1923-1925 — California Sun and River Shine

Winter in Ulysses has its own sound—quiet as snow slipping off a pine bough, broken now and then by the crack of a frozen limb giving way, or the creak of the cabin settling against the wind. Bill and I have passed many an evening by the stove talking over plans for the year ahead. This time the talk keeps circling back to California. Bill’s been promising that trip for years now and there’s plenty of reason to go.

Most of his sisters and parents are gone but his brothers are are still living. James is in[ Sacramento with his wife Tresa; John, George, and Roscoe are in Downieville, tucked up in the Sierra mountains; and Robert is in San Anselmo.

My mother Mercy K., lives in her own little home in Sumol with Leland who divides his time between Sumol and San Fransisco. My widowed sister Edna left her home in Yolo County to care for Mother who is up and about but can’t live alone anymore. Edna’s daughter Beth and my granddaughter Edna have been penpals since they learned to write.

Clyde and his boys are in Pleasanton just a few miles from Edna and Mother. Millie lives a quieter life across the bay in Redwood. She never married and says she got motherhood out of her system helping Clyde with his seven boys until Clyde got a new housekeeper.

Jeanie and her husband Al Garcia live in San Francisco.

So, this trip to California would be a proper tour—enough kin to keep us fed and fussed over from the mountains to valley and Bay—and missing a winter in Ulysses wouldn’t be anything to miss at all.

Nora presented my son Ed with a son of his own that winter. Earl Edward Callahan was born in Boise on February 17, 1923. By the time I got word of it, they were back in Quartzburg where Ed had work at the Gold Hill mine. I could imagine Lois being a mother’s helper at thirteen.

By April the snow along the canyon walls had given way in patches, showing the stubborn green underneath. The river ran higher each day, breaking loose bits of ice that spun away like silver plates. The air still bit in the mornings yet by noon you could almost believe spring had moved a chair up to the porch and meant to stay.

The new season always shakes loose more than ice. Alta headed to Salmon. The April term of court brought its usual crop of property squabbles and complaints and one matter close to home: Alta was granted a divorce from Peter Barton. It was done without fuss, just a line in the Recorder under “Miscellaneous Proceedings,” as if the whole of a marriage could be folded into a single sentence.[1]

I stopped by to see her when she returned home, carrying fresh bread and a jar of cherry jam from Tom Wend’s summer orchard. Though his trees were now tended by new hands—Tom having sold out and settled just outside of Salmon—he’d left his sweetness behind.

Alta was in the yard raking last year’s leaves into piles, her cheeks pink from the wind. We didn’t dwell on the court’s business. She asked if I’d heard the latest about the trail downriver and I told her about Bill’s newest fish story. But there was a new lightness in the way she moved, like someone who’d finally set down a heavy bundle she’d carried too far.

The world keeps bringing us new marvels and this year it’s radio concerts. F.T. Casey has the only set in the valley and in the evening we crowd into his parlor to listen. Music and voices sail into our canyon from places I’ve never seen, clear as if the orchestra had set up right there on Frank Casey’s braided rug.

Alta is firmly planted here in Ulysses, but last week she and her brother Billy took a jaunt to Shoup to visit friends. Billy and his Missus have been traveling about and they’re spending a spell here in Ulysses with little Madge—five summers old and already telling grown folks what to do.

At a special meeting of the school board the trustees elected me chair. W.W. Smith will serve as chairman, which suits me fine—he can keep order while I see that there’s something worth meeting about.

Bill took himself up to the ranger station for a fishing trip while Mr. Clark was away on official business. He came back smelling of woodsmoke, with a grin that said the stories might be bigger than the catch.[2]

At the end of June the mountain and canyon below us was all green and humming, the river running fast but clear. Folks started keeping score on the season’s fishing, each one claiming they’d seen the biggest catch go past in someone else’s basket.

Then Alta went and settled the matter, at least for a while. She landed the largest fish pulled from Indian Creek this summer—a salmon trout weighing four and a quarter pounds. The Recorder saw fit to put it in print, and I reckon that fish will be famous all summer. Alta’s been modest about it, but I’ve noticed she doesn’t mind when someone asks her to tell how she brought it in.

Late July the weather turned hot and dry. My garden flourished, even if I had to wake early to tend it before the heat came unrelenting until evening.

Bill began work at the Ulysses mine, which means he has less time for fishing and comes home each evening with the smell of rock dust in his clothes.

Alta’s been keeping busy in spite of the heat. She and Mrs. Wolcott made a business trip over to Pine Creek one weekend and a few days later Mrs. Wolcott was back from North Fork, having sold and delivered two fine milk cows. Alta herself rode to North Fork on horseback midweek and was gone two nights. I told her she could have waited for cooler weather but she just laughed and said the road was dusty either way.[3]

Peter Barton relocated to Butte, Montana, and urged Alta to let my granddaughters, Edna, Alta and Ethel, attend high school there. Alta sought legal advice, and her attorney warned that if she let the girls cross the state line, Peter might just keep them.[4] The girls missed their father, and the idea of going to school in Butte had them wearing their mother down. By summer, Alta gave in and sent them off on the stage before school started.[5]

September nights cooled enough to make you pull the quilt up around your ears. Alta came home on Monday’s stage after two weeks in Shoup giving Flora Haynes a hand. On Saturday, the place was lively with visitors—Billy Jr. and little Billie, Mrs. Free Buster and her daughter Blanche, and Winnie Isley of Salmon all came up to see their families. We all headed down to North Fork for a dance and party at Bob Insley’s, held in honor of Bill and me. Word had gotten out that we were finally making good on our talk of visiting California and the neighbors weren’t about to let us slip away without a proper send-off.[6]

At sixty-seven, I’ve learned the value of starting a journey rested, not worn thin from the getting ready. Bill and I had our trunks lined up days ahead, lids straining over carefully folded Sunday clothes and the sort of “just in case” things you only regret if you leave them behind.

The car pulled up in front—a touring model with more shine than most things that traveled this road—and our local driver hopped out and began helping Bill load the car. I settled into the back seat and sat back while Bill wrestled the luggage.

We rattled down to North Fork and followed the Salmon River into town, the last of the cottonwoods still holding their yellow leaves against the coming frost. At the depot, the Gilmore & Pittsburgh stood waiting, its mixed train of passengers and freight like a steel promise that the world was still wide.

From Salmon we’d be carried east to Salt Lake City, then change for the main line bound for California. That route’s been running since I was thirteen, carrying folks over deserts, mountains, and wide stretches of nothing until the Pacific finally comes into view. I was a young woman the first time I rode the rails west, bound for Butte with a valise that rattled with more hopes than coin. Now, I felt a spark of that same girlish enthusiasm—though it hummed in a body that preferred a cushioned seat and a steady hand on the bag.

As the train pulled away from Salmon City as I still called it, the river that had given the city its name slipped away and we headed east. We stopped over night in Salt Lake City, the air dry as flour and the streets bright with electric light. In the morning we boarded the Southern Pacific westbound, following the rails across Nevada toward the Sierra Nevada, where our first California stop awaited.

The train let us off in Reno, and from there we caught a smaller connection into the foothills, where Bill’s brothers—John, George, and Roscoe—were there to meet us, grinning like they’d been waiting on the platform all their lives. Downieville sat folded into the mountains, the Yuba River tumbling through it like a ribbon of blue-green glass, interrupted by whitewater, not unlike the Salmon. We stayed long enough for family talk to spill over the supper table and into the next day’s breakfast.

The days in the Sierra mountains passed and Bill boarded a train heading east, back to Idaho and work.[7] The train carried me down into Oakland and out along the Mole, that long pier reaching into the Bay. When it stopped, sunlight so bright it made me squint poured through the windows, and the air had gone soft with salt—the kind you can taste before you breathe it. We left the cars and stepped straight onto the waiting ferry. I let it in—that old, familiar mix of brine and breeze—carrying me across the water and into the city. I had a good visit with Leland, Millie, Jeanie and her husband Al, then the four of us siblings went to Sumol to visit Mother and Edna. We posed outside for pictures, but with two photographers giving orders, we ended up looking in different directions—a true family portrait if ever there was one.

I stayed with Edna just long enough for her to decide I was a bit touched in the head. She took my teasing and sarcasm for gospel truth, and I let her. You can tell when someone’s pegged you as half-crazy—there’s a certain tilt to their smile when you walk into the the room.[9] One morning I took my leave and told them I’d return in a few days, having wanting to ride the train south, and back again, keeping my reasons for a jaunt down the coast a secret.

Taking the Southern Pacific Coast Line south to Atascadero, salesmen met the train with their polished automobiles and a packet of maps, eager to show off the marvel Mr. Lewis had planned here: paved roads, an orderly civic center with its grand Administration Building, water piped in, and neat squares marked for homes, gardens and orchards.

We drove past town lots with tidy curb lines and newly planted trees, then out to the larger tracts where the land rolled toward the hills. The oaks stood like sentinels over the grass, where fruit orchards were taking root. Before the day was out I’d signed deeds and purchased a town lot in the heart of things, and a larger tract on the edge, meant for small farming or whatever I might decide later.

I returned to Sumol with the papers tucked in my handbag—Registered Convertible Real Estate Receipt No. 5834 of the Atascadero Estates, Inc., State of California, valued at $501.67, a town lot, and Registered Convertible Real Estate Receipt No. 9704 of the same company, valued at $2,115.98, a larger tract in the rolling hills. Both were in my own name. It felt good to hold the deeds to a piece of this planned paradise, a utopia where a person could grow old in comfort.[10]

Once I was back downriver, the river’s bends exactly where I’d left them, and Alta sitting at my table, I hid the deeds and poured a cup of coffee. My daughter’s voice carried the gossip I’d missed—easy and unhurried. The unpacking could wait for another tide.

Billy and Madge decided to move to California and in a whoosh they were gone, settling in Los Angeles.

Winter of 1924, I made it a point to go through my scrapbook, shake loose the cobwebs of memory, and set down a few articles about the early history of this place I call home. The Kentuck was the first major mine downriver, and now idle, deserved to have its story told—lest folks forget it ever existed.

In its day it tunneled into the mountainside near Shoup, while the mill stood below it, drawing water from Boulder Creek to power it. You could hear that pounding of stamps throughout the canyon, the sound of posterity. I slipped the piece in with my usual column, and sure enough, it appeared printed right beneath it, on page eight where it’s likely few would see it. If I wrote another, I’d suggest that it not be buried beneath camp gossip.

Idaho Recorder, February 15, 1924

ULYSSES

Mr. and Mrs. Frank Hibbs are living at the parental home in Shoup this winter.

Miss Dora Hale is spending a few weeks at the Downing home, Fourth of July creek.

Miss Hazel Pope is home from Shoup visiting Mrs. Barton.

Andrew Michelson is delivering hay at the DeAlley stage barn.

The Hancock boys with their mother, who have spent the summer with an older brother living near Pope’s ranch, returned to their home in Oregon last week.

Mrs. Alice Wolcott, who is making a third visit to Spokane, writes that it has been her supreme pleasure to attend a Schumann-Heink concert in that city.

The Kentuck Mine

Mrs. W.E. Taylor

Memory in review goes back to early day mining in Shoup. The Kentuck 10-stamp mill was built in ’84. The reviewer first went to Shoup in ’86. At this time the Kentuck mine was the chief source of revenue in Lemhi county. The purchase price and all equipment had been paid for and the stockholders were receiving regular dividends.

The equipment in part at the mine was a boarding house and bunkhouse to accommodate 50 men, a blacksmith shop and stable to house 15 head of horses. Near the mill on the creek was located the warehouse, powder house and company store. This was of spacious dimensions and included a boarding house with ample room for 50.

The company bookkeeper or clerk, the mine superintendent, the foreman at the mill, including all the mill bonds and “outside” men boarded and roomed here. Thirty miners were constantly employed.

The 4-horse-teams delivered 18 to 20 tons of ore at the mill daily, this being the average capacity of the plant. The post office and all business transactions connected with the mine was conducted in the building above mentioned.

On the river where the Shoup post office is now located four and sometimes five saloons did a flourishing business until the Kentuck suspended operations.

The month following, I sent another historical story to the Recorder —the one about the miner’s strike at the Monolith in ’87. This time they ran it on the front page—but I’ve already told you that story.[11]

When word came that Ed’s wife Nora had given birth to another son, just a year after her last, I was quite surprised, but carrying the name of Callahan, having a set of Irish twins seemed fitting. Lorne Elmer had been born on the 27th of February. Ed was still working at the Golden Age Mine while Nora recuperated in Hailey. Soon as she was back on her feet, Ed would take the family up to Pioneerville.

The Barton girls came back when school got out in April, They passed their state examinations—each promoted in their grades and Peter delivered his girls downriver, spent some time with his boys and visited with all his old friends. I had to give it to Peter, he did his best to remain a constant in his children’s lives. My eldest granddaughters were doing well and come autumn, Ethel and Alta would be sophomores and Edna will begin her senior year.[12]No sooner than they got home— they went to North Fork to help their aunt Julia Casey with the hotel.[13] Julia, their father’s sister, was married to Frank Casey, which made our family tree about as twisted as a downriver trail after a hard winter.

Summer passed uneventful and in September the girls returned to Butte. Alta moved into Shoup for the winter with Theo, Julia and the boys.[14] They squeezed into the little house owned by Pat Kane who had moved across the river to a more commodious abode.[15] It gave me a good excuse to visit Shoup and bring the news of that place to the county.

Idaho Recorder, November 7, 1924

ULYSSES

A part of this news budget is reproduced from a letter that was “held up” after mailing on the 13th ultimo. The only places of abode that will be occupied in Ulysses this winter are the post office, stage office and the den of your quill-driver.

Those who will reside elsewhere this winter are Mrs. Alta Barton, Mrs. Alice Wolcott and W.W. Smith. They are home today to cast their ballots to the fortune of this shame battle.

Jan Patch is cutting and storing a year’s supply of wood at the Wolcott ranch on Sage creek.

Emerson Hill and party were in Shoup last week making a tour of inspection at the Monolith.

Due to the dry season, deer are foraging in the lower hills, thus making short shift for the hunters, many being so fortunate to bag their quarry the first day out.

Mrs. Wolcott is on the divide of the main range of the Rockies, cutting bear grass to make beds for her line of camps.

Eight mountain goats and one black bear, are reported killed close in. Goats in the canyons and river bottom is something hitherto unknown.

Fred Bevan Jr. has taken up a ranch on Spring creek above the Hibbs place. This is one of the few remaining locations on Uncle Sam’s domain open for homesteading.

SHOUP

Chris and Charles Stenberg will be in camp for the winter at the Walton ranch. Thomas Christiansen will trap in the vicinity of the Pope ranch. Johnnie Russell will feed stock for Magnus Bevan.

Messrs. Bartel and Avery, who recently bought the lease on the Proctor and Wilson ranches, are making permanent improvements, indicating their ability to succeed.

Julius Wiemer is said to have sold his ranch on Pine Creek.

Mr. and Mrs. Walter Lund of Salmon were dinner guests of Mrs. Madina Smith.

Fritz Gilbreath has returned to his home on Beaver Creek.

Julius Wiemer is packing winter supplies to Mike Cooney’s mining camp.

Fred and Torvil Bevan went out as guides with a party of hunters going down the river.

The mountain zephyrs that came whispering downriver from the Monolith on the morning of the 27th gave various tales of strange visitors camping in the wilds.

We had a ball at Shoup to celebrate Thanksgiving, I wrote a poem to commemorate it for the Idaho Recorder[16] and steadied myself to greet another new year.

On a Saturday morning about the middle of February, the ring of the hammer and the buzz of the saw was heard when the following boys volunteered their services to lay the new floor in the Shoup school house: J. R. Hibbs, and Lawrence; Bill Hall, Roland Westfall, Magnus Bevan, Jim Hall, Tom Christensen, Pat Kane, Charles Twining and Mark Pope. By noon the work was well under way and at five o’clock in the evening it was completed.

The ladies of Shoup served dinner at Alta's house, and after the meal the Hard Times dance was well attended.

“The people came from far and near,


And all were dressed to please.


Solomon in all his glory


Was not arrayed like one of these.”

Very few present did not comply with the requirements of hard times, so that fund did not help materially but the proceeds from sale of tickets and supper netted $16.40.

The judges were Mrs. Alice Walcott, Messrs John Bohannon and J. R. Hibbs.

The ladies prize, a nice gingham apron, was awarded to Mrs. Alice Westfall. The gents prize to Oscar Bohannon. The little girl who was fortunate in securing the garters was Theo Barton and the boys prize, a pencil clip, went to Wilford Hibbs.

Ulysses hosted a big dance before the cold month of February was over. Those from Northfork who came to the dance were Mr. and Mrs. Tolbert Bartl, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trowbridge, Mr. and Mrs. John Bohannon, Oscar, Anna, Iva and Helen. Miss Johnson and Miss Clara Ravndal, Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Hibbs and Mrs. Walter Lund. Miss Johnson and Miss Clara Revndal, Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Hibbs and Mrs. Walter Lund.

With our camp’s supplies dwindling and the river's ice finally set free, Gus Labreque and Bill Taylor left Shoup for Salmon and loaded their freight onto Captain Guleke’s first boat of the season. On March 15th they weighed anchor, bound for the Grunter mine with three-thousand pounds of freight, the river carrying them off as if it had urgent business of its own.[18]

When Billy Jr. wrote in early spring, he said he was planning a vacation and would be on my doorstep this summer. Wood songsters at the door with their message of spring, wild flowers in full dress, March and April weather was balmy as June, is proof that Dame Nature is working on advance dates.[19]

All speed to the departing March lion though the river still had a spring growl in it. Harry Guleke piloted a party of placer miners through the Pine Creek rapids and Jean Partch at the Ranger station set the fishing record so far with a six-pound river trout. C.F. Clark was making his rounds of the ranger stations, getting the season’s work lined out.

Bill went down to Shoup for a visit in May, then Fred Catlin of Salmon came by to see us in Ulysses. Alta was made trustee of the school while I continued on as clerk.[20] And such were our lives then, seasons changing while our routines did not.

On Saturday, June 27th, lightning struck William Barton’s field while the men and young Eloise Barton were out haying. Word came in that evening—biggest strike anyone had ever seen. The boys it hit were sicker than dogs but still breathing, and Eloise, tough as a whip, survived two jolts with hardly a mark on her.

No sooner had we taken that in that news, not more than a few minutes past six in the evening, there came a deep, rushing sound like a windstorm, and the ground began to heave and roll underfoot. My first thought was for the folks living tight in the canyon. Then the second rumble hit. Earthquake. I’d felt them before, but never one with this kind of muscle.

The news later said it was felt clear into Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. No lives were lost but in Montana buildings crumbled and windows burst.[21] As for those struck by lightning that day—they’d walked a hair’s breadth from death, and the Salmon Herald told the harrowing tale just right.

Lightning from the sky, the earth shaking under our boots—one wild day, the kind that leaves you looking over your shoulder for what might come next.

Salmon Herald, July 1, 1925

LIGHTNING STRIKES THE HAYMAKERS

Five Men, One Girl and Eight Horses Struck Down and Horse and Dog Killed, at Barton Ranch.

At 2:45 Saturday afternoon at the W. B. Barton ranch on Carmen creek, a severe electric shower struck the meadow where haymakers were at work. Everybody in the field was hit, and two young men were very near death. One horse and a dog were killed, and a bullrake was wrecked. Efforts at resuscitation were exerted for 40 minutes over the body of Herbert Benham, before he came back to life; but he has fully recovered.

How the Accident Happened

Mr. Barton, who was in Salmon Monday, described the unusual phenomena to the Herald. He says that while hauling a storm arose, and lightning fell in his field, affecting an area of about 75 yards diameter. He, his 18 year old son, Lester Barton, and another 18 year old lad, Herbert Benham, were driving bullrakes, and Thos. Palmer and George Dudley were stacking.

When the bolt came, every man and eight head of horses went down. Mr. Barton’s daughter, Miss Eloise Barton, 16, was also stricken down. The men on the stack, not severely shocked, were soon on their feet and coming to the rescue of the others. Mr. Barton, knocked off his rake seat, was soon up, and taking a hand in righting things.

He says the young men were unconscious, but still sitting on the seats of the rakes, and their horses were down. He took the boys off their seats, and placed them on the ground. His daughter had by this time gotten up, and was watching the horses, the animals getting up and falling again, and some of them trying to run. One of the horses hitched to Benham’s rake actually got up and ran a distance of 20 feet, where he fell dead.

As soon as the teams were secured, Mr. Barton told Eloise to go to the house and phone the doctor, which she did. But on the way to the house, she took hold of a barbed wire where she had to pass through a fence, and received a second shock, which knocked her down, and her dog, going through the wires at the fence, was killed. The brave girl went on and phoned for Dr. Wright, who came from Salmon, arriving on the ground at 3:40 by the watch.

Mr. Dudley,[22] a miner of Butte, had first-aid training, and he took a hand reviving the boys. The unconscious patients were turned on their stomachs, and men worked their arms up and down, as a means to induce respiration. Within 15 minutes Lester had revived, and was able to talk, but it took 40 minutes to bring young Benham back to life; and for a long time the men working over his body had little hope of success in reviving him.

Two Strikes, Two Minutes Apart

The first strike, which knocked down those in the field, was followed by another, two minutes later, which “charged” the fence wires just as Eloise came along, and she was hit by both bolts.

Lester and Herbert were a long time getting back to normal, but they are all right now. It was several hours before they could remember anything. Then both boys were affected by fits of nausea and vomiting. Benham’s vomiting fit lasted till midnight of Saturday; but Lester Barton’s nausea did not let up till about 10 o’clock Sunday night.

In the work of restoration, much patience was required. Water was applied to the two boys, with quite different results. In the case of young Barton it helped to restore him; but in Benham’s case, although it rained on him, the application of water apparently had no effect on him. Lester showed signs of pain, and had convulsions while he was coming to; and after his resuscitation he had no pain, except that he complained of a muscular soreness across the stomach. Herbert had no apparent pain until long after his revival; but within about six hours he had pains and suffered convulsions, all of which have since left him.

Dr. Wright, upon his arrival, administered such medicines as the cases required, and Mr. Barton says the doctor told them that what they had done to restore artificial breathing had doubtless saved the lives of the young men.

The rake that Benham was driving was practically wrecked. Under each wheel a hole had been torn in the earth, and there was a hole in the ground under the right front foot of the horse that was killed; also the horse’s hame was broken. This is the worst lightning strike this county has ever known.

When Alta made up her mind to take the children to Shoup to live year-round, I couldn’t fault her. There were more youngsters downriver, and the boys—Peter and Myron—could earn a bit packing freight on their donkeys. Alta could run the boarding house. When Edna came home, she lived in Northfork working for her Aunt Julia. Alta and Ethel came home to Shoup for the summer where they’d help their mother through her busy season.[23]

Bill was operating the Pine creek mill on ore for Peter Wasseesch. Julius Weiner sold most of his property and went to visit his homeland of Prussia with the promise that he would be back.

I had neighbors and plenty of visits from my grandkids. Alta, Ethel and Julia rode up to visit me in Ulysses and spent the night. A few days later, I had a quartet of visitors. They were a most imposing array as they arrived in Ulysses. The youngsters of this notable company were Myron and Peter Barton, Flora Twining and Theo Barton, each riding his or her own burro. Reviewing the day’s trip they were all quite sure they had traveled at the rate of a mile per hour, then followed a spirited discussion as to whose steed could make the fastest time. They spent the night and raced home the next day.

My granddaughters, Alta and Julia, managed to get permission to ride a motor car clear to the hot springs above Salmon—with the Hall brothers, Bill and Jack, no less.[24] Late August, Edna Barton signed a ten-month contract to serve as clerk for the high school in Butte.[25] She left on the stage with bells on.

Not long after Edna left for Butte, Peter Barton drove over, to pick up Alta and Ethel for their third year of high school.[26]

I claimed bragging rights when my pullets started laying at just four months and seven days on October 1st. And a few days later, Peter “Pety” and Myron rode their donkeys up to my place for the weekend. I was glad to see them, even if they spent as much time visiting Charles Cubit as they did me.[27]

Our granddaughter Julia spent Thanksgiving in Ulysses with us old folks on the mountain. Her sister Theo had taken sick in the middle of the month and was still unwell.[28] We were worried until she began to rally at the end of the month. When December came, she was still pale and weak but able to attend school again.[29]

These past few years, when I rode down to the river for a visit, I’d come thundering along the last stretch into Shoup—my horse kicking up choking dust, splattering mud, or crunching through crusted snow, depending on the season—and Alta’s little house appearing like a stage set just for me. The saloons were empty now and there were but a few idle men about. I had little reason to cross the pack bridge anymore; most of the friends I’d once visited on the south side were gone and the few who remained had drifted out of my days, like the river slipping past in the dark.

Alta and I would chase the children outdoors, pour the coffee, and trade gossip until the shadows got long. I liked to keep the conversation lively and nothing stirred it like the doings back east. The President had up and died on tour, leaving Mr. Coolidge to mind the store, his cabinet still mired in that Teapot Dome mess. Congress was busy shutting the gates on immigrants and finally seeing fit to call every Indian in the country a citizen. Bootleggers kept the Prohibition agents busy, while scientists were finding new worlds in the heavens and a miracle cure for sugar diabetes here on earth. Even a schoolteacher in Tennessee made headlines, hauled into court for saying man might have come from monkeys.

Out here, the river still ran the same, the pack bridge creaked in the wind and life went on at the pace of a horse’s walk. I never tired of that silver ribbon sliding west, bending out of sight, carrying stories and secrets to places I’d never see—but we kept a toe in the wide world’s currents. After all, news is only as good as the telling, and I never minded giving it a little polish.

NOTES

[1] Idaho Recorder, April 25, 1923

[2] Idaho Recorder, May 4, 1923

[3] Idaho Recorder, July 27, 1923

[4] A copy of the attorney’s letter to Alta Callahan Barton is in author's possession.

[5] Salmon Herald, September 3, 1924

[6] Idaho Recorder, September 5, 1923

[7] Salmon Herald, November 14, 1923. “W.E. Taylor, the best amalgamator that ever came into this country, is in Salmon today from his home down the river.”

[8] The photograph is unnamed. I may have Edna and Millie interchanged, but the rest are certain.

[9] This impression is supported by a letter from Edna (Graves) Chamberlin to her niece, Edna Barton, written after Annie’s death.

[10] William E. Taylor received the real estate in California after Annie’s death.

[11] The Strike at the Monolith is recounted in Chapter 16; printed in the Idaho Recorder, March 7, 1924.

[12] Idaho Recorder, April 4, 1924

[13] Salmon Herald, July 30, 1924

[14] Salmon Herald, November 5, 1924 & January 28, 1925

[15] Salmon Herald, November, 5, 1924; Idaho Recorder, November 7, 1924

[16] Idaho Recorder December 12, 1924; p. 2. Part of the right side of the newspaper wasn’t scanned completely.

[17] Salmon Herald, February, 25, 1925

[18] Salmon Herald, April 1. 1925

[19] Idaho Recorder, April 10, 1925

[20] Idaho Recorder, May 7, 1925

[21] Idaho Recorder, July 1, 1926

[22] Mr. Dudley is probably Max Dudley who would later marry Alta (Callahan) and Peter Barton’s daughter, Alta Lee Barton.

[23] Salmon Herald, July 22, 1925

[24] Salmon Herald, August 19, 1925

[25] Idaho Recorder, September 4, 1925

[26] Idaho Recorder, September 18, 1925

[27] Idaho Recorder, October 9, 1925

[28] Idaho Recorder, December 4th, 1925

[29] Idaho Recorder, December 11, 1925