The following narrative was written by W.R. Fisk in 1929 when he was in his seventy-eighth year, and edited by Bertha Fisk Gilbert in February, 1931.
Nathan Willis Fisk was born at Mt. Pleasant, Hamilton County, Ohio on June 19, 1820. In 1841 he married Esther Tripp who was born in Jackson County, Ohio, July 4, 1825. The first eleven years of their married life were spent in Carrol County, Illinois, where five children were born to them. they were John Moffit, March 26, 1842, Amanda Ann, October 11, 1844, Nathan Taylor, November 7, 1846, Mary Jane, May 1, 1849, William Ralph, May 2, 1851.
With his wife and five children, the eldest a lad of ten and baby Ralph only a year old, and with their worldly possessions in money, wagons, camping necessities, oxen, mules, horses, and milch cows, they joined a company of some thirty-five or forty friends for the great adventure in the far western Oregon Country.
They started from Mt. Carrol, Illinois, May 1, 1852, in covered wagons, some drawn by oxen, others by mules and horses, on the long trail across the plains to Oregon and California.
Among those of the company whose names I can remember were Dr. Willis, a cousin of Fathers, D.B. and Ezra Rinehart, Frank and Cortes Myers, Edward and John Hinton, John Douglas, F.M. Sacket, J. Clemens, J.C. Gilenwater and family, one Sullivan and family.
When an Ox gave out or died, they put a milch cow in his place in the team and sometimes it was necessary to hitch a cow along side of a horse to keep the train moving westward day by day. Even the wild horses and mules had to be used before they reached Oregon. Father and others brought ropes and tools to be used in case of accidents or breakdown along the way.
When they came to large streams or rivers too deep to ford, they would build rafts of logs, if possible, tied together with ropes and thus ferry the wagons and people across while making the horses and cattle swim. At some places a wagon box was made into a boat by caulking, and towed back and forth at campsites where fuel or water was on the opposite side of the stream.
I remember so well hearing them tell how father and another man swam across a river (I don’t remember the name of it) to get fresh drinking water. They had to camp a day or so by the river to make a raft. The river was too deep to ford and the water was unfit to drink, but they could see what they thought was a spring on the other side. But how to get to it was the question. Father was a good swimmer, and he and another man each strapped a ten gallon keg to his back and swam across the river, a distance of about two hundred yards. They found a spring of good cold water, filled their kegs half full and swam back with a sufficient supply for the entire camp.
When camp was made every night, the wagons were placed in the form of a circle to form corrals, some for the oxen and cows, and some so as to stretch roped from one wagon to another to tie the horses and mules to at night, with guards around the outside for fear of an Indian attack. Every precaution had to be taken to be ready for surprise attacks by the Indians. As the Indians were stealing or killing stock and people every few days in trains both in front and behind them. They had many very anxious hours, but fortunately were never subjected to an Indian raid.
Cholera was bad that summer on the plains and there were many deaths. Nearly every day they passed new made graves, and sometimes two or more. Some of our family had it, also others of their train, but the care of Dr. Willis brought them safely through. He was both Dentist and Doctor for the train.
The accidents, trials and hardships were many, and it is not easy for us today with our comfortable and swift methods of travel to realize the price they paid for a home in a new country. Many times the whole train would have to stop and bunch up in order to let herds of Buffalo pass, sometimes they would number from two hundred to one thousand to the herd and nothing could turn them from their course. Buffalo chips were often used for fuel along the trail where for many miles there would not be a bush or twig.
When the tired travelers camped for the night for a few days to make repairs, their seats were ox yokes, wagon tongues, a possible large rock, or the ground. Furniture, chairs, tools, were not in use in their train. Such as they had at the start, had to be left along the way to lighten the load.
I remember will hearing Father and Mother tell about the chickens that some had brought along. When camp was made at the end of the days travel the chickens were let out of their cages, which were on the back end of the wagon, for feeding and exercise. Then when the train was ready to pull out again the chickens would all be at their place or wagon, waiting to be put in their cages.
I am overwhelmed when I think of the hardships my Father and Mother endures so bravely on that long, long trail so many years ago, traveling through the wilds and wilderness seeking the precious gold fields of Oregon and California. I can tell only a little, just what I can remember hearing them and others tell after I had grown old enough to understand, that they were telling of the experiences on their way to the new country. They were a little over seven months on the road. They reached St. Helens, Oregon, some time in the last of November and spent the winter there. The next spring they moves to southern Oregon near Ashland in Jackson county. It was in 1853, the year of the Rogue River Indian war. My Father was one of the volunteer soldiers who had many experiences with the Indians during that war. I remember one experience all had. A bachelor friend who lived some three or four miles from us came to our house bareheaded and barefooted at midnight one night to advise us and all the neighbors to to to the fort at once as the Indians were on the warpath and were at his house and had killed his partner and set fire to his house. He had escaped through the darkness into the brush and had hurried to warn us. Father hurriedly hitched a team of horses to the wagon, loaded mother and us children and a few supplies into it and hurried to the fort.
The land of the donation claim which father had taken up was found to be thin and poor land, and he was restless to find a better home in which to establish his family. In the spring of 1856 he therefore disposed of his Oregon holdings and took his family over the Siskyou Mountains to a mining camp at the mouth of Greenhorn Creek near Yreka, California. He located a ranch and went to farming. During the eight years residence here two other children joined the family, by the name Daniel Webster, April 11, 1858 and Francis Marion on June 2, 1860.
The older boys having grown old enough to run the farm, Father left mother and them in charge while he in the fall of 1862, joined a party of miners who were going to the Salmon River diggings. He mined there that winter and the next summer, going back home in the fall of 1863. When at The Dalles, Oregon on his way home he learned of the great gold strike on Canyon Creek in Eastern Oregon, about two hundred miles southeast of The Dalles. This information so impressed him that upon reaching home he disposed of his farm and made arrangements to move again. On April 10, 1864, a beautiful sunshine morning, he set out with his wife and nine children to again face the real frontiersman life helping to blaze the trail to a new wild country in Easter Oregon, known only at that time because of the recent gold discovery on Canyon Creek, a small tributary of the upper John Day River.
We had a covered wagon drawn by a four horse team, and a two horse team hitched to a spring wagon, ten head of pack horses loaded mostly with flour, several head of loose horses and about thirty head of cattle, mostly milch cows.
Some thirty or thirty-five people with their outfits gathered at Fathers place on Greenhorn Creek to join our train. I do not recall the names of all, but remember that there were D.B. Rinehart, Bart Shelley, Dryed McClintock, J.C. Gillenwater and family, W.B. Davis and family, a Mr. Linvel and family, George Barry, John Hallock, Sam Stewart, Eli Irman and a Negro.
We camped the first night on Shasta River, about six miles out. The day before leaving, our eldest sister, Amanda, was married to A.P. McCarton. They came out to our Shasta River camp to bid us good bye. The next day we came on past Sheep Rock to grass valley for the second nights camp. From there we traveled South Lower Klamath Lake and across the divide to Lost River, which we followed two or three days and then crossed another divide to what is known now as Sprague River, but which was called at that time Martin River. This river was deep and wide, so we had to build a raft to get across.
From his previous experience in traveling on the plains, Father knew and provided what was needed for the trip. He had a block and tackle and chains. After stretching the big rope across the river they used the block and tackle and chain to get the raft back and forth. The wagons were ferried over one at a time on this raft and the livestock swam across. All this took two days.
A couple days later we stopped for a day to rest the stock. While thus resting some of the boys were cleaning up their fire arms. An Indian dog came down across the river from the camp and set up a terrible howl for a long time. Without thinking what it might cost, one of the boys thought he would stop his howling and try out his marksmanship at the same time. He took a shot at long range but only wounded the dog, making his howl worse than ever. It raised a commotion in camp. Especially among the women and children. They were afraid it would enrage the Indians and that they would seek revenge in some way, and it so happened later on at Silver Lake. Father scolded the boys for doing anything to antagonize the Indians and cautioned them never to let anything like that happen again on the trip. He too, was afraid the incident would cause us trouble in some way later. So, bright and early the next morning, the whole train moved on in a hurry to get away from any possible encounter with the Indians.
One day we came to a creek which was thought to be a good place to catch some trout. Camp was made and all hands worked to turn the stream out of its customary bed for about a quarter of a mile. After all of this labor the only catch was one lonesome crawfish. Some one suggested that the creek should be called Trout creek and I think it bears that name to this day.
The next day McClintock broke an axle of his wagon just as we crossed a deep and rocky canyon, and it was necessary to make almost a “dry camp” to have time to figure out what could be done. It was an iron axle and a serious problem confronted them, as there were no iron working tools in the train. Father proved to be the man of the hour. He knocked the iron boxing out of the hub, he cut a piece of mahogany and shaped it into a spindle to fit the larger opening in the hub, made when the boxing was removed. Then he fastened this stick to the axle by wrapping it with chains and ropes, and by shifting the greater part of the load so it would bear on the other three wheels, the wagon finished the trip to Canyon City without further trouble.
We came onto Silver Lake and camped, and as usual, the horses were all tied up and guarded all night. In the morning just after daylight they were turned loose to graze, with two men, the Negro and a white man along to herd and guard them so there would be no delay when the camp was ready to move on. They were barely out of sight, perhaps a quarter of a mile from camp. Just as those in camp were sitting down to breakfast the Negro was seen coming on horseback at top speed and yelling, “the Indians are stealing the horses.” Mr. Linval had some race horses along, which he was intending to take to Boise City, Idaho. He had turned two of them loose that morning with long roped on them, making it easy for to catch and ride them off, which the Indians did. This of course, startled everyone in camp. There was no more breakfast eaten that morning. The women and children were crying and taking on about the Indians stealing the horses when we were so far out in the wilderness. They were sure we would all be killed or starved to death.
Two of the men, one an old Indian fighter, George Hallock, after leaving with sister Mary his bullet molds, lead and ladle, with instructions to make more bullets, which she did, with his trusty rifle he mounted his horse and was off in pursuit. As soon as the remaining horses were in camp and tied up, six or seven more men also saddled their horses and gave chase.
When they caught up with Hallock, who had the only long range rifle, he was shooting at the Indians as fast as he could reload his gun. Remember, in those days we only had muzzle loading rifles, which had to be loaded with powder, ball and cap. The old dragoon and Colts revolvers and in the whole train there were only five or six rifles, two shotguns and several revolvers of the kind just mentioned. The Indians had a few old fashioned flintlock rifles but mostly used bows and arrows. The Indians on the stolen horses kept without the limits of long range rifle shot in order to toll the men following them into a canyon with rimrocks on both sides. Many other Indians were hidden among these rocks and hoped to cut off their white enemies. Our men saw the trap into which they were being led and decided to retreat. One of their number being already wounded in the leg by a nearly spent ball which had hit a rock and glanced in his direction.
After these men returned to camp and Mr. Linvals wound was dressed, the travelers hurried on around the east side of Silver Lake. Much of their way lay below rimrocks out of which they were in momentary fear of shots coming from the Indians. They reached the north side of the lake by evening, where after a short rest they started across the seventy-five miles of desert to Mountain Springs, which took two days and nights of steady travel. It rained a little one night, which made it easier to handle the loose stock.
A similar party led by Isom Lawrence crossed this desert three days ahead of the Fisk party. When they reached Mountain Springs and realized that our party had no knowledge of the great width of the desert, Mr. Lawrence caused two barrels to be filled with water and sent back ten miles along the trail and left for use of our party and to prevent needless suffering. This act of kindness was greatly appreciated by our thirsty party.
I had an experience on the desert the day after our trouble with the Indians which I shall never forget. I was a boy of thirteen. I had a two year old colt which I had broken to ride before starting on the trip. this colt always followed the horse teams on the road. In crossing the desert the horse teams had forged on ahead in the hope of bringing back water to famishing people and animals, and were scattered for several miles along the trail, I was tired of traveling so slowly, so I caught the colt and jumped on his back without a saddle, bridle, or rope, expecting to have a nice ride. Instead of staying behind as he had been doing, he struck out on a gallop to overtake one of the teams ahead. At first I thought it great fun, Then when he got several miles ahead and no teams in sight, I began to think an Indian might jump from behind a sagebrush at any moment and get me. I had no way of stopping the colt. What could I do? I think my hair must have stood straight up on my head, I was so scared. All I could do was to hang on to his mane and let him go. Finally we overtook one of the lead teams, and I was all in. Gee, but I was glad to get off the colt and into a wagon. I never undertook to ride the colt again on that trip.
We laid over two days at Mountain Springs because D.B. Davis had broken one of his front wheels several miles back on the desert. He was driving a yoke of oxen. Others took a team of horses and light wagon, went back along the trail to meet him and brought his wagon into camp. Father had part of a set of carpenter tools along and he was able to attach the tongue to the rear wheels and axle. Then by sawing the wagon bed off he finished a serviceable two wheeled cart, into which the traveler was able to load his family and effects and continue his journey.
Mountain Springs, now called Wagontire, was given the new name by someone who found there, years later, a tire from this broken wagon, which my father changed to a two wheeled cart in 1864.
A wheel on one of my fathers own wagons gave out just as they got across this desert. Father repaired it by cutting wagon bows in short pieces, boiling them so they could be bent to proper form, fastened them to the felloes, then after heating the tire after the manner of wagon makers, with sticks and shovels he placed it on the wheel. When cool it was found to be tight and a good job, and finished the journey to Canyon City without giving further trouble.
As soon as the repair work was done we continued our journey on across Crooked River, then through to Beaver Creek on the South Fork of the John Day River. There we had more hardships. getting across the canyon of the South Fork. The way down was so steep the wagons had to be rough locked by chaining the wheels so they would not turn, and whole trees were chained on behind so that by dragging they would hold the wagons back. In some cases ropes were hitched to tree to let the wagons down. One wagon was let down at a time, which took much time and labor. We spent a night in the canyon, and the next day found an even harder task to get wagon sup the other steep side. It took all the horses, mules and oxen in the train to pull up one wagon at a time, a distance of only about two hundred yards. Then a little further on there was another steep descent getting down to Murders Creek. All four wheels of each wagon had to be rough locked, and a good size juniper tree chained behind it. All horses were taken off except two to steer the wagon. In fact the horses and wagon just slid down, it was so steep. We camped on this creek near where the Indians had killed two prospectors a few days ago.
We followed down the South Fork of the John Day, across rough rocky hills until we came to the main John Day River and came upon the wagon road which ran from The Dalles to Canyon City. We followed this road several days. It brought us up over the hills and came down the hill west of where Canyon City now is. There was a settlement there at the time consisting of about five hundred tents and log cabins. We arrived at Canyon City on June 2nd, 1864.
Father was looking for land on which to build a home for his family, in a few days after reaching Canyon City, he went up the John Day River some fifteen miles or so, and there on the gentle foothill slopes of a snow capped mountain, along a creek fed by melted snows, he located the first ranch of that region. Because there were wild strawberries in abundance there, he called it Strawberry Creek, and the mountain Strawberry Butte, and the names remain to this day. Here we started a new home in a new country. The spring was too far advanced to put in any other crop than potatoes.
The first winter was a very hard one, food being very scarce and expensive. During the winter Father took his last twenty-five dollars to buy a fifty pound sack of flour from a miserly store keeper. Mother mixed mashed potatoes with the flour to make bread. On account of its extreme scarcity the food had to be carefully rationed. Those who did physical labor were allowed more than the younger members, but all survived the lean winter.
Two years later D.B. Rinehart bought a man’s squatters right to a piece of land near Marysville and set out a forty acre orchard, mostly apples, the first orchard in Grant County. The young trees were hauled the nearly two hundred miles from The Dalles by the boys who by this time in their older “teens” and were able to be of much help in the planting and care of the orchard. Later known as the Rinehart Orchard, grandfather of James Rinehart.
Here, on October 1st, 1866, in the new home a new baby girl came to bless the home. She was named Eudora, but we have always called her Dora. After things were going well here, several years later, Father and William Tureman built a sawmill a the head of Strawberry Creek. He ran it in connection with his ranch until his death at John Day City the 29th of October, 1879. Just at a time when he was in position to take life easier and enjoy the fruits of his labors.
This copy made by Vernon Reynolds at Prairie City, Oregon on October 22, 1961. The Francis Marion Fisk who was born at Yreka, California on June 2, 1860 and passed away at Prairie City, Oregon in January of 1937 was my grandfather. Submitted by Jim Rinehart.
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This version prepared by Mark Goddard, 15 April 1998.
