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You’re lying on your back, all alone in the shack you share with a few
other men here in the high Sierra, circa the mid - 1800’s. The bed upon which you are laying is simply an old burlap sack which once held a hundred pounds of beans, now stuffed with dry grass and placed across a few splintery planks held up off the floor by four rounds of a young cedar tree which serve as passable posts, leaving you more or less level and a foot or so above the floor. There’s a shirt gathered into a ball beneath your head; a flannel one which now has too many holes in it to any longer serve as clothing; a shirt whose red and black pattern has faded together into a dirty orange. A single candle visible from the corner of your eye casts gloom over the room, leaving most of it in shadow. But that really doesn’t matter to you since you had a bad accident today and now can’t move your head to look around this room even if you wanted to do so. As it is, you really can’t move anything since the pain in some parts of your body is so great that it makes you want to scream while other parts of your body are strangely numb. In fact, it would probably have been better if your friends hadn’t wadded up that old shirt and raised your head onto it, trying to make you more comfortable, since that simple action most likely put even more stress on your damaged back and neck. But they were only trying to be nice; only trying to make you rest a bit easier before they all went outside to talk about you where you couldn’t hear them. And you know that can’t be good. So now you’re stuck, all alone with your own thoughts, unable to move, wondering just how badly you’re hurt, how long you have left to live, and how painful the dying part is going to be. They might decide to try to send someone for a doctor, but since you’re this high up in the Sierra any doctor is going to be several days away. You’re up the creek without a paddle and you could almost laugh at the hopelessness of it, except that laughing hurts too. So, just what is medical care like in the mid-nineteenth century in the higher elevations of California? It’s scary. But before we return to our patient who is patiently waiting for either recovery or death, perhaps it might be interesting to sample what medical treatment consisted of when a logger or a miner or a trapper got sick or injured when he was up in the mountains; when doctors were too many miles and too many days away to be of help. And perusing some helpful medical literature of the day may just prove enlightening. So pour yourself a tumbler full of laudanum and sit back. Or, if you don’t happen to have any of that liquid opium laying around, whiskey will do almost as well. Let’s start with a simple problem – say, a fist fight. Two men trade punches until one of them lands a lucky shot and his opponent’s nose is broken. Blood flows freely and the fight stops. What advice is then offered to the fighter’s friends who must apply medical treatment? “When the bones of the nose are broken in they may be raised to their place by means of a quill introduced into the nostril.” This sounds potentially painful as a quill is the hard, pointed end of a feather, so tough that it had been used as a durable writing instrument for centuries. Or perhaps the men fought more violently and drew knives against each other. Every logging and mining camp had its source of contention - usually drinking or gambling – and the men involved would sometimes choose to settle the issue permanently, just between themselves. But what if a man didn’t die in that knife fight but was only wounded? “The most effectual treatment of a deep stab is to enlarge the wound. If painful swelling takes place relief must then be afforded by even further enlarging the wound. If a deep stab wound causes violent inflammation, blood must be taken from the arm.” So, the theory here seems to be that losing some blood in a knife fight can be cured by losing a lot more blood under subsequent medical care from another part of the body. But what if the two disputing men instead picked up guns? Then the following advice is offered: “Should a ball have passed into the belly or chest, there is little hope of recovery. Supply cooling drinks of barley water or gruel with additions of lemon juice or cream of tartar. The sufferer will often bleed to death in a few hours.” But it is not explained - since the poor man was going to die anyway in just a few hours - just why his last few hours should be spent sipping barley, gruel or cream of tartar. If the patient with the bullet in his belly were asked and able to respond, it would seem fairly certain that he would have opted for something a bit more alcoholic than cream of tartar for his last moments on this planet. “When a ball has struck the head, the head should be shaved and covered with a linseed poultice. Give salts to keep the bowels open. Avoid drawing blood unless he has a fever. Return of the senses is a favorable sign, otherwise death is to be apprehended.” Yes, removing blood always helps a man with a fever and a bullet in his head. And it was apparently considered of utmost importance to begin the journey into the Afterlife with open bowels. “When a ball passes through fleshy parts the chief danger arises from wounding some large blood vessel or nerve. If there is much pain, the patient should be bled and freely purged." So, if a large blood vessel is damaged, it helps to bleed the victim even more? “When the end of a limb is carried away by a cannon ball the loss of blood is seldom alarming. But you must not depend on this and wounded arteries may thus prove fatal.” Hmmm. Cannon ball wounds may prove fatal. Do you think? Yet, although bullets often flew freely, there weren’t many cannon ball injuries in the mountain camps of California. The men here were generally not looking for a fight. However, other things sometimes plagued those who were new to the mountains, especially the high altitude and thinner air which often brought on headaches. For those who were prone to migraines the brightness of the sun, especially reflecting off the snow, could trigger a migraine. But a migraine, unfortunately, was not recognized as a type of headache. It was something worse – it was Brain Fever. “The symptoms are very severe pain in the head, extreme sensitivity to light and sound, hard and rapid pulse, flushed face, wildness of talk. Firm but temperate restraint must be used to prevent mischief.” Most migraine sufferers then, as they would today, probably objected to that part about firm but temperate restraint. “From one to two pints of blood should be taken at the first bleeding, repeating this operation at intervals of a few hours till the delirium is overcome. Active inflammation of the brain usually terminates fatally within four days. In few instances it ends favorably.” Let’s see: one to two pints of blood every few hours would result in eight to sixteen pints of blood being drained from the patient the first day. If that were to be continued for four days, no wonder the patient died – the human body doesn’t hold that much blood! The only curious part of that medical instruction are the words, “usually terminates fatally”. As bad as the migraines may have been, it would seem doubtful that anyone survived the cure. The men in the Sierra were, to a man, all very hard workers. And, to a man, when they weren't working, they (almost) all sought the company of the opposite sex. But that could also lead to problems, and venereal disease often came back home with the men as an unexpected bonus of a romantic encounter with an attractive stranger. The symptoms were always unpleasant and usually quite painful. “When there is much inflammation draw blood from the arm pretty freely and open the bowels with Epsom salts. Local bloodletting is not advisable.” ‘Local’ bloodletting?!?!? “After bloodletting it will be necessary to immerse the yard in warm water.” (‘Yard’ was a term for male genitalia. An overly optimistic term, perhaps.) “Add laudanum to a pint of hot water, afterwards applying linseed oil and an oatmeal poultice.” All such patients most likely welcomed the appearance of laudanum. Oatmeal and linseed oil probably were not greeted with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “If the patient is obliged to move about he should support the yard up to the belly by means of any bandage.” (Tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree?) Unfortunately, the above problems also seemed to frequently led to a neighboring issue. “The swelled testicle frequently happens, particularly when the running has been unseasonably checked.” That is indeed an eloquent description, even poetic. “In the inflammatory stage the patient should lie on his back and a dozen leeches should be applied.” Perhaps a comment is not really necessary here, rather just a pause to allow the mental images to form clearly. Yet what about other non-violent injuries; the kind of unexpected event which might befall any man without the slightest warning? Such as a kidney or bladder stone; a stone big enough to block the flow of urine? Under the heading of ‘Gravel & Stone’, this advice is offered: “When an obstinate case of retention of urine takes place it will be necessary to make use of a catheter made of silver or elastic gum. Elastic gum catheters are safest for inexperienced hands – there is a wire inside for keeping it stiff during insertion.” Squirming yet? Crossing your legs, perhaps? “Place the patient on his back. The catheter should be well oiled. Hold the Yard in one hand and pass the instrument into the orifice, keeping the urethra stretched. The forefinger, passed into the fundament (anus), will sometimes guide the instrument.” Sometimes? What does that finger do all the other times? Returning to our friend who still lays quietly on his cot in his shack in the mountains with the feeling in his limbs fading away and his mind contemplating all the myriad possibilities while slowly accepting the inevitable, we see his friends frantically flipping through the well-worn pages of the only medical book in camp to see what advice, what hope, it may have to offer their companion. Because that advice is all they have. Doctors in California are relatively few and, like their professional compatriots in the eastern and southern states, they have so far mostly settled in the cities where the trade will provide them with a multitude of patients complaining of mostly common ailments requiring little effort and resulting in quick payment. After all, isn’t it far more desirable to treat Miss Scarlett for a case of the Vapors and get paid in gold coin rather than to treat a trapper with venereal disease and get paid with a couple of dead squirrels? And so, as our friends leaf through the faded pages in the dim light they determine what they must do: “Severe contusion of the spine is generally known by the loss of sensation and motion below the injured part. The patient may be unable to expel his own stools, or they may escape from him unconsciously.” The men pause in their reading, their eyes meet, and they nod in a knowing way. Yes, this is the correct diagnosis. “Apply a large poultice of Jalap and Cream of Tartar along the backbone until a purge of the bowels is obtained.” The men nod sagely. It is apparently well known that empty bowels help to heal just about everything, including a broken back. “Recovery may not take place.” It would seem that is a somewhat conservative statement. “But while there is life there is hope, and every attention and kindness should be paid to all sufferers from this accident.” Actually, there is no hope; not for this patient in this place at this time. His destiny is pretty much confined to the shallow grave which is already being prepared for him by the wiser members of the community, and our friend is comfortable with his fate. Because he knows that there are far worse fates which could have befallen him. And as his spirit floats away to greet whatever awaits him in the approaching Afterlife he smiles, for he is happy to have escaped without leeches being applied to his testicles or that Fundamental Finger making its entrance into his backside to (sometimes) guide his treatment. There are far worse fates than that of having to navigate between Heaven and Hell, and medical treatment in the California of a century and a half ago was one of them. Finally, there is care given to describe the symptoms of determining death should it be deemed necessary to execute a man by hanging. “From the return of the venous blood being stopped by the action of the rope around the neck the face is rendered black, the eyeballs start from their sockets, and the nostrils are wider than in a natural death.” This sounds pretty final. However, if there is still some doubt: “After the rope has been removed, the taking of blood from the jugular is advisable.” Or, if the hanging party sobers up and realizes a mistake may have been made: “The bellows may be considered the most important agent.” Well, perhaps not. If his face has gone black and his eyes are bugging out then pushing a bellows down his throat and pumping madly probably wouldn’t have helped too much. So if you were one of those adventurous men of a century and a half ago who determined that being a pioneer in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California was just the career hinted at by your high school guidance counselor, then it would have indeed been best for you if you’d been born with elastic bones, a stout genetic foundation, and an enviable resistance to all things which crawl, fly, and bite. Otherwise, in most cases, those friendly care givers who offered you medical help would probably only have succeeded in speeding your journey into the Afterlife as they probed the boundaries of known medicine with one eagerly exploring forefinger. But at least they would have made certain that you would have had very clean bowels with which to begin that journey. You would also have had a fervent wish never to be jump-started back to life with a pumping bellows only to open your eyes and find your testicles being sucked by a sack full of thirsty leeches who are slowly making their way up to that “Yard” of which you were once so justly proud. Kind of makes Medicare look good, doesn’t it?
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For those of you who do not know what a Harvey Girl is – or was – the
following definition is offered to you, lifted from the pages of history from the mid-1800’s: A young woman, aged 18 to 30, white, single, educated, willing to travel and commit herself to at least one year of work at a Harvey Hospitality House. Financial compensation of $17.50 per month (about $450.00 per month in 2016 dollars). Half of pay to be forfeited if you leave before the end of the twelve month term. Lodging and meals will be provided at no cost. All travel expenses to be paid by Fred Harvey. Sounds a little strange, do you think? Not so! Women responded to the ads by the hundreds to get away from their boring lives in Eastern cities and their even more boring lives on mid-western farms, and upon acceptance into the company they then flocked to the train stations and headed West to start new lives. Most found happiness and adventure. Few of them ever returned home in disappointment, for the rough towns and the open spaces of the west were their new homes. Fred Harvey, the man who started this vast westward migration of femininity, was born in Scotland in 1835. At the young age of seventeen he decided to leave the Highlands behind and hopped on a ship for New York, where he quickly found a job at a very busy and somewhat upscale restaurant, and over the next year and a half moved from dishwasher up to busboy, then waiter, then cook. But even more importantly, while his body was busy performing these physical tasks, his mind was also busy learning the most difficult part of the restaurant business - the importance of providing very good food at very reasonable prices with impeccable service, and of making the customer feel as welcome at his restaurant table as if he was in his own home. After those eighteen months of intense education in the restaurant business Harvey left for New Orleans and then shortly after went on to Saint Louis, where he met a lovely young woman named Barbara, got married, and happily settled into the process of making the first of their six children. But Fred missed the restaurant business, and with his new wife’s cautious yet encouraging blessing he entered into a partnership with a friend and started a restaurant in Saint Louis. But by this time the American Civil War was looming up over the horizon, making people cautious, even afraid, and Fred’s partner suddenly disappeared one night, taking all their money with him. Financially destitute, Fred abandoned the restaurant and got a job with the Hannibal & Saint Joseph Railroad, then with the Chicago, Burlington, & Quincy Railroad. He did so well at his new line of work that the company promoted him to a position in Leavenworth, Kansas, which was to become his lifetime home. Yet Fred Harvey’s influence in the world of food service was to continue expanding farther west, all the way to the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California and beyond. Fred’s employment with the railroad not only let him see the inner workings of one of the largest and fastest growing industries of that century, but it also left him feeling appalled at the way the railroads treated their paying customers when it came to serving food to the travelers. His first attempt to improve that situation came in 1873 when he opened three restaurants along the train lines of the Kansas Pacific Railroad to serve hot meals to their passengers. Those eating establishments soon failed, but they proved to be a valuable learning experience for Fred. So when, in 1876, Fred met Charles Morse who was the superintendent of the Atchinson, Topeka & Sante Fe Railroad, he was ready to make a realistic and promising pitch for food service that would profit both of them. Morse liked the proposal he was hearing and, with a simple handshake, the two men sealed an agreement that was to last for many years. Harvey soon began opening restaurants along the lines of the Atchinson, Topeka & Sante Fe in buildings owned by the railroad, and was given their use rent free by Morse. It was at this time that the above advertisement for young women began appearing in newspapers back East and in the mid-west, and this began the mass migration of young single women to the wilds of the west. The young ladies were housed in railroad buildings close to the restaurants at which they worked. They were supervised both on and off work by the Senior Ladies of the Harvey Houses. There was a strict curfew on their going out at night, and even more strict rules keeping male visitors at bay. Yet despite the rules which governed them during the days and guarded them protectively at night, most of the women seemed generally happy with their new lives. And despite being watched so closely day and night, marriage to an exciting young man whom she had met in this new adventure was the most common reason for a Harvey Girl leaving company employment. Fred Harvey was not only feeding the intestinal hungers of western men; he was also satiating their needs in other areas as well. Soon there were over eighty Harvey restaurants along the Atchinson, Topeka & Sante Fe train lines, and Fred Harvey suddenly found that he had successfully established the first American restaurant chain. They were now known as Harvey Houses, owned by Fred Harvey, run by the Fred Harvey Company, and staffed by the increasingly famous Harvey Girls, each of whom was instantly recognizable in her long black skirt, full white apron, and white bow in her hair. When the railroads decided to add dining cars to their trains Fred was the first to move into that area of service as well. Each dining room that Harvey opened, whether it was in a spacious restaurant or in a rocking railroad car, had to adhere to the same strict standards which had originally attracted Morse’s interest in the endeavor – fine food, excellent service, reasonable prices, and efficiency in feeding passengers quickly at each stop on the line – sometimes an entire train load of travelers in just a half hour. Yet such were Harvey’s meticulous standards that not only was he able to effectively do this but he was often known to ride the trains himself, traveling incognito, checking to see if each restaurant was providing food and service up to his standards. And if they were not he was often seen to descend into a tantrum and send tables and plates scattering across the floor as he shouted at the manager and waitresses in anger. It was, after all, his reputation which was at stake. But the tantrums could get expensive, because each table in a Harvey House was covered with Irish linen and set with fine English china. Harvey would always periodically return home to his beloved wife in Leavenworth to continue making those six children, but his reputation for providing good food served by pretty women continued to expand westward, farther west than Harvey himself would ever go. An example of the food which he served could be found in a ham sandwich which he had made famous. It contained three slices of freshly baked bread filled with several thick slices of ham and cheese. Really two sandwiches in one, it filled the fist of even the biggest cowboy and could be purchased for the reasonable price of fifteen cents. This menu item alone made him so famous that it was rumored he was losing money by continuing to serve it, but Fred was a man who knew the value of word of mouth advertising, so he ordered that it continue to be served at all Harvey Houses. It was said that when Harvey lay on his deathbed years later knowing that his family would want to maximize profits when they took over, the last words he uttered to his sons were words of warning; “Don’t cut the ham too thin, boys.” Even though he was dying Harvey chose the moment to send his sons an important lesson he had learned from years of building the business, and it was a message which had two levels – don’t tamper with what had made them famous, and don’t get parsimonious and become like the competition. Perhaps the most famous item on the Harvey House menu was the steak; a steak large enough to hang over the sides of a large platter, cooked to order, and served with a large potato, pie, and coffee. Price: a whopping seventy-five cents. The coffee was a bottomless cup, freshly brewed all day long. And the slice of pie was actually one quarter of a large pie, baked right there at the Harvey House. In that time it was customary for restaurants to serve a slice which was one sixth of a whole pie, and Fred chose to outclass the competition by making his pieces a full one fourth of a pie. Today it would be a twelfth. But after eating a steak the size of a stagecoach, who would have room for pie? Fred Harvey passed away in 1901 and the difficult job of maintaining his high standards fell first to his sons and then to his grandchildren. As the era of the railroads passed away in the early nineteen hundreds the Harvey Company was forced to adapt to the changing times, catering to travelers who now toured the country by car and bus in much smaller groups. The Harvey Company opened hotels to accompany their food service. In a sideline which was perhaps somewhat questionable they even brought their paying guests out into the deserts on “Indian Detours”. These would provide “genuine” performances of Native American dances, all performed by paid actors. The tour groups were always accompanied by attractive young female tour guides in clothing which might well have been a little too tight fitting for desert ware. But sex always sells, as does a properly formatted presentation of a different culture. Today it would be called a Living History Presentation, and it would pass equally unchallenged. But the decision to expand beyond the realm of the railroad and into that of the automobile was a sound one and business continued to grow. In 1946 business got another boost from the MGM musical The Harvey Girls, in which Judy Garland helped to promote the business model by helping to Tame the Wild West, Stand Up to Bad Guys, Find True Love; all the while maintaining her virgin purity until one of the Bad Guys got reformed and married her. It was at about this time that the Fred Harvey Company also expanded into the national parks, becoming licensed concessionaires in parks throughout the west, including Kings Canyon and Sequoia. Fred Harvey himself never established a restaurant in California. He never followed the trains here, nor did he open a single hotel room to a paying guest. But because his family kept close to his ideals of good service, tasty food, and reasonable prices, the enterprise which he started with just a handshake continued to grow after his death and finally reached California. Fred was dead, but his ideals lived on. So when the Harvey Company took over the job of welcoming visitors to these national parks high in the Sierra Nevada they did so with all of the grace and cordiality which had marked the early decades of the company: good food on a table attractively set; reasonable prices, and the Harvey Girl in black skirt and white apron and bow in her hair to serve them. And when people sat down to eat they felt welcome, as it should be. The Fred Harvey Company continued to provide fine service to park visitors here in Kings Canyon and Sequoia through the mid-1960’s. In 1965 the last of Fred’s grandson’s passed away and after the estate was settled the Fred Harvey Company was sold in 1968 and passed into the hands of other owners. Fred Harvey died in 1901, but his vision of fine service; his vision of Hospitality; that vision managed to survive for another six decades until Time took its toll and killed it. The Fast Food portion of the business model was now an important part of American culture (or lack thereof), but the rest was idealistic and just got in the way. But for a while – for an achingly brief moment in time – Fred Harvey brought Hospitality to this part of California; this small area of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. And Fred Harvey made this place a better place. There are few who remember that time, but many who should. Today, when one visits Kings Canyon National Park, the visitor arrives in either car or bus. The days of train travel are gone. But these things change, and perhaps that’s how it should be. Today, when that visitor steps off a bus or out of a car and seeks to satiate his hunger, he or she is no longer directed to a genteel and classy restaurant where pretty and polite young women serve them fine food on an attractive table. Today they are directed to the far end of a crowded parking lot where, next to a long abandoned gas station, they stand in line to get to a window in a trailer where they order a plate of Mystery Meat served on a bun costing ten times the price of Fred Harvey’s steak on a platter. Then it’s back on the bus, see a Big Tree, and Get the Hell Out of the Park. And Please Come Again Soon. A Roach Coach with a microwave oven has replaced Hospitality. Perhaps that is not how it should be. Now, if you have reached this point and are still wondering just what the title of this essay has to do with its content, then let me satiate your curiosity by affirming that I did indeed once date a Harvey Girl; that ideal of western American womanhood dressed in a black skirt, white apron, with white bow in her hair; that paragon of feminine youthfulness and restrained attractiveness which has been gone from the Sierra for far too long; too long for most to remember, or care. And this historical event took place in Kings Canyon in the 1960’s while Fred Harvey still proudly dispensed a refined yet elegant Hospitality to park visitors. The young lady was a fine waitress and served the Harvey steak on a platter (by then costing two dollars) with courtesy and efficiency that bespoke well of the Fred Harvey legacy. And when she had finished her shift of dispensing happiness and food to park visitors we would often go off to some remote part of the park on my motorcycle, her now bowless hair waving in the wind, to find some grassy spot and drink wine under the stars. Thinking of her now, I must admit that I miss her. Yet, if I were to be completely truthful, I must also say that I miss even more that two dollar steak on a platter, served with Elegant Hospitality. |
AuthorWith a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books. Archives
July 2017
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy, the official 501(c)(3) nonprofit partner of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks (National Park Service) and Lake Kaweah (U.S. Army Corps of Engineers), uses tax-deductible contributions to support these parks.
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy
47050 Generals Hwy Unit 10 Three Rivers, CA 93271 
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