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The Overland Monthly. Vol XX. (Second Series) -- SEPTEMBER, 1892 -- No. 117.
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STAGING IN THE MENDOCINO REDWOODS. II
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   A day spent in rowing up and down 
Big River is an enviable pastime, especially 
in latter May, when not even the 
feather of a cloud mars the lovely blue 
of the sky, and water and woods are 
aglow in a downpour of sun-gold. Across 
the long bridge, where the terminal forest 
dips lightly into the white sand of 
the bar, one comes upon the summer 
camp of "Nigger Nat," who is still a 
famous hand at the oar. Indeed, Nat looks 
surprisingly young for a man who must 
be upwards of sixty-five or seventy, for 
history has it he came to the coast in '52, 
and was then in the prime of early manhood.

   "Yes, ma'am, yer right. I was the 
first white man that come to Cuffey's 
Cove, an' Portugee Frank was the next 
un."

   So said the old pioneer, as he smoked 
in the shade of a pepper-wood, just up 
from the river. It was evident the word 
"white" was not intended to be facetious, 
for the bright eyes that met mine 
had no twinkle in their depths, and the 
mobile lips wore a respectful smile. He 
probably used the term in contradistinction 
to Indian, but the humor of it was 
irresistible. One could see he was 
pleased with the prospect of a customer, 
for he rose with alacrity, called to Julie, 
his wife, to help him shove off the boat.

   Julie and the dog Bob are Nat's inseparable 
companions, and both do their full 
share toward earning the livelihood. She 
is a good-looking, middle-aged squaw, 
who amiably cooks the meals, mends 
the nets, fishes, and sets traps, and deftly 
removes the skins of lions, wild cats, and 
otter, which Bob and his master bring 
back from the hunt.


   I give Bob precedence, because in 
reality he is the more successful hunter of 
the two, rarely failing to chase down a 
deer so it takes to the water, when, with 
Nat and Julie actively on hand in the 
boat, and Bob warily on guard in the 
brush, the fate of the terrified animal is 
assured.

   Nat related his prowess, while our 
boat was midway in the stream, Bob 
decorously squatting by my side, with 
his one eye intent on the lunch basket, 
and his remaining ear -- he lost the 
other in a paw-to-paw combat with a 
wildcat -- pricked attentively. Upon 
hearing his name, he commenced 
pounding the seat with his stub tail.

   On either hand the river made sweeping 
curves through uprising banks, 
clothed with young piney growths that 
press to the verge, to mirror their graceful 
greenery in the noontide current. 
Surely, no stream was ever more 
beautifully margined than this "Bool-dam" 
of the Indian! The name signifies "big 
holes," and was suggested by the curious 
blow holes seen in the rocks near its 
mouth. The American interpretation, 
however, is "Big River," owing to its 
being the largest of the coast streams 
in Mendocino.

  We were passing a verdant level, and 
Nat pointed out a tumble-down shanty 
and corral: --

   "That's 'Ha'nted Flat,'" said he, 
pushing his hat off his forehead to wipe 
the dripping perspiration. "I don't go 
much on ha'nted things myself, but 
there's cert'nly somthin' curi's 'bout 
that place. Long ago a man killed his 
pardner there, an' since then, folks say, 
cattle put there breaks through the corral 
an' runs off. Guess it's prob'ble 
the musquiters won't let 'em stan', fur 
they's dreadful pesky here o' nights. 
One man tol' me he foun' his oxen 
ready yoked at sunrise, an' durin' the 
night he heard scary noises. Likely 
'nough 't was the 'Singin' Fish.' You 
hain't heard o' the 'Singin' Fish?' 
'Well, that's sing'lar! Some folks calls 
't the 'Drum Fish.' 'T ain't exactly 
singin' it does, but a sort o' rumble, 
soundin' mournful down the river till 
yer hair stan's up. It begins 'bout sunset, 
and last fur two'r three months 
every summer. It's a leetle too early 
fur it yet, -- say 'bout the first o' June. 
Folks come way up from the city to 
hear it, an' they's all puzzled to know 
what does the singin'; but mostly thinks 
it's a fish. I've made up my mind it's 
the bullhead, but that ain't sayin' how 
it makes the music alongside the logs."

   Here Bob gave an expressive yawn, 
and whined uneasily, while fixing his 
round, watery eye on a particular copse 
alongshore.

   "He rec'lects that spot; don't ye, 
Bob? Jest under them salmon berries 
is where he fetched a deer up once."

   Nat proved a most interesting companion. 
His strength and energy seemed 
hardly impaired by age, and his memory 
was unfailing. Before he came to Cuffey's 
Cove he ran the first ferry-boat 
between Sausalito and San Francisco, and 
charged sixteen dollars for single fare. 
His vessel was a ship's boat, schooner 
rigged, and owned by himself.

   After two or three years of ferrying, 
Nat's blood took fire at the rumors of 
splendid hunting in the Mendocino 
ranges; so he sold his boat, and forth-with 
started for the redwoods. Not 
many weeks later "Nigger Nat," as he 
was called, was accounted the best shot 
on the coast; and, in consequence, was 
of great service to lumbermen, who 
made regular contracts with him to 
furnish their supplies of meat.

   "Me an' Greenwood hunted together," 
Nat went on, while resting on his oars. 
"There was more elk here than there's 
cattle now. The trouble with elk meat, 
it's tallowy, -- like mutton fat, only more 
so. The men was always willin' to pay 
more fur ven'son, an' more fur black an' 
brown bear than fur grizzly. If we'd 
had such guns as they hev nowdays we 
would n't 'a' left any game in the country. 
Sometimes, when we's campin', 
we got so hungry fur salt I'd go fifteen 
miles to the beach to get a sack o' kelp. 
By the time I got back, there was plenty 
o' salt shook out in the bottom o' the 
sack. We used to slice up the cold livers 
o' deer and elk an' call it bread, an' 
sometimes the folks at the mills wa'n't 
no better off. I've went clean to Anderson 
Valley to git meal. It was so 
coarse we had to mix it with a spoon. 
It wn'n't long 'fore there was plenty o' 
potatoes, an' such big ones I once 
actu'lly took a pile of 'em fur firewood."

   While we lunched, and I listened to 
Nat's modest recitals, Bob was kept 
quiet by giving him cake and sandwiches. 
We were now four miles up the river, 
where there were eight thousand logs 
wedged in a boom. They had been here 
a year or more, but were in no danger of 
rotting in a much longer period, as redwood 
is quite as impervious to water as 
it is to fire. A sportsman was swinging 
his legs off one of these immense logs 
while fishing for trout.

   Big River drains a wide scope of 
forested country, and in past years millions 
of feet of logs have been floated on its 
bosom to the mill. In high tide the 
water is brackish for eight miles up from 
its mouth. In the fall salmon come in 
from the ocean, Nat declaring he had 
once hauled in fifteen thousand within 
the space of ten minutes.

   "They last till June," he said, "an' 
then comes herrin', yaller perch, an' f
lounders, an' there's always plenty 
bullheads, though a lot of 'em is killed by the 
fresh water comin' down. Ye see that 
log, like an' island with grass on top? 
When an otter's fishin' he lies on one 
them logs out o' sight in the grass, an' 
there's jest here I set my trap an' 
ketch 'em every time."

   Nat's one vanity appeared to be the 
narrow strip of otter fur ornamenting 
the neck of his woolen shirt.

   We found an easy landing, and making 
fast our boat went ashore. All about 
us were tropical ferns a dozen feet in 
height, growing in the dense shade of 
pepper-wood and pine. Several rods 
farther along a well-worn trail the shadows 
were fancifully played upon by circles 
of sunlight filtered through the 
scant drapery of white-limbed alders. 
In this sequestered grove is a narrow 
lake known as Bishop's Pond. Above its 
peaceful bosom the withe-like branches 
of the alders meet and braid themselves 
into a leafy arch, which is darkly reflected 
upon the surface. There were white 
pond lilies, Nymphoea odorata, in the lake, 
the first I had seen in California.

   When rowing homeward, the horizontal 
rays of the sinking sun lay goldenly 
upon the river, touching the young trees 
to a tenderer green, and lighting even 
the black masts of the few patriarch 
redwoods that had escaped the ax. 
The massive logs lodged out in the current 
were mimic green gardens, and every 
visible head of a "sinker" was whiskered 
and plumed with seeded grass. On a 
marshy spot a crook-necked crane waded, 
and along the sand flats near the 
mill, flocks of gulls wrangled over the 
bodies of bullhead fish washed ashore. 
Nat made powerful strokes against the 
incoming tide, and landed us among 
these gluttonous fowls when it was yet 
early twilight.