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The label shown here was trademarked on September 17, 1884.
It advertises an apparently (based on days of research) non-existent Oak Valley Distilling Co., as well as Braunschweiger's earliest flagship brand, Bear Valley Old Bourbon. It appears that Bear Valley was the first in a long lineup of products, based on the September 1884 trademark date, since he and Bumstead were in the process of "splitting the sheets" at that time.
Bear Grass would replace Bear Valley as their "go to" brand by 1890. By the turn of the century, acid etched advertising glasses were being handed out for three of the brands in an effort to gain market share. These included three different stencils for "California Club", and one each for "Old Pioneer", and "Bear Grass".
The Bear Grass glass design is very similar to that on the label, with the exception that "Bear Valley" is replaced with "Bear Grass". The glass also states that the company had been incorporated by the time it was produced ("Inc." first appears in the 1895 S.F. Directory), further helping to date it.
We recently had several clear tooled top cylinders dropped by; all of which are pictures. Two of them are Bear Grasses, and I noticed an immediate difference between them when put onto the display shelf.
The first and most obvious difference is the size and capacity. The one on the left measures 12" in height, where the one on the right is only 11 3/8". The one on the left is 3" in diameter, where the right hand example is 3 1/8". Both are free of base marks, but the left hand bottle has a stepped kick up where the right one has a round dome shaped base. The shoulder step height is notably different as well. Moving on to the embossing things get even more interesting.
The bear on the left closely resembles the design on the label; the right hand bear looks more like an angry wild pig.
The difference in the size and shape of the circular slug plates is immediately evident, as is the absence of "S. F." on the right hand example.
According to Barnett, in WWB 4th edition, there is a clear (no doubt German Connection) glop top version of the one on the right, (no height listed but without S. F.) but no listing for a clear tool top that will turn amethyst. My records indicate that I've had over a dozen of the S. F.'s, but have only seen one of the shorter ones.
I'm curious; why the two different embossing patterns? Did Bob make a mistake when he listed the non-S.F. as being a glop top? Why the absence of S. F. on the smaller variant, and which one is older? And how many of the non-S.F. variants are sitting on collectors shelves these days?
A special thank you to the estate of Ken Schwartz and to Robin P for the shot photos.
Now before we begin, let me assure you that what I'm about to relate is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth! Sadly, everything you are about to read is 100% fact.
A number of years ago, in the summer of 1999, we attended the Reno Bottle Show. Deb (my wife) and I opted to “rough it” that year and towed our travel trailer, staying at the Nevada State park adjacent to the Bowers mansion west of the site of Washoe City, about half way in between Reno and Carson. Had a blast at the show and looked forward to camping and exploring over the next few days after the show. During the course of conversation with old pal Loren Love of Dayton, he recounted how urban sprawl was affecting even the Nevada dessert with subdivisions beginning to spread out from Carson towards Dayton. He lamented how even the old site of Sutro was slated for development and how a subdivision had recently been completed nearby. The building had pushed nearly to the western edge of the old townsite and the balance of the site was slated for plat approval the next year.
We had a few archival photographs to work with and realized that this would be our last chance to dig there before the D8’s and belly dumps arrived, and the site was lost forever.
As everyone knows, Sutro had been hit hard (real hard) since the late 50’s and the odds against scoring were stacked against us. Still we had the photos and although I’ve never been particularly lucky compared to some, have been rewarded over the years for my combination of optimism, gut instinct, brute force and perseverance. With the aid of the photos and the accompanying terrain, we located where we surmised the main drag had been. Keep in mind that a century of flash flooding, winter snows and blowing wind can make dramatic changes in the dessert floor. Still, it wasn’t long before we were into glass; and lots of it. We had quite obviously, lucked upon a large dumpsite covered by a foot or better of sandy dirt. It also became obvious that the Hostetters Bitters rep. had done a land office business back in the 1870’s. Every conceivable color was present. Lemon yellow to grass green – pucey amber to nearly black; you name it we dug it. Dozens and dozens of crude, early amazing Hostetters were dug; all broken. Also plentiful were glop top cylinders. Well at least broken ones.
Fearing for our liberty, we were also looking over our shoulders and in the air for any evidence that we’d been spotted since we were technically breaking the law, even back then. Never mind about the ethical dilemma of losing history for good thanks to progress; the threat of arrest, fines and jail time were an ever present thought. A couple of hours into the dig, the fear of arrest really began to sink in and my wife insisted that it was time to get out of Dodge.
It was then that I dug an intact top, neck and shoulder with embossing that seemed vaguely familiar. And yet, I couldn’t place it. I trotted over to the truck and tossed the chunk into the pouch in back of the front seat just in case we had to make a beeline out of there.
Prophesy fulfilled, we saw a tell tale plume of dust racing toward us along a jeep road that skirted the base of the hill. Enough was enough. We scurried back to our truck, hopped in and sped off in the opposite direction.
Safely back at our campsite, I stared intently at the broken bottle. I knew this one, I’d seen it somewhere before, or had I? I thumbed through Bob Barnett’s 4th edition but nothing jumped out at me. Out came Wilsons text, again nothing. In desperation, I pulled out my tattered copy of Thomas’s Whiskey Bottle of the Old West. I looked back at the piece. The top looked western to me, as did the color. The few letters of embossing also pointed to San Francisco, but what the heck was it. It was then that I thumbed to page 31 and looked at the bottle in the bottom right corner; number 98. Oh My God! I was holding apiece of the holy grail! There was no mistaking the location and combination of the few letters on the piece that I was holding.
Meanwhile, my wife was outside the trailer maintaining a diligent vigil for approaching BLM nazi’s. She was convinced that they’d gotten our description and license plate number and that we were done for. Yep, just a matter of time… Her mood deepened and by the next morning it was obvious that this cloud of doom wasn’t going to lift. Shortly after breakfast, we broke camp and headed north. A couple of hours later, we crossed the California border and by nightfall were “safely” back into Oregon, our trip cut short...
The next day was like any other. Work, stowing away the camping gear, cleaning the inside of the trailer, storing away bottles from the show and putting the books back in the library. It was then that I reopened the Thomas book to page 31. There it was, bottom right. That warm feeling returned as I went in search for the Old Signet piece. My piece of the grail! Hmm. Not in the trailer where I put it, not in the bottle boxes. That warm feeling quickly left me, replaced by a much, much hotter feeling. I asked my wife if she recalled where it was and she meekly replied that she was so sure that we were going to get caught that she’d wrapped it up with the garbage in the trailer and deposited it in the trash can back at the campground.
So much for history, Eh?
Missed it by that much - again......................
DO YOU WANT THE STUPIDITY STORY, OR THE SIT NEXT TO THE HOLE AND CRY.....
THE NECKS BROKEN OFF...
BRANDY BITTERS, ALL IN PIECES...
ENGINE FELL OUT OF THE WALL AND BROKE A HALF DOZEN MORE TEA KETTLES...
FIFTH.......
I AM SURE I HAVE A FEW MORE, WILL THINK ABOUT IT.
A tale of two halves.
In the Spring of 1995 I was actively digging in Virginia City , Nevada. At that time, you could still dig there with written permission from the property owner and for a few years, the Bottle Gods were good to me.
On this particular permission, I was systematically digging a dump which encompassed an entire back yard, and it was difficult to dig in a neat and tidy fashion due to there being no “walls” to any defined pit. Over several months I dug some great glass alongside the homeowner who was also a collector of sorts. After digging some sweet glass ( deep cobalt early Dickey, a mega whittled J. Walkers, colored umbrellas, and some awesome western meds). I was working in to an area of stacked bricks about four feet down. The bricks were actually more of a buried pile, rather than a built wall. I moved each brick and surprisingly, behind this pile were bottles…not a lot of them but enough to keep me going. I was clearing out an area of what seemed like beach sand, and definitely not the natural dirt, and uncovered a deep lime green base. I immediately recognized it! It was a Lacour’s! I carefully worked up to the shoulders, and that is where the bottle ended. I was sick, but continued digging. After another five minutes, I uncovered a pile of Lacour’s…all the same lime green. And their bases were staring at me like a stack of firewood. I almost had a heart attack but took a breath and dug each one out. EVERY ONE was broken from the shoulder up with not one neck or top anywhere to be found. I was dejected but had a glimmer of hope when I saw a light yellow Lacour’s top and the side of the neck. My heart started palpitating again, as I gently wiped the sand away. This was not a Lacour’s, but a variant two Cassin.s! It was laying on it’s side and I gingerly uncovered the entire neck, and of course the beautiful side panel began to show. This thing appeared intact! Inch by inch I wiped away the sand to reveal a perfect and pure yellow Cassin's Grape brandy Bitters. I sat there in total shock and decided to extract this beauty from the side of the trench. As I worked the bottle free, I was holding exactly HALF of a Cassin,s…the other half still staring at me in the compacted sand. That did it…I was wishing for a bus or semi-truck to drive down C St. so I could jump in front of it.
The homeowner and I glued the halves together and he kept the bottle. I do not know where it is today.
So…there you go. I still would rather have had that opportunity with the Lacour’s and that Cassin.s than any 1900 pit full of glass.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! Unfortunately these were the days before cell phones or I could have documented this debacle. I think I did have a cell phone but it was hard wired in to my vehicle.
Dale M.
In the coming months, we'll be running an occasional article about "the one that got away". Send me your short story and I'll post it here for all to enjoy (and commiserate with).
Here's the first in a hopefully long line of entertaining digging stories that we all can painfully relate to.
I was digging in an area that all of my research showed went back to the civil war era and I was the first one to sink a probe into the ground. After probing a pit I went down about 2' but, but I had my doubts.
I have been in old mining towns like this before. Civil war era Montana boom towns, towns that have NEVER been dug. And even though there were 10,000 people in 1863 and only 20 people in 1910, I find loaded 1910 FULLY LOADED pits, one after the other.
So ... there I was, digging about 2' down when all of a sudden out comes a broken crazy bubbly drippy top to a cabin type bitters bottle! Drakes, Kellys, American Life Bitters, were not uncommon in these early towns according to all the research and evidence that I had studied. So at 2' down I grab by hand tool and start raking through large pockets of fluffy seeds, china, pieces to lamp chimney and then my scratcher makes the sound I had dreamed about and joked about 100 times before, the sound of it going across an old glass wash board which, in an 1860's pit in Montana, translated to the flat side of a cabin bitters bottle. Sure enough, un-stinkin-believably, there it is! I am looking at the whole side of a cabin bitters lying right in the fluff.
I gently work around the neck facing me and feel the shoulder and top, it's all there! It is loose, just lying in the soft cushioned seeds and dry roots and as I slide it out towards me, a whole Drake's Plantation bitters appears right in my hands. It's the 1980's a Drakes cabin bitters from Montana is pretty similar to a Cassin's Bitters in California, to our young digging minds.
As I step back to take it all in and I am shaking with "buck fever", I slowly revolve it in my hands, seeing it in all of its glory and there, in the lower back panel is a gaping hole right in the middle of it. I still haven't healed from that wound!
PAYING CASH! Wanted - better western cylinders, flasks, and miniatures. One or a collection! Fair prices paid. We also do consignment sales. 50 years of respected western whiskey experience.
For those of you who have called me on my home phone in the past, be advised that I've cut the cord. 541-899-8411 is no longer a valid phone number.
To touch base, please, drop us a line via email and I'll provide you with my cell number!
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Call or Email for a copy.
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Missed it by that much!!! (or - just shoot me; wel...
Missed it by that much - again.......................
Lucky!
Barkeep... this whisky's for the birds!
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Paper.
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