The true “pioneers” of Alpine County were the native Washoe. But little was written about them in the early days. So it was a real treat to stumble across a 1927 Record-Courier article detailing the life of Markleeville resident “Lame Tom.”
In the early 1900s, Lame Tom (his real name was Assu) lived in a wickiup just below the old wooden schoolhouse on Schoolhouse Hill. By then, he was an elderly gentleman. He shared his humble abode with a friend with the euphonious name of Zon-ha-gen-mal-anay, popularly known as “Squealing Aleck.”
Lame Tom was a son of Chief Possic (or Possuk), a Washoe captain living near the Hot Springs who was said to have been a guide in the early days for John Fremont’s party. Noted basketmaker Dat-So-La-Lee married into their family.
In his youth, Lame Tom was acclaimed as a hunter. But tragedy struck one night while he camped out alone. A large, heavy log rolled off his campfire and onto his leg while he slept, and the burning wood pinned him “like a vise.”
The brave young man did the unthinkable: he amputated his own leg with a hunting knife to free himself, and “crawled many miles home” to his camp.
Amazingly, he survived. But Lame Tom could no longer hunt. Instead took up the art of arrowhead-making — soon becoming one of the “most proficient of all the arrowhead makers.” He would shape a flake of obsidian by cradling it in his palm with buckskin, then striking the edge of the stone with a piece of buckhorn (antler) lashed to a length of greasewood. The only person who could equal him was noted arrowhead-maker Poker Charlie (Tillebow Behang), another son of Chief Possic. (A little family rivalry, perhaps!)
Lame Tom also crafted bows made of cedar and sinew, and would sell a bow and arrow set to local lads for “two bits” (25 cents). He also taught them how to weave snowshoes.
Due to his injury, Lame Tom was permitted to marry two wives, an important form of social support. Both wives were employed in or near Markleeville: Maley worked for the Musser family, while Susie was employed by Harriet Grover. Interestingly enough, Squealing Aleck (Lame Tom’s friend) had three wives, and an astonishing ten daughters.
Lame Tom passed away in 1910. So it’s a delight to be able to connect this photograph from the Alpine County Museum with his story, thanks to the old Record-Courier article from 1927.
Stop in at the Museum next time you visit Markleeville: there’s more great information here about the local Washoe heritage, including this stunning collection of local arrowheads. Who knows, perhaps some of these might even have been crafted by Lame Tom (Assu) or his talented brother, Poker Charlie.
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* Special thanks to the Alpine County Museum for permission to share the photo of Lame Tom. Visit the Museum at the top of Schoolhouse Hill in Markleeville Thursday through Sunday from late May through October, summer hours 10-4.
Just how often do you get to walk inside a piece of history? Built in 1863, this hotel is a slice of life from Alpine County’s version of the Comstock days. And the building still exists — thanks to a fire.
Yes, a fire is what saved this historic building. Two fires, actually. Here’s how it happened:
By 1882, only a few inhabitants were still left in the once-booming mining town of Silver Mountain City. Gone were the hordes of eager miners, the hopping hotels, and the noise from its dirt streets. Although many of its homes and commercial establishments were still standing, much of the population had moved on to Bodie, where the diggings were fresh — and far more promising.
The Fiske family, owners of Silver Mountain’s prominent Fiske Hotel, had long since picked up stakes and moved over the mountain to Murphys. Their solid three-story hotel — one of the first structures built in Silver Mountain’s early days — stood empty at its once-prime corner of First and Main.
Then, on the fateful winter day of February 18, 1882, a fire swept through the nearly-abandoned town of Silver Mountain City.
So what caused the 1882 conflagration? They say it was a simple chimney fire. By then, of course, few residents were left to battle the flames. Within hours, much of Silver Mountain’s Main Street was in ashes.
That did it; the few remaining die-hards holding out at Silver Mountain packed up whatever they could salvage and trudged off in search of happier climes.
One building that hadn’t burned, however, was the Fiske Hotel. And in 1885, when a different devastating fire swept through Markleeville, Alvin Grover took note.
Grover was the owner of Grover’s Hot Springs resort, and he suddenly arrived at a grand and practical solution: move the old Fiske Hotel from Silver Mountain to fire-stricken Markleeville. It not only would help draw visitors back to the fire-stricken town but also serve as lodging for his guests at the Hot Springs!
Leave it to Grover — he accomplished the feat with just a team and wagon, old-fashioned sweat, and lots of heavy lifting. The stately Fiske Hotel was dismantled, board by board, hauled off to Markleeville, and re-erected — at the spot where it still stands today.
Not only can you still walk inside this amazing bit of history, you can still eat lunch here. What fun to imagine miners’ boots stomping the restaurant’s creaking floorboards back in 1863.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * Special thanks to our friend Ed Rogers, who shared the amazing photos in this article.
. . . the historic jail at the Alpine County Museum, that is!
Built in 1867, these heavy iron cells were created for a new jail in the mining boomtown of Silver Mountain City.
Silver Mountain was Alpine County’s original county seat and a quintessential mining town, back in the days of the Comstock Lode. Think hard-drinking miners; armed barroom brawls; spats over mining claims — yes, a local hoosegow was a totally necessary structure. And the reason for a new jail: restless prisoners had attempted to burn down the earlier log jail.
A new stone jail building was going to solve all that. So plans were drawn and bids were let. Constructed of volcanic stone quarried from the nearby cliffs, Silver Mountain’s new jail was projected to cost an estimated $4,000 — more money than the fledgling county really had. But never mind that! The contract was signed, and funds pilfered from the Hospital Fund to help pay for it.
A cornerstone-laying ceremony was held in May, 1867. Some fifty supportive citizens and at least three Supervisors attended. They likely were the same three supervisors secretly rubbing their hands together in anticipation; two had chummily obtained contracts to do carpentry and blacksmithing for the project, and a third supervisor had an old boiler he planned to sell. Niceties like “conflict of interest” sailed out the window in the rush to complete this grand new County facility. The job was on!
Elsewhere in the county, public sentiment quickly turned against the new jail project. Eyebrows were especially raised over its exhorbitant price. Public grumbling culminated in an Anti-Jail Meeting in Markleeville on May 11th. But despite the malcontents, the jail was rapidly completed. When done, its stone walls were 18 inches thick, laid in cement. A separate “under roof” held up a foot of dirt, a precaution intended to render the building “fire proof.”
Inside were six stout cells: four made of wood, and two of solid iron plate, for the more hardened criminals. Grated iron cell doors weighed in at 500 pounds apiece and, for added security, prisoners could be tethered to the floor with short, 27-inch chains.
Finishing touches included plaster, painted woodwork and trim in the jailer’s portion of the building. And for added bit of comfort, there were two woodstoves, one at each end of the building.
When the building was finally completed around the end of December, 1867, it was a magnificent structure indeed — and had mushroomed with a huge cost over-run. Ups and extras boosted the total cost to more than $7,000 — nearly twice the original contract.
The mines in Alpine eventually petered out, and the demonetization of silver in 1873 dealt its own blow to the local economy. In 1875, citizens voted to move Alpine’s county seat from remote, snowy Silver Mountain to the milder climate of Markleeville. There, a fresh wooden jail was erected. (Damn the fire hazard.) The powers-that-be opted for the cheaper structural option, and cheaper it was: just $603.37 for this notched log jail.
And in yet another nod to economy, the heavy iron jail cells were yanked from the old stone jail and carted off for re-use in Markleeville.
Over the succeeding decades, the old stone jail at Silver Mountain City slowly went to wrack and ruin. But look carefully for the sign, and you can still visit its remains along today’s California Highway 4. (Here’s a map and directions to get there!)
Best of all, you can still step inside the actual iron jail cells that once held prisoners at Silver Mountain! They’re still here, inside the 1876 log jail at Alpine County’s wonderful museum at the top of Schoolhouse Hill in Markleeville.
Like to step inside this original antique jail cell for yourself? Come see the old log jail at the Alpine County Museum in Markleeville! Here’s the website. (They’re open Memorial Day through the end of October and closed during winter months; be sure to check their hours!)
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Visit a historic old graveyard in Mother Lode Country to see the — roses?!? You bet!
Plymouth Pioneer Cemetery off Highway 49 is a cool place to visit, all by itself. But it turns out that this pioneer cemetery’s roses are so special they even have their own Facebook page! (Just type “Plymouth Pioneer Cemetery Heritage Roses” in the search box to find them.)
Local volunteers banded together to “rescue, preserve and protect” these heritage roses so future generations can enjoy them. And they had quite a time with the “rescue” prong of their mission!
In the past, well-intentioned groundskeepers applied herbicides to the cemetery grounds and — yup, the antique roses too got sprayed. Sadly, some century-old rose bushes never made it. Then in 2014, the curator of the San Jose Heritage Rose Garden reached out to local residents to try to save the remaining heritage roses at Plymouth Cemetery. Thanks to the care of these dedicated volunteers, the cemetery’s antique rose bushes are thriving again — and what a treat for the eyes they are!
Pioneers lugged these heritage roses here to the Mother Lode. Some made the journey tucked in covered wagons, while others spent months in the dank, dark recesses of sailing ships. Once here, the beautiful flowers became important reminders of home. Treasured for their heady fragrance and beautiful shape, roses were also planted as a special tribute at a loved one’s grave.
Roses can be propagated from a cutting, with “babies” retaining the same characteristics as the mother plant; identifiable varieties can be traced back hundreds of years. Here at Plymouth Pioneer Cemetery, rose varieties include the Duchesse de Brabant— a long-flowering “tea rose” dating to about 1857. Drought-tolerant and vigorous, this rose was said to have been a particular favorite of Teddy Roosevelt.
The Elizabeth Roberts rose, dating from the late 1800s, was at death’s door here at Plymouth Cemetery due — not just once, but twice! After two years of intensive TLC it bloomed again in 2017 — volunteers deemed its recovery a “garden miracle.”
A gorgeous deep-pink hybrid known as the Pulich Children rose dates back to the 1860s. Cuttings propagated from a bush here at Plymouth Pioneer Cemetery have produced bushes that now grace other gardens, including the Howard Rose Garden at the Banning Museum in Wilmington, California.
Several of the gravestones here at Plymouth are also decorated with beautiful roses graven in stone. A couple we saw on our recent visit:
The Gold Rush town of Plymouth isn’t alone, of course, in having spectacular old roses in its cemetery. Sacramento, too, has a rose garden associated with an early cemetery. The collection of roses at Sacramento’s Old City Cemetery is said to be “among the world’s best,” boasting over 500 rare rose specimens from between 1850 and 1915. Many were collected and propagated from specimens at other old cemeteries and early homesites. Check them out here: http://oldcitycemetery.com/roses.htm. And for a wonderful story about how this special rose collection narrowly escaped being regulated out of existence: http://www.sacbee.com/news/local/article142206839.html.
Sacramento’s historic cemetery rose collection has its own Facebook page, too: type “Sacramento Historic Rose Garden” in the Facebook search box. (Be sure to check out the cool costumes its volunteers are wearing!)
Carson Valley, too, had its own old rose bushes — including a heritage “rose” that isn’t really a rose at all. Many early homesteads were brightened by the deep red, rose-like “Pentecost Rose” peony — tubers of which are said to have first been brought to Carson Valley by Anna Neddenriep, all the way from her home in Germany.
Directions to reach the Plymouth Pioneer Cemetery:
From Jackson, go north on Hwy 49 through Sutter Creek and Amador City to reach the town of Plymouth. You’ll come to a stop sign; continue through for a short distance, then turn right on Church Street. Cross Landrun and keep going; the road will take you up a hill and jogs left; the cemetery entrance is on your right.
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It was June 15, 1893 on a remote stretch of road outside Jackson, California. Mike Tovey was again riding shotgun as security guard for Wells Fargo, this time aboard the stage headed from Ione into Jackson. Mike had been shot once before in his dangerous career; no doubt his eyes were always scanning the countryside for possible trouble.
But as the stage crested Morrow Grade that fateful day, the vista was open — not the sort of territory where a concealed highwayman would be expected. And that’s exactly when a man clad in blue coveralls stepped out from behind a small clump of buckeye bushes — and, without warning, fired directly at the stage.
Tovey toppled forward. A bullet had ripped its way through his heart. Fearless Mike Tovey, “one of the strongest, biggest and most cheerful shotgun messengers in the employ of the Wells Fargo Express company that ever rode through the lonely mountain passes of the Sierras,” was dead.
Suspicion promptly centered on Milton Sharp, of course — Tovey had been instrumental in sending Sharp to Nevada State Prison for a series of Bodie stage robberies in 1880. After several failed attempts to escape Sharp had finally successfully broken out of prison in 1889, and had been running from the law for four years before Tovey was shot. Rumor was that Sharp had sent threatening letters to Tovey — or at least someone had, using Sharp’s name.
The hunt for Milton Sharp was on. He was soon captured in Red Bluff, California by a sharp-eyed police officer who recognized his “wanted” picture.
But somehow the sweet-talking bandit managed to convince authorities he wasn’t the one responsible for Tovey’s killing. And although he still had a sentence to serve for his original stage robberies, Sharp had by now served nearly half his original twenty-year sentence. He managed to talk Wells Fargo into recommending a pardon for this earlier crime, claiming he’d become “rehabilitated” during his years on the run. Sharp won a formal pardon in 1894 and was released. For the rest of his life he remained on the right side of the law — or so they say, anyway.
So . . . Sharp wasn’t convicted of Tovey’s murder. Instead, a petty criminal named Bill Evans confessed to the crime. Well, he offered up a confession to it. Modern lawyers would cringe to hear that he did so without benefit of having a lawyer present. Evans would later say he’d been drugged and set up by an over-eager sheriff and a cooperating stool pigeon.
Even the press expected a “not guilty” verdict when Evans finally came to trial, due to the large volume of what the newspapermen carefully termed “conflicting evidence.” None other than Wells Fargo’s own detective was convinced that Evans was not guilty.
It took two criminal trials. But three hours into deliberations following the second trial, a jury finally voted to convict. Evans was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison — for a murder he may or may not have committed.
So did Evans really shoot Tovey? Or did Sharp, Tovey’s long-time enemy, not only exact revenge for sending him to prison but also get away with murder?
And one other mystery: whatever happened to Milton Sharp’s robbery loot? Treasure-hunters are convinced that Sharp and his partner must have buried a good bit of their treasure. Estimates of how much was taken during the pair’s estimated 20 stage robberies vary. Some say it came to $6,000 (in 1880 dollars); others claim it could have been even more.
Small portions of the loot were said to have been found in 1910 by a pair of treasure-hunting brothers named Hess. Wouldn’t we all love to know where the rest might still be hiding.
P.S. We hope you’ll pay a visit to Mike Tovey’s grave if you’re ever at the Jackson City Cemetery. It’s close to Zacharius Kirkwood’s tall monument which has a ball on top.
(If you missed Part 1 of this story — the robbery of the Bodie stage that sent Sharp to prison — just click here.)
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After our recent round-up of Sierra history books (you can find it here), we realized we’d left off a number of our own favorites — and we’ve also gotten some more great suggestions from readers!
So check out this additional list for more fascinating Sierra history reads — and be sure to let us know if you have a favorite book to mention for next time!
A Road from El Dorado, by Will Bagley (ed.). The real-life trail diary of former Mormon Battalion member Ephraim Green, this is the true, day-by-day account of the pioneering Mormons who blazed what soon became known as the Mormon-Emigrant Trail over the Sierras in 1848 as they made their way eastward from California back to Salt Lake. If you’re not familiar with Will Bagley, here’s the Wikipedia summary about him.
Frontiersman Abner Blackburn’s Narrative, by Will Bagley (ed.) Another important work by noted historian Will Bagley, this is the story of Abner Blackburn, one of the original founders of Mormon Station in 1850 (the trading post which became Genoa). Blackburn’s adventurous life included multiple trips over the Sierra and discovering gold in Gold Canyon.
Such a Landscape, by William Henry Brewer. We included Brewer’s familiar Up and Down California in our earlier list, and a reader urged us to include this title as well. Such a Landscape is the story of early survey expeditions through the Sierra, including the weather they encountered, equipment they brought, and how they mapped the landscape and measured peaks, back in the day. These “aggressively healthy” adventurers made impressive climbs, in impressive time. A coffee-table-style book filled with pictures, and a great companion to some of John Muir’s writings. For the fascinating backstory on Brewer himself (did you know he’d just lost his wife and son shortly before his 1860 exploring adventures began?), here’s the Wikipedia thumbnail.
The Humboldt, by Dale L. Morgan. Two extremely knowledgeable history friends both raved about this book, and Kirkus Reviews called it “colorful, adventurous, exciting reading.” Debuting in 1943 as part of a book series called “Rivers of America,” this volume’s reach extends far beyond the Humboldt itself to include the history of Carson Valley — an early and important historical work.
The California Trail, by George R. Stewart. First published in 1964 in Great Britain, this engagingly-written narrative details America’s cross-continent migrations from 1841 through 1859, ending with a final chapter humorously titled “End of the Trail.” Great research is layered with unusual trail lore and beautifully-executed illustrations and maps. Among the line drawings are illustrations comparing three different styles of emigrant wagons, and detailing a trick for crossing a deep river with oxen. An excellent index at the back makes this a great find for history lovers and researchers.
Hetch Hetchy and Its Dam Railroad, by Ted Wurm. A reader kindly suggested this well-illustrated book; it’s the fascinating story of the railway built by San Francisco to support the building of the O’Shaughnessy Dam (an improvement for the city’s water supply). In operation between 1917 to 1949 (when it finally was dismantled), this 68-mile railroad not only transported goods and supplies for the dam but also brought passengers out on sleeper-car excursions to view the construction, eat at the project bunkhouse, and enjoy the forest. Great photos make this an especially fun read.
Hope you enjoy, and let us know your favorite Sierra read!
Did stage robberies still occur as late as 1893? Just ask poor Mike Tovey; he died in one.
The headstone of Mike Tovey stands its silent vigil in the Jackson City Cemetery. It was erected by his employer, Wells Fargo & Co., which evidently felt a bit guilty about Tovey’s death.
Our story begins back in 1880, when Tovey had been hired to guard the Bodie and Carson Stage. That stage, it seems, was in dire need of guarding, having risen high on the “frequent flyer” list for stage robbers. The coach was first robbed on June 4, 1880. Three months later, it was robbed again. Eventually the line accrued what may be a world’s record: six separate stages robbed in under four months, and perhaps as many as 20 robberies throughout the region! The whole robbery thing became, as one news article put it, “monotonous.”
Victims reported two robbers worked the hold-ups in tandem. One robber, it was reported, was a true gentleman… well-dressed and unfailingly polite to the unfortunates riding the stage. The other robber — well, not so much. Victims described his voice as gruff and his manner as frightening.
Wells Fargo assigned one of its best guards to the job: Mike Tovey. Tovey came well-equipped for stage protection. A giant of a man, he stood over six feet tall, was described simply as big, and had a reputation for being fearless.
Sure enough, on September 5, 1880, while Tovey was on stage-protection duty, two men stepped out to hold up the Bodie and Carson Stage yet again, this time about seven miles from Aurora. Tobey managed to shoot one of the would-be robbers, taking a return bullet in the arm himself.
As Tovey was being whisked off to a nearby farmhouse to have his bullet wound attended to, a second Wells Fargo guard scoured the nearby sagebrush for traces of the remaining bandit. But even as pursuers were beating the bushes to look for him, “the robber doubled on his tracks, returned to the stage, and carried off the treasure box” — with its $700 inside. Talk about a cool customer!
Wells Fargo, of course, was now more eager than ever to track down the villain — not to mention recover the money. Trained investigators were put on the task. These helpfully observed that the dead robber (the one Tovey had shot) had been wearing a peculiar “mask made of red morocco leather.” A clue worthy of a Sherlock Holmes himself!
Unfortunately, the dead robber’s body got buried before investigators ever thought to check the dead man’s pockets… but when they did think of it, they belatedly had the body exhumed again. Sure enough, there in the dead robber’s pockets was important evidence: a bank passbook noting the man’s name, a recent deposit of $1,000, and an address at a Minna Street rooming house in San Francisco.
The dead robber could now be officially identified as W.C. “Bill” Jones, aka Frank Dow. A felon who’d already served time at San Quentin, Jones (Dow) had been known for his heavy drinking, large beard, and scary-sounding voice.
Aided by the helpful address, Wells Fargo’s investigator now had no difficulty tracking the dead man to his room in San Francisco. Detectives descended on the boarding house and the room was searched (apparently without bothering with the nicety of a search warrant). Lo and behold, a gold watch, ring, and other jewelry taken during the June stage robbery were found. Adding to the evidence: swatches of morocco leather turned up, similar to the dead robber’s mask.
Jones’ fellow robber — the one who coolly made off with the cash box — was arrested at the same boarding house when he showed up a few hours later to “recover his valise.” Or at least, the authorities assumed it was the second robber. As soon as the valise-owner entered the house he was taken to the floor by deputies, a pair of pistols leveled at his head, and his belongings searched.
His name, he told them, was Milton Anthony Sharp. Newspaper accounts made Sharp sound as if he had just stepped out of a novel: he was “remarkably fine-looking,” with “jet-black hair, swarthy complexion,” a goatee and black mustache, not to mention “eyes that shine so brightly that it is impossible to distinguish their color.” A few lady readers may have swooned.
Sharp had the bad luck when arrested to be carrying an astronomical $2,400 in cash, along with other valuables. Naturally, he claimed he had come by it all honestly while working as a miner. But like his roommate, the dead robber, Sharp also had made a bank deposit on the very same day in the very same bank, and listed Minna Street as his address.
Sharp was hauled off for trial at Aurora, where he was convicted of five counts of robbery, and sent to cool his heels in State Prison for twenty years. There the gentleman bandit was described by his fellow prisoners as the “chief aristocrat in their midst,” or at least so the Pioche Record proclaimed in December, 1880.
But Sharp had a few tricks up his sleeve: he managed to escape incarceration not once but twice! While awaiting trial he tunneled his way out of the Aurora jail, taking off with a 15-pound ball-and-chain still attached, later found smashed against a rock. Sharp was quickly recaptured and sent off to state prison, but nine years later, managed to escape there, too.
Four years after his second escape, Sharp was still running from the law when someone shot Wells Fargo guard Mike Tovey for a second time, as he guarded the stage headed for Jackson. This time, the wound to Tovey proved instantly fatal.
Was the murderer Sharp? Tune in for the rest of the story in Part 2!
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If you’ve ever stopped at Woodfords, you may have seen the Wade House — and probably never gave it a second glance. But this small, nondescript green house has an amazing claim to fame: it’s said to be the oldest continuously-inhabited dwelling on the entire Eastern Sierra!
The original cabin (likely just a single room) was built by mill-builder Thomas Knott when he arrived in 1853. The cabin was sold that same year to John Cary, when Knott moved to Mormon Station to build yet another mill (one for which he would never get paid!) Some of the boards in the Wade House are said to be 18 and 24 inches in width, and probably were the product of Knott’s early sawmill.
Long before white settlers ever arrived, of course, the area around what is Woodfords today was a popular gathering spot and campsite for local Washo. Some of their descendants still live nearby. The trail up Carson Canyon (today’s Highway 88) is said to have been a major Native American trading route, used by Native Americans for centuries as they traded obsidian and pine nuts for acorn and other goods on the other side of the Sierra.
Cary sold the cabin to William Wade and his wife, Clarissa in the early 1860s. The Wades had crossed the plains in 1853 by wagon and settled initially near Fredericksburg. They moved here to Woodfords in 1858, where William was employed as a mill-hand at Cary’s lumber mill. He would later serve as the town’s postmaster and the local justice of the peace.
William’s younger brother, Orville, later came west as well with his wife and children. Orville ran a store and operated a small hotel here at Woodfords. Could the large addition to the Wade House have been added for them? We’ll probably never know for sure, but take a look at the left-hand section of building in top photo, above.
After nearly twenty happy years here at Woodfords, William Wade died in 1877 — the result of a terrible mistake. His son, James, had erysipelas, a bacterial infection of the skin. William came home one day with an open cut on his own wrist and, seeing James’ medicine bottle, dabbed a bit of the remedy on the wound, using a feather which his son had also used as an applicator. Within a few days the mistake became obvious: the infection spread through William’s body. Both his arms swelled up terribly and “mortification” (gangrene) set in. Concerned neighbors brought William to Genoa Hot Springs for treatment, but the doctor there pronounced it too late. The horrible swelling continued to spread, finally reaching William’s mouth and throat, and he died there at Walley’s from asphyxiation.
William’s brother Orville left Woodfords the following year for Oregon. Clarissa, now a widow, continued to live alone in the old Wade house, taking in boarders to help make ends meet. She passed away there in her home in January, 1890, one of the most severe winters on record. There was no way to bury her in the frozen earth, so townsfolk planted her body temporarily in a snowdrift until the spring thaw set in, when a proper grave could be prepared.
Clarissa — and most likely her husband, William, too — now rest in peace in the old graveyard just up the road from the old Wade House where they lived so long.
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Today’s Iron Mountain Road was the route the Mormons took as they headed east over the mountains in 1848. And it soon was followed by the great westward migration — becoming an important leg of the early Emigrant Trail as wagons rushed for Gold Country.
You may remember our earlier newsletter taking you as far as Leek Springs (here’s the short version: take Hwy 88 west and turn off at Mormon-Emigrant Trail, which is Iron Mountain Road. To read the complete earlier Leek Springs adventure, click here!).
Once you get to Leek Springs, stop and set your odometer. Continue past Leek Springs another 2.5 miles to find another historic T-post marking the Emigrant Trail. The T-post itself is not easily visible from the road, so watch carefully for the pullout on your right.
This Trail marker bears a great quote from an early emigrant named Tiffany, describing how the old route followed the ridge along the “divide.” That means that in many places the early Emigrant Trail stayed higher than today’s road. But its general path was roughly the same.
Keep an eye out as you travel the next few miles and you’ll see the old roadbed switching back and forth across the new one. At odometer reading 4.4 miles, for example, the Trail crosses from your right to left over the current paved roadway to follow the ridge. And at 4.6, it swings back again to the right.
At 9.9 miles you’ll begin to see oak trees make an appearance. Westward-bound gold-seekers were happy to welcome this lower-elevation vegetation species, as they now were able to feed oak leaves to their hungry cattle.
About 21.5 miles into your journey you’ll come to beautiful Jenkinson Lake. After crossing the second dam, watch for a beautiful green-patinaed historic plaque on your right, erected by the Pollock Pines Rotary.
Here at the Lake, the Jenkinson Lake Sly Park Recreation Area offers a cool waterfall hike, and yes, dogs are allowed (for an extra fee!). For complete information about the park and great photos of the waterfall and the hiking trail, check out this description here. (Scroll down after the page opens.)
Before the lake was created by the dams, this area was a large stream-fed meadow. This made it a great spot for grazing, and the eastward-bound Mormon Battalion stopped here to camp for over a week in July, 1848, dubbing it “Sly Park” (after one of their members), for its “park-like” appearance. Here the anxious Mormons dispatched ten of their men to find the trail ahead and also to look for their three missing scouts (whose bodies they’d sadly find when they eventually reached Tragedy Spring). For a great summary of the history of Sly Park, including its prehistoric use by native Maidu and Miwok peoples and early local ranchers, read here.
As you continue the journey you’ll soon reach a stop sign where the road comes to a “T”. Re-set your odometer here and take left-hand road toward Pleasant Valley on Sly Park Road. In another 1.5 miles you’ll pass an Environmental Ed Center on your right; this is used to teach teachers about environmental issues. (For more information about the Center, seewww.slyparkcenter.org).
If you have a bit of time, continue to enjoy this rural road as it winds its delightful way into Placerville! (A longer but much more scenic way to get there than the freeway!)
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#Emigrant Trail #Amador County #History #road trip
Have you ever driven past Cook’s and Ham’s Stations on Highway 88, and wanted to know their stories?
Yup, these were original old “stations” along the early Amador and Nevada Wagon Road in the 1860s! Here’s the scoop:
The “Volcano Cut-Off” had ferried travelers from the Old Emigrant Road in this direction since 1852. Then in 1862, Amador voters approved a $25,000 bond to finance a new and improved wagon road to the Amador county seat of Jackson — and it was to be a new toll road, mind you!
The merchants in Jackson were understandably in favor of this new enterprise, which would make it easier for traffic to reach the county seat. Yes, the new route was to be a toll road. But its advantages were substantial. For one thing it cut around the Carson Spur, allowing travelers to skip the arduous climb over West Pass. And as a new (and very expensive) roadbed, the going would be far better than the previous road. As Amador historian Larry Cenotto put it, “Roadside inns, like weeds, sprang up in anticipation” of the new wagon road’s opening!
By the summer of 1863, the new “Amador and Nevada Wagon Road” was open for business. With its start at Antelope Springs (Dewdrop), it continued east as far as Hope Valley (still part of Amador County until the following year).
The original establishment at the site now known as Cook’s Station was an inn owned by Charley Stedham (sometimes spelled Steadham), which opened as early as 1852 to serve travelers heading to Volcano. The way station went through several owners after Charley, becoming first Hipkin’s, then Wiley’s, and eventually Cook’s.
Sometime after 1905, the old way station was acquired by Louis H. Cook. A resident of Volcano, Cook served as an Amador County supervisor and also road superintendent for the section of state road west of Kirkwood’s. In addition to owning this famous wayside stop that now bears his name, Cook also was proprietor of the St. George Hotel in Volcano.
If you stop in for lunch at Cook’s Station today, be sure to check out their great old photos of this historic spot, including this one, below!
And don’t miss the great framed letter and wedding photo on the wall near Cook’s counter! Della Reeves Gillick wrote about working at Cook’s Station circa 1891-95, when her father operated the Station. Teamsters hauling lumber with 12-mule teams from the sawmill up the road would often stop in for a bite to eat or to spend the night. She describes the dirt road out front as “shoe-top deep” in dust, churned up by passing traffic (just as you can see in the photo above!)
Gillick recalls pumping water by hand from the outside well and carrying it into the house to do cooking or laundry. “I sure done my share of pumpin’,” she recalls.
Ham’s Station, east of Cook’s on Highway 88, is another original stop along the old toll road. Amador historian Larry Cenotto notes that this site was originally Smith’s Hotel, built in 1863, and subsequently was operated by “Tulloch, Horsley & Co.” in 1864.
By the 1880s, the station had been acquired by A.C. Ham and his brother, who gave it the name it bears today: “Ham’s Station.” Born in Kentucky in 1841, Ham came west in 1855 to join his father, J.C. Ham, a builder who had emigrated earlier. A.C. Ham mined for a time before taking up the hotel business. He later became “sole owner of the Modoc mine in the Pioneer district.” There, it was said, he “is familiar with all the resorts of the grizzlies . . . for persons wishing for a few days’ rural amusement.”
In later, years, Ham’s Station was owned by W.E. Proctor, who sold it in 1900 to Joseph Dufrene for the sum of $450. In the early 1900s it went through a quick succession of managers, including John Votaw, Joseph Mello, and L. Mooney.
We hear that Ham’s Station has now been sold — kudo’s to whoever purchased this amazing bit of history!
A special thank-you to historian Frank Tortorich for his kind assistance with this article. We also were pleased to find great information in Larry Cenotto’s wonderful “Logan’s Alley,” Vol. V (2006, Word Dancer Press), which contains much more about the history of the Amador-Nevada Wagon Road and the pioneering Amador families!
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