Before really moving on I’d like to interject a little story here about Mary Ann Logan Jackson’s older sister Margaret. Margaret married Philip Gearhart in 1836. They soon left Indiana for Iowa, and in 1848 used that location as a springboard to a legendary trek west, all the way to Oregon. This was Gold Rush time in California, of course, and their original intent was to go that direction, but ended up changing their minds. This was on the early side of the era of the wagon trains heading west.
The WPA (Works Progress Administration) had a Federal Writers Project and in Oregon it was called Oregon Folklore Studies. They interviewed Margaret and Philip Gearhart’s daughter who lived in Portland, Oregon in 1939, Sarah Gearhart Byrd. Sarah was born in 1843 in Iowa and had personal memories of the trip by wagon train to Oregon from Iowa. Here is an excerpt.
I ain't no hand for dates, so don't bother me about 'em. I do remember though when we came to Oregon. We came from I-O-WAY in 1848. That's a long time ago, ain't it? Joe Watt was captain of our train. Bein' so little, I don't remember how many wuz in the train, but I've heard 'em say it wuz a big one. Every night when we camped the wagons wuz pulled in a circle an' hooked together with chains an' oxen yokes. The folks camped inside that circle, an' close along-side wuz the stock, an' a guard wuz set up for the night.
Yes, it must hev ban an awful job cookin'. I wuz too little to do anything. 'Course they hed to cook on the open fire, an' on the plains, most o' the time ther wuz nothin' to burn but buffalo chips. I guess they got us'd to it, but I wouldn't like to.
The Indians wuz peaceable when we cum across. We didn't hev eny trouble o' any kind. Oh, once, I b'lieve the Indians stole a cow or somethin'.
But the biggest excitement I c'n remember is a herd of stampedin' buffalo thet almost got us. It was dusk, an' we'd gone into camp, when, all at once, 'way off in the distance we see a big cloud o' dust. It cum near'r an' near'r, an' perty soon somebody yelled, "It's buffalo -- looks like a million of 'em, an' they're comin' this way." Mebbe ther wuzn't a fuss then. Everbody wuz shoutin' to everbody else, an' givin' orders, an' rushin' 'round like crazy people. Some o' the men got out on horses, an' some way or 'nother, what with ther yellin' an' wavin' whatever they cud get hold of, they kept the buffalo from comin' thru the camp. I c'n remember it all ez plain ez day, seein' them buffalo tear by, with their tails up an' ther heads close to the ground. Ther must 've ben a hunderd or more. That's a long way from a million, but the ground jest shook as they went by. Some o' the men got some good shots, an' we had plenty o' buffalo meat for awhile.
Bein' so little I can't remember very much about crossin' the plains. When we first got here we went to Oregon City an' stayed for a while. When we started from I-o-way father meant to go to Californy, but when they got to wher the roads parted to Oregon an' Californy, he came to Oregon. When we wuz in Oregon City we wuz perty close to where Doctor McLaughlin lived. I remember seein' a squaw out in his yard. She wore dresses, but she had bare feet. I remember thet, an' I remember hearin' 'em say thet wuz Doctor McLaughlin's wife. Ther wuz a man named Jewett in Oregon City thet father knew in I-o-way, an' he got to tellin' father 'bout the Clatsop Plains country, so father decided he'd go down ther.
Ther wuzn't any roads then, o'course -- jest Indian trails. Finally it wuz decided father an' my oldest brother would drive the stock down over the trail. I think he hed a cow, a yoke o' oxen an' two horses, an' Mr. Jewett tuk mother an' the rest of we young'uns down the river. We went in a big Indian canoe, with two Indians to paddle it. Goin' down the Willamette we passed a place where ther wuz a few cabins, an' Mr, Jewett sed, "That's Portland." Mother al'ays laughed when she tol' that. Oregon City wuz a lot bigger then. I wish I c'd remember thet trip down the Columbia. Jest mother, we three young'uns, thet strange man, an' the two siwashes, in a canoe on that big, lonesum river. It tuk sever'l days o' course, an' we had to camp at night, an' I remember once when we wuz climin' ashore on a log I perty near fell in. I wuz scared nigh to death.
We went up the Skipanon River frum Astoria, wher father settled an a squatter's claim. It wuzn't surveyed then. They jest had squatter's claims. We jest camped at first, an' then father built a log cabin with shake roof, an' a fireplace made o' sticks an' mud. It hed a floor too, sort o' what you'd call a puncheon floor I guess -- logs hewed flat on all sides an' put together. We'd brought two chairs across the plains thet father'd made in I-o-way. They hed cowhide seats in 'em. Later on, here in Oregon, he put rockers on 'em, an' they wuz al'ays father an' mother's chairs. Father c'd make furniture real good. He made tables an' cupboards an' benches, real good they wuz. We c'd be usin' them yet if they hadn't got burned up. I still got one o' the li'l ol' rockin' chairs down on the farm.
To me, this was more than a delightful and colorful anecdotal find. The interview goes on in the same charming manner telling of life in the early days on the coast of Oregon. Having lived 17 years in Portland and environs, I could envision these tales vividly. We used to spend weekends in Seaside and other little towns along the northern coast. My son lived in Astoria for several years, so it was much to all our delight to learn that the little town of Gearhart that we used to run over to for Pizza had been founded by relatives.