Old Missoula

Charlie’s Ramblings [With Laughter]

Lo Lo Springs, July  11, 1888.

The Lo Lo Springs, which are becoming more known and appreciated each season, are situated way up in the Bitter Root mountains, near the dividing line between Idaho and Montana, in one of the most romantic spots in the Western territories.

The healing power of the waters was known long ages ago to the aborigines, and Chief Joseph stopped there for a short time to cure his sick and wounded warriors during the Howard campaign of 1877. The first truthful white man who derived any benefit here was John Vickers. He tied up his canoe at “Springs No. 4” in the fall of 1788 and was cured of a long-standing tooth ache after taking a swallow out of Spring No. 2. [John Vickers was a renowned BS artist in Missoula circles – claiming he floated in Missoula when it was a lake.]

Hostile Indians and bad roads left the locality unfrequented for years. No man wished to stay there with the risk of having his hair mixed up with breakfast hash.

It is different now – the hostiles have turned docile. The bears are ensconced in high timber, and ragged Indian trails have been transformed into fine roads. The Springs are now accessible to the most tender invalid in the Unites States – and no dude is ever returned by the waters [Exodus 14:28].

The whole property of 160 acres is claimed as the property of F. C. Lemke and Wm. Boyle; they are sparing no efforts or expense to its successful management.

Quite a large number of persons have already been benefitted this season, but the first 4-horse coach was started on the 9^th inst. with a full load of passengers and regular trips will be made hereafter by both regular and private conveyance.

The fare is low for the occasion and the enjoyable trip is a recompense for the expense. The distance from Missoula is only forty miles. Twelve miles south of town, and passing 4-mile flat the road enters the enchanting valley of the Lo Lo and a feeling of delight takes possession of the traveler while passing the shady perfume of the pines, where once in a while the brown eyes of a deer attract his attention and the jumping trout in the creek makes him sigh for the supper hour.

Eight miles up the Lo Lo brings you to Woodman’s. It is a regular “Sierra Nevada” landscape here and it is a first class camping ground for the first day out. Heretofore the roads have been first class – but six miles beyond, after crossing Grave creek, there is a little jolting experience which the doctors say is a benefit to their patients.

I, who have long suffered with rheumatism in both legs, reached the Springs at 12 o’clock, midnight, last night. I had traveled with tandem team and poste haste to obtain relief. Everything was silent in the beautiful dale, and taking advantage of the darkness, I at once immersed my limbs in Spring No. 3, and boiled them for three hours at the expiration of which time I was awakened by a struggling sunbeam seconded by the sweetest songsters in the country. I was cured, and replaced my old crutches with a small pine tree for a cane, to take a walk and look at the country. The scenery is magnificent and as the rising sun lifted nature’s veil from the valley I beheld a sight not easily forgotten. There are beauties here I never dreamed of. From under the rising mist there came forth a bevy of beauties, the beauty of which had been enhanced by the waters of the Springs. I had met some of them below in the valleys and recognized Mrs. Fanny Buckhouse, Rachael Grant, Maggie Van Dorn, Miss Hayes, Miss Payne, Mrs. Katie McDowell and her two children. I also noticed Mr. John McLean and wife. They were followed by Henry and John Buckhouse and other persons whom I did not stop to see.

As the sun rose higher, I, who was hiding in the brush, became afraid to encounter either the smiles or frowns of beauty so stole silently down the creek, the icy waters of which run within 300 yards of the boiling springs, and tying together two ties which had been abandoned by W. E. Bass, I floated away down the Lo Lo and reached the railroad track just in time for the train that carries wayfarers for breakfast to the little town bearing the charming name of “Florence.”   Charlie Schafft.

Above is from The Evening Item – 7/11/1888.