Canada Columbia Ice Field

Canada Columbia Ice Field

August 8, 1998

It was one of those touristy kinds of things that we usually avoid.  It cost $25 per person in Canadian dollars or about $16 US dollars for a 1 ½ hour ride.  We debated for a short time, then decided, what the heck, we are tourists!  The opportunity to ride a snocoach on a Rocky Mountain glacier in Jasper National Park, Alberta, was too good to pass.  The snocoach holds about 60 passengers and crawls across the Athabasca Glacier ice on large, low-pressure tires.  The tires are about six feet tall and very wide.  The snocoach has six of these tires, each connected to the drive train so that we were essentially riding a six-wheel-drive vehicle.

Our driver was a young woman, maybe in her mid-20's, who kidded us that she was really a dishwasher, who was asked to drive today because the real driver did not report to work.  A sign in the cab of the snocoach explained that her name was Vanessa Ramos.  Vanessa Ramos?  Let’s see – the name sounds like someone with Spanish ancestry.  But this is Canada, where one expects to have a driver with American Indian, Eskimo, French, English or maybe Scottish ancestry.  She had long, black, shiny hair, and a flashing smile exposing straight, white teeth.  Her spiel was well- rehearsed and delivered with the confidence of a seasoned stage performer.  She kept us well entertained throughout the trip with her witty script and explanations of glacier information.

We started down the lateral glacial moraine (rocks dumped on the side of the glacier as it melts) on an 18-degree slope.  “Would you like to see how fast we can go down?” she teased.  The passengers had not yet warmed to the game, so she received only a mixed response.  “Fasten your seatbelts!”  We searched frantically for our belts -- there were none.  Realizing that we’d  just been “had,” we all laughed.  Starting down the steep slope, we crept along at about a walking speed in a very low gear.  To show how fast we could go in low gear, she gave the snocoach the gas.  The speed increased maybe a mile per hour down the steep slope and it became obvious that our snocoach would not slide down the moraine and crash at the bottom.  Apprehensions of the passengers concerning the dangers of riding this vehicle seemed to largely evaporate.  The white knuckles on Pat’s hands, that had been holding tightly onto the rail of the seat in front of us, began to turn back to their normal color.

We passed a large bulldozer that is used every day to smooth the ice road across the glacier.  Vanessa explained, “Enough ice melts every day in the hot summer to create large potholes.”  As we entered the ice, there was a small lake in the road.  “This is the tire-washing pond,” she explained.  “Dirt from the tires of our snocoach left on the ice will cause it to melt faster, so we wash the tires before driving on the ice.”

In the information center, we had read of the dangers of walking on the glacier without a guide.

 

"Don’t walk about on the glacier; you might fall through a snow bridge over a hidden crevasse.  If you don’t die from the fall into the crevasse, you are likely to die of hypothermia before you can be rescued.  A newspaper clipping, reporting the death of a German tourist who fell into such a crevasse, is tacked to a display board.  Rescuers had to chip his dead, blue body out of the blue glacial ice.  So when driving across the glacier, Pat asks, “How do we know that there is not a hidden crevasse under this road?  Maybe this whole bus will fall into one.”  Vanessa stopped the snocoach beside one large crevasse beside the road so that we could look down into the seemingly bottomless hole in the blue ice.  Her intent was clear when she explained that, “When we stop to let you walk on the glacier, you should not wander too far from the snocoach.  It is dangerous!  Be back on the bus in 15 minutes.” she said.  Now I could see a second reason for not wanting us to wander.  Time is money – if snocoaches must wait for wandering passengers, they are losing money.  

We took in the magnificent view, drank a little melted glacier water, took a few photos and got back on the bus.  On the way back Vanessa named all the surrounding mountains, pointed out the hiking trails in the area, and shook our hands as we left the bus.  

Later, Pat and I hiked up a trail to the toe of the glacier where we could climb up again onto the ice.  Along the way were markers showing the glacier limits every few years.  The Athabasca and other glaciers in the area are in retreat -- they are melting and growing smaller every year.  They have been melting this way over the last 10,000 years -- since the last glacial period.  This process will continue until the climate changes and another ice age starts.  The crevasses at the edge of the glacier were only a few feet deep so we felt fairly safe climbing on the ice.  A sign warned about the soft mud near the edge of the ice.  A small boy with mud up to his ankles came walking by -- his mother did not project the image of a “happy camper.”  The wind blowing off the glacier was very chilly, but did not deter those practicing ice-climbing into and out of the shallow crevasses.  Through our binoculars, we could see a couple of climbers ascending the near vertical face of a hanging glacier high above us.  Their dark bodies contrasted against the white and blue ice made them easier to see.  They moved very slowly and deliberately.

After viewing the exhibits in the visitor’s center, we started back the 60 miles to the campground -- tired but satisfied with another day of gentle adventures in the Canadian Rockies.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Heart Attack — Maybe

 

Heart Attack

August 4, 2000

Eating, while checking Email, is not thought to be a hazardous occupation.  So imagine my surprise when, in the middle of a bite of low-fat sausage on toast and a mouse click, a strong, persistent pain struck me in the left chest.  It was scary!  The rational part of my brain told me that it was only some kind of gas pain – not to worry.  But it was in a different place than normal for gas pains and the pain radiated around the left side of the chest.  Pat was taking her morning walk, but I guessed she would return shortly.  I must decide what to do.  Do I ignore the pain or should I tell Pat and check it out at a hospital?  Pat appeared within minutes after the pain had struck, so I told her.  She presented me with the appropriate look of concern.  So, what to do next?  Call 911, find a hospital and visit their emergency room or find some local doctor?  I searched the Web quickly and found the phone number of the Stanford Hospital.  But then, on a whim, I decided to call the receptionist at our RV Park.  “I have some chest pain and would like to seek some medical advice.  What hospital would you recommend?”

“It just so happens that I work at the Stanford Hospital,” she said.  “But my advice is to go to Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City.  They have a superior cardiology unit and are closer.  You might first check with a highly recommended local physician.”  She gave me his phone number and I phoned him.  

A phone recording said,  “Our office does not open till 9:30; please leave a message.”  I hung up.

By now I had convinced myself that this might be something serious and I might not live till 9:30 a.m.  However, I could not convince myself that this situation was serious enough to call 911.  A vision appeared of doctors, nurses and curious onlookers pointing fingers at me and laughing.  Everyone would think me silly to call an ambulance when anyone in their right mind could clearly see that I did not need one.  Then, after I did a quick mental calculation of the cost of an ambulance, I decided that Pat could drive me to the hospital more quickly and much cheaper than was possible by ambulance.  Pat agreed.

By then the pain had subsided somewhat but intensified when I stood up to make another phone call.  The receptionist at the Sequoia Hospital did not hesitate when I described my symptoms.  “Come immediately,” she said.  “We will have a warm bed ready for you.” 

The pain had struck at 8:08 a.m. and we arrived at the hospital about 9:15.  By now the pain had subsided even more, and I was feeling a little silly, but still concerned.  “If I do not have this thing checked out, I will worry all day that maybe it was really something severe,” I thought.

The nurses at the Cardiology Unit quickly assured me that I had done the right thing.  “Yesterday, a couple guys came in with symptoms similar to yours and they were in the midst of a heart attack.”  

“Wow!  You guys really know how to make a fellow feel good,” I thought.

Quickly I found myself lying on a bed in the emergency room while a very competent and professional team of nurses led by an administrative nurse, named Sheri Sassorini, took an EKG, a blood sample, temperature, blood pressure, gave me a nitroglycerine tablet to dissolve under my tongue, some aspirin for the headache that the nitroglycerine would give me, took a chest x-ray and stuck an oxygen tube in my nose.  My heart rate and blood pressure were monitored constantly.  The heart monitor was like those used on TV shows like ER – you know, the ones that give a flat line when the patient’s heart stops beating and somebody starts pounding, cutting or shocking the dead back to life.  So I watched intently for a “flat line,” but saw only a steady, rhythmic beat.  Incidentally, I saw no tunnels with a bright light at the end.  

I was admitted without first verifying that I could pay the bill – amazing!.  Pat took care of that by showing them our Blue Cross cards.

Now, almost all the pain was gone; I felt fine and was ready to leave that hospital as fast as I could.  “No, you need to see the cardiologist first,” was their reply when I suggested that I was taking up valuable space in their emergency room.  While waiting, I remembered the digital camera in my pocket.  “You might as well take a photo of me,” I suggested to Pat.  

“Why?” she asked?

“Oh, just humor me!” I replied.

Doctor Lipscome came in the room and announced that “Doctor Hinohara will chat with you in about 45 minutes after the EKG and other information is evaluated.  He may wish for you to take a treadmill, stress test.  We have ruled out a heart attack, but there is about a 50:50 chance that you may have angina.” 

A nurse asked how I felt and I replied that I felt fine.  She explained that I was the only one in the ER at the time and that it is usually very busy.  The nurses and other staff congregated in the nurse area for a while and filled the building with sounds of conversations and laughter.  If you have ever watched ER on television, you would recognize the scene, except that in Redwood City, there was no pandemonium.  As the morning wore on, they became much busier.  We heard a loudspeaker announce a code three in the emergency room – whatever that meant. 

About noon, an orderly came, seated me in a wheelchair and spent a little time searching the maze of hallways and rooms to find the treadmill room.  By now I was “feeling my oats” and decided to make the most of this experience.  I wanted to document some of the things I was experiencing.  Upon entering the treadmill area, I asked a nurse named Pat if I could take her photograph.  Pat said, “No!  I have this thing about photos.  I didn’t even have photos taken during my wedding.”

Undaunted, I asked the next nurse for her photo.  She looked at me quizzically, then said OK.  The badge she wore said, “Joan Hardy.”  She posed beside the ultrasound monitor and explained what would transpire.  “You will walk on the treadmill until your heartbeat reaches a target level, then we will rapidly move you back to the gurney where we can take some ultrasound photos of your heart.”  I signed a form releasing the hospital from responsibility in case the stress test resulted in some tragic consequence.  When she started to hook up the wires to my chest, she explained that since I was so “wooly,” it would be necessary to shave patches where she could attach the wires.  When she had attached all the wires, she asked if I wanted her to take a photo of me on the treadmill.

“Sure,” I responded.  Then, with classical music playing on her radio and a poster of wildflowers from the Kaibab National Forest of Arizona overlooking the proceedings, the first pre-test images began to appear on the monitor.  I quickly took a photo of the monitor.  “This is to prove to my sisters that their curmudgeonly brother really does have a heart,” I explained. 

When another doctor entered to supervise,  the stress test began.  At a heartbeat rate of 158, they quickly moved me, with all the attached wires, to the test platform.  “Now breath out and hold,” I was ordered.  I found that when breathing heavily, it is difficult to exhale and hold your breath very long.  But we somehow managed and I was told, “You did a very good job.”  I watched the monitor as my heart pumped blood rapidly.  

“It looks good to me,” I said.  “How does it look to you?”  

“OK,” Joan said.

So we had ruled out both a heart attack and angina.  So what caused the pain?  The nurses did not know.  The aftercare instructions read: “Atypical chest pains.”  An unofficial translation might be: This guy is just a hypochondriac, not to worry.  I was, of course, relieved to know that my heart appeared healthy.

Upon leaving the hospital, I asked the doctors, nurses, and receptionists to pose for a photo.  They readily agreed.  I left the hospital on very amicable terms with the staff.  They had all been very friendly and professional.  It had been an interesting experience and I had photos to prove it.  However, I had not yet seen the bill.  When I see it, I really might have a real heart attack.

Upon returning home to our motorhome, I switched on the TV.  A “Victoria’s Secret” commercial appeared and I knew instantly that I was still alive.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

 

Wasn't Brought Up That Way

Friday, December 29, 2017

View Of Morro Bay

 It had been a long day.  We had hiked up to the top of Cerro Alto – one of the tallest mountains in the Santa Lucia Mountains that overlooks both Morro Bay and San Luis Obispo, California.  It was a five- mile, round-trip hike that climbed about 1600 feet through the chaparral – the California scrub brush.  It was not Texas-summer-hot, but temperatures hovered around F 95 and there was little cooling breeze.  With every bend in the trail, we stopped to view the scenery and take little breathers.  About halfway to the top, in a tree-covered, dry creek, we found a rock to sit on in the shade by the trail.  The sounds of some kind of birds could be heard in the brush below.  We sat still and waited to see if the birds would show themselves.  We could see outlines as they flitted closer and closer through the underbrush.  Finally, one emerged and lit on a perch in clear view.  “I think it is a Wrentit,” I muttered to Pat.  “But I can’t see the stripes on its breast.” 

Trail To Top

Then, as the bird turned to reveal its breast, a voice announced:  “I am coming through!  There are two more behind me.”  Three mountain bikers flew past -- nearly running over our toes -- and continued down the steep, rocky, dusty trail, leaving only a cloud of dust where the birds had been.

Lunch on the Trail

   

Perfect timing!  In an hour of hiking, we had seen only one other group of hikers – a woman and a man who carried a yearling child in a backpack.  Therefore, the appearance of the bikers was startling and completely unexpected.  Somewhat reluctant to resume our hot climb, we decided to rest a few moments longer.  Again, we could hear the birds in the brush.  Within a few minutes they reappeared on the trail, gave us a frontal view, and sure enough, they were the shy little Wrentit babblers which are found only on the west coast.  We had heard the accelerating notes of their vocalization – like the sounds of a bouncing ping-pong ball – earlier, so we knew they were in the area.  We have heard many of them but have seen only a couple in our lifetime, so we were delighted to see them again.

With lifted spirits, we resumed our trek.  The backpack containing lunch and raincoats seemed to grow heavier.  I began to wonder about the wisdom of including bird books, along with the water, in my fanny pack.  Finally, we puffed our way to the top where we enjoyed an outstanding view of the Los Osos Valley that runs between San Luis Obispo and Morro Bay.  To the northeast, we could see the town of Atascadero and to the northwest, the coastal town of Cambria – near the Hearst San Simeon Castle.  It was a great view! 

Scanning the horizon with our binoculars for Condors, we saw none in the valley below, where we had seen one the year before.  So, we descended down the trail till we found some shade under

a small tree.  Peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, and some warm water provided the fuel we needed for the trip down the hot trail.  It was a rather uneventful trip down, even though we saw several interesting birds.                    

  By now, we were hot, tired and dragging.  Then, when we were beginning to wonder if this hot trail would ever end, Pat heard a voice somewhere on the trail in front of us.  Around a bend in the trail -- which wound along a stream bed in a deep valley -- we saw a man on his hands and knees.  My first thought was that it must be one of the bikers that had passed us earlier.  Maybe he had crashed and hurt himself.  As we came closer, we could make out a large backpack lying on the trail beside the man.  A small black and white dog stood by his side.  As we approached, he looked up at us and, without standing, inched the back-pack out of our way so we could pass on the narrow trail.  The man appeared to be sick or exhausted.  I guessed that he might be in his mid-50's.  A little grey hair stuck out from under his sweat-stained, baseball cap.  Then we noticed that he had been carrying not only a large, heavy backpack, he also was also carrying a second, small backpack, a rifle and the head of a four-point buck.  His clothes were wet with sweat and dusty and dirty.  “Can we help?” I asked. 

“No,” he said weakly.  “I’ll be all right.  I just need to catch my breath.”  He drank a couple of swallows of water from his canteen, then fed his dog a little water from a second canteen.  “Can’t give him too much or he will get sick to his stomach,” the hunter said.

“Well,” I said.  “I would not feel good about leaving you in this condition.   I could carry your heavy backpack .”

“No!” he said.  “That pack weighs about 80 pounds and might hurt your back”.  

“O.K., but we can at least carry your rifle, the small backpack, and the deer head,” I replied.  “It must be about a half mile back to the parking area and we would be happy to help.”  Looking at this exhausted fellow somehow caused us to forget how tired we had just been a few minutes earlier.  He was obviously a man who took great pride in finishing this hunting trip by bringing home the meat by himself.  He really did not want our help but found himself in a dilemma.  He could maybe finish the hike by himself, but he was really tired.  Obtaining help from a couple of wimpy, older, bird-watchers was probably a hard pill to swallow.

         

Pat with buck's head

Our first thought was that maybe he was doing something illegal, like hunting out of season.  Maybe, he did not want us carrying his pack because it was full of marijuana.

He crawled over into the shade of a small tree and leaning against it, and breathing heavily, he reluctantly agreed to let us help.  While he rested, he told us about the events leading up to his current situation.  “I arrived here this morning before daybreak.  I have lived in this area all my life, so had a good idea where to go to find a buck.  I climbed over this steep mountain and into the valley on the other side and stopped to view the side-hill.  To my surprise, this four-point buck walked out right in front of me.  I shot the deer, which field dressed about 140 pounds, stripped off all the meat and stuffed it in small bags that are now in the backpack.  This process took quite a while, and I now faced the prospect of carrying this load back over the mountain.  I quickly found that I could not carry everything up the steep slope at once.  It necessary to carry only part of the load up the hill, then return down for the rest.  Coming down this side of the mountain, it was difficult to obtain footholds in the rocky hillside, especially with this heavy load on my back.  Somewhere on the way down, I began to run out of energy.  Guess I got a little hypoglycemic.  I was trying to hurry so that the meat would not spoil in this heat.  At one point, I decided that I could take the backpack full of meat off my back and simply roll it down the hill.  It worked all right for a while, but as I approached this trail, the rolling backpack hit the trail, bounced into a small tree, careened sideways, teetered momentarily, then fell down the steep slope into the creek bottom.  In the process of dragging this heavy pack back up the steep, rocky, hot slope up to the trail, I just ran out of energy.  You arrived to find me in this condition.”

When he had regained his breath, we decided to start the final half-mile.  Pat carried his small backpack and I carried his rifle and the deer head.  He carefully unloaded the rifle before handing it to me.  Then he filled out the deer tag and tied it to the antlers.  He sat on the ground in front of his pack and slipped on the shoulder straps.  He rolled over on all fours to leverage the heavy pack onto his back.  Slowly, he stood up and staggered down the trail under the heavy weight.  He stopped frequently to rest, so I went ahead and left the deer head and rifle in our car, then returned back up the trail to help with the heavy pack.  I traveled only a short distance before Pat and the hunter appeared.  As he placed the heavy pack on a picnic table, a smile of relief crossed on his face.  (It might have taken us only about 20 minutes to make the half-mile.)  “It would have taken me an hour to return without your help,” he claimed.

By now it was late afternoon and the rays of the sun no longer reached into the depths of the canyon.  “Is your wife the nervous type?” I asked.  “At what point would she come looking for you or call the Sheriff?”  

“Yes, she worries about me hunting by myself, but she will be all right,” he mumbled.

We loaded all his stuff into the back of his pickup, he drank a cold Coke and some of his water.  Now, he had obviously regained some energy.  He told us a couple of hunting stories and about the really tough guys he once hunted with and how his son got lost on a hunting trip.  He also explained how his dad taught him to survive for a day on only one quart of water.  “Today, I took two canteens of water; one for my dog and one for me.”  

“You must be dehydrated,” I said.

“No, I just have low blood sugar,” he claimed.  

“Why didn’t you throw away about half of that meat?”  I asked.  “You might have really hurt yourself carrying such a heavy load.  Or you might have had a heart attack.”

“It is against the law to discard the meat,” he said.  “Besides, I wasn’t brought up that way.”  I decided that he was explaining some kind of frontier ethics about not wasting meat – a notion that resides in the heart of the “true” hunter.

Then he thanked us for our help and explained that he needed to get the venison in the freezer.  We followed as he led the way in his pickup, down the narrow, winding park road toward the main highway.  A short distance down the road, a white car whipped over in front of his pickup and blocked his way.  The woman driver in the car glared at the hunter for a short while, then pulled into the right lane to let him pass.  The hunter motioned for us to come up beside him.  As we approached, a wry smile wrinkled his face and his eyes twinkled.  “That was my wife,” he announced.  We all laughed.  It had been another interesting day in Central California.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Clear Lake

California Clear Lake

June 6, 1998

Pat at Clear Lake

 

Traveling north from the Bay Area near San Francisco, we viewed the grapes and vineyards of the Napa Valley.  Then on the northern end of the Valley through Calistoga, we began the long climb up to the pass in the Palisade Mountains.  It is not a long climb -- only a couple thousand feet -- but the road is narrow with many hairpin turns and with large trucks passing inches away from the left mirror on the motorhome.  I had been told that the road was passable in a motorhome, but that nerves of steel would be required when driving.  As we neared the pass, my “nerves of steel” were turning into jelly.  We stopped to rest at Robert Louis Stevenson State Park before descending down through the Collayomi Valley into the Clear Lake country.

Seven fledgling bushtits lined up side by side on a willow branch -- so closely that they first appeared to be a sort of feathery, grey squirrel on a branch.  They did not yet have the long tail and brown cap of the adult.  Suddenly, a Cooper’s hawk flew through the canopy, hoping for a meal of tender, young, bushtit.  But the bushtits saw it coming and dispersed frantically -- giving me the impression that the “squirrel” had disintegrated into seven parts as the birds flew off in different directions.  Apparently confused, the hawk could not decide which bushtit to chase and they all escaped.  A few minutes later the fledglings regrouped on another branch.  First one, then another and another landed, then sidled up close to each other.  After several weeks in a small nest, maybe they were accustomed to being close to their siblings.  Or they sought body warmth in the 50 F cool of the evening.  Although the late-afternoon sun still shone, a cool breeze blew from Clear Lake.  This breeze came from the direction of Snow Mountain Wilderness north of Clear Lake and still retained some of the chill as it bounced across the lake to our birding spot at the base of Mt. Konocti volcano.  The parents were expending considerable energy searching for worms in the willow blossoms to feed the hungry clan.  A bolder bushtit fledgling left the group and searched unsuccessfully for worms, then returned to the comfort of the group. 

The next morning, while jogging in the same area, I observed a Cooper’s hawk fly from a willow with a small, grey bit of feathery fluff in its talons.  Maybe the bushtit siblings now numbered only six.  Redwing blackbirds appeared to be attempting to ride the larger hawk and peck it behind the head.  They were apparently defending their own nest against this deadly bird eater.  They become so defensive that they sometimes fail to distinguish bird-eating predators from fish-eating predators.  I watched one pair fly high over the lake to pester a great blue heron that happened to be flying by.  They apparently wasted a great amount of energy while attacking this heron.  Evolutionary experience seems not to have taught these birds to chase only bird predators and leave fish predators alone.

Clear Lake is the largest natural lake in California.  Several million years ago a massive landslide filled Cold Creek Canyon with debris that formed this natural lake north of Napa Valley.  We had decided to visit the area because our son, Brian, had shown us a newspaper article about a California Back Country Discovery Trail (BCDT) that starts at Clear Lake.  This trail is the first of an off-highway motorized route that is planned to ultimately run from the Mexican border to the Oregon Border.  The first section runs through the Mendocino National Forest and covers 86 miles.  Since much of the trail is steep, dirt, and rough, a four-wheel vehicle is recommended. 

 

Mating Dance of Western Grebe

From our camping spot at the town of Nice, CA, we could observe western grebes performing their mating dance on the glassy surface of Clear Lake in the early morning.  Their long necks extended as they seemed to mimic each other’s behaviors and attempts to walk on water.  A mallard hen swam by, followed by a half dozen babies.  A black-crowned night heron landed the tule reeds.  It quickly assumed the posture of a feathered statue for a few minutes.  Apparently not finding a fish, frog or whatever it was seeking, it flew away to be replaced by a pair of great blue herons.  When I opened the door to the motorhome, they yelled their displeasure at my intrusion into their territory and flew way.

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/6813612681836200616?hl=en&tab=jj&q=Clear%20Lake

George E, Holmes Family Settled in Port Byron

100th reunion 1896 Holmes Descendents

The Rock Island Argus, Thursday, Aug. 22, 1946

The Town Crier

Centennial Reunion Requested in “96 Will Be Held by Holmes Descendants

 

by George Wickstrom

(Transcribed by Karen Cavanaugh Donsbach, 14 Nov 2022)

 

Port Byron, IL

 

One hundred years ago Mr. and Mrs. George E. Holmes and seven daughters, ranging in age from 4 to 18 years, made an adventurous journey from Vermont to Rock Island county. Holmes, then 44, had been a boot and shoe maker, a sheriff, storekeeper and a hotel proprietor.

 

“We started in the spring of 1846 from St. Johnsbury, Vt. in a 4-seated spring wagon for Burlington, and there boarded a fine steamboat, the first any of us had ever seen.” one of the daughters wrote long afterward. “One nights ride took us across Lake Champlain to Whitehall. There we loaded ourselves and our freight onto a slow canal boat. I could, and often did, get off and walk faster than the boat. We remained on that boat two weeks, cooking our own meals and sleeping in bunks, one above the other.”

 

“At Buffalo we again boarded a steamboat which sailed the Great Lakes, touching at Detroit which had a few scattered houses, and reaching Chicago in one week. Chicago was a small city in a mud-hole.”

 

Mrs. Holmes didn’t want to leave Vermont to endure the hardships of the wild west, but “she thought to better her daughters' lives.” The family’s destination was Port Byron, in the northern end of Rock Island County. There her brother George Moore had settled and had done quite well. For a number of years he had the town’s only carriage, the one in which he and his family rode from Vermont to Port Byron.

 

Uncle George sent two white covered wagons drawn by oxen, to bring his relatives from Chicago to Port Byron. In Chicago the mud reached the hubs of the wheels, but some of the girls walked until they go past the houses, too proud to ride, as they had made fun of such immigrants’ wagons in the east.

 

They travelled for a week over the prairies, sometimes riding all day without seeing a house. They felt their first fleas; the Illinois country was full of them.

 

All residents of Port Byron and surrounding country were present when the seven beautiful daughters and their parents climbed out of the covered wagons. Their fame had preceded them, so that their coming had long been eagerly awaited.

 

The only place large enough for the Holmes family in the hamlet of half a dozen houses was the Port Byron House, an inn in which pigs and sheep had run at large. Father Holmes went into partnership with his brother-in-law in a store and the homesick Mrs. Holmes ran the hotel. The fame of her cooking spread until the Port Byron House was known as an oasis of comfort from the lakes westward to the Indian settlements. Passengers from Frink & Walker’s Concord stagecoaches were delighted with the spick and span inn.

 

Holmes Home in Port Byron

 

The three oldest daughters started schools in Port Byron, in LeClaire (across the Mississippi in Iowa), and in the country, their “scholars” ranging upward from five to 25 years in age.

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

 

“Spoony Bachelors”

 

“There was one product of the country at that time of which there seemed to be and over-production; namely, old bachelors.” one of the Holmes girls wrote years later. “A more persistent, spoony set would be hard to find.”

 

“It became known in Rock Island.” another of the sisters recalled, “that some young ladies had arrived from the east. (We caused a lot of jealousy.) Some of the young Rock Island lawyers made out legal papers and sent S. S. Guyer, the young sheriff, to arrest us and bring us to the ball at Hampton.

 

“One game we played was called hurly-burly. One person told the others what each must do or pay a forfeit. I was told to pull Mr. Guyer’s beard. When the signal was given, some mischievous persons turned out the light and I was immediately caught in the arms of this audacious sheriff.

 

“The next ball we attended was a fancy dress party of the Rock Island House. We went in Frink & Walker’s stagecoach, at this party we accidentally met my uncle Robert Moor, and Nathaniel Belcher, who was the uncle of my friend, Susan Dodge. They prevailed upon Mr. Guyer and Ira O. Wilkinson, one of Rock Island’s ablest lawyers and afterwards circuit judge, to allow them to escort us home.

 

“We five occupied all of the inside of the coach; I in my corner by myself keeping my eyes open, the others in a very sleepy and spoony condition.”

 

So in due time, Cynthia was married to Nathaniel Belcher, Annette to Sheriff Guyer, and Susan Dodge to Mr. Moore. Ellen Holmes became the bride of Captain George Dodge, Mary was wed to Edward Murphy, Rosette to Myron Pratt, and Jane to William H. Lyford.

 

The girl’s mother died four years after coming to Port Byron, but the father lived until Jan. 3, 1872. He was a popular man of fine attainments and was elected county judge.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

 

Reunion in 1896

 

On Christmas day, 1896, Mrs. Guyer, Mrs. Belcher, Mrs. Dodge, Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. Lyford, the only surviving members of the George E. Holmes family, held a reunion in Rock Island, commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Vermont = Port Byron journey.

 

Each of the five sisters read a paper at that time, giving her impressions of her life. Mrs. Belcher reported that she had lived the 12 years since her husband died in Boston, and Europe, frequently pinching herself to make sure she was really Cynthia, the girl from the hills of Vermont and Port Byron, and wishing that she were young enough to become a great musician.

 

Mrs. Guyer told of her wedding journey from Rock Island to Springfield in a light carriage. It was a 4-day, lonesome honeymoon ride with “one prairie 40 miles from house to house.” but the bridegroom sheriff had to take Rock Island county’s tax money in silver and gold to Springfield. He laid his bag of tax specie on a barrel and told Abraham Lincoln to watch it while the sheriff went hunting for the auditor. “Lincoln remarked in his usual joking way that he would run off with the money, but he remained on guard.”

Mrs. Dodge spoke of wonderful inventions within her lifetime. “It is fairly bewildering to think of railroads, horse cars, electric cars, tricycles, bicycles, sewing machines, knitting machines, photography, electric lights, telegraphy and telephones.”

 

Mrs. Murphy gave a simple but stirring account of the dangerous covered wagon journey which she and her husband and two baby daughters made to the Pacific coast in 1860. At one time they traveled in a train of 80 covered wagons, with another train containing 70 wagons behind them.

 

Mrs. Lyford remembered the thrills of a trip to Galena, where she saw her first ice cream parlor. Captain Dodge, old frontiersman and army soldier, and Dr. Lyford the only surviving husbands of the Holmes girls, added their reminiscences.

 

The seven papers were printed and bound into a book, “The 50th Anniversary of the Settlement of the Hon. George E. Homes in Illinois.” Mrs. James R. Burke of Rock Island, great granddaughter of Judge and Mrs. Holmes, loaned us her copy of this family treasure.

 

The preface to the book of 1896 requests the descendants of those at the reunion to “get together by correspondence or otherwise 50 years Hence.” That would be in 1946.

~~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

 

Three-day Reunion

 

For three days, beginning tomorrow morning and continuing through Sunday, 70 of the descendants will camp at Archie Allen place near Port Byron to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the settlement of George E. Holmes in Illinois and to fulfill the request of 1896. Some will come from California, Montana, Ontario and Alabama, but most are from Iowa and Illinois.

 

Five, possibly six, generations will be represented. Francis Lyford, president, and Mrs. Edna Schafer said that perhaps some of the papers could be published, as were those of 50 years ago, but that is something to be decided when the family gets together.