There Was No Superfluity of Luxuries. But They Just Enjoyed
Themselves in the Snow Covered Wilderness.

Missoula, Dec. 21, --"What did I do on the first Christmas I spent in Missoula?" said Judge Woody last night, repeating the question asked him by a Standard Reporter. "Well, I hardly remember, it was so long ago. But I do recollect where I was and perhaps I can recall for you some of the incidents of the day."

Thereupon, the judge, becoming interested himself as the incidents of that long ago Christmas came back to him, told in graphic manner, the following story of the first Christmas ever spent by white men in the Missoula valley. It is impossible to present the story upon paper in the delightful way in which the narrator recited it, but the incidents are interesting and are moreover, historical and are well worth presenting.

"It was Christmas, 1856, "said the judge, "and I was camped on a beautiful island of about 200 acres, which was at that time in the river almost exactly opposite the present residence of Frank Promo. It was formed of a sort of slough, but it was covered with as fine timber as you ever laid eyes on and we were busy cutting it down. The island was known as Council Grove and was a historic spot. The year before we camped there, 1865, Governor Stevens had met the Flathead chief there in council and had signed with them the first treaty by which they ceded any portion of their lands to the United States. This was then a part of Shoshone county, Washington, with the county seat at Fort Caldwell. Stevens was governor of the territory of Washington and ex-officio superintendent of Indian affairs. Our camp was in the middle of the grove, where the council had been held, and we slept in a big Indian lodge made of buffalo skins. It was a magnificent camp and the winter was spent there was a pleasant one.

"What was where the city of Missoula stands? Nothing but snow on this Christmas day. It was snow, snow everywhere as far as eye could reach. There was nothing like a house nearer than Stevensville, where Major Owens had two or three cabins inside the enclosure now known as the ‘adobe fort,’ which was then surrounded by a stockade. To the east, the nearest permanent habitation was to Fort Benton, and beyond that there was nothing until you got to old Fort Union, at the mouth of the Yellowstone. There were also a few cabins up at St. Ignatius mission, where the Jesuit fathers had even then located. But here in the Missoula valley we were all alone and on this Christmas Day we had not seen a white man for weeks, except the members of our own family.

There were six of us, a man named Jackson, Bill Madison, Bill West Jim Holt, myself and our employer, a Scotsman named MacArthur, an old Hudson Bay company man. We were getting out timber for a trading post, which he proposed to build, but which was never constructed. Despite the fact that we were alone, we had a merry time. The boys were a jolly, companionable lot of fellows and worked well together. Jackson, Madison and I were axemen. West did the hauling and Holt, who was an Englishman and couldn’t use the axe, did the cooking. I don’t know what became of the other men. I haven’t heard of them for years.

[line missing]
long journeys, the men with the wagons paired off and West’s partner was a man named Bean. The two were so intimate that they gained the names of ‘Pork and Beans’ and poor ‘Pork’s name clung to him, even after ‘Beans" had dropped from the party.

"We were well provisioned, having plenty of flour and bacon and beef and we could get from the Indians all the fish we wanted. On this Christmas day we worked part of the day—there was nothing else to do—and took a part of the afternoon to rest in and dream of our homes in the East and the Christmas days that we had spent there in years gone by. I believe that Holt gave us a little extra dish for Christmas dinner, but the possibilities were not great and, though the dinner tasted good, it was not what you would call a swell Christmas dinner by any means. One thing I do remember. We had nothing but water and coffee to drink. There was no Christmas punch drink. There was no egg nog, for we had no liquor in the camp. But there was a hearty good fellowship and cheer and, despite the conditions, that Christmas was a pleasant one. We told stories of our homes, and 'Pork’ told us more about his wife and sister, until we laughed and laughed again. Our meals were laid upon a half cured buffalo hide, hard and stiff, spread upon the ground with the hair down. There was no linen and no silver, but it was a merry meal and we all enjoyed it. I think that it was at this dinner that ‘Pork’ looked up at our employer, MacArthur, who was as bard as a billiard cue and very sensitive, and said, ‘Mister MacArthur, you remind me of an uncle I had once.’

"’Do I? How’s that?’

"’He used to eat so much beef that his mouth and throat became coated with tallow, so we had to pour hot wata’ on his head to melt the tallow and his hair all came off.’

"Poor MacArthur turned red and looked uncomfortable, but we all laughed so hard that he didn’t turn West loose, as I feared he might. So the day went, and we enjoyed it fully. That was, as far as I know, the first Christmas ever spent by white men in this valley. I have spent a good many here since then, but none that were ever happier than this one."

  Submitter: Michael A. Woody, Descendant