With the view of inducing inquiry and reflection, we ask those of our readers who are preparing to go to the mines to consider well as to the proper time of going. Many of you are better acquainted with the character of the country over which the road to California passes than we are, yet a little further inquiry and reflection in these times of general excitement may prove serviceable. It is said by good men now in California, who went with wagons, that wagons cannot be taken through into the California mines until July; the same opinion is entertained by some intelligent men here who have an extensive knowledge of the country--if this be true, farmers who intend going to the mines with wagons would do far better to drive business upon their farms until August, before commencing their journey.
    Traveling from Oregon to California with wagons was never attempted before last fall, when it resulted well, and it would prove equally advantageous again in the same season of the year. An arrival in the mines between June and September would be very likely to prostrate persons from Oregon with sickness. One thing is true; many more of those who packed through last fall were sick than of those who went with wagons; now, although this may be attributable in part to the greater exposure of the packers, yet it was probably mainly owing to the fact that the packers reached the mines earlier than the wagoners. We believe that an ox team will pass over ground with a wagon containing a load of one thousand pounds where a horse bearing one hundred and fifty pounds burden cannot go, but horses can sometimes avoid ground that wagons must pass over. Suppose that you reach the immediate neighborhood of the Sacramento with horses and wagons by the first of May (which is as early as you can well hope), will not that be during high water, and on the verge of the sickly season? and will not the great fatigue of the journey so early in the season exhaust the energies of the body and render it more than otherwise liable to successful attack from the diseases of the country? If so, then both interest and prudence would dictate that rather than undertake the journey so early in the season with wagons and horses, it would be more wise to wait until a time when the roads are known to be good, and the more sickly portion of the season will have passed. By August another crop can be grown, harvested and secured. By leaving here on the first of August the mines can be easily reached by the middle of September, and by going into the mines at that time such such conveniences as can be taken with wagons, with plenty of provisions and good health, a man might entertain a reasonable hope of retaining his health through the fall and winter. The foregoing suggestions are thrown out more with the view of eliciting inquiry among our fellow citizens as to what their true interests are than by way of advice.

    In my last, I mentioned that I should leave the next day for Oregon, but did not until Monday, July 23rd. We sailed from the bay in the pilot boat Hackstaff, with twenty-four passengers, and expected to arrive here in about ten or twelve days, at the farthest. But we were sadly disappointed. It was blowing heavy when we left, and increased to a gale. This continued for nine days, with a very bad sea running, out of all character for the wind. But the Hackstaff rode like a duck, and, though she was wet, we got along with some comfort. The only cause for anxiety, then, was the sickness of Captain White, who, the second day out, was taken down with fever and severe diarrhea. He was for some days in a very low state. The weather was very thick and foggy, and on the seventh day out we turned her head for the land, hoping, with the coast aboard [i.e., close by], we should get out of the blowy weather. This gale was from the N.N.W.--the usual course of the winds here for six months in the year. On the tenth day out we made the land, but here a calm succeeded, accompanied by thick weather which beggars all description. The sea ran as high as it did in the gale, with not a breath of wind to steady the vessel. Our situation at that time was about as uncomfortable as it well could be. We could scarcely stand on deck, or elsewhere. Our sails were split, the mast hoops dropped from the sails, the reef points were thrashed into so much tow, and I expected to see the masts pitched out of her, and, to add to our misfortunes, it was found that our stock of water would be gone.
    On the 5th of August, we were at the mouth of the Klamath River, and sent a boat ashore to get a supply of water, but were met by so large a body of hostile Indians that it would have been the height of folly to attempt landing. They met us naked, were painted and fully armed, and bid us defiance. On the 7th, we made the mouth of the Rogue River, distant about thirty miles north of the Klamath, which Wilkes calls by its Indian name on his chart. Here the captain, who was recovering from his sickness, went ashore in the boat, and on finding a good harbor inside, and plenty of water on the bay, resolved to run the vessel in, as it would greatly expedite matters, our boat being obliged to go two or three miles to get the water.
    Whether the captain noticed the tide or not when sounding the bar, I do not know, but after getting on board, an hour elapsed before getting under way. The tide had fallen one or two feet. This fact, connected with another--that of mistaking the channel a few feet, in crossing the bar--proved fatal to us. The vessel struck on the bar, and in ten minutes was piled up on the beach, or point, on which she struck. She drove up very hard, but did not budge. I expected she would. We landed our passengers through the surf, and in one hour and a half her forefoot was bare, and she could be boarded with dry feet. Every effort was made to prevent the vessel from working up on the shore, but there was so much sea on that we could not get the anchors out with the boat, though we came near swamping her two or three times in the attempt. As soon as the passengers left, the Indians boarded her and commenced pillaging. We passed to the shore the passengers' trunks, also some pork and flour. As the vessel had driven up to nearly high water mark, it was evident that she could not be got off, except by the regular process of launching. There seemed no alternative but to abandon her. This we did, taking with us some provisions, and such articles of clothing as we thought we could carry, but not such as we should have taken, had we known the country through which we had to travel. Our mistake was in taking too much clothing, and loading ourselves with what we had in two or three days to either burn or throw away. Our passengers had among them about 150 pounds of gold dust, which, in addition to their rifles, was no inconsiderable load. But when the mountains we had to climb are taken into account, nothing but the most absolute necessity could have induced them to take it. That necessity was the want of food, and safety from the Indians.
    While at the wreck the Indians became more troublesome, and showed their good will by shooting at us from the north side of the river, and as our rifles were wet and not in condition for use, it was deemed prudent to evacuate the spot. So we crossed the river in our boat, which we then abandoned, foolishly I think, and encamped about half a mile from the wreck. Among the passengers was a man who had been in the country before, and he undertook to pilot us out, but such piloting I wish to be saved from for all future time. We should have gone up the coast to the Umpqua, or else struck a N.E. course for it, but instead of this, we followed this man about 12 days. By this time, greatly to my gratification and relief, he acknowledged himself to be lost. The country is so covered with smoke that it is impossible to see more than the distance of half a mile at any time. This is caused by the Indians burning the prairies, which extend to the mountains, setting the forests on fire. My pocket compass, which I bought in New York, now for the first time became useful, and did me good service, as for many days we were unable to see the sun even at noon. We struck a N.E. course by it, and though there was some grumbling at the mountains we had to climb, and the canons to get down, every inch we traveled was on our course, and so much gained, This journey across the mountains is one that I shall not attempt to describe. Their steepness sometimes scarcely varied ten degrees from a perpendicular, covered with brush of two growths, with the first dead and hardened by fire, and the trees of a size that would be incredible in the States. When we wanted water to drink we had to descend a thousand feet or more to get it. Then the impossibility of packing a sufficient quantity of provisions to last us any length of time, when we were lucky enough to get them, caused us to suffer much with hunger. These, and the constant worriment of the packs on our backs, rendered our sufferings about equal to anything I have ever heard or read of. If this had happened to us in the winter, instead of summer, we must have stayed where we were until spring, or made our way along the coast.
    At length, on the 27th of August, being the twentieth day of our journey, we struck the wagon road of the Umpqua Valley. The next day we met a train of wagons from Oregon, on their way to California. When we met them we had not the first mouthful of anything to eat, and for some days previous spignet root and berries had been our principal food. They liberally supplied us with food, and some of us were made quite sick by overeating. Here we broke up into small parties. I was fortunate enough to procure a horse of some French people who were packing through to California. I mounted my animal barebacked, with only a string in his mouth for a bridle, and posted through the Willamette Valley to Oregon City, where I arrived on the 5th of Sept., and after remaining there until Capt. White arrived, I came down to this place in three days, in a canoe, and am now waiting the arrival of the brig Forest, to go to San Francisco.
    This trip has been an expensive one to me, not that my loss in hard dollars has been so great, but the prospective profits of my up and down cargo I think would have amounted to three or four thousand dollars.
New York Herald, January 21, 1850, page 6


    A few months before that a vessel that was at the mouth of the Columbia, the Hackstaff, had been sent down to California, & among the supplies she had on board was some band iron. She was wrecked between the mouth of the Coquille & the Umpqua. They had worked it into their big knives. They had made whalebone handles. You could take a man's head off with one of them.
Josiah L. Parrish, "Anecdotes of Intercourse with the Indians," Bancroft Library P-A 59

    I left the San Francisco Bay on the 23rd of July, in the pilot boat Hackstaff. Had a gale for 9 days and a calm 8 days succeeding.We got out of water and attempted to run into Rogue River, on the coast, to get a supply, after the Captain had sounded the bar. We had 24 passengers on board, and water was all-important. In entering the river on the 7th of August, the vessel struck the bar and went upon the point in sight of us. From the 7th to the 27th of August we were in the mountains, suffering considerable from fatigue and hunger and progressing scarcely 5 miles a day in a straight line.
    We reached the wagon road in the Umpqua Valley after a journey of 19 days in the mountains, and in two days after we procured horses and rode to Oregon City, about 140 miles from where we were wrecked. I came 110 miles in a canoe from Oregon City to this place, and am now waiting for a chance to return to California. Capt. White (who has not yet come down here) has some idea of piloting on the bar here. He has been over to Vancouver to see the Quartermaster in relation to the subject. There is a fine opening here for the business, and if I were to stay in the country five years, I would do the same. As to California. I have no hesitation in saying that it is the best country under the sun to make money in, except Oregon, although the gold regions have many drawbacks which I might enumerate. For a poor young man, who is willing to work for from $5 to $20 per day, California is just the place. The great trouble is, we expect too much. We heard of the prizes in mining, but nothing was said of the blanks.
Albany Evening Journal, Albany, New York, December 12, 1849, page 2

    There comes to me this bit of pioneer history. It reads like a story. It is a story. It is one, however, in which there is not a phrase of fiction, not a word but what is fact. Doubtless an omission of a few of the details and a pencil stroke or two to polish the striking incidents would make it more thrilling, but the object is to record only what happened and in the way it happened; to state the actual, not the fictitious. The name given of the schooner is the name she bore; the names given of the captain, crew and passengers are their own names; the incidents related are real incidents, qualified with this word of explanation: memories are treacherous. Thirty-seven years have passed since the incidents occurred, and it is but natural that in narrating them the actors should give slightly different versions; that there should not be entire agreement as to the order of their occurrence or the time. But taken in any version they form an entertaining chapter of Oregon's history. It is a chapter worth relating; it is worth preserving. And here it is:
    About the 22nd of July, 1849, the schooner W. L. Hackstaff, Captain William White, sailed from San Francisco for the Columbia River. She was a small vessel, registering only about ninety tons, but she could ride the billows of the ocean like a duck rides the ripples of a river. A short time before this she had arrived from New York, in the waters of whose harbor she had for years been doing service as a pilot vessel. No pilot who threaded those waters knew the indentations of the neighboring coast, the landmarks, the shoals, the rocks better than did White, but he was a pilot, not a captain. Navigation in its broader sense he knew not. But when in imagination the owners of the schooner saw the very sky that overhung California hued with gold, Pilot White was made Capt. White and given a commission to seek the ocean of Balboa's finding, and to proceed northward until the star in the west seemed to stand still over the spot where the golden child lay. Having one, two or more sailing masters aboard, the Hackstaff in due time anchored in San Francisco Bay. It being then found that there was little use for such a craft in California waters, her agents ordered her to the mouth of the Columbia River to perform her wonted service of piloting.
    A merry company had she as passengers as she sailed up the coast. Twenty-four they were in number, and all Oregonians. Their names, as far as can be recalled by the four first named passengers, and from whom the within facts are gleaned, are Lester Hulin, Cornelius J. Hills, Charnel Mulligan, James M. Chapin, Jason Wheeler and Leonard Wheeler (brothers), Wm. Shively, James Leabo, John Ellenburg, two men by the name of Walker (father and son) and four others, Churchill, Sexton, Vickers and Watson, whose Christian names are not known. There are, therefore, nine of whom neither Christian nor surname can be recalled. These, with the ship's crew, numbering seven men, making a total of thirty-one, was the complement of humanity on board the schooner. The passengers had been in California only a few months; some of them only a few weeks. But that state did not hold for them the charms that Oregon held. The novelty of sifting earth for gold had vanished. The metal was too plentiful to be appreciated. Thinking, therefore, that they could return whenever they chose and secure any amount they wanted, they flung their bags of gold dust over their shoulders and buckled them around their bodies and decided to return to a cooler climate, to lovelier vales and valleys, to return home. They therefore hailed with joy the sailing of the Hackstaff, and paid their passage of $100 each without a murmur. So light a value was placed on money that before embarking one or more of them left several hundred dollars with acquaintances in San Francisco, saying: "Take this and keep it for me, will you? I may return for it someday," and left with not a line of writing to show the deposit.
    Soon after passing out of Golden Gate strong headwinds were encountered. "I will put out to sea to escape these winds," said the captain. "At this rate our progress will be backward," and out to sea he went. The schooner was headed northwest and for eight days her general course was not changed. The second day she passed out of sight of land, but the storm did not abate. There was no rain. It was a strong, never-ceasing, relentless wind. At times it transformed the ocean into foam. Wave after wave swept over the deck of the schooner and apparently drowned her for a time, but so lightly and trimly was she built that to her this was but a frolic.
    The lighter billows often afforded amusement. Occasionally there would be hours at a time when the sea was fairly smooth. The passengers would then recline on the deck as seals bask on a rock. One of the company was in the habit of dropping asleep almost as soon as he came within the sun's rays, and as he was not a favorite with a few of the passengers; whenever a wave would curl over the edge of the vessel and break upon his body they considered it great sport. One afternoon while he was asleep, a giant wave was seen to approach. His comrades who were on deck winked at one another as they clung to the rigging. The wave came and completely enveloped the ship. A few moments afterward Mr. Morpheus was found to be clutching at the false bulwarks as if the earth was being deluged and the schooner Hackstaff was Noah's ark. Thereafter when he slept he went below. When night came it was the custom of the officers to lash the lever of the rudder, which extended forward over the afterdeck, in one position and let it remain thus for hours, occasionally until morning. This was a novel proceeding to the Oregonians and they humorously referred to it as "staking the vessel out."
    About the ninth day the captain changed his course to northeast. He had expected to make the voyage to Astoria in five or six days and now feared that if he longer kept out to sea his supply of fresh water would become exhausted. Thenceforth a small quantity was daily issued to each passenger, the allowance growing smaller as days came and went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen days passed and still no land was to be seen. The force of the headwinds had lessened, but they had been so fierce that the captain declared the schooner had made no progress northward, and if anything was then below the latitude of San Francisco. On the fourteenth or fifteenth land was descried. No river, bay or other indentation appearing, they continued to sail up the coast, thinking they might soon reach their starting point--Golden Gate. At last the supply of fresh water ran so low that the passengers told the captain that he must either put them ashore or manage to fill his casks. He now took another observation by the sun and pronounced his position to be twelve miles below Monterey. Soon afterward a dead calm settled upon the vessel. As the tide came in there was danger of her being washed on the rocks along the beach, and as there was no breeze to fill her sails the crew and passengers, in order to save the ship and possibly their lives, resorted to oars, of which, fortunately, there were four long ones on board.
    During the delay caused by the calm, Sexton, Mulligan, Hulin and three sailors took a small boat and rowed shoreward, hoping to find fresh water and to determine at what point on the California coast they were. Nearing land they beheld Indians. They then rested their oars, and looked steadily. They were familiar with the small California Indians, but these were to them as snow peaks to hillocks. Slowly the boat neared the shore. Slowly and stately passed the Indians upon the beach. Seventy-five or a hundred of them there were, all fine, stalwart fellows. The little clothing they had on consisted of skins of animals. Bows and quivers of arrows hung upon their sides. They were bedecked with feathers, their faces stained, and every movement betokened the primitive savage.
    "Hold on, boys," suddenly cried Sexton. "Those red devils are not California Indians. Let's look at them. One thing is certain, if we go ashore we must fight."
    They ceased rowing and held a conference. They looked at the Indians, at the beach, and the headlands. They could not detect a familiar object. "Where are we?" was the question each man asked himself, the others. Soon they reached a conclusion, and action immediately followed. The bow of the boat was turned toward the schooner. At this the poor sailors could have cried with joy, for having seen so few Indians each individual brave was in their eyes as mighty as Goliath of Gath, and as thirsty for human blood as an African cannibal.
    Reaching the schooner, the men were surrounded by the comrades, anxious to hear the result of observations. "It is our opinion that the captain has lost his reckoning," said the trio.
    "Where are we, then?" asked a voice.
    "Either on the coast of Northern California or Southern Oregon."
    "We are not," said the captain.
    A wind now springing up, the schooner continued up the coast. The captain scanned every indentation, hoping to spy the crescent beach of Monterey Bay or the Spanish buildings that form her aged city. To him figures were more conclusive than surmises. With instruments and computations he had determined this to be his latitude, and he knew it was correct. With this view Charley, the second officer, coincided. The passengers were divided in their opinions, but all eyes were turned toward the coast. The feeling of being lost at sea while in sight of land was painfully unpleasant. Who knew but what these shores were those of Mexico or the Sandwich Islands?
    Of the passengers who scanned the coast, none did so more closely than Chapin. He had been in Southern Oregon the previous year, and was now looking for familiar landmarks. After a time he fancied that he could recognize them; later his fancies merged into belief; at last to his satisfaction at least, the schooner's position was known and he named an inlet that came in view as the mouth of a certain river. But the majority of the passengers were still incredulous. They sided with the captain. Chapin was a pioneer, hardy, brave and intelligent, and on land where he was acquainted they would have yielded to his judgment. But they were yet on the ocean.
    When opposite the mouth of the inlet, being eighteen or twenty miles north of the spot where the first boat put toward shore, Capt. White anchored. With a small boat he rowed shoreward and carefully sounded the channel. Returning he reported fresh water in abundance and the channel so deep that he could run directly into the mouth of the river to fill his casks. He then weighed anchor and headed the schooner eastward. For a time she plowed the waves gracefully, then seemed to stop. A new tack was taken. Still there was no movement. The Hackstaff was aground. Rapidly the tide went out and before the passengers fully awoke to their situation she was high and dry upon the sands.
    The startling discovery was now made that on board there was provision enough for little more than one day. Why the captain, steward and cook had kept the passengers in ignorance of this was not and never has been explained, but the latter were so incensed at the discovery that they decided to quit the vessel and attempt to reach settlements overland. It being impossible for the captain and crew to float her off the sands without the assistance of the passengers, they all disembarked. Each man had a trunk filled with clothing, tools or other articles, but nothing was taken except what he could carry on his back. Shively and Hughes, who were would-be merchants, had small stocks of merchandise, among which was some sugar and raisins. This, with the little flour and pickled pork belonging to the schooner, was parceled among the thirty-one men, and lifting their packs, guns and gold dust, they strode toward the mountains.
    Chapin was the only man who professed to be acquainted with the locality. Many of the passengers still doubted his seeming knowledge. After marching a few paces, being in the lead, he stopped and said: "You see that bend in the river? As we pass around it we will see in the channel a large rock. Opposite the rock we will find signs of a campfire, a fire I built one year ago."
    "I have ten dollars that says there is neither rock nor campfire there," sharply spoke Mulligan, who had again become a doubting Thomas.
    "Ten dollars it is," coolly replied Chapin.
    And on they marched.
    When they rounded the bend they beheld the rock. When they came opposite the rock they found old firebrands. Chapin was right. Every man was now convinced. They had stranded on the Oregon coast. The river they were on was Rogue River.
    "Here is your gold," said Mulligan to Chapin.
    "Keep it, man; I wouldn't carry it for it," was the reply.
    They soon camped. This was the seventeenth or eighteenth day after leaving San Francisco and therefore about August 8. The supper they prepared was light, consisting for the most part of a bit of pork about an inch square boiled in water in which was stirred later a spoonful or two of flour.
    Supper over, preparation was made for the night. The men organized themselves into a company, Vickers being chosen captain and Chapin guide. Sentries were picked to stand guard during the night, for the movements of the Indians betokened hostility. In the morning of the day when Hulin and companions returned from their boat ride toward the shore the Indians kindled great fires on the beach as if signaling brother braves wherever they might be. Fires then sprang up along the coast as the schooner sailed northward, and from the actions of the Indians at the mouth of Rogue River it was evident that a number of them were those seen in the morning or else had been apprised by signals of the approach of the vessel and her condition.
    On the morning of August 9 the company moved onward. The Indians had shown themselves at intervals during the night, but not an arrow had been shot into camp. Just then they were more interested in plundering the vessel than in shedding blood. And a rich plunder they found. Cornelius Hills left clothing and carpenter's tools valued at $400, while others left goods varying in value from a hundred to several thousand dollars. They all took the trouble, however, to bring their gold dust, of which each man carried from five to fifteen pounds, a pound being worth about $200. They handled this dust as they handled their blankets. When they camped they flung the bags containing it among their packs, went out to hunt or explore, never fearing that a comrade would think of transferring a few ounces from their bags to his own.
    The route of march decided on was up the north side of Rogue River, for several days travel thence across the mountains in a northerly direction to the head of Umpqua Valley, this being the route taken by Chapin and party the preceding year. One, two, three and four days passed without any game of consequence being killed. The third and fourth days they had grown so weak from fatigue and hunger that traveling was slow and painful. One by one articles that composed their packs were thrown aside. A few men threw away their last blanket. Every berry and nutritious root along the trail was greedily eaten. Deer were occasionally seen, but the tramp of an army of men through the timber and tangled wildwood so frightened the animals that they were out of sight before a shot could be fired. On the morning of the fifth day the half-starved men decided to move very slowly, cautiously, and hunt. Leabo, being the surest shot, was placed in the lead. After marching a short distance they spied a deer, but it was lost in a thicket almost instantly. Calling a halt they sent Leabo ahead, with the injunction that if he killed a deer he must halloo. Anxiously they awaited the sound of the rifle. At last it came. They strained their ears to catch the hunter's shout. It came not. A few more moments of silent waiting and the rifle's thunder again woke the hills. Another listening for a shout, which came not. The rifle was heard the third time, but still no outcry.
    "Jim Leabo never shot three times without bringing his game. Let's find it," cried a voice, and at the word these half-famished men tore through the brush like Indians. They found Leabo's tracks; they found Leabo, and, oh, joy! Each shot had brought a deer.
    It took but a moment for knives to pierce the animals' throats, and while the hot blood spurted forth the men stooped to drink it or bended their knees to lick it up as it oozed into the ground. All parts of the animals were eaten. Even the hides and ears, after the hair had been singed therefrom, served as food. But three deer for ten times that number of men did little more than furnish a supper and breakfast, when they marched on.
    The ninth day they left Rogue River and took a northerly course across the mountains, it being Chapin's intention to strike over on the Coquille River. During the four days preceding this no large game had been killed, and consequently hunger was bordering on voraciousness. But on the evening of this day good fortune overtook them. They happened on a band of elk and succeeded in killing nine or ten noble animals, and now they feasted. For three nights they camped there, and did nothing but eat and dry elk meat. So famished were they that several of the company could not restrain their appetites, and sickness was the result.
    On the morning of the twelfth day, or about the 20th of August, they resumed their march. The country had now become so shrouded with smoke that Chapin could not see the landmarks on which he depended to guide him, and it was not long before it dawned on the party that they were lost in the mountains. Having a compass, however, they were enabled to keep a general direction. Traveling was slow, not only on account of the faintness of the men, but also the dense timber and brambles through which they were obliged to pass. At times not over four miles a day were made.
    People are alike the world over. Some lay by necessities in case of an emergency; others live only by the day. The more judicious of the company ate sparingly of their dried elk meat, but many of them munched it as they marched, and in four or five days their supply was exhausted. Such persons received little sympathy, for when the elk were killed the distribution had been equal. After the manner of mountaineers the company had formed itself into five or six divisions, each division being called a mess. When, therefore, game was killed it was cut up and placed in as many equal piles as there were messes. In order, however, to distribute it more impartially, one of the men was then requested to turn his face from the game, when, pointing to any pile, someone would ask to whose mess it should go. The chosen judge would give a name, and this would be continued until all the meat was allotted. Each mess would then distribute their allotment among themselves or prepare it in common, as they chose.
    There was one man in particular whose allowance was soonest eaten, and he paid for it bitterly. For two or three days he lived mostly on roots, leaves and grasses. He was wont to carry a tuft of grass tied in a buttonhole of his coat, and nibble on it as he walked, jokingly saying that if Nebuchadnezzar lived on grass he thought he could. But, poor man, he found little life strength in herbs. Before the journey was ended a vacant stomach made a vacant mind and it became necessary to watch him to prevent him from wandering into bypaths.
    On the morning of the seventeenth day after leaving the schooner the wanderers found themselves descending into a canyon which afterwards proved to be that of Cow Creek. Peering into the stream for fish, they noticed large quantities of crawfish. They stood not on ceremony but plunged their hands into the water, drew forth the crustaceans and ate them raw. It made a novel sight. The legs of the crawfish, like the tail of a snake after being severed from its body, live on. The men chewed the fleshy part of the legs while the claws at the other end nipped at their shaggy whiskers, or their cheeks and lips, from which they often drew blood. When, however, their hunger was partly appeased they kindled a fire and, more after the manner of human beings, roasted a bushel or more of their newfound game. That afternoon about 4 o'clock, despairing of finding deer in the canyon, they climbed a ridge to the east where they were fortunate enough to kill three or four deer at a spring. Here they camped. During the evening one of the party discovered a trail over which had lately passed a body of Indians, most of them, from the signs, having been horsemen. Joy now filled every heart. The wanderers knew the trail led into the Umpqua Valley, and so on the following morning, bright and early, they were on the march. They now separated into two divisions. Ten or twelve of the hardiest men, among them being Hulin and Jason Wheeler, took the lead and that night succeeded in reaching a spot near where Riddle now stands. In searching for game Hulin met two friendly Indians, from whom he tried to buy venison. He offered them gold, but they refused it. Various means were then employed to secure the meat, but without success. Finally he bethought himself of matches, and striking one, showed them how quickly a fire could be kindled. This took their fancy. To them a match was worth more than a pound of gold, and for a few matches five pounds of venison were secured. This, with one squirrel, served the company for the night. The rear division killed one deer.
    The next morning the men in the lead reached Myrtle Creek, being then in the emigrant road leading from Oregon to California. Hulin had passed over this road twice before and knew it well. He told his comrades that in a grove hard by were squirrels, and suggested that they stop to hunt. They all stopped, but when an hour or more later he emerged, not a man of his company was in sight. Picking up a squirrel that he had killed he walked hastily on to overtake them, but learning from an Indian whom he met that they were far in advance, he slackened speed. When he reached Roberts Hill he stopped and roasted his squirrel. As he today recalls it, he thinks that in his hunger he simply singed the hair from its skin, without removing the entrails. At any rate he relished it.
    Finding that his companions had kept the road winding over the hill, he took a shorter trail leading along the bank of the South Umpqua River, and after rounding the hill, seeing from signs in the road that they were behind him he decided to push onward to a point near where Roseburg now stands before night. He reached his destination weary, hungry and footsore, having walked that day nearly thirty miles. Soon after camping two Indians came up and proceeded to prepare themselves a meal. This for the most part consisted of a deer's paunch, which they had filled with blood and which they at once placed in front of the fire to roast. Every few minutes they would prick holes in the paunch to let the gas escape and roll it over in order to roast the contents evenly. When roasted they graciously offered Hulin a portion, which, with bits of venison and squirrel, formed his supper. The Indians manifested no great friendliness, and that night Hulin hugged his gun. He was not molested, however, and on the following morning pushed on to the North Umpqua River, where lived two white men, Thomas Smith and John Akin, and there awaited the arrival of his companions.
    The rear party, numbering twenty-one men, had but little food from the evening of the eighteenth day until the evening of the twentieth. That day they overtook the nine of Hulin's division, and while ascending Roberts Hill they met a dog in the road. "Hurrah for dog meat for supper," shouted Hills, but before they had decided to kill it an emigrant train bound for California came in sight. They asked the captain for food. He told them settlements were near, and that he could ill spare provisions.
    "You must give us food, or we will shoot an ox," said a voice.
    "Better not attempt that," was the captain's gruff reply.
    "Very well. An ox or emigrant blood; take your choice. We are strong in number, crazed by hunger, and most of us armed to the teeth," were either the words or thoughts of many of the men.
    He looked at the company, growing stronger as the stragglers came up, then said: "Follow us to the foot of the hill."
    They followed, were given supper and breakfast, for which they paid $1 a meal each. Marching forward the following morning they reached the North Umpqua, near which they camped. Here they met Hulin and thence proceeded together to the Willamette Valley. The next night--the twenty-second from the vessel and thirty-ninth from San Francisco--they camped at Cowan's, near Yoncalla; the fortieth at Ira Wells', near Cottage Grove; the forty-first, which was about the 1st of September, reached Pleasant Hill and the vicinity of Eugene. To those who proceeded further journeying was easy, for they were among settlements. Their sufferings were over. The pilgrimage proper was ended.
    Speaking the other day to a member of the company about the hardships encountered, he replied: "Hardships? Yes, lots of them, piled thick and deep they were, but I never had more sport on any trip of my life."
    A word as an addendum. It has been stated that Capt. White lost his reckoning. He did, but it should also be stated that on the ocean he suffered from the ague, which in a measure rendered him unfit for duty. By most of the passengers he was held in high esteem, although they were temporarily angered when they found that the schooner's provisions had run so low. Soon after reaching Portland he returned to San Francisco and by the agents of the Hackstaff was again sent to the mouth of the Columbia River, where a few months later Hulin chanced to meet him in charge of a pilot vessel, the Mary Taylor. He or his son, John Cornelius White, may be in Astoria today. Hulin is a retired farmer, residing in Eugene. Although his life has been active and laborious, owing to temperate habits he is today a well-preserved man. Hills occupies the land on the middle fork of Willamette River that he selected as a homestead in 1847, and has had the satisfaction of seeing his sons and daughters settle around him. Mulligan lives three miles east of Eugene, near Springfield, and from appearances is contented and happy. Chapin lives near Latham, on the line of the O.&C. Railroad, is hale and hearty, and, to use his expression, is "in the market yet," meaning that he has never renounced the vows of bachelorhood. These four men are a quartet to themselves. They crossed the plains together; all went from Oregon to California; were together on the Hackstaff; messed together in the mountains; all settled in Lane County, and all are alive. Jason Wheeler, of Albany, known the Willamette Valley over, is now Indian agent at Warm Springs. His brother Leonard died many years ago. Leabo lived in or near Oregon City, as did also Vickers and Hughes. The latter was one of the officers of the schooner. Ellenburg made his home near Brownsville, Sexton near Jefferson and Watson on Tualatin Plains. The two Walkers located near Salem. Shively was last heard of at Astoria, while Churchill is said to have died years since. Often do the four comrades in Lane County rehearse to one another or their friends the tale of this memorable journey. Often have they wished to know the fate and fortune of fellow comrades. If these lines should meet the eye of any unknown survivor, will he not kindly make his whereabouts known, either by personal letter or through the columns of the Oregonian?
Oregonian, October 24, 1886, page 2  This article was reprinted (with peculiar omissions) in the Oregonian of April 18, 1891, on page 10.

    The Commissioner on "Cayuse war claims" will commence his first session at Oregon City, on the first Monday of November next, for the investigation of claims against the late provisional government growing out of the Cayuse war.
Oregon City, Oct. 18, 1849.
Oregon Spectator, Oregon City, December 13, 1849, page 3


    There comes to me this bit of pioneer history. It reads like a story. It is a story. It is one, however, in which there is not a phrase of fiction, not a word but what is fact. Doubtless an omission of a few of the details and a pencil stroke or two to polish the striking incidents would make it more thrilling, but the object is to record only what happened and the way in which it happened; to state the actual, not the fictitious. The name given to the schooner is the name she bore; the names given of the captain, crew and passengers are their own names; the incidents related are real incidents, qualified with this word of explanation: memories are treacherous. Thirty-seven years have passed since the incidents occurred, and it is but natural that in narrating them the actors should give slightly different versions; that there should not be entire agreement as to the order of their occurrences or the time. But, taken in any version, they form an entertaining chapter of Oregon's history. It is a chapter worth relating; it is worth preserving. And here it is:
    About the 22 of July, 1849, the schooner W. L. Hackstaff, Captain William White, sailed from San Francisco for the Columbia River. She was a small vessel, registering only about ninety tons, but she could ride the billows of the ocean like a duck rides the ripples of a river. A short time before this she had arrived from New York, in the waters of whose harbor she had for years been doing service as a pilot vessel. No pilot who threaded those waters knew the indentations of the neighboring coast, the landmarks, the shoals and the rocks better than did White, but he was a pilot, not a captain. Navigation in its broader sense he knew not. But when in imagination the owners of the schooner saw the very sky that overhung Californian hued with gold, Pilot White was made Capt. White and given a commission to seek the ocean of Balboa's finding, and to proceed northward until the star in the west seemed to stand still over the spot where the golden child lay. Having one, two or more sailing masters aboard, the Hackstaff in due time anchored in San Francisco Bay. It being then found that there was little use for such a craft in California waters, her agents ordered her to the mouth of the Columbia River to perform her wonted service of piloting.
    A merry company had she as she sailed up the coast. Twenty-four they were in number, and all Oregonians. Their names, so far as can be recalled by the first four named passengers, and from whom the within facts are gleaned, are Lester Hulin, Cornelius J. Hills, Charnel Mulligan, James M. Chapin, Jason Wheeler and Leonard Wheeler (brothers), Wm. Shively, James Leabo, John Ellenburg, two men by the name of Walker (father and son), and four others, Churchill, Sexton, Vickers and Watson, whose Christian names are not known. There are, therefore, nine of whom neither Christian or surname can be recalled. These, with the ship's crew, numbering seven men, making a total of thirty-one, was the complement of humanity on board the schooner. The passengers had been in California only a few months; some of them only a few weeks. But that state did not hold for them the charms that Oregon held. The novelty of sifting earth for gold had vanished. The metal was too plentiful to be appreciated. Thinking, therefore, that they could return whenever they chose and secure any amount they wanted, they flung their bags of gold dust over their shoulders or buckled them around their bodies and decided to return to a cooler climate, to lovelier vales and valleys, to return home. They therefore hailed with joy the sailing of the Hackstaff, and paid their passage of $100 each without a murmur. So light a value was placed on money that before embarking one or more of them left several hundred dollars with acquaintances in San Francisco, saying: "Take this and keep it for me, will you? I may return for it someday," and left with not a line of writing to show the deposit.
    Soon after passing out of Golden Gate strong headwinds were encountered. ''I will put out to sea to escape these winds," said the captain. "At this rate our progress will be backward," and out to sea he went. The schooner was headed northwest and for eight days her general course was not changed. The second day she passed out of sight of land, but the storm did not abate. There was no rain. It was a strong, never-ceasing, relentless wind. At times it transformed the ocean into foam. Wave after wave swept over the deck of the schooner and apparently drowned her for a time, but so lightly and trimly was she built that to her this was but a frolic.
    The lighter billows often afforded amusement. Occasionally there would be hours at a time when the sea would be fairly smooth. The passengers would then recline on the deck as seals bask on a rock. One of the company was in the habit of dropping asleep almost as soon as he came within the sun's rays, and as he was not a favorite with a few of the passengers, whenever a wave would curl over the edge of the vessel and break upon his body they considered it great sport. One afternoon while he was asleep a giant wave was seen to approach. His comrades who were on deck winked at one another as they clung to the rigging. The wave came and completely enveloped the ship. A few moments afterward Mr. Morpheus was found to be clutching to the false bulwarks as if the earth was being deluged and the Hackstaff was Noah's ark. Thereafter when he slept he went below. When night came it was the custom of the officers of the ship to lash the lever to the rudder, which extended over the after deck, in one position and let it remain thus for hours. This was a novel proceeding to the Oregonians, and they humorously referred to it as "staking the vessel out" [as one would tether a horse].
    About the ninth day the captain changed his course to northeast. He had expected to make the voyage in five or six days, and now feared if he longer kept out to sea his supply of fresh water would become exhausted. Thenceforth a small quantity was daily issued to each passenger, and the allowance growing smaller as days came and went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen days passed and still no land was to be seen. The force of the headwinds had lessened, but they been so fierce that the captain declared the schooner had made no progress northward, and if anything was then below the latitude of San Francisco. On the fourteenth or fifteenth land was descried. No river, bay, or other indentation appearing, they continued to sail up the coast, thinking they might soon reach their starting point--Golden Gate. At last the supply of fresh water ran so low that the passengers told the captain that he must ether put them ashore or manage to fill his casks. He now took another observation by the sun and pronounced his position to be twelve miles below Monterey. Soon afterward a dead calm settled upon the vessel. As the tide came in there was danger of her being washed on the rocks along the beach, and as there was no breeze to fill her sails the crew and passengers, in order to save the ship and possibly their lives, resorted to oars, of which, fortunately, there were four long ones on board.
    During the delay caused by the calm, Sexton, Mulligan, Hulin and three sailors took a small boat and rowed shoreward, hoping to find fresh water and to determine at what point on the California coast they were. Nearing land, they beheld Indians. They then rested their oars and looked steadily. They were familiar with the small California Indians, but these were to them as snow peaks to hillocks. Slowly the boat neared the shore. Slowly and stately paced the Indians upon the beach. Seventy-five or a hundred of them there were, all fine, stalwart fellows. The little clothing they had on consisted of skins of animals. Bows and quivers of arrows hung upon their sides. They were bedecked with feathers, their faces stained, and every movement betokened the primitive savage.
    "Hold on, boys," suddenly cried Sexton. "Those red devils are not California Indians. Let's look at them. One thing is certain, if we go ashore we must fight."
    They ceased rowing and held a conference. They looked at the Indians, at the beach, at the headlands. They could not detect a familiar object. "Where are we?" was the question such man asked himself, the others. Soon they reached a conclusion, and action then followed. The bow of the boat was turned toward the schooner. At this the poor sailors could have cried with joy, for, having seen so few Indians, each individual brave was in their eyes as mighty as Goliath of Gath, and as thirsty for human blood as an African cannibal.
    Reaching the schooner, the men were surrounded by their comrades, anxious to hear the result of observations. "It is our opinion that the captain has lost his reckoning," said the trio.
    "Where are we, then?" asked a voice.
    "Either on the coast of Northern California or Southern Oregon."
    "We are not," said the captain.
    A wind now springing up, the schooner continued up the coast. The captain scanned every indentation, hoping to spy the crescent beach of Monterey Bay or the Spanish buildings that form her aged city. To him figures were more conclusive than surmises. With instruments and computations he had determined this to be his latitude, and he knew it was correct. With this view Charley, the second officer, coincided. The passengers were divided in their opinions, but all eyes were turned toward the coast. The feeling of being lost at sea while in sight of land was painfully unpleasant. Who knew but what these shores were those of Mexico or the Sandwich Islands?
    Of the passengers who scanned the coast, none did so more closely than Chapin. He had been in Southern Oregon the previous year, and was now looking for familiar landmarks. After a time he fancied that he could recognize then; later his fancies merged into belief; at last, to his satisfaction at least, the schooner's position was known, and he named an inlet that came in view as the mouth of a certain river. But the majority of the passengers were still incredulous. They sided with the captain. Chapin was s pioneer, hardy, brave and intelligent, and on land where he was acquainted they would have yielded to his judgment. But they were yet on the ocean.
    When opposite the mouth of the inlet, being eighteen or twenty miles north of the spot where the first boat put toward shore, Captain White anchored. With a small boat he rowed shoreward and carefully sounded the channel. Returning, he reported fresh water in abundance and the channel so deep that he could run directly into the mouth of the river to fill his casks. He then weighed anchor and headed the schooner eastward. For a time she plowed the waves gracefully, then seemed to stop. A new tack was taken. Still there was no movement. The Hackstaff was aground. Rapidly the tide went out, and before the passengers fully awoke to their situation she was high and dry upon the sands.
    The startling discovery was now made that on board there was provision enough for little more than one day. Why the captain, steward and cook had kept the passengers in ignorance of this was not and never has been explained, but the latter were so incensed at the discovery that they decided to quit the vessel and attempt to reach settlements overland. It being impossible for the captain and crew to float her off the sands without the assistance of the passengers, they all disembarked. Each man had a trunk filled with clothing, tools, or other articles, but nothing was taken except what he could carry on his back. Shively and Hughes, who were would-be merchants, had small stocks of merchandise, among which was some sugar and raisins. This, with the little flour and pickled pork belonging to the schooner, was parceled among the thirty-one men, and lifting their packs, guns and gold dust, they strode toward the mountains.
    Chapin was the only man who professed to be acquainted with the locality. Many of the passengers still doubted his seeming knowledge. After marching a few paces, being in the lead, he stopped and said: "You see that bend in the river? As we pass around it we will see in the channel a large rock. Opposite the rock we will find signs of a campfire, a fire I built one year ago."
    "I have ten dollars that says there is neither rock nor campfire there," sharply spoke Mulligan, who had again become a doubting Thomas.
    "Ten dollars it is," coolly replied Chapin.
    And on they marched.
    When they rounded the bend they beheld the rock. When they came opposite they found old firebrands. Chapin was right. Every man was now convinced. They had stranded on the Oregon coast. The river they were on was Rogue River.
    "Here is your gold," said Mulligan to Chapin.
    "Keep it, man; I wouldn't carry it for it," was the reply.
    They soon camped. This was the seventeenth or eighteenth day after leaving San Francisco, and therefore about August 8. The supper they prepared was light, consisting for the most part of a bit of pork about an inch square boiled in water, in which was stirred later a spoonful or two of flour.
    Supper over, preparation was made for the night. The men organized themselves into a company, Vickers being chosen captain and Chapin guide. Sentries were picked to stand guard during the night, for the movements of the Indians betokened hostility. In the morning of the day when Hulin and companions [had] returned from their boat ride toward the shore the Indians kindled great fires on the beach, as if signaling brother braves wherever they might be. Fires then sprang up along the coast as the schooner sailed northward, and from the actions of the Indians at the mouth of Rogue River it was evident that a number of them were to be seen in the morning, or else had been apprised by signals of the approach of the vessel and her condition.
    On the morning of August 9, the company moved onward. The Indians had shown themselves at intervals during the night, but not an arrow had been shot into camp. Just then they were more interested in plundering the vessel than in shedding blood. And a rich plunder they found. Cornelius Hills left clothing and carpenter's tools valued at $400, while others left goods varying in value from a hundred to several thousand dollars. They all took the trouble, however, to bring their gold dust, of which each man carried from five to fifteen pounds, a pound being worth about $200. They handled this dust as they handled their blankets. When they camped they flung the bags containing it among their packs, went out to hunt or explore, never fearing that a comrade would think of transferring a few ounces from their bags to his own.
    The route of march decided on was up the north side of Rogue River for several days' travel thence across the mountains in a northerly direction to the head of Umpqua Valley, this being the route taken by Chapin and party the preceding year. One, two, three and four days passed without any game of consequence being killed. The third and fourth days they had grown so weak from fatigue and hunger that traveling was slow and painful. One by one articles that composed their packs were thrown aside. A few men threw away their last blanket. Every berry and nutritious root along the trail was greedily eaten. Deer were occasionally seen, but the tramp of an army of men through the timber and tangled wildwood so frightened the animals that they were out of sight before a shot could be fired. On the morning of the fifth day the half-starved men decided to move very slowly, cautiously, and hunt. Leabo, being the surest shot, was placed in the lead. After marching a short distance they spied a deer, but it was lost in a thicket almost instantly. Calling a halt, they sent Leabo ahead, with the injunction that if he killed a deer he must halloo. Anxiously they awaited the sound of the rifle. At last it came. They strained their ears to catch the hunter's shout. It came not. A few more moments of silent waiting, and the rifle's thunder again woke the hills. Another listening for a shout, which came not. The rifle was heard the third time, but still no outcry.
    "Jim Leabo never shot three times without bringing his game. Let's find it," cried a voice, and at the word these half-famished men tore through the brush like Indians. They found Leabo's tracks; they found Leabo; and, oh joy! each shot had brought a deer.
    It took but a moment for knives to pierce the animals' throats, and while the hot blood spurted forth the men stooped to drink it or bended their knees to lick it up as it oozed into the ground. All parts of the animals were eaten. Even the hides and ears, after the hair had been singed therefrom, served as food. But three deer for ten times that number of men did little more than furnish a supper and breakfast, when they marched on.
    The ninth day they left Rogue River and took a northerly course across the mountains, it being Chapin's intention to strike over on the Coquille River. During the four days preceding this no large game had been killed, and consequently hunger was bordering on voraciousness. But on the evening of this day good fortune overtook them. They happened on a band of elk and succeeded in killing nine or ten noble animals; and now they feasted. For three nights they camped there, and did nothing but eat and dry elk meat. So famished were they that several of the company could not restrain their appetites, and sickness was the result.
    On the morning of the twelfth day, or about the 20th of August, they resumed their march. The country had now become so shrouded in smoke that Chapin could not see the landmarks on which he depended to guide him, and it was not long before it dawned upon the party that they were lost in the mountains. Having a compass, however, they were enabled to keep a general direction. Traveling was slow, not only on account of the faintness of the men, but also the dense timber and brambles through which they were obliged to pass. At times not over four miles a day were made.     On the morning of the seventeenth day after leaving the schooner the wanderers found themselves descending into a canyon which afterwards proved to be that of Cow Creek. Peering into the stream for fish, they noticed large numbers of crawfish. They stood not on ceremony, but plunged their hands into the water, drew forth the crustaceans and ate them raw. It made a novel sight. The legs of the crawfish, like a tail of a snake after being severed from its body, live on. The men chewed the fleshy part of the legs while the claws at the other end nipped at their shaggy whiskers, or their cheeks and lips, from which they often drew blood. When, however, their hunger was partly appeased they kindled a fire, and more after the manner of human beings, roasted a bushel or more of their newly found game. That afternoon about 4 o'clock, despairing of finding deer in the canyon, they climbed a ridge to the east, where they were fortunate enough to kill three or four deer at a spring. Here they camped. During the evening, one of the party discovered a trail over which had lately passed a body of Indians, most of them, from the signs, having been horsemen. Joy now filled every heart. The wanderers knew the trail led into the Umpqua Valley, and so on the following morning, bright and early, they were on the march. They now separated into two divisions. Ten or twelve of the hardiest men, among them being Hulin and Jason Wheeler, took the lead and that night succeeded in reaching a spot near where Riddle now stands. In searching for game, Hulin met two friendly Indians, from whom he tried to buy venison. He offered them gold, but they refused it. Various means were thus employed to secure the meat, but without success. Finally he bethought himself of matches and, striking one, showed them how quickly a fire could be kindled. This took their fancy. To them a match was worth more than a pound of gold, and for a few matches five pounds of venison were secured. This, with one squirrel, served the company for the night. The rear division killed one deer.
    The next morning the men in the lead reached Myrtle Creek, being then on the emigrant road from Oregon to California. Hulin had passed over this road twice before and knew it well. He told his comrades that in a grove hard by were squirrels, and suggested that they stop to hunt. They all stopped, but when, an hour or more later, he emerged, not a man of his company was in sight. Picking up a squirrel that he had killed, he walked hastily on to overtake them, but learning from an Indian whom he met that they were far in advance, he slackened speed. When he reached Roberts Hill he stopped and roasted his squirrel. As he today recalls it, he thinks that in his hunger he simply singed the hair from its skin without removing the entrails. At any rate he relished it. Finding that his companions had kept the road winding over the hill, he took a shorter trail leading along the hank of the South Umpqua River, and after rounding the hill, seeing from signs in the road that they were behind him, he decided to push onward to a point near where Roseburg now stands before night. He reached his destination weary, hungry and footsore, having walked that day nearly thirty miles. Soon after camping two Indians came up and proceeded to prepare themselves a meal. This for the most part consisted of a deer's paunch which they had filled with blood, and which they at once placed in front of the fire to roast. Every few minutes they would prick holes in the paunch to let the gas escape and roll it over in order to roast the contents evenly. When roasted they graciously offered Hulin a portion, which, with bits of venison and squirrel, formed his supper. The Indians manifested no great friendliness, and that night Hulin hugged his gun. He was not molested, however, and on the following morning pushed on to the North Umpqua River, where lived two white men, Thomas Smith and John Akin, and there awaited the arrival of his companions.
    The rear party, numbering twenty-one men, had but little food from the evening of the eighteenth day until the evening of the twentieth. That day they overtook the nine of Hulin's division, and while all ascending Roberts Hill they met a dog in the road. "Hurrah for dog meat for supper!" shouted Hills. But before they had decided to kill it an emigrant train bound for California came in sight. They asked the captain for food. He told them settlements were near, and that he could ill spare provisions.
    "You must give us food, or we will shoot an ox," said a voice.
    "Better not attempt that," was the captain's gruff reply.
    "Very well. An ox or emigrant blood; take your choice. We are strong in numbers, crazed by hunger, and most of us armed to the teeth," were either the words or thoughts of many of the men.
    He looked at the company, growing stronger as the stragglers came up, then said: "Follow us to the foot of the hill."
    They followed; were given supper and breakfast, for which they paid $1 a meal each. Marching forward the following morning, they reached the North Umpqua, near which they camped. Here they met Hulin, and thence proceeded together to the Willamette Valley. The next night--the twenty-second from the vessel and thirty-ninth from San Francisco--they camped at Cowan's, near Yoncalla; the fortieth at Ira Wells', near Cottage Grove; the forty-first, which was about the 1st of September, reached Pleasant Hill and the vicinity of Eugene. To those who proceeded further journeying was easy, for they were among settlements. Their sufferings were over. The pilgrimage proper was ended.
    Speaking the other day to a member of the company about the hardships encountered, he replied: "Hardships? Yes, lots of them; piled thick and deep they were; but I never had more sport on any trip of my life."
    A word as an addendum. It has been stated that Capt. White lost his reckoning. He did; but it should also be said that on the ocean he suffered from the ague, which in a measure rendered him unfit for duty. By most of the passengers he was held in high esteem, although they were temporarily angered when they found that the schooner's provisions had run so low. Soon after reaching Portland he returned to San Francisco, and by the agents of the Hackstaff was again sent to the month of the Columbia River, where a few months later Hulin chanced to meet him in charge of a pilot vessel, the Mary Taylor. He or his son, John Cornelius White, may be in Astoria today. Hulin is a retired farmer, residing in Eugene. Although his life has been active and laborious, owing to temperate habits he is today a well-preserved man. Hills occupies the land on the middle fork of the Willamette River that he selected as a homestead in 1847, and has had the satisfaction of seeing his sons and daughters settle around him. Mulligan lives three miles east of Eugene, near Springfield, and from appearances is contented and happy. Chapin lives near Latham, on the line of the O. & C. railroad, is hale and hearty, and, to use his expression, is "in the market yet," meaning that he has never renounced the vows of bachelorhood. These four men are a quartet to themselves. They crossed the plains together; all went from Oregon to California; were together on the Hackstaff; messed together in the mountains; all settled in Lane County, and all are alive. Jason Wheeler, of Albany, known the Willamette Valley over, is now Indian agent at Warm Springs. His brother Leonard died many years ago. [When this article was reprinted in 1891 this sentence was changed to "His brother Leonard lives at Lebanon, Linn County."] Leabo lived in or near Oregon City, as did also Vickers and Hughes. The latter was one of the officers of the schooner. Ellenburg made his home near Brownsville, Sexton near Jefferson, and Watson on Tualatin plains. The two Walkers located near Salem. Shively was at last heard of at Astoria, while Churchill is said to have died years since. Often do the four comrades in Lane County rehearse to one another or their friends the tale of this remarkable journey. Often have they wished to know the fate and fortune of fellow comrades. If these lines should meet the eye of any unknown survivor will he not kindly make his whereabouts known, either by personal letter or through the columns of the Oregonian?
Oregonian, October 24, 1886, page 2

    NORTH YAMHILL, Or., Jan. 20.--(To the Editor.)--I notice in a letter published in yesterday's Daily Oregonian, copied from the Ashland Tidings, that someone, in giving an account of the first discovery of gold in Southern Oregon, places the time in the fall of 1851. I am quite sure that gold was known to exist in the Rogue River at least two years earlier than the fall of 1851. In the latter part of August or first part of September, 1849, a party, with pack animals, left the Willamette Valley to go over the trail to the California gold mines, the writer, then a lad 10 years old, being one of the party. We proceeded up the Willamette Valley and through the Umpqua Valley to the north end of what was then called "the canyon." Here we laid over, waiting for additions to our party, as it was considered unsafe at that time, on account of the hostility of the Rogue River Indians, to attempt to pass through their country in small parties. We laid over a few days until our party had increased to the number of 28, when we proceeded on our journey, fording the Rogue River at what was called Perkins' ferry. Proceeding up Rogue River we camped one night a mile or two below what was then called "Point of Rocks," but now I think known as Rock Point. This was considered the most dangerous place on the trail for attacks from Indians.
    After passing Point of Rocks, next morning, we concluded to stop and prospect on the Rogue River. Turning to the left, leaving the trail, we went up the river toward Table Rock, two or three miles, camped and laid over that day, and some of our party prospected on the bars of the river and found gold. We never thought of stopping there to mine, as we had started for the gold mines of California, and the next morning we proceeded on our journey. Previous to this, on our way up the South Umpqua, we had prospected for gold on the river bars, and had also found it there, I think somewhere near the mouth of Myrtle Creek.
    Now, after the lapse of more than 50 years, I recall the names of a number of persons who were in the party, as follows: From Tualatin County (Washington), Norman Martin, Norman Smith and Martin Bridgefarmer. From Yamhill County, T. B. Hutt, Kendrel Dobbins, A. McBuck, James Mills ---- Comegys, H. H. Hyde, Dan Craft, J. H. Hawley and Jephtha Walling. From Polk County, Perry Smith, Ira Townsend, John Pigg and William Pigg. From Linn County, Mr. Neil, Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Wright.
    If any of the persons above named are still living, they will no doubt readily recall the facts as I have here stated them.
Oregonian, Portland, January 21, 1900, page 5


    In the spring of 1849 a party of 13 decided to make a trip from Portland to the Missouri River on horseback, a distance of over 2000 miles. Mr. [James] Field was selected captain of the company. The Indians were very aggressive on the Oregon Trail, and it was decided to go south through the Willamette Valley and the Rogue River Valley, then to cross the Cascade Mountains and avoid the Indians. They had serious trouble with Indians in the Rogue River Valley and were compelled to build a fort, under cover of which they built a boat and crossed the river. During the whole trip half the party were obliged to do picket duty while the others slept. The party was under orders that at no time should anyone be out of reach of his rifle, and, for fear of treachery, no Indians should be allowed to come near them. In the Rogue River Valley they met a party from Sutter's Fort, Cal., who reported having been hard pressed with Indians.
Port Chester Daily Record, May 11, 1903, quoted in "Pioneer of Oregon Dies," Morning Oregonian, Portland, May 19, 1903, page 7


    "In 1849 my father [John Meldrum] went to the gold mines in California. He had good luck in the mines and started home with seven other men from the Willamette Valley. They were on horseback. Not far from where the city of Medford is now located the Rogue River Indians attacked them. My father and those with him, on account of the danger from attack by the Indians, slept in their clothes and with their guns lying across their bodies to be ready for instant use. My father at the first alarm jumped up and picked up his boots as well as his gun and ran for a clump of timber near their camp. There were about 100 Indians in the war party and they were armed with bows and arrows. My father and the others escaped with their lives, leaving to the Indians their horses, saddles, camp equipment and their saddlebags in which they had their gold dust. The horses, saddles, blankets and foodstuff the Indians kept. The gold dust they threw away, for at that time the Rogue River Indians had not yet learned the value of nuggets and gold dust. The party of miners made their way afoot to the settlements where they secured food and horses. This was in the late fall of 1849."
Mary Relief Meldrum Thompson, quoted by Fred Lockley, "Impressions and Observations of the Journal Man," Oregon Journal, Portland, August 18, 1924, page 6


    "My father crossed the plains to the Willamette Valley in 1837," said E. C. Hills, who lives at 7312 53rd Avenue Southeast. "Father's name was Cornelius Joel Hills. He was born in New York state in 1818. Father took up a donation land claim of 640 acres at Jasper, in Lane County. Jasper post office was named for my brother, Jasper B. Hills, who was born there on April 18, 1859.
    "My father came by way of the southern route. Isaac and Elias Briggs, Charles Martin and Prior Blair took up claims at Pleasant Hill near the claim of Elijah Bristow, who had taken up a claim there the year before. My father settled on the north side of the middle fork of the Willamette. The following year Elijah Bristow's family took up their residence there. Among others who settled in this neighborhood in the fall of 1848 were James and Caswell Hendricks, Michael and Harrison Shelley, Robert Callison, Abel, William and E. L. Bristow, William Bowman and Calvin T. Hale.
    "My father went to the gold diggings in California in the fall of 1848. On July 22, 1849, my father, Cornelius J. Hills, with Charnel Mulligan, Lester Hulin, James H. Chapin, Jason and Leonard Wheeler, William Shively, James Leabo, John Ellenburg, Mr. Walker and his son, with a Mr. Churchill, Sexton, Vickers and some others and seven men of the crew, making 31 in all, sailed from San Francisco for Astoria aboard the schooner W. L. Hackstaff, under command of Captain William White. This schooner registered about 90 tons. It had recently arrived in San Francisco from New York City, where for years it had served as a pilot vessel. Captain White was on his way to the Columbia River to serve with his schooner as a pilot on the Columbia River bar. All of the 24 passengers aboard were from the Willamette Valley. Each of the passengers had paid $100 fare from San Francisco to Astoria.
    "Shortly after leaving San Francisco a heavy gale came up, so Captain White headed the schooner northwest. Instead of making the trip in six days, as expected, they were out of sight of land until the 15th day. Part of this time, after the gale had blown itself out, the schooner was becalmed. When they came in sight of the coast the captain could not tell whether they were off California or Oregon. A current set shoreward, which took the schooner close to shore. They had been out of fresh water for several days, so Charnel Mulligan, Lester Hulin and Sexton, with three sailors, took a rowboat with some kegs to see if they could find good drinking water to replenish the vessel's supply.
    "When the rowboat approached the shore the men found nearly 100 Indians awaiting them. After one look at the painted Indians, with their bows and arrows ready for action, the men decided they were not as thirsty as they thought they were, so they rowed back to the schooner. Captain White thought they were off Monterey Bay, but the Oregonians believed, from the look of the Indians, that they were off the coast of Northern California or Southern Oregon. One of the sailors thought they had been blown far south and were off the coast of Mexico. James M. Chapin had been in Southern Oregon the year before and was positive that they were off the coast of Southern Oregon.
    "A breeze sprang up, and Captain White got the schooner under way. Seeing an inlet that he believed to be a river, he put a boat overboard and the sailors sounded the channel. They decided to run into the mouth of the river and fill their water casks. The schooner was headed inward for the channel. Before long the Hackstaff grounded. Apparently the vessel was high and dry, so the passengers took their baggage ashore in the boat.
    "William Shively and a man named Hughes had laid in a stock of groceries in San Francisco. From the stock of groceries owned by Shively and Hughes each man was furnished flour, sugar, raisins and pickled pork. Jim Chapin recognized the river as the Rogue River, for he had been there before. They left the boat on August 8. Vickers was chosen captain of the company and Jim Chapin was elected guide.
    "My father left his chest of carpenter tools aboard the boat, as well as his clothing and other things he could not carry. In fact, the passengers and crew brought ashore only what they could carry. Most of the men aboard were bringing home from five to 25 pounds of gold dust apiece. This, of course, they brought ashore with them.
    "The Indians went aboard the schooner and carried ashore whatever they wanted. For some reason, game was scarce, and as the men headed inland on the north side of the Rogue River they saw little or no game. After a few days the men began throwing away everything they did not need. Occasionally they saw a deer but were not able to get any. Finally, on the fifth day, James Leabo went ahead of the company and killed three deer. Some of the men were so hungry that they cut the throats of the deer and drank the blood. Others built a campfire, and before long all were feasting on roast venison.
    "On the ninth day Leabo and one or two of the other men struck out from the main party and killed nine elk. They camped where the elk had been killed for three days and feasted on the elk meat and jerked a lot of the elk meat to carry with them. At times they did not make over four or five miles a day through the heavy brush in the mountains.
    "On the 17th day after leaving the schooner they struck Cow Creek. Within an hour or so they had caught a bushel or more of crayfish, on which they made their supper. That same evening they killed three or four deer. The men divided into two companies, Lester Hulin, Jason Wheeler and some others leading the first company.
    "On the 21st day after leaving the vessel they met an emigrant train bound for California, from the members of which they secured food, and a few days later they reached their homes."
Oregon Journal, Portland, December 30, 1932, page 8


    "In the spring of 1849, Father [Jason Wheeler], with a number of settlers from near Lebanon, started on horseback with pack horses for California. They went by way of Weaverville. Father had four horses. He mined while on the American River, and when he and his partners divided what they had made, Father had between $600 and $700 in gold dust. He sold his four horses at $200 apiece.
    "When Father reached San Francisco he had $1500. The harbor was full of vessels, the crews having deserted and gone to the mines. Goods were piled high on the beach. Father invested his $1500 in goods to trade with the Indians. He had his goods put aboard the schooner W. L. Hackstaff, bound for Astoria. They ran into a northwest gale, and 17 days out from San Francisco they came in sight of land near where Crescent City was later built. They continued up the coast to the mouth of the Rogue River. The captain lowered a boat to survey the bar to see if he could bring the vessel in and secure fresh water and supplies. The schooner grounded, and when the tide went out the ship was left high and dry. The mate figured that the headwind had carried them down the coast, and that they were south of San Francisco. One of the passengers said, 'This is the mouth of the Rogue River; I was here last year. If there is a big rock up the river a short distance, I know this is the Rogue.' They located the rock, and the man pointed out the ashes of his campfire a year before. They struck eastward to hit the main traveled road between the Willamette Valley and California. The trip took 20 days, and they nearly starved to death before they reached the emigrant road. Eventually they ran into a bunch of elk, killed some and had a big feast and made moccasins from their hides."
Frank Pierce Wheeler, quoted by Fred Lockley, "Impressions and Observations of the Journal Man," Oregon Journal, Portland, August 7, 1936, page 10


    Vancouver Barracks was established by order of W. L. Macy, Secretary of War, on January 29, 1848. On November 11, 1901, a board of officers was appointed to settle once for all the agitation to have the post removed to another location. The decision was that the post should remain there as a permanent post for headquarters, and that 12 companies of infantry and two batteries of artillery should be maintained there.
    In 1846 the United States War Department issued General Order No. 49 which established the 10th military district, to include Oregon, and "as much of the Mexican provinces of the two Californias as has been or may be subject to the arms of the authority of the United States military headquarters in the field." Maj. J. S. Hathaway, in command of Companies L and M, 1st Artillery, was ordered to proceed to the Oregon country. They arrived at Astoria by way of the Horn in May, 1849. Col. W. W. Loring was ordered to take his regiment of 600 mounted riflemen across the plains to Vancouver Barracks. Two companies were left at Fort Laramie, and two at Fort Hall. About 300 arrived at Oregon City. The lure of the yellow metal in the California diggings proved too much for many of the soldiers, and of the 300 sent to guard the Oregon country, 120 deserted and headed for California.
    Governor Joseph Lane with Col. Loring and a number of soldiers started in pursuit of the deserters, captured them in the Umpqua Valley and brought back 70 of the 120. Col. Loring put in the winter of 1849 supervising the erection of barracks for his riflemen. The mounted riflemen were succeeded by the First Dragoons under command of Maj. Kearny. Among other distinguished officers who saw service at Vancouver Barracks are U. S. Grant, Sheridan, Dent, McClellan, Pickett of Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg, Hardee, Ord, Harney, Casey, Miles, Howard McArthur and General George C. Marshall.
"Fred Lockley's Impressions," Oregon Journal, Portland, July 7, 1946, page 14