Fire at State Mental Hospital in Blackfoot, Joe Glidden Patents Barbed Wire [otd 11/24]

Early on November 24, 1889, a fire destroyed the state-run mental hospital located in Blackfoot, Idaho. The sanitarium, as it was then called, housed 47 male and 20 female patients at the time. Early accounts said 7 patients (5 men and 2 women) were missing afterwards, with two bodies found in the ruins. However, Hawley’s later History suggests that no one was killed in the fire.

South Idaho Sanitarium, now Idaho State Hospital South.
J. H. Hawley photo.

Located a half mile or so north of Blackfoot, the asylum had been authorized in 1885 and opened for patients the following year. Before then, mentally ill individuals had been housed in Oregon, under contract with that state. Officials transferred thirty-six patients (26 man and 10 women) when the Blackfoot facility opened.

After the fire, male patients were kept temporarily at the Bingham county courthouse and females at the local Methodist Episcopal Church. The institution was rebuilt at a location a few miles further north.

In 1905, the legislature funded a second state hospital; it was built in Orofino. As views on mental health issues became more sophisticated, the terms “sanitarium” and “asylum” were dropped in favor of a simple “Idaho State Hospital South” and “ … North.”

Today, Idaho is still wrestling with the proper approach, or approaches to treating people with mental health problems. Clearly, sufferers who are a danger to themselves and to others require different methods and facilities from those with lesser problems. Unfortunately, there are no easy answers.

Official drawing for Patent No. 157,124.

On November 24, 1874, the Federal government granted a patent to Joseph F. Glidden for an improved form of barbed wire. Over the years, many ideas had been tried but Glidden’s was the first effective design that could be manufactured at reasonable cost.

Homesteaders benefited first from the new product: It provided a way to protect fields from range cattle and sheep. In many jurisdictions, courts would not award damages for losses to stock unless the owner had tried to provide some sort of protection for his (or her) crops. An 1873 Idaho law said, in part, that farm fields “shall be enclosed with a good and lawful fence, sufficient to secure the crops therein from the encroachments of all kinds of domestic animals.”

Possible awards then hinged on the phrase “good and lawful fence.” A split rail fence met the criteria, but the materials were costly and difficult to obtain. In many areas, even wooden posts for stringing a wire fence had to be hauled from miles away. Still, posts and wire were far more affordable than anything available before.

Stockmen also quickly saw the advantages of fencing large expanses of range to keep it for themselves, and they had the capital to buy wire by the train car load. Thus, production of the new form jumped 60-fold a year after the patent was granted. Barbed wire fences brought their own problems, of course. The lore of the Old West is replete with stories of the fence cutters and gun-handy cowboys hired to patrol the wires.
                                                                                                                                      

References: [Brit], [Hawley], [Illust-State]

Joseph M. McFadden, “Monopoly in Barbed Wire: The Formation of the American Steel and Wire Company,” Business History Review, Vol. LII. No. 4 (Winter, 1978).

J. Orin Oliphant, On the Cattle Ranges of the Oregon Country, University of Washington Press, Seattle (1968).

Jailbreak and Recapture in Murray [otd 11/17]

On November 17, 1890, the jailer for the Murray, Idaho jail, a man named Ives, brought a carrier loaded with evening meals into the jailhouse. The load was no doubt somewhat awkward since he had rations for all six inmates. Prisoner Nicholas Tully – being held for assault with intent to kill, but considered a “trustee” – offered his help.

Murray, Idaho ca. 1907.
Central Washington University Archives.

When Ives entered the cell block, Tully and another prisoner jumped him. After a brief struggle, they overpowered Ives, then bound and gagged him. In moments, all six prisoners were free. However, it was still light, so they decided to wait for the cover of darkness.

Established in 1884, Murray (Murrayville, initially) was one of the most important Coeur d’Alene mining towns. A special election in June 1885 made it the county seat … and therefore the site of the county jail. The exact construction date is unclear, but a suitable structure was in place by 1888 at the latest.

The prisoners had already taken the jailer’s watch, money, and keys … and locked him in a cell. Now they searched the office, but could find only two revolvers. When darkness fell, they crept out of town. All the escapees were fairly hard cases: Besides attempted killer Tully, they included two who were in for grand larceny, two for highway robbery, and one for murder.

As soon as he thought it was safe, Ives managed to chew through his rope gag. After awhile, a passerby heard his calls and came in to help. The sheriff was away and no one had any spare keys, so the rescuers had to file through some of the cage bars to set him free.

A county commissioner hastily organized a small posse. The pursuers headed out at first light. Two men crossed over a local pass to Delta, about four miles west and slightly south of Murray. There, they found some trace of the escapees: The report does not say what signs they found, but in those days many men were skilled trackers.

They followed the signs south along Beaver Creek for four or five miles, and discovered the fugitives skulking through the fields. They knew the narrowing canyon would soon force the escapees back onto the road, so they hurried ahead. There, the pursuers encountered the Wallace stage driver and another man, and they agreed to help.

The two original posse men hid along the road while their new allies rushed back toward where the first two had seen the runaways. When the six fugitives straggled out of the brush, the pursuers confronted them. In a well-timed move, the stage driver and his helper sprang out behind the six with shotguns. Outgunned, the escapees surrendered without a fight.

Reference: [Hawley], [Illust-North]

Opening Day for the Academy of Idaho (Now Idaho State University) Classes [otd 9/22]

On Monday September 22, 1902, the Academy of Idaho – precursor to today’s Idaho State University – celebrated its first opening exercise. Ironically, the people of Pocatello wanted the Academy so badly, it almost didn’t get off the ground.

Pocatello, ca 1895. Bannock County Historical Society.

Pocatello was incorporated in 1889. As a major railroad junction, it grew explosively, topping 4,000 citizens by the 1900 census. After hard lobbying by locals, the governor signed a bill, in March 1901, that authorized the creation of the Academy [blog, Mar 11]. The institution would provide college prep and “industrial” (vo-tech) courses. However, the Act allocated no money to buy land for the school; that was up to the people of Pocatello. The bill set a deadline of May 1st for a site decision.

The subsequent dispute almost killed the Academy before it started. The city split mainly over whether the school should be east or west of the railroad tracks and yards. However, even within those factions, splinter groups formed to push specific sites. The wrangling continued for over six weeks. By April 30, the day before the legal deadline, they had reached an impasse. The Pocatello Tribune reported, “The Board then took a recess and a lot of people went out on the streets and swore.”

Finally, “under the gun,” they settled on what is now the lower part of the ISU campus. Forty students showed up for those first classes in 1902. By the end of the decade, school enrollment would reach nearly 300. In 1906, the Academy’s first Principal, John W. Faris, wrote, “The Academy has demonstrated beyond the question of a doubt that it fills a most important place in the educational system of Idaho.”

Academy, ca. 1914. H. T. French.

School administrators moved aggressively, adding three city blocks to the campus in 1910 and expanding the school’s offerings: night classes for adult education, winter short courses, and summer sessions. Even that early, they had aspirations to attain full four-year status. The only immediate result of their lobbying was a name change – to “Idaho Technical Institute” (ITI) – in 1915.

Recovering from a severe downturn during World War I, the school’s enrollment topped a thousand by 1920. Locals continued to push for four-year status. Finally fed up, the 1927 legislature took drastic action: They made ITI a subordinate division of the University. For the next twenty years, the Pocatello school would be the “Southern Branch of the University of Idaho.”

World War II crushed enrollment again, but afterwards about a thousand veterans attending under the G.I. Bill increased the student body to over 1,800 students. Thus, in 1947, the school became Idaho State College, an independent, four-year institution. Curriculum expansion became a major priority, and the school attained University status in 1963.

Since then the school has grown steadily. That included the addition of a major “College of Health-Related Professions” and a nearby Research and Business Park. The Park began with a large Technology Center that provided space for business start-ups and science-related spin-offs. It now contains a half-dozen substantial facilities, private and public.
                                                                                                                                     

References: [Hawley]

Merrill D. Beal, History of Idaho State College, Idaho State College (1952).

Diane Olson, Idaho State University: A Centennial Chronicle, Idaho State University (2000).

Lewiston State Normal School President George Knepper [otd 9/7]

President Knepper. J. H. Hawley photo.

Lewiston State Normal School President George E. Knepper was born September 7, 1849 in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, 40-60 miles southeast of Pittsburgh. Later the family moved to Illinois.

George did well with a “common” education, finding a job as a teacher while also doing farm work. Later, he taught part-time and served as a school administrator to help finance an A.B. degree and then a Master’s. (He would earn a Ph.D. from a Kansas university in 1904.)

Meanwhile, in Idaho, businessman James Reid coaxed a bill through the legislature to create the Lewiston State Normal School. Backers hoped to alleviate a severe teacher shortage in the state. In 1893, Reid was selected as president of the institution’s Board of Trustees. He knew Knepper through membership in the Masonic Lodge and recruited him as the school’s first President.

Then contractor problems delayed construction of a facility on the bluff overlooking Lewiston. Knepper scrambled to lease space in town, and classes began in January 1896 [blog, Jan 6]. Besides his administrative duties, Knepper taught pedagogy, math, and commercial law. The promised main building was finally dedicated during the summer.

Still, Knepper worried most about money to keep the school going. The 1897 legislative appropriation was so stingy, he removed the school’s only telephone and pared salaries and ancillary costs to the bone. The next session, two years later, added only $1,000 to the allocation. Although enrollment, and income from student fees, had increased, the school remained desperately short of funds.

Knepper turned to the local community. Lewiston residents responded with a needed piano and contributions to buy books for the beginnings of a library. At-cost donations of labor and materials also helped fund badly needed dormitories in 1897.

Knepper also appealed to the student body, urging and sometimes requiring their participation in programs to enhance the school’s sense of community. They responded to his enthusiasm, giving recitations, entertaining with musical shows, playing sports, and more.

Despite its financial problems, the Normal School grew rapidly. On a visit to Boise, Knepper spoke enthusiastically to the Idaho Statesman about their gains. The paper reported (September 29, 1901) that, “This year they have a new department of chemistry, with a very complete laboratory and a special equipment of the most modern and efficient make.”

Then, in 1902, James Reid – Knepper’s good friend and sponsor – died. Within a year, the Board asked (demanded, really) that Knepper resign. No one ever discovered a credible reason for his dismissal.

Lewiston Normal in 1915. Lewis-Clark State College.

Ironically, all his lobbying had finally persuaded the legislature to substantially increase the school’s funding, which he was not there to enjoy. Despite many ups and downs, the college grew, changing its name to Lewis-Clark State College in 1971.

Knepper found employment as president or dean at a succession of small colleges in the midwest until about 1911. That year, he returned to Kendrick, Idaho (18-20 miles east of Moscow), where his son Ralph ran a newspaper. After teaching in the area for several years, he moved to Boise to serve as Secretary for the Masonic Lodge of Idaho.

He passed away, aged 90, in Salmon, where he had gone to live with Ralph.
                                                                                                                                     

References: [Hawley]

Keith C. Petersen, Educating in the American West: One Hundred Years at Lewis-Clark State College, 1893-1993, © Lewis-Clark State College, Confluence Press, Lewiston, Idaho  (1993).

Congress Approves Appropriation for Planning the Mullan Military Road [otd 02/05]

Governor Stevens. Library of Congress.

On February 5, 1855, Congress approved a $30,000 appropriation to plan the construction of a military road from Fort Walla Walla, Washington to Fort Benton, on the Missouri River. Major impetus for such a road came from Isaac I. Stevens, Governor of Washington Territory, with support from the U. S. Army’s Department of the Columbia. Stevens had the ultimate dream of a transcontinental railroad running along a northern route, ending on Puget Sound.

In theory, a northern route to supplement the Oregon Trail would encourage Washington settlement, one of the Governor’s cherished goals. But mostly he hoped that a rail line would make Puget Sound a commercial gateway to the Orient. A fast clipper ship could reach Shanghai three or four days sooner sailing from Seattle as compared to San Francisco … saving about a week on the round trip.

The Army’s concern arose from the growing unrest among the Indians of eastern Washington. Troops stationed in the region could be supplied more easily by a road that connected with the head of steamboat navigation on the Missouri River. But a railway was most likely years in the future, so they saw a military road as a practical answer to their supply needs.

Shortly after his appointment as Governor, in 1853, Stevens had lobbied hard for a survey of a northern route. Naturally, as a trained engineer and surveyor, he could lead the expedition on his way west to take office. The lobbying succeeded, and his party started from Minnesota in June 1853. The expedition completed the survey to Fort Vancouver five months later.

But funding to build the road was slow in coming. Then, two years after Stevens completed the survey, the general Indian unrest exploded into the Yakima War. In the ensuing conflict, the Army had to make do with the supplies they had, with re-supply via the Oregon Trail. The series of conflicts continued into late 1858, and served to emphasize the need for the road. Funds were provided just months after the uprisings were suppressed.

Lieutenant John Mullan led crews east from Walla Walla in the spring of 1859. Their route headed north-northeast until it was more or less even with the south edge of Lake Coeur d’Alene, where it turned east.  Skirting the lake, the road continued up the course of the Coeur d’Alene River and crossed into Montana.

John Mullan.
Center for the Rocky Mountain West,
University of Montana.

In his report for that period, Mullan described the crossing they used as “probably” the lowest they could find, and said that he had named it "Sohon's Pass" ... “in honor of Mr. Sohon, who made the first topographical map of it in our expedition.” That name appeared on maps for many years, but today’s designation – St. Regis Pass – replaced it by around 1900.

Of course, planners had grossly underestimated the cost of cutting a road through such rough country. By the time crews reached Fort Benton, in August 1860, expenses had escalated substantially. Washouts raised the price even further. In fact, part of the road had to be rerouted, including a major diversion to the north of Lake Coeur d’Alene. In the end, the road cost about $230,000, more than double the original estimate.

As it turned out, the military made very little use of the road – which is probably why no money was ever appropriated for routine maintenance. However, it has been estimated that as many as 20,000 civilians traveled the road the very first year after it was completed.

Later roads and rail lines followed the same route to serve the Couer d'Alene mining towns – Wallace, Kellogg, Mullan, and so on – and today's Interstate-90 highway follows much the same course.
                                                                                 

References: [French]

Randall A. Johnson, “Captain Mullan and His Road,” The Pacific Northwesterner, Vol. 39, No. 2 (1995). [Reprinted at HistoryLink.org ]

John Mullan, Report on the Construction of a Military Road from Fort Walla Walla to Fort Benton, Ye Galleon Press (May 1989).

“The Mullan Road,” Reference Series No. 287, Idaho State Historical Society (December 1964).

David Wilma, “Stevens, Isaac Ingalls (1818-1862),” Essay 5314, HistoryLink.org, Online Encyclopedia of Washington State History.