How Far We Have Come by Wayne Kirkbride
How Far We’ve Come: Travel Across the Country in the 1800s
By Wayne Kirkbride
As summer nears its end, recession or no, thousands of Americans will have taken to the road in their cars to travel across this land. Some have traveled to Rocky Mountain states, the Southwest, and as far as the eastern seaboard. For those who traveled to California, their journey may have taken up to a week of travel by car before they reached California. Once in awhile it is interesting and amazing to read of those early settlers and explorers who traveled overland by what today we would consider primitive means. If we are inconvenienced in our modern day travels by car, it usually means a mechanical breakdown, a tow to a garage, and repairs before we are on the road again to our destination. With modern cars, we are kept in comfort by air conditioning, heat, and even music and video (for the kids, of course). Let us look back and hear the words of records kept by two among hundreds who recorded their journeys for future generations to read and learn from.
Luzena Stanley Wilson
Luzena’s story was recorded by her daughter in 1881 and tells a common story of hardship and suffering as her family left the security of Missouri to seek their fortunes in the California gold fields. With two young children, she and her husband traveled west by oxen drawn wagon. These are some of her recollections.
“Day after day, week after week, we went through the same weary routine of breaking camp at daybreak, yoking the oxen, cooking our meager rations over a fire of sagebrush and scrub oak; packing up again, coffee-pot and camp kettle; washing our scanty wardrobe in the little streams we crossed; striking camp again at sunset….And so, all the way, it was a road strewn with perils, over a strange, wild country. Sometimes over wide prairies, grass-grown, and deserted save by the startled herds of buffalo and elk; Sometimes through deep, wild canyons, where the mosses were like a carpet beneath our feet, and the overhanging trees shut out the sunshine for days together; sometimes over high mountains, where at every turn a new road had to be cleared, we always carried with us tired bodies and often discouraged hearts. We frequently met men who had given up the struggle, who had lost their teams, abandoned their wagons, and, with their blankets on their back, were tramping home…Many an unmarked grave lies by the old emigrant road, for hard work and privation made wild ravages in the ranks of the pioneers, and brave souls gave up the battle and lie there forgotten, with not even a stone to note the spot where they sleep the unbroken, dreamless sleep of death. There was not time for anything but the ceaseless march for gold. Our long tramp had extended over three months when we entered the desert, the most formidable of all the difficulties we had encountered. It was a forced march over the alkali plain, lasting three days, and we carried with us the water that had to last, for both men and animals, till we reached the other side. The hot earth scorched our feet; the grayish dust hung about us like a cloud, making our eyes red, and tongues parched, and our thousand bruises and scratches smart like burns. The road was lined with the skeletons of the poor beasts who had died in the struggle. Sometimes we found the bones of men bleaching besides their broken-down and abandoned wagons. The buzzards and coyotes, driven away by our presence from their horrible feasting, hovered just out of reach.”
After months crossing the country, the party was nearing California. “While we were yet five miles from the Carson River, the miserable beasts (oxen) seemed to scent the freshness in the air, and they raised their heads and traveled briskly…At last we were near our journey’s end. We had reached the summit of the Sierra, and had begun the tedious journey down the mountainside…The first man we met was about fifty miles above Sacramento. He had ridden on ahead, bought a fresh horse and some new clothes, and was coming back to meet his train…When he rode up to the wagon where I was standing, I felt embarrassed, drew down my ragged sun-bonnet over my sunburned face, and shrank from observation. My skirts were worn off in rags above my ankles; my sleeves hung in tatters above my elbows; my hands brown and hard, were gloveless; the soles of my leather shoes had long ago parted company with the uppers; and my husband and children and all the camp, were habited like myself in rags…It was almost dusk of the last day of September, 1849, that we reached the end of our journey in Sacramento.”
Lee Ann Summers
Lee Ann Summers, later known by her married name Mrs. Lee Whipple-Haslam, wrote of her experiences as a young girl who was born in Missouri in 1849, and traveled to California in 1852. She would later settle in the eastern belt of Tuolumne County, “an unbroken wilderness”, and one day its town would be named after her father and called, “Summersville” – our present-day Tuolumne City.
“So far, the Indians, whose territory we had crossed, were friendly. But our trainmen concluded an ounce of precaution was worth a pound of negligence, so they had night guards to protect the cattle and train against surprise. They feared the cupidity of the Indians. I cannot remember the names or location of the tribes. After a hard day of trials and tribulations we camped near on Indian village. I had admired greatly the painted robes and beaded moccasins the Indians had for trade. At this village they seemed more beautiful than any I had seen. I could not conquer the desire to possess a pair of them. I did a thing that caused me great mental trouble and physical anguish; I grabbed a pair and started for camp. An old squaw howled a long vicious wail, and about forty Indians were after me. Oh, dear Lord, how I ran. Just before I reached the wagon father met me. He gave back the moccasins to the squaws – and the spanking act was played, with all the train and about a hundred Indians as spectators …and when father had finished, I had lost all admiration and love the beautiful things of this world…I know I cried myself to sleep…and while I slept, father traded for the moccasins. I did not know this until after we reached California. I had paid the price of pride and vanity.
Our cattle were becoming footsore and leg-weary. We camped often when conditions were favorable, for we must have food and water for the cattle. Our food was scarce; we renewed our larder when necessary by killing a young fat buffalo. Our clothes were worn, and we all needed rest…We were nearing the great mountain range, and would soon be in Nevada.
For some time, we had noticed a change in the conduct of the Indians. They did not visit our camps and show a friendly desire to trade. We would often see a party on their ponies, mostly on a hill. By the actions we concluded they were not friendly. We kept moving and paid no attention to the Indians. Shortly after crossing the Nevada line, we unexpectedly came upon a wreck of three or four wagons, with the contents scattered in every direction. Evidently the emigrants had been surprised, and being a small train, were unable to defend themselves or stock. There were several dead steers and one horse, supposed to be an Indian pony, left dead as evidence of the battle. Whether the people were taken prisoners, or escaped by some means, we did not know. We found one reminder of the awful relentless cruelty of the Indians; it was the skeleton of a little child…we found a couple of arrows in one big ox, but the horse had a bullet hole in his head – we supposed planted by a white man. Taking the tribes and their territory in proper sequence – in Nevada – I have concluded it was Shoshones that destroyed this train…We corralled our wagons as closely as possible when we camped, our cattle had double guards.
One woman in the train, Mrs. McHana, was fast loosing her mind. The mental strain was too much…Some of the families were out of flour, others had no coffee; we loaned, borrowed and begged, and so we managed. And I, for one, fully decided I would never again in life crave buffalo meat… We passed many graves, and written letters rolled around stakes driven in the ground, names on trees, strips of boards – everything possible contained names, sometimes with the address and date. Names were written on rocks with axle-grease – people trying to leave a record for friends who might subsequently, perhaps years after, read and know of their welfare.
We learned with joy that we were near Carson Valley, and would soon be in California…We crossed the valley and reached a small trading post at what is now know as Genoa…We crossed Tahoe range of mountains where the Kingsbury grade is now, and a few days later reached what is now Placerville. The nights were getting chilly, and he (father) knew winter would soon be on us. The alkali and dust had done for my eyes, and I was nearly blind…with one other wagon in company we reached Shaws Flat, and early in November we moved into a log cabin with a dirt floor and canvas roof, six months after crossing the Missouri River. Father was interested in a claim near Table Mountain that was very rich.
If you would like to read a full account of Luzena Stanley Wilson’s recollections, go to www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/resources/archives/three/luzen.htm.
The narrative of Lee Ann Summer is found in her published book, Early days in California; scenes and events of the ‘50s as I remember them, by Mrs. Lee Whipple-Haslam.
