[or-roots] Barlow Trail ( the begining)

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When we reached The Dalles Mission, Mr. Brewer pointed to the high Cascade  
Mountains and to the Columbia. The river was swift and dangerous. The mountains 
 were even then almost hidden in clouds and snow could be expected any day, 
and  the snow falls deep and may lie on for months at the top of the range.
Either way was dangerous, but our provisions were almost gone,  so we were 
left to choose the lesser evil of the two.
The Indians watched the building of the rude rafts and shook  their heads and 
said: "Sku-kum chuck." (strong water). Most of the Emigration  decided upon 
the river. A few had provisions enough to last till spring and they  decided to 
stay at The Dalles.
The trail over the mountains would take many days longer than  the river. 
Many had cause to regret their hastes, for few of the frail rafts  made it 
without some accident. Several families lost everything that they  possessed and 
several men and children were drowned, though portage was made  around the most 
dangerous places.
Father was a riverman. When he saw the frail rafts that men  were intrusting 
their lives and their families' lives and their few belongings  to, he said: 
"No, we will leave our wagons and follow the Indian trail across  the 
mountains." The trail lead over the high Cascade Range and was so poorly  defined that 
we were told at the mission that we would have to take a guide in  order to 
even find it. We were told that a certain Indian knew it and could be  trusted. 
He also tried to make us understand, when he came to us, that his  "heart was 
good." He beat upon his chest with his doubled fist and said: "Klose  
tum-tum." (good heart.) Because of that, we called him "Heart."
So Father stored our wagons and the things that we could not  take with us, 
and putting our extra stock in the mission pasture, we started  with a few pack 
animals, to make the last one hundred miles into the Willamette  Valley.
Our provisions were low and we had barely enough to last us, if  everything 
went well, but everything did not go well. When we were a day's  travel on the 
"Lolo Trail" (carry trail) we  found in the morning that our  oxen were gone.
Father sent four of the boys back to look for them, while the  rest of us 
rode on. Winter had come and the old guide kept looking up into the  sky and 
shivering violently and shaking his head. It was his way of telling us  that it 
was soon going to snow and that we must hurry on as fast as we  could.
Father supposed that the oxen had strayed only a short distance  and all day 
long we were looking for the boys to rejoin us, but night came  without them, 
and another. Then in spite of the warnings of the Indian, we laid  over a day. 
The sky was growing dark and threatening and it was bitter cold. The  boys 
had taken no food at all, for they had expected to be gone but a few hours.  It 
was a harrowing situation. Each day, when we broke camp, Mother had divided  
our scanty store of food and had tied a generous share to a limb over the 
trail,  out of the reach of wolves or other marauding animals. Father realized that 
he  must get out of the mountains as fast as he could, then he could go back 
to meet  the boys. He knew that they must have gone all the way back to The 
Dalles  Mission, or they would have overtaken us. He hoped that they would be 
wise  enough to stay there till he returned to them. One bitter cold night, we 
made  camp up in the very clouds themselves. with the exception of some buffalo 
suet,  ou food was entirely gone. Mother found some Elderberries. bitter 
unpalatable  things, and stewed them with the suet. Elderberry soup, she called 
the seedy,  purple mess, and we tried to eat it, for hunger was pinching us and 
it was all  we had.
Our boys were somewhere out in the wild forbidding mountains,  without food 
or shelter, maybe lost entirely.
One night our little party sat huddled, damp and hungry around  our camp 
fire. No one cared to talk, no one dared to talk. Mother and Lizabeth  cried. I 
remember that I sat snuggled under Father's cape. I could hear the  "wow,wow" of 
the wind in the pine trees and the trickling splashing of the water  in the 
mountain stream. Night birds were calling. Oh, but it was a dreary,  lonely 
spot and a lonely, cheerless group that occupied it.
Finally when I had endured the dreadful depressing silence as  long as I 
could, I said: "Father sing, sing 'Good old Noah,' and sing it loud."  Father 
understood. How his heart must have ached. His voice echoed and reached  from 
mountain to mountain.
In the Morning as we were starting, our guide put his ear to  the ground and 
listened intently. Then he sprang up and said: "ting-ting,  ting-ting." One of 
our oxen wore a bell and he had heard it. in a little while  we could all 
hear it. We heard it coming nearer and nearer.And so our boys were  with us 
again. We were still hungry and so were they, for two boys from the  mission were 
with them. Mother's scanty provisions had been divided between six  instead of 
four.
We were all hungry, but we were happy and we knew that one of  the oxen would 
be killed before real starvation came to us. We were far from  actually 
starving, for we still had a bag of suet, so killing the ox would be a  last resort.
Brother Adam and Cousin Aaron rode on ahead, for we were within  sight of the 
Willamette Valley. They hurried on to the Hudson Bay Company's post  at the 
falls and returned to us with provisions.
They had a pillow slip full of funny little hard biscuits. Oh,  but they were 
delightfully filling. When Adam came up to us, he reached into the  bag and 
sewed biscuits over us, as one would sew wheat by hand. Mother said:  "Adam, 
that is a foolish thing for you to do." I was looking at tender hearted  Adam 
and I knew why he threw the biscuits. He wanted to turn attention from  himself, 
and the tears were streaming down his face.
Late the next evening, we reached the Hudson Bay Company's  post, but the 
rain had fallen on us all day and we were cold and wet. Everything  that we had 
was wet. There was no shelter for us there, every cranny was filled  to 
overflowing with the families who had made the trip successfully by raft. So  we 
pitched our tents and tried as best we could to dry out some of our bedding.  
There was no dry wood to be had and Mother had reached the limits of her  
endurance. She cried and cried, and Lizabeth cried, and Mary cried. But my hero  was 
his usual cheerful self and I thought the rest of them was a pretty poor lot  
to make such a fuss, when they could see as well as I could that everything 
must  be alright.In a day or two Father rented one room from a Mr. Foster and we  
stayed there till we got a cabin over in the Tualatin Valley and moved into 
it.  It was a pretty poor kind of a cabin, but it had a roof and we surely 
needed a  roof. That winter it rained almost without stopping till the first of 
the next  Ma.
Walt  Davies
Cooper Hollow Farm
Monmouth, OR 97361
503 623-0460 

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