While at Ashland we met Mr. Put. Smith, formerly of Portland, who has a large band of thoroughbred Merino sheep, which he purchased in California and intends to dispose of in Oregon. He has already sold a large number of sheep, at good prices, but is saving the cream of his flock for sale in the Willamette Valley about the time of the State Fair.
    At Ashland we met Mr. O. C. Applegate, editor of the Ashland Tidings, to whom we are indebted for many courtesies. While there we observed a large party arranging for a trip to Crater Lake, and as Mr. Wicks, of Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, will most probably join the party, we may expect to see in a short time a correct illustration of that most remarkable inland sea.
    At Ashland we also met Rev. Mr. Bell, a Southern Methodist preacher whose circuit extends about as widely as did that of Lorenzo Dow. He preaches at Jacksonville, Ashland (17 miles away), Kirbyville, Josephine County (70 miles away), at Linkville, Lake County (90 miles away), and at many intermediate points besides. Indeed it is probable that Bro. Bell scatters the Gospel over a radius of at least five hundred miles, and is said to keep his appointments to a dot. But we suppose he must be paid at least one hundred and ninety-five dollars a year for his services, and is therefore happy! Methodist preachers can usually afford to perform a great deal of work--they get so well paid!
    We forgot to say that at Jacksonville the Masonic fraternity have the finest hall in the state, except the one in the Portland Masonic Temple. It is thoroughly ventilated, amply proportioned and elegantly furnished with all modern comforts. The building in which the hall is located cost about $11,000, is owned by the fraternity, and is the pride of Jacksonville.
    There are some waggish boys in Jacksonville. While there we noticed a patent medicine man vending his wares in the street from a goods-box stand, and while he absented himself from his stand for a little while one of the town boys went to work and sold the goods all out and had most of the proceeds spent in cigars and lemonade. Tom. Reames, the principal merchant of the city, said it was "the best sale made that day."
    At Jacksonville the air is the clearest and lightest we ever experienced. Indeed the atmosphere is fully fifty percent lighter than in the Willamette Valley. One gentleman asserted most solemnly that the air was so clear and light and conveyed sound so distinctly that he could hear a man who had money to loan some 40 miles away!
    Jacksonville has two well-conducted newspapers--the Times and Sentinel. Both are edited with care and ability, and are valuable acquisitions to that flourishing burg.
    At the margin of Rogue River Valley, 14 miles south of Jacksonville, we had a fine view of Table Rock, seemingly many miles to the eastward. It is apparently an upright wall, some hundreds of feet  high, supporting a level surface resembling a table. It is said that during the early struggles between the whites and Indians a band of the latter were pursued and driven to the very verge of Table Rock, and that after a hard fight, in which the whites steadily gained the advantage, many of the Indians, to escape being shot or captured, leaped from this fearful height to the chasm below. As it was said to be about three hundred feet from the top to the nearest "lighting" place, we leave the imaginative reader to guess how much of each Indian was left for practical purposes. A loquacious Dutchman who "keeps store" at the point where we got our first view of Table Rock [Willow Springs?] recited this legend to us, and after he had concluded his thrilling narrative he very suddenly says: "Ofer I forgets by myself. Dose Injuns get killed py dot yump!" We gazed in an awe-stricken manner at the fearful height, and told him we thought so.
    Leaving Rock Point and coming down Rogue River, we saw some splendid cornfields. Mr. Birdseye has one of almost 80 acres which is as thrifty in appearance and will doubtless yield as heavily as any of the great corn-producing prairies of Iowa or Illinois. Indeed all the little valleys from the time we left the Willamette until we arrived at the California line were dotted and checked with corn fields of most promising growth. Therefore, anybody that says we can't raise corn in Oregon is a bad egg.
State Rights Democrat, Albany, Oregon, August 17, 1877, page 2


    I am writing back as fast as I can find time. I am finding out all about the country as fast as I can. I saw a man who has been horseback to the sea coast, who says Curry County, Oregon is nearly an unbroken wilderness, and is inhabited by a few white nomads who worked their way through from California. Crescent City, California, is 16 miles south of Chetco, and for many years was the only shipping point for Jacksonville and the entire Rogue River country; but since the roads have been graded via Ashland and the Siskiyous to Yreka and Redding, all the trading goes that way. The merchants of this valley do not care for reaching the sea on a shortcut across the country; they can make more money hauling their goods farther and selling them at fabulous prices. The trading men here all get rich, and are getting richer from day to day. A number of wagons with movers on board pass through here daily from California, bound for Washington Territory. But few emigrants stop in this valley. I meet very many of the early settlers who have been here since 1852. A new infusion of population into this valley, and a road to the ocean would help things wonderfully, and give everything a new impetus. Table linen would not sell for a dollar a yard as is now the case.
    At the first settlement of Oregon, Congress donated 610 acres to every head of a family. Time has shown that this has retarded the development of the state. The best farming land was thus taken up in great quantities, and those coming afterwards, finding the best locations taken up, had to pass on to remote or more inconvenient parts of the country. These "donationists" are fast disappearing, and land is gradually changing hands and being cut up into smaller farms. In this manner the many who are land-poor will be ultimately relieved and the state greatly benefited. When in San Francisco I told several of my friends--ardent Californians--that I was going to Oregon. One of them sneeringly remarked: "What! Do you want to go to a country where it rains thirteen months in a year?" I have been in Astoria, in Portland, all through the Willamette, Umpqua and Rogue River valleys and have conversed with dozens of people, and not one seemed discommoded by the rains of winter and spring. There has not been any rain in the state since I got here. It rained on me on top of the Siskiyou range of mountains, over in California, 40 miles southeast of here. In my opinion it would be a good thing if we had a little rain just now. The roads that are traveled, as for instance the stage road, are quite dusty, but as there are no blustery winds the dust does not inconvenience anybody. The soil in the valleys and on the foothills, too, is of a dark reddish color and quite gravelly. One used to our alluvial, black, loamy Missouri soil would suppose that nothing could grow in this gravelly red soil, but if he looks at the rank vegetation of this entire country he will soon be undeceived. The fine cornfields in the valleys, the remarkable size of potatoes, tomatoes, peaches, plums, figs, pears, prunes and apples are an evidence of the remarkable fertility of the soil. But the growth of trees is perhaps the best criterion to judge this country by. Taller fir, pine and cedar trees I have never seen in my life. Not only do these trees thrive in the valleys, but anywhere on the very tops of the highest mountains can they be seen. Many of these trees are very tall, varying in height from 150 feet and upward, and some measure at their base 12 feet in diameter. Col. Markland has a picture of Jacksonville, in which is shown, in the vicinity of Henry Klippel's residence, one of these evergreen fir trees, 150 feet high. Down towards the coast, I am told, they are much taller; men who have seen them assure me they are perfect monsters; trees that are 300 feet in height, and measure at their base from 15 to 20 feet in diameter are of common occurrence. The oak trees in this valley are also very remarkable. Some of them are tremendous in body and foliage, and when far enough apart they afford a dense shade. The grain of the great sugar and white pine trees is so perfect that while at the quicksilver mines I saw one-inch, two-inch, three-inch and four-inch lumber, split with a froe which was as smooth as if it had been sawed with a circular saw.
    The farmers' pest here are the squirrels. They are so plenty that they destroy the grain before it is cut in the fields, as also the vegetables that grow in the gardens. But vigorous measures are being adopted to exterminate the "varmint." As for the celebrated fern wheat, about which some newcomer writes to one of the Atchison County papers, and which was copied into a Holt County paper, and which is represented as being such a great source of annoyance to the farmers here, I would say, that it is no more than our foxtail. The fields of the good farmers here are as free from the fern weeds as are good farmers' cornfields in Holt County from foxtail and cockleburs. The wild oats grow more rank here than the fern weeds. A field once sown to oats one season and wheat the next is very sure to have a lively sprinkle of wild oats the following season. I noticed many wheat fields in the Willamette Valley badly sprinkled with oats. Wild oats is a common occurrence over many portions of Oregon, and is a favorite grass with the cattle. In northern and central Oregon the harvest was progressing as I passed through on the 18th of August. In the Umpqua Valley and Rogue River country, harvest is invariably and fully three weeks earlier. And the climate is also very different in many respects. The excessive rains complained of in the Puget Sound country and the great Willamette Valley do not molest the Umpqua and Rogue river regions. There is really more danger of too little rain here than too much. This is corroborated by all the older settlers here. Many of the settlers of Southern Oregon before coming here tried a number of climates and finally settled here as the best.
    A rather singular feature of the people of this coast is the rapid changing of the auburn, blond and black hair to gray. People here turn gray early but live long. An old gentleman met me whilst traveling in alone from Applegate River, who although he had attained his eightieth year, was as pert as a man of fifty. I meet many others in the prime of life who are perfectly gray and look as patriarchal as can be.
    The great attraction on the Pacific Coast being the Rogue River Falls, and Crater Lake on the summit of the Cascade Mountains; my friends thought it wouldn't do for me not to see these wonders of the continent. So we rigged up a wagon and team, tent and camp equipage, with two weeks provisions and started on our 200 miles journey. When I say we, l mean Richard Klippel, Lannes Klippel, Aaron Maegley, Wm. Peninger and myself. We started from Jacksonville Tuesday evening Sept. 4, lodged at Mr. Fisher's where we took in balance of provisions; sack of flour, and 20 bushels of oats for the horses. As we passed out of the fertile Rogue River Valley we entered the so-called twelve-mile desert. This body of land seemed to me as if it had once been the bottom of the sea, and consists of a continuation of gentle hills and valleys. The hills are a sandy, pebbly formation, and the valleys are filled with coarse gravel and round rock.
    We are taking a northeastern course from Jacksonville, and at Bybee's Crossing we ferry from the left side of Rogue River to the right of that stream; we
keep on the right for a distance of 44 miles where we cross it once more over a brand-new bridge near Mr. Deskins' ranch and saw mill, one and one-half miles above the falls. Here we halt again for the night, and in the morning we visit the falls, and in doing so we have to pass through a dense growth of timber and underbrush. Having reached the precipice of the falls we had a fine view. It is not an abrupt fall but a succession of falls. The river falls 300 feet in as many yards, and works itself through and overshoots huge boulders of rock. Two hundred yards below is another and by far the finest of this cluster of falls. A large tributary to Rogue River empties its waters into it over its perpendicular left bank which is here 198 feet in height. The deafening sound of the leaping waters, the dampening spray and the multitudinous rainbow tints present a scene both wild and grand. To give a description of the rugged, precipitous Rogue River canyon, so as to impress its magnitude upon persons at a distance, is quite an impossibility for me, and I will have to leave it to your imagination to supply the deficiency of my description.
    In the afternoon of Friday the 7th, we left the camp at Deskins' (the Rogue River bridge near the falls) and drove nine miles farther on our way to Crater Lake, and stopped one and one-half miles this side of Union Creek for the purpose of enjoying a bear and deer hunt, which game abound in all this region of country. Up to this writing (at 2 p.m.) our hunters have brought in but two deer and one lynx (wildcat) but "nary bear." Harvey Deskins is among our hunting party. About a mile from camp he shot a deer, and as he was dragging it down the mountain he came across two cubs (young bears). He tried to capture one, when its mother made her appearance and showed fight for the protection of her offspring, whereupon Mr. Deskins retreated, believing that to be the better part of valor. The most wonderful bear stories are related by these courageous backwoodsmen. I can only believe them by taking a look at their stocks of bear, panther and deer skins. I am thinking of bringing home with me enough bear skins to carpet one or two of our rooms. I asked if there was any danger of exterminating this game, and received as an answer that there would not be in 200 years.
    Reached here at 3 p.m. Went up to the rim of Crater Lake, 8,500 feet above the level of the sea. We looked over an immense precipice 2,290 feet into the blue lake below. We viewed this wonder of the Pacific Coast from different elevations on the western banks. It is six miles across and fifteen long, and a gentle island (mountain peak) rising from the center is covered with a scattering growth of tall fir and pine trees. The top of the peak has a deep hole in it, at the bottom of which lies a bank of eternal snow. As we had no trusted guide to pilot us, and as the surface of the lake appeared to us very ruffled from a storm and the white waves were visible, we did not feel like risking our precious lives in an attempt to descend to the water's edge. A commanding view of the entire lake is afforded from a high rocky point on the northwest. The high rocky walls which surround this remarkable body of water on this high range of mountains, and the great fields of pumice stone that are strewn in great quantities all over this country all go to show that this was once a mighty volcano, which poured out fiery lava in every direction. Huge boulders of burned rock and immense beds of pumice stone could be seen for forty-five miles of our journey ascending the Cascade Mountains. The same is true on the east of this mountain.
    We have passed Fort Klamath, 22 miles from Crater Lake, and Klamath Indian Reservation, 27 miles from Crater Lake. The Indians do not go near this remarkable lake. They maintain that looking down upon its blue waters is certain death to the Indian.
    Many questions are asked and still unanswered concerning this lake. How much higher was this mountain before it exploded? When did the eruption take place? Where does this great body of water come from, and where does it go to? It has no inlet and no outlet. And how deep is it? Owing to the high altitude and cold and snow, we have no account that it has ever been visited in the winter time. The government owes it to the world of science to have this lake and its surroundings thoroughly explored. The explorations so far have all been by private parties and very unsatisfactory.
    We had intended to spend this day and the next in visiting the elevation on its northern boundary and descending to the water's edge, but before daybreak on Monday morning a storm arose and a rain set in, which by eight o'clock turned into a furious snowstorm. We were in a quandary what to do, whether to remain in camp and wait for the storm to subside, or to pull up stakes and strike for the head of Klamath Valley, fifteen miles southeast of the summit of Crater Mountain. There appeared to be every indication of a lasting storm and we concluded to abandon Crater. As we descended the mountain into Eastern Oregon we endured a pelting rain accompanied by a chilling atmosphere. In looking back, the dense clouds were enveloping the mountains in every direction. In passing the Klamath Indian Reservation the next day, we had a fine view of the mountains we had left. They were white with the snows of the previous day.
    On our way to Fort Klamath, we came to the biggest spring on the trip. It bursts forth out of the earth eight feet one way and seventy-five the other and forms what is called Wood River. The waters are very cool and as clear as crystal, and the stream is full of fish. This spring evidently receives its waters from the Crater. The point where it issues from the earth lies an elevation of 2,470 feet above the level of the sea, and is almost twelve miles distant from Crater Lake.
    We passed through the so-called Klamath Marsh, a vast tract of meadow land with thousands upon thousands of head of horses, cattle and sheep. None of this land seemed marshy to us. It is much in the shape of our Missouri prairie bottoms, with only this difference that the streams which flow through it (of which there are quite a number) flow very rapidly.
    From the Rogue River Falls to the U.S. military post, Fort Klamath, a distance of 53 miles, there is not a house to be seen. The country between these points is too varied to attempt a satisfactory description at this moment, and I must reserve it for some other time.
    In driving down from Fort Klamath to Linkville, a distance of 36 miles, we have Upper Klamath Lake to our right, a fine sheet of water 30 miles in length and 10 to 16 miles wide. On our left the road winds along the foot of a high chain of mountains. Across the Upper Klamath Lake may be seen a still higher chain of the Cascade Mountains. The scene of valley, meadow, lake and mountain is grand beyond description, and in order to be fully appreciated must be seen.
    The Upper Klamath Valley and the Lower Klamath Valley are two distinct geographical formations. The waters of the Upper Lake force their way through a narrow canyon in the mountains, for a distance of only a mile and a half, and enter the Klamath River at Linkville. Only an arm of the Lower Klamath Lake was visible, the main body being screened from us by a vast expanse of swamp and meadow, connecting Lake Tule in California with Lower Klamath. Lakes Warner, Goose and Abert are close by, but have other outflows. I have not the figures at hand to give the number of square miles that these lower lakes cover. But the area is very great, and the maps now in use give but a faint idea of their magnitude. The whole country hereabouts is a vast grazing region, but rather high altitude, and consequently cold in winter. With a little effort a thrifty man can cut enough hay in the fall to do all the cattle he wants to feed in the winter. The hay meadows are inexhaustible.
    The boiling Hot Springs at Linkville are a real wonder. We tried to dip some with our hands and scalded them badly. Eggs and potatoes can be boiled in them. One of the citizens told me that the waters of this spring are used for scalding bogs.
Ashland Tidings, October 12, 1877, page 1


    EDITOR TIDINGS:--The ears of all the world are pricked up to hear from Stanley and learn something of the source of the Nile. And why should they not? It is certainly a subject of deep interest, but I think there are sources of more interest to the readers of the Tidings in the mountains of Southern Oregon.
    I shall endeavor, with your permission, to give you a brief sketch of a recent trip to the source of Fall Creek, a tributary of the Klamath River. Our first drive was to the Toll House, where I received the hospitality of Messrs. Dollarhide, and enjoyed a fine opportunity of breathing in the perfume wafted from the vast mountain forests and bathing in the sharp atmosphere above the fogs of the valley.
    The Toll House is situated three miles above the northern terminus of the Siskiyou wagon road and constitutes one of the most lovely mountain homes in Southern Oregon. Messrs. Dollarhide have made much improvement since their advent. They have cleared off a large farm on the mountainside, and this year have housed over one hundred tons of hay cut from their land. This is an interesting item, when we take into consideration the fact that there are thousands of acres of such land now unoccupied on our mountainsides. They have just completed a large, well-constructed wagon shed for the accommodation of teamsters and others who stop overnight with them. This house bids fair, ere long, to be one of the most popular stopping places on the road.
    Next morning I took my seat in the buggy with Mr. Clay Dollarhide, and his fine matched grays were soon wheeling us down the mountain at an exhilarating speed, our route by way of the Soda Springs and up the mountain towards Linkville, crossing the Siskiyou Mountains and descending Jenny Creek, a tributary of the Klamath. From the base to the summit of the Siskiyou on this route is found an almost continuous body of rich soil, although much of it is badly mixed with stones. Some settlers are already found here, but there is much land awaiting future occupants. After crossing the Jenny Creek bridge and ascending the grade about one-half mile, we turned to the right and left the Linkville road. From here we traveled over an almost level plain for eleven miles, through a forest of magnificent sugar pine, fir, cedar and spruce. The whole distance is almost devoid of underbrush and is carpeted in many places with princess pine and uva-ursi, with an occasional clump of oak, manzanita and the usual varieties of evergreens peculiar to our mountains. This level country offers a good route for a railroad, a survey already having been made through it, showing an almost air-line grade from Klamath River to its intersection with the Linkville road, a few miles beyond the Jenny Creek bridge. We arrived at the ranch of Mr. J. A. Grieve, just as night shut out the view, where we remained until morning. Mr. Grieve's ranch is located on and includes within its limits the source of Fall Creek. Numerous springs rise on a level plain, some of them producing enough water to turn a mill. These spring branches wind through the glade in shallow furrow-like channels, more resembling irrigating ditches than natural streams. A single furrow running across some of them would carry the water in a straight line for hundreds of yards at right angles to its former bed. Mr. Grieve has some sixty acres of fine meadow land at this place, the productiveness of which he proved this year by housing eight tons of hay, from three acres of wheat sowed in June. He is engaged in stock raising and has located this place as a homestead.
    Fall Creek is represented as rich in wild mountain scenery, producing a succession of waterfalls of rare beauty on its way to the Klamath River, a distance of four miles by the road.
    On our return next day we stopped at the new saw mill just completed above the Jenny Creek bridge by Parvis & Co. It has already proved its ability to make lumber. At the time we were there, however, it was awaiting a supply of logs which was fast accumulating, some dozen or so already being on the ground.
Ashland Tidings, November 9, 1877, page 1