A JAUNT TO HONEY LAKE VALLEY AND NOBLE'S PASS.

[From Hutching's California Magazine, June, 1857]

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Late in the month of November, I854, a party of three only one of whom was a horseman—left the fertile and well settled American Valley, Plumas county, on a jaunt towards the then comparatively unknown country, lying on both sides of the Sierra Nevada range, in the vicinity of Noble's Pass : and as neither of the party was rich—except in prospect—(a very doubtful one at that) we adopted the primitive and independent method of "footing it," (with the exception mentioned) taking a horse with us to save the necessity of becoming our own pack animals.

After we had fairly left the settlements, however, one of our party made a double discovery—one part of which was, that he, unfortunately, was " born tired," or, in other words, believed himself in every way capable of enduring a great amount of ease;—the other part being, that a few blankets, cooking utensils and something to cook, were but a very poor load for a horse—scarcely enough for ballast—and that by sitting upon the aforesaid blankets, and utensils, and articles to be cooked, so great an oversight might be entirely remedied; and as we thought the proposition was somewhat original, and in favor perhaps of the man, if not of the horse, the experiment was assented to, with what success these pages may occasionally relate.

Now we think that all will admit, that often in the dim and shadowy depths of an unknown country, or future, the adventurous spirit feels a peculiar charm; and in which there is a wondering yearning after its mysteries; with a speculative wish to fathom its untold secrets, and know of its unrevealed peculiarities, which nerves him against fatigue, exposure, and even danger; in which comfort and safety are for the time forgotten or overlooked.

It was with a feeling akin to this, that a party of three persons left the pleasant associations of American valley, and, after passing Judkins' Saw Mill, commenced ascending a good mountain trail, running in an east-of-north course, towards Indian Valley. Upon the top of the ridge, about two miles west of the trail, is a very beautiful, clear, and rock-bound lake, from whence a fine view can be obtained of the valley below.

The first point reached in Indian valley, was the ranch of Mr. Job Taylor, (the first settler in the valley,) about eleven miles from the American ranch, American valley. Here we not only saw some very fine wheat —grown on Mr. T.'s ranch—but partook of some good bread made from the same stock of wheat; and the finest flavored butter, without exception, that we have yet tasted in California.

This valley is beautifully picturesque and fertile, and about twenty-three miles in length—including the arms—by six in its greatest width; being about fifteen miles southwest of the great Sierra Nevada chain; and, (like most of these valleys,) runs nearly east and west. Surrounded, as it is, by high, bold, and pine covered mountains of irregular granite, over thirteen hundred feet in height from the valley; and which on the south side are nearly perpendicular. This valley is well sheltered, and is said to be several hundred feet less in altitude than the American, although many miles nearer the main chain.

Leaving these good things, we crossed to the north side of the valley, which at this point is about one and a half miles wide; then, turning northward, kept up it, by the banks of a beautiful stream, to the residence and ranch of Judge Ward, distant from Taylors, about seven miles.

Here we were kindly welcomed and hospitably entertained by Mr. Ward and his amiable and pleasant family—a treat we did not dream could be in store for us, so far away, and almost on the very tops of the Sierras. As long as memory remains we shall treasure up the many kindnesses shown us during that visit.

At their fireside too, we met an intelligent Russian, named Isadore, who had been the frequent companion of Peter Lassen—now a resident in this valley—in his many rambles among the mountains, and to whom we were indebted for much interesting information concerning the country we were now about to visit.

Our good friends, believing it to be very desirable that we should here obtain a guide, in company with Isadore, we made our way to a group of Indians, which had formed at the corner of the corral, and who, evidently awaited with some anxiety, the cutting up of a beef, which had been killed that morning.

"Doctor," said Isadore, in the Indian dialect, as he put his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of an old weather-beaten Indian, "these men want you to guide them to Honey Lake Valley, by the Big Meadows; do you understand?"

The old Indian looked at as, and then at the beef, and shrugging up his shoulders, drawled out, "See—me sabe'

"Well, what say you, Doctor, will you go with them, to show them the way?" He still kept his eyes upon the inside portions of the beef, which were now being taken out, without giving an answer.

"What say you Doctor, I ask—will you go? These men will give you plenty of meat; plenty for your wife and children, and plenty for you to eat all the way to Honey Lake Valley, and back again; now, what say you Doctor?"

At the mention of so many good things the old man turned gradually round, and looking thoughtfully about him, by way of reply said "Pikas no good Indian—Pikas no good," and then renewed his longing look at those portions of the beef so soon to be thrown away.

It appears that in the fall of 1851, the Pitt River Indians--called by these Indians "Pikas,"—made up a war party against the Indian Valley Indians, for the purpose of obtaining their squaws—the possession of the women being the only motive for the war—and the latter being by far the weaker party, lost a large number of their men in killed, and their women as prisoners.

When the news of this slaughter reached the whites who had made settlements in this valley; and who felt that these Indians were somewhat under their protection, they made up a party, thirteen in number, for the purpose of assisting the Indian Valley Indians in chastising the Pitt River Indians. This party, under the old pioneer Peter Lassen, left Indian valley, accompanied by all the able bodied Indians that could be found.

After being out a couple of days, according to his usual custom, " Old Peter," (as Mr. Lassen is familiarly called) awoke at daybreak, and was sitting quietly upon the ground smoking his pipe, when he saw Indians, with stealthy steps passing among the trees, and entirely away from his own party; quietly taking up his faithful rifle, he, with unerring aim, shot one of the Indians in the head, muttering as he again reloaded his "old shooting iron : " There's one wiped out." He again fired; "down he comes," said he, as he again quickly began reloading. "That fetches him," as a third fell, never to rise again. This was but the work of a minute," said Isadore, as he related the narrative, "Old Peter shot down three of the Indians, without taking his pipe from his mouth."

By this time the whole camp was in motion; and, with this beginning, they eagerly followed up the advantage gained; and when " Old Peter " gave the characteristic order—"Pitch in Blueskins "—to the Indians, they, in company with their thirteen white friends, made sad havoc that day among their enemies, the Pikas, completely routing and conquering them.

This was the last time the Pitt Rivers ever troubled the Indian Valley Indians; although the latter are ever in perpetual dread of the former.

This explains somewhat the cause of the old man's remark—" Pikas no good Indian —Pikas no good."

Promises of protection being given by Isadore, on our behalf, the "Doctor" reluctantly consented to guide us, on the two-fold consideration of allowing another Indian to accompany him, and both being well fed and protected on the journey. This being satisfactorily arranged, and a liberal quantity of beef having been carried by the Indian to his family, after much delay, we left the kindly hospitalities of our pleasant host, on our somewhat perilous jaunt.

Making our way up the valley, in the direction of Lassen's Big Meadows, (which lie about fifteen miles, a little north of west, from Judge Ward's) the Indians guided us by remaining about one hundred yards behind, for about three miles; when on turning round we saw them rapidly disappearing among the trees. The louder we called for them to return, the faster they ran in the opposite direction, until they were entirely lost sight of among the bushes.

At first we thought that perhaps they had forgotten something which they wished to take with them, or to their families, and would soon return to us; but, although we went slowly on, we never saw the weather-beaten faces of our blue-skinned guides any more.

Being thus left, we had either to return and procure other guides — which perhaps might prove to be equally valuable—or guide ourselves.—Two chances, however were open to us; Peter Lassen had left Indian Valley for the Big Meadows, with a two-horse team, for the purpose of obtaining some old iron, and we might meet with him; who, "would very willingly guide us all through that country." The other chance was in meeting with some Indians to guide us who were not afraid of "Pikas," — both very doubtful chances, truly.

We came in sight of those broad and beautiful " Meadows," lust as the sun was sinking below the dark belt of pines which girdles them in, and as we descended the gently sloping hills, to the edge of the valley, we saw the smoke of an Indian encampment curling up from among the willows of the river; so, considering that

"He is thrice armed who hath his quarrel just,"

we made boldly towards it. As we approached we discovered that the encampment was on the opposite side of a deep, clear stream--the eastern or main branch of Feather river—fortunately however, we saw an Indian coming rapidly down the river in his canoe, when we immediately hailed him; and he, without hesitation, made straight towards us, politely—for an Indian—proffering us the use of his canoe, in which to cross the stream if we wished.

Two of us at once availed ourselves of the offer, but as this craft was not sufficiently commodious to accommodate a horse, he was necessarily taken by our ease-enduring hero to a more suitable crossing below.

Here however the thoughtful animal—perhaps foreseeing the probable result, or from some conscientious scruples lest he might accidentally, and unintentionally, be the cause of drowning himself and his rider, refused to enter the water until he had dismounted; and even then, was so unreasonable as to require the gentle coaxing of a small oak tree upon his back and sides, before showing any willingness to " take to the water." A reluctance afterwards appreciated by our hero when the stream was discovered to be too deep for the animal's crossing without swimming; thinking it safer for himself, and quite as pleasant, to cross in an Indian canoe.

This task being accomplished, we pressed a dollar on the palm of the Indian, who not only seemed to know what it was for but was almost beside himself with excitement as he opened and closed his hand again and again to take a peep at it, and be sure that it was a reality, and not the phantom of some tormenting dream!

As it was now nearly dark, we turned across a heavily timbered point towards the sheltered margin of the northwest branch of North Feather—and which is much lower, and much smaller than the one we had just left behind us. Here we found an excellent camping place for ourselves, and plenty of feed for our animal. Our evening meal being prepared and eaten, we spread our blankets beneath the outspreading branches of a lofty pine, and lay gazing upward at our gorgeous and star-lighted chamber, listening to the music of the evening breeze as it swelled and swept among the swaying tops of the surrounding forest pines, and were soon lulled by its soothing melody to sleep—sleep that was sweet, deep and refreshing.

About daybreak the following morning, the hoarse howling of a wolf, and the loud snapping and whining bark of some coyotes awoke us. Before us lay the broad Lassen's Meadows, entirely surrounded by low timbered ridges; and in the distance, bold, grand, and cold, towered Lassen's Butte; but, when the sun arose and gilded it with rosy, golden sun-light, it was gorgeous—it was magnificent.

A glance at the sketch of Lassen's Butte (from Lassen's Meadows) and west end of Noble's Pass on another page, will give the reader an accurate idea of this section of country. It is nearly level. There is scarcely a ridge between these many valleys, where a wagon would not almost remain without being locked, after the animals had been removed; and that too without ever being touched by the hand of man.

Being anxious to know about the depth of snow which falls here during a severe winter, we conversed with several of the most intelligent of the Indians, and the greatest depth given by them for several years past, was three feet and six inches,—and some winters it has not been over two feet in depth; and this is in valleys among the very tops of the Sierras.

About a quarter of a mile below the point seen in the left corner of the view mentioned, just above the forks of the river and on the east or main branch of the stream, there is a beautiful waterfall of about thirty five feet in height, and sixty feet in width, which would not only enable settlers to drain the whole valley—nearly thirty square miles in extent—but give the finest water-power in the world, and timber sufficient for the entire length of a railway from the Missouri to the Sacramento river. Indeed we wonder that these innumerable advantages are so generally unknown or almost entirely overlooked.

Lest we might weary the reader by relating the adventures and experiences of several days spent among the valleys and low hills between here and Honey Lake Valley, we will ask him, if he pleases, to accompany us to the shores of that lake. (See page 535.) It is a beautiful sheet of water, is it not?

It is said to be twenty miles in length by sixteen in width. The hills on the opposite, or northern side, are entirely without trees. To the right of the highest hill seen in the distance, are several large boiling springs, one of which is nearly two feet in diameter, and flows into the lake. Susan river, and several smaller streams, also empty into the lake, and either sink or evaporate.

In the summer of 1856, a company of men built a small boat for pleasure excursions, and on their first trip six of them were drowned;—one, unfortunately, being our good friend Isadore. Alas! Isadore, for thy gentleness and kindness, many loved thee, and for thy true-hearted manliness many respected thee; and--as always when the good die—Isadore, many mourn thy departure.

But a very limited and indefinite impression of the extent, or fertility, or even beauty of this valley can be formed by the view from the south shore of the lake, looking north, for while the hills in front are low and without timber of any kind, those behind you are high and bold, and covered to their summit with a dense growth of excellent timber. The hill to the west, being nearly in the center of the valley, including the lake, shuts out the most fertile portion of the valley.

Within the past two years a band of settlers have taken up the principal part of this valley, of whom Mr. I. Roop was the pioneer, and have put it under cultivation, and this spring Mr. Roop, in company with others, has taken there the necessary machinery for the erection of a saw and flouring mill.

Being without the limits of the State of California, a public meeting of the settlers of the entire district was convened, when it was unanimously voted to be called the Territory of Natauque.

Most persons are well aware that the emigration on what is known as Noble's Route—(Peter Lassen however it is claimed by the old settlers in Indian Valley, is entitled to that honor, having known it long before Mr. Noble ever saw it, and moreover was his guide all through this route, Mr. N. being entirely unacquainted with it. This Mr. Lassen himself solemnly affirmed in our hearing, and to us; and we make mention of it now that honor may be given where honor is most due.) Most persons, we repeat, are well aware that the emigration on what is known as " Noble's Route," enters the northern side of Honey Lake Valley, about three miles west of the lake (which, being shut out by the hill before mentioned, is not often seen by the emigrant, from the road,) and after traveling up this valley for about fifteen miles, enters Noble's Pass, and crosses the Sierra Nevadas almost without knowing it. This low ridge, known as the "Pass," is one continuous forest of magnificent pines the whole distance through it, and so level that one is puzzled to know whether it is up or down.

We have crossed the Sierra Nevadas in seven different places, and we unhesitatingly affirm, that this is the only good natural pass that we have yet seen. Indeed, from the top of "Pilot Peak," or " Slate Creek Point," the whole country both north and south of this pass, can be seen to descend gradually towards it.

This route, we believe, can be traveled at any and all seasons of the year, by the locomotive, without the least serious obstruction from the depth of snow, should such a boon ever be conferred upon California, and upon the Union.

Having seen all that we deemed desirable, (the provisions becoming low,) we determined on crossing the high mountainous ridge on the southern side of the valley, and thus strike Indian Valley in a direct line if possible: especially as black and heavy masses of clouds were gathering around the higher peaks of this mountain range, threatening to give us a little more moisture than we needed, just then.

Making our way up an arm of the valley towards the apparently lowest portion of the mountain, now lying between us and the goal of our present wishes, we met with a mishap—(at least our equestrian traveling companion did)—in the following manner : We (the pedestrians) had crossed a narrow and deep ravine and reached the hill beyond it, when suddenly we heard a splash and a struggling noise, and looking round found that the whole bank for several feet had given away, and " the horse with his rider had both gone below."

Of course it never does to desert a friend when in difficulties, and consequently we ran to his assistance, and are therefore happy in being able to say that by dint of patience, coupled with perseverance, he was "considerably dipped," but was not drowned. This somewhat dampened his clothes, while it fired his courage, and after some delay, and the use of several short, but very emphatic words, not generally expressed in saying one's prayers, he again mounted, and we resumed our journey.

Just after reaching the summit, snow commenced falling in large wide flakes, admonishing us to make all possible haste to some place of safety—an admonition most scrupulously regarded. The remembrance of the fate of the Donner party of emigrants, so many of whom perished but a few miles southeast of our present position, in I846, did not decrease our desire to avoid a similar end.

In this dilemma night overtook us—night with its darkness, uncertainty, and storm. No cheering star to light and guide us; no well-worn road or trail by which we might, though slowly, grope our way amid the darkness, to some brightly glowing fireside in the most humble cabin.

Our position was no way improved by a knowledge of the fact that, in making our way among the bushes, we had lost our only compass. Not being able to do otherwise, we came to the praiseworthy conclusion to camp—if we could find a place level enough to sleep, without standing up; and were soon well (!) "accommodated," among some rocks by the side of a stream.

Having but little food left, the cooking of our supper was not the most difficult task ever accomplished. Our only duties therefore consisted in cutting bunch grass from among the bushes, by firelight, for our horse, and making the best of our circumstances by forgetting them in sleep.

Early the following morning we awoke; and as we fried our last " flapjack," we watched for the day—hoping that one sight of its first gray dawn would lift the clouds of doubt and uncertainty from our minds, by indicating the course we must that day pursue, to reach Indian Valley.

At last day came, cloudy and heavy; casting no light, mentally, on our dubious way. We might be right, and, by the same role, we might be wrong. Usually on such occasions, each individual member of a party holds a different opinion to the other. This rule was not departed from at this important juncture of our affairs, for being only three in number we had but three opinions. These however we agreed individually to hold, without remaining in camp, foodless, to debate them; consequently, we made our way onward as best we could, among snow, rocks, trees, and dense chapparal, when to our great joy a gleam of sunlight, (the only one we saw throughout the day, and only for a moment,) fell upon a tree, but, casting a shadow, it told us our course.

Now we have often been benighted, and as often, when we saw a distant light or camp-fire twinkling, though dimly, in the distance, we have been rejoiced—but now a thrill of wild delight electrified our hearts, such as we never felt before, or since.

How forcibly does this teach us, gentle reader, that however dark and doubtful may be our prospect now, that some welcome and long looked and perhaps prayed for ray of sunlight, may cast a guiding shadow upon our path, at a time too when it is most needed, and which, while it brightens and gladdens the present, may perhaps, determine a long and prosperous future. Therefore we say Hope and Strive ever—always.

Our course now being plain, we lost no time in taking advantage of the knowledge so providentially obtained, and before mid-night we were striving to forget our long fast, and our many troubles, at the well furnished table and pleasant fireside of our amiable and hospitable friend, Judge Ward. The agreeable associations, pleasant converse, and sweet songs of that amiable family, and happy mountain home, will ever linger upon the heart, and be treasured among the most pleasant recollections of a jaunt to Honey Lake Valley.

The following description of the country and road from the Humboldt river to the Sacramento Valley, by Honey Lake Valley and Noble's Pass, from the pen of Mr. John A. Dreibelbis, who passed over the route several times during the summer and fall of 1853, will be read with interest, especially at the present time :

"From the Humboldt to Cold Springs, 14 miles.

Course west, road level; water sufficient for one hundred and fifty head of stock at a time; good bunch grass on the hill-sides and heads of canons. Thence, to

Rabbit Hole Springs, 18 miles.

Course north of west; road ascending about two miles, through a low gap of mountain range, then descending slightly eight miles; the rest nearly level to Rabbit Hole: bunch grass south east and south west for three miles; on left hand in ravine is water sufficient for from one to two hundred animals : Thence, to

Black Rock Springs, 24 miles.

Course north west; road for the first eight miles has a few gulches, the remainder is then an entire desert, perfectly level and hard; very little of anything growing upon it; some good feed about the Spring, but not extensive; water hot, but cools somewhat in running off, and is healthy for animals; rye and salt grass in abundance one and a half miles north: Thence, to

Granite Creek, 22 miles.

Course south of south west; road excellent over a perfect desert, as smooth as a planed floor and nearly as hard, and not a vestige of vegetation on it for twenty-two miles. This stream comes out of a notch of the mountain range on the right hand, pretty well at the end. Leave the desert by turning into this gap half a mile to camp; bunch grass on the foot hills. It will be readily seen that between this point and Rabbit Hole, a material cut-off could be effected, so that forty-six miles might be made in thirty, with fully as good road, but no water; the cut-off, however, would be but six miles longer than from Black Rock to Rabbit Hole. Thence, to

Hot Spring Point, 3 miles.

Course south of south-west, road level, distance three miles; grass all along on the left; boiling springs scattered all through which makes it dangerous to let stock range upon it. Thence, to

Deep Springs, 7 miles.

Course north-west, road level. Here you double the extreme south end of mountain range; grass and water in abundance, of the very best quality; this is a good place to lie over a day or two. Thence, to

Buffalo Springs, 16 miles.

Course west, road level. Directly after leaving the Springs, you enter a desert after passing eight miles over an arm of it then eight miles through sage, you come to the bed of a large dry creek, its banks covered with dry grass for some distance some water in holes that will do no injury to stock; one half mile beyond this and about two hundred paces on the right hand, arc the Springs. Thence, to

Smoke Creek Meadows, 13 miles.

Course west six miles, level ground; then four miles over low hills to creek; thence up creek, along the canon, three miles to camp. Here is an extensive valley, from three hundred yards to two miles wide; its length is not ascertained. This valley produces clover, bunch grass, &c., of the most luxuriant growth. Thence, to

Mud Springs, 9 miles.

Course west; You travel up Smoke Creek Meadows two miles; then over the point of a low ridge into Rush 'valley. This, valley is two miles long, by half a mile wide excellent grass and water. The road here is on table land, fifty to seventy-five feet above the level of the plains or desert, and is perfectly level. Thence, to

Susan River, 9 miles.

Course west, six miles south-west, and three miles west, to camp. Emigrants should start early from Mud Springs, as the road is covered with cobble stones, which makes it slow and tedious; it is nearly level till you descend slightly to the valley of the stream, [known as Honey Lake Valley.] This is a delightful valley, its soil of the most productive kind, and is from five to seven miles wide, and covered with clover, blue-joint, red-top, and bunch grass, in great abundance. The stream abounds in mountain trout, which are easily taken with hook and line. Thence, to

Head of this Valley, 14 miles.

Course west: You cross Willow Creek two miles after leaving camp on Susan River. This stream rises in the west, runs east out of the Sierra Nevada, into the valley, and about twenty or twenty-five miles down it, to Honey Lake. Thence, to

Summit Springs, 18 miles.

Immediately after leaving the valley, you enter open, but heavy pine woods—not unwelcome to the sun-scorched emigrant—and commence ascending the Sierra Nevada gradually : Water four miles on the right, and some grass; and again five miles on the left, but no grass; the road somewhat stony in places; the ascent is so gradual that on slight observation it seems as much down as up; in fact, a great part is level, and enough timber on one mile on each side of the road, from the valley to the summit, to build a double railway track to the Missouri River. Course west, grass and water. Thence, to

Pine Creek, 8 miles.

Course, north west, to avoid a cluster of buttes; road level, grass and water;—thence to

Black Butte Creek, 12 miles.

Course, north-west four miles; then turning west to south-west; grass and water; road level. The country here, and for twenty miles back, must be considered the summit, as it is impossible to ascertain the precise place, owing to the flatness of the country. The small streams that rise on the buttes around and run down their sides, all sink, or form small lakes and marshes, there not being slope sufficient to run off their waters. Thence to

Black Butte, 6 miles.

Course, south-west; road, heavy sand; thence to

Pine Meadows, 4 miles.

Course, west; road level and good; water and grass. Thence to

Hat Creek, 4 miles.

Course north-west; road gradually sloping; only about one hundred feet where a wagon wheel need be locked. Thence, to

Lost Creek, 2 miles.

Course west, road nearly level. Thence, to

John Hill's Ranch on Deer Flat, 14 miles.

Course west; the two first miles slightly up hill, fifty or sixty feet only of which is steep; after a distance of forty miles, embracing the entire western slope of the Sierra Nevada, it is almost a perfect grade to the Sacramento River. Thence, to

McCumber's Mills, 8 miles; Shingle Town, 3 miles; Charley's Ranch, 4 miles; Payne and Smith's 6 miles; Dr. Bakers, on Bear Creek, 7 miles; Fort Reading on Cow Creek, 4 miles; Sacramento River 3 miles."

This estimate of distances, the whole route through, overrun those of Mr. Kleiser's, as measured by his road-ometer, about the same time.