CHAPTER XI.
CROSSING THE KLAMATH RIVER—HOW TO SWIM MULES—SIS-KY-OUE INDIANS—EMIGRANT FORD—TROUT BALING—A BEAVER TOWN—BREEDING-GROUNDS OF THE PELICANS AND VARIOUS WATER-BIRDS—PURSUED BY KLAMATH INDIANS—INTERVIEW WITH CHIEF—THE DESERT PRONG HORNED ANTELOPES—ACORNS AND WOODPECKERS—YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRDS—SNAKE SCOUT—ARRIVAL AT CAMP OF COMMISSION—END OF JOURNAL.
May 17th.—Leave this sandy waste, cross over a low divide, and descend into a narrow gulley, named Bogus Hollow. Creep along between high craggy peaks for ten miles to reach the Klamath river, a wide, rapid stream that I have to cross, but how, just now is a puzzler. The banks are high; not a tree grows along its sides, or near by, wherewith to make either canoe or raft. I follow on its course for eight miles; the river makes a sudden bend, and in the angle on the opposite side I can see the charred remains of a log-shanty, amidst a clump of trees, one of which has been felled so as to fall across the river, and forms a rude footbridge. We unpack the mules, carry all the packing-gear and provisions on our own backs to the other side, an operation requiring steady heads and sure feet, the footway a single tree, and not even a handrail to steady the crosser. All safely over, and no mishap.
The next operation is to swim the mules, a very simple process if properly managed; a risky and dangerous one if due precautions are neglected. The strength of the current must be estimated, so that the mules may be driven up-stream far enough, to ensure their not being washed farther down the opposite side, than where you are desirous they should land, and the place selected for them to land should always have a shelving shore. Supposing you have a canoe, the bell-horse, deprived of his bell, is towed by the canoe across the stream; a packer, standing in the canoe, keeps ringing the bell violently; the mules, that have followed their leader to the edge of the stream, are prevented galloping along the river-bank by the packers; at last, in sheer despair, they dash into the water and swim towards the clanging bell; nothing can be seen but long ears and noses, or heard save the tinkling bell, the splashing water, and a medley of snorts, ranging from a shrill whistle to a sound compounded of creak and groan, gasped from the older, asthmatical, short-winded mules. If we have no canoe, the bell-horse is ridden into the water; when the rider feels the horse begins to swim, he grasps the mane with his left hand, floats from off the horse’s back, swims with his legs as in ordinary swimming, whilst with the right he splashes the water against the horse’s face, thus keeping the animal’s head always up-stream. On reaching the opposite side, when the horse’s feet touch the ground, the man again drops astride, and rides it out, ringing the all-potent bell with all his might.
I learn from my guide that a settler ‘squatted’ where we cross about a year before, built the shanty, made the footbridge, and put in some grain-crops; but the Indians discovered, killed, and scalped him, burnt his shanty, and carried his wife away prisoner—not a cheering story, considering I am going through their very strongholds.
May 18th.—A sharp frosty morning; very cold, sleeping in the open air. Get away soon after sun-up. Leave the flat grassy valley, and ascend the timbered slopes of the Sis-ky-oue mountains. Follow a bad Indian trail, through barren gorges, and along rocky ledges, for twenty miles; observe lots of deer-tracks, but no deer. Descend the northern slope, arrive at the Emigrant’s Ford, and come plump upon a large encampment of Sis-ky-oue Indians. Fifteen miles to the next water; the sun rapidly sinking; men and mules tired. At all risks, I camp near the redskins.
The Emigrant Ford is a wide lake-like expanse of the Klamath river, that spreads out over a level plateau on emerging from a basaltic gorge, through which the river finds its way for some distance. The walls of rock shutting it in being deep and almost vertical, reaching the water in the cañon is an impossibility. As the river widens out it shallows sufficiently for ox-teams and waggons to get through it; and, being almost the only fordable place, was always chosen by emigrant trains coming to Oregon and California.
The remains of half-burnt waggons and human bones still bleaching in the sun, makes one shudder to think of the terrible fate of the weary wanderer, cut off at this fatal spot by the Indians. Their plan was to remain concealed until the trains were all safely through, then to swoop down upon them, while scattered and disordered by crossing, cut loose the oxen, kill the men, carry off the women and children, if girls, burn the waggons, and secure all that suited them in the shape of plunder.
The Indians near my camp were fishing in a small mountain-stream, if baling out fish by the bucketful could be called fishing. Round-fish (Coregomis quadrilateralis) and brook-trout (Fario stellatus) were in such masses (I cannot find a better word) that we dipped out, with baskets and our hands, in ten minutes, enough fish to fill two large iron pails that we carried with us. How such hosts of fish obtain food, or where they find room to deposit their ova, are mysteries. The Indians were splitting and drying them in the sun strung on long peeled rods.
May 19th.—Had no trouble with these Indians. Hire two of them to aid me in again crossing the Klamath river, where it runs from the upper into the lower Klamath lake. For the first four miles we ascend a steep mountain, rather thickly timbered. Killed a grey deer, and saw a splendid herd of wapiti; but the bell frightened them, so I did not get a shot. Cross the ridge, and descend on an open grassy flat, surrounding the lower Klamath lake, which I should say, at a rough guess, is thirty miles in circumference. It is in reality more like a huge swamp than a lake; simply patches of open water, peeping out from a rank growth of rushes at least twelve feet in height.