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  • Mineral King Video Premiere
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In A Lonely Place, High On An Empty Mountain

9/15/2016

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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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The Trail Of Graves

9/1/2016

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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.
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    Picture

    Author

    With 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. 

    Tim has worked for Sequoia Parks Conservancy since 2010 in the Kings Canyon Visitor Center and also as a naturalist for the Sequoia Field Institute.  COPYRIGHT 2016 T.E. CHRISTENSEN

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