THE DISCOVERY OF CRATER LAKE.

PLEVNA, Or., March 7, 1888.

Yours for the facts,
    O. A. STEARNS. 

    (Before this article begins, I wish to correct two errors which I unconsciously made in the previous article. They are: Buck and Peck were jewelers and not cotton factors, and Oregon City was a small place and instead of having the appearance of a western town resembled a quiet New England village.--B.B.M.)
    On our arrival in Oregon City the turning over to the quartermaster of our wagons and teams ended our connections with the United States government, and an entirely new and different life opened before us.
    At this time there was lying at the mouth of the Willamette River the three-masted, full-rigged whaler the Aurora, commanded by Captain Kilbourn, first mate Mr. Powell. The whaler was waiting to take a load of lumber to San Francisco, lumber at that time being worth three hundred dollars per thousand feet. All of the citizens who could secured passage on her to California, the goal of our dreams. The price of a ticket was seventy-five dollars, and under favorable conditions the trip should have been made in two weeks, but first she had to get her cargo aboard, which took much time.
    My father secured a passage for himself, and I had free passage given me by acting as assistant steward. Our regular steward was a Malay, and after assuming my duties aboard I was initiated into the mysteries of baking bread, which had to be baked every day for the whole lot who were aboard.
    On our way down the Willamette there were two unfinished rafts of lumber; these were to be finished and floated to where the Aurora was anchored in the Columbia. The larger of the rafts was taken command of by the second mate, and as I was a member of the crew [I] was given command of the next raft, with orders to finish loading and follow by the next tide.
    The second mate had a six-hour start on me and expected to beat me very easily, but I was anxious to catch him, and as soon as our raft was completed I made a large steering oar and two sweeps. In addition I fastened two uprights to the raft to which we could fasten our blankets, causing them to act as sails for our unwieldy craft. There was a good breeze, and our hopes ran high. Our raft was imperfectly built, and in the front part there was an unfilled place about six feet square. I took the front of the raft to watch the course and look out for any snags or obstructions in the river, for owing to our blankets being used as sails we could not see from the rear which course we were steering[, which kept us] pretty busy forward, crossing from one side to another and giving orders how to steer.
    The defect in our raft proved to be a dangerous trap and came near cutting my usefulness short, for as it plowed along it collected a great deal of drift and trash floating in the river, and in the darkness the unfilled place seemed as solid as the rest, and in my eagerness I walked off the raft in the water. I was of course very much surprised, but quickly climbed back upon my perch and said nothing about it to the others. In perhaps an hour I again forgot myself and walked off again. This was too much. I climbed aboard and told the crew to take in sail, by folding the blankets, and proceed to the aid of the sweeps, as I told them there was too much excitement for me to act as pilot in the night run.
    When morning came we awoke to the fact that we were a healthy and very hungry lot and had no provisions with us. Just as the morning sun peeped over [the] tops of the magnificent trees we spied a small house in a clearing. We tied up, and I went ashore on a begging expedition. I told the settler who and what we were and explained our needs. He and his good wife kindly gave us all of the potatoes, biscuits and coffee we needed. I have eaten better, a great deal more dainty, meals, but to me that fragrant coffee, those beaten biscuits and delicious potatoes seemed to me the best I have ever eaten. After dining we began our journey again.
    I remember but one settlement between Oregon City and Baker's Bay at the mouth of the Columbia, and that was Astoria, situated on the side of a mountain looking as though it were going to slip downhill at any moment and find a watery grave for itself. True, I stopped at a place called Portland, went ashore and looked for the town but could not see it at first for the tangle of down timber which was in the way. I climbed on one of the monstrous trees which were lying piled on top of each other, and in the distance I counted what seemed to be three log cabins. One I think was a blacksmith shop, but as far as I could see there was neither trail nor road leading to or from the place. This was in September, 1849. Portland is now one of the most thriving cities in the state of Oregon, whose population runs high in the thousands.
    We forced our raft along as fast as possible, and just before sundown saw the first raft making fast to the Aurora preparatory to storing its load in the hold of the ship.
    After making fast our raft to the ship we all went aboard ready to load our cargo. And now my duties as assistant began, and I had plenty of time to learn my trade, for after dropping [down] river to Baker's Bay we tied up for three months in an unsuccessful attempt to cross the bar. By the way, an article appeared in the Sunday Evening Post a few weeks ago, and [the] writer, I think it was John Fleming Wilson, stated that the bar is one of the most dangerous ones on the Pacific coast.
    The time spent in Baker's Bay had plenty of excitement and interesting experiences. Captain Kilbourn was a skillful and careful navigator and always took advantage of every opportunity he thought favorable for the passage of the bar. Many times when trying to dash across the treacherous place we were nearly dashed on the Peacock Shoals, which received its name from one of Uncle Sam's warships which had been wrecked there sometime previously [on July 18, 1841] to our passage. Her spars were plainly visible above the waters of the bay, and we gave them as wide a berth as possible. Sometimes during the day the captain would man one of the whaleboats and visit some places on the shore or determine points on the bar. I was lucky enough to be selected as one of the crew and always went with him. What I learned of managing a whaleboat, which was of great service to me afterward, [I] attribute to his interest in me. All the time we were constantly on the watch for a chance to run out to sea. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of another ship waiting to get in as anxious as we were to get out. Then we missed her for quite a while and the captain told us that she had gone back to San Francisco for provisions.
    The shipboard at night changed from the daily routine of labor to one of laziness and enjoyment. The particular kind of enjoyment being usually indulged in was poker. At the long table--dining table--in the cabin the captain and three others would play poker every night. Always it was the same quartet. They were two brothers by the name of Cody. One of them I remember was named Mike Cody. When the game began I usually sat [at] the right side of the Captain, but I did not know one card from the other or the value of the hands, so the brothers did not mind it. Betting was real lively; large amounts were bet, but no money was put up if the betting was of a very large amount. One night this led to a dispute as to who had the most money on their person. Cody offered to bet the Captain that he (Cody) had the largest amount, but the Captain ingeniously led the talk to other topics, and the game went on as usual. When no one was looking, the Captain whistled to me to go to his stateroom and bring a large amount of cash. I had never been in his stateroom before, and I did not know where to look. His wife, who was a passenger aboard, was out of the room. I opened a closet on the side of his room and found many gold doubloons--Spanish money to a value of sixteen dollars--they were stacked in tall piles. I also found fancy boxes of Chinese make filled with the same. It was more money than I had seen before. I took a good handful, closed the doors and returned and took my seat quietly beside the Captain and filled his coat pocket with the money I had brought. Then when the talk came around as to who had the most money on their person the Captain was willing to bet. Cody was suspicious and said, "That kid has been away from the table, and I think I saw him pass something to you--No, I don't believe I'll bet tonight." And he didn't. It was rumored at one time that the Codys had won the entire cargo, but later the Captain won it back. The game they played was the old-fashioned five-card poker. You played the hand dealt you, then shuffled for another deal.
    After our dash across the bar and we were at last in open sea, everything aboard ship changed. The Captain became the keen, alert commander, who inspires confidence in passengers and obedience in the crew.
    Besides the large crew of discharged civilians, and the Captain's wife, there were but three passengers aboard, two cousins, one named Libby, the other I have forgotten. I believe they were only traveling to see San Francisco.
    Our ship must have been a beautiful sight to those whom we met or passed; every spar was crowded with clean canvas. The wind was fair, and we made a welcome trip to port.
    We got in San Francisco a few days before the first big fire that swept the canvas city off the map. Where hundreds of white canvas stores and tents once stood there remained after the fire nothing but smoldering ruins.   
    I did not go off the boat when we first landed, but waited until all the passengers left, some to get work there or strike out at once for the mines.
    My father and four other New Orleans men managed to secure a whole upper story of a small house which was outside the business district and the burned area. We paid one hundred dollars per month for it, and there was just room for us to spread our blankets and sleep on the floor. We stayed in Frisco for some time before we decided where to go to the mines and preparing for the trip. I got jobs in the lumber yards for five dollars per day. Short jobs were one dollar per hour. I usually took the short jobs, as I made more.
    In the early '50s California received the finest artists, musicians, merchants and merchandise that the world could supply. There were also, of course, that riffraff of the world, thieves, thugs and even convicts from Australia.
    Gambling houses were in full blast, each one supporting a fine orchestra of musicians. There was only one exception where a solitary violinist held sway--John Kelly, an Irishman, played alone, receiving one hundred dollars per night for his services, and wherever he played the house was always full. In later years I had the good luck of making the acquaintance of this genius. In his travels he stopped over at Jacksonville, Oregon, where I made my headquarters. One day he and I were drawn on the same jury to try some petty case in a justice of the peace's office. When the case was given to the jury I said, "Kelly, we'll make you foreman, now let us decide the case and get away." In two minutes the verdict was ready. "Kelly," I said, "get to work and write up your report." It was then I learned that the poor devil could not write a word. I took paper and pencil and in perhaps half an hour I made him sign "John Kelly" so that it passed muster when signed on the returns. But to get back to San Francisco--
    The region of the lawless element was amazing and culminated in the forming of the Vigilance Committee.
    The streets of the city became so impassable that merchandise could not be hauled from one square to another without being mired. Merchandise which needed hauling and storing before it was sold was abandoned--it could not stand hauling and storing charges. I have walked for several squares on full boxes of tobacco laid down for that purpose. Montgomery Street for squares was impassable for man or beast. "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good." For instance: A gambler offered me five dollars to carry a bag of coin across the street while he picked his way carefully across. On another occasion a man offered me one hundred dollars for my boots--a pair my father bought me in St. Louis and I had not worn much. I refused the offer.
State Times Advocate, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, June 19, 1914, page 10


    After our party had decided where to go we began getting ready. First they bought a whaleboat, for we were as anxious to get away as we were to get to the Golden Gate. The men of the party attended to the details while I picked up occasional jobs and saw life from a new angle.
    The boat purchased was in fine condition in all respects, but [with] the necessary supplies she was overloaded, and when the full crew boarded her she sank very low in the water. Five men and a boy in an overloaded boat was not in the least conducive to safety, for as far as I ever knew I was the only one in the crew who had ever handled an oar in his life.
    We made a late getaway, for the tide was against us, and we were headed for the San Joaquin River. I had no idea where it was or how to get there, but it would have been all the same to me if they had headed for the Amazon. I would have taken it as all in the day's work. Five clumsy men in an overloaded boat and a boy as a steersman would not appeal to my ideas of comfort or safety at the present time, but then I was filled with youth and hope and was sure I could get out of any tight place in which I might be caught.
    It was hard work to navigate the boat; the tide wanted to carry us through the Golden Gate, and we were not ready to go. It was getting dark and we were anxious to camp for the night if we could possibly make a landing. It was dark before we reached the nearest land, and the rush of the waters through and around the rocks made landing seem impossible. I gave up the steering oar to one of the men with instructions how to use it, together with the different commands. I then went forward and lay down upon the bow and watched for rocks and other obstructions until we found a place we thought we could make a safe landing. The boat was hauled as far inland as possible, and we at once prepared for a night's camp. I was saved the trouble of cooking supper, for there was enough cold food to last for the night.
    I was pretty well worn out from handling a 16-foot steering oar either on my knees or in [a] sitting posture, for there was no room to stand, which is the proper way. My father spread a large rubber blanket which we had and bade me lie down and get some much-needed rest while he and the others took turns watching the boat and cargo. They must have had a hard time of it, for the boat and cargo were in a different position from what they were when I lay down. What my father thought was a dry spot to sleep on turned out to be what is called a sponge in the ground, and when I awoke I was lying in about two inches of water.
    Quick preparation was made for a getaway; while one got breakfast the others loaded the boat. Soon we were on our way with high hopes to a quick fortune.
    Our worst troubles came when we came to that crooked, treacherous stream called the San Joaquin River. It was early in January 1850, and the river was filled with a rushing torrent caused by the early thaws of the mountain snows. And before we had learned how to manage our craft the current, sweeping around a bend, struck us and turned us completely around. We soon learned how to take advantage of these bends, for we always steered for the inside course, thus escaping the full sweep of the current. In this way we made good time.
    We stopped for a couple of days at a place called New York; a short distance from there was a store, and all of our party except myself went for supplies. I remember it was a Sunday morning and the camp was nearly deserted. A man appeared on the opposite bank and wanted the ferryman. I told him there was no ferryman so far as I knew. He saw my boat and asked who it belonged to. I replied that "I was the owner, but it was a hard talk to manage a boat of its size in so swift a stream, but that I might manage to pull over and get him if he was anxious." He was anxious all right, and when I brought him safely across he asked me what the charges were. I told him "two dollars," which he paid without a kick.
    We continued our journey in the boat when one day one of our party accidentally shot himself through the foot by a bullet from what we called a "pepperbox," the first example of the revolver. The wound did not appear serious, but in a few days we had to leave him with one of the party as a nurse, expecting them to overtake us in a few days. Lockjaw set in, and the only one who rejoined us was the nurse.
    We then sold the boat and purchased a mule and continued our journey to the famous Fremont Claims or the Mariposa Mines, as the name was, I think.
    Flour was selling for one dollar per pound, and everything [else] was in proportion.
    We staked off our claim, dug a big ditch to turn the stream into, and after hard work and running in debt for supplies we found out that the claim was not a very desirable one. I then took to the hills on a prospecting tour, found some gulches that looked promising. We broke up our party and hustled to get out of debt, which we were lucky enough to do in a very short time.
    In those days I was never satisfied to work in a regular mining camp, but wanted to prospect and find my own mining ground. I never did find any rich "placer mines," but we would make from one-half ounce to one ounce per day, which was just enough to keep us encouraged and in hopes of finding more. We occasionally heard of prospectors striking a rich pocket and cleaning up five, six [hundred] or perhaps one thousand dollars per day. We never had such good luck but cleaned up only a small amount each day but which counted up in the final showdown.
    We stayed in the Mariposa County until the summer of '51, when my father decided he wanted to get back to the States, and he and I started to San Francisco, where he made arrangements for his passage to New York. I told him I would stay awhile longer in California and see what luck might do for me. He was much surprised at my decision, but instead [decided] on depositing two hundred and fifty dollars with Wells, Fargo & Co. to my account. To the best of my knowledge they still have the money, for I never remember of having any need of it.
    I never saw my father again until 1861, ten years after he had bade me goodbye in San Francisco.
    San Francisco always held a charm for me, at least for a short time, so I at once began looking for work, and as always happened I found it without trouble, for if I did not look for work, work looked for me, and I always could have a job.
    I fell in with a man who was owner of several fine teams. He was preparing to start a stage route from Stockton and was trying out his teams and let some of them out on shares. I got a team from him, giving him half of what I made, and as business was pretty good we were both satisfied.
    There were two places at which I boarded while teaming; one was a restaurant on Montgomery Street called the Blue Wing, where the prices of board was $21 per week. You had the privilege of eating three meals a day, but no place to sit or rest--just eat and get out. On their bill of fare they had every kind of meat that could be found west of the Rockies, from mountain sheep or grizzly bear to antelope, or from swan to duck. You called for what you wished and got something nicely cooked. If you were in doubt as to it being [the] original order they did not try to argue with you but just let you do the proving--which saved them lots of trouble.
    I would board at the Blue Wing a couple of weeks and then go to a boarding house near to where I had my horses stabled. It was a different style of a house, there being much more room. A long room opened off the street, with tables running its full length with benches on either side. The food was brought out in large dishes and served as desired by the diner. The reason I liked this place was because they cooked the very nicest Boston brown bread I ever tasted. It was served in liberal quantities.
    After supper we could sit at the long table and read. One night while reading, a man opened the front door and asked if there was anyone who wanted a job in a hurry.
    I told him I did. He wanted to know how long it would take me to get ready. "Ten minutes after I reach the stables," I replied. "Hurry up and come along," was the reply.
    In a few minutes I was ready. "Where to?" I asked. "Rincon Point" was the reply. Now Rincon Point was [a] locked-in wharf under the supervision of the customs house. While driving there the man asked me if I would cross from an open wharf to the one he wished me to go to. A foot wharf connected the two. I knew this was about eight feet wide, but not intended for teams to drive over. I also knew just how perfectly I had my teams in control and how close to danger I could go and yet be safe. I said, "I think I can make it." He said, "Do it."
    I crossed over safely and got inside the locked wharf, where a steamer was unloading cargo. The wharf was full of teams and workmen. My employer got down, disappeared for a few minutes, returned with a man, carrying a small box about three feet square and about eight inches deep. This they placed in the front of the wagon, and we put our feet on it and drove to the locked gate. A man glanced in and saw nothing and allowed us to pass. I was told to drive to [the] Wells, Fargo Express office and leave the box and call at his office the next day for my pay.
    When I called, the office was full of people. I told the clerk what I came for and he asked "How much?" I replied, "Twenty dollars." He kicked and said ten was enough. I said, "You all seemed pretty anxious to get that box and yet you could find no one who would take a chance on driving a team." I was talking rather energetically, and he must have been afraid of our talk being heard, for he opened the cash drawer and, slapping a twenty on the counter, told me to "git"--which I did without delay. I never found out what the mysterious box contained, but I am sure that we, I unwittingly, secured a box without government inspection or duty.
    It seemed the easiest thing in the world for me to secure a job when I asked for it, and I never acknowledged being unable to do anything asked of me. I would have agreed to run a steamship or a revival meeting just so the terms were satisfactory.
    One day the proprietor of one of the large gambling houses asked me what I would charge to plow ten acres of ground for him. This was a poser, for I had never had my hands on a plow and would not have known which end to hitch my team to. I put him off time and again and told him I would have to see the land before setting my price and made arrangements to go out and look it over. I immediately got busy among the teamsters whom I knew had plowed before, and asked them what I ought to charge and what a man could plow in a day. None seemed to know exactly, and I asked if one acre a day was a conservative estimate. They replied that "it could be done."
    After I had gone to look over the land, which I knew now to have been less than ten acres, I agreed to plow it for twenty-five dollars per acre. The owner thought the price was pretty steep, but when I told him that possibly I would have to use four horses he agreed to the price.
    As near as I can remember there was a thin layer of sod over a rock foundation, so I could not plow deeper than four or five inches. I had all kinds of trouble learning to handle a plow; sometimes it would jump out of the ground and run 12 or 14 feet before I could get it to catch hold again, but I never did go back to remedy the places but let them stay as they were. Had no worse trouble until the last day and a half, when it seemed the work was too hard for my team, so I got another pair of horses and a helper and plowed with four teams [sic]. The trouble was, I found out after, was that I hard worn out my plow point against the rock and did not know enough to have it sharpened. After finishing the job I reported to the owner and told him to inspect the work. He did so and reported it satisfactory--and then I knew he did not know any more about plowing than I.
State Times Advocate, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, September 18, 1914, page 8

    Mr. John Wesley Hillman died at his home, near Hope Villa, last Friday morning, March 19, after an illness of several weeks. He was given a Masonic burial at Harelson Cemetery. Mr. Hillman was 82 years, 11 months and 19 days of age and has lived a life of adventure experienced by very few. He was in the famous gold rush of '49, when gold was discovered in California, and helped to develop that country as well as many other portions of the then-unknown West. Necessarily in adventuring in unexplored territory he was in many Indian fights, of which he bore several scars. In [1853] he and a party of others were the first white men to look upon the beautiful waters of Crater Lake, in Oregon, the deepest and most beautiful lake in America. After many years of adventure in the West he crossed the Isthmus of Panama and came to New Orleans to live. Mr. Hillman is survived by a wife and two children, Mr. [George] Waldo Hillman of New Orleans, and Mrs. N. K. Knox of Baton Rouge, and several grandchildren.
State Times Advocate, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, March 26, 1915, page 3

    Superintendent Steel of the Crater Lake Park, says the Medford Sun, has sent the following communication to Secretary Lane, suggesting that the discoverer of Crater Lake be commemorated by renaming Glacier Peak in his honor as Hillman Peak:
"The Secretary of the Interior
    "Washington, D.C.
    "Sir--It is with sincere regret that I have to inform you of the death at Hope Villa, La., on March 19, 1915, of Mr. John W. Hillman, who on June 12, 1853, discovered Crater Lake. He was the leader of a party of twenty-two prospectors, of whom he was the first to see it.
    "Now, therefore, I recommend that the name Glacier Peak, applied to one of the highest points on the western rim of the lake, be changed to Hillman Peak, and in justification thereof will say, one of the most important mountains in the state of Washington is known as Glacier Peak, as also in the state of California, thus leading to unnecessary confusion, and at least one of them should be changed. Such a change would also be a deserved and appropriate recognition of the first white man who ever saw Crater Lake, and for whom some prominent point should be named."
Evening Herald, Klamath Falls, April 7, 1915, page 2

    "Not until my mule stopped within a few feet of the rim of Crater Lake did I look down, and if I had been riding a blind mule I firmly believe I would have ridden over the edge to death."
    Thus it was that on June 12, 1853, just 69 years ago tomorrow, the first white man who ever beheld Crater Lake literally stumbled upon that magnificent body of water. As he rode his mule up the long slope that was to lead to the lake rim, with his eyes searching the rocks for some outcropping of that gold thought to be hidden in this region, little did he realize that he was soon to be the discoverer of the bluest, deepest and most beautiful mountain lake in the world. This hardy prospector was J. W. Hillman, an Oregon pioneer of 1849. The trail over which Hillman and his party toiled in those early days is now replaced by an automobile highway, while the lake itself and surrounding region have been fittingly set aside as a national park, where many thousands come each summer to be enthralled by the same wild beauty which held Hillman and his party under its spell over threescore years ago.
    A few years ago Mr. Hillman died at a ripe old age at his home in Louisiana, where he had spent the closing years of his life. Shortly before his death he dictated his memoirs to Bentley B. Mackay of the Louisiana State University. These memoirs have only recently been cast into shape for publication by Mr. Mackay, and that portion dealing with the discovery of Oregon's wonder lake is herewith published for the first time by The Oregonian, through arrangement with Mr. Mackay. The story not only tells of the discovery of Crater Lake, but also describes briefly the trip of the emigrant train to which Hillman was attached across the plains to the Columbia, and gives a graphic picture of the Oregon country of those pioneer days.