goldfields

“Tuesday, 19th. Descending along the stream,we found several oak scrubs which confirmed us in the hope that we were on the waters of the Pacific. But the route became exceedingly difficult–the stream had swelled to a river–could not approach it–could only hear it roaring among the rocks. Having come about 12 miles a horrid precipice bid us stop — we obeyed and encamped.

Those who went to explore the route had not time to come to any conclusion where we could pass. We had descended reapidly all day; the mts. were still mantled with forests of towering pines. The roaring winds and the hollow murmuring of the dashing waters conveyed int he darkness of the night the most solemn and impressive ideas of solitude.

To a person fond of the retiring life, this, thought I, would be a perfect terrestrial Paradise, but it was not so to us, when we knew that winter was at hand, and the Capt. Walker (the mountaineer) had been lost in these very mountains 22 days before he could extricate himself.”

According to Michael Gillis, Bidwell & Co. were following Clark’s Fork to where it converged with the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus River. As they continued down the Middle Fork, they found the terrain extremely rough, rocky, and thickly covered with pine and brush. It was tough going.

Joseph Walker was a famous mountain man and explorer who had guided Bonneville’s party through the Sierras in 1833 and was with Fremont on his exploring trips during the 1840’s. Fremont named the Walker River and Walker Lake after him. Bidwell had probably read about him in Washington Irving’s popular account of the Bonneville expedition. Spending 22 days wandering around the Sierra Nevada as winter came on was certainly not anything that he wanted to do. The sooner they got out the better.

“Monday, 18th. Having ascended a about half a mile, a frightful prospect opened before us–naked mountains whose summits still retained the snows perhaps of a thousand years, for it had withstood the heat of a long dry summer, and ceased to melt for the season. The winds roared–but in the deep dark gulfs which yawned on every side, profound solitude seemed to reign. We would along among the peaks in such a manner as to avoid most of the mountains which we had expected to climb–struck a small stream descending toward the W., on which we encamped, having come 15 miles.”

The “small stream” that they camped by was Clark’s Fork, which flows into the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus River. They didn’t know how far they had to go yet, but at lest they were headed downstream.

Michael J. Gillis traced this journey in his article for the Overland Journal entitled “The 1841 Trans-Sierra Route of the Bidwell-Bartleson Party.” On the 18th he says that the group was climbing up Golden Canyon, and crested the Sierra Nevada at an elevation of 9,425 feet.

“In only four days, thanks to good weather, good luck and some savvy scouting, the Bidwell-Bartleson Party had made its way to the west side of the Sierra Nevada. One of the most daunting portions of the travelers’ trip now lay behind them. Unfortunately, their joy at successfully locating a pass over the summit was quickly tempered by the sobering panorama that now lay before them. Snowcapped mountains were visible in every direction. Many days of difficult traveling were still ahead.”

“Sunday, 17th. This morning we set forth into the rolling mountains; in many places it was so steep that all were obliged to take it on foot. Part of the day we traveled through valleys between peaks, where the way was quite level . . . Encamped on the side of the mountains, so elevated that the ice remained all day in the streams–but we had not yet arrived at the summit. Killed another ox on this evening–made 12 miles.”

Following the Walker River, the Bidwell-Bartleson Party entered the Sierras at Antelope Valley. They faced the challenge of crossing a daunting range of snow-capped mountains and steep canyons. Could they do it?

On the day before Bidwell had written: “This evening the Company was convened for the purpose of deciding by vote whether we should go back to the lake and take a path which we saw leading to the N.W., or undertake to climb the mountains. We had no more provision than would last us to the lake–nearly all were unanimous against turning back.”

No one wanted to go back to the desert. They were already on short rations, down to their last one or two oxen, but the mountains at least promised water and the possibility of game. The desert had nothing to offer but sand, heat, and starvation. So the decision was made; they would tackle the mountains. On the 17th they started up into the mountains, hoping to break through to California.

But first—-this announcement:

I’ll be signing books at the Chico Library Fall Festival tomorrow from 11 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. If anyone would like a copy of my book, or would like to meet and talk to the author, please stop by and say, “Hi!”

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

“Thursday, 14th. This morning we saw at a distance Capt. B. with his 7 men, coming in a direction towards us, but we made no halt, ascended the stream about 20 miles. The mountains continued to increase in height.”

Captain Bartleson was back. He had taken off with seven of his eight companions, their saddlebags packed with most of the meat from a slaughtered ox. One of Bartleson’s friends stayed behind, saying, “The captain is wrong and I will stay with you, boys.” At first the rest of the company followed in Bartleson’s tracks, knowing that the company’s best scout, Charles Hopper, was with them.

On the 11th they deviated from Bartleson’s trail and started along the Walker River into the mountains. It would be another day and a half before Bartleson’s group, in a very hungry condition, caught up with them.

“Monday, 11th. Left the lake this morning going into the mountains on a S.W. course. Today we left the trail of Capt. B. and having traveled 19 miles, arrived on a stream which flowed rapidly, and afforded more water than Mary’s river. We thought now, without doubt, that we were safe on the waters of the St. Joaquin (pronounced St. Wawkeen) according to Marsh’s letter. Here grew willows, balm Gilead, and a few cottonwoods.”

They had been traveling through the area of the Carson Sink, where the Humboldt River ends, and the landscape was one of alternating sand and swamp. The river that they mistook for the San Joaquin was the Walker River, which flows eastward out of the Sierras. It made for a good route up into the mountains. Future travelers on the California Trail would not travel this far south, but in following water Bidwell & Co. had missed the few miles of dry country that would have taken them to the Truckee River.

“Saturday, 2nd.  Having traveled about 5 miles, we all beheld with delight the course of the river change to S. W.  Here was excellent grass–it was 3 or 4 feet high, and stood thick like a meadow, it was a kind of bluegrass. The whole valley seemed to be swarming with Indians, but they were very timid.  Their sable heads were seen in groups of 15 or 20, just above the tops of the grass to catch a view of us passing by.”

The Humboldt River takes a turn southward where it meets present day Highway 789, about 25 miles east of Winnemucca, Nevada. Then it meanders westward until just north of Winnemucca, where it takes a definite turn to the southwest. Seeing the river turn in the expected direction was a great relief to Bidwell & Co. They were pretty sure that they were on the right track, their animals had sufficient feed, and they had access to water.

They were tired though. In Echoes of the Past Bidwell writes:

“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. [Bidwell doesn’t say whether he was walking or riding a horse.] Provisions had given out, . . . we saw no game except antelope, and they were scarce and hard to kill; and walking was very fatiguing.”

So they pressed on, weary but hopeful of success.