Fifty Years in Oregon was written by Theodore T.
Geer, a grandson of Joseph Carey Geer and a shirttail ancestor of
ours.
I have put much of the book on
this website. I started because several
chapters describe the early roots of our family history in Oregon. I
kept going because
I found many of the chapters from this perspective on the early
settlers and the history of Oregon to be quite
interesting.
One of the very pleasant experiences of my life in eastern
Oregon was a trip to the Wallowa valley and to the wonderfully beautiful lake of
the same name, in August, 1875. That was several years before Wallowa County was
created by slicing off the northern half of Union. At that time there were not
more than a dozen settlers in all that territory which is now included in
Wallowa County, and they had gone there in search of range, it not being
considered at that time suitable for any other purpose. The fact is, at the
beginning of its settlement it was thought that only those went to Wallowa who
cared little for the advantages of civilization and were willing to bid farewell
to their friends, if they had any, and embrace the life of a hermit.
But marvelous tales were borne to the Grand Ronde valley of
the opportunities it offered for hunting big game-deer, elk and bear – while
some of the fish stories told by Sam Van Order and his father, who had made the
trip two or three times on packhorses, were accepted as “figments of the
imagination,” intended only to excite envy. But samples of the famous red fish,
which they said abounded in the lake in almost incredible numbers, were brought
out, and since “seeing is believing” they created an irresistible longing on the
part of many of us to hie ourselves away to the land which produced such
wonders.
Accordingly, a party consisting of S. G. French, O. P. Jaycox,
Robert Eakin, Dr. J. W. Givens, Girard Cochran, Alex Cochran, Lee Vincent and
myself, with Mrs. James Hendershott and Misses Allie Cochran, Ella Cochran,
Josie Cochran and Nellie Condon – thirteen in number – left the Cove on the
morning of August 16, 1871, bent on a two weeks’ outing, the objective point
being Wallowa Lake.
In the wagon we placed an old skiff – where it was obtained I
never knew – and in this, as well as around it, was piled all the paraphernalia
needed in a camping outfit for such a crowd. Six of the party took riding
horses, and these were used, in turn, by all of us. The second day, at noon, we
reached the Wallowa River at its junction with the Minem, where a toll bridge
had just been completed by A. C. Smith, of the Cove. The second night we camped
in the lower end of what is known as the “lower” Wallowa valley in a meadow
owned by Mr. Bramlette, the first settler in that whole region. His hay had been
cut and was in the cock – that is, it was in the latter condition when we
arrived, but the next morning, alas, as we broke camp and drove away, about an
acre of his meadow looked as though a cyclone had passed that way. We learned
afterwards that the Wallowa valley is subject to violent winds and that haying
time is no exception.
The third day we reached the lower end of Wallowa Lake and
made our camp among a grove of magnificent cottonwoods. The location is not
surpassed for beauty anywhere in the United States. Although thousands of our
people go abroad each year and spend millions of dollars in their quest for the
scenic wonders of the world, the results are dwarfed in comparison with the
lavish displays of Nature throughout the great Northwest.
In approaching Wallowa Lake, one gets no hint that such a body
of water, or indeed any body of water, is within a thousand miles until the road
reaches the summit of a small ridge, not a hundred yards from the edge of this
little inland gem. It is four miles in length and one mile wide, surrounded on
three sides by heavily timbered mountains and modest foothills, which at that
time were covered with a magnificent growth of eastern Oregon’s famous bunch
grass. The lake is fed by a dozen small streams which rush from the adjacent
mountains in the greatest apparent glee in the enjoyment of their new-found
liberty, only to be lost in the calm waters of the lake, whose depth in some
places is known to be eight hundred feet.
The only outlet of this surpassingly beautiful body of water
is at its extreme northwestern side and is known as the Wallowa River, which
flows with great rapidity, but with gradual fall, through the entire length of
the Wallowa valley, thirty miles in distance, only at that point to plunge into
a narrow canyon, which it follows for ten miles. It then receives the waters of
the Minem, which heads in the mountains immediately back of the Cove. Some ten
miles below this junction the Wallowa is received into the Grand Ronde.
Our camp was located near the point where the river leaves the
lake, or, rather, where the river is formed. As the tents were pitched and
everything arranged by four o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. French and Girard
Cochran insisted that we should launch our skiff and proceed to the upper end of
the lake, four miles away, and ascertain the particular percentage of truth
there might be in the fish stories we had heard. The boat was, of course, a
leaky tub, but we waited until the absorption of water by the dry boards had
expanded the timber and reduced the cracks to their minimum size, and reached
our destination without any mishap; but it required the ceaseless activity of
Girard, bailing out the water with a milk pan as fast as it ran in, to keep us
afloat.
Such astonishing results rewarded our efforts that from that
day I have believed every fish story that has been told me. As we had no way to
fasten the boat when we arrived, I proposed to sit in it to prevent its drifting
away while my two companions started on a tour of investigation. None of the
streams which feed the lake is deeper than one foot in August, and at that time
of the day the fish were all in these streams. We had been told that no tackle
was needed to catch them but only a club – that they were so thick in the water
one could almost pick them up by wading in where it was little more than
shoe-mouth deep. As my companions approached the bank of the stream, after
landing, I saw them jump into the water and begin striking right and left. I had
told them that I would not get my feet wet for all the fish we might catch, and
this was my real reason for remaining in the boat.
But after two or three plunges one of the men made a grab
under the water and threw upon the bank a speckled beauty at least twenty inches
in length and as red as a well-matured beet. The next thing I knew – the next
thing anybody knew – I was “in the midst” of my two companions, striking at the
red fish with an oar which I had unconsciously taken as a weapon. After landing
two or three in as many minutes, I looked for my associate anglers, only to see
them sitting on the bank roaring with laughter as they recalled my insistence
upon being permitted to sit in the boat while they waded into the water. They
soon recovered sufficiently, however, to call my attention to the boat, which
was slowly drifting away, and I was compelled to rush into the water nearly
shoulder deep in order to rescue our craft.
The real truth is that at that time it is likely no body of
water in the world of its size had such a large supply of fish of equal quality
as had Wallowa Lake. The red fish has never been seen anywhere else and has for
several years been entirely extinct. Its average length was about eighteen
inches and it had the general appearance and flavor of the famous Chinook salmon
of the Columbia River. This lake had been the favorite fishing resort for the
Nez Perce Indians from time immemorial, and it was to retain possession of it
and the valley surrounding it, that Chief Joseph made his stand against the
white settlers in 1878.
The following days were spent in the enjoyment of the
unequaled facilities which the place afforded for a happy camp life-hunting,
fishing, boat-riding, reading, story-telling, attempts at singing, cooking and
exploring the surrounding country. It was a most delightful week.
The second day after making our camp the entire party went to
the head of the lake, some by water, the others taking the horses. There was a
fair Indian trail around the eastern side, generally maintaining a grade some
twenty feet above the edge of the water. When a half-mile away from the upper
end of the lake, the surface of the water for several hundred feet from the
mouths of the small supplying creeks toward the deeper water gave out a
well-defined reddish cast, so many tens of thousands of these fish were there,
swaying in schools, evidently feeding upon the deposits coming from the
mountains. Of course this sounds incredible, but considering the nature of the
story and the subject with which it deals I trust it will be accepted as the
unvarnished truth – which it is.
The wonderful abundance of the fish and the ease with which
they could be caught naturally suggested taking home with us a supply large
enough, at least to corroborate our stories.
But, having been skeptics ourselves before making this trip,
we had disregarded the advice of those who had been there ahead of us to provide
barrels for packing, so we were at a loss how to proceed. A detachment of our
party finally visited the home of a settler a few miles away and succeeded in
securing two sugar barrels, which, as is generally known, are not made either
for durability or for holding liquids.
But they were barrels, and with these and a small quantity of
salt the entire party went to the head of the lake again, on the day before we
intended to start home, on our last fishing trip. This was the process of
catching them: Since all the small streams were filled with the desired game –
if fish may be called game – two men would enter the water at a given point; two
others were stationed fifty feet away, armed with sticks large enough to stun a
fish, and as they approached each other the battle would rage fast and
furiously, the net result usually being at least a dozen victims within five
minutes, or even less time. We had with us a long-handled pitchfork, and as fast
as the men would throw the fish ashore, two others would string them on this
fork handle by running the end through one of their gills – pushing them close
together until there were at least a dozen, leaving six inches of space at the
end of the handle to rest on a man’s shoulder. With the fork itself on the
shoulder of the other man, the two would carry the load to the temporary camp
under some cottonwood trees fifty yards away. When the end of the handle was
dropped to the ground the fish would slip off in a second – and in a huge pile –
presenting a beautiful prospect for the women folks, who, assisted by a man or
two, were dressing and packing the fruits of the exciting raids.
Within less than two hours we had both barrels filled to the
brim. We were only sorry we had not more, for the sport, while seemingly
somewhat brutal, nevertheless was such as one would never find elsewhere; and as
far as we knew then the results could not be accomplished by any other means.
Besides, as there were many dead fish here and there along the banks we decided
that we were only anticipating the ordinary course of Nature anyway. In fact,
many of those we caught were in the condition of a spawning salmon and were
discarded.
However, on one of the creeks we discovered a method of
catching these fish which had been employed by some one who had preceded us,
perhaps by some Indians. Where the stream had been inclined to spread out over a
rocky bar this inclination had been encouraged by the construction of a dam made
by placing small logs cross-wise of the current, the water being less than a
foot deep, thus forcing it around the light obstruction and into the small
boulders, which under the circumstances remained mostly uncovered. In other
words, the stream was made so wide that there was not sufficient water in anyone
place to cover a red fish. With the creek so arranged, a couple of men would go
fifty yards above this contrivance had cut off a lot of fish which had reached
the stream by means of another, which separated from it above and took its own
course to the lake. With the fish thus frightened, they would dash down the
stream with lightning rapidity and, coming to this shallow water where it
disappeared among the round and well-washed boulders, would “scoot” out on the
shore, where all the angler had to do was to stoop over and pick them up.
Just to try our hands at this sort of fishing, we scared two
“herds” of fish down onto this rocky bar and secured a dozen each time, putting
them back in the water, however, to prevent needless waste of life.
The next day after this interesting and exciting episode we
broke camp and started for home, the entire trip being declared by unanimous
vote a gratifying success from every point of view. We left the old skiff in the
lake, and since it was longer than the wagon bed, – I mean the boat, not the
lake – we had taken no “end gate” with us. When we started home, after loading
our other goods and chattels, we placed the two barrels of fish, each weighing
nearly a hundred pounds, in the extreme back of the wagon bed and secured them
by tying a piece of baling rope across from side to side. We were somewhat
afraid of this improvised “end gate,” but as there was nothing else available we
trusted to luck.
It has already been observed that at the time there were no
roads in that section and the team was traveling across country, taking the
general course of the compass for a guide. Robert Eakin and I were following the
wagon on horseback at a distance of fifty yards, and had proceeded about six
miles when, just as we were discussing the durability of that baling rope
substitute, we saw both barrels fall to the ground as the wagon was crossing a
shallow gulch. We at once hurried forward and the sight that met our gaze was
one never to be forgotten. Those sugar barrels, with their slight hoops, had
collapsed completely, and every vestige of them was buried beneath what appeared
to be a ton of fish. Being exceedingly slippery, the contents of the barrels had
spread over at least a square rod of ground – and were still spreading. By
vigorous shouting we managed to call those back who were ahead, and with the
entire crowd assembled around the crimson-colored mass there was a full
half-hour spent in roars of unceasing laughter. We tried to save a few of the
fish to take home, but each time we picked one up, the disturbed pile would
extend its boundaries in every direction until, when we finally resumed our
journey, it covered the greater part of a half-acre of virgin prairie. This
happened about where the town of Enterprise, the county seat of Wallowa County,
stands to-day. We arrived at the Cove with about a dozen fish, which we
presented to our friends as the strongest kind of evidence – having no
brine and it being August – that we had actually been to the famous fishing
grounds at Wallowa Lake.
I have felt some hesitation in relating this fishing
experience in Wallowa County in the early days, since for some reason any
description one may give in connection with this sort of pleasure is usually
accepted as a product of the imagination, though, also, one is usually easily
forgiven for his departure from the truth while telling a fish story. And,
speaking of fishing experiences, I am reminded of a story related once upon a
time by Justice Frank A. Moore, of the Oregon Supreme Court, to a small crowd of
us in the corridor of the State Capitol. I am not certain whether he said he
knew the man or not, but at any rate this was the story:
“An old fellow,” said Judge Moore, “of a kindly
disposition and with plenty of both money and time on his hands, came into
possession of a beautiful live trout about a foot long, and while admiring
it happened to recall that he had never heard of anybody trying to teach a
fish tricks of any kind. He decided, therefore, that he would experiment
with this unusually attractive and lively specimen.
“So he prepared a small vessel about a foot high and two
feet across the top. This he filled with water and put his fish in it. It
would swim around and around and the man would stand by and talk to it in a
reassuring manner. It did not appear especially wild, and within three or
four days it became quite gentle and would stick its head out of the water
for food which he held in his hand.
“One day, while circling around the tub at a great rate,
he gave an extra flop and fell out on the floor. The man, frightened,
hurriedly picked him up and replaced him in the water. Discovering that he
could escape in this manner, he did it again within a few minutes. This
antic was repeated several times, until the man concluded he would leave him
out of the water long enough for him to appreciate the necessity of being in
it.
“To his surprise, however, the fish seemed rather to like
his new surroundings and his natural disposition to wriggle soon taught him
how to make progress across the floor, much as a snake would. At this
demonstration of the apparent success of his experiment the man rejoiced. He
was making a valuable discovery. In a few days the fish could get around the
house with great ease, and as the doorstep was but little above the ground
he soon learned to get out in the grass and took great pleasure in wriggling
around through it while catching worms and bugs.
“One day, while he was thus enjoying his new sort of life,
the man saw a cow come into his garden, which was just beyond a small stream
that ran through the yard in front of the house. Hurrying across a footlog
which spanned the creek, he was in the act of picking up a stone to throw at
the cow when, to his surprise, he saw the fish following him, wriggling
along the log. Fearful lest he should lose his pet, he rushed back to the
log, ‘but,’ said the owner of the piscatorial freak, in telling of the
strange incident, ‘do you know that before I could reach him, he had fallen
into the water, and, before I could rescue him, I’ll be d–––ed if that fish
didn’t drown before my very eyes! Why, I wouldn’t have taken a thousand
dollars for the derned cuss.’“
Notwithstanding all that has been ascertained as to the habits
of fish by scientific investigation, it is plain that much is yet to be learned
about them – as well as about the men who say they catch them!
Of the thirteen persons making that trip to the Wallowa
country thirty-five years ago, all are living to-day with the exception of S. G.
French and Girard Cochran. The girls have all married. Mrs. Hendershott is now
past eighty years of age and in good health; Eakin is on the Supreme Bench of
the State; Dr. Givens has for fifteen years been superintendent of the Idaho
Insane Asylum; Jaycox is a prominent merchant in Walla Walla; Alex Cochran is a
blacksmith in Union; Vincent, I have heard, is in the Philippines, and this
writer is engaged in the pleasant pastime of telling how it all happened.
Next Chapter -
T. T. Geer continues to grow up in Forest Cove.
If you are interested in finding this book, Fifty
Years in Oregon, it can
often be located at Powell's Books in Portland
which is one of the largest used book stores in the United States or, through the
Alibris service
which catalogs used books from stores across the country. For more information on the Geer Family, visit the Geer Family website. Other resources
and references include:
