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The Goldendale Sentinel, Goldendale, WA., March 31, 1955, page 6
Includes portrait

PARROTT FAMILY AMONG EARLIEST SETTLERS IN GLENWOOD VALLEY

     On the Parrott side of my ancestors the farthest back of whom I have learned was my grandfather, Adonisam Parrott. Of my grandmother Parrott, I never learned her maiden name.
     In 1776 Adonisam was a Rebel against England. He was in the battle of Bunker Hill, and later was at the encampment at Valley Forge during "'The Times That Tried Mens' Souls," and he stayed in the army to the end of the war.
     In 1804, he with his wife and children, settled near, Platsburg, N.Y..
     My father, Joseph Parrott Sr., was born in the Jeesier in 1803.
     In the second war with England 1812-1814 I had two uncles, William and Richard, who engaged in that war. They were wounded, taken prisoner and paroled. When in 1814 Provost, with 14,000 Wellington veterans, came to Platsburg, the two boys broke their parole, and with the father himself, turned out and helped to drive the Red Coats out of New York
     In the latter part of the1800's Joseph and his brother William, went to Canada. William came back to Platsburg and soon went to the Mexican war, and was heard from no more.
     Joseph returned and worked in the Erie Canal for some time, then he went to Frankfort, Kentucky in 1839. After that he moved to Andrew County, Missouri, where Joseph Jr., was born in January, 1844. On the first day of May, that same year, we crossed the Missouri River bound for Oregon City, Oregon.
     The company included my mother's parents, two of her brothers, one sister, and their families, besides many others.
     Many delays, occurred during the trip. At one camp on the bank of a stream we came to we were detained by hard rains which made the stream unfordable. Here we lost two weeks just for not crossing the stream before making camp.
     With our jaded teams we encountered  snow in crossing the Blue Mountains. We arrived at The Dalles where we embarked on a Hudson Bay Bateau for the Cascades. We rode along the South line of Klickitat County late in November, and were detained at the Cascades for three weeks, waiting for a boat to take us to Oregon City.
     Our food was boiled wheat and Indian cured salmon skins for breakfast. For dinner for a change we had salmon skins and boiled wheat. For supper we had both.
     My father had a project of his own. His wagon bed was made to answer as a boat, so he planned to go down river in it and two his wagon behind. He went all right for a while, but the river became too rough for his unstable outfit, so he had to abandon the wagon.
     He stopped near an Indian camp for the night and motioned to a little fellow to bring him some fire wood and he would give him some powder, which he did, but the older Indians came, all hungry and begging for something to eat. One Indian would not have the piece of meat given him and waded to the stern of the boat to help himself. Father, unwittingly took up his gun and pointed it at him. The Indians, with one exception, all became very angry. The took father's gun away from him and made him pay a good price to get it back. When the angry ones left, the other Indians, who father thought saved his life, motioned him to leave and showed him how they would kill him if he stayed. He pulled out from there and camped on an island with no fire.
     Part of the immigrants drove their stock down some Indian trail on the Oregon side. Their provisions got so low, a fat stray dog was butchered and eaten at camp made just before crossing a small river. The named this stream Dog River, which name it kept for many years before it finally became known as Hood River.
     We all reached Oregon City on the 23rd day of December, 1844, a crestfallen, discouraged, forlorn looking group of mortals; barely clothed in rags and moccasins, with no money or provisions, and winter upon us. What was to carry us through in this condition? In fact there was no money, it was all barter and swap except wheat. At that time wheat was considered and used as legal tender.
     The Hudson Bay Company had a well supplied store at Vancouver. The head manager, Dr. John McLoughlin, a man of stern commandeering qualities, but of a  generous, tender heart, freely supplied the wants of the helpless emigrants, even to his own detriment.
     The Kindreds, my mother's folks, were in the Southern States somewhere in 1776. The great grandfather Kindred followed Daniel Boone to Kentucky. Some of the Kindreds are in the mountain districts of Tennessee. David Kindres, my grandfather, moved to Indiana, then to Iowa; from there to Missouri, and from Missouri to Oregon. He located near Tumwater, Wash. in 1845. His son, John, and partner, Mike T. Simmons, also located at Tumwater, and put up a flourmill at the falls. Another son, R. K. Kindred, located on Tansy Point, at the mouth of the Columbia River, where the town of Hammond now is.
     Father took a claim on the east bank of the Willamette River, six miles south of Oregon City. A little place called New Era is on his claim and Parrott Creek, named for him, joins the river there. Father and mother lived on their place until their deaths.
     I lived there mostly until the spring of 1883 when I and my family moved to Goldendale, Washington. We lived there until the spring of 1890 when we moved to the homestead northeast of Glenwood and lived the life of pioneers. I made many miles of wagon road, and made the Klickitat River crossable by the erection of the Parrott Suspension Bridge.

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     This ends his story at that time, but it is only fitting that it be carried on until his death, before all is forgotten.
     In 1906 he and his family moved from the old homestead to Glenwood, where they ran the Glenwood Hotel for about four years. He was postmaster during that time and also for a few years after moving out of the hotel.
     From Glenwood he moved to Seaside, Oregon. He bought property there and made that his home until 1920.
     The last two years of his life were spent as caretaker of the Spiritualist Church grounds at Era, Oregon, a part of his fathers old claim, where he spent his last days among the scenes of his boyhood, along with such old friends and acquaintances as were left of those early pioneers of Oregon.
     He died in Oregon City, October 1, 1923, and was laid to rest in the Zion Cemetery at Canby, Oregon.
     He was among the earliest settlers of Klickitat county, and was a pioneer of this vicinity as well as of Oregon.

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     Much credit for the development of the Glenwood area.....past and present.....can be attributed to the Parrott family and their son, Robert "Bob," who still resides at, Glenwood. Bob took an active part in the development of irrigation projects in Glenwood Valley and has always been a strong advocate of good roads into the picturesque Mt. Adams area.
     His parents, Joseph. and Mary D. Parrott, were among the early day settlers in this county. They came by wagon train, crossing the Missouri River in May, 1844, for Oregon City, Oregon - reaching their destination on December 23, 1844.
     In 1883 they moved to Goldendale and seven years later, 1890, took up a homestead seven miles northeast of Glenwood in Yakima county.
     It was on the homestead that Bob was born -- January 21, 1892. When Bob was 14 years of age he moved to Glenwood with his parents who had purchased the Glenwood Hotel from T.J. Shaw.
     Bob received his schooling at a schoolhouse near their homestead. C.W. Ramsey, Goldendale attorney, was one of his teachers. Bob attended the Glenwood high school and the North Yakima Business College.
     He operated a garage and service station in Glenwood for several years. He also purchased 80 acres of logged off state land northeast of Glenwood, making one of the better farms of it.
     He was married on September 30, 1922. The family was blessed with two daughters, Eva, born October 8, 1925 and Robert, who was born August 17, 1927. Both daughters and four grandchildren live in Portland.
     Organizations Mr. Parrott belongs to and in which he has held various offices are the American Legion, Grange, Lumber and Sawmill Workers Union, Camas Prairie and Vicinity Pioneer Association. He has been a member of the board of directors of the Hell Roaring Irrigation Company and now holds the office of president.
     In recalling his most thrilling experience Bob had the following to say: "At my age there have been so many things happened that it is hard to pick out any one outstanding event. I have decided to tell you about a mountain and fishing trip with my father when a boy of about ten years of age. That would make it about the year 1902 while we were still living on the old homestead across the Klickitat River, about seven miles Northwest of Glenwood.
     The time was right after haying and a group of farmers in this valley, including H.F. Troh, Wm. Jebe, and some of the Kuhnhausens, had decided to take a fishing and hunting trip and wanted father to go along.
     As we still had a couple days work to do to get our hay all in, father made arrangements to come later and catch up with them at Fish Lake, way up north of Mt. Adams. As I had been helping pretty good with the haying my father promised to take me along.
     They had told him that they had plenty of provisions and that all we would need to take along would be an extra frying pan and a couple pounds of butter . . . so one morning we started out early on horseback with only a lunch for noon and that extra butter and frying pan. We had no pack horse, so tied our bed rolls and fishing gear behind our saddles.
     Our route took us up over Pea Vine Ridge, past the Forty Day Camp and down to the river near the mouth of Surveyor's Creek. We forded the river there and went up the west side past the Tile Soda Springs, crossed the West Fork and ate our lunch at Casteel Crossing on the Holdaway Meadows, as it was a steep zig zag climb, we got off our horses and walked. Father was in the lead, leading his mare which had a colt following and I came nest leading my horse. One place father stopped to rest. I never noticed and walked up against the colt with my head down. That colt just up and kicked me with both feet and the next thing I knew dad had me about a hundred yards off  the trail and was ducking my head in a little creek to bring me to. I was not hurt too bad, but rather bruised up and felt sick, When father asked if he should take me back home I said "no. I was game to go on."
     We arrived at Fish Lake about sundown and found nobody there. The fishing had not been to their liking and they had pulled up and left without waiting for us . . . not even leaving a note at the camp telling where they had gone.
     So there we were a long day's ride from home (about 60 miles) without any camp outfit but a frying pan and two pounds of butter.
     Dad just rigged up his fishing tackle, got out on a raft and started fishing. I unsaddled the horses and got them staked out on some good grass, made our bed for the night and started a fire. Dad came in about dark and as fishing was not good he had only caught two fish. They were nice size, however, so we cleaned and cooked them in butter -- no salt -- and that was our supper.
     Next morning we got up early, saddled up, rolled our beds and started out without any breakfast. Thought we could track the other party and find where they had gone. However a band of sheep had trailed through since they had gone and we lost their trail. We found out afterwards that they had gone past Jennie Butte and down to the Klickitat Meadows on the headwaters of the East fork of the Klickitat. But while scouting around we scared up a Fool Hen, a bird native of that high country, about the size of a grouse. but not having enough sense to fly away. It sat up on a low limb of a tree, where we threw clubs at it until we killed it. We also found a sack of stock salt along side of a log where some sheepman had left it, and took a pocket full to salt our bird with. We kept on down the trail to the foot of Windy 'Point where we stopped and let our horses graze while we cooked our bird for a late breakfast or an early dinner. Had salt that time and fried it in butter - but the menu was without bread or vegetables.
     After eating our bird we caught our horses and started for home. We stopped at the Soda Springs to drink some soda water, and while there a cowboy came along. He was camped up a little creek about one half mile from the springs and had a job of looking after about 200 head of cattle, ranging in that area. Some of the cattle were from the Glenwood valley and some from around Goldendale and Centerville.
     He insisted that we go back and spend the night with him as he had quite a lonesome job and liked company. We had plenty of time and as I felt pretty sore and stoved up from that colt kicking, we were not hard to persuade. We had a big supper that evening and it sure tasted good. Nice tender steaks, gravy, boiled potatoes and doughgods for bread.
     Next morning after breakfast of bacon, flapjacks and fried potatoes, we caught our horses and were soon on our way home again with full stomachs.
     We had forded the river and came over to Surveyor's Creek, where he found a stray sheep. As we were returning empty handed from our trip dad thought we ought to catch that sheep, so he let me take the horses while he tried to catch it. It kept out of reach until it got right on a point where the creek runs into the river, where it stopped.
     Dad thought he had crept close enough that he could jump and catch it, but when he jumped the sheep jumped too and landed out in the river and went floating downstream. So no sheep.
     However it looked like a good fishing hole there at the mouth of the creek, so we rigged up our tackle and went fishing. The fish sure did bite. Nice big ones, too. We fished up and down the river until we had caught a nice mess of fish. Then we realized it was past noon and we were still a long way from home, so we quit fishing and cleaned a couple of them. Went up on a little bench and crossed above the creek, built a fire and fried a fish each. We used the last of our butter - but this time no salt again, as we did not expect to need it, so have thrown away what we had.
     After eating we put our fish in the saddle bags and once more started for home. Up the hill past Forty Dog Camp, then down Pea Vine Ridge. We got down off the ridge to the Robertson place just before supper time, and as we stopped to talk a while they insisted we stay for supper.
     We only had three more miles to go and arrived home about dusk. We found a party waiting for us at home. My mother's father, W.W. Jesse of Barlow, Oregon and an old boyhood friend of dad's, John Bergoyne, of New Era, Oregon and John's son, Fred, of Oregon City. They wanted to go on a fishing trip in the mountains. As it took all the horses we had to outfit them I had to stay home.
     That was in the days when the Yakima Indian Reservation boundary was on the old lines, where it belonged according to treaty, and this other country was open to whites and Indians alike to come and go as they pleased. The streams were full of fish and the woods full of game and birds. There were no game laws or game wardens and none seemed to be needed.

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©  Jeffrey L. Elmer