2d.—It had ceased snowing, and this morning the lower air was clear
and frosty; and six or seven thousand feet above, the peaks of the
Sierra now and then appeared among the rolling clouds, which were
rapidly dispersing before the sun. Our Indian shook his head as he
pointed to the icy pinnacles, shooting high up into the sky, and
seeming almost immediately above us. Crossing the river on the ice,
and leaving it immediately, we commenced the ascent of the mountain
along the valley of a tributary stream. The people were unusually
silent, for every man knew that our enterprise was hazardous, and the
issue doubtful.
The snow deepened rapidly, and it soon became necessary to break a
road. For this service, a party of ten was formed, mounted on the
strongest horses, each man in succession opening the road on foot, or
on horseback, until himself and his horse became fatigued, when he
stepped aside, and, the remaining number passing ahead, he took his
station in the rear. Leaving this stream, and pursuing a very direct
course, we passed over an intervening ridge to the river we had
left....
The nut-pines were now giving way to heavy timber, and there were some
immense pines on the bottom, around the roots of which the sun had
melted away the snow; and here we made our camp and built huge fires.
Today we had traveled 16 miles, and our elevation above the sea was
6,760 feet.
3d.—Turning our faces directly towards the main chain, we ascended an
open hollow along a small tributary to the river which, according to
the Indians, issues from a mountain to the south. The snow was so deep
in the hollow, that we were obliged to travel along the steep
hillsides, and over spurs, where the wind and sun had in places
lessened the snow, and where the grass, which appeared to be in good
quality along the sides of the mountains, was exposed. We opened our
road in the same way as yesterday, but made only seven miles, and
encamped by some springs at the foot of a high and steep hill, by
which the hollow ascended to another basin in the mountain. The little
stream below was entirely buried in snow....
4th—I went ahead early with two or three men, each with a lead horse
to break the road. We were obliged to abandon the hollow entirely and
work along the mountainside, which was very steep, and the snow
covered with an icy crust. We cut a footing as we advanced and
trampled a road through for the animals; but occasionally one plunged
outside the trail, and slid along the field to the bottom, a hundred
yards below. Late in the day we reached another bench in the hollow,
where in summer the stream passed over a small precipice. Here was a
short distance of dividing ground between the two ridges, and beyond
an open basin, some ten miles across, whose bottom presented a field
of snow. At the further or western side rose the middle crest of the
mountain, a dark-looking ridge of volcanic rock.
The summit line presented a range of naked peaks, apparently destitute
of snow and vegetation; but below, the face of the whole country was
covered with timber of extraordinary size.
Towards a pass which the guide indicated here, we attempted in the
afternoon to force a road; but after a laborious plunging through two
or three hundred yards, our best horses gave out, entirely refusing to
make any further effort, and, for the time, we were brought to a
stand. The guide informed us that we were entering the deep snow, and
here began the difficulties of the mountain; and to him, and almost to
all, our enterprise seemed hopeless....
5th—The night had been too cold to sleep, and we were up very early.
Our guide was standing by the fire with all his finery on; and seeing
him shiver in the cold, I threw on his shoulders one of my blankets.
We missed him a few minutes afterwards, and never saw him again. He
had deserted....
While a portion of the camp were occupied in bringing up the baggage
to this point, the remainder were busied in making sledges and
snowshoes. I had determined to explore the mountain ahead, and the
sledges were to be used in transporting the baggage....
6th—Accompanied by Mr. Fitzpatrick, I set out today with a
reconnoitering party on snowshoes. We marched all in single file,
trampling the snow as heavily as we could. Crossing the open basin in
a march of about ten miles, we reached the top of one of the peaks, to
the left of the pass indicated by our guide. Far below us, dimmed by
the distance, was a large snowless valley, bounded on the western
side, at the distance of about a hundred miles, by a low range of
mountains which [_Kit_] Carson recognized with delight as the
mountains bordering the coast. “There,” said he, “is the little
mountain—it is fifteen years since I saw it; but I am just as sure as
if I had seen it yesterday.” Between us, then, and this low coast
range, was the valley of the Sacramento.
Frémont and his companions retraced their steps to camp and spent the
next four days preparing for the final ascent to the pass. The
temperature was three below zero on the eighth, and on the ninth snow
fell. They then were camped at 8,000 feet.
11th—High wind continued, and our trail this morning was nearly
invisible—here and there indicated by a little ridge of snow. Our
situation became tiresome and dreary, requiring a strong exercise of
patience and resolution.
In the evening I received a message from Mr. Fitzpatrick, acquainting
me with the utter failure of his attempt to get our mules and horses
over the snow—the half-hidden trail had proved entirely too slight to
support them, and they had broken through, and were plunging about or
lying half buried in snow. He was occupied in endeavoring to get them
back to his camp; and in the meantime sent to me for further
instructions. I wrote to him to send the animals immediately back to
their old pastures; and, after having made mauls and shovels, turn in
all the strength of his party to open and beat a road through the
snow, strengthening it with branches and boughs of the pines.
12th—We made mauls, and worked hard at our end of the road all day.
The wind was high, but the sun bright, and the snow thawing. We worked
down the face of the hill, to meet the people at the other end.
Towards sundown it began to grow cold, and we shouldered our mauls and
trudged back to camp....
14th—the dividing ridge of the Sierra is in sight from this
encampment....
16th—We had succeeded in getting our animals safely to the first
grassy hill; and this morning I started with Jacob on a reconnoitering
expedition beyond the mountain. We traveled along the crests of narrow
ridges, extending down from the mountain in the direction of the
valley, from which the snow was fast melting away. On the open spots
was tolerably good grass; and I judged we should succeed in getting
the camp down by way of these. Towards sundown we discovered some icy
spots in a deep hollow; and, descending the mountain, we encamped on
the headwater of a little creek, where at last the water found its way
to the Pacific....
I was now perfectly satisfied that we had struck the stream on which
Mr. Sutter lived; and turning about, made a hard push, and reached the
camp at dark. Here we had the pleasure to find all the remaining
animals, 57 in number, safely arrived at the grassy hill near the
camp....
On the 19th, the people were occupied in making a road and bringing up
the baggage; and, on the afternoon of the next day, _February 20,
1844_, we encamped, with the animals and all the _matériel_ of the
camp, on the summit of the PASS [_Carson Pass, altitude, 8,635 ft._]
in the dividing ridge.
The expedition then began the descent towards the Sacramento River
Valley, which was just as hard as the climb. By the time they reached
lower altitudes, where they found grass for their horses and mules and
game and fish for themselves, they were nearly exhausted and their
animals almost starved. But the journey ended successfully, and the
expedition reached Sutter’s ranch on the American River on March 6.