Rick Just's Blog, page 58
May 30, 2023
The Incredible Sinking Farm (Tap to read)
Buhl doesn't get in the news much, which is probably the way the residents like it. In 1937, though, there was national attention on a farm near there. It was dubbed “the sinking farm” in newspaper headlines. Hundreds of tourists flocked to the area, and Buhl residents began hiring themselves out as guides. They even started selling picture postcards of the event.
The farm was on the rim overlooking Salmon Falls Creek Canyon. Strictly speaking, the farm wasn’t so much sinking as it was falling into the canyon as erosion undercut the foundations of the canyon wall. The wall was breaking off in huge chunks like a glacier calving. Some rock would fall into the canyon, and big chunks of it would sink and break and shift, making the land on top of it less than favorable for farming.
Paramount News was there to capture the event on film for newsreels. Geologists from local universities were also on hand to view the phenomenon and explain things to reporters.
Newspaper reports sometimes called it the H.A. Robertson farm. But other reports claimed it was Dr. C. C. Griffith who owned 320 acres on the canyon rim. He was away at his summer house in New York when all the excitement happened. According to a dispatch from the New York Herald-Tribune, which ran in the August 28, 1937, edition of the Idaho Statesman, he wasn’t worried about losing a few acres to the canyon. “What worries him most is the hazard the public is running invading his property.” His ranch manager, Emil Bordewick, was apoplectic about the crowds of people coming to the ranch. There was a deputy on site who wasn’t arresting anyone because wholesale arrests for trespassing might “cause a lot of trouble.” Bordewick had hired a guard. He had informed his employer it would cost $500 a month to “keep these people from getting killed.” And by the way, he wanted a raise.
Meanwhile, experts from the United States Geological Survey were not in a panic. They predicted the sinking would go on for a while. About five million years.
The grumpy ranch manager did see one potential silver lining. Well, a gold lining. He was hoping the new fissures in the earth might reveal a vein of gold.
The farm was on the rim overlooking Salmon Falls Creek Canyon. Strictly speaking, the farm wasn’t so much sinking as it was falling into the canyon as erosion undercut the foundations of the canyon wall. The wall was breaking off in huge chunks like a glacier calving. Some rock would fall into the canyon, and big chunks of it would sink and break and shift, making the land on top of it less than favorable for farming.
Paramount News was there to capture the event on film for newsreels. Geologists from local universities were also on hand to view the phenomenon and explain things to reporters.
Newspaper reports sometimes called it the H.A. Robertson farm. But other reports claimed it was Dr. C. C. Griffith who owned 320 acres on the canyon rim. He was away at his summer house in New York when all the excitement happened. According to a dispatch from the New York Herald-Tribune, which ran in the August 28, 1937, edition of the Idaho Statesman, he wasn’t worried about losing a few acres to the canyon. “What worries him most is the hazard the public is running invading his property.” His ranch manager, Emil Bordewick, was apoplectic about the crowds of people coming to the ranch. There was a deputy on site who wasn’t arresting anyone because wholesale arrests for trespassing might “cause a lot of trouble.” Bordewick had hired a guard. He had informed his employer it would cost $500 a month to “keep these people from getting killed.” And by the way, he wanted a raise.
Meanwhile, experts from the United States Geological Survey were not in a panic. They predicted the sinking would go on for a while. About five million years.
The grumpy ranch manager did see one potential silver lining. Well, a gold lining. He was hoping the new fissures in the earth might reveal a vein of gold.
May 29, 2023
Banana Lifts (Tap to read)
Averell Harriman famously built the Sun Valley Ski Resort while he was the head of Union Pacific Railroad as a way to get wealthy travelers to buy tickets on his trains. Built in 1936, it was the first winter destination resort in the US.
But Sun Valley boasts another first, even more important to skiers. A Union Pacific engineer named James Curran designed the first chairlift and installed it at the mountain resort. It is important to note that in this case, “Union Pacific engineer” does not imply a man who operated locomotives.
Curran had developed a conveyor system to load bananas onto ships. He used what he learned on that project to build the first ski lifts on Proctor and Dollar mountains. The photo shows the testing of an early prototype.
Averell Harriman deserves credit for the resort, but it’s Curran who gets credit for the first ski lift. James Curran was inducted into the National Ski Hall of Fame in 2001.
But Sun Valley boasts another first, even more important to skiers. A Union Pacific engineer named James Curran designed the first chairlift and installed it at the mountain resort. It is important to note that in this case, “Union Pacific engineer” does not imply a man who operated locomotives.
Curran had developed a conveyor system to load bananas onto ships. He used what he learned on that project to build the first ski lifts on Proctor and Dollar mountains. The photo shows the testing of an early prototype.
Averell Harriman deserves credit for the resort, but it’s Curran who gets credit for the first ski lift. James Curran was inducted into the National Ski Hall of Fame in 2001.
May 28, 2023
Niagara of the West (Tap to read)
Shoshone Falls is a thing of beauty for us today, whenever there’s enough water going over them to help us remember their spectacular historical flow. To migrating fish, though, it’s a wall. Or, it was a wall for eons because it was as far upstream as salmon could go to spawn. Installation of Hells Canyon Dam and other manmade obstacles kicked the salmon downstream even further.
The falls are sometimes called the Niagara of the West, and you often see the tagline “higher than Niagara.” True, but Niagara is more notable for its width and volume than its height. Water drops over the edge at Shoshone Falls and crashes into itself 212 feet below. The falls are nearly 1,000 feet across.
This Magic Valley wonder was Idaho’s second state park, named such in 1909. It didn’t stay a state park for long. The City of Twin Falls took over management of the scenic attraction in 1933 and has managed it ever since.
The famous painting of the falls below was done by Thomas Moran in about 1900.
The falls are sometimes called the Niagara of the West, and you often see the tagline “higher than Niagara.” True, but Niagara is more notable for its width and volume than its height. Water drops over the edge at Shoshone Falls and crashes into itself 212 feet below. The falls are nearly 1,000 feet across.
This Magic Valley wonder was Idaho’s second state park, named such in 1909. It didn’t stay a state park for long. The City of Twin Falls took over management of the scenic attraction in 1933 and has managed it ever since.
The famous painting of the falls below was done by Thomas Moran in about 1900.
May 27, 2023
The San Francisco Earthquake's Impact in Idaho (Tap to read)
Idaho history often includes events that took place out of state but which impacted Idaho residents. One such event was the earthquake that hit San Francisco on April 18, 1906. Just five days later, the Idaho Daily Statesman compiled a list of what communities were doing and the funds they had already raised for San Francisco relief.
Boise had raised $8,258.50. Caldwell, Paris, Genesee, and Lewiston had each shipped a car of flour. Payette was arranging for “a large amount of food (to be) cooked and shipped no later than tomorrow evening. It is the plan to buy out the remaining stock of canned goods of the cannery and ship it.”
The Commercial Club in Mountain Home had raised $100, and the city had matched it. The Commercial Club in Hailey raise $321.75 in an hour and a half. Blackfoot had raised $100 so far. Cambridge was ready to contribute $71.50. Sugar City had raised $250. Montpelier contributed $180.
Lewiston had already raised $2,000 with a goal of $3,000. Sandpoint was planning a ball to raise money. Coeur d’Alene had raised $300 and was putting on a benefit minstrel show. Moscow had sent a car of supplies and was planning to send more.
The CPI inflation calculator goes back only to 1913. Using that year as a base, $100 in 1906 was about the equivalent of $2500 today. Just the dollars reported on that fifth day after the earthquake would be nearly $300,000 in today’s dollars. Idaho at that time had about 165,000 residents.
The generosity of Idahoans is laudable. It’s worth noting that the earthquake brought something special to the state. For a few weeks, Riverside Park in Boise hosted the San Francisco Opera Company. How special was it? The Idaho Statesman reported that “Never until the earthquake in April could the old Tivoli company be induced to leave San Francisco. But after that catastrophe, it was recognized that there would be no room for amusements in the stricken city for many months, and the members of the company, some of whom had been playing at the historic old playhouse for many years, left the California metropolis with many fears and misgivings, all hoping that the time of their banishment might be short.”
Riverside Park paid the company $2,000 a week while they were in town. Perhaps they made some money from the engagement. There was no shortage of efforts to make a buck off the disaster. Dozens of advertisements looking for agents to sell copies of competing books about the disaster began appearing on April 27 and continued for weeks. One local ad in Boise offered six carloads of pianos that had been enroute to San Francisco that were to be “sacrificed” for $187 to $327. “Suffice it to say that no combination of circumstances has ever brought piano prices so low as appear on our price tags now.” What good luck!
Boise had raised $8,258.50. Caldwell, Paris, Genesee, and Lewiston had each shipped a car of flour. Payette was arranging for “a large amount of food (to be) cooked and shipped no later than tomorrow evening. It is the plan to buy out the remaining stock of canned goods of the cannery and ship it.”
The Commercial Club in Mountain Home had raised $100, and the city had matched it. The Commercial Club in Hailey raise $321.75 in an hour and a half. Blackfoot had raised $100 so far. Cambridge was ready to contribute $71.50. Sugar City had raised $250. Montpelier contributed $180.
Lewiston had already raised $2,000 with a goal of $3,000. Sandpoint was planning a ball to raise money. Coeur d’Alene had raised $300 and was putting on a benefit minstrel show. Moscow had sent a car of supplies and was planning to send more.
The CPI inflation calculator goes back only to 1913. Using that year as a base, $100 in 1906 was about the equivalent of $2500 today. Just the dollars reported on that fifth day after the earthquake would be nearly $300,000 in today’s dollars. Idaho at that time had about 165,000 residents.
The generosity of Idahoans is laudable. It’s worth noting that the earthquake brought something special to the state. For a few weeks, Riverside Park in Boise hosted the San Francisco Opera Company. How special was it? The Idaho Statesman reported that “Never until the earthquake in April could the old Tivoli company be induced to leave San Francisco. But after that catastrophe, it was recognized that there would be no room for amusements in the stricken city for many months, and the members of the company, some of whom had been playing at the historic old playhouse for many years, left the California metropolis with many fears and misgivings, all hoping that the time of their banishment might be short.”
Riverside Park paid the company $2,000 a week while they were in town. Perhaps they made some money from the engagement. There was no shortage of efforts to make a buck off the disaster. Dozens of advertisements looking for agents to sell copies of competing books about the disaster began appearing on April 27 and continued for weeks. One local ad in Boise offered six carloads of pianos that had been enroute to San Francisco that were to be “sacrificed” for $187 to $327. “Suffice it to say that no combination of circumstances has ever brought piano prices so low as appear on our price tags now.” What good luck!
May 26, 2023
Red Men (Tap to read)
Sometimes it helps to know the history of a thing. Such is the case with the Improved Order of Red Men. The July 7, 1906 edition of the Idaho Daily Statesman featured a two-column article headlined, “Red Men of Gem State Gather in Capital City.” The subhead was “First Great Council in Idaho to be Formed by Delegates of Tribes Today.”
Well, that piqued my interest. Could this be an actual meeting of Native American Tribes calling themselves Red Men? I thought not, particularly when I noticed the photos of two of the attendees not in native regalia but in formal wear.
The article began, “Boise is now in the hands of Red Men. The braves have come from every direction, pouring into the city until it was no use to longer resist them. But unlike the red men of old, they came announced, and Boise gracefully surrenders to them.”
The piece went on to call out “tribes” whose names I had never heard associated with Idaho, Incohonnee, How-Lish-Whampa, and Tillicum. The Great Chief of Records was expected to attend.
Okay, I had to find out more about what was clearly a fraternal organization with some—no, many, elements that are cringe-worthy to ears more attuned to what would likely offend Native Americans today. Witness: Local units are called Tribes, local meeting sites are Wigwams, the state level of the organization is called the Reservation, presided over by a board of Chiefs. Their youth auxiliary for males is the Degree of Hiawatha, and the female auxiliary is the Degree of Pocahontas.
Note that I used present tense in the above paragraph. That’s because the Improved Order of Red Men still exists. Today there are about 15,000 members nationwide. When the 1906 article about their convention in Boise came out, it was noted that 435,000 “braves” were expected at the national convention of the group.
They have a history, of course, and you know some of it. The group’s roots go back to the Boston Tea Party. Remember that? Men unhappy with taxes dressed up as Indians to toss tea into the harbor. There were name changes and consolidations over the years, but that was the beginning of the group. And, you’ve probably heard of something else in history that you had no idea (at least I had no idea) that a fraternal organization was responsible for. This group organized the famous and ultimately infamous political machine known as Tammany Hall in New York City.
The Wikipedia entry on the Red Men includes a picture of Red Men’s Hall in Jacksonville, Oregon, established in 1884.
The image accompanying this post is from the aforementioned Statesman article from 1906. As a side note, I was researching Idaho’s reaction to the San Francisco earthquake of that year for a couple of future posts when I came across what to me was an interesting oddity. So, my distraction is now your distraction. You’re welcome.
Well, that piqued my interest. Could this be an actual meeting of Native American Tribes calling themselves Red Men? I thought not, particularly when I noticed the photos of two of the attendees not in native regalia but in formal wear.
The article began, “Boise is now in the hands of Red Men. The braves have come from every direction, pouring into the city until it was no use to longer resist them. But unlike the red men of old, they came announced, and Boise gracefully surrenders to them.”
The piece went on to call out “tribes” whose names I had never heard associated with Idaho, Incohonnee, How-Lish-Whampa, and Tillicum. The Great Chief of Records was expected to attend.
Okay, I had to find out more about what was clearly a fraternal organization with some—no, many, elements that are cringe-worthy to ears more attuned to what would likely offend Native Americans today. Witness: Local units are called Tribes, local meeting sites are Wigwams, the state level of the organization is called the Reservation, presided over by a board of Chiefs. Their youth auxiliary for males is the Degree of Hiawatha, and the female auxiliary is the Degree of Pocahontas.
Note that I used present tense in the above paragraph. That’s because the Improved Order of Red Men still exists. Today there are about 15,000 members nationwide. When the 1906 article about their convention in Boise came out, it was noted that 435,000 “braves” were expected at the national convention of the group.
They have a history, of course, and you know some of it. The group’s roots go back to the Boston Tea Party. Remember that? Men unhappy with taxes dressed up as Indians to toss tea into the harbor. There were name changes and consolidations over the years, but that was the beginning of the group. And, you’ve probably heard of something else in history that you had no idea (at least I had no idea) that a fraternal organization was responsible for. This group organized the famous and ultimately infamous political machine known as Tammany Hall in New York City.
The Wikipedia entry on the Red Men includes a picture of Red Men’s Hall in Jacksonville, Oregon, established in 1884.
The image accompanying this post is from the aforementioned Statesman article from 1906. As a side note, I was researching Idaho’s reaction to the San Francisco earthquake of that year for a couple of future posts when I came across what to me was an interesting oddity. So, my distraction is now your distraction. You’re welcome.
May 25, 2023
Pave it! (Tap to read)
Idahoans have been griping about the state of our streets and roads since the first one was built in the territory. Nothing gets a driver’s temper up more than hitting a good, deep pothole. We expect our streets to be smooth and flat. Automobiles and paved streets are so closely associated that it is fair to ask, which came first? The chic.. No, cars or pavement?
Long before an automobile rolled into town, the Lewiston Teller was asking, “Why not bond the city and pave the streets?” in an 1891 editorial complaining about uneven grading and indiscriminate dumping of dirt on city streets. The city seems to have gotten around to its first major paving project in 1900.
In Boise, the city council decided to pave some streets in 1897. Their first bold vision included asphalt on “Front from Twelfth to Tenth, Tenth from Front to Idaho, Idaho from Tenth to Seventh, Main from Tenth to Fifth, Ninth from Grove to Bannock, Eighth from Grove to Jefferson, Seventh from Grove to Idaho, Jefferson from Grove to Sixth, the alley between Main and Grove from Tenth to Seventh.”
When the project began, though, they had whittled it down to paving five blocks on Main Street.
Why pave when there weren’t any cars? Wagons, horses, and bicycles used those streets, which were perpetually either dusty or muddy. But paving improved more than just the streets, as suggested by a congratulatory article in the Caldwell Record that July. “Main Street is being paved, and it is certainly to the credit of its citizens that they are determined to retrieve the city from the mud and dust to which it has been subject and to make the capital of Idaho worthy of the name Boise the beautiful. It is to be remarked that trees and lawns are now bright and green and free of dust, something never before known at mid-summer in Boise.”
Trees free of dust were due to the paving project, and an aggressive street watering regimen adopted at the same time on the remaining dirt roads.
By 1910, when the photo below of paving on Fairview Avenue in Boise was taken, cars were beginning to be part of the mix.
Long before an automobile rolled into town, the Lewiston Teller was asking, “Why not bond the city and pave the streets?” in an 1891 editorial complaining about uneven grading and indiscriminate dumping of dirt on city streets. The city seems to have gotten around to its first major paving project in 1900.
In Boise, the city council decided to pave some streets in 1897. Their first bold vision included asphalt on “Front from Twelfth to Tenth, Tenth from Front to Idaho, Idaho from Tenth to Seventh, Main from Tenth to Fifth, Ninth from Grove to Bannock, Eighth from Grove to Jefferson, Seventh from Grove to Idaho, Jefferson from Grove to Sixth, the alley between Main and Grove from Tenth to Seventh.”
When the project began, though, they had whittled it down to paving five blocks on Main Street.
Why pave when there weren’t any cars? Wagons, horses, and bicycles used those streets, which were perpetually either dusty or muddy. But paving improved more than just the streets, as suggested by a congratulatory article in the Caldwell Record that July. “Main Street is being paved, and it is certainly to the credit of its citizens that they are determined to retrieve the city from the mud and dust to which it has been subject and to make the capital of Idaho worthy of the name Boise the beautiful. It is to be remarked that trees and lawns are now bright and green and free of dust, something never before known at mid-summer in Boise.”
Trees free of dust were due to the paving project, and an aggressive street watering regimen adopted at the same time on the remaining dirt roads.
By 1910, when the photo below of paving on Fairview Avenue in Boise was taken, cars were beginning to be part of the mix.
May 24, 2023
Panoramas (Tap to read)
What did we do before the Internet for entertainment? Oh yeah, TV. Oh, and movies, and before that, moving panoramas, and before… Wait, moving panoramas?
The term “moving panorama” has often been used as a metaphor, as in “the street scene was a moving panorama” or “the moving panorama of life.”
What is lost to most of us is that moving panoramas were a common form of entertainment in the 19th century. Picture (as in the illustration below) a continuous canvas scene with each end rolled around large spools. Cranking and rolling one spool would scroll the painting past an audience. The paintings themselves were usually not the whole show. There would be a narrator and perhaps music to go along with the narration. Often the story would be essentially a road trip or travelogue describing what the narrator saw on his adventure.
The first reference to one I found in an Idaho paper was the mention of Pendar’s Panorama of the War in the Nov. 21, 1863 edition of the Boise News, which was a short-lived Idaho City newspaper.
In 1865 the Idaho Tri-Weekly Statesman noted that “A Panorama of the civil war in America, ancient scenes of the Bible, and a large number of miscellaneous and running comic views, will be exhibited in this city to-night in the canvas spread on the corner opposite the Statesman office. In connection with it is a sword-swallower, stone-eater, and snake charmer.”
Artemus Ward, arguably the first-ever stand-up comic, traveled the world with a panorama that was a parody of panoramas.
The Idaho County Free Press in Grangeville trumpeted a panorama on September 11, 1891. “There will be a magic lantern exhibition at Grange hall, Tuesday evening September 22, showing views of Gettysburg, historic places of America, the Johnstown disaster, views along the vine-clad Rhine, Irish scenery, an ocean steamer at sea, etc, etc. There will also be recitations of famous poems, and an interesting lecture to accompany the panorama.”
A competing form of entertainment, and another presage of motion pictures, was the viewing of projected stereoscopic photos. An article or ad—it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference—in the Idaho City World of October 13, 1866, touted the superiority of this new amusement over moving panoramas with a series of stacked headlines:
New Exhibition
OF THE
STEREOSCOPTICON
And California and Nevada Scenery
Produced by the wonderful and celebrated
MAGNESIUM LIGHTS
Will exhibit at the
JENNY LIND THEATER, IDAHO CITY
The term “moving panorama” has often been used as a metaphor, as in “the street scene was a moving panorama” or “the moving panorama of life.”
What is lost to most of us is that moving panoramas were a common form of entertainment in the 19th century. Picture (as in the illustration below) a continuous canvas scene with each end rolled around large spools. Cranking and rolling one spool would scroll the painting past an audience. The paintings themselves were usually not the whole show. There would be a narrator and perhaps music to go along with the narration. Often the story would be essentially a road trip or travelogue describing what the narrator saw on his adventure.
The first reference to one I found in an Idaho paper was the mention of Pendar’s Panorama of the War in the Nov. 21, 1863 edition of the Boise News, which was a short-lived Idaho City newspaper.
In 1865 the Idaho Tri-Weekly Statesman noted that “A Panorama of the civil war in America, ancient scenes of the Bible, and a large number of miscellaneous and running comic views, will be exhibited in this city to-night in the canvas spread on the corner opposite the Statesman office. In connection with it is a sword-swallower, stone-eater, and snake charmer.”
Artemus Ward, arguably the first-ever stand-up comic, traveled the world with a panorama that was a parody of panoramas.
The Idaho County Free Press in Grangeville trumpeted a panorama on September 11, 1891. “There will be a magic lantern exhibition at Grange hall, Tuesday evening September 22, showing views of Gettysburg, historic places of America, the Johnstown disaster, views along the vine-clad Rhine, Irish scenery, an ocean steamer at sea, etc, etc. There will also be recitations of famous poems, and an interesting lecture to accompany the panorama.”
A competing form of entertainment, and another presage of motion pictures, was the viewing of projected stereoscopic photos. An article or ad—it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference—in the Idaho City World of October 13, 1866, touted the superiority of this new amusement over moving panoramas with a series of stacked headlines:
New Exhibition
OF THE
STEREOSCOPTICON
And California and Nevada Scenery
Produced by the wonderful and celebrated
MAGNESIUM LIGHTS
Will exhibit at the
JENNY LIND THEATER, IDAHO CITY
May 23, 2023
Naming Pocatello (Tap to read)
To say that the city of Pocatello is named after Chief Pocatello is correct. Yet, those two words, chief and Pocatello, are themselves subject to much disagreement.
The concept of “chief” was often one introduced to Native American tribes by white settlers and soldiers. Soldiers, especially, liked the supposed certainty of dealing with a single person who could speak for a tribe. The tribes themselves often held several members—often elders—in high esteem because of their various skills or wisdom. The fact that a certain chief would sign a treaty did not always mean he spoke for his tribe in doing so.
Pocatello was certainly a trusted leader of his band of Shoshonis. Most such leaders, according to historian Merle Wells, considered themselves equals. Circumstances brought on by the influx of settlers into traditional Shoshoni lands, however, made Pocatello “more equal among equals.”
There is more confusion about his name than about his rank. The name has been given several meanings over the years. Brigham D. Madsen, in his book Chief Pocatello, points to the first mention of the man in the 1857 writings of an Indian agent who called him “Koctallo.” Two years later, an army officer who had never met him, but had often heard his name, wrote it as “Pocataro.” Some insist that the meaning of the name is something like “he who does not take the trail” or “in the middle of the road.” Others say it may have come from the town in Georgia called Pocataligo, which may be a Yamasee or Cherokee Indian word, the meaning of which is also in dispute. Note that residents of Pocatligo often call the place “Pokey” for short, just as the residents of Pocatello do. In any case, the Georgia connection seems far-fetched.
So, the whites are confused. What about his own people? Again, according to Madsen, the Hukandeka Shoshoni called him Tonaioza, meaning “Buffalo Robe,” or sometimes Kanah, which is apparently a reference to the gift of an army coat given to him by Gen. Patrick E. Connor during the signing of the Treaty of Box Elder. According to his daughter, Jeanette Pocatello Lewis, Pocatello never used that name at all and always went by Tonaioza or Tondzaosha.
One popular explanation for the name still heard is that the man was well known for his love of pork and tallow. Get it? Porkantallow? One must—if one is me, at least—call BS on that one. Under what circumstances would one particularly desire those two items to the extent that he would be named for them? It seems an obvious backformation meant to belittle a man who in no way deserved it.
There is much more to tell about this historical figure. We will leave that for future posts.
The concept of “chief” was often one introduced to Native American tribes by white settlers and soldiers. Soldiers, especially, liked the supposed certainty of dealing with a single person who could speak for a tribe. The tribes themselves often held several members—often elders—in high esteem because of their various skills or wisdom. The fact that a certain chief would sign a treaty did not always mean he spoke for his tribe in doing so.
Pocatello was certainly a trusted leader of his band of Shoshonis. Most such leaders, according to historian Merle Wells, considered themselves equals. Circumstances brought on by the influx of settlers into traditional Shoshoni lands, however, made Pocatello “more equal among equals.”
There is more confusion about his name than about his rank. The name has been given several meanings over the years. Brigham D. Madsen, in his book Chief Pocatello, points to the first mention of the man in the 1857 writings of an Indian agent who called him “Koctallo.” Two years later, an army officer who had never met him, but had often heard his name, wrote it as “Pocataro.” Some insist that the meaning of the name is something like “he who does not take the trail” or “in the middle of the road.” Others say it may have come from the town in Georgia called Pocataligo, which may be a Yamasee or Cherokee Indian word, the meaning of which is also in dispute. Note that residents of Pocatligo often call the place “Pokey” for short, just as the residents of Pocatello do. In any case, the Georgia connection seems far-fetched.
So, the whites are confused. What about his own people? Again, according to Madsen, the Hukandeka Shoshoni called him Tonaioza, meaning “Buffalo Robe,” or sometimes Kanah, which is apparently a reference to the gift of an army coat given to him by Gen. Patrick E. Connor during the signing of the Treaty of Box Elder. According to his daughter, Jeanette Pocatello Lewis, Pocatello never used that name at all and always went by Tonaioza or Tondzaosha.
One popular explanation for the name still heard is that the man was well known for his love of pork and tallow. Get it? Porkantallow? One must—if one is me, at least—call BS on that one. Under what circumstances would one particularly desire those two items to the extent that he would be named for them? It seems an obvious backformation meant to belittle a man who in no way deserved it.
There is much more to tell about this historical figure. We will leave that for future posts.
May 22, 2023
Photo I.D. (Tap to read)
It’s fun looking at old pictures. You get to daydream about what the lives of the people in the photos would have been like. You could look at this one from 1907, courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection, and wonder what these nattily dressed men were doing standing around in front of a formal carriage. Politicians, maybe? Landowners on an inspection tour?
What about that guy in the center with the number 3 written across his shoulder? Is he looking relaxed with his hands folded behind his back?
We don’t have to wonder what was up because the Historical Society has provided us with a handy key to who was in the picture. Man number one is Warden E.L. Whitney of the Idaho State Penitentiary. The number two man is Deputy Bartell, a trial witness for the State of Colorado. Man number four is an Idaho prison guard, last name Ackley. Number five is Edgar Hawley, and number six is Detective Charles Siringo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
Oh, and number three? Harry Orchard. He wasn’t just standing at ease with his hands behind his back. They were likely in handcuffs. Orchard was convicted of setting the bomb trap that killed ex-Idaho Governor Frank Steunenberg. The picture was likely taken during the famous Haywood trial, where Orchard was a key witness.
What about that guy in the center with the number 3 written across his shoulder? Is he looking relaxed with his hands folded behind his back?
We don’t have to wonder what was up because the Historical Society has provided us with a handy key to who was in the picture. Man number one is Warden E.L. Whitney of the Idaho State Penitentiary. The number two man is Deputy Bartell, a trial witness for the State of Colorado. Man number four is an Idaho prison guard, last name Ackley. Number five is Edgar Hawley, and number six is Detective Charles Siringo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
Oh, and number three? Harry Orchard. He wasn’t just standing at ease with his hands behind his back. They were likely in handcuffs. Orchard was convicted of setting the bomb trap that killed ex-Idaho Governor Frank Steunenberg. The picture was likely taken during the famous Haywood trial, where Orchard was a key witness.
May 21, 2023
Merle Wells (Tap to read)
If you love Idaho history, you know about Idaho’s historical marker signs. There are more than 200 of them scattered around the state. They are remarkable for their accuracy and brevity. That’s because most of the wording was written by a remarkable man, Merle W. Wells.
Born in Canada in 1918, Wells moved to Boise in 1930. You would be hard-pressed to find anyone who has ever known more about this state. He graduated from Boise High School, Boise Junior College, and the College of Idaho before leaving the state to get a PhD in history at Berkeley.
Merle Wells got a job with the Idaho State Historical Society in about 1947. It became a calling for him. He retired in 1987 but never really quit working for them. He drafted the law creating a state archives—the research center at the archives is now named after him. He set up the state historic preservation office. He wrote or co-wrote several books on Idaho history and the text for most of those highway signs.
I got to know Merle a little after I got the contract to write more than 200 scripts and produced the Idaho Centennial radio series, “Idaho Snapshots.” The Centennial Commission, in their wisdom, asked Merle to review and approve the scripts before they aired statewide.
For years Wells was a familiar figure riding around Boise on his blue women’s bicycle, often in his suit. The Idaho State Historical Society has found many ways to honor him. One of my favorites was when they displayed that bicycle in an exhibit at the Idaho State Historical Museum.
Merle W. Wells died in 2000, an indelible part of Idaho history himself.
By the way, the historical markers Merle created are about to undergo a major upgrade and update. I predict that they will still feature many of his words.
Born in Canada in 1918, Wells moved to Boise in 1930. You would be hard-pressed to find anyone who has ever known more about this state. He graduated from Boise High School, Boise Junior College, and the College of Idaho before leaving the state to get a PhD in history at Berkeley.
Merle Wells got a job with the Idaho State Historical Society in about 1947. It became a calling for him. He retired in 1987 but never really quit working for them. He drafted the law creating a state archives—the research center at the archives is now named after him. He set up the state historic preservation office. He wrote or co-wrote several books on Idaho history and the text for most of those highway signs.
I got to know Merle a little after I got the contract to write more than 200 scripts and produced the Idaho Centennial radio series, “Idaho Snapshots.” The Centennial Commission, in their wisdom, asked Merle to review and approve the scripts before they aired statewide.
For years Wells was a familiar figure riding around Boise on his blue women’s bicycle, often in his suit. The Idaho State Historical Society has found many ways to honor him. One of my favorites was when they displayed that bicycle in an exhibit at the Idaho State Historical Museum.
Merle W. Wells died in 2000, an indelible part of Idaho history himself.
By the way, the historical markers Merle created are about to undergo a major upgrade and update. I predict that they will still feature many of his words.
