goldfields

Friday, 23rd. Having no more meat than would last us 3 days, it was necessary to use all possible exertions to kill game, which was exceedingly scarce. For this purpose I started alone, very early in the morning, to keep some distance before the Company, who had concluded to continue as near as possible to the creek on the N. side. I went about 4 miles -–met the Indian who came to us last night — obtained a little provision made of acorns — got an Indian boy to pilot me to his house. He took me down the most rugged path in all nature — arrived on the banks of a river at least 3/4 of a mile perpendicular from where I started with him — found no more provision, continued down the river — oak in abundance, buckeye, and a kind of maple.

The mountains, which walled in the stream, were so steep that it was with great difficulty I scaled them — having in one place come within an inch of falling from a craggy cliff down a precipice nearly a fourth of a mile perpendicular. 4 long hours I labored before I reached the summit — proceeded directly to intercept the trail of the Company. Mts. covered with the largest and tallest pines, firs, &c., thick copses of hazel &c. — travelled till dark over hills, dales, crags, rocks, &c., found no trail — lay down and slept.

You would think that Bidwell would take someone else with him, but he doesn’t seem to have heard of the buddy system. His idea was to range around looking for game to shoot, then intersect the trail of the Company and rejoin them further along. Needless to say, he never found any game, and the others weren’t doing much better. In Echoes of the Past he says:

When we killed our last ox [on the 22nd] we shot and ate crows or anything we could kill, and one man shot a wildcat. We could eat anything.

Although he found no game, he did make a fascinating discovery. Many years later he wrote:

Just at dark I came to an enormous fallen tree and tried to go around the top, but the place was too brushy, so I went around the butt, which seemed to me to be about twenty or twenty-five feet above my head. This I suppose to have been one of the fallen trees in the Calaveras Grove of Sequoia gigantea or mammoth trees, as I have since been there, and to my own satisfaction identified the lay of the land and the tree. Hence I concluded that I must have been the first white man who ever saw the Sequoia gigantea, of which I told Fremont when he came to California in 1844. (Echoes of the Past)

He didn’t know that Joseph Walker had seen those trees before him in 1833. This place is now Calaveras Big Trees State Park. For more about John Bidwell and the big trees, including a letter from Bidwell to John Muir about his discovery, click here.

Thursday, 22nd. Descended towards the river about 15 miles — had a tolerable road — arrived within about a mile of the river — could not approach nearer. Here was considerable oak, some of which was evergreen, and thought to be live oak. 3 Indians came to camp; killed the last ox — let this speak for our situation and future prospects!

Seeing pictures of the rocky streambeds lined with densely packed trees, it is no wonder that they had to travel on the ridge between the rivers. In the 1877 Dictation, Bidwell says:

Pursuing a westerly course for a few days, we found ourselves obliged to keep on top of the ridges away from the stream. On one of these ridges we killed our last ox, who was so poor, as nearly all had been for weeks, that he had no marrow in his bones, he was literally skin and bones.

That poor ox! All that rough, rocky road to travel, only to end up as a scanty meal for thirty people. It was short rations all around.

In our straitened condition it was customary for one or more to go ahead of the party in order if possible to kill some kind of game, of which there was scarcely anything. There was nothing for game to live upon because fires had destroyed everything that would burn, and the country was literally desolated. . . . The only thing in the shape of game that was killed by our whole party during our passage of the Sierra Nevada Mountains from Walker River till we reached the San Joaquin Valley consisted, so far as I can now remember, of a wildcat, a crow, and a few squirrels.

Wednesday, 21st. Our route today was much better than expected, though in any other place than the mountains it would be considered horrible. Capt. B. with his 7 or 8 overtook us, but we heard nothing of J. John. Distance about 10 miles, could see no prospect of a termination to the mts., mts., mountains!

Surrounded by mountains, and unable to proceed down the steep and rocky canyon, the party traveled along the ridge between the Middle and North Forks of the Stanislaus River.  The landscape was “recently burned over” by forest fires. This desolate terrain offered no game and almost no grass for the horses, the mules, and their one remaining ox.

They are passing near the Dardanelles Cone, a prominent mountain of volcanic upthrust, maybe one of those “mts., mts., mountains!”

In his 1877 Dictation, Bidwell describes how Bartleson’s group, who had tried to get down the canyon, spent all day retracing their steps, although the distance was no more than half a mile.

At one place it took all of the men either pushing or pulling to help each mule back up again, and for the whole distance the loads had to be carried on the backs of the men.

Tough going indeed!

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 wound 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.

Stunning views, roaring winds, and biting cold. The company is high in the Sierras, but they have crossed the summit; they find a small stream flowing westward. Jimmy John noted: “Today we crossed the main ridge of the mountains of California in the morning about 10 o’clock.” Excellent news! however, they still have a long and difficult descent ahead of them.

The ascent up a steep pass in the thin air must have been exhausting. Michael Gillis writes:

After ascending the last few hundred feet in Golden Canyon, they reached the canyon’s western headwall. At an elevation of 9,425 feet, they crested the Sierra Nevada. 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.

Their descent takes them down Disaster Creek to where the creek empties into Clark’s Fork of the Stanislaus River. The way down is tough, rocky, and dangerous, but they make it and camp by Clark’s Fork.

This map, from Michael Gillis’s article of “The 1841 Trans-Sierra Route of the Bidwell-Bartleson Party,” is not easy to make out. but if you can spot the little vertical arrow in the middle of the map, that is where they were on October 18th. The solid black line traces their route as far as October 20th, then the two dotted lines are two possible routes after that.

Saturday, 16th. This morning 4 or 5 men started to ascend several of the high peaks to ascertain if it was possible to pass the mountains. Just as they were going to start Capt. B. came up. He was in rather a hungry condition, and had been traveling several days without provision, excepting a few nuts which they had purchased from the Indians and which they had eaten on a very small allowance.

We killed yesterday the best ox we had. This we shared freely with them. There were now but 3 oxen left and they were very poor. But there was no time to lose. The explorers returned & reported that they thought it almost an impracticality to scale the mountains, which continued to increase in height as far as they could see.

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 provisions than would last us to the lake — nearly all were unanimous against turning back. I should have mentioned that our Indian pilots last night absconded. This stream I shall call Balm river, there being many balm Gilead trees upon it. (It is not laid down on any map.)

So John Bartleson and his companions return, dragging their sorry tails behind them. “They had the commissary with them,” as Dawson relates, meaning the oxen, dinner on the hoof, so they had to catch up and rejoin the company. The renegades told how they had subsisted on pine nuts and fish traded from the Indians. The fish gave them “something akin to cholera morbus”, as Bidwell later said. A bad case of the runs, in other words.

We were glad to see them although they had deserted us. 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 we 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 dogs.” He seemed to be heartily sick of his late experience, but that did not prevent him from leaving us twice after that.

Up into the mountains, or back into the desert? What a dilemma! But they didn’t want to face the desert again, so they chose they mountains, where they hoped to find game. I am not sure which lake he is talking about — he might mean Carson Lake. But then what? They don’t have the knowledge or resources to survive in this harsh landscape like the Paiute. So they chose to press forward.

Friday, 15th. Advanced upstream about 12 miles and arrived at the base of very high mountains. The creek had become a small spring branch, and took its rise at no great distance in the mountains. But we saw plainly that it was impossible to progress further without scaling the mts., and our Indian guides said they knew no further.

They have reached the base of the Sierra Nevada mountains, a formidable prospect. According to Michael J. Gillis, they are most likely in Little Antelope Valley. They have gone as far as they can go in the valley and now they are going to have to tackle the mountains or turn back.

Mike Gillis, co-author with Mike Magliari of John Bidwell and California, wrote an article for the Overland Journal (Winter 1998) on “The 1841 Trans-Sierra Route of the Bidwell-Bartleson Party.” I’ll be using it to follow John Bidwell across the mountains.

Time for a hike!