Rick Just's Blog, page 98
March 20, 2022
A Message from the Grave (Tap to read)
In the fall of 1893, W.E. Carlin, the son of Brig. Gen. W.P. Carlin, Commander of the department of the Columbia, Vancouver, Washington, gathered together some friends for a hunting party in the Bitterroots of Idaho. They hired a Post Falls woodsman named George Colgate to cook for their little expedition.
A.L.A. Himmelwright, a businessman from New York who was on the trip, would later write a book about it. The details he provided painted a picture of a well-outfitted expedition: 125 pounds of flour, 30 pounds of bacon, 40 pounds of salt pork, 20 pounds of beans, eight pounds of coffee, and on and on. He described the guns, including Carlin’s three-barreled weapon that had two 12-gauge shotgun bores side-by-side with a .32 rifle beneath.
The group got to Kendrick by train, where they gathered together the supplies, five saddle horses, five pack horses, a spaniel and two terriers, and set out for a hunt.
Six inches of snow fell on September 22. That concerned guide Martin Spencer. He figured it would only get deeper as they moved higher into the mountains. Carlin decided to push on despite the snow, and although their cook had become ill. George Colgate’s legs had swollen to the point where he could barely hobble around. Everyone else shared in cooking duties as his abilities waned.
In the days to come Colgate rallied, then got progressively worse. One day he couldn’t even stay on his horse. As more snow flew, members of the hunting party nursed the cook while he lay in a tent.
Fifty miles from anything like civilization the Carlin party found themselves in a desperate situation with snow blocking trails and a man who could not be moved on their hands. Colgate was so sick he couldn’t talk. The men debated what to do. Should they stick it out where they were and hope the weather would break? Should they send someone ahead to bring back a rescue party?
While they pondered, another storm struck. Food was running short. They had to get out of there.
Someone struck on the idea of building a raft to float down the Lochsa. They lashed together some logs with cord and wire and attached a long sweep with which to guide the contraption. Before setting out on the raft, Himmelwright would make a dark entry in his diary: “It is a case of trying to save five lives or sacrificing them to perform the last sad rites for Colgate.”
The men set out downriver, leaving their cook behind seemingly on death’s door.
Cutting the story short, the hunting party lost their raft in a rapid several miles downstream. They survived by shooting a few grouse, catching a few fish, and even eating one of their dogs before a rescue party found them on November 21.
And now the story gets strange.
The men of the party were well known, so the tale of their failure to return when expected and their ultimate rescue had been carried in many newspapers, including the New York Times, which also carried the story of the bottle.
What bottle? The one that was purportedly found in the Snake River by one Sam Ellis at Penewawi, some 60 miles below Lewiston. Inside the bottle was this note:
FOOT OF BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS, Nov. 27.—I am alive and well. Tell them to come and get me as soon as any one finds this. I am 50 miles from civilization as near as I can tell. I am George Colgate, one of the lost Carlin party. My legs are better. I can walk some. Come soon. Take this to Kendrick, Idaho, and you will be liberally rewarded. My name is George Colgate, from Post Falls. This bottle came by me and I caught it and wrote these words to take me out. Direct this to St. Elmo hotel, Kendrick, Idaho.
GEORGE COLGATE
“Good bye, wife and children.”
The small bottle was corked and fastened to a piece of driftwood with a rag tied to it.
The writing on the note was compared to Colgate’s signature on a hotel register and “was found to be wonderfully close.”
Two relief parties set out to rescue Colgate in the coming months. Neither met with success. Meanwhile, Carlin was adamant that the note in the bottle was a fake designed to somehow extort money from him and ruin his reputation.
The note seems a little pat and the finding of the bottle incredible, so maybe Carlin was right. In any case, his reputation suffered. There was debate for decades about the ethics of leaving a man to die in the wilderness.
And die he did. On August 23, 1894, the remains of George Colgate were found about eight miles from the spot where he was said to have been abandoned. How did he get there along with a matchbox, some fishing line, and other personal articles? Had he rallied long enough to drag himself through the snow that far? Had he lived to write a message in a bottle?
A.L.A. Himmelwright, a businessman from New York who was on the trip, would later write a book about it. The details he provided painted a picture of a well-outfitted expedition: 125 pounds of flour, 30 pounds of bacon, 40 pounds of salt pork, 20 pounds of beans, eight pounds of coffee, and on and on. He described the guns, including Carlin’s three-barreled weapon that had two 12-gauge shotgun bores side-by-side with a .32 rifle beneath.
The group got to Kendrick by train, where they gathered together the supplies, five saddle horses, five pack horses, a spaniel and two terriers, and set out for a hunt.
Six inches of snow fell on September 22. That concerned guide Martin Spencer. He figured it would only get deeper as they moved higher into the mountains. Carlin decided to push on despite the snow, and although their cook had become ill. George Colgate’s legs had swollen to the point where he could barely hobble around. Everyone else shared in cooking duties as his abilities waned.
In the days to come Colgate rallied, then got progressively worse. One day he couldn’t even stay on his horse. As more snow flew, members of the hunting party nursed the cook while he lay in a tent.
Fifty miles from anything like civilization the Carlin party found themselves in a desperate situation with snow blocking trails and a man who could not be moved on their hands. Colgate was so sick he couldn’t talk. The men debated what to do. Should they stick it out where they were and hope the weather would break? Should they send someone ahead to bring back a rescue party?
While they pondered, another storm struck. Food was running short. They had to get out of there.
Someone struck on the idea of building a raft to float down the Lochsa. They lashed together some logs with cord and wire and attached a long sweep with which to guide the contraption. Before setting out on the raft, Himmelwright would make a dark entry in his diary: “It is a case of trying to save five lives or sacrificing them to perform the last sad rites for Colgate.”
The men set out downriver, leaving their cook behind seemingly on death’s door.
Cutting the story short, the hunting party lost their raft in a rapid several miles downstream. They survived by shooting a few grouse, catching a few fish, and even eating one of their dogs before a rescue party found them on November 21.
And now the story gets strange.
The men of the party were well known, so the tale of their failure to return when expected and their ultimate rescue had been carried in many newspapers, including the New York Times, which also carried the story of the bottle.
What bottle? The one that was purportedly found in the Snake River by one Sam Ellis at Penewawi, some 60 miles below Lewiston. Inside the bottle was this note:
FOOT OF BITTER ROOT MOUNTAINS, Nov. 27.—I am alive and well. Tell them to come and get me as soon as any one finds this. I am 50 miles from civilization as near as I can tell. I am George Colgate, one of the lost Carlin party. My legs are better. I can walk some. Come soon. Take this to Kendrick, Idaho, and you will be liberally rewarded. My name is George Colgate, from Post Falls. This bottle came by me and I caught it and wrote these words to take me out. Direct this to St. Elmo hotel, Kendrick, Idaho.
GEORGE COLGATE
“Good bye, wife and children.”
The small bottle was corked and fastened to a piece of driftwood with a rag tied to it.
The writing on the note was compared to Colgate’s signature on a hotel register and “was found to be wonderfully close.”
Two relief parties set out to rescue Colgate in the coming months. Neither met with success. Meanwhile, Carlin was adamant that the note in the bottle was a fake designed to somehow extort money from him and ruin his reputation.
The note seems a little pat and the finding of the bottle incredible, so maybe Carlin was right. In any case, his reputation suffered. There was debate for decades about the ethics of leaving a man to die in the wilderness.
And die he did. On August 23, 1894, the remains of George Colgate were found about eight miles from the spot where he was said to have been abandoned. How did he get there along with a matchbox, some fishing line, and other personal articles? Had he rallied long enough to drag himself through the snow that far? Had he lived to write a message in a bottle?
March 19, 2022
Picture Brides (Tap to read)
At the turn of the century immigration from Japan to the United States was severely restricted. An agreement between the two countries allowed only those with family members already in the United States to immigrate. Thousands of Japanese men were living in the U.S., brought over for the cheap labor they provided. Many wanted to stay, but they also wanted to marry Japanese women.
Arranged marriages were common in Japan at the time, so it was a short leap to “picture brides.” The men in the U.S. would send pictures of themselves to families in Japan, often through a go-between called a nakodo. The families of potential brides studied the pictures and the information provided by the men to see if they would make a good match. The women’s families then sent a photo and description back to the men in the U.S. They would come to an agreement, which was enough for the through-the-mail marriage to be considered legal in Japan. It wasn’t good enough for U.S. authorities, so many Japanese women and their future husbands stood for mass wedding ceremonies when they got to the United States, some of them performed on the docks as they got off the ship.
Several thousand “picture bride” marriages took place.
One such was the marriage of Miyoshi Yokota and Kameji Okamura who were married in Tacoma, Washington in 1914. Days later they traveled to Pocatello, Idaho to start their lives together.
Kameji had experienced the culture shock of coming to a new land and not knowing the language and customs. He knew what it was like to change from a diet of fish eaten with chopsticks to an American diet heavy on meat and potatoes. He hired a tutor to help Miyoshi learn English and a housekeeper to help her learn the chores of a housewife.
Working his rented garden property, Kameji was the first in Pocatello to build a drive-through cellar and the one to introduce the cultivation of jumbo celery to the area. At holiday parades he was known for tossing celery to the kids instead of candy.
The Okamuras had seven children, two boys, and five girls, losing an infant daughter to the 1918 Spanish Flu. In 1930 the family experienced another devastating loss. Kameji was killed in a car accident on his way home from helping a friend extinguish a haystack fire in Fort Hall. He was 43.
Now Miyoshi, 36, had six children and no husband. With generous help from the community, she got through the first few months, then went about the business of running Okamura Gardens. Paul, her oldest son, quit school to help.
Miyoshi hired local youth to help weed the vegetables, providing the first job for many of them. She ran Okamura Gardens until her landlord decided he wanted to put a car lot on the site sometime in the early 1950s.
In 1954, Miyoshi became a U.S. citizen, a proud moment in her life. She was a well-known figure in Pocatello, always ready to greet people on the street and showing surprising energy into her 90s.
There is much more to the Miyoshi Okamura story, but it’s not my place to tell it. Julie Okamura, her great-granddaughter-in-law tells it well here.
Picture brides arriving at Angel Island, California, c. 1910.. (2020, November 18). Densho Encyclopedia. Retrieved 12:39, February 22, 2022 from https://encyclopedia.densho.org/sources/en-denshopd-i41-00001-1/.
Arranged marriages were common in Japan at the time, so it was a short leap to “picture brides.” The men in the U.S. would send pictures of themselves to families in Japan, often through a go-between called a nakodo. The families of potential brides studied the pictures and the information provided by the men to see if they would make a good match. The women’s families then sent a photo and description back to the men in the U.S. They would come to an agreement, which was enough for the through-the-mail marriage to be considered legal in Japan. It wasn’t good enough for U.S. authorities, so many Japanese women and their future husbands stood for mass wedding ceremonies when they got to the United States, some of them performed on the docks as they got off the ship.
Several thousand “picture bride” marriages took place.
One such was the marriage of Miyoshi Yokota and Kameji Okamura who were married in Tacoma, Washington in 1914. Days later they traveled to Pocatello, Idaho to start their lives together.
Kameji had experienced the culture shock of coming to a new land and not knowing the language and customs. He knew what it was like to change from a diet of fish eaten with chopsticks to an American diet heavy on meat and potatoes. He hired a tutor to help Miyoshi learn English and a housekeeper to help her learn the chores of a housewife.
Working his rented garden property, Kameji was the first in Pocatello to build a drive-through cellar and the one to introduce the cultivation of jumbo celery to the area. At holiday parades he was known for tossing celery to the kids instead of candy.
The Okamuras had seven children, two boys, and five girls, losing an infant daughter to the 1918 Spanish Flu. In 1930 the family experienced another devastating loss. Kameji was killed in a car accident on his way home from helping a friend extinguish a haystack fire in Fort Hall. He was 43.
Now Miyoshi, 36, had six children and no husband. With generous help from the community, she got through the first few months, then went about the business of running Okamura Gardens. Paul, her oldest son, quit school to help.
Miyoshi hired local youth to help weed the vegetables, providing the first job for many of them. She ran Okamura Gardens until her landlord decided he wanted to put a car lot on the site sometime in the early 1950s.
In 1954, Miyoshi became a U.S. citizen, a proud moment in her life. She was a well-known figure in Pocatello, always ready to greet people on the street and showing surprising energy into her 90s.
There is much more to the Miyoshi Okamura story, but it’s not my place to tell it. Julie Okamura, her great-granddaughter-in-law tells it well here.
Picture brides arriving at Angel Island, California, c. 1910.. (2020, November 18). Densho Encyclopedia. Retrieved 12:39, February 22, 2022 from https://encyclopedia.densho.org/sources/en-denshopd-i41-00001-1/.
March 18, 2022
Who Killed Tresore? (Tap to read)
It wasn’t unusual for me to be picking my way across the backs of downed giants, jumping little creeks, and seeking picturesque shafts of light streaming through the cedars. I’d done it many times along the shores of Priest Lake, looking for that picture that would transport the viewer to that same spot to experience my awe of the big trees.
I was the communication chief for the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation, and part of that job was to serve as photographer of the parks. I had my favorite vantage point in each park where I could catch a sunrise, or the certain shadow of a dune. At Priest Lake the cedar groves were difficult to capture; their enormity and the cathedral-like nature of the forest they formed did not easily fit into an eyepiece.
That day I found a newly downed cedar, roots pointing into the air, still clinging to chunks of earth that had served the tree for at least a century. I walked the trunk toward those roots and looked through them, down to the shallow hole they had left behind and to the grassy area just beyond. There was a familiar formation of rocks, 13 stones in the shape of a cross, placed years before at the foot of a much younger tree.
I knew at once what it was. This was a part of the park known as Shipman Point, named after Nell Shipman, silent movie star who had her own movie studio in these woods. She had likely placed those stones there herself, in memory of Tresore, her great Dane.
Tresore was a movie star himself. He had played a feature role in one of Shipman’s movies, Back to God’s Country, filmed in 1919 in Canada. Shipman adored animals and was an early advocate for their humane treatment in films. She had a menagerie with her at Priest Lake, including Brownie the Bear, Barney the Elk, cougar, deer, sled dogs, and others.
In July, 1923, someone poisoned many of those animals, including Tresore. Shipman always suspected her landlord, to whom she owed money, had been the culprit. She mourned the loss of her Dane and memorialized him with these words: “Here lies Champion Great Dane Tresore, an artist, a soldier, and a gentleman. Killed July 17 by the cowardly hand of a human cur. He died as he lived, protecting his mistress and her property.”
What Shipman could not have known was that Tresore, in his death, played a huge part in the revival of interest in Shipman’s movies some 60 years later. A BSU professor named Tom Trusky ran across an essay she had written about the poisoning of Tresore in the Idaho State Historical Society Archives. He decided to find out more about Shipman. That led him down a path on which he discovered and restored every movie she ever made, and oversaw the publication of Shipman’s autobiography. Interest in her work as a pioneer woman in films remains high today because of Tom’s efforts.
Park rangers at Priest Lake, and some locals, knew where Tresore’s grave was long before I stumbled across it, of course. For me, my personal discovery came just a few months after my friend Tom’s death. It was a quirk he would have appreciated. He would have called it “a little treat.”
I was the communication chief for the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation, and part of that job was to serve as photographer of the parks. I had my favorite vantage point in each park where I could catch a sunrise, or the certain shadow of a dune. At Priest Lake the cedar groves were difficult to capture; their enormity and the cathedral-like nature of the forest they formed did not easily fit into an eyepiece.
That day I found a newly downed cedar, roots pointing into the air, still clinging to chunks of earth that had served the tree for at least a century. I walked the trunk toward those roots and looked through them, down to the shallow hole they had left behind and to the grassy area just beyond. There was a familiar formation of rocks, 13 stones in the shape of a cross, placed years before at the foot of a much younger tree.
I knew at once what it was. This was a part of the park known as Shipman Point, named after Nell Shipman, silent movie star who had her own movie studio in these woods. She had likely placed those stones there herself, in memory of Tresore, her great Dane.
Tresore was a movie star himself. He had played a feature role in one of Shipman’s movies, Back to God’s Country, filmed in 1919 in Canada. Shipman adored animals and was an early advocate for their humane treatment in films. She had a menagerie with her at Priest Lake, including Brownie the Bear, Barney the Elk, cougar, deer, sled dogs, and others.
In July, 1923, someone poisoned many of those animals, including Tresore. Shipman always suspected her landlord, to whom she owed money, had been the culprit. She mourned the loss of her Dane and memorialized him with these words: “Here lies Champion Great Dane Tresore, an artist, a soldier, and a gentleman. Killed July 17 by the cowardly hand of a human cur. He died as he lived, protecting his mistress and her property.”
What Shipman could not have known was that Tresore, in his death, played a huge part in the revival of interest in Shipman’s movies some 60 years later. A BSU professor named Tom Trusky ran across an essay she had written about the poisoning of Tresore in the Idaho State Historical Society Archives. He decided to find out more about Shipman. That led him down a path on which he discovered and restored every movie she ever made, and oversaw the publication of Shipman’s autobiography. Interest in her work as a pioneer woman in films remains high today because of Tom’s efforts.
Park rangers at Priest Lake, and some locals, knew where Tresore’s grave was long before I stumbled across it, of course. For me, my personal discovery came just a few months after my friend Tom’s death. It was a quirk he would have appreciated. He would have called it “a little treat.”
March 17, 2022
The Ugly Duckling (Tap to read)
This is a drawing of a beautiful woman who may have thought of herself as an Ugly Duckling. But if you were to ask any one of the hundreds of men and women she fed over the years you would likely get agreement on her beauty of a certain kind.
Miss Pearl Tyre ran a boarding house at 1023 Washington Street in Boise’s North End from 1934 to at least 1951. She also ran an open kitchen where people in need could eat for low or no cost, if they were willing to exchange chopping a little wood or sweeping floors for a meal.
This classified ad from the June 25, 1949 edition of the Idaho Statesman was typical: “You may fill your plate with delicious home cooked food at the kitchen stove of the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria. Wash your own dishes one at a time under the hot water faucet.”
The Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria? Yes. One can only guess how Tyre came up with the name, but a good supposition is that it may have come from one way she acquired her food. Each day the local Safeway store would clean out their display racks, tossing the slightly wilted, tragically malformed, and bruised fruits and vegetables. Tyre made regular trips to the alley behind the grocery to salvage discarded, yet edible food. She would take it home, clean it up, and toss the vegetables into a stew pot.
Miss Tyre—she never married—was not judgmental, though she had once worked with the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, which at times came off as a bit judgy. As evidence of that we produce this ad from 1949, which may give us another clue about the establishment’s name: “The Ugly Duckling was hatched from a swan’s egg in a nest of common barnyard ducks. He was thought ugly by his companions, but became the most beautiful bird of them all. Do not be afraid of the Ugly Duckling period in your life, for it may lead to a superfine swan’s status. Meals for working for them or cash, $2.50 a week. Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria, 1023 Washington St., phone 832.”
The proprietress was active in several women’s organizations and was a founding member of the YWCA in Boise. At one time she worked as the librarian at the Idaho State Law Library. But it is her Kicheteria for which she was best remembered by the men and women to whom she offered a dignified meal and place to stay. And it wasn’t just down and outers she welcomed. Miss Tyre invited students from Boise High School to eat a good lunch for a little money, as well.
The community stepped up to help when called upon, as this thank you ad for Thanksgiving indicates: “We are grateful for the food that poured in, in answer to our request at Thanksgiving. Never in the 15 years of the kitcheteria have we seen men and women so hungry, ravenously hungry, eating 3 big meals a day. We are endeavoring to give them peace of mind and nourished bodies, so that they will leave us with a better outlook than when they came.”
But there’s still that odd name, not the Ugly Duckling part, but the “Kitcheteria.” Did Miss Tyre invent that word? Perhaps, but we should note that it was trademarked by the Harrington Hotel Co., Inc in 1956. Their Kitcheteria was a Washington, D.C. self-service dining establishment begun following World War II. It served more than a million meals from 1948-1991. That’s probably more than Miss Tyre served in her 17-year run in Boise, but they could not have been served with more respect than the diners got from the lady of the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria.
Pearl Tyre ran the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria in Boise. Artwork by Keri Just.
Miss Pearl Tyre ran a boarding house at 1023 Washington Street in Boise’s North End from 1934 to at least 1951. She also ran an open kitchen where people in need could eat for low or no cost, if they were willing to exchange chopping a little wood or sweeping floors for a meal.
This classified ad from the June 25, 1949 edition of the Idaho Statesman was typical: “You may fill your plate with delicious home cooked food at the kitchen stove of the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria. Wash your own dishes one at a time under the hot water faucet.”
The Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria? Yes. One can only guess how Tyre came up with the name, but a good supposition is that it may have come from one way she acquired her food. Each day the local Safeway store would clean out their display racks, tossing the slightly wilted, tragically malformed, and bruised fruits and vegetables. Tyre made regular trips to the alley behind the grocery to salvage discarded, yet edible food. She would take it home, clean it up, and toss the vegetables into a stew pot.
Miss Tyre—she never married—was not judgmental, though she had once worked with the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, which at times came off as a bit judgy. As evidence of that we produce this ad from 1949, which may give us another clue about the establishment’s name: “The Ugly Duckling was hatched from a swan’s egg in a nest of common barnyard ducks. He was thought ugly by his companions, but became the most beautiful bird of them all. Do not be afraid of the Ugly Duckling period in your life, for it may lead to a superfine swan’s status. Meals for working for them or cash, $2.50 a week. Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria, 1023 Washington St., phone 832.”
The proprietress was active in several women’s organizations and was a founding member of the YWCA in Boise. At one time she worked as the librarian at the Idaho State Law Library. But it is her Kicheteria for which she was best remembered by the men and women to whom she offered a dignified meal and place to stay. And it wasn’t just down and outers she welcomed. Miss Tyre invited students from Boise High School to eat a good lunch for a little money, as well.
The community stepped up to help when called upon, as this thank you ad for Thanksgiving indicates: “We are grateful for the food that poured in, in answer to our request at Thanksgiving. Never in the 15 years of the kitcheteria have we seen men and women so hungry, ravenously hungry, eating 3 big meals a day. We are endeavoring to give them peace of mind and nourished bodies, so that they will leave us with a better outlook than when they came.”
But there’s still that odd name, not the Ugly Duckling part, but the “Kitcheteria.” Did Miss Tyre invent that word? Perhaps, but we should note that it was trademarked by the Harrington Hotel Co., Inc in 1956. Their Kitcheteria was a Washington, D.C. self-service dining establishment begun following World War II. It served more than a million meals from 1948-1991. That’s probably more than Miss Tyre served in her 17-year run in Boise, but they could not have been served with more respect than the diners got from the lady of the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria.
Pearl Tyre ran the Ugly Duckling Kitcheteria in Boise. Artwork by Keri Just.
March 16, 2022
It Started in Blackfoot (Tap to read)
The Post Register is one of Idaho’s more important newspapers, and one with a long history, tracing its roots back to 1880. The newspaper has published in Idaho Falls for most of that time, but it didn’t start out there. It started in Blackfoot, as the Blackfoot Register.
Blackfoot was the terminus of the railroad in 1880 and probably seemed to publisher Edward Wheeler the better bet for starting a newspaper than Eagle Rock, 25 miles to the north. Eagle Rock would later become Idaho Falls, and by far the larger city, but in 1880 it didn’t amount to much. It had a saloon, a store, and Matt Taylor’s toll bridge. Blackfoot, meanwhile, had a café, hotel, four general stores, four saloons, two blacksmith shops, a wagon shop, a lumber yard, a doctor, and even a jewelry store. It was also, at the time, the most populated city in Idaho Territory. Newspapers run on advertising, so starting one in the comparatively booming City of Blackfoot was the easy choice.
And, make no mistake, advertising was top of mind for Mr. Wheeler. In the first edition of the Blackfoot Register he wrote, “We have… one main object in view, and that is to secure as large an amount of the filthy lucre as possible.”
Wheeler did well enough in Blackfoot for the more than three years he operated there. He plunged into local political issues, championed the building of the city’s first school, and even campaigned to make Blackfoot the territory’s new capital. But lucre moved north and so did the paper.
By 1884 the railroad line had stretched to Eagle Rock and established its headquarters there. Settlers began pouring in. Wheeler pulled up stakes and moved his operation to Eagle Rock where the newspaper began calling itself the Idaho Register.
I’ll write more about the Post Register in later posts, relying as I did for much of this post on William Hathaway’s fascinating book, Images of America, Idaho Falls Post Register , published by Arcadia Publishing.
Blackfoot was the terminus of the railroad in 1880 and probably seemed to publisher Edward Wheeler the better bet for starting a newspaper than Eagle Rock, 25 miles to the north. Eagle Rock would later become Idaho Falls, and by far the larger city, but in 1880 it didn’t amount to much. It had a saloon, a store, and Matt Taylor’s toll bridge. Blackfoot, meanwhile, had a café, hotel, four general stores, four saloons, two blacksmith shops, a wagon shop, a lumber yard, a doctor, and even a jewelry store. It was also, at the time, the most populated city in Idaho Territory. Newspapers run on advertising, so starting one in the comparatively booming City of Blackfoot was the easy choice.
And, make no mistake, advertising was top of mind for Mr. Wheeler. In the first edition of the Blackfoot Register he wrote, “We have… one main object in view, and that is to secure as large an amount of the filthy lucre as possible.”
Wheeler did well enough in Blackfoot for the more than three years he operated there. He plunged into local political issues, championed the building of the city’s first school, and even campaigned to make Blackfoot the territory’s new capital. But lucre moved north and so did the paper.
By 1884 the railroad line had stretched to Eagle Rock and established its headquarters there. Settlers began pouring in. Wheeler pulled up stakes and moved his operation to Eagle Rock where the newspaper began calling itself the Idaho Register.
I’ll write more about the Post Register in later posts, relying as I did for much of this post on William Hathaway’s fascinating book, Images of America, Idaho Falls Post Register , published by Arcadia Publishing.
March 15, 2022
The Star From Wallace (Tap to read)
On February 8, 1921, Mildred Turner was four days shy of her 17th birthday when she gave birth to a girl, Julia Jean, in Wallace, Idaho. John and Mildred Turner lived up a narrow canyon in the mining town of Burke at the time. In 1925 the small family moved to Wallace. John Turner, who had been a mine inspector, opened a dry-cleaning establishment there and worked part-time in the nearby silver mines.
The Turners called their daughter Judy. She showed an interest in performing when she was three, doing some dance routines at various events.
When Judy was six, the Turners moved to San Francisco, separating shortly after. It was there in 1930 that tragedy struck. John Turner won a little money in a craps game. He stuffed his winnings in his sock and headed home. He never got there. Authorities found him bludgeoned to death, his left shoe and sock missing. The murder was never solved.
Judy Turner is not remembered for the dreadful story of her father’s death. She is remembered as THAT girl. Her story is so well-worn as Hollywood legend that it seems mythical. She was spotted at the Top Hat Malt Shop on Sunset Boulevard sipping a Coke while skipping a typing class at Hollywood High. The publisher of Hollywood Reporter did the spotting. He asked her if she was interested in being in the movies. Her famous answer was, “I’ll have to ask my mother first.”
Mom said yes, and the reporter sent her to see Zeppo Marx, the youngest of the Marx brothers, who was a talent agent, as well as an actor.
Somewhere along the line, Judy became Lana Turner. She had a four-decade career in film, appearing in 56 movies, including Peyton Place in 1958, for which she received an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress in a Leading Role.
There was a stormy chapter in her life that received much press at the time. She was dating reputed mobster Johnny Stompanato. The relationship was tempestuous and filled with violent arguments. Stompanato confronted her with a gun on the set Another Time, Another Place, which was filming in London. Co-star Sean Connery twisted the gun away from him and he ran off.
But that didn’t end the off-again on-again relationship. On March 26, 1958, Turner went to the Oscar ceremony where she was contending for Best Actress. Stompanato was angry that he didn’t get to go with her. He confronted Turner in her home, threatening to kill her mother and daughter. Fearing that her mother was in danger, daughter Cheryl entered the bedroom and stabbed Stompanato with a kitchen knife, killing him. National and local media covered the trial heavily. The jury found that it was justifiable homicide.
Lana Turner, born in Idaho, died of cancer in 1974 in Los Angeles.
Six-year-old "Judy" Turner, pictured here in Wallace in 1926, would go on to be an iconic Hollywood star. 
Lana Turner in a publicity still for the 1966 film Madame X in which she starred.
The Turners called their daughter Judy. She showed an interest in performing when she was three, doing some dance routines at various events.
When Judy was six, the Turners moved to San Francisco, separating shortly after. It was there in 1930 that tragedy struck. John Turner won a little money in a craps game. He stuffed his winnings in his sock and headed home. He never got there. Authorities found him bludgeoned to death, his left shoe and sock missing. The murder was never solved.
Judy Turner is not remembered for the dreadful story of her father’s death. She is remembered as THAT girl. Her story is so well-worn as Hollywood legend that it seems mythical. She was spotted at the Top Hat Malt Shop on Sunset Boulevard sipping a Coke while skipping a typing class at Hollywood High. The publisher of Hollywood Reporter did the spotting. He asked her if she was interested in being in the movies. Her famous answer was, “I’ll have to ask my mother first.”
Mom said yes, and the reporter sent her to see Zeppo Marx, the youngest of the Marx brothers, who was a talent agent, as well as an actor.
Somewhere along the line, Judy became Lana Turner. She had a four-decade career in film, appearing in 56 movies, including Peyton Place in 1958, for which she received an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress in a Leading Role.
There was a stormy chapter in her life that received much press at the time. She was dating reputed mobster Johnny Stompanato. The relationship was tempestuous and filled with violent arguments. Stompanato confronted her with a gun on the set Another Time, Another Place, which was filming in London. Co-star Sean Connery twisted the gun away from him and he ran off.
But that didn’t end the off-again on-again relationship. On March 26, 1958, Turner went to the Oscar ceremony where she was contending for Best Actress. Stompanato was angry that he didn’t get to go with her. He confronted Turner in her home, threatening to kill her mother and daughter. Fearing that her mother was in danger, daughter Cheryl entered the bedroom and stabbed Stompanato with a kitchen knife, killing him. National and local media covered the trial heavily. The jury found that it was justifiable homicide.
Lana Turner, born in Idaho, died of cancer in 1974 in Los Angeles.
Six-year-old "Judy" Turner, pictured here in Wallace in 1926, would go on to be an iconic Hollywood star. Lana Turner in a publicity still for the 1966 film Madame X in which she starred.
March 14, 2022
Oakley Stone (Tap to read)
If you’ve seen a few fireplaces in Idaho, you’ve likely seen Oakley Stone. Beginning in the late 1940s the rock mined nearly Oakley, Idaho in the Albion Mountains became a popular building material for entryways, home veneers, and fireplaces. Geologists know it as micaceous quartzite or Idaho quartzite. Oakley Stone is a trade name.
Oakley stone is popular in the U.S., Canada, and even in Europe, because of its range of colors, from silver to gold and everything in between, but also because it is efficient. It can be split much thinner than competing rock from other quarries. A ton of Oakley Stone can cover 250 to 300 feet, while a ton of other stone veneers can cover 60 feet or less.
Oakley Stone was formed over the ages when layers of clay alternating with layers rich in quartz, compressed together. According to Terry Maley’s book, Exploring Idaho Geology , the alternating quartz-rich layers were flattened by the pressure so that the porosity of the material was removed and the quartz grains formed an interlocking mosaic.
The quarries for the stone are about halfway up Middle Mountain where they can dig through a shallow layer of dirt to access the tilted layers of sedimentary rock. It’s mostly hand work, chiseling along the front edge of the rock to break away plates as thin as a quarter inch and up to 4 inches thick. The plates can be as big as eight feet in diameter, but are usually broken into much smaller pieces. Once on site, the stone is easy to work and shape.
Frank Lloyd Wright specified the stone for the interior and exterior of Teater’s Knoll, near Hagerman. The home was built for artist Archie Teater and is the only one in Idaho designed for a particular site by the famous architect. The photo, courtesy of Henry Whiting, shows Kent Hale’s exterior rock work on the building.
Oakley stone is popular in the U.S., Canada, and even in Europe, because of its range of colors, from silver to gold and everything in between, but also because it is efficient. It can be split much thinner than competing rock from other quarries. A ton of Oakley Stone can cover 250 to 300 feet, while a ton of other stone veneers can cover 60 feet or less.
Oakley Stone was formed over the ages when layers of clay alternating with layers rich in quartz, compressed together. According to Terry Maley’s book, Exploring Idaho Geology , the alternating quartz-rich layers were flattened by the pressure so that the porosity of the material was removed and the quartz grains formed an interlocking mosaic.
The quarries for the stone are about halfway up Middle Mountain where they can dig through a shallow layer of dirt to access the tilted layers of sedimentary rock. It’s mostly hand work, chiseling along the front edge of the rock to break away plates as thin as a quarter inch and up to 4 inches thick. The plates can be as big as eight feet in diameter, but are usually broken into much smaller pieces. Once on site, the stone is easy to work and shape.
Frank Lloyd Wright specified the stone for the interior and exterior of Teater’s Knoll, near Hagerman. The home was built for artist Archie Teater and is the only one in Idaho designed for a particular site by the famous architect. The photo, courtesy of Henry Whiting, shows Kent Hale’s exterior rock work on the building.
March 13, 2022
Freight Wagons (Tap to read)
My great grandfather, Nels Just, was a wagon freighter in his younger days, hauling cargo between Corrine, Utah and the Montana mines, with occasional runs from Corrine to Boise. Without giving it much thought my mental picture of that operation was of Nels hauling a wagonload of supplies covered by tarps. The wagon I pictured was just a standard wagon, the kind you’d use for farming or for trekking across the Oregon Trail, pulled by a team of oxen.
I still don’t know what Nels’ outfit looked like, but most freighters who ran those routes did so with gigantic wagons, constructed with 14-foot-tall sides to haul as much cargo as possible. Often there might be three or more of these creaking monstrosities hooked together and pulled by ten horses or five to seven yoke of oxen. The wheels could be seven feet tall and four inches wide. They only made about 15 miles a day in rugged country, or maybe 25 miles on flatlands.
For a time in the history of Idaho Territory just about everyone who could put together some teams was a freighter. It was a lucrative business, far more certain than prospecting for gold or silver. When there were no railroads to carry goods, freight wagons brought everything to communities and mining camps. Even after they laid rails across southern Idaho, freight wagons still lumbered over the dirt roads to outlying communities. During the winter, pack trains were often the only way into mining districts.
Another thing I likely had wrong about Nels’ operation was where he sat while driving his teams. He probably rarely sat at all. Many of the big wagons had no seat. It wasn’t necessary because the teamster walked alongside the teams the whole way. That explains another minor mystery for me. Nels often walked into Shelley from his homestead on the Blackfoot River. He never had a shortage of horses, but he often chose to walk. It was nothing compared to walking between Corrine and the mines.
If you want to see what freight wagons looked like, watch for news about Wagon Days, held each year on Labor Day Weekend in Ketchum. They typically parade six enormous ore wagons through town.
Wagon Days in Ketchum.
I still don’t know what Nels’ outfit looked like, but most freighters who ran those routes did so with gigantic wagons, constructed with 14-foot-tall sides to haul as much cargo as possible. Often there might be three or more of these creaking monstrosities hooked together and pulled by ten horses or five to seven yoke of oxen. The wheels could be seven feet tall and four inches wide. They only made about 15 miles a day in rugged country, or maybe 25 miles on flatlands.
For a time in the history of Idaho Territory just about everyone who could put together some teams was a freighter. It was a lucrative business, far more certain than prospecting for gold or silver. When there were no railroads to carry goods, freight wagons brought everything to communities and mining camps. Even after they laid rails across southern Idaho, freight wagons still lumbered over the dirt roads to outlying communities. During the winter, pack trains were often the only way into mining districts.
Another thing I likely had wrong about Nels’ operation was where he sat while driving his teams. He probably rarely sat at all. Many of the big wagons had no seat. It wasn’t necessary because the teamster walked alongside the teams the whole way. That explains another minor mystery for me. Nels often walked into Shelley from his homestead on the Blackfoot River. He never had a shortage of horses, but he often chose to walk. It was nothing compared to walking between Corrine and the mines.
If you want to see what freight wagons looked like, watch for news about Wagon Days, held each year on Labor Day Weekend in Ketchum. They typically parade six enormous ore wagons through town.
Wagon Days in Ketchum.
March 12, 2022
Really, Your Mother-In-Law Will Love It (Tap to read)
One of our most popular posts was about the Stinker Station signs that once dotted the landscape in southern Idaho. The one everyone seems to remember said, “Petrified watermelons. Take one home to your mother-in-law.” Those melons were actually rocks, and if a few people followed the sign’s advice, no one cared. There were plenty of them.
So, what is melon gravel? It’s a common type of rock found from about Massacre Rocks State Park to the Oregon border. It is known for its shape more than its composition. Most melon gravel is basaltic rock that was torn away from the Snake River Canyon walls and lava flows during the Bonneville Flood some 15,000 years ago. The flood carried that rock along for miles, tumbling it against other rocks, knocking off the edges, until it began to round and become relatively smooth.
The gravel ranges in size from, well, a melon, to an SUV. In places, you can find deposits of it a mile wide and a mile and a half long. Many fields in the Magic Valley have piles of the rock that has been scooped up over the years to make way for crops.
For more about the Bonneville Flood, check Terry Maley’s book, Exploring Idaho Geology , a new edition of which has just been released. For more information about Stinker Station signs, see my book Fearless—Farris Lind, the Man Behind the Skunk.
So, what is melon gravel? It’s a common type of rock found from about Massacre Rocks State Park to the Oregon border. It is known for its shape more than its composition. Most melon gravel is basaltic rock that was torn away from the Snake River Canyon walls and lava flows during the Bonneville Flood some 15,000 years ago. The flood carried that rock along for miles, tumbling it against other rocks, knocking off the edges, until it began to round and become relatively smooth.
The gravel ranges in size from, well, a melon, to an SUV. In places, you can find deposits of it a mile wide and a mile and a half long. Many fields in the Magic Valley have piles of the rock that has been scooped up over the years to make way for crops.
For more about the Bonneville Flood, check Terry Maley’s book, Exploring Idaho Geology , a new edition of which has just been released. For more information about Stinker Station signs, see my book Fearless—Farris Lind, the Man Behind the Skunk.
March 11, 2022
Governor Morrison (Tap to read)
John T. Morrison was an unremarkable governor, Idaho’s sixth, serving just two years 1903-1905. He was an attorney from Pennsylvania who graduated from the Cornell School of Law and moved to the new state of Idaho in 1890. Morrison was instrumental in establishing the College of Idaho where he served as one of the first faculty members.
His political resume was short. He failed in a run for a legislative seat in 1896. Following that, he served as chair of the Republican Party for three years. The Republicans nominated him for governor, and he won a two-year term in 1903. The party was not moved to nominate him for another term, choosing Frank R. Gooding to run instead.
Under Morrison’s governorship, the state established an organization to monitor weights and measures, enacted a pure food law, and built the reform school at St. Anthony.
I was moved to write a sparse little piece about him because I ran across a blurb he had written for the October 15, 1903, edition of Leslie’s Weekly. The newspaper was quite popular for several decades, its claim to fame being the elaborate illustrations of current events included in every issue. This edition featured an Idaho mining scene on the cover. Inside was Governor Morrison’s chamber-of-commerce-esque piece, to wit:
“IDAHO INVITES attention. There is much of interest to the world within her borders. Her people are active, intelligent Americans for whom no excuse is needed and with whom one finds pleasure and profit in living. Her rich and diversified resources challenge comparison. They are quickly developed and yield ready profits. It may well be doubted if there is a State in the Union which to-day offers as inviting a field for the profitable investment of energy and industry. This fact is having wide announcement. The world is learning of the beauties and bounties of “the Gem of the Mountains.” The home-seeker and investor are attracted hither. Twenty-five thousand settlers have come to the State since January 1st, 1903, and capital knocks for admission to our mines, forests, and fields. The next ten years will witness marvelous development in Idaho.”
Who could resist?
The cover of the Leslie's Weekly that contained Morrison's puff piece. 
Governor Morrison and his family as they appeared in the same issue.
His political resume was short. He failed in a run for a legislative seat in 1896. Following that, he served as chair of the Republican Party for three years. The Republicans nominated him for governor, and he won a two-year term in 1903. The party was not moved to nominate him for another term, choosing Frank R. Gooding to run instead.
Under Morrison’s governorship, the state established an organization to monitor weights and measures, enacted a pure food law, and built the reform school at St. Anthony.
I was moved to write a sparse little piece about him because I ran across a blurb he had written for the October 15, 1903, edition of Leslie’s Weekly. The newspaper was quite popular for several decades, its claim to fame being the elaborate illustrations of current events included in every issue. This edition featured an Idaho mining scene on the cover. Inside was Governor Morrison’s chamber-of-commerce-esque piece, to wit:
“IDAHO INVITES attention. There is much of interest to the world within her borders. Her people are active, intelligent Americans for whom no excuse is needed and with whom one finds pleasure and profit in living. Her rich and diversified resources challenge comparison. They are quickly developed and yield ready profits. It may well be doubted if there is a State in the Union which to-day offers as inviting a field for the profitable investment of energy and industry. This fact is having wide announcement. The world is learning of the beauties and bounties of “the Gem of the Mountains.” The home-seeker and investor are attracted hither. Twenty-five thousand settlers have come to the State since January 1st, 1903, and capital knocks for admission to our mines, forests, and fields. The next ten years will witness marvelous development in Idaho.”
Who could resist?
The cover of the Leslie's Weekly that contained Morrison's puff piece. Governor Morrison and his family as they appeared in the same issue.
