Squak Valley: by Bessie Wilson Craine (page 6-7 from original book)

Bessie Moves to Washington When I was three years old Mother and Father decided to sell the old Wilson Ranch in Missouri and join the clan. Though I was only three I well remember this trip. We came on an emigrant train. Everyone carried his own bed roll and grub basket.

Women cooked the meals on a coal range in one end of the coach. At night the seats were put down, your bedding unrolled, and a curtain drawn around your section. To me it was like one big picnic. Such meals as Mother cooked! We had good old Missouri bacon, ham, eggs and jam. She even made biscuits and baked potatoes.

I don't know how long it took us to make the trip. It ended too soon as far as I was concerned. We finally reached our destination at O'Brien, in the White River Valley. We were headed for Uncle Mike's place. It meant a walk of a couple miles. I can still see Mother and Father loaded down with carpet bags and such. Mother's free hand was dragging me along. I was just about square in those days, and my legs were pretty short. Mother kept asking me if I wouldn't lift my feet and not kick up so much dust. When I think of what she had on my feet it is no wonder I got tired. They were very pretty little oxfords with heels a half inch high. Of all things to put on a three year old. In later years, I had them bronzed. They are sitting where I can see them at all times, and I can blame those shoes for the times I'm hobbling around now and my feet hurt.

We stayed at Uncle Mike's for a few days. Then they loaded us and our few belongings into a spring wagon, and we started the long hard trip to Squak Valley, a matter of about twenty-five miles, but it took us all day. After leaving Renton, the roads were rugged. They were put through by the early settlers, following the line of least resistance, with nothing to work with except their horses and hand tools.

In the low marshy places they had put in puncheon roads. I am surprised to find how few people of today know what a puncheon road is. They were made by felling small trees, cutting them in lengths the width of the road and placing them side by side. Sometimes they would take the time to cut boughs to put over them. At best it didn't make for good wheeling.

When it rained they would fairly float. It was worth one's life to get the horses across without their slipping through and breaking a leg. In places the mud was hub deep and to the horses' bellies. On the clay hills that were steep and slippery most wagons had a wheel block dragging behind. It was a heavy block of wood tied so it would drag behind a back wheel. They couldn't trust the brakes on these hills. Ira horse should fall and flounder, the wagon would settle back against the block until the horse could get on its feet. Otherwise there is no telling where the whole outfit might land--perhaps at the bottom of some cliff.

It was not all like this. Some places the road was beautiful, driving through a canopy of overhanging branches of the giant firs, spruce and cedars. All the little things of the forest were twittering and chattering. Sometimes a bear would cross your path and fairly stick his nose up at you. That was his domain. He had a right to come across the road if he wanted to.

We finally drove into the Valley. I am sure I can remember just how it looked. The mountains that enclosed it seemed to hold it so secure and safe, and the towering trees that were still standing, though the early settlers had cleared a few acres throughout the Valley. There was a thick undergrowth that still waited to be grubbed out. I think, from that day on, I loved the Valley.

We stopped at Aunt Bea's and Uncle George's. They had a girl, Ida, two boys, Wilson and Fred, older than I, and Eddie about my age. It was good to play a little after the long, hard trip from Missouri.

We went to see Grandmother and Grandfather, then across the Valley to the Casto, or lower Pickering place that was to be our home until we could get a place of our own.

Mother had brought a pair of mocking birds from Missouri, but they did not survive long in the damp climate. She was sorry to lose them. To her they were part of her old home.

So we were to live in the house where twenty-one years before the Casto massacre had taken place. Several families had lived there since that time, but there was still evidence of blood stains on the floors, the walls and doors. There was no paint at that time. It had been whitewashed so many times it would flake off. Then more whitewash would be put on.

 

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