The following is John Carr's account in his own words quoted from Wikipedia: begin quote:
The winter of 1861–2 was a hard one. From November until the latter part of March there was a succession of storms and floods. I remember my being in Weaverville, I think it was in the month of December, 1861. ... It had been raining all the day previous. The ground was covered with snow 1 foot (0.30 m) deep, and on the mountains much deeper. We arrived at the ranch just before dark, and I wanted to cross his bridge and stay at John Carter's that night, but " Uncle " Strudivant would not listen to any such thing. Stay with him I must. He told me that the bridge was named Jeff Davis, and that old Trinity could not carry enough water to wash "Jeff" out,.... He had a private cottage a short distance from the ranch and toll-house. It was close to the foot of the mountain, the divide between Weaverville and the Trinity River. ... He and I advocated our respective sides of the political issues until 11 o'clock, when we " turned in." It rained all afternoon and night. The weather had turned warm, and the rain came down in torrents. Several times I went to the door during our political discussion, and every time it seemed to be raining harder, and I wished myself on the otherside of Trinity River. I frequently said, " Uncle Joe, I am afraid the bridge will go." His reply was, " Jeff will stand it." ... We slept until about 4 o'clock in the morning, when Jerry Whitmore, one of Uncle Joe's partners, came to where we were, and knocked on the door to wake us up. Uncle Joe called out, " What is wanted?" Jerry replied, "The bridge is gone—not a stick left, and, the water will soon be up to the house." The water in the river had been rising all night, and men were stationed on the bridge with poles to keep logs from striking the piers. At about 4 o'clock in the morning a large spruce tree came down the river with roots, branches and all. The men seeing it come, and knowing the bridge was doomed, escaped from the bridge before the roots of the tree struck it. It was well they did, for one of the men who were on the bridge told me next morning that as soon as the tree struck the bridge it went through it as if nothing had been in its way, cutting it completely in two, and the whole structure fell into the river and was soon out of sight. As soon as daylight came Uncle Joe and I went to the ruins. Not a plank of the bridge was left. The rain was yet pouring down. The snow was nearly all gone. Everything around the place looked desolate. On the flat where the house was built they had the finest bearing orchard in Northern California. If the river rose but a little more, the trees would be swept away, and the house with them. All the forenoon the river continued to rise, and at last it began to spread over the orchard and wash the black loam away. Finally, as the current became stronger amongst the trees, one after another began to fall, some floating off with the water, and others hanging by the roots. Trinity that morning was playing havoc with the settlers on its banks. It was dreadful to look upon. Standing on high ground, one could see property of all kinds on its way to the ocean. The river itself seemed like some mighty uncontrollable monster of destruction broken away from its bonds, rushing uncontrollably on, and everywhere carrying ruin and destruction in its course. When rising, the river seemed highest in the middle. When falling, it became lowest in the middle, and all the drift worked toward the center of the stream. When the river was at or near its highest, one could see floating down parts of mills, sluice-boxes, miners cabins, water-wheels, hen-coops, parts of bridges, bales of hay, household furniture, sawed lumber, old logs, huge spruce and pine trees that had withstood former storms for hundreds of years—all rushing down that mad stream on their way to the boundless ocean. From the head settlement to the mouth of the Trinity River, for a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, everything was swept to destruction. Not a bridge was left, or a mining-wheel or a sluce-box. Parts of ranches and miners cabins met the same fate. The labor of hundreds of men, and their savings of years, invested in bridges, mines and ranches, were all swept away. In forty-eight hours the valley of the Trinity was left desolate. The county never recovered from that disastrous flood. Many of the mining-wheels and bridges were never rebuilt..[14]
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