Below is  the text of a pamphlet published for prospective emigrants by the Ashland Tidings in 1885. It was apparently written by Ashland merchant E. P. Branch, and if the Jacksonville Democratic Times' sentiments are any indication (as expressed in its March 13, 1885 issue) it was not well received in some local circles.


Democratic Times, Jacksonville, June 19, 1885, page 2


    Supper having been taken at Oakland and Roseburg being passed soon after, the tired excursionists sought rest and sleep in their berths. Early next morning, Ashland, the end of the railway line in that direction, only about 20 miles from the California border, was reached. Here the whole population had united in giving us welcome. A breakfast had been prepared in the principal hall, which was appropriately decorated with specimens of the luxuriant growth of fruits and flowers of that region. Ashland is one of the prettiest and most healthful towns on the coast, elevated some 2,000 feet above the level of the sea. It is situated in the Rogue River Valley, so named from a warlike and pestiferous race of Indians originally inhabiting it. This valley is sometimes called the Italy of America. It is about fifty miles long by five to twenty-five miles wide, with numerous smaller valleys running up into the mountains. Its climate is claimed to be free from the excessive moisture of the Willamette Valley at the north and the scorching summer droughts of the California valleys on the south. The chief industries are farming and stock raising and fruit growing. Land for this purpose sells for $10 to $45 per acre. This part of Oregon as well as the Willamette Valley has been settled for more than thirty years, though there is still room for more settlers. The Ashland people boast of fine mineral springs--iron, sulfur and soda. A specimen of the latter was presented to the JOURNAL representatives by Jacob Wagner, who moved from the vicinity of Muscatine and settled at Ashland in 1852.
    After leaving Ashland on the return trip, a stop was made at Medway [Medford], where the citizens, reinforced by a long procession of people from Jacksonville in wagons headed by a finely caparisoned brass band, gave our party a magnificent welcome. A few miles further a stop was made at Grants Pass, where a collation prepared by fifteen ladies of the town was served to the entire party in a pine grove near the village. Here a very creditable display of grain, fruit and other productions of the region was made.
    No other event of importance occurred that day, but we must not forget to mention the fine mountain scenery, the numerous tunnels and winding grades around the mountainsides which indicated the great expense of building the railroad through that region.
"Beyond the Rockies," Muscatine Daily Journal, Muscatine, Iowa, July 1, 1885, page 1.  The writer was a participant in the excursion of the Iowa Press Association.


    Proceeding up Rogue River from Gold Hill station we pass around the base of Gold Hill and along the foot of the hills east of it. Around here for about five miles the railroad had to be cut most of the way through granite rock, some of which is of the finest quality for building purposes. On the north side of the river are a few small farms before you reach the mouth of Sams Creek, but the bottom land is narrow and the mountains high. From the mouth of Sams Creek the mountains recede and the valley begins to widen. Sams Creek rises in the Rogue River Mountains, flows in a southerly direction, emptying into the river about two miles below Bear Creek, it coming in on the north and Bear Creek on the south side. Sams Creek has come excellent land on it, but its valley is small, being only ten miles in length and from one to two and a half miles in width. All the valley land is taken up, but there is some hillside and mountain land vacant, with some good fir timber on its head. Proceeding from the beautiful little valley of Sams Creek eastward we pass the lower Table Rock, a magnificent landmark standing out in our valley in bold relief. We now come to Table Rock Creek. It rises in the mountains near the head of the east fork of Evans Creek. Between these two creeks the mountain is low, which makes a good way for people to pass from Evans Creek into the valley and a good road to haul lumber from the sawmills over on Evans Creek. Through this pass is where Jesse Applegate made his survey for the Oregon & California railway. Some good farms are found along Table Rock Creek and on the mountainsides. On the west of this little creek is some vacant land. On the east, extending a distance of from four to eight miles, is undulating land. It is mostly brushy and thin land, but some very good arable land lies in this section. Table Rock Creek rises in Rogue River Mountains and flows southwesterly and passes between the upper and lower Table Rocks and empties into Rogue River at the south end of the lower Table Rock. Proceeding up Rogue River on the north side we find some very fine land, but most of the land in this region is brushy and gravelly, and not fit for much but early pasture. About 12 miles from Table Rock we come to the mouth of Trail Creek, a small stream heading away up towards South Umpqua River, and flowing southwest. It is mostly hills and mountains in this part of our county, and better adapted to grazing than farming. There are very good spots for farming purposes, but they are mostly occupied. Next above Trail Creek is Elk Creek. There is but very little farming land along it. Further up on the north side of Rogue River, along the bottoms, is some very fine land, but it is all taken. There is some undulating land in this region that is good but mostly taken up. On the south side of the river along here it is mostly mountainous and heavily timbered. A few miles farther up the river we reach Aiken Bros.' sawmill, situated on the south side of the river. It is as fine water power as is to be found, and being situated at the large body of pine woods of which we have already spoken, it would be a very valuable property if there was a flume to bring this valuable lumber down to the valley. In former years there was considerable lumber hauled from here by teams on their return from Fort Klamath when taking supplies there, but now, as the supplies are sent from another direction to the fort, there has not been much hauled of late, except some parties who wish to find finishing lumber have had it hauled from there. This fine body of timber lies on comparatively level land and is easily taken to where there is plenty of water power to manufacture it into lumber. Union Creek, one of the head branches of Rogue River, rises in the Cascade Mountains and flows northwest, emptying into the river on the south. It runs a large body of water, and for several miles flows through this beautiful body of timber. The principal part of this land is vacant, and to persons with sufficient means to bring the elements into service could make money for themselves and benefit the county by making a flume from some point here to bring this fine timber to the valley, and then use the water for irrigating purposes. No doubt the day is not far distant when this will be done. Some may look upon this as visionary, but I look at it in the same light as I did the practicability of constructing a railroad across the plains from Missouri to the Pacific coast over thirty years ago. After my return to Missouri from California in 1854 I was frequently asked what I thought of the project of constructing a railroad across the plains. My reply was that it would soon be done. So I think in reference to the practicability of building this flume some fifty miles to utilize the timber and water of this region.
"Letter No. Three," Democratic Times, Jacksonville, July 3, 1885, page 1    Rev. Peterson died before he could complete his overview of the Rogue Valley.


    The next morning after leaving Portland we awoke in Ashland, the present terminus of the Oregon & California R.R. This beautiful little city is nestled at the foot of the mountains, about 312 miles from Portland and 9 miles from the California line, in the
    After partaking of the sumptuous breakfast the citizens had prepared we met Mr. Atkins and wife (the latter is a daughter of J. T. Mott) and Mr. Taylor and his estimable lady, who is a sister to Postmaster Prescott, of this place. They are all more than pleased with the country. Mr. Atkins is draying over the mountains, with horses, to points in Northern California and Mr. Taylor is pursuing agriculture farther down the valley. We also met a young gentleman from Elkader, whose name is Carter, and his father is interested in a bank at Ashland. Of this valley we can but speak in a general way. The climate is very similar to that of California, the thermometer rarely getting as low as 20 degrees, nor higher than 40 degrees. The rainfall is not so heavy as that of the Willamette. Contracted in size as it is, there is considerable arable land, which produces fine crops of all kinds, especially of fruits. There is very little government land, and that is not desirable, for it is on the foothills. Cultivated land ranges in price about the same as in Iowa. Not only are the mountains of Southern Oregon covered with forests of pine, fir and cedar, but rich veins of the precious and the rougher ores are found in their depths. This valley probably presents more reasons for being one of the most beautiful places in which to spend one's life than any other on the continent. While on our way down the valley we had a taste of the way western trains are run. The track runs along the foot of a mountain and on the other side is a rocky, rapid, narrow stream, and beyond more mountains. The little valley describes some very abrupt curves, making the R.R. somewhat resemble a snake's trail. Here our train ran as swiftly as they do on the level prairies of our native state.
"The North-West Aftermath," Postville Weekly Review, Postville, Iowa, July 17, 1885, page 2


    EDITORS PRESS:--I propose to start about June 1st for Oregon by private conveyance overland, and will write you from time to time, giving a description of the route, land, and whatever I may see that I think will interest your readers.
    The crops in this part of the state are much better than we expected to harvest some time ago, the few showers that we received having helped along the late-sown grain wonderfully. The crop will, however, be the lightest, we think, we have had in the last ten years. Although the hay and grain crop is light, nature seems to be trying to make it up to us in other things. The fruit trees are more than loaded down with the precious fruits, for which we are truly thankful, as we did not have much last year, We have one peach tree that was not only loaded with fruit, but nearly every one of the peaches were double, and we have seen several specimens of barley on our place that had two heads on one stalk, and one stalk that had three heads. We are inclined to think this is something uncommon. We hear of the ravages of the grasshoppers in other places, but they have not troubled us yet.
    The Grangers and others united in a grand picnic in this valley (Shenandoah) on the 8th inst., at which a very sociable time was had by the 400 persons present.
Plymouth, Amador Co.
    We shall be glad to hear from our correspondent as he promises.
Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, May 30, 1885, page 512


    EDITORS PRESS:--Monday morning, after having finished up some work at home, we got our traps in a pile, and having everything ready we brought the spring wagon to the back door, loaded up, bid the family goodbye, and started for Oregon. This was start No 1. We then drove down to brother's place and took in his traps, said goodbye again, and this was start No. 2. We now drove to Plymouth and began to feel that we really were under way. Here we took on a few more necessaries and made the third and last start. We were now fairly off for Oregon, and although we often repeated the words of that emigrant we have heard so much about, we did not paint them on the side of the wagon as he did. The words referred to are "Oregon or bust."
    Three miles from Plymouth we overtook J. Ball and his party, who were also on the road to Oregon, but would not travel with us as they had their families and would travel slowly, while ours was to be a flying trip. The sun was now getting well down in the west. We at first thought of camping near Brighton, but finally concluded to go through to Sacramento. We reached the city about 11 o'clock, put up our horses and went to bed.
    Rising early next morning, we soon discovered that some tramp had helped himself to a can of lard and one of our pies. We did not care for the pie, but the plate it was on and the lard we did not think he really needed, and we did. However, we soon replaced them, and having fallen in with the doctor (all well-regulated parties have a doctor), who just wanted to go the same way, we again set out on our journey. Our route led us through the pleasant town of Woodland, the county seat of Yolo County. Pressing on, we made Dunnigan's Tuesday night, where we camped out without making a fire. The next day we passed through several small towns, and reached San Jacinto in good camping time. This camp was on the bank of the Sacramento River at the well-known ranch of the late Dr. Glenn. We dropped the lines into the clear waters of the river, but caught no fish. We managed to bag enough wild doves, however, for supper.
    The weather was pleasant now after a day or two of north wind, and we had a very pleasant camp that night. But the next morning, just as we were about to start, it commenced to rain lightly, and before we had gone a mile we met an army of headers with their teams and wagons hurrying to shelter, and noticed that they were pretty well soaked. The prospect for us was rather gloomy, but we held our course, and being provided with a good wagon sheet we managed to keep dry and reached a camping place a mile or two north of Tehama, in a thicket of woods and brush. There was no water at this place except that which was falling from above, and we carried a bucketful about a mile to get our supper with.
    Resuming our journey in the morning, which proved to be clear and pleasant, we traveled to Red Bluff, laid in a supply of powder and shot and then made our way over the hills to Jelly's ferry, 12 miles above Red Bluff.
    Speaking of distance reminds us that no two persons ever tell us the distance to a given place alike, and we were astonished at the ignorance of some of the settlers with regard to roads and places at a little distance.
    Soon after leaving Red Bluff we sighted a hare, and being in need of meat for supper Old Tip took the rifle and fired, but only frightened the hare a little; then he fired again and again, and finally called on the doctor to try his hand at it. But the doctor could not hit him, so I called to them to come and hold the horses and let me show them how to kill the hare, who still stood in the road. Before I could get a shot the hare ran down the road near the wagon, and the doctor took the shotgun and killed it.
    We want to remark here that we saw enough wheat in the last two days to feed the people of California a long time. We passed in one place 60 miles of wheat with scarcely a break in the whole distance, and we judged it to be a very fair crop most of the way.
    We crossed the river at Jelly's ferry and made our way up the river to Ball's ferry, and here we met our old friend Chas. Green. We accepted his invitation to spend the night with him. He is pleasantly located on Ash Creek about six miles from Anderson, on the east side of the river. He has turned out to be a regular rancher.
    After leaving Green's we passed several small farms along the little valleys of the upper Sacramento. The soil is good, as are most of the crops, in this vicinity. We crossed Bear Creek, a fine stream of clear, cool water. The hills around us appeared to be green, but whether it was grass or weeds we could not tell from the road. A cold wind blew in our faces from the north. Mt. Shasta loomed up in the distance ahead of us covered with snow, while on our right was Lassen Peak, also capped with snow. Eight miles from Green's we came to Millville on Cow Creek, which we crossed on a bridge 200 feet long. Millville is quite a large town in a small but good farming district. We did not go into the town, but turned off to the right near the large flour mill situated on the east end of town, and took the "Tamarack route," as it is called, over the mountains to Burney Valley, about 24 miles distant.
    Burney Valley is a beautiful place in the mountains, and is about three and a half miles long. There is a good hotel here, kept by Dr. Pierce, also a store and several other buildings. The road through the valley is level. Then we had six miles easy down grade and then two miles more to Pit River. There is a beautiful waterfall in Burney Creek, where the water falls 115 feet. But we did not know where to look for it, as it was off the road a short distance. We passed a man on the road, who, with his family, had a narrow escape. He was driving along the road and did not notice a man chopping a tree by the roadside, and the tree fell across his wagon and struck his boy, a lad of 13 years, and injured him so severely that for a time his life was despaired of.
    From Pit River to Cayton Valley is two miles. We camped there on the place of Mr. Bosworth, formerly a resident of Napa Valley. There are six families in Cayton, and all appear to be doing well. We saw gooseberries, currants and other fruits all doing well. At this camp we baked our first loaf of bread, and it was a fair specimen of bachelor camp life. We bought oats for one and one-half cents per pound, and all along our route we found hay, barley and oats cheaper than we could buy them in Sacramento.
    From Cayton Valley we passed through a level tract of land covered with yellow pine, and then crossed Dry Creek Flat and Bear Flat. There we missed the road. We passed right in this section 60 miles of splendid timber. From Cayton to McCloud River is 20 miles. The United States fish hatchery is situated on this river (or creek) below where our road crossed. Mt. Shasta was then 16 miles distant and rose up very high and cold-looking before us. We traveled upgrade five or six miles over a sandy road and camped at the base of Mt. Shasta. We had no hay and did not find any grass for our horses, but we had plenty of barley and water and managed to get through the night. There was a hard storm on the mountain that night; it rained some on us, but did no harm except making it uncomfortable for the horses. Next morning we hitched up and started for Shasta Valley, traveled upgrade four or five miles over sandy road when a storm of sleet and snow set in, with a cold wind in our faces. This storm lasted about an hour, when we began to descend in hot haste, glad to get away from old Shasta.
Calapooia Mtns., Oregon, June 18th.
Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, July 4, 1885, page 2


    EDITORS PRESS:--Since writing my last letter we have met some parties who were traveling from California to this state and camped about two miles back of us at Mount Shasta, and they say the snow fell about 18 inches deep the day that we were caught in the snow storm spoken of in our last letter. We congratulated ourselves on our narrow escape, as snow storms in the month of June are a new thing in our experience.
    About 20 miles from Mount Shasta we came to Sheep Rock. Before reaching that point, we expected to see a rock about the size, and perhaps the shape, of a sheep, with horns, wool, etc. But imagine our surprise when we came in view of that "bit of rock"--it was an immense mountain, and loomed up grand and imposing before us. Surely it ought to have a more dignified name. The doctor said he would like to stay there a week just to have a good look at it. If any of your readers wish to have a look at it we suppose it will be there on exhibition free for some time yet.
    Leaving Sheep Rock, after having fed our horses some oats and rye grass, and having also dried ourselves off in the sun, which now came out, we proceeded on our journey through the Shasta Valley. Reaching Little Shasta, we mailed some letters for home. Little Shasta is a beautiful valley in the mountains; the fields were all green with growing grain, alfalfa and meadow grass. The place looked lovely to us, but we have been told since that they have some ague even in this mountain valley.
    From here we proceeded over a hilly country and down on to the Klamath River. We camped at the stage station three miles above the ferry, having traveled during the day 46 miles, with a cold wind in our faces all day.
    June 10th we left the station at 6 o'clock, crossed the ferry and came down the river to Cottonwood. There is a small town here, rather dull-looking now, but there are evidences of considerable mining having been done at this place. Leaving Cottonwood, we followed up a creek and soon began to climb the Siskiyou Mountains, a climb which we estimated to be two miles in extent. Near the summit of the mountain we came in sight of the unfinished railroad tunnel. Here we noticed many rare and beautiful wildflowers, gathered some and pressed them in our book. Before we reached the mountain we had a lively time with a hare which the doctor shot for our supper. He only broke Mr. Hare's leg, and could not catch him until Old Tip joined in the chase, and all had a lively time after this Siskiyou hare. We forgot to mention the doctor has cleaned the gun out, and kills nearly every time now. We saw plenty of deer tracks in the road, but saw no deer. On the summit we found very fine grass for our horses, and turned them loose for an hour. After lunch we drove down this long mountain grade, at the foot of which we struck Rogue River Valley and arrived at Ashland in the middle of the afternoon. Here we received letters from home, and also from friends in Oregon.
    We ran out of potatoes at Mt. Shasta--could not get any at the store in Little Shasta, nor at the stage station on the Klamath River. Thought we would try our luck in Ashland, but we inquired at five stores before we found any for sale, and then bought all the man had for 25 cents. How is that for this celebrated potato country? It is hard work to write letters in camp without a chair or table, so I will close for this time.
Rogue River Valley, June 28th..
Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, July 18, 1885, page 38


    EDITORS PRESS:--No doubt you are wondering what is the matter with your correspondent that he delays writing so long. Our excuse is the cares and business of this life, etc.
    We left off our narrative at Ashland, where you will remember we bought all the potatoes in the city for 25 cents. Ashland is situated at or near the head of Rogue River Valley, though we cannot tell why it is called Rogue River Valley, as the stream that runs through this part of the valley for many miles is called Bear River and is a tributary of Rogue River.
    Passing down the valley some eight miles we came to the village of Phoenix. Although it was early in the day, we had made a goodly drive and determined to camp for the night, as one of our horses appeared to be quite lame. We procured some hay and grain for our horses from a farmer and set about cooking supper. There was a deep ravine crossing the road at this place with a small stream of water in it, and to escape the wind which was blowing and also get handy to the water, we built our camp fire at the bottom of the ravine. Supper was cooked and eaten, the lame horse doctored and everything went well that night, but the next morning we had a little adventure to vary the monotony of camp life. Breakfast was just ready, and all the table fixings, salt, sugar, cups, etc. were spread on the ground around the fire, which we had kindled in the same spot as at night. We were just about to commence an attack on one of old Tip's "slapjacks" when, with a cry of alarm, the doctor seized the frying pan and as many more things as he could hold in his arms. Old Tip did the same with the bean pot, and whatever else he could catch, and scampered up the bank. It did not take me long to find out what the matter was, although not a word was spoken, for by the time I could catch the tea from the fire, and a few things which the others had left, I was standing in the water, and in a few seconds from the first alarm, the water was a foot deep, where a moment before our fire was burning brightly. We laid all the blame on the ditch man above, who had turned the water into the ravine.
    Our horse being still lame this morning, we laid over and rested him until noon, when we hitched up and drove slowly down the valley to Gold Hill, where we crossed Rogue River. The weather was cloudy, and some rain fell in the afternoon. We were fortunate enough to get our horses under shelter for the night, which we passed comfortably.
    From this place we took a road not much traveled and it led us over a high bench land, very sparsely settled, and a very uninviting district. Toward evening we came to some settlements and camped on the summit of a mountain. Here we found plenty of good water and hay at a fair price.
    Next day we drove over a hilly country and in the afternoon passed through a canyon 11 miles long. There were many wonderful sights in this canyon--large trees 150 feet high, the roots of which were 100 feet above our heads and almost directly over us on the side of the mountain. Here we found several varieties of ferns, some of them six feet high, and many other wild and beautiful plants the names of which we did not know. This canyon and another piece of mountain road which we passed over several days later reminded us very much of the Isthmus of Panama as it appeared to us 25 years ago. There were stumps of trees cut off 10 or 15 feet above the ground. Many varieties of wildflowers and fruit brought forth exclamations of surprise and delight from our party as every turn in the road exposed to our view some new and interesting feature. Near the lower end of the canyon we passed a saw-mill, the working of which gave us considerable merriment. We suppose it answered the purpose for which it was built, but it was a mere plaything compared with the mills we have seen at home. No doubt they have large ones in some parts of the state. And now we knew the reason the trees were cut so high from the ground--they cannot saw the butts of large trees in these small mills.
    Emerging from the canyon, we came to the town of Canyonville. We purchased feed for our horses at the flour mill, and camped in a pleasant nook just below town on the south bank of the Umpqua River, a fine, clear stream of water. We noticed many ducks on the river, but did not get a shot at any and concluded they wore sour anyhow.
    Resuming our journey, we followed the course of the river down the valley to Roseburg, the county seat of Douglas County. Roseburg is quite a little city, but as we did not stop there, we cannot give you any particulars about the place. More anon.
Plymouth.
Pacific Rural Press, San Francisco, August 29, 1885, page 158


    Eds. Record-Union: Have you ever been in Oregon? I have, am here now, and will tell you how I came here. I left Sacramento--where I have resided for the last year--a few months since, taking the early train for San Francisco. Now, a good many will tell you that they take the early train so that they can have a few more hours in the city. I took it because I could save $1.50. This train landed me in San Francisco in time for dinner, a call on a few friends, and to take the steamer Crescent City at 4 p.m. This steamer is owned by Hobbs, Wall & Co., plying between San Francisco and Crescent City, where the company have large lumber interests. There were thirty-five passengers, a good number of whom were ladies. As we steamed out of the bay and through the Golden Gate, the passengers were all on deck, all feeling happy, and I flattered myself that I would have a splendid time, but I was doomed to disappointment. The steamer Crescent City is a very different affair from the Queen of the Pacific, with her 300 feet of deck, elegant social hall and library and easy chairs, piano, etc. The Crescent City was built expressly for the lumber trade, and only carries passengers for accommodation, at $12.50 per head. Captain Stockfleth is every inch a gentleman, but he cannot prevent his boat from rolling and pitching, especially when he has the deck loaded with railroad iron and only two crates of cabbage in the hold for ballast. The railroad iron belonged to the company, and was taken up to build a track from the wharf at Crescent City to the redwoods; the cabbage for the good people of Crescent City. Owing to so much iron on top and so few cabbage in the hold,
    Just after getting out of the "Gate" and into the sea, supper was called. The dining room is in the bow of the boat, and seats nine people--four on a side, and the Captain at the head of the table. On entering the dining room, I found six passengers seated with the Captain--five gentlemen and one lady. The balance of the passengers had either lost their appetites or had brought their provisions aboard and were eating in their rooms. After supper and smoking a "Tansel's Punch" [cigar], I turned in. I had the lower berth, and liking plenty of air, I left the door of my room open. I soon dropped to sleep, but sometime in the night I awoke suddenly--I thought for a second or two that I had fallen overboard, for I was in the water. I soon discovered, however, that the boat was rolling, so that a big wave had struck the deck and almost deluged me. I climbed to the upper berth and let her roll and wash. At 7:30 the steward called us to breakfast. On entering the dining room I found the Captain, engineer and one lady--no more. We had a splendid breakfast--the best of meats and all the delicacies in the market. The steward is a good caterer and the cook a chef. After breakfast, putting on my overcoat and taking a "Tansel," I stretched myself upon the deck and enjoyed myself and by myself, for there were no other passengers in sight. I had just opened a Saturday's Record-Union, which I had brought with me, when a gentleman came out of his room and looked over the side of the boat. He seemed to be very much interested in something or somebody below. I heard him say something; seemed to be talking with someone that I could not see. All at once he rose up, very pale, and went into his room. Soon another came out, and he went and
and talked to that man down on the outside of the boat. He rose up pale and went inside. Then a woman came out of a room on the other side of the boat, and she had a talk, rose up pale, and she went in. I began to ask myself and wonder what or who they were talking to, and why they all looked so pale. Were they all angry with the man over on the side of the boat? Good manners prevented me from asking them, and it remained a mystery for the time. I read the Record-Union and smoked until dinner. What a dinner--a twenty-pound roast of beef, boiled mutton, roast ham, lots of side dishes and pastry without end, but no one to eat but the Captain, engineer, the lady and myself. I will here state that the lady never missed a meal. When I came out of the dining room I took a cigar out of my pocket, but I did not light it. I thought I would wait until I reached Crescent City, for fear I might not get any there, and then I wanted to go and look over the side of the boat. Mr. Editor, have you ever been on the water in a gale, when the boat would go up, up, up, and then go down, down, down, and then your stomach would drop out and go down into the hold? Well, I've been there. I could not see the man that the rest of the passengers were so mad at, and I went into my room. In passing the looking-glass I saw I was pale, but I was not mad, so the mystery was cleared up. There is one thing that I have noticed in traveling on a steamer in rough weather-everyone becomes so generous; they are willing to give up everything; I even gave up my dinner.
    We came in sight of Crescent City just at daylight on the second morning out, and steamed into the harbor about 9 o'clock, but it was so rough we did not succeed in getting off the steamer until 11 o'clock. We then walked down the long wharf belonging to Assemblyman Johnson--for which privilege you must pay fifty cents. Hobbs, Wall & Co. are building a wharf of their own, so Mr. Johnson will soon lose that revenue. The wharf leads up to the main street. Crescent City, as its name implies, is situated on a crescent-shaped bay, a pretty site for a town. But the founders of the city made a great mistake in locating their first street so near the beach. It does very well in summer, but in winter during the heavy gales from the south the water is driven up to the very door of the buildings, and for their protection they have built barricades of heavy timbers. The beach is covered with great quantities of driftwood, and supplies the town with their year's firewood. From the large number of buildings, many now unoccupied--I imagine Crescent City was once a very flourishing place. I was told by an old settler that some years ago, before railroads were known on this coast, all the supplies for Southern Oregon were landed at Crescent City, and packed over the mountains over 150 miles to Jacksonville and vicinity. Sometimes one thousand pack animals left during a week.
a small one, now engaged in the business, carrying goods to "Happy Camp," a mining town on the Klamath River, some 120 miles away. Crescent City has three hotels, but the favorite is the Del Norte, kept by Ned Yates. Ned is an Englishman, but the most Americanized one I ever met. It is told that he went to Crescent City and engaged in the hotel as a waiter in the dining room, where he made himself so useful that on the death of the former landlord, the widow, after a four months' mourning, married Ned. Be that as it may, Ned Yates knows how to keep a hotel. They now claim 350 inhabitants in the town. Hobbs, Wall & Co. have two large sawmills and turn out a vast amount of lumber, and employ nearly all the male inhabitants of the town. There are several large stores, but I believe the one owned by Hobbs, Wall & Co. gets the cream of the trade, as they oblige their hands employed at the mill to trade with them. There are several little valleys a few miles out and quite a farming community. There are to be seen all the different little stores and shops generally found in a village, and eighteen saloons. Just think of it! Three hundred and fifty inhabitants and eighteen saloons. I was told that during court week anyone going to the door of the courthouse and holding up his hand, no matter how important a case might be on the docket, the judge would adjourn court for fifteen minutes, which meant a visit to the nearest saloon. But Judge Murphy is a good fellow, if he did vote for Cleveland, and so is postmaster Woodbury, his brother-in-law, who didn't. I suppose Woodbury will soon have to take a walk, being an "offensive partisan." The stage for Jacksonville leaves three times a week, and getting in on an off night, I had twenty-four hours to take in all the sights in the vicinity of Crescent City.
    The lighthouse, which twelve years ago, when I first visited the place, stood on a point of the mainland, is now an island at high tide, the constant beating of the surf having cut its way through. Taking the road up the coast, passing a rough and rocky point one and a half miles brings you to
    This beach extends down three miles to another point, and during the winter months some very pretty and valuable stones are found, which, after passing through the hands of the lapidary, become very beautiful. In going from the bluff down to the beach you will pass an Indian rancheria. There are half a dozen families living here, including an old Indian doctor. I was told before leaving the village that I would find him very uncommunicative, as he hates the whites. I asked an old squaw who was cooking mussels where the doctor lived. She pointed to a slab-house just above. I asked her how old the doctor was. She answered: "Doctor heap old--I think thousand years." I found the old fellow in full dress. He had covered his naked body with a red blanket fastened around his neck, three feathers in a band around his neck, and a piece of white shell, some four inches long and the size of a lead pencil, stuck through his nose. He was sitting on a log in the sun, and as I approached him he rose up and said, with a grin, "White man no good. Heap kill Injun." I gave him a bright two-bit piece, which had a magical effect. He smiled, made room for me on the log, took me by the hand and said, "Good friend." He spoke very broken English, but with that and many signs I conversed with him for an hour. Among the many things he told me was of a time when the water was very high--
He said: "Long time, water heap high--so high (pointing to the marks some 70 feet above us); kill plenty Injun." I learned later that at the time he spoke of hundreds of Indians, old and young, were on the rocks gathering mussels, when the wave came in and nearly all were drowned. The doctor gave me some pretty pebbles and took me to a house where I found a squaw, some 25 years old. She was living quite American fashion. There was a rag carpet, a good bedstead covered with a blue counterpane, pillows covered with slips as white as soap and water could make them, four chairs, a lounge covered with bright calico, a looking-glass, etc. The woman was quite dark, neatly dressed in calico, and was at work making a dress for a little child four years old. Her husband was a carpenter, and had been to an Indian school. I found him quite intelligent. He said the doctor must be certainly 150 years old, for his grandmother, then living at 90 years of age, says the doctor was very old when she can first remember. The carpenter's wife showed me a book of sea mosses. The book was a large one, such as is used for a scrapbook. She had the book nearly full and very artistically arranged. She said she sold a book a year ago to some visitor for $25, but this one she would sell for $15. She said there was a quantity of moss on the beach, but very little as fine as hers and only one place where she could get it. I examined some of it with a strong glass, and found that it was like the finest thread lace. If you ever go to Crescent City do not fail to visit Pebble Beach, call on the doctor and ask to see the book of mosses.
    It was a few miles above Pebble Beach, Point St. George, where the ill-fated steamship Brother Jonathan went down over twenty years go, with nearly every soul on board lost. The wreck has never been found, but the wheel of the pilot house came ashore, and can be seen in one of the saloons in Crescent City. There is also hanging up in the office of the Del Norte Hotel the keyboard, showing the numbers of the staterooms.
    We left Crescent City at 9 p.m. for Smith's Run--better known up there as "The Corners"--distance sixteen miles. The road for the first eight miles runs through a magnificent belt of redwoods. This timber is mostly owned by Hobbs, Wall & Co. and furnishes logs for their great mills. If you pass through there by daylight you will see trees ten or fifteen feet in diameter, and one beside the road that is forty-five feet one way and twenty the other. About one hundred feet from the ground there are three distinct trees, showing that three trees have grown together, making this monster body. We crossed Smith's Run three miles below "The Corners," and down through many pretty little farms, all showing thrift and enterprise. "The Corners" has two hotels, one large store and four saloons. We stop over a day and take a ride up the valley to Chetco River, a few miles across the state line. This valley is some fourteen miles long and from one-quarter to two and one-half miles wide. Although a small valley, it supports hundreds of sheep and cows, and some of the finest butter on the coast is made here. There is no frost, and the fogs and dews keep the grass green all the year round. At the mouth of Smith's Run is an extensive salmon country. I made a short call, and while there they made a haul, and the foreman told me they had fourteen hundred, from five to forty pounds weight. The company employs whites, Chinese and squaws. It was rather a novel sight to see fifty or sixty squaws with their
jamming salmon into the cans. I never did like salmon very well, and I like it now less than ever. We left the "Corners" at 12 midnight for a night and day's ride over the mountains to Waldo, fifty miles, where we arrived at 7 p.m. About half way we stop for breakfast at the north fork of Smith's River. While the driver is getting ready I walked down to the bridge and looked into the clear, blue water seventy feet to the bottom, where I saw salmon three and one-half feet long. In coming to this stream we had been going down, down, down; then, after crossing the river, it was up, up, up; going around points where the road was but a few inches wider than the wagon, and here you could look down into the canyons for more than a thousand feet. I often found myself hugging the side of the coach farthest from the bank, and wondered, if the stage should tip over, whether my clothes would fit me by the time I reached the bottom. It must have required a good deal of courage on the part of the owners to have ever attempted a road over these mountains. Although the road is rough, and you get a great deal shook up, still it well pays one for the trouble just to get the splendid view. The road runs to the very top of the mountains, away above the timber line, and no vegetation, unless it is a stunted growth of manzanita. There have been some copper and chrome iron found, and there is no doubt but mineral of some kind will eventually be found in paying quantity. There are no settlements between Smith River Corners and Waldo, there being but
and these are stage stations. In fact, there is nothing to settle. I do not believe you could make your coffee settle. I found but one thing that you can settle, and that is your hotel bills.
    We reached Waldo (known for a good many years as "Sailor Diggins") about 7 p.m. This is another of the "has been" towns, where thirty years ago more than a thousand men could be seen on Sundays, gambling houses and hurdy-gurdys running in full blast, and a man every morning for breakfast. Now there are a dozen houses, two hotels--I do not see how one can live--one store, owned by Weimer & Sons, owners of the toll road. These gentlemen are also operating a large hydraulic mine in the vicinity. Here begins the pack trail for Happy Camp, thirty miles away on the Klamath. After supper, being very tired, I go to bed. It seemed to me that I hardly lost myself in sleep before the landlord raps at my door and says: "Stage ready for Kerbyville." On going down to the office, I see by the clock that it wants 15 minutes to 2. I climb into the stage but half awake, and in two hours' time I am at "Uncle Jack's," where I go to bed again and sleep until noon. But I am making this letter too long. As I intend to spend some time here, looking after mining interests, I will at a future time tell you what I know about Southern Oregon.
Record-Union, Sacramento, October 31, 1885, page 2




    I wrote you a few weeks since an account of my trip to Oregon by the coast and Crescent City route, and will now give you a few items regarding Southern Oregon. I wrote you in my last letter that I arrived at "Uncle Jack's" pretty well used up. After a week's good rest I began to look about. "Uncle Jack," as everyone here calls A. J. Henderson, is one of the oldtimers, having located here in 1855, and took a hand in the Indian war of '56, being burned out of house and home. Uncle Jack, hearing that the Indians were about to make an attack, decided to defend and protect his home, while the other settlers left their homes and took refuge some six miles off in a log house, which they had strengthened by digging a trench and standing up large logs on end. This fort proved a safe refuge for the settlers, but Uncle Jack, after keeping off the red devils for three days, his wife melting up everything that would make bullets, his ammunition giving out, he finally succeeded in escaping to the fort, when the Indians burned his house, barn and crops. At this time General Smith was encamped on Rogue River with a small force of regulars. The Indians surrounded him, Smith throwing up entrenchments, digging rifle pits, etc., but the Indians were out in great force, and as soon as a soldier showed his head above the works he was picked off by
General Smith would have been captured, and all massacred, had not volunteers come up from Ellensburg, at the mouth of Rogue River, and attacked the Indians in such force that they were obliged to retire. [Smith was reinforced and rescued by regulars, not volunteers.] The Ellensburg volunteers then came on to Kerbyville and assisted the settlers in driving the Indians from the country. [Almost all the Rogue Rivers surrendered and were removed to reservations immediately after Smith's rescue at Big Bend.] A treaty was soon after formed, and the Indians placed on reservations, and quiet again reigned. Kerbyville is, and has been, the county seat of Josephine County ever since the county was settled and the county set off from Jackson County. This sleepy little town, like so many other old mining camps, is situated on the Illinois River, a tributary of Rogue River. Years ago, during the prosperous mining days, Kerby was a lively place, but now it is very dead, there being but fifteen or twenty families. There are two hotels, two stores, blacksmith shop, and two saloons, or was, but one closed up a few days since. I have said that Kerbyville has been the county seat for many years, but will be so no more, for at the last election the county seat was voted to be changed to Grants Pass, a new town on the California and Oregon Railroad. The people here, like the town, are half asleep, or they might have kept the county seat here. But they thought it had been here so long, there was no danger of its ever being moved. But they awoke one day to find it had been moved. If they had bestirred themselves and built a decent courthouse to meet in, instead of the old, dilapidated barn of a thing they now have, they would have kept the county seat. The
people have got the county seat, and still they are not happy, for they are now at war with each other regarding the location of the building. Sol Abrams and a Mr. Bourne, two moneyed men of the "Pass," both want the building on their ground. Abrams lives in a part of the town called "Jerusalem," and Bourne in the part called "Jericho." Jerusalem and Jericho having fought long and well, and it being a drawn battle, the district judge has taken the matter under advisement and will soon settle it. The last session of court was held here a few days since, and the little village presented quite a lively appearance, people coming in from different parts of the county, and there were so many lawyers, jurors and witnesses that the two hotels were filled to their utmost capacity, and many had to seek quarters with private families. There were several cases disposed of, the most interesting being three divorce cases, a Chinaman's case of robbing sluice boxes (he got three years), an indictment for an assault with attempt to kill (shot a man in the leg), and another the case of a man who branded a steer belonging to another party. The lawyers, the jurors, the witnesses and the people have all gone home, and the little town of Kerby has gone to sleep again. But they were wide awake here once--years ago. The Illinois River has been one of the rich streams of the country. Samuel Sawyer, formerly of this place, later of Oakland, California, and recently deceased, once did a large mercantile business here. It is said that Mr. Sawyer has exchanged coin for
in gold dust. The miners used to bring the dust in by the mule load. I know your readers will say I am "away off," but did they know the hundreds of streams and gulches coming from the Siskiyous and tributaries of the Illinois, they would not think this statement an exaggeration. The two main tributaries of the Illinois are the Sucker and Althouse. These streams find their source away up in the Siskiyous, and have been mined from one end to the other, with wonderful success. At one place on the left-hand fork of the Althouse, some 20 miles above here, pieces have been taken out varying from a "color" to nuggets weighing seventeen pounds. So your readers can, by a mere mental calculation, see that a man would not have to work very long to get a mule load. Years ago these streams were thickly settled, and hundreds of cabins were built upon them or in the gulches near, and today, in riding up the streams and going through the mountains, you can see evidences of a once-prosperous mining camp. But most of them are deserted now, although one occasionally comes across a cabin that is inhabited. A few days since, taking a trip into the Siskiyous, almost up to the line that separates Oregon from California, I found night approaching and began to look out for quarters for myself and mule, and had the good fortune to find a cabin inhabited by two old miners. When I say "old miners," I mean it, for these men told me they had lived there twenty-seven years. They have been rich and poor half a dozen times, and are now worse off than ever. I found these gentlemen intelligent and well posted in the affairs of the outside world, and well they might be, for after a good supper of codfish and potatoes with drawn butter gravy, hot biscuit and butter and a good cup of coffee, we took our pipes and, sitting in front of a big fire in a broad fireplace, we talked of the Sharon-Hill case, the gift of Mrs. Crocker of her art gallery, Mexican news, etc. My surprise at their intelligence, and being so well posted in outside matters, soon vanished as they laid before me late leading newspapers from East and West. These men have almost impoverished themselves, hunting for a quartz mine for the last six years, for about that time pieces of quartz and gold were found in the "diggins'" below, that sold to the lapidaries for $300. But I fear the poor fellows will never find it, for, if I am any judge of the "lay of the land," they are working in the wrong direction. Like all the old miners of early days in California and other lands, the early miners here did not look for gold except in the rivers and on the bars, and when these creeks and bars were worked out, the miner looked for new diggings. Now the miner, having become educated in mining matters, knows that
is in the old or back channels. But the miners generally are too poor to handle such extensive enterprises. It requires a large amount of capital. Since my arrival here I have explored the country for some thirty miles along the Illinois and its tributaries, which took me pretty well up into the Siskiyou Mountains. These mountains are the great feeders for the country lying north of them, as they are the feeders for the mines lying south, such as Shasta and Yreka, Trinity and Klamath rivers. In my travels I have found the great main channel, lying in places hundreds of feet above any present river. Evidently there was, in ages past, an immense river flowed through this section, or some great ocean current may have deposited these great banks of gravel. At any rate they are here, and if the same ground was in Placer County, Cal., or any other county, they would have been washed away long ago. As it is, there is a great chance for capitalists here, and as the "slickens" question has closed up, or will eventually close up, many California  mines, the miners and capitalists must hunt for new fields, and here is the place for them. There has always been a Southern Oregon, but little has been known of this section, it having until recently been a good deal isolated. But now the people here begin to feel that they are a little nearer civilization, as they have a railroad but twenty-eight miles away. When the gap between Delta and Ashland--130 miles--shall have been covered by railroad, then this section will be quite easy of access. The settlers here talk of "Grants Pass" as nearby, as their nearest railroad depot has been for many years at Roseburg, to the north, and Redding much further south. There are a good many
in the country, and could be a good many more if the people had the enterprise and push of the Eastern farmer. Oregon was originally settled by people from Missouri and Arkansas, the United States government giving each settler a whole section of land, and as each married woman was entitled to the same, many girls were married at the age of 11 years. The surprisingly slow development of such a region can only be accounted for by the method of settlement, the first comers getting title to nearly all the good land. The new settlers eagerly seize on every chance for improvement, and are doing considerable, but it is complained that these old fellows "hold on to the land like burrs, and die mighty slow." And from longer experience with the "first families" I am driven to the painful conclusion that about a hundred
would prove of great advantage to Oregon. The rural "webfoot," as the residents are called, an ironical allusion to the climate, is sui generis; there is a distinctively Oregonian look about all the natives and old residents which is hard to describe. Certainly they are not an enterprising people. They drifted in here all along from 1835 to 1855, and some of them at an even earlier period, when many Western and Southern people came to the Pacific Coast to engage in cattle-raising, not considering the country fit for much else. They left Missouri and Arkansas--most of them--because those states were even then "too crowded" for them, and they wanted to get away where "there was plenty o' range and plenty o' game," and have a good, easy time. With one team to each family (time being no object to such people) it costs them nothing to move, and the peculiar land laws applied to Oregon at that time gave them every advantage, and have been a serious hindrance to settlement ever since. The result was, as I have said, that hundreds of girls, from 11 to 13 years, were married so as to acquire more land, and a further result is that all this fine land is owned in vast bodies by these old families, many of whom will neither sell, improve, nor hire anyone else to improve. They acknowledge their own laziness, and talk about it so good-humoredly that one is compelled to sympathize with them. The immense timber through which the roads and trails run is a constant astonishment to the traveler. During my trip to the Siskiyous I passed through miles and miles of vast forests of firs and pines of every diameter, from one to ten feet. Here is inexhaustible wealth in lumber. The fir is harder to work than the pine, but more durable. With good facilities for shipping every acre of this forest would be worth $200. But I much doubt that this will be in my time. Perhaps, when the timber now easy of access shall have been exhausted, then the lumberman must go farther back, and will probably find some way of getting it to market.
in this vicinity can be purchased at the mills for from $10 to $12 per thousand; they always charge extra for delivering. There are several mills in the mountains, and as they can work only in winter, or after the rains begin, they make up the loss of the summer months by running day and night. As we have had two weeks of almost constant rain, the streams are running bank-full, the sawmills are in operation, and the miner is happy. One great drawback to successful or profitable farming in this vicinity is the long, dry spell in the summer. Although a great deal of rain falls during the winter, the soil is of such a porous nature that crops must necessarily suffer during the hot summer months. The land is strong and fertile, and only needs water to produce good results. An irrigating ditch would be of inestimable value to the rancher, and there are great hopes among them that they will soon have one, for I am told that a Sacramento company, having secured some 800 acres of valuable mining ground, it will necessitate the bringing in a ditch some fifteen miles long, which, before it reaches the gravel deposits, must pass through hundreds of acres of farming land, and at an altitude that will easily furnish water for the farms below. From what I have seen I honestly believe that the Sacramento company have the biggest thing on the coast.
    For the benefit of your readers who are fond of hunting, I will inform them that the country abounds in game, such as bear, deer, grouse and all the small game, such as hare, squirrels and quail. During the last month several bears have passed along the road in front of the house, and some of them in broad daylight. As we were at lunch a few days since, the county judge, on his travels through the county, halted at the gate and called for everyone to come out, as there was
and two cubs right in front of the house. Two of the men dropped knives and forks and, each taking a rifle, called the dogs and made for the bush. As I had "lost no bears," I climbed to the roof of the house to see the fun. The boys soon came back, saying the brush was so thick and the dogs "no good," not having been trained to track bear, that they could not find them. The woods are full of deer, and at almost any hour of the day one can see them feeding with the cattle on the hillside, and the quail? why, they eat with the chickens, and some two dozen that were hatched near the house came into the yard, and during the storm of last week they crowded onto the porch, even on the door sill, and would look in at us so innocently that I could not bear to kill them. So when I want a quail dinner I go to the fields for them.
are very stringent, but anyone is allowed to kill what they want for their own use. I had almost forgotten to mention one rather interesting item regarding the county. They have a most novel way here of disposing of their paupers. When a man becomes so poor as to be liable to be thrown on the county, the people call an election and elect the man to some office, generally a school superintendent. At least this has been the case for the last four years. The present incumbent a year ago was bedridden, and the teachers had to go to his room for their examination.
Record-Union, Sacramento, December 5, 1885, page 2


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