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CHAPTER I

What Is the Pacific Northwest?

No matter how one arrives at the geographic boundaries for the Pacific Northwest they are apt to be, in the end, personal and arbitrary. When I choose to treat under this title only the two states of Oregon and Washington, omitting Montana and Idaho, I am well aware that I cut myself off from valuable and interesting material. In particular I lose the Panhandle of Idaho, which so nearly became a part of Washington at one time, and which is today so much a part of that “Inland Empire” over which the city of Spokane unquestionably rules. The omission of northern Idaho and western Montana also deprives me of much romantic and picturesque early mining history, and prevents reportage on a section rich in that democratic heartiness and frontier sociability which still belong to Cow Country. In considering also the vital indigenous and potential resources of the Northwest I shall miss the contribution of the two states to the east, usually included in resource surveys of this section of America.

The geographic characteristics shared by the two seacoast states are: a wet green seaboard, a backbone of mountains roughly dividing the land in half, and a high and arid inland area. Oregon and Washington have produced ways of life that have manifest likenesses and significant differences as a direct result of the effect of similar landscape and climate. Without frontage on the Pacific Ocean, Montana and Idaho would share only the eastern, dry, or Cow Country qualities of this land and its folk; and so sadly I omit them, saluting in passing their rare natural beauties and their tangy frontier flavor.

There is, in the Pacific Northwest, something no other part of America possesses in quite the same degree: a freshness and promise, as though the future hadn’t yet quite run out of the hourglass, as one so often feels it has along the Eastern seaboard and in the Old South, and even in many parts of the Middle West. This feeling has been packed into two enticing and nostalgic phrases: the Last Frontier, the Last Evergreen Playground. The search for this special blend of promise and answer brings yearly to the Northwest a tide of new tourists and emigrants hoping to recapture some fading dream around a campfire in sight of a snowcap, or to wrest a better way of life out of a land still in the process of “opening up.”

The sense of expansion and growth arises in part from the fact that so much of local history has taken place within the memory of living man. There are old men still alive—and full of vital juices in their eighties and nineties—who were among the first whites in their district. There is certainly still plenty of untracked forest; many peaks that haven’t been climbed or measured; miles of “view” without house or human; many a lonely anchorage for exploring boats. The Past and the Present do seem almost to meet in this land—so near is that which was to that which is. Even young people on the west coast can remember the Great Trees and the Paul Bunyans who chopped them down; those Scotch and Irish yarners, fiddlers, and singers, and the later silent giants out of Scandinavia, who helped turn stretches of this green country into burned-off wastes, growing fireweed, and the delicious wild blackberry. Old Indians crowding the hundred mark can still be found—by those who know where to look—willing to tell tales and dream their haunting myths out loud. Chinook jargon, that speech by which “Bostons,” King George Men, and Indians conversed and traded in the old days, lingers with flavorsome effect in the speech of old-timers; soft words like “cultus,” “skookum,” “wa-wa,” “klahowya.” Indian ways of cooking dominate white feasts in the summertime; clams baked under seaweed on the beach; salmon sluitum on picnics of the pioneers. Not long in their graves are those credited with bringing to this country the first honey bees, the first dandelions (for medicine), the first fruit trees. Even damask roses from the mission gardens of the first French fathers on the coast can be found in a few old yards; and the great masses of yellow Scotch broom that glorify the spring countryside were said to have been brought by the early French sisters. Later comers to the land of promise brought the cows and chickens, the stoves, wagons, pianos, and mirrors, and all the rest of the large and small things by which a comfortable life is lived.

No single book could possibly encompass all the stories within a single story which would constitute an adequate chronicle of the Pacific Northwest.

Lumber and Fisheries, Shipping and Mines, Horse and Cattle ranching, Reclamation by Irrigation—each could make a saga many-sided and dramatic.

The inland country has its yarns of vigilantes and outlaws where cattle rustling was a popular pastime and where men paid for drinks in gold dust. The coast keeps pace with its stories of the wild waterfront days, of shanghaiing and smuggling around all the islands, Puget Sound, and the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

There are the tales of the days before there were roads and the rivers carried the life from the coast inland; the era of steamboating on the Columbia in the heyday of the mining boom to the east when the handsome stern-wheelers and side-wheelers laboriously breasted the current, carrying prospectors and adventurers, outlaws and harlots, upriver to their assorted destinies. And back behind the steamboat to the earliest days when sailing vessels were the only connection with the world outside the wilderness; when the Sandwich Islands were the nearest source of supplies and Canton was more accessible than Boston.

There is the story of the coming of the railroads, with all their attendant scandals and crises. The steel rails pushed slowly westward through desert and mountain, dust and snow, bringing with them a flock of speculators and agents, promise-makers and promise-breakers to give the railroads a bad name in the Far West from which they have never recovered. The turning wheels carried the seed of “Jim Hill mustard” across the Rockies, and for many a town, with its hope of becoming a prosperous “terminus” finally destroyed, this was to be the only gold the railroads ever brought.

It is due in large part to the railroads that the Chinaman added his brief color to the Northwest scene. The Chinese were brought in as cheap labor, and when the railroads had been built, or abandoned, they went on into placer mining, into laundries and truck gardens and into many kitchens, until the citizens decided that their low wage scale was a growing menace and rose to push them out. But it wasn’t long ago that their blue coolie suits and sandals, wide-brimmed straw hats and baskets of vegetables on poles, were a familiar picture in the streets. On holidays they sailed their bright paper kites to the envy of the same children who sang after their impassive yellow faces:

Ching Chong Chinaman, sitting on a rail,Along came a blackbird and pulled off his tail.

The tail was the queue, of course, and the Chinamen suffered silent martyrdom over their long black braids. Drunks could never resist pulling them, and when feeling against the Chinese rose high, masked men went so far as to enter shops and hold up stages to cut off this sacred appendage as a warning that its owner was not wanted in the country (although without it a Chinaman dared not return to his native land). Only a scattering of the old Chinese are left. Most of the family servants have gone back to China to die as all good Celestials hope to do. Some few remain—cantankerous and loyal, temperamental and profane—performing their culinary miracles with chicken, pork, and green vegetables.

Women are often heard to complain of the shortsightedness that deprived them of an easy solution to the servant problem on this coast. Certainly the hardworking Northwest woman would make a book by herself, beginning with the Indian “wives” who helped white men to endure frontier privations and who must have suffered in their own way when the whites and the reds began to fight for dominance and they stood helpless between two worlds. The first white women in the Far West were missionary wives— with the exception of Jane Barnes, an adventurous London barmaid who created havoc among Indians as well as whites with her costumes and her carryings-on during a brief stay at Fort Vancouver in 1814. The missionary women seem to have all been exceptional characters; Eliza Spalding and Mary Walker enduring martyrdom no less real than that of the beautiful blonde Narcissa Whitman whom the Indians murdered outright. Missionary wives had at least a Cause to work for, but there were hundreds of other women who came west during the forties on through the fifties, sixties, seventies, and even into the eighties, against their will and better judgment, leaving behind all comforts and going into seemingly endless privations and want because their men had caught the virulent “Oregon fever.” These were the women who bore their children along the line of march, saw their favorite possessions abandoned in the wayside dust as overloaded oxen gave out, buried their dead and drove the wagons over the graves so the Indians might not find them, coming after months of endurance to the trail’s end only to find hardships and discomfort more vital than any they had experienced so far. These earliest women made possible the famous trip of Asa Shinn Mercer from the West Coast to the East in the sixties to bring back a cargo of New England virgins, and later Civil War widows, to fill the frontier’s most desperate need—good wives for the white men. They provided the necessary respectable background for “Mercer’s girls” to come to.

An over-romantic and too fulsome treatment of the pioneer has led many people in the Northwest to a sharp reaction which—with equal stupidity—allows no good word to be said for these hardy early emigrants from the east. The novel Honey in the Horn, although it outraged and angered many descendants of pioneers, who are apt to ask sourly what the Pulitzer Prize stands for anyway if it can be given to such a book, certainly came to many of the less beglamored residents of the Northwest as a distinctly astringent relief. Truth, however, is apt to lie between extremes, and certainly the proper approach to the pioneers of early Oregon—despite current tastes in literary modes—does not lie through an Okies of 1840 angle any more than it lies through a transplanting of Virginia cavaliers and their ladies. The early Oregon pioneers were American folk; the same kinds of people and in just about the same proportion of races and types as the settlers of the Eastern seaboard and the Middle West.

The complete story of the Pacific Northwest Indian—treated not alone as ethnological subject but as human being—has never been told, and it would make a fascinating chronicle, rich and varied and full of strongly developed personalities. The Northwest Indian pantheon contains names worthy of a place alongside King Philip, Black Hawk, or Tecumseh. First of all there is the remarkable Young Joseph of the Nez Percés, who conducted an unwilling campaign against the whites to retain the beautiful Wallowa Valley, ancestral home of his people. Joseph’s retreat of over one thousand miles hampered by women and children, and his superb last stand, are ranked as masterpieces of military strategy. Then there is Leschi whom the whites hanged for wanting to keep the Nisqually plains for Indian horseracing and the streams for Indian fishing; a story on which violent sides have been taken—both Ezra Meeker, the old pioneer, and the contemporary writer of fiction, Archie Binns, finding Leschi less guilty than Governor Stevens. There’s Captain Jack of the Modocs who waged a war in the Dantesque landscape of the southern Oregon lava beds; Lawyer and Moses, Kamiakin and Seattle, and the Duke of York from Port Townsend who affected a high silk hat, had two wives known as Jenny Lind and Queen Victoria, and whose engaging character was blackened—perhaps unfairly—by Theodore Winthrop, the young Bostonian whose The Canoe and The Saddle is a Far Western classic of the early days.

The poignancy of the Indians’ inevitable defeat comes through with moving force in some of the speeches and the questions the “blanket men” and the “long hairs” put to the triumphant whites. Thus Chief Seattle: “The very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors.” Seattle told his white friends that long after the last red man had perished and his memory had become only a white man’s myth, the shores and woods and even the streets would still throng with the invisible dead Indians who had so “loved this beautiful land. . . . The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people for the dead are not altogether powerless.” And then there is that mildly puzzled profound question of Young Chief at the council of whites and Indians called by Governor Stevens in 1855: “I wonder if the ground has anything to say? I wonder if the ground is listening to what is said?” The Northwest Indian story contains humor and dark tragedy and poetry; fierce action and passive resignation; fanaticisms of loyalty and revenge; farce, wisdom, folly, and every type of mysticism including even voodoo.

Northwest native cookery would make a fascinating book also, with its mingling of many elements: Indian, Chinese, Japanese, New England, Old South, and more than a flavor of Scandinavian and Russian. There are famous dishes in the Northwest indigenous to this part of the country: Geoduck steaks cut from a gigantic clam; Captain Doane’s famous oyster pan roast, made from the little native Olympia oysters—a dish, accompanied by whiskey, which played its part in many an informal political caucus of the early days; barbecued hard-shelled crab, served with curry sauce; pies of wild blackberry and salal; Oregon grape jelly; smoked brook trout prepared over a willow fire; goat’s milk cheese from Pistol River or the rich creamy American cheddar from Tillamook.

For genuine campfire and fireside yarning it is doubtful if any other part of America can surpass the Northwest. There are all the elements necessary for folk tales and apocrypha: Indians, prospectors, miners, loggers, woodsmen, and fishermen; cowboys, outlaws, and cattle country sheriffs; sea captains and river captains, hermits and mystics, pioneers and old-timers. Yarners like Hathaway Jones of the Rogue River appear, give their prodigious imaginations a good stretch, die, and leave behind a body of humorous legends. Loggers in the land of the big trees add their picturesque quota to the still-growing saga of Paul Bunyan, the mighty giant. The Oregon seacoast which saw Drake fresh from Spanish plunder has many an ancient tale of white men and buried treasure; the most famous concerns the cache of beeswax with its mysterious inscriptions found in the sands of Nehalem. And there are classic yarns expanded into rich fictional proportions from a kernel of interesting truth which no amount of factual denial will ever succeed in killing. Among these is the famous tale of the Rawhide Railroad from Walla Walla to Wallula which was eaten by coyotes in a severe winter; and the Spokane yarn of the lawsuit over the ownership of the errant donkey who discovered the famous Bunker Hill and Sullivan mine of the Coeur d’Alenes.

There is the story of the people of the Northwest themselves, as seen through their own legislation; Oregon’s combination of conservatism and innovation; Washington’s extravagance and the horseplay and corruption of many of its political figures, along with some genuine liberal fervor. There is the story of Northwest Labor; the marching of Coxey’s local army under the leadership of General Jumbo Cantwell, a “bouncer” in a famous Tacoma gambling resort; the rise of the revolutionary I.W.W.; the “massacres” at Centralia and Everett; the early Socialist and Anarchist colonies of Aurora, Freeland, Burley, Home; the far-reaching activities today of Seattle’s Dave Beck and his notorious Teamsters’ Union.

Finally there is this very moment’s drama of hydroelectricity, the Northwest’s great new challenging potential; and along with it, an inseparable part of it—tied up with the promise of reclaimed lands and cheap electricity—the new migrations toward the Pacific; the jalopy caravans of defeated people moving out of exhausted country, moving westward filled with hope and fear.

The geologic history cannot be surpassed for mystery and marvel in all this continent. Where else could one find so varied a record of the action of ancient convulsive forces on the surface of the earth? Snowcapped mountain ranges like the Cascades and the Olympics; mighty rivers like the Snake and the Columbia; mountain passes six thousand feet high connecting Canoe and Horse country; gentle rich western valleys like the Skagit, the Puyallup, the Willamette; vast dryland acreage like the Oregon cattle counties of Malheur and Harney; wheat lands like the Palouse; apple country like the Wenatchee and Yakima, Hood River and the Valley of the Rogue—and all the riddles of lost rivers, dry falls, cones and craters and lava blankets that tease the scientific mind.

Is it to be wondered at that in a country of such scope and richness and dimension the people fell victim to the American weakness of the worship of the Big Thing—dimension admired just for dimension’s sake? Not long ago I saw the first copy of a Junior Historical Quarterly issued by the University of Oregon extension service. In it there appeared an article which showed, by the aid of old maps, that Gulliver’s Land of Giants, the fabled Brobdingnag, was actually the Olympic Peninsula. Swift created this mythical kingdom after reading Hakluyt and Purchas and their tales of the legendary kingdoms of Quivira and Anian which lay along the great unknown western ocean. This same magazine quoted from Harper’s of 1883, “They have discovered footprints three feet long in the sands of Oregon, supposed to belong to a lost race.”

Small wonder the Northwestern myth hero is Paul Bunyan, the logger giant. And in truth the far western country was not built up by weaklings. It took strong men to dare the trip westward in the first place, to accept for themselves and their wives and children seemingly endless hardships and solitude; to hew the great trees and make little clearings in the green gloom of formidable forest; to believe wholeheartedly in the future of dry desert lands; to resist the lure of goldfields south, north, and east; to keep exhausted and homesick women on the track; to exert pressure for wagon roads and later for railroads, adequate defense measures against Indians, representation in the states “back home” and all the rest of it. A Northwesterner who knows his history is always anxious to point out to the inquiring stranger that this country was won for America—in the face of marked indifference at the national capital—by the men who settled it, set up their own government, and prepared if need be to fight to keep it. This way of acquiring territory is unique in the history of America.

There’s a good deal that the descendants of pioneers might well be proud of in this Northwest country, and there are some things of which they should be heartily ashamed: curious prejudices, tendencies to exclusion and bigotry for which today we have created the word Fascist without at all altering the quality of the thing described. The descendant of pioneers is apt to look with a wary and suspicious eye on the somewhat less glamorous pioneers of the present: those migrants from the Middle West who have been pushing westward since 1935 at an estimated one hundred and ninety a day, searching for green land, rainfall, and a future for their children.

Minority groups in the Pacific Northwest—notably Chinese and Japanese—have not had a very happy history. When the Chinaman ceased to be useful as a railroad builder he was no longer welcome, and the shameful way in which he was ousted from coast and inland cities does not make very pleasant reading, although then, as so often today, there was the curious anomaly of the big interest and the liberal pleading together for racial tolerance, while on the other side of the fence stood the little man who was feeling the Chinese wage scale right in his stomach. Today liberal-minded people are already organizing to prevent the occurrence of similar treatment of a minority in the Northwest with the rising tide of anti-Japanese sentiment that now dominates the coast.

In the Pacific Northwest are clearly set forth those powers of destruction and construction by which man affects the land in which he lives. The Northwest country is still too new to hide its scars and shames. Ugly and meaningless waste has followed in the wake of the mining and lumber industries; towns which just “grew” are usually eyesores in a spectacular landscape. In a ghost town along the Eastern seaboard, when the essential industry has closed its doors and departed, the sight is not always immediately shocking or deeply depressive, for there is some rather gentle air of the past lingering about the place; the houses not infrequently possess the graciousness of line and simple dignity that belonged to a slower-paced era, and there are old trees to hide the illness that has fallen upon the community. Most of the dead towns of the Pacific Northwest, on the contrary, are apt to be grotesquely naked and ugly; for they grew up in a period when architecture, along with all the other arts, had died a shameful death. Here is post–Civil War America set forth with little softening detail from a less “commercial” earlier period. There are exceptions of course—towns that grew and died, or faded, with an air: Jacksonville, Oregon, and Port Gamble, Washington.

Yet not all the picture of the Pacific Northwest’s use of resources is a dark or negative one. The great new projects for irrigating land and for generating cheap electricity challenge the imagination with the scope of their promise. But the Northwest country did not have to wait for government help to get its drylands into productivity. Although certain irrigated valleys no longer seem so amazing in the light of the vast program of the Columbia Basin Irrigation Project they do stand as concrete examples of an aphorism from the drylands, “There’s no waste country, only waiting country.” And these same valleys, irrigated for so many years and caught now into far-reaching economic problems of distribution, present two basic American anomalies: the economic insecurity of the man who grows our foodstuffs; the presence of hunger in the midst of plenty.

The Pacific Northwestener—true American that he is—finds it a heady experience to boast of the statistics which the government issues on the Grand Coulee Dam. He feels himself Paul Bunyan indeed when he tells you that man has built a dam on top of which four ocean liners the size of the Queen Mary could be carried with space to spare. But he is beginning to realize that the true story of this enterprise will be told in the uses to which such a gigantic piece of engineering are eventually turned.

The question of what will happen to the states of the Last Frontier is tied close to the heart of the American dream—and when one reads the history of this country there seems little reason to doubt that there was a dream. In the Pacific Northwest one might truly say the dreamer and the awakened one face each other.

What has drawn and still draws people to this country, and so often holds them there, is not alone the economic and social advantages offered by land that is still “open.” It is something with a deeper and less tangible pull. The landscape itself beckons. The eye is always being stretched to the tops of high peaks and tall trees, across golden deserts to purple hill slopes, around bends in great rivers and turns of the magnificent coast highways where great waves break far out on the solitary rocks of an old shoreline. Nature is inescapable in this part of the world. The Pacific Northwesterner carries snapshots of his “view” around with him along with pictures of his wife and children. Real estate agents have long recognized the selling force of “view lots” which make up in distant glimpse of mountain, lake, river, or sea for any possible inconveniences in transportation facilities. Nowhere do cities lie so close to scenes of breathtaking beauty, ringed round with shining water and snowcapped peaks. Even in the eastern drylands nature forces the sense of her power and mystery into the human consciousness with the beautiful tortured forms of ancient convulsions. One can go to many places in the Pacific Northwest and forget for a while what is happening in “the world.” And perhaps we need these moments of freer and quieter breathing, for certainly something comes back to the average man in the sight of high mountains and within the sound of lapping tides, or in the breathless brooding silence of desert stretches and vast deep canyons thrust into the earth’s surface. Here an American can recapture a sense of the legendary beauty and poetry of his native land. Here it is possible again to catch a glimpse of a forgotten vision. “The Last Frontier” people say wistfully, even fearfully, looking out across the great blue stretch of the Pacific. Nostalgia and sadness are in the phrase, but there is certainly also promise.

“Well, we’ve come to the Jumping-Off Place at last,” pioneer women used to say, sitting down wearily at the trail’s end, sometimes to weep with their faces turned away, hidden in apron or sunbonnet. . . . The farthest reach, the shore of the other ocean, no more land for track of foot or wheel. So here we pause and stand and take our final root.