The following is an account of the journey of the Tibbetts family from Indiana to Oakland, Oregon, c. 1852, as told by Sarah Tibbetts and re-transcribed by myself, Stephen Clark, ggg grandson of Jonathan Snow Tibbetts. I hope you enjoy it. MY EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF MY FATHER, JONATHAN SNOW TIBBETTS By: Sarah E. (Tibbetts) Gouldin It was about the year 1844, (I was then four years old). My father was a Methodist Minister in Manchester, Indiana, and I believe the only pastor in that parish for many years, and preached in the small villages of Lawrenceville, Aurora, Ripley, Whitewater, and Madison: sometimes crossing the Ohio River into Kentucky to attend Methodist Conferences and Revival Meetings. He was ordained at Whitewater, Indiana, by Bishop Cavenaugh of Kentucky. Our family remained in Manchester until the year 1851, when we bade adieu to all our dear friends and to Manchester and went to Oquawka, Illinois, where we spent the winter. My father's great desire was to lead a missionary life, and he concluded to go to the Far West. In March 1852, we went to Fort Madison, Iowa, where we made our preparations for the long journey over the mountains and vast deserts. After visiting with relatives and friends in Iowa, among whom were cousin David Tibbetts' family and my mother's sister's family, we started on that long, tedious, and dangerous journey - it was certainly through the "Wild and Wooly West." We never traveled on the Sabbath Day. My father held eleven o'clock services and also in the evenings and preached to hundreds of pilgrims journeying on the same mission as ourselves - to find a New World. My father made many converts on the way across the continent. Our conveyances were ox teams and we plodded along slowly but surely, enduring many hardships on the great deserts. We journeyed mostly by night owing to the intense heat. We were eight months from the time we left Fort Madison, Iowa, before we arrived at our destination in the Umpqua Valley of Oregon, which is situated in the southern part of the State. Our first stop was at my father's brother's (Gideon) he lived in Portland, Oregon, East side of the Willamette River. After visiting there for a few days, we then continued our journey, to the above named place. My father took up his missionary work there, he being the only minister in fifty miles. He had a large district to cover, the population being so scattered and many Indians and French and half-caste. I taught Sabbath School when I was 12 years old and often accompanied my father on horseback 20 miles on Sunday morning and we would return at night. We lived in log cabins for years. My father and Elder Wilber, who came to the Umpqua Valley in 1856, built the first college in that part of the state - it was called the Wilber Seminary. After the Indian war of 1855, the country settled very rapidly and a better class of people came to that part of the country. Today it is the most beautiful country in the West. My father lived in the town of Oakland, Oregon, on the very spot where we settled in 1852 until about 1878 when he went to live in Portland, where he continued to live, and preach until he lost his sight. He died in 1885. My father and mother did good church work during their early days in Oregon. The Bishops who visited that section of the country said my father had made more converts than any other minister in that part of Oregon. My mother was a wonderful woman, she had great magnetic influence over the parish and entertained all who came that way - it was open house to the weary traveler. After my father's death my mother visited among her children and she died at the home of my sister Elizabeth J. Hamblin, in East Portland, Oregon, November 24, 1890. . My mother was strong and healthy; her death was very sudden and unfortunate. She passed away under a surgical operation, never recovering consciousness after taking the anesthetic, at the age of 76. (I will mention one instance of out journey while crossing the plains which may be interesting.) When we reached the crossing of the Snake River, where most of the caravans crossed, owing to the Indians having been hostile a few weeks previous, we continued on the South side, it also being a shorter route - by doing so we encountered the village of the Snake River Indians, who by no means were willing to allow us to continue on our way in peace. There were about eight hundred Indians, women and children, in all, and they were determined to rob us of our animals, provisions, etc., the latter running very low, as we had taken much longer on the journey than we had anticipated. The Indians were most anxious for battle, and did everything to urge our little party to start the fight. The Chief could speak very good English, at least he could understand my father, when he positively refused to have any trouble with them, and saying that he was a missionary preacher, and if they gave us any trouble that the Government would punish them. That Fort Boise, Idaho, a government barracks, was only fifty miles away and that they were sending an escort to meet us. My father stood for three hours or more, on the wagon tongue, preaching to hold them at bay. The Chief translated to his tribe, but we found it a hard task to keep the savages from annihilating our little company. There were only 17 wagons on that side of the river and not more than 25 men. The only thing that saved us was that that Indians had their families near by, and they seldom wage war under those conditions. My father told the Chief to "look well after" his people, for we expected relief from the Fort with provisions and protection from the soldiers. The courier had passed us the day before with an appeal from the emigrants for aid, and he knew we had gone on the other side of the river to cut our journey. The commander from Fort Boise sent a troop of Cavalry to meet the emigrants, as the Indians had been very troublesome all through that region during the summer. When we saw them approaching, you may be sure we hailed them with joy. The Indians had followed us, taunting and doing everything they could to hinder our journey and to precipitate trouble, until three hours before the appearance of the soldiers, when all of a sudden they disappeared, their scouts had given them the signal of the approaching soldiers. We had many narrow escapes in various ways. The cholera was raging in 1852, and carried off victims by the hundreds. The burials taking place immediately, so great was the fear of contagion. We often counted graves by the dozens on the Great Desert. One could see caravans as far as the eye could penetrate, and often see then halt, for a brief period, to bury the dead. Sometimes, I think, they were not always dead. We frequently saw hands and feet sticking out of the graves, though that may have been done by the wolves. In the present day we travel in "palace cars." I am sorry to say, though, that I believe that this generation does not fully appreciate this luxury and the wonderful progress of civilization during the past 75 years. It was the forefathers who made the way for all the comforts and luxuries we now enjoy, and I fear many of the struggles and hardships of those pioneer days can only be realized by the pilgrims themselves.