Rick Just's Blog, page 162
May 14, 2020
The Most Famous Dog in Idaho History
We don’t know the color of the most famous dog in Idaho history. Until 1984, we didn’t even know his name.
His name was Seaman, probably in recognition that his breed, the Newfoundland, was well known as a sailor’s dog. The journals of Lewis and Clark often mention Seaman. He belonged to Meriwether Lewis. Historians thought his name was Scannon because the journal entries seemed to say that. Historian Donald Jackson discovered the error of interpretation when scrutinizing a map from the expedition that called a creek Seaman Creek. Knowing that the explorers often named features after members of the Corps of Discovery, he put it together that the stream was named in honor of the dog.
The dog is usually described as black, but that is only an assumption. Seaman’s color is not mentioned in any of the writings of Lewis or other members of the Corps of Discovery.
The big dog was much admired by people they met along the way. Early in the journey, Lewis wrote, “[O]ne of the Shawnees a respectable looking Indian offered me three beverskins for my dog with which he appeared much pleased...I prised much for his docility and qualifications generally for my journey and of course there was no bargain.”
It was a harrowing journey for all, no less for the dog. He suffered a beaver bite that almost killed him. He had a close call with a bison and was frequently in a state of panic because of bears. Seaman suffered from grass seeds in his paws and fur, an affliction known well to dogs today romping around in the outdoors in Idaho. He also suffered terribly from mosquito bites.
But what happened to Seaman? The journals of the expedition don’t help us here. A book written in 1814 that contains some information about the Corps of Discovery mentions a dog collar in a Virginia museum with the inscription, "The greatest traveller of my species. My name is SEAMAN, the dog of captain Meriwether Lewis, whom I accompanied to the Pacific ocean through the interior of the continent of North America."
The collar seems to have been lost to time, but the inscription gives more weight to Seaman being the proper name.
We can hope that given several entries about his health and the dangers he faced that Lewis would surely have mentioned the death of the dog if it happened on the expedition. In any case, he lives on in stories and statues. Seaman is a popular figure with sculptors. The photo is of the statue of Seaman at the Sacajawea Center in Salmon, Idaho.
His name was Seaman, probably in recognition that his breed, the Newfoundland, was well known as a sailor’s dog. The journals of Lewis and Clark often mention Seaman. He belonged to Meriwether Lewis. Historians thought his name was Scannon because the journal entries seemed to say that. Historian Donald Jackson discovered the error of interpretation when scrutinizing a map from the expedition that called a creek Seaman Creek. Knowing that the explorers often named features after members of the Corps of Discovery, he put it together that the stream was named in honor of the dog.
The dog is usually described as black, but that is only an assumption. Seaman’s color is not mentioned in any of the writings of Lewis or other members of the Corps of Discovery.
The big dog was much admired by people they met along the way. Early in the journey, Lewis wrote, “[O]ne of the Shawnees a respectable looking Indian offered me three beverskins for my dog with which he appeared much pleased...I prised much for his docility and qualifications generally for my journey and of course there was no bargain.”
It was a harrowing journey for all, no less for the dog. He suffered a beaver bite that almost killed him. He had a close call with a bison and was frequently in a state of panic because of bears. Seaman suffered from grass seeds in his paws and fur, an affliction known well to dogs today romping around in the outdoors in Idaho. He also suffered terribly from mosquito bites.
But what happened to Seaman? The journals of the expedition don’t help us here. A book written in 1814 that contains some information about the Corps of Discovery mentions a dog collar in a Virginia museum with the inscription, "The greatest traveller of my species. My name is SEAMAN, the dog of captain Meriwether Lewis, whom I accompanied to the Pacific ocean through the interior of the continent of North America."
The collar seems to have been lost to time, but the inscription gives more weight to Seaman being the proper name.
We can hope that given several entries about his health and the dangers he faced that Lewis would surely have mentioned the death of the dog if it happened on the expedition. In any case, he lives on in stories and statues. Seaman is a popular figure with sculptors. The photo is of the statue of Seaman at the Sacajawea Center in Salmon, Idaho.
May 13, 2020
Psychiana
Frank Robinson was a proponent of positive thinking long before Norman Vincent Peale came along with his popular book in 1952. Robinson, who spread his word from Moscow, Idaho, would have called it the power of affirmation. He believed in it so much that he decided to start a religion around the concept in 1929.
Starting anything just as the stock market was crashing would seem risky. For Robinson, Psychiana, as he called it, smoothed his way through those depression years by promising a way forward to people desperate for answers. He turned $2500 into hundreds of thousands of dollars and more than a million followers.
Robinson used direct mail and magazine advertising to lure seekers who were promised they would learn to “literally and actually” speak to God.
This was no small operation. The amount of mail that poured into Moscow forced the post office to move to a larger building. Checks for $20 to $40 came rolling in by the thousands and Robinson’s series of lessons rolled out. Lifetime members of Psychiana got a certificate suitable for framing signed by Robinson with the reminder, Every Hour on the Hour Repeat—“I believe in the power of the living God.”
Robinson received testimonials claiming that his lessons had resulted in various physical and mental cures. There was no doubt that Psychiana had a positive effect on at least one person. Robinson developed a penchant for wearing furs and driving around town in a specially built Duesenberg.
Psychiana provided Robinson a nice living up until the day he died in 1948. His son tried to carry on the operation, but with the loss of its inventor, Psychiana had lost its verve. The business and/or religion, closed its doors in 1952.
For a terrific program on Psychiana, check Idaho Public Television's Idaho Experience program list.
Starting anything just as the stock market was crashing would seem risky. For Robinson, Psychiana, as he called it, smoothed his way through those depression years by promising a way forward to people desperate for answers. He turned $2500 into hundreds of thousands of dollars and more than a million followers.
Robinson used direct mail and magazine advertising to lure seekers who were promised they would learn to “literally and actually” speak to God.
This was no small operation. The amount of mail that poured into Moscow forced the post office to move to a larger building. Checks for $20 to $40 came rolling in by the thousands and Robinson’s series of lessons rolled out. Lifetime members of Psychiana got a certificate suitable for framing signed by Robinson with the reminder, Every Hour on the Hour Repeat—“I believe in the power of the living God.”
Robinson received testimonials claiming that his lessons had resulted in various physical and mental cures. There was no doubt that Psychiana had a positive effect on at least one person. Robinson developed a penchant for wearing furs and driving around town in a specially built Duesenberg.
Psychiana provided Robinson a nice living up until the day he died in 1948. His son tried to carry on the operation, but with the loss of its inventor, Psychiana had lost its verve. The business and/or religion, closed its doors in 1952.
For a terrific program on Psychiana, check Idaho Public Television's Idaho Experience program list.
May 12, 2020
Paul Bunyan in Idaho
So, did you know that Paul Bunyan has an Idaho connection? Stories about Paul Bunyan and his giant blue ox, Babe, circulated around lumber camps across the country for decades before anyone thought to write them down and publish them. Eventually, many people did. One of the best remembered tellers of those tales was author James Stevens who spent much of his childhood in Idaho. Sinclair Lewis called Stevens “the true son of Paul Bunyan.”
Stevens was a soldier in France during World War I. He did more than fight, though. He published his Paul Bunyan stories in Stars and Stripes.
After the war he knocked around the country as an itinerant laborer, educating himself in local libraries wherever he went. He published poetry in Saturday Evening Post, and more Paul Bunyan stories in American Mercury.
Stevens’ 1945 novel Big Jim Turner, about an itinerant working man and poet who grew up around Knox, Idaho (now a ghost town), has many autobiographical elements in it.
His best-known work, though, is probably his Paul Bunyan book (pictured), published in 1925. Stevens died in Seattle in 1971.
#paulbunyon #jimstevens #jamesstevens
Stevens was a soldier in France during World War I. He did more than fight, though. He published his Paul Bunyan stories in Stars and Stripes.
After the war he knocked around the country as an itinerant laborer, educating himself in local libraries wherever he went. He published poetry in Saturday Evening Post, and more Paul Bunyan stories in American Mercury.
Stevens’ 1945 novel Big Jim Turner, about an itinerant working man and poet who grew up around Knox, Idaho (now a ghost town), has many autobiographical elements in it.
His best-known work, though, is probably his Paul Bunyan book (pictured), published in 1925. Stevens died in Seattle in 1971.
#paulbunyon #jimstevens #jamesstevens
May 11, 2020
A Town on the Move
Power County, in southern Idaho, is named for the electricity generating facilities at the American Falls Dam. The dam is vitally important to the county. In fact, it is so important that they moved the entire town of American Falls to higher ground to accommodate the American Falls Reservoir.
Moving a town is a big job. It took about 18 months, starting in 1925, and wasn't complete until 1927.
Individual houses were moved by truck. They put larger buildings on rollers and pulled them along a few inches at a time. The Methodist church came down brick by brick and was reconstructed with the rest of the town on the hill above the river. The Lutheran church was moved in one piece. In the middle of the move parishioners simply propped a ladder up against the building, climbed in, and held services in the middle of the street.
When the reservoir began to fill, the only thing left of the old town of American Falls was a cement grain elevator, abandoned foundations, and a grid of roads and sidewalks. You can still see the lonely old grain elevator sticking up like a tombstone for the town when the reservoir is low.
One other thing lost as a result of the dam project--the waterfall that gave the town its name. The 25-foot American Falls of the Snake River is now a part of history.
#americanfalls
This photo, courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital archive, is of a two-story cement block building being moved to higher ground in 1925.
Moving a town is a big job. It took about 18 months, starting in 1925, and wasn't complete until 1927.
Individual houses were moved by truck. They put larger buildings on rollers and pulled them along a few inches at a time. The Methodist church came down brick by brick and was reconstructed with the rest of the town on the hill above the river. The Lutheran church was moved in one piece. In the middle of the move parishioners simply propped a ladder up against the building, climbed in, and held services in the middle of the street.
When the reservoir began to fill, the only thing left of the old town of American Falls was a cement grain elevator, abandoned foundations, and a grid of roads and sidewalks. You can still see the lonely old grain elevator sticking up like a tombstone for the town when the reservoir is low.
One other thing lost as a result of the dam project--the waterfall that gave the town its name. The 25-foot American Falls of the Snake River is now a part of history.
#americanfalls
This photo, courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital archive, is of a two-story cement block building being moved to higher ground in 1925.May 10, 2020
Idaho's Lost Counties
Idaho has 44 counties, ranging in size from 8,485-square-mile Idaho County, to Payette County, which is 408 square miles. But it hasn’t always been that way. County boundaries and the names of counties changed quite a lot over the years.
The original Idaho Territory included what we now call Montana and most of present-day Wyoming in 1863. By 1864 the Territory began to resemble the shape of the state we know today, and had 14 counties.
Those enormous counties got smaller as population grew and the need for government closer to home grew with it. Once a county was named, that name tended to stick, even through shrinkage. We lost only two names in the shuffle, Alturas and Logan.
Alturas was a county from February 4, 1864 to March 5, 1895. It was a huge county, bigger than the states of New Jersey, Maryland, and Delaware combined. Elmore County and Logan County were carved out of Alturas in 1889 by the Idaho Legislature. But what the legislature giveth, it can also take away. In 1895 Logan and Alturas were combined to become Blaine County. Then just a couple of weeks later, the legislature sliced off a sizable piece of that to create Lincoln County.
#idahocounties
The original Idaho Territory included what we now call Montana and most of present-day Wyoming in 1863. By 1864 the Territory began to resemble the shape of the state we know today, and had 14 counties.
Those enormous counties got smaller as population grew and the need for government closer to home grew with it. Once a county was named, that name tended to stick, even through shrinkage. We lost only two names in the shuffle, Alturas and Logan.
Alturas was a county from February 4, 1864 to March 5, 1895. It was a huge county, bigger than the states of New Jersey, Maryland, and Delaware combined. Elmore County and Logan County were carved out of Alturas in 1889 by the Idaho Legislature. But what the legislature giveth, it can also take away. In 1895 Logan and Alturas were combined to become Blaine County. Then just a couple of weeks later, the legislature sliced off a sizable piece of that to create Lincoln County.
#idahocounties
May 9, 2020
Lucky Lindy
There was no bigger celebrity in 1927 than Charles Lindbergh. On May 27 of that year the 25-year-old US Mail pilot had landed his single-engine plane, the Spirit of St. Louis in Paris to complete the first solo flight across the Atlantic. Then he took a real trip. The Daniel Guggenheim Fund sponsored a three-month flying tour that would take him to 48 states, where he would visit 92 cities and give 147 speeches.
Lindbergh landed in Boise on September 4 and was greeted by a crowd of 40,000 people. This picture, from the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection, shows, left to right, Leo J. Falk, Gov. H.C. Baldridge, and Boise Mayor Walter F. Hanson with Lindbergh. The Spirit of St. Lewis is in the background.
The Idaho Statesman described Lindy’s departure thusly: “Lindy made a graceful take-off, just as he had landed the day before. He circled over the city, then headed northeast over the hills, rising higher and higher into the clouds until the Spirit of St. Louis appeared a little speck in the sky. Lindy was gone.”
It was his only stop in Idaho on the tour, but folks in the northern part of the state had a chance to see him and his famous plane land in Spokane on September 12.
#luckylindy #lindberghboise #lindbergh
Lindbergh landed in Boise on September 4 and was greeted by a crowd of 40,000 people. This picture, from the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection, shows, left to right, Leo J. Falk, Gov. H.C. Baldridge, and Boise Mayor Walter F. Hanson with Lindbergh. The Spirit of St. Lewis is in the background.
The Idaho Statesman described Lindy’s departure thusly: “Lindy made a graceful take-off, just as he had landed the day before. He circled over the city, then headed northeast over the hills, rising higher and higher into the clouds until the Spirit of St. Louis appeared a little speck in the sky. Lindy was gone.”
It was his only stop in Idaho on the tour, but folks in the northern part of the state had a chance to see him and his famous plane land in Spokane on September 12.
#luckylindy #lindberghboise #lindbergh
May 8, 2020
The First Dog to Cross the Craters
Robert Limbert was a renaissance man of the West. He was a taxidermist, a hunting guide, an exhibit designer, an explorer, a writer, a photographer, and a tireless promoter of Idaho. Limbert was known as “Two-Gun Bob” when he was demonstrating his shooting skills for an audience. He built Redfish Lake Lodge, and on and on… More stories to follow, but today’s story is a little footnote (you’ll forgive me for that one, maybe?) in his most famous accomplishment.
Limbert was the man who explored what we now know as Craters of the Moon, and wrote the 25-page article that appeared in National Geographic in 1924 that intrigued the nation enough for Calvin Coolidge to proclaim it a national monument later that year. The article is available online and includes many of Lambert’s pictures that are still stunning today.
The National Geographic article documented a trip he and a friend took across the forbidding black desert. Here’s the cavalier way he described it:
“One morning in May W. L. Cole and I, both of Boise, Idaho, left Minidoka, packing on our backs bedding. an aluminum cook outfit, a 5 x 7 camera and tripod, binoculars, and supplies sufficient for two weeks, making a total pack each of 55 pounds.”
And now, to the footnote:
“We also took with us an Airedale terrier for a camp dog. This was a mistake, for after three days' travel his feet were worn raw and bleeding. In some places it was necessary to carry him or sit and wait while he picked his way across.”
The dog of the adventure was not named Scout, or Hercules, or Intrepid. He was named Teddy. He was mentioned once more in the article: “The dog was in terrible shape also: it was pitiful to watch him as he hobbled after us.”
Left at what Limbert wrote for National Geographic you might think he just watched his companion animal suffer. He did much more than that for the Airedale. He cut up clothing to make booties for the dog, then did it again when they wore out.
The three of them—two men and a dog—covered 80 miles in 17 days.
The picture below, which appeared in National Geographic, is “a lava spout in Vermilion Canyon.” Teddy is resting to the right while Limbert and Cole pose for the picture. Limbert was the photographer. He was in most of the pictures he took of the expedition, which were apparently shot using a timer or remote shutter release. Limbert was a tireless promoter of Idaho, and of Robert Limbert, for which we should be glad. The photo comes from the Robert Limbert papers, Boise State University Library, Special Collections and Archives.
#two-gunbob #robertlimbert #cratersofthemoon
Limbert was the man who explored what we now know as Craters of the Moon, and wrote the 25-page article that appeared in National Geographic in 1924 that intrigued the nation enough for Calvin Coolidge to proclaim it a national monument later that year. The article is available online and includes many of Lambert’s pictures that are still stunning today.
The National Geographic article documented a trip he and a friend took across the forbidding black desert. Here’s the cavalier way he described it:
“One morning in May W. L. Cole and I, both of Boise, Idaho, left Minidoka, packing on our backs bedding. an aluminum cook outfit, a 5 x 7 camera and tripod, binoculars, and supplies sufficient for two weeks, making a total pack each of 55 pounds.”
And now, to the footnote:
“We also took with us an Airedale terrier for a camp dog. This was a mistake, for after three days' travel his feet were worn raw and bleeding. In some places it was necessary to carry him or sit and wait while he picked his way across.”
The dog of the adventure was not named Scout, or Hercules, or Intrepid. He was named Teddy. He was mentioned once more in the article: “The dog was in terrible shape also: it was pitiful to watch him as he hobbled after us.”
Left at what Limbert wrote for National Geographic you might think he just watched his companion animal suffer. He did much more than that for the Airedale. He cut up clothing to make booties for the dog, then did it again when they wore out.
The three of them—two men and a dog—covered 80 miles in 17 days.
The picture below, which appeared in National Geographic, is “a lava spout in Vermilion Canyon.” Teddy is resting to the right while Limbert and Cole pose for the picture. Limbert was the photographer. He was in most of the pictures he took of the expedition, which were apparently shot using a timer or remote shutter release. Limbert was a tireless promoter of Idaho, and of Robert Limbert, for which we should be glad. The photo comes from the Robert Limbert papers, Boise State University Library, Special Collections and Archives.
#two-gunbob #robertlimbert #cratersofthemoon
May 7, 2020
A Car Built in Idaho
In the early days of automobiles many entrepreneurial mechanics tried building their own. A few even started their own brands, some of which live on today. Many towns in the Northwest had their own automobiles being built in small assembly plants in the teens and twenties. Lost brands such as the Totem, the Spokane, the Tilikum, and the Seattle were the result. By the 1930s most of those upstarts had disappeared. Then, in 1975 Don Stinebaugh of Post Falls, Idaho decided to build a car.
Stinebaugh was an inventor with at least 48 patents to his name. He’d invented a snowmobile engine that made him a fair amount of money, for one. His cars grew out of his tinkering with off highway vehicles. He built several all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) that people liked, including tandem axel models that pre-dated today’s side-by-side utility task vehicles (UTVs) . Had he continued down that (non) road, he might have done well with his vehicles. He got distracted, though, when people started to encourage him to convert his ATVs for street use.
Cutting to the chase, the 1975 Leata was born from those early off-road vehicles. It had a hand-laid fiberglass body, an 83-HP Pinto engine, and a diamond tuft interior that would not be out-of-place in a hot rod. The first Leatas looked a bit like a British Morris (left in the photo) with a continental kit on the back. Stinebaugh built about 20 of them. One was returned because it went too fast for the owner.
There was no 1976 Leata, but Sinebaugh wasn’t through. He brought out the Leata Cabalero in 1977 (right in the photo). It came in several models, including a convertible and a pickup. The Cabalero was basically a Chevette with a custom body. Where the original Leata could claim snappy performance, the 1977 models were sluggish. The automotive press panned them. Stinebaugh made and sold about 70 of them, then closed up shop.
Leata’s were not aesthetically pleasing. They filled no real automotive need a Pinto couldn’t fill for less money. Still, my hat is off to Mr. Stinebaugh for following his dream and creating an Idaho original.
Stinebaugh was an inventor with at least 48 patents to his name. He’d invented a snowmobile engine that made him a fair amount of money, for one. His cars grew out of his tinkering with off highway vehicles. He built several all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) that people liked, including tandem axel models that pre-dated today’s side-by-side utility task vehicles (UTVs) . Had he continued down that (non) road, he might have done well with his vehicles. He got distracted, though, when people started to encourage him to convert his ATVs for street use.
Cutting to the chase, the 1975 Leata was born from those early off-road vehicles. It had a hand-laid fiberglass body, an 83-HP Pinto engine, and a diamond tuft interior that would not be out-of-place in a hot rod. The first Leatas looked a bit like a British Morris (left in the photo) with a continental kit on the back. Stinebaugh built about 20 of them. One was returned because it went too fast for the owner.
There was no 1976 Leata, but Sinebaugh wasn’t through. He brought out the Leata Cabalero in 1977 (right in the photo). It came in several models, including a convertible and a pickup. The Cabalero was basically a Chevette with a custom body. Where the original Leata could claim snappy performance, the 1977 models were sluggish. The automotive press panned them. Stinebaugh made and sold about 70 of them, then closed up shop.
Leata’s were not aesthetically pleasing. They filled no real automotive need a Pinto couldn’t fill for less money. Still, my hat is off to Mr. Stinebaugh for following his dream and creating an Idaho original.
May 6, 2020
Island Park is not a Park
Island Park is an area in Southeastern Idaho. It’s also a town within that area. It is not, however, a park. It isn’t an Island either.
When I say it isn’t a park, I’m talking about a government designation. Although there are two state parks within the Island Park area, Harriman and Henrys Lake. If you prefer a definition for “park” that broadly describes an area left largely in its natural state, you’re probably closer to the meaning those who named it had in mind. No, we don’t know who named it.
But, where did “island” come from? There are a few theories on this. In the earliest days of Idaho history there were apparently large mats of reeds and foliage floating on Henrys Lake. The name might have come from those. Another theory is that the “islands” referred to the open meadows in the otherwise heavily forested area. Yet a third theory is just the opposite. That one holds that the “islands” were islands of timber on the sagebrush plain. This is the one that Lalia Boone, author of Idaho Place Names , seems to prefer, since it came from Charlie Pond, one of the early lodge owners in the area.
So, we don’t have a definitive answer about where the name came from, but we know how the town of Island Park came about. In the late 1940s local lodge owners wanted to serve liquor to their customers. Idaho law allowed liquor licenses to be awarded only to establishments within an incorporated city. Changing the law would be difficult given strong religious influences on the Legislature, so the lodge owners created a town.
Island Park is unique in its dimensions, running some 33 miles end-to-end along US 20, but having a width of only 500 feet for much of its length. That weird shape pulled in the lodges and enough people to call it a town. Those people sometimes claim that they have the world’s longest “Main Street.” Whether that is true is probably open to debate. Maybe you’d be interested in a bar bet on it? That’s something you can do at certain establishments in the thriving community of Island Park.
When I say it isn’t a park, I’m talking about a government designation. Although there are two state parks within the Island Park area, Harriman and Henrys Lake. If you prefer a definition for “park” that broadly describes an area left largely in its natural state, you’re probably closer to the meaning those who named it had in mind. No, we don’t know who named it.
But, where did “island” come from? There are a few theories on this. In the earliest days of Idaho history there were apparently large mats of reeds and foliage floating on Henrys Lake. The name might have come from those. Another theory is that the “islands” referred to the open meadows in the otherwise heavily forested area. Yet a third theory is just the opposite. That one holds that the “islands” were islands of timber on the sagebrush plain. This is the one that Lalia Boone, author of Idaho Place Names , seems to prefer, since it came from Charlie Pond, one of the early lodge owners in the area.
So, we don’t have a definitive answer about where the name came from, but we know how the town of Island Park came about. In the late 1940s local lodge owners wanted to serve liquor to their customers. Idaho law allowed liquor licenses to be awarded only to establishments within an incorporated city. Changing the law would be difficult given strong religious influences on the Legislature, so the lodge owners created a town.
Island Park is unique in its dimensions, running some 33 miles end-to-end along US 20, but having a width of only 500 feet for much of its length. That weird shape pulled in the lodges and enough people to call it a town. Those people sometimes claim that they have the world’s longest “Main Street.” Whether that is true is probably open to debate. Maybe you’d be interested in a bar bet on it? That’s something you can do at certain establishments in the thriving community of Island Park.
May 5, 2020
The Interurban
File this one under “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.”
Boise had a street car system in 1890. They were built in many cities in the latter part of the 19th century as an efficient way to get people around town. Boise’s system soon became Treasure Valley’s system, with lines going in a 60-mile loop to Eagle, Star, Middleton, Caldwell, Nampa, Meridian and back to Boise.
It was popular for people to pack a picnic lunch and take the loop on a Sunday just for the fun of it. Spurs were extended from Caldwell to Wilder and Lake Lowell, as well.
Several companies ran portions of the system, which become generally known as the Interurban, over the years. The light rail trains were powered by electricity, so it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that Idaho Power Company ran the trains for a time.
Wouldn’t something like that be a wonderful resource today? So why weren’t “we” smart enough to save the Interurban?
First, you need to know that it wasn’t a public system. Several companies were involved over the years, each trying to make a profit, and none really succeeding. Yes, there’s a conspiracy theory that General Motors bought up all the light rail lines in the country and closed them down so that people would have to buy cars. And, yes, GM was convicted for plotting to monopolize transportation systems post World War One. But it wasn’t GM that killed the systems. Not exactly. They were trying to make a profit from their National City Lines (which did NOT run a system in the Treasure Valley).
Cars did help kill the trollies when people began buying them. But it was buses that proved their demise. It was simply much cheaper to add a bus route and a few bus stop signs as cities grew. Quicker, too. Interurban tracks were taken out in some places as buses and cars became the dominant forms of transportation. Often they didn’t even bother pulling up the tracks, instead they just paved over them like the useless relics they had become.
Ah, but, wouldn’t it be nice to hop on a smooth running trolley and watch the cities and sagebrush go by while you enjoyed an ice cream cone on a Sunday afternoon?
The photo is a packed Boise and Interurban car from 1910, courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection.
For more on the Interurban, read Treasure Valley's Electric Railway, by Barbara Perry Bauer and Elizabeth Jacox.
Boise had a street car system in 1890. They were built in many cities in the latter part of the 19th century as an efficient way to get people around town. Boise’s system soon became Treasure Valley’s system, with lines going in a 60-mile loop to Eagle, Star, Middleton, Caldwell, Nampa, Meridian and back to Boise.
It was popular for people to pack a picnic lunch and take the loop on a Sunday just for the fun of it. Spurs were extended from Caldwell to Wilder and Lake Lowell, as well.
Several companies ran portions of the system, which become generally known as the Interurban, over the years. The light rail trains were powered by electricity, so it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that Idaho Power Company ran the trains for a time.
Wouldn’t something like that be a wonderful resource today? So why weren’t “we” smart enough to save the Interurban?
First, you need to know that it wasn’t a public system. Several companies were involved over the years, each trying to make a profit, and none really succeeding. Yes, there’s a conspiracy theory that General Motors bought up all the light rail lines in the country and closed them down so that people would have to buy cars. And, yes, GM was convicted for plotting to monopolize transportation systems post World War One. But it wasn’t GM that killed the systems. Not exactly. They were trying to make a profit from their National City Lines (which did NOT run a system in the Treasure Valley).
Cars did help kill the trollies when people began buying them. But it was buses that proved their demise. It was simply much cheaper to add a bus route and a few bus stop signs as cities grew. Quicker, too. Interurban tracks were taken out in some places as buses and cars became the dominant forms of transportation. Often they didn’t even bother pulling up the tracks, instead they just paved over them like the useless relics they had become.
Ah, but, wouldn’t it be nice to hop on a smooth running trolley and watch the cities and sagebrush go by while you enjoyed an ice cream cone on a Sunday afternoon?
The photo is a packed Boise and Interurban car from 1910, courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection.
For more on the Interurban, read Treasure Valley's Electric Railway, by Barbara Perry Bauer and Elizabeth Jacox.
