Rick Just's Blog, page 15
August 11, 2024
Idaho's First County
Which Idaho county was created first? That seems like a straightforward question, but history often has a dose of quirk.
Owyhee County was indisputably the first to be created by the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1863. But Boise, Idaho, Nez Perce, and Shoshone were already counties when Idaho Territory was created. How so? They were created by the Washington Territorial Legislature when what we think of today as North Idaho was a part of that territory. Idaho lawmakers didn’t get around to officially recognizing them until 1864.
Owyhee County is big. Originally it was even bigger. The original county was all the land south of the Snake River and west of the Rockies. That lasted about a month before the Idaho Territorial Legislature took a big chunk of it for Oneida County. Today, puny little thing, Owyhee County is only the second largest county in the state at 7,697 square miles, behind Idaho County, which is 8,503 square miles. You could fit Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Washington DC into Owyhee County with 540 square miles to spare. But why would you want to? It would only irritate the jackrabbits.
Owyhee County was indisputably the first to be created by the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1863. But Boise, Idaho, Nez Perce, and Shoshone were already counties when Idaho Territory was created. How so? They were created by the Washington Territorial Legislature when what we think of today as North Idaho was a part of that territory. Idaho lawmakers didn’t get around to officially recognizing them until 1864.
Owyhee County is big. Originally it was even bigger. The original county was all the land south of the Snake River and west of the Rockies. That lasted about a month before the Idaho Territorial Legislature took a big chunk of it for Oneida County. Today, puny little thing, Owyhee County is only the second largest county in the state at 7,697 square miles, behind Idaho County, which is 8,503 square miles. You could fit Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Washington DC into Owyhee County with 540 square miles to spare. But why would you want to? It would only irritate the jackrabbits.
August 10, 2024
Twin Falls Tunnels
The canals built by the Twin Falls Land and Water Company brought water to the Magic Valley, making it one of Idaho’s most productive agricultural areas. Bringing water to the desert made it bloom. But after a few years of planting crops, farmers learned something completely unexpected. They had too much water.
Milner Dam, built in 1905, feeds many miles of canals with Snake River water. The loess and alluvium of the desert provide the soil for the crops, but it’s a thin deposit blown in eons ago. Thirty or forty feet below the surface lies lava rock, a solid barrier to water drainage.
In the 1920s, farmers sometimes found themselves standing hip-deep in mud because their irrigation water had nowhere to go. So, in addition to the miles of canals on the surface, the Twin Falls Land and Water Company determined that they needed a drainage system to take the agricultural runoff back to the Snake River.
Beginning in 1926, tunnel crews dug, blasted, and drilled what would become a tunnel system nearly 22 miles in length. Some 350 men dug the tunnels between 1926 and 1951. Some 20 died in the effort, mostly when explosives detonated prematurely.
The tunnels average about six feet high and four feet wide. Water about 18 inches deep flows along the floor. It gets there from hundreds of holes drilled in the top of the tunnels to allow the saturated soil above to drain.
One can only imagine how many teenagers and older people who should have known better explored those tunnels over the years. Today, most of the entrances are sealed. Those that remain are kept a secret and for good reason. As one gets further back into the system, breathable air decreases, creating a hazard to anyone who enters.
Milner Dam under construction in 1908.
Milner Dam, built in 1905, feeds many miles of canals with Snake River water. The loess and alluvium of the desert provide the soil for the crops, but it’s a thin deposit blown in eons ago. Thirty or forty feet below the surface lies lava rock, a solid barrier to water drainage.
In the 1920s, farmers sometimes found themselves standing hip-deep in mud because their irrigation water had nowhere to go. So, in addition to the miles of canals on the surface, the Twin Falls Land and Water Company determined that they needed a drainage system to take the agricultural runoff back to the Snake River.
Beginning in 1926, tunnel crews dug, blasted, and drilled what would become a tunnel system nearly 22 miles in length. Some 350 men dug the tunnels between 1926 and 1951. Some 20 died in the effort, mostly when explosives detonated prematurely.
The tunnels average about six feet high and four feet wide. Water about 18 inches deep flows along the floor. It gets there from hundreds of holes drilled in the top of the tunnels to allow the saturated soil above to drain.
One can only imagine how many teenagers and older people who should have known better explored those tunnels over the years. Today, most of the entrances are sealed. Those that remain are kept a secret and for good reason. As one gets further back into the system, breathable air decreases, creating a hazard to anyone who enters.
Milner Dam under construction in 1908.
August 9, 2024
The First Female Mayor
In her obituary, Laura Stockton Starcher was called a “pioneer Idaho resident.” True, she was born in Missouri in 1874, but her parents brought her to Parma when she was a year old. She lived for decades in Idaho and was buried in what she considered her hometown, Parma, when she died in 1960.
I’m defending Starcher’s Idaho bona fides because her claim to fame was something she did while she and her husband lived in Umatilla, Oregon. You’re welcome to quibble with me about whether this is Idaho history, but I remain the guy who writes this blog.
Laura Stockton Starcher was the leading figure of what newspapers across the country in 1916 called the Petticoat Revolution. At a card party several days before the municipal election, hostess Mrs. Robert Merrick convinced six of her friends, all women, that they should run for city council. Starcher would run for mayor. This came as a surprise to E.E. Starcher who was the incumbent mayor and Laura Starcher’s husband.
The surprise was part of the fun for the women. They were mostly mum about their plan, telling no man about it. All ran as write-ins, counting on the support of the women of Umatilla, who had gained the right to vote four years earlier.
At noon on election day the women won the majority of the seats on the city council. Starcher—the distaff Starcher—won the mayor’s seat by a vote of 28-6. The men had a good laugh over it and stepped back to let the women run the town.
It was a joke that was not a joke. The women recognized the humor in their plot, but they were also serious about bettering the town.
Madam Mayor Starcher, quoted in an interview in the Idaho Statesman, said, “Well, my husband’s administration claimed that the reason it accomplished so little for the city was that it was impossible to get the entire council, or even a quorum, out. Now, I intend to get my council out in this way. We will all be women except the two holdovers, men, who, I understand, are going to learn to do fancy work, in order to feel at home with us, and I shall turn the city council meetings into afternoon teas if necessary, in order to be sure of the full council being present.”
Starcher had a unique plan for ridding Umatilla of gambling, “the only grave violation of the law we know of.” She would appoint women, one a week, as detectives. No one would know who that week’s detective was. They would be unpaid, because “accomplishing results will be sufficient reward for the women.”
Now, dear reader if you are a woman, prepare to grit your teeth. The Statesman article noted that she was a “stylish little mayor, too… She is small and dainty, exceedingly vivacious and good looking. She wore, while in Boise, the most up-to-date of trotteur suits of Burgundy red, which suited her brunette type, and her stunning velvet hat and fox furs added to her chic appearance.”
We can’t judge editorial decisions made in 1916 through a 2021 lens. This was at a time when women were barely a blip on the political radar, so Mayor Starcher was treated as something of a unicorn. She was, after all, the first woman mayor in the United States.
KTVB's Hunter Funk did a nice piece about Starcher recently you can view it here.
I’m defending Starcher’s Idaho bona fides because her claim to fame was something she did while she and her husband lived in Umatilla, Oregon. You’re welcome to quibble with me about whether this is Idaho history, but I remain the guy who writes this blog.
Laura Stockton Starcher was the leading figure of what newspapers across the country in 1916 called the Petticoat Revolution. At a card party several days before the municipal election, hostess Mrs. Robert Merrick convinced six of her friends, all women, that they should run for city council. Starcher would run for mayor. This came as a surprise to E.E. Starcher who was the incumbent mayor and Laura Starcher’s husband.
The surprise was part of the fun for the women. They were mostly mum about their plan, telling no man about it. All ran as write-ins, counting on the support of the women of Umatilla, who had gained the right to vote four years earlier.
At noon on election day the women won the majority of the seats on the city council. Starcher—the distaff Starcher—won the mayor’s seat by a vote of 28-6. The men had a good laugh over it and stepped back to let the women run the town.
It was a joke that was not a joke. The women recognized the humor in their plot, but they were also serious about bettering the town.
Madam Mayor Starcher, quoted in an interview in the Idaho Statesman, said, “Well, my husband’s administration claimed that the reason it accomplished so little for the city was that it was impossible to get the entire council, or even a quorum, out. Now, I intend to get my council out in this way. We will all be women except the two holdovers, men, who, I understand, are going to learn to do fancy work, in order to feel at home with us, and I shall turn the city council meetings into afternoon teas if necessary, in order to be sure of the full council being present.”
Starcher had a unique plan for ridding Umatilla of gambling, “the only grave violation of the law we know of.” She would appoint women, one a week, as detectives. No one would know who that week’s detective was. They would be unpaid, because “accomplishing results will be sufficient reward for the women.”
Now, dear reader if you are a woman, prepare to grit your teeth. The Statesman article noted that she was a “stylish little mayor, too… She is small and dainty, exceedingly vivacious and good looking. She wore, while in Boise, the most up-to-date of trotteur suits of Burgundy red, which suited her brunette type, and her stunning velvet hat and fox furs added to her chic appearance.”
We can’t judge editorial decisions made in 1916 through a 2021 lens. This was at a time when women were barely a blip on the political radar, so Mayor Starcher was treated as something of a unicorn. She was, after all, the first woman mayor in the United States.
KTVB's Hunter Funk did a nice piece about Starcher recently you can view it here.
August 8, 2024
A Ghost in the Machine
One can rarely prove or disprove a ghost story. Such is not the case of the Ghost Flutist (or flautist if you prefer) of Sun Valley.
In December 1936, Margaret E. Wood had taken a job as a housekeeper at the Sun Valley Lodge. She had transferred from the Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire. For some reason she seemed a little hesitant to explore her new surroundings. Associates at the lodge persuaded her to get out and enjoy the beautiful scenery and take the Proctor Mountain Tramway to the top.
The housekeeper was enjoying the ride in the fresh air when about halfway up she heard a flute playing in the distance. Why would anyone be playing a flute somewhere out there in the snow? Wouldn’t their bottom lip freeze to the instrument?
She heard the music all the way to the top and heard it again on the way back down.
Curious, Miss Wood asked around. No one knew of any lonely shepherd soothing his flock with a flute or, for that matter, a teenager told to practice that dang thing outside. She happened to tell the story to Charles Williams, who worked as a bridge inspector for Union Pacific. His reaction was one of relief.
“Did you really hear it?” Williams said. “That’s great. I was afraid I was the only one. It’s been worrying me for days.”
Miss Wood and Mr. Williams took a little trek to the tram in search of the answer. Williams had installed the lift, so he was particularly interested.
Together, they found the ghost flutist. A pipe connecting one chair to the cable had some holes in it. As the lift traveled up the mountain, the breezes it encountered blew a haunting melody through those holes. Another good ghost story dashed by physics.
In December 1936, Margaret E. Wood had taken a job as a housekeeper at the Sun Valley Lodge. She had transferred from the Mount Washington Hotel in New Hampshire. For some reason she seemed a little hesitant to explore her new surroundings. Associates at the lodge persuaded her to get out and enjoy the beautiful scenery and take the Proctor Mountain Tramway to the top.
The housekeeper was enjoying the ride in the fresh air when about halfway up she heard a flute playing in the distance. Why would anyone be playing a flute somewhere out there in the snow? Wouldn’t their bottom lip freeze to the instrument?
She heard the music all the way to the top and heard it again on the way back down.
Curious, Miss Wood asked around. No one knew of any lonely shepherd soothing his flock with a flute or, for that matter, a teenager told to practice that dang thing outside. She happened to tell the story to Charles Williams, who worked as a bridge inspector for Union Pacific. His reaction was one of relief.
“Did you really hear it?” Williams said. “That’s great. I was afraid I was the only one. It’s been worrying me for days.”
Miss Wood and Mr. Williams took a little trek to the tram in search of the answer. Williams had installed the lift, so he was particularly interested.
Together, they found the ghost flutist. A pipe connecting one chair to the cable had some holes in it. As the lift traveled up the mountain, the breezes it encountered blew a haunting melody through those holes. Another good ghost story dashed by physics.
August 7, 2024
Nampa's Drake Drug Fire
On Saturday morning, July 3, 1937, the banner headline across eight columns of the Idaho Statesman read, “MISS EARHART FORCED DOWN AT SEA.” That would be the beginning of a story that has yet to reach its conclusion. But it was the top local story that day that had much more impact on the Treasure Valley. That headline read, “Death Toll From Blast Reaches Six At Nampa.”
Seventeen women and girls were spending their Thursday afternoon in a Nampa beauty shop that operated on the mezzanine level of the Drake Drug Store. The highs had been in the 90s all week, so it was a relief to be inside and out of the heat. The Fourth of July was coming up on the weekend, so there was probably talk about family gatherings and fireworks.
Two sons of the drug store manager, DuWayne and Keith Drake sorted through the fireworks display in the front window, making up an order. Children played with fireworks nearby.
At 4:30 pm Pandora’s box split open. A searing blast filled the interior of the building in one blinding second. Shooting rockets, spinning pinwheels, and the machine-gun rattle of firecrackers blocked the front exit to customers. Some 30 patrons of the drugstore, singed and deafened by the blast, made it out the back door. The Drake boys stumbled out the front, scorched, but mostly unhurt. The beauty shop customers had no ready escape.
As flames shot from the second story windows, the women and girls who rushed out onto the back balcony faced a grim decision: jump or wait for rescue.
Fire fighters arrived in minutes with a ladder. Volunteer fireman Jack Gakey pulled four women from the flames and carried them to safety. He went back a fifth time to search for others and was overcome by smoke. Fellow firefighters brought him out.
Several jumped from the beauty shop balcony onto the concrete below. One girl suffered a broken leg.
Extinguishing the blaze took just 15 minutes. In the aftermath, reporter Ellen Trueblood described the charred ruin of the store, the cracked mirrors, exploded bottles of excelsiors and drugs, the upholstery burned from the stools. A scorched deer head still hung from the west wall, the hide rolled crisply back from the armature of the mount.
This was not Nampa’s first experience with fireworks gone awry. A fireworks fire 28 years earlier, on July 3, 1909 destroyed an entire block, burning for most of the day. No one was injured in that fire, but it convinced the city to ban the sale of fireworks. That ban was lifted just four years before the Drake Drug blaze. It was immediately reinstated following the 1937 fire.
Three women died because of their injuries, as did three girls aged, 4, 12, and 16. It was a double funeral for Mrs. Miller and her 4-year-old daughter Catherine Ann.
Fire fighters were called out all too often to the site on the corner of 2nd Street South and 13th Avenue South in the 1930s. Drake Drug had suffered a non-lethal fire in June of 1935 when an explosion in the basement destroyed much of the store’s stock. Just over a year after the deadly 1937 fire, the Montgomery Ward store adjacent to Drake Drug burned, complete with explosions from stocks of ammunition.
Seventeen women and girls were spending their Thursday afternoon in a Nampa beauty shop that operated on the mezzanine level of the Drake Drug Store. The highs had been in the 90s all week, so it was a relief to be inside and out of the heat. The Fourth of July was coming up on the weekend, so there was probably talk about family gatherings and fireworks.
Two sons of the drug store manager, DuWayne and Keith Drake sorted through the fireworks display in the front window, making up an order. Children played with fireworks nearby.
At 4:30 pm Pandora’s box split open. A searing blast filled the interior of the building in one blinding second. Shooting rockets, spinning pinwheels, and the machine-gun rattle of firecrackers blocked the front exit to customers. Some 30 patrons of the drugstore, singed and deafened by the blast, made it out the back door. The Drake boys stumbled out the front, scorched, but mostly unhurt. The beauty shop customers had no ready escape.
As flames shot from the second story windows, the women and girls who rushed out onto the back balcony faced a grim decision: jump or wait for rescue.
Fire fighters arrived in minutes with a ladder. Volunteer fireman Jack Gakey pulled four women from the flames and carried them to safety. He went back a fifth time to search for others and was overcome by smoke. Fellow firefighters brought him out.
Several jumped from the beauty shop balcony onto the concrete below. One girl suffered a broken leg.
Extinguishing the blaze took just 15 minutes. In the aftermath, reporter Ellen Trueblood described the charred ruin of the store, the cracked mirrors, exploded bottles of excelsiors and drugs, the upholstery burned from the stools. A scorched deer head still hung from the west wall, the hide rolled crisply back from the armature of the mount.
This was not Nampa’s first experience with fireworks gone awry. A fireworks fire 28 years earlier, on July 3, 1909 destroyed an entire block, burning for most of the day. No one was injured in that fire, but it convinced the city to ban the sale of fireworks. That ban was lifted just four years before the Drake Drug blaze. It was immediately reinstated following the 1937 fire.
Three women died because of their injuries, as did three girls aged, 4, 12, and 16. It was a double funeral for Mrs. Miller and her 4-year-old daughter Catherine Ann.
Fire fighters were called out all too often to the site on the corner of 2nd Street South and 13th Avenue South in the 1930s. Drake Drug had suffered a non-lethal fire in June of 1935 when an explosion in the basement destroyed much of the store’s stock. Just over a year after the deadly 1937 fire, the Montgomery Ward store adjacent to Drake Drug burned, complete with explosions from stocks of ammunition.
August 6, 2024
Boise's Columbia Theater
1892 was the 400th anniversary of the “discovery” of America by Columbus. Few were questioning the term “discovery” at that time, though descendants of Vikings and Native Americans likely had their own thoughts on the matter.
There was a groundbreaking that October in Chicago to mark the anniversary. In the whirlwind of construction that followed that ceremonial shoveling the 1893 Columbian Exposition became a reality.
Everything was Columbian or named after Columbus for months before and after. Boise had (and still has) its Columbian Club, which gathered artifacts for the Idaho exhibit. Less well known was that Boise also had the Columbia Theater. Unlike the Exposition, groundbreaking was in 1892, and the theater’s opening night was in December of the same year.
The mayor of Boise at the time, James Pinney, built the Columbia. Designed by Tourtellotte and Hummel, who later served as architects for the Egyptian Theater, the Columbia was striking, though a bit odd looking. Its style was French renaissance.
The Columbia had a pretty good run, lasting 16 years before the former mayor replaced it with the much larger Pinney Theater in 1908. Its run was longer, but the redevelopment wrecking ball took it down in 1969.
There was a groundbreaking that October in Chicago to mark the anniversary. In the whirlwind of construction that followed that ceremonial shoveling the 1893 Columbian Exposition became a reality.
Everything was Columbian or named after Columbus for months before and after. Boise had (and still has) its Columbian Club, which gathered artifacts for the Idaho exhibit. Less well known was that Boise also had the Columbia Theater. Unlike the Exposition, groundbreaking was in 1892, and the theater’s opening night was in December of the same year.
The mayor of Boise at the time, James Pinney, built the Columbia. Designed by Tourtellotte and Hummel, who later served as architects for the Egyptian Theater, the Columbia was striking, though a bit odd looking. Its style was French renaissance.
The Columbia had a pretty good run, lasting 16 years before the former mayor replaced it with the much larger Pinney Theater in 1908. Its run was longer, but the redevelopment wrecking ball took it down in 1969.
August 5, 2024
Bad Times in Burke and Mace
Luck seems to find its way in to talk about mining, perhaps more than any endeavor other than gambling. Prospectors chased the easy riches of the lucky even while performing back-breaking work. Mine names reflected this: Lucky Friday, Lucky Boy, Lucky Lager, Lucky Seven, Lucky Jim, and on and on.
Two mining towns in Idaho were decidedly unlucky. There were productive mines associated with them, and some miners found their fortunes. But the towns themselves, Burke and Mace, about 3.5 miles north of Mullan and a quarter-mile apart, each had a double dose of bad luck.
On February 27, 1890, 16 people died when a midnight snowslide 3000 feet long and 75 feet deep buried the Mace, Idaho.
Mrs. R.H. Pasco heard the rumble of the slide and sat up in bed, wondering what was going on. Then, the mountain of snow hit, flipping her bed on its side and pinning her beneath it up against the wall. Rescuers found her pinned beneath the twisted bed frame, the only survivor of her family of four.
Mrs. George Gibson owed her life to a man who saw a single finger protruding above the snow. After being buried alive for more than an hour, rescuers dug her out, half-frozen.
It was the second fatal slide of the month. Earlier, two men were killed on the outskirts of town when chinook winds destabilized the mountainside snow, causing a slide that engulfed their tents.
Thirty years later to the day, on February 27, 1910, a monster slide struck Mace again. That was just before midnight. The next dark morning, a second avalanche roared through Burke. The combined death toll in the two towns was 20. Among them were three residents of Burke who had spent the night helping to rescue people from the Mace slide, only to be buried by the Burke avalanche when they got back home.
The Burke Canyon, where both towns sat, is steep-sided enough for it to get a mention in Ripley’s Believe it or Not. The canyon is so narrow there is barely room for a street. A railroad spur and Canyon Creek ran in a tunnel between two parts of the Tiger Hotel. No wonder the area was prone to avalanches.
Burke and Mace shared at least one more disaster. In 1923, a spark from a passing train caught the roof of a house on fire in Mace. The fire spread from building to building, taking out most of Mace and much of Burke.
So, double lousy luck, at least, for these mining towns. But calamity had long loomed on the sides of the mountains above them. Bad luck often visits those who tempt fate.
Three people met their death in this house during the 1910 avalanche. This photo appeared in Frank Leslie’s Weekly, March 24, 1910.
Burke in 1890. [image error] Burke with the train going through two parts of the Tiger Hotel.
Two mining towns in Idaho were decidedly unlucky. There were productive mines associated with them, and some miners found their fortunes. But the towns themselves, Burke and Mace, about 3.5 miles north of Mullan and a quarter-mile apart, each had a double dose of bad luck.
On February 27, 1890, 16 people died when a midnight snowslide 3000 feet long and 75 feet deep buried the Mace, Idaho.
Mrs. R.H. Pasco heard the rumble of the slide and sat up in bed, wondering what was going on. Then, the mountain of snow hit, flipping her bed on its side and pinning her beneath it up against the wall. Rescuers found her pinned beneath the twisted bed frame, the only survivor of her family of four.
Mrs. George Gibson owed her life to a man who saw a single finger protruding above the snow. After being buried alive for more than an hour, rescuers dug her out, half-frozen.
It was the second fatal slide of the month. Earlier, two men were killed on the outskirts of town when chinook winds destabilized the mountainside snow, causing a slide that engulfed their tents.
Thirty years later to the day, on February 27, 1910, a monster slide struck Mace again. That was just before midnight. The next dark morning, a second avalanche roared through Burke. The combined death toll in the two towns was 20. Among them were three residents of Burke who had spent the night helping to rescue people from the Mace slide, only to be buried by the Burke avalanche when they got back home.
The Burke Canyon, where both towns sat, is steep-sided enough for it to get a mention in Ripley’s Believe it or Not. The canyon is so narrow there is barely room for a street. A railroad spur and Canyon Creek ran in a tunnel between two parts of the Tiger Hotel. No wonder the area was prone to avalanches.
Burke and Mace shared at least one more disaster. In 1923, a spark from a passing train caught the roof of a house on fire in Mace. The fire spread from building to building, taking out most of Mace and much of Burke.
So, double lousy luck, at least, for these mining towns. But calamity had long loomed on the sides of the mountains above them. Bad luck often visits those who tempt fate.
Three people met their death in this house during the 1910 avalanche. This photo appeared in Frank Leslie’s Weekly, March 24, 1910. Burke in 1890. [image error] Burke with the train going through two parts of the Tiger Hotel.
August 4, 2024
Correction--Ellen Trueblood
Publisher's note. The photo I ran a few days ago with the Ellen Trueblood story was incorrect. It misidentified Ellen and Jack Trueblood, because that photo was misidentified in the archives. I'm running the story again today with a corrected photo.
To many Idahoans, Ted Trueblood, born in Boise, was the Ernest Hemmingway of nonfiction. Through his articles in Field and Stream magazine and books about outdoor life, Trueblood taught generations how to hunt, fish, and enjoy the outdoors. He was a founding member of the Idaho Wildlife Federation and an award-winning writer.
But this column isn’t about Ted Trueblood. His fame overshadowed the remarkable accomplishments of Ellen Trueblood, Ted’s wife.
Ellen, also born in Boise, was a writer in her own right. She reported for the Boise Capital News and the Nampa Free Press. Ellen was an accomplished hunter, angler, and photographer when she met Ted Trueblood, so the match seemed a natural. Following their 1939 marriage, the Truebloods honeymooned all summer long in the Idaho wilderness. That summer cemented her already strong love for the study of nature.
In the 1950s, Ellen was an amateur collector of plants. She began to focus on something that is often overshadowed by Idaho’s beautiful wildflowers. Ellen grew passionate about fungi. Although she took a few classes, she was mostly self-taught in mycology, the scientific study of fungi. As she became more proficient, she found mentors in the field to take her to the next level. After a few years of collecting, identifying, and sharing her knowledge she became the leading expert on fungi in southwestern Idaho, eastern Oregon, and northern Nevada, concentrating mostly in the Owyhees.
Fungi in the Owyhees are mostly found beneath sagebrush, though Ellen also discovered them in desert ponds and creeks. Some are larger than a softball; some smaller than the head of a pin. If you think of mushrooms as brown, you’ve missed the colors that range from robin-egg blue through purple to vivid yellows and reds. Ellen Trueblood is credited with discovering more than 20 species of fungi.
Ellen was often seen with a slide carousel under her arm, off again to speak to a garden club about mushrooms. She had more than 2,700 slides. In 1975, when Boise State University added mycology to its curriculum, Ellen was the obvious choice to teach it.
In a 1962 article in the Idaho Free Press, Ellen Trueblood confessed a fear that many mushroom hunters have. “I spent a restless night the first time I served oyster mushrooms to my family—even though I was sure of my identification and was reassured by the book I had with me. There was that fear of toadstools that I couldn’t forget. I had to check in the night to see if my family was alive.”
After that sleepless night, she educated herself and her family on how to identify poisonous mushrooms. Her two sons, 5 and 7 at the time, could quickly spot the tell-tale signs.
Some 6,500 of Ellen’s collections are housed at the University of Michigan Herbarium in Ann Arbor, College of Idaho in Caldwell, and Virginia Polytechnic Institute in Blacksburg. Ellen Trueblood passed away in 1994.
Note: I received a letter about Ellen from the Southern Idaho Mycological Association after this post ran the first in December of 2021. I’ve included much of it here because it adds much to Ellen’s story.
Ellen Trueblood was instrumental in forming the Southern Idaho Mycological Association, January, 1976.
Under Ellen's guidance, SIMA (Southern Idaho Mycological Association) was established as an organization of amateur mycologists dedicated to studying the ecology of fungi and its interaction with plants and animals. Mycology, like Ornithology, is one of the few sciences left with an active role for amateurs.
The North American Mycological Association contacted Ellen Trueblood and Dr. Orson K Miller Jr about establishing a mycological society affiliated with NAMA to host a national foray in the McCall area for the fall of 1976. The McCall area is a transition zone between the Blue Mountain and Rocky Mountain Biomes and is rich in diversity of fungal species. With Ellen's guidance, SIMA was formed and hosted a national mycological foray in 1976. SIMA also hosted a second national foray in September 2008.
Ellen freely shared her extensive knowledge of the fungi of Owyhee County with SIMA members, leading many short weekend forays into the Owyhee mountains.
SIMA's database of over 2000 individual species reflects Ellen's collections and other fungi collected by SIMA in Owyhee, Ada, Boise, Elmore, Canyon, Gem, Payette, Washington, Adams, Valley, Idaho Counties of Idaho plus Malheur and Baker Counties of Oregon.
SIMA still exists today, hosting spring and fall forays in the McCall area yearly, adding to the work Ellen started years ago. SIMA has a membership of 50-plus dedicated amateur scientists studying mycology.
Genille Steiner, Robert Chehey, past presidents of SIMA provided information on the organization.
Ellen Ellen Trueblood was an accomplished mycologist. Photo from the Ted Trueblood Papers, Special Collections and Archives, Boise State University.
To many Idahoans, Ted Trueblood, born in Boise, was the Ernest Hemmingway of nonfiction. Through his articles in Field and Stream magazine and books about outdoor life, Trueblood taught generations how to hunt, fish, and enjoy the outdoors. He was a founding member of the Idaho Wildlife Federation and an award-winning writer.
But this column isn’t about Ted Trueblood. His fame overshadowed the remarkable accomplishments of Ellen Trueblood, Ted’s wife.
Ellen, also born in Boise, was a writer in her own right. She reported for the Boise Capital News and the Nampa Free Press. Ellen was an accomplished hunter, angler, and photographer when she met Ted Trueblood, so the match seemed a natural. Following their 1939 marriage, the Truebloods honeymooned all summer long in the Idaho wilderness. That summer cemented her already strong love for the study of nature.
In the 1950s, Ellen was an amateur collector of plants. She began to focus on something that is often overshadowed by Idaho’s beautiful wildflowers. Ellen grew passionate about fungi. Although she took a few classes, she was mostly self-taught in mycology, the scientific study of fungi. As she became more proficient, she found mentors in the field to take her to the next level. After a few years of collecting, identifying, and sharing her knowledge she became the leading expert on fungi in southwestern Idaho, eastern Oregon, and northern Nevada, concentrating mostly in the Owyhees.
Fungi in the Owyhees are mostly found beneath sagebrush, though Ellen also discovered them in desert ponds and creeks. Some are larger than a softball; some smaller than the head of a pin. If you think of mushrooms as brown, you’ve missed the colors that range from robin-egg blue through purple to vivid yellows and reds. Ellen Trueblood is credited with discovering more than 20 species of fungi.
Ellen was often seen with a slide carousel under her arm, off again to speak to a garden club about mushrooms. She had more than 2,700 slides. In 1975, when Boise State University added mycology to its curriculum, Ellen was the obvious choice to teach it.
In a 1962 article in the Idaho Free Press, Ellen Trueblood confessed a fear that many mushroom hunters have. “I spent a restless night the first time I served oyster mushrooms to my family—even though I was sure of my identification and was reassured by the book I had with me. There was that fear of toadstools that I couldn’t forget. I had to check in the night to see if my family was alive.”
After that sleepless night, she educated herself and her family on how to identify poisonous mushrooms. Her two sons, 5 and 7 at the time, could quickly spot the tell-tale signs.
Some 6,500 of Ellen’s collections are housed at the University of Michigan Herbarium in Ann Arbor, College of Idaho in Caldwell, and Virginia Polytechnic Institute in Blacksburg. Ellen Trueblood passed away in 1994.
Note: I received a letter about Ellen from the Southern Idaho Mycological Association after this post ran the first in December of 2021. I’ve included much of it here because it adds much to Ellen’s story.
Ellen Trueblood was instrumental in forming the Southern Idaho Mycological Association, January, 1976.
Under Ellen's guidance, SIMA (Southern Idaho Mycological Association) was established as an organization of amateur mycologists dedicated to studying the ecology of fungi and its interaction with plants and animals. Mycology, like Ornithology, is one of the few sciences left with an active role for amateurs.
The North American Mycological Association contacted Ellen Trueblood and Dr. Orson K Miller Jr about establishing a mycological society affiliated with NAMA to host a national foray in the McCall area for the fall of 1976. The McCall area is a transition zone between the Blue Mountain and Rocky Mountain Biomes and is rich in diversity of fungal species. With Ellen's guidance, SIMA was formed and hosted a national mycological foray in 1976. SIMA also hosted a second national foray in September 2008.
Ellen freely shared her extensive knowledge of the fungi of Owyhee County with SIMA members, leading many short weekend forays into the Owyhee mountains.
SIMA's database of over 2000 individual species reflects Ellen's collections and other fungi collected by SIMA in Owyhee, Ada, Boise, Elmore, Canyon, Gem, Payette, Washington, Adams, Valley, Idaho Counties of Idaho plus Malheur and Baker Counties of Oregon.
SIMA still exists today, hosting spring and fall forays in the McCall area yearly, adding to the work Ellen started years ago. SIMA has a membership of 50-plus dedicated amateur scientists studying mycology.
Genille Steiner, Robert Chehey, past presidents of SIMA provided information on the organization.
Ellen Ellen Trueblood was an accomplished mycologist. Photo from the Ted Trueblood Papers, Special Collections and Archives, Boise State University.August 3, 2024
The Wilson Creek Fire of 1929
The National Interagency Fire Center (NIFC) in Boise is a logistics and communication control center for fighting wildfires throughout the United States. Its communication methods are parsecs from those used to send instructions to firefighters in 1929.
The Wilson Creek Fire in 1929 on the Salmon National Forest burned about 13,000 acres. Today that would hardly make headlines, but it was the largest fire the Forest had experienced at that time.
Firefighters rode in the back of trucks to get within hiking distance of the lightning-caused fire. When they piled out of the trucks, they still had 18 miles to pack all their equipment.
Earl Nichols started work as a runner that year on the Wilson Creek Fire. His job was to get instructions to each of the eight crews who were fighting the fires. There were no radios. The country was so steep that horses were more trouble than they were worth. He made his rounds on foot, carrying messages from camp to camp as fast as he could move. More than once, when he got to where the camp was supposed to be, he found only ashes. He worked the fire on foot for sixty days. It was a tough job, but it did not discourage Nichols. He retired from the Forest Service in 1969 after a 40-year career.
The Wilson Creek Fire came close to taking the lives of three firefighters, Kinney, Coles, and Wilson. The fire crowned up a hill and around them. The men clung to the side of a large boulder, keeping it between them and the flames. When the fire shifted, they worked around the rock's other side. The men doused themselves with water from their canteens. Still, the heat swelled their eyes shut.
Other fire crew members set out to find them, certain it was a recovery mission. They spotted tracks in the hot ash and followed them to where the men were staggering blindly. The rescuers led the blistered men back to camp. Most of their clothing had burned off them. They survived and regained their sight once the swelling went town.
These vignettes about the Wilson Creek Fire come from oral histories collected by the Salmon National Forest.
Photo is for illustrative purposes. It is not a picture of the fire described in the text.
The Wilson Creek Fire in 1929 on the Salmon National Forest burned about 13,000 acres. Today that would hardly make headlines, but it was the largest fire the Forest had experienced at that time.
Firefighters rode in the back of trucks to get within hiking distance of the lightning-caused fire. When they piled out of the trucks, they still had 18 miles to pack all their equipment.
Earl Nichols started work as a runner that year on the Wilson Creek Fire. His job was to get instructions to each of the eight crews who were fighting the fires. There were no radios. The country was so steep that horses were more trouble than they were worth. He made his rounds on foot, carrying messages from camp to camp as fast as he could move. More than once, when he got to where the camp was supposed to be, he found only ashes. He worked the fire on foot for sixty days. It was a tough job, but it did not discourage Nichols. He retired from the Forest Service in 1969 after a 40-year career.
The Wilson Creek Fire came close to taking the lives of three firefighters, Kinney, Coles, and Wilson. The fire crowned up a hill and around them. The men clung to the side of a large boulder, keeping it between them and the flames. When the fire shifted, they worked around the rock's other side. The men doused themselves with water from their canteens. Still, the heat swelled their eyes shut.
Other fire crew members set out to find them, certain it was a recovery mission. They spotted tracks in the hot ash and followed them to where the men were staggering blindly. The rescuers led the blistered men back to camp. Most of their clothing had burned off them. They survived and regained their sight once the swelling went town.
These vignettes about the Wilson Creek Fire come from oral histories collected by the Salmon National Forest.
Photo is for illustrative purposes. It is not a picture of the fire described in the text.
August 2, 2024
The First Female Mayor
In her obituary, Laura Stockton Starcher was called a “pioneer Idaho resident.” True, she was born in Missouri in 1874, but her parents brought her to Parma when she was a year old. She lived for decades in Idaho and was buried in what she considered her hometown, Parma, when she died in 1960.
I’m defending Starcher’s Idaho bona fides because her claim to fame was something she did while she and her husband lived in Umatilla, Oregon. You’re welcome to quibble with me about whether this is Idaho history, but I remain the guy who writes this blog.
Laura Stockton Starcher was the leading figure of what newspapers across the country in 1916 called the Petticoat Revolution. At a card party several days before the municipal election, hostess Mrs. Robert Merrick convinced six of her friends, all women, that they should run for city council. Starcher would run for mayor. This came as a surprise to E.E. Starcher who was the incumbent mayor and Laura Starcher’s husband.
The surprise was part of the fun for the women. They were mostly mum about their plan, telling no man about it. All ran as write-ins, counting on the support of the women of Umatilla, who had gained the right to vote four years earlier.
At noon on election day the women won the majority of the seats on the city council. Starcher—the distaff Starcher—won the mayor’s seat by a vote of 28-6. The men had a good laugh over it and stepped back to let the women run the town.
It was a joke that was not a joke. The women recognized the humor in their plot, but they were also serious about bettering the town.
Madam Mayor Starcher, quoted in an interview in the Idaho Statesman, said, “Well, my husband’s administration claimed that the reason it accomplished so little for the city was that it was impossible to get the entire council, or even a quorum, out. Now, I intend to get my council out in this way. We will all be women except the two holdovers, men, who, I understand, are going to learn to do fancy work, in order to feel at home with us, and I shall turn the city council meetings into afternoon teas if necessary, in order to be sure of the full council being present.”
Starcher had a unique plan for ridding Umatilla of gambling, “the only grave violation of the law we know of.” She would appoint women, one a week, as detectives. No one would know who that week’s detective was. They would be unpaid, because “accomplishing results will be sufficient reward for the women.”
Now, dear reader if you are a woman, prepare to grit your teeth. The Statesman article noted that she was a “stylish little mayor, too… She is small and dainty, exceedingly vivacious and good looking. She wore, while in Boise, the most up-to-date of trotteur suits of Burgundy red, which suited her brunette type, and her stunning velvet hat and fox furs added to her chic appearance.”
We can’t judge editorial decisions made in 1916 through a 2021 lens. This was at a time when women were barely a blip on the political radar, so Mayor Starcher was treated as something of a unicorn. She was, after all, the first woman mayor in the United States.
KTVB's Hunter Funk did a nice piece about Starcher recently you can view it here.
I’m defending Starcher’s Idaho bona fides because her claim to fame was something she did while she and her husband lived in Umatilla, Oregon. You’re welcome to quibble with me about whether this is Idaho history, but I remain the guy who writes this blog.
Laura Stockton Starcher was the leading figure of what newspapers across the country in 1916 called the Petticoat Revolution. At a card party several days before the municipal election, hostess Mrs. Robert Merrick convinced six of her friends, all women, that they should run for city council. Starcher would run for mayor. This came as a surprise to E.E. Starcher who was the incumbent mayor and Laura Starcher’s husband.
The surprise was part of the fun for the women. They were mostly mum about their plan, telling no man about it. All ran as write-ins, counting on the support of the women of Umatilla, who had gained the right to vote four years earlier.
At noon on election day the women won the majority of the seats on the city council. Starcher—the distaff Starcher—won the mayor’s seat by a vote of 28-6. The men had a good laugh over it and stepped back to let the women run the town.
It was a joke that was not a joke. The women recognized the humor in their plot, but they were also serious about bettering the town.
Madam Mayor Starcher, quoted in an interview in the Idaho Statesman, said, “Well, my husband’s administration claimed that the reason it accomplished so little for the city was that it was impossible to get the entire council, or even a quorum, out. Now, I intend to get my council out in this way. We will all be women except the two holdovers, men, who, I understand, are going to learn to do fancy work, in order to feel at home with us, and I shall turn the city council meetings into afternoon teas if necessary, in order to be sure of the full council being present.”
Starcher had a unique plan for ridding Umatilla of gambling, “the only grave violation of the law we know of.” She would appoint women, one a week, as detectives. No one would know who that week’s detective was. They would be unpaid, because “accomplishing results will be sufficient reward for the women.”
Now, dear reader if you are a woman, prepare to grit your teeth. The Statesman article noted that she was a “stylish little mayor, too… She is small and dainty, exceedingly vivacious and good looking. She wore, while in Boise, the most up-to-date of trotteur suits of Burgundy red, which suited her brunette type, and her stunning velvet hat and fox furs added to her chic appearance.”
We can’t judge editorial decisions made in 1916 through a 2021 lens. This was at a time when women were barely a blip on the political radar, so Mayor Starcher was treated as something of a unicorn. She was, after all, the first woman mayor in the United States.
KTVB's Hunter Funk did a nice piece about Starcher recently you can view it here.
