It seems to me we had lots of animals up there on the mountain. When we went to Paiute, we always took our dogs and cats with us. We took pigeons. Chickens.
Down from the cabin was a little tiny shack, probably not more than six by eight feet. It was made out of squared logs, and we figured it was where they stored the dynamite because it was a hundred yards from the cabin. We fixed it up with chicken roosts and locked the chickens up and night where they could lay their eggs, if they would be so kind. During the day we let them out. For city chickens, they really, really got smart. They’d be out scratching and some chicken would give a certain quawk and every chicken would disappear.
Once a chicken pecking around right in front of the porch when a hawk swooped down at it. The chicken laid its head on the ground and spread its wings out and just flattened itself on the ground. The hawk overshot it, and came to rest in a tree to think about making a second dive. We got a gun and shot the hawk. We ate the hawk, not the chicken. We took some of the chickens home with us again, those that were still around.
One summer we took some ducklings up there. So funny. So sad. Actually we took them two summers. Ducklings are so cute. They can’t fly. Their wings are the last things to grow. The creek was right there by the cabin, 25 feet away from it. The willows were heavy and the ducklings would just spend the whole day in the creek, eating and feeding. At night we would lock them up. That first summer a predator got one duck. We thought, well, that’s not bad.
So the next year we brought up a dozen ducks. These ducks were more adventurous. They went up the creek, but we figured they were in the creek and in the willows, so they were probably O.K. We didn’t realize they were going all the way up into the meadow, about an eighth of a mile. We were sitting on the front porch when a little duckling, I swear to God he wasn’t more that eight inches high, came running ‘round the corner dead fast quack quack quacking ran right up to us. We figured, oh shit, grabbed a gun and took off up towards the meadow. All we saw when we got up to the meadow gate was a couple of coyotes taking off. We never found anything of those other ducklings.
So the first summer we lost one, and the next summer we lost all but one. And that little duckling, you couldn’t drive him away from the cabin.
One summer when I was older we took a bunch of pigeons up there to try to establish pigeons on Paiute. There must have been twenty pigeons, a large flock. We kept them locked up for a week and fed them, and that was all that was required to fix their home. They’d take off during the day, and I think they went down into the valley around Weldon. They’d be gone all day long and in the evening, they’d come back. This went on for a long time.
One evening we were in our evening sitting spots watching the pigeon flock come in. Suddenly about six hawks -- not all the same kind, either -- apparently had decided to waylay them. They all swooped in at once, but I don’t think they got a pigeon. We had one old pigeon we called NPA because he had a National Pigeon Association band on him. He was the oldest pigeon there. So he’s flying along when a hawk comes shooting up behind him. NPA turned his head, and, I swear, I didn’t know a pigeon had an afterburner. But that pigeon, from flopping along slowly, went “tchewww”—and he was gone! It was amazing. That ambush never happened again, but the pigeons were a lot more careful after that.
Copyright Joanne Heyser Harris 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Even More Paiute People
The John Weiss and Earl and Mattie Morelands lived up on top of the mountain, about 6000 feet where the firs grew. I don’t know anything about their background. Weiss had a small cabin, tightly chinked, a really good cabin. The Morelands had a bigger cabin and even had a bunkhouse and a barn. They had the Lone Star Mine, I believe it was, and worked it for years. A shaft went down 200 feet with stopes going off here and there. Daddy and I got to go down there once.
Herb and Irma Gorman were up there for years and years. They lived in the Claraville flat area. Claraville was an interesting area because there was a public meadow there, something like twenty acres. It had been kind of a city back in gold rush days. There was one little cabin there, known as the Recorder’s Shack, the oldest cabin in the Claraville area. It was made out of squared logs. When Mother built the fireplace at our cabin, the mantle log came from the Recorder’s Shack. My brother carved “Blessed by that spot where cheerful guests retire, to pause from toil and trim their evening fire” on it, a few letters at a time. Fritz was good at carving. My mother always liked the quote, she said, because it showed that guests were supposed to work.
Also we lived in a comparatively big cabin that was rotting into the ground that for a while, Tip Fulton’s old place. Now there was another real character. I wish I could remember what Tip did for a living. Everybody was supposed to be a miner because that’s the only way they could hold their claims. There was very little private property other than Nick’s meadow up there. I don’t know if any of the claims had ever been patented. I suppose a few had way in the past.
A lot of people lived in this old cabin through the years. It was abandoned, but had board floors. I think it had two rooms and an old stove. It had what you needed. And it had an old outhouse back a ways from it. So a person could move in and be sort of comfortable.
Kelso Creek wasn’t more than three- or four-hundred feet from the Claraville Meadow. You couldn’t drink out of it, but you could use the water for cooking and other things. Also, the Claraville Meadow had a wonderful spring that had been rocked in so the livestock couldn’t drink out it, but could drank out of the overflow instead. That’s where we got water for that cabin.
I don’t think Tip was married in the early days, but he got married some time when I was young. Tip liked to tell stories. He was famous for talking about the time the pigs ate Little Nevy, and how it rained for forty days and forty nights. And it was either he or his father got bit by a rattlesnake and he sucked the venom to “keep the pizen from gettin’ to his heart.” Tip was kind of a gossip and scandal monger, according to my folks. He had a lot of stories.
Later on, when we lived over on French Gulch, Tip owned a cow. Every day in the evening we kids would walk over to Tip’s place, probably a couple miles, to get a half gallon of milk. We had milk all that summer.
I actually don’t know the background of these people very much because I saw them through a child’s eyes.
Copyright Joanne Harris 2009
Herb and Irma Gorman were up there for years and years. They lived in the Claraville flat area. Claraville was an interesting area because there was a public meadow there, something like twenty acres. It had been kind of a city back in gold rush days. There was one little cabin there, known as the Recorder’s Shack, the oldest cabin in the Claraville area. It was made out of squared logs. When Mother built the fireplace at our cabin, the mantle log came from the Recorder’s Shack. My brother carved “Blessed by that spot where cheerful guests retire, to pause from toil and trim their evening fire” on it, a few letters at a time. Fritz was good at carving. My mother always liked the quote, she said, because it showed that guests were supposed to work.
Also we lived in a comparatively big cabin that was rotting into the ground that for a while, Tip Fulton’s old place. Now there was another real character. I wish I could remember what Tip did for a living. Everybody was supposed to be a miner because that’s the only way they could hold their claims. There was very little private property other than Nick’s meadow up there. I don’t know if any of the claims had ever been patented. I suppose a few had way in the past.
A lot of people lived in this old cabin through the years. It was abandoned, but had board floors. I think it had two rooms and an old stove. It had what you needed. And it had an old outhouse back a ways from it. So a person could move in and be sort of comfortable.
Kelso Creek wasn’t more than three- or four-hundred feet from the Claraville Meadow. You couldn’t drink out of it, but you could use the water for cooking and other things. Also, the Claraville Meadow had a wonderful spring that had been rocked in so the livestock couldn’t drink out it, but could drank out of the overflow instead. That’s where we got water for that cabin.
I don’t think Tip was married in the early days, but he got married some time when I was young. Tip liked to tell stories. He was famous for talking about the time the pigs ate Little Nevy, and how it rained for forty days and forty nights. And it was either he or his father got bit by a rattlesnake and he sucked the venom to “keep the pizen from gettin’ to his heart.” Tip was kind of a gossip and scandal monger, according to my folks. He had a lot of stories.
Later on, when we lived over on French Gulch, Tip owned a cow. Every day in the evening we kids would walk over to Tip’s place, probably a couple miles, to get a half gallon of milk. We had milk all that summer.
I actually don’t know the background of these people very much because I saw them through a child’s eyes.
Copyright Joanne Harris 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Art Griswold
Art Griswold owned or worked two mines on the mountain. I don’t know how old he was because he was always old when I knew him, but that was from the point of view of a little kid. He was over six feet tall and very thin, almost cadaverous, and kind of slumped. He had a big handlebar mustache and a little head of hair.
Nick didn’t like Art. He thought Art was a coward. During the late thirties someone came up on the mountain asking for Art. When Art heard about it he took off and didn’t come back for several years.
Interestingly enough, during the Second World War, Art – let’s start again. Art was entitled to a Spanish-American War pension but he never collected it because he wasn’t going to be one of those guys on welfare. During the Second World War he went down to N.O.T.S., the Naval Ordnance Test Station, in Inyo Kern where he worked as a guard. After the war the FBI got to going through old records and came across Art’s fingerprints, which matched those of a guy wanted for murdering a U.S. marshal in Arizona or New Mexico. My father had some legal experience since he had read the law with my grandfather, Robert Emmet Austin, for a few years while they were still speaking. Art came to Daddy and said he was in trouble, and so Daddy handled it for him. Who knows what really happened. Anyway, it seemed that all the witnesses were dead. All the FBI wanted to do was close the case, which they did. Guess who immediately applied for his Spanish American War pension? He hadn’t filed all those years because he was a fugitive, and that time he took off across the hill, when Nick thought he was a coward, probably somebody from that old adventure was looking for him.
Mother called Art one of “nature’s gentlemen.” He never made an off-color remark. He never did anything off-color and certainly when there was just mother and us kids, he was always a perfect gentleman. If you had liquor in the house, he’d come down and visit. I suppose he did moonshine, too. Most of the stuff that I saw had labels on it, but I’m sure that he did some for himself.
Copyright Joanne Heyser Harris 2009
Nick didn’t like Art. He thought Art was a coward. During the late thirties someone came up on the mountain asking for Art. When Art heard about it he took off and didn’t come back for several years.
Interestingly enough, during the Second World War, Art – let’s start again. Art was entitled to a Spanish-American War pension but he never collected it because he wasn’t going to be one of those guys on welfare. During the Second World War he went down to N.O.T.S., the Naval Ordnance Test Station, in Inyo Kern where he worked as a guard. After the war the FBI got to going through old records and came across Art’s fingerprints, which matched those of a guy wanted for murdering a U.S. marshal in Arizona or New Mexico. My father had some legal experience since he had read the law with my grandfather, Robert Emmet Austin, for a few years while they were still speaking. Art came to Daddy and said he was in trouble, and so Daddy handled it for him. Who knows what really happened. Anyway, it seemed that all the witnesses were dead. All the FBI wanted to do was close the case, which they did. Guess who immediately applied for his Spanish American War pension? He hadn’t filed all those years because he was a fugitive, and that time he took off across the hill, when Nick thought he was a coward, probably somebody from that old adventure was looking for him.
Mother called Art one of “nature’s gentlemen.” He never made an off-color remark. He never did anything off-color and certainly when there was just mother and us kids, he was always a perfect gentleman. If you had liquor in the house, he’d come down and visit. I suppose he did moonshine, too. Most of the stuff that I saw had labels on it, but I’m sure that he did some for himself.
Copyright Joanne Heyser Harris 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Paiute People
Paiute People
Copyright Joanne Heyser Harris 2009
I only knew some of the people who were on the mountain from a child’s point of view. I’ve mentioned Louie the Indian. Frank and Jenny King were an old couple. At least, they seemed ancient to me. They lived over on what we called King Creek. Frank did placer mining to keep his claim. And he had about a half acre garden. Once he thought he was going to save time and plough his garden with his horse, Pasco. He got Pasco hitched up and the horse took off over the barbed wire fence, plough and all. I don’t know if Frank ever found all the harness.
Frank was tall, old and thin. He drank a lot. He hunted to keep them in food. The Kings did whatever was necessary to live up there comfortably. There may have been a little bootlegging, but I don’t know. I don’t know if they call it bootlegging if you just do it for your own use, rather than selling it. Jenny was a Swede and had been a nurse during the First World War. She was short and rotund and really, really, really nice. She was always very good to us kids. I never particularly knew Frank one way or another.
Their cabin was very close to Tommy’s cabin, about an eighth of a mile. We were on the same flat. We used to walk back and forth all the time.
Old Nick, as I understand it, was the first white child born in Havilah County, which later became Kern County. In Bakersfield there is either a museum for him or he is in a museum. We used to call him “Ten Daughters Nick,” because he had ten daughters and one son. He called the son “Boy.” There was a lot of talk about who fathered whom and who was really whom. When we knew Nick, Nita Williams was the daughter who was around all the time. She and Mother used to work cattle with Nick. There was another daughter they used to call “Little Bits.”
Nick’s wife had been dead for some years. He had a large ranch in Walker Basin where Mother and I stayed that one year, and he also had a very long meadow, French Meadow, probably about five or six miles long, up on Paiute Mountain. He had a log cabin in that Meadow that he didn’t use any more. We kids used to play in it. Every time we would wander by we would go in it. It kept getting lower and lower to the ground, but it was there for a long time. The cabin had this wonderful spring beside it, maybe a hundred gallons a minute coming right out of the ground. Nick ran his cattle up on Paiute during the summers, and wintered down in Walker Basin.
Nita Williams was my ideal, a genuine cowgirl. They tolerated me. I remember the summer I was seventeen. I and some other people helped brand and castrate some calves. I helped give shots and hold legs. They would rope a calf with a horse and dragged it near the fire. Then, after somebody would throw the calf, I sat on the ground with one foot against and just above the hock of the bottom leg and held the top leg with both hands and leaned back to really keep the legs apart. Then people would knew what they were doing would castrate, brand and earmark the calf, and then let it go. They had a lot of help from people who had never done anything like it before. It was an interesting time.
Copyright Joanne Heyser Harris 2009
I only knew some of the people who were on the mountain from a child’s point of view. I’ve mentioned Louie the Indian. Frank and Jenny King were an old couple. At least, they seemed ancient to me. They lived over on what we called King Creek. Frank did placer mining to keep his claim. And he had about a half acre garden. Once he thought he was going to save time and plough his garden with his horse, Pasco. He got Pasco hitched up and the horse took off over the barbed wire fence, plough and all. I don’t know if Frank ever found all the harness.
Frank was tall, old and thin. He drank a lot. He hunted to keep them in food. The Kings did whatever was necessary to live up there comfortably. There may have been a little bootlegging, but I don’t know. I don’t know if they call it bootlegging if you just do it for your own use, rather than selling it. Jenny was a Swede and had been a nurse during the First World War. She was short and rotund and really, really, really nice. She was always very good to us kids. I never particularly knew Frank one way or another.
Their cabin was very close to Tommy’s cabin, about an eighth of a mile. We were on the same flat. We used to walk back and forth all the time.
Old Nick, as I understand it, was the first white child born in Havilah County, which later became Kern County. In Bakersfield there is either a museum for him or he is in a museum. We used to call him “Ten Daughters Nick,” because he had ten daughters and one son. He called the son “Boy.” There was a lot of talk about who fathered whom and who was really whom. When we knew Nick, Nita Williams was the daughter who was around all the time. She and Mother used to work cattle with Nick. There was another daughter they used to call “Little Bits.”
Nick’s wife had been dead for some years. He had a large ranch in Walker Basin where Mother and I stayed that one year, and he also had a very long meadow, French Meadow, probably about five or six miles long, up on Paiute Mountain. He had a log cabin in that Meadow that he didn’t use any more. We kids used to play in it. Every time we would wander by we would go in it. It kept getting lower and lower to the ground, but it was there for a long time. The cabin had this wonderful spring beside it, maybe a hundred gallons a minute coming right out of the ground. Nick ran his cattle up on Paiute during the summers, and wintered down in Walker Basin.
Nita Williams was my ideal, a genuine cowgirl. They tolerated me. I remember the summer I was seventeen. I and some other people helped brand and castrate some calves. I helped give shots and hold legs. They would rope a calf with a horse and dragged it near the fire. Then, after somebody would throw the calf, I sat on the ground with one foot against and just above the hock of the bottom leg and held the top leg with both hands and leaned back to really keep the legs apart. Then people would knew what they were doing would castrate, brand and earmark the calf, and then let it go. They had a lot of help from people who had never done anything like it before. It was an interesting time.
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