Wonderland Valley and the founding of Beaverton Falls
In the summer of 1809 Henry Jean Williams (aka Henry J) and his expedition set out for the newly developing western frontier. He brought with him a party of thirty settlers who wished to find new opportunities for farming and ranching in the undiscovered territories. Westward progress into mountainous areas meant an increased threat harsh weather. In late November they became completely stalled by a severe early winter storm with high winds and heavy snow. They stopped on the plains, unable to drive their horses another step further. They set up a camp to huddle against the winter storm. Henry J knew they would not live through the winter if they didn’t find shelter soon.
They sheltered themselves from the brutal north wind behind overturned wagons and temporary structures made from the supplies they had on hand. Once everyone was settled, Henry J set out south toward a rocky mountainous area that had traditionally been avoided by explorers. He left at noon and walked tirelessly through the deep snow all day and all night. The harsh north wind was at his back, pushing him further from the camp and his expedition. It was a very risky venture, but there was no hope otherwise.
He stopped a few times, but only briefly, to rest and check his bearings against the stars and the silhouette of the Great North Ridge. He was relieved to see a glimmer of light coming from the east as the sun rose. He slowly began to realize he was descending to lower elevations with every step and the wind was decreasing. As he climbed over a large rock covered with a shallow pile of windblown snow, a beautiful valley came into view. He excitedly hustled up to the top of the rock nearly slipping and falling over the edge. The sun was rising in the east, from behind him, lighting the valley with bright colorful rays of sunshine. A wide smile slowly crossed his face as he stared for a long time admiring the magnificent scene. Then, without conscious thought, he uttered the words, “It’s a wonderland.” That was December 4th, 1809.
He made his way down the other side of the rock and into the valley. As he descended further, the sun began to warm him, and the wind had nearly ceased. A few small patches of grass remained green and some of the colorful fall leaves had not blown from the trees. It was an oasis in the middle of a land ravaged by winter storms. Though he was exhausted, he marched relentlessly toward a great stand of pines that grew straight as an arrow unaffected by years of harsh weather unlike the bent and weathered trees outside the valley. A small creek flowed down the seam of the lowland from west to east. It sparkled in the new sunlight of the day. The smell of the air was fresh, and the entire valley was quiet with only a slight windblown rustling of the upper branches of the tallest pines.
He must bring his party here, he thought, but the trip, though only a few miles, would be very difficult. The snow was deep, and the wind was treacherous. Even the trip back to his expedition party would be dangerous and he could easily get lost in the white out of the blizzard. He had no choice, their lives depended on him, so he set off on the long haul back to camp.
He trudged through the snow, exhausted, resting as little as possible since there was no time to waste. The wind was at his face, and it beat him back with harsh gusts. The sting of icy bits of snow blasted his face and eyes. He could barely see through his squinting eyes. The fierce weather threatened to freeze him in his tracks, but he lumbered on. He was able to find enough of his old trail through the snow to guide him back to camp. It took him more than eight hours, but he made it just after nightfall. The members of the expedition warmed him by the fire and helped him recover with food and water. They could see hope in his face, but he had lost his voice and the strength to communicate. They all hovered and waited for his recovery, anticipating good news.
After an hour or so, the stinging sensation on his cheeks subsided and his speech began to return. His eyes had recovered from near frostbite. His excitement started to grow as he returned to normal, and a smile crossed his face in spite of the pain from the brutal beating he had suffered by the icy wind. He started to speak and share his findings of the “wonderland valley” just a few miles south. He told them it was their only hope and they should prepare for the trip or else they would not survive winter. They would seek shelter from the ravenous north wind behind the lee of the Great North Ridge.
Everyone agreed and began preparing to leave. They would work late into the evening and be ready at first light. The wind is most calm in the morning, and it would be a good time to put the wagons back on their wheels and strike the shelters. They would work quickly, loading the supplies and children in the wagons then harness the horses extra tight for the difficult work ahead.
They left just before first light, with the wind at their back. They followed Henry J’s footsteps as well as they could, though they had been obscured by the falling snow. The men lead the way, shoveling a path for the horses and wagons. The going was slow and laborious, but they were making progress.
As the day wore on, the winds increased to their normal brutal intensity and the horizontal snow began to tear at their clothes. Any exposed skin quickly became sore from the lashing of icy snow driven by the winter gale. The expedition’s progress slowed with each hour on the trail and doubt began to set in among the party. Henry J knew he had to lead his team spiritually through the challenges of the relentless winter storm. He tirelessly shoveled snow and pushed the wagons and hailed them on. Occasionally he would take a few moments to rest and regale the party with his wondrous vision of the valley below not letting them forget their ultimate destination.
Finally, late in the evening, they reached the summit of the rock outcropping where Henry had first viewed the valley in the new light of an early sunrise. The sun was in the west now, at the far end of the valley, the opposite end of his original discovery. The far ridge was lined with the pink and blue kaleidoscope of the setting sun. It lit the valley with a surrealistic halo and encouraged the party, as each of them clamored to the top of the rocks to see it for themselves.
Renewed, they scrambled to get the horses and wagons over the rocks, pushing and pulling with all their might. Finally, they descended into the valley as the darkness of nightfall enveloped them. The wind ceased its tireless punishment, and the smell of the fresh lowlands began to fill their nostrils. They could not wait to see the valley in daylight, but for now they must rest.
They set up a temporary camp for the night, still high along the eastern edge of the valley. They slept better than they had in several weeks, in the arms of the quiet oasis of "Wonderland Valley."
As if orchestrated, the entire camp rose at first light to see the same wondrous vision that Henry J had seen a few days earlier, the sunrise shining over their shoulders, lighting the valley with fresh rays of golden sunlight. They ran down the sloping hillside into the valley toward the still flowing creek. The warmth of the air was magical and energizing. The light of day revealed tall green pines and freshly fallen leaves lining the forest floor. “It really is a wonderland” exclaimed one of the older children. They all agreed. After a short time admiring the beautiful valley, they struck the temporary camp and made their way deeper into the valley to wait out winter.
They prepared lodging along the banks of the small creek that ran down the crease of the valley. The creek had a thin sheet of ice covering most of it, but the water was still flowing beneath. It was fresh water, like spring water, clean and clear and filled with life. There was an abundance of trout visible from the surface. They could fish and forage and did as much as they could over the next few weeks, before the valley itself fell prey to the winter that would inevitably discover it hiding behind the Great North Ridge.
They easily built four small cabins from the pine trees that grew so straight. In only a couple weeks they had made a nice settlement that could easily sustain them through winter. The valley was beginning to feel like home. It had become officially known as Wonderland Valley by all the settlers.
It wasn’t long before Henry J felt the itch to explore. He had started learning the valley by hiking in ever widening circles around the camp. Finally, one day his curiosity led him to find the source of the creek that ran through its center. He followed the shoreline west, mentally mapping the sections with rocky rapids and the locations of several calm pools.
He traveled along the shore patiently observing the flora and fauna and enjoying the peacefulness he found in this island of solace in the middle a torrid winter wasteland. He had gone a couple of miles when he suddenly heard rustling, a crash and then a gentle splash into the water. There are people in the valley, he thought to himself! He quickly ran from the open shoreline to the cover of the forest edge. Ducking into the leafless fall foliage, he hid himself in case they were hostile. He made his way stealthily through the cover of the woods toward the sound. He wanted to get an estimate of the number of people and if they are organized and settled.
He proceeded with great caution for nearly thirty minutes, looking without success for signs of people in the area. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement overhead. At first it was not obvious, but with prolonged observation he noticed one tree leaning to the side while all the others stood straight. He moved cautiously in the direction of the precarious tree. As he neared, he could hear grinding sounds and peculiar slapping and scraping. He also detected movement all around the area spreading out more than fifty feet in all directions. Then the tree fell, splashing into a large calm pool at the edge of the creek.
That famous ear to ear smile that underlined his pencil mustache quickly spread across Henry J’s face. “Beavers” he said aloud to himself. Sure enough, there were beavers; at least a dozen of them he supposed. He carefully watched them from a distance to prevent disturbing them. They knew he was there and occasionally reared on their hind legs and stared at him for a few moments before heading back to work and play. The dam they had built was enormous. He had seen many beaver lodges during his explorations, but this one was more than twice the size of any he had seen before. It was at least sixty feet long. They must have lived here undisturbed for a hundred years. He immediately decided, they must remain undisturbed and protected. Men had cotton for warmth now and he never liked trapping or the trappers he met, so he would keep this place secret and protected.
He continued his journey to the mouth of the creek. He navigated the shoreline, now merged into the woods by the pond formed from the beaver dam that choked the creek. He had traveled at least another mile when he started hearing an eerie shuffling sound and irregular pinging with a pronounced reverberation. His eagerness to discover the source of these peculiar noises grew as the volume increased with his proximity to their source. Finally, he cleared the edge of the thicket between him and the sounds. He found himself on the shore of a large pool approximately one hundred feet across. He noticed it was crusted with a thin layer of ice through which he could see fish moving beneath. It reminded him of a large aquarium he had had seen in Philadelphia at the home of a sponsor for one of his expeditions. The aquarium was a wonderment in itself, and he thought he would never see another, because glass in those days was expensive and rarely wasted on pleasantries.
After only a few moments marveling at the magical ice aquarium, he raised his eye to the walls of the surrounding canyon. He scanned the far side from east to west and finally to the source of the eerie sounds he had heard while still deep in the woods. It was a waterfall. It was frozen at the top, but a steady stream of water flowed under the ice and into the pool, accounting for the shuffling sounds he had heard. Large drops of water fell from random points high along the ridge, landing on the pool. The pinging sound they created, reverberated musically through the canyon. There must be an echo, he thought. “Hello” he yelled and was startlingly answered by the clearest echo he had ever heard. It sounded as if four or five people standing around the perimeter of the pool had yelled back to him, slightly out of sync with each other. It was magnificent.
He examined the falls closely. The top of the fall was about seventy-five feet from the floor and was covered with large stalactites of ice. They were formed as the water dripped over the edge of the ice dam along the surface of the waterway above. Some were clear as crystal and others frosty white. They looked like the spires of a giant castle ripped from the walls and hung upside down along the edge of the rocky outcroppings at the head of the falls. Wonderland Valley continues to reveal her magic.
He stayed for a while, absorbing the amazing scenery that could have been the inspiration for a fairy tale. Afterword, he quickly made his way back. He would make good time on his return journey, now that he knew the way and what to expect as he traveled. He anticipated arriving at the temporary settlement and the tales he would reveal to the children around the fire that evening. You see, Henry J possessed another great gift, other than that of a brave pathfinder: he was an excellent storyteller.
As everyone huddled that night by the fireplace in the center cabin, he would disclose his findings in the most colorful words he could muster. They listened intently, fascinated by his adventure. He described the beavers he found and the great dam they built and plead with them not to share it with anyone, lest trappers come and destroy it all. He told them of the eerie sounds and alluded to a forest of magical elves before revealing the true source of the ghostly melody created by the mystical canyon of echoes. In his story he unconsciously combined his new discoveries by naming the area Beaver Falls. It stuck. They all looked forward to their chance to see Beaver Falls for themselves.
As the days passed, the beavers learned to accept the new inhabitants and felt no danger. They expanded their hunting along the creek that had now become known as Beaver Creek. The expedition party shared the small waterway with the beavers while fishing, collecting water and playing along the shores. The beavers would occasionally stop and watch the curious humans for long periods. They seemed amazed at the activities of these strange two-legged species that had come to their valley.
December had aged on the calendar, and it was near Christmas. There still had not been a flake of snow on the ground, though there had been some light flurries. There was no significant wind in the valley, and it was always peaceful and quiet. The parents would secretly make gifts for the children in anticipation of Christmas Day, but they had to hide the sound of saws and hammers with singing, as they built wonderful new toys in secrecy.
Soon it was Christmas Eve. The holidays had never been as joyous as they would be this year. The valley felt like home. Not like a fine old house in nice town or even the comfortable place where they lived with their parents as children, but like a destination determined by God for them to live their lives. Perhaps the finger of God reached down with the harsh winter storm and steered them to this place that other men had avoided because of the rugged terrain. Little did they know what lay hidden behind the Great North Ridge. The year 1809 would be the best Christmas in all their lives.
They gathered together in the largest of the cabins in the early evening of Christmas Eve. They ate and sang, and the children played while Henry J regaled them with stories of his adventures along the western frontier. Suddenly one of the elder men arose from his chair clanking on the side of his glass with a large spoon so hard it’s a wonder it did not break. “Here, here” he shouted, “listen here.” They all quieted and listened. After a short soliloquy about their great adventure, he made a proposition to all the party, “I hereby proclaim this land as our new home, and I propose we name it Beaver Town Falls.” A great cheer arose from the crowd, because all of them had the same thought. It was unanimous. They would settle in Beaver Town Falls. (Later to be simplified to Beaverton Falls.)
They stayed up late celebrating the birth of their new town, but eventually retired to their warm beds for a peaceful winter sleep.
Wonderland Valley still had one more trick up her sleeve: Christmas snow. Overnight a silent ghost strolled through the town leaving a sparkling blanket of crisp snow. The tree limbs were draped with shimmering white coverings. The ground was blanketed with eighteen inches of sound deadening white frosting. As quiet as the valley normally was, now it was dead silent. It caused everyone to sleep a little deeper and longer than usual. When they finally woke, they were stunned at the beautiful sight.
The Christmas snow in Wonderland Valley became its most magical and celebrated trait. You see, it has snowed on every Christmas Eve since the settlers came to the valley more than 200 years ago. (Probably before that; only the beavers know for sure.) In fact, it rarely snows at all, until Christmas Eve and never enough to accumulate on the ground. Wonderland Valley and Beaverton Falls are undoubtedly the best place in the world to celebrate Christmas.
Henry J would retell the stories of Beaverton Falls over and over until his dying day. He and all the original settlers lived the rest of their lives in Wonderland Valley. Henry J did make a few more excursions into the West, but he always returned. He died in Beaverton Falls in 1867 at the age of 88. There is a statue of him on the courthouse lawn. He is known as the discoverer of Wonderland Valley and founder Beaverton Falls. His discovery is celebrated on the day he first saw the valley from the icy rock at the eastern corner of the Great North Ridge, Dec 4. Every year since 1906 the Beaverton Falls Fire Department has hosted a parade in celebration of Founders Day and Christmas Day on Dec 4th. Also, there is a Founders Day play held right before the Christmas Pageant at Beaverton Falls Church on that same night. Several of the town people, young and old, participate in the play. The Beaverton Carolers provide the music for the Founders Day production, after they make their rounds in town. Traditionally, the eldest member of the city council proudly plays the part of Henry J. You may see them on their way to the church wearing period costumes in preparation for the play.
Copyrighted to the Author - 2016 36305
In the summer of 1809 Henry Jean Williams (aka Henry J) and his expedition set out for the newly developing western frontier. He brought with him a party of thirty settlers who wished to find new opportunities for farming and ranching in the undiscovered territories. Westward progress into mountainous areas meant an increased threat harsh weather. In late November they became completely stalled by a severe early winter storm with high winds and heavy snow. They stopped on the plains, unable to drive their horses another step further. They set up a camp to huddle against the winter storm. Henry J knew they would not live through the winter if they didn’t find shelter soon.
They sheltered themselves from the brutal north wind behind overturned wagons and temporary structures made from the supplies they had on hand. Once everyone was settled, Henry J set out south toward a rocky mountainous area that had traditionally been avoided by explorers. He left at noon and walked tirelessly through the deep snow all day and all night. The harsh north wind was at his back, pushing him further from the camp and his expedition. It was a very risky venture, but there was no hope otherwise.
He stopped a few times, but only briefly, to rest and check his bearings against the stars and the silhouette of the Great North Ridge. He was relieved to see a glimmer of light coming from the east as the sun rose. He slowly began to realize he was descending to lower elevations with every step and the wind was decreasing. As he climbed over a large rock covered with a shallow pile of windblown snow, a beautiful valley came into view. He excitedly hustled up to the top of the rock nearly slipping and falling over the edge. The sun was rising in the east, from behind him, lighting the valley with bright colorful rays of sunshine. A wide smile slowly crossed his face as he stared for a long time admiring the magnificent scene. Then, without conscious thought, he uttered the words, “It’s a wonderland.” That was December 4th, 1809.
He made his way down the other side of the rock and into the valley. As he descended further, the sun began to warm him, and the wind had nearly ceased. A few small patches of grass remained green and some of the colorful fall leaves had not blown from the trees. It was an oasis in the middle of a land ravaged by winter storms. Though he was exhausted, he marched relentlessly toward a great stand of pines that grew straight as an arrow unaffected by years of harsh weather unlike the bent and weathered trees outside the valley. A small creek flowed down the seam of the lowland from west to east. It sparkled in the new sunlight of the day. The smell of the air was fresh, and the entire valley was quiet with only a slight windblown rustling of the upper branches of the tallest pines.
He must bring his party here, he thought, but the trip, though only a few miles, would be very difficult. The snow was deep, and the wind was treacherous. Even the trip back to his expedition party would be dangerous and he could easily get lost in the white out of the blizzard. He had no choice, their lives depended on him, so he set off on the long haul back to camp.
He trudged through the snow, exhausted, resting as little as possible since there was no time to waste. The wind was at his face, and it beat him back with harsh gusts. The sting of icy bits of snow blasted his face and eyes. He could barely see through his squinting eyes. The fierce weather threatened to freeze him in his tracks, but he lumbered on. He was able to find enough of his old trail through the snow to guide him back to camp. It took him more than eight hours, but he made it just after nightfall. The members of the expedition warmed him by the fire and helped him recover with food and water. They could see hope in his face, but he had lost his voice and the strength to communicate. They all hovered and waited for his recovery, anticipating good news.
After an hour or so, the stinging sensation on his cheeks subsided and his speech began to return. His eyes had recovered from near frostbite. His excitement started to grow as he returned to normal, and a smile crossed his face in spite of the pain from the brutal beating he had suffered by the icy wind. He started to speak and share his findings of the “wonderland valley” just a few miles south. He told them it was their only hope and they should prepare for the trip or else they would not survive winter. They would seek shelter from the ravenous north wind behind the lee of the Great North Ridge.
Everyone agreed and began preparing to leave. They would work late into the evening and be ready at first light. The wind is most calm in the morning, and it would be a good time to put the wagons back on their wheels and strike the shelters. They would work quickly, loading the supplies and children in the wagons then harness the horses extra tight for the difficult work ahead.
They left just before first light, with the wind at their back. They followed Henry J’s footsteps as well as they could, though they had been obscured by the falling snow. The men lead the way, shoveling a path for the horses and wagons. The going was slow and laborious, but they were making progress.
As the day wore on, the winds increased to their normal brutal intensity and the horizontal snow began to tear at their clothes. Any exposed skin quickly became sore from the lashing of icy snow driven by the winter gale. The expedition’s progress slowed with each hour on the trail and doubt began to set in among the party. Henry J knew he had to lead his team spiritually through the challenges of the relentless winter storm. He tirelessly shoveled snow and pushed the wagons and hailed them on. Occasionally he would take a few moments to rest and regale the party with his wondrous vision of the valley below not letting them forget their ultimate destination.
Finally, late in the evening, they reached the summit of the rock outcropping where Henry had first viewed the valley in the new light of an early sunrise. The sun was in the west now, at the far end of the valley, the opposite end of his original discovery. The far ridge was lined with the pink and blue kaleidoscope of the setting sun. It lit the valley with a surrealistic halo and encouraged the party, as each of them clamored to the top of the rocks to see it for themselves.
Renewed, they scrambled to get the horses and wagons over the rocks, pushing and pulling with all their might. Finally, they descended into the valley as the darkness of nightfall enveloped them. The wind ceased its tireless punishment, and the smell of the fresh lowlands began to fill their nostrils. They could not wait to see the valley in daylight, but for now they must rest.
They set up a temporary camp for the night, still high along the eastern edge of the valley. They slept better than they had in several weeks, in the arms of the quiet oasis of "Wonderland Valley."
As if orchestrated, the entire camp rose at first light to see the same wondrous vision that Henry J had seen a few days earlier, the sunrise shining over their shoulders, lighting the valley with fresh rays of golden sunlight. They ran down the sloping hillside into the valley toward the still flowing creek. The warmth of the air was magical and energizing. The light of day revealed tall green pines and freshly fallen leaves lining the forest floor. “It really is a wonderland” exclaimed one of the older children. They all agreed. After a short time admiring the beautiful valley, they struck the temporary camp and made their way deeper into the valley to wait out winter.
They prepared lodging along the banks of the small creek that ran down the crease of the valley. The creek had a thin sheet of ice covering most of it, but the water was still flowing beneath. It was fresh water, like spring water, clean and clear and filled with life. There was an abundance of trout visible from the surface. They could fish and forage and did as much as they could over the next few weeks, before the valley itself fell prey to the winter that would inevitably discover it hiding behind the Great North Ridge.
They easily built four small cabins from the pine trees that grew so straight. In only a couple weeks they had made a nice settlement that could easily sustain them through winter. The valley was beginning to feel like home. It had become officially known as Wonderland Valley by all the settlers.
It wasn’t long before Henry J felt the itch to explore. He had started learning the valley by hiking in ever widening circles around the camp. Finally, one day his curiosity led him to find the source of the creek that ran through its center. He followed the shoreline west, mentally mapping the sections with rocky rapids and the locations of several calm pools.
He traveled along the shore patiently observing the flora and fauna and enjoying the peacefulness he found in this island of solace in the middle a torrid winter wasteland. He had gone a couple of miles when he suddenly heard rustling, a crash and then a gentle splash into the water. There are people in the valley, he thought to himself! He quickly ran from the open shoreline to the cover of the forest edge. Ducking into the leafless fall foliage, he hid himself in case they were hostile. He made his way stealthily through the cover of the woods toward the sound. He wanted to get an estimate of the number of people and if they are organized and settled.
He proceeded with great caution for nearly thirty minutes, looking without success for signs of people in the area. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement overhead. At first it was not obvious, but with prolonged observation he noticed one tree leaning to the side while all the others stood straight. He moved cautiously in the direction of the precarious tree. As he neared, he could hear grinding sounds and peculiar slapping and scraping. He also detected movement all around the area spreading out more than fifty feet in all directions. Then the tree fell, splashing into a large calm pool at the edge of the creek.
That famous ear to ear smile that underlined his pencil mustache quickly spread across Henry J’s face. “Beavers” he said aloud to himself. Sure enough, there were beavers; at least a dozen of them he supposed. He carefully watched them from a distance to prevent disturbing them. They knew he was there and occasionally reared on their hind legs and stared at him for a few moments before heading back to work and play. The dam they had built was enormous. He had seen many beaver lodges during his explorations, but this one was more than twice the size of any he had seen before. It was at least sixty feet long. They must have lived here undisturbed for a hundred years. He immediately decided, they must remain undisturbed and protected. Men had cotton for warmth now and he never liked trapping or the trappers he met, so he would keep this place secret and protected.
He continued his journey to the mouth of the creek. He navigated the shoreline, now merged into the woods by the pond formed from the beaver dam that choked the creek. He had traveled at least another mile when he started hearing an eerie shuffling sound and irregular pinging with a pronounced reverberation. His eagerness to discover the source of these peculiar noises grew as the volume increased with his proximity to their source. Finally, he cleared the edge of the thicket between him and the sounds. He found himself on the shore of a large pool approximately one hundred feet across. He noticed it was crusted with a thin layer of ice through which he could see fish moving beneath. It reminded him of a large aquarium he had had seen in Philadelphia at the home of a sponsor for one of his expeditions. The aquarium was a wonderment in itself, and he thought he would never see another, because glass in those days was expensive and rarely wasted on pleasantries.
After only a few moments marveling at the magical ice aquarium, he raised his eye to the walls of the surrounding canyon. He scanned the far side from east to west and finally to the source of the eerie sounds he had heard while still deep in the woods. It was a waterfall. It was frozen at the top, but a steady stream of water flowed under the ice and into the pool, accounting for the shuffling sounds he had heard. Large drops of water fell from random points high along the ridge, landing on the pool. The pinging sound they created, reverberated musically through the canyon. There must be an echo, he thought. “Hello” he yelled and was startlingly answered by the clearest echo he had ever heard. It sounded as if four or five people standing around the perimeter of the pool had yelled back to him, slightly out of sync with each other. It was magnificent.
He examined the falls closely. The top of the fall was about seventy-five feet from the floor and was covered with large stalactites of ice. They were formed as the water dripped over the edge of the ice dam along the surface of the waterway above. Some were clear as crystal and others frosty white. They looked like the spires of a giant castle ripped from the walls and hung upside down along the edge of the rocky outcroppings at the head of the falls. Wonderland Valley continues to reveal her magic.
He stayed for a while, absorbing the amazing scenery that could have been the inspiration for a fairy tale. Afterword, he quickly made his way back. He would make good time on his return journey, now that he knew the way and what to expect as he traveled. He anticipated arriving at the temporary settlement and the tales he would reveal to the children around the fire that evening. You see, Henry J possessed another great gift, other than that of a brave pathfinder: he was an excellent storyteller.
As everyone huddled that night by the fireplace in the center cabin, he would disclose his findings in the most colorful words he could muster. They listened intently, fascinated by his adventure. He described the beavers he found and the great dam they built and plead with them not to share it with anyone, lest trappers come and destroy it all. He told them of the eerie sounds and alluded to a forest of magical elves before revealing the true source of the ghostly melody created by the mystical canyon of echoes. In his story he unconsciously combined his new discoveries by naming the area Beaver Falls. It stuck. They all looked forward to their chance to see Beaver Falls for themselves.
As the days passed, the beavers learned to accept the new inhabitants and felt no danger. They expanded their hunting along the creek that had now become known as Beaver Creek. The expedition party shared the small waterway with the beavers while fishing, collecting water and playing along the shores. The beavers would occasionally stop and watch the curious humans for long periods. They seemed amazed at the activities of these strange two-legged species that had come to their valley.
December had aged on the calendar, and it was near Christmas. There still had not been a flake of snow on the ground, though there had been some light flurries. There was no significant wind in the valley, and it was always peaceful and quiet. The parents would secretly make gifts for the children in anticipation of Christmas Day, but they had to hide the sound of saws and hammers with singing, as they built wonderful new toys in secrecy.
Soon it was Christmas Eve. The holidays had never been as joyous as they would be this year. The valley felt like home. Not like a fine old house in nice town or even the comfortable place where they lived with their parents as children, but like a destination determined by God for them to live their lives. Perhaps the finger of God reached down with the harsh winter storm and steered them to this place that other men had avoided because of the rugged terrain. Little did they know what lay hidden behind the Great North Ridge. The year 1809 would be the best Christmas in all their lives.
They gathered together in the largest of the cabins in the early evening of Christmas Eve. They ate and sang, and the children played while Henry J regaled them with stories of his adventures along the western frontier. Suddenly one of the elder men arose from his chair clanking on the side of his glass with a large spoon so hard it’s a wonder it did not break. “Here, here” he shouted, “listen here.” They all quieted and listened. After a short soliloquy about their great adventure, he made a proposition to all the party, “I hereby proclaim this land as our new home, and I propose we name it Beaver Town Falls.” A great cheer arose from the crowd, because all of them had the same thought. It was unanimous. They would settle in Beaver Town Falls. (Later to be simplified to Beaverton Falls.)
They stayed up late celebrating the birth of their new town, but eventually retired to their warm beds for a peaceful winter sleep.
Wonderland Valley still had one more trick up her sleeve: Christmas snow. Overnight a silent ghost strolled through the town leaving a sparkling blanket of crisp snow. The tree limbs were draped with shimmering white coverings. The ground was blanketed with eighteen inches of sound deadening white frosting. As quiet as the valley normally was, now it was dead silent. It caused everyone to sleep a little deeper and longer than usual. When they finally woke, they were stunned at the beautiful sight.
The Christmas snow in Wonderland Valley became its most magical and celebrated trait. You see, it has snowed on every Christmas Eve since the settlers came to the valley more than 200 years ago. (Probably before that; only the beavers know for sure.) In fact, it rarely snows at all, until Christmas Eve and never enough to accumulate on the ground. Wonderland Valley and Beaverton Falls are undoubtedly the best place in the world to celebrate Christmas.
Henry J would retell the stories of Beaverton Falls over and over until his dying day. He and all the original settlers lived the rest of their lives in Wonderland Valley. Henry J did make a few more excursions into the West, but he always returned. He died in Beaverton Falls in 1867 at the age of 88. There is a statue of him on the courthouse lawn. He is known as the discoverer of Wonderland Valley and founder Beaverton Falls. His discovery is celebrated on the day he first saw the valley from the icy rock at the eastern corner of the Great North Ridge, Dec 4. Every year since 1906 the Beaverton Falls Fire Department has hosted a parade in celebration of Founders Day and Christmas Day on Dec 4th. Also, there is a Founders Day play held right before the Christmas Pageant at Beaverton Falls Church on that same night. Several of the town people, young and old, participate in the play. The Beaverton Carolers provide the music for the Founders Day production, after they make their rounds in town. Traditionally, the eldest member of the city council proudly plays the part of Henry J. You may see them on their way to the church wearing period costumes in preparation for the play.
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