When gardening is an addiction, no expanse of perfectly-manicured green lawn is ever large enough. Yet another reason for expanding the greenbelt: fresh edges for new flower beds.
As you can see, projects like this call for certain must-have gardening equipment. A mini-tiller to make short work of digging trenches. A handy roll-around metal tool tray to keep those sprinkler parts organized and at waist height (no bending over). A quad, of course (doesn’t every high mountain garden need one?) with its own dump-style trailer to haul away the rocks.
Soon we will have yet another beautiful swath of emerald-green lawn, edged in glorious flowers.
The ad announcing the opening of the Silver Lake Hotel in June, 1866 spared no adjectives. The air was “pure,” the scenery “delightful,” the lake itself “bottomless” and “abounding with delicious trout.” And if “sweltering mortals” from Sacramento and San Joaquin needed further inducement to travel the Amador Road for a visit, the proprietors urged them to escape in “these Cholera times!”
The Hotel’s proprietors, Hampton P. Wade and Samuel W. Evans, promised “strict attention to the wants and comfort of guests.” Nightly dancing parties were planned, with lessons given during the day for those desiring to brush up on the “latest styles of dancing.” Music would be provided by Messrs. Church, Jones and Busan, engaged for the entire season. Other amusements included hunting for petrified wood and shells (never mind that shells were probably not very abundant). And on the dinner table for every meal: fresh trout.
Visitors who planned to camp out were cautioned, however, to “bring tents with them,” as the earlier practice of cutting brush or perhaps felling a few trees to build a camping shelter would now be strictly prohibited.
Vacationing at Silver Lake was still going strong a decade later. In July, 1876 one party of happy fishermen made the news for reportedly pulling 1,400 fish from Silver Lake in less than 12 hours.
As for the hotel itself, photos show it survived into the early 1900s, although slightly the worse for wear.
Those fabulous Civil War-era dresses came by their bell shape honestly — yards and yards of fabric, with some generous help from a hidden hoop underskirt. Sewing an overskirt is easy enough — so how hard could it be to make a proper hoop petticoat?
I started my adventure with an online pattern, found here. It was, well, a great start!
But after two days of trial and error (and a fair amount of hair-pulling), here is my own version of a Civil War hoop-skirt pattern, along with tips, suggestions, and a few mistakes to avoid!
Fabric: 3 yards of strong cotton (avoid anything that would stretch easily), at least 32” in width
Bias Tape: 11 yards of 1-1/4” to 1-1/2”-wide bias tape (or use 1” tape and fold it open prior to stitching)
Boning: 11 yards of ¾” flat plastic boning (plumber’s tape was my solution! See photo below.)
Extra stiffening for bottom hoop: ¼” flexible but firm plastic tubing (aka vinyl sprinkler line)
Lace Trim: 10 feet of 4” to 6”-wide lace (washable)
And (of course) Thread; Hooks-and-eyes; Buttons.
Cut out the three pieces as shown. (I used 16” for my A and B; next time I would probably make them 18” wide instead.) For the waistband length, measure your waist and add four inches.
Run a double row of long gathering stitches at the tops of pieces A and B.
Pull threads to gather the top of piece B. Then with right sides of A and B together, sew the top of B to the bottom of A, adjusting the gathers on B as necessary. Press the seam up, and stitch again on top of the gathers to hold them in place. Then sew the lace trim along the bottom of Piece B.
Fold the skirt with right sides together, and stitch the back seam closed, leaving the top 5 inches open (unstitched). Finish the edges of the 5” opening by zig-zagging the cut edges, and then fold the edges to the inside of the garment and top-stitch along both sides of the opening.
Fold the waistband in half, wrong side out, and stitch the two short ends. Turn right side out and press so you have a straight line along the top of the band. Mark the correct dimension for your waist (where the waistband will overlap), which will leave a tab of about 3 or 4 extra inches.
Attach one edge of the waistband to Piece A, with right sides together, adjusting the gathers as necessary to fit. Turn the waistband right side out (turning the loose side of the waistband inside the skirt), pin in place, and then top-stitch on the right side, running your stitches all the way to the end of the tab. Finish by adding two hooks and eyes on the square edge, and a button and buttonhole to secure the tab.
Turn the skirt inside out. Stitch four rows of bias tape equally-spaced down the skirt, starting with a row just above the lace trim (at the bottom of Piece B). Add a second row of bias tape about half-way up Piece B; a third row on top of the gathered seam; and the fourth row mid-way up piece A. At the end of each bias tape row, leave 2” to 3” of extra tape loose at the back seam so it’s easy to insert the boning.
Note: Be sure when you stitch down your bias tape that it leaves you an open tube more than 1” wide in which to insert the boning, or you’ll be fighting with it for hours! (Voice of experience here!)
Insert flat plastic boning in each of the four bias-tape tubes, leaving about 4” excess at both ends to play with. Caution: do not use the thin mesh boning material commonly sold at fabric stores; that may work great for corsets and other lightweight stiffening uses, but it does not provide the necessary stiffness for a hoop petticoat! It’s also horribly expensive (voice of experience again).
The best plastic boning material I found was polypropylene hanger strap (aka plumber’s tape), available at most hardware stores. It’s cheap; it’s tough; it’s waterproof; and it holds its shape. For the very bottom row, additional stiffening will be needed; I added flexible vinyl ¼” sprinkler line, taping it to the flat boning material prior to inserting it into the bias tape tube.
Now comes the fun (actually not-so-fun) part — trying to get that bell-shape look just right! There’s no easy way to do it; it just takes trial and error. Adjust the length and gather of each row of boning until you are happy with the look. And (voice of experience again), don’t cut it until you are sure you have it right!
Once you are satisfied with the shape, cut the boning to size, overlapping the cut ends by 1” to 2” and tape the cut ends using electrician’s tape to hold them securely. Then cut away the excess bias tape and hand-stitch each row closed.
Voila! A simple hoop skirt you can make at home to properly show off your Civil War dress creations!
There’s a peculiar red streak in the cliff just south of Hangman’s bridge. Blink and you’ll miss it; today, most people drive by without a glance. But to Markleeville old-timers, this was where a valuable mineral resource was mined.
Back in the day, homes were roofed with simple wooden shingles. Jacob Marklee himself is said to have covered his entire cabin using shakes hewn from the local sugar pine. Wooden shingles were cheap, they were practical, and the material was readily available. But wooden shakes have an unfortunate tendency to shrink and to rot.
And that’s where this unusual deposit of red soil came in handy. The color at this site comes from cinnabar — a type of mineral earth laced with mercury. Old-time residents recall Markleeville homeowners mixing this red clay with linseed oil and painting the thick mixture on their roofs every year. It not only helped the shingles to shed water but also helped deter rot. The colorful result: all of the houses in Markleeville once had pink roofs.
The Native Americans, too, knew about this lode of red pigment. The local Washo used it to make ceremonial paint to adorn their faces and bodies. Washo chief Captain Jim was said to have painted his face and body with red and black paint when he defended the sacred cave just up the old road from this site. It is quite likely he mined the red pigment right here.
Interested in exploring more Markleeville lore? Check out our Self-Guided Walking Tour of Markleeville, available at www.clairitage.com.
The year was 1864. William A. Johnson, road superintendent for Carr & Co., was building a new toll road from Markleeville to the booming mining camp of Silver Mountain. There was just one obstacle in his way: Captain Jim, a Washo Chief. The new toll road, it seems, was passing too close for comfort to a cave long used by the tribe as a shelter in winter, and as a ceremonial spot for their medicine man.
Superintendent Johnson was impatient to finish his wagon road, but the Washo chief knew the value of the location and demanded a stiff price for the site: fifty dollars. And on that point he was adamant: “No pay, no road.”
According to the local newspaper, Captain Jim laid in an abundant supply of pine nuts, acorns, and grasshoppers, and took up residence at the cave. He painted his face and chest with red and black paint, kept his bow at the ready, and slug a fox-skin bag filled with arrows across his back.
Finally, the road superintendent brokered a meeting, and a pipe of peace was smoked. The agreed-upon purchase price was handed over, and a large plug of tobacco thrown in to sweeten the deal. Capt. Jim would permit the new road to be built.
Johnson departed for Markleeville to write up their agreement. But as it turned out, he wasn’t going to acquire such an important right-of-way quite so cheaply. As a contemporary news account explained: “During his absence, Captain Jim distrained and disappeared — and so did Johnson’s overcoat valued at $25.”
This historic Washo Cave is still visible today, along with traces of Johnson’s original old wagon road. To reach it, follow Highway 89 about 1.3 miles beyond the bridge at Markleeville and park at the pull-off before Hangman’s Bridge. The trail to your right leads the short distance to the cave.
According to one long-time local, this cave also saw more recent use: located out of sight and a convenient distance from town, it housed a temporary bar during Prohibition days. The cave also briefly sheltered at least one run-away prisoner from the Markleeville jail. The fast-thinking inmate had engineered his escape by pulling the door of his cell closed and the jailor simply forgot to lock it.
He was a big man with a large moustache and outsized energy.
Born in 1874 in Villa de Maya, Spain, Julian Maisterrena was a Spanish Basque who came to this country at the age of 19 with his pockets empty. Julian worked in sawmills and as a sheepherder, and tucked his meager salary away. Before long he was the proud owner of a band of sheep of his own. Then two bands. Then nine.
Markleeville isn’t usually thought of as “sheep country.” But it was to Julian. He bought the Mayo Ranch southeast of town, and also grazed flocks on the lush meadows of the old Monroe Ranch across the creek. In all, Julian owned over 1,000 acres in Alpine and held thousands more through grazing rights. And he brought a veritable circus to Markleeville every spring, courtesy of the V&T Railroad.
Julian’s home ranch east of Bellota stretched some 4,900 acres. Every year when it was time to move the sheep up to summer pastures in Alpine, the flocks would be driven on the long trip beginning at Clements, up Pipi Valley, over Echo Summit and then down through Hope Valley to their pasture at Markleeville. But Maisterrena wasn’t about to leave the rest of his ranch behind. Instead, he arranged for his entire stockyard to be shipped along each year as well: 100 head of cattle, an equal number of pigs, goats, and horses, and flocks and flocks of chickens and geese were all loaded on rail cars to make the journey.
Just think of the logistics: ranch hands had to travel with the animals aboard the train to feed the livestock and milk the cows. Sacks of feed and barrels of water were needed to sustain the animals for the trip. A summer “kitchen” and all its equipment and supplies had to be packed up and loaded aboard as well. And the journey wasn’t over once the V&T engine chugged into Minden; everything then had to be ferried another 25 miles to the summer camp at Markleeville. Once they arrived, there was all the work of tending so many animals: horses to be shod, harness to be mended, hay to be cut, and hungry help to be fed.
Camp fare for Maisterrena’s sheep hands included (of course) abundant ham, bacon, and sausage. There was homemade bread, baked at the camp in dutch ovens. And everything would be washed down with homemade wine. It was no easy task for the hard-working cook, who also was tasked with gathering and chopping all the firewood, hauling the water, and tending a camp garden.
Julian was a ranch man — he didn’t drive a car. Instead his transportation consisted of a pair of fine white horses hitched to a black buckboard wagon. He favored crisp new Levis and dapper Stetson hats, and puffed on Optimo cigars (which were “the best,” he said). He carried a black valise at all times for important paperwork, and carried his money in a drawstring leather bag. While in Markleeville, his “office” was the bar at the Alpine Hotel, and he could be found there most mornings, doing business and playing cards, with a glass at his elbow.
Julian suffered a stroke at his Markleeville camp during the summer of 1943, and by December, he was dead. His estate included over $200,000 in assets — the equivalent of millions today. It took several years, but the estate was finally probated. Julian had no children of his own, but with assistance from the Spanish embassy, his hard-earned fortune was distributed to his relatives in Spain.
Even today, people who grew up in Markleeville still remember those summers when Julian and his sheep came to town. “In the evenings, you could hear the Basques singing over across the river,” remembers one local lad. “Everybody in town could hear it. It was like drawing a moth to a flame, we kids just migrated up there. They’d hand you a big water glass, and pour it with wine.”
Women’s fashion during the Civil War was really something. Dresses ran the gamut depending on the woman’s imagination — and whether she was wealthy enough to afford a high-end sewing maven to craft clothes for her.
It was, after all, a time of war. So even women’s dresses often took on a “military” look.
But fashion was still fashion; well-dressed women knew how to splurge.
The “look” was captured in innumerable ladies’ magazines, such as Godey’s: wasp-waisted, full-sleeved, and above all, utterly demure.
And those skirts! Exactly how they sat down remains a bit of a mystery.
A stylish hat was a necessity if you were going outside, of course. And regardless of whether rain was in the forecast or not, a parasol was another mandatory accoutrement.
Not everyone was a dress-making whiz, of course. Some women clearly didn’t have the designer’s gene. These photos display less-than-lavish versions of typical 1860s fashions, or even a decidedly homespun touch.
In other pictures, it’s clear that the woman’s infatuation with fashion magazines got the better of her.
What ever possessed the makers of these, for example, not only to sew but wear them?
But cringe-worthy though they may seem today, at the time these creations were considered photo-worthy.
Still, some period photos clearly show a designer who knew what she was doing.
One of my favorites is this beautiful gown, with elegant white undersleeves and understated geometric accents. Yet another glorious design is this one —
a day dress, probably in cotton, featuring fashionable
checks and a generous bustle.
And then there were these lovely creations:
But all of these fashions had to be sewn! While the treadle sewing machine had already been invented, not every family could afford one.
Women were eminently practical about the whole sewing concept. They often sewed together as a way to make the time pass more pleasantly.
And they wasted no time getting to work, when just a stitch or two was needed. Here’s my all-time favorite photo:
For more than a hundred images of Civil War-era fashions, see:
We stumbled across the grave of Robert Marshall Briggs the other day in St. Patrick’s Cemetery in Jackson. It was a familiar name from Alpine’s early days. And that led to a story about a bandit, a hanging, how Mono County got its beautiful courthouse — and Alpine County’s very first D.A..
Robert M. Briggs was born in Morganfield, Kentucky in 1816, and trained as a lawyer. By the time he was in his twenties Robert had moved to Hannibal, Missouri, and son Nash C. Briggs was born there in 1838. About 1848, Briggs and his family moved to Wisconsin and four years later they came west — settling first at Olita, and then in Jackson, California.
In Jackson, Robert Briggs built a large Greek Revival-style house beside the creek in 1856 and opened a law practice, which his son Nash would join in 1859.
Robert Briggs was short in stature. But despite what one writer called his “petite form,” he was always eager to give a speech. In one particularly funny tale, Robert was asked to speak to a gathering at a union meeting in San Francisco in 1861. Other speakers droned on and on and, deciding that the moderators had overlooked him, Robert retired to a nearby bar to “drown his disappointment.” Much later in the evening he was tapped on the shoulder and told “they’re calling for you.” Despite being too tipsy to deliver his oration safely from a balcony, Briggs rallied to the occasion and delivering a rousing speech — none of which he was able to remember the following day, except for the enthusiastic applause.
By 1864, R.M. Briggs had become the district attorney for Amador County, a lucrative post that allowed him to hire his son, Nash, as his deputy D.A. But in 1865, Robert Briggs was sued by competitor John A. Eagan over the title of District Attorney, and went on to other pursuits. That year he acquired the printing press of the former Amador Dispatch and began publishing a newspaper he called the Union Advocate, conveniently headquartered next door to the Constitution Saloon in Jackson.
Perhaps looking for greener pastures, R.M. Briggs followed the throngs of eager miners in 1878 to the new boomtown of Bodie, opening a law practice and serving as registrar of the U.S. Land Office. The following year he ran for judge of the Superior Court in Mono County as a member of the “Know Nothing” party, and was elected.
Once on the bench, Briggs had a few choice words for the Mono County Supervisors about Mono County’s original ramshackle wooden court building, calling it a “disgrace to the county.”
It seems the supervisors listened; a beautiful new Mono County courthouse was erected in 1880. R.M. Briggs continued to serve as a judge at Bridgeport until his death in December, 1886, although his family remained on the western side of the mountains. His body was returned to Jackson for burial at the St. Patrick Catholic Cemetery in Jackson.
Robert’s son, Nash, grew up working in his father’s law practice and when Alpine County was formed, ran for District Attorney at the county’s inaugural election in 1864. Just 26 years old at the time, Nash won the post with 980 votes compared to 623 for his competitor, a lawyer named Armstrong. Nash moved up to the remote new mining community of Silver Mountain City, Alpine’s early county seat, and two years later, married the former Annie Barton.
Young Briggs’ first term of office wasn’t without waves, however. In 1867, the local Chronicle newspaper questioned the “economy” of paying the brand new D.A. $445 “to go to San Francisco and live at the Occidental Hotel on the fat of the land, when he is paid $125 per month to live in Silver Mountain and partake of the same fare as the overburdened taxpayer.” Despite this brush with controversy, N.C. Briggs was re-elected to his post on the Union ticket in 1867.
In 1869, Nash and his wife Annie moved to a part of Monterey County (which became San Benito County in 1874), where he helped form the town of Hollister and served another two terms as the San Benito District Attorney.
In perhaps his most notable criminal case, Nash Briggs delivered the opening statement for the prosecution at the 1875 San Jose murder trial of notorious outlaw and ladies’ man Tiburcio Vasquez.
Vasquez had robbed Snyder’s Store in Tres Pinos, San Benito County and during the robbery three people had been killed. Although Vasquez himself may not have pulled the trigger, Nash Briggs argued heartily for the death penalty. After deliberating just two hours, the jury agreed. Vasquez was hanged on March 19, 1875 — to the “entire satisfaction” of a reporter from the Los Angeles Weekly Star, and the great disappointment of the dashing Vasquez’s numerous female admirers.
As for N.C. Briggs, he acquired a large and lovely home in Hollister, California and lived out his days there, passing away at the age of 75 in September, 1913.
N.C. Briggs and his wife Annie are both buried at the I.O.O.F. Cemetery in Hollister.
But a mystery remains: prominent though he was, we have been unable to locate any photo of Briggs himself!
One glance, and you just know this Markleeville cottage has a story! And quite a story it is.
In 1864, this was the site of the Empire Meat Market, owned by a butcher named M. Peltier. To help promote sales, Peltier hired Augustus T. “Gus” Lee to run a meat wagon peddling his meat to outlying communities like Monitor. It seemed like a good idea at the outset, but the mobile meat market idea proved a dud. One day after Lee returned from his rounds, Peltier informed Lee that he was now unemployed.
Lee had just lost a young daughter and was already grieving. Another calamity was too much. After fortifying himself with a drink or three at a bar close by, Lee stormed back to the meat market and confronted Lee with a raised fist. The startled Peltier did what all good butchers would do; he picked up a meat cleaver to defend himself. Lee quickly found a butcher knife to even the odds and proceeded to stab Peltier in the throat — all of which goes to prove that a meat market is a pretty inauspicious place to hold a fight.
Peltier was able to stagger down the street to the office of Dr. Waters (roughly behind today’s courthouse), but soon expired from his wounds. Lee himself was so badly wounded that court proceedings against him were delayed.
Needless to say, the butcher shop changed hands. The following year (1865) it reopened with new proprietors H.L. Marsden and C.H. Kilgore at the helm.
Yet another tragedy ensued here twenty years later when the Great Fire of 1885 engulfed most of Markleeville’s downtown. The butcher shop was smack in the middle of the conflagration and became one of the many casualties of the fire. Then-owner John Cronkite promptly rebuilt, however, erecting another butcher shop on the same site — today’s building — in 1886. According to local lore, the basement was specially constructed to stay cool, using sixteen-inch walls filled with dirt. Ice harvested from the creek in winter months likely also helped provide refrigeration.
The property remained a meat market until about 1916 when it was purchased by William Barrett and his wife, Wilda (the local postmistress), and the Barretts converted it to a residence. It later became the home of woodworker William Eggleston, who added the section on the north as a workshop. War hero Hoke Barrett and his wife June lived here in later years, and Hoke is said to have added the quonset hut on the side.
Today, the former butcher shop is a private residence, and the quonset hut features an eye-catching tie-dye emporium in summer months.
This charming cottage may hold a giant secret: it just could be Markleeville’s oldest surviving original structure from its Silver Rush heydays.
We know that the home is over a century old – photographs show it in 1905, when it served as the residence of George and Nellie Koenig. (George owned a bar known as Koenig’s Exchange, conveniently located right across the street.)
Daughter Lucille was born in this house in 1906 and eventually grew up to be Alpine’s Sheriff – the first woman sheriff in all of California! Locals still call this the “pink house,” thanks to the family’s whimsical choice in paint.
While a century alone is a respectable life-span, at least one tantalizing hint suggests this quaint house may be even older still: square nails were reportedly found in the walls during remodeling.
If this is indeed the original building at this site, it has a fabulous history! The town’s early newspaper, the Alpine Chronicle, opened its doors here in 1864 as Markleeville was booming — and while the Civil War was still raging. Patriotic publisher R.M. Folger proudly flew a flag outside his office, and the town’s Armory was right across the street.
Journalist Henry Eno would have strolled down Montgomery Street to cross the Chronicle‘s threshhold in 1865; a job here as an editor is what first brought Eno to town. He later would become an Alpine County judge. Snuggling beside the Chronicle office on the half-lot to the west was a “store” run by William Timson – featuring a billiard table and a full stock of “wines, liquors, cordials, and syrups.”
The Chronicle moved its operation to the county seat at Silver Mountain City in September, 1867, and thereafter the building was converted into a residence. Thanks to “hard work” by homeowner James Stuard in 1885, it managed to survive Markleeville’s Great Fire although much of Main Street was wiped out in the catastrophe.
Today the property remains a private residence (thankfully no longer painted pink). As for the home’s exact age – for now, it’s a subject of rumor, speculation and conjecture. But this just could be the oldest surviving structure from early Markleeville.