Squak Valley: by Bessie Wilson Craine (page 14-16 from original book)

Bull comes in for a drink The following day the bull got out of his pen and meandered to the house. He had his eye on a rain barrel. (We had them at the corners of the house to catch the nice soft rain water.) No doubt he was thirsty. He stuck his head in a half filled rain barrel and let out a bellow that sent Mother straight to the ceiling. I just stood there with my eyes popping out. He wasn't a friendly bull, and there was nothing Mother could do about it until a neighbor came that evening to help with the milking. The balance of that day we were marooned in the house.

Mourning with the hired man

By the time my Father reached home the following day, Mother's nerves were well on edge. She was all for going back to Missouri unless he would get a hired man. She wasn't going to be left there alone; so we had a hired man. He must have liked children. He spent a lot of time amusing me, if one could call it amusement. There is always something dying around a farm--like a chicken, a pig or a little lamb. He appointed me chief mourner and would call me out to cry while he buried it. Tears seemed to come easy, and he would say, "Cry harder, Bess. You can do better than that." About that time Mother would come out and put a stop to it, and the funeral would be over until the next time.

On Father's latest trip to Seattle he had brought me a nice little red wagon. This was wonderful--up to date, my playthings had been homemade. Now I could really help by hauling things from the dairy to the house; or from the house to the barn. And I could haul the deceased to the graveyard and have a real funeral procession. Oh yes we had a little cemetery. The hired man put up the markers and I put flowers on the graves.

Dreaming

I must have been pretty much of a dreamer even in those days. Mother must have been hard put at times to answer the questions I would ask. She said that I would stand at the window, especially on a foggy morning, and watch the fog well up like a curtain until it reached the top of the beautiful big trees. Then the trees would drip from the moisture, and I would ask her if they were crying because some day they would all have to be cut down to make more meadow, to raise more hay, to feed more cows. As long as I lived in the Valley, I think I never ceased my dreaming. To me it was my "Enchanted Valley," a place apart from all the rest of the world.

Vacation in North Bend

Now that we had a hired man, Father and Mother decided that they needed a vacation. They had some friends at North Bend, a distance of eighteen or twenty miles. Mother had brought her carpet seated saddle and her riding habit from Missouri. This saddle was put on one of the work horses and Father's stock saddle on the other. I was put in a shawl and tied on behind Mother, and so we started out. I thought Mother looked 'beautiful in her riding habit, the long skirt sweeping almost to the ground, and the little cocky, stiff hat with a veil to hold it on.

I'm sure it took us all day to make the trip, and my legs got so tired sticking straight out. The road was nothing more than a single wagon trail winding through the wilderness and up the hill. The road from North Bend, over the Snoqualmie Pass, was very rugged. The appropriation was so small at the time, I think the road was maintained mostly by those who ventured to travel over it. It was cut through endless miles of virgin timber and over rugged mountains. If the travelers came to fallen trees across their path, it was up to them to cut them out, go around them, or build an approach to go over them. Eastern Washington cattlemen had to drive their cattle over this road to the Seattle market.

Gypsies

Every year a caravan of gypsies came through with their poor skinny horses, half starved dogs, and dirty youngsters. They were usually bedecked in their bright, gay garb. By the time they reached the Valley, after the long trek over the mountains, you could fairly count the horses' ribs. Father would let them turn the horses into a pasture, and the gypsies set up camp by the river. Then came the time of dickering and trading. The gypsy women would tell fortunes for a dozen eggs. I don't know why the dozen eggs. They stole a lot more than that during their stay with us. Anyway it seemed to be a diversion for the older folks and I enjoyed playing with the children even if they were bedraggled and dirty. Guess it didn't make any difference to me--gypsies, Indians, or white--children were children. About a week of this and they would be on their way to Seattle. We would not see them again for another year.

Cattle Drives

It was quite a sight when ranchers drove great herds of longhorn steers through. The horns measured five and six feet from tip to tip. I can see Mother yet. When she would hear them bawling along the road, she would rush out of the house looking wild-eyed to see if she could spot me anywhere. I'm sure she thought that someday I would get hung up on one of their horns and that would be the last she would ever see of me.

Snoqualmie Falls

I am way ahead of my story, but I thought this would be a good time to tell about the first road that went over the Snoqualmie Pass. The folks had stopped at Snoqualmie Falls to rest on our trip to North Bend. Father built a campfire and we had our lunch there. The falls were breathtaking, immense and majestic--a fall of 270 feet, the water rushing and tumbling down as if it were in a hurry to get to the sea. It is a shame that anything Nature made so beautiful should ever be harnessed for power, which happened years later when Seattle outgrew the gas lights and the old oil lamps. The great trees above the falls were cut down and power houses took their place. At times when the river is low, it takes all of the water for power, leaving nothing except a great wall of bare naked rocks. At these times it looks like something dead and gone. I had the misfortune to see it like that once and never want to see it again.

Indian legend of the falls

People used to marvel at the mist that rose from the tumbling water and enveloped the canyon. There is an old Indian legend which goes back before the white man invaded the Northwest. Our tribes from the Coast and the tribes of eastern Washington were warring. A foxy old chief from the Coast figured out a way to out fox his enemies. He took the warriors up the Snoqualmie River in their canoes. When the enemies gave chase, he led them down the river toward the falls. His canoes were run into a large eddy at the head of the falls. Too late the enemy realized they had been trapped; but there was no stopping. They were all carried over the falls. Among them was a young brave who was in love with a maiden from the Coast tribe. When she heard that her lover had gone over the falls, she plunged from the cliffs above to her death below. The mist was her spirit calling for that of her lover.

This is not for me to verify or disprove. We little know what took place many, many years before the white man invaded the wild, untamed Northwest.

 

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