["Voltigeur," Correspondence from the Lander Expedition, Alta California, June 8, 1860]

 

CORRESPONDENCE FROM THE LANDER EXPEDITION.

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The Route to the Sierra — Difficult Travel — A Compulsory Hermit — Grapes in the Mountains — Mining, etc., etc.

June 2d, 1860.

            Surrounded on all sides by ten feet of snow on the highest peak of the Sierra Nevada, and being

                                                "As idle as a painted ship

                                                Upon a painted ocean,"

I will endeavor to fulfil my promise of dropping you an occasional line in reference to the progress of the expedition.

            Our trip from Sacramento to Inskip was as monotonous as usual camp life, the tedium being only relieved by a passing glimpse of a deer or other game, and the unpremeditated descent of some unskilful rider from the back of a bucking horse. On arriving at Inskip we first received intimations of probable difficulty in crossing the Sierra, but, trusting to the tried courage and indomitable perseverance of Lander, we paid but little attention to the warnings. Our troubles, however, soon commenced. Instead of averaging from twenty to thirty miles a day, we soon fell to six and eight, and even that distance being accomplished only by the aid of axemen in advance. The boasted emigrant road, of which we had formed much high expectations, proved to be nothing but a blazed trail, and, after leaving the chaparral house about four miles in the rear, further progress became impossible — at least for the present.  Here our hay and grain gave out, and, seeing no prospect of a thaw, the Colonel placed our horses and mules under charge of the Commissary, Mr. Snyder, who, with four men, carried them sixteen miles in six hours, over the mountains and through a driving snow-storm to Humbug Valley, where the stock will remain until the main party will have shoveled a road through the snow. In spite of the inclemency of the weather, we met many pack trains coming through ; but, going down unloaded for goods, of course they experience little of difficulty. In one place where we camped, there was a little clapboard shanty almost entirely buried in the snow. A narrow passway had been dug from the doorway to the trail, and as the proprietor of this ice bound castle made his appearance, he might well have been mistaken for the "Old Man of the Mountain" or the "Wandering Jew." His appearance was decidedly unique, being fantastically attired in a curious sort of complication of gunny bags and flour sacks, his head surrounded by the skin of some animal, drawn tightly over the ears, and giving him a ludicrously wolfish aspect. We saluted him with the compliments of the day, but he took no notice whatever of our party beyond inquiring after the state of our whiskey jug, and uttering an oath on hearing that we were Dashaways — by compulsion.

            At Oroville I saw some grape vines that, in appearance, would compare favorably with the best in Sonoma. On one side of the field were three men busily engaged in mining, and not a hundred yards on were the vines, as fresh and green looking as any growing beneath a southern sky. I had no opportunity of learning the flavor of the grapes, but should judge that for wine making they would be excellent.

            The miners around Humbug Valley seem to be making good wages, although they are very slow to answer questions, and it is hard to derive any information from them.

            Indian news will, of course, be stale to your readers, but to us the reports that are coming in are highly exciting. Led by the "man who bare no weapons," and having the reputation of being the best equipped party that ever left California, we feel little apprehension of a defeat, even from the conquerors of the bold Archie McDonald. I understand from some packers who passed us a day or two since that the celebrated Jim Beckworth has taken the war path, and he expressed a strong belief that the Mormons were the instigators of the mischief.

            My paper being exhausted, and the smoke from the camp-fire perversely blowing directly in my face, constrain me to close. My next letter shall be dated from Honey Lake, unless my scalp should adorn the wigwam of some Indian brave.

VOLTIGEUR.