A SAMPLE OF THE PIONEERS OF MONTANA.
Of all the instances in this book giving illustrations of the “then and now,” not one is more striking than the following sketch of a once humble Norwegian boy, who, in 1854, landed in the United States with barely enough money to pay his first night’s lodging, but who is now one of the millionaires of Montana. The young Norwegian referred to is A. M. Holter, one of Montana’s first pioneers, and who now resides in Helena, the capital of the state. A sketch of the frontier life of such a man is a chapter well worth reading. It shows what a man with push, pluck and energy can accomplish.
The first place at which Mr. Holter resided after coming to the United States was Freeport, Iowa, and he remained in that state until 1859, making Osage his headquarters. In the spring of 1860 he joined the rush of gold-seekers to Colorado, then called Pike’s Peak. By this time he had joined his brother Martin. After arriving in Colorado, the brothers went to mining and farming; in these pursuits they made some money, but nothing big. In the fall of 1863, in company with his partner, E. Evensen, A. M. Holter left Denver, Colo., bound for Alder gulch, bringing with them a small sawmill. It took them about thirty days to make the trip. After much difficulty, they arrived in Alder gulch. To give an account of this arrival, I cannot do better than to give the following which appeared in the Helena Independent Sept. 7, 1899, after an interview with Mr. Holter concerning his early days in Montana. He said:
“The fact is that we—my partner and I—didn’t get there until Dec. 1, 1863, and we selected a location on Ramshorn gulch. We managed to get our outfit as far as the summit between Bevin and Ramshorn gulches with teams, where we found deep snow and more snow falling. It kept on snowing; I remember seventeen days in succession that it snowed every day. We camped there under some spruce trees, with no other shelter, and the wind blowing all the time. There we made a hand sled to handle the machinery and built a brush road a distance of a mile and a half to get the machinery we had down to the creek, where our water power was to be had. We finally got the stuff down there and had a cabin up without doors or windows and moved into it the day before Christmas, 1863. We hung up our blankets on the door and window and prepared to make the best of it on Christmas day. The snow was then four feet deep and it was still snowing. In fact, we had snow all winter, although I do not remember that it ever got much deeper than that around us.
“I didn’t know a thing about the sawmill business, and my partner, who had represented himself to be a millwright, proved that he didn’t know much about it either. We unpacked our machinery and began to put it together and found that some of the parts that were necessary for its use were missing. The feeding apparatus was gone, among other things. We set to work and invented a new movement, which, by the way, was afterwards patented—by other parties.
“In the first place, we had to have blacksmithing done, and we had no tools, so we set out to make some. We had a broadax and we drove it into a block of wood and used it for an anvil. We had a sledge, and made a pair of bellows out of some wood and our rubber coats. There was a nail hammer with the outfit, and with it and the sledge, and the anvil and a forge we got together, we managed to make the other tools we absolutely needed. We made our own charcoal, and finally got that part of the preliminary work done.
“We had no lathe to turn the shafting, and we finally rigged a contrivance in the cabin wall to thrust one end into. We fixed up a wheel for the other end and made a belt out of rawhide to turn the thing by hand until we got the shafting turned. The lathe was even more primitive than the blacksmith shop, but we got the work done after a fashion, although it was a slow process.
“After that we whipsawed some lumber, made our water wheel, fitted up the mill, and got out several thousand feet of lumber before spring set in. That was my first winter’s work in Montana, and it was a hard one, too; part of it was all the more trying because I had my face cut up in a little unpleasantness with the road agents about that time.
“We had no belting, and we made some of rawhide, but there was no way of keeping it dry, for we had a water mill. We heard of eighty feet of six-inch belting at Bannock. I went over and tried to buy it. The man that owned it had no use for it and said so, but he wouldn’t set a price and I made him several offers, finally telling him that I would give him $600, all the money I had with me. He wouldn’t sell even then, and I had to go back without it, and we made a shift to use a canvas belt that we made ourselves. It was a poor affair, but we got along somehow.
“Lumber brought high prices, though, and we made some money after all our trouble. We got $140 a thousand for sluice lumber, and $125 for common lumber. The sluice lumber was finished on the edges and the other wasn’t. The second year we started a yard at Nevada City, and I remember that the demand was so great that whenever we expected a wagon in there would be a crowd of men waiting for it, who wouldn’t let me get to it at all. As soon as the binding was taken off the load, they would make a rush for the wagon and every man would take off what he could carry. The demand was so keen that they felt justified in taking it by force, and I wouldn’t even have a chance to keep an account of what was taken. As far as I know, however, it was always correctly accounted for and I do not believe that there was ever a stick that went out that way that I didn’t get my pay for.”