Dark History
Harlow Cabin on Elliot Creek
This passage came from a local "history book" published in 1884:
Within the bounds of Southern Oregon is found a population of about thirty thousand souls, pioneers and their descendants, who redeemed this beautiful region from the domination of the savage tribes and brought it within the domination of civilization. In the forty years of its history much has been accomplished. The primeval forests have been leveled. The fire of many a domestic hearth burns brightly in a land which not many years ago was wilderness. The old story of pioneer life is repeated here on this western shore by those to whom hardship and adventure were as second nature. Over this region, now fruitful in grain, the wild and debased Indian once roamed, an object of dread and danger. Bloody and fierce were the conflicts he waged against the superior race, fast despoiling him of his heritage, and the crimson history of war attests his valor and stubbornness. The Indian has melted away before the approach of the Caucasian, like snow beneath a noonday sun. Rude domestic utensils, and the arrow-heads fallen on many a bloody battle-field remain as sole mementos of a departed race.
It is easy to ignore history sometimes. In the day-to-day bustle of living and getting paid, we step through the present from task to task like upon rocks in a stream. We hop along, not looking at the history that swirls around us, until we accidentally slip and are plunged into its cold and lingering wetness. Once we've been immersed in the stories, it is hard to shake them off.
The history of this place in Southern Oregon is a heavy thing. Greed, of beaver pelts first and later gold, drove white men into this valley with self-important purpose. Peter Ogden's journals, written less than 200 years ago, tell of arriving into the Rogue Valley near present day Ashland–how sunny and beautiful the weather in February was and how the native people assured him this good weather was normal for the time of year. I know this too, for 200 years later our Februaries are still sunny and bright. People always think about gardening for the first time in February. This concrete detail kicks me in the gut... because this is the same place.
The Applegate Valley
Ogden's journals also tell of how his expedition, camped at present-day Applegate, sent two scouts up the Thompson Creek valley. They rode until they were turned around by the snows on Grayback Mountain. It was April 10th. He also notes a visit of local Takelma and how a pack of wolves chased 50 horses out of camp.
I am struck by the proximity in both time and space of these men. Those two fur trappers–the first white men to head up Thompson Creek–would have ridden across the land where I grew up. Past the White Oak (between 300-500 years old) where we hung our swings as kids.
This is my valley, less than a tree's lifetime ago. The Takelma are now gone. So are the wolves. The beaver have gone underground, for their nation's survivors no-longer build dams, but hide in dens dug into the mud of the riverbanks. In the years following those two men and their company, hundreds, thousands more would come. My other library books tell of gold mines and murders, "Indian wars" and sawmills along the same creeks I know; Humbug, Williams, Sterling, and the Little Applegate. People fought and killed on the same land I walk. A race of people exterminated.