goldfields

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!

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.

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.