goldfields

Thursday 17th. Continued to coast along up the river — encamped on its banks nearly opposite to a huge isolated bluff bearing some resemblance to an immense castle in  ruins. Its distance from us no one supposed more than 1 1/2 miles, and yet it was at least 7. This deception was owing to the pure atmosphere through which it was viewed, and the want of objects, by which only, accurate ideas of distance can be acquired without measure.

The “huge isolated bluff” was probably what other pioneers called Courthouse Rock and the smaller Jail Rock. In the otherwise flat terrain of western Nebraska these features can be seen for miles around.

Father De Smet described this scene in a letter to his Superior:

Sometimes the fancy presents a castle of the middle ages, and even conjures up the lord of the manor; but instead of all these magnificent remains of antiquity, we find only barren mounds on all sides, filled with cliffs formed by the falling of the water, and serving as dens to an infinite number of rattle snakes and other venomous rep times.

Nunis, The Bidwell-Bartleson Party, p. 213)

Wednesday, 16th. Several wild horses were seen on the opposite side of the river. Advanced about 20 miles; encamped on the river, opposite to high and uneven bluffs, bearing considerable forests of pine.

Here are the bluffs as I saw them when traveling through Nebraska in 2014. The “considerable forests of pine” have disappeared.

Tuesday, 15th. There was so sudden a change from cool to cold that we were not comfortable in our best apparel. I do not remember that I ever have experienced weather so cold at this season of the year — traveled about 16 miles.

I imagine a Midwesterner would say, “Welcome to the Great Plains, John, where the weather extremes mean that there is never a dull day.” Temperatures can go from oppressively hot to bone-chilling cold in a matter of hours.

By “best apparel” I think Bidwell means not, “our fanciest duds,” but their warmest clothes.

Sunday, 13th. A mournful accident occurred in the camp this morning–a young man by the name of Shotwell while in the act of taking a gun out of the wagon, drew it with the muzzle towards him in such a manner that it went off and shot him near the heart. He lived about an hour and died in the full possession of his senses.

This was the only death during the entire dangerous trip. George Shotwell was “buried in the most decent manner our circumstances would admit of, after which a funeral sermon was preached by Mr. Williams.”

James John vividly describes the same incident:

I was out of camp seeking oxen from the river. I heard the report of a gun and heard a Scream. I went to the camp and saw a man bleeding on the ground. He was taking his gun out of the wagon with the muzzle towards him and it discharged and shot him thru the left side. He lived about an hour and died. We buried him the the sand about a mile from the Camp.

Poor George Shotwell! It was a lesson in gun safety: never grab a gun, loaded or unloaded, by the muzzle. At Fort Laramie “the things of Mr. Shotwell were sold at auction,” and a letter was taken to his family by a returning traveler.

In spite of all their perils and hardships, this was the only death suffered by the Bidwell-Bartleson Party.

Wednesday, 9th. Spent the day in crossing the S. fork of Platte — a buffalo was killed from a herd that came within 300 yards of the camp. We crossed the river by fording, the water being sufficiently shallow — width of river here about 2/3 of a mile — its waters are muddy like those of the Missouri.

The painting below, by William Henry Jackson, gives a good idea of what fording the river was like for a much larger group of emigrants.