by Earl Murray
Owen rode back along the trail and returned shortly after midnight. I don’t know how he found the original grave in the dark but he has an uncanny ability to feel things that he cannot see. I suppose it comes from life in the wilderness when survival depends on all the senses working perfectly together.
He takes it all in stride, never complaining. Sometimes he reminds me of Guynema Rowe—both being more at ease with themselves when everything is a life-and-death struggle.
After being at Bent’s Fort and then Fort Hall, I would venture to say that Owen represents the majority of mountain men who still remain in the wilderness. They’re like the wolves that roam the mountains and plains, always on the prowl for food, their instincts ever alert to danger.
Men like them cannot rest for any length of time. They must be on the go, following old trails and reliving hard-fought battles and nights without sleep, protecting their horses from Indian war parties. Soft-lit hotel rooms and quiet streets cannot provide for nerves that need to be on edge, and that’s probably why Owen couldn’t last in the settlements.
It is good that he’s along on this journey. Though the men are bone-weary, they continue to have their nightly meetings. Important decisions have arisen from their conferences.
The settlers have all made arrangements to take along only what they deem absolutely necessary and are consolidating it in carts or wagons. Many have decided that the clothes on their backs are enough. Though they curse the road and the men who carved it out, they still believe there’s a rainbow at the end of it.
Gabriella’s Journal
11 NOVEMBER 1846
The rain has lessened but the trail remains horrendous. It’s a daily task to remove fallen trees and rocks from our path. My feet are swollen from the cold and endless walking. Whistler is enduring and manages to discover wisps of grass and scattered shrubs throughout the forest. He’s a fighter.
Owen rides ahead endlessly and returns for Kentuckians to help him clear the way. Everyone has resigned themselves to a day at a time, no more. Guynema Rowe, usually always on the go, has stopped her hunting. The woodchucks have gone into hibernation and the squirrels and chipmunks are so sparse that it isn’t worth wasting her precious energy to range out after them. Even if she was lucky enough to bag one, she couldn’t cook it. With so much timber in every direction, there’s none dry enough to burn.
The McCord girls cry almost continuously. They care little about their own hunger but both are very concerned about Rufus and Jake. The little dogs have lost considerable weight and haven’t the energy to dig in the rocks. Pearl carries Rufus in her arms much of the time. Her father protests and insists that she ride in the cart with Katie and Jake, but she’s afraid the single yoke of oxen will tire and die.
Yesterday at noon Owen bled some of the mules, cutting them at selected veins along the leg. He filled two tin cups with blood and after pouring it in a pitcher, diluted it heavily with water. I was able to swallow a mouthful.
Mrs. Rowe made a blend of grass and moss and mixed it with blood water. After digging under a log, she recovered handfuls of dry pinecones. They popped and burned and brought the grass soup to a boil.
She doled out small cupfuls, first to the McCord girls, and instructed the brew be sipped very slowly.
“Otherwise you’ll wretch it up,” she said.
Per her instruction, I drank a half-cup and discovered myself revived a great deal. I certainly wouldn’t recommend it for every day but it does serve the purpose to ward off starvation.
Owen says that it’s important to counteract hunger before intense weakness develops. Then it is difficult to think and delirium sets in. He maintains that it is almost impossible to starve on the plains or in the foothills, but that the thick woods are deadly.
The game remains at moderate to lower elevations most of the year, except for herds that cross high mountain passes in midsummer. In the most extreme situations there is always the inner bark of the cottonwood and the numerous plant roots along the rivers and stream courses to fall back on.
In the high mountains the soil is sparse and much of the vegetation is woody. There is little to feed any animal except the rodents who frequent the rocks. Anyone who travels at this altitude in other than the warm seasons is risking death.
I know these mountains to be lower than the Rockies in the interior, but to me they have been equally grueling. No one can tell me that the hottest of deserts is more of a challenge, not when there are plenty of ants to eat.
Gabriella’s Journal
13 NOVEMBER 1846
We’ve had grass and blood soup for three days. Then two oxen died last night and were immediately butchered. One of the carts was chopped up for firewood. The meat added to our strength and for the first time in many days, the McCord girls relaxed. Rufus and Jake were back to normal, wagging their tails and looking for treats. They pestered Owen endlessly, knowing he would oblige them.
We began the journey this morning refreshed and in good spirits, but soon ran into serious difficulties. We spent the better part of the day taking the carts and wagons apart and carrying them and the goods over a huge rockslide that had blocked the trail. I walked over the slide with Annie and Millie and the McCord girls.
We had just reached the other side when we heard a rumbling behind us. Rocks began moving downhill. Owen was right below the moving hill with three Kentuckians, removing the hoops and canvas covering from the last wagon. I screamed as a mass of rock and mud tumbled down where they worked.
The rest of the men were reconstructing the wagons and carts. They dropped everything and rushed past me. Annie had a strange look on her face. My stomach fell down to my knees.
Rufus and Jake began barking, running over the rocks as fast as they could go, and I started after them.
By this time the slide had covered the wagon completely and there was no way to tell where it was within the rubble. Men scrambled along the hillside, removing rocks and pieces of shattered timber, looking for any sign of Owen or the three Kentuckians. Pearl and Katie McCord arrived and pointed to where Rufus and Jake were frantically barking and digging.
I rushed over and began turning rocks aside as quickly as I was able. Soon everyone was helping me, and the back of the wagon began to appear. I dug until my fingers bled and soon we heard Owen’s voice calling out that he was alive.
First came a table leg and then Owen’s arm and shoulder. Upon hearing the rocks tumbling down, he had quickly climbed under the table for cover, shielding himself from much of the debris that rolled over the wagon. He was badly bruised and shaken, and his right arm hurt him terribly, but we could find no broken bones and no deep cuts or scratches.
The three Kentuckians were not so lucky. The rocks had shoved all three of them against the bank on the opposite side of the trail, crushing them. Rufus and Jake had found where they were buried, and after the men discovered their bodies, they laid them out carefully and covered them back over.
The camp settled into shock. I helped Owen wash at the creek while Millie and Guynema Rowe worked together to brew a strong tea. While Owen sipped the strong brew, I cut a sling for his arm from one of my dresses.
“I feel strange,” he said. “I almost died on my birthday.”
“Today’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I didn’t see it as important.”
“That’s nonsense,” I said, helping him arrange the sling. “Everything about you is important to me.”
I laid my head against his shoulder and he held me with his good arm. I wanted to be strong but couldn’t hold the tears back. I’ve never felt so panicked and sick with dread as when I saw that hill sliding down.
The strong tea helped Owen relax and soon he fell asleep. I joined Annie and Millie at their wagon, and Guynema Rowe came soon after me. Two of the men had left young widows. One was named Lucy, heavy with child, and the other Lily. I listened while Annie and Millie talked to them about carrying on.
&n
bsp; “I can’t,” Lucy sobbed. “I can’t bear to be without him.”
“Oh yes you can,” Millie assured her. “You’d best be thanking the Good Lord that you’re still alive to have his child.”
“But what will I do?”
“You’ve got two strong arms and two strong legs and a good head on your shoulders,” Millie said. “Oregon City is looking for women like you.”
“We’ll all stay together and work at laundry or such,” Annie said. “We can help with one another’s children.”
“I told Mace not to drag us out this way,” Lily said, with clenched fists. “Now he’s gone and gotten himself killed!”
“You can throw a fit of anger now, if you’ve a mind,” Millie told her. “But come tomorrow you should ask the Good Lord to help you get along that trail and start over.”
They talked half the night, sharing their pain among them. I left to join Owen atop a nearby mountain. We walked along a deer trail that took us to an opening in the trees, where we sat on a rock outcrop with a good view of the sky.
The clouds had parted and the stars shone brightly. The moon was but a small crescent hanging over the distant treetops.
“I never thought we’d see the sky again,” I said. “What a sight!”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Owen pointed to the north, where a glow of light had begun moving up along the skyline. “The real show is about to begin.”
I watched in wonder as the light grew increasingly brighter, flowing across the sky towards us in long, ghostlike streaks of white. Soon the cloudlike movements became tinged with blue and red, with an occasional burst of green.
“The Northern Lights,” Owen said. “Pure magic in the winter sky.”
I marveled at the glorious show of beautiful color. At times the lights seemed to flow just overhead. I stood up and raised my hands into the air, hoping that I might feel the lights slip through my fingers on their way past.
“I used to sit in the cold, high up in the mountains along the Three Forks of the Missouri River,” Owen said. “The lights would come down from the Arctic. I once saw a big white owl glide overhead through the color. There was a man named Clayborne with me that night and he started to cry. The next day he was killed by Blackfeet Indians.”
“There will be no owls tonight,” I said, and we held each other tightly.
I’ve decided that Providence is a scheme no one can predict or understand. Strong people don’t always survive. Owen is among the strongest and he couldn’t have known in any way that the mountain wanted to kill him. He’s still with me now because Rufus and Jake decided they also wanted him around for a while longer, and what the Indians call the Great Mystery wanted it, too.
Quincannon’s Journal
14 NOVEMBER 1846
I’ve never been so sore in my life. I guess I’m lucky even to be alive. It feels like the whole mountain fell on top of me, then churned and chewed me up. I should have more than just some bruises and scratches, but I twisted my right elbow pretty bad and I can’t use it.
I’ll keep it in the sling for a while and see what I can do left-handed. I never thought for a moment that hill would slip again. But none of the land I’ve ever crossed has ever once told me ahead of time about its surprises, and I’ve been luckier than some.
I feel bad for the Kentuckians and their widows. It’s hard to understand how I lived through that and they didn’t. I was lucky enough to be in the wagon and they weren’t. I’d like to think that’s all there is to it, but there’s got to be more. This is not the first time that I’ve survived something that should have taken me, and saw those with me go. It doesn’t make any sense.
I can’t say I’ve accomplished all that much in my life and there’s any number of people who wish I wasn’t around. So I don’t understand why I’m still here today and a lot of my friends are not.
I can still hear those Kentuckians screaming as the rocks rolled over them. Just as the slide started, one of them said, “Watch out, Quin! There’s a landslide!” and another one said, “Oh, God! We’re dead!” I thought I would go this time and crawled under that table out of instinct. That wagon was partly crushed, but it should have been crunched to kindling.
At first I didn’t know if I was dead or alive, in all of the mud and the darkness. I knew I was safe when I realized that you don’t feel pain when you’re dead.
I had hoped that the Kentuckians had made it, also, but deep in my gut I knew otherwise. I had enough room to breathe and the rocks were loose enough so that air got to me without a problem. But no one would have found me if those two little terriers hadn’t been around.
It makes me think of that hot day on the Cache la Poudre River when three of us were trapping and the sky suddenly filled with strange clouds. Briggs and Kestrom and I were out in the open when the thunder started. They wanted to finish checking our line and insisted I go back down to camp and cut elk steaks and bring them back for roasting. I didn’t want to go, so we drew straws. I lost.
I mounted my pony to leave just as thunder boomed overhead. The horse bolted and I hung on with all I had, but I got bucked off. Heavy hail started, pea-sized but getting bigger fast. I ran for a nearby cave, thinking how lucky I was to have been bucked off next to good shelter.
I began to think about Briggs and Kestrom. I yelled for them to run to the cave, but they kept getting struck by hail that kept coming bigger and faster. They were yelling and I saw Kestrom’s terrified face as he fell and reached out toward me.
Then it all turned white and the noise was deafening. It came so thick and so fast and so large that the world outside seemed only a wall of falling ice. I hoped I was dreaming but the storm kept up and I finally sat down with my back against the cave wall and held my hands over my ears and screamed.
When the storm ended, I watched a huge grizzly amble from the recesses of the cave past me and out into the ice-white afternoon. I waited for the bear to be gone and waded out into hailstones knee-deep and as big as my fist. Briggs and Kestrom were bashed beyond recognition, their buckskins a mass of blood and pulp. I found my pony in the same shape and saw one of the others in the distance. The grizzly was dragging it through the slop.
It took a full day before the hail melted enough for burial, and I spent that night fending wolves away from their bodies, praying the grizzly had gotten full of horsemeat. While I dug graves, I thought of the times other friends had been standing right beside me and had taken Blackfoot arrows or balls from Hudson’s Bay rifles. It made me feel very alone.
I’ll be sore from this rock-beating for a good long time. The hard travel won’t make healing any easier and I hope my arm comes back to normal. It’s swollen pretty bad, and though there’s no broken bones, the joint feels like there’s a fire inside.
I’ll get through it and whatever else comes along. Physical aches and pains are something I can tolerate. The pain of survival is far worse.
Gabriella’s Journal
16 NOVEMBER 1846
We arrived yesterday in the Rogue River Valley. This morning, for the first time in longer than I can remember, the sun is shining. Everyone is joyous but too weak to demonstrate. Owen and the Kentuckians greeted four settlers who arrived from the Willamette Valley with food supplies and a herd of cattle. They told us that the Applegates, who had built the road, had come earlier with relief for the first wagons to leave Fort Hall.
We were treated to beef and biscuits and fresh vegetables. I found that my stomach had shrunk to the point that I could manage only half a plate of food. It felt so good to eat a hot meal. I slept the better part of the afternoon.
That evening, everyone rejoiced and ate beside roaring fires. A slight rain started, but it didn’t last. Owen told me that another day in camp was all he would allow, as it is still a three-week journey to Oregon City.
That evening at the meeting Owen was voted down for the first time since leaving Fort Hall. No one wanted to depart in the morning, or the next morning, either, f
or that matter. They wanted to stay for however long it took to fatten up what was left of the oxen and mules and get themselves strong and rested for the last leg of the trip.
After the meeting, Owen was despondent.
“These people have come through so much,” he said. “Why do they want to suffer more?”
“Can’t you see, they’re not fit yet to go another three weeks without stopping.”
“We don’t have to travel three weeks straight. Just through the Umpqua. Then we can stop again.”
“Talk to them and take another vote tomorrow night,” I said.
“Maybe we’ll just go on ahead ourselves,” he suggested. “I don’t care to put myself through another wet hell.”
“Give yourself some time to cool off,” I said. “Don’t explode at them.”
He tested his sore elbow and grimaced. “Maybe I could use an extra day or two at that.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I have something for you. It’s belated, but happy birthday.”
I gave him a painting and he studied a portrait of Hawktail and himself, standing together. He held his rifle in the crook of his arm and Hawktail held his bow and arrows.
“That is truly nice of you,” he said, smiling. “Thank you so much.”
“I thought you might like something to remember him by,” I said.
He hugged me with his good arm. “You are something, you are,” he whispered.
The kind settlers who had brought us the beef and relief supplies decided to go back to their homes. I gave one of them a letter that I hoped would reach Uncle Walter’s brother at Fort Vancouver. I had met Sir Reginald Dodge but once as a small child so I don’t believe he’ll remember me. Still, I think he should hear the news of his brother.
I also asked him to look into the matter of my real mother. I’m hoping he can tell me where she is once we reach the fort. It’s a long shot, but I must give it a try.
When the men left, we all gathered together for a music session. A few people were dancing but most just sat and listened to slow fiddle tunes and haunting guitar ballads. Owen had told Annie earlier that he had brought her fiddle. She had smiled and hugged him, and said that she realized Sean would never want her to stop playing music.
