Showing posts with label The Applegate Trail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Applegate Trail. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Old Postcard Wednesday--Dollarhide Trestle, Shasta Route, S.P.R.R., Calif.



My grandfather sent this card to my grandmother, probably during a train trip involving one of his insurance sales deals. I was curious about the name given the trestle: Dollarhide, and found the fascinating story behind it in the Dollarhide Family Web Site describing Jesse Dollarhide and Descendants through Five Generations. I extracted the following portions from the in depth discussion (the final paragraph pertains specifically to the Dollarhide Trestle):
Jesse Dollarhide, Jr., son of Jesse Dollarhide, Sr., and of Nancy Jane Pierson, born 22 Aug 1816 in Harrison Township, Wayne County, Indiana. He died 20 Aug 1888 in Ashland, Jackson County, Oregon; and was buried in Hargadine Cemetery in Ashland, Oregon. . .

. . . By 1850, the sons of Jesse Dollarhide, Sr. (John, Jesse, Jr., William, and Joel Dollarhide), were all married with children, and all had adjoining farms in Jasper County, Indiana near the town of Morocco. Jesse owned a farm and also bought and sold stock for the Chicago market. Although the land was rich and fertile and crops were plentiful, a nearby swamp was the source of mosquitos carrying the infectious typhoid virus. For a period of about seven years, the four Dollarhide families living near Morocco faced this dread disease every year, and several of their children died as a result. Jesse's brother, Rev. John Dollarhide and wife Lucy lost five children to typhoid fever, and Jesse and Nancy lost one child. The mosquitos were not understood to be the source of the typhoid problem until the early 1900's, and the Morocco swamp that was the source of so many deaths was finally drained in 1921. . .

. . . In the Spring of 1861, Jesse Dollarhide took his extended family via wagon train across the great plains, joining his brother's family, who had settled near Dixon, Solano County, California. . . .

. . . In 1869, the Jesse Dollarhide family moved to Jackson County, Oregon. He and his older sons entered homesteads within a few miles of the town of Jacksonville. Jesse and his sons also purchased extensive acreage in timber lands. By 1885, the family built and operated a sawmill, south of Ashland, Oregon. With no other access to their timber interests in the Siskiyou Mountains, the Dollarhides paid tolls to the Applegate family to use their road, part of the historic Applegate Trail, which had been the scene of many wagon trains into Southern Oregon during the pioneer days.

Jesse and his sons purchased the right of way for a section of the Applegate Trail running from the foot of the mountains south of Ashland, Oregon across the Siskiyou Mountains summit and down to the village of Hornbrook, California. Although they had originally purchased the road for their own use, the roadway was to become a vital link and a primary wagon road between California and Oregon. As a family-operated toll road, it became a steady source of income to the Dollarhide family and they profited from it for some 30 years. The road was part of the same route which became the Pacific Highway, then U.S. Highway 99, and currently, Interstate 5. . .

. . . The Dollarhide Toll Road was the main route to travel overland from California to Oregon for many years. In the 1870's and 80's, one could take a railroad from Sacramento as far north as Redding, California. On the Oregon side, the railroad south out of Portland ended in Roseburg, Oregon. Between those two points, virtually all travelers between Oregon and California had to pass over the Siskiyou Mountains by way of the Dollarhide Toll Road. The Dollarhide family collected tolls for every wagon, plus so much "per head" for each person, horse, cattle, or sheep. . .

. . .In the words of Rosalie (Shetler) Dollarhide, wife of Oley B. Dollarhide (grandson of Jesse & Nancy Dollarhide), . . .

. . . "In 1885, the Dollarhides sold their farms near Jacksonville, and John Wesley and his brother Henry Clay, erected a sawmill south of Ashland in the Siskiyou Mountains. Jesse Dollarhide and his son, Henry Clay, purchased the toll road over the Siskiyou Mountains from Oregon into California from the Applegate family.

"The first sawmill was on Slate Creek, south of Ashland, Oregon. It was later moved to a new location higher in the Siskiyous. The timbers, ties, and the lumber used by the Southern Pacific Railway (formerly Oregon & California Railway) in erecting and constructing a long, high trestle across a canyon in the Siskiyous were cut in the Dollarhide sawmill and the trestle was named the "Dollarhide Trestle" by the railroad company and bore that name until it was filled in with rock and earth years later. It should be mentioned that oxen were used to haul logs from the forests to the sawmill site." . . .

When I read about the connection of the Dollarhide Toll Road and the Applegate Trail, I remembered an earlier post in which I shared a beautifully poignant photo taken by a friend that shows a portion of the original Applegate Trail in a Willamette Valley forest. The post is I knew they lived and moved, the title taken from the text of a poem by Matthew Arnold, titled The Buried Life, included in the post. I enjoyed seeing the photo and reading the poem again, especially in reference to this old postcard and its history; perhaps you might also.

He has crept into my memory yet again, that stepfather of mine, after having done so just last week when I mentioned him in the OPW post about Loch Katrine. This week's memory is especially sweet and so aurally pure for me that I smile at the thought of those nights in my childhood when my stepfather would put his harmonica to his mouth and play a low first strain. His blue eyes would twinkle and his eyebrows would raise expressively as he created the sounds of the whistle announcing departure from the train station. We moved closer to get on board for another train journey into the worlds of our imaginations. His harmonica playing was magic-making.

These are too.












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Thursday, April 30, 2009

I knew they lived and moved . . .



This gorgeous photo taken by a friend of mine shows a portion of the original Applegate Trail that settlers used as the southern route of The Oregon Trail starting in 1846.





The Buried Life


Light flows our war of mocking words and yet
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll,
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest.
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves - and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we my love! - doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices? - must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be -
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity -
That it might keep him from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us - to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves -
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well - but 'tis not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.

Only - but this is rare -
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd -
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose
And the sea where it goes.

-Matthew Arnold, 1870

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