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Jackson County 1911 Descriptions of and
advertisements for the valley.
JACKSON COUNTY, OREGON
Oregon was originally part of the Louisiana Purchase and was
admitted
to the Union February 14th, 1859. Jackson County is in the south part
of the state, the third county from the Pacific coast, and borders on
the California state line on the south.HISTORICAL AREA.
Jackson County comprises 1,920,000 acres or 3000 square miles, nearly
as large as the whole state of Connecticut, and half as large as the
state of Massachusetts. Its agricultural portion is known as the Rogue
River Valley, which is a district of immense resources and
possibilities. Its area is about 600 square miles.PHYSICAL FEATURES.
The Valley is entirely surrounded by mountains, the Cascades on the
east and north, the Coast Range on the west, and the Siskiyous,
dividing Oregon and California, on the south. The altitude of the
Valley at Medford, the central city, is 1380 feet. The
principal river
is the Rogue, rising in the Cascade Range and flowing westerly to the
Pacific Ocean. Mount McLoughlin is 9762 feet in height and covered with
perpetual snow. This mountain, with its eternal glaciers, furnishes the
city water supply for Medford, which is one of the finest systems on
the continent. Mt. Wagner is 7245 feet high and carries its snow about
10 monthsof the year. It is also plainly visible from the city. FORESTS.
In the Upper Rogue district lies the largest belt of
standing sugar
pine timber in the world, with enormous quantities of other varieties,
principally fir. Because of lack of shipping
facilities from the
timbered districts, the county's timber is practically all virgin, and
the necessities of the community for years have been supplied from
counties further north. Now this timber is being made accessible by
construction of the Hill system of railroads from Medford to the east,
and Jackson County is on the eve of its great career as a timber and
lumber producer and manufacturing center. The amount of standing timber
in Jackson County is estimated at 22,000,000,000 feet.CLIMATE.
The thermometer is the least overworked thing in the Rogue River
Valley. It seldom gets lower than 30 degrees above zero, and on the
hottest days in summer ranges from 80 to 90 degrees, gradually dropping
to between 50 and 60 after sundown, making the nights cool and
delightful. The average temperature for the year is 52 degrees. The
average precipitation is 28 inches. Most of the rain falls during the
months of November, December, January and February, though there are
regular light showers during the spring and summer months, creating an
ideal condition in cultivation. Much of the winter consists of cool,
clear nights, and bright sunshiny days. Spring comes early,
usually in
February. Farmers plow through the winter, and before April is over,
summer is well advanced. There are no earthquakes, no hailstorms, no
floods, no windstorms, and few thunder storms. The rains are uniformly
warm and mild.AGRICULTURE.
Intensive production in Jackson County giving the greatest returns from
a concentrated area, has not justified the continued growing of wheat
and other grain crops on a very extensive scale. Corn, wheat, oats,
barley, rye, alfalfa, timothy, clover and vetch thrive to perfection.
Onions, potatoes, tomatoes, and melons do extremely well, and are great
aids to the man of average means, while he is waiting the maturity of
his orchards, for they can often be successfully grown between the rows
of young trees. Yet these industries, including dairying and poultry
raising, are of themselves highly profitable, with an unlimited and
constantly growing market condition over the entire Pacific Coast.HORTICULTURE.
Horticulture is no longer an experiment. There are 65,000 acres of
fruit planted in Jackson County, principally apples and pears, although
apricots, plums, peaches, cherries, grapes, prunes and berries of all
kinds do well and pay large money to the acre. In 1909, 90% of the
pears, and nearly 40% of the apples shipped from the entire state of
Oregon were grown in the Rogue River Valley, and the majority shipped
from Medford. In November, 1909, Rogue River Valley won the Sweepstakes
Prize of $1000 in cash and the title "APPLE KINGS OF AMERICA" for a
carload of its Spitzenberg apples at the National Apple Show held in
Spokane. In 1910 it took first honors for a carload of Newtown Pippin
apples at the Canadian National Apple Show, at Vancouver, B.C. In 1908
Rogue River Valley pears brought $10.08 per box on the London market
for whole carloads, the highest price ever known to have been paid for
fresh fruit in the world. This was repeated in 1910. Strawberries and
all small fruits do extremely well. Strawberries yield two crops each
summer, and fresh berries can be had on the table fully 7 months of
each year.LIVESTOCK.
This is not primarily a stock country, as the land is much more
valuable for fruit or general farming, but by going back some little
distance from the cities and employing the foothill lands stock raising
can be made very profitable. Beef, pork and mutton bring high prices in
the local markets.FISHERIES.
Some of the finest fishing in America can be had in Rogue River.
Salmon, steelhead, Dolly Varden, cutthroat and rainbow trout are the
principal fish, and anglers come all the way from New York City every
year to enjoy a few weeks fishing in the famous Rogue, which is now
legally protected against depredation
by nets, seines, and other commercial devices. Bear, deer, cougar and
wild game of many kinds are plentiful in the surrounding hills
and
mountains.MANUFACTURES.
Extensive and valuable water and electric power exceeding that of
Niagara Falls, an abundance of raw material and constantly increasing
railroad facilities make manufacturing more than possible. There are a
number of them in Medford now on rather a small scale, and
promises of many more in the near future.MINERALS.
Jackson County has a wonderful diversity of mineral and metal
deposits.
The first gold found in Oregon was discovered in Jackson Creek in 1851,
about five miles west of the present city of Medford. Copper is also
largely mined, the Blue Ledge copper mine being one of the largest in
America, Jackson County is among the leading placer districts in the
world. Cobalt, jade, nickel, zinc, arsenic, graphite, mica, iron,
asphaltum, agates, asbestos, onyx, carnelians, garnets, chrome, talc,
antimony, fire clay, kaolin, hematite, lead, tellurium, granite,
marble, and sandstone give some idea of the vastness of quantity of
minerals and metals found, beside the gold, silver, copper and coal.POPULATION.
The population of Jackson County is 25,756, according to the government
census of 1910. Medford has over 10,000 people in December, 1910. The
federal census was 8,840, an increase of 392 percent over the
population in 1900.RAILWAYS.
Jackson County is traversed north and south by the main line
of the
Southern Pacific, and east and west by the Pacific & Eastern, a
part of the Hill system, which gives Medford two outlets to
the east
over competing railway systems. The Pacific & Eastern taps the
largest belt of sugar pine timber in the world, located 30
miles east
of Medford, and though its further construction now underway is opening
up a vast agricultural section, is all undeveloped at the present time.
Franchises have been granted for an electric line which will traverse
the entire Valley. Medford is the eastern terminal of the Rogue River
Valley Railroad, operating to Jacksonville, the present county seat.
$2,500,000 is now being expended upon a large irrigation
system.EDUCATIONAL.
Medford has three public schools besides a new, $40,000 high school.
The public school courses include manual training, domestic
science and
horticulture, the only public schools in the state of Oregon having
these advantages. The Sisters of the Holy Names conduct St. Mary's
Academy, including all grades through the high school course, as well
as music and art, and have both day and boarding pupils. Medford has 12
churches of the principal denominations, 24 lodges, and in its
general
makeup is a thoroughly modern city.LITERATURE.
And specific information concerning Medford and its immediate vicinity
will be cheerfully sent to inquirers who are interested, and who will
send 6¢ to cover postage on the handsomest booklet ever issued
for
commercial purposes. AddressTHE MEDFORD
COMMERCIAL CLUB
Booster copy on reverse of
Jackson County map, circa 1911.MEDFORD, OREGON JACKSONVILLE
Jacksonville is recognized as the choice residence city of the Rogue
River Valley. Nestling in an arm at the western edge of the valley, it
is quite outside the path of periodical winds, and a continual calm
throughout the winter season pervades the locality. When the central
sections have their wind sweeps, comparisons have shown Jacksonville
untouched at all times. The city located near the foothills has natural
drainage, and her wells afford pure water. Not a single case of typhoid
fever has developed in Jacksonville in the past fifteen years. The city
has begun the work of installing a modern water system, and a
sewer
system in contemplation will follow at once. These considerations,
taken together with the fact that the Rogue River Valley Railway
furnishes rapid and frequent transportation to and from Jacksonville,
make Jacksonville a mecca for the settler who deems health and comfort
a primary consideration.Original Home of the Grape Industry. Present Mining Center of Jackson County. Homeseekers' Paradise. The elevation of Jacksonville and vicinity is a large factor in establishing local supremacy in fruit growing. Above the frost line the fig, the lemon and the orange grow and mature. Failure of crops in this section from frosts is unknown. English walnuts raised about Jacksonville are celebrated for the size, perfection, and abundant yield. The region justly claims to be par excellence the grape center of Oregon. It is pleasant to remember that the grape still reaches its highest perfection on the very spot where the grape industry in Oregon had its origin. Eleven million dollars in gold have been taken from the placer mines about Jacksonville, within a radius of ten miles. Indeed Jacksonville stands upon a rich placer mine--the richest known in Southern Oregon. It was the constant belief of expert miners and geologists that the vast yields of gold from the bed of Jackson Creek were but crumbs that had fallen from the tables laden with infinite wealth on the high lands above. Greater wealth than yet known awaits to be revealed to organized wealth and industry. Even now several quartz mines have been opened up west of Jacksonville. The Opp mine, one mile away, has 7000 feet of tunnel, and 40 men are at work developing this mine. Already $200,000.00 have been taken from this mine. A twenty-stamp mill is in daily operation. Other paying mines will pour their wealth into the great stream of resources yet to be opened up with the advent of capital into this miners' paradise. Jacksonville is full of historic interest. It was long the metropolis and capital of a vast empire, with 5000 population. Here gathered in her halls the intellect and culture of the Northwest. Baker, Nesmith, Delazon Smith, George H. Williams have in turn done legal and political work here. U. S. Grant, W. T. Sherman and Benjamin Harrison have in turn graced the city with their presence. Many historic relics remain in the homes, and monuments and buildings rich in historic incident still resist the vandal march of progress. All these things lend a distinct charm to resident and visitor alike. The peanut is grown successfully each summer in small quantities. A good many critics and judges have been disposed to say that the Ish farm, one and one-half miles northwest of Jacksonville, is the richest in Oregon in proportion to its size. It contains 600 acres and is in alfalfa and orchard. The soil is deep alluvial and is subirrigated. The income from this farm with a minimum of labor and care is almost fabulous. Much land of the same sort is found near it, now offered for sale in five-acre and ten-acre lots. A few acres of this land will afford a good income at once. This region is especially noted for its deep alfalfa lands and its broad expanse of alfalfa fields, which lend to the landscape a tone of unfading green. Jacksonville is just now attracting much attention in Southern Oregon as a desirable home section. The foothills surrounding Jacksonville will ere long be adorned with beautiful homes overlooking the Rogue River Valley. Nature seems especially to have carved out this locality to be par excellence the spot superior to all others for its beauty and convenience and healthfulness as a home center. All other localities yield the palm gracefully in this particular. Many are now planning to build and live in Jacksonville, even though such may carry on business elsewhere. Just now assurances reach us that a line through Southern Oregon to the sea is fully and finally determined upon by Mr. Hill. Jacksonville is in the path of that road and the town is to be rescued from the long-standing misfortune of being off the main line. Nature destined Jacksonville to a life of prosperity and singular charm. Artificial forces are now cooperating to return the ancient historical capital to the prestige and importance that, in the early pioneer days, none disputed. Jacksonville Commercial Club advertisement, Oregonian, February 4, 1911, page 12 "The Last Great West"
When the husbandman and the flockmaster
succeeded the French trapper in the occupancy of southwestern Oregon,
the geographer changed the spelling of the word Rouge [not true], as
applied to the stream that finds birth on the green timbered slopes of
the Cascades below Crater Lake, and after a short but turbulent career
pours its volume into the Pacific, to Rogue. The transition was natural
and unpremeditated. The Frenchman saw in the tints of the water a real
or fancied resemblance to the rouge of his sister's handmade
complexion; later comers were impressed with the playful roguishness of
a stream that exhibits all features of river character in its length,
the placid pool of the lower reaches, the swirl of the eddy, the
fall--700 feet of drop in one of its miles--and then the beauty of its
setting gives it a charm that is as exquisite as it is indescribable.
To the lover of the great outdoors the Rogue breathes of fishing for
trout, and salmon that has no superior on the continent, and of tenting
amid beauteous surroundings, with the scent of the oak, the pine, and
the fir in the air, and of game from the quail and gray squirrel to
deer and bear so plentiful that the novice need not return from the
quest empty handed."Oregon Fully Twenty Years Behind Washington in Industrial Progress" (By Wilford Allen.) But it is in the valley of the Rogue as it figures as an asset in the commercial world that the people of today are becoming interested. The Rogue River Valley lies down on the California line, separated from that state by the Siskiyou Mountains, with the Umpqua Mountains to the north, and the Cascades and Coast Range to the east and west, being hemmed in on all sides by towering peaks, timbered and snow-capped, giving the valley climatic conditions all its own. Climate, we are told, is what we have with us all the time while weather is what happens, and the Rogue booster says his country is long on climate, but that weather seldom occurs. The winters are mild, 18 to 20 above zero being the lowest the old-timer will talk about, and summer heat, while occasionally up around the century mark, is tempered by the breeze from the mountains, and "the nights are always cool." Wind? That is an element that can find no starting place in the Rogue Valley, and the trees grow upright and symmetrical, without that pitch away from the direction of the prevailing wind that we find in a less sheltered country. The valley proper has an average width of about ten miles, and a length of thirty, but in addition to this there are various tributary valleys lying along the creeks and streams that reach back into the foothills, and that with transportation will likely prove as valuable as the principal valley has already become. The elevation is from 1000 feet at Grants Pass to 2000 feet at Ashland. Medford, which lies at about the center of the valley, having an elevation of 1400 feet. The rainfall of the valley is an average of 21 inches per annum, largely in the winter and spring months, with an occasional flurry of snow that does not lie long upon the ground. To augment the light rainfall of the summer months the numerous streams, branches of the parent Rogue, are being requisitioned to supply water for many private and public irrigation systems. The Rogue, like the Klamath, is an old settled country, for sixty years having yielded up an easy living for the farmers and stockraisers who lived there in content. But a few years ago it blossomed out as a fruit district, taking front rank in the production of apples, pears and grapes, reaching out for, and grasping, too, capital prizes at national apple shows and fruit fairs. Two varieties of apples, the Yellow Newtown Pippin and the Spitzenberg, are being planted in the main now, as these reach the highest development and command the best prices, but several varieties of pear, as the Comice, Bartlett, Winter Nellis and d'Anjou, are giving the apple a close race for supremacy, and some of the tales told of bank accounts made fat by the product of a few acres almost shake one's belief in the veracity of the Roguerite till he takes you to the "association" secretary, and the books are brought out in proof. Think of a single tree yielding $122 worth of Newtowns, and an acre netting $2187.50 at the orchard! Of course, these two instances are exceptions, but the returns are so alluring that prices of good orchard lands have gone upward by leaps and bounds, and the sales of developed orchards are made at better than $2000 per acre, while $1000 seems a common price. Undeveloped lands can be purchased in the main valley at from $75 to $300 per acre, according to quality and location, while year-old orchards sell at from $300 to $600 per acre. And speaking of soil quality: the Rogue has it in the greatest diversity. There's the river bottom land, the choicest of the valley, fertile and free, and pleasant to work; then there's the "sticky," red and black. Stories are told, true of course, of hens that become anchored in this sticky soil, and of cows that can't come home because the mud gathers on their tails till it's a bigger load than they can carry. Yet some of the richest, most productive orchards are in this same "sticky," but when it is not understood it is ugly stuff to work. Other soils are the "red" of the foothills, productive even without irrigation, and various degrees of sands, loams, gravels and clays. One district formerly known as the "desert" is underlaid with a hardpan from six inches to three feet below the surface, but this is now being made to grow thrifty orchards, water having been brought to it from Butte Creek. Where a tree is to be planted on this hardpan, a hole is sunk with a crowbar, a stick or two of dynamite exploded, and the shattered hardpan slakes like lime, the young tree having no further difficulty in getting a root-hold. Another soil met with near the foothills is a decomposed granite, fertile when irrigated, and the best for peaches and apricots. With this great diversity of soil conditions it behooves the prospective purchaser to investigate well before he invests, and to buy that character of soil that will produce best of the products he proposes to grow. The red soil of the foothills, impregnated as it is with iron, and usually sub-irrigated, is being largely planted to apples and grapes, while in the free, sandy soils of the outlying river bottoms, quantities of alfalfa are produced, and all the soils produce heavily of vegetables where water for irrigation is applied. The development of the country has been handicapped and retarded because it was traversed by a single line of railroad, the Southern Pacific having had a monopoly of the transportation business for years, but relief is expected with the completion of the Hill line, now being built out from Medford to connect with the Oregon Trunk under construction down the Deschutes. While Medford is the temporary terminus of this line, it is not likely that construction will cease till Hill finds outlet upon the Pacific Coast, as he recently announced that the development of Western Oregon was one of the problems his company had undertaken. There are also surveys and rumors of various lines of electric roads that will someday utilize the great water power that only awaits development. The Rogue itself contains power greater than that of Niagara. During the past two years the population of the Rogue has increased at a most rapid rate, Medford, the metropolis of the valley, having become a city of 10,000 people, a people gathered from all parts of the Union, yet with less than 2 percent of foreign population. The settlers of this new old country have been attracted by the salubriousness of a climate far enough south to escape the rigors of a northern winter, yet far enough north that the burning rays of a tropic sun have lost their scorching force; they have been attracted by the beauty of the surroundings, by the opportunity for sport and for outing, and by the proven horticultural excellence and supremacy. But climate and attractive surroundings and the production of fruits are not the only features that are expected to make an empire of the Rogue. The resources of the valley are most varied. So varied, in fact, that the Commercial Club of Medford offers a reward of $5000 to „any community in the United States that within a radius of from ten to fifty miles from a common center can equal a like district of the Rogue in variety or excellence of resources. They point to the billions of feet of fir and pines with which the foothills and mountains are covered, and of the wonderful water power, now being wasted, that will one day manufacture this timber into lumber, and the lumber into its many possible products. For sixty years the mines of the Rogue have yielded, and are still yielding, fortunes of the yellow metal, and quarries of marble and granite await transportation to become wealth producers. The salmon fisheries likewise occupy an important place in the development of this "last great West," and a number of canneries are operated on the lower Rogue. Western Oregon is truly the last West. Twenty years behind Washington in material development and industrial progress, she is just now coming into her own, and the tide of immigration that for the two decades has beer peopling Washington, is now being turned toward Oregon. There will soon be no more West. Pullman Herald, March 3, 1911, page 1 BIG WRITE-UP FOR THIS VALLEY
As announced in the Mail
Tribune some time ago, the Rogue River Valley is to be
specially featured in the June issue of the Sunset
magazine by an elaborate article of sixteen pages, with superb
four-color illustrations. Walter V. Woehlke, one of America's foremost
magazine writers, and a special contributor to the Saturday Evening Post,
has been charged with preparing the article, and has just left for
Portland after spending three days looking over the valley. Photographs
have been forwarded to the San Francisco office of the Sunset magazine,
and it is expected that the June number will be ready for distribution
about May 25.R. L. Conner, assistant business manager, is in Medford with view of arranging for as wide a spread of the issue as possible, and from present expectations hopes to be able to have the business men and citizens mail not less than ten thousand copies from this vicinity to their friends in the East. The Sunset publishers have adopted a novel scheme in sending out the Rogue River number, by assuming the cost of the postage, which is 4 cents per copy, upon the addresses of parties for whom the magazines are intended being sent to them. The Commercial Club has been directly instrumental in securing this concession from the Sunset in behalf of the whole valley, and urges that every citizen of Medford take this occasion to mail a thoroughly representative article upon our country to their friends. The pupils of the schools will be invited to do so also, and it is expected that they will respond as eagerly as they did on Colonist Day, when all records of similar cooperative work was broken by every pupil in the Medford schools writing to their eastern friends. Anyone wishing may arrange between now and May 25th to subscribe for as many copies as they wish if they will call at the Medford Commercial Club. Gold Hill News, April 8, 1911, page 4 Below the Willamette Valley comes the Umpqua Valley, which is much smaller, but just as productive as the one above. Then we reach the Rogue River Valley, of which I have read so much in the past two years. Medford is the principal town here, although Grants Pass and Ashland are close seconds. Land is very high here, selling as high as $1200 and $1500 per acre. This is of course in bearing orchards of either apples or pears. They also raise peaches and small fruit very successfully here. Everything is proportionately high in price. House rent about $35 per month, and the furniture to put into it is a little higher than it is in Alta. Groceries are about the same except butter and eggs; the former averages about 40 cents a pound and eggs about 35 cents a dozen. We did not stay in Medford more than a few days, long enough to find out that the position I had expected to get was filled. John S. Wegerslev, McMinnville, "Interesting Oregon Letter," Altra Advertiser, Altra, Iowa, April 21, 1911, page 1 Transformation of This Valley of
Wonders
Editor, Medford Sun:
Sir--I was pleasantly remembered recently by a special invitation from my much esteemed neighbor and fellow townsman, Samuel Bateman, of North Maple Street, to accompany him for a day's rest, sightseeing and recreation to our sister city of Central Point, so we took tie-pass at 8 o'clock in the morning, leaving noisy, busy Medford behind for a day. We became interested in our walk from the start, as the day was warm and cheerful and the view delightful. My friend became at once infatuated with the sights and scenes through Rogue River Valley. They were so indescribably different from Montana, his former cold, bleak, fruitless home, and he also made it pretty interesting for me, pointing out the different towns and landmarks and their names that dotted the valley in the distance. We reached the city of Central Point at 10:30 o'clock fresh and game as a bantam rooster, found the city's streets full of farmers' teams, a very desirable class of citizens that gives life and activity and a pretty good indication that she is getting her share of the valley trade. Also the right impression to the visiting stranger. Central Point, centrally located as it is, is a trading center and in the midst of fruit, grain and alfalfa fields galore, now clothed and carpeted with much promise; with her clean streets, attractive business houses, residences and brick building in construction, certainly points to a city of much promise. Here, somewhat bewildered, while looking about me with the untold changes and developments of the old Rogue River Valley, I at once called to memory my first ride through this section in the fall of '76. Things moved pretty slowly and quietly in those pioneer, mossback days, with Jacksonville and Ashland as the only two trading points. Their supplies were furnished from Roseburg, consuming about two weeks' time by freight teams, with amusing scenes of balky horses, breakdowns and cuss words through Cow Creek Canyon. At that time old Rogue River Valley cultivated about one-quarter of its choice land. The balance was pastured, as stock raising was the principal industry. One wagon road then split the valley north and south, marked with stage stations and a cloud of dust from the overland coaches. One bridge, and it toll, spanned the Rogue at Rock Point. The court house, church and residences of Jacksonville and Ashland were principally wooden structures of the pioneer pattern, and the log residences and school houses dotted the country districts with the old worn rail fences. No party politics in those days. Every man who had any respect for his country or his yellow dog voted the straight Democratic ticket. Wheat was 40 cents a bushel, flour 50 and 75 cents a sack at the Phoenix and Eagle Point flouring mills, then run by water; hogs, cattle and sheep were a drug on the market. Ducks, quail and jackrabbits were as numerous as the stars and about as gentle as the barnyard chick. The circuit rider minister earned his salary of spuds, sorghum, flour and an occasional crazy quilt donated by some good Christian sister, for preaching the good old-time religion. But those were the good, old, happy, independent days when a man could kill his deer, catch his fish and dam the Rogue with salmon and fatten his hogs all without a license; also pay his 50 or 75 cents for the privilege of being put across Rogue River on Captain Bybee's ferry boat. But to my pioneer farmer, merchant and associates of thirty-five years ago that are still living, and we hope enjoying health, peace and contentment on the sunny side of life, what do we observe today spread out before us in this rapid life and activity? Can we realize the endless transformation of this grand old Rogue River Valley in this brief space of time that has unfolded to us such a charming, lovable valley, newly clothed with indescribable changes and improvements in every industry over the dear old Rogue Valley that is almost forgotten, save her history. The new valley is now before us, the envy and admiration of all Oregon, the most attractive spot on earth for the tourist to rest and recuperate and the homeseeker to cast his everlasting lot. Isn't it pleasant for us today to see and admire the new Rogue Valley with her eight thrifty incorporated cities and suburban towns galore that dot the new valley with unsurpassed beauty and with her three undreamed-of railroads, telegraph and telephone lines that traverse the most remote sections of the new valley, with three free bridges that span the broad, swift Rogue River and as far as the eye will permit us to see her countless acres of clean commercial fruit orchards, with productive farms without number that have been carved out of the once rough, uninviting tracts once considered worthless to the pioneer farmer, orchardist, and speculator that gave us the interesting history of the old Rogue River Valley while in its infancy. And now, patient, reader, is not the credit mostly due to the advent of the iron horse of the Southern Pacific Company, the new emigration of capital, custom and methods of industry that have so completely revolutionized the aged, decrepit Rogue River into this young, hopeful valley and gave to you, Mr. farmer, orchardist, stock raiser and speculator, a brighter and more promising future? Medford Sun, May 12, 1911, page 5 Transplanting the Garden of Eden
How the Apple Opened the Eyes of the Rogue River Valley, Oregon, and a Family Orchard Attained International Importance By
WALTER V. WOEHLKE
One sleepless night on the mountainous mattress under the hospitable
though stuffy roof of her brother's ancient shanty had convinced Mrs.
Dexter of her mistake. She should not have come at all. Now she would
carry back to the comfortable, steam-heated, vacuum-cleaned home in the
East a vivid picture of poor old John in his unpainted board shack at
the edge of the timber, despite his seventy-two years cutting his own
wood, getting his meals with his own lean brown hands, washing his
faded, patched overalls, throwing clods at those mud-caked pigs that
were always trying to get into his garden patch. No, she should not
have come to Oregon; she should have been satisfied with the memory of
the John she saw nearly fifty years ago when he started west, a fresh,
confident stripling eager to follow the difficult trail that led to the
golden wilderness beyond the plains and snowy peaks. But Mrs. Dexter had seen, and the picture gave her no rest. So it came about that a few weeks after the abruptly ended visit the Williams Creek stage left its customary path, jogged through the tall pines and firs, through the wide-spreading groves of oak and laurel on the uncleared eighty below Powell's place, swung around sharply and stopped in front of the old pioneer's cabin. "Got a letter for you," the driver announced, his hairy paw diving into the coat pocket for it. "It's from your sister Ann." Old John was sitting in his customary attitude, chair tilted back against the sunny side of the house, his shrewd old eyes staring vacantly past the heavily laden pear and apple trees over the ripening fields and fresh pastures of the valley, spread out like a green and gold checkerboard to the edge of the somber forest mantle on the slope of the mountains opposite. He took the letter without a word, shuffled through the door, narrow as the gates of paradise, into the cabin, found his gold-rimmed spectacles on the vast native-rock fireplace beneath the picture blackened beyond recognition by the smoke of forty years, and resumed his seat, the driver with unconcealed curiosity gazing over his shoulder. The old man's eyes twinkled as he proceeded with the letter. His mouth opened until one yellow forlorn tooth became visible, his long beard trembled with the noiseless mirth that shook his frame. "The ways of them womenfolks beats h---, Bill.'' The chair came down on all fours as Powell hooked one finger into the envelope, tore it wide open and extracted an oblong piece of paper. "There's Liza, your wife"--Bill winced--"who pestered and nagged at you until you sold your quarter-section for thirty an acre when you might have gotten fifty if you'd waited awhile. An' now there's Ann. You know what she's done?" He flourished the oblong piece of paper. "She sends her old brother two thousand dollars to build him a new house, just as if that old one wasn't good enough for him, and she says to be sure and go to Grants Pass right away an' get measured for a new set of teeth. Two thousand dollars! It sure does beat h---, Bill, the way womenfolks will act nowadays." That was a year ago. John Powell still lives in the old cabin that sheltered him for four decades. He does not believe in modern innovations. The old house and the old teeth and the old ways are good enough for him. But he did not return the two thousand. He planted them--in town lots and, thanks to the mild beneficent climate and the deep soil of Southern Oregon, they have hatched rapidly and doubled in number. If Mrs. Dexter reads this she will be shocked, but she may rest assured that necessity is not keeping John in his drafty cabin. A few weeks prior to her visit he refused seventy-five thousand for his square mile of fat bottomland. Though the type is fast disappearing before the inrush of new blood, Southern Oregon still contains, within the nooks and corners of the valleys hollowed out by the Rogue River and its numerous tributaries, many hundreds of these picturesque characters, relics of bygone days, clams thrown high and dry, as it were, by the succeeding waves of greedy humanity that passed through the rich land with unseeing eyes. From the windows of the Shasta Limited the valley with its endless miles of fruit trees ranged in military precision as if on dress parade, with its tasteful bungalows and trim freshly painted barns, with its sprightly modern cities and towns, seems to be young, new, as if it had just come out of the egg. It is new and young, barely five or six years old, but this is its second youth. Its period of incubation began seventy years ago, in the early forties when the brave men and women of Missouri and Iowa reached the Promised Land over the southern fork of the Oregon Trail. Slowly, quietly, as peacefully as the Indians would let them, they came by way of the Klamath country, their squeaking wagons rolling down the carpeted aisles of the wondrous timber that covers the slopes of the Cascades, groaning through the fords and cañons into the open valleys, following the watercourses that cleave through the Coast Range to the sea. They liked the country. It lacked the extreme humidity of the more northern and the aridity of the more southern latitudes. The winters were short and green, with a desirable touch of white now and then, just for variety. The growing season was long, the country was full of game and fish, a smiling land so fat that the juice seemed to run out of it. So they scattered up and down the creeks and rivers, built cabins, cleared the ground and got from it all they needed and more, content until the gold-seekers from California swept through the valleys like a forest fire before a howling gale. For many years the yellow fire burned in the hills and gulches before it passed on to the new diggings of the Salmon and Fraser rivers, of the Blue Mountains and the Coeur d'Alenes, having, like most pioneering efforts, barely singed off the surface of the hidden mineral wealth. Many of the gold-seekers stayed or came back to the sunny peaceful valleys. In their and in their children's veins the fever of Forty-nine never died completely. It is alive to this day. When young Briggs two years ago struck his pocket high up on Grayback, half the countryside quit the plow and went to the hills for the summer. It was a debate with his dog that led the boy to the gold. He was reasoning with the pup, his chief argument being the broad toe of his heavy boot which, missing the bow-wow, dislodged a piece of quartz shot with free gold. The Briggs family took twenty-seven thousand dollars out of the stringer in six weeks. A hundred neighbors lost twice as much in wasted time and effort. There is a farm but a few miles out of Grants Pass upon which the original settler half a century ago cleared forty acres. Today the cleared area on that farm has shrunk to sixteen acres. While the sons were out after gold and deer, fishing for salmon or hauling lumber at five dollars a day, the brush and timber stole in and quietly took possession again, but right in the midst of the dense young growth stands a monument to the memory of the pioneer mother, an apple tree fifty years old which holds its own against its wild neighbors and still provides the improvident sons with fruit every fall. Fruit always was plentiful in the Valley of the Rogue. Around their homes the pioneers planted almonds, cherries, apples, pears, peaches, grapes, and every fall the trees and vines bore abundant astonishing crops. Not because they say that in the olden times the settlers got up early, at dawn, to have a long day to rest. The long, warm, drowsy days of the summer that began in March and lingered until Thanksgiving, the blessed sun, the gentle winds and the deep rich soil did the work, the settlers took special care of the trees but despite the abundant steady harvests of forty years the settlers tittered when, a quarter of a century ago, a party of homeseekers from the Middle West arrived with the avowed intention of producing fruit on a commercial scale. Insurgency, radicalism are not inherent characteristics of the genus homo. Nature made man a dyed-in-the-wool, rockribbed, let-well-enough-alone standpatter, a true-blue conservative who, like the fox and the bear, smells a disastrous trap behind every leaf and twig that lies not today just as it lay yesterday and the day before. Along the banks of the frisky Rogue the staid old farmers had been raising wheat, 700,000 bushels of it every year, raising it without great effort. Even to this day men may be seen plowing from horseback, riding behind the plow and guiding it by means of lines attached to the handles, stirring the ground to a depth of at least two inches. In the old days the scant population of the valleys consumed 75,000 bushels and exported the balance. The limit of the wheat area having been nearly reached, the chances of future growth seemed slim. Today the valley has to import half a million bushels of wheat every year to keep its bread boxes filled. Ten years hence it will need three times that amount, all because the little band of insurgents defied the wheat standpatters, shook their fists into Tradition's wrinkled face and set out large commercial orchards of apples, pears and peaches. J. H. Stewart, the leader of the homeseekers and former member of the Illinois legislature, knew good fruit land, good fruit climate when he saw them, and along the Rogue he saw plenty of both. With his son-in-law, A. J. Weeks, with J. D. Whitman of Iowa and with P. W. Olwell he laid the foundation for the Rogue River Valley's paramount industry. Near the new little town of Medford and over toward Central Point the four bought land, bought it cheap in quarter-sections and set out trees on these tracts. Naturally, the grain conservatives considered the fruit radicals ripe for the lunacy commission, maintaining that the newcomers would not be able to sell enough fruit to make the venture pay. But they changed their tune when the well-tilled, scientifically pruned, thoroughly sprayed orchards came into bearing six to eight years later. Where wheat had furnished a maximum revenue of thirty to forty dollars an acre, the orchards were producing from a hundred to a hundred and fifty dollars an acre. Buyers from California came, purchased the crops at 65 to 85 cents a box and shipped the fruit under California brands. The price was not high, but the trees produced regularly and heavily. Evidently the conservatives had been mistaken. After all, there was profit in fruit. Here and there all along the Rogue and its tributaries, from Grants Pass to Ashland, young orchards and vineyards quietly took the place of grain fields. The dawn was breaking. Surely, man was intended by nature to vote the regular ticket straight. Exceptions only prove the rule, and the spoils of victory usually make regulars out of the radicals. Stewart and his fellow insurgents, having accomplished their mission, became conservatives. The training of their boyhood days would not be denied. When an offer was made, they sold out, one after the other, assuming that their holdings would follow the example of the Middle Western orchards and soils, attain a maximum, an apex of productiveness and go down slowly thereafter. Twenty thousand dollars, a little more than the revenue of a good year's crop, was the average price paid for a hundred and sixty acres in full bearing, and the owners were glad to take the money, certain that the buyer was walking off with a heavily gilded piece of common burnt clay. Were these orchards gold bricks? Most of the conservatives thought so. The buyers didn't, however. Their turn came later. About this time or shortly thereafter the scene of action shifts from the fir-clad hills and sunny valleys of Southern Oregon to the cold, stony cañons of Manhattan, on the other side of the continent. Casting about for particularly choice tidbits to tickle the jaded palate of his master at the matutinal meal, the butler of the Morganbilts chanced upon an extraordinarily fine display of apples, round, red, aromatic, without a blemish, perfect. "Send up a box of these apples," ordered the stately menial. He did not ask for the price. "Where did these apples come from?" he inquired at his next visit. The fruit dealer did not know, but promised to find out. From the Rogue River, he reported, somewhere in the Far West, in Oregon--or was it Washington? Anyway, the Morganbilts, also their friends, the Vanderheims and the Nockerbickers, wanted more. They, too, did not ask about the price. Were these orchards, sold for a hundred and twenty-five dollars an acre, really gold bricks? The Morganbilt command went forth, and the retailer, the jobber and the western commission man hastened to obey. From seventy and eighty cents a box the offers gradually rose; the revenue from the orchards increased. Within a few years the buyer of the old Stewart place, having paid $22,000 for two hundred acres, smiled and smiled for three long sunny days after passing the brick on to the next man for $78,000. All the valley smiled with him at the purchaser. Smiles notwithstanding, they kept on planting orchards and vineyards, down on the valley's level floor, up on the gentle slopes of the red hills where the green timber had been cut off and the brush transformed into mohair by way of the goat route. But the real awakening, the complete rejuvenation of the Rogue, did not come about until five years ago when the East imperatively demanded more of the perfect northwestern fruit than the comparatively small bearing orchard area could supply, when fruit prices tumbled over each other in their eagerness to go up the ladder first, when London joined New York in the clamor for the western apple and pear, when small tracts of old trees in one year yielded more revenue than had been paid for land and trees the year before, when the towns and hamlets along the Rogue kicked off their warm blankets, arose, seized the brazen megaphone and began to tell all the world of the wealth they had been snoozing over for lo! these many years. At that time Medford was a town of about three thousand inhabitants. For the preceding ten years it had been practically standing still, marking time. In 1906 Medford organized a commercial club that also marked time for a year before it began to labor. Since then the club and the city have been working overtime, hitting a gait so speedy that the whizzing wind made the old-timers' eyes water. In four years the city trebled its population, quintupled its business and octupled its property values. However, when the town started on its long hard race, few of its backers believed that it would break a record. "She's a fairly good filly," they opined, "with plenty of wind and fine staying powers, but as for speed--" Just about the time when the flag was dropped and Medford left the post a prophet came along from far-away Minneapolis, a prophet with some capital to invest. He looked about hard, saw everything worth seeing, looked into the future and began soothsaying, telling the Rogue River Valley's future, the number of children it was to have, when and how far it would travel and kindred information usually dispensed by palmists, using not coffee grounds but the seeds of the bearing orchards as the basis of his predictions. Like the prophets of old he went about in the public places announcing the advent of a great upheaval in land values, repeating his message wherever he found willing ears. They laughed at the seer. Taking another long look around and ahead, just to make sure, he repeated his vision, urged his hearers to get in on the ground floor, gave specific details of his dream. Earnestly, zealously he predicted that, within five years, bearing orchards selling then for three to five hundred dollars an acre close to town would bring twelve hundred, fifteen hundred, yes, eighteen hundred dollars an acre. Again they laughed. Taking a fresh breath the prophet, reiterating his faith in the land under his feet, proclaimed that first-class unimproved fruit land near to the city, then on the market at prices ranging from fifty to a hundred dollars, would be worth two hundred to four hundred dollars an acre in five years! That was too much! The man must be a wild-eyed dangerous lunatic. They avoided him, would not listen, shunned him. They warned solid businessmen against being seen with him on the public streets, but all the time they noticed wonderingly that the prophet seemed to believe implicitly in the truth of his predictions, that he was spreading his capital over as much good land as he could stretch it. Even more. When he had reached the limit of his resources, his heart bled at the sight of the money-making opportunities which he thought he saw lying around loose, waiting to be picked up. Taking a long chance he obtained an option on eleven hundred acres of choice fruit land at eighty dollars an acre. He needed $45,000 in cash to close the option and obtain possession of the land subject to a mortgage of a like amount. Wherever he turned for the cash he found willing ears but locked pockets. At last he offered to turn over the deed to the firm that was to advance the money, guarantee ten percent interest on the loan out of his own resources and give the lender half the profit to be made out of the resale of the land. That proposition, likewise, was politely turned down. In three years the eleven hundred acres, offered the despairing prophet for ninety thousand, were disposed of in small parcels for a sum aggregating more than half a million dollars. A hundred and sixty acres was the farm unit in the Valley of the Rogue before the coming of the horticulturist, the irrigationist, the advocates of more work on less land. And the speculator helped to increase the number of these desirable citizens. His task was not always easy. Quite often the owner of a hundred and sixty acres was as averse to selling, as disinclined to make room for more families as the lord of sixteen thousand acres. Sometimes it required the sheer weight of gold to induce them to part with their holdings. Right here let us stop a moment and cast a look around. Undoubtedly the valleys of the Rogue and its tributaries form one of the finest fruit districts in the country, a district whose pears are excelled nowhere, whose apples, peaches, cherries, grapes and berries march side by side with the leaders of the procession--BUT, to produce and market this phenomenal fruit keeps the brain cells and the muscles of the grower on the hop, skip and jump all the time. It does not drop easily into his lap. Though the combination of soil and climate is ideal for certain varieties, the big fruit profits they tell of do not come for the whistling. Given the right kind of soil for the right variety, with good trees on the land, the orchard must be intelligently handled, well cared for, the picking, grading and packing must be done just so, the marketing must be performed understandingly and the market itself must be propitious to realize the astounding results that fly from mouth to mouth. The long peaceful sunny drowsy afternoons filled with the hum and drone of the busy bee and the grower's gentle snore are, alas, a thing of the past in the fruit business. Whoever wants to grow exceptional fruit and make exceptional profits must make exceptional efforts, must think, work and act harder and faster than the other fellow; that's axiomatic. The valley only supplies ideal raw material. What the finished product will be depends solely upon the individual. They love to tell of those pears that retailed for thirty-five cents apiece. We will now take a look behind the scenes to see what the stage manager had to do to produce the startling effect. In grain, the two hundred acres could be well taken care of by two men with two teams. To produce top-notch pears required first, thirty years of horticultural experience on the part of the man who selected soil and location and planted the trees. It requires the continuous services of ten to forty men with a dozen teams, not counting the army of pickers and packers employed every fall. Also, it requires a plant that eats money every day in the year; plows, cultivators, harrows, spraying outfits, pumps, bunkhouses, tool sheds, packing houses, storage plants, stock barns, lumber, wrapping paper and a dozen other things. On top of that it needs a man with fruit knowledge, business ability and executive talent, a man able to make good in almost any line of endeavor who must be conversant with soils, plant pathology, entomology, chemistry, mechanics and a few other applied sciences. Only when these ingredients are all present and in daily use twelve months in the year can the result be a pear that retails at thirty-five cents apiece, five thousand miles from the point of origin. Some eighty thousand acres have been transformed into orchards in the Rogue River Valley during the last five years, the owners being largely business and professional men attracted by the climate, the safety of the investment and the promise of large returns. Their presence opens a wide field for the two-fisted man in overalls with more children than dollars. In eight or nine years the valley will ship annually at least twenty thousand carloads of fruit. No matter what price the fruit brings, it will have to be picked and packed, and the owners will want to eat three meals a day. The cities and towns, also, will at least double in population during that period, and this additional population will not forgo the eating habit. That's where the chance for the two-fisted worker with the invisible capital and the very visible and audible family comes in. Let the other fellow grow the fruit. Take his money and help him in his orchard until a little piece of land is within reach. Thereafter, cows, chickens, pigs, alfalfa, berries, vegetables, an irrigation ditch and independence. One instance will suffice to point out the possibilities awaiting the poor man. Four years ago twenty-seven farmers, living with their families upon one of the forks of Williams Creek, turned off beef that brought them a little less than four hundred dollars, fifteen dollars a family, the only cash they took in during the year. Ten of the more progressive farmers in the vicinity--it is a very large, scattered vicinity--got together, organized a cooperative creamery, chipped in seventy-five dollars apiece and started boldly into the dairy business. They knew as much about it "as a hawg knows of heaven," and yet last year the little creamery distributed $17,000 among sixty-one farmers, paying top market price for butterfat, and it paid the stockholders a dividend of twenty percent besides. Some of the farmers averaged more than a hundred dollars a month the year round. They are beginning to import grade cows and registered stock, though many of them have to haul their cream fifteen and even twenty miles to the creamery. And the creamery cannot, by one-half, supply the demand of Grants Pass alone. It will be a long time before the production of milk, butter, eggs and poultry has caught up with the growing demand created by the increasing number of city dwellers and lords of the orchards. In the meantime the worker with his alfalfa patch, his dairy cows, his vegetable garden, his irrigation ditch and his chickens, even in the valleys as yet without a railroad, will enjoy a steady revenue twelve months in the year, a little extra money coming in when the pigs are ripe for picking in the fall, about the time the Missus needs a new winter bonnet. The rush to the Rogue started with the tales of bonanza fruit profits. Upon the further causes that accelerated the hegira into Southern Oregon a little incident in the billiard room of one of the Rogue River Valley's commercial clubs will help to shed light. A group of old-time residents was discussing the hardships of the valley's pioneers when a new arrival joined their ranks. For fifteen minutes he listened. Then, during a particularly harrowing recital of conditions forty years ago, he interrupted the speaker. "Pardon me, friend," he said with a smile. "You have known me for two years now. Let me ask you a question. Have you ever seen, during that period, my nose turn dead white?" The pioneer stared. "Why, no. Not that I can remember. What does it mean, anyway?"' "Does your nose ever turn white?" "So far as I know it doesn't. But why do you ask?" The old residents moved forward, waiting curiously for the answer. The new arrival chuckled. "I'll tell you since you're so anxious to find out. You were talking about the hardships of the pioneers in this valley. Well, I'm somewhat of a pioneer myself. Went into Dakota forty years ago. Those white scars I was speaking of are the marks left by the Dakota zephyrs on my face, on my hands, on every part of my body the blizzards could get at by hook or by crook. When the temperature gets down around ten above and a stiff wind blows, the scars turn white and begin to show up. I've been here two winters and they have not shown up yet. Talk about hardships here! Pshaw! You couldn't freeze to death here in midwinter unless you tried to real hard or crawled into the ice plant." Before the natives had a chance to reply, a wizened little old man with gray whiskers and innocent baby-blue eyes spoke up bashfully: "I've been making somewhat of a climate study myself, and I reckon our friend from Dakota is right. Let me tell you that this here is the healthiest spot I ever found, and I have looked all over. I've been traveling through the country since I sold my farm in Wisconsin, investigating the graveyards wherever I went." It takes faith, white-hot, contagious faith, to work wonders. In the Valley of the Rogue they performed startling miracles, changed human nature, operated upon ingrowing money without the knife and made it come out for public purposes solely by the power of the spirit. Out into the tributary valleys from Medford and Grants Pass new railroads are pushing their grades; Central Point aims to become the center of the proposed electric system; beyond Jacksonville, the county seat, new rails are being laid to reawaken old mines; trolley lines are projected, irrigation systems are being built, power plants are under construction, new lumber camps are springing up in the vast bodies of untouched virgin timber, and mining, the oldest of the industries, is feeling the quickening touch of new capital and new methods. Orchards come and orchards go; mines yield wealth and vanish into history; even the splendor of the forest falls before the biting ax, but the beauty and the joy of living, rushing, leaping, tumbling water, of great rocks, high mountains and of the deep places between them last forever. When the endless ranks of young fruit trees have become hoary with age and commonplace, when the valley towns have become cities and the hamlets towns, when golden opportunities and sudden riches no longer are the lure, even at that time the stream of humanity into Southern Oregon shall wax and grow, for the power and the glory of nature's beauty never grow less. In the beauty of its singing streams and silent hills, in the sunny aisles of its majestic, dreamy forests, in the mystic shadows of its roaring gorges Southern Oregon has an asset that will tell its full worth in the future, when the pace of material development has slackened a little. Already Crater Lake is exercising its magic spell; in a little while the Marble Halls of Oregon, the enchanted domes, grottoes, minarets and cathedrals reared fantastically in the hollow interior of a mountain vaster than the fabled retreat in which sleeps Barbarossa, will be made accessible. In yet awhile longer, when the good roads come, the region between the Valley of the Rogue and the sea, a region of tumbled mountains covered with tall timber from base to peak, of singing waters, dizzy chasms and radiant valleys, will become one of the most famous touring grounds in the country. But in the meantime the traveler need not leave the beaten, easy path to obtain a taste of Southern Oregon's pristine beauty. If he will traverse the length of Ashland's park, follow it from its beginning in the thriving city's very heart up and ever up to the edge of the eternal snow, guided by the sight and sound of the murmuring brook that leaps in mad abandon over a hundred foaming cascades, always in the shade of gnarled oaks, tall cottonwoods, shiny laurels, straight firs and dark cedars, with the virgin timber marching in green, unbroken ranks up the steep walls of the canon; if he will follow the trails through this natural, unpolished jewel owned by the community, he will be better able to appreciate the charm of Southern Oregon. Sunset Magazine, June 1911, page 587-600 See related Gold Hill News article, above. The Boosters' Trip into Southern
Oregon.
As stated in last week's Record,
six boosters from the Del Norte Commercial Club started Tuesday of last
week at 7:40 a.m. for Grants Pass and other points in Oregon to see
what we could see and hear about good roads and other improvements that
we thought would be beneficial to this county and the town of Crescent
City. As we said the start was made at 7:40 from the Bay Hotel on time,
with the Record
man in the
front seat and the great chauffeur Bert Reed at the wheel. The roads
between here and Gasquet we found to he very rough in places, but could
be put in good shape at a very small cost if they were attended to at
the proper time; however, everything went well and at 11:30 we arrived
at Patrick's Creek when we had a very nice lunch which seemed to please
everyone present. Our old friend John Endert was on hand and told us
all the late news that happened along the road. At 12:30 we made a
start for the big machine. The ride from there on was one of the
grandest it was ever my pleasure to experience. The scenery is so grand
that one becomes dazed at the magnitude of it. Wish some writer would
do it justice; I can't. The road across the mountains as a| whole is in
very good condition, and we had no trouble on the way from that source.
We arrived in Grants Pass at 5:45 none the worse for the ride, all
saying that Mr. Reed was the best driver we ever saw. We drove around
the Pass looking for a place to stop at as the Hotel Grants Pass was
full and could not give us accommodation. The hotels seemed to be all
crowded, but we finally drove to the Arlington Hotel kept by Mr. W. T.
Coburn, who upon looking at us said we looked good to him and took us
in. The treatment we received at the Arlington was very good indeed,
and let me say the Arlington is a good place to stop when in the Pass.
After a good wash and a liberal supply of Ziac's powder puff [apparently his liquor flask]
we were in
shape for dinner. After enjoying a fine dinner we adjourned to the
Commercial Club rooms and found Mr. Andrews, the secretary, at his desk
and after a shake hands and an introduction all around we were all
seated and Mr. Andrews phoned for Mr. Sabin, the president of the club.
Mr. Sabin arrived in quick time and proceeded to make us very much at
home in his usual good-natured way by telling us all about Grants Pass
and what the Commercial Club was doing for the town and county and what
we should do for our county to wake it up from its long dream. It did
not take Mr. Sabin long to show that he was a booster, and more than
that he wanted Del Norte to get a wagon road, railroad and harbor
improvements and said any of these that will help Del Norte will help
us here and we are with you people. After a friendly chat we adjourned
to meet the next morning at the club rooms and they would show us the
points of interest and what they were doing by improving the town. The
next morning we were on hand at the appointed hour and found three big
autos waiting to take us out. It did not take us long to get into the
seats assigned to each and we were off. The first stop was made in
front of the new high school building just completed. We went through
the building from cellar to the ceiling, and I must say it was the most
complete structure of its kind I ever saw. Space will not permit me to
try to explain what we saw. Suffice to say that it is a fine building
and only cost $40,000.00. We again took our seats and were driven up to
the big irrigation dam and pumps. This big plant will irrigate most of
the Rogue River Valley and is a godsend to the farmers in the valley as
water means everything in that country. It was a great sight for us to
see the salmon at the big dam trying to get up the river. There were
millions of them trying to work up. This plant is a big thing for the
Pass as there is a big payroll attached to it, and that is what makes a
town. After viewing the dam we were driven back to the city water works
and electric plant and then back to the hotel, all voting a good time.
Many thanks to Mr. Sabin and the others who were there. After dinner we
boarded the S.P. train for Medford. In due time we arrived at the
station to find waiting Dr. Reddy, Mayor Canon and Geo. Putman in their
up-to-date autos. We were quickly assigned seats in the autos and given
a fast ride to the Hotel Nash, one of the best in the state. Our
baggage was taken in by the porters together with Ziac's powder puff.
We were then given a run around town to see the town, and it was a run,
believe me. After viewing the street improvements, the water and
electric light plants we were taken out to see some of the big fruit
ranches, and they were certainly a sight to see. Their orchards did
look good; the improvement and the up-to-date houses show that the
people are prosperous and understand their business. There are no weeds
and grass in the orchards. They are as clean as a garden bed and no
moss on the trees. Wish some of the Del Norte people could see them. It
would cause them to wake up I am sure. While out on the road a shower
of rain came up and caused us to hike for the hotel. On the way back a
tire on Mr. Putman's machine bursted and made a great noise and the
flanges of the wheel flew to the four winds. Mr. Ziac was so badly
scared that he did not know what to do--stand up or sit down. He
finally ran for the nearest fence. Mr. Putman being a mechanic, it did
not take him long to get it under way again. With Mr. Zaic in the
machine they came as fast as before the big explosion and arrived all
safe at the hotel. After a good dinner we were again in shape to meet
the members of the Medford Commercial Club at their hall. There was a
big meeting of the business men of the town assembled, and the speeches
showed that they were all in favor of helping Del Norte or doing what
they could for harbor improvements or a wagon road to Grants Pass, and
let me say right now if the people here will help themselves the people
of Southern Oregon will do their part.After many speeches in favor of the bunch from Del Norte the meeting adjourned with the understanding that we would be on hand for Ashland at 9 o'clock in the morning. It is needless to say that we were on hand and they were there too. The drive from Medford to Ashland was made through the old towns of Phoenix, Talent and Jacksonville. The old county seat of Jackson County looks on the decline. It looks a great deal like Crescent City. They should get in some new blood from Medford or some other place that is on the map of prosperity. We arrived at Ashland in time for lunch at the Hotel Oregon. The lunch was good and made everyone feel better. This is a dry town and not as lively as Medford. After lunch we met the business men of the town at the Commercial Club and had a very pleasant time. They were all with us in a short time and when it came to offering resolutions they went Grants Pass and Medford one better in favor of Del Norte. They certainly know what we want here and are willing to help us get it. Ashland is quite a town. The buildings are large and attractive. The streets are well paved and lighted. They have a nice park that is kept clean and healthy-looking. The drive back from Ashland was made through the biggest fruit farm in the world. This is going some, but Oregon takes the cake. This is a great orchard and they say the price is $300,000. That is some money. We all got back to Medford and after many warm handshakes and farewells we boarded the train for Grants Pass on our homeward lap and arrived at the Pass at 7 o'clock Thursday evening. We had dinner at the hotel and a call on the Commercial Club and spent the evening with them, and brought a very pleasant time to a close. There were two of our party who were very essential, John L. Childs, who paid the bills, and Mr. Zaic, who looked after us in the dry towns, all of which was very nice on their part. What we saw in Oregon was good streets and roads and how to make them good, improvements on the farm, outhouses all painted and kept clean and nice to look at, orchards pruned, plowed and no weeds to look at, grain fields clear from radish, mustard and other bad weeds. The trip home from the Pass was very pleasant without mishap. For any other information see C. A. McLaughlin. Del Norte Record, Crescent City, California, July 1, 1911, page 1 FRANK WILBER TELLS OF ROGUE RIVER
PROGRESS
Frank Wilber was an arrival Wednesday morning from Phoenix, Jackson
County, Oregon. After visiting a couple of days with his brother, O.
B., he departed for New York state where he will spend the winter
visiting with relatives. He anticipates going east by way of Los
Angeles, New Orleans and Washington, D.C.Mr. Wilber assures us the Rogue River Valley section is being rapidly developed, in fact the entire county is up and doing, Jackson County having just voted bonds for one and a half millions for good roads. He says almost every little village in the valley is incorporated, the law of Oregon permitting any village to incorporate where 40 signers of a petition can be obtained. That Phoenix has but 250 of population. About three years ago Phoenix built a $16,000 high school, and are now compelled to add two more rooms to same. It has just voted $25,000 for a new gravity water system. The county proposes to build 300 miles of good roads, one of the first sections to be a connection at the California-Oregon line with California state highway and which will be continued through the county to its north boundary. The Enterprise man inquired of Mr. Wilber as to whether or not he was planning to assume matrimonial responsibilities while in his old home section. He replied jokingly that such a thing might happen, but did not get very serious, hence we were left in doubt as to his real intentions. Davis Enterprise, Davis, California, December 16, 1911, page 4 Last revised October 19, 2024 |
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