Part 11

Here we meet Mr. H. W. McMaster, chief dispatcher of Northern Pacific Railway at Spokane, whom we find to be a very courteous and agreeable gentleman. On a sidetrack near where our train stands, Mr. McMaster shows us the largest locomotive on the Northern Pacific Railway, No. 150. Engine and tender without fuel or water weigh 106 tons; it has a 34-inch cylinder; was built in Schenectady, N. Y., since the first of the year. They have had it but a short time but find it very satisfactory. It is in charge of Engineer J. Bruce and is run in the freight service between Spokane and Pasco. Mr. McMaster accompanies us to Spokane, where we arrive at 5.20 P. M. Eastern (2.20 P. M. Pacific), and are met at the station by Dr. E. D. Olmsted, Mayor of Spokane. We are introduced to the Mayor by Mr. McMaster in a neat little speech. His Honor responds in a pleasant manner, bidding us welcome and giving us the freedom of the city. The street railway management offers us the use and freedom of their lines so long as we wish to remain in the city. We have but two hours here, and the municipal authorities and street railway managers vie with one another in their efforts to show us as much of the city as possible in the short time we will be with them. A number of carriages are sent around and quickly loaded up, accommodating about one-half of the party, the remainder board street cars, and we start on a tour of the city.

Spokane is the county seat of Spokane County, with a population of about 32,000. It occupies a remarkably picturesque location on both sides of the Spokane River, a mighty mountain torrent, the rush and roar of whose eternal, resistless energy holds the visitors to-day spellbound and speechless with admiration, amazement, and awe. We had looked upon, we supposed, during the past two weeks, all varieties and degrees of running, rushing, and falling waters, but at no time have we gazed upon such a tumbling, seething, foaming, roaring torrent as this that now fascinates us with its sublime grandeur and astounds us with its terrific force.

Right through the centre of the city, with a fall of 150 feet in the space of half a mile, this mighty torrent tears, dashing and splashing, surging and foaming against and amongst the great rocks and boulders that beset its course with a fury that is indescribable, and we feel as we gaze upon this wonderful, awe-inspiring spectacle that there is no more limit to the power of the elements than there is to the measure of eternity. This magnificent river that never freezes runs the great electric plant that lights the city and operates 45 miles of electric railway. It furnishes power for numerous flour and saw mills, factories and foundries that can be seen in operation along its banks, giving an aspect of business activity to the place that is a pleasing manifestation of prosperity and enterprise.

Its fine, substantial, costly church, school, municipal, and other public buildings and superb private residences are indications that there is wealth in Spokane. Because of the advantages and facilities of its admirable location, surrounded by vast forests of valuable timber, fertile agricultural valleys, rich mining districts, and the traffic of seven railroads, we predict for Spokane a phenomenal future. It is destined, we are sure, at an early day to be the first city of the great Northwest. Not one of the party will ever forget our short visit to

Spokane. Mr. McMaster took Brothers Maxwell and Reagan around with his own team and Captain Hale took Manager Wyman. The street-car party was under the escort of James Mendenhall, Esq., an old schoolmate of Brother James Matthews. Mr. Mendenhall came West several years ago, located at Spokane, and engaged in real estate business. He is now one of the prominent citizens of the place and closely identified with the business interests and enterprises of the city. We also met Mark Mendenhall, Esq., a brother of James, who is a leading attorney in Spokane. No, we will not forget the courtesy and kindness of the good people of Spokane, and the good people of Spokane will not forget us, for they have only to remember that on the afternoon of May 27th, 1897, street-railway traffic was blocked for thirty minutes by a car abandoned by the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors and kept waiting for them while they viewed the grandeur of Spokane Falls for half an hour from the rear balcony of the brewery.

At 7.40 P. M. Eastern (4.40 P. M. Pacific) time we are all aboard our train once more, and with Engineer Secord at the throttle of engine No. 119 we quickly leave beautiful Spokane far in our rear. Captain Hale is still with us, his brakeman being A. S. Harding. A hobo is discovered lying on the truss rods of the combined car; he can be seen by looking around the side of the car; his position seems a perilous one, but our train makes no stop till it gets to Hope, 84 miles, so he is allowed to remain and take his chances. For several miles we pass through magnificent cattle ranges and fine farming lands. As we approach Hope the road skirts the shores of Lake Pend d’Oreille for about three miles, giving us a fine view of this beautiful body of water. We arrive at Hope 10.00 Eastern (7.00 Pacific) time and stop twenty-five minutes to change engines. Here a change is also made in time; it changes from Pacific to Mountain time, one hour later than Pacific and two hours earlier than Eastern time. Hobo No. 2 changed his position from the truss rods of the combined car to a pile of ties when the train stopped at Hope. He was given a lunch by one of the dining-car boys and advised not to anchor himself in the same place again, as the position was not only a dangerous one, but very conspicuous. When asked his name he said it was J. W. Kelsey, that he was trying to get home, had been away for two years, and wanted to see his mother. Hobo No. 1 lays low, for he knows should he for a moment vacate his narrow quarters under the “Lafayette” there would be a scramble for his place. It is growing dusk, and through the gloom of the dying day we have counted no less than fifteen skulking forms about the train, watching for an opportunity to secrete themselves underneath or about the train for the purpose of obtaining free transportation.

Bidding adieu to big-hearted, genial Captain Hale, who has been with us for 357 miles, we leave Hope at 10.25 P. M. Eastern (8.25 P. M. Mountain) time with N. P. engine No. 438, with Engineer Jim Bailey at the throttle, whose fireman is John Ryan. Conductor William Gilbert has charge of the train and his brakemen are T. S. McEachran and F. R. Foote. This crew runs us to Helena, 297 miles. Ten miles from Hope we cross Clark’s Fork, a branch of the Columbia River,

and through the gathering darkness we can see that we have entered a wild and rocky region, the road winding around and among mountain ranges and snow-capped peaks, following the course of the stream we just crossed for 60 miles.

Captain Gilbert and his brakemen are lively, interesting company, and entertain us during the evening with anecdotes and stories of Western life. “Are you troubled much with tramps, captain?” some one asks, as Conductor Gilbert, during the conversation, made some allusion to the profession. “They do not give us much real trouble,” is the reply, “yet they are a matter of concern, for we are never without them, and need to be constantly on guard; there is always a Wandering Willie around somewhere, and you never know what mischief he may be up to. There are at least a dozen on this train to-night. The trucks are full and several on top of the cars.” This is rather startling information, and I notice Brother Sheppard clap his hand on his right hip pocket to make sure the “critter” is there, and Alfalfa quietly unlocks the cupboard door, where “our artillery” is kept. I see no sign of fear on the serene countenance of Captain Gilbert and believe we’re not in danger; yet Brothers Maxwell and Terry start through the train to make sure the vestibule doors are barred and step traps fastened down. At Trout Creek, a small station 48 miles from Hope, we stopped for water, and F. Hartman, roadmaster of the Missoula and Hope Division, got aboard and went with us to Horse Plains. It is now near midnight, and making my way from the smoker to the “Marco” I turn in, wondering how the poor fellows who are hanging on to the brake beams are enjoying themselves, for Bailey with the “438” is switching them around the curves at a pretty lively rate.

FRIDAY, MAY 28th.

Our arrival in Helena at six o’clock this morning and the announcement of an early breakfast soon has everybody astir. After breakfast we bid adieu to jolly, whole-souled Captain Gilbert and his genial crew, and under the escort of Assistant General Passenger Agent W. Stuart, Assistant General Ticket Agent C. E. Dutton, and Conductor Dodds, of the Northern Pacific Railway, and Messrs. E. Flaherty and H. D. Palmer, of Helena Board of Trade, start out to see the town. Our time is limited, for we are scheduled to leave at twelve o’clock, and it is impossible to give all the interesting features of this remarkable city the attention they deserve. Helena is a wealthy town; it is located in the centre of one of the richest mining districts in the world; it is the capital of Montana and the county seat of Lewis and Clarke County, with a population of about 14,000; it is up to date in its financial, educational, and religious institutions, and both private residences and public buildings are models of architectural symmetry, strength, and beauty. A military post named Fort Harrison has recently been established here which will be one of the principal points for the quartering of troops in the Northwest. A ride of almost three miles on the electric line through this interesting city brings us to the Hotel Broadwater and “Natatorium,” where the celebrated hot springs are located. We are given the freedom of the bathing pool, which is one of the largest and finest under cover in the world. The most of our party take advantage of the treat, and for an hour the waters of the pool are almost churned into foam by the sportive antics of the crowd, whose capers afford great entertainment and amusement for those who do not care to “get into the swim” with the rest. This place is much resorted to by tourists, and invalids are said to be much benefited by bathing in the waters of these hot springs, which are strongly impregnated with sulphur, salt, and iron and heated by Nature’s process to a very pleasant temperature.

Leaving the Natatorium we are invited to the immense brewery establishment of Nicholas Kessler, near by, to await the coming of our train, which is to be brought here for us, as the railroad runs within a short distance of the place. Mr. Kessler is a former Pennsylvanian, one of those hospitable, generous, big-hearted Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and when he learned we hailed from his native State his pleasure was greater than he was able to express and his generosity almost boundless. In the fine pavilion adjoining his establishment he spread us a sumptuous lunch and seemed aggrieved that we didn’t eat and drink all that was placed before us, which was enough for 500 people. When at last our train comes and we bid the old gentleman farewell there are tears in his eyes as he tells us how happy he is that we called to see him, and that he would never forget the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors. He accompanies us over to the train (so do several of his men with boxes on their shoulders), and as we steam away and leave behind us the city of Helena and our generous-hearted new-made friends, we notice in the “refreshment corner” of our combined car a pile of boxes bearing the trade mark of “Nic” Kessler, and another box containing fine oranges that bears the mark of H. S. Hepner, a merchant of Helena.

The space between the ice chests beneath the dining car is vacant; our mascot has fled, having ridden in that uncomfortable position for 782 miles.

It is 12.55 P. M. Helena time when we leave here for Butte over the Montana Central branch of the Great Northern Railway. We have G. N. engine No. 458, Engineer Pete Leary, Fireman R. Hanna, Conductor M. Sweeney, Brakemen F. W. Minshall and F. J. Chapman, who take us to Butte, a distance of 75 miles. As a guest we have with us Trainmaster J. W. Donovan, of the Montana Central, who will accompany us to Butte. We find Mr. Donovan an agreeable and entertaining gentleman who tells us much that is interesting of the country through which we are passing. “This branch was built,” says Mr. Donovan, “for almost the sole purpose of developing the mining interests of the country. You will see very little of any other industry from here to Butte than mining.”

After leaving Clancy we ascend a steep grade, from which we look down into a pretty valley that Mr. Donovan tells us is called Prickly Pear Cañon. Passing Amazon we follow Boulder River for 12 miles as it courses through the beautiful valley of the same name. Four miles from Amazon we pass through Boulder and can see that it is a thriving town. “Boulder is the county seat of Jefferson County,” says Mr. Donovan, “and has a population of about 1200. It ranks as one of the important cities of Montana, being in the centre of a rich mining region.”

This is a wonderful mining district through which we are passing, all the hills and mountain sides being literally honeycombed with the gaping mouths of mines. Eight miles from Boulder we come to the town of Basin, “the largest city,” says Mr. Donovan, “in Jefferson County, having a population of about 200 more than Boulder.” The railroad runs close to the ruins of what had apparently been a large building recently destroyed by fire, and we inquire of Mr. Donovan what it had been. “Two years ago,” he replies, “the Basin and Bay State Smelting Company erected an immense plant that was destroyed by fire as soon as it was in operation. To build and equip the plant cost over $100,000, and its destruction was not only a heavy loss but a serious blow to the mining industries of Basin and all the adjacent country; but I hear it is to be rebuilt if the output and value of the ore in this section will warrant it.”

Our progress has become very slow and engine No. 458 is laboring very hard. “We are now ascending a grade,” says Mr. Donovan, “of 116 feet to the mile and have eight miles to go before we reach the summit.” It is a tedious climb, but we do not weary of viewing the wondrous mountain scenery. As we slowly approach the top of the grade we obtain an excellent view of Bison River Cañon, an exceedingly wild, rugged, and picturesque region. At last we reach the summit at an altitude of 6350 feet above sea level; this is the dividing line between the Atlantic and Pacific slopes. From this point the waters flow westward to the Pacific and eastward to the Atlantic Oceans. I look at my watch; it is 7.55 P. M. in Philadelphia and 5.55 here. We now make better time, and in twenty minutes we arrive in Butte, and are met by Brother O. L. Chapman, C. C., and Brother H. C. Grey, secretary and treasurer of Butte Division No. 294, also Brothers J. H. Dunn and A. H. Elliott, of same division, who introduce us to Major Dawson, “the man who knows everybody in Butte,” and to Mr. J. R. Wharton, manager of Butte Street Railway, who gives us the freedom of his lines. Our people are escorted by the kind brothers who met us, by carriages and street cars, to the Butte Hotel, where refreshments are served, after which we are loaded into two large band wagons and driven through the principal streets of the city. Butte is a wonderful city, worth a trip across the continent to see. It is strictly a mining town and has a population of over 38,000. It is situated near the headwaters of Clark’s Fork of the Columbia River, on the west slope of the dividing range of the Rocky Mountains. Butte is the county seat of Silver Bow County, a county marvelously rich in its mineral products, the aggregate value of its gold, silver, and copper product for one year reaching the enormous sum of $9,060,917.59; and yet it is claimed the mining industry in this district is still in its infancy.

Butte is a city of fine, substantial buildings that are up to date in style and beauty of architecture, and yet it is a bald and barren town, for not a tree, a leaf, a bush, a flower, or a blade of grass can we see anywhere within the length or breadth of its limits. It is surrounded on every hand by smoking smelters and grinning mines, and its streets are filled with rugged, stalwart miners. The eight-hour system of labor is in vogue here, and the mines and smelters run day and night. The great Anaconda Mine, owned and operated by the Anaconda Company, the richest mining corporation in the world, extends, we are told, under the very centre of the city of Butte, the Butte Hotel standing directly over it. The pay rolls of the mining industries of Butte aggregate $1,500,000 yearly. We are driven out to the Colorado Smelter, and on the way pass the Centennial Brewery, where a short stop is made to obtain some souvenirs. We are shown through the great smelter, and when we come out it has grown quite dark. Our drivers are old stagers and understand handling the reins. To one wagon are attached six white horses, driven by W. M. McIntyre, of the New York Life Insurance Company, and to the other wagon are four bays, driven by Hanks Monk, a well-known character of the West. Hanks is an old stage driver, and claims to be a son of the celebrated Hanks Monk of Horace Greeley and Mark Twain fame. Mr. Monk tells us that he is a Mormon, and a deacon in Salt Lake City Church, but has only one wife, and has found one to be plenty. He is a genial, good-hearted fellow, who, notwithstanding the hardships of his rugged life of fifty-seven years, looks but forty. Hanks claims he followed the trail for many years and never got far astray, but he will have to acknowledge that he got off the trail once, when he ran the wagon load of Pennsylvania Railroad conductors into a sand bank in going from the Colorado Smelter to the station in Butte on the night of May 28th, 1897. Hanks, however, redeemed himself by the dexterous and graceful manner in which he guided those bewildered horses until he struck the proper trail again, and brought us to the station all O. K. It is 10 o’clock P. M. in Butte and time for our train to start. We bid our kind and generous friends and brothers adieu and get aboard. Engine No. 305, in charge of Engineer J. Else, is drawing us, and Conductor J. A. West has charge of the train; C. Dunham is our brakeman. We have as a guest on the train Mr. H. E. Dunn, traveling agent of the Oregon Short Line. After a delay of an hour at Silver Bow, waiting to get a helper engine to assist up a grade, we start on our way again at 1.15 A. M. Eastern (11.15 P. M. Mountain) time, and I make my way to my berth in the “Marco.”

SATURDAY, MAY 29th.

Was awakened this morning between two and three o’clock by a jar that almost tumbled me out of bed; thought at first our train had left the track and had run into the side of a mountain; I lay quiet a moment, expecting another crash. It didn’t come, and I realized our train was standing still. “Guess I was dreaming,” I said to myself, as I reach over, raise the window blind, and look out. A freight train is moving past and our train is motionless. Mrs. S. is awake, and my movement informs her that I am in the same condition. “What was that?” she quietly asks, referring to the shock that awakened us. “I don’t know, my dear, but I’m sure it was something,” I reply, satisfied now that it wasn’t a dream. We believe the danger is over; that there is nothing to worry about, and are soon asleep again.

Arose this morning about the usual time and find we have just left Pocatello, Idaho, 262 miles from Butte City. We have come through much interesting country while asleep, and have missed seeing the beautiful Idaho Falls. The shaking up we received last night was caused by Engineer Oram coupling engine No. 760 to our train at Lima. Oram miscalculated the distance and banged into our train with more force than he intended. At Pocatello engine No. 760 is exchanged for O. S. L. engine No. 735, with Engineer J. Andrews and Fireman Standrod in the cab, Conductor G. W. Surman and Brakeman H. Hewett, who run us to Ogden, 134 miles.

Pocatello is located in Fort Hall, Indian Reservation, and while passing through this district we see a number of the natives. Much of the country is level and covered with sage brush and bunch grass, constituting immense cattle ranges, with here and there a plot of land under cultivation, watered by irrigation, while at a distance on either side can be seen great ranges of snow-capped mountains. We are reminded of Chester County and home as we see the familiar name of “Oxford” above a little station door as we fly past, midway between Dayton and Cannon. We cross the State Line and enter Utah. Coming to Cache Junction, we are in view of Bear River, that feeds the great irrigating canal constructed by the Bay State Canal and Irrigating Company at a cost of $2,000,000. This canal is about 80 miles long, the waters from which irrigate many thousand acres of land; it is converting this dry and barren desert country into a land of fertility, fruits, and flowers.

As we approach Ogden this great improvement is very noticeable in the beautiful, productive farms and homesteads that are seen on every hand. The most of the settlers through this locality, we are told, are Mormons, but the aspect of their condition and surroundings show them to be a thrifty, industrious, enterprising people. We arrive in Ogden at 11.20 A. M., where a stop of only twenty minutes is allowed. We are met by Conductor E. S. Croker, C. C. of Wasatch Division No. 124, and J. H. McCoy, of same division, who is yardmaster for the Union Pacific Railroad at this point. Much as we desire to make a tour of this interesting city, our limited time will not allow it, but we can see that it is a thriving business place. It is situated on the western slope of the Wasatch Range, at an elevation of 4301 feet above sea level, on a triangle formed by the Weber and Ogden Rivers, which, uniting a short distance west of the city, flow across the famous historic valley and empty into the Great Salt Lake.

At Ogden, going west, the Union Pacific Railroad time changes from Mountain to Pacific time. At 1.40 P. M. Eastern (11.40 A. M. Mountain) time we start on our way again with R. G. W. engine No. 41, in charge of Engineer J. Stewart, Conductor George King, and Brakeman J. Crompton. From Ogden to Salt Lake City we are in continual view of the Great Salt Lake, and pass a number of evaporating dams, where a large amount of salt is procured through the process of evaporation. We arrive in Salt Lake City at 12.30 P. M. Mountain time, and leaving the train we are again hustled into wagons and driven over the city, the places of interest being pointed out and explained by the drivers. Time and space will not permit me to note and describe all the interesting features of this historic and truly wonderful city. We passed through the famous Eagle Gateway and halted on a lofty promontory overlooking