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Ox-Team Days on the Oregon Trail

<h3>GETTING A NEW START IN THE NEW LAND</h3> <div class='unindent'>On the first day of October, 1852, at about nine o'clock at night, with a bright moon shining, we reached Portland. Oliver met us; he had come ahead by the trail and had found a place for us to lodge.</div> I carried my wife, who had fallen ill, in my arms up the steep bank of the Willamette River and three blocks away to the lodging house, which was kept by a colored man. "Why, suh, I didn't think yuse could do that, yuse don't look it," said my colored friend, as I placed my wife on the clean bed in a cozy little room. This was the first house we had been in for five months. From April until October we had been on the move. Never a roof had been over our heads other than the wagon cover or tent, and no softer bed had we known than the ground or the bottom of the wagon. We had found a little steamer to carry us from the Cascades to Portland, along with most of the company that had floated in the scow down the river from The Dalles. The great Oregon Country, then including the Puget Sound region, was large enough to swallow up a thousand such migrations. Portland was no paradise at that time. It would be difficult to imagine a sorrier-looking place than the one that confronted us upon arrival. Some rain had fallen, and more soon followed. With the stumps and logs and mud and the uneven stretches of ground, it was no easy matter to find a resting place. The tented city was continually enlarging. People seemed to be dazed; it was hard to find paying work; there was insufficient shelter to house all. The country looked a great field of forests and mountains. Oliver and I had between us a cash capital of about three dollars. It was clear that we must find work at once, so at earliest dawn next day Oliver took the trail leading down the river, to search for something to do. I had a possible opportunity for work and wages already in mind. As we were passing up the Willamette, a few miles below Portland, on the evening of our arrival, a bark lay seemingly right in our path as we steamed by. This vessel looked to our inexperienced eyes like a veritable monster, with hull towering high above our heads and masts reaching to the sky. Probably not one of that whole party of frontiersmen had ever before seen a deep-sea vessel. The word went around that the bark was bound for Portland with a cargo of merchandise and was to take a return cargo of lumber. As we passed her there flashed through my mind the thought that there might be opportunity for work on that vessel next day. Sure enough, when morning came, the staunch bark Mary Melville lay quietly in front of the mill. Without loss of time my inquiry was made: "Do you want any men on board this ship?" A gruff-looking fellow eyed me all over as much as to say, "Not you anyhow." But he answered, "Yes. Go below and get your breakfast." I fairly stammered out, "I must go and see my wife first, and let her know where I am." Thereupon came back a growl: "Of course, that will be the last of you! That's the way with these newcomers, always hunting for work and never wanting it." This last aside to a companion, in my hearing. I swallowed my indignation, assured him that I would be back in five minutes, and went post-haste to impart the good news. Put yourself in my place, you who have never come under the domination of a surly mate on a sailing vessel of seventy years ago. My ears fairly tingled with anger at the harshness of the orders, but I stuck to the work, smothering my rage at being berated while doing my very best. As the day went on I realized that the man was not angry; he had merely fallen into that way of talking. The sailors paid slight heed to what he said. Before night the fellow seemed to let up on me, while increasing his tirades at the regular men. The second and third day wore off. I had blistered hands, but never a word about wages or pay. "Say, boss, I'se got to pay my rent, and we'se always gits our pay in advance. I doan' like to ask you, but can't you git the old boss to put up somethin' on your work?" I could plainly see that my landlord was serving notice to pay or move. What should I do? Suppose the old skipper should discharge me for asking for wages before the end of the week? But when I told him what I wanted the money for, the old man's eyes moistened. Without a word he gave me more money than I had asked for, and that night the steward handed me a bottle of wine for the "missus." I knew that it came from the old captain. The baby's Sunday visit to the ship, the Sunday dinner in the cabin, the presents of delicacies that followed, even from the gruff mate, made me feel that under all this roughness lay a tender humanity. Away out here, three thousand miles from home, the same sort of people lived as those I had left behind me. Then came this message: <div class="blockquot"><div class='right'> St. Helens, October 7th, 1852. </div> Dear Brother: Come as soon as you can. Have rented a house, sixty boarders. This is going to be the place. Shall I send you money? <div class='sig'> Oliver P. Meeker. </div> </div> The mate importuned me to stay until the cargo was on board. I did stay until the last stick of lumber was stowed, the last pig in the pen, and the ship swinging off, bound on her outward voyage. I felt as if I had an interest in her. Sure enough, I found St. Helens to be the place. Here was to be the terminus of the steamship line from San Francisco. "Wasn't the company building this wharf?" "They wouldn't set sixty men to work on the dock unless they meant business." "Ships can't get up the Willamette—that's nothing but a creek. The big city is going to be here." This was the talk that greeted my ears as I went looking about. We had carried my wife, this time in a chair, to our hotel—yes, our hotel!—and there we had placed her, and the baby too, of course, in the best room the house afforded. One January morning in 1853, our sixty men boarders did not go to work at the dock building as usual. Orders had come to suspend work. Nobody knew why, or for how long. We soon learned that the steamship company had given up the fight against Portland and would thenceforward run its steamers to that port. The dock was never finished and was allowed to fall into decay. With our boarders scattered, our occupation was gone, and our supplies were in great part rendered worthless to us by the change. Meantime, snow had fallen to a great depth. The price of forage for cattle rose by leaps and bounds, and we found that we must part with half of our stock to save the rest. It might be necessary to provide feed for a month, or for three months; we could not tell. The last cow was given up that we might keep one yoke of oxen, so necessary for the work on a new place. The search for a claim began at once. After one day's struggle against the current of the Lewis River, and a night standing in a snow and sleet storm around a camp fire of green wood, Oliver and I found our ardor cooled a little. Two hours sufficed to take us back home next morning. Claims we must have, though. That was what we had come to Oregon for. We were going to be farmers; wife and I had made that bargain before we closed the other more important contract. We were still of one mind as to both contracts. Early in January of 1853 the snow began disappearing rapidly, and the search for claims became more earnest. Finally, about the twentieth of January, I drove my stake for a claim. It included the site where the city of Kalama now stands. With my mind's eye I can see our first cabin as vividly as on the day it was finished. It was placed among the trees on a hillside, with the door in the end facing the beautiful river. The rocky nature of the site permitted little grading, but it added to the picturesqueness. The great river, the Columbia, was a mile wide at the point where our house stood. Once a day at least it seemed to tire from its ceaseless flow and to take a nooning spell. This was when the tides from the ocean held back the waters of the river. Immediately in front of our landing lay a small island of a few acres, covered with heavy timber and driftwood. This has long since been washed away, and ships now pass over the place in safety. The cabin was built of small, straight logs. The ribs projected a few feet to provide an open front porch—not for ornament, but for storage of dry wood and kindling. The walls were but a scant five feet high; the roof was not very steep; and there was a large stone fireplace and a chimney. The cabin was not large nor did it contain much in the way of furnishings; but it was home—our home. Our home! What a thrill of joy that thought brought to us! It was the first home we had ever had. We had been married nearly two years, yet this was really our first abiding place, for all other dwellings had been merely way stations on our march from Indianapolis to this cabin. The thought brought not only happiness but health to us. The glow returned to my wife's cheek, the dimple to the baby's. And such a baby! In the innocence of our souls we honestly thought we had the smartest, cutest baby on earth. Scarcely had we settled in our new home before there came a mighty flood that covered the waters of the river with wrecks of property. Oliver and I, with one of our neighbors, began to secure the logs that came floating down in great numbers. In a very short time we had a raft that was worth a good sum of money, could we but get it to market. <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-085.png" width-obs="318" height-obs="400" alt="Our first cabin home." title="" /> Our first cabin home.</div> Encouraged by this find, we immediately turned our attention to some fine timber standing close to the bank near by, and began hand-logging to supplement what we had already secured afloat. This work soon gave us ample means to buy our winter supplies, even though flour was fifty dollars a barrel. And yet, because of that same hand-logging work, my wife came very near becoming a widow one morning before breakfast; but she did not know of it until long afterwards. It occurred in this way. We did not then know how to scaffold up above the tough, swelled bases of the large trees, and this made it very difficult to chop them down. So we burned through them. We bored two holes at an angle to meet inside the inner bark, and when we got a fire started there the heart of the tree would burn through, leaving an outer shell of bark. One morning, as usual, I was up early. After lighting the fire in the stove and putting on the kettle, I hastened to the burning timber to start the logging fires afresh. As I neared a clump of three giants, two hundred and fifty feet tall, one began toppling over toward me. In my confusion I ran across the path where it fell. This tree had scarcely reached the ground when a second started to fall almost parallel to it, the two tops barely thirty feet apart and the limbs flying in several directions. I was between the two trees. If I had not become entangled in some brush, I should have been crushed by the second falling tree. It was an escape so marvelous as almost to lead one to think that there is such a thing as a charmed life. <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-086.png" width-obs="177" height-obs="380" alt="A narrow escape." title="" /> A narrow escape.</div> In rafting our precious accumulations of timber down the Columbia River to Oak Point, we were carried by the current past the place where we had expected to sell our logs at six dollars a thousand feet. Following the raft to the larger waters, we finally reached Astoria, where we sold the logs for eight dollars a thousand instead of six, thus profiting by our misfortunes. But this final success had meant an involuntary plunge off the raft into the river with my boots on, for me, and three days and nights of ceaseless toil and watching for all of us. We voted unanimously that we would have no more such work. The flour sack was nearly empty when I left home. We were expecting to be absent but one night, and we had been gone a week. There were no neighbors nearer our cabin than four miles, and no roads—scarcely a trail. The only communication was by the river. What about the wife and baby alone in the cabin, with the deep timber at the rear and a heavy jungle of brush in front? Happily we found them all right upon our return. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-088.png" width-obs="500" height-obs="288" alt="A lesson in the art of clam baking." title="" /> A lesson in the art of clam baking.</div> <h2>CHAPTER ELEVEN</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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