After traveling southwest through the
Thousand Springs Valley, the emigrants reached the
Humboldt River which they would follow throughout the
length of what is today Nevada. This strange desert
river would become the bugaboo of the California
Trail.
J.
Goldsborough Bruff, 1849:
Sept. 3... 6 a.m. we rolled on; over a
good road, short rolling hills, and S. and S.W. course
10 a.m. entered a moist flat valley trending round to
the Westward, with springs, and a grassy and willowy
rivulet; -- one of the heads of the Humboldt -- (This
stream was first known by the name of Ogden's river --
so they say; afterwards called mary's river, probably
in honor of the Blessed Virgin; and continued by that
name, till Col. Fremont re-christened it, in honor of
Baron Humboldt. Some travelers adopt the last name,
but it is generally called 'Mary's river.')" |
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For most emigrants, this kindly
assessment would soon change and many would refer to the
Humboldt as "the Humbug." Surely, the Humboldt
caused the California-bound emigrants more grief than
any other stretch of their journey. As Tom Hunt has
written, "it was the great common misery,
the object of unanimous damnation." (Ghost
Trails to California, p. 108.)
The emigrants, used to the rivers of the
east, expected their rivers to gain size and strength
until they discharged their waters into the ocean. But,
as Franklin Langworthy noted: "The Humboldt is a
singular stream; I think the longest river in the world,
of so diminutive a size. Its length is three or four
hundred miles, and general width about fifty feet. From
here, back to where we first saw it, the quantity of
water seems about the same. It rather diminishes in size
as it proceeds."
Not only did the river seem to shrink as
it went along but there was something about it that
projected a dark and even sinister mood. |
Reuben Shaw:
The reader should not imagine the
Humboldt to be a rapid mountain stream, with its cool
and limpid waters rushing down the rocks of steep
inclines, with here and there beautiful cascades and
shady pools... While the water of such a stream is fit
for the gods, that of the Humboldt is not good for man
nor beast. ...There is not a fist nor any other living
thing to be found in its waters, and there is not timber
enough in three hundred miles of its desolate valley to
make a snuff-box....
Near the headwaters, the river was
decent enough with good grass and clear, cool waters.
But then the Humboldt took on the character which the
emigrants would come to despise: less current,
increasing turbidity and alkalinity through long
stretches of desert interrupted only by nearly
impassable canyons. Sage dominated and only the scrubby
willows ever approached the size of trees. The grass was
patchy, difficult to reach, and of poor quality. Too
often, the grass only grew in swampy areas so that the
emigrants had to go out and cut it by hand and then
bring it back to the stock lest the animals get bogged
down in the swamps. |
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And, besides the scarcity of the grass,
the emigrants hated this river because it often snaked
away into impassable canyons, forcing the travelers to
follow waterless, sage-covered bluffs (known as dry jornadas)
for considerable distances before re-joining the river
with its increasingly miserable water. As the river went
along, the water became more and more tepid, salty, and
alkaline. The color began as a chalky white and ended up
a putrid brown as it seeped sluggishly through the
cattail marshes and shallow, reed-filled waters of
Humboldt Lake.
The main trail followed the north side
of the Humboldt until the emigrants reached Gravelly
Ford, near present-day Beowawe. Then they spread out to
both sides of the river, seeking new shortcuts and
routes which would get them away from this blasted river
as soon as possible. The north bank remained the most
popular but many emigrants crossed back and forth hoping
that, maybe, they could find something more tolerable.
They couldn't. Although the emigrants were in no more
danger of dying along the Humboldt than on any other
stretch of the trail, death seemed closer here. |
James Yager, 1863:
an event occured which cast a gloom over
our camp; the death of one of its members. An old lady,
the mother & grandmother of a large part of our
train. She had been sick for several days & night
before last, she became very ill so much so our train
was compelled to lay over yesterday and last night she
died. She was pious and beloved by the whole train,
relatives & strangers.
Lucinda
Duncan was one of the emigrants who died near
Gravelly Ford. To read about her story, go to our Trail Graves section. |
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THE HUMBUG
From all the books that we have read
And all the travelers have said
We most implicitly believed,
Not dreamed that we should be deceived
That when the mountains we should pass
We'd find on Humboldt fine Blue-grass
Nay that's not all, we learned moreover
That we'd get in the midst of clover
Nay, more yet, these scribbling asses
Told of 'other nutricious grasses'
But great indeed was our surprise
To find it all a pack of lies
But when we to the Humboldt came
It soon with us lost all its fame
We viewed it as a great outrage
Instead of grass to find wild sage |
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