PIONEER LIFE IN PUYALLUP VALLEY.

The immigration of 1853 through the Natchess Pass settled in the Puyallup Valley. Although they had been on the Plains all summer and needed rest, imperative necessity compelled them to immediately make a road through the forest to the county town of Steilacoom, sixteen miles away and situated on the borders of Puget Sound.

Soon after the road was built one of them, John Carson, established a ferry and later built the first bridge across the Puyallup. He was an enterprising, intelligent man, yet nevertheless exceedingly careless in business as likewise of his person. Eighteen months before I moved to the valley, I crossed the river at his place and found him nailing on the third course of shingles to cover a new house that he had built. He came down off the roof and I remained with him for a couple of hours, most of the time in the orchard, for even at that early day we were both deeply interested in fruit culture. I willingly acknowledge that he could teach me a great deal on the subject. A year later I visited him again. The row of shingles, the nail bag and even the hatchet remained as he had left it on the occasion of my first visit, notwithstanding he and his family were living in the hovel of one room and a loft—the remains of a block house that had been erected in the Indian war times. The lower story was so low that his wife, who was a tall woman, could not stand up straight except between the rough hewed joists, as attested in numerous places by the red hair from the lady's head coming in contact with slivers from the rough-hewed logs. Not much difference existed between the two as to personal habits of cleanliness, or rather lack of cleanliness, and yet I never knew a more altruistic worker than this same Emma Darrow Carson. When, in early days, we established a Good Templars' Lodge, for the sake of the children, Mrs. Carson, rain or shine, would always attend and always do her part to make the meetings interesting.

Nearby lived my neighbor, Walker, who though very strict in religious matters, nevertheless would not join in upbuilding the lodge for the reason he and his wife both were opposed to secret societies. One could readily see that Mrs. Walker believed "cleanliness was next to godliness" by a look into her house, where I often told her it would seem she was looking after the invisible dirt, so persistent she seemed in the care of her house. She was an industrious, religious, conscientious lady and was always welcomed in our own cabin, where she often came to spend an hour with another pioneer's wife who likewise practiced the time-honored proverb.

These two extreme cases will show to the reader that even in the cabins there can be as wide variance in habits as in the more pretentious homes. A goodly number of the pioneer women would become helpers in the field and gardens whether the men folks of the household thought it was just the proper thing to do or not. The flower gardens soon appeared in every dooryard to enliven the homes and spread contentment in the household.

For years the pioneers led a strenuous life with but little money return, so little it would seem almost incredible if given, and yet there was no "moping" or complaining, for there seemed to be a will to make the best of things possible and enjoy life as time passed. And, why not? The youngsters (and "greybeards" as well) soon began to look forward with anticipated pleasure to the coming of a holiday, Fourth of July, Christmas or what not, and make weeks of preparation for them, enjoy the occasion while passing and enjoy the memory of the experiences for weeks following.

Let us look in on a Fourth of July celebration. A grove has been selected and the "boys" in their "'teens" have cleared away the brush, built a speaker's stand, fixed up the tables and plenty of seats. The girls have baked the cakes and pies, picked the berries and flowers and provided other "nick-nacks" to fill in, while the mothers have baked the chickens, made the salads and provided the substantials until the tables fairly groaned under the load of bountiful supplies. It was the rule that everybody should have something to do. One of the older boys, or perhaps a girl, would be appointed to read the Declaration of Independence; another, to deliver the address; another to read an original essay, or a poem, with music sandwiched in between, sometimes with a chorus of the very young ones, or perhaps a solo—enough of these exercises to go round. The old melodion, now in the Washington State Historical Building at Tacoma, that has long ago lost its voice, was then thought to be a marvel of sweet tones and served to drown whatever discord might creep in from the flute and violin. When the evening came the small folks could have their dance "all by their lone", while the greater lords and ladies had naught to do but look on or organize somewhere else, which they often did. All this tended to build up a feeling of confidence in themselves in the minds of the youngsters and cultivate a social atmosphere that could not have been attained in any other way. All of these "youngsters" have grown up to manhood and womanhood or sleep beneath the sod of the valley. If perchance the eye of any one of them catches this writing they will for the moment say "give me back the Fourth of July celebration of Puyallup of fifty years ago."

Seven years passed after the first settlement was made before we had a postoffice. All the trading was done at Steilacoom, which was sixteen miles distant from the river crossing. Any one going out to the market town (Steilacoom) was expected to bring the mail for everybody and leave it at the ferry or carry it on up the valley for those living beyond. Finally a postoffice was established and named Franklin, and my next door neighbor, J. P. Stewart, was appointed postmaster. He established the office near the ferry landing and brought in a stock of goods to trade on. The whole stock might easily have been hauled in one load of an ordinary farm wagon. He came very near losing the postoffice, stock of goods and his life from a great freshet that came, the like of which has not since been seen to this day. The headwaters of the Puyallup issue out from under a great glacier of Mount Rainier, probably no more than eight thousand feet above sea level and but forty miles distant from the present city of Puyallup. The avalanches from the great mountain are wonderful to contemplate. I saw the effect of one in British Columbia once where a swath of dense forest trees had been cut off close to the ground, where not uprooted, and carried to the lower lands, a mixture of timber, stone and snow, packed, apparently, as solid as a rock. In this particular instance the front mass had been carried beyond the bottom and up the slope of at least twenty-five degrees on the opposite side, several hundred feet on the mountain side, by the irresistible force of the mass behind. At the time of which I write, there undoubtedly had been a huge dam formed by an avalanche until a vast accumulation of water finally broke loose and came down the valley, seemingly carrying everything before it. A tremendous roar of water came, accompanied with a crash of timber not easily described. Mr. Walker, who stood on the bank of the river a mile above, told me he saw great balm trees caught with some obstructions under the roots and the timber lifted bodily by the force of the water and forced end over end with an indescribable crash to terrify the onlooker. Water running on the lower ground back of Stewart soon formed an island and left him alone without any means of escape, as the ferry had been carried away. A big, high balm stump furnished the only refuge of safety and there he stayed all night and part of the next day without food or sufficient clothing, chilled to the "marrow bone", for he was in his shirt sleeves when the crash came. When the water receded so he could, the postoffice, store and all were speedily removed to a place of safety. It was common remark that when Stewart moved the postoffice he simply put it on his back and walked off with it.

Those who have seen the glacier describe it as a wonder. The water issues out as from a great cavern into which one can walk upright for quite a way. This is the first glacier discovered in the United States. Doctor Tolmie, then the chief factor of the Hudson's Bay Company at Nisqually, ascended the Puyallup in 1833 and discovered the huge glacier and wrote in the fort journal an account of his trip. For sixty years since I first saw the Puyallup River, this great mill has been grinding away and sluicing out fine particles of the mountain, sufficient in quantity to whiten the water almost a milk-white color. When the glacier is most active, a glass of the water left standing over night will show sediment in the bottom thick as a sheet of writing paper. We are led to wonder how long this has been grinding, how long it will take to grind away the mountain. We are told the continual dropping of water will wear away a stone. Will not this grinding finally grind away the whole mountain? Can we guess how long it has taken to fill up this valley? We know the deposit off the mouth of the Puyallup River is fully six hundred feet deep; that the Puyallup Valley at its junction with the Stuck Valley was once an arm of the Sound; and the latter valley with the White River (so called because of the milky whiteness of its water coming from the same mountain), and Duwamish Valley to the salt waters of the Sound at Elliott Bay, where again it is met, the bay six hundred feet deep just off from the mouth of the river, was also once a part of the Sound. How long before Commencement Bay, Elliott Bay and Admiralty Inlet will have met the same fate as the Puyallup, Stuck and Duwamish valleys, and the cities of Tacoma and Seattle be dredging a channel through Admiralty Inlet?

But let us look to the story of Puyallup. The marvelous fertility of the soil has been told over and over again until the very name has become famous across the sea. I once measured a hop root eleven feet long that had been exposed by the cutting away of the river bank and thus leaving it exposed to view where it had reached a point seven feet under the surface of the land. The little band of pioneers had come into a heritage beyond their wildest dreams; the ages of decaying leaves falling from the deciduous growth of the balm, alder and ash had mingled with the silt of the mountain until a soil not surpassed in richness was found—so rich we may cease to wonder that Walker might dig his bucket full of potatoes from one hill.

Let us look in on this little colony two years after their arrival in the autumn of 1853. Their clearing had widened sufficiently to let the sun in but not so wide as to afford a continuous view to see each other's cabins or see the great mountain. No money had come into the valley in return for their crops, for the double reason that as yet there was but little to spare, and even if there had been a surplus they could not have gotten it to the market because of the lack of a road over which a load could be hauled. I will tell one little incident that will illustrate. Anyone passing through the fir forest will remember the wonderful size of surface roots of the fir trees, in some places running out part above the surface and nearly as big as a man's body. One day when I was driving a cart over the road mentioned the pioneers had opened, the wheels passed over and left the cart bed resting solidly on the big root, and so, in the common expression of the county, I was "stuck". This will give a faint idea of what an early day road was like.

In places a glimpse of smoke from a neighbor's cabin might be seen or the sound of voices heard. All were busy in their clearing, "making hay while there was sun", before the winter rains set in. At nightfall of the evening of October 28, 1858, just two years after their arrival in the valley, the pioneers were startled by the news that in the neighboring valley of White River the settlers had all been massacred by the Indians. The scene of this massacre was no more than ten miles distant from the nearest cabin in the Puyallup—a ride, as the trail run, of less than two hours. Consternation seized every mind. It was natural to believe the Indians would be over on them when daylight came, even if not before. The pioneers were scattered, illy armed, encumbered with their families and in no condition to resist an attack. The fort (Steilacoom) was fifteen miles distant from the nearest cabin and the river lay between with no means of crossing teams or wagons except by the long detour of what was known as the "upper road", that is, the military road, and by fording the river. For most of the settlers the ford would not be reached before daylight of the next day, and even then it would be doubtful if the stage of the river would permit of crossing. The only alternative seemed to take the most direct route over the road they had themselves opened soon after their arrival in the valley. Without concert of action (for none was possible, scattered as they were in their cabins) the movement began in the night. Women, with children in their arms, almost immediately upon receipt of the dreadful news, started on the perilous trip, the men carrying their guns and such clothing or bedding as could hastily be selected and bundled up into packs. At Carson's two canoes and a small boat afforded all the means of crossing. The two canoes had been lashed together and finally a wagon gotten across and a team that swam across the river. By midnight many had crossed and had at once began the weary journey to the fort. Daylight overtook them, strung out for miles on the road or either crossing at the ferry or waiting their time when they could cross. The "upper settlement" in the forks of the river, the Lanes, Whitesels and others nearer the military road, fared better, for they could cross the south fork with their teams and wagons and take considerable of their belongings with them and some provisions as well, while the throng on the lower road could not. Such was the condition of affairs on the morning of the 29th. I had started with my family in the early morning, as fully told in "The Reminiscences—The Tragedy of Leschi", and reached the fort six or more hours before any of the Puyallup people from either settlement began to arrive.

But the Indians did not come to harass the fleeing settlers. They turned their guns on the small volunteer force that had just reached a camping place at the foot of the bluff on the military road a mile east of the ford of the main river (Puyallup) that had been sent out by Acting-Governor Mason—Governor Stevens being absent negotiating the Blackfeet Indian treaty. The horses of this force had been run off and the men cooped up in a cabin by the Indians following the killing of Cornell and McAllister, preceding the massacre a day, all of which is given in detail in the "Tragedy" and will not be repeated here further than to give the context to the scenes that followed. Of the indescribable scenes of confusion that followed; the dilemma of the pioneers as to where to go for safety; how to subsist; the incursion of nineteen men to the Puyallup to rescue some of the abandoned property and provisions of the pioneers, is all told in "The Tragedy of Leschi."

Looking back over the vista of these fifty-eight years that have passed and which now again come so vividly in mind reviving old-time memories, I can truly say with General Sherman that "war is hell", whether between brothers of the same race or with the native race blindly wreaking vengeance upon innocent people who were their true friends.

The Indians held possession of the country adjacent to the Puyallup Valley for several months. Most of the settlers' cabins were burned, their fences destroyed, their stock run off or killed, crops appropriated, leaving the valley a scene of desolation and solitude as before the advent of the white man but little over two years before.

But what to do after arriving at the so-called fort (Steilacoom), which was no fort at all but merely an encampment in a few log huts and where neither comfort nor safety was vouchsafed, was the question confronting the pioneers. For myself, I will say that my brother Oliver and father, Jacob R. Meeker, with the three families, withdrew from the garrison, proceeded to the town of Steilacoom, built a strong log block house and took care of ourselves. That block house stands there in Steilacoom to this day, weather-boarded on the outside and ceiled inside so that the passing visitor will not recognize it, and is almost forgotten by the generation now occupying the town.

In two years' time a majority of the settlers had returned to their homes while a few hesitated because of the fear of further outbreak of the Indians (which never came), but here and there one abandoned his claim and did not return. But the handicaps remained. Soon the clearings produced vastly more products than could be consumed at home; the market at Steilacoom was restricted and at best difficult to reach, and so certain crops became a burden to producers instead of a profit. A road could easily be opened down the valley to Commencement Bay to the point now known as the Tide Flats within the city limits of Tacoma, but there was then only a waste of waters confronting the pioneers, for this was long before Tacoma was thought of or even the name, except in the brain of that eccentric traveler and delightful writer, Winthrop, whose works disclosed his fine writing, after his death on the battlefield of Chantilly.

Ten long years elapsed before a change came, except as the clearings became larger and stock increased, for the dairy brought prosperity to the few and encouraged others to continue the strife. Within this period hops had been introduced and set a new standard of industry and wrought a marvelous change.

Finally a store was opened at the "Reservation" where the government agency had been established and a road opened to it from the up-river settlements, but the road extended no further, and all freight was carried out of the river in canoes, or later, in lighters to the mill wharf that had been built in 1869 and where a limited market had been found.

Opposite the point where the Indian school was later established a drift obstructed the river for more than a thousand feet so completely that a person could cross over the channel anywhere. Two more drifts further up, but not so extensive, completely blocked the channel. A theory gained currency that the river could be navigated with small boats once the drifts were removed, and they were removed by the pioneers, but no navigation followed and the $1,500 put into the enterprise became a total loss, except for the timber logging camps that were established and thrived for a while.

We now pass over another ten years' period to the building of the Northern Pacific Railroad up the valley to the coal veins in the mountains, ending at the time at the point named Wilkeson. Twenty years before close observers noted the fact that float coal could be found on the bars of the Puyallup River. These small pieces, not bigger than a pea, became a matter of dispute as to whether the substance was coal or not. Finally, early in the seventies, a "chunk" as big as a man's fist was found imbedded in the gravel between the roots of a balm tree that had lodged, part of it burned, and all doubts removed as to the existence of coal on the headwaters of the river. John Gale prosecuted a diligent search and was rewarded by finding the vein to which the railroad was built.

The building of the railroad opened up the valley and give encouragement to those who had bided their time so long. The time had arrived when there came to be a money value to land. So long as the country was not subdivided, settlers could not obtain title to their land and transfers would become confusing as each had surveyed his own claim under the donation act. This act gave the head of a family 160 acres, and the same to the wife in her own right. Such delays on the part of the Government that followed seemed now almost incredible. I did not receive the patent for my donation claim for thirteen years after my settlement was made, and others had a similar experience and even a longer period. But with the coming of the surveys and the advent of the hops, values rose and became established at a rate that pioneers had never dreamed of and yet had advanced from year to year, or rather for the whole period, to a point that would then have seemed unthinkable. The first subdivision surveys by the Government were made in Puyallup during the year 1864. J. P. Stewart and George W. Sloan took the contract. Neither was well suited for the work, Stewart being too nervous and Sloan scarcely responsible for his acts. Up to the time of the survey all claims outside of the first taken under the donation act were mere squatters' claims upon the public land, but no recognition of any right could be had at the land office, then, as now, at Olympia. No serious trouble followed in adjusting the lines followed, as the donation claim lines were respected and had in fact for many years served as a guide to later claimants. As soon as the surveys were made, all parties made for the land office, the donation claimants to "prove up" the pre-emptions, and homesteaders to make application for their respective rights. I did not go with the rush for the reason that I wanted to take my claim under the homestead law, which required an outlay of sixteen dollars, and "for the life of me" I couldn't raise that much money. The fact was that, almost literally speaking, there was no money in the valley. Finally, becoming uneasy lest some one might "slip in" and pre-empt from under me, I walked to Olympia and pre-empted where the fee was but a dollar, and held under the entry for several months until money could be obtained, when a homestead was located upon the same land, thus expending both rights for the lack of $16.00. This to many would seem ludicrous, but the actors looked upon the serious side, and did not wish to take any chances of losing their homes. A few years later I sold one crop of hops for $75,000, which now looks as incredible as the other fact of inability to raise even so small an amount as $16.00. In the chapter on hops the reader will be told the whole story of the $75,000 hop crop. The reader may well wonder why I walked from Puyallup to Olympia, a distance of thirty-five miles, and back out of sympathy for conditions that would seem to call for such a "sacrifice" of personal comfort. To such, let me disabuse their minds, for it was indeed a pleasant day, if not of recreation—a day of self-communion with pleasant thoughts of the past and bright anticipations as to the future. Fatigued? Yes, but just enough to enjoy rest. Can we enjoy rest without first experiencing fatigue and withal with good appetite for a frugal meal? I did not think of it then as anything out of the ordinary, and for that matter do not now, as it was only one of the strenuous day's experiences of the time, besides to me long walks are conducive to good health—not so long a walk as that to Olympia, but the one or two hours' brisk walk in communion with nature and oneself.

I remember another walk from Puyallup to Olympia in 1870, where I first met Judge Roger S. Greene, who was then on the bench as Chief Justice of the Territory. I remained some time in Olympia, overlooking my first stagger at book making, an 80-page pamphlet, "Washington Territory West of the Cascades", [31] of which I had 5,000 copies printed, all of which went into circulation in the Eastern States. When I got through with this work I walked back home.

I still love to walk. Leaving the house (1120 North Thirty-eighth Street, Seattle), a few days ago, the fresh air felt so good I continued my walk to First Avenue, at the foot of Madison, in an hour and five minutes—three miles and perhaps a little more; nothing very remarkable about these walks except I attribute my continued good health to this open air exercise and would like to encourage anyone, the young people in particular, to the end that they may do likewise. I have no doubt that I walked over two thousand miles on my recent trips across the continent with the ox-team, part of the time from necessity but often for a camping place, frequently four or six miles. The oxen usually would travel two miles an hour while my easy gait would be three, so that by timing myself I could easily tell how far I was ahead and how long it would take the oxen to catch up. But the long walk was across the Plains in 1852, after the teams weakened and the dust became intolerable in the wagon on the Plains in early days. Then is when the walking became wearisome, so wearisome that I lost my weight rapidly, though apparently not any strength.

But as a forced walk, that is, one taken mechanically where one can see nothing except the road ahead of him and think of nothing but the mechanical action, soon becomes tiresome and will lose much of the benefit that comes from an exhilarating walk where one scarcely remembers the road and only sees nature if in the country or pleasant things if in the city, and then of the bright side of life, and casts unpleasant subjects from his mind; then is when the long walk becomes a "joy forever."

Of the social side of life in the early pioneer days, much can be truthfully written worthy of emulation by the present day generation. The reader will doubtless bear in mind that the author is of a generation nearly gone, and, measured with the average length of life, two whole generations have passed and a third nearly so, and hence will hesitate to accept the conclusions as coming from an unbiased source. We so often see pessimism manifested by unsuccessful elderly persons that the world is ready to accept as a fact that age brings with it a pessimistic spirit, and hence the writing by an old man of younger days is like looking where distance lends enchantment. I am not conscious of looking on life other than in my younger days—the bright, hopeful side, where right and honesty is the rule and wrong and dishonesty the exception. The isolation of the pioneers from the outside world had a tendency to draw them together as one great family. While of course a great disparity of habit, thrift, morals and intellectual attainments existed, yet the tendency undeniably was to look with a lenient eye upon the shortcomings of others as between brothers or parents and child. There were none too high not to associate with the least of his neighbors and none too low not to look with respect upon his more successful neighbor. I remember but one divorce case in the whole period under review, and this long after their family had been born to them and some of them married—sad case, that not only brought universal condemnation to one of the parties but financial ruin to both, and although in affluent circumstances at the time, both finally died penniless and, as we might say, filled paupers' graves—a sorry but just retribution to one and a sad ending to the other. Cruel as it may appear to some of my readers, I am always ready to exclaim, "would that it were thus to all that seek to dissolve the sacred bonds of matrimony for light and trivial cause", as we see so prevalent in this day, that is sapping the very foundation of good morals from under later generations.

Without preaching the doctrine, there comes a feeling to pervade the minds of many that "he is my brother" and acted accordingly. There came very near being socialism at the outset, on the Plains, to help the weaker. Of course, I do not mean to be understood that selfishness, or that ill-feeling between individuals did not exist, but would have the reader understand that the great body of the pioneers were altruistic in their actions and forgiving in spirit. When this much is said, it would almost seem to cover the religious life as well as the social. Indeed, such to a great extent was the case. The pioneers at once built schoolhouses but no churches. Teachers were employed for the schools, but no preachers, except itinerants who came at times, prompted by the religious zeal that was in them. These were indeed strenuous times, but the experiences tended to the development of a better manhood and womanhood than to lead a life of affluence and idleness.

But two of the adults of that day remain—I mean of those with families: Willis Boatman and the author.

The following letter from my old time friend and pioneer, Edward J. Allen, now 86 years old, [32] so vividly portrays the ways of those early days, yet with cheerful optimism, that it brings to mind memories of the past, needs no comment at my hand other than to invite a careful reading: