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There is a small stone hut sitting on top of a mountain in the high
reaches of the Sierra Nevada; a hut made from native rock quarried by hand from the mountain sides and carried through the passes and canyons where no trees grow; in the thin air far above the tree line where the pines, firs, and cedars so common in most other parts of the Sierra can no longer take root and flourish or even survive; a rock enclosure shaped like a Sherpa’s hat; a hut with no amenities other than a small stone fireplace which might just barely manage to ward off the effects of the freezing winds of the High Sierra – it might manage, that is, if there was any wood nearby with which to feed the tiny flames one might just possibly be able to coax into life. But this hut is far above and miles away from where any firewood could be found and gathered, and once found the wood needed would then have to be carried for many miles along a rocky trail and thousands of feet up in elevation to finally get it to the threshold of the cold hearth of this fireplace; carried by hand, or on one’s back. The hut is roomy enough to comfortably house a small group of people for a brief period of time. In fact it would be better if the traveler who comes upon it were indeed part of such a group, for the collective body heat of several friends would easily generate more warmth than the tiny fire which might happen to flicker into life here. Yet those hopeful flames must be guarded well, for the mortar holding the stones in place within the walls has crumbled into a fine dust in many places between those rocks, and that dust whips about the dark interior of the hut as the high mountain wind blows through the cracks, sending particles of pulverized rock into your nose, your mouth, your eyes and lungs; while at the same time making the tiny fingers of your young fire dance and bend to its unpredictable whim. There is, of course, no light in this hut once you have closed the door to keep out the freezing chill, and there won’t be unless you have brought a source of light with you. The glow from your new fire barely casts a shadow far enough for you to see the few extra pieces of wood you have stacked nearby in the hopeful yet unrealistic expectation of a warm night. One’s first thought might be to wrap an old rag around a stout piece of wood and dip it into the flames to make a torch, as this would instinctually fit with the somewhat medieval atmosphere of desolate rock and looming danger in which you now find yourself. But stout pieces of wood are far too heavy to carry all this way along the trail and what you have already just barely managed to haul up this mountain might more laughably and generously be classified as merely sticks. As you are by now wearing every piece of clothing you have brought with you up this trail of stone, there are no bits of cloth to spare for such fanciful things as torches. So, the murky medieval mood of the oncoming night notwithstanding, the option of chasing away the dark with a brave flame from a smoking torch is probably not going to come to fruition. As your eyes have adjusted to the gloom you can now see that there’s a bit of light coming through the cracks in the walls along with the wind. In fact, if you let your gaze drift upward to the conical stone ceiling you can see the dim fading light of the evening reaching in from up there as well, and the thought passes through your mind that perhaps this stone cottage which appeared so firm on the outside just might not be as stout as it seemed upon first sight; that just maybe your haste for shelter from the wind and the dark might have clouded your judgment; that you might well be better off taking your chances outside with the elemental furies of nature. So you open the door again as you consider the possible benefits of leaving and feel the blast of the icy wind as it finds every small opening in your clothing and instantly freezes the skin beneath. No, leaving this place is not an option which a reasonable traveler should consider. So with the door firmly closed once again and with a reluctant mental nod toward the Lesser of Two Evils you fumble through your pack and find your lantern, turning the adjustment knob up a bit so that the flame won’t die immediately after birth, then lighting it with a match from the small box still lying on the hearth after your somewhat questionable success with the fireplace. But, unlike your earlier effort, the flame on the lamp roars into life and floods you with relief, and the glow that spreads from it throughout the hut does more to warm your spirits than the fireplace has so far managed. You raise the lamp and look around. There, off to one side, is unquestionably an attempt to fashion some seating out of the native stone. With relief you move over and sit down to take the weight off your tired feet, but the cold quickly penetrates through your layers of clothing to chill your butt and legs more effectively than even the icy wind outside. So you stand again, holding the lamp high and turning slowly as your gaze revolves about the room to examine this lonely shelter which you have unexpectedly stumbled upon. But there’s nothing here to examine; no tables or chairs; no cot or stove; no cupboard full of food or cistern full of water - of course there’s no water, for water in this part of the Sierra is as nonexistent as that firewood which cost so much labor. So you set your glowing lantern down on the stone hearth and again rummage through your pack, finding things you know are there through the way they feel on your fingers and pulling them one by one out from the dark recesses of your pack to line them up on the hearth next to the lamp. Your stove is first; a small cylinder of gas with a burner atop and a holder for your mug. The mug comes out next. Then comes your packet of coffee. You reach to the side and unfasten the bottle of water, filling the cup with it from one hand while you pour the coffee grounds out with the other. Setting these two ingredients down you light the stove, take the cup in one hand and swirl the contents, then set the cup over the burner for what you hope will be a quick heat to a boil. And it probably is a quick heat, but it seems like an eternity to you. Every few seconds you pick the cup up and swirl it some more because even with the glow from the lamp you can’t really tell in the shadows which surround you if the coffee is dissolving into the water. Your nose gives you the first clue that this has happened as the comforting aroma of hot coffee begins to fill the hut despite the constant wind which tries its best to steal the scent from your hovering nostrils. And when you first begin to see the tiny bubbles start to rise and pop you know that your coffee is finally ready. You turn down the flame and pick up the cup by the handle, then tentatively wrap the fingers of both hands around it to suck the heat from it into your body before that thief-of-a-wind manages to snatch it away. The coffee, when you finally put the cup to your lips and let a few drops trickle in, is by far the finest you’ve ever tasted, and you can’t help but smile happily as you sit alone there in the flickering darkness. The rest of the coffee goes down quickly and while it is still hot, warming at least that part of you between mouth and stomach with its actual heat and at the same time warming the rest of your body with the comfortable thought that you have managed to make a fire, generate some light, and boil a hot drink in the midst of being caught in an unexpected Sierra storm. Moving quickly now, before that warmth fades away, you unroll your pad and sleeping bag next to the hearth and, turning off your lamp, crawl in to pass the night. As the wind howls through the cracks in the walls and the dust from the mortar blows around you and you listen to what your imagination tells you must be the fiercest storm in Sierra history raging to a crescendo around you, you then realize that there is one more thing you should probably do. So you roll out of your warm bag back into the almost total darkness of the hut and again feel your way along the inside and outside of your pack, picking out the bits and pieces you will need for this next task. In the close blackness you begin now to assemble your tent, your fingers moving quickly and surely as if they hold the knowledge in their tips of how it is done, for indeed they now do after so many days and nights on the trail. Then you stuff your pad and sleeping bag inside the hastily assembled tent and climb in after them, sliding back in and zipping it up and curling quickly into a fetal ball, closing your eyes and listening to the night, comfortable in the thought that, since the stone roof seems to hold as many openings as the walls, at least you won’t get wet now if rain should find its way into those cracks along with the wind. Then another thought comes, perhaps this one not quite as comforting; that should these shaky stone walls and spiraling roof fail to hold against the wind and happen to fall in upon you, at least you won’t see what is coming your way and the end will be quick. No, that’s probably not really a comforting thought. Then, although you don’t know how you manage to do it, you fall asleep soundly to spend a surprisingly comfortable night; a night in what you later discover is the John Muir Hut, an artful pile of stone at twelve thousand feet in elevation which sits atop the treeless desolation of Muir Pass in Kings Canyon National Park, framed on the crest of the Sierra between Mount Solomons and Mount Warlow, marking the halfway point of the John Muir Trail as it winds its way from Yosemite to Mount Whitney. A hut not built by John Muir; a hut in which he never actually even stayed as it was constructed long after his death, but a hut which was built to stand as a token to his memory and as a nod of recognition for all that he did to preserve the mountains which surround it. Its design was based upon alpine huts commonly constructed in Italy which had been in use for centuries. It was built by members of the Sierra Club and funded by a donation from one of its members. The stone for its construction was cut out of the mountain, while the mortar was packed up to the site along with the sand with which it was mixed. Even the water to mix these two ingredients together into cement had to be packed up the mountain almost ten miles. The rock walls fade inward to a conical roof which spirals above you to a point without beam or truss to support it. When it was completed in 1930 its cost was just under six thousand dollars, not much in a modern sense yet at that time it was far more than the cost of a fairly large and comfortable house would have been in most California cities. The donation of the money, therefore, was generous; but the donation of the time, the labor, and the loving care which went into its construction was even more so. The wind, snow, and ice have taken their toll over the past nine decades; the walls may have cracks and the roof may show more than a few holes; yet the Muir Hut still stands staunchly to honor the man after whom it was named; in a rocky pass on a high mountain where only the true and dedicated lovers of the Sierra will ever visit to see and appreciate it, and this is perhaps just the way John Muir would have liked it. So you have come to this hut on top of the world which few people know even exists; you have just made fire, boiled a hot drink, and slept soundly in the beautiful desolation of the High Sierra; accomplishments in which you should find happiness and of which you should be proud. But not too proud - John of the Mountains did it many times and on many mountain tops in his years of traversing the Sierra, and he did so without the benefit of the tent, the sleeping bag, and the hut, with just a thin blanket of wool and the endless blanket of stars to cover him at night, and a journal on his lap in which to write the thoughts which we still read and appreciate a century later. All by himself in a lonely place, high on an empty mountain; a scene into which he placed himself as often as possible; a place which we should perhaps all seek at least once in our lives.
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“My daughter would have been better off if we had sold her to the
Indians when we had the chance.” This is not a thought which would normally be present in a mother’s heart as she contemplated how much she loved her child, yet it is almost a certainty that Elizabeth Graves heard these words pass through her troubled mind more than once as she struggled through the Sierra snow in the winter of 1846. Perhaps that same thought entered her daughter’s mind as well; beautiful young Mary, who, had Fate taken just a slightly different turn, might even then be lying in the teepee of a young Sioux warrior, sharing with him a bed of soft, warm buffalo robes. But it was too late for that now, for choice and Fate had, perhaps unkindly, steered Mary away from that marriage. It had all begun when Elizabeth Graves had finally given in to her husband, Franklin. After months of listening to his persuasive arguments - arguments in which terms such as ‘free land’, ‘fresh start’, and ‘elbow room’ figured prominently – Elizabeth had sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed that she would pack up and leave the home she had known for her entire life and head out for that unknown territory called California. So as the Spring of 1846 began turning to Summer the Graves packed up their family – Mary, William, Eleanor, Lovina, Nancy, Jonathan, Frank Junior and Elizabeth Junior - along with a few carefully chosen possessions. They couldn’t take much with them – hardly anything, in fact. However, Franklin took the time to carefully prepare the inside of the wagon and build a hidden compartment into the floor which only he and Elizabeth knew about. He drilled four holes into the floor of the wagon with an auger; holes which lined up with the four legs of a table. Then he fastened the flattened metal ends of the table’s legs to the floor over the holes, fixing them in place with screws so the table could not move. The holes beneath the legs were thereby completely concealed. And before he fastened the table into place Franklin filled the four holes with coins; five hundred dollars’ worth of coins. This was to be their nest egg for making a home in California. Elizabeth said goodbye to the rest of the family who were staying behind – knowing in her heavy heart that she would probably never see them again - climbed on board the wagon, and left her home in Marshall County, Illinois to make her way to California. Franklin had worked out all the details of the early parts of the trip. As the Graves made their way West they were to meet up with the Murphy family from Tennessee, the Breen family from Iowa, and the McCutchen family from Missouri, along with nine or ten German immigrants about whom she knew very little. But to begin the journey they were first going to join with three families from nearby Springfield, Illinois – one family by the name of Reed and two other families by the name of Donner. Franklin had spoken very highly of the Donners, especially one by the name of George. All were eager to go; none had any idea of what really lay ahead. Within weeks all members of the group had joined together and they were making fair progress in their westward journey, encountering mostly just the typical problems of westward migrants – dusty roads, loose wagon wheels, and only one death (an elderly member of the Reed family), but no hostile Indians. By early July they were in Fort Laramie and met the friendliest natives yet – a group of about three hundred Sioux warriors who were at war with the Pawnee. Knowing that their enemies might be close at hand the Sioux formed a vanguard about the wagons of the party of immigrants and escorted them safely through what might have been hostile territory. It was at this time that Mary Graves came to the notice of a small group of the Sioux. Mary and her brother were riding alone at the far end of the wagon train when the warriors took note of her and openly expressed their admiration for her beauty. One of the warriors offered her brother a horse in exchange for Mary – an offer which was politely declined. The bidding went up to two horses, and then to several horses, all offers which were met with a negative response. One of the warriors finally leaned over and took hold of Mary’s bridle and began to lead her horse – along with Mary – off to their camp. Mary’s brother drew his rifle from its scabbard and pointed it at the warrior, at which time all the natives laughed as if it had just been a joke, which it probably was. The seriousness with which White People approached life, along with the White’s inability to understand the basics of native life, was a constant source of amazement and humor to many tribes of the West. But it was this incident; this possibility of a life on the plains with a handsome native, a warm teepee, and a full stomach; it was this thought which doubtless came back to haunt Mary and her mother as, months later, they lay starving and freezing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. Bad Luck began to plague the party when the decision was made to take a shortcut to Salt Lake; a route that was supposed to get them there in only a week but instead consumed an entire month. Now they were running behind their schedule, and didn’t leave their camp in Utah until early September. Bad luck now grew more frequent: fresh water was difficult to find, food was running low, there was little grass for the teams of oxen. Cattle strayed and were lost; men grew hungry and short tempered. Fights were fought; more died along the trail. The party sent two members ahead to seek relief. Finally tempers flared between James Reed and John Snyder, who was a member of the Graves family. A fight ensued in which Reed hit Snyder several times over the head with the butt of his bullwhip, and Snyder responded by drawing his knife and killing Reed. An impromptu trial was held and by a majority vote Snyder was banished from the wagon train. The Grave’s family felt that Snyder’s actions were justified, while many others wanted to hang him. John Snyder rode off the next day and was never seen again, presumed to have starved in the wilderness. The party was now not only hungry, weak, and behind schedule, but they were also bitterly divided. Now, as the wagon train approached the Humboldt, the natives they encountered proved to be not as friendly as before. Arrows were shot into the wagons at random intervals from unseen warriors and cattle were stolen. An elderly man named Hardcoop who could not keep up any more was left behind by the trail to either starve to death or to die at the hands of natives. The group was growing more angry and bitter, and it was with a mutual mistrust that the party decided to camp for a few days near what is now Reno before making the attempt to cross the Sierra. While resting there one member of the party accidently shot and killed a man, and the group sunk into further despondency. It was late October before the ascent of the Sierra began. By mid-November they had reached what is now known as Donner Lake, and the snow began to fall. The families all hastened to build shelters, knowing that they could go no further. Elizabeth and Franklin Graves hastily built a shanty close by what is now Donner Creek, and moved their family in for the winter. The stream was alive with trout, but the fish seemed to taunt the Graves and outsmarted every attempt to catch them, and starvation became a very real specter facing the family. In the middle of November, Franklin decided to make an effort to break through the growing drifts of snow to get help. He took young Mary with him. But the snow was so soft and deep that they quickly exhausted themselves, sinking up to their hips with each step and then struggling to pull their legs out of the drifts. They returned to the cabin at midnight, having not even made a miles’ progress. Other groups also tried, all with the same result. Finally it was determined that a group should go for help or die in the attempt. Franklin Graves immediately volunteered, as did his daughter, Mary. Mary was nineteen years old. She was described as being tall and slim with long dark hair; a Greek goddess. She wrapped herself in all the clothing she could find and set out with twelve others from the party along with two native guides, but with scant provisions that would last them less than a week. The first day they made four miles, Mary easily keeping up with the rest. The next day they made five miles. Progress was slow as they plodded slowly through snow estimated to be over twenty feet deep. On the morning of the fifth day one member of the party stayed at the remnants of the fire from the night, smoking calmly while the others began their trek. He didn’t even rise as the last of the other fourteen disappeared into the white mist which enveloped them. Mary saw this and returned, urging him to come along. He looked at her without seeming to see her, then said he was coming. Mary walked on. Perhaps he knew his fate lay in another direction. The man’s remains were not found until the following May, still resting beside the cold campfire ring. When the party ran out of food, Mary volunteered to go on with the two native guides if the rest wished to return to the lake. Shamed by her courage, they instead all staggered on for a few more miles. That night the fire they lit to keep warm melted the snow and sank out of sight. In the freezing cold they all knew that they must soon perish, some sooner than others. Franklin Graves called his daughter to his side and, as he lay in the snow dying, urged Mary to do her best to save the families at the lake. Then he closed his eyes and left the cold Sierra forever. Almost simultaneously another member of the party also passed away. Then two more died. The snow storm grew stronger and they all knew they would have inevitably die unless something was done. The four bodies were then stripped of what little flesh was on them, and this kept the remainder of them alive for a few more days. The two native guides refused to eat human flesh, and that night they disappeared into the darkness, either disgusted at the acts of their companions or fearing that they would be the next meal. Mary had been counting the days and now thought that it was about January fourth when she saw a deer, raised her firearm and, in hands shaking with the weakness of starvation, shot it and then feasted on its blood and raw meat. That night another of the party, Jay Fosdick, died in the snow and his wife immediately offered his flesh to the group for food. But Mrs. Fosdick refused to partake of it. There were seven left now. They soon caught up and then passed by the two native guides who were found lying in the snow; two men who were not quite yet dead. They thought about the flesh on the bones of these two natives as they walked on, but their stomachs growled in protest at their leaving such obvious sustenance behind. Then one of the party turned back, and soon two gunshots were heard and there was food for a few more days. There was no wood to be gathered, but Mary came up with the idea of making camp next to trees which were sticking up through the snow and lighting the exposed branches on fire to keep them warm through the nights. Up mountains and down canyons they went until the last of the peaks lay behind them and they were finally descending. The snow grew thinner and then there were patches of bare ground. One day they saw human footprints and followed them into a native camp. The natives rushed to offer them food; cakes made from acorn meal but sadly with no meat which heir starving bodies so badly needed. Then the natives guided them to the nearest white man’s ranch, which took another week. Seven of the party had survived, including Mary. It had taken them thirty-two days of walking since they had left their families at Donner Lake. Word was sent to Sutter’s Fort, and it took two more weeks for a relief party to form and outfit itself for a journey into the Sierra in the heart of one of the worst winters in memory. The first relief party arrived at Donner Lake on the nineteenth of February, but the supplies they carried with them could only keep the survivors of the wagon train alive for two weeks at the most. The second relief party arrived in early March. They brought more food and horses with the intent of evacuating the starving immigrants as quickly as possible. When Elizabeth Graves started out with this relief party she first remembered to recover the money her husband had hidden in the wagon, but unbeknownst to her she was seen while doing this by some of the men in the relief party. At their first camp site one of those men jokingly remarked to the others that perhaps they should play a round of cards to see who could win Mrs. Grave’s money. Feeling threatened by this remark Elizabeth Graves moved off to the edge of the camp, supposedly to sleep, but then disappeared early the next morning before the men woke and walked out to the lake to hide her money. When she returned she said nothing, but her money was no longer with her. Elizabeth Graves made it out of the Sierra along with four children. Mary recovered from her ordeal. She later married and moved to Tulare County where she lived at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains which had almost killed her, near that part of the mountains which held what we now know as Kings Canyon National Park. All that is known of Elizabeth Grave’s hoard of coin is that, somewhere beneath a rock on the North side of Donner Lake, there still lies a cache of five hundred dollars which has never been recovered; five hundred dollars of what is now antique coin which would now be worth a fortune. And Mary Graves? She would have thought often of those thirty-two days spent walking many miles in the frigid Sierra snow and wondered how different her life might have been if she had simply told her brother to accept those horses from that Sioux warrior; a trade which would have led her along a much different path to a life where she would not have had to watch her family and friends slowly starve to death; to a life with a warm fire burning within a teepee that kept out the rain and snow; to a life with a husband who would have kept her well-fed with fresh buffalo meat instead of the dreaded flesh eaten in those thirty-two days in the mountains; meat which could hardly be swallowed. Fate brings us choices: some of which make us content, while others make history. And some lead to a long and painful Trail of Graves. |
AuthorWith a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books. Archives
July 2017
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy, the official 501(c)(3) nonprofit partner of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks (National Park Service) and Lake Kaweah (U.S. Army Corps of Engineers), uses tax-deductible contributions to support these parks.
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy
47050 Generals Hwy Unit 10 Three Rivers, CA 93271 
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