Across America; Or, The Great West and the Pacific Coast

by James Fowler Rusling

Farther on, after a long and tedious drive up and across a stony "divide," we came suddenly out on Grande Ronde valley, and were amazed at its beauty and fertility. At first view, it seemed almost circular, and looked like a vast bowl hollowed out of the mountains there. Mountains bristling with pine or fir-trees rimmed it in on all sides, while in their midst the valley reposed, as if a dried up lake. Some thirty miles in length, by twenty-five in width, it contains over six hundred square miles of the very washings of the mountains—the whole as rich and fertile as a garden. Cedar, fir, pine, and oak abound in the embracing mountains; but the valley itself is as bare of timber, as an Illinois prairie. Numberless springs burst out of the mountain sides, and coalescing into streams gridiron the valley—uniting at last in Grande Ronde River, which flows thence to the Snake. In places, we were told, there are hot mineral springs also, but we saw none of these. The edges of the valley—seemingly like the rim of a plate—were already sprinkled well with ranches, while horses, cattle, and sheep by the thousand were grazing off in the bottoms. But few houses appeared in the bottoms yet—the settlers apparently preferring to hug the mountains. The wheat crop of the valley that year alone was computed at half a million of bushels, and large quantities of oats, barley, potatoes etc., had been raised besides. Indian corn, or maize, however, had never flourished well, and it was doubted if it would—it being so far north. Even here, though, irrigation had to be resorted to for most summer crops, but down in the bottoms grass grew luxuriantly without this. Grande Ronde, indeed, resembles the great parks of Colorado, only her soil is far finer, and if cultivated to the full, along with Powder River and Burnt River, would alone supply Idaho with pretty much all she needs. We met old settlers there, who years before had emigrated thither from Missouri and Illinois, tempted by the wondrous beauty and fertility of the place, and one could not wonder at their choice of a home. In all that region we saw nothing like Grande Ronde, and indeed but few places to compare with it from the Missouri to the Columbia. Its only drawback seemed to be the severe winds, which prevail there much of the year. It appeared strange, that a valley so embosomed in mountains should be troubled so with winds. But it seemed to be a sort of funnel, and they said the winds were often fierce and continuous there, for long periods together. Nevertheless, unless these approximate to hurricanes or tempests, we could only say, "Blessed be the man who dwells in Grande Ronde!"

Le Grande, the county-seat, we found to be a thriving town of a thousand or so inhabitants, and the largest and busiest place by far since leaving Boisè. At the foot of the Mountains, where the road from the Columbia debouches into Grande Ronde, it caught a large amount of trade and travel that way, and also did considerable business with several gold and silver mines in the adjacent mountains. These mines, it seemed, were not believed to amount to much; but they helped to sustain and build up Le Grande, and so were welcomed. Just then the town was discouraged somewhat, by the recent transfer of the mail-route to Uniontown. But as the county-seat, with two weekly papers, and Grande Ronde to back her, she would evidently continue to prosper, notwithstanding her loss of the stages. A smart church, and a really fine public-school-house, graced the plateau beyond the town—both of which spoke volumes for Le Grande. The main street, however, was almost impassable for the deep and unctuous mud; but by keeping straight ahead, and a little careful manœuvring, we managed to reach "Our House," the most respectable looking hotel, at last. Here they gave us excellent accommodations for the night, and the next morning we started to cross the Blue Mountains.

We had left Boisè with a four-mule team, but at the end of the first day our lead-mules gave out, and we had to hire a pair of ponies to take their places. These ponies—the only animals we could secure—were bright and active little nags, and with them at the head we posted along, at the rate of forty or fifty miles per day very readily. But at Powder River, one of them becoming lame, we were compelled also to drop the other, and this reduced us to only our original wheel-mules—a pair of large, but antiquated, and sorry-looking donkeys, that entertained grave constitutional objections to any gait faster than a walk. When we struck a bit of extra good road—especially if a little down hill—our driver usually managed, by much pounding and profanity, to persuade them into a mild trot. But when we reached the bottoms, or if a "divide" appeared, they speedily gravitated again into their natural creep. We were all day long making our last twenty-six miles out from Le Grande, and it was clear we would never get over the Blue Mountains with this pokey team, if the roads were as reported. Fortunately, at Le Grande, we succeeded in hiring a fresh team, of four fine and spirited horses, and with these we swung out of the town (Nov. 24th) on a good round trot—a delightful contrast to our snail-like pace on coming in. We had sighted the Blue Mountains—the northern prolongation of the Sierra Nevadas—two days before, soon after leaving Baker City, and all along had got ugly accounts of the condition of the roads there. Their bald summits already showed snow here and there, and for a day or two another snow-storm had been lowering in the sky, much to our anxiety. But as we rolled out of Le Grande, the sun came out bright and clear, and with our ambulance stout and strong, and our high-stepping steeds, all the auspices seemed to change in our favor. We soon struck the Le Grande river, and followed this up for several miles, through wild and picturesque cañons, or along the shelving sides of the mountains, where often two teams could hardly pass. The Le Grande carried us well up and into the Mountains, and every hour the scenery became grander and wilder. Grande Ronde valley soon passed out of sight; but, as we ascended, from various points we caught exquisite views of the wide-stretching ranges and valleys beyond. Farther up, we became environed with hills and gorges, covered thick with gigantic fir-trees, though here and there a clump of cedars or pines appeared. All along we met the wild snow-drop, loaded down with its berries, and in sheltered nooks saw the wild currant, with here and there harebells, though these were rare. The mountain-laurel also occurred frequently; but the great predominating growth was the Oregon fir, from the size of a bamboo cane to the leafy monarch, "fit to be the mast of some great admiral." The road was constructed on the cork-screw principle—much around to get a little ahead—but after countless twistings and turnings, we at length reached the summit, long after noon. Here we found a comparatively level plateau, some two or three miles in width, with only a few scattered fir-trees, swept keenly by the wind, from which we slowly descended over the remains of a once corduroyed road to "Meacham's." We arrived at "Meacham's" about 4 p. m.—only twenty-six miles from Le Grande, after all; but as it was still twelve miles to "Crawford's," the next ranch, at the northern foot of the Mountains, it seemed imprudent to venture on that day.

As to the wagoning, I need scarcely say, it well exemplified, with abounding emphasis, "Jordan's a hard road to travel!" The roads, indeed, as a whole, after we got up into the Mountains, were simply execrable, and our ride in that respect anything but romantic. All along the route, we found freight-trains, bound for Boisè City and the Mines, hopelessly "stalled." Some of the wagons with a broken wheel or axle, had already been abandoned. Others were being watched over by their drivers, stretched on their blankets around huge fires by the roadside, smoking or sleeping, patiently awaiting their comrades, who had taken their oxen or mules to double-up on some team ahead, and would return with double teams for them to-morrow or next day, or the day after—whenever they themselves got through. Snow had already fallen on the Mountains, once or twice that season; we found several inches of it still in various places, and the air and sky both threatened more, as the day wore on. Yet these rough freighters looked upon the "situation" very philosophically, and appeared quite indifferent whether they got on or stayed. If it snowed, the forest afforded plenty of wood, their wagons plenty of provisions, and their wages went on just the same; so where was the use of worrying? This seemed to be about the way they philosophized, and accustomed to the rude life of the Border, they did not mind "roughing it" a little. An old army friend used often to parade a pet theory of his, that a man could not associate much with horses, without directly deteriorating. "The horse," he would say, "may gain largely, but it will only be at the expense of the man. Our cavalry and artillery officers always were the wickedest men in the service, and all because of their equine associations. The animals, indeed, become almost human; but in the same proportion, the men become animals!" I always thought him about half-right; but if this be true as to intimacy with horses, what must be the effect on men of long and constant association with mules or oxen! I thought I saw a good deal of this in mule-drivers in the army, in Virginia and Tennessee; but a harder or rougher set, than the ox-men or "bull-whackers" (as they call themselves) of the Plains and Mountains, it would be difficult perhaps to find, or even imagine. On the road here in the Blue Mountains, with their many-yoked teams struggling through the mud and rocks, of course, they were in their element. Outré, red-shirted, big-booted, brigand-looking ruffians, with the inseparable bowie-knife and revolver buckled around their waists, they swung and cracked their great whips like fiends, and beat their poor oxen along, as if they had no faith in the law of kindness here, nor belief in a place of punishment hereafter. And when they came to a really bad place—in crossing a stream, or when they struck a stump or foundered in a mud-hole—it is hard to say whether their prodigious, multiplied, and many-headed oaths were more grotesque or horrible. To say "they swore till all was blue," would be but a feeble comparison; the whole Mountains corruscated with sulphur! Some few of the trains consisted only of horse and mule teams; but ox-teams seemed most in favor, and slow as they were, we took quite a fancy to them—they appeared so reliable. When the roads were good, they averaged ten or twelve miles per day, and subsisted by grazing; when they became bad, they managed to flounder through any how—some way or other. At extra bad places, the teams were doubled or trebled up, and then the wagon was bound to come, if the wood and iron only held together. Twenty or thirty yoke of oxen straining to the chains, with the "bull-whackers" all pounding and yelling like mad, their huge whip-lashes thick as one's wrist cracking like pistols, was a sight to see—"muscular," indeed, in all its parts. The noise and confusion, the oaths and thwacks and splashing of the mud, made it indeed the very hell of animals; but, for all that, the wagon was sure to reach terra firma at last, no matter how heavily loaded, or pull to pieces. We had great sympathy for the patient, faithful oxen, and wished for Mr. Henry Bergh and his Cruelty-Prevention Society many a time that day. Here, indeed, was some explanation of the high rates of freight from the Columbia to Boisè; and Idaho would find it to her interest to improve such routes of transportation forthwith.

I need scarcely add, it was a hard day on our noble horses, but they carried us through bravely. Our ambulance was a light spring carriage, with only L., myself and the driver, and could not have weighed over fifteen hundred pounds, baggage and all; yet it was just as much as the four gamey horses wanted to do to haul us along. It was a steady, dragging pull throughout, after we were well into the Mountains, with scarcely any let-up; up-hill, of course, most of the way, with deep mud besides; chuck-holes abounding, and quagmires frequent; in and out, and around freight-trains "stuck" in the road; and on arriving at "Meacham's," our gallant team, though by no means exhausted, yet seemed very willing to halt for the night. How we congratulated ourselves on securing them, before quitting Le Grande! Had we started with our pair of dilapidated donkeys, we would never have got through; but would probably have had to camp out in the Mountains over night, and send back for another team, after all. Once in rounding a rocky hillside, above a yawning chasm, our "brake" snapped short off, early in the forenoon; and again, in one of the worst quagmires, our drawing-rope by which the leaders were attached broke, and we would no doubt have been hopelessly ship-wrecked, had it not been for our forethought on leaving Le Grande. Fortunately, accustomed to army roads on the Peninsula and in Tennessee, we laid in a supply of rope and nails there, with a good stout hatchet, and these now stood us in excellent stead. With these we soon repaired all damages satisfactorily, and went on our way—not exactly rejoicing; but rather with grave apprehensions lest we should break down entirely, far away from any human habitation, and have to pass a supperless night by the roadside, or around a roaring fire, with wolves, bears, and such like "varmints" perhaps uncomfortably near about us.

So, it was, we were glad to be safe at "Meacham's," at last, and to sit down to the generous cheer he gave us at nightfall. Though 8,000 feet or more, above the sea, and built wholly of logs, it was the cleanest, cheeriest, and best public-house we had yet seen in either Oregon or Idaho, outside of Boisè City; and even the "Overland" there indeed set no better table, if as good. We did ample justice to the luscious venison, sausage, and pumpkin-pies, that they gave us for dinner at 6 p. m.—having breakfasted at 6 a. m., and eaten nothing since. Mr. Meacham himself, our genial host, was a live Oregonian, who had come thither from Illinois several years before, and with his brother now owned this ranch, and the road over the Blue Mountains—such as it was. Bad as it was just then, it had cost them a good deal of money, first and last; and being the shortest road from navigation on the Columbia to Idaho and Montana, it had paid well in other years, when there was a "rush" of miners to those regions. But the emigration thither had now fallen much off, and besides a competing road had been opened from Wallula on the Columbia—flanking the Mountains in part—to Uniontown in Grande Ronde valley, and so beyond, which it was believed would hurt the Meacham Road seriously. The mail now went this new road, and trade and travel it was thought would be apt to follow the stage-coaches. Yet Mr. Meacham was not discouraged. He was a plucky, wide-awake man, some forty years of age, with brown hair and stubborn-looking beard, and in general looked like a person who could take care of himself well, travel or no travel. His wife was a really interesting lady, with several well-bred children; and in the evening, when we asked for something to read, he surprised us by producing a file of the N. Y. Times, Greeley's American Conflict, and Raymond's Abraham Lincoln. He had been a candidate for the Oregon Legislature at the recent election, and though running much ahead of his ticket, had been beaten by a small majority. He explained, that "the left wing of Price's army" was still encamped in that part of Oregon, and that the Oregon democracy generally were only a step removed from Gov. Price and Jefferson Davis. The early settlers there, he said, had been mostly "Pikes" from Missouri, and they still clung to their old pro-slavery (and therefore Confederate) ideas. In '61, many of them had indeed favored secession, and later in the war when Price's forces were finally routed in Missouri, hundreds of his soldiers deserted and made for Oregon, where they already had acquaintances or friends. We had heard something of this before, and now understood what was meant by the popular expression—even at Salt Lake—that "the left wing of Price's army was encamped" in Idaho and Oregon! Later in the evening, he gathered his little ones about us, and would have us talk about army experiences, during the war and afterwards, and affairs East generally. In return, he gave us his experiences West and incidents of border-life, by the hour together. Thus we spun yarns by his ample fire-side, until the "wee sma' hours" and after—the fir-logs blazing and roaring welcome up his wide-throated chimney—when he showed us to a cosy room, and an excellent bed, clean and sweet beyond expectation even.

During the night, I was awakened by the rain pattering on the roof, just over our heads; but this soon ceased, and the next morning we had several inches of snow, with huge flakes still falling. This was a bad outlook; nevertheless, we decided to go on, as it was impossible to say how long the storm would last, or how severe it would become. We did not want to be "snow-bound" there, and besides we thought we could reach "Crawford's" anyhow, as it was but twelve miles or so, and that would take us well out of the Mountains. We left "Meacham's" accordingly at 7 a. m., with our horses fresh and keen after their night's rest, and got along pretty well for a couple of miles or so, when suddenly, in drawing out of a chuck-hole, one of our wheels struck a stump, and "smash" went our king-bolt. Down came the ambulance kerchuck in the snow and mud; out went the driver over the dashboard a la bull-frog, but still clinging to the ribbons; while L. and I sat wrapped in our great-coats and robes on the back seat, at an angle of forty-five degrees or so. Here was a pretty predicament, surely! On top of the Blue Mountains, broken down in a quagmire, the snow falling fast, and no house nearer than "Meacham's!" Fortunately, our gamey horses did not frighten and run away, or we would have been infinitely worse off. Tumbling out, we presently ascertained the extent of our damages, and all hands set to work to repair them. Now it was, that our forethought at La Grande again handsomely vindicated itself. With our hatchet we cut props for the ambulance, and lifted it up on these; and then found, that though part of the king-bolt was broken off and the balance badly bent, it could yet be hammered into shape sufficiently to carry us forward again, with careful driving. It took an hour or more of sloppy and hard work, before we got the bolt back again into its place and every thing "righted up;" and then, as an additional precaution, with our good rope we lashed the coupling-pole fast to our fore axle-tree besides. Altogether it made a rough looking job, but it appeared stout and strong, and we decided to venture it anyhow. The rest of the way out of the Mountains, however, we proceeded very cautiously. The snow continued to fall right along, and concealed the bad places, so that the roads were even worse, than the day before, if possible. At all extra-bad spots, or what seemed so, L. and I got out and walked; and even when riding, we tried to help the driver keep the best track, by a sharp lookout ahead and on either side. Our ambulance, however, rolled and pitched from quagmire to chuck-hole, like an iron-clad at sea; and repeatedly when out walking I stopped deliberately, just to see how beautifully she would capsize, or else collapse in a general spill, like a "One-Horse Shay!" All around us was the dense forest: all about us, that unnatural stillness, that always accompanies falling snow; no human being near; no sound, but our panting horses and floundering ambulance; no outlook, but the line of grim and steely sky above us. "There she goes! This time sure! See what a hole!" And yet by some good luck, she managed to twist and plunge along through and out of it all, in spite of the mud and snow; and at last landed us safely on the high bald knob, that overlooks "Crawford's," and the valley of the Umatilla. We had about ten miles of this execrable travelling, expecting any moment to upset or break down; and when at last we got fairly "out of the wilderness," it was a great relief. We had an ugly descent still, of two miles or more, before we reached the valley; but this was comparatively good going, being downhill, and besides the snow above had been only rain here.

The view from this bald knob or spur, as we descended, was really very fine. Just as we rounded its brow the clouds broke away, and the sun came out for awhile quite brilliantly. Far beneath us, vast plateaus, like those between Bear River and Boisè City, stretched away to the Columbia; and in the distance, the whole region looked like a great plain or valley. To the north-east, we could follow for miles the road or trail to Walla-Walla, as it struck almost in a straight line across the plateaus; to the northwest, we could mark in the same way the route to Umatilla. At our feet, and far away to the west and north, we could trace the Umatilla itself, as it flowed onward to the Columbia. Beyond all these, to the north and west still, a hundred and fifty miles away, sharp against the sky, stood the grand range of the Cascade Mountains, with their kingliest peaks, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, and Rainier, propping the very heavens. On a bright, clear day, this view must be very fine; as it was, we caught but a glimpse or two of it, just enough to make us hunger for more, when the clouds shut in again, and we hastened on. Now that we were out of the forest, the wind blew strong and keen in our faces, with no fir-trees to break it, and for a half hour or so we shivered with the cold; but it also spurred up our gallant horses, and we were soon whirling out of the foot-hills, at a rapid rate. We drew up at "Crawford's" at 1 p. m., and here halted to lunch and to bait our animals—well satisfied, after all, with our morning's work.

An hour afterwards we started again, and now bowled along famously. Our route lay down the valley of the Umatilla, and as the road was a little sandy, the rain had made it just good for travelling. L. and I, with our baggage and driver, were no load at all for four such gamey nags, especially over a descending grade, and soon after dark we rolled into "Wells' Springs"—42 miles from "Meacham's." Here we encountered a motley crowd of teamsters, miners, and others, all very rough, en route to Idaho and Montana. "Wells' Springs" was a shabby ranch, and we had no intention of stopping there, but were unable to go on—one of our horses becoming suddenly sick. The house was dirty, and the supper poor and badly cooked; so that we could readily believe the slouchy, slatternly landlady, when in the course of the meal she remarked to one of her rough guests, "O, we never care for puttin' on style here! Only for raal substantials!" Supper over, there was a general smoke and talk, and how those rough fellows did talk! At bedtime, we were put into a little closet, partitioned off from the rest, while the main crowd quartered around "loose" on the floor outside. The last thing we heard, two "bull-whackers" were disputing as to who I was—one insisting I was Gen. Grant, and the other contending I was only Inspector-General U. S. A.! We soon went heavily to sleep; the next morning, when I awoke, the same chaps were disputing still!