goldfields

Saturday, 28th. Company remained here. A Shoshonee Indian came to our camp; from him we learned that there were more Indians not far off who had horses. Several men and myself went in search of them. Having gone about 5 miles, up hills and down hills covered with thick groves of cedar (red), we unexpectedly came to an Indian, who was in the act of taking care of some meat — venison — which he had just killed; about half of which we readily purchased for 12 cartridges of powder & ball. With him as a pilot we went in pursuit of other Indians; he led us far up in the mountains by a difficult path, where we found two or three families, hid as it were from all the world, by the roughness of nature. The only provision which they seemed to have was a few elderberries and a few seeds; under a temporary covert of bushes, I observed the aged Patriarch, whose head looked as though it had been whitened by the frosts of at least 90 winters. The scars on his arms and legs were almost countless — a higher forehead I never saw upon a man’s head. But here in the solitude of the mountains and with the  utmost contentment,  he was willing to spend the last days of his life among the hoary rocks and craggy cliffs, where perhaps he, in his youthful gayety, used to sport along crystal streams which run purling from the mountains.  Not succeeding in finding horses, we returned to camp.

The Shoshone Indians inhabited present-day northern Utah and southern Idaho, living in small bands of a few hundred at most. Bidwell, as usual, is curious about the Indians, but not disparaging about their way of life.

Friday, 27th. Daylight discovered to us a spot of green grass on the declivity of the mountain towards which we were advancing. 5 miles took us to this place, where we found, to our great joy, an excellent spring of water and an abundance of grass. Here we determined to continue ’till the route was explored to the head of Mary’s river and run no more risks of perishing for want of water in this desolate region.

After a 30 mile trek the day before searching for water, well into the night, they awoke to see an oasis only five miles distant. This site is called Tenmile Spring and it was a lifesaver for the Bidwell-Bartleson Company. The view that Bidwell saw as they awoke that morning looked like this (from http://scienceviews.com/bidwell/bidwellaug27.html) —

Tenmile Spring had plenty of water and grass. They would rest here for the next eight days. Today a trail marker with a quote from Bidwell’s journal marks the site.

Thursday, 26th. Traveled all day over dry barren plains, producing nothing but sage, or rather, as it ought to be called, wormwood, and which I believe will grow without water or soil. Two men were sent ahead to search for water, but returned a little while before dark, unsuccessful.

Our course intersected an Indian trail, which we followed directly north towards the mountains, knowing that in these dry countries the Indian trails always lead to the nearest water. Having traveled till about 10 o’clock p.m. made a halt, and waited until morning. Distance about 30 miles.

This was one of those days when they traveled all day in the hot sun and far into the night, hoping to find fresh water, and saw nothing but sand, salt, and sagebrush. Another day like that might have killed them all. They were wise to follow the Indian trail. It would lead them to water eventually.

Wednesday, 25th. Remained here all day.

They are camped at Salt Springs, on the northern side of the Great Salt Lake. The water is brackish and barely drinkable, but they stay so that their animals can rest and recuperate. Jimmy John said of this place:

These springs are deep. Some of our horses would have drowned had we not seen them in time. There are also extensive plains here which border on the Lake.”

By the time the Bidwell-Bartleson Party got to the Great Basin, they had been traveling for nearly four months. The last few weeks had been especially hard on the animals, going ten to twenty miles a day. They couldn’t keep up this pace — not on salty water and dry grass. Bidwell and his friends were finding that they had to rest the animals more and more often, and so on the 25th they stayed put, giving the oxen a chance to recuperate. But they couldn’t afford to delay either, so the next day they harnessed up the oxen and got on the trail again.

The picture is of Meadow Hot Springs, near Fillmore, Utah. Not where John Bidwell was at all, but something like I imagine the springs might have looked.

Tuesday, 24th.  Cattle strayed this morning to seek water–-late start–-day was warm–-traveled about 10 miles in a W. direction, encamped where we found numerous springs, deep, clear, and somewhat impregnated with salt. The plains were snowy white with salt. Here we procured salt of the best quality. The grass that grew in small spots on the plains was laden with salt which had formed itself on the stalks and blades in lumps, from the size of a pea to that of a hen’s egg. This was the kind we procured, being very white, strong and pure.

Ten miles in a day was good progress under those conditions.  Oxen could pull a wagon at 2 or 3 miles per hour for about 5 hours a day, so 15 miles a day was pretty much the maximum. On a very good day they might make 18 to 20 miles. But these were not good days. The teams were wearing down.

Nicholas “Cheyenne” Dawson later recalled:

We now skirted the north end of the lake, sometimes traveling in a valley and again along the shore of the lake when the mountains jutted down nearer to its shores. In places our wagons would break a crust of salt, like ice in a northern clime. We found water in holes, like wells, but it was all brackish.

Doesn’t sound appealing, does it?

Monday, 23rd. Started, bearing our course west, in order to pass the Salt Lake, passed many salt plains and springs in the forenoon. The day was hot. The hills and land bordering on the plains were covered with wild sage. In passing the declivity of a hill, we observed this sage had been plucked up and arranged in long minows, extending near a mile in length. It had been done by the Indians, but for what purpose we could not imagine, unless it was to decoy game. At evening, we arrived in full view of the Salt Lake. Water was very scarce. Cedar grows here, both on the hills and in the valleys. Distance, twenty miles.

“Minows” is probably the printer’s misreading of “windrows,” a long line of raked hay or sheaves of grain laid out to dry.

Sunday, 22nd. This morning a man (Mr. Brolaski) returned from the Fort, and said the reason why he came alone was the other men had left him, because he was unable to keep up with them; he having a pack horse laden with provision. He had seen the paper at the intersection of the trails, and was guided by it to the camp; the other were undoubtedly going the rounds of the triangle. Sure enough, they came up in the afternoon, having gone to the river and back; no pilot could be got at the Fort. The families that went into Oregon had disposed of their oxen at the fort and were going to descend the Columbia river with pack horses — they in exchange receive one horse for every ox. Their waggons they could not sell. They procured flour at 50 cents per pint, sugar same price, and other things in proportion. Near where we were camped here were a few hackberry trees.

Henry Brolaski was one of four men who had gone to Fort Hall seeking provisions and a guide. Fort Hall was located near Pocatello, Idaho, about fifty miles northwest of where the two groups parted ways. Built in 1834, Fort Hall served as a trading post on the Snake River for fur tappers, Native Americans, and travelers on the Oregon Trail. The fort was demolished in 1863, but the current replica stands as a memorial to Fort Hall’s heritage. The photos below are from my visit there in 2014.

Upon reaching California, Henry Brolaski spent a few years in Monterey. Before the Gold Rush he went to Peru, where he had a brother. By 1848 he was back in Missouri and planning to go to California, but whether he made or not is unknown. He is considered the first Polish-American to reach California.

Hackberry trees bear small, sweet, edible fruit resembling cherries. Any fruit was welcome.

The lack of a pilot was not welcome news. The company badly needed a guide across the Great Basin, but there was none to be had. They were on their own. Cue the ominous music.

Saturday, 21st. Marched off in a NW direction, and intersected our trail of Thursday last, having made a complete triangle in the plain. At this intersection of the trails we left a paper elevated by a pole, that the men returning from Fort Hall might shun the tedious rounds we had taken. Found grass and water which answered our purpose very well, though both were salt. Distance ten miles.

Having passed unawares through Cache Valley a few days previously, they reached the point at which the Bear River emptied itself into the Great Salt Lake. Thomas Fitzpatrick had told them to turn west before they reached the lake, in order to find the Humboldt River, so they headed northwest, crossing their tracks in the process.

In the map below you can see the triangle they made at the northeast corner of the Great Salt Lake. For a larger version of this map, go to the National Historic Trails Utah Auto Tour Route map.

Four men had gone to Fort Hall to try to get provisions, and (they hoped) a guide to help them cross the desert. Clearly they could have used a guide.