Wednesday, 13th. Traveled about 13 miles and only crossed a bend of the river; at this place it ran due north. Day was hot, the creek had dwindled to half its first size.
Jimmy John says it was 25 miles and his figure looks more likely. This was a cutoff to save traveling northward on the river and then back down again. They crossed the creek (the Walker River) and camped on the west side at the foot of a high mountain. This may have been Mount Wilson, in Lyon County, just south of present-day Yerington.
The trouble with writing about the Walker River and Yerington, is that it starts a song running through my brain, “”Where the Walker runs down to the Carson Valley plain . . .” That’s the first line of Darcy Farrow, a song written by Steve Gillette and Tom Campbell. Probably the most famous version is by John Denver, but the one in my head is this one.
Tuesday, 12th. Traveled about 4 miles upstream, and encamped, understanding our Indian (having hired another pilot) that it would be a long day’s travel to water, after leaving the creek.
Why leave the creek? The creek they are on is the Walker River, which makes a long arc northward and then south. The company plans to leave the river and cut across the hills to rejoin the river further to the west. How they were able to understand this plan from their Indian guide is anyone’s guess.
At any rate, this short 4-mile trek and camp by the river will give their animals time to rest and graze before heading out over waterless terrain.
Monday, 11th. Left the lake this morning, going to 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 though now, without doubt, that we were safe on the waters of the S. Joaquin (pronounced St. Waukeen) according to Marsh’s letter. Here grew willows, balm Gilead, and a few cottonwoods. The course of the stream as far as we could see was S. — but knew not how soon it might take a turn here in the mountains.
These pioneers had been motivated to set out for California by tales they heard from fur trappers, like Antoine Robidoux, and by letters written by Dr. John Marsh that were published in the Missouri papers. Marsh lived near Mt. Diablo and the nearest large river was the San Joaquin, so the company was on the lookout for it, but they had yet to cross the Sierra Nevada. It gives you an idea how little they knew of the geography around them.
The river they have found was the Walker River, which flows out of the Sierra. This was the river they would follow up into the mountains. In The First Emigrant Train, Bidwell wrote:
Leaving the Sink of the Humboldt, we crossed a considerable stream which must have been the Carson River, and came to another stream, which must have been Walker River, and followed it up to where it came out of the mountains, which proved to be the Sierra Nevada. We did not know the name of the mountains. Neither had these rivers then been named, nor had they been seen by Kit Carson or Joe Walker, for whom they were named, nor were they seen until 1845 by Fremont, who named them.
Bidwell is right about the Carson River, but wrong about the Walker. Joe Walker had explored it in 1833, but it was Fremont who named it.
Bidwell’s “balm Gilead” is either the balsam fir or the balsam poplar. Both trees exude a strong-smelling sweet resin.
[Sunday, 10th] Large numbers of Indians lived about this place, but few (50 or 60) visited our camp. Crossed Mary’s river — it was here running E. leading from the lake which we saw to the W. of us yesterday, into the swamp by which we staid last night. Our course today was S.W. Distance 15 miles — encamped upon the lake.
Fifty or sixty hardly sounds like few to me, but maybe it’s all relative.
On the 7th Bidwell wrote about the “dry cane grass which the Indians had cut in large heaps to procure honey from the honey dew with which it was covered.” The Indians in this region are Paiutes, although Bidwell usually refers to them as Shoshones. Here is a little more about honeydew from his 1877 Dictation.
In the edges of the water the tule was covered with honeydew to an extent that enabled the Indians to gather it in large quantities. They made it into balls about the size of one’s fist and we bought and ate considerable of it. When we afterwards saw them gathering it, we saw that the Indians collected the insects that covered the honeydew as well as the dew itself and formed the whole into a ball.
According to a report titled Native American Plant Resources in the Yucca Mountain Area, Nevada, this reed was Phragmites australis. “The stems of this plant were used to make arrow shafts and wickiup walls. The candy-like,”honey dew’ exudate was scraped off the leaves and eaten as a sugary food.” The honeydew was created by aphids, which were included in the sugary balls. It was undoubtedly a very nutritious food.
Saturday, 9th. Crossed Mary’s river where it led from the swamp into a lake beyond; our pilot led us south on the trail of Capt. B. Crossed a plain which is covered with water the greater part of the year — then came into sand hills, among which traveling was very laborious. Saw to the W. of us a lake, presenting a sheet of water 20 or 30 miles in extent. Encamped by another swamp, in which the water was very nauseous. Distance 28 miles.
They are traveling through an utter wasteland — no trees, no grass, no good water — just sand hills punctuated by swampy pools of nasty water. They try to follow in the tracks of Bartleson’s men, but the trail was easily lost in the arid soil. In his 1877 Dictation Bidwell says:
Thrown entirely upon our own resources to find our way as best we could through this region and into California, Benjamin Kelsey proved to be our best leader.
So we could call this the Kelsey-Bidwell Party. In the map below, the Humboldt River and Sink are at the upper right. From there the Kelsey-Bidwell Party were guided by the Indian guide southward to Carson Lake, and then westward to the Walker River. This was the river they would follow up into the Sierra Nevada.
Friday, 8th. The swamp was clouded with wild geese, ducks &c, which rose from its surface at the report of our guns. We traveled about 6 miles and stopped to kill a couple of oxen that were unable to travel.
Jimmy John notes that they only traveled a few miles that day because their Indian guide told them that they could “get to no other watering place today.” So instead they tried to add to their store of meat by hunting geese and ducks.
They are still by the Humboldt Sink and following the remnant of Mary’s River. By going south instead of west, they are missing out on finding the Truckee River, which later wagon trains would seek out. But that would have meant crossing the “Forty Mile Desert,” a nightmarish trek for everyone who attempted it.
Dead oxen in the desert, J. Goldsborough Bruff’s depiction of the California Trail
Thursday, 7th. Capt. Bartleson, having got enough meat yesterday to last him a day or two, and supposing he would be able to reach the mountains of California in 2 or 3 days, rushed forward with his own mess, consisting of 8 persons, at a rate entirely too fast for the oxen, leaving the rest to keep up if they could, and if they could not it was all the same to him. The day was very warm.
The Indian pilot remained with us — the river spread into a high, wide swamp, covered with high grass — Indians were numerous. Encamped by the swamp about dark, having come about 25 miles — water bad — no fuel, excepting weeds and dry cane grass which the Indians had cut in large heaps to procure honey from the honey dew with which it was covered.
They have reached the Humboldt Sink, where the river spreads out into a marshy swamp and soaks into the sand. The supposed leader of the company, John Bartleson, without consulting with any except his own mess, has decided to strike out on his own and beat the others to California.
John Bidwell never forgot this act of betrayal. Years later, in The First Emigrant Train to California (Echoes of the Past), he wrote about that morning:
When nearly ready to go, the Captain and one or two of his mess came to us and said, “Boys, our animals are 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 mounted and ready to start, the captain in a loud voice proclaimed,
“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 – – -!”
(This was first published in The Century Magazine in 1890, a time when no respectable publication would print a swear word like “hell.” What Bartleson said is pretty clear, and John Bidwell never forgot it.)
Bartleson and his eight companions took off on their mules, with most of the meat from a freshly-slaughtered ox. They had not said a word about abandoning their companions before this. Figuring that he and his men had enough meat to get them to the mountains, they left the others in the dust—some of the men and Nancy Kelsey on horses or mules, the rest on foot with the slow-traveling oxen. Jimmy John’s journal entry notes that:
They thought they could leave us behind and have the first sight of the beautiful plains of California. Our animals are giving out. Left one horse and mule today and threw away some heavy baggage.
Sink of the Humboldt, Nevada by Edward Deakin (1838-1923)
Wednesday, 6th. Company was out of meat and remained till the oxen came up; several Indians came to camp, one of whom we hired to pilot us on.
The company did not travel on the 6th. They had to wait until Bidwell showed up with the oxen he was driving. It took him until about noon on the 6th to catch up to the others. The day before, as Bartleson and his companions had driven forward on their mules, Bidwell lagged behind with the slow cattle.
The night of the 5th, far behind the others, he found a patch of grass, unpacked the oxen, and laid down to sleep without supper and without blankets.
I got up the next morning, hunted the oxen out of the willow-thicket, and repacked them. Not having had supper or breakfast, and having to travel nine miles before I overtook the party, perhaps I was not in the best humor. [Who would be?] They were waiting, and for the very good reason that they could have nothing to eat until 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.
Imagine having to walk two or three hours through the rocky wilderness on no breakfast, looking for your flyaway companions. Imagine the others, sitting in camp, no breakfast, waiting for food to show up in the form of an emaciated ox that they would have to slaughter and roast before they could eat. It amazes me that this group did not have more arguments and divisions than it did, and furthermore, that they would all make it to California alive.
Just why Bartleson did not argue with Bidwell we shall see next time. He had a plan.
A healthy, well-fed ox in the desert. Overland Journal, Spring 2015
Tuesday, 5th. Today was very warm, and the oxen were not able to keep up with the horses. Traveled about 30 miles and stopped on the river about dark — grass plenty, willows — this going so fast was the fault of Capt. B., nothing kept him from going as fast as his mules could possibly travel. But his dependence was on the oxen for beef — for it was now all we had to live upon.
This area of good grass and willows is probably what later became known as Lassen Meadows, named for Peter Lassen. Today it is the Rye Patch State Recreation Area.
Captain John Bartleson and the men of his mess, with their horses and mules, are pressing forward, going as swiftly as they are able. The entire company is anxious to get to California before the year and their meat supply, run out. But the oxen cannot travel as fast as the mounts, and the men are dependent on those oxen for meat. This disparity is causing friction in the company and will lead to greater dissension in a few days.
In The First Emigrant Train to California (Echoes of the Past) Bidwell wrote:
We were getting tired, and some were in favor of leaving the oxen, of which we then had only about 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 had 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.
We’ll get the rest of this story tomorrow, when Bidwell gets to camp. Tramping after the oxen, doing all the work alone and without food, was not going to put him in a good mood.
You can follow the California Trail in photos and driving instructions from The Parting of the Ways to the Humboldt Sink at Emigrant Trails West, the source of this photo.
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