Showing posts with label 1976. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1976. Show all posts

March 28 (1976, 1978, 1987, 1988, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2007)
Spherical Field of Threads Beneath the Sun... CLASHING!

“3/28/76 ~ late afternoon. such a fine warm day. the black oaks have their first leaves. each living thing on earth the tip of a thread, branched a billion times, a field of threads beneath the sun, tips poking skyward. The spherical earth: a spherical field of threads ever-branching and diversifying, the omnidirectional dendritic flow of generations, the evolution of classes, families, generic, species, races, individuals… all beneath the Sun, powered by its rays...”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/28/78 sunny today. dana plays the piano, pinnacles islands of light in the giant morning shadow of giant gap.… yesterday we hiked down to green valley, and wandered upriver to near the edge of the serpentine belt… hot, very bright. I dropped dana's camera case into the river. we stopped by the pyramid on the way back out, and ended up hiking most of the green valley trail in starlight. orion/sirius/taurus group hanging over giant gap. beautiful. then back here for tacos and hot chocolate.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/28/87 I often read books again and again. People sometimes think I have an excellent memory, like that of my friend Greg Troll; but it's just that, when interested in a subject, I go over the same ground many times, many many times… Just as at [place name] one finds arrowheads in the same spot year after year, so in a subject matter there is always something that was missed the first time around.

I'm out of firewood and the night is cool; so I'm burning papers and going out with the snow shovel for scoops of leaves. Yesterday, searching for the map of Lovers Leap I had drawn a while back—last summer—I decided to can a lot of the draft and layout papers from my “Polar Zonohedra”—so, I have had something to burn when I got up and started drinking coffee this morning.

It is a little strange to pound these keys after tapping those of the computer…

I am groggy and uninspired at the moment; today—how will the hike go?

An owl hoots in low tones, series of three—possibly a great horned owl. I went out and hooted back, and now it's obsessed, has come near the cabin and hoots and hoots and hoots…

Haven't heard the bizarre barking of the spotted owl for quite a while now.

~ Evening; that is night: I've just returned from a strange day; it began early, when I rose around 3:00 AM, and then developed in, well, some really weird ways. …

I waited until 12:30, and then headed out to Iron Point, where I was to meet The Group. They duly arrived. But I forgot to mention dear diary that as I drove out, I saw that [name] and some kind of heavy equipment were at work on Moody Ridge Road, and I guessed that it was a plot to try and ruin today's Lovers Leap hike.

So I awaited The Group with some trepidation—well-founded, as it turned out—about the course of events. After a walk around Casa Loma and looking at grinding rocks and arrowheads, we packed the group into the minimum number of cars—nine or ten—and headed towards Lovers Leap. At the beginning of Moody Ridge Road, [same name] and [another name] were waiting, beside a road grader, which, along with [so-and-so's] truck , almost blocked the road. [Second guy] walked up and gave me some [s____] about getting the people with me to pay for the road work. Then he started cursing me and I drove on. I was the lead car, and was driving alone. [Second guy] also cursed and threatened the other cars.

We arrived at Lover's Leap and walked down to the rock. After a bit, I led some of the group down to the first step (the First Step) and, while walking up to the parking area afterwards, was met by Eric, who insisted—to avoid an even worse scene—that I detour around to the Big Oak, since some [blank] from the Ridge had driven out there and was ranting and raving. ...

This was upsetting to the whole group, about fifty people, and yet after awhile things brightened up and we walked out west to the Other Rock.

Meanwhile, some of the group -- including Matt Bailey -- headed towards Iron Point, where we'd arranged to meet and have a potluck supper. They encountered a roadblock, the grader parked across the road, [second guy] and [first guy] and I don't know who else. They were laying in wait for me, planning on some scheme of intimidation. Matt got out and talked with them. Then, happening to be with a fellow who had a radio telephone, he called the Sheriff, who came and cleared the roadblock. However the group was not to escape without further incidents; [third name] was waiting for us, beer in hand, cursing; and [first guy] was driving the other direction on Moody Ridge Rd. and flipped off each car in succession.

But, the Iron Point part of it was fun and everyone seemed pleased with the hike itself -- very pleased. Me, I'm really upset. This intimidation is intimidating me. I'm scared to go out to Lovers Leap alone. Scared just to drive in and out on the road. It's really terrible. What can I do?"

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/28/88   Early on a crystal clear morning, deer gamboling in the meadow, jumping, bucking, dashing around tight and invisible corners. Yesterday Ed & Tina and I drove out to Iowa Hill and beyond, to Giant Gap Ridge, where we hiked down the main crest into the canyon for a ways, gaining wonderful views of the pinnacles, Lovers Leap, etc.

Evening. Today I journeyed to Auburn, visiting the Peachs ... returned to Dutch Flat, and, stopped for a second time at the post office; and while sending copies of Forest Service regulations to Gene Markley, preparatory to our upcoming meeting with Frank Waldo re public access to the high country, I checked my box, which had turned up empty earlier in the day, to see if by some miracle a letter should have spontaneously generated beyond its proper season; and one had. ...”

[Russell Towle's journal]

Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2001 13:50:44 -0800
To: North_Fork_Trails
From: Russell Towle
Subject: Letters to Senator Boxer needed


Hi all,

I finally got around to writing a regular letter (not an email) to Senator Boxer, asking for her help in getting LWCF funding for BLM to acquire lands in the Gold Run diggings area, including the private parcel traversed by the Canyon Creek Trail. The text is below. If you could please send her a letter supporting BLM land acquisitions in the Gold Run area, and asking her to sponsor a bill to get Land & Water Conservation Act funding for the Gold Run Addition Project, well, maybe we can make it actually happen!

March 28, 2001

Senator Barbara Boxer
U.S. Senate
112 Hart Building
Washington, D.C. 20510

re: LWCF funds for Gold Run Addition, Placer County

Dear Senator Boxer:

I live near Dutch Flat and Gold Run in Placer County, and am very interested in preserving wilderness, scenic, and recreational resources. I would like your help in obtaining Land & Water Conservation Act funds for land acquisition in this area.

There are four acquisition projects I have in mind; in all cases, the acquired lands would be managed by the BLM, and are already targeted for acquisition by the Folsom District of the BLM. The four projects are:

1. Gold Run Addition to the North Fork American Wild & Scenic River.
2. Giant Gap Trail.
3. Dutch Flat Chinatown.
4. Dutch Flat Petrified Forest.

In this letter I will address only the first project. It ought to be the subject of a special bill of its own, I suppose.

In 1978 Congress added the North Fork of the American River to the Federal Wild & Scenic River system. Ordinarily, only a narrow corridor flanking the river itself is considered to lie within the Wild & Scenic “zone,” but Congress provided for a special “Gold Run Addition” to this zone. The Addition extends more than a mile north of the river, and includes private lands in and about the historic Gold Run hydraulic mine “diggings.” Congress specifically exempted the Gold Run Addition from any spending limitations on land acquisition; the historic, scenic, and recreational values of the area were recognized to be of unique importance.

However, no land has been acquired within the Gold Run Addition since 1978, because the owners were not willing sellers. The owners have recently offered their 800 acres for sale, and a precious opportunity exists to follow through on the intent of Congress. At the very least, we should try to acquire about 357 acres. The sellers—a group called “Gold Run Properties”—are asking $3,000 per acre.

There are substantial BLM holdings in the area, in fact, most of the private parcels share boundaries with BLM parcels. Two historic trails descend to the North Fork American from the Addition : the Canyon Creek Trail, and the Pickering Bar Trail. The Canyon Creek Trail is almost entirely within a long narrow private parcel (part of the 800 acres), and is quite remarkable for its beauty.

To ensure continued public access to these historic trails, and to protect the best part of the historic hydraulic mine diggings, and consolidate BLM holdings within the Gold Run Addition as proposed by Congress in the 1978 legislation, I want BLM to acquire, from Gold Run Properties, all those lands in Sections 9, 10, and 15, in Township 15 N, Range 10 E; together with an easement, providing vehicular access from (near) the Gold Run Exit, on Interstate Highway 80.

These lands comprise about 357 acres. At the asking price of $3,000 per acre, this would amount to about $1,071,000.

I have enclosed some additional materials bearing upon this project, and will seek letters of support from others. With many thanks for your work on behalf of California’s wildlands, I am,

Sincerely,


Russell Towle


Cheers,

Russell Towle
3/28/2001

Caterpillar of the "Policecar Moth" (Gnophaela vermiculata which feeds
on Hound's Toungue leaves (Cynoglossum grande), seen in the photo below.


Date: Thu, 28 Mar 2002 10:40:59 -0800
To: North_Fork_Trails
From: Russell Towle
Subject: News--sort of


Hi all,

There's a little bit happening around the North Fork with respect to trails.

The last, really funky road access into the Gold Run Diggings is blocked now, so the Canyon Creek Trail must be accessed from the Bluffs off Garrett Road, by way of the Paleobotanist Trail.

The "No Trespassing" sign near the end of Garrett Road is now gone. Thanks to Folsom BLM staff for their successful efforts!

I hear that Folsom BLM is talking with the owner of a large acreage (1400 acres) near the Fords Bar Trail about a possible trade. It would be really great to get the historic trail from Gold Run to Iowa Hill open to hikers and equestrians.

There is no news about possible BLM efforts to acquire any part of the 806 acres currently for sale in the Gold Run Diggings. Thus the future of the incredible Canyon Creek Trail is still in doubt.

I am interested in hiking the Canyon Creek Trail soon, possibly this coming Saturday. If anyone is interested in seeing this remarkable trail please let me know.

Cheers,

Russell Towle

TESTIMONY SUBMITTED TO THE
HOUSE INTERIOR APPROPRIATIONS SUBCOMMITTEE
March 28, 2003

Submitted by: John K. Moore
for the Mother Lode Chapter, Sierra Club

The request:
$2.0 million in Forest Service Land and Water Conservation Fund appropriations
to purchase Sierra Nevada inholdings,
as proposed in the President’s budget.

The Mother Lode Chapter of the Sierra Club urges the Subcommittee to recommend this appropriation.

North Fork American Wild River

The appropriation would purchase 1400 acres of private lands along the North Fork American Wild River in Tahoe National Forest, California, for about $1 million. The Forest Service has already acquired 8200 acres along and near the Wild River, and the proposed purchase would finally complete the acquisitions of presently available private lands in and near the Wild River Zone.

The North Fork American River flows down the western slope of the Sierra Nevada in a beautiful wild rugged canyon more than half a mile deep. Most of the canyon is steep-walled and narrow.

Both the federal government and the State of California designated a 38-mile stretch of the North Fork American as a Wild River in the 1970’s. The designations recognized the river’s outstanding wildness and beauty and its exceptionally pure waters.

The river supports an excellent self-sustaining trout fishery managed as a Wild Trout Stream by the State of California. The canyon is home to numerous large mammals, including black bear and mountain lion, and provides habitat for 150 species of birds, including peregrine falcons, golden eagles, and goshawks. The canyon’s varied ecosystems and vegetation, including a large acreage of old-growth forest, are almost unspoiled. Ten challenging trails descend steeply into the canyon, providing access for rugged hikers, backpackers, and fishermen seeking solitude and strenuous adventure.

Though the canyon is remote and rugged, development which would degrade the beauty and naturalness of these private lands could still occur. A previous owner filed helicopter logging plans on several of the parcels. Cabin sites could be developed on some of the parcels, degrading their naturalness and limiting public recreational access.

Middle Fork American River

The remaining funds would begin purchase of private lands in the canyon of the Middle Fork American River, the adjacent major drainage to the south.

The available lands include almost all the private land in a 25-mile stretch of the Middle Fork canyon. This stretch of the Middle Fork is the boundary between Tahoe and Eldorado National Forests.

The canyon of the Middle Fork is even more narrow, steep, rugged, and remote than the canyon of the North Fork, and also possesses all the same outstanding features. The clean waters of the river support a high-quality trout fishery sustained by natural reproduction. Large mammals, including black bear and mountain lion, are found in the canyon. This remote unspoiled canyon provides habitat for the same species of birds, including several sensitive species – spotted owls, peregrine falcons, golden eagles, and goshawks. Fishermen and naturalists who make the strenuous descent into the canyon are rewarded by pristine conditions and solitude.

The Middle Fork is a major source of high-quality water for Placer County and fast-growing downstream areas. Placer County has developed the Middle Fork for water supply and hydroelectric power; this development directly affects only a small proportion of the 25 miles of canyon. Unified management of the Middle Fork Canyon by the Forest Service would better protect water quality and better guarantee preservation of its outstanding natural attributes. Possible future mining and logging on private land could significantly degrade the canyon’s naturalness and the purity of the Middle Fork’s waters.

This appropriation for purchasing lands in the North Fork American and the Middle Fork American is supported by the Placer County Board of Supervisors, the Board of Directors of the Placer County Water Agency, and civic and environmental organizations in Placer County.

A Virtual Landscape
[North Fork Trails blogpost, March 28, 2007:
http://northforktrails.blogspot.com/2007/10/virtual-landscape.html ]
I have posted, on YouTube, a 30-second animation depicting the terrain around the North Fork of the American River. The "virtual landscape" is seen as if from perhaps thirty miles above, looking straight down, and oriented like most maps, with north up, east right, west left, south down. See

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtPHJD1bVrw

The area encompassed by the animation extends from Colfax on the west (lower left) nearly to Donner Pass on the east (upper right); one can see, from north to south (top to bottom), portions of the canyons of the South Yuba, Steephollow, Bear River, Blue Canyon, North Fork of the North Fork American, North Fork American, Indian Canyon, Shirttail Canyon, North Fork of the Middle Fork American, Middle Fork American (with French Meadows Reservoir seen on center right), and at the lower right, a bit of the Rubicon and Hell Hole Reservoir.

The animation involves use of a sun position algorithm to move a virtual sun across the sky, along the exact path it would follow on the Vernal (and therefore, also, Autumnal) Equinox.

On the equinoxes, the sun rises due east and sets due west. As it passes through the southern sky, midway between dawn and sunset, it rises high enough to fairly well fill the various canyons with light; but in the early morning and late afternoon, deep shadows haunt the canyons, and the relief of the landscape is seen to its best advantage. Relief-enhancing low-angle illumination is usually preferred by those geologists who use aerial photos to trace the courses of fault zones, or to study geomorphology. I use this same trick on my "virtual" landscapes.

Here, about five minutes separates one frame of the animation from the next. I begin before dawn and finish after sunset. In the YouTube movie, the animation runs twice, and the second time through, little flashing lights were attached to Lovers Leap, on the west at Giant Gap, and Snow Mountain, on the east at the Royal Gorge. The two points are about twenty air miles apart.


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March 27 (1976, 1987, 2001, 2002)
Windy Point

“3/27/76 partly cloudy. lots of bright new color as the oaks come into bloom on the sunny ridges…

kit-kit-dizze and prunus subcordata have both begun to bloom. many buttercups have been in bloom for the past week. out of curiosity i've looked at last year's journal to see if i noted the blooming times of these plants then. i've found several references to bloom time, and it appears that this year the various flowers, shrubs, trees of this area are a full month ahead of last year. that is remarkable.”

[Russell Towle's journal]
 
Kit-kit-dizze
(Chamaebatia foliolosa)
“May 27, 1987    Evening; I've been busy busy lately… Getting some materials together for tomorrow's Lovers Leap hike. Made 100 copies of a map I drew, a single-page lovers leap vignette I wrote, and of the two published accounts of Giant Gap I've garnered over the years. Took the stuff down to Peaches, where we collated and stapled it. Now, back home again, after stopping on the freeway to help a couple of fellows with a flat and no jack handle: they gave me $10, so I am rich…”

[Russell Towle's journal]

Early Spring Blooms on the Windy Point Trail
March 27, 2001


 






A Windy, Warm Day on the Windy Point Trail
March 27, 2002

Find a map for the Windy Point Trail (south side of the river, accessed from the Colfax-Iowa Hill Rd.) at Ron Gould's North Fork Trails website:
http://northforktrails.com/northforktrails/windy_point.htm


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March 17 (1976, 1983, 1999, 2001, 2011)
Janet's Pool

“3/17/76    a moist air mass moved in and now, in the early-morning, the early light is scattered into a white haze to the east. there are also a few clouds. … woke this morning before dawn and watched the sunrise over and through the clouds along the sierra crest. today logan knox will bring his sawmill over to sungold and cut up a few small pine logs and a couple of middling cedar logs into lumber, lumber that i will use in building my cabin. the trees came from my dad's land; i cut them down in the process of clearing for his road over there. the cedar was a fairly large (> 3ft. diameter at base) one that had broken off about forty feet up, so rather than let it rot i cut it down for the lumber. we will cut it into one-by-twelves, i think.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/17/83   Snowing. 'Tis only an inch deep, so I've plenty of time to make a run for it in the Toyota. […]

To Sacramento today, in search of solar energy? Or, the cabin, Shakespeare, Pericles of Tyre, Plutarch, naps, and cozy snow–gazing, a shower, soon. Oak for the stove: I cut firewood yesterday morning. The branches that broke last April are now dry and oh-so, all-too-burnable. Hot fire, short fire.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“March 17, 1999

… Today after [Janet and Greg] got home from school we went out to the New Pool below the Middle Spring and messed around with mud and rocks and the making of small dams. I set up a half-log of maple naturally hollowed into a kind of gutter so that water flows through the channel and drops four feet into “Janet’s Pool” (first pool below New Pool).”

[Russell Towle's journal]
 
March 17, 2001
Amazing, Tree-Climbing Wonder Dog of Moody Ridge!
Trainer: Janet Towle


"Janet's Pool", Ginseng Ravine, Moody Ridge, March 17, 2011. 

The sun came out, first time in days, highlighting the mossy rocks around the pool—
a lovely St. Patrick's Day scene.

Photo by Gay Wiseman

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March 16 (1976, 1981, 2006)
Midnight Flyers. The Neeshenam

“3/16/76 ~ thank god for the sense of smell ~ my eyes and ears tell me that it is spring, but when i smell the air outside, i know it. yellow star tulips and buttercups are blooming in the yard. mourning dove repeats its sweet call.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/16/81  the last few minutes before dawn… A night of heavy rain, and the clouds swept on by; now a river of fog flows down canyon; it is smooth in Green Valley, turbulent in Giant Gap, mimicking the tiny N. Fk. far below.

Bald Eagle, circling about near Casa Loma, near here.

A yellow violet in bloom, a biscuit root, a multitude of houndstongue flowers.

It is my mother's birthday, and yesterday 'twas Neil's.

Ah, to ski, to explore, to make love, to make music.

~ It is the instant of sunrise, a clear sky above, a river of fog below. The fog seems excited, agitated, by the rising of the sun; it yearns and reaches for that warm embrace. Tongues lap the canyon walls, fog rubs up against, arches back, the river purrs. Exotic lands come into view, illuminated manuscripts of rock and oak and douglas fir.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

Birds, Storms, and the “Neeshenam”
[North Fork Trails blogpost, March 16, 2006:
http://northforktrails.blogspot.com/2006/03/birds-storms-and-neeshenam.html ]
First I wish to thank those who've sent contributions to the North Fork Trails email list. It is gratifying to find that you value my efforts.

Birds and Storms II: thunderstorms and other storms of snow have continued here at 4000', and now there is two to three or four feet of the nastiest snow-sludge imaginable. But a few days back, during a day of thunderstorms, once again I heard the lanky Sandhill Cranes, once again they circled between clouds, hundreds of them, yelping loudly, and I actually saw flocks of them fly directly into clouds, and disappear. But that's not all; at midnight, during another break in the constant snowfall, I heard the cranes again, a smallish flock of a dozen birds by the sound of it. What were they up to, dodging thunderstorms of snow in the Sierra, at midnight? Unbelievable!

And now sleet rattles my windows.

I have a bit of California history for you: Stephen Powers' 1874 Overland Monthly article, "The Neeshenams," number ten of his series on the California Indians. It was these articles which inspired John Wesley Powell (of Grand Canyon fame) to put Powers to work writing a more formal treatment, "Tribes of California" (Washington, Government Printing Office,1877).

Today we call this branch of the Maidu people the Nisenan. Everything below must be taken with a grain of salt; we might imagine Powers to have spent little enough time with the Nisenan, and he himself remarks that they were, above all other Calfornia Indians, the most severely impacted by the Gold Rush. By 1874 their culture was in tatters; they had already been forced out of Placer and Nevada counties, on a trail of tears to what was hoped to be a better life on reservations in the Coast Range; but Indian Agents waxed rich and fat, and the Maidu starved, and then they straggled back home, worse off than ever.

These were the people who once lived at Casa Loma, above Green Valley, spearing salmon down on the North Fork, gathering acorns and manzanita berries in the uplands, and wandering into the high country in the summers. The portrait Powers offers is not pretty, although he must be counted as especially sympathetic to them. Another sympathetic voice was that of Alonzo Delano; his account of the Valley Maidu in 1849–50, in "Across the Plains and Among the Diggings," is quite touching. Many other Gold Rush diarists recorded experiences with the Maidu and Nisenan, and Fairchild's "Reminiscences of Illinoistown" (Thompson & West's "History of Placer County," Auburn, 1881) is terrible in informing us that the men of the "Placer Blades," a quasi-military organization, scalped the Indians, and hung their scalps from oaks along the Old Emigrant Road, running up the divide from Auburn to Illinoistown, in that same winter of 1849–50; for the Nisenan had stolen stock from the miners.

*******
The Neeshenams.

Perhaps this nation ought to be included with the Meidoos, of the Yuba and Feather rivers. Such is the classification of some of the pioneers, but they have seldom traveled through the length and the breadth of the territory, and carefully noted the languages. I prefer to group all the tribes between Bear River and the Cosumnes as a separate nation, with the above name, for several reasons:

1st. As you travel south from Chico, the Indians call themselves meidoo until you reach Bear River; but below that it is neeshenam, or sometimes mana, or maidec, all of which denote "men" or "Indians."

2d. The Meidoo and Neeshenams numerals are a good deal alike, but there is a more abrupt change at Bear River than anywhere else, and south of that stream they remain nearly uniform to the Cosumnes.

3d. South of Bear River the tribes are designated almost entirely by the points of the compass, while north of it they have fixed, specific names.

4th. The customs of the Neeshenams are different in important respects from those of the Meidoos, and especially in that very few of the former observe the great Annual Dance for the Dead.

As to language, the Meidoo shades away so gradually into the Neeshenam that it is extremely difficult to draw a line anywhere. But it must be drawn somewhere, because a vocabulary taken down on Feather River will lose three-fourths of its words before it reaches the Cosumnes. Even a vocabulary taken on Bear River will lose half or more of its words in going to the Cosumnes, which denotes, as is the fact, that the Neeshenam language varies greatly within itself. Indeed, it is probably less homogeneous and more thronged with dialects than any other tongue in California. Let an Indian go even from Georgetown to American Flat, or from Bear River to Auburn, and, with the exception of the numerals, he will not at first understand above one word in four or five, or six. But, with this small stock in common, and with the same laws of grammar to guide them, they pick up each other's dialects with amazing rapidity. It is these wide variations which have caused some pioneers to believe that there is one tongue spoken on the plains around Sacramento, and another in the mountains; whereas they are as nearly identical as the mountain dialects are.

So long as the numerals remain the same, I count it as one language; and so long as this is the case, the Indians generally learn each other's dialects; but when the numerals change utterly, they often find it easier to speak English together than to acquire another tongue. As to the southern boundary of the Neeshenam there is no doubt, for at the Cosumnes the language changes abruptly and totally

Like all others, the Neeshenams name every camp, springs, river, etc., but they very seldom use the name of a camp or village, as other nations do, to denote the inhabitants of it. Whatever Indians live next east of them they call easterners, and if there is a camp a little farther east, they vary the form. Thus they use, Notos, Noton'ns, and Noto'ngcows, which may be rendered "easters," "easterns," and "easterners." So contracted are their journeyings and their knowledge, that they do not need a complicated system of names. If there are any people living twenty miles away, they are not aware of their existence. In consequence of this, it was almost impossible for me to learn any fixed names of tribes. There are the Poosoonas, at the mouth of American River, north side; the Quotoas, at Placerville; the Colomas, at Colma; and the Wapumnies, near Latrobe. Indeed, I wonder if there is any considerable number of tribal names, for they are such a nomadic nation (within small limits) that they exist in a continual chaos. They move their camps so often that they have not even names for them, properly speaking—that is, no name separate and apart from that of the spring, boulder, tree, creek, or what not, where they happen at any particular time to be camping. Hence, in designating one another, they always use the points of the compass—tosheem, como, noto, tei (north, south, east, west)—in various forms; and those living near Bear River always add cow (place), as T'wsingcow, Como'ngcow, Noto'ngcow, Teingcow.

There are also some curious peculiarities in regard to personal names. One can very seldom learn an Indian's, and never a squaw's, Indian name, though they will tell you their American titles readily enough. It is a greater breach of decorum to ask a squaw her name than it is among us to ask a lady her age. I have often made the attempt, and never yet have learned a squaw's name from her own lips. A husband never calls his wife by name on any account, and it is said that divorces have been produced by no other provocation than that! It is amusing to note the resemblances between feminine human nature in the aboriginal and civilized state. No squaw will reveal her own name, but she will tell all her neighbors' that she can think of! For the reason above given, many people believe that half the squaws have no names at all. So far is this from the truth, that everyone possesses at least one, and sometimes two or three. Hella Neo‡chechit was mentioned as an instance of two; and H‡ywalla Claygle Numnum, of three. As usual in California, a great majority of the names have no significance, being merely such collocations of sounds as are euphonious to their ears. If one has any meaning, it is generally the name of some animal, as Wowkle—a woman's name—which denotes "fox."

Following is a formidable list of villages which once lined the banks of Bear River, from the Sacramento up to the foothills—a list which shows that the population must have been dense: H‡meting-W—leyuh, L‡ylekeean, Talac, Intanto, Mool‡mchapa (long pond by the trees), Lidlepa, S—lackeyu, K‡luplo, P‡canche, Shokum’mleppe (wild-potato patch), Bo—shamool (this was near the California and Oregon Railroad crossing), Sho—tamool, Chœemduh, O'pelto (the forks), Pœlacatoo, K‡paka, Yoko‡limduh, and To‡nimbuttuc (little pine). The Sacramento River they call Nepem Sayoo (great river); Bear River, Nem Sayoo (little river); the plains, Tœkudy; the timber land, Ch‡pady; the foot-hills, Yamun; the Sierra Nevada, Nepem Yamun (great hills).

Both in their social customs and in their political organization, the Neeshenams must be ranked on a low grade—probably the lowest in the State. They had the misfortune to occupy the heart of the Sierra mining region, in consequence of which they have been miserably corrupted and destroyed. Indians in the mining districts, for reasons not necessary to specify, are always worse debauched than those in the agricultural regions. And the fact that most observers and writers have seen the Indians of the diggings more than any others, has contributed to bring the whole California race into unmerited opprobrium.

Yet the following facts bear witness to their low aboriginal estate: Robert Gordon, a responsible citizen of Auburn, states that, in 1849, he was surface-mining from Auburn as far up as the North Fork of Feather River; and that a great proportion of the men and women who entered his camp were costumed strictly after the fashion-plates of Eden. This was in a region pretty well up on the mountains, where the aborigines had not yet come in contact with either Spaniards or Americans. Both sexes and all ages moved about his camp, absolutely in puris naturalibus, with that perfect freedom and innocence which betoken unconsciousness of any impropriety. But these na•ve, unswathed mountaineers, according to the same excellent authority, were often of a magnificent physique—tall, sinewy fellows, who would have made the scale-beam kick at 180.

Most tribes in the State lay considerable emphasis on the formal establishment of marital relations, in their way—that is, by purchase—whether those relations are faithfully observed afterward or not. But the Neeshenams may be said to set up and dissolve the conjugal state almost as easily as do the brute beasts. No stipulated payment whatever is made for the wife. A man seeking to become a son-in-law is bound to cater (yaylin) or make presents to the family—which is to say, he will come along some day with a deer on his shoulder, perhaps, fling it off on the ground before the wigwam, and go his way without a single word having been spoken. Some days later, whenever it pleases him, he will come and claim his bride, and lead her away with equal unceremoniousness. An incident which occurred will show the despotic and brutal manner in which these matters are managed. A man living on Wolf Creek, a tributary of Bear River, had performed the simple acts which entitled him to his wife, and the day had arrived when he determined to bring her home. But she loathed him, and when she saw him coming she fled from her father's wigwam, and sought refuge, trembling and weeping, with a motherly old widow who sympathized with her. The widow concealed her as well as she could, then hastened out to confront the pursuers. When they came up she told them the girl had passed that way and escaped from the village. They hurried on in pursuit, but returned after a long search, baffled and angry, and asked the widow's little girl if she knew where the fugitive was. The child innocently told them she was hidden in her mother's wigwam. As soon as they had dragged her forth, they drew their bows and arrows and shot the widow to death in the middle of the village. They were not molested, for the general feeling of the Indians was that the bridegroom owned the girl, and that the widow, in concealing her, was guilty of kidnapping, for which the penalty is death.

The Neeshenams are the most nomadic of all California tribes. They shift their lodges perpetually, if it is only a rod, probably to give the vermin the slip; and always after a death has occurred in one they abandon it. Nomadic habits among savages of a low grade are little better than death to the old and infirm, for they can not readily follow, and the few poor conveniences and comforts which they collect around themselves when stationary have often to be abandoned. In fact, it would be hard for a tribe to devise a better way of ridding themselves of those whom they account burdensome. The spectacle which is sometimes presented among the mining towns, of poor, old, purblind, tattered wretches, perhaps laden with all they can carry, feebly tottering after the stronger ones, is a melancholy and pitiable one, indeed. But let it be remembered that this tribe is exceptionally restless, and that the California Indians generally are remarkable for their home-loving and home-keeping, even if not for their filial piety.

As for their political organization, like the snakes of Ireland, it can be described in three words-there is none. True, they have their hereditary captains, or head-men, in the villages, but their authority is the most shadowy thing in the world.

For murder, there is no punishment but individual revenge. That must be had within twelve moons after the murder, for there is a kind of statute of limitations which steps in then and forbids any further seeking of blood. They consider that the keenest and most bitter revenge which a man can take is, not to slay the murderer himself, but his dearest friend. This, however, is probably only the sentiment of casual Indians, though it would comport well with the subtle, Asiatic character of the race.

For kidnapping, as above mentioned, the punishment was death. It is related that a chief, named Bac‡llimpun, living near Bear River, in 1851, kidnapped a number of women from his own tribe and sold them to the Spaniards for infamous uses. On detecting him in his villainies, the Indians put him to death, and then hacked him into a thousand little pieces. They would throw an eye to one of his fellow-villagers, a finger-joint to another, a toe-joint to another, etc. It should, however, be borne in mind that the California Indians did not torture persons while alive.

For adultery with a foreigner the penalty was also death; and there are few other tribes in the State of whom this can be affirmed. In 1850, a squaw was sacrificed by her people on Dry Creek, near Georgetown, for this offense, committed with an American, though there was really no criminality on her part. The profanation of the loathed foreigner was upon her, and all her tears and cries were of no avail.

They did not mark their boundaries by artificial signs, though they had them defined with the greatest strictness by springs (pokkan), hills (yamun), valleys (hœnumchuka), etc. They did not ordinarily destroy a member of another tribe caught trespassing on their territory, but if he caught fish or game, or gathered acorns on it, they demanded reparations in kind. They were frequently at war with the Piutes, whom they called Mo‡nousies, and whom they greatly dreaded. The Piutes were always the aggressors, and came over armed with savage wooden knives, with which they slaughtered the feeble Californians (they seldom cared to take prisoners), and scalped the dead by cutting off a small round patch of hair on top of the head.

In war, upon coming into close quarters, the Neeshenams sought to stab the enemy under the arm, aiming at the heart. They took no scalps. When going into battle, they frequently waxed and twisted out the fore-hair on their heads into two devilish-looking horns, topped their heads with feathers, and painted their breasts black. I once heard an aged Indian describe with wonderful vividness a fight which his nation had by appointment with the Meidoos, many a long year ago, when they were yet so numerous that their hosts darkened all the plains beside the beautiful Yuba. They fought a great part of a summer day, and, according to his account, there was a mighty deal of thwacking, prodding, and hustling, though it was not a very bloody affair at all. He killed a Meidoo, then presently he turned his back and ran away himself, and got a spear jabbed into his heel. He described both circumstances with the same simple honesty and remarkable vivacity, which showed he was telling the truth, and which contrasted so strongly with the boastful arrogance of the Algonquin, that never acknowledges defeat. Their male captives they tied to trees and shot to death without lingering torture, and the women they sometimes whipped and sometimes married.

There is a curious way of collecting debts practiced by them. When an Indian owes another, it is held to be in bad taste, if not positively insulting, for the creditor to dun the debtor, as the brutal Saxon does; so he devises a more delicate method. He prepares a certain number of little sticks, according to the amount of the debt, and paints a ring around the end of each. These he carries and tosses into the debtor's wigwam without a word, and goes his way; whereupon the other generally takes the hint, pays the debt, and destroys the sticks. It is a reproach to any Indian to have these dunning-sticks thrown into his wigwam, and the creditor does not resort to it, except in case of a hard customer.

That their treatment of superannuated parents is not remarkable for tenderness may be gathered from the following fact: in 1858, there was an immense concourse of Indians at a place called Spenceville, some coming even from the Coast Range—the purpose of all being, as was then supposed, a concerted attack on the Americans. Preparatory to this gathering and what should follow it, numbers of them put to death the aged and infirm of their camps, who would have been an encumbrance, though it was said it was done at the instance of many of the victims themselves.

Being so nomadic in their habits, they have brought the savage field-commissary to perfection. They discovered the substantial principle of the famous Prussian pea-sausage long before the Pickelhauben did. When about to go on a journey, the squaws pack in their deep, conical baskets a quantity of acorn panada, made by processes heretofore described, which is food as condensed a form as they could make it without scientific appliances. They generally start from camp rather late in the morning (the California Indians are poor travelers), and rest once or twice during the forenoon, always by a spring. Taking out this panada, they dilute it with large additions of water, making a cool, thick, rich porridge, which they drink from small baskets. In this manner a squaw will carry enough to last two persons a fortnight, and that while they are dancing—the hardest work an Indian does—nor will her burden exceed thirty pounds. About eleven o'clock, they call a halt for noon; then they do not break camp again until two, three, or even four o'clock, but march until nightfall, when started, or even long after.

As it was from the Neeshenams that Captain John A. Sutter procured most of his laborers, I wish here to make mention of a matter which falls properly within the scope of this narrative. It is related by several men who came here in 1849 and subsequently (there is to this day frequently a slight pique between the ante-forty-niners and the forty-niners, the land pioneers and the gold pioneers), that the captain was accustomed, in clover time, to compel his slaves (as they call them) to go out into the clover-field for their rations. In view of the amount of labor they performed for him, this charge, if true, would be a grave one. But it is a fact abundantly substantiated that Indians who have been reared all their lives in American families, will, if permitted, in the season when the savor of the blossoms is wafted sweet as honey on the breeze, go afield for dinner, in preference to the most lickerish viands ever cooked.

I have been told by the Americans that they themselves had often eaten California clover, boiled and salted, and accounted it altogether a desirable mess of the season. Without doubt, then, this story is a true one; that is, Captain Sutter's Indians preferred to eat clover for a change and a relish, and he simply—let them do it. That he was a kind master to them, let the following document attest. It was shown to me by the owner of it, who had wrapped it in many folds of paper and inserted it inside the lining of his hat, where he had carried it nearly ten years as a sacred treasure. He was said to have been one of the captain's majordomos, and to have had charge at one time of nearly 200 Indians:
"The bearer of this, Tucollie, Chief of the Wapumney tribe, has presented himself before me, with the request to give him a certificate of his good behavior, and it is with pleasure that I comply with his wishes, as I know him over (22) twenty-two years as a good and honest Indian, therefore I can recommend him to the benevolence and kindness of my fellow-citizens, and particularly to those residing in his native country.

Very respectfully,

J.A. Sutter
Special Indian Agent
Hock Farm, August 11th, 1862."
Unlike several tribes in the northwest of the State, these are not misers, but quite the contrary, as are all the southern California Indians. They never hoard up shell-money, beads, trinkets, or anything of merely factitious value, unless it is for the purpose of burning them in honor of some great chieftain on his funeral pyre. In a bountiful acorn-harvest they gather and store up in wicker granaries (sukin) sufficient to last them two or three years; but they use the surplus above the winter's supply to gamble on, and often gamble away even the provisions which are immediately necessary. No Indian is despised so much as one who is close-fisted; nothing is more certain than that, if an Indian comes along hungry, they will divide with him to the uttermost crumb.

The Indians immediately south of Bear River observe the following fixed dances. The most important is the First Grass Dance (Cammin, the generic word for "dance," hence the dance of the year), which is held in autumn or winter, after the rains have fully set in and started the grass. None but a resident of California can appreciate the joyfulness of the feeling which gives rise to this festival, when, after the long, weary summer of drought, the first cool rain commences trickling down on the parched plains and the naked foot-hills, and they clothe themselves again with a soft, pale green. Assembled in the sweat-house together, both men and women, they dance with such extraordinary enthusiasm and persistence that they sometimes fall exhausted, and lie in a trance for hours.

The next is the Second Grass Dance (Y—mussy), which is celebrated in the spring, then the grass takes its second growth, after the dry season is well established, but before the clover has faded from its blossoming glory. Hence this is held in the open air—a fte champetre. Otherwise it is like the first; the dancers being in two concentric circles, the men in one, the women in the other—the former gaudily decorated with feathers, the latter more modestly with beads, etc. It continues three or four days, accompanied with plenty of good eating.

Then there is a dance held regularly in spring, called, Wayda, which is observed to prevent the snakes from biting them during the ensuing summer. Though held for so momentous a purpose, it seems to be quite a sportive affair. A bevy of young maidens dance around two young men in succession, singing a very gay and lively chorus, and ever and anon they make a dash at him, catching him by the shoulders, laughing, stretching out their arms toward him, tantalizing him, etc. The point appears to be, that these girls constitute the two young men mock-priests, to be their champions against the snakes. After the dancing, a couple of old fellows go around among the women with baskets, soliciting presents of bread, fish, and other eatables, wherewith to pay the singers; and when the women are about to contribute, they are frequently seized themselves by the old fellows and dragged along sportively, to the vast amusement of the bystanders. But with all this fun-making and horse-play, they entertain a very genuine terror of rattlesnakes. When an Indian is bitten by one or lacerated by a bear, they exclude him rigorously from camp for certain days, believing that the snake or the bear, having tasted his blood, will follow him to camp and play havoc.

There is not among the Neeshenams any secret society, or any organization other than the family; but there is something analogous to our modern spiritualism, table-rappings, etc. Indeed, spiritualism among the Indians long antedates the wonderful Fox sisters, and whatever we may offer them in this department of science at least, they can show us "a trick or two of that." And, more than that, they make practical use of the spirits to most excellent purpose. When an Indian gets troublesome to manage, the chiefs invite him to the sweat-house some evening, a dance is held, then all the fires are extinguished, and the congregation sit profoundly still in the darkness. Presently, the gates of hell yawn open, and there issues forth a grim spectre, who rustles his pinions and feathers, raps and ramps over the floor, and then addresses the company in the best English, "Good evening, gentlemen." He speaks as many words in that language as he can command well, adds a little Spanish perhaps, then makes a lengthy discourse in Indian, and it always happens to fit excellently well upon the back of the unruly member. Most Indians are profoundly convinced of the genuineness of these apparitions, and that these grim familiars have the gift of tongues, also power to hang them by the neck in the apex of the lodge, or disembowel them instantly, if they do not make presents to the chiefs and look well to their p's and q's. All Americans are rigorously excluded from these proceedings, but a man named Willliam Griffin, understanding the language well, overheard from the outside what was said and done.

There is a social gathering which may be called a soup-party, which answers to our dinner-party. The inhabitants of two or more villages meet at a designated place in the open country, bringing acorn-flour (And nowadays frequently wheat-flour), a little salt, and baskets to cook and eat the soup in—nothing else. Nothing is en regle except the soup, an article something thicker than gruel and thinner than mush. After they have eaten a great quantity of this, the younger people amuse themselves in dancing, while the elders exchange the gossip and scandal of which the Indians are so excessively fond.

Among most California Indians it is usual for a man requiring the services of a medicine-man to pay him in advance; but these hold to the principle, "No cure, no fee." The benefit which the man of drugs render his patient generally consists in sucking from him certain sticks and stones, which he alleges were lodged just under the skin, to his great detriment. When it is manifest to all beholders that the sufferer has been marked by Death for his own, and that he can not long survive, his friends and relatives collect around him in a circle, and stand awaiting the final event in awe-stricken silence. As his breath grows stertorous, showing that he is passing through the last grim struggle, one of them approaches reverently and kneels by his side. Holding his hands over the region of the heart, he counts its feeble pulsations, as they grow slower and weaker. When it ceases to beat, and all is ended, he turns to the waiting relatives and silently nods. Whereupon they commence the death dance, with frightful wails and ululations. Every family have their own burning-ground, and as soon as the corpse is cold, it is conveyed thither for incremation. Around Auburn, a devoted widow never speaks, on any occasion or upon any pretext, for several months, sometimes a year or more, after the death of her husband. Of this singular fact I had ocular demonstration. Elsewhere, as on the American River, she speaks only in a whisper for several months. As you go down toward the Consumnes, this custom disappears, and only the tarred head is observed. It is only fair to remark that the widow is generally more faithful to the memory of her husband than the widower to his wife's, and seldom disgraces human nature by remarrying in a week or two, as he not infrequently does.

Apropos, the following story. An Indian woman, living on Wolf Creek, lost her husband and went to live with her mother, who was also a widow. One day, before the customary period of mourning had expired, during which a widow is forbidden to do any work or attend a dance, her mother requested her to go down into the ravine and gather some clover. She went, accompanied by a young girl, one of her unmarried companions. Going afield with her basket, she was observed by an Indian named Roeno, her husband's brother, who watched where she went and for what purpose. He reported to his father, and by him was charged to follow and strike her dead. He did so, following her several hours, but he had no heart for the butcherly business, and he finally returned home without accomplishing his errand. His father upbraided him bitterly as a coward and an ingrate, for not avenging the insult to his brother's memory. Stung to madness by the paternal reproaches, in a moment of furious passion he rushed away, fell upon the offending widow, and smote her unto death.

When a mother dies, leaving a very young infant, custom allows the relatives to destroy it. This is generally done by the grandmother, aunt, or other near relative, who holds the poor innocent in her arms, and while it is seeking the maternal fountain, presses it to her breast until it is smothered. We must not judge them too harshly for this. They knew nothing of bottle-nurture, patent nipples, or any kind of milk whatsoever other than the human.

A touching story is related of old Captain Tom, of Auburn. His son Dick was an incorrigible rascal, and it finally fell out that he was arrested for something or other, tried, proved guilty, and sentenced to San Quentin for ten years. This was a terrible blow to Captain Tom, for he loved his boy, with all his wickedness. When Dick was manacled and taken away out of his sight, the old man turned his head away and wept. Dick became to him as one who is dead. Nevermore (for ten years to an Indian seems like an eternity), nevermore should his old eyes behold him. The White man had bound his wrists and ankles with iron, carried him away to the uttermost ends of the earth, and buried him alive. He turned sadly away, and went back to his wigwam. Mingling their tears together, he and his family mourned for Dick as for one dead. Then they arose, gathered together all the things that had ever belonged to him, carried them out to the family burning-ground, erected a pyre, and placed them on it. Years ago, a brother to Dick had died while they were living in another place, and his ashes rested where they were burned. They were now brought and sprinkled over the pyre (for such a grievous calamity had never befallen the Indians before, that they should be compelled to burn one's possessions without his body to accompany it). They were sadly troubled to think how they should send Dick's clothing to him in the Happy Western Land—or wherever else he was gone—and they thought, they hoped, if his brother's ashes were sprinkled on the pyre, perhaps his spirit might convey them. With these feelings in their breasts, but with many tears and sad misgivings, they applied the torch, and prayed their son, whose ashes they had sprinkled on them, to waft the clothes and money quickly to poor Dick, in that unknown and undiscovered country to which the White man had conveyed him.


ORIGIN OF INCREMATION

The moon and the coyote wrought together in creating all things that exist. The moon was good, but the coyote was bad. In making men and women, the moon wished to so fashion their souls that, when they died, they should return to the earth after two or three days, as he himself does when he dies. But the coyote was evil disposed, and he said that this should not be, but that, when men died, their friends should burn their bodies, and once a year make a great mourning for them. And the coyote prevailed. So, presently when a deer dies, they burned his body, as the coyote had decreed, and after a year they made a great mourning for him. But the moon created the rattlesnake, and caused it to bite the coyote's son, that he died. Now, though the coyote had been willing to burn the deer's relations, he refused to burn his own son. Then the moon said unto him: "This is your own rule. You would have it so, and now your son shall be burned like the others." So he was burned, and after a year the coyote mourned for him. Thus the law was established over the coyote also, and, as he had dominion over men, it prevailed over men likewise.

This story is utterly worthless for itself, but it has its value, in that it shows there was a time when the California Indians did not burn their dead, as is also established by other traditions. It hints at the additional fact, that the Neeshenams to this day pay homage to the moon, consider it their benefactor in a hundred ways, and observe its changes for a hundred purposes.


THE BEAR AND THE DEER

At first, all the animals lived on earth, but afterward the clover grew, and then they ate that also. There were no men yet, or rather, all men were yet in the forms of animals. One day the bear and the deer went out together to pick clover. The bear pretended to see a louse on the deer's neck, and the deer bent down her head to let the bear catch it, but the bear cut her head off, scratched out her eyes, and threw them into her basket among the clover. When she went home and emptied her basket, the deer's children saw the eyes, and knew they were their mother's. So they studied a plan of revenge.

On another day, when the bear was pounding earth in a mortar for food, as acorns are now pounded, the deer's two children enticed the bear's children away to play, and persuaded them to enter a cave beneath the great rock Oamlam (high rock) on Wolf Creek. Then they fastened them in with a stone, and made a fire which roasted them to death. When the bear came and found them, she thought they were asleep and sweating, but it was the oil on their hair, and when she pawed them the hair came off. Whereupon, she fell into a great passion, tore them to pieces and devoured them.

Then she pursued the deer's two children to destroy them. She called out to them that she was their aunt and would do them good; but they fled and escaped up the great rock Oamlam, and it grew upward with them until the top of it was very high. The bear went round behind the rock and found a narrow rift where she could crawl up; but the deer's children saw her coming, and they had a stone red-hot, which they cast down her throat and slew her. Then they took this same stone and threw it to the north, and manzanita berries fell down; to the east, and pine-nuts fell down; to the south, and one kind of acorn fell down; to the west, and another kind of acorns fell down. Thus they now had plenty of food of different kinds, and they ate earth no more.

After this, while they were yet on the rock, the deer's children thought to climb into heaven, it had grown so high. The big one made a ladder that reached the sky, and, with a bow and arrow, he shot a hole up through, so that the little one could climb up into heaven. But the little one was afraid, and cried. So the big one made tobacco and a pipe, and gave them to the little one to smoke as he went up the ladder, whereby the smoke concealed the world from him, and his heart was no longer afraid. And this is how smoking originated. So the little one climbed up through the hole into heaven, and went out of sight; but presently he returned down the ladder, and told is brother it was a good country above the sky, with plenty of sweet browse, and grass, and buds of trees, and pools of water, and flowers for them to sleep on. Upon that they both climbed the ladder and went above the sky.

Presently they saw their mother by a pool of water, cooking, and they knew it was she, because she had no eyes. Now, the big brother was a deer, but the little one was a sap-sucker. So these two made a wheel to ride on, that they might pursue their mother, for they were not well-pleased to see her without eyes. But they were punished for this act of wickedness, for the wheel went contrary with them, turned aside, and plunged into a pool of water, so that they were drowned.

This story contains a considerable part of the Neeshenam cosmogony. In common with most California tribes, these Indians regard all animals, including men, as having a common origin and being intimately related. Thus, the bear calls herself aunt to the deer's children, and one of the latter is a bird. In some vague, misty way, the coyote was the first of all; but whether as creator, or simply as a kind of protoplasm, the Indians are not clear. But it is certain that the Neeshenams anticipated Darwin by some centuries in the development theory, only substituting the coyote for the monkey. The fable generally runs that man was originally in the form of a coyote, but the Neeshenam version varies a little. As we have seen above, the moon and the coyote created all things, and man was primarily a simple, straight, hairless, limbless mass of flesh, like an enormous earthworm. By and by, the moon split him at one end, so that he acquired a pair of legs. Then the same beneficent luminary split off a pair of arms from his body, split his toes and fingers, etc.

There is another tradition to the same effect substantially, and that is, that the time once was when men were on the same level with the beasts of the forest, and habitually devoured their own dead, as the coyote is said to do.


H'LPMECONE AND OLEGANEE

In the earliest days of the world, while there were yet few inhabitants upon it, there lived a man and his wife, named H’lpmecone and Oleganee. They loved each other with a love passing the love of brothers, and they were greatly happy in their lives. But at length it befell that the wife, Oleganee, fell sick, and, though her husband did all that love and tenderness could do, he saw her eyes slowly fade away before his eyes, and die. He dug a grave close beside his camp-fire (for the Neeshenams did not bury their dead then), that he might daily and hourly weep above her silent dust. His grief knew no bounds. His life was now become a burden unto him; all the light was gone out of his eyes, and all this world was black and dreary. He wished to die, that he might follow his beloved and lamented Oleganee. In the bitterness of his grief, he fell into a trance, and the spirit of the dead Oleganee arose out of her grave, and came and stood beside her husband. When he awoke out of the trance and beheld the spirit of his wife, he cried aloud in the greatness of his grief, and would have embraced her. She beckoned to him in silence to follow her. Together they set out to seek the spirit land (o—shwooshe koom, literally, "the dance-house of ghosts"). They journeyed on through a great country and a darksome—a land that no man has seen and returned to report—until they came to a river that separated them from the spirit land. Over this river there was a bridge of but one small rope, so very small that a spider could hardly cross it. Here the spirit of Oleganee must bid farewell to her husband, and go over alone to the spirit land. When he saw her leaving him, in an agony of grief he stretched out his arms toward her and implored her to return.

If an Indian sees a ghost and it speaks to him, in that instant he dies. Hence, the spirit of the woman answered him not, lest he should die, but turned about and came back, and together they returned to this world. Upon reaching it, Oleganee turned again to go back to the spirit land, but again H’lpmecone cried out, and vainly stretched out his arms to stay her return. Then, at last, she spoke: "You have been to me a husband true and kind. You have gone with me to the border of the spirit land, whither you could not enter; and I have seen and know for myself all your love and your sorrow. I now speak to you these words, that you may die, as you have desired, for no Indian can hear a ghost and live." Then he died in that self-same instant, and together they took their last departure for the land of the spirits.
Thus ends Stephen Power's The Neeshenam.


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March 15 (1976, 1978, 1986, 1987, 2003, 2004)
Green Valley: Mystery Dog, Suspension Bridge, East Tunnel

“3/15/76 […] spring has sprung. i saw a pair of wrens this morning. the vespulid wasps have suddenly appeared, and the red ants are very active. buckbrush is beginning to bloom, as are the black oaks. this spring has the feeling to me of being considerably earlier than last year's, and forebodes a hot dry summer. snowpack is only 25% of normal in much of the sierra. i wonder how the summer will be for thunderstorms in the high country.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“3/15/78   morning, clear and bright. yesterday i was made so curious by the persistent barking and howling of that dog that i hiked down the green valley trail in order to hear it better, with various images cropping up in my mind concerning the why and wherefore of such prolonged complaining: 1) the dog's master had been injured or killed and the dog was keeping watch over his body and howling in sorrow; 2) two coyotes got stuck after [mating] and the male was in intense pain; 3) a dog's master had crossed the river and the dog was afraid to follow; 4) a camper or fisherman had tied up his dog at camp and left him alone for some reason, and the dog was sad.

when i was about halfway down to the river, the dog was still barking and howling. i could tell for sure that it was down in green valley, and probably at the upstream end. as i neared the forest edge the sounds became intermittent. i saw a pileated woodpecker. by the time i reached the meadow-of the—silver-spoon i couldn't hear it at all. the river was loud. i hiked downstream a ways without hearing it, and then cut away from the river to the knoll near dragon mine. i could hear the dog again once in a while, but couldn't locate the sound.

i headed for the meadow below pyramid knoll, another likely camping area. following an old ditch overgrown with manzanita, i was startled and scared by the report of a large-caliber rifle that sounded as though it had been fired within a hundred yards of me. i paused and listened. the dog howled again, a little weakly, i thought. was someone torturing the dog by shooting it in non—vital places? was that shot meant to scare me away? i couldn't see or hear any human signs at all. i had been crashing through manzanita and making lots of noise. whoever had fired the rifle must have heard and/or see me. i dropped down into pyramid meadow and picked up the trail to the river. no footprints since the rain. heavy brush gave me cover, and whenever my cover thinned i slowed down and looked carefully around. i was mystified. i was moving very quietly and fully expected that i would find the person who had fired the shot. but i found no one.

i continued down to the river and heard someone on the other side firing a .22 caliber, but couldn't see anyone. i sat and waited. the dog was silent. the river was loud. the sun was warm. i was about to give up trying to find the dog when a rock wren appeared and hopped from boulder to boulder upstream. that was the direction the dog had to be. so i followed. i stayed close by the river and returned nearly to east meadow (silver spoon meadow); no sounds or sights of anything human or canine. so i gave up.

the dog, the heavy rifle, and the light rifle, could all have been on the other side of the river. in fact, they must have been, because i covered this side pretty thoroughly. i hiked up to the top of the pyramid knoll and enjoyed the view for a while, then returned here by way of the creek cut into the contact between the serpentine and the metamorphic rocks. actually, it is not cut precisely into the contact but is in the serpentine nearby. on the way up i found several springs and seeps that seemed to be associated with fracture zones in the metamorphic rock. two eagles flew close overhead, making melodious screeches as they passed.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“March 15, 1986    “SNOW… They've been saying for days that it would snow to low elevations this weekend, and they were right, by god.… No chance of going anywhere in the Toyota; the chains don't fit. Soon there will be enough snow to ski, however.

It's a showery storm. Occasionally I can see well down into the canyon.

… Alex and I didn't get rich mining; we got wet and cold and exhausted and hungry. But the word is out that a new gold rush is on, people are finding lots of gold already (after the Big Storm of February 1986) and lining up for hours to buy gold dredges, etc.; people are picking nuggets out of the roots of overturned trees, etc. etc.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

“March 15, 1987   morning, beautiful morning; a few inches of dry snow fell overnight, all the way down to the river, and as the sun rises through the fog, the canyon glows with colors, light oranges and blues, extremely pretty.”

[Russell Towle's journal]

March 15, 2003


Garbage Hike an Unmitigated Success!
[North Fork Trails blogpost, March 15, 2004:
http://northforktrails.blogspot.com/2004/03/garbage-hike-unmitigated-success.html ]
Catherine & Julie & Mike & I started down the Green Valley Trail around 9:30 a.m., in full sun, with some of dawn's coolness remaining. The amazing warm weather has spurred manzanita and bay laurel alike into full bloom, and sweet smells wafted around us on the long descent. Many tiny white and pink bell-like flowers of manzanita lay scattered on the trail; Catherine called it a "hail of flowers."


The High West Trail: crossing the dry creek, over a little pass, and down through an open forest of Ponderosa Pine and Canyon Live Oak, to an anonymous spot marked by many fallen pine trunks—there we stopped while I scouted for the trail to High Pyramid Camp and our garbage.

Having found the faint trail and made a dash to the garbage itself, I lopped my way back to the others and we ambled over to our work. The site had seemingly been a marijuana grower's camp, back in the 1980s.

A multitude of plastic sheets and tarps had slowly disintegrated in the sun, and scraps and pieces of plastic were spread maddeningly wide, while coffee cups had been left high in the branches of manzanita bushes, and odds and ends were all around in the heavy brush. The sun beat down and we worked up a bit of a sweat filling six garbage bags.

Then we lopped our way south to The Pyramid, a brushy knoll with tremendous views of Giant Gap, Lovers Leap, the Pinnacles, and even the river itself. The Pyramid knoll is about 470 feet higher than the river and is set well back, at least a quarter-mile, away to the north. Legend has it that this serpentine knoll, so carefully placed to receive the last light of day streaming through Giant Gap at the winter solstice, is an Ancient Alien Pyramid, and we joked about being beamed up, or down, or possibly sideways through Time Itself.

Suspension bridge built by Joe Steiner, Green Valley.
Photo courtesy of Bernie and Harriette Denton.
 We hauled the garbage back to the High West Trail and proceeded towards the river, pausing at the spring and wooden trough, where water had ceased flowing through the old iron pipe, and I mucked around trying to open it up again for a few minutes. Then we made good time on the last section of trail, passed the old bridge site (I have photographs of that precarious suspension bridge, taken around 1935-40), and reached the sandy beach at High West Trail's end. A large pool extends down the river here, with Lovers Leap rising quite impressively, 2300' above us, to the west.

Joe Steiner on his suspension bridge, sometime during the 1940s.
Photo courtesy of Bernie and Harriette Denton.

After a lunch break, and Mike's daring sort-of swim in the icy river, running high and fast from snow-melt, we boulder-hopped down the river to the faint trail which climbs to the line of the HOUT. The High Old Upriver Trail ("upriver" with respect to Canyon Creek) represents the line of survey and preliminary blasting work for a canal, proposed to carry water from the North Fork American to San Francisco, in the late 1890s. Here the HOUT is around 150 feet, to 200 feet, above the river.

Looking straight up Lovers Leap's
east side ravine.
Down here, where the weak and sheared serpentine gives way to the massive metavolcanics of the Calaveras Complex, the HOUT suddenly becomes very well-defined, cut directly into the sides of sheer cliffs, often overhung with Canyon Live Oaks, so that mounds of dead dry leaves cover the cliff-trail over some of its scariest parts. A bit nerve-wracking! We did not shy from the danger but slipped along past Lovers Leap's East Ravine, which heads up right at the overlook itself, and soon reached the dark maw of East Tunnel.

It is a shame East Tunnel was never driven all the way through its rock spur, it could only have fallen a few yards short, and would connect through to a nifty ledge, running along almost perfectly level, as the HOUT so often does. But the tunnel ends in a blank wall lost in the deep darkness, and one must drop well down below to find a way to climb back up and regain the HOUT.

On the steep slopes near the HOUT one finds a sudden almost abundance of the California Nutmeg, or Stinking Yew, Torreya californica. This tree looks a bit like a Douglas Fir but has larger needles, quite stiff and sharp, which, if bruised, give a rather pungent smell. I suspect the determining factor in its presence here, as at Pickering Bar, in the first 200 feet above the river, is the cold air which sinks into the canyon and intensifies, at night, through all the year except during strong storms. For then the air is mixed too well by the storm winds to stratify into a temperature inversion, in which cold air sinks beneath warm air.

One often sees a river of fog flowing down the North Fork, at dawn, after a storm has passed. This fog marks the river of cold air which likewise flows down the canyon. And the Torreyas seem to prefer just that zone of canyon wall which is always within the fog river, and always within the cold air.

These Torreyas usually do not get very big; a Torreya even two feet in trunk diameter is a rarety in the Sierra, tho a little commoner in the outer Coast Ranges.

The sun was lowering as we started back to the end of the High West Trail, almost a mile east. It's mostly a long river-side boulder-hop, sometimes complicated by native grape vines trailing over the boulders, or by vicious masses of long-fingered poison oak grasping at any and all bare skin. Julie forged ahead and, I suppose, ran right up the trail with a giant garbage bag on her back, reaching the top at 4:30. Catherine stepped out 'right smartly', but Mike and I held a slower pace; we were all finally up top at the stroke of seven, in near complete darkness. It's nice to take it slow coming up and out of Green Valley. There are wonderful views all along the trail, and many boulders to rest on.

Such was another great day in the great canyon.


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