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!”
Sword Lake and Dardanelles Cone
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.
Wednesday, 20th. Men went in different directions to see if there was any possibility of extracting ourselves from this place without going back. They returned and reported that it was utterly impossible to go down the creek. One young man was so confident that he could pass along the creek with his horse that he started alone, in spite of many persuasions to the contrary.
Capt. B. also being tired of waiting for the explorers to return, started down the stream, which so jaded his animals that he was obliged to wait all day to rest them before he was able to retrace his steps. In the meantime the rest of the Company, suffering for want of water, were obliged to travel. We proceeded directly N. up the mountains, about 4 miles, found a little grass and water — here we killed one of the 2 oxen.
Lost in the mountains — no way of knowing where they were or how to get out — only two oxen left for food. Not a good situation.
They are within the present-day Stanislaus National Forest. On the map below, they are near where Donell Reservoir is today. (At the end of the word “National.)
Among the “men who went in different directions” were John Bidwell and James John — cautious John and impulsive Jimmy. In his 1877 Dictation, and in Echoes of the Past, Bidwell tells the story of their attempt to find a way out of the canyon. The men all agreed that if any of them found a way which was passable, they were to fire a gun to alert the others.
When Jimmy and I got down about three-quarters of a mile I came to the conclusion that it was impossible to get through, and said to him, ‘Jimmy, we might as well go back; we can’t go here.’ “’Yes, we can,’ said he; and insisting that we could, he pulled out a pistol and fired. It was an old dragoon pistol, and reverberated like a cannon.
I hurried back to tell the company not to come down, but before I reached them, the captain and his party had started. I explained and warned them that they could not get down; but they went on as far as they could go, and then were obliged to stay all day and night to rest the animals. The men had to pick grass here and there where it grew among the rocks for their horses and mules. To get water, they went down to the stream and carried the water back up in cups and kettles, and even their boots, and then poured the water down the animals’ throats.
Meanwhile, Jimmy John continued down the stream on his own. His journal says:
I went on down the creek a few miles and waited for the company until night, but no one came here. I camped by the side of a frightful looking precipice. My gun fired accidentally as I lit from my horse this evening and the muzzle was so close to my head that the powder burned my ear and frightened the horse so that he jumped and knocked my gun into the creek, but I lost no time in getting it dry again.
When the others didn’t catch up with him, Jimmy continued on his own.
J. John was never more seen by any of us till we found him afterwards in California. His experience after he left us was of the severest character. He was repeatedly chased by Indians and was without anything to eat until he was nearly starved yet managed to get through to Sutter’s Fort and told S. of our being on the route. (1877 Bidwell Dictation)
They have followed Clark’s Fork to where it converges with the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus River and then followed the Middle Fork to its confluence with Dardanelles Creek. Here’s a little video of the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus.
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 rapidly all day; the mts. were still mantled with forests of towering pines. The roaring winds and the hollow murmuring of the dashing waters conveyed in the 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 that Capt. Walker (the mountaineer) had been lost in these very mountains 22 days before he could extricate himself.
In July 1833, by order of Captain Benjamin Bonneville, Joseph Walker led forty men on an exploring trip across the Sierras. John Bidwell probably read about him in Washington Irving’s popular account of the Bonneville expedition. Walker and his men had spent 22 grueling days scaling granite bluffs and slogging through heavy drifts of snow. With that in mind, Bidwell had no desire to spend any more time among the beauties of a autumn season in the Sierra Nevada than he had to. 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 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.
Sierra Nevada (or From the Head of Carson River) by Albert Bierstadt
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.
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 travelled through vallies between peaks, where the way was quite level — passed down and up through forests of pine, fir, cedar, &c; many of the pines were 12 ft. in diameter and no less than 200 ft. high. Encamped on the side of the mountain, so elevated that the ice remained all day in the streams — but we had not yet arrived at the summit. Killed another ox this evening — made 12 miles.
Jimmy John gave a similar account, and said, “These forests and fine streams of water have to us a beautiful appearance after traveling so long through an almost entire desert.” According to Michel Gillis, the company followed river drainages as much as possible, rather than attempting to scale mountains.
They began by climbing steeply due west out of Little Antelope Valley . . . up to Rodriguez Flat. From there they dropped down the Snodgrass Creek drainage to Silver King Creek. After a four-and-one-half mile descent along Silver King Creek, they arrived in Silver King Meadows. Heading west across this flat, timbered expanse they intersected the East Fork of the Carson River . . . The trail up the East Fork proved to be relatively flat for the first several miles with some grassy areas available to graze their jaded animals.
“The Trans-Sierra Route of the Bidwell-Bartleson Party”, Overland Journal, Winter 1998.
As they made their way up the East Fork of the Carson, the canyon became more and more narrow, until they branched off into a Golden Canyon, and there camped for the night. The ox they killed for dinner left them with two.
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.
Time for a nice fall hike in the Eastern Sierra Nevada
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.
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.
That phrase, “but we made no halt” is a telling one. These men (and Nancy, don’t forget her) are not going to wait up for the double-crossing Captain Bartleson and his party. Note that the Kelsey-Bidwell Party is now ahead of Bartleson and his men, even though Bartleson was expecting to reach California before them. What went wrong?
Nicholas “Cheyenne” Dawson was with the Bartleson party, although in his telling some 50 years later, he says the men with Bartleson only meant to do some exploring, not desert the rest of the Company. They seemed to have followed the Walker River downstream until it terminated in a lake. This did not get them where they wanted to go so they headed west. They had eaten up the ration of beef that they had taken with them.
In the meantime Hopper had seen some deer signs; so we camped, and sure enough, Hopper soon killed and brought in a back-tailed deer. We made short work of eating him all up. We also found some baskets of grass seed hidden away by Indians. We confiscated them, poured the seed into the water we had boiled the deer in, and made a delicious soup. While we were devouring the deer, I had noticed Barnett cramming bones into his pocket. I understood this next day when I saw him, as we rode along, gnawing bones.
Traveling the next day we finally struck the river. On the opposite side was a bunch of Indians preparing to leave in haste. By shaking a white rag, we induced them to remain until we approached, for we had nothing left to eat, and thought they might have something we could barter them out of. Although they were frightened at first, we soon gained their good will, and having smoked the pipe of peace with them, let them know by signs our wishes. They produced their stock of trade — a gallon or two of pinion nuts. After tasting these we agreed to take them all, swapping butcher knives for them. We and the Indians then parted, very good friends, each thinking he had the best of the bargain. We now divided the nuts by measure; and I remember that I cogitated for some time — should I make one bait [bite] of mine, or dribble them out. I decided on the latter course, and dropped them into my pocket; but they were delicious.
Pine nuts were a staple of the tribes in the Great Basin. They are high in protein and an excellent food source. For more on the history and culture of pine nuts by Native American tribes in Nevada, go to pinenut.com.
Paiute women harvesting pine nuts in 1912. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.
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.
goldfields 