A volume descriptive of the state of Oregon is to be published by the state board of agriculture, to be distributed abroad and at the world's fair. The following description of Ashland has been prepared for the volume by C. B. Watson, Esq., of this place, at the request of the Ashland Board of Trade. (The weather tables are omitted because copy could not be obtained in time for this issue.)
    It has been conceded by all who are most familiar with the Pacific Coast countries that Rogue River Valley, in climate, scenic beauty and the variety of its productions excels all others. Much has been written and said about it, and among homeseekers, tourists, travelers and those who are interested in reading descriptive literature there are very few who have not learned something of its attractions.
    This valley is about fifty miles in length, irregular in shape, and in width varying from two to twenty-five miles, its general direction being from the southeast to northwest, its numerous streams falling into Rogue River, which courses through the northern part of the valley and takes its direction to the west, emptying into the ocean about thirty miles south of Cape Blanco. The southern extremity of the valley reaches a point in the Siskiyou Mountains about eight miles north of the California line. It is bounded on the north by the Rogue River mountains, east by the Cascades, south by the Siskiyous and west by the Applegate mountains, being thus entirely surrounded by rugged ranges of great height, many of the summits reaching into the altitudes of perpetual snow, from which hundreds of beautiful streams take their rise, and, coursing through the valley, ensure it that magnificent abundance of the purest water which is a never-failing guarantee of the excellent crops for which this valley has ever been noticed. The table made up from the weather reports, and accompanying this article, speaks more eloquently for the climate of this favored section than all else that might be said about it. Situated between the 42nd and 43rd degrees of north latitude, it has all the advantages of the north temperate zone, and is wonderfully favored by its location and surroundings. Reference to the table above mentioned will show that this valley has neither the humidity so objectionable to many further north, nor the extreme heat or droughts so prevalent further south. The climate cannot be classed as either hot or cold, wet or dry, but is a happy medium, in which not only animated nature but vegetable life as well seems to find the happiest conditions for a healthy and vigorous growth. Hence the character of its stock and animal products, fruits and vegetables, the cereals and the products made from them is becoming so well and favorably known in the markets of the country, even to the Atlantic Seaboard, that the label "Rogue River Valley" or "Southern Oregon" is a certificate of excellence.
    Ashland is situated near the southern end, or head, of the valley, on the line of the Southern Pacific R.R. 430 miles north from San Francisco and 343 miles south from Portland in Oregon, and is the end of the second division south from Portland, and of the second north from San Francisco, and is therefore the central division station of the only line of railroad between the two largest cities on the Pacific Coast. It has a population of 2500 and boasts of many attractions and advantages. It is situated at the foot of the Siskiyou Mountains, which rise to the southward in majesty and grandeur to a height of eight thousand feet within ten miles, where snow may be found the whole year, and from which comes rushing and leaping and sparkling like "glad tidings of great joy" one of those beautiful mountain streams, the like of which poets and bards have delighted to describe and sing about from the earliest ages. This stream runs directly through this "little city of the vale," furnishing an abundance of water power and a supply for all purposes of the purest water in the world, fresh from the snows and the sparkling springs almost ice-cold in mid-summer. The people of Ashland know how to appreciate this great blessing, and have constructed a splendid system of water works at a cost of $57,000 for domestic use and all purposes, from which at more nominal figures every household, garden, shop or other place requiring it may draw to the heart's content. Ashland has justly acquired some fame for its facilities as a manufacturing site. It has an "Electric Light and Power Co.," which not only gives a splendid service in lighting the city, but is busily engaged in constructing electric light plants for cities and towns of both Oregon and California. It has two sash, door & blind factories, one large flouring mill, a woolen factory and other establishments where machinery is operated, and Ashland Creek furnishes all the power--not a stationary engine is to be found in the city. It has many beautiful residences, nearly all of which are ornamented with lawns and flower gardens, fruit trees and shrubbery, kept in excellent taste and trim, the admiration of all visitors--another of the blessings that flow from Ashland Creek, the pride of the mountains and joy of the valley and the town.
    All classes of mercantile houses carrying stock suited to the varying pursuits of the people and surrounding country are made attractive and prosperous by careful management and the airs are rather [more] metropolitan than those of a little city of only 2500 people. There are many elegant business and public buildings, among which may be particularly mentioned the Hotel Oregon, a structure of much elegance, three stories high, of an attractive style of modern architecture, complete in all its parts, constructed and furnished at a cost of $30,000--a source of constant pride to the people. It is built of brick, highly finished inside and out, and is the favorite hostelry for all traveling men between San Francisco and the north. There are two other excellent hotels; one known as the Depot Hotel, which belongs to the R.R. Co. and is kept and run in first-class style, and the Ashland House, the pioneer hotel of the city, also a substantial brick, well appointed, and where the service and accommodations are excellent. There are three other hotels and a restaurant of more modest pretensions. The Ganiard Opera House is one of the attractions--a three-story brick, which is of elegant appearance. The Bank of Ashland, one of the business standbys of the city, occupies a neat two-story brick. The Masonic and Odd Fellows' halls are also elegant two-story brick structures. McCall's Block, Johnson's Block, the Thompson and Billings blocks and Crocker's Block, all substantial structures of brick, and the city hall, a new building of brick, two stories high, well built and occupied by the various city officers, fire department, city jail, etc., are among the principal buildings. The various places of worship noticeable to strangers are the M.E. Church, the Presbyterian Church, Baptist, Congregational and Catholic church buildings. the S.P.R.R. Co.'s depot building is one of the largest and handsomest railroad buildings in the state. Trains stop here thirty minutes for meals going either north or south.
    Among the institutions of Ashland of which its people are justly proud are its public schools, which, under the management of Prof. P. A. Getz for the past three years, have taken rank among the best public schools on the coast. The schools occupy three buildings, one at the north end of the city, another at the south, while a third is centrally located, thus affording convenient accommodations for the pupils in the several grades. These buildings are suitably furnished for approved modern school work, there being in the rooms for the primary grade tables for convenience in concrete work in number, and elementary work in "form and color." These are also provided with charts, ample blackboard surfaces and various other appliances for the work of this grade. Other grades have tables for sand modeling as well as charts, dictionaries, maps and globes appropriate to the age of the pupil and the character of their work. The high school has an ample supply of chemical and physical apparatus for classes in these sciences. The schools are organized into primary, secondary, grammar and high school departments. There are eight years' work (known here, for convenience of designating them, as 1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc. grades) below the high schools, which affords a three years' course of an English scientific character. The methods of instruction and general conduct of the schools are under the supervision of a principal who has associated with him nine other teachers, all but one of whom hold the highest grade of Oregon state certificates. These pursue a study of the best methods of education, and, for that purpose, hold biweekly meetings known as local teachers' meetings. That these meetings contribute to the success of the school work is known from the satisfactory progress made by the six hundred pupils in attendance.
    The country in the vicinity of Ashland is especially adapted to the raising of fruit, particularly peaches, prunes, plums, apricots, apples and pears, blackberries, cherries, raspberries, strawberries, etc.; and the cultivation of these fruits has become the chief occupation. There are now in the immediate vicinity of the city hundreds of acres of bearing peach orchards alone, while each year sees a large acreage of wild lands reduced to the cultivation of fruits--peaches predominating. There is no country in America that in quality and flavor of the peach, the productive power of the soil and the adaptability of the climate for that fruit can equal the country about Ashland. It is essentially the queen of the fruit sections of the West, and its markets are the markets of the world. Even Australia and Europe are learning the excellence of Southern Oregon fruit (apples and pears), and many of the states and territories of our own country call for shipments of Ashland peaches during the fruit season. In this industry, again, the people of this favored locality are made the debtors of the surrounding mountains for the abundant supply of pure water that never fails them. Irrigation, however, is seldom resorted to, the soil and climate rendering it unnecessary in the matter of fruit. The great variety of other crops successfully raised render an enumeration of them out of the question in an article of this character. Suffice it to say that few countries in the world can excel this section in quality and quantity of a great variety of vegetables and garden stuff, as well as the standard cereals.
    Another feature that must not go unnoticed is the mining interest. Since the earliest settlement of the coast, the rich placer gold fields of Southern Oregon have been particularly noted. It has been, however, reserved to the more recent operation of prospectors to startle the people by new discoveries of rich mineral-bearing quartz, and what for years has been only speculation is now a certainty by the recent development of the rich Patton ledge, which a few months ago was purchased a company of Portland capitalists who have been carrying on their work of development night and day as fast as men and money could do it, and now are more than satisfied with the result both in gold and silver. This mine is less than three miles from Ashland, and the work of developing no less than six other quartz mines in the vicinity is now rapidly progressing, one of which is within the city limits. All of these ledges are affording such prospects that the newly awakened interest in mining reminds the old miner of the days of '49. The mineral wealth of this section is not confined alone to gold and silver, but copper, iron, tin, lead, asbestos, cinnabar, coal, platinum, kaolin and other valuable deposits of minerals and metals are found. There has never been so much interest evinced in the direction of prospecting and mining as now. A coal mine is at the present time being opened within four miles of Ashland and with very flattering prospects.
    In building materials, few countries can show better granite or sandstone. A large sandstone quarry has been operated six miles south of Ashland on the line of the S.P.R.R. for the past two years, which stone has been shipped to Portland and may there be seen in the construction of some of the finest buildings in that remarkable city of wealth and enterprise. The Siskiyou Mountains are wonderfully rich in granite, and within ten miles of Ashland can be found granite building material to supply the world for centuries, while the wealth of the forests that cover these same mountains in sugar pine, yellow pine, fir and cedar can scarcely be estimated. These forests have as yet been practically untouched, though at the present time capitalists who have grown rich in the now-exhausted forests of Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan are rapidly acquiring titles to timber lands and seeking eligible sites for sawmills. By these people more than 100,000 acres of the finest timber land in the world, within fifty miles of Ashland, have been bought, and mills to cut it are being constructed. It would be impossible in the space allotted to this article even to glance at all that might be truthfully told in regard to the undeveloped riches of this section. A glance at the many attractions for tourists and sightseers cannot be thought of; hunting and fishing alone would fill a book. Our Crater Lake, seventy miles from Ashland--from which it is most accessible--is one of the wonders of the world, has been much written about, and has been set apart by Congress as a national park. To describe Crater Lake alone would require double the space allotted to this article.
    The "Ashland park," the nearest point of which is only three miles from Ashland, which has been temporarily withdrawn by order of the President of the U.S. with a view of setting it aside as a park for the protection of the forests, the water, etc., has a road running to its very center, and has already become a place of resort for the people of this city and valley, where they can saunter, or fish, or hunt or lounge about in the shade by the beautiful streams in midsummer, read their daily paper only a few hours from the press, and sympathize with their sun-stricken brethren east of the Rockies.
    Truly, this is God's country, and, like the "groves of Daphne," its charms are such that he who once tastes the sweets of this retreat seldom leaves but to come again.
    Another feature not to be left unnoticed is the wonderful variety and virtue of the mineral springs in this immediate vicinity, where, bubbling from the mountainside, may be found the sweetest and the bitterest waters ever mixed in the bowels of the earth. Within ten miles of this little city are soda springs producing thousands of gallons of water daily as sparkling and palatable as Apollonaris or Wabashaw, one of which has been furnished with a bottling establishment, and "the trade" is not unacquainted with the Siskiyou mineral water. There are within fifteen miles of Ashland three soda springs fitted up as places of resort, and one gas spring which is held in perfect reverence and sanctity by the aborigines, and has been for time immemorial for its wonderful curative properties for rheumatism and catarrh. These curative properties are well known here and are not doubted. Gen. J. C. Tolman has purchased these springs and within the past year has expended several thousand dollars in erecting buildings, baths and making arrangements for the proper treatment of patients. White sulfur springs, with baths not inferior to those of Arkansas, are found within the city limits of Ashland and are patronized by thousands of people yearly, many of whom seek Ashland as a health resort, and a place to recruit wasted strength, to recover from sickness or to spend a few weeks and often months in recreation and pleasure.
Ashland Tidings, April 29, 1892, page 1


    Glendale, Ore.--This is only a little place. Here we put on a double header, and climb the divide. We see a nice valley off to the west but to the east is mountains and timber. Looking down the side of the mountain, we see another railroad but after we run a short distance we come on the same track and are going back north, then we make another turn and cross Wolf Creek on very high trestle work. Here is a very dense forest and some good timber. Still climbing, and the clouds being very low we pass some rugged mountains and pass through a tunnel of some length and come out on the south side of the mountain and can see down a long way to the west, and the valley is covered with a dense fog and it looks as if we are above the clouds, for we are above the fog and are going down grade at lightning speed. We can look back and see where we have come over or rather through the mountain, and it looks like it is not possible. We get a little lower and we run into the fog and it is almost as dense as a cloud, and we can see no distance.
    Grants Pass--There is some little town here but it is too foggy for us to see. As we get lower the fog clears up and we see some valleys and some farming. We are coming down to the Rogue River Valley, which is a fine valley. We pass Gold Hill and Central Point, both small towns, and soon reach Medford, Ore., where I stopped to see an aunt I have not seen since 1859. She was an early settler of Williamsport, or at least the town is a part of their old farm. She left here about 1840.    W. F. EVANS.
"Tourist's Letter," Warren Review, Williamsport, Indiana, June 23, 1892, page 12


    EDS. REVIEW:--With your permission I will continue the brief sketches of my trip in the West. My last letter brought us to Medford, Oregon, on the fourth of October, 1891. This is a small town, but has some good business men in it. It is a new town, having been built since the great railroad system was, that connects the north and south coast of California, Oregon and Washington. It is in the Rogue River Valley. This is a fine valley and is a large body of good land. We get a conveyance and drive five miles, to where my aunt lives, and to my surprise she knew me, although I had not seen her for 32 years. She is a very old lady, and was one of the early settlers of Warren County, Ind., having settled just west of the Alvin High property in Williamsport at an early day; moving from there to Illinois, thence to Iowa, California, and thence to Oregon. Here, I spent several days, and enjoyed a fine visit. This is a fair country and has some freaks of nature. This valley, like all the valleys, is surrounded by high mountains. A part of the valley is called "Sticky," from the fact that it is composed of a very black soil, and when wet can stick worse than any of the prairie mud, and when dry will crack open until you can frequently see four feet down. This sticky soil will produce almost any crop without irrigation, raising fine wheat, oats, corn, and fruits of all kinds. Now a sketch of the farming, I think, will be interesting. In this valley wild oats grow naturally and is one of the worst kinds of pests. It looks like our oats, except that the grain is small and similar to a grain of cheat, being dry and hard. Now, when they sow wheat, they plow the ground as soon as winter rains set in, and in February sow the wheat and have a very fair crop, sometimes making 30 to 40 bushels per acre. Then they harrow down the stubble and let it go and the next harvest will cut a half a crop of wheat and the other half will be wild oats that have come up of its own accord, and they will feed this out as we would hay or corn, and it makes good feed for horses or cattle, or any kind of stock. After taking this crop, they will let it go, and the next crop will lie nearly all wild oats, which they cut for hay and it makes fair feed. When they have a crop of corn, it will make from 20 to 30 bushels per acre, and after the corn is laid by it will come up thick with wild oats, and if they get a shower or two the oats will come up four feet high and thick. When the corn is cribbed, this will make pasture for stock all winter. Farmers say they cannot get rid of the wild oats. They will lay in the ground a long time and grow. No doubt but that it is hard to get rid of. Now, you will find another kind of soil in this valley, called free soil. This is a mixture of the black soil and sand, so it will not stick. This will produce without irrigation, if the season is not too dry. Then there is what is called desert land. This is so sandy that it will not produce without irrigation. The winter is very light and the summer is not so extremely hot, and it seems to me that I could live in this part of the country. The valleys have no timber, but back in the mountains the timber is fair, and some game is to be found. Some deer and bear are to be found. I saw one bear but as I had lost no bears, I let it go on its own course. The timber consists of oak, pine and some ash, but no hickory, walnut or hazel or any of the nut-bearing timber. For the benefit of your little folks that read the REVIEW, I will describe a school I had the pleasure of visiting on the last day of the term. The school house was built of pine logs hewed upon two sides and notched down so that the cracks were not large, the pine logs being very straight, but the cracks were not daubed with mortar as our school houses used to be, when I first went to school in old Warren County. It was covered with what they call shakes, or as we would say clapboards, made of the sugar pine. The house stood upon the foot of the mountain, and not a house could be seen from the school house. But I must say that the pupils were far ahead of the school house, for they were well advanced in their studies. Jacksonville is the county seat of Jackson County. This is a very old town and was a mining town in its younger days, but the mining is about played out. The mines are not so rich and the water is very scarce. Old miners say that the streams, that head far up the mountains, do not furnish the amount of late they did in former years. The mines here were run by what is known as hydraulic mining. That is to convey a stream along the side of the mountain to where you wanted to mine. The stream should be 200 feet above the mine. Then convey the water down through pipes, and with 200 feet fall, you can cut down the side of the mountain very fast. The water and debris is conveyed away through a trough or sluiceway, and the gold is retained by nailing slats along the bottom of the sluiceway. After running for some days, the water is shut off, and the sluiceway is cleaned up. Take a 10-inch pipe and a 4-inch nozzle, and a miner can cut away the dirt and rock much faster than one would suppose it could be done. In this country is the "table rock" that we have read so much about. It is on the Rogue River and it is a very high rock, level on the top and contains several acres. From this rock one has a fine view of the Rogue River Valley. Ask some of the old settlers if they had any part in the Rogue River War. He will smoke for a few minutes, as if in a deep study, then point to the northern end of the valley, to the table lands or rocks, and will tell you that it is about half a mile wide with perpendicular walls dropping down for hundreds of feet to the river. "That thare's Table Rock." And he will tell you how he and old Joe Lane fit the Injuns from there to North Umpqua and clear down the Siskiyou Mountains. During this war a number of savages were surprised by Uncle Sam's boys on this table rock, and were driven over the bluffs to an instant death. [Not true.]    W.F E.
Warren Review, Williamsport, Indiana, July 7, 1892, page 12


    STRAWBERRY VALLEY, June 27, 1892.--(Staff correspondence of the Times.) We were a cheerful company of boys and girls of larger growth, intoxicated with the wine of the sunshine and filled with the gladness of the morning and the freedom of the hills, as we left Ashland on our return trip to this point. We were never weary of looking at the landscape, at the beautiful creeks, bordered with long lines of willows and sycamores, running at the base of the grassy hill slopes. Our eyes were eager for the fresh surprises of the orchard-nursing valleys, of which we caught frequent glimpses between the breaks in the mountains. The chaparral thickets were glistening with dew, each leaf shining, and each grassy blade trembling with its pearl. The pretty orchard-environed homes were on all sides, and the gay chanticleers strutted proudly in the advance of their feathered harems, geese waddled before the water troughs of the big barnyards, the pigs were rooting in the dirt, bright-eyed boys and girls, barefooted and bareheaded, watched the train as it passed, while their mothers stood with arms akimbo, and the fathers leaned on their hoes as if to give a thought to the big world into which we were going while they stayed behind in their mountain-guarded valley.
    We passed the field in which the emigrant wagon stood when we traversed the byways "through the brush" in the lingering twilight, and moved swiftly on over the space intervening between us and the base of "the Siskiyous." As we climbed the ascent many a little cabin of the new settler was seen in the distance, the pioneer homes of advancing empire.
    But this mountain climb, with all the gold of the early morning upon the mountaintops; with the sweet odors of the forests and the meadows filling all the atmosphere, and the yellow shafts of sunshine lending even to the dark conifers a wonderful glory, was, to us, full of exhilaration and delight.
    There are but few people of intelligence who are not in sympathy with the mountains. We catch their spirit of freedom, and drop the trammels of conventionalism, and let nature take us to her broad breast with such a sense of contentment as never comes to us in town.
    It was a great, grand picture of repose that confronted us. There was scarcely a breeze astir. Every leaf hung motionless. The hills, slumbering upon the plains, were fertile to their very tops. Harvests grew clear up to the skirts of the pines wherever the soil has been tickled by the plow. It was a landscape of plenty.
    Ashland and Grants Pass are built upon granite soil, although the predominating soil of this section is of red clay. It was a noticeable feature of the mountains for hundreds of miles along our way. But I am told that in the principal valleys along the river beds of Southern Oregon are deep accumulations of vegetable debris forming rich, black loams.
    But ages ago all this vast region arose from the Azoic Ocean, and change has been busy and Time, the great builder, has shaped the land and the mighty mountains as we see them today, leaving only where once an ocean rolled, here and there great landlocked lakes, wonderfully picturesque in their surroundings amid their mountained splendor. Prof. Condon, an eminent authority on geological history, says:
    "The present outline of the Siskiyou Mountains was once that of an island that emerged from midocean while Europe was yet in its infancy. The northern slope of that island was drained as that region is now, making Rogue River the oldest river in Oregon.
    "Among the older rocks of the Siskiyous are granites and marbles of fine quality, with the marbles in great abundance. Nowhere else on the Western Coast is there such a rich supply of limestone and marble as this of the northern slope of the Siskiyou Mountains. A still later chapter of the history of the region is represented by the dark-colored metamorphic rock, from whose quartz veins the gold of Southern Oregon is derived. Later yet the whole Siskiyou Island, extended by this time to a peninsular connection with California, was surrounded by a sea beach of sandstone that remains to this day unchanged. This later sea beach may be seen at Jacksonville and at Grants Pass. The sea washed against it during the cretaceous or chalk period. The sea shells in this sandstone are as abundant and as beautiful as those of any recent sea beach. In this way the island of midocean extended northward and eastward, elevating belt after belt of sea-beach, until the outline of Western and Southern Oregon was completed."
    Through what long ages God worked to build all these wonders which fill the eye as we pass over these stupendous mountain ranges, whose sublime wonders we should yet never behold had not the work of the creative Hand been supplemented by the persistent energy of man, who builded and blasted and tunneled a path for the iron horse that he might carry us over and through this, to us, otherwise inaccessible mountain world.
    One should never travel by night over this road unless wishing to miss scenery as grandly picturesque as can be found along the line of any railroad in the world. The California and Oregon Railroad is a marvelous triumph of engineering skill. On its line up to what profound heights do we climb and into what immense depths do we descend! As we approach "the Siskiyous" the great range rises before us like the beetling ramparts of the world, dark, tree-crowned and sky-reaching. How are we to climb them? They confront us like an impenetrable and unscalable wall, whose frowning front seems waving us backward as we draw near, saying, "Thus far shalt thou come and no further.'" But man is master even in nature's wildest domain. He can harness the lightnings and speak across the seas and continents, and rocky crags and Sierra heights are no obstacles in his path. Yet, when the possibility of railroad over these mighty Alp-like ranges was first considered, there were many railroad builders, and skilled engineers even, who looked upon the project as a thing impossible of accomplishment. And what wonder! Study a map of the most striking points of this stupendous mountain route and it will give even the least observing a faint conception, at least, of the engineering skill called into requisition, and of the difficulties overcome in the completion of this road.
    Words cannot describe the wonderfully tortuous way the road is compelled to take in crossing the Siskiyou Mountains, or give any idea of the heavy work that had to be done to carve a roadbed over their rugged sides.
    Up this long, steep grade, which reaches the sharp pitch of 174 feet to the mile, I sat upon the platform of our car endeavoring to take in the indescribable picture as the train swept on around the gigantic flanks and shoulders of the mountains clear up to the towering summits.
    Like some mighty monster with a hundred Briarean arms the long track clasps the mountains and winds itself about them. There we see the shining rails over which we have passed hundreds of feet below us; then we look up to see them stretched hundreds of feet above us, and wonder how we are to reach the lofty altitude where they lie. The pines rise and pierce the skies over our heads, and they grow taller and more majestic at the mountain's base, but as we go up, up, so far are we above them that they look like tiny needles to our eyes, clothing the earth with greenness like an emerald sea. We cross long trestles beneath which tall conifers sway and silvery cascades leap singing downward, and are borne on through the long tunneled spurs of the mountains. We watch the entrance till down the lengthening distance the light grows dim behind us, giving the opening the appearance of some demon's face; then out we pass again into the bright daylight, still circling upward over the ascending curves till, lo! we are upon the summit, and are riding upon the very roof of the tunnel through which so late we passed.
    What a world lies beneath us! What a panorama of scenic wonders! Green and fertile valleys; yellow harvest fields, like a sea of gold hundreds and hundreds of feet below; vast, frowning mountain gorges; beetling crags; overhanging precipices, immeasurable forests, where it has been said that a squirrel might travel a hundred miles amid the thick-set conifers without touching the ground; wonderful cañons through which pour the snow-fed streams of the Sierras, running like shining silver amid the grasses and the rocks. Here a little hamlet; there the comfortable home of the sturdy pioneer; then meadows of wild bloom pouring fragrance upon every passing breeze; the happy birds above and below us; the armies of butterflies; then vast boulders rising above the forest tops like grim and stony sphinxes facing this world-old wilderness, struck dumb by its mighty vastness and  overawed by its profound grandeur. Ah, what a road to travel, and how tame to us here seem by contrast all the lower levels. Could we climb to the top of these towering pines it seems as if we might touch the stars.
    "Break on your cold gray crags, O sea," your voice will not equal the thunders of mighty mountain cataracts, and your billows will not be as white as the centuries-old glaciers of this mountain world. Such beauty and sublimity you cannot mingle; such rainbow glory you cannot show as arches these leaping cascades, nor such harmony and sweetness as is poured in the tiny rivulets; such unchanging sublimity; such murmurous undertones of melody as we hear amid these illimitable fields of sighing pines as the gentle breeze stirs the millions of emerald needles on their boughs. We are in a world above a world, where Nature is priestess and her awful secrets are hidden in untold rocky fastnesses.
    All this great revelation of the majesty of Nature is full of interest for us. The solemnity of these trackless forests appeals to us hardly less than the mountains themselves. We long to pierce their dim aisles and seek their hidden caverns. We wonder what mysteries they conceal. We look at the smiling earth and think of the great glaciers sleeping near whose waters are filtered through porous rock and yielding soil to burst out in these shining cascades and rushing torrents and surging streams. We think of the fierce grizzly, the fearless sentinel of these forest ways, and the wild deer coming down to drink at these unfailing waters. It is a grand panorama, but words are feeble to describe it.
    From Summit Rock, upon the very crest of the Siskiyous, we see Rogue River Valley lying in grand perspective thousands of feet below us, dotted with pleasant farms, homes and orchards. It is rich in its wonderful variety of color. There the yellow of the great harvest fields touching the deep emerald of the alfalfa against the brown of the faded grasses on the pasture lands, where hundreds of cattle feed; then the shimmer of the river rushing on past the gray boulders and the dun-colored road running like a thread through the valley's length; the bare, brown, rocky mountain gorges, furrowed ages ago by Nature's resistless plowshare--evidences everywhere of Nature's tireless action and the mighty forces which lie hidden beneath her smiling surface.
    Shortly after leaving Summit Rock Shasta bursts again upon our view in overtopping splendor, his snowy crest lifted far above the dark sea of pines which crown the steep slopes and summits of the mountains. Wonderful is his dazzling, sun-lighted whiteness as we see him from this point.
    Leaving the Siskiyou Mountains behind us we drop down into the Klamath Valley, passing also through portions of Shasta and Hornbrook valleys, before beginning the ascent of the Scott Mountains. Shortly after passing Edgewood we catch a glimpse of Mount Pitt,  whose snowy shaft is lifted above the din and cloudlike range rising in the intervening distance.
    The Klamath Valley is one of great beauty and fertility, and is attractive for the unique grandeur of its environing mountains. These valleys are, as yet, all sparsely populated, only a few small towns lying along our route, but with the railroad will soon come the sturdy settler and homeseeker, and beautiful homes will multiply in this region of scenic grandeur.
    Water is abundant here, numerous pure, ice-cold springs finding their way to the surface, and living streams, all fed by the mountain snows, meeting the traveler at almost every turn.
    These valleys are made peculiarly picturesque by the cone-like hills which frequently dot their floor, and the mountain views which are forever changing like the pictures of a kaleidoscope as one is borne onward.
    Climbing the Scott Mountains, which rise to an elevation of 9000 feet and from the main peak of which three large rivers take their rise, we drop down on the other side into Strawberry Valley, that loveliest of the lovely, flower-decked valleys of this Sierra region. It lies over 3000 feet above sea level. Here we obtain wondrous views of Shasta all along our route, some of which are far more impressive than the one which we have at Sisson, which, lying only twelve miles from the mountain's base, is too near for the most impressive effect to be obtained. The profile view is, perhaps, the most majestic. How the great mount seems to rise as we descend. Thousands of feet appear to be added to its altitude till it towers far up into the blue, a pinnacle of the lower world penetrating the heavens. Words can give no description of its grandeur as seen along the valley's way. High above the clouds it rises and throws out its banner of snow like a comet sweeping the sky. The world below Shasta's base has no part in his cloud life. It is something apart from us, frozen, solemn and mysterious.
    Of hardly less interest to me than its great white brother, Shasta, is Muir's Peak, a vast volcanic cone rising to an elevation of between 6000 and 7000 feet, brown and bare, save at its base, a dead pillar of volcanic action.
    Upon its top and sides five distinct crater cups may be counted from which the fiery lava once flowed, and for the geologist it holds a wonderful story of past overflows and the formation of the picturesque Strawberry Valley.
    But out of death and devastation life has sprung, and great forests, blossoming fields and harvest plains fill our vision now instead of that sea of fire.
Los Angeles Times, July 9, 1892, page 3


    MEDFORD, Jackson Co., Ore., Oct. 12, 1891.--After having a short and very pleasant visit, I turn, as I call it, toward home, the rest of my company having passed me a few days ago. I take the train at Medford, and go south, passing some fine ranches in the valley and some of the largest fruit orchards and vineyards in the state, for this is a great valley for fruit. The first town is Ashland. It is a new place and has some life about it. The valley is narrow here. I will say that here in the West the valleys are all the good land they have, and the mountains contain about two-thirds of the surface of the country, and counting that the mountains are standing on their edge, and two sides are to be included in the surface of the country, then you will not have near two-thirds for cultivation. As soon as we leave Ashland, we begin to leave the Rogue River Valley and ascend the Siskiyou Range of mountains. This is a very high range and the summit is the line between Oregon and California. We have on two engines, termed here the "doubleheader," and are ascending very fast, sometimes at the rate of 174 feet to the mile, and winding around until the sun shines on all sides of the car. It is a nice clear day and the view is grand. With the mind excited and almost overpowered by the awe-inspiring scenery, amid which we are passing, and carried over this rugged and tortuous route, always alive with some exciting scenery. Words fail to give the faintest idea of the unspeakable grandeur of this stately giant of the southern part of Oregon. The Siskiyou Mountains run at right angles with the Cascades and form a natural geographical as well as an artificial state line, between these states. A profile of the long curve over the Siskiyou, as we see them when we are on the summit, would show what great and heavy work and what skilled engineering has to be done in cutting a pathway, steep though it is, along the rugged mountainsides through thirteen tunnels, and over many gorges which had to be spanned with costly bridges. As we pass through the thirteenth tunnel, which is through the summit ridge, we leave Oregon and have a grand panoramic view of Northern California at an altitude of 5,430 feet. These mountains are covered with timber, and some of it is excellent pine timber. The view is grand. We can see east to the range of the Cascades and to the south to Mt. Shasta, one of the highest peaks on the range and over a hundred miles away. As we begin to descend we pass Pilot Knob. This is a very high point. It is a column of rock and can be seen a great ways and is near the pass where the wagon road crosses the Siskiyou; hence, the dome of Pilot Knob is 6,430 feet above the sea level. We have now crossed over into California, the great mining state, where thousands have lost their lives hunting for the precious gold. I believe every dollar of gold that has been mined has cost on an average 100 cents to the dollar and a great amount of suffering and many lives. Hornbrook is the first station, 368 miles north of San Francisco, that we reach in California, and is only a station at the foot of the Siskiyou Mountains. The face of the country has changed very much. There is no timber and is a sandy rolling valley and has to be irrigated and is very thickly settled. Here we cross the Klamath River. It is only a small river at this place, but we soon come to where the valley is better and we see some good ranches. We reach Montague at 2:30 and change cars for Yreka. This is an old mining town and would have been larger had it had the room to grow. There is still some mining done here, and is said to pay. They mine here by putting down a shaft, then mine as we mine coal, by working out from the shaft. Here we take the old-fashioned stage with four horses, and the first place of interest is Forest Hotel. This is at the foot of the mountain, and in an early day the emigrants made this a camping place. One of the campers took an auger and bored a hole in a pine tree and the water began to flow from it and has continued to this day, so says the stage driver. But I could not see any artificial work about it and took the driver's word for it. The landlord brought out a basket full of fine grapes and apples and I partook of the fruit of California, along with the rest of the stage passengers, and considered him a generous old landlord. But the driver said he was advertising at a low rate. After crossing over a mountain 4,500 ft. high, we pulled into Fort Jones and put up for the rest of the night. This is a business town at the head of Scotts Valley. This is a large valley and has been settled a long time. We follow down the Scott River, passing over the worst road that I have seen. It is a new road. The grade is good, but for miles, teams could not pass, and for fifteen miles not an acre of level land. Sometimes the road would be close to the river, at other places two or three thousand feet above the river, and you could almost throw a stone into the river. We traveled all day and passed no other settlement, arrived at Scotts Bar at dark, having made about 40 miles. Here we put up for the night for it would be a dangerous road to travel after dark. Scotts Bar is a small mining town, but the mines are about played out.
    Upon October 1st, we started early in the morning and pass the junction of Scott River with Klamath River. We go down the Klamath River, which is much larger here than where we crossed it after coming down the Siskiyou Mountains on the railroad, but the Siskiyous are still on the north and west side of the river and on the south and east they are called Scotts Mountains. The road down the Klamath River is worse, if possible, than on the Scott River. The mountains along here are all gold bearing and at every point that the miner can procure water he is at work. Some of the ditches are 20 miles long conveying the water. One ditch that I saw was said to be 14 miles long and it was not over 300 rods from the head of the ditch to the outlet where the water was being used, but it was on the other side of a high ridge or point of the mountain. All along the river you can see the Chinaman with his wheel pumping the water from the river to his mining claim. We reached "Happy Camp" just at dusk, having traveled 40 miles. Here I found a cousin that I had not seen for 32 years.    W.F.E.

    Mr. Editor, Sir: We thought perhaps the many readers of your paper could read with interest a short description of our visit up and along the beautiful canyon and pure, limpid waters of Ashland Creek. Last Thursday being a beautiful day, your correspondent and Mrs. B. Radcliff, Mrs. Judson Ganiard and mother, Mrs. Donihue, Mrs. Gettobolt, Mrs. N. Radcliff and Mr. and Mrs. Baer started for an all-day's feasting and sightseeing. There were four carriages of us, each loaded with plenty of provisions, well equipped for fun and pleasure. Our road leads us up and along a deep canyon, in many places only wide enough for a single wagon track, many times the roadbed sloping down to the water. Passing along, wondering where noon would find us, at eleven o'clock we arrived at Bell Prairie, once a mill site. Here we took our dinner. We soon constructed a cooking range of rocks, built a fire, steeped our tea, then spread our table and oh my! what a dinner! Why, the table of two-inch plank fairly groaned with such a feast. Cake, pies, chickens, turkey, beef, venison, bread, butter, cheese, pickles, jellies, honey, cabbage, salads, tea, fruits of all kinds, delicious; but such a dinner is just what one needs after riding over and up those rough places. You always want to remember to take plenty of dinner with you. You will need it.
    Well, after dinner was over our curiosity led us farther on. We ladies hitched up and started for a drive to see the falls. We drove as far as Mr. Watson's place. Nestled there among those old somber mountains, from nature's surroundings, it is destined to become a great summer resort. If you please, we will name this beautiful home Glenwood. The mountains rise high on either side. Their eminences are cut up with deep, dark wooded dells, or ravines, through which flows Ashland Creek, pursuing its way to mingle its waters with the Pacific. After resting and eating a lunch with lemonade, we tied our horses and started for a stroll alongside of the mountains, going to see the falls. About one mile to the famous falls without a name. So we suggested for a name Minnehaha. There we seated ourselves amongst its solitude, wondering what the convulsions of nature had been to have thrown up such mountains and cascades. O, it is charming, this rough and rock-hemmed little gorge, tumbling, roaring, leaping, lashing, until it finally goes along without a murmur, through woods, rocks and fernbrakes. Unfold thy beauty, to thy own solitude.
    Many deer and panther, bear and wildcat frequent these falls, but our party were brave, undaunted. We were out that day for pleasure and enjoyment, as time whiled away here could be made profitable in studying nature. But, looking at our watches, we see that the sun was fast disappearing behind the western horizon. We thought, however, we had time to catch some fish and cook them for supper--the lines were soon cast out. Behold one fine trout, then another, and another, until we had enough for supper. Our tea was soon made, our table spread under the boughs of a lofty pine. Poor old pine, its boughs fairly sighed at the sight beneath its branches. We hugely enjoyed that meal, and kindly thanking nature for this great dispensation of pure water, diversity of scenery, not forgetting the ingenuity of man in developing so beautiful a place for tourists and pleasure seekers. Hitching up our horses again, all aboard for home--a straight pull on the lines, a sharp lookout is now the most important business, for down, down, crossing fifteen narrow bridges, around sharp curves, swiftly we came all to our Ashland homes.
Ashland Tidings, August 19, 1892, page 1


EDITOR VALLEY RECORD:--
    On Tuesday, Nov. 1st, after a pleasant drive we arrived at Moonville, Sams Valley, where the first rally of the People's Party took place. This little valley is beautifully situated between the two Table Rocks. The soil appears to be rich and fertile. The new gospel of industrial redemption contained in the platform of the People's Party was ably presented by Mr. Waldrop, and judging from the attention which the speaker received from the audience his remarks were appreciated. Among those present were Mr. Geo. Jackson and wife, S. M. Nealon and others belonging to the "old guard.'' The shades of evening began to close around us when the meeting adjourned and Bro. R. E. Drum and wife extended to us their hospitality for the night. The next morning found us on our way to the next rally at Eagle Point.
    The little village was alive with people. Judge Whitman of Medford was there to flaunt the worn-out tariff rag, which has done so much to keep the people apart. That staunch old veteran, W. H. Bradshaw, had everything in readiness, and at the appointed time Mr. Waldrop spoke to a large audience on the demands of the People's Party. We also made the acquaintance of the genial correspondent of the Valley Record from this village who writes under the nom de plume of "Dick," [A. C. Howlett], and from the way he applauded Mr. Waldrop's remarks I should judge that the "flesh-pots" of the Republican and Democratic wire-pullers has become nauseating to him. "Old Sol," the orb of day, was fast disappearing in the western sky and the last rays of the glorious planet were kissing the hills and mountaintops when we left Eagle Point for a nine miles' drive to Mr. Oliver of Tolo, where we arrived in good time, had a pleasant visit and on the next day started to the rally at Uniontown.
    On our way we passed through Jacksonville, the hotbed of conservatism. Some of these days the people of this town, which is beautifully situated next to the foothills, will find out that they have followed a "will o' wisp" in allowing an interested ring to dictate a policy of narrow selfishness not compatible with true progress. After leaving Jacksonville a steady climb for several miles to the summit was our next experience, but we forgot all about it when our vision took in the beautiful view presented to our eyes. The valley, towns, farm houses, fields, groves and orchards spread before us, the distant range of Umpqua Mountains with several snow-covered peaks. To our right the Cascade Range of mountains, made prominent by the silent white sentinel, Mount Pitt, who with daring bravado kisses the atmosphere where eternal frost and storms hold carnival. Our road gradually descended into a narrow valley, where the soil had been turned upside down in the search for the "yellow metal,'' the love of which was transmitted to us from a crude and barbaric past and had its origin in that day when our ancestors were fire-worshippers. In goodn time we arrived at Uniontown school house where we met a large audience and had the pleasure of shaking hands with Mr. Russell, Throckmorton, O'Britr [sic], Knutzen and others who made the rally a success. Mr. Waldrop spoke for two hours on the main issues now before the people and proved to all intelligent persons that the difference between the two old parties would only be a change in post offices. Mr. Waldrop was billed to speak at 7:30 p.m. in the court house of Jacksonville where the janitor informed us that some small little man in authority had told him not to open the court house on that evening, but by the persistence of Bro. Holt the order was rescinded, the meeting took place and "gentle peace'' is still hovering over our beautiful valley. The next meeting was to be at Medford and on that day teams from all over the valley were making this the central point. A novel feature of this valley was the martial music furnished by Adams Bros. and Neiswander. About forty teams followed in the procession through the principal streets of Medford. The opera house was crowded to hear Mr. Waldrop, and he made clear to his hearers the irrepressible conflict between those who live on the toil of the workers. God speed the day when those who do not work if they are able, shall not eat.
    The last of the large rallies came off at the appointed time in Ashland. The Ashland silver cornet hand was engaged for this purpose, and the teams gathered at the north school house, from which place the line of march was taken through the principal streets of the town. Ganiard's opera house was engaged for their purpose and the large hall was crowded to its fullest capacity. Mr. Waldrop spoke for over two hours and the large audience was responsive to his oratory and logic. After the meeting was over I noticed quite a number of those who pride themselves "that I never change" (perhaps it is incapacity) wear a sullen look and one dispenser of cheese and codfish made the idiotic remark that "the People's Party preaches sedition and all the advocates ought to be jailed.'' Such are the arguments in Ashland. In the south, stale eggs and ballot box stuffing; in Minnesota and Kansas, murder; in the East, Pinkerton's and dude militia. How long will the people stand plutocracy?
Valley Record, Ashland, November 10, 1892, page 3


    A late Oregon letter says: The Shasta Indians, like all other American Indians, are simple savages; but, if they have any distinctive features, it is in the beauty of the women. Instead of the low, squat figure and beastly countenances of the squaws upon the plains, or in the valleys of California, you see tall, lithe forms, expressive features, and delicate hands and feet. I saw one young girl, at the base of Mount Shasta, who would be considered beautiful anywhere. She was extremely tall and very slender; her black hair was in two broad plaits, and hung two-thirds of the way to the ground; she wore bracelets and anklets upon her limbs, and barbaric ornaments in her ears; and her flashing eyes and the purple flush upon her cheeks bespoke all the passion and fiery glow of the Orient. As she and her mate stood by the bank of the McCloud, beneath the shadow of a stately pine in the setting sun, I wondered if Joaquin Miller did not have in his mind some other such being when he wrote:
    At any rate, some months after a skirmish that took place between the Shasta Indians and the whites, he was found among the Indians with whom he sided for some romantic reason, and was captured and imprisoned in the town of Shasta; and this adventure, no doubt, furnished the material from which he wrote the magnificent "Tale of the Tall Alcalde."
The Monmouth Review, Monmouth, Illinois, November 29, 1892, page 1


    From Portland to San Francisco by rail is 772 miles. By air line it is about 550 miles, thus making nearly 225 miles of curves, involutions, loops and the like. Owing to steep grades, the Southern Pacific express takes thirty-six hours for the trip, or three times as many hours as you can go from New York to Buffalo.
    The journey is not tame for an hour. Variety of scenery and temperature, forests, farms and mountain ranges, desolate plains and spider-web trestles, tunnels without number all keep up the interest of the traveler.
    Every evening a train leaves at each end of the line--Oakland, Cal., and Portland, Oregon--for the trip over the well-famed "Shasta" route. The time table is gauged so that the ride over the mountains is by daylight. Leaving Portland on a summer evening, daylight for a couple of hours reveals the pastoral beauty of the Willamette Valley. As night settles down, the train is approaching Salem, the capital of the state, and the landscape becomes only a black background, dotted with electric lights.
    Early morning finds the tourist south of Roseburg, Oregon, and the pastoral scene seems to belong to a passed continent. Nothing but high hills on both sides, with the country apparently unsettled. Ere long, we plunge into a canyon, and ride for thirty miles by the side of a creek. Much of the distance, there is no room for the track, and the roadbed is blasted out of the rock. Frequently, a high spur juts almost on the creek, and passage is made through a tunnel. A little over a year ago, the top of the mountain sloughed off on account of the rains. Thirty acres in area slid into the creek, and walled the canyon entirely across. The shallow stream soon became a reservoir, then a lake; and the track, which the day before wound along its bank, was covered with several hundred feet of water. Miles away, the track inspector found the current stopped and the rails covered with water. Finally, the accumulated flood melted and brushed away part of the huge barrier. For five miles, the old road bed was buried under the water or drift, and a new one had to be built. Now the abandoned road can be seen on the other side of the creek, and once, we whizzed by a deserted tunnel. Where the slide occurred, the once shallow creek has now seventy-five feet of water.
    In an hour's ride, the canyon becomes a broad valley, and the town of Grants Pass offers a pretty change. There are fine orchards and a few cornfields between there and Ashland. Corn raising is a scrawny failure, though the fruit farms begin already to make this region noted.
    Ashland is a much larger and more prosperous-looking town than Grants Pass, and is at the foot of a mountain range separating Oregon from California. Its water works are especially fine; the pipes are run several miles up into the hills, where a stream constantly fed with the melting snows of the higher peaks furnishes water without sewage germs, and drinkable without the need of ice.
    It is now the middle of the forenoon and the Southern Pacific Company attaches to the train an "observation car." The sky is cloudless and the air such as can be found only in mountain regions. Two engines haul the train up steep grades, out of the Rogue River Valley, to the top of the Siskiyou Range. We ascend two thousand and two hundred feet in seventeen miles. The route is as far removed from a straight line as possible. Now we are heading for Ashland, now to the east, and so at different times to all points of the compass. Once the road makes a perfect loop, and passes directly over the roof of a tunnel that was passed but half an hour before. The tunnel is hundreds of feet below, while far below that is the third track. An hour's ride, and scarcely a perceptible advance! The Rogue River Valley stretches out for many miles, walled in by mountains on all sides. The few farm houses look like children's blocks, and the orchards suggest a green mold on the landscape. Suddenly, we shoot into a tunnel, on a sharp curve. No lamps are lighted, and the roar makes conversation impossible. Ere we get accustomed to the din, we whirl into daylight where magic has conjured up a totally different picture. Behind, the mountains rise without visible break. In front, a brown, treeless valley, of interminable length. The verdure has disappeared. The farm houses and orchards have been sponged from the landscape. The bare sides of the flanking mountains appear unchanged since the creation. It is inorganic nature, unadorned by organic life. A moment since, fertility; now, sterility. The atmosphere is changed--hot, dusty, sultry. Quickly, at the head of this vast, rock-river amphitheater rises a milk-white cone against the cloudless sky. "Mount Shasta!" all exclaim. Its contrast with the present scene is impressive; but it adds to the sense of eternal changelessness. The picture is complete.
    Our toy train twists and turns, down into the valley, which is reached by windings only as a skillful engineer could have conceived. For twenty miles we traverse this burnt-out region, gasping for breath, and wondering if this is the California of fabled loveliness. Very seldom are seen a ranch and a bunch of cattle. The unshaded houses, baking in the sun, are materializations of some of Bret Harte's descriptions. Now, we can begin to understand the horrors of Death Valley in Arizona; we can realize how prospectors drop on the ground, dying of thirst, when they may be, perhaps, within a mile of water. It is possible that stock thrive here. At any rate, a few people live here. But the land is not yet discovered where people have not lived. The desert of Sahara, the home of the Arab; Port Said, on the Red Sea, where, it is said, rain comes but once in three years and is then caught in reservoirs which furnish the inhabitants drink till the next rain; portions of India, where white men cannot appear out of doors in the daytime--all have their explorers, residents, and I presume lovers.
    Though we have been approaching it for an hour, Shasta looks no nearer. Out of the plain rise many cone-shaped hills, in height from a hundred to a thousand feet. Their presence is as mysterious as the rest of the scene. They give variety, though not color to the landscape. The train points directly towards Shasta. We expect to run against it soon; but another hour, and the collision is still fifteen minutes away. At Edgewood, Cal., trees appear again, and Shasta seems very near. Toiling up more devious grades, we pass through the lumber camp of Sisson & Crocker, and stop for dinner at the town of Sisson. On the station platform is a man with a telescope, for travelers to see the mountain. It seems only a little distance away, why need a telescope? "How far is it to the top?" "Fourteen miles in a straight line." He shows us a photograph of a monument standing on the peak. It is clear day, but the naked eye cannot detect a hair line rising above the summit. The mountain is 14,442 feet high. As we are loyal to the state of Washington, we quietly exult that Mount Rainier, our pride, is noted as being 14,444 high. Two feet, or two thousand, would make no difference to the spectator; yet on paper, though they are "not so wide as a door, or deep as a well, they are enough."
    To get down into the Sacramento Valley from Sisson requires more grade and curves. In a few miles it is accomplished, and the train is going through a narrow valley threaded by a river, and wooded hills on either side. It is the evening of the second day from Portland, and the next morning we awake at Oakland, where the ferry takes us to San Francisco.
Corning Weekly Journal, Corning, New York, November 30, 1892, page 4

Last revised October 20, 2024