One day last summer I purchased a through ticket on the overland route from Sacramento to Portland, Oregon, determined to see the country and judge for myself of the boasted advantages of Oregon. So leaving the railroad at Redding and having secured a seat on one of the N.W. Stage Co.'s coaches, we were driven along, through one of the finest mountain regions I have ever seen. Rattling along the edge of precipices, through narrow defiles and "canyons," over clear mountain streams, the air filled with the fragrance of the wild honeysuckle so rarely beautiful here, every sense pleased and delighted, the first part of the journey overland was very pleasant. We passed many old mining camps on the upper Sacramento and heard from the fellow passengers many stories of mining times, but in the afternoon of the first day a rain storm commenced which lasted all night. Morning found us near the base of Mt. Shasta, the grand old "butte" hid in the clouds, and we--well we were set down at Butteville for breakfast as cold and comfortless a lot of humanity as one can well imagine. After partaking of a warm breakfast and roasting ourselves awhile around a hot stove, we felt better reconciled to our lot, and in somewhat better humor were driven to Yreka, where we rested one day and had a chance to see how an old mining town looks with the miners all gone. There is still considerable mining carried on in this region, not much in the immediate vicinity. The close of next day's drive found us at the southern base of the Siskiyou Mountains with no adventure and variety; there we encountered an eccentric Englishman, who was ambitious of being called a mighty hunter. He had, he told us, "killed lions in Africa and tigers in India" and was here for the express purpose of killing a grizzly bear, you know. He had got track of one which had had a meal on a dead ox that lay near the roadside, and near it our English friend had made a porch for himself with a piece of board nailed to a telegraph pole; there he had watched for several nights but "the blarsted brute didn't come you know" and here we left him prepared for another night's vigil.
    After a hearty supper at Cole's (one of the best places to get a square meal and kind treatment on the overland route), we prepared to cross the Siskiyou, and next morning we find ourselves in the beautiful Rogue River Valley region. And as this fine valley deserves more than a passing notice we reserve its description for next time.
Times and Gazette, Redwood City, March 18, 1876, page 3


    Well, here we are in Oregon at last, and a weary traveler [who] might ride across the Siskiyou could not have a more pleasant evening than to leave us on a bright May morning in the beautiful valley of the Rogue River, the finest sport I have yet seen in the whole state of Oregon, and I have heard and see nothing after several months going up and down through the entire state to cause me to change my mind. In this valley the soil is good and the climate delightful, being, as near as I could describe it, a happy mean between the extremes of California drought and Oregon moisture. Many of the fine fruit, including grapes and peaches, thrive well here besides wheat, which is produced of excellent quality here as elsewhere all over Oregon. Corn grows finely here. We saw some good old-fashioned corn cribs by the roadside, full of good corn, and saw farmers shovel corn with no niggard hand out to large droves of hogs. Farming lands can be bought here on reasonable terms. Good land and well improved can be bought here at from $20 to $40 per acre, and land equally good, but with less improvements, at from $5 to $20, title good. This section is undoubtedly healthy and a desirable place to live in, but after spending some time investigating and [omission] highly pleased with the country, soil, climate, and inhabitants, so reluctantly abandoned the idea of locating here, because we could not see any outlet to market for surplus produce raised in the valley. In fact we could not learn that those engaged in farming now try to raise any more than what they expect to dispose of for home consumption or to sell to the miners. Someday within the next fifty years a railroad may be constructed through this valley, but it is so small and so enclosed among hills that we could see no probable chance for speedy developments in this direction, so we very reluctantly said goodbye to friends here and continued our journey northward. Another long weary ride over the hills, and by the worst roads we ever saw, brought us to the so-called Umpqua Valley, which is by the way no valley at all, but a succession of hill and dale of a decidedly mixed variety of soil, constituting some of the best sheep range in the state and undoubtedly very healthy, and those who have succeeded in procuring some of the rich and beautiful little nooks of good land among the hills, surrounded by fine sheep ranges of government lands unfit for cultivation, have a good thing. One of Oregon's best known public men (Gen. Joe Lane) resides in the Umpqua country. After a short sojourn at Roseburg, convinced that we did not want to either herd sheep or hunt cougars, we decided to go still farther north, and as from Roseburg we leave the railroad, to Portland traversing the celebrated Willamette Valley, we hope to enjoy traveling better than by stage. For the benefit of those who wish to engage in sheep farming I will state that land anywhere on "the Umpqua" can be bought very cheap. I was offered a farm of 680 acres within reach of the railroad, having on the farm a good house and barn, 500 acres of the land fenced, and 40 acres cultivated farm, and all improvements for three thousand dollars. So anyone in search of cheap homes can certainly find them here.
Times and Gazette, Redwood City, April 22, 1876, page 1


Editors Recorder and Express:
    I have been requested by so many to write to them and give my opinion of Oregon, that I find it tedious to answer all, so I have concluded to answer all through your valuable paper, should you think my letter worth its room in your columns.
    I do not advise anyone to come to Oregon, from the fact that nine out of ten are dissatisfied when they get here, on account of the country having been misrepresented by the people here, and by those who came here in an early day and got a donation claim of a section of land; in fact Uncle Sam gave nearly all the land under that donation law that is
worth owning, to hire people to settle among the mountains of Oregon.
    The report that there is a plenty of good homestead land to be had is not true. Nearly all of it is in the mountains, where it is of no use to man, unless he owns land in an adjacent valley and owns cattle or sheep that can eat what little grass grows on these homestead mountains.
    I have spoken of Southern Oregon. There is some homestead land in Eastern Oregon that is level and will produce good fruit and grain, and it is covered with good grass that cattle and sheep will live on most of the year; but in that climate it is cold and windy, and most of this homestead land is from ten to twenty-five miles from timber.
    Here in Southern Oregon there is but little snow in the valleys. It will fall an inch or two deep in the night, and go away the next day. This winter the ground has frozen about an inch deep, and it has rained about eighty or ninety days; but on the mountains, four or five miles distant, there is snow one-third of the time.
    I think this is an easier country to make a living in than Kansas--provided you have money enough to buy a farm. There is no failure of crops here, and sheep and cattle live the year round without feed; but it takes from one to three  acres of these mountains to pasture a sheep. There is but little grass on them, and tame grass does no good--the dry weather kills it out. Old settlers that went back to the East, and come here now, are nearly as badly disappointed as any others. When they left here these hills and mountains were covered with good grass; now they are nearly bare, and no prospects of replacing the grass again.
    Good land can be bought here for from fifteen to thirty dollars per acre, which will grow from twenty to thirty bushels of wheat to the acre the first year, and the second season fifty bushels is often raised. Mountain land, adjacent, for pasture, three dollars per acre. So you see it takes from three to nine dollars to buy land enough to pasture a sheep in this part of Oregon. Stock raisers had better go to Eastern Oregon, where grass is plenty, than come here.
    The Coos Bay country is so mountainous that it is nearly useless for farming, but the timber and coal is valuable. They raise the largest kind of vegetables of all kinds, there, when they find a patch that can be cultivated. Grass grows on the mountains there, but most of them are so steep that nothing can climb up them to eat it. They are full of deer, elk, and bear, and they will inhabit it forever, and the march of civilization can never dispute their right of possession.
    The Willamette Valley is the main farming country of Western Oregon. The valleys here are small, not often more than two or three miles long, and not often wider than one-fourth of a mile.
    No consumptive person should come here. Oregon is said to be a healthy country, but I think Kansas is equally as healthy, and the school and church privileges are much better. Money is more plenty here than there, and wages of all kinds some higher.
    Oregon can beat Kansas a dozen times over in fruit and wheat. Apples, pears, plums, and cherries bear every year. There is no failure of fruit after trees have been set out two years. Peaches do not do well in this section, but east of the mountains they are a certain crop, and also in the Rogue River country.
    It costs about $100 a person to move to Oregon, by being saving.
    But I fear I am trespassing on your space.
Recorder & Express, Holton, Kansas, April 20, 1876, page 5  Search from the home page for more Whinery letters.

Editor, Medford Sun:
    Sir--I was pleasantly remembered recently by a special invitation from my much esteemed neighbor and fellow townsman, Samuel Bateman, of North Maple Street, to accompany him for a day's rest, sightseeing and recreation to our sister city of Central Point, so we took tie-pass at 8 o'clock in the morning, leaving noisy, busy Medford behind for a day. We became interested in our walk from the start, as the day was warm and cheerful and the view delightful. My friend became at once infatuated with the sights and scenes through Rogue River Valley. They were so indescribably different from Montana, his former cold, bleak, fruitless home, and he also made it pretty interesting for me, pointing out the different towns and landmarks and their names that dotted the valley in the distance. We reached the city of Central Point at 10:30 o'clock fresh and game as a bantam rooster, found the city's streets full of farmers' teams, a very desirable class of citizens that gives life and activity and a pretty good indication that she is getting her share of the valley trade. Also the right impression to the visiting stranger.
    Central Point, centrally located as it is, is a trading center and in the midst of fruit, grain and alfalfa fields galore, now clothed and carpeted with much promise; with her clean streets, attractive business houses, residences and brick building in construction, certainly points to a city of much promise. Here, somewhat bewildered, while looking about me with the untold changes and developments of the old Rogue River Valley, I at once called to memory my first ride through this section in the fall of '76. Things moved pretty slowly and quietly in those pioneer, mossback days, with Jacksonville and Ashland as the only two trading points. Their supplies were furnished from Roseburg, consuming about two weeks' time by freight teams, with amusing scenes of balky horses, breakdowns and cuss words through Cow Creek Canyon.
    At that time old Rogue River Valley cultivated about one-quarter of its choice land. The balance was pastured, as stock raising was the principal industry. One wagon road then split the valley north and south, marked with stage stations and a cloud of dust from the overland coaches. One bridge, and it toll, spanned the Rogue at Rock Point. The court house, church and residences of Jacksonville and Ashland were principally wooden structures of the pioneer pattern, and the log residences and school houses dotted the country districts with the old worn rail fences. No party politics in those days. Every man who had any respect for his country or his yellow dog voted the straight Democratic ticket. Wheat was 40 cents a bushel, flour 50 and 75 cents a sack at the Phoenix and Eagle Point flouring mills, then run by water; hogs, cattle and sheep were a drug on the market. Ducks, quail and jackrabbits were as numerous as the stars and about as gentle as the barnyard chick. The circuit rider minister earned his salary of spuds, sorghum, flour and an occasional crazy quilt donated by some good Christian sister, for preaching the good old-time religion. But those were the good, old, happy, independent days when a man could kill his deer, catch his fish and dam the Rogue with salmon and fatten his hogs all without a license; also pay his 50 or 75 cents for the privilege of being put across Rogue River on Captain Bybee's ferry boat.
    But to my pioneer farmer, merchant and associates of thirty-five years ago that are still living, and we hope enjoying health, peace and contentment on the sunny side of life, what do we observe today spread out before us in this rapid life and activity? Can we realize the endless transformation of this grand old Rogue River Valley in this brief space of time that has unfolded to us such a charming, lovable valley, newly clothed with indescribable changes and improvements in every industry over the dear old Rogue Valley that is almost forgotten, save her history. The new valley is now before us, the envy and admiration of all Oregon, the most attractive spot on earth for the tourist to rest and recuperate and the homeseeker to cast his everlasting lot. Isn't it pleasant for us today to see and admire the new Rogue Valley with her eight thrifty incorporated cities and suburban towns galore that dot the new valley with unsurpassed beauty and with her three undreamed-of railroads, telegraph and telephone lines that traverse the most remote sections of the new valley, with three free bridges that span the broad, swift Rogue River and as far as the eye will permit us to see her countless acres of clean commercial fruit orchards, with productive farms without number that have been carved out of the once rough, uninviting tracts once considered worthless to the pioneer farmer, orchardist, and speculator that gave us the interesting history of the old Rogue River Valley while in its infancy.
    And now, patient, reader, is not the credit mostly due to the advent of the iron horse of the Southern Pacific Company, the new emigration of capital, custom and methods of industry that have so completely revolutionized the aged, decrepit Rogue River into this young, hopeful valley and gave to you, Mr. farmer, orchardist, stock raiser and speculator, a brighter and more promising future?
Medford Sun, May 12, 1911, page 5


    We find the following brief description of Southern Oregon in McCormick's Almanac for 1876, which, though not full enough by far, is tolerably accurate. Some gross errors concerning the names of officials and the statistics of the several counties occur, which have been corrected:
is situated in the southern portion of the state, being separated from California by the Siskiyou Mountains. It is watered by several streams, the most important being the Rogue River, which follows a tortuous course before emptying in the Pacific Ocean. The agricultural resources of the county are very large, and some of the finest farms in the state are spread over the western section. The principal grains and fruits requiring a sunny clime thrive admirably and yield abundantly. It is well adapted to stock raising, as there are extensive quantities of rolling uplands which produce grasses in luxuriance.
    County Officers.--Judge, E. B. Watson; Clerk, E. D. Foudray; Sheriff, J. W. Manning; Assessor, W. A. Childers; Treasurer, K. Kubli; School Superintendent, H. C. Fleming; Surveyor, James S. Howard; Commissioners, John O'Brien and M. A. Houston; Coroner, H. T. Inlow.
    Statistics.--Population, over 5,000; number of voters, 1,279; value of property, $1,968,940; acres of land under cultivation, 135,010. County seat, Jacksonville.
possesses an area of 2,500 square miles. It has a rugged aspect, but there are some fine valleys possessing a rich alluvial soil well adapted to grains and fruits. The mountainous character of the region, the luxuriance of grasses, and the abundance of timber makes it well adapted for grazing.
    County Officers.--Judge, M. F. Baldwin; Clerk, Chas. Hughes; Sheriff, Dan L. Green; Assessor, John Taylor; Treasurer, William Naucke; School Superintendent, J. M. Smith; Commissioners, J. Neely, S. Messenger.
    Statistics.--Population, 1,130; value of property, $375,010; number of voters, 326; acres of land under cultivation, 5,946. County seat, Kerbyville.
formerly formed a portion of Jackson and Wasco counties, but by act of Legislature passed in 1874 the new county was created. It is situated east of the Cascade Mountains, and possesses many attractive features. Its numerous lakes, from which it takes its name, are quite remarkable, one of them, Big Klamath, being 45 miles in length and navigable for vessels of considerable draught. These lakes form a favorite resort for myriads of waterfowl, and all of them, with one exception, abound in most excellent fish. The whole county has quite an elevation above the level of the sea, the altitude of the Klamath Lake basin, one of the lowest localities, being about 4,000 feet. Its topography is peculiar and picturesque, consisting of high mountains, broad valleys, placid lakes, winding streams and rolling hills. It is but sparsely populated at present, the principal settlements being in Klamath Lake basin, Langell's Valley, Drew's Valley, and the valleys of Lost River, Tule Lake, Sprague River, Chewaucan, Goose Lake, Crooked Creek, Summer Lake and Silver Lake. The climate is dry and healthful, warm in summer, cold and snowy in winter, the rainfall being very light during the entire year. The timber is confined chiefly to the mountains and foothills, and consists of pine, fir, cedar and juniper. The sublime climate of the county, its abundance of all kind of game, its wild and romantic scenery, and its valuable mineral springs make it alike attractive to the tourist, the sportsman, the invalid, and the weary emigrant seeking a home in the far West. Its chief industry is stock-raising, but the experience of the past year proves, however, that all the cereals and most of the fruits and vegetables of the temperate zone can be raised in great abundance. The thermal springs, one mile east of Linkville, have become quite celebrated of late for the cure of rheumatism, liver complaints, kidney infections and other diseases.
    County Officers.--Judge, E. C. Mason; Clerk, N. Stephenson; Sheriff, Thos. Mulholland; School Superintendent, Quincy A. Brooks; Commissioners, A. F. Snelling, J. P. Roberts; Assessor, G. C. Duncan; Treasurer, George Nurse.
    Statistics.--Population, 844; number of voters, 325; acres of land under cultivation, 1,057½. The area of the county is 11,400 square miles. County seat, Linkville.
Democratic Times, Jacksonville, January 28, 1876, page 1


    He who in winter or early spring would undertake a stage ride to Southern Oregon, or through to California, must be sure that he possesses ample patience, and a fair share of physical endurance. With both these qualities he may make the trip once, but only some urgent necessity would cause him to repeat the journey.
    We got tired of waiting for the rain to cease falling in the Willamette Valley, and on the 10th of April started for Jacksonville. Of the Willamette Valley, as far south as Albany, we have attempted heretofore to give your readers some idea. From Albany towards Eugene the valley is more level than in any other part we have seen, and at the time of our trip much of the land was covered with water. Where the ground was above water the sheep were sharing the grass with large flocks of wild geese and ducks. The valley gradually narrows as we approach Eugene, and after passing that town the country along the line of the railroad is much broken, only now and then opening out into narrow valleys, affording arable land. The hills, however, afford excellent pasture, and large flocks of sheep were ranging over them. But we are soon in a heavily timbered canon, or narrow valley, and go for several miles without seeing any open land except now and then a woodman's garden; the lumbering interest being the only one which affords employment. We emerge from this timber into the lovely Yoncalla Valley--a valley hardly a mile wide, and only ten or twelve miles long, but fertile and well cultivated, and bounded by hills which furnish support for vast numbers of sheep. We are near the headwaters of the Umpqua River, and the valley of this stream is, at present, the portion of Oregon most extensively devoted to sheep raising.
    Just before dark we reached Roseburg, the present terminus of the O.&C.R.R., a small town on the banks of the Umpqua, in a small plain scooped out among the hills, a lovely place no doubt in summer, but in winter the muddiest and most disagreeable place imaginable. Like the rest of the small towns of Oregon it has a dilapidated appearance, old houses and vacant shanties being met with on every street.
    It had been our intention to stop at Roseburg for a day or two for the purpose of paying a visit to Gen. Joseph Lane, having been urgently requested to do so by some of his old associates from whom, of course, we bore letters and various messages. To our disappointment, however, we found that the General had wintered in the mountains, not having visited Roseburg since November, and not expecting to do so in June. To reach him was impossible, for though only fifteen miles away, not even an Oregon horse could wallow through the intervening mud, and the swollen state of the waters allowed no thought of making the trip on foot. "How much time can you spare with the General if you could get to him," asked our landlord. "One day," we replied. "Do not attempt to go then, for it takes him just four days to tell his story, and you can't get away till that is finished."
    It seems strange that in his old age Gen. Lane should prefer to live among the mountains with only a grandson and a negro for his companions, rather than where the comforts and refinements of civilization would be within reach.
    At 6 p.m., April 13, we got in the stage for Jacksonville, one hundred miles south of Roseburg. The fare is fifteen cents a mile, and only forty pounds of baggage allowed, all above that weight being charged twenty cents a pound for each one hundred miles it is carried. There are two hundred and seventy-five miles of staging connecting Roseburg with a railroad at Redding, California. During the summer the running time between the two points is fifty-one hours, but during the winter it is get through when you can, and eight or ten days are not infrequently consumed in the trip. It is reported that during the past winter each passenger, after paying his fare, was obliged to sign an agreement to walk all the way and to carry a rail, if necessary, so as to help pry the stage out of the mud whenever it stuck fast. When we asked the agent for this agreement, expressing ourselves quite willing to sign it, we were told that the roads had so improved that carrying a rail could be dispensed with, but as for the walking there would be plenty of it.
    Our entire load was probably less than six hundred pounds, and yet with six good horses we were not able to make over three miles an hour including the necessary time spent in changing horses.
    The valley of the Umpqua is very narrow, and often we would travel some miles without seeing level land enough for a single field, then suddenly would find ourselves on a small plain with half a dozen fine farms on both banks of the river. Nothing was more novel to us than these unexpected pieces of rich bottom land, and where they were only large enough for a single farm we would find some family there, though no other might be within five miles, and rugged hills or still more rugged mountains all around. It seemed to us a lonesome way to live, but such persons had got used to it and seemed quite contented.
    Twenty-eight miles south of Roseburg we enter the canon--the Oregonians spell it as it is pronounced, canyon--the only known pass, so far as we could learn, out of the Umpqua Valley to Southern Oregon. All the emigration and traffic overland between the Willamette Valley and California had to go through this narrow, winding gorge, and, though only ten miles long, fearful are some of the stories told of the sufferings of parties coming into Oregon by this route previous to 1856. Three weeks are said to have been consumed in making the ten miles, and as food for stock was often not to be had, immense losses resulted.
    In 1856 the Indian war in the Rogue River country demanded the troops from Northern Oregon, and, under the direction of Hooker, a military read was constructed through the canon, which road has since passed into the hands of a stock company, and is now a toll road, the toll for a vehicle and two horses being two dollars, coin. As we passed the toll gate, at the north end of the road, two young ladies requested permission to ride a mile or two to their home at the saw mill, and they were assigned a seat beside us. We had been contemplating the scenery around, and by way of opening conversation made a remark about the steepness of the hills on each side of us. "Yes, sir, they are rather steep," replied one of the ladies, "but they are not tall." From the way those ladies stared at us for a short time after this remark was made, we have concluded that our face must have lost something of its usual impassiveness. Not tall! Why, we were even then trying to see the tops of those hills by installments, looking part of the way up and resting our eyes before sending them up the rest of the way. We nearly always assent to the first opinion of a woman no matter upon what subject, but this time we demurred. And we still think that a hill which stands with one end on the ground, and the other a thousand feet perpendicularly above it, may be low for a mountain, but is rather a tall hill.
    The sides of the canon are heavily timbered with fir and cedar, and within two miles from the entrance we passed several houses of lumbermen who were engaged mostly in making shingles. The remaining eight miles of the road were passed without seeing any signs of settlement. The trees got larger as we advanced, fir trees six feet in diameter and two hundred feet high being frequently seen, interspersed with cedar (Thuja) scarcely less imposing.
    If the hills were not tall at first they soon got to be so, and the higher our winding way seemed to take us the higher rose the hills, until they stood more than 2000 feet above us when we ourselves had reached a point more than one thousand feet above the mouth of the canon.
    "Are there any bears here?" we asked the driver. "Plenty of them," was the reply. Just then we heard a rustling in the forest to our right, and looking out saw, not a bear, but two fine deer. They trotted along parallel with us for a few rods, then made their way slowly into the woods and out of sight.
    We got out of the canon about dark, and four miles further on took supper, changed horses for the third time and fixed for a night in the stage, over the worst part of the road along the whole route. We wrapped our blankets around us, piled up all the straw in the stage between a trunk and one of the seats, and sat down so as to be closely wedged in. But even that long, rainy and dark night had three events to relieve its monotony. Once when the even depth of the mud had so checked the bumping of the stage that we began to sleep, the driver called us out to walk over a piece of road so bad that the team must be relieved of our 145 pounds before the attempt could be made. The team got through at last, and so did we, but just how we are not able to tell.
    An hour or two later the stage is stopped and we are invited to look at a herd of seven deer which are standing in the road a rod or two in advance admiring our light.
    The third event was the meeting of the northern-bound stage. The drivers stop the teams and talk about the roads, the passengers stretch themselves, compare watches and hold an experience meeting.
    Morning found us twenty-eight miles from Jacksonville, and we soon see a marked difference between the country we are now in and that we passed through the day before. The forests are largely pine and cedar, and more open, and endless thickets of manzanita are all about us. The oak trees are no longer covered with moss, and their leaves are already larger than squirrels' feet. The mud has gone from the roads and only deep ruts remind us of what they were once. The horses are lashed into a run and, owing to the roughness of the roads, we occupy all parts of the coach at once, having the beautiful views of flowers, hills and mountains, interspersed with visions of stars and other fine things, which are subjective rather than objective.
    The valley of Rogue River, where we first enter it, is narrow like that of the Umpqua, and bounded by even higher hills and mountains, but the level land is more continuous, so that we constantly travel through well-cultivated farms. The stage road, however, does not follow Rogue River to the widest expansion of its valley, leaving it at Rock Point and taking an almost direct course to Jacksonville. For nearly ninety miles we have been riding over mountains, through gorges, or along valleys, which have nowhere been a mile in width, and we are therefore fully prepared to appreciate the lovely landscape which suddenly appears before us seven miles from Rock Point. We turn a corner, rather abruptly, and the beautiful valley of Bear Creek, in its widest expansion, lies before. A few miles to our left is Table Mountain, with its perpendicular wall of rock and flat, table-like summit; nearly before us the Snow Butte, marked Mt. Pitt on the maps, while seven miles to our right, hidden as yet by the hills, is Jacksonville, the largest town in Southern Oregon. The valley, where we now saw it, has a width of eight or nine miles, and is twelve or thirteen miles in length, so that not far from one hundred square miles of fertile farms, with magnificent orchards, vineyards and grain fields, were embraced in one view.
    After making due allowance for the effect of contrast, we are inclined to think the most beautiful spot we have yet seen in Oregon is Bear Creek Valley.
    When we left the East a friend told us "that if we found the garden of Eden to fence off a corner and send for him." Now, we felt inclined to think we had found the spot and began to think of setting the fence posts, but prudently concluded to wait to see if the snake was anywhere about.
    This is essentially a mining district, and for many miles all the streams we crossed ran turbid with the "tailings" of the mines. For some hours we had been constantly passing through "diggings" which once gave a rich yield, but are now given up to Chinese, who somehow manage to lay up money where a white man would starve.
    Adjoining the town of Jacksonville, acres of ground have been dug over and washed for gold. The stories told of the richness of some of these "pockets" are almost fabulous, but they seem to be well authenticated. We were shown a spot where three men working together took out over three hundred ounces of gold daily for more than a month. [Probably a reference to the Gold Hill pocket.] Sixteen hundred dollars a day per man is rather large pay. A gentleman, whose veracity is well vouched for, told us that he himself filled six grain sacks with "Gold Hill" quartz which yielded $30,000.
    The people here now are generally poor, and why we shall try to show in our next [below].
Richmond Telegram, Richmond, Indiana, June 9, 1876, page 1  "E.T." is identified as "Professor Erastus Test of Oregon" on page 2 of the issue.


    The very richness of the earliest discovered mines in Southern Oregon was the source of future disaster to the farming community, and involved others also. The sudden influx of population and the difficulty of bringing supplies from a distance enabled the farmers around Jacksonville to get fabulous prices for anything they had to sell. Fat hogs sold readily at twenty-five cents a pound; beef cattle at seventy-five dollars a head, and apples from five to seven dollars a bushel. Speculation was the inevitable result. Farmers bought more land on credit, or mortgaged their farms to raise money to invest in mines, or to build fine houses and barns, or to buy fine stock. Hardly anyone kept clear of debt. But the "pockets" soon were worked out; the mining population left for new fields of operation, prices of farm products declined, and a large majority of the farmers found themselves almost hopelessly in debt.
    Take one instance to show how farm property declined. We were shown a fine farm of six hundred acres adjoining Jacksonville for which the owner once refused $31,000 cash. Now he is vainly offering it for $12,000. When we began to inquire the price of land people stared at us. No one had made such inquiries for some years. Had we stayed a few days longer we should probably have had half the farms in Bear Creek Valley offered to us.
    A condition of things exists at Jacksonville which your Colorado correspondent has finely described, namely: Many a seedy-looking man has a valuable mine to sell. They all tell very much the same story. They had spent all their means in prospecting and in developing, and now this mine is just ready to yield its thousands and they are "strapped." There can be little doubt that in time the mines of Jackson County will prove highly remunerative. Specimens of gold-bearing quartz and of cinnabar given us by the Secretary of State and other reliable parties show at least great possibilities. The unusual rainfall last winter was very favorable to mining operations, and good reports were coming in from all quarters. One English company which had expended $40,000 in hydraulic mining at a point about twenty-five miles from Jacksonville reports a very satisfactory winter's work. The discovery of cinnabar in the immediate vicinity of the gold mines will greatly lessen one item of expense. Now and then in a cinnabar ledge a porous rock is found full of native quicksilver. On breaking the rock the mercury stands in drops on the freshly fractured surface. There is said to be such a loss of the metal in working this rock that the cinnabar (sulphuret of mercury) yields the most profit. A fine specimen of such porous rock was added to our cabinet, and some of the mercury that oozed out was bottled up.
    As might have been inferred Southern Oregon has a climate intermediate between that of the Sacramento and Willamette valleys. The rainfall is not more that half as great at Jacksonville as at Portland, and yet is sufficient to make good crops, no failure having occurred since the settlement of the Rogue River Valley. Corn grows here very well and at the time of our visit (the middle of April) was standing several inches high in some fields. This for a latitude more than two degrees north of Richmond we thought was doing well enough. Fig trees were growing in the yards and are said to produce fine fruit.
    The telegraph told us of cool weather, heavy rain and high water about Dayton, but at Jacksonville [there] were clear skies, warm sunshine and the climate of early June as we had known June in Indiana. Lizards were playing along the fences as we had seen ground squirrels do when we were a boy and lived in the woods. The difference in size between the animals mentioned is not very great, but for picturesqueness we prefer the ground squirrels. Beautiful orchards of apple, pear, peach, &c., were in blossom, the vines in the vineyards budding forth, and the clover (alfalfa) knee high in the fields and dooryards. Though hemmed in by mountains, but little snow falls here and cold weather, as we have always understood that term, is unknown. In summer, the thermometer does not often show a temperature above ninety degrees, though a few days of each year are hotter than this.
    With such a lovely climate and such a variety of productions the Rogue River country did not seem to us to be a desirable place to live at present. It is too isolated. The only outlet is by stage roads which are next to impassable for several months of the year, and so difficult will be the task of making a railroad over and through the encircling mountains, and so little the prospect of such a road paying running expenses, that this century will hardly witness such a road in operation at Jacksonville. [The railroad arrived eight years later.]
    The people seem to have all the indolence and contentment which characterize Oregonians farther north, but seem in addition to have retained habits that were acquired when the only settlements were mining camps. It seemed to us that the habitual use of whiskey was almost universal.
    Our letters of introduction were said to be to the best citizens, and no doubt were, but such citizens did not hesitate, or some of them at least, to often step into saloons and drink, and, with Oregonian liberality, proffer a glass to any ragged and thirsty-looking fellow who might be near.
    Whenever we made inquiry about minerals or cabinets we were almost invariably referred to some saloon. Eden-like, therefore, as the Rogue River country appeared to us, we felt convinced that the serpent had been there and consequently fenced off no corner for ourselves or our friends.
    May has proved to be a good month for farm work, and an unusually large amount of spring wheat has been sowed. Some farmers will continue to sow till the first of June, and will sow oats even later. Strawberries are now ripe in the fields, and prospects fine for all kinds of fruit.
    A company from Iowa, about thirty in number, mostly Friends, is expected here daily, but this fact we probably mentioned in a former letter. A considerable lump of Quaker leaven will not hurt Oregon.
Richmond Telegram, Richmond, Indiana, June 16, 1876, page 1


    DEAR TIDINGS:--Were I to recount but half the hardships and perils encountered on my journey hither, I doubt not but I would elicit the tenderest sympathies of my readers. I might tell of wanderings to the source of Griffin's Creek, in search of the lost trail to Sterling Creek; how I clambered up the rocky steeps of many a brushy mountain gorge, leading my reluctant horse close at my heels; I might speak pathetically of streams of briny perspiration that trickled down my throbbing temples; I might add many conjectures as to the final result of my wanderings had I not fortunately fell in with a "chip" of Abraham Lincoln, manufacturing rails by the roadside, who reversed my line of travel and sent me back on my trail some two miles, and I succeeded in crossing the mountain in triumph, and passing down the classic waters of Sterling Creek and arriving at the once populous town of Sterlingville. I accepted the hospitalities of my old friend, Geo. Yaudes, and his pleasant lady for the night. I was much disappointed on arriving at Sterlingville to find that C. K. Klum, Esq., of Ashland, and Judge L. J. C. Duncan, of Jacksonville, had preceded me and, by some plausible stories, had succeeded in enticing almost the entire population into the mountains on a hunting excursion with them. I found, however, a few of the old-timers, and right well did I enjoy a talk over the days long agone.
were revived, and many a trivial incident which for twenty years had lain dormant were most vividly brought to wind. Old chums and partners were talked of, old diggings were discussed and the whole camp was reviewed from Sailor Gulch to Nigger Flat. By the way, Sterling diggings are not yet worked out. Several companies have very valuable diggings which will last a lifetime. The diggings of Claus Kleinhammer & Co., near the mouth of Sailor Diggings, paid well last winter for piping; this company have not yet finished cleaning up their last winter run. The members of the company are Claus Kleinhammer, Frank Town and S. Reynolds. The diggings of George Yaudes & Co. are situated on the old site of Sterlingville. This company has done a vast amount of work on their claim; it took over ten years to open the diggings. They commenced operations some fifteen years ago, and last winter was the first good run they have made. The result made, however, amends for many years of labor and disappointment, and ensures ample rewards in the future for their long years of toil. The members of this company are George Yaudes, Capt. Saltmarsh, Joseph Saltmarsh and our townsman C. K. Klum. My old friend and forty-niner, John Head, has charge of Rube Saltmarsh's interest. Mr. Saltmarsh has permanently located in Albany. The next claim below is that of Thomas Gilson, one of the '54 pioneers of Sterlingville. It is said to be a very
The next and last claim of importance, going down the creek, is that belonging to Reuben S. Armstrong, Tod Cameron and U. S. Hayden. This claim was worked last winter for the first time, and promises to be very rich; it is 40 feet deep and drained by a tunnel 200 yards long. The labor on this tunnel cost $1,200. With plenty of water again this winter these companies will take out a very large amount of money. The miners in this camp have all built them comfortable and, in some cases, elegant residences; they have their gardens and orchards, and some of them nice bands of cattle in the rich grassy hills that surround them. One of the most interesting items to me is the fact that everybody takes the Tidings. Those who cannot afford to subscribe borrow it from their neighbors. On next morning I mounted my good horse "Buck," and set out to visit my old
one-half mile distant. What a crowd of recollections galloped through my mind during that short visit; how vividly was portrayed the daydreams and air-castles, the hopes and fond expectations of my more youthful days spent in this old camp. Winding my way through a young forest of pines, which had grown since the days when the old camp swarmed with hundreds of confident miners, I came to the spot which spread out a feast of memories before me, and renewed many forgotten incidents of the past. Here indeed was once my home; from here I had viewed the future through a gold-tinted veil, with a pleasure that could never have been realized by the achievement of my most visionary hopes. My old cabin was gone--not a log was left in its old place. What little time had left had been pulled down by the ruthless hand of some modern miner for the sake of the golden treasure beneath its eight-by-ten site. A small heap of the half-rotten logs of my cabin that yet retained the imprint of the many gaps of the old "root ax" used in its construction lay nearby, with an occasional nail remaining, on which, doubtless, I had hung my gum boots and other apparel to dry, on returning from work at night. Few of
of the half hour spent in this, to me, almost sacred solitude will ever be recorded--being too evanescent in their rapid flight across my memory to be arrested by the lips or pen. I thought of the gold pan containing the result of our day's labor, the guessing at the amount, the weighing, the old tin "blower," the precautionary glances to see that no stranger was present as we drew the pin from the large auger hole in which our company purse was secreted. And then, of the hearty relish of our not varied, but ample meal, contained in the frying pan and camp kettle, which occupied the most conspicuous position on our table. Nor did I forget the bunk of fir boughs and blankets, where we enjoyed sleep in all its most natural sweetness. But I must stop--a volume would not contain the thoughts of a half hour with the past. I have in my mind's eye many old pioneers among the readers of the Tidings, who can supply the unwritten parts of the half hour spent at the old camp. Those days are forever gone, and with them more than one-half of those who enjoyed them. It is now, as then, that practicable present times and present interests are what we most desire to investigate, and I shall therefore, in my next, govern myself accordingly.
Ashland Tidings, October 28, 1876, page 1