[From James G. Scrugham, Nevada: The Narrative of the Conquest of a Frontier Land (1935), vol. I, pp. 59-68]

VIII

The years immediately following the return of the Walker expedition from California were not noteworthy in the history of the Great Basin. The comparatively small streams of that region had been largely denuded of beaver, and the fur hunters had turned their attention to the more prolific fields along the tributaries of the Columbia, and the headwaters of the Missouri, from which they had hitherto been excluded by the implacable hostility of the Blackfeet Indians. The fame of the fur trade of the northwest, and the romance of the explorations of the Astorians and the Hudson's Bay Company, of Jedediah Smith and Joseph Walker, had been spread abroad by the stories of the returning travellers, and had naturally attracted the attention of people living east of the Rocky Mountains to this hitherto unknown portion of America, with its marvelous possibilities of development. In these reports the wonders of the newly explored country lost nothing in the telling. Many settlers in the Mississippi Valley, with whom emigration was a habit, and even the more staid dwellers along the Atlantic coast, read the glowing reports of the salubrious climate of the Pacific slope, of the exceeding fertility and vast extent of the virgin fields waiting for the plow, of the millions of acres of untouched forests, and the myriad resources of a new country, and, drawn doubtless by the glamour of adventure appealing to the pioneer spirit, were filled with a desire to settle in these new lands. The records show that in the decade of 1830 to 1840 the people of the United States were studying with great interest the meagre and often inaccurate reports of the country beyond the Rockies with a view to its possibilities for settlement, and in preparation for the great emigration which was soon to follow.

Nor should the missionary spirit of the churches be overlooked as a potent factor in the pioneer settlements of the far west. In 1832 four Indian chiefs from the Nez Perces tribes of the Columbia basin were in St. Louis asking that missionaries be sent to their people to teach them of the "white men's Book of Heaven" of which the trappers had told them. This appeal was spread abroad through the religious press and met an immediate response from Protestant and Catholic alike. The story of the zealous missionaries to the wilds of the Columbia basin, of Lee, and Parker, Whitman, and De Smet, and others of equal zeal, is one of hard-ship and self-sacrifice and devotion; indeed it was the missionaries who followed the trappers into the savage wilderness of the northwest, and opened the way for permanent settlement there; for it was to the Oregon country and not to California that the first great tide of emigration set.

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The route of this movement to the northwest followed the Ashley trail up the Platte, through the South Pass, touching the Great Basin only at its northeast corner in the valley of the Bear River, and thence across the divide to Clark's Fork and the Columbia, and down to old Vancouver and the valley of the Willamette. This was the far-famed Oregon trail. The California trail, of later date, left the Oregon route either in the valley of the Bear and proceeded directly across the desert north of Great Salt Lake to the Humboldt, or held to the Oregon trail to Fort Hall, and thence turning to the southwest up one of the southern tributaries of the Snake, crossed the divide into the Great Basin, thence to the Humboldt, down this river to its sink, and crossed the Sierras through one of several passes.

No missions to the Indians within the boundaries of the Great Basin were established in the years now under consideration, and we have now to recount as the next matter of significance in the history of the region the experiences of the first emigrant party to brave the perils of the California trail and to cross the great desert between the Bear and the Humboldt, without chart or guide. It differed from subsequent expeditions over the same route chiefly in its utter lack of knowledge of the difficulties to be encountered and its consequent lack of anything like adequate preparation for the desperate venture. It was not a voyage of exploration but rather a rash excursion of adventurous young men seeking, with the boundless enthusiasm of youth, a hoped-for El Dorado beyond a trackless wilderness of which they knew nothing and feared nothing. It has generally been known as the Bartleson party, from the name of its chosen leader. In the party was a young man named John Bidwell, who kept a journal of the leading events of the trip. He proved to be a leading spirit of the party, and later became one of the most prominent men of the Pacific coast.

            In 1839 young Bidwell, then twenty years of age, took up a homestead claim in the valley of the Platte, and during the following year taught school, worked on his claim, and helped to organize the Western Emigration Society, which soon included several hundred people united for the purpose of going overland to California in the spring of 1841. Most alluring reports of the Mexican territory on the Pacific coast were related to the would-be emigrants by an old trapper named Rubideaux, who had been there some years before. It was not so difficult to learn of the beauties and attractions of far off California as it was to discover a practical route across the deserts to the land of promise. "Our ignorance of the route," says Bidwell, "was complete. We knew that California lay west, and that was the extent of our knowledge. Some of the maps consulted, supposed of course to be correct, showed a lake in the vicinity of where Salt Lake now is; but it was represented as a long lake, three or four hundred miles in extent, narrow and with two outlets, both running into the Pacific Ocean, either apparently larger than the Mississippi River." On most of the maps then extant the fabled Buenaventura River still appeared, connecting Great Salt Lake with the Pacific, although its existence had been clearly disproved by Smith and Ogden and Walker. The Bidwell party, trusting to the maps, took tools along for the purpose of building canoes in which to sail from Great Salt Lake to the ocean.

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When the spring of 1841 arrived the enthusiasm of the members of the emigration society had so far waned that only sixty-nine persons appeared at the appointed rendezvous at Sapling Grove prepared to undertake the long trip across the plains. Bartleson was chosen Captain of the company. "He was not the best man for the position," says Bidwell, "but we were given to under-stand that if he were not elected Captain he would not go; and he had seven or eight men with him, and we did not want the party diminished, so he was chosen. . . . It was understood that every-one should have not less than a barrel of flour with sugar and so forth to suit. . . . My gun was an old flintlock rifle but a good one. Old hunters told me to have nothing to do with the cap or percussion lock, that they were unreliable, and that if I got my caps or percussions wet I could not shoot, while if I lost my flint I could pick up another on the plains. I doubt whether there was one hundred dollars in the whole party, but all were enthusiastic and anxious to go." The amount of money per capita seems absurdly small, but the party was starting from the outermost frontier, and until it reached California would have little use for coin of the realm, though many times in desperate need of what money in other places would buy. Fortunately the expedition was able to join another party under the leadership of Captain Fitzpatrick, an old trapper and guide, who knew the country well and was thoroughly acquainted with the Indian inhabitants. Fitzpatrick had in charge the missionary party organized and led by Father De Smet who had spent a year among the Indians of the northwest, and was now returning to them prepared to establish permanent missions. "He was," says Bidwell, "a genial gentleman, of fine presence, and one of the saintliest men I have ever known." Both par-ties had horses, mules, and oxen and the supplies were carried in wagons. They were perhaps the third party to go through the South Pass and into the Great Basin with wagons.

From Sapling Grove, near the present site of Kansas City, to Bear River the two parties kept together and their journey was without incident except the usual experiences of an emigrant train along the Oregon trail. "At Soda Springs—at the northern-most bend of Bear River—our party separated," says Bidwell. "Here the missionary party were to turn north and go into the Flathead nation. Fort Hall, about forty miles distant on Snake River, lay on their route. There was no road; but something like a trail, doubtless used by trappers, led in that direction. . . . Our party, originally sixty-nine, had become lessened to sixty-four. . . . Thirty-two of our party, becoming discouraged, now decided not to venture without path or guide into the unknown and trackless regions toward California, but concluded to go with the missionary party to Fort Hall and thence find their way down the Snake and Columbia Rivers into Oregon. The rest of us—also thirty-two in number, including Benjamin Kelsey, his wife and little daughter—remained firm, refusing to be diverted from our original purpose of going direct to California. . . . We were now thrown entirely upon our own resources. All the country beyond was to us a veritable terra incognita, and we only knew that California lay to the west. Captain Fitzpatrick was not much better in-formed, but he had heard that parties had penetrated the country to the southwest and west of Great Salt Lake to trap for beaver; and by his advice four of our men went with the parties to Fort

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Hall to consult with Captain Grant, who was in charge there, and gain information. Meanwhile our depleted party slowly made its way down the west side of Bear River."

"In about ten days," continues Bidwell, "our four men returned from Fort Hall, during which time we had advanced something over one hundred miles toward Salt Lake. They brought the information that we must strike out west of Salt Lake—as it was even then called by the trappers—being careful not to go too far south, lest we should get into a wasteless country without grass. They also said we must be careful not to go too far north, lest we should get into a broken country and steep canyons, and wander about, as trapping parties had been known to do, and become bewildered and perish." It is strange that among the trappers along Bear River or at Fort Hall some member of Ogden's or of Walker's party was not found who could have given more specific directions for crossing the desert north of Great Salt Lake to the Humboldt. The Bartleson party proceeded very slowly, reaching the northern end of Great Salt Lake early in September. From this point Bid well's account best tells the story of the party's experiences.

The principal growth, on plain and hill alike, was the interminable sagebrush, and often it was difficult, for miles at a time, to break a road through it, and sometimes a lightly laden wagon would be overturned. Its monotonous dull color and scraggy appearance gave a most dreary aspect to the landscape. But it was not wholly useless; where large enough it made excellent fuel, and it was the home and shelter of the hare, generally known as the jack rabbit, and the sage-hen. Trees were almost a sure sign of water in that region. But the mirage was most deceptive, magnifying stunted sage-brush on diminutive hillocks into the trees and groves. Thus misled, we travelled all day without water, and at midnight found ourselves in a plain, as level as the floor, incrusted with salt, and as white as snow. . . . This plain became softer and softer until our poor almost famished animals could not pull our wagons. In fact we were going direct to Salt Lake and did not know it. So, in search for water, we turned from a southerly to an easterly course, and went about ten miles, and soon after daylight arrived at Bear River. So near Salt Lake were we that the water in the river was too salty for our animals to use, but we had to use it; it would not quench thirst, but it did save life. The grass looked most luxuriant, and sparkled as if covered with frost. But it was salt; our hungry, jaded animals refused to eat it, and we had to lie by for a whole day to rest them before we could travel. Leaving this camp and bearing northwest we crossed our tracks on the salt plain, having thus described a triangle of several miles in dimensions. One of our most serious troubles was to find water where we could camp at night. . From a westerly course we turned directly north, and guided by ante-lope trails, came in a few miles to an abundance of grass and good water. The condition of our animals compelled us to rest here nearly a week. Meanwhile two of our men who had been to Fort Hall went ahead to explore. Provisions were becoming scarce, and we saw we must avoid unnecessary delay. The two men were gone five days. Under their lead we

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On Green River we had seen the style of pack saddles used by the trapping party, and had learned a little about making them. Packing is an art, and only an experienced mountaineer can do it well so as to save his animal and keep his pack from falling off. We were unaccustomed to it, and the difficulties we had at first were simply indescribable. It is much more difficult to fasten a pack on an oxen than on a mule or a horse. The trouble began the first day. But we started—most of us on foot—for nearly all the animals, including the oxen, had to carry packs. It was but a few minutes before the packs began to turn; horses became scared, mules kicked, oxen jumped and bellowed, and articles were scattered in all directions. We took more pains, fixed things, made a new start, and did better, though packs continued to fall off and delay us. Those who had better pack saddles and had tied their loads securely were ahead, while others were obliged to lag behind, because they had to re-pack, and some-times things would be strewn all along the route. The first night I happened to be among those that kept pretty well back, because the horses out-travelled the oxen. The foremost came to a place and stopped where there was no water or grass, and built a fire so that we could see it and come up to them. We got there about midnight, but some of our oxen that had packs on them had not yet come up, and among them were my two. So I had to return the next morning to find them, Cheyenne Dawson alone volunteering to go with me. One man had brought along about a quart of water, which was carefully doled out before we started, each receiving a little canister cover full—less than half a gill; but as Dawson and I had to go for the oxen we were given a double portion. This was all the water I had until the next day. It was a burning hot day. We could not find the trail of the oxen for a long time, and Dawson refused to go any farther, saying that there were plenty of cattle in California; but I had to do it for the oxen were carrying our provisions and other things. Afterwards I struck the trail and found that the oxen, instead of going west had gone north, and I followed them until nearly sun-down. They had gone into a grassy country, which showed that they were nearing water. Seeing Indian tracks on their trail following them, I felt there was imminent danger, and at once examined my gun and pistols to see that they

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were primed and ready. But I soon found my oxen lying down in tall grass beside the trail. Seeing no Indians, I hastened to fasten the packs and make my way to overtake the company. They had promised to stop when they came to water and wait for me. I travelled all night, and at early dawn came to where there was plenty of water and where the company had taken their dinner the day before, but they had failed to stop for me according to promise. I was much perplexed, because I had seen many fires during the night, which I took to be Indian fires, so I fastened my oxen to a scraggy willow and began to make circles around to see which way the company had gone. The ground was so hard that the animals made no impression which bewildered me. Finally while making a circle of about three miles off to the south, I saw two men coming on horse-back. . . . They were two of

[picture]

RUBY MOUNTAINS, ELKO COUNTY

our party coming to meet me, bringing water and provisions. It was a great relief to me. I felt indignant that the party had not stopped for me.

We now got into a country where there was no grass nor water and we began to catechise the men who had gone to Fort Hall. They repeated: If you go too far south you will get into a desert country and your animals will perish; there will be no water nor grass. We were evidently too far south. We could not go west, and the formation of the country was such that we had to turn and go north across a range of mountains. Having struck a small stream we camped upon it all night, and next day continued down its banks, crossing from side to side, most of the time following Indian paths, or paths made by antelope or deer. In the afternoon we entered a canyon, the walls of which were precipitous and several hundred feet high. Finally the pleasant bermy banks gave out entirely, and we could travel only in the dry bed of what

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in the wet season was a raging river. It became a solid mass of stones and huge boulders, and the animals became tender-footed and sore so that they could hardly stand up, and as we continued the way became worse and worse. There was no place for us to lie down and sleep, nor could our animals lie down; the water had given out, and the prospect was in-deed gloomy—the canyon had been leading us directly north. All agreed that the animals were too jaded and worn to go back. Then we called the men : "What did they tell you at Fort Hall about the northern region?" They repeated: "You must not go too far north; if you do you will get into difficult canyons that lead toward the Columbia River, where you may become bewildered and wander about and perish." This can-yon was going nearly north; in fact it seemed a little east of north. We sent some men to see if they could reach the top of the mountain by scaling the precipice somewhere and get a view; and they came back ten or eleven o'clock saying the country looked better three or four miles ahead. So we were encouraged—even the animals seemed to take courage—and we got along much better than had been thought possible, and by one o'clock that day came out on what is now known as the Humboldt River. It was not until four years later (1845) that General Fremont first saw and named it Humboldt.

After leaving Pilot Peak the party had evidently turned to the southwest and followed roughly the present line of the Western Pacific Railway across Steptoe into Ruby Valley, coming up against the high range of the Ruby Mountains, which effectually blocked further progress to the west. Turning to the north it came to the canyon later called Humboldt, but now known as Secret Pass, through which it was fortunately able to make its way into the valley of the Humboldt, coming out near the present site of Hal-leek. They were probably the first white men to go through this pass, in which is now located a well-travelled thoroughfare.

Our course was first westward and then southward, following this river for many days, till we came to its Sink, near which we saw a solitary horse, an indication that trappers had sometime been in that vicinity. We tried to catch him but failed; he had been there long enough to become very wild. We saw many Indians on the Humboldt, especially near the Sink. There were many tule marshes. The tule is a rush, large, but here not very tall. It was generally completely covered with honeydew, but this in turn was wholly covered with a pediculous-looking insect which fed upon it. The Indians gathered quantities of the honey and pressed it into balls about the size of one's fist, having the appearance of wet bran. At first we greatly relished this Indian food, but when we saw what it was made of—that the insects pressed into the mass were the main ingredient—we lost our appetites and bought no more of it.

From the time we left our wagons many had to walk, and more and more as we advanced. Going down the Humboldt at least half were on foot. Provisions had given out; except a little coarse green grass among the willows, along the river the country was bare, dry and desolate; we saw no game except antelope, and they were scarce and hard to kill; and

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walking was very fatiguing. We had several tobacco users in our company and the supply was running short. Tobacco users would surrender their horses for anyone to ride who would furnish them an ounce or two to chew during the day. One day one of these devotees lost his tobacco and went back for it, but failed to find it. An Indian in a friendly manner overtook us bringing the piece of tobacco which he had found on our trail or at our latest camp, and surrendered it. The owner instead of being thankful, accused the Indian of having stolen it—an impossibility, as we had seen no Indians or Indian signs for some days. Perhaps the Indian did not know what it was, else he might have kept it for smoking. But I think otherwise, for, patting his breast, he said : "Shoshone, Shoshone," which was the Indian way of showing he was friendly. The Shoshones were known as always friendly to the whites, and it is not difficult to see how other and distant tribes might claim to be Shoshones as a passport to favor.

On the Humboldt we had a further division in our ranks. In going down the river we went sometimes on one side, and sometimes on the other, but mostly on the north side, till we were nearing what are now known as the Humboldt mountains. We were getting tired, and some were in favor of leaving the oxen, of which we had only seven or eight, and rushing on into California. They said there was plenty of beef in California. But some of us said: "No, our oxen are now our only supply of food. We are doing well, making eighteen or twenty miles a day." One morning, when it was my turn at driving the oxen, the captain traveled so fast that I could not keep up, and was left far behind. When night came I was obliged to leave the trail and go over a rocky declivity for a mile and a half into a gloomy, damp bottom, and unpack the oxen and turn them out to eat, sleeping myself without blankets. I got up the next morning, hunted the oxen out of the willow thicket, and repacked them. Not having either supper or breakfast, and having to travel nine miles before I overtook the party, perhaps I was not in the best of humor. They were waiting, and for the very good reason that they could not have anything to eat till I came up with the oxen, and one could be killed. I felt badly treated, and let the captain know it plainly; but, much to my surprise he made no reply, and none of his men said a word. We killed an ox, ate our breakfast, and got ready to start about one or two o'clock in the afternoon. When nearly ready to go, the captain and one or two of his mess came to us and said: "Boys, our animals are much better than yours, and we always get out of meat before any of the rest of you. Let us have the most of the meat this time, and we will pay you back the next ox we kill." We gladly let them have all they wished. But as soon as they had taken it, and were ready to start, the captain in a loud voice exclaimed : "Now we have been found fault with long enough, and we are going to California. If you can keep up with us, all right; if you cannot, you may go to            ;" and away they started, the captain and eight men. One of the men would not go with the captain; he said: "The captain is wrong, and I will stay with you boys."

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We were now camped on Walker River, at the very eastern base of the Sierra Nevadas, and had only two oxen left. We sent men ahead to see if it would be possible to scale the mountains, while we killed the better of the two oxen, and dried the meat in preparation for the ascent. The men re-turned toward evening and reported that they thought that it would be possible to ascend the mountain though very difficult. We had eaten our supper, and were ready for the climb in the morning. Looking back on the plains we saw some-thing coming, which we decided to be Indians. They traveled very slowly, and it was difficult to understand their movements. To make a long story short, it was the eight men that had left' us nine days before. They had gone farther south than we had, come back to a lake, probably Carson Lake, and there had found Indians, who had supplied them plentifully with fish and pine nuts. Fish caught in such water are not fit to eat at any time, much less in the fall of the year. The men had eaten heartily of the fish and pine nuts, and had gotten something akin to cholera morbus. We ran out to meet them and shook hands, and put our frying pans on and gave them the best supper we could. Captain Bartleson, who when he started from Missouri was a portly man, was reduced to half his former girth. He said : "Boys, if I ever get back to Missouri I will never leave that country. I would gladly eat out of the troughs with my hogs." He seemed to be heartily sick of his late experience, but that did not prevent him from leaving us twice after that.

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We were now in what is at present Nevada, and probably within forty miles of tie present boundary line of California. (The party in fact crossed the California line while on Walker River.) We ascended the mountain on the north side of Walker River to the summit, and then struck a stream running west which proved to be the extreme source of the Stanislaus River. We followed it down for several days and finally came to where a branch ran into it, each forming a canyon. The main river flowed in a precipitous gorge in places apparently a mile deep, and the gorge that came into it was but little less formidable. At night we found our-selves on the extreme point of the promontory between the two, very tired, and with neither grass nor water. We had to stay there that night.