Old Missoula

Pioneer Gives Stirring Account of Journey Across the Bitter Root Mountains in Midwinter of 1878

Traveled Horseback From Walla Walla to Helena; Mercury Thirty Below

Written by David Hilger.

The careful student of history will recall the narrative of Alexander McKenzie in his exploration of the river that bears his name, as also the narrative of Samuel Hearne, in his exploration of the Copper Mine river, all performed before the year 1800 was ushered into existence, and be it remembered that these intrepid explorers traced and followed those rivers from their source to the Arctic ocean.

The student who contemplates, as he reads, must have been impressed with the recital of the desperate efforts that Lewis and Clark were put to in extricating themselves from the almost impassable barriers that confronted them in the Bitter Root mountains.

David Thompson certainly gives a graphic account of the same range of mountains, only further north. The almost impassable character of those mountains, especially on the west slope is attested by all of the early explorers in many a thrilling narrative, who attempt to cross this formidable range of mountains.

It is my purpose to narrate my own experiences across this range as late as 1878, or 73 years after Lewis and Clark passed over Lolo divide. However, the conditions were not much changed in that period of time.

My father made a trip to California and Oregon with the family in the early summer of 1878, with the purpose of locating on the west coast, going by overland coach line from Helena to Ogden, a distance of nearly 500 miles, thence over the Union Pacific railroad to San Francisco, thence by boat to Portland, Ore., and again to Walla Walla, in search of our future home.

We finally bought a band of sheep with the purpose of taking them that fall by the Mullan road over the Bitter Root mountains to Montana. However, we found this impossible, owing to the lateness of the season. In fact it was impossible to take sheep over this road at any time, as we found out later, and hence it was decided to winter the sheep in the Spokane country and I was left in charge of them, with instructions to sell, if an opportunity presented.

My father and the rest of the family returned to Montana that fall, having decided that after all, there was no place like Montana.

Early in December of that year two Montanans came along and were looking for just such a purchase as I had to offer, and after a few days of dickering I sold sheep, hay and other equipment to Gruwell Bros., of Deer Lodge, Mont.

One of these brothers was Senator C. Oscar Gruwell, member of the sixth and seventh legislative assembly of the state, from Yellowstone county.

This sale made it necessary for me to recross the Bitter Root range late in the season, as it was, to avoid a circuitous route via Walla Walla, Portland, San Francisco and Ogden, and then an overland coach ride to Helena, a distance of over 400 miles.

I went to Spokane Falls, an insignificant place with one store of meager proportions and a hotel of about three rooms. There was a small saw mill at the falls, run by water power, whose utmost capacity was three thousand feet per day. As a passing remark I was offered a preemption claim of 160 acres in the heart of what is now Spokane for $1,500. Such a thing as a railroad was not even thought of.

I was advised that it would be impossible to cross the range via the Coeur d’Alene Mission, to what was known as the old Missoula Ferry, along the course of the old Mullan wagon road. The distance was 80 miles, and by making it would save a roundabout road of three thousand miles. It was worth the venture, and I finally secured the service of one of the trappers and hunters by the name of William Martin, and I offered him a new Winchester rifle and a pack horse that I proposed to take over.

I am now coming to my story, which for strenuous effort, exposure, dangers and extraordinary physical exertion, was the hardest trip I ever made in my 57 years of residence in Montana.

We left the Coeur d’Alene Mission on the early morning of December 17, each astride a good saddle horse, and a pack horse, loaded with a hundred pounds of oats, some “grub,” pick, shovel and axe, and a Winchester rifle, also a Colt’s revolver. The road or trail followed the Coeur d’Alene river to the summit, and thence down the Saint Regis river to its intersection with the Missoula river, a distance of 80 miles, and along the course of the old Mullan wagon road. It may be said that this wagon road had long been out of commission, as all the bridges that had been built by Captain Mullan were all washed out and what was left of the road was all eroded, leaving scarcely a trail. This 80 miles is one dense mass of timber with much down timber and underbrush, going up a treacherous canyon, one side and down the other.

Zero Weather and Snow.

Our trouble soon commenced. It was zero weather and snowing, with already 10 inches of snow on the ground. To be exact, the road or trail crosses these two rivers in the 80 miles 104 times. As we ascended the stream, which was about four times the size of Spring creek, at Lewistown, with a bottom formed largely of rocky boulders, we found the water deep enough to reach well up the sides of our horses. Usually the stream was frozen over for some distance from each side but was open in the center. We had to break the ice along the shore in order to get into the stream, using clubs for that purpose. Reaching the opposite side, we had to lean forward and break ice in front of our horses’ heads, until near enough to the shore to mount it. This was extremely hard on the horses and being in the water chilled them until they were all ashiver on reaching the bank. Nor was this the only difficulty. It is a peculiarity of these streams that another ice, as it is called, forms along the bottom, on the gravel and boulders, making it very difficult for any horse to keep its footing. We crossed and recrossed this treacherous stream, and then as a diversion, cut brush and timber to avoid so many down trees of enormous size, since it was absolutely necessary to get over the divide without delay. In these gloomy forests and mountain canyons it is not uncommon for two feet or more of snow to fall in a single night.

After a strenuous day, we made camp, got a fire started in the trunk of a dead tree and fed our horses oats. We made coffee and ate hardtack and sardines. My partner told me those sardines weighed less and had more life-sustaining qualities than any known food, and I rather think he was right. It was a long, cold, dismal night without a sound to break the deep silence except the unchanging roar of the waters of the river over the rocks in the deep canyon. There was not even the howl of a coyote or wolf – just the brooding silence of the uninhabitable canyon, with the big snowflakes falling. The horses nibbled at the bark of the trees and the tips of the underbrush.

On to the Summit.

We took turns about to keep the fire going and to dry our clothes, and “cat napped,” for we had no bedding, except our saddle blankets and overcoats. Well, finally daylight came and we saddled up, after feeding our oats, which had to be conserved, and again we fought nature, for we were 10 miles from the summit. We took turns about breaking the trail after we finally left the creek, for the snow was now three feet deep, but fortunately was light, and by changing the lead horse we got to the summit at 3 p. m., December 19, 1878, with our stirrups dragging in the snow. I hope that some of my western Montana friends who are familiar with that locality will see this article. The afterwards large mining camps of Burke and Coeur d’Alene are on or near this route.

The second night we made camp four miles from the summit on the headwaters of the St. Regis, and it was a repetition of the night before. No sleep for the weary travelers, no rest. Again our oats were fed and again we had hardtack, coffee and sardines. Again a long dismal wait for the breaking of day and the lank and chilly horses made night hideous with their vain attempt to crunch the bark from the trees and willows. It was zero weather and keeping the fire going and drying our clothes was the order of the night, for my horse had slipped on the anchor ice in mid-stream, throwing me into the water, and we had to build a fire so that I could thaw out. On the morning of the 19^th, we fed the last of the rations of oats, but we still had a small supply of sardines and hardtack, and, of course, coffee. We again fought the elements, crossed and recrossed the river, broke ice and chopped. Something unusual happened. I rode a splendid bay mare with a very long bushy tail. The many crossings in the water caused her tail to freeze so that a lump of ice gathered which kept striking her hocks and I was compelled to use my butcher knife to cut the hair next to the “quick” and it was quite a job and I finally got this ice ball off. It must have weighed 10 pounds, but I sadly spoiled the looks of my favorite mare. It took a year for that tail to look presentable again, but it was a great relief. The other horses had the same trouble, but having shorter tails were not in so bad a way as my mare’s, but the butcher knife had to be used.

It is 40 miles from the summit to the intersection of the St. Regis with the Missoula river, and this was the first habitation we would reach, but by good luck two old trappers had built a cabin and small stable, about five miles up the river, and the snow was receding as we got in lower altitudes, and finally we struck these trappers at dark, with our horses worn out and ourselves in a wretched condition. Three days and two nights under these conditions of great physical exertions, cold, snow, ice, water and the ever solitudes of the Bitter Root mountains, in that unbroken heavy timber, had used us up. There was not an opening for the entire distance that you could picket a horse with a 50-foot rope.

That cabin looked better to me than the New Willard at Washington, or the Burke at Lewistown. The two smoky, long-whiskered trappers were guardian angels and they were extremely courteous and were amazed that we had undertaken the trip with horses. “Why, gol’ darn it, boys, the snow will be 10 feet deep now,” one of them ventured to say. Well, they got supper, but coming in from the long continued cold into the warm cabin, made us drowsy, and I actually went to sleep at the table, but I was soon bunked and did not wake up till nearly noon of the next day.

We went to the Missoula ferry in the afternoon, about five miles and there we staid that night and the next morning I struck out for Missoula, while my partner staid for the winter. I rode my mare to Helena, but her disfigured tail was not to my liking, so I kept trimming it in order to make it more presentable and finally named her “shave tail.”

Thirty Below Zero.

I left Deer Lodge on the morning of December 24, and had to cross the divide on the old Deer Lodge and Helena road, a distance of 40 miles. It was 30 below zero when I left Deer Lodge, but there was a well beaten road, and arrived in Helena at 7 p. m., hunted up my folks, who had not heard from me for three months. Father and mother were awfully sick of the sheep deal, and when I showed drafts in my pocket for the sale of the sheep it was indeed a happy Christmas, 47 years ago.

I very much prefer the trip across the plains to such a harrowing experience in the solitudes of the Bitter Root mountains, in the dead of winter. As I have discovered, it was the toughest and hardest trip I ever made in my career of 57 years in Montana.

I will take my chances as they existed in those days with the open plains of North and South Dakota and Montana, with Indians, alkali, rattlesnakes and all, as against nature and the elements where “Rolls the Oregon,” in the never to be forgotten Bitter Root mountains on the summit, December 19, 1878.

 

The above story appeared in The Sunday Missoulian on February 14, 1926

https://www.newspapers.com/image/349050262

 

The author, David Hilger, stayed in Montana and became a banker. The town of Hilger, near Lewistown, is named for him. He became a secretary for the Montana Historical Society where he wrote another story about his family’s trip to Montana in 1867. This story is available online in the publication ‘Contributions to the Montana Historical Society’ – 1910, liked below:

https://books.google.com/books?id=pRYXAAAAYAAJ&dq=david+hilger+montana&source=gbs_navlinks_s