Rick Just's Blog, page 17
July 22, 2024
Anti-German Sentiment Ran High in 1917
In a previous post, I mentioned that the lettering above the building at 6th and Main had been sandblasted away. It had once read “Boise Turnverein,” marking the entrance to a club for those of German descent. The club was disbanded, and the building sold when anti-German fever was rampant in Boise at the beginning of World War I.
I ran across another example of that sentiment in a couple of issues of the Idaho Statesman from November 1917.
C.G. Goetling, who ran a farm near Eagle, was surprised to see a crowd of men approaching him one November day. They were upset about his hay derrick. Goetling sensed some danger, but he tried joking with them about it. They didn’t like the colors he had used to paint the derrick. The pole was red and white with a strip of black tar on one end. Those were the colors of the German flag. Since Goetling was of German descent, the men confronting him did not think it an accident.
Goetling told them that he had painted the derrick with paint he happened to have on hand about seven years earlier. The ruffians demanded that he paint it red, white, and blue in honor of the American flag. They had brought along paint for that purpose. With sufficient prodding, he did as they asked. It still wasn’t enough for them.
The men produced an American flag, placed it on the ground, and demanded Goetling kneel and kiss it.
“Boys, this is asking too much,” Goetling said. “I kneel only to my Gott.” Someone in the crowd murmured, “And the Kaiser.”
As the paper reported, “He refused stubbornly until one of the party, a husky lad of considerable weight and conviction approached him with the command: ‘Get down on your knees and kiss that flag, before we get tough with you.’”
Goetling saw there was no way out, so he knelt and buried his face in the folds of the flag.
The crowd still wasn’t done with him. They accused him of donating $1,000 to Germany for the war effort and demanded he agree to donate $50 to the YMCA. After getting his agreement to that, they left the farmer alone.
Two days later, Goetling appeared in the offices of the Statesman to defend himself. He told a reporter that the paint on the derrick was old, that he had not donated any money to Germany, and that his son was serving in the army. The Statesman checked that last part of the story and found it to be true.
Goetling told the paper he had come to the U.S. in 1880 and was a naturalized citizen, having lived in Idaho for 12 years. His wife, born in Canada, said, “Charges of this kind are hard to bear when we have done what we could. My husband gave apples for the soldiers, and I have helped with Red Cross work. The red, white, and black paint on the derrick was put there seven years ago, and the black was not paint but a stripe of tar put on to protect the wood.”
Nothing more of the incident was reported. I could find only two more mentions of the Goetlings in the paper. A couple of weeks after the incident, Mrs. Goetling went home to Canada, whether for a visit or for good, was not stated. Then, in August of 1918, the Goetling house burned to the ground, with nothing left to be salvaged. No cause of the fire was given.
This is what the German flag looked like in 1917.
I ran across another example of that sentiment in a couple of issues of the Idaho Statesman from November 1917.
C.G. Goetling, who ran a farm near Eagle, was surprised to see a crowd of men approaching him one November day. They were upset about his hay derrick. Goetling sensed some danger, but he tried joking with them about it. They didn’t like the colors he had used to paint the derrick. The pole was red and white with a strip of black tar on one end. Those were the colors of the German flag. Since Goetling was of German descent, the men confronting him did not think it an accident.
Goetling told them that he had painted the derrick with paint he happened to have on hand about seven years earlier. The ruffians demanded that he paint it red, white, and blue in honor of the American flag. They had brought along paint for that purpose. With sufficient prodding, he did as they asked. It still wasn’t enough for them.
The men produced an American flag, placed it on the ground, and demanded Goetling kneel and kiss it.
“Boys, this is asking too much,” Goetling said. “I kneel only to my Gott.” Someone in the crowd murmured, “And the Kaiser.”
As the paper reported, “He refused stubbornly until one of the party, a husky lad of considerable weight and conviction approached him with the command: ‘Get down on your knees and kiss that flag, before we get tough with you.’”
Goetling saw there was no way out, so he knelt and buried his face in the folds of the flag.
The crowd still wasn’t done with him. They accused him of donating $1,000 to Germany for the war effort and demanded he agree to donate $50 to the YMCA. After getting his agreement to that, they left the farmer alone.
Two days later, Goetling appeared in the offices of the Statesman to defend himself. He told a reporter that the paint on the derrick was old, that he had not donated any money to Germany, and that his son was serving in the army. The Statesman checked that last part of the story and found it to be true.
Goetling told the paper he had come to the U.S. in 1880 and was a naturalized citizen, having lived in Idaho for 12 years. His wife, born in Canada, said, “Charges of this kind are hard to bear when we have done what we could. My husband gave apples for the soldiers, and I have helped with Red Cross work. The red, white, and black paint on the derrick was put there seven years ago, and the black was not paint but a stripe of tar put on to protect the wood.”
Nothing more of the incident was reported. I could find only two more mentions of the Goetlings in the paper. A couple of weeks after the incident, Mrs. Goetling went home to Canada, whether for a visit or for good, was not stated. Then, in August of 1918, the Goetling house burned to the ground, with nothing left to be salvaged. No cause of the fire was given.
This is what the German flag looked like in 1917.
July 21, 2024
Volcanic Crater Claims One
Pro tip: Tempting as it may be to stand on a snow cornice on the edge of a deep crater, wind howling around you, then lean over to peer into the abyss, don’t. Just don’t.
We are meant to learn from history, so here’s the cautionary tale of C.E. Bell
In February 1907, Bell and two companions were walking in the Owyhees near the head of the Bruneau River. What they were doing out there goes unsaid in the reports about Bell’s fate, but they were part-time miners, so let’s assume searching for some precious metal was their goal.
The three were trudging across a snowy mountain when Bell got ahead of his companions. Breathless, the companions got to the top of the ridge and saw that it was a volcanic crater. Bell, maybe a hundred yards ahead of them, seemed determined to peek into the crater. From their vantage point they saw that Bell had walked out onto an ice bridge covered with several feet of snow. They yelled to Bell to warn him of his precarious position, but whipping wind took their words away.
While the two watched helplessly, C.E. Bell reached the edge of the cornice and leaned over to peer into the crater. It will not be a shock to you a century and more away to learn that the cornice gave way, sending Bell windmilling into the crater bowl.
Bell’s companions, never named in newspaper reports, trekked back to Jarbidge to stir up a rescue effort. A large party responded. One would-be rescuer dropped over the edge of the crater on a rope to see what he could see. When he reached a depth of 200 feet he saw an empty ledge another 400 feet below him, then a drop-off into the dark.
Determining that rescue was impossible, the men returned to Jarbidge.
On May 28, two other prospectors found the body of C.E. Bell 800 feet below the rim of the crater.
Bell had been a member of the Oddfellows Lodge of Twin Falls. That group paid a reward of $300 to bring his body back.
We are meant to learn from history, so here’s the cautionary tale of C.E. Bell
In February 1907, Bell and two companions were walking in the Owyhees near the head of the Bruneau River. What they were doing out there goes unsaid in the reports about Bell’s fate, but they were part-time miners, so let’s assume searching for some precious metal was their goal.
The three were trudging across a snowy mountain when Bell got ahead of his companions. Breathless, the companions got to the top of the ridge and saw that it was a volcanic crater. Bell, maybe a hundred yards ahead of them, seemed determined to peek into the crater. From their vantage point they saw that Bell had walked out onto an ice bridge covered with several feet of snow. They yelled to Bell to warn him of his precarious position, but whipping wind took their words away.
While the two watched helplessly, C.E. Bell reached the edge of the cornice and leaned over to peer into the crater. It will not be a shock to you a century and more away to learn that the cornice gave way, sending Bell windmilling into the crater bowl.
Bell’s companions, never named in newspaper reports, trekked back to Jarbidge to stir up a rescue effort. A large party responded. One would-be rescuer dropped over the edge of the crater on a rope to see what he could see. When he reached a depth of 200 feet he saw an empty ledge another 400 feet below him, then a drop-off into the dark.
Determining that rescue was impossible, the men returned to Jarbidge.
On May 28, two other prospectors found the body of C.E. Bell 800 feet below the rim of the crater.
Bell had been a member of the Oddfellows Lodge of Twin Falls. That group paid a reward of $300 to bring his body back.
July 20, 2024
200 Incarcerated in Boise
“Two Hundred Coxeyites Sentenced in Boise, Idaho,” read the headline in The Christian Recorder Magazine's June 7, 1894 edition.
That caught my attention while searching for Idaho subjects to research. First, when you sentence 200 people for anything, there must be a story behind it. Second, what the heck were Coxeyites?
Those commonly known as Coxeyites or Coxey's Army were also the Army of the Commonwealth in Christ. They were unemployed workers who organized for what was the first significant protest march on Washington, DC.
In 1894, there were plenty of unemployed people. The country was in the middle of the worst economic depression to date. Those out of work began to get behind Jacob Sechler Coxey, Sr. He had a big idea about infrastructure in the nation. A Socialist Party member, Coxey wanted to issue $500 million in paper money backed by government bonds. That money would land in the pockets of workers building roads nationwide. The idea would be echoed in the New Deal programs of the Great Depression a few decades later.
To say that he had some support is akin to saying there are a few stars in the sky. Tens of thousands of jobless men began to make their way toward Washington to have their voices heard.
There were a few problems associated with the march. First, these were men without money. How would they get to DC? Once they got there, where would they stay? What would they eat?
A large number of Coxeyites set out from the Pacific Northwest. Many had formerly been railroad workers who blamed their problems on their employers. So, the army of workers hopped freights headed east.
As they traveled across the country, local supporters cheered members of Coxey's Army and often gave them food. Railroads were less eager to help.
Coxeyites, frustrated by that lack of eagerness, began commandeering trains to take them east. In reaction, the railroads began throwing every obstacle they could in the way of the men. They parked dead train engines on the tracks in Montana and Kansas, emptied water tanks—essential for steam engines—and even tore up tracks. The Coxeyites often just laid new track around the obstacles. They would stop at wells and use buckets and cups to refill the purloined engines to dump water into the tanks.
Some states called in troops to stop the Coxeyites. But, more than once, the unemployed men turned the tables on those who would keep them from their destination, capturing the firearms meant to capture the Coxeyites.
At Huntington, Oregon, just a few miles from the Idaho border, about 250 Coxeyites demanded that the Union Pacific Railroad give them a ride east. UP resisted initially, fearing that caving in would set a precedent that would result in hundreds more Coxeyites demanding free passage up and down the West Coast.
Ultimately, the company relented “under protest” and agreed to let the Coxeyites ride across Idaho.
Many locals across Southern Idaho cheered this victory for the unemployed men. In Pocatello, when about 300 Coxeyites pulled into town, sympathizers raised money for food and clothing.
Meanwhile, Union Pacific officials decided letting the men ride for free was a mistake. As feared, other members of Coxey's Army started demanding a free ride. It was time to put a stop to it.
At the railroad's request, the U.S. Marshall for Idaho, Joseph Pinkham, sent men to the border with Oregon to keep more Coxeyites from entering the state. He also headed up a cadre of marshals and volunteers who went to Montpelier to keep the Coxeyites from entering Wyoming.
Coxey's army had other ideas. The men spent a day and most of a night arguing with the citizens of Montpelier, then with Marshall Pinkham, in what one newspaper reporter called "the most exciting day in the history of southeastern Idaho." Pinkham arrested a local man who was encouraging the Coxeyites to ignore a federal order to stand down. The crowd of the unemployed demanded his release, but Pinkham did not acquiesce. The tense standoff broke when Pinkham's train retreated from Montpellier with the arrestee.
Shortly after the Pinkham train left, several men broke into the roundhouse and stole a locomotive. That engine jumped the tracks at a switch, disabling it. The men stole two more engines in Montpelier and charged into Wyoming at 6:22 a.m.
That Montpelier triumph was short-lived for the Coxeyites. The train-nappers were overpowered in Green River and arrested.
The men found themselves back on a train, the occupants of guarded cattle cars on their way west, not east. About 200 were on their way to Boise for trial related to the stolen locomotive caper in mid-May 1894.
Housing 200 prisoners would prove a challenge. At first, they were to be housed at the prison. When authorities determined there wasn't room there, they decided to quarter them in the old post office. Again, not enough space.
When the Coxyites pulled into town, the boxcars they rode in rolled into the roundhouse and stopped. And that's where they stayed. Officials parked the boxcars around and within the roundhouse and charged two companies of troops and a posse of deputies with guarding them.
The roundhouse and surrounding grounds, where the newspaper reported the prisoners "frolicked around on the grass like boys out for a holiday," quickly became known as Camp Pinkham. For his part, Pinkham looked out for his prisoners' interests. He ordered a 28-foot by 100-foot building erected for them to sleep in while waiting for Judge Beatty to come back from a trip to North Idaho.
The trial began when the judge returned in late May. Justice was swift. On June 5, the judge handed out sentences. Those who led the Coxeyites in stealing the train in Montpelier got the worst of it, each sentenced to six months in jail. The remainder of the men were sentenced to 30 to 60 days. They spent their sentences in a temporary prison near Huntington, Oregon.
So, the Coxeyites, who chose the path through southern Idaho on their aborted journey to Washington, DC, spent their summer in a crude enclosure along the Snake River.
Several delegations of Coxey's Army did make it to Washington, DC over that summer. Their protests changed little, but it marked the beginning of many marches on Washington for various causes that continue to this day.
That caught my attention while searching for Idaho subjects to research. First, when you sentence 200 people for anything, there must be a story behind it. Second, what the heck were Coxeyites?
Those commonly known as Coxeyites or Coxey's Army were also the Army of the Commonwealth in Christ. They were unemployed workers who organized for what was the first significant protest march on Washington, DC.
In 1894, there were plenty of unemployed people. The country was in the middle of the worst economic depression to date. Those out of work began to get behind Jacob Sechler Coxey, Sr. He had a big idea about infrastructure in the nation. A Socialist Party member, Coxey wanted to issue $500 million in paper money backed by government bonds. That money would land in the pockets of workers building roads nationwide. The idea would be echoed in the New Deal programs of the Great Depression a few decades later.
To say that he had some support is akin to saying there are a few stars in the sky. Tens of thousands of jobless men began to make their way toward Washington to have their voices heard.
There were a few problems associated with the march. First, these were men without money. How would they get to DC? Once they got there, where would they stay? What would they eat?
A large number of Coxeyites set out from the Pacific Northwest. Many had formerly been railroad workers who blamed their problems on their employers. So, the army of workers hopped freights headed east.
As they traveled across the country, local supporters cheered members of Coxey's Army and often gave them food. Railroads were less eager to help.
Coxeyites, frustrated by that lack of eagerness, began commandeering trains to take them east. In reaction, the railroads began throwing every obstacle they could in the way of the men. They parked dead train engines on the tracks in Montana and Kansas, emptied water tanks—essential for steam engines—and even tore up tracks. The Coxeyites often just laid new track around the obstacles. They would stop at wells and use buckets and cups to refill the purloined engines to dump water into the tanks.
Some states called in troops to stop the Coxeyites. But, more than once, the unemployed men turned the tables on those who would keep them from their destination, capturing the firearms meant to capture the Coxeyites.
At Huntington, Oregon, just a few miles from the Idaho border, about 250 Coxeyites demanded that the Union Pacific Railroad give them a ride east. UP resisted initially, fearing that caving in would set a precedent that would result in hundreds more Coxeyites demanding free passage up and down the West Coast.
Ultimately, the company relented “under protest” and agreed to let the Coxeyites ride across Idaho.
Many locals across Southern Idaho cheered this victory for the unemployed men. In Pocatello, when about 300 Coxeyites pulled into town, sympathizers raised money for food and clothing.
Meanwhile, Union Pacific officials decided letting the men ride for free was a mistake. As feared, other members of Coxey's Army started demanding a free ride. It was time to put a stop to it.
At the railroad's request, the U.S. Marshall for Idaho, Joseph Pinkham, sent men to the border with Oregon to keep more Coxeyites from entering the state. He also headed up a cadre of marshals and volunteers who went to Montpelier to keep the Coxeyites from entering Wyoming.
Coxey's army had other ideas. The men spent a day and most of a night arguing with the citizens of Montpelier, then with Marshall Pinkham, in what one newspaper reporter called "the most exciting day in the history of southeastern Idaho." Pinkham arrested a local man who was encouraging the Coxeyites to ignore a federal order to stand down. The crowd of the unemployed demanded his release, but Pinkham did not acquiesce. The tense standoff broke when Pinkham's train retreated from Montpellier with the arrestee.
Shortly after the Pinkham train left, several men broke into the roundhouse and stole a locomotive. That engine jumped the tracks at a switch, disabling it. The men stole two more engines in Montpelier and charged into Wyoming at 6:22 a.m.
That Montpelier triumph was short-lived for the Coxeyites. The train-nappers were overpowered in Green River and arrested.
The men found themselves back on a train, the occupants of guarded cattle cars on their way west, not east. About 200 were on their way to Boise for trial related to the stolen locomotive caper in mid-May 1894.
Housing 200 prisoners would prove a challenge. At first, they were to be housed at the prison. When authorities determined there wasn't room there, they decided to quarter them in the old post office. Again, not enough space.
When the Coxyites pulled into town, the boxcars they rode in rolled into the roundhouse and stopped. And that's where they stayed. Officials parked the boxcars around and within the roundhouse and charged two companies of troops and a posse of deputies with guarding them.
The roundhouse and surrounding grounds, where the newspaper reported the prisoners "frolicked around on the grass like boys out for a holiday," quickly became known as Camp Pinkham. For his part, Pinkham looked out for his prisoners' interests. He ordered a 28-foot by 100-foot building erected for them to sleep in while waiting for Judge Beatty to come back from a trip to North Idaho.
The trial began when the judge returned in late May. Justice was swift. On June 5, the judge handed out sentences. Those who led the Coxeyites in stealing the train in Montpelier got the worst of it, each sentenced to six months in jail. The remainder of the men were sentenced to 30 to 60 days. They spent their sentences in a temporary prison near Huntington, Oregon.
So, the Coxeyites, who chose the path through southern Idaho on their aborted journey to Washington, DC, spent their summer in a crude enclosure along the Snake River.
Several delegations of Coxey's Army did make it to Washington, DC over that summer. Their protests changed little, but it marked the beginning of many marches on Washington for various causes that continue to this day.
July 19, 2024
A Snowmobile Pioneer
Today’s post is an example of history being made while we don’t even notice it.
In the early 1970s, Chuck Wells’ dream job at the Idaho Department of Parks came along. Wells had a degree in recreation from the University of Oregon, and at the time, was working as the manager of Idaho’s Heyburn State Park. The agency was adding Recreation to its name, and it needed someone to figure out how to develop a program for off-road motor vehicles. ATVs were still a new thing, but motorbikes were really taking off. Snowmobiles had been around for a while, but they were finally starting to be reliable and easy to run. People needed places to ride.
So, Chuck Wells started creating riding opportunities, not with a shovel and an ax but with his pen. He worked on legislation, creating the Motorbike Recreation Fund Act in Idaho in 1972, the first registration program for off-highway motorbikes. But it wasn’t a way for the state to make money. It was a way to pool money from trail users to maintain the trails they enjoyed.
Chuck used that user-pay philosophy in most of the nine pieces of legislation he wrote and got passed. It had worked for motorbikes, so he took the idea to snowmobilers and OHV riders. It resulted in vastly improved trails for summer users and a whole new system of trails in Idaho for snowmobilers. State after state copied Chuck’s ideas. And it wasn’t just motorized trail users who benefited. They got to use the same trails, but they also benefited from Chuck’s imagination when it came time to develop Idaho’s Park N’ Ski cross-country ski system.
We sometimes disparage bureaucrats, maybe when we’re waiting in line at the DMV. Wells was a bureaucrat in the best sense of the term. He dedicated his life to giving thousands of outdoor recreationists opportunities to enjoy Idaho.
These days, more than 165,000 Off-Highway Vehicles use the trail systems Chuck created with his programs during the summer. In addition, more than 7,200 miles of snowmobile trails are groomed each winter in Idaho, more than in any other state.
Wells received many honors for his dedication to providing recreational trails and was inducted into the International Snowmobile Hall of Fame. Chuck Wells passed away in July 2021 a legend in the history of Idaho outdoor recreation.
In the early 1970s, Chuck Wells’ dream job at the Idaho Department of Parks came along. Wells had a degree in recreation from the University of Oregon, and at the time, was working as the manager of Idaho’s Heyburn State Park. The agency was adding Recreation to its name, and it needed someone to figure out how to develop a program for off-road motor vehicles. ATVs were still a new thing, but motorbikes were really taking off. Snowmobiles had been around for a while, but they were finally starting to be reliable and easy to run. People needed places to ride.
So, Chuck Wells started creating riding opportunities, not with a shovel and an ax but with his pen. He worked on legislation, creating the Motorbike Recreation Fund Act in Idaho in 1972, the first registration program for off-highway motorbikes. But it wasn’t a way for the state to make money. It was a way to pool money from trail users to maintain the trails they enjoyed.
Chuck used that user-pay philosophy in most of the nine pieces of legislation he wrote and got passed. It had worked for motorbikes, so he took the idea to snowmobilers and OHV riders. It resulted in vastly improved trails for summer users and a whole new system of trails in Idaho for snowmobilers. State after state copied Chuck’s ideas. And it wasn’t just motorized trail users who benefited. They got to use the same trails, but they also benefited from Chuck’s imagination when it came time to develop Idaho’s Park N’ Ski cross-country ski system.
We sometimes disparage bureaucrats, maybe when we’re waiting in line at the DMV. Wells was a bureaucrat in the best sense of the term. He dedicated his life to giving thousands of outdoor recreationists opportunities to enjoy Idaho.
These days, more than 165,000 Off-Highway Vehicles use the trail systems Chuck created with his programs during the summer. In addition, more than 7,200 miles of snowmobile trails are groomed each winter in Idaho, more than in any other state.
Wells received many honors for his dedication to providing recreational trails and was inducted into the International Snowmobile Hall of Fame. Chuck Wells passed away in July 2021 a legend in the history of Idaho outdoor recreation.
July 18, 2024
Preventing Mollycoddling in Idaho
In 1919, boxing was legalized in Idaho. The Legislature created a boxing commission (also in charge of wrestling) to oversee the sport. The law specified 20-round bouts with four-ounce gloves.
Mrs. Carrie White, one of two female representatives at the time, was enthusiastic. “I don’t want my sons to be mollycoddles,” she said. “This bill will prevent a race of mollycoddles.”
The need for the prevention of mollycoddling seemed urgent. The Idaho Statesman noted that since the bill didn’t have an emergency clause, it wouldn’t take effect for 60 days. They predicted that when the waiting time was up, promoters would be “busy as the knob on the single door of the one saloon in a mining town on payday.”
Mrs. Carrie White, one of two female representatives at the time, was enthusiastic. “I don’t want my sons to be mollycoddles,” she said. “This bill will prevent a race of mollycoddles.”
The need for the prevention of mollycoddling seemed urgent. The Idaho Statesman noted that since the bill didn’t have an emergency clause, it wouldn’t take effect for 60 days. They predicted that when the waiting time was up, promoters would be “busy as the knob on the single door of the one saloon in a mining town on payday.”
July 17, 2024
Idaho's Weirdest County Shape
Have you ever wondered why Idaho’s Blaine County is shaped so weirdly? Each county shape in the state is unique, but Blaine County calls attention to itself by sending a tentacle far south of its bulk, like an amoeba reaching out to snatch a snack. It reminds one of the shapes of those tortuous voting districts some states have where politicians string together partisans from one party or the other in order to win elections.
Political intrigue partly explains the weird shape of Blaine County. It is something of a leftover county, with its shape changing four times between March 5, 1895, and February 6, 1917.
There was much drama over the shape of counties in February 1895 when the question of Blaine County was first debated in the Idaho Legislature. Rumors abounded that Nampa wanted to be a part of Ada County and that Boise County was about to be split up with part of it to be named Butte County. The rumors were so frequent and contradictory that one legislative wag ginned up a phony bill to create one giant county called Grant County. It would have consolidated the 21 counties that then existed into a single county. Grant County’s county seat was to be the city of Shoshone, which was one of the towns then embroiled over a debate regarding what was to become of Alturas and Logan counties. The bill writer, tongue in cheek, thought that making one county, the boundaries of which would match the boundaries of the state, would solve all the boundary problems.
The proposal to create a county called Blaine, named for 1854 Republican presidential nominee James G. Blaine, was contentious because of the financial pickle of Alturas County, which was in a state of bankruptcy. Citizens of Logan County, which was to be combined with Alturas to form Blaine County, objected to taking on the debt of Alturas.
Poor Alturas. Its last gasp would come on March 5, 1895 when the Blaine county bill prevailed. It was a bloated county upon its creation by the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1864. Taking up more map space than the states of Maryland, New Jersey, and Delaware combined, it was doomed to be whittled down to nothing.
The new Blaine County didn’t retain its original shape for long, either. The Legislature carved Lincoln County from it just a couple of weeks later, on March 18. It lost a little more weight in January of 1913 when Power County was extracted from Blaine. The dieting county slimmed down to its present shape in February 1917 when Butte and Camas counties were trimmed away.
Through all that reduction in size, Blaine County managed to keep that weird little strip reaching down to Lake Walcott because it improved the county’s tax base. That narrow reach of land encompassed a bit of railroad property, taxes for which helped Blaine County keep its books balanced.
Political intrigue partly explains the weird shape of Blaine County. It is something of a leftover county, with its shape changing four times between March 5, 1895, and February 6, 1917.
There was much drama over the shape of counties in February 1895 when the question of Blaine County was first debated in the Idaho Legislature. Rumors abounded that Nampa wanted to be a part of Ada County and that Boise County was about to be split up with part of it to be named Butte County. The rumors were so frequent and contradictory that one legislative wag ginned up a phony bill to create one giant county called Grant County. It would have consolidated the 21 counties that then existed into a single county. Grant County’s county seat was to be the city of Shoshone, which was one of the towns then embroiled over a debate regarding what was to become of Alturas and Logan counties. The bill writer, tongue in cheek, thought that making one county, the boundaries of which would match the boundaries of the state, would solve all the boundary problems.
The proposal to create a county called Blaine, named for 1854 Republican presidential nominee James G. Blaine, was contentious because of the financial pickle of Alturas County, which was in a state of bankruptcy. Citizens of Logan County, which was to be combined with Alturas to form Blaine County, objected to taking on the debt of Alturas.
Poor Alturas. Its last gasp would come on March 5, 1895 when the Blaine county bill prevailed. It was a bloated county upon its creation by the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1864. Taking up more map space than the states of Maryland, New Jersey, and Delaware combined, it was doomed to be whittled down to nothing.
The new Blaine County didn’t retain its original shape for long, either. The Legislature carved Lincoln County from it just a couple of weeks later, on March 18. It lost a little more weight in January of 1913 when Power County was extracted from Blaine. The dieting county slimmed down to its present shape in February 1917 when Butte and Camas counties were trimmed away.
Through all that reduction in size, Blaine County managed to keep that weird little strip reaching down to Lake Walcott because it improved the county’s tax base. That narrow reach of land encompassed a bit of railroad property, taxes for which helped Blaine County keep its books balanced.
July 16, 2024
The Hercules Crash of 1995
On May 13, 1995, the control tower at Mountain Home Airforce Base received a call from the cockpit of a C-130 Hercules that was returning to Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs on a routine training mission. The crew reported an “in-flight emergency” that would divert them from their course to Mountain Home. The plane disappeared from radar before they could say what the emergency was.
The C-130 went down in a fiery crash at about 3 pm in the high-desert foothills about 12 miles north of Bliss, killing all six crewmembers. When first responders reached the crash site, they found wreckage scattered over a 3-mile area in pieces so small that sheriff deputies could not immediately determine the type of plane that had crashed.
The cause of the crash was later determined to be a faulty undertemp sensor on one engine. The sensor reading caused the crew to enrich the fuel mixture to bring the temperature up. Since the fuel was not at low temp, the adjustment overheated one of the fuel lines. It ruptured, causing an engine fire. The crew attempted to jettison the engine, but the release failed to work properly, causing severe wing and fuselage damage, leading to the crash.
Commemorating the crash on-site has become an annual event. Here’s a report on the commemoration on May 2024, the 29th anniversary of the crash from Rusty Faircloth, retired USAF MSgt.
“We made it out to the site on 4 May, and cleaned up the site while retiring the previous flag that was in place, we also added 6 small flags for the 6 members that perished, replaced the big flag with a flag that was flown during numerous combat support missions in Iraq and Afghanistan from 2003 through 2008 that was donated by CMSgt (Ret) Slappey. CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey was a C-130 Chief Flight Engineer with the 189th Airlift Squadron/124th Wing Idaho National Guard @ Gowen Air Field (Boise, Idaho). He carried a few flags with him during all of those missions. The flags were flown on both C-130E & H models. He has held onto these flags all of these years waiting for the right moment to come along to present them in an appropriate format. He felt like this was one of those moments.
CMSgt (Ret) Slappey's unit (189th Airlift Squadron) converted to C-130's in Jan 1996. In preparation for the conversion, He was one of several members of the squadron who visited six different C-130 units to look at their programs and procedures, and the 302AW at Peterson AFB, CO was one of those units.
Names of Individuals who assisted
CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey & Lynn Slappey
MSgt (Ret) Rusty Faircloth & Laura Faircloth
TSgt (Ret) Shawn Heckathorne & Darcy Heckathorne
Mr. Adam Kennedy & Jennifer Kennedy
Lockheed AC-130. (2024, June 26). In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lockhee... 
Left to right are TSgt (Ret) Shawn Heckathorne, CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey. MSgt (Ret) Rusty Faircloth, Adam Kennedy at the memorial sight. They replaced the American flag and cleaned up around the memorial.
Also assisting with. refreshing the memorial were Lynn Slappey, Darcy Heckathorne, Laura Faircloth, and Jennifer Kennedy.
The C-130 went down in a fiery crash at about 3 pm in the high-desert foothills about 12 miles north of Bliss, killing all six crewmembers. When first responders reached the crash site, they found wreckage scattered over a 3-mile area in pieces so small that sheriff deputies could not immediately determine the type of plane that had crashed.
The cause of the crash was later determined to be a faulty undertemp sensor on one engine. The sensor reading caused the crew to enrich the fuel mixture to bring the temperature up. Since the fuel was not at low temp, the adjustment overheated one of the fuel lines. It ruptured, causing an engine fire. The crew attempted to jettison the engine, but the release failed to work properly, causing severe wing and fuselage damage, leading to the crash.
Commemorating the crash on-site has become an annual event. Here’s a report on the commemoration on May 2024, the 29th anniversary of the crash from Rusty Faircloth, retired USAF MSgt.
“We made it out to the site on 4 May, and cleaned up the site while retiring the previous flag that was in place, we also added 6 small flags for the 6 members that perished, replaced the big flag with a flag that was flown during numerous combat support missions in Iraq and Afghanistan from 2003 through 2008 that was donated by CMSgt (Ret) Slappey. CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey was a C-130 Chief Flight Engineer with the 189th Airlift Squadron/124th Wing Idaho National Guard @ Gowen Air Field (Boise, Idaho). He carried a few flags with him during all of those missions. The flags were flown on both C-130E & H models. He has held onto these flags all of these years waiting for the right moment to come along to present them in an appropriate format. He felt like this was one of those moments.
CMSgt (Ret) Slappey's unit (189th Airlift Squadron) converted to C-130's in Jan 1996. In preparation for the conversion, He was one of several members of the squadron who visited six different C-130 units to look at their programs and procedures, and the 302AW at Peterson AFB, CO was one of those units.
Names of Individuals who assisted
CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey & Lynn Slappey
MSgt (Ret) Rusty Faircloth & Laura Faircloth
TSgt (Ret) Shawn Heckathorne & Darcy Heckathorne
Mr. Adam Kennedy & Jennifer Kennedy
Lockheed AC-130. (2024, June 26). In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lockhee... Left to right are TSgt (Ret) Shawn Heckathorne, CMSgt (Ret) Wayne Slappey. MSgt (Ret) Rusty Faircloth, Adam Kennedy at the memorial sight. They replaced the American flag and cleaned up around the memorial. Also assisting with. refreshing the memorial were Lynn Slappey, Darcy Heckathorne, Laura Faircloth, and Jennifer Kennedy.July 15, 2024
The Great Ice Fire of 1929
A couple of days ago, I talked about the pea picker strike of 1935 in Teton County. There’s a quirky little story that I discovered in researching that. Let’s call it The Great Ice Fire of 1929.
Peas are highly perishable. They need to be harvested quickly and refrigerated so that they don’t lose their sugar content. Shipping the pea crop from Teton County necessitated ample supplies of ice in the days before refrigerated railway cars were available. Local entrepreneurs began farming ice in the winter and storing it in an insulated shelter during the hot days of the summer for use for shipping peas in August.
How do you farm ice? Well, you can gather it in the wild by cutting blocks of ice from a river or lake, or you can dig a pit and fill it with water, letting winter do its work.
The Hillman brothers had gone the pit route in 1929, covering the ice-filled hole with generous quantities of straw. Pea harvest was about to begin that August. Unfortunately, some careless smoker tossed a butt onto the covered pit, igniting the straw. The resulting fire burned about 500 tons of ice, worth about $1500.
Peas are highly perishable. They need to be harvested quickly and refrigerated so that they don’t lose their sugar content. Shipping the pea crop from Teton County necessitated ample supplies of ice in the days before refrigerated railway cars were available. Local entrepreneurs began farming ice in the winter and storing it in an insulated shelter during the hot days of the summer for use for shipping peas in August.
How do you farm ice? Well, you can gather it in the wild by cutting blocks of ice from a river or lake, or you can dig a pit and fill it with water, letting winter do its work.
The Hillman brothers had gone the pit route in 1929, covering the ice-filled hole with generous quantities of straw. Pea harvest was about to begin that August. Unfortunately, some careless smoker tossed a butt onto the covered pit, igniting the straw. The resulting fire burned about 500 tons of ice, worth about $1500.
July 14, 2024
Platt Gardens
I was working on a story recently that involved plats in Boise. At the same time I stumbled on a familiar name, Platt Garden. I wondered if there was a connection between that name and platting in Boise. There wasn’t.
Platt Gardens, according to the City of Boise website, was designed by Spanish landscape architect Ricardo Espino to grace the grounds of the Boise Train Depot. Union Pacific built the gardens which feature a winding walk, benches, ponds, a monument of volcanic rock and a welcoming display of greenery in 1927.
The Depot and Platt Gardens were donated to the City of Boise by Union Pacific in 1982. The gardens were named for Howard V. Platt who was the general manager of the original Oregon Short Line Railroad.
Platt Gardens, according to the City of Boise website, was designed by Spanish landscape architect Ricardo Espino to grace the grounds of the Boise Train Depot. Union Pacific built the gardens which feature a winding walk, benches, ponds, a monument of volcanic rock and a welcoming display of greenery in 1927.
The Depot and Platt Gardens were donated to the City of Boise by Union Pacific in 1982. The gardens were named for Howard V. Platt who was the general manager of the original Oregon Short Line Railroad.
July 13, 2024
Idaho's Pea Picker Strike
If you know anything at all about peas grown in Idaho, you may know that we have an Idaho Pea and Lentil Commission, that Idahoan Calvin Lamborn perfected sugar snap peas, and that most of Idaho’s pea crop is grown in Nez Perce, Lewis, and Latah counties. But did you know that peas caused the Idaho governor to declare martial law in 1935?
For decades, from about 1925 and into the 1970s, Teton County grew a lot of peas. Peas start to lose their value quickly after they are picked, so a secondary industry popped up in the county: ice harvesting. Peas are picked in August, not a time when ice is widely available, so ice blocks were cut in the winter and stored all summer to keep peas cool in transit after harvest.
Getting peas to market quickly also necessitated the employment of armies of pea pickers. Most were seasonal workers from Mexico. In 1935, some of those workers realized that the farmers might not have the upper hand when it came to wages. They vowed to strike, demanding 85 cents per hundred weight of peas instead of the offered 70 cents. Farmers were over a barrel, because they had to get the crop out fast. So, of course, they caved to the pickers demands.
Just kidding. The farmers called Idaho Governor C. Ben Ross and asked him to declare martial law and send in the Idaho National Guard.
Ross issued the order, sending in 150 armed men from Boise, Buhl, and Twin Falls. Some 2,000 field workers were on strike. The local sheriff blamed “white agitators” for stirring up the Mexican workers.
Workers who didn’t want to toil for the wages offered were told to get out of Idaho. About 100 of the agitators were deported. After a couple of days everyone else went back to work for 70 cents per hundred weight and the harvest—which turned out to be a record crop—was completed.
Martial law has not been declared often in an agricultural emergency in Idaho, but in this one instance the guardsmen solved two ag problems. Coincidentally there was a dispute raging over water between Teton River Basin water users and Snake River Valley users downstream. Drought had made the upper basin farmers stingy with their water. They closed headgates, keeping water in the valley and not letting it flow downstream. Guardsmen, guarding headgates, convinced the Teton water users to open the gates and let the water flow, as downstream users had an established right to it.
So, one more problem solved with a show of force. When the Guard made peace with the pea pickers and the water users, they went back home. Governor Ross said it was all good and went Sagehen hunting.
Two minor footnotes: First, calling out the Idaho National Guard did result in one casualty. A guardsman accidentally shot himself in the knee while disassembling a .45 caliber pistol. Second, using the phrase “pea picker” reminds me that there is one more thing about peas and Idaho that you should know. Tennessee Ernie Ford, "The Ol' Pea-Picker,” spent much of his last years at his cabin near Grandjean, Idaho. Ernie earned that nickname because he often said, "Bless your pea-pickin' heart!"
Tennessee Ernie Ford had nothing to do with the pea picker strike in Idaho.
For decades, from about 1925 and into the 1970s, Teton County grew a lot of peas. Peas start to lose their value quickly after they are picked, so a secondary industry popped up in the county: ice harvesting. Peas are picked in August, not a time when ice is widely available, so ice blocks were cut in the winter and stored all summer to keep peas cool in transit after harvest.
Getting peas to market quickly also necessitated the employment of armies of pea pickers. Most were seasonal workers from Mexico. In 1935, some of those workers realized that the farmers might not have the upper hand when it came to wages. They vowed to strike, demanding 85 cents per hundred weight of peas instead of the offered 70 cents. Farmers were over a barrel, because they had to get the crop out fast. So, of course, they caved to the pickers demands.
Just kidding. The farmers called Idaho Governor C. Ben Ross and asked him to declare martial law and send in the Idaho National Guard.
Ross issued the order, sending in 150 armed men from Boise, Buhl, and Twin Falls. Some 2,000 field workers were on strike. The local sheriff blamed “white agitators” for stirring up the Mexican workers.
Workers who didn’t want to toil for the wages offered were told to get out of Idaho. About 100 of the agitators were deported. After a couple of days everyone else went back to work for 70 cents per hundred weight and the harvest—which turned out to be a record crop—was completed.
Martial law has not been declared often in an agricultural emergency in Idaho, but in this one instance the guardsmen solved two ag problems. Coincidentally there was a dispute raging over water between Teton River Basin water users and Snake River Valley users downstream. Drought had made the upper basin farmers stingy with their water. They closed headgates, keeping water in the valley and not letting it flow downstream. Guardsmen, guarding headgates, convinced the Teton water users to open the gates and let the water flow, as downstream users had an established right to it.
So, one more problem solved with a show of force. When the Guard made peace with the pea pickers and the water users, they went back home. Governor Ross said it was all good and went Sagehen hunting.
Two minor footnotes: First, calling out the Idaho National Guard did result in one casualty. A guardsman accidentally shot himself in the knee while disassembling a .45 caliber pistol. Second, using the phrase “pea picker” reminds me that there is one more thing about peas and Idaho that you should know. Tennessee Ernie Ford, "The Ol' Pea-Picker,” spent much of his last years at his cabin near Grandjean, Idaho. Ernie earned that nickname because he often said, "Bless your pea-pickin' heart!"
Tennessee Ernie Ford had nothing to do with the pea picker strike in Idaho.
