The gold nugget protruding from a mule's hoof print glinted in the morning sun at Rich Gulch Creek as James Cluggage and John Poole packed up their mule train for the journey south to Yreka, Calif., one day late in 1851.
One of the men looked down - and almost quicker than you could holler "Gold!" the town of Jacksonville (once called Table Rock City) was born.At least, that's the legend of this small, nearly intact gold-mining town that sprang up at the base of the Siskiyou Mountains in southwestern Oregon, just 17 miles from Ashland.
Jacksonville is one of Oregon's not-so-well-known gems, a town almost lost in time. Once, it swelled with 10,000 people, mostly miners wielding pick axes and sluice boxes - and filled with dreams of striking it rich. Now, only about 2,000 people live here. Yet its downtown looks almost identical to pictures of it taken in the 1880s, except that cars have replaced buggies and the road is paved now. Most of the houses built more than a century ago still stand, some with roses blooming over white picket fences, others with stained-glass windows catching the light. Many of them are marked with small white signs bearing the name of the original owner.
The entire town has been designated a National Historic Landmark, one of only eight in the nation. In the downtown area of about one square mile, there are more than 80 historic landmarks - everything from the cemetery, which dates to 1859, to the Jeremiah Nunan House, a "catalog house," purchased through a mail-order catalog and shipped from the East Coast in pieces in 1890. Many of the structures are still in use, either as homes or businesses, and some, such as the Nunan house, are open for tours.
It is this rich history that beckons me for an overnight visit. On a Sunday afternoon, I set out from Ashland, taking U.S. Highway 99 north a few miles to Phoenix, where I connect with the Stage Road South. It's a pretty drive that meanders through a countryside dotted with orchards, farms, rolling hills and bucolic scenes of horses and cows grazing. By the time I reach Jacksonville's downtown, I am in a mellow mood. So, it appears, are the town's other visitors, who are ambling along the sidewalks, many with ice cream cones in hand or pieces of Mrs. Beekman's fudge from the Back Porch shop.
I park the car under a shady tree and wander over to what once was the train depot and what is now the Chamber of Commerce office. Bob Clark is minding the store this warm day, his fan on full blast. He's lived in Jacksonville more than 20 years but calls himself "just a newcomer."
He likes it here. "Everybody's friendly," he says. "I think that's so nice - having lived in Los Angeles for years. We never lock our doors. There's a freedom about living here."
There haven't been many changes in Jacksonville since he's been here, he notes. "We're still about 2,000 population," he says.
"As far as the town itself, I'd say the last 10 years there's been more interest in keeping the buildings up, maintaining the town," Clark says.
There's lots to see Jacksonville, he adds, and while the town is perfect for walking, another way to see it is via the motorized trolley car that rolls up and down the streets on a regular basis.
As if on cue, an open-air trolley trundles past the office, the driver ringing a brass bell. It is Stan the Trolley Man setting out on another round, Clark says.
"He'll be back in about an hour," he says.
Just enough time for me to have lunch and stroll along the street. I choose the Bella Union Restaurant & Saloon, which was built in 1856 and once housed Burpee and Linn Furniture Store. My table is by the window in the old, brick saloon where it's always 3:40, according to the big, stopped oak clock.
Refreshed, I saunter down the sidewalk, past the old United States Hotel (circa 1880) where Rutherford B. Hayes once stayed, and the 1854 Beekman Bank, Oregon's oldest bank. It is said that gold worth more than $31 million was weighed and shipped from the bank, which closed in 1912 and remains as it was. While you can't enter the building anymore, you can look through the window and see the circa 1912 facility; even the old coil Edison light still burns.
It is time for my trolley ride. I pay my $4 and climb aboard a gleaming burgundy vehicle with varnished oak seats.
"We're going to show you what you don't see walking up and down the street," says Stan the Trolley Man, who is really Stan Morkert, a schoolteacher by profession.
He rings his brass bell and we're off. "Many of those bricks that make up the buildings downtown could contain gold," he says, maneuvering the trolley down a narrow street. During the Depression, he informs us, "people were tunneling all over town looking for gold." There are still a lot of tunnels honeycombing the town, he says, and yes, there have been a few cases of buildings or cars lost due to cave-ins.
He points out houses of the town's former elite - the C.C. Beekman house, now open for living history tours; the John Orth house, which is now a b and the spectacular Queen Anne-style Nunan house, which came to town in 14 boxcars, a Christmas gift from wealthy shopkeeper Jeremiah Nunan to his family. Stan points out the black, pointed fence posts around the house, which sits on a knoll past the cemetery on Oregon Street.
"Wouldn't know they were broom handles, would you?" he asks.
The Nunan house is tinged with tragedy, Stan tells us. Two children died and the rest of the family suffered from severe stomach ailments. Nunan, apparently crazed by the pain and the loss of his children, eventually killed himself. Later, the house's water tanks were found to be lead-lined; the Nunans apparently were victims of lead poisoning.
He drives us past Jacksonville's pride and joy, the Jacksonville Museum. Built as the Jackson County Courthouse in 1883 when the town was the county seat, it is a handsome, multistory brick structure topped with a white cupola. Inside are exhibits detailing the history of Jacksonville and surrounding areas, including a tribute to pioneer photographer Peter Britt. Britt was the first to photograph Crater Lake; it is on the grounds of his former home in Jacksonville that the Britt Festival concerts and plays are held each year.
Next door, Stan points out, is the children's museum, and nearby, the Methodist-Episcopal Church. The classic white structure, it is said, was built with one night's proceeds finagled from the saloon gamblers by the women of the town.
Later, after the trolley tour, I find the best view in town - a hill overlooking the valley. But the residents can't even enjoy it; they're dead. It's the cemetery.
For those of us among the living, though, it's a site worth visiting, particularly if you take along a self-guided tour pamphlet published by the Jacksonville Booster Club. "A lot of history up there," Clark told me. Oh, yes, indeed. Most of the town's elite - the Nunans, the McCullys, the Beekmans - are buried here. Here, too, you can see the sexton's house, where a trap door leads to a vault where bodies could be kept cool until burial.
I cap my trip to Jacksonville with a visit to the Britt Festival. "The King and I" is featured this evening. Once again, I board the trolley for the ride up the hill to the festival grounds. I don't have reserved seating, but I find a spot on a step to watch the play. Around me on the grass, folks have spread blankets and are enjoying picnic dinners. The strains of Rodgers and Hammerstein fill the cool night air, and from my place on the hill, I can see the valley and five miles beyond, the twinkling lights of the city of Medford. But they could be a million miles away, the sense of the past is so strong here.