Steamboat Racing on the Columbia

This story was originally writen by my Great Grandmother on small bits of paper all thrown into a box. The resulting story is what I have been able to piece together. It will be published this fall in a magazine from the Colombia River Maritime Museum. Enjoy

STEAMBOAT!

Although a great deal has been written of the Columbia River and its development, I can find little that has been written of its steamboat days, commercial fishing, and the daily social life below Portland, Oregon, during the late 1800s and early I900’s. Finding nothing written by anyone living along the river at this time and having lived there a good many years myself (1894-1910), I am taking the liberty of recording a few of my own recollections which I hope will be enjoyed by others as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

Steamboat men, the fishermen who braved the elements in open boats and residents of that period have all but disappeared. The Columbia River -- once so colorful, so teeming with life -- is now but a pale version of those not so long gone days. The beauty of this great river with a different state bordering each side, towering cliffs covered with an evergreen growth along much of its length is an unforgettable sight. After having lived there one is never quite content anywhere else.

We were fresh from Kansas, and before coming to the river had seldom seen a stream that an active man could not cross in one jump -- well, maybe two. Here at Hume’s Station (now Altoona, Washington, named by my husband Hans Petersen after his home city of Altona Germany), the front of the house our family moved into was hardly more than ten feet from the undulating logs and debris on the shore at high tide. The river is a tiny stream at its source in Canada that any child could easily leap over, at this point, it is fourteen miles wide. Our house was located about 25 miles from the mouth of this great river.

My stepfather made this move because his three brothers were doing so well on the Columbia River fishing that they were sure he could do the same. Along with fishing, he took the job of receiving fish for the cannery man who also owned the station. It was late afternoon when we arrived by steamer with our household goods. We were put off on a long, narrow dock built out from shore which swayed alarmingly when our steamer swung against it. About twenty men stood lined up along the edge of the dock politely watching the new family (my parents, we four little girls, Mother’s youngest sister,) get organized for that dangerous (to Mother) march ashore.

As Dad took the lead, a smiling, friendly-looking young man called out, “Want this stuff at the house”? Without waiting for an answer, every man stepped over to the pile of freight and picked up whatever he could handle. It was not long until everything had been carried to the long, board and batten structure that was to be our home for so many years. Whatever the house lacked, we all felt was more than made up for by the superb view. Spread before us was a panoramic view of the river -- the Oregon Mountains to the south, including old Saddle Mountain which mariners eagerly looked for when nearing that part of the coast. Across the river and a little to the southwest, sat old Astoria (founded by John Jacob Astor) strung out along the shore and hillside. At that time it covered about seven miles of river front. There was always a myriad of activity on the river -- ocean and river craft of all kinds, gillnet fishing, seining on the numerous sandbars in that part of the river, and a number of fish traps, sometimes all in sight at the same time. Lights on moving vessels, log tows, and lights from Astoria made the view as interesting at night as it was by day.

I truly believe that we who lived on the north bank of this gigantic river had the reserved grandstand seats. Those lucky people living there today still have the same view. One never tired of watching toward the bar for something to heave into sight. Sailing vessels seemed to rise slowly from the water, but long before a steamer was sighted a faint haze of smoke appeared on the horizon, so thin that only a practiced eye could at first see it and know it for what it was. The haze thickened, rose higher and finally smokestacks and upper structure came into view. Most of the ocean craft, both sail and steam, were weathered and rusty from many months spent at sea. One wondered where they had been, what kind of weather had they encountered, how long since they were in port. What faraway countries had the crews of these vessels seen? Were they far from home? Did they have homes with home folks in them, like us?

Portland was more than a hundred miles from the bar and was the goal of all ocean craft entering the river. Cargos of lumber, red cedar shingles, fruit, canned salmon and an almost endless list of other commodities waited to be loaded there and at many way points along the river. A cannery season’s pack was shipped by river steamer or loaded on scows and towed to stronger loading docks than at the cannery for shipment on ocean vessels. Sailing vessels, of which there were a great many, seldom passed without a string of laundry hanging from the lower rigging. The crews would take advantage of the opportunity to wash their clothing in the fresh river water and air their bedding if weather permitted.

Huge tramp steamers -- so called because their captain picked up cargo wherever they could find it, and sometimes they were away from their home port for years -- came into the river daily. Near Tongue Point, at the upper or eastern end of Astoria, all vessels going up river left the Oregon side, heading across the river up the Shoot, as the deep water channel is called. Crews on these tramp steamers sometimes liked to get fresh fish from the fishermen and since Hume Station was such a good source of supply, our fishermen knew that several Captains expected to get them, so a few nice fish were held back if one of those steamers was expected that day.

Halfway across if they wanted fish, Captains signaled the Station with three long blasts of the whistle. Three or four men, always on the lookout, raced out along the dock to where their fishing boats were tied, tossed a dozen or more large fish of whatever kind was on hand into the nearest boat and were off, rowing rapidly to the steamer which had slowed until she was just drifting. A line was tossed down, and the fish, a few at a time, were tied to it and hoisted aboard. In return, oranges, lemons, bananas (usually half a bunch), pineapples and coconuts were lowered into the fishing boat. What a treat that was to those of us at the Station.

There was a great deal of travel between Portland and San Francisco by boat at this time. There were three small ocean passenger steamers making regular trips between the two cities. Watching passengers stroll along the decks or stand watching the scenery while those boats slowly steamed past was the cause of many daydreams and much wishful thinking among the enforced stay-at-homes along the river.

Living not far from Astoria, was one of these stay-at-homes (a young married woman) who often talked of a sea voyage, and how she would love to take one or at least get beyond the three mile limit. Finally her chance to go beyond the three mile limit came when a part of the U. S. Navy fleet was sent to Puget Sound, in Washington, on a sort of goodwill tour. The battleships were to cruise along the coast as near as safety allowed, so they could be viewed from shore by many who could not go to the large ports where the fleet was expected to anchor for a few days -- the event was widely advertised. At the time, a small ocean steamer in Astoria was chartered. Those desiring the chance to view the guardians of our coast could purchase, for a hefty sum, tickets which would enable them to stay aboard while the steamer crossed the bar and stood by while this part of the fleet ploughed single file through the rough waters northward.

About all the steamer could accommodate took advantage of this. To some, this was a chance of a lifetime. This young woman spent enough money on one beautiful outfit to have dressed the average woman a year. Finally, the long awaited day arrived. Passengers went aboard in the gladdest glad rags they owned. The Captain waited for word of when the fleet had passed a certain point south on the Oregon coast. At last the message came and all was hurry and bustle. Lines were thrown off and the steamer began moving away from the dock. Relatives and friends waved, calling to those aboard, “Have a good time and take an extra look for us!” as the steamer swung into midstream, heading for the bar. But the government or Navy department had failed to order a perfect day. Fog and mist filled the air. Worse than that, a heavy sea was running. The river itself kept the steamer rolling far too much for a landlubber’s comfort. Before the bar was reached, one after another sought the steward and “on the quiet” requested a stateroom.

When the steamer again docked at Astoria, a woebegone crowd filed slowly down the gangplank. “Did you see the fleet? Was it rough outside? Did anyone get sick?” were the first questions hurled at the returned sightseers. And, sheepishly, most of them admitted the staterooms were comfortably furnished. ”My new outfit!” cried our lady, “I just went aboard, got a stateroom and went to bed. I might as well have stayed at home.”

Needs of the many small towns, fishing communities, fish canneries and private landings between Portland and Astoria made a huge business for river steamers. Passenger steamers were built and furnished to fill every need and almost every wish of the traveler, except loggers wearing calk shoes, and Chinamen Loggers, because the calks in their work shoes which would ruin the linoleum on stairs to the upper decks and men’s cabins. Chinamen -- well, just because they were Chinamen -- were kept in the lower decks. There were separate cabins for both men and women. Unless accompanied by a lady, no man was allowed to sit in the ladies cabin, but occasionally, a bolder fellow did saunter in and slowly lower himself into an easy chair. However, he was careful to take one nearest the door where he could keep a wary eye out for the purser who made it his business to keep an eye out for such fellows. A married man accompanied by his family meekly trailed along behind his wife with any extra children and bundles she could not manage. After helping store bundles under seats and children on them, he would straighten up, look around the cabin filled with strange women and children and murmur, “I’ll go forward and smoke.” Then, hastily he would make for the door.

Passengers ate with the officers. Meals were served family style and what meals! There were large platters of meats, vegetables, salads, fruits, breads, plain and fancy pies, cakes, tea, coffee, and milk. When a dish became empty it was hurried to the pantry, refilled and rushed back to the tables. All of this for fifty cents or, in the slang of the day, four bits! It was the custom on all boats to set out a midnight lunch in the pantry for officers on night duty. On the R.R. Thompson, the largest and most comfortable stern wheel steamer on the river, the best of the officers’ lunches suddenly began to disappear every night. Angry officers accused the flunkies of not setting out enough food. They declared they had set out more than enough. The flunkies accused the officers of not locking the door. The officers were sure, it had been locked. For some time this went on until an officer thought of stationing a flunky in the pantry for the evening. The man made himself comfortable there with a book to while away the hours. Shortly before midnight he heard a slight creaking sound and sprang to attention. Slowly the door of the dumb-waiter from the kitchen below swung open. The intruder backed halfway out of his cramped quarters. He immediately knew he wasn’t alone. In one motion he was back in the dumb-waiter, the door slammed shut and on his way down. Not expecting his passenger back so soon the man at the hoist below had turned away after loosely fastening the rope on the hoist. The sudden leap had freed the rope and the little man finished his ride with a thump. Rolling out on the deck he hissed, “Run! They’re after us!” Everybody on that part of the deck became extremely busy, and one man leaped into bed, shoes and all. No time was lost on the upper deck either. Officers and flunkies rushed down the narrow stairway to the lower deck where they learned exactly nothing. A lock on the door of the dumbwaiter ended further raids. When it was learned that the smallest man in the crew fit into the dumb-waiter with room to spare for the purloined eats, and that he could spring the latch on the door into the pantry with his pen knife there was nothing to stop them from at least trying to get the lunches they knew were just overhead

Differences in the quality of foods served on the upper and lower decks where the crew ate had for some time caused a great deal of dissatisfaction among the men and they were out to let somebody know about it. This was not because of the lack of good foods. Steamboat companies furnished plenty of the same foods the upper deck enjoyed. But in cooking for the crew, the cook shirked wherever he could and results were not always what they should have been. Such as when dried apple pies were served so often the men refused, at last, to eat them. They kept appearing on the table; however they were the same pies. When green began showing round the edges and there seemed no other way to be rid of them, every pie was tossed through the open side door of the boat into the river tins and all.

Old time deck-hands were a hard working, low paid lot of men. Thirty dollars a month was a good wage and flunkies received less. They always seemed cheerful -- singing or whistling at their work. One young fellow could imitate a canary bird so perfectly it was thought to be one for weeks before it was learned differently. I cannot describe the strange feeling it gave one to hear those beautiful bird trills coming from the river on a black, wet night.

Cord wood was used for fuel on all steamers, and regular fueling stations were maintained at certain intervals along the river. Many families added to their income by cutting wood part of the year. Others made a full time business of it. Usually it was taken aboard at night so the day run could be kept close to schedule. Approaching a fueling station, the mate would yell, “Wood pile!” with the words drawn out and emphasis on the word wood. That was the signal for all deck hands to be ready to spring onto the deck as soon as the steamer was near enough. The line, carried ashore by one of them, was made fast. But before that was even accomplished, wood was being rapidly tossed down on the front deck. With the last stick going aboard, lines were cast off and everybody made a dash for the steamer. After getting under way again the wood was loaded on hand trucks, trucked aft and corded up where the fireman could easily reach it.

Firing on these steamers was a job one had to know something about if he was to keep steam pressure up and steady. More depended on the fireman than anyone else in the crew because steam must be kept up first, last and constant if everything else on the steamer functioned right -- especially when racing. He often had only unseasoned or green wood to do it with.

Staterooms were nicely furnished. There was a lavatory with hot and cold water in every room, plenty of towels, a mirror; a chair, carpet and double bunks. But that top bunk! It was narrower than the lower and to get into it one stood on the edge of the lower berth, grasped the edge or the upper with both hands and, using what I can describe only as a scrambling leap, tried to throw oneself up into it. If after several tries that did not work, there was a choice of having a companion lend a helping hand as one did the scrambling leap. Or, a suitcase laid on the lower berth could be used for a stepping block. A lady engaging in this most ungraceful act was a sight to behold. I know, because on one night from Portland, an old schoolgirl friend and I shared a stateroom. I could have perhaps reached the berth more easily than she as I was much smaller, but I had my two small sons with me and she insisted I should have the lower berth. We were both short and she very stout, but positive she would have no trouble in getting into her bed. When ready to retire, she stepped up on the edge of the lower berth and grasping the sides of the upper as though she intended ripping the sides out, she sprang upwards. After fifteen minutes of springing and trying to get a toe-hold on the white enameled wall to give herself a boost, I thought of the suitcase. By that time I was so weak from laughing I could no longer assist her.

Spending a night on one of these boats seemed a good way to be kept awake with all the confusion of passengers walking along the decks laughing and talking. The steady throb of the powerful engines which kept the whole boat aquiver, the rush of waters through the big stern wheel, now and then sharp; or heavy thuds on the lower deck as freight was shifted, clanging of bells signaling the engineer to slow, back, ahead, stop when approaching a landing -- how could anyone sleep in that racket? It worked the other way though. Passengers slept soundly while the boat was in motion, waking with a start when the engines stopped. You listened to the sounds of the gangplank being slid out on the slip; deck hands running to and fro with trucks loaded with freight; then, sounds of the plank being drawn aboard again; again, the clang of bells signaling the engineer to back from the dock; and, finally, tons and tons of water boiling forward along the sides of the boat as the steamer backed away. Another bell to go ahead and, a moment later, the steady rhythm of engines sending one off to slumber land again.


The Race!

During the late 1800’s when so many passenger steamers were operating on the lower Columbia River there was almost constant racing between them. Steamboat racing reached its height when six passenger boats in competition were making daily round trips between Portland and Astoria. Three left Portland at seven a.m. and three left Astoria at the same time.

Whole communities took sides in the controversy over which was the speediest boat. If, as was usually the case, anyone in a settlement along the river had a relative or friend working on one of these boats, it was, without a doubt, the best one. Hadn’t our friend said so? Or, dare say a word against a steamer to a member of a crew working on any one of them.

Each company coveted the honor of owning the fastest and best steamer, and strove to give the best service to the public, at first. With racing waxing hotter and crews making personal issues of every race, everybody seemed to have forgotten why steamers were put on the river and whose money kept them going. At Portland, located on the banks of the Willamette River, racing could not begin until the steamers were out of the Willamette and into the Columbia, because of the serious damage done to small craft, house-boats and docks by the waves they created. Fifteen minutes before leaving time one long blast of the whistle was given -- we on the river called it the fifteen minute whistle -- a signal to those interested that they still had a quarter of an hour to reach the docks. Five minutes to seven a sharp toot -- last warning. First freight went aboard in an orderly manner, passengers with their luggage, and last minute freight was easily taken care of. That is the way it was when there was no racing. Captains often waited for a passenger if they were already in sight. However, with three steamers leaving from each terminal every morning and evening and crew feeling the “honor” of their boat at stake, there was little time for order during these last fifteen minutes. It was then that freight was scrambled, often put off at wrong landings; and steamers (and even the US mail boat) had been known to slip quietly from their berths before the scheduled time; which meant that each crew kept a very close watch on the other steamers tied at nearby docks.

Long before seven, steam was up, big stern wheels slowly revolving. Smokestacks were constantly watched for any change in color or movement of smoke, steamboat men became so expert at reading these smoke movements that they knew just what orders firemen and engineers were acting under. As leaving time drew near, late passengers were hurried along with reckless disregard for safety. Standing on the forward deck, watches in hand or jerking them from vest pockets every few seconds, were the mate, the engineer and the fireman at their posts waiting tensely. A deck-hand stood at the bow, bowline in hand and but one turn round the capstan, ready to cast off, stern line already aboard and coiled. The wide, heavy gangplank laid one end on the slip and the other on the steamer deck. A deck-hand was at each side grasping the short, thick manila ropes attached with which he would bring it a aboard with one jerk. In the pilot house stood the Captain -- hand on the whistle cord ready to give the last whistle. Short and sharp it was, but the effect on the crew was nothing less than magic. Engines were speeded up; firemen gave closer attention to their fires than a bride to her first cake in the oven. Heavy, black smoke billowed up from the high smokestack. The gangplank came aboard with a swish. Bowline, always fastened to the dock, was hastily thrown off and the stern wheel churned the water into boiling, foamy waves which dashed madly against dock pilings as the steamer swung sharply from the dock into the channel.

Having watched from the time they left Astoria, we at Hume’s Station became so absorbed in the progress of those three roaring steamers as they turned and came up the Shoot abreast heavy black smoke from the three smokestacks mingling as it streamed far behind that even the baby of the family was forgotten until the whole settlement had assisted with shouts, screams and wild come-on motions as they raced past the station and out of sight. That took almost an hour every morning. Mother would give a little scream and scold me, “Now don’t you leave that baby again!” Then she would hurry inside to her neglected work. But, after that exciting hour taking up such tasks as washing dishes, and housework, was a decided let-down. About two o’clock in the afternoon the men began strolling out to the dock where they could see farther up river. The first man to see the steamers gave a yell that was instantly taken up by the rest “Steamboat” (emphasis on the first syllable of the first word) and the morning’s performance was gone through again. At times, these racing steamers came so close together that a man could step from one boat to the other and once, in such a race, the engineer of the Baily Gatzert did just that when the R.R. Thompson swung close. Immediately the steamers swung apart, and he was forced to finish the race on the R.R. Thompson; which incidentally won the race
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At way stations the first steamer to reach a landing grabbed all passengers and freight in sight. The one carrying the mail, however, must always land. Did I say land? Well, what I meant was, the mail boat must put ashore the mail bags they carried, and take aboard the outgoing mail. This is how they did it. A deck hand stood at the bow of the steamer, mail bag firmly grasped, ready to throw it ashore as the steamer glided past the dock. Someone was always ready to catch, or otherwise stop it. At the edge of the dock stood a man with the outgoing sack which he dropped on the steamer’s deck at just the right moment. Most of the time this was done with ease, but once in a while the man supposed to catch the incoming sack was not quick enough, and it hit the water with a “plop.” Then there was a frantic scramble for pike-poles. Anything that could be used to fish that sack from the water and air was scorched with fiery language until it was recovered. Having to come to a full stop the mail steamer lost precious moments. The third steamer gained, or passed, not needing to land unless they carried passengers for that place. And passengers were known to have been persuaded to stay aboard until the return trip, if the race was a close one, when there might be a little more time to waste on a landing. But, if a passenger was coaxed into going past his landing, there was no cost to him for the extra time spent aboard.

Going ashore was something to worry about. Unless he was elderly or crippled, a man was expected to make it ashore alone; and it took a lively stepper to make it across the narrow gangplank that was used at way stations when there was no freight. The gangplank was about sixteen inches wide with cleats ten or twelve inches apart and it usually sagged sharply even with only one person on it. With a lady, more care was taken in getting her ashore. A deck-hand stood at each side, firmly gripping her elbows and she was politely, but rapidly, rushed across that narrow plank that now really sagged. If there were more packages than she and the two assisting her could handle, another followed with them, the three often deserting her half way up the slip, which could get terribly steep if the tide was low. Anyone going aboard was rushed the same way.

Steamboat men felt they could take more liberty with Chinamen and many amusing incidents occurred because of that fact. Two under sized cannery workers insisted on being put off at Brookfield, Washington, when the steamers were engaged in a very close race. The Captain, not wishing to loose any time at all with two other steamers already creeping up on him, instructed the mate and a husky deck-hand to each grab a Chinaman and as the steamer slid along the dock heave them ashore. A moment later two bewildered “rice eaters” lay sprawled on the dock, along with the bundles they had clung to. At last, with each Captain trying to get away first, they were leaving earlier every morning. It became increasingly difficult to reach the docks in time to get aboard. Passengers and freight were being left behind all along the route. Because of the many complaints, the owners were forced to call a halt on that constant racing and remind Captains that seven a.m. and seven p.m. actually meant just that.

But there always seemed to be excuses (not always good) for racing, and there continued to be arguments over which was the fastest steamer. This resulted in the Baily Gatzert management challenging the R. R. Thompson management to a race from Portland to St Helens, a small town about thirty miles west of Portland, on the Oregon side of the river. This question of which was the speediest steamer was an old and very annoying one to steamboat men and the participators of his race were going to settle it now and forever, if possible; at least between these two boats. Five hundred dollars was put up by the Thompson people, which were promptly covered by the Baily Gatzert owners. Stakes were held by the Oregonian management (a Portland newspaper). Portland was a wide open town at that time. The gambling element chartered a steamer to follow the racing steamers to St. Helens to take the gamblers (who rode on the racing steamers that far) back to Portland. On leaving Portland, the two steamers ran quietly side by side until the mouth of the Willamette River was reached. From there, the Baily Gatzert kept to the Washington side of the river, the Thompson to the Oregon side. (A large steamer traveling at high speed creates such a strong suction that another running too near cannot break away, and the lead boat tows it right along.) Safety valves were tied down so they could not blow off and no one ever did know how much steam the boilers carried on that trip. Bare to the waist, sweat streaming from their bodies, deck-hands kept piling cordwood within easy reach of the firemen. Passengers on both steamers begged for more and more speed. Several threw off their coats, helping deck-hands pass wood to the firemen. Such a fire was kept going with the help of great slabs of bacon from the cook’s storeroom on one boat that flames leaped high above the smokestack. T he gamblers, trying to keep track of everything, placed bets fast and furious. At St Helen’s, the Thompson’s line was being pulled up on the dock as the Gatzert’s line was thrown. This made the R.R Thompson winner of that race. When leaving to board their steamer, the gamblers threw handful of silver to the firemen.

Having had their way on the lower Columbia for so long, when the Telephone (from the White Collar Line) was put on the Portland/Astoria run, the Oregon Railway & Navigation Company at once laid plans to chase her off the river. They began by cutting fares, the White Collar line meeting each cut with one of their own. This continued for many weeks, to the great amusement and financial gain of patrons, until the fare between Portland and Astoria was only twenty five cents one way. One could travel to or from any point on the river for that sum, but tickets must appear to have been purchased for the whole trip. Otherwise, the regular fare was charged. But with the fare always on the downward trend, one was never sure just what it would be the next time one went aboard.

One day, two serious, somber-clad gentlemen traveling to Portland were asked for their fare by the purser, Harry Blanchard. Harry was a plump, jolly fellow with a ready answer for every occasion. “How much is the fare?” the younger of the two asked. “Twenty-five cents,” Harry replied. “But we are ministers of the Gospel and always travel half fare,” the older man said. “Oh yes,” said Harry, seriously, “Preachers two for a quarter.”

The old side wheeler, Ocean Wave, was still in use when we came on the river. She was a very slow boat and looked extremely awkward when in motion -- a long steel shaft protruded from her upper deck back of the pilot house connected with a heavy steel arm which moved the arm up and down, up and down, which, in turn, did something below decks that caused the wheels to turn. It was an unfulfilled dream of mine that someday I would go aboard that steamer and see what was happening while it happened on the lower deck.

Grandma, I hope you were able to realize this dream and so many more, thanks for your memories.and the DNA.

Submited by Gary D. Mc Feron grateful grandson


Nellie Peterson Bio.

Nellie Petersen was born Nellie Estella Hopps in 1884 in Eureka Kansas. She moved to Altoona Washington with her parents Herman and Dora Hopps. The family later moved to Humes Station in 1897. Nellie had two sisters, Florence Beatrice Hopps, born in 1886, and Prudy Berniece Hopps. Her father, Herman, died in 1894. Dora remarried Jim Pullium. The Pulliums had 2 boys, Kenneth Paul Pulliun and Harold Pullium. Jim Pillium died in 1942.

Hans Petersen came to America through Ellis Island in 1876 from Altona Germany at age 10. He was taken in by farmers to work in the New York area on their farm. We don’t know when he arrived in Humes Station. Three of his brothers, Paul, Antone and Martin, joined him there. They were all fishermen.

Nellie married Hans Petersen on January 11, 1900 at the age of 15. Hans was 31. They had 9 children, 7 who survived. In order they were Albert Henry, born September 5, 1901; Ralph Antone, born in 1902; Martin Paul, born December 1, 1904; Elmore John, born December 11, 1906; Bruce Ivan, born March 22, 1916; Lloyd Irvin, born March 16, 1918; and Hans, Jr., born November 17, 1926. Albert Ralph and Martin were born in Astoria, Elmore was born in Altoona, and Bruce, Lloyd and Hans were born in Florence, Oregon.