A Chance Encounter

For reasons that I’m still not quite certain of, I found myself searching out old pioneer cemeteries this past summer. Because it seemed so elusive, the Alma Cemetery became a bit of an obsession for me, not because I had any family ties to it, but mostly because it was there, and I didn’t know where there was. But finally, one Sunday afternoon in August, I was there.

If had quit assuming and read my 1969 Metsker’s Map more closely, the quest wouldn’t have been quite so challenging. Like most things in life, I tend to make things more difficult for myself than necessary. While photographing some of the grave markers, I heard voices coming up the hill to the cemetery, so I hurried to load up the dogs so that overly exuberant Dalmatians wouldn’t overwhelm the visitors.

It was a lady and a couple of small children, and during the subsequent conversation, she mentioned another burial site that deserved a look. She called out to her husband, Jeff Walton, and he walked up the little hill and told me a story of a young man who perished nearly one hundred years ago and was buried in the Coast Range up towards Yachats. That was the first time I’d ever heard of Lyman Medaris, but certainly it would not be the last.

I jotted down a few notes and marked an approximate location on my map. Over the next several months, I did a bit of research to improve my chances of actually finding the gravesite. Lyman Medaris was born in Indiana in January of 1898 to Samuel and Anna Medaris. The 1900 Federal Census shows him living in Indiana with his parents and siblings. The 1910 Census lists Lyman still living in Indiana with his mother and siblings. Several Medaris family history websites indicate that Samuel was living in Oregon, perhaps as early as 1908, working as a tree planter for the Forest Service, although the 1910 Federal Census neither confirms nor denies his Oregon residence.

According to those family web pages, in 1915 Lyman traveled from Owen County, Indiana, to visit his father, who was living near the Oregon coast. The accounts state that “on or around January 15, 1916” he started a trek over the ridge from Samuel’s cabin to a small community where he could catch a stage and/or receive mail. Unfortunately, he left at a time when the central Oregon coast was experiencing colder than normal temperatures and heavier than usual snowfall. Caught in an unusually bad snowstorm, he missed the trail down the east slope of the ridge top near Klickitat Mountain.

A search was mounted but Lyman’s body was not found until April 16. The searchers buried Lyman where they found him, in a grove of hemlock and fir trees on the ridge top. The Forest Service later placed four concrete markers around the grave and a sign to mark it.

That made me wonder where Lyman could have been headed. From his father’s cabin on Tenmile Creek, he traveled east to the ridge top and, according to the above account, missed the trail down the east side of the ridge. Looking at some old maps, I did find a post office called Reed that was located to the southeast of the location of his grave down on the Indian Creek drainage.

Many of the current roads have been built where trails once existed and, following that logic, there are two roads that may have formerly been trails that led to the location of the former Reed Post Office. Reed Post Office was in service from 1900 to 1940 and was located on the east side of the summit of Tenmile Creek Road on Klickitat Ridge. The above narrative believes that he missed the trail, got disoriented, became lost in the storm, and succumbed to exposure. I’m assuming he was heading to Reed which appears to have been about five miles from the summit.

Even though the date he actually died is unknown, Lane County Death Certificate #135 lists the date as January 15, 1916. The name on the certificate is listed as Layman instead of Lyman, but I think I can safely assume that is the result of a typographical or transcription error.

One of the impediments to finding the gravesite was confusion regarding the correct spelling of Medaris. I came across a mountain bike website that, while describing a ride through the Coast Range, talked a bit about the story, and had included a photo of the grave marker, on which the name is spelled Maderis.

Gravesite of Lyman Medaris

I wrongly assumed that spelling was correct, but on a whim I tried other spellings and found the family sites that contained considerably more information. BLM maps of the area call the site Madera’s Grave. A lesson learned: spelling IS important.

The gravesite was found on the second search; the first began with a wrong turn from Indian Creek Road, and it all went downhill from there. Coincidentally, the wrong turn took place very near the location of the Reed Post Office.

Road names and numbers appear to be non-existent in that area, and instead of turning where I did, I should have waited until the next cattle guard and turned there. That road would have taken me right to the gravesite. But if that had happened, I wouldn’t be able to share with you the real bonus to this adventure.

Armed with a bit more information, I made another try at finding Lyman’s gravesite this past weekend. Instead of approaching from the south via Indian Creek Road, I drove north on Highway 101 and headed east on Tenmile Creek Road.

There were two reasons for this approach; first, I found what I thought were more reliable directions and, second, I had read that the burial site of Samuel Medaris, Lyman’s father, was between the seven- and eight-mile markers on this road.

And yes, there it was, just as I had read online. Surrounded by a split rail fence, nearly completely obliterated by overgrown blackberry vines and Scotch broom, was a pile of rocks that covered the body of Samuel Medaris.

A weather-worn handmade grave marker stood in front of the rocks that read “S.N.A.

Grave Marker of Samuel Medaris

MEDARIS DIED 1922.” The elder Medaris was born, according to census documents, in 1845 and died on April 26, 1922; a date that is confirmed by Lane County Death Certificate #137. The death certificate numbers puzzle me a bit; it was more than six years between the death of the father and son, yet the certificate numbers are so close in sequence, l35 and 137, but I suppose I should leave that for another time.

I am continually amazed by these relatively unknown stories that make up the history of our state, and even more amazed that a chance encounter in a remote cemetery led me to this particular story. For if it hadn’t been for that meeting, chance are I would have never heard of Lyman Medaris, and I wouldn’t be telling this story to you now.

Published 2010