Heroes and rascals, shipwrecks and lost gold: Strange but true stories and secrets of Oregon's wild past | Offbeat Oregon History The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (now known as Osho -- yes, THAT Osho) as he appeared when he lived in Wasco County with his followers. That's also him in the white Rolls-Royce surrounded by followers, in a scene from Rajneeshpuram. (Four-part story starts with Column No. 73, May 9, 2010 While doing some cleaning-up around the Odd Fellows Hall in Scio, a local girl found a tiny coffin with this partial skeleton inside. Whose? We'll probably never know ... (Story No. 204, Oct. 14, 2012) The ever-elusive D.B. Cooper peeks into the page from behind his signature shades. The story of his skyjacking exploit starts with episode 237, from June 2, 2013. Meet Kitty Kat, the wealthiest feline in the state of Oregon and landlord to the City of Tangent. Kitty Kat, until he died at a ripe old age in 1995, owned City Hall. (Story No. 163, Jan. 8, 2012) This crazy-looking speedboat was the invention of Portland wizard Victor Strode. The city commissioned a harbor patrol boat based on his design, but it didn't work out. (Story No. 201, Sept. 23, 2012) The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (now known as Osho -- yes, THAT Osho) as he appeared when he lived in Wasco County with his followers. That's also him in the white Rolls-Royce surrounded by followers, in a scene from Rajneeshpuram. (Four-part story starts with Column No. 73, May 9, 2010 This is the roof of the Franz Bread Rest Hut at Pixieland, the Oregon Coast's ill-starred answer to Disneyland, which opened in 1969 and went out of biz in 1974. The Rest Hut consisted of a giant fiberglass loaf of bread sticking out of the top of this giant fiberglass hollow log, the whole thing towering over a log-flume roller coaster ride. It's probably the most campily awesome example of the proud display of crass commercialism that was Pixieland. (Column No. 52 - Dec. 6, 2009)
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Skid Road alcoholics knew denatured alcohol might make you sick, but it wouldn't kill you. Until one day, it did.


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Iconic movies shot in Oregon

A three-part series covering 16 of the most influential Oregon films, from 1908 to 1989.


An illustration of a group of smugglers bringing opium and illegal Chinese immigrants into Oregon, from a 1889 issue of Portland-based magazine The West Shore. (Image: UO Libraries)

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A century ago, the drug's mysterious, smoky allure held society spellbound. And Portland was the West Coast's main supply point.


The fully restored PT-658 as seen from the sidewalk on the Hawthorne Bridge during the 2011 Rose Festival. On this occasion, the PT-658 inadvertently intruded into the dragonboat races, which were then in progress, and quickly retreated back downriver – but not before giving the dragonboat-racing spectators on the bridge a spectacular view of its deck armaments. (Image: F.J.D. John)

The world's only working PT boat is docked in Portland

The PT-658 is among the last of its kind, and it's the only one that still goes out on the water.


The second pressing of The Kingsmen's "Louie Louie" record, on the Wand label. This bodgey, lo-fi monophonic recording, with its inscrutable lyrics and driving yet languid style, got thousands of parents worried about possible obscene lyrics, and was even banned in Illinois.

Bad recording job led to an F.B.I. investigation for Portland band

No one could understand the lyrics in The Kingsmen's recording of 'Louie Louie," but many tried ... and some of them had rather dirty minds.


Actor Justus Barnes takes a shot straight into the camera at the end of a 10-minute silent Edison Films production called 'The Great Train Robbery,' the filming of which started in November 1903 – two months after Bill Miner’s gang tried to rob the train just outside Portland. It’s hard to miss the similarity between Barnes’ character and Bill Miner.

How Bill Miner learned to rob trains ... he learned the hard way.

But his botched Portland job appears to have inspired an iconic 1903 movie called 'The Great Train Robbery' a month or two later. Maybe he even watched it later ... in prison.


A scene from the Disney movie "Saludos Amigos" (1943), a sort of cartoon-character tour of South America. This scene is from the Argentina part, with Goofy dressed as a gaucho. In this cartoon and most others, Goofy was voiced by Pinto Colvig.

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Vance "Pinto" Colvig, from Jacksonville, was a pioneer in animated cartoons and a gifted show-biz man.


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The tawdriest love triangle in the history of the universe.

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Graft, corruption, racketeering, and ... uh, pinball?

Until just a few dozen years ago, pinball was illegal, and the mobbed-up characters who supplied the games played for keeps.


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An artist's sketch of what D.B. Cooper may have looked like, from an FBI bulletin sent out shortly after the skyjacking.

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In Crook County, the early 1880s were like a Louis L'Amour novel. And it all started with the lynching of an innocent man.


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He abandoned his family, changed his name, moved to Oregon, bilked widows and orphans in two big real-estate swindles ... and was promptly elected to Congress.


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Oregon inventor Victor Strode’s revolutionary boat, the 'aerohydrocraft,' made the front cover of the March 1931 issue of Popular Science. The design didn't prove a useful one for the City of Portland, though, and the larger model the city commissioned to function as a harbor police boat didn't work out.

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How the Oregon Coast almost lost the Peter Iredale to a scrap-metal shark

An Oregon City man claimed he'd inherited the rights from his father, and demanded to be allowed to cut it up and haul it away. He almost got away with this little swindle.


Commander Dave Scott salutes the U.S. flag, which has just been planted on the surface of the moon. A small piece of Oregon lava rock, carried to the moon by Scott's fellow astronaut Jim Irwin, lies within this photo, next to one of the many bootprints. (Image: NASA)

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James Lappeus, former Portland Chief of Police. He eventually was fired over allegations that he'd offered to 'accidentally' leave the jailhouse door open for a convicted murderer if his wife paid a $1,000 bribe.

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James Lappeus came to Portland to open a saloon and "theater." Despite his checkered past — or maybe because of it — he was named city marshal and, later, Chief of Police. Here's the story.


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A Portland real-estate guy found a loophole in the law and claimed a patch of beach for his own, and his friends in the state Legislature tried to keep it that way. Here's the story.


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This spooky-looking Portland mansion was home of a 'starvation cult'

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The archway monument leading up to the Wallowa County Courthouse,  built in 1936. The bronze plaque on the inside left of the arch includes  the name of murderer and horse thief Bruce “Blue” Evans.

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Title screen from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Mel Blanc, the legendary Looney Toons voice man, grew up in Portland.

The voice of Bugs Bunny went to high school in Portland

Legendary Hollywood voice man Mel Blanc's teachers weren't too impressed with his voice talents, but Oregon radio listeners and cartoon fans sure were. Here's the story.


Offbeat Oregon History: Album cover art

Pioneer Chinese doctor was a municipal treasure in John Day

Settlers in John Day in the late 1800s learned the healer of Kam Wah Chung could cure diseases others couldn't; all his patients survived the fatal Spanish Flu epidemic in 1919

The Kam Wah Chung building in John Day, as it appears today.
(Image: Finetooth/Wikimedia)

EDITOR'S NOTE: This article is a "reboot" of one of the very earliest Offbeat Oregon History articles I wrote — back in late 2008, although it was published early the following year. At that time, my skills as a public historian were very much in the "greenhorn" stage, and I'm afraid the earlier article kind of shows it. Its brevity and lack of historical context, applied to such an interesting topic, have bothered me for some time, so with this article I return to the topic to do it greater justice. If you're curious, the earlier article can be found here.

In the decade or two following the 1849 gold rush, a sort of “bracero” program got started in the western U.S. Chinese laborers — called “coolies” after the Chinese term “ku li,” meaning “muscle strength” — poured across the ocean to the land they called “Gold Mountain,” eager to do the dirty, menial and degrading jobs that were left to be done when all the Euro-Americans were off looking for gold or staking a homestead claim.

Little is known today about the Chinese. Most had great difficulty learning English and spoke a pidgin version that the U.S. and British settlers found amusing, but not very useful as a basis for social connections. And most of their records were destroyed when San Francisco burned following the great earthquake in 1906.

What is known is that the Chinese in early Oregon were treated as second-class citizens — openly so. By far the most horrific demonstration of how bad this discrimination could get is the massacre of 34 miners at Chinese Massacre Cove in 1887 (here's a link to the Offbeat Oregon article about that event). But there are also unconfirmed stories — of a gang of Chinese laborers deliberately entombed in tunnels with a dynamite blast at the end of a railroad job by an evil boss looking to save the cost of paying them off, and of “accidental” shootings of Chinese fellows caught outdoors after dark in violation of “sundown rules,” and more.

And when the need for cheap muscle began to fade with the completion of the transcontinental railroad lines, the U.S. government hastened to slam the door with the Chinese Exclusion Act, locking their second-class-citizen status in by statute.

But in John Day, there was one Chinese man whom the local residents would “posse up” to protect, if they had to. His name was Ing Hay — better known as Doc Hay — and he was a skilled Chinese physician.

Ing “Doc” Hay as he appeared at around age 30. (Image: Oregon
Historical Society)

Hay was born in 1862 in the impoverished and opium-ravaged Guangdong province in China. He came to the U.S. twenty years later, leaving a wife and daughter in the old country.

At first Hay did ku li work in the Walla Walla area, but later he moved to John Day, where he met a fellow traveler from the same part of China, a man named Lung On.

Lung On — known to his Western friends as Leon — was a highly unusual man, and by all accounts a true genius. He arrived in the U.S. in 1882, and by 1887 he’d mastered English with enough fluency to fit in in mainstream society — most Chinese people never moved past crude pidgin jargon. He soon was riding with cowboys, wearing a six-shooter and bending elbows and playing cards with buckaroos in saloons. He moved easily and fluently between the two worlds — the underground world of Chinese expats living apart from the “barbarians,” and the mainstream English-speaking world of farmers and merchants and cowboys. And pretty much everybody loved him.

When the first automobiles arrived on the scene shortly after the turn of the century, Lung On became an enthusiastic early adopter, and with a partner opened a Pontiac dealership — the first auto dealership in Oregon east of the Cascades.

Lung On (left) and Chung On, late 1800s. Lung On was the 'publicist' for legendary Chinese herbalist Ing Hay.
Chung and Lung On (Lung is on the right), photographed when they were
still relatively young men, probably in the 1890s. (Image: Kam Wah
Chung State Heritage Site) [More images: See OPB "Oregon Experience"
slideshow
]

In Ing Hay, Lung On knew he’d found a man as extraordinary as himself. Hay was a trained and successful pulsologist — meaning he was trained in diagnosing medical issues by just feeling the pulse of the patient in different parts of the body. Today, this sounds like new-age hokum, and so perhaps it is; but it’s part of a long tradition of medical practice in China, and even there very few people were able to practice it. Hay was clearly one of them, and it enabled him to perform a sort of parlor trick to demonstrate his competence:

“Former patients of Doc Hay state that he often told them what was wrong with them before they said anything to him,” Barlow and Richardson report in their book. “In fact, Hay delighted in surprising his patients with this diagnostic technique.”

This gifted but reticent healer and this boisterous and friendly showman soon went into business together, forming a company and a friendship that would last for the rest of their lives: The Kam Wah Chung company — “Golden Flower of Prosperity.”

Hay proved especially effective in dealing with what was known, in the day, as “blood poisoning” — septic infections.

And septic infections were a big deal. Back then, every time you cut your hand or even pricked it on the wrong piece of barbed-wire fence, you faced a real risk of death. If you were unlucky, your hand would swell up the size of a grapefruit, red streaks would appear on your skin moving toward your heart, and you'd die. Western medicine, at the time, was essentially powerless against this. And everybody in Eastern Oregon was constantly working around livestock and barbed wire. Blood poisoning was a leading cause of death in rural 1880s Oregon.

Doc Hay’s blood-poisoning cure was an herbal decoction that he cooked up at the Kam Wah Chung building and sealed up in quart beer bottles. A patient would pour out a 12-ounce draft of the stuff, which of course tasted horrible; but after faithfully following the course Doc Hay prescribed, the patient would get better, every time.

Ing Hay in Baker City, late 1800s
Ing Hay in the late 1800s, when he was still relatively young. (Image:
Kam Wah Chung State Heritage Site) [More images: See OPB "Oregon
Experience" slideshow
]

Over the first few decades of the 20th century, conventional doctors joined the fledgling American Medical Association in trying to have Hay prosecuted for practicing medicine without a license. This should have been an easy case; he had no license or formal credentials of any kind. The problem was, no jury in Grant County would convict him. For them, his record was license enough.

Another interesting side note: Old-timers in John Day told Barlow and Richardson that not a single one of Doc Hay’s patients died during the terrible Spanish Flu epidemic that killed so many people around the world — about 3,500 of them in Oregon — in 1919. Not one.

Doc Hay and Lung On weren’t perfect, of course. As a young man, Lung On loved gambling of all types, from Fan Tan to Faro, but especially horse racing; he and Hay had some strident fights when he lost. And Doc Hay was an occasional opium smoker, right up until the drug was outlawed in 1905; in fact, the Kam Wah Chung building occasionally served as an opium den. Both men were big disappointments to their families back home in China, who wrote frequently begging them to come home — which they could not, for fear of being prevented from returning — or at least send money, which they did only very sporadically.

An episode of Grant's Getaways from Travel Oregon, with Grant McOmie
narrating the video exploration of the Kam Wah Chung story.

The end came in 1940, when Lung On suddenly sickened and died, and nothing Doc Hay could do seemed to make a difference. Hay took this very hard, and very personally, as if he had failed his friend in his hour of greatest need.

Doc Hay continued practicing after that, but it wasn’t the same, and he was plainly miserable without his lifelong friend. Toward the end, his eyesight started failing. By the time of his death, in 1952, at the age of 82, he was completely blind.

When Doc died, the Kam Wah Chung & Co. building was boarded up and deeded to the City of John Day. In 1967, the city belatedly realized it owned the place and had the boards removed. They found everything in place, like a time capsule. Under Doc Hay’s bed was a box containing $23,000 in uncashed checks — checks from people who, he’d told a friend, needed the money more than he did.

Kam Wah Chung has since been turned into a museum, which is well worth visiting.

(Sources: Barlow, Jeffrey, et al. The China Doctor of John Day. Portland: Binford, 1979; www.ohs.org; Harrington, Beth. “Kam Wah Chung,” Oregon Experience, 14 May 2009, Oregon Public Broadcasting)