California, 1849-1913 Part 1

California 1849-1913.

by L. H. Woolley.

Trip Across the Plains.

The year 1849 has a peculiarly thrilling sensation to the California Pioneer, not realized by those who came at a later date. My purpose in recording some of my recollections of early days is not for publication nor aggrandizement, but that it may be deposited in the archives of my descendants, that I was one of those adventurers who left the Green Mountains of Vermont to cross the plains to California, the El Dorado--the Land of Gold.

In starting out I went to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, St. Louis and Independence, Missouri. Here I joined the first mule train of Turner, Allen & Co.'s Pioneer Line. It consisted of forty wagons, one hundred and fifty mules, and about one hundred and fifty pa.s.sengers. We left the frontier on the fourteenth of May 1849, and here is where our hardships commenced. Many of us had never known what it was to "camp out" and do our own cooking. Some of the mules were wild and unbroken, sometimes inside the traces, sometimes outside; sometimes down, sometimes up; sometimes one end forward and sometimes the other; but after a week or two they got sobered down so as to do very well.

Our first campfire at night was on the Little Blue River, a few miles from Independence; it was after dark when we came to a halt, and it was my friend Gross' turn to cook, while the rest brought him wood and water and made a fire for him by the side of a large stump. I knew he was a fractious man, so I climbed into one of the wagons where I could see how he got along. The first thing that attracted my attention was the coffee pot upside down, next away went the bacon out of the pan into the fire.

By this time he was getting warm inside as well as outside, and I could hear some small "cuss words"; next he looked into the Dutch oven, and saw that his dough had turned to charcoal. I got down into the wagon out of sight, and peeked through a crack; he grew furious, danced around the fire, and the air was full of big words. Finally we got a little coffee and some cakes and bacon, then I undertook to do a little sleeping but it was no go. Thus ended my first night on the Plains.

In the morning we started on our journey to travel over a level untimbered, uninhabited country for nearly four hundred miles, without anything of especial interest occurring save cholera, from which there was terrible suffering. We lost about seventy-five of our number before we reached Fort Laramie, seven hundred miles from Missouri.

There was a Dutchman in my mess by the name of Lamalfa, who understood but little of English. We had dubbed him "Macaroni" for having brought a lot of the stuff with him and on our second night out it came his turn to stand guard. He was detailed to the inner guard and instructed as to his duties. On the relief of the outer sentinel and his return to camp, Lamalfa issued the challenge which was to repeat three times "Who comes there?" and in case of no response to fire, and as the outer sentinel came upon him he called out "Who comes there three times" and fired; fortunately he was a poor shot and no harm was done.

It seems that "Macaroni" was not aware of there being an outer guard.

When near Fort Childs, four hundred miles out, all the pa.s.sengers left the wagons, except the drivers, and walked on in advance, leaving the wagons light (they were canvas covered). There came up one of those terrible hailstorms, common in that country, which pelted the mules with such severity as to cause them to take fright and run away, breaking loose from the wagons which were taken by the storm in another direction, first wheels up, then top, until the latter was all in rags; then they stopped. When we came into camp at night they looked sorry enough and you would have thought they had just come out of a fierce fight.

We pursued our journey along the south bank of the Platte until we reached Fort Laramie, capturing some antelopes and occasionally a buffalo. Up to this time we had had a great deal of sickness in camp. I remember one poor fellow (his name I have forgotten), we called him Chihuahua Bob; he was a jovial, good natured fellow and drove one of the eight-mule baggage wagons. I enquired about him one morning and was told that he had died during the night of cholera, and had been left in his shallow grave.

We met some returning emigrants that morning who had become discouraged and were going back to their old homes This made me think of home and friends, the domestic happy fireside, and all that I had left behind, "but," said I to myself, "this won't do, I am too far out now; pluck is the word and I'm not going back on it."

Early next morning we were once more upon our long journey, slowly traveling towards the far, far West.

The first place of interest that presented itself to our view was a narrow pa.s.sage for the river between two perpendicular rocky banks, which were about one hundred feet high and looked as though a man could jump from one to the other at the top. This was called the "Devil's Gate." Above and below was the broad prairie.

At intervals along the Platte were villages of prairie dogs, who were about the size of large grey squirrels, but more chunky' of a brownish hue, with a head somewhat resembling a bulldog. They are sometimes eaten by the Indians and mountaineers. Their earth houses are all about two feet deep; are made in the form of a cone; are entered by a hole in the top, which descends vertically some two or more feet and then takes an oblique course, and connects with others in every direction. These towns or villages sometimes cover several hundred acres and it is very dangerous riding over them on horseback.

We will now pa.s.s to another interesting object called "Chimney Rock"

which is not altogether unlike Bunker Hill Monument. It stands by itself on the surrounding level country, with a conical base of about one hundred and fifty feet in diameter and seventy-five feet high where the nearly square part of the column commences, which is about fifty feet on each of the four sides. It is of sandstone and certainly a very singular natural formation. Altogether it is about two hundred feet high. I will mention here that the banks of the Platte are low, that the bed is of quicksand, that the river is very shallow and that it is never clear. One of our company attempted to ford it on foot. When about two-thirds over, in water up to his waist, he halted, being in doubt as to whether he should proceed or return. While hesitating between two opinions his feet had worked down into the quicksand and became so imbedded that he could not extricate them. Realizing his perilous position he at once gave the Masonic Grand hailing sign of distress and in a moment there were several men in the water on their way to his relief. They reached him in time and brought him safely into camp.

About this time there was considerable dissatisfaction manifested in camp on account of the slow progress we were making. Some left the train and went on by themselves, others realized the necessity of holding to together to the last in order to protect themselves as well as to care for those among us who were sick. The peculiar characteristics of the party at this time seemed to be recklessness and indifference to the situation, but the better judgment finally prevailed and we went on in harmony.

The next three hundred miles were devoid of any especial interest. This brings us to the summit of the Rocky Mountains (at South Pa.s.s) which divides the rivers of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and ends their course thousands of miles apart. Here are the ever snow-capped peaks of the Wind River Mountains looming up on the north. They are conical in form and their base is about one thousand feet above the plain that extends south. This brings us to the nineteenth day of July, 1849. On the night of this day water froze to the thickness of one-fourth of an inch in our buckets. The following day we commenced descending the western slope, which was very rapid and rough. The twenty-first brought us to Green River which was swollen and appeared to be a great barrier.

Here, for the first time, we brought our pontoons into use and swam the mules, so that after two days of hard work we were all safely landed on the west bank. We are now at the base of the Rocky Mountains on the west, pa.s.sing from one small valley to another, until we reached a bend in the Bear River. Here let us pause for a moment and study the wonders of nature.

First, the ground all around is covered with sulphur; here, a spring of cold soda water; there, a spring of hot soda water; fourth, an oblong hole about four by six inches in the rocky bank, from which spouts hot soda water, like the spouting of a whale. It is called "Steamboat Spring." It recedes and spouts about once in two minutes. All of these are within a hundred steps of each other.

Now, our canteens, and every available vessel is to be filled with water, for use in crossing forty-five miles of lava bed, where there is neither water nor gra.s.s to be found and must be accomplished by traveling day and night. This was called "Subletts' Cutoff," leaving Salt Lake to the south of us, and brings us to the base of the mountains at the source of the Humboldt River.

On the west side, in crossing over, we encountered a place in a gorge of the mountain called "Slippery Ford," now called the "Devil's Half-Acre."

It was a smooth inclined surface of the rock and it was impossible for the mules to keep their footing. We had great difficulty in getting over it.

Now we are at the headwaters of the Humboldt River, along which we traveled for three hundred miles, over an alkali and sandy soil until we came to a place where it disappeared. This was called the "Sink of the Humboldt." This valley is twenty miles wide by about three hundred long.

During this part of our journey there was nothing of interest to note.

The water of this river is strongly impregnated with alkali.

About forty miles in a southerly direction from the sink of the Humboldt (now called the Lake) is old "Ragtown" on the banks of the Carson River, not far from Fort Churchill. In traveling from one river to the other there was no water for man or beast. When we were about half way we found a well that was as salt as the ocean. We reached this well sometime in the night of the first day and our mules were completely f.a.gged out, so we left the wagons, turned the mules loose, and drove them through to the Carson, arriving there on the night of the second day. Here was good gra.s.s and fine water, and bathing was appreciated to its fullest extent.

We remained for several days to let our animals recruit, as well as ourselves, then we went back and got the wagons. We traveled westward through Carson Valley until we entered the Six Mile Canon, the roughest piece of road that we found between Missouri and California. There were great boulders from the size of a barrel to that of a stage coach, promiscuously piled in the bed of this tributary to the Carson, and over which we were obliged to haul our wagons. It took us two days to make the six miles.

Arrival In California.

Now we see Silver Lake, at the base of the Sierra Nevadas on the east side; our advance to the summit was not as difficult as we antic.i.p.ated.

Having arrived at this point we are at the source of the south fork of the American River and at the summit of the Sierra Nevadas. We now commenced the descent on a tributary of this river.

After a day or two of travel we arrived at a place called Weaverville, on the tenth day of September, 1849. This place consisted of one log cabin with numerous tents on either side. Here was my first mining, but being weary and worn out, I was unable to wield the pick and shovel, and so I left in a few days for Sacramento where I undertook to make a little money by painting, but it was a failure, both as to workmanship and as to financial gain. However, by this time I had gained some strength and left for Beal's Bar at the junction of the north and south forks of the American River. Here I mined through the winter with some success.

In the spring of 1850 thirty of us formed a company for the purpose of turning the south fork through a ca.n.a.l into the north fork, thereby draining about a thousand yards of the river bed. Just as we had completed the dam and turned the water into the ca.n.a.l, the river rose and away went our dam and our summer's work with it.

Winter coming on now nothing could be done until spring, so I left for San Francisco where I had heard of the death of a friend at Burns' old diggings on the Merced River, about seventy-five miles from Stockton, and knowing that his life was insured in favor of his wife I went there and secured the necessary proof of his death so that his widow got the insurance. There was considerable hardship in this little trip of about one week. On my return, and when within about thirty miles of Stockton, I camped for the night at Knight's Ferry, picketed my pony out, obtained the privilege of spreading my blankets on the ground in a tent and was soon in a sound sleep, out of which I was awakened at about two o'clock in the morning by feeling things considerably damp around me (for it had been raining). I put out my hand and found I was lying in about three inches of water. I was not long getting out of it, rolled up my blankets, saddled my pony and left for Stockton. Here I arrived at about nine o'clock, sold the pony, and was ready to leave at four o'clock for San Francisco. While waiting here (Stockton) I became acquainted with a Kentucky hunter who told me the story of his experiences of the day previous. He said:

"I came to the place where you stayed last night, yesterday morning, and was told that there were a number of bears in the neighborhood, and that no one dared to hunt them. I remarked that that was my business, and I would take a hand at it; I strapped on my revolvers and knife, shouldered my Kentucky rifle and started out. I had not gone more than half a mile, when I discovered one of the animals I was in search of, and away my bullet sped striking him in the hip. I made for a tree and he made for me! I won the race by stopping on the topmost branch, while he howled at the base; while reloading my rifle I heard an answer to his wailing for me or for his companion--it didn't matter which. Very soon a second cry came from another direction, and still one more from the third point of the compa.s.s. By this time one had reached the tree and I fired killing him. Hastily reloading, I was just in time to fire as the second one responded to the first one's howl; he fell dead; then the third arrived and shared the same fate. Having allowed the first one to live as a decoy, his turn came last; then I descended and looked over my work--four full-grown bears lay dead at my feet."

To corroborate this statement I will say that I saw one of them on the hooks in front of a butcher shop in Stockton, and the other three went to San Francisco on the same boat that I did. I met the hunter on the street about a week later and he told me that he realized seven hundred dollars for his bears. I do not make the statement as a bear story, but as a bare fact.

Life In the Mines.

The preceding pages were written about twenty years ago, and only covered about one and one-half years after leaving the Green Mountains of old Vermont. Since which time, I have experienced nearly all of the vicissitudes of the State to the present time (1913). I will now attempt to give an account of my stewardship from that time on. I date my arrival in the State, Weaverville, about three miles below Hangtown (now Placerville), September 10th, 1849. This was where I did my first mining, which was not, much of a success, on account of my weak condition caused by my having the so-called "land scurvy," brought on from a want of vegetable food, and I left for Sacramento City where I remained for a week or two and then left and went to Gra.s.s Valley. There I made a little money, and went to Sacramento City and bought two wagon loads of goods, went back to Gra.s.s Valley and started a hotel, ran it a few weeks, and the first thing I knew I was "busted."

It is now in the winter of '49 and '50 and I went to Sacramento again, and from Sacramento to Beal's Bar on the North Fork of the American River at the junction of the North and South Forks. By this time I had gained my strength so that I was more like myself, and I bought a rocker, pick, shovel and pan and went into the gulches for gold. I had fairly good luck until spring. By this time I had laid by a few hundred dollars, and I joined a company of thirty to turn the South Fork of the American River into the North Fork, by so doing we expected to drain about one-fourth of a mile of the bed of the South Fork. The banks of the river were rich and everything went to show that the bed of the river was very rich, and we went to work with great hopes of a big harvest of gold. The first thing we did was to build a dam, and dig a ca.n.a.l, which we accomplished in about four months. About this time snow and rain came on in the mountains, raised the water in the river and washed away part of our dam. It was now too late to build again that season.

Now you see the hopes and disappointments of the miner. While we were at work on the ca.n.a.l we had occasion to blast some boulders that were in our way. We had a blacksmith to sharpen the picks and drills who had a portable forge on the point of land between the two rivers. When we were ready to blast the rock we gave him timely warning, he paid no heed, the blast went off, and a portion of a boulder weighing about 500 pounds went directly for his forge and within about six inches of his legs and went on over into the North Fork. The man turned about and hollered to the boys in the ca.n.a.l "I surrender."

About this time the river had risen to such an extent that it was thought advisable to suspend operations until the next spring. This was a dividing of the roads, and each member had to look out for himself. I went to Mokelumne Hill, staked out some claims and went to work to sink a shaft through the lava to bedrock. The lava on the surface is very hard, but grows softer as you go down. While I was thus banging away with my pick and not making much headway, there came along a Mr.

Ferguson from San Francisco, on a mule. He stopped and looked at me a minute and then said, "Young man, how deep do you expect to go before you reach bedrock?" I said, "About 65 or 75 feet." "Well," said he, "by ---- you have got more pluck than any man I ever saw." He went on and so did I, and I have not seen him since. It took me about two weeks to get so that I could not throw the dirt to the surface, then I had to make a windla.s.s, get a tub and rope, and hire a man to help me at eight dollars a day, and 50 cents a point for sharpening picks. These things completed and in operation, I was able to make two or three feet per day, and we finally reached the bedrock at a depth of 97 feet. The last two feet in the bottom of the shaft I saved for washing, and had to haul it about one mile to water. I washed it out and realized 3 1/2 ounces of very coa.r.s.e gold. Now we were on the bedrock and the next thing to do was to start three drifts in as many directions. This called for two more men to work the drifts, and a man with his team to haul the dirt to the water, while I stood at the windless and watched both ends. This went on for one week. When I washed out my dirt, paid off my help and other expenses, I had two dollars and a half for myself.

About this time I was feeling a little blue and I gave directions for each man in the drifts to start drifts to the left at the end of each drift. This was done, and we went on for another week as before, and this time I came out about one hundred dollars ahead. About this time a couple of miners came along and offered me thirteen hundred dollars for my claim, and I sold it, took the dust and went to Sacramento and sent it to my father in Vermont. That paid up for all the money that I had borrowed, and made things quite easy at home.

Now, I am mining again with cradle, pick, shovel and pan in gulches, on the flats, in the river and on the banks, with miner's luck, up and down, most of the time down. However, "pluck" was always the watchword with me. I floated some of the time in water, some of the time in the air, some of the time on dry land, it did not make much difference with me at that time where I was. I was at home wherever night overtook me.

But finally I got tired of that and began to look about and think of home and "the girl I left behind me."

Home Again. Married. Return to California.

In the spring of '52 I left San Francisco on the steamer "Independence"

via the "Nicaragua route" for New York, arrived there in course of a month, and took train for Boston, where I found my father from Vermont with a carload of horses. This was clover for me. We remained there a week or ten days, then left for home. The "girl I left behind" was a Vermont lady but was visiting a sister in Cincinnati, Ohio. In the spring of 1853 I went on to Ohio to see the "girl I left behind me," and married the "girl I had left behind me." We then went to Vermont, where we remained until the year of 1854. In the summer of this year I had the second attack of the "California fever." I called in Dr. Hichman and he diagnosed my case, and p.r.o.nounced it fatal, and said there was no medicine known to science that would help me, that I must go, so I took the "girl I left behind me" and started for San Francisco.