Many settlers cut timber on Bill’s side of the river, so the ferry was welcome. There were times when it was the only crossing within a 40 mile stretch up and down the river. Once in awhile there was no crossing at all, when the river was “in spate” and Bill refused to risk the ferry. At such a time people were forced to go up one side of the river to Moran, cross the toll bridge, and travel down the other side—80 miles to travel 8.
The ferry, a railed platform on pontoons, was carried directly across the river by the current, guided by ropes attached to an overhead cable. The cable was secured to a massive log—called a “dead man.” The ferry was large enough to carry a 4-horse team, provided the lead team was unhooked and led to the side of the wagon.
PHOTO BY AL AUSTIN
Menor’s Ferry at about the turn of the Century. Where the mad Snake rolls by, and the shadow of the great mountains moves over sage, and building, and river.
Bill Menor charged 50 cents for a team, 25 cents for a horse and rider. A foot passenger was carried free if a vehicle was crossing.
In those early days almost everyone who came to cross the ferry around mealtime was invited to eat. If the river was too high for safe crossing and the persons who wanted to cross were in no particular hurry, Bill would keep them 2 or 3 days, bedding them and feeding them generously until the waters subsided, and charging them only the slim ferry fee. “When you see them rollers in the middle of the river, I won’t cross,” he would say, apologizing in his grouchy way for keeping people around.
Anyone who stayed with Bill had to be washed and combed and ready to leap at the table at twelve-noon and six-sharp. Early in the morning, as soon as the fire was built, he yelled at them, saying, “Come on, get out of bed. Don’t lay there until the flies blow you!” Nothing angered him more than to have someone late for a meal, unless it was to put a dish or a pan in the wrong place. Bill had a place for everything and everything had to be in place. Once the Roy VanVlecks spent the night with Bill. They washed the morning dishes before ferrying over the river. Bill, leaning against the kitchen doorcasing, criticized and cursed because the frying pans shouldn’t go here and the kettles shouldn’t go there. Yet he did not offer to put them on their proper nails or even show where they belonged.
That was Bill, and his neighbors understood. He was a man boiled down to his primary colors.
Bill was generally accommodating, but if he were particularly out of humor, and had a natural distaste for a person who came along after six in the evening, he would refuse to ferry him over the river or keep him for the night. He apparently got satisfaction out of being downright mean to a few individuals.
When the Snake is high, it is ferocious. It boils, seethes, growls, beats its breast, and carries with it everything it can reach.