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The Hood River Glacier, Hood River, OR., January 30, 1903, page 3

A TRIP TO OREGON IN 1853-4
By H.C. Coe

I have often been requested to write up the early history of Hood River, and as a preliminary article, will tell of our trip from New York via the Panama route to Portland.
First, however, I want to tell you one singular thing that happened a few weeks before our departure, and while in Auburn, N.Y., making the our farewell visit with our old friends and relatives. A long farewell it was, indeed, for we never saw them again. Of those that remained, as well as those that came, except myself -- have crossed over to the silent majority on the other side. My brother Charles, who died about 1873, was at that time seriously afflicted with opthalmia, so bad, indeed, that his sight was endangered. The best doctors were employed without beneficial results. Finally a relative at whose home we were visiting, suggested that we visit a clairvoyant living a few miles out of the city, who had achieved considerable notoriety from cures he had effected. As a last resort, my mother, the relative mentioned an I -- then only a small boy -- went to see him. We found the medium at home, and he without any questions, went into a trance and told us the object of our visit to him, made a prescription for my brothers eyes, and then turning to my mother, said: "I see a long journey ahead of you, over troubled seas and across land and seas again, but you will reach your journeys and in safety. Your husband will be there to meet you, and the Indians will never hurt you." The prescription was filled and directions followed. In a remarkably short time my brother was restored to perfect health and was never troubled with his eyes again. We crossed the troubled seas and father met us at the landing. We passed through the Yakima war; for weeks savage war-whoops rang in our ears, but "the Indians never hurt us."
In the fall of 1851, if my memory serves me right, my father, Nathaniel Coe of Livingston county, N.Y., was appointed by President Polk as special postal agent for the territory of Oregon, then comprising the vast and but little known country lying between California and British Columbia, and from the Rocky mountains to the Pacific Ocean, now embracing the states of Oregon, Washington, Idaho and part of Montana. He took with him my brother Frank, a boy of 16 years, next older than myself. The determination was that if this new world suited him, we were to follow later on. Two years of life in Oregon decided my father to make it his future home, and December 12, 1853, just 50 years ago, found us on board an ancient side-wheel talk known as the "Georgia," along with 1400 others. There were 900 laborers for the Panama railroad, just commenced; the rest were bound for the gold fields of California. Our party consisted of my mother and my two brothers -- Lawrence and Charles -- who took steerage; mother and I going first cabin. One day in steerage was all the boys could stand, as it was dreadfully crowded, and they, after proper representation to the purser, were permitted to cross the deadline and come aft. Off Cape Hatteras we found a very rough sea, though not much wind. The storm having subsided, our old ship rolled and pitched in a most disreputable manner, making nearly everyone most horribly sick. None of our party, however, were affected by it, and after a day or so we ran into calm seas and the remainder of the trip was exceptionally pleasant. I think it was on the eighth day we reached Aspenwall, the end of our Atlantic voyage. Four other steamships came into port the same day, all loaded as we were with laborers for the new road and the gold fields. Such a jam as there was; all was hurry and bustle and we had to remain over one day in order to get transportation. Aspenwall -- now the city of Colon -- was a small, rambling town of low houses with thatched roofs; the sea beach in front and a tropical forest behind.
That next morning we boarded the cars for a six mile ride to the Chagres river, then the terminus of the road. The bridge across the river was just about complete. Along side of the road we noticed several rough wooden boxes which we were informed were coffins, which contained the bodies of workmen who had just died of fever, and we were told, and I have no reason to doubt the truth of the statement, that every tie on the road cost a man's life. We were now transferred to a bateau for a 12 or 15 mile ride up the river to Cruces. The river was very shallow and with quite a strong current. The banks were lined with a dense tropical forest. Our boat was covered with walks along the guards, which the native boatmen used to propel the boat along by using long poles which they planted on the bottom of the river and against their shoulders, and with a low "Ace, Ace, Ace," walked the length of the boat, pushing the boat along with their feet. During the afternoon at a thunder-storm came up and the rain came down in torrents. We reached Gorgona at dark, and tied up for the night along with scores of other boats. During the evening a brawny westerner, who had gone ashore, in returning to his boat had to cross a dozen or so others to reach his own. This the natives objected to, and a free fight ensued, resulting in the complete ront of the natives. The next morning brought us to Cruces, and the end of our boat journey. We remained here until the next day about noon before we could obtain a mule for mother to ride, while I was deposited on the back of a native for transportation purposes; my brothers walking. I do not know just how far it was to the city of Panama, but at nightfall we were still six or seven miles away from our destination, and my native mule -- who also acted as a guide -- insisted on stopping at a wayside inn, declaring it was dangerous to proceed further and would not go a step. He started off to the house carrying me with him, but my lusty yells called my brother's attention to me and drawing his revolver ordered my human horse to let me off and I ran to them. After proceeding a short distance of our party concluded that discretion was the better part of valor and returned to the bungalow, much to the joy of my native, who hugged me with delight. Our hotel was a crude affair. Round poles set in forked sticks driven in the ground formed seats to a rough board table, while smoking mule meats, cut from the haunches of animals that had perished in a neighboring mud hole, and sweet potatoes, with native bread and coffee, formed our supper. The beds consisted of plain rough boards 12 inches wide and seven feet long laid on wooden horses, and without a vestige of a blanket, and placed side by side in one large room, men and women all indiscriminately piled inn together. Breakfast was a repetition of supper. Meals $1 each, lodging $1 each. We made an early start and had not preceded more than half a mile when we came to the body of a traveler who, like ourselves, tried to push on through and had been murdered and robbed by the wayside the evening before. About two miles further on we came to a very singular cut across a backbone of rock, some eight or ten feet deep, worn down by incessant travel. It was just wide enough to let a pack mule through, with foot holes 12 or 15 inches deep where each animal stepped. The cut was crooked so that one could not see the opposite end, and anyone wishing to go through, footman or rider, should call out to know if the way is clear. A head-on collision meant trouble, as each animal of one train or the other would have to be backed out, as it was impossible to turn or pass on. Passing this point we came to the worst mud hole that I ever saw. There were mules and mules and mules stuck in this bog hole, some freshly immersed to their ears, and some in the process of being swallowed up. Putrefying carcasses filled the humid air with a fearful stench. Whenever a mule once got stuck in this awful place every effort was made to save his pack, but the poor brute was abandoned to his fate. There was no avoiding it, and pack animals would go lugging through it, literally over the bodies of sunken animals. I heard a man tell our party that he had actually walked across this villainous bog on the heads of dead mules.
We reached the walled city of Panama in time for dinner, and the same afternoon my mother and I were taken out to the propeller California, an old war ship that had been converted into a passenger boat. On account of the failure of our baggage to arrive, my brothers had to remain until the next sailing day, or about three days. The second day out I was taken with Panama fever and nearly missed being planted in the depths of the sea; was just able to stand on my feet as we steamed into San Francisco harbor. We also had a close call from a ship-wreck, as we struck heavily three times on the bar; the breakers making a clean breach over the ship.
San Francisco was not a great city then; a few streets with great sand hills around the town. We remained there until the arrival of the next steamer from Panama, when we all boarded the little propeller Fremont for Portland. The trip was rough and stormy, and our ship at times seemed to hesitate whether to right up or roll clear over; but we reached Portland in safety. Father was that there to meet us, and the "Indians never hurt us."