel was visible in the bay, but it is not unusual at the present time to see several loading lumber from the shore.
    The discovery of copper, and the more recent discovery of chrome mines (a manufacture of paint and drugs), situated about eighteen miles from town, had given a little impulse to this quiet place at the time of our visit. The mines are located on the line of the wagon roads before mentioned, and have proved to be quite extensive veins, needing only cheaper and better facilities for the transportation of the ores, to be profitably worked.
    Of the copper mines, the most important is that of the Alta California Company. This mine was recently sold to a company of Bostonians, and was being worked by them with considerable vigor.
    The teams arriving from the interior to receive the steamer freight came down from the mines with loads of baggage on, on its way to San Francisco. Although they would otherwise come empty-handed, the teamsters charged exorbitant prices for transportation, amounting to six and seven dollars per ton. The expense of mining, added to the cost of freight by team and steamer, is so great that on account of the low prices of ore in the Eastern States, the mines cannot be profitably worked, and at this day labor has been suspended.
    At the time of our visit, some of the six mule teams, each animal ornamented with a row of bells discoursing sweet music, were landing their freight of ore on the beach, preparatory to their return trip with freight for the interior.
    We found there was no stage communication with Waldo (or "Sailor Diggings"), and we must engage a private conveyance for the trip and intercept the semi-weekly stage from that point. Having transacted our business, and bidding adieu to our hostess of the Del Norte Hotel, who had made our stay of two or three days exceedingly pleasant, we left Crescent City, intending to stop at the copper mines on our way. We had a distance of sixty miles to ride to intercept the overland stage, and the road was exceedingly rough and mountainous.
    A tarry of a few days at the mines, eighteen miles distant, would tend to recruit both travelers and horses, besides giving us opportunity to visit the Alta Mine. An open buggy and a pair of fine horses bore us rapidly through the beautiful valley lying between Crescent City and the foot of the mountains. The road, a turnpike and toll road, passes up the valley some six miles to Camp Lincoln, when it takes to the mountain, and its rough features begin to be apparent. Camp Lincoln is beautifully situated at the head of the valley. A cluster of buildings comprising the cottages of the officers and barracks for the troops (painted the yellowish hue always seen in Uncle Sam's particular domain), formed the hollow square of the parade ground, in the center of which was erected the flagstaff, from which floated the national flag, its bright colors more brilliant in the beams of the morning sun. A solitary sentinel paced his lonely round, his well-polished musket flashing in the sunlight at every turn, and altogether it was a scene for a painter.
    But our road was upward and onward, and we entered the dense growth of timber, principally fir, spruce and redwood. The trees were giants in size, and as our horses labored up the steep, rugged ascent, we had time to measure some of the layers by the roadside, finding them upwards of twenty feet in circumference.
    We passed over a graded road not altogether bad, but very steep, two miles from Camp Lincoln to the summit, when the road descends again in a zigzag course, the grade as steep as it is possible to be and yet be passable, till in about two more miles we arrive at the foot, and the bank of Smith River. This is a rapid stream running down through a deep gorge in the mountains, impassable in winter time, but in summer, though very rapid and deep, is crossed by means of a ferry. This ferry, like many in the state, is a California institution, and deserves a passing notice.
    The turnpike debouches at a spot where the river is free from boulders, and the bank accessible. A hemp cable about the size of one's arm is stretched across the river here, some three hundred feet wide or more. One end is secured to a tree at a proper height, and the other end to a windlass, by means of which it can be tightened at pleasure. A flatboat large enough to accommodate a mule team or stage coach is attached to this cable by means of ropes at either end of the boat, and pulling through blocks, or sheave pulleys traveling on the cable. The boat is beached, and when all is ready is pushed into the stream, and by means of the pulleys her head is inclined upstream when the rapid current, striking the boat anglewise, becomes the propelling power, and guided by the traveling blocks the boat passes rapidly across to the other side. The ferry house is the toll house of the road. We found the boat on the opposite side of the river, but a vigorous shout brings the ferryman to the rescue, and a few moments only suffice to bring him across.
    We crossed the stream in the manner above described, the deep green current boiling and bubbling around us, cold as the mountain snows. From the ferry we commence the ascent of the opposite mountain, some four miles by road, to the summit. The way is smoother, but in many places very steep.
    We are still in the dense forest, with now and then a ray of sunlight struggling through the trees, as we come to little openings in our path. The scenery is sublime. Through the deep gorge behind us we trace the course of Smith River for miles, winding like a silver thread among the huge boulders that obstruct its way. Our horses continue to toil up the steep, stopping now and then to rest, and permit us to enjoy the scene.
    The second summit reached at last, we emerged suddenly into the open country. The forests were behind us, and our way was along the mountain ridge; the country everywhere more barren, and huge rocks liberally strewn about us; the road hourly more rough, and traveling more difficult. By the wayside here in their high altitudes, we pass a sheep ranch and come upon the sheep pens or corrals, built up with palings and brush to prevent as much as possible midnight sheep-stealing by hungry wildcats and diminutive panthers that lurk hereabout. Our horses pick their way among the rocks that fill the road, and our Concord buggy jumps about with an uneasy motion, and the safety of harness and axles demands that we proceed with caution.
    Then we pass over two or three miles of road growing no better as we advance; the hills around are bare and bereft of timber, and have the appearance of mineral lands. From this elevated ridge we have a fine view of the country around. On our left is the wide ocean, stirred by a light breeze, and its waves twinkling in the sunlight; behind us Crescent City just discernible in the distance, and between us and the ocean the beautiful valley known as Smith River Valley, the Indian reservation plainly in sight, distance, no doubt, lending enchantment to the view. On our right were deep chasms and timber-clad mountains. Ahead of us arose the snow-capped Siskiyou Mountains, the whole forming a picture truly beautiful. We forget everything in the admiration of the scene. The stillness of death around us is only broken by the clatter of hoofs and wheels, and we welcome the sound.
    Four miles from the last mountain reached brings us to the end of the long hilly ridge, and at a turn in the road we are suddenly upon the summits overlooking the mining town of Altaville, and seemingly beneath our very feet. The town buildings in regular row look inviting to wearied travelers. Men like pygmies move about, and we seem to be nearing a settlement at last. Beyond us, up the steep mountainsides we trace the turnpike road, winding in and out, often seemingly doubling on itself, as it skirts around some deep chasm. No timber to obstruct the view, we trace its course for a long distance. A line of wagons afar off is only discernible, because moving objects. They are empty teams, hurrying onward to reach Altaville for rest. Just below us the steam puffs from the engine house tell us the locality of the Alta Mine, and the steam whistle, but faintly heard at our elevation, tells of noontide, and visions of beefsteaks and coffee urge us onward. "Festina lente"--the road is very rough; we must proceed with great caution. Rough and steep down this mountain winds our path to the "low divide" below. How copper teams ever reach the summit of this and other hills we have passed is beyond our comprehension, and we no longer wonder at the tariff charged by teamsters.
    But we reached the town safely at last, meeting the grim-looking miners coming up to their noonday meal. Armed with letters of introduction, we made our way to the mining superintendent, who having been beforehand apprised of our visit, received us cordially. A lonely spot for him and his busy wife, but mining is his vocation, and to be accustomed to such a life is everything. The town of Altaville is contiguous to the Alta Mine, and was started by the Alta Company. It is the only site for a town in this vicinity, and quite a settlement has sprung up. The transmountain teams make this their stopping place for the night, and not unfrequently some ten or twelve drivers congregate here at once, arriving soon after noon, and leaving again at early dawn. The town boasts a whiskey saloon, blacksmith's shop, butcher's shop, and a few dwellings, besides two boarding houses, styled hotels. The principal patrons of them are the miners, together with the teamsters during the teaming season. The house and office of the superintendent of the Alta Mine is the most conspicuous; a comfortable dwelling of more elaborate construction than the others, and situated at the edge of the town, and away from the clustered buildings to be more secure from fire. This town is located in what is here called a "low divide;" which is simply a tract of level land, wide and spacious, between the mountains. Too elevated to become a valley, and yet not sufficiently elevated to be a mountain ridge. The road comes from the steep sides of one mountain, crosses in a direct line over this low divide, and climbs again up the opposite mountain, forming the main street of Altaville. The site of the town is well chosen, a broad, flat depression, with the mountains rising up on every side. As we propose to tarry here a few days, we will here leave the subject, and speak of our visit to the copper mine in our next.
Ballou's Magazine, July 1871, pages 29-36


    Our stay at Altaville, the headquarters of the copper mines of Del Norte County, was limited to a few days, during which we visited the mine of the Alta California Copper Mining Company. The country around here is broken up by deep ravines, and in these ravines the different copper mines are located. The great copper belts, or lodes, seem to run nearly north and south; the companies' claims, as it were, tailing onto one another for some distance. The Alta Company, the first one located, seems to have the richer deposit, perhaps because it is more thoroughly explored and worked than the other claims. At the time of our visit, this was the only mine at work, and the only one which had machinery to aid in developing the mine. Some few others, although appearing well as far as explored, had only been, as the miners say, pretty well "prospected."
    The Alta copper mine is situated in one of these ravines, just below the town of Altaville. The lode crops out on the side of the ravine, showing a large ledge of rock, which is found to contain quantities of red oxides and green carbonates of copper. In fact, the green carbonates lie around loosely upon the surface, and could be gathered up, a ton of them. When first discovered, it was thought that a copper mine had been discovered free from sulphurets, and consequently of great value, as it is well known by all copper men that carbonates and oxides are easily reduced in the furnace, and yield a large percentage of copper. But as prospecting was continued, and a shaft sunk on the ledge, the ore changed to a sulphuret, the usual form of copper ore, and the lode now worked is wholly a sulphuret. The presence of the oxides and carbonates on the surface is no doubt owing to the action of the atmosphere, wet and dry, which has in time destroyed the sulphur, and left the ore more concentrated. The mine, in its "claim," has three distinct veins, running parallel to each other, two of which have been considerably explored, but the third only explored on the surface. The west vein has been pretty well worked; and it is upon this vein that the machinery is placed.
    About half way down the side of the ravine stands the engine house, and a wide plateau has been excavated, sufficiently large in dimensions to accommodate the engine house and large ore shed immediately adjoining it. The mouth of the inclined shaft is situated within the engine house, from which the car runs into the shed, and deposits its load. From this leveled plateau, or "planier," as it is called, a nicely graded, road for teams is cut in the hillside, leading to the town above, over which the ores are hauled to the low divide on which the town of Altaville is located. The road is perhaps one-fourth of a mile in length.
    The inclined shaft is started from the engine house, and is sunk to a depth at present of about four hundred and fifty feet, following the inclination of the vein in its descent, say, at an angle of about sixty degrees. The shaft is built sufficiently wide for a tramway, over which the ore car passes, and a ladderway for use of the miners, and separated all the way by a heavy partition.
    An engine of thirty-five horsepower draws the car up the incline at a given signal, and when emptied of its load is sent down again by the brakeman to be refilled. The work goes on systematically, the vein follows a true dip or angle, occasionally dipping more perpendicularly, but coming back again to the shaft as it goes downward. The shaft must be in a straight line in its course, without reference to the variations of the vein, and at intervals of about one hundred feet drifts are run from the shaft, north and south on the vein, and the ore extracted, carried to the shaft in a car, and sent up into daylight. Each drift has its bell pull, and the number of pulls indicates the drift to which the car is to be sent from above. Thus much for a rude preliminary description, and now let us visit these underground workings.
    We arrive at the engine house, after a short walk from Altaville, and find the engine busy with its work; the ponderous flywheel revolving rapidly, and the wire rope winding itself upon the heavy drum, drawing the loaded car up the tramway.
    We peer down into the black-mouthed shaft, and listen to the rumbling of the iron-wheeled car as it comes trundling up with its load, but as yet unseen. A bit of leather now and then on the rope indicates the length of rope to the different levels, and shows the brakeman when his car has reached any given depth. The noise grows louder, and presently the car issues from the mouth of the shaft, piled up with ore, runs out upon its turntable, is pushed out into the contiguous ore shed, relieved of its load, and brought back again to descend to the depths below.
    Shall we go down in the car? The superintendent has no objection, but as there is a lady in the case, he informs us that, although supposed to be perfectly safe, yet accidents have happened in mines, and should the rope break, and we be precipitated to the bottom, the sudden stoppage there would probably be the last of earth to us.
    We take to the ladder, and accompanied by the superintendent, candle in hand, we descend, holding fast with our hands, and letting our feet take care of themselves. We seize each round of the ladder with a firm grip, as we descend into the bowels of the earth. The feeble flickering of the candles serves only to point out the ladder's rounds, and we are groping in darkness that can be felt. The water is trickling down around us, and the air grows moist and clammy. The shaft is well-timbered, and planked the whole way down, and so thoroughly done, and with such bracing and heavy timbers, that we have no fear of being buried alive by the caving of the earth. Besides, the walls of the shaft are like rock in hardness. Step by step we descend, the car rumbling up and down its iron pathway in the adjoining chamber of the shaft alone disturbing the stillness of death around us.
    This is no place for nervous people; our lady companion must have the nerve of a miner to persevere, but then there is no help now; we are well down below, and it is easier to descend than to return. A platform is reached at last. We are ninety-six feet deep, and here, opening from the shaft, is a doorway through which we peer into a dark tunnel that leads out into daylight at the foot of the ravine; we will pass out this way when we return, and save a climb of ninety-six feet of ladder from this point up. But we pass on downward, step by step. The ladder is wet and slippery, slime, mud, green mold everywhere, and the stillness of the grave around. At every one hundred feet or thereabouts we reach a platform, from which the drifts run horizontally into the copper vein. And so we go on to the bottom, pausing to rest here and there, as our muscles rebel at the unaccustomed exercise. At last a faint glimmer of light below us tells us we are not alone here, and the heavy thud of the miners' picks is heard busily at work, engaged in sinking the shaft to greater depths.
    At the bottom at last. A squad of miners stare at us, their white eyeballs glaring out in the candlelight, and they themselves looking like a group of demons. It is not often they have lady visitors, and their native politeness is brought into exercise by placing stones for a dry footing, and by polite answers to our funny questions. Here at the bottom the shaft is not yet timbered, but the miners were making their preparations for putting in a "rest," and then digging their way downwards, to make room again for another. The vein has been lost along back, but it appears now, just coming in again to the shaft under our feet.
    The shaft is the main roadway of the mine. The different drifts, or levels, at the different depths, can be compared to side streets, each one bringing its ore to the main roadway, to be sent up to the surface of the ground.
    The air is good yet, and the candles burn well. They are stuck into the walls around by means of sharp-pointed candle-holders, and with this feeble light the miners grope their way foot by foot through the rock. It is seldom that blasting is required; the rocks yield to the pick and gad, and the price of powder is saved. But this spot is not the place where the ore is obtained; these men are simply pushing on downward the main roadway of the mine, and after exchanging a few compliments and leaving a reminder in the honest blackened fist of the miners, who acknowledge it by a pull of the foretop, we prepare to ascend to some of the levels or drifts where the ore is being extracted.
    A short distance upward we reach a platform communicating with a drift running on the copper vein, and at right angles with the main shaft. Along this level is a tramway, over which a smaller car is pushed by hand to the main shaft, filled with ore from the end of the drift. These drifts are only large enough in size for a cart to pass along cleverly, with a little room to squeeze by should the car be in our path. The drifts, however, are always the full width of the vein, for its purpose is to take out the whole of the ore-bearing portion. Outside the vein, as little work is done as is necessary, the only object being to remove ore.
    Here we find level walking, and we grope our way through the dark passage, now and then stepping into the water puddles that are frequent until we reach the end of the level, or street you may call it, to find a couple of miners pecking at the ore with their short picks, and filling the car with glistening copper. The drift is arched at the top, and is self-supporting generally. Our words reverberate, and have a curiously hollow sound to us as we converse, the confined passage echoing our voices and deafening our ears.
    How beautiful the ore looks in its native veins. Here, where it is freshly broken by the blows of the miner, it sparkles in our candlelight like gems from Golconda. The lumps as they fall seem a mass of brilliants, and the whole vein is distinctly traced by the bright glow emitted in the candlelight. The ore is of a deep green, or bronze color, and when first removed is so soft as to be easily fashioned with a sharp knife into crosses and ornaments. It is not the stuff for clean hands, as our begrimed fingers amply testified, the stains requiring a process of soap and towels to remove. Upon exposure to the atmosphere for a few days, the lumps become as hard as the rock. In this respect the ore from this region differs from any other of the copper lodes of California. In the mines of Copperopolis, and other places, the ore appears of a bright yellow color, like brass, and is so hard in its native bed as to require blasting. The ore vein in this level was about two feet thick, we judged, as we were walking through it. The vein comes down from the surface of the ground, and we find it arching the drift overhead, and we walk on it underfoot.
    These levels are started at varying distances from each other, and are all run on the veins, and the vein between these levels taken out by "stoping" up from one level to the other above it, and the rent thus made in the earth is refilled with rubbish earth, or is timbered, to prevent a collapse. This method of extracting ore is called stoping, and in this way the whole of the vein is eventually removed.
    But little, comparatively, has been done in the way of stoping in the mine; the levels have many of them been run to a distance perhaps of three hundred feet, and wherever ore is found, whose percentage of copper warrants it, it is sent up for shipment. Stoping has only been resorted to in a few places where the ore proved unusually rich and abundant.
    Owing to the expense attending mining work and transportation, it does not pay to extract the poorer ores; but the time will come when every pound of ore in the mine can be removed with profit. Thousands of tons of copper are already exposed to view, destined to be ultimately removed.
    Our superintendent informs us that he does not care to disturb any ore that will not assay at least twelve or fifteen percent copper, and deposits have been found as high as twenty percent.
    But we return to the shaft, and toiling upward again, visit other drifts nearer the surface, where a little stoping is going on. The miners are here at work on the vein, going upwards on steps cut in the vein one above another, each one working horizontally on his step. The word stoping has reference to this manner of working out the ore by steps, like a stairway. By the aid of our candles we have no difficulty in peering about us; the pupils of the eye, now accustomed to the dim light, have dilated, so that we see with more ease than at first.
    Every visitor selects specimens of ore, and we are not behind others in this respect. The miners wear woolen shirts and little skull caps, and their begrimed faces look like coal-heavers. They seem contented and happy, and their underground life seems no hardship. They work in shifts of four hours each, so that each man works eight hours out of every twenty-four, four hours at a time.
    But we must return to daylight, and we reach again the doorway, at the ninety-six-foot, or sixteen-fathom level, as it is called, communicating with the tunnel before spoken of, and called by mining phraseology the "adit level." The length of the shaft is usually reckoned by miners in fathoms, and the different levels are denominated the sixteen-fathom level, the thirty-fathom level, and so on, the levels being usually run fifteen or sixteen fathoms apart from each other. We conclude to pass out through this tunnel, and we leave the shaft behind us, and grope our way along the dark passage, turning now a sharp angle, to see a glimmer of daylight ahead of us at the tunnel entrance. And now we emerge into daylight once more, to find ourselves at the bottom of the ravine, the engine house and sheds above us. In the bottom of the ravine runs a rapid stream of water, tumbling over the huge boulders that have been rolled down from above. Standing on the opposite side of the ravine, we examine the outside appearance of this mineral hill, and find the outlet of three tunnels that have been run in from the hillside at different elevations to tap the vein in the business of prospecting, as the miners term it. The locality of the different tunnels is defined by the green-looking dump piles.
    The lower tunnel, or adit level, from which we have just issued, is kept open and in use, for purposes of drainage, and a sluggish stream of water finds its way out, flowing continually into the rapid stream that dashes down the ravine; below its exit the water has a coppery taste, and is so strongly impregnated as to be unfit for use. The water in the mine is principally surface water, as it is called, and is constantly dropping from the excavations made, and collected by means of leaders into reservoirs, which are emptied from time to time by means of the engine into the lower tunnel, and through this runs out to the ravine.
    Here, in the bottom of the ravine, we find the old buildings of the former company, consisting of the cooper shop, blacksmith shop and ore sheds. The coopers were busy at work barrel-making, for the ore is being shipped in both barrels and sacks. The ore sheds here are fitted up with bunks for the "heathen Chinee," who are employed by the company in pursuing various duties about the mine.
    A graded road passes up through the ravine to the town of Altaville, winding about in its course to obtain an easy grade. As we pass up the road we come to the shaft that has been sunk by the former company, on the second or east vein of the claim. It was sunk some one hundred feet, and the vein found equal, if not superior, to the west vein. In one of the drifts from this shaft the vein was found eight feet wide, and good ore. This shaft is now filled with water, and is not worked. This last vein runs parallel with the west vein, but its dip is more perpendicular, and it is thought that at a considerable depth the two veins come together, forming a large body of ore. Partly to test the question, and also to determine the character of the ore at greater depth, a cross-cut, as it was called (a drift running from one vein to the other), was made, from near the bottom of the main shaft, to tap this east vein. It was reached, and found to be composed of rich ore, some twenty-five percent copper. The fear of letting down the body of water in the shaft above induced the superintendent to desist from further explorations on this vein, as his object had been attained in reaching it. The veins are one hundred feet apart at the surface, but at this depth about eighty feet, showing they had approached each other some twenty feet in this distance. We passed through this cross-cut when in the mine. It leaves the main shaft at right angles with the vein, and is blasted through solid rock and hard earth till it cuts suddenly into the fine body of ore composing this second vein.
    We visited the ore sheds at the mouth of the main shaft. Here are groups of Chinese, seated around a pile of deep green ore, pecking away with their hatchets and clipping off the masses of wall rock, or base metal, that adheres to the lumps, and cannot be assorted in the mine below. Others are sacking the ore, and sewing up the bags, which are then passed over the scales, and piled away ready for the wagons. A tramway and car transports the bags through the shed to the shipping pile beyond. There is a curious feature connected with this ore that does not exist in other mines. A large pile of it, if allowed to stand a week or ten days, becomes heated by spontaneous combustion, and the fumes of sulphur become so strong that it is impossible to stand to the leeward of it, and the ore becomes too hot for the hand to bear. This is said to be owing to the minute particles of sulphur in the ore being acted upon by the atmosphere, the combustion being fed by the sulphur. It is this process that has probably brought the outcropping surface ores, before spoken of, to the state in which they now exist, free from sulphur. If these ore piles are immediately sacked up, and not allowed to remain in large heaps, combustion does not take place. This feature is regarded as very favorable, as in the process of reduction at the melting works a great amount of fuel can be saved in roasting the ores.
    We have before spoken of the horrible state of the road between Crescent City and Altaville, which we passed over on our way hither. To avoid this heavy grade, the company are building a turnpike eight miles in length, winding around the mountainsides, with an easy grade to Smith River Valley, where it intersects a level road through the valley to Crescent City.
    We rode over this turnpike to its terminus, as far as finished, about six miles. Starting from Altaville, it winds up over the mountains, with so easy a grade that our horses trotted along without fatigue. We passed the summit, or highest point of the road, about three miles from town, when the panorama of the valley burst upon the view. The broad Pacific Ocean lay in the distance; the green patches of farmland in the valley, with here and there the white farmhouses and barns, and the cluster of buildings forming the Indian reservation, made up a scene for a painter. At the road's end we found the gangs of Chinese turnpike builders, presided over by two white men. They are famous road builders, working industriously, and without any riotous demonstrations. Whiskey, the source of all trouble, is unknown; and the foreman told us that harmony has always reigned among them. They have finished, so far, a splendid piece of work, although it has proved more expensive than at first estimated. The mining company have located a tract of timber land on the line of the road, with a view of perhaps erecting reduction works for the ore at some future time. Over this turnpike, when complete, it is estimated that upwards of six tons of ore, according to the size of the team, can be transported, where now but two tons give laborious work for six mules over the old road.
    A ride to and from Crescent City will be a pleasure when this turnpike is completed. The distance is computed at about twenty miles, against eighteen miles by the old road; but a buggy can traverse the whole space in three hours with ease, while by the old way it requires five hours of toil for horses. In fact, the old road must soon be abandoned, and all the transmountain freight teams will come up from the valley by the new turnpike. The old ferry will soon be among the things that were, as the river is fordable for most of the year on the new road. The valley of Smith River, now comparatively isolated, will be brought into close communication with Crescent City and the mountain regions. The copper company deserve the thanks of the entire community for this great improvement in travel.
    As we stand on the piazza of the Alta Company's office at Altaville, the country around appears bereft of timber. A few stunted pines, growing on the sides of the ravines here and there, are almost the only signs of verdure anywhere. The hills and mountains, as far as the eye can reach, are bleak and bare; huge boulders crop out in all directions; no grass, and even the omnipresent sagebrush, prevalent everywhere, grows timidly in spots. We see the diminutive sheds, built on the different mining claims on the hillsides, and the mouth of the exploring tunnels, looking like "coyote" holes in the distance, but brought to notice by the dump piles of earth that have been run out from the cavern's mouth. Most of these are now abandoned claims; the discovery of the Alta mining ledge and vein set the whole country around in a ferment. The hills were prospected far and near, and the claims are legion in number, but now deserted, a vigorous search failing to reward the seekers.
    A few have good prospects, and find indications of veins, but there is no work going on, save in the single claim of the Alta Company. All seem to be waiting and watching, allowing the Alta Company to prosecute improvements in transportation and mining, which will, if attended with success, work also to their advantage. The great drawback to profitable work is the low rate of copper. Unaccountably, prices of copper in the eastern states rule lower than was ever known, and the most serious part of it is there are no hopes of improvement. The superintendent informs us that his company will probably be obliged to suspend work, in consequence of such low prices and inadequate returns for their ores in New York.
    The only hope is in the erection of reduction works, which will raise the ores to a high percentage, and thus save much of the expense of transportation. In this way, every grade of ore can be profitably mined, and low grades of ore, now left in the mine, extracted.
    The country around is so barren of firewood that supplies for the steam boilers have to be brought some five or six miles at heavy expense, making fuel a costly item in a country which should afford abundance for the cutting of it. The new road will enable the company to obtain firewood, however, at greatly reduced cost, and reduction works would be erected on the timberlands of the company, some four miles from the mine, on the road to tidewater. In fact, this turnpike is dwelt upon as the great desideratum. Supplies of hay and grain, fruits, vegetables and produce of all kinds can be brought up to Altaville from the valley where they are produced, and where they are cheap and abundant; and not be transported, as now, over the long, weary, eighteen-mile road from Crescent City.
    The great trouble is that the settlers here are poor, and cannot afford to make the needed improvements in roads; and it is to be hoped that the copper company, while benefiting the entire community, will also reap their own reward for their enterprise. In these wild regions money goes but a little way, and is rapidly absorbed in making needed improvements.
    The town of Altaville, for the most part quiet during the day, presents a bustling appearance at nightfall. A large square or plaza is laid out on the town map, and is not encroached upon by any of the buildings. During mid-afternoon the transmountain teams begin to arrive, those from Crescent City freighted down with steamers' goods, and those from over the mountains generally empty. These latter go immediately down to the ore sheds, and take their ton or two of ore freight for Crescent City, returning again to the town to tarry till morning before making their start. The plaza fills up with wagons, drawn up like those of an army. The tired mules are braying loudly for their evening meal, and a scene of confusion reigns around.
    The animals safely housed and fed under the long sheds, the jovial teamsters squat around, telling their incidents of travel or the amount of freight earned, each one with his cherry-stem tobacco pipe, or his mouth filled with old "Solace."
    As night approaches, the whistle of the Alta's engine sounds out the call to supper from the ravine below; and the tired miners come straggling up to their evening meal, all fine-looking fellows of muscle. Nearly all of them are Cornish men; they work faithfully, and save their wages. Begrimed with the blackening dust of the copper ore, they are not recognized as white men; but a half hour's toilet brings them forth again in white shirts (called here boiled shirts), and you do not recognize them as the underground workers you visited yesterday. They seem to have a pride in appearance, and after their shift of four hours' work doff their mining garments and appear in the garb of white men. These people, we learn, are not popular in Altaville; they are too saving, and do not patronize the whiskey mill and the card table; but the barkeeper seems to have patrons in plenty among the teamsters and others who pass through the town. At evening the saloon is filled with poker players and whiskey drinkers, and the sounds of revelry by night are frequent.
    All gets quiet towards the late hours, however, for jolly teamsters, as well as their teams, need rest, and must stir betimes on the morrow. Before dawn of day we are awakened by the merry jingle of the bell teams, starting out for Crescent City, and just commencing the ascent of the rocky steep leading from the town. By sunrise all have departed, and at the breakfast hour we see the teams bound Oregonward, toiling up the mountain in the distance, creeping onward with snail-like step, along the steep zigzag path.
    There is the stillness of death around us now. The miners have gone to their work, and the town is deserted. Now and then we faintly hear the hoarse voice of some belated teamster, who has just entered upon the rugged ascent of the mountain, cheering his animals; and the snap of his huge black snake whip sounds like the crack of a rifle.
    Our breakfast of venison was a rare treat to us, but is common fare to people here. In early morning deer are often seen along the ravines, and fall an easy prey to the hunter.
    We had now been in Altaville for three days, and a drizzly rain setting in on the fourth did not augur a pleasant journey to us, as we were to travel over the mountains for a distance of fifty miles further in an open buggy. If we intended to intercept the overland stage, running semi-weekly from "Sailor Diggin's," we must start at once, or be subjected to delay we could not well afford. We accordingly made ready for our departure at noon, intending to travel to the next stopping place, some fifteen miles distant, where we could spend the night, and resume our journey on the morrow. We had already passed over a rugged road, but we are told that the worst lies beyond. Higher mountains and more difficult roads, stopping places few in number, and of the rudest description. But there was a spice of adventure about all this that robbed it of its terrors; and a sister (who was our companion) even more anxious than ourselves to press forward. Our preparations were accordingly made for a start at noon; and an account of our homeward trip we will relate in a future communication.
Ballou's Magazine, August 1871, pages 164-170


    The morning of our fourth day at Altaville dawned foggy and damp, eventually turning into a drizzly rain. It was in the month of May, and the rainy season of California had passed by; but here in these high altitudes we find these misty rains are not unfrequent, and continue long after the wet season has left the valleys. In fact, no settled weather appears till late in June. There are, nevertheless, very many beautiful days here, the snows have disappeared and the mud is well dried up.
    This was the day we had set for our departure; we were to continue our sixty-mile journey by open buggy over the mountains to the nearest stage station, and as the stage from that station only runs semi-weekly, we must start today, or be subjected to three or four days' delay. Anxiously were the drifting clouds watched, and every streak of sunshine hailed that gave a faint hope of better weather. But the meridian hour brought no change, and we prepared to set forth. The horses were abundantly rested from the fatigue of the first day's travel. We had visited the copper mine, and enjoyed the hospitality of the superintendent, and there was no guarantee of better weather should we delay. A gray army blanket formed a hood for the head and, well secured around the neck, was to protect each of us from the rain till we could reach a stopping place for the night. The drizzle was provokingly penetrating, more like a heavy mist, and even more disagreeable than a shower, requiring a constant surveillance to leave no spot exposed. Bidding adieu to all, we rattled out of the town at a merry pace. The horses, impatient of restraint, dashed along up the first steeps as if the toil were a pastime; but a long, weary drag was before them, and a few moments sufficed to convince them that discretion was the better part of valor, and they settled down to their work like old stagers. We wound up the zigzag road to the mountaintop overlooking the town, and cast a glance back at the scene. The little town nestled below on the "divide" between the mountains. The smoke from the town chimneys curled lazily upward, and the puffs of steam from the engine house indicated the position of the "Alta works." Figures of men and animals were mere dots on the surface, but the settlement had a very picturesque appearance, presenting the only sign of civilization for miles. How beautiful the mountains around! Even the falling mist could not rob us of the delight we experienced in gazing about. Wild, uncultivated nature, a country as yet unsubdued by the hand of man. A turn in the road shut out from sight the pleasant town of Altaville, and we were to see it no more. The road improves a little now, and passes along the mountain ridge through groves of sizable pine trees. An enclosure, or corral, surrounded by a stone wall, stands by the roadside, with no habitation near. It was built by the teamsters who passed over the road, and is used by them as a stopping place when finding themselves unable to reach the regular stations on the road. It is five miles from Altaville, and is known as the Stone Corral.
    From this point the road becomes steep and rocky, leading down into a deep ravine; huge boulders almost intercept progress, and make frequent detours necessary. As we descend the trees grow larger and more numerous; down, down we travel, trusting each turn will be the last, till the noise of many waters, rushing furiously over the intervening rocks, assures us we have found the bed of the ravine. A rude bridge of logs spans the stream, and the road commences at once the opposite ascent. Another long, weary drag. Looking upward, the summit of this mountain seems miles away. Thanks to provident friends, we keep comparatively dry, and now and then a ray of sunshine cheers our hearts. The horses stop instinctively at each level spot to take breath, and seem to have laid aside the exhilarated feelings with which they started out from town. The solemn stillness of these mountains and forests is painful, and it must be serious business to one riding alone without a companion, to spend hour after hour without hearing the sound of a voice. We are on the qui vive for wild animals. Deer abound in these mountains, and the California lion and panther are not unknown. None of these latter have been known to attack travelers, but will always retire, if allowed to do so. The scream of every bird startles, and the snapping of each twig near the roadside arrests attention; but we see nothing, and at last reach the mountaintop, with another long mountain ridge before us. The poor horses steam with their incessant toil, and flecks of lather drop from their sides. What must be the effect upon the toiling mule teams, with their tons of load, if a pair of horses put forth such efforts with a light buggy! Yet the teams drag very slowly along, and stop frequently, while we keep up a fast walking gait wherever it is possible. Ten miles from Altaville, and on the mountain ridge we fall in with the corps of laborers who have been sent out by the turnpike company to put the road in order. On the return of every spring, and the opening of the travel, the company is obliged to send out laborers to go over the entire length of the road, and put in repair where needed. This corps of laborers had got thus far on their way towards the Crescent City, and the road henceforth is probably in better condition than that passed over. The tents of the men are pitched by the roadside, and they camp out as they proceed in their work, which usually occupies a month for the whole distance.
    The stopping place for the night is now but five miles distant, with a down grade all the way. We shall welcome it, for we have had about enough of this damp weather, and long for a fireside. The country is very uniform in character now, and much like the rocky regions of Altaville. Huge boulders everywhere, the road itself is very rough, notwithstanding the work of the road laborers. It is necessary to drive with great caution and at a slow pace; a light buggy is a very different thing from the mountain wagons, and there is use for abundant caution. We overtook here the teams that left Altaville at daylight this morning; a long line, some eight or ten in number, fill the road in advance, each team keeping conveniently near his neighbor, for aid in case of any emergency. The teamsters willingly help one another in a difficult pull, and by traveling together have aid always at hand. Fortunately we have met where it is not difficult to pass, and we thread our way past the teams in the road, each man nodding his "How d'ye" to our female companion, and checking for a moment his road-teaming dialect.
    A drive of two or three miles brings us to the end of the last ridge, and the road gradually descends again into a deep ravine or canon. From a gap in the passing clouds a ray of sunshine beams forth, and the scene is beautiful. The road grows steeper with every rod, and with nothing to intercept the vision we look down into the ravine to see the rapid torrent of one of the forks of Smith River, coursing along its way, smooth and deep green in color, except where broken into fragments by the rapids. This north fork of Smith River is a beautiful broad stream of water, crossed by a bridge of considerable size, and the only bridge of magnitude on the whole road. The river has cut a deep channel through the ravine, and the banks on either side are abrupt and high. We can trace our zigzag road down to the river bank, and, doubling on our track, we descend the mountain till a turn in the road gives the first view of the hotel, or "Jones's," as it is called.
    O, that lovely and romantic spot! a tangled wilderness of roses, climbing over the house, peeping in here and there, and sprawling over the grass in such reckless profusion, the house itself nestled in that green bottom, almost concealed from view by the climbing vines. We are excited, and rather disposed to hurry the steeds, which seem to be too anxious about their secure footing to suit us, who were impatient to reach the goal. The river scene, the well-cultivated garden, the climbing roses, and what is seen of the neat white cottage all look inviting to weary travelers. Our excitement increases as we approach; our horses were never so slow, and in all our ride there was nothing that so enchanted us as this beautiful scene, as we approached down the mountainside. At a little distance from the house stood the long sheds and barns for wagon accommodation, and these well filled each night of the teaming season. In five hours from Altaville we drove up to the door of Jones's, thankful to arrive, and full of encouragement for the weather tomorrow.
    Alas for human hopes! the beautiful cottage with its climbing roses was like a whited sepulcher; bewitching, enchanting without as we approached it, but once within its walls the scene changed. A dilapidated old shanty, with muslin ceilings and cloth and papered walls. The ceiling, black with the dust of ages, hung like bags, the walls soiled and begrimed with dirt, floors uncarpeted and innocent of any contact with broom or suds. The first room was occupied by the omnipresent whiskey bar, and a large wood stove steamed with a fierce heat in anticipation of the arrival of wet and tired teamsters. We had arrived first; no teams from either direction had put in an appearance. Passing through the outer room we groped our way through an Egyptian darkness, to hunt up some of the occupants. Feeling our way along the walls, we reached the rear room of the cottage, and were confronted by the astonished landlady--for we found one even here.
    Her surprise gave way to anxiety as she looked upon my companion, and became apprised of the arrival of a live woman to share the hospitalities of her cottage for the night. Where to put her was the vexed question that occupied her mind, nor did it help her distress that, like Abraham of old, I said of her, "Behold, she is my sister." We well knew from the busied consultations in the inner room, while we sat over the steaming stove, that in gaining us as guests they had won an elephant. The matter was settled, however, as we afterwards learned, by the hostess giving up her own room to my companion, and thus solving the terrible enigma. The room contained two small windows of three panes of glass each, a bedstead with straw bed and dark blankets, a broken chair with a strip of board nailed across the back, an hourglass stand with wash basin and a long-necked decanter of water, and a vicious-looking comb and brush by its side. My own apartment contained a bedstead of rough boards, a straw pallet with covering that had not made any very recent visit to the river side, no looking-glass, and no apparatus for washing. Teamsters need no looking-glass, and the horse trough is their wash basin. Of course I could only expect to throw myself upon the outside of such an uninviting-looking bed, while visions of broken rest already haunted me. I thought of the poor Frenchman in one of these country inns, who complained in the morning he could not sleep, "For, by gar!" said he, "I pickee ze flea all ze night."
    About an hour after our arrival teams began to arrive, tired and jaded, wet to the skin, and only too glad to welcome even the accommodation of "Jones." The sheds are commodious, and must of necessity be so, as often fifty or sixty animals are quartered here for the night. We heard the merry jingle of the bell teams for miles away in this still mountain air. This arrangement of bells at first appeared a fancy of the driver, but I learned by experience that they are for a purpose, and are really a necessary feature. The road in very many places is only wide enough for a single team, and the turnouts far between, but the sound of bells gives warning to approaching teams to look out for opportunities to pass. The teams usually travel from station to station (when loaded), say fifteen miles a day, while on the mountains, but upon reaching the valleys stopping places are more frequent, and they make longer drives. They start at first break of day from the station, and calculate to complete their day's drive by mid-afternoon. Although the pull is often a hard one, they are, nevertheless, merciful to their beasts, as indeed they may be, for their sole dependence is in the well-being of their animals. Upon arriving at Jones's, one after another the tired animals are stripped of their heavy harness gear, each animal is carefully rubbed down, legs bathed, and much care bestowed upon them. The driver never thinks of himself till his animals are safely housed and fed. Then comes the drink at the bar and the poker playing, uninterrupted only by the call to supper. We, as distinguished guests, sat at the upper end of a long table on rude benches, a long row of hungry teamsters on either side below us. A broken pitcher of roses graced our table end, and we were treated with a dessert of fruit, as the landlady termed the dish of dried-apple sauce. The tea and coffee were carried around in large tin pails, one on either arm, pouring out from one or the other, as you signified a preference.
    In passing over this road travelers are more or less at the mercy of these teamsters, often meeting them in difficult parts of the road. If well-disposed they will give ready assistance, but if disposed to be stubborn they can annoy in a thousand ways. A few plugs of tobacco to distribute among them, an occasional treat at the bar, will so warm their hearts towards the giver that in time of need they are friends indeed.
    A beautiful evening settled down on Jones's; the moon shone brilliantly, almost obscuring the twinkling stars. The foaming, dashing river torrent tumbled with a ceaseless roar over its rocky bed, and the uninviting-looking couches were sought, only in answer to the demands of tired nature. But sleep could not be wooed or won. The thin partitions of the cottage offered no impediment to the sound of the sonorous breathing of the sleepers around. The lively flea commenced his busy work, only too glad to exchange the tough hide of the teamsters for something more tender. Without caring to undress, I had thrown myself upon the outside of the bed, but the busy little varmints had found me out, and the whole night was spent in a scratch for life. Then, as the first streak of gray appeared in the east, the whole house was astir. The men must be breakfasted and sent on their way, and it was only when the last sound of the bell teams faded away in the distance that we gained a little sleep.
    But the full morning dawned at last. I lay and watched the undulations of the cloth ceiling overhead, and listened to the pattering rain, increasing at intervals to heavy showers. Sad sound to us. The semi-weekly stage was to leave this afternoon, and before us a tedious ride of twenty-five miles to meet it. Of this, twenty miles was mountain road, for we had not yet reached the summit. A breakfast of bacon and eggs, and poor coffee, was partaken of in silence. Our host and hostess had done their best for the strangers. The table was innocent of its white cloth, but the knives and forks had a polish especially intended for us. In fact, they spared no pains to make the best of everything, and after doing this, finish up with profound apologies. It seemed injudicious to expose ourselves to such inclement weather, and we sat over the hot stove and mourned; read over the pictorials and magazines of last year's date, and watched the passing clouds for a ray of sunshine. A long, weary mountain lay before us, the road winding about from one elevation to another, and visible for many miles from the cottage door. The teams that left in early morning were seen in the middle of the forenoon toiling their way upwards, and looking like mere specks in the distance.
    Towards twelve o'clock signs of improvement became manifest, and by noon the sun came out again, though often obscured by passing clouds. After a hurried consultation it was decided that we should leave this cheerless abode and go forward. The rain might or might not be over, and with the same precautions as yesterday, wrapped in army blankets, we left the vine-clad cottage to continue our mountain ride. Starting from Jones's, we pass immediately over the bridge spanning the stream, here some fifty feet wide. It seems a little shaky and aged, and trembles under the solid tread of the horses, and yet supports so many loaded teams that we cross without any particular misgivings. And now to the mountain again. The road is tolerably smooth, and free from the rocks and stones that are so liberally strewn on the opposite side of the river. Bench after bench of the elevation is reached, till nearing the top we gaze once more upon the scene below. Pine trees are scattered here and there, and beautiful flowers peep out timidly among the green patches of grass on the roadside. The little cottage below presents the same picturesque appearance as yesterday, the stream could be traced for miles up and down the deep canyon, and to look upon the riverside inn, nestled among the trees and vines, and surrounded by flowers of varied hue, we could hardly believe it to be the scene of our night's torture. Across the ravine we trace the road of yesterday, winding down to the river like a footpath on the mountainside. The canyon through which the stream ran was grand to behold. The mountains on either side looked impassable, and the wagon road, seen more plainly by the red color of the soil, seemed to double on itself, and zigzagged down the opposite side to the bridge at the river, and wound its way upward to our point of observation. But we hurry forward, and the enchanting scene was soon lost to view, but will never be effaced from memory. The rain falls about us, and we get an occasional sprinkle from the edge of a passing cloud, and so it continues throughout the day. We could see the frequent showers, but by some good fortune we seemed to travel between the drops, and were not uncomfortable.
    The road continues a series of level patches and steep grades as we near the summit or higher point, from which the descent to Illinois Valley is rapid. In three or four hours from Jones's we overtook the morning teams, but in a place where it was simply impossible to pass, and we slowly walked a mile or two behind the creeping wagons. This delay proved fatal to us, and lost for us the stage connection at Sailor Diggings. The teamsters were compassionate, my little store of tobacco bought for the purpose was freely distributed among them, and they gave assurance that we should pass at the first possible opportunity. It came at last, but what an opportunity it was! We were to drive over boulders and stumps that lay by the roadside, and perform a feat that seemed impossible; but the strong arms of the men lifted the carriage over the roughest of the way, and one by one we passed the long line of teams, truly glad to gain the head at last. It is sometimes the case that light carriages, meeting teams coming in an opposite direction, find it impossible to pass, and horses must be unhitched and led, much of the carriage taken apart and carried forward piecemeal, to be put together again in the road beyond. Happily no such misfortune happened to us. The country has now every appearance of the bleak, bare summit of a mountain. The blasted pine trees seemed to grow out of the very rocks. Not a green thing visible except the treetops. The stunted pines all lean one way, indicating the quarter from whence comes the winter storms. All is bleak, barren and cheerless. The winds sighed among the decayed branches of the trees, and the passing showers were mildly suggestive of what a winter blast would be. The water pools in the roadway, and a little mire now and then bore evidence of heavy rains. The trees by the roadside have a bit of shingle nailed upon them, some ten feet or more from the ground, to indicate the road when snow-covered; although in midwinter the mountain is buried, and the road impassable till return of spring. Here at the roadside stands a log house. A slouch felt hat, with pipe stuck in the hat band, a red flannel shirt, a pair of buckskin pants, fringed at the sides, with hobnailed boots outside, completed the figure of the proprietor, a long lank specimen of humanity from Pike County, who appeared at the door upon hearing the sound of approaching wheels. This is a whiskey mill for teamsters, presided over by this solitary human, his only companion a brindled bull pup with a hangdog look. We declined the whiskey, but solicited a drink for the horses, offering a bribe for the same, which the honest old Pike scorned to receive. "He was only too glad to obleege the lady." So we compromised with a chaw from our tobacco plug.
    "Rather a bleak place to live in, stranger?"
    "Wall, yes! it ain't no palace; 'tisn't but a few months in the year though. Me and Bob (that's my dog) have to git up and git for the settlements afore winter sets in. You see the snow on this yere mountain is some in winter time. There's no travel here then. Many a feller has been missing round these parts. This yere mountain ketches a feller every year. The skeleton of a poor chap was found over by that rock yonder this spring, and every year we find 'em. When me and Bob leave for Jones's, I tell yer it's time you left these parts!"
    "But how far is it to the summit?"
    "Well, nigh on to two mile yet, although the road is pretty level."
    We left the log cabin and its occupants, and pushed on for the summit. Meeting a team soon after, we inquired how far to the summit.
    "Well, he reckoned it was two miles."
    Another team met soon after reckoned it was five miles, but we reckoned they had a poor idea of distance, and we should reach it in time. The road now appears descending, and again we interviewed an approaching teamster, and are told we are at the summit; and the road begins to descend rapidly to Illinois Valley in one grand descent of five or six miles. We had heard that this descending road would be found worse than any passed over. In response to our inquiry on this point, the old mule driver takes a look at the vehicle, his strong arms lift the carriage to test its weight, and he puts his iron grip upon spoke and felloe. After making a minute survey, he helps himself to another quid of the ever-ready tobacco plug, and replies:
    "Wall, stranger, you'll just ketch h-ll!"
    Language more emphatic than elegant, but the honest old mountaineer, long accustomed to measure the strength of wagon teams only, was not deterred from giving the result of his observations in free expressions, notwithstanding there was a lady in the case.
    We were not disturbed by his conclusions, however, for our light Concord buggy had been a frequent object of curiosity among the teamsters, and many speculations offered as to its ability to stand the rough usage of the road. The descent from the summit had now commenced in real earnest. We seemed to double on our track, and took our way downward with great caution. The rocks are larger than ever, and the way ragged in the extreme, requiring extra care in driving. In fact it seemed quite as slow progress descending as in ascending the grade. Illinois Valley, as it is called, now lay before us, level and fertile as far as the eye could reach. This is one of the great valleys of Oregon. Still we go downward, turning one bend after another, the tops of the lofty pines, growing on the skirts of the mountain, still a long way below us. A few stunted pines, two or three feet in height, were around us, seeming to start from the crevices of the rocks, for soil was scarce. Smooth and bare were these piles of rocks lying about the path, their weather-worn and rounded surfaces bearing evidence of many winter storms. Gradually we reach the valley level and plunge among the luxuriant growth of forest trees, moss clinging in heavy masses on one side the trunk, while the other side was smooth and bare. Striking at once into a beautiful valley road, the horses sped rapidly onward, along the bank of a sluggish stream hardly sizable enough to be termed a river. No more mountain, but a smooth level road to town, distance about five miles. Passing along on a bluff bank of the stream, a startled deer rushed out from below and swam across the deep current. We stopped to gaze at the beautiful animal, which soon gained the opposite bank, looked back to see the cause of his alarm, and, giving his antlers a shake, plunged into the thicket and disappeared. Upon relating this circumstance afterward, we learned there was "a lick" beneath the bank at that spot, and deer were frequently waylaid and shot as they came from time to time to enjoy the relish. "A lick," as it is called, is a deposit of mineral salt, and animals frequently visit them when found, to enjoy a lick of the savory deposit.
    Crossing the river at a ford, we began to approach the town of Waldo, or Sailor Diggings. We passed up through a gravelly canyon, the cobblestones and gravel heaped about in confusion, and remnants of decayed sluiceboxes and long toms, with now and then a windlass or a dam, indicated it to be an abandoned gold field. The whole canyon, through which a stream of water found its way, seemed to have been completely upturned in the search for gold. Large sums had been taken out from this spot in earlier days, but the diggings are now abandoned to the Chinamen, who eagerly come in to wash out the tailings, or to wash over again the gravel that fails to satisfy the white men. John is content with small wages. We meet the Chinamen now in all directions as we near the town. A group coming up from their workings pass by.
    "What luck, John?"
    "O, me catchee heap-plenty gold, sometime one cent, sometime two cent, all coarsh gold."
    It was after eight o'clock in the evening that we drove up to the door of the stage house at Waldo, only to be informed that the stage for Jacksonville had left at the usual hour of the afternoon. We were told, however, that the stage only traveled twelve miles, to a town called Kerbyville, the first day, leaving there at sunrise the next morning, and were urged to continue on to Kerbyville, and overtake the vehicle there. What should be done? The road to Kerbyville was good, but through the dark forest. The horses were tired and jaded, and our knowledge of the route imperfect. The drive looked hazardous, and yet could we reach Kerbyville in safety, we could overtake our truant stage, and accomplish our ends. My companion at once announced her willingness to go forward, and our purpose was soon formed. We did not dare to delay for supper, or to feed our horses, for evening was gathering around us, and yet the twilight would aid us a little. Leaving word for the Crescent City messenger to come on to Kerbyville to recover the horses, we started up our surprised team, which had supposed themselves at their road's end. It was only with free use of the whip that the animals could be induced to proceed, and we drove through the single street of the town. The barrooms throw a lurid glare of kerosene lamps across the way, and are filled with the card-playing fraternity that evening gathers together in all mining towns. The solemn tones of a hand organ, grinding out its threadbare strains, or the piercing shrieks of a cracked fiddle, aided by some nasal-toned clarinet, supplied the barroom music. One by one we passed the "lamp in the window," and approached the dark forest, through which the way lay for twelve miles. Thanks to the minute directions, we struck the right branch of road leading from the town, and went forward with confidence.
Ballou's Magazine, October 1871, pages 338-343


    The road to Kerbyville led at once into the forest, after leaving the cheerful town lights, and darkness soon gathered around. The horses took a slow trot, and we were not disposed to hurry them, well knowing they had endured much already. The road was dimly seen through its opening among the trees, and we plodded along, peering uneasily about us for all sorts of dangers. Now and then the light from some woodcutter's hut would twinkle through the branches. The weather was beautiful, the rainstorm being entirely confined to the mountains; and since we had entered the valley we saw no more of them. The roads were somewhat dusty, showing that they had not been recently visited with showers. After an hour's travel the road approached the river, along whose banks we had traveled for miles before reaching town. The river bank was broad and gravelly, and the wheel marks of the road led directly to its brink. It was barely light enough to discover this, but being satisfied it was fordable, we allowed the horses to take their way across. Deeper grew the stream, and in the middle came nearly up to the wagon body, but there was no other alternative than to proceed, after allowing the jaded horses a cooling drink.
    Crossing safely, we again took the wagon trail, and turning suddenly to the left plunged again, scarcely breathing, into the silent woods, more dark and dreary than before. Every ray of light seemed extinguished, and we were perforce obliged to be content with walking the horses, not knowing what lay before us. It was impossible to see the road marks, even the forms of the tired horses were only dimly outlined before us. Should we meet a vehicle now, what would be the result? But we hope we are the only belated travelers, and are content to trust entirely to the instinct of the animals. Horses are said to see well by night, and the ease with which they apparently kept the road gave us confidence. Frequently, very frequently, we could hear the echoing tread of their hoofs crossing some narrow bridgeway of the trail, and at first feared a wheel of the carriage might drop over the side of the bridge, but we reflect that one pair of horses would be careful to secure a footing for themselves on the secure bridge, and the wheels of the carriage must of necessity follow in the track of the animals. Had we but a single horse, the case might have been different.
    Reasoning thus philosophically, we gained comfort as we proceeded in our dark dismal ride. Looking out behind, the roadway over which we passed could be traced by the white line of dust, which indicated its position; but before, all was blank and rayless. Large stumps of trees would now and then loom up through the darkness, as the wheel hubs passed unpleasantly near to them. In imagination we saw grizzlies sitting on their haunches in every fantastic stump we passed. My sister clung closely to my arm, speechless, and not daring to utter even an encouraging word. It was left for me to reassure her, now and then, with some hopeful sign by the way, although I was too absorbed in the situation to give utterance to language. Looking over the shoulder from time to time, we watched the road, to observe if possible, any deviation from the straight and narrow way. Thus we proceeded for two or three hours, long and weary ones, filled with anxiety. We dare not urge the team beyond a walking gait, knowing they would better keep the trail if allowed to take their own course. By the light of a match we found it was after midnight, and the town could not be far distant, for we had been four hours on the road. We peered about anxiously for the first glimpse of a habitation. While thus engaged, one by one a light from a window here and there broke upon the vision, and in a few moments we were entering the main street of the town of Kerbyville. We laughed a merry laugh, and our loosened tongues gave vent to our exhilarated feelings. We were not long in reaching the hotel, happily before the landlord had retired for the night. Disposing of the faithful horses, we sat down to a hastily prepared meal of coffee, bread, cheese and doughnuts, made ourselves merry at the happy termination of the night ride, and retired at last to comfortable beds, to be ready for the stage at dawn.
    Fatigued by the day's adventures, sleep was welcome; but too soon for comfort the vigorous thumps of the landlord upon the door announced the waiting stage. It was scarcely sunrise, but before the door stood a two-horse stage wagon. It has two seats inside, and was to convey us seventy miles to Jacksonville, where we intercept the regular line of Concord coaches, running on the great mail route between California and Oregon.
    The Chinese are great patrons of the stages in California, and the front seat was occupied by three, the back seat left for ourselves. We rolled along through the forests beyond Kerbyville, and had time to study the visages of our companions, coming to the conclusion that all Chinamen look alike, and no question of identity could be determined by any testimony of ours. One of the travelers wore two hats, one inside the other, and tied around his neck was his toothbrush and tongue scraper. Thirteen miles up the valley took us to the breakfast station, "Elk Creek Hotel," presided over by old Mother Hayes, who stood in the doorway with a smiling face, full-bordered cap, and hands upon her broad hips. One look at the quality people on board the stage, and she disappeared from view, to improve upon her breakfast a little, if possible, and we were kept waiting in consequence. Our driver combed his hair with the family comb before a bit of looking-glass, and we waited the breakfast summons.
    At breakfast we were waited upon by Mother Hayes, who informed us she had "baked them biscuit since we came," and urged us to eat hearty, saying she liked to have folks eat all they can. Her old man assisted in doing the honors, but left her to do the talking. How her eyes twinkled when we informed her there were seventeen teams on the road, and with her tongue thrust in her cheek, exchanged glances with her husband, as much as to say, "There's money in our pockets!"
    Experience like ours whets the appetite, and the breakfast did seem delicious. Changing horses here, we put forward through the valley, toward noon fording a deep stream called a branch of the "Applegate" River, the water over the wheel hubs, afterward crossing the river itself in a ferry. The Illinois Valley was green and luxuriant, and we rode the entire day through its length, at sundown reaching the range of hills that divide this valley from Rogue River Valley, where the town of Jacksonville is situated. Passing over these hills we reached Jacksonville, also in Oregon. It is a thriving place; one main street leads through the town, on either side of which are the various stores and public buildings, the residences sprinkled about in the background, surrounded by beautiful gardens.
    The origin of the name of the valley is as follows: It was first settled by Frenchmen, who, noticing the red appearance of the soil on the banks of the river, called it rouge river, from which it has become corrupted to Rogue River. [This "folk etymology" is not supported by actual history.] This town of Jacksonville is one of the most thriving places we met with; beautifully located, well laid out, and apparently full of business. At the hotel we found a traveling theatrical company, and the dining hall was fitted up for an evening performance.
    Morning found us the only passengers on board the commodious stage bound for Yreka, sixty miles distant, and about twelve hours' ride, passing through the southern portion of this valley, and over the Siskiyou mountains. The valley is beautifully green and luxuriant, with its meadows and fields of growing grain, acres upon acres in extent, and hemmed in by mountains in the distance on all sides. The road, level, wide and in good order, an hour's ride brought us to a little town of shanties, and save the crowing of cocks, manifested but little signs of life, as we drove through in early morning. A sleepy postmaster, who had apparently donned a portion of his apparel in a hurry, handed out a collapsed-looking mailbag, which the driver with one thrust of his boot heel consigned to the depths of the stage-box, and with a chirp to the leaders we drove off again. Twelve or fifteen miles from Jacksonville brought us to Ashland, a busy little milling settlement; the huge overshot wheel of a large grist mill standing out into the road. Here we were to change horses and breakfast, and the landlords of two rival houses were swinging their breakfast bells like huge sledgehammers. Good appetites whetted by an early ride gave an inviting look to the table, and we partook of the meal, while the omnipresent Chinaman fanned away the flies. Stage ready, four white horses stood awaiting us, eager to complete their twelve miles of distance, and have it over. More passengers here, but with the consent of our driver we mounted the coach box. Stages always dash away from a station with a crack of the whip, and sober down to a steady trot only after they are out of sight. My lady companion clutched my arm instinctively, troubled with a little feeling of insecurity on this elevated seat; but a short time sufficed to familiarize her with the motion, and the outside seat ever after commanded a premium. Still in the valley, for twelve miles or so, when we seem rapidly approaching a pass in the mountains, and finally stopped at the Mountain House, to exchange our fancy team for rough-looking mountaineers, large-limbed and strong-looking roadsters, which were to convey us over the Siskiyou Mountains.
    We commence the ascent, passing through the toll gate and toiling up a smooth graded road, some six miles to the summit. The road wound around the deep chasms of the mountain pass, in many places cut like a shelf in the hillside, and crossing now and then a fierce little torrent, leaping downward from rock to rock. How exhilarating these mountain roads! As we near the summit, we are on a level with the tufted tops of the tall pines growing in the ravine below. The horses can only walk up the ascent, the reins hang loosely, and the driver whistles a merry tune or tells of the incidents of his stage life. Sparing the whip he talks to the horses as though companions, "Come, Jim--get up, Bob--heh, Sallie!" And as each one is called upon, they apply a little more muscle. Over the summit we glide rapidly down the descending grade; the horses never break their trot for miles, and bring us at noon to the dining station situated just over the dividing line between Oregon and California. The tax collector of Siskiyou County has a habit of lurking about the station to collect the poll and state taxes from Californians who may be traveling. It is an outrageous and unheard-of practice. The experiment was tried upon us, but memory positively refused to aid me in settling the amount of state taxes that was my portion, but there was no excuse for the poll tax, and it was collected. The fact is, the poor official probably lives on his commissions, and adopts this contemptible method of swelling his county receipts and his commissions at the same time. A splendid dinner here, rather a rough-looking crowd around the table; but the provision was good, and we fully prepared for it. Another gay team of horseflesh, and we rattled away again at a crack from Jerry's whip, and made our way to Cottonwood, the first California town on the route. It was like many we have met, composed of a single street, and devoted entirely to mining. Idle men were standing about everywhere; and stopping only to exchange one scanty-looking mailbag for another, we proceeded on to the Klamath River, where the ferry-boat awaited us. The stream was deep and sluggish, the boat guided across by a rope stretched for that purpose, and drawn over by the ferryman on board. At mid-afternoon we reached our nearest point to Mount Shasta. The lofty mountain is what is called a "butte." It rises up from the plain around, starting as it were at once from the level ground, and soaring upward fourteen thousand feet, one of the highest mountains in California. The atmosphere was clear, and the snowy summits of the mountain reflected the sunlight, forming a picture truly sublime. Mount Shasta is one of the features of the state. It has been scaled by scientific men and adventurers, and its many wonders are a matter of record.
    We pass within a few miles of its base, but its hoary head was visible for a long distance as we receded from it. About six o'clock in the evening we reach Yreka, once a town of considerable note, and even now bearing marks of its former greatness. It is a mining town and has been celebrated for its rich deposits, but like many others is worked out, and the gold-seekers one by one have left for more remote regions. Yreka was once at the edge of civilization, but settlements have sprung up far beyond it now. The mines about here are many of them worked by the Chinese, although there are yet mines in the neighborhood worked by white men, and yielding good returns. The town rivals Jacksonville in size, but seems now going to decay. Here we were to be detained till midnight, the stage leaving at that hour for Shasta. We could enjoy our supper, and coax the drowsy god for a few hours before the time of departure, besides taking a stroll through the town in the endeavor to recall visions of its former importance. The saloons are in full blast, the betting lively, and the coin piled on the tables looked as though all were not bankrupt. The game, as the old miner said, was "the one where jack takes the ace," the favorite game among miners, and the one in which the heathen Chinee euchred Bill Nye.
    Hurdy-gurdy girls were grouped about, furnishing music for the crowd, and unflinchingly received the rude caresses of the company. Such was Yreka after nightfall, and the sounds of revelry lulled us to sleep, to be called at midnight to proceed on our way. A fine Concord coach with glaring sidelights, the driver muffled in tippet and army overcoat, for the night was cold. We took the inside of the stage this morning, as we could see nothing, and the weather was a little biting. Coach full inside, but it was too dark to distinguish faces. A strong Dutch accent from parties occupying the front seat indicated them as the hurdy girls, who travel about from town to town as inclination prompts. We had a full coach, and we nodded drowsily along, sleepy and listless, the side lanterns glaring out on bush and hedge, and enabling us to keep the road. We commenced immediately the ascent of a long hill, scarcely a mountain, yet progress upward was slow. Twelve or fifteen miles brought us to the first change [of horses], done with the light of lanterns in an opening in the dark forest.
    "Look out for Jimmy Twitcher, Jerry," says the hostler; "that off hind foot is pretty sore, and he may give you trouble."
    Four o'clock brought us to a quiet little settlement called Fort Jones, and we rode through its deserted street to the post office, to receive the Fort Jones mail. Here we took the opportunity to leave the inside of our coach again for an outside seat with Jerry, and left the town to ride twenty-five miles more before breakfast. The horses seemed to fly, and with a jerk and a bound Jerry put us over the road, waking up the sleepers and loosening their tongues. He informed us that the veiled lady inside was a colored woman, and called rich in these parts. She was a queer specimen, and it was said always carried her mother's bones with her wherever she went. When she settled in any place she buried them, and whenever she moved again toted them along. 'Twas rather a fanciful story, but it served to keep us awake, and interested us as we rattled along the base of the hills and approached the famous Scott Mountain, over which lies our road, selecting the most favorable pass in the mountains for the purpose. Another change of horses, and our gay team had done their work faithfully. Jimmy Twitcher's off hind foot offered no hindrance, and we made our miles in excellent time.
    We are carried back to the old staging days, when railroads were comparatively unknown. California has but few railroads, and well-equipped lines of stages traverse the state in all directions. There is something fascinating about this old-fashioned way of traveling, the regular changes of horses, the merry drivers full of anecdote and adventure, the study of human nature afforded by our traveling companions, the beauties of the country passed over, more enjoyed because not hurried along at railroad speed. The stagecoach is a rare institution in most of the States, and is therefore more enjoyable as a relic of the past. Jerry beguiled the way with an account of the wonders of Scott Mountain, which we were to cross after breakfast. He had driven eight years on the road and never met with an accident; and he never crossed the mountains without feeling a little of the enthusiasm with which all travelers are inspired. As we approached it we could see the snow on the mountaintops, and in the chasms down the sides. These mountains are crossed in winter in sleighs, and a few miles at the summit are traversed by sleighs as late as May. In fact, Jerry tells us that yesterday was the first time this season he had crossed the summit on wheels.
    We reached "Callahan's ranch" for breakfast, situated at the base of Scott Mountain, and the head of Scott Valley, through which we had traveled since daylight. This mountain is the grand feature of this entire route. It is a long drag of about eight miles to the top, requiring nearly four hours to make.
    The preparations were soon made, the Concord coach was exchanged for a large stage wagon, less likely to be overturned on bad roads. The breakfast was discussed eagerly, and was fit for a king; it was the most tempting meal offered us in the whole route..
    We left the stage station, still seated with Jerry on the coach box, and passed rapidly along the banks of a swift stream, crossing it at the ford, and commenced the ascent of the mountain. It differed from the other mountains passed over, as it was covered with a heavy growth of forest trees, principally pine, spruce and cedar, trees of good size; in fact, the road was often through a thick forest, not tangled with undergrowth, but the soil around covered with blooming flowers, of which beautiful varieties of all colors met the eye. Now passing around the edge of deep chasms, we look down a thousand feet, to see Scott River winding like a thread among the rocks below. Mountain torrents came leaping down the side of the chasm, helping to feed the river at the foot; wild nature, untamed, everywhere.
    The trees about us are tall and stately, straight as an arrow, appearing to pierce the very sky, while tall dead trunks of others, covered with the softest green moss, stood upright, seeming to vie in beauty with the living ones. But for the road cut into the precipitous sides, the mountain was impassable. It was built by the stage company, a heavy undertaking, but a necessary one. It is a toll road, and much traveled because the only available route over the mountains.
    Slowly we toil upward, and yet we are in no hurry. We never tire of gazing about us, and with difficulty repress our wild exclamations of delight. My companion, lately transplanted from the eastern states, had seen no such glorious sights, and money could not purchase her experience.
    As we neared the summit, snow began to appear; at first by the roadside in patches, then ending in a vast white blanket, with here and there a bit of soil peeping out. The route led through deeper snow, the drifts were four feet deep, and a roadway cut through for the stage to pass. Only a few rods away from a snow patch bloomed the beautiful snow plant, its bright scarlet flower in deep contrast with the snowdrifts.
    But if the ascent of the mountain was grand, the descent on the other side to the little Trinity Valley, lying between Scott and Trinity Mountains, was almost beyond description. We drive at a pace that seems almost heedless, among the rocks and stones lying in our path. The road is rougher on this side, and the stage wagon sways from side to side, seeming occasionally almost to throw its center of gravity outside the base. This little mountain torrent, leaping playfully over the rocks, and making a way for itself in the world, is the rise of Trinity River. Jerry points out the objects of interest. Here on this sharp bend, near the foot of the mountain, a body of Republicans held a meeting, since which it has been called Republican Point. When watering his horses he would hunt for a rare flower for his fair neighbor on the coach box. He seemed well pleased with his company, and remarked that ladies who travel the road do nothing but grumble because the road is bad, and it is a comfort to see one that did not expect to find all smooth and easy.
    At the foot of the mountain we exchange horses, taking here a "swing team," as it is called. It has but eight miles to travel, and is made use of both by the upward- and downward-bound stages. As Jerry remarked, "the team belongs to none of us in particular, and we put it through," and surely he did his share in the operation; dashing off at full gallop, we held firmly to the iron-rim rail of the stage box, and the back of the seat for security, while the driver plied the lash up hill and down, calling to his team, "Get up there, Nig; what you 'bout, George;" passengers put their heads cautiously from the stage windows, to inquire if the team had the mastery. On we sped, rocks, stumps and log bridges offering no impediments, and in considerably less than an hour we drove up to dine at the New York House. Here the up and down teams meet, and the passengers dine together. We bid goodbye to Jerry, and change stages. The ride through this valley to the foot of Trinity Mountains was charming; the Trinity River becomes a deep treacherous-looking stream, boiling over and around the huge rocks in its path, as if to hurl them from their base. It is a wicked-looking river, and many a miner has been drowned in the endeavor to cross it. It is called Trinity River, because formed by three different mountain streams, flowing down as many different chasms, and uniting in one deep river at the foot. The water looks icy cold, as we ride perilously near the steep bank. This driver, too, happens to be named Jerry, a name grown familiar to us. A ride of a few hours along the banks of the stream brings us to Trinity Center, a mining camp or town, where we stop only to exchange mails, and to be gazed at by the honest miners, who catch a passing glimpse of the world by a survey of the coach passengers. From this place we soon cross the foaming river on a substantial bridge, and move on to the foot of Trinity Mountain, passing rapidly along over a smooth road, and, reaching the station at the foot of the ascent, exchange horses for our mountain team. Trinity Mountains differ from all others passed over. There is an appearance of cultivation around, an absence of rocks, the grass is green and of luxurious growth, and nature does not wear that wild untamed look that is everywhere seen on Scott Mountain. The road, too, is fair and smooth; we are two hours and a half in ascending, the horses stopping frequently to gain a little rest. It was about sunset when we reached the summit and turned to descend. With a chirp to the horses, and calling his Tom, Dick and Harry by name, Jerry started his team, which dashed off at full speed, the horses never breaking their trot till at the foot. How cleverly Jerry handled the reins, with one foot on the brake, "just to feel of her a little," as he said. We turned rapidly around the crooks and curves of the road, now doubling the head of a canyon, and now swinging the leaders around a projecting point, the team all the while under good control. We at last landed at the station for supper. Two hours and a half in ascending the other side, and twenty minutes in descending to the station. Another change of horses, Jerry again in his place, and impatiently waiting for his load. At the cry of "all set," we started again, the road winding along the bottom of a ravine for some twelve miles or more, called French Gulch. The way is carved out with difficulty in places, owing to the rocks that fill up the ravine, and is so narrow as scarcely to afford a pathway. This is a famous mining gulch; mining apparatus everywhere, flumes, dams, water wheels, windlasses are freely distributed, and but for the late hour, the busy miners would be seen searching for "the color."
    At this place is located the town of French Gulch. It is three-fourths French, hence its name. We only exchange mails, are stared at, and depart, reaching in another hour the station called the Tower House, a beautiful spot. A large hotel with verandas, a large garden filled with fruit trees, flowers and shrubbery, with neat white fences and outbuildings.. It is a great resort from Shasta and other neighboring places, a sort of watering place for the neighborhood, situated in the bottom of the ravine or gulch, a very oasis in the desert. The hotel was brilliantly lighted, and the fashionables from Shasta appeared on the piazza, to witness the operation of changing horses, and to scan the travelers. The starched and ruffled dresses and gay ribbons of the ladies seemed to indicate we were nearing the more thickly settled regions, where fashion is not unknown.
    And now we take a team for the town of Shasta, one of the largest of our California mining towns, and distant about twelve miles, over a fine graded toll road. It is quite dark; we are to travel all night with but two hours of rest at Shasta, while exchange of teams is being made. We reach Shasta at eleven o'clock at night, with orders to be ready again at one. There is not time to warm the eye, so we sat upright and dozed away the two hours of respite, and were ready at the summons of "all aboard."
    A cool dark night, the side lanterns sending forth the only ray to illuminate the track. Feeble though they seem, these side lights are indispensable, and have saved the stage more than once from some ugly pitfall. A seat outside the stage was too cool to be comfortable, beside the danger of falling asleep and rolling from the elevated perch. We rode along, listlessly dozing and yawning, awakened at each change of horses. During the night all hands were aroused by the moans of our colored woman passenger, who was a little stage sick, and proved such an annoyance to us that we disinterestedly advised her to stop over at Red Bluff and recruit, which to our joy she decided to do. Morning came, and revealed the fact that we had passed over the last range of hills, and were crossing the wide Sacramento Valley. With nothing to break the monotony of the road, even the telegraph poles were interesting objects, situated at regular intervals along the roadside, and armed near the base with heavy spikes for the protection of the poles, and prevent their being worn away by the rubbing of the cattle, which, for lack of trees on the plain, were accustomed to use the poles as back scratchers. It called to mind stories of the telegraph poles on the overland route, which in early days had in some cases been literally worn in two by the scratching of the buffaloes on the treeless plains. In the distance behind us rose up Scott and Trinity mountains, while opposite and in front were the Sierra Nevadas.
    The valley is very extensive, and seems a wide plain, reaching almost to the horizon. Out of the level of the valley itself rose Mount Shasta with its snowy mantle, near whose base was our road of yesterday. The sterile plains around us bore nothing but sagebrush. Myriads of hare and rabbits scampered about, the noise of the approaching stage seeming to scare them up in every direction at this still hour of the morning. We could see them flying for life, or sitting with ears erect by the side of their burrow. This valley a few years since was flooded during the heavy winter rains, and the game destroyed in countless numbers. Some had sufficient instinct to flee to the mountains, but the destruction of these creatures all through the state was very great, and yet today they seem as numerous as ever. We rode the entire morning across the sandy plain, reaching the Sacramento River at the town of Red Bluff for breakfast.
    The town is situated, as its name implies, on the Red Bluff banks of the Sacramento, and at the head of navigation. It is a beautiful place, having wide and spacious streets. It is a thrifty-looking farming town, and, situated as it is on the river, at the head of navigation, commands considerable business. Its various stores are stocked with implements of husbandry, principal among which are mowers and reapers and threshing machines, as the season for their use is approaching. A night ride had given us an appetite for breakfast, but the sight of the table interfered with a full enjoyment of the meal. Flies swarmed everywhere, although the butter proved most attractive to them. Our coffee was sweetened with flies and sugar, and after considerable effort to be satisfied, we were obliged to leave, with the mournful satisfaction of paying fifty cents for an attempt. Stage ready, and we seated again with the driver, although appearances indicated a hot ride to Tehama, twelve miles distant. We passed over the same dreary wastes along the banks of the Sacramento River, the country changing as we drew near to Tehama, and cultivated fields, rich in waving grain, took the place of the sagebrush and sand.
    Tehama is situated immediately upon the banks of the river, which is here of considerable width, say, six or seven hundred feet, and is navigated by sternwheel steamboats, or wheelbarrows, as the residents call them. It seemed like a place going to decay, as its proximity to the more thriving town of Red Bluff is not conducive to its rapid growth. At this point the river is crossed by ferry. The flatboat is attached by iron rods reaching a long distance upstream, and there attached to a buoy anchored in the river, the rod supported on intermediate floats. When all is ready, the boat is swung across the river by the action of the current, like a huge pendulum, vibrating from one shore to the other. In this manner we reached the opposite side, the road passing thence down along the eastern bank of the river, but gradually receding from it. The country is barren and parched, but would yield to cultivation, as was evident from the appearance of occasional fields by the roadside. As we approached the town of Chico at noon, we come again among the stately oaks and well-cultivated farms, the country presenting a decided contrast to that passed over. Chico is one of the most picturesque towns on the route; charming to the eye, abounding in neat residences and beautiful gardens. Roses of every hue climbed over the cottage doors and windows, and plants of every variety filled the neatly laid-out grounds. It seemed like riding through a garden, so lavishly were the plants scattered about, and the air filled with the odor of a thousand flowers. Acres of wheat and barley met the eye, and the farmers busied in cutting their grass with the Buckeye mower, a favorite machine in California. We dined at Chico, at a small, brisk, businesslike hotel, the food protected from the omnipresent flies, and neat Chinese servants swinging their palm-leaf fans over the guests, and with an abundance of good palatable food.
    And now for the last few miles of staging to the town of Oroville, where we reach the railroad. We were provided with a six-horse team, but the ride to Oroville was the most tedious and uncomfortable imaginable. The sun poured its meridian rays upon a parched desert of sand and stones, with not a redeeming feature anywhere; not a tree or a shrub, but all a barren waste, weary, hot, tiresome, a breeder of headaches and discomfort, and this for twenty-two long miles, with but one change of horses in that distance, and the weather so hot and the road so heavy, that mercy to the poor tired animals made our progress very slow. The scorching sands radiated the heat till we seemed breathing in a furnace of heated air. Right glad were we at sundown to reach Feather River, on the opposite side of which was built the town of Oroville. We crossed on a ferry, and reached the hotel, the end of our staging, with truly thankful hearts, after the last few hours' experience. Oroville is a mining town of considerable importance. Much wealth has been extracted from the ravines and river bed. The country far and near seems to have been ransacked, and now appears but huge piles of cobble stones, enough to pave every city in the Union. It has a deplorable look, and green spots are very scarce. Quite a thriving business is carried on here, in the way of supplying the neighboring mining regions, and being at the head of the railroad, it is the grand distinguishing point for this section of the country. The railroad connects Oroville with Marysville, some twenty miles, and the change from stage to cars gives indescribable satisfaction. The stage journey had been pleasant in the extreme, but the last few miles made us quite ready to welcome the locomotive and its train. An hour's ride brought us to the city of Marysville, to a good hotel and welcome beds.
    In our journey from Crescent City we had traveled over four hundred miles, had used one hundred and six horses, and traveled in six different coaches, with as many different drivers, and enjoyed all beyond description. A railroad has since been built direct from Marysville to Tehama, and will soon reach Red Bluff, doing away with the most tiresome portion of the stage route from Oregon. The cities of Marysville and Sacramento are too well known to need description at this day, and we pass them by. Cars and boat conveyed us from Marysville to San Francisco, our starting point, having made the journey by sea and land without accident, and gained an experience that money could not purchase.
Ballou's Magazine, November 1871, pages 469-476