The Oregonian, Portland, OR., May 8, 1921, section 6, page 1
Includes photographs

HISTORIC MEMALOOSE ISLAND, EXPLORED BY PORTLANDERS
Automobile Trip Up Columbia River Ends At Historic Spot
WONDERFUL MIRAGE WITNESSED, REPRODUCING IN DETAIL ANCIENT INDIAN BURIAL SCENE
By William T. Perkins

     "Once aboard the lugger - " hissed Bill, giving the flat-bottomed boat a shove toward the middle fo the river.
     "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," interrupted George, as he landed on the stern seat.
     Gray-haired, ordinarily sedate, and with their combined ages running well into three figures, George and Bill were at last gratifying the dearest ambitions of their boyhood; they were pirates for a day, putting forth one a voyage of high emprise -- a quest for far adventure!
     The cause celebre is as follows:
     I am Bill, and I modestly refrain from further information regarding myself. George is - well, let me tell you about George, before beginning my story.
     In our early teens George and I began an acquaintance which ripened into friendship which has endured. I lived in a little town in southern Oregon, while George lived with his mother on a farm a few miles away. He was only a few years my senior, but I used to regard with awe his deep knowledge of wood and stream, of beast and bird; his ability to do all manner of things so much better than most boys. I did not know it then, but in his earlier boyhood George had sat at the feet of a genial, bearded man of the field and forest - one to whom nature had revealed many secrets - and he had learned much from the kindly, great-hearted master, who was the friend of all living things - the man who would not knowingly have trod on a wild flower in bloom.

George Learns Telegraphy

     One day George walked in from the farm and told me that he wanted to learn telegraphy. I had already picked up something of art at the little railroad station in the town, so I undertook to teach him what I knew of it. He progressed rapidly and soon became proficient enough to take charge of a station.
     We did not meet again for years, but in the meantime George became successively the head of an important railroad station, trainmaster, train dispatcher and, finally espousing the cause of the men in his branch of the service, he became the active head of a great railroad brotherhood. He stood unafraid before manager and magnate and urged with such power the cause of his fellows that to him came the responsible duty of dictating the terms of the contract that today is the law under which a huge railroad system which stretches from coast to coast deals with its employees - a law which guarantees to the thousands in its service ample wage and right conditions of labor.
     Years passed before George and I both drifted to Portland. George always had wanted to be a lawyer, so, although he was nearing the half-century milepost, he studied night and day, was admitted to the bar, and now he has a little army of attorneys, clerks and stenographers is a suite of offices that stretches nearly the length of a floor in one of Portland's skyscrapers.

Romance Never Published

     During the period of his study of the law, by way of recreation, he found time to write a wonderful romance concerning a beaver prince of the land of Umpqua - a real book, which an able critic has likened to the best work of the great Fabre. Having the satisfaction of writing it, instead of seeking a publisher, George chucked it into an unused drawer, where it will probably rest until his literary executor some day may find it. What the next exhibition of George's infinite variety may be I am not prepared to say, but I can promise that it will be something unusual - and something worthwhile! But, as the professional writers say, let us resume our story.
     Often I have traveled up and down the Columbia gorge - sometimes by train, sometimes by boat - and always I have gazed upon the lonely island that parts the deep waters of the river a little ways below the town of Lyle - the island called Memaloose - the place where countless Indian dead once were buried, and I have longed to visit it and seek out its mysteries, if mysteries it held. So, a short time ago, by dint of much perseverance, I proceeded in getting George himself at the other end of the line.

Island Exploration Decided

     "George, let's take a day off next Saturday and explore Memaloose island."
     "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest," began George.
     "Shut up," said I; "can you go?"
     "Sure," said George; "how do we go?"
     "Well," said I, "the proper way to approach it would be by steamboat from Portland. We could get off at Lyle and take a launch or rowboat and drop down the river from there."
     "It takes too long," said George, whose early railroad training has made him a time-saver. "What's the matter with my car? Will go up the highway on the Oregon side to The Dalles and drop back to Rowena Sunday morning."
     This did not exactly suit my piratical instinct, so I demurred at first, but finally gave in, for a trip without George would be no trip that all.
     And so a balmy afternoon found us headed up the river in a fleet roadster.
     This is not a story of the glories of that masterpiece of God and man, the great highway of the Columbia, so we will leave it for the pens to describe whose points have been dipped in liquid colors of the rainbow. We arrived at The Dalles after dark, stabled the roadster, sought a place where we could gratifying our eager appetites, and went to bed.
     In the small hours of the morning, long before daybreak, we were awakened by a crowd of tourists, which, judging by the noise, must have consisted of at least a regiment. Apparently its members were headed for the interior and wanted an early start.
     Then we got it!
     We composed of ourselves again to slumber, but we had only begun to dream of buried treasures and "pieces of eights" when we were again awakened by a terrific thumping in the water pipes. Some enterprising early riser in the room overhead, who apparently wanted to do a day's work before sunrise, had turned on the faucet to quickly, which had created a water-hammer, which sounded as though Thor himself was up and at work! After a long period, the noise subsided and once more we sought to resume the interrupted thread of our dreams.
     How long we slept, I do not know, but at the sound of a heavy knocking at our door, we both found ourselves sitting upright in bed, George rushed to the door, unlocked it and flung it wide open and there stood a plumber in overall and blouse, with a kit of tools in his hand.
     "They said your hot water pipe was workin'," quoth he, "I come to fix it."
     Always I have secretly admired George's wonderful command of the American language, but never before had I had so delightful an opportunity to observe its wealth of expression as now. Forceful phrases readily understood, coupled with classics culled from roundhouse and railroad yard and interspersed with apt quotations from legal authorities to me unknown, poured forth, may I not say, with ease and fluency, undiminished in quantity, unimpaired in quality! The plumber seemed impressed. Regretfully, he shifted his kit of tools to the other hand and departed, firmly convinced, I believe, that there was nothing amiss with the flow of George's vocabulary, no matter what the condition of the water pipes might be. My only disappointment was that we had no opportunity to determine whether or not he had brought all of his tools with him. It would have been a splendid opportunity for making a test. Further attempt to sleep was out of the question, for daybreak was near, so we bathed, dressed and emerged into the glory of an eastern Oregon mourn.

Beauty of Sunrise Enjoyed

     Could we then have found the plumber, whose name had been anathema we would have craved forgiveness and have called him blessed. Flaming out of the east, the winged heralds of the dawn were planting their banners on distant hill and mountain top! The shadows of the night, with lances broken and trailing in the somber mists, were scattering before the cohorts of the sun. Long shafts of light, now gold, now purple, now amethyst, touched with magic wand the brown hills, and lo! they were temples of glory, where one might about down and worship! Soon appeared the upper rim of the sun. The river became a sheet of gold, flowing out from the portals of the morning - a river of life that poured from the everlasting gates of glory! The clear, fresh air became warmer. From campfire and chimney-top of arose spirals of incense that gave grateful thanks for peace and plenty. Forgotten was all save the glories of the morn -- the awakening of the sweet-voiced day!
     Breakfast over, we paid the modest fee for the stabling our roadster, assuaged its righteous thirst with a bountiful supply of gasoline and headed down the river, partly over the old road, partly over the uncompleted new highway, and we soon arrived at the small dot on the map known as a Rowena.
     The captain of the ferry that plies between Rowena and Lyle was unwilling to take a chance with the two disreputable-looking fellows who wanted to be taken in the launch to Memaloose. He was the only citizen visible in the place, so it is possible that he was also mayor, chief of police, councilman from the first ward and keeper of the seal; therefore there may have been some legal inhibition which prevented him from embarking upon so perilous an undertaking. However, he pointed out a boat which he said belonged to an Indian, and he said that we might take it. The Indian being nowhere in sight, we took it!
     Then were uttered the words which served as the introduction to this narrative. And honestly I applied the oars, while George, who is a trifle portly, assisted by disposing himself equitably in the stern seat.
     To borrow a phrase from the professional writer, "the surface of the river was like a mirror." No breeze ruffled it's serene majesty as it floated silently yet with irresistible power to mingle its pure waters with the salt spray of the sunset sea. A mighty river, this, which for undaunted centuries has flowed from the rising to the setting sun:
     "A monarch he - Lord of the crag and peak.
     Whose heights lay deep reflected in his breast."
     Here and there wild fowl swam lazily on the river is surface or winged the highways of the air. It was a scene of majesty - a scene of peace.
     At the east end of the island, there is a little bay that breaks upon a sandy beach. Here we drew our boat partly from the water and began exploration of the island. A short distance from the landing place we came upon a little lake or pool. Whether it is fed from some subterranean source, or whether it was created by the high waters of the river, which have now receded, I do not know. Its size and appearance, however, indicated that it was one of the prominent features of the " Island of the Dead."
     Ascending a little hill, we stood on the top most elevation of the island. A little ahead, at the western end, gleamed the granite shaft under which lies Vic Trevitt, the pioneer! Between lay a stretch of rough ground, covered with stunted wild shrubs and grass, with here and there little clumps of beautiful wild flowers, still in bloom. The ground was scarred with shallow excavations. Small pieces of human bones were scattered about, mute testimony to the activities of the ghoulish relic-hunters. We followed on and soon we came up to the monument, on once side of which is graved these words:

    VIC TREVITT
     DIED
     JANUARY 23RD
     1883
     AGE 76 YRS.

     The shaft itself is 13 feet high, and it rests on three basalt steps, eight feet square. It was quarried at Granite Point on Snake river, 30 miles below Lewiston, and brought down to Memaloose. A fitting monument and a fitting resting place for one of Oregon's honored pioneers!
     In the archives of the Oregon Historical society at Portland there is a brief record of the life of Victor Trevittt, in the handwriting of Mrs. Lulu D. Crandall, an octogenarian, still living at The Dalles. Mrs. Crandall knew Trevitt, and she was one of the great concourse that accompanied his remains to their final resting place on a cold day in February in 1883.

Trevitt's Life Recalled

     Trevitt was born in May, 1827, on a farm in New Hampshire, which adjoined Horace Greeley's farm. He ran away from home at an early age and joined an uncle in Ohio, where he learned the printer's trade. In 1846 he enlisted in the Mexican war and served until its close, when he returned to Ohio, remaining there until 1850, the year in which he came to Oregon. During the Mexican war Trevitt received a saber cut over the eye from a Gringo soldier which caused a scowl which remained with him during his lifetime. Trevitt was employed by the late Asahael Bush, who was publishing the Oregon Statesman, which at that time was printed at Oregon City. In 1854 he removed to The Dalles and engaged in business, opening Trevitt's addition to that city. In 1858 he was elected as Wasco county's representative in the Legislature, and in 1868 he was elected as state senator from that county. Before this, however, in 1855, he enlisted in Captain Orlando Humason's company of Oregon volunteers, and served as paymaster during the Yakima war of 1855-6. To his intimate friends, Trevitt was known as "Colonel," but he acquired the title of Major was serving as paymaster in the regiment commanded by Colonel J.W. Nesmith.
     Late in life Trevitt was married to the widow of Judge Frank E. Miller of Boise, whose maiden name had been Wortly Hunt. They had been engaged earlier in life, before her marriage to Judge Hunt. Trevitt had been married only four months at the time of his death, which occurred at San Francisco, where he had gone on account of failing health.
     Trevitt had often said that he wished to be buried on Memaloose island, among a people will always kept their word. To friends he remarked, "I won't have any chance to get into heaven unless I slip in with the Indians. When Gabriel blows his horn on the last day, I will get up with the Indians, wrap my blanket about me, and slip in with them and St. Peter will never notice me. "Strange to say, there have been no Indian burials on Memaloose island since Trevitt was buried there.
     In the Portland Oregonian of January 30, 1883, there is an account of the arrival of the body on the steamer State of California. It was consigned to Colonel J. McCracken of the Association of Mexican War Veterans, and it was taken in charge by Captain Thomas Mountain, removed to the Clarendon hotel and on the same day sent to The Dalles by train. River navigation being closed by ice, the body was kept until the river opened in February, when on a Sunday morning in that month a boat load of Masons, of which order Trevitt was a member, together with other friends, steamed away to the "Island of the Dead," with the pioneer was at last laid to rest, the final obsequies being under the auspices of Wasco Lodge No. 15, A.F. and A.M. of the Dalles. The late Frank T. Dodge of Portland, who at that time was agent at The Dalles for the Oregon Steam Navigation company, was active in carrying out the last wishes of Trevitt, and he, with other friends, caused to be erected the monument which now excites the wonder and the curiosity of the traveler who passes over or on either side of the great river.
     Silently, reverently, we stood before the monument. On wither side the river flowed by in majesty. Borne on kindly airs, the wordless hymn of the soft winds that quickened the leaves of the forest on the bluffs high above, came down as a solemn requiem that shall be played to the end of time!
     Rest, pioneer! The ice-bound fetters of winter bring no terrors to you! The rising of many waters makes melodies for your dreams! The sound of the warm Chinook sweeping up the great gorge, bearing spicy fragrance from fir and pine, only serves to make sweeter your quiet slumbers!
     In 1883, when Trevitt was buried, there were about 30 Indian "dead houses" on Memaloose, filled with the remains of Indian dead. There have all disappeared, having been swept away by the high waters of 1894, which covered the island. Nothing now remains of the "dead city," save here and there a few broken, scattered bones. The red man has, indeed, "gone west." River and sea have claimed his remains, but his spirit roams at will in the happy hunting grounds, where always the game is plentiful, and where the streams are alive with salmon!
     The Indian "dead houses" where made of bark or cedar boards, and the bodies of the dead were first placed therein in an inclined position, and afterward placed on horizontal shelves, which rose, one above the other. On the islands further up the river the dead were sometimes placed on the ground in a sitting position and covered with a thatch of willows, stuck into the ground and fastened together at the top. The personal effects of the dead were usually buried with them -- pots, kettles, cups, guns, knives, bows, arrows and ornaments. Holes were first punched in the utensils and the guns were broken. At times the bodies were reclothed. On such occasions, the friends or relatives of the deceased would wait on the mainland while the klaky-kle-kles -- "worker with the dead" - would cross over to the island, adjust their remains an clothe them in fresh apparel. This ceremony was always performed during the morning hours.
     On all this, and on much more, we mused as we sat on the great, warm sand dunes which the angry waters of the winter had washed to the very top of the island. Of the two American adventurers, who had come when our nation was as yet but an infant; of the hardy voyagers, who had passed down the great stretches of lonely water, their bateaux laden with peif and peitry; of the coming of the vanguard of those who

     "dared to lift
     Their eyes upon that far and distant land
     That seemed to lie beyond the setting sun
     And, with a sturdy courage, paved the way
     With unmarked graves, with blood and sweat and tears
     That we, their children, might possess in peace
     This vast domain, our priceless heritage."

     What wondrous sights these frowning cliffs have looked upon! What strange beast have crept down to the waters, laved their bodies and slunk back into the deep shadows of the forest! What battles have here been fought on land and on water!
     All, all is changed. Ribbons of steel, over which run strange vehicles drawn by monsters breathing fire and smoke, have replaced the caravans drawn by Indian ponies. On the water huge boats that can easily carry a regiment have supplanted the canoe and the bateau. The white man has driven the Indian from his own, and now with the waters have swept away the ashes of his ancestors.
     The sun, flashing on serried cliff and stately palisade and kindling new glories in the woodland, must have thrown before us, for the moment, a mirage of a day long gone. We seemed to see, approaching, a long procession of canoes hewn from fallen trees. Silently they came and touched the shore. From the first, four stalwart braves lifted high a rigid burden wrapped in skins. Followed in single file a procession of copper-colored men, erect and silent. Came then the women, with hair disheveled, some moaning, some uttering loud cries and some with faces bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. But ever silent were the men, standing straight and majestic until the burden was covered from sight, then turning again to the canoes.
     The vision dissolved. We had witnessed an ancient Indian burial. When it had really happened - whether a hundred years before, or a thousand, we could not say. It had been ours to see, however - a privilege not accorded to many. If you do not believe it, go to Memaloose when the sun shines out of the clear heavens and you see what visions will be yours.
     Saddened and thoughtful, we took our way to our own boat. Shall I say that we were surprised to find it where we had left it an hour before? Neither on sandy slope or moistened bank did we discern traces of moccasined feet, yet there had been footprints there!
     A launch was passing upstream with a small barge in tow. We hailed it and it drew alongside. We threw a line aboard and soon we were headed for Rowena. As our boat touched the pebbly beach I asked the boatman the amount of the salvage. He named the price, which I paid and then I unwound from my head the red bandana which I had worn on the voyage, and presented it to him.
     It was the patent of my piracy!
     The spell was broken. We no longer pirates - no longer were we Bill and George. We had returned to the white man's civilization.

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©  Jeffrey L. Elmer