Heroines in the Rocky Mountains

(By William Worthington Fowler in 1877)

The late 1800s saw the frontier sprawling across the plains and nestled within the towering peaks of the mountains. This immense territory, a vast expanse bordered by the Pacific Ocean to the west and an irregular line stretching from the Red River of the North to the Platte River, roughly 100 miles from Omaha, Nebraska, and then down to the mouth of the Brazos River in Texas, defined the edge of settled life. In this untamed landscape, wherever a settlement stood isolated, there lay the frontier.

Life in these remote regions was profoundly shaped by the unforgiving external environment. The experiences of pioneer families traveling westward were equally influenced by the landscape. The mountain frontier presented a unique set of challenges and dangers, distinct from those encountered in other frontier regions. These difficulties faced both the settlers who chose to make their homes there and the travelers who journeyed through its wild pathways.

The sheer size of the mountain region defied easy comprehension. One could measure its vastness in linear and square miles, or define its boundaries roughly by the Pacific Ocean and the headwaters of the great rivers that snaked through the Mississippi Valley. Its location could be pinpointed with astronomical precision, marked by specific latitudes and longitudes. Yet, such descriptions often failed to convey the true scale of the territory. Perhaps a more tangible understanding could be gained by imagining 150 states the size of Connecticut, or two states the size of New York or Illinois, scattered across that infinity of peaks and ranges, barely making a dent in the landscape. But only by physically traversing this wilderness of hills and mountains, from east to west and north to south, could one truly comprehend its extent and the myriad difficulties faced by the emigrants who dared to cross it.

Consider the distances involved. A straight line from Cheyenne, Wyoming, in the east, to Placer at the foot of the Sierra Nevada in California, spanned approximately 850 miles. The shortest traveled route between these points, however, stretched upwards of 1,000 miles. Similarly, a straight line from Cheyenne to Oregon City, nestled among the Cascade Mountains in Oregon, measured 950 miles, while the actual traveled routes exceeded 1,200 miles.

Imagine the challenge of crossing such distances before the advent of modern transportation. Thirty years prior, before railroads extended west of Buffalo, the journey by ox-team across the continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, was a monumental undertaking. This grueling expedition could span anywhere from one year to eighteen months, depending on unforeseen circumstances and the severity of the elements.

After leaving behind the relative comfort and security of established roads and settlements, these pioneers boldly ventured across the plains. They forded raging rivers, carved paths through dense forests, and endured long stretches of arid desert, often lacking sufficient food, forage, and water. Finally, they reached the imposing Rocky Mountains. This region was largely unexplored by anyone except for hunters, fur traders, soldiers, and missionaries. For the peaceful settler seeking a new home, it was a terra incognita, an unknown and potentially hostile land. Mountain peaks disappeared into swirling clouds, and labyrinthine valleys harbored an impenetrable darkness. The overwhelming majesty of nature, the Titanic creations that seemed to defy human comprehension, were enough to burden the imagination and humble even the most resolute soul. The heights of these mountains, from which lines of travelers passing through deep defiles appeared as mere insects, and the implacable power of nature – the storm’s roar in the gorges, the flood plunging from the precipice, carving trenches a thousand feet deep into the unyielding rock – the walls rising into giant ramparts that no human force could ever scale, and the vast stretches of desolation where hunger and thirst reigned supreme – these were spectacles that must have filled the hearts, minds, and imaginations of the early pioneers with a deep sense of foreboding.

The actual difficulties encountered by the emigrants, the toils, dangers, and hardships endured in conquering a passage through and over the Rocky Mountains, surpassed even the most pessimistic of expectations. Words could not adequately convey the trials and tribulations of those early mountain passages. It is easy to wonder if today’s fortunate traveler, whisked up and down those perilous slopes by a modern locomotive, ever reflects upon the time when rickety wagons and weary oxen trudged along at a snail’s pace of eight or ten miles a day through those forbidding landscapes, and offers a moment of deserved sympathy.

Today, a mere seven-day journey transports one from Manhattan to the Golden Gate, ensconced in the luxury of a palace car, well-fed by day and well-rested by night. In contrast, imagine the arduous journey of a year in an emigrant wagon, meagerly fed, poorly rested, footsore, and haggard. The weary emigrant and his wife would drag themselves into a remote spot in the valley of the Sacramento or the Columbia, where they would begin their toils anew!

Who can reflect on these heroes and heroines, these Rocky Mountain pioneers, without feeling a surge of pride and gratitude? Pride in the fact that, as an American, one can count such men and women among one’s countrymen; gratitude for the fruits of their heroic courage, fortitude, and enterprise that are still being reaped today. Dangers met with courage, hardships endured with unyielding fortitude, trials and sufferings borne with cheerful patience, selflessness, devotion, and sacrifice for others: such, in brief, is the legacy of the women who undertook those first journeys across the continent to create homes, form communities, and build states on the Pacific slope. These Heroines in the Rocky Mountains faced difficulties that are hard to imagine today.

Among the many stories that exemplify the virtues of the pioneer women, those that depict their battles with the difficulties of passage through the mountains stand out. They prove that the heroines of our time can be matched with those of any age or clime. One such history unfolded in 1844: A young couple left Illinois late in the summer of that year, joining a group of pioneers pushing the boundaries of civilization further west. Traveling with a white-tilted wagon drawn by four oxen, they crossed the Missouri River near the site of old Fort Kearney. By early November, they had journeyed in a beeline across the prairie and established a winter camp just beyond the forks of the Platte.

Their shelter was a single-room cabin built from cottonwood logs and reinforced with earth. This humble dwelling served as a refuge from the severe winds that swept across the plains during the harsh winter months. Their oxen, requiring no housing, roamed freely, grazing on the sweet grass that remained nourishing throughout the winter.

At that time, vast herds of bison roamed the region. Within days of arriving, Mr. and Mrs. Hinman – for such was their name – had each shot three fat buffalo cows, almost without leaving their camp. The meat was dried and added to their winter stores. Fresh meat was readily available, and for five weeks, they feasted on buffalo soup and ribs, tenderloin, marrow bones, and succulent tidbits from the hump, along with buffalo tongue, which, combined with boiled Indian meal, formed the mainstay of their meals.

Both Mr. Hinman and his wife were descendants of hardy stock that had migrated from Connecticut before the Revolutionary War, cutting their way through the forest and crossing the Allegheny Mountains to settle in the rich valley of the Muskingum, near the site of present-day Marietta. They had both grown up in the midst of frontier life and possessed the experience and skills necessary for the bold enterprise they had undertaken: to cross the Rocky Mountains with a single ox-team and establish themselves in the fertile Willamette Valley in Oregon.

Their spare but well-knit frames, swarthy skin, prominent features, deep-set eyes, and alert yet composed manner marked them as true examples of the born borderer. These physical traits were coupled with the qualities of mind and heart that were equally characteristic of their class: an apparent insensitivity to fear, a capacity for endurance that stemmed from their moral strength rather than physical prowess, and a self-reliance that never wavered. This combination of qualities equipped them to overcome the challenges that surrounded their perilous project.

As early in the spring of 1845 as the ground permitted, they repacked their goods and supplies, unfurled the white canvas of their prairie schooner, and continued their journey up the north fork of the Platte. They crossed the Red Buttes, passed through Devil’s Gate, skirted the banks of the Sweetwater River, and, winding through the great South Pass, diverted their course northward toward the headwaters of the Snake River, which would guide them to the Columbia. At this point in their journey, they consulted a rough map that depicted two trails leading to the stream they sought. With characteristic boldness, they chose the shorter, more difficult route. Following its tortuous path in a northwesterly direction, they reached a point where the trail was barely wide enough for the wagon to pass, bounded on one side by a sheer wall of rock and on the other by a precipice that plunged hundreds of feet into a dark ravine.

At this precarious point, Mrs. Hinman dismounted from the wagon to help guide the team. Her husband stood between the oxen and the precipice. Suddenly, the hind wheel of the wagon slipped on a smooth stone, causing the vehicle to tilt. Top-heavy, the wagon overturned and plunged into the abyss, dragging with it the oxen and Mr. Hinman, who was standing beside the wheel yoke.

He cried out as he fell. Horror-stricken, Mrs. Hinman peered over the brink, watching him bounce from rock to rock, followed by the wagon and oxen, which tumbled end over end until they vanished from sight.

In the awful stillness of that desolate place, the beating of her heart grew louder as she rapidly assessed her dire situation and considered her options. Summoning all her courage, she ran along the edge of the precipice, searching for a way to descend, hoping against hope that her husband might have survived the fall. Half a mile from the site of the accident, she found a more gradual slope leading into the ravine. There, swinging herself from bush to bush, she managed, with great difficulty and at considerable risk, to reach the bottom. However, she found no sign of her husband or the ox-team.

Scanning the face of the precipice, she finally spotted the wreckage of the wagon and the bodies of the oxen, perched on a projecting ledge about one hundred feet above her.

At great risk of being dashed to pieces, she climbed to the ledge. The patient beasts that had carried them so far were crushed beyond recognition. Among the remnants of the wagon, there was little left of their furniture, utensils, and supplies. She noted the track the wagon had made in its descent and, digging her fingers and toes into the crevices of the rock, slowly scaled the slope in a zigzag pattern, using bushes and projecting stones for support. Finally, she reached a narrow ledge about three hundred feet from the ravine, where she paused to catch her breath.

A low moan directed her gaze to a clump of bushes some fifty feet above her. There, she saw a limp arm hanging among the stunted foliage. Climbing to the spot, she found her husband breathing, but unconscious. He was severely bruised. Although no bones appeared to be broken, the blood trickling slowly from his mouth indicated internal injuries. Where there is life, there is hope. If she could place him in a comfortable position, he might still recover. She found a leather flask filled with whiskey in his breast pocket. She bathed his face with the liquor and poured a generous amount down his throat. After a few moments, he regained consciousness enough to understand his situation.

“Don’t leave me, Jane,” the suffering man whispered, “I shan’t keep you long.” It was unnecessary to make such a request of a woman who had braved such perils to save the one she loved more than life itself. “I’ll bring you out safe and sound, Jack,” she replied, “or die right here with you.”

While searching her mind for a way to move him fifty feet lower to the ledge from which she had first spotted him, she saw a welcome sight: the ax and coil of rope that had fallen from the wagon during its descent lay within easy reach. Passing the rope several times around his body to form a sling, she cut a thick bush and trimmed it to make a stake. She fastened the stake securely into a crevice. Then, with a surge of strength inspired by her loving and resolute heart, she extricated him from his position and, placing the ends of the rope over the stake, gently lowered him to the ledge. Gathering moss, she fashioned a pillow for his bleeding head. She descended to the spot where the carcasses of the oxen lay, quickly flayed one, cut off a large piece of flesh, searched the wreckage of the wagon, and found a blanket and a pot. Returning to her husband, she kindled a fire and made broth with water found in the hollow of a rock.

Gathering moss and lichens, she created a comfortable couch on the rock and gently stretched her groaning patient upon it, covering him with the blanket, as the mountain air was chill even on that August afternoon. The wounded man’s breathing grew more regular, and the bloody ooze no longer flowed from his white lips, but agonizing pains still racked his frame.

The hours slipped away as the devoted wife tended to him. The height of the mountains in that region shortened the day considerably. Though the sun set early behind the western summits, twilight lingered long after its departure. When the sun had disappeared, Mrs. Hinman still gazed with wonder, and a touch of fear, at the savage grandeur of the mountains, their peaks still glittering in the fading light. Gazing into the depths below, she watched the shadows deepen to blackness.

The ledge on which the forlorn pair lay was barely four feet wide and less than ten feet long. There, on the face of that precipice, a hundred miles from the nearest settlement, the strong-hearted wife spent the lonely hours of the night watching over her husband, her eyes blurred with tears. During those weary, moonless hours, she sent up many silent prayers to the Father of mercies and devised numerous plans for bringing succor or alleviating his pain on the morrow.

Willpower is a crucial factor in overcoming adversity. Just as the first light shimmered in the eastern sky, the wounded man moaned as if trying to speak. His wife, understanding the language of pain and weakness, placed her ear to his lips. “I won’t die, Jane,” he whispered. “You shan’t die, Jack,” she replied. A great hope dawned upon her as those four magic syllables were uttered.

He drifted into a doze and woke after the sun had risen. “Can you stay here all alone for a few hours?” Mrs. Hinman asked, after feeding her patient. “I am going to see if I can fetch someone to help us out of this.” “Go,” he answered. Placing the flask and broth within his reach, she kissed him and sprang up the slope as if she had wings. Reaching the trail, she sped along it southward. Fifteen miles would bring her to the junction of the two trails. There, she hoped to encounter a train of emigrants or a party of hunters traversing the mountain defiles.

Sooner than she expected, her wish was granted. In less than half an hour after reaching the fork, six hunters appeared. Hearing her story, three of them volunteered to retrieve her husband and bring him to their cabin, which stood half a mile from the trail. A horse was provided for Mrs. Hinman and the three hunters, and they rode quickly to the scene of the disaster.

Scrambling down the slope like mountain goats, they helped their brave companion, now exhausted from her efforts, reach the rocky shelf. The mountain air and the knowledge that he would live, coupled with his confidence in his wife’s success, had worked wonders on the wounded man’s robust constitution. He insisted on being moved immediately.

They carefully carried him to the trail and placed him astride one of the horses in front of one of the hunters. After a slow march of four hours, he was safely settled in the hunters’ cabin, where he fully recovered from his injuries within a few weeks.

One might assume that this harrowing experience would have prompted our heroine and her husband to return to their former home on the sunny prairies of Illinois. On the contrary, they remained determined to continue their journey to Oregon. However, they were prevented from doing so by the loss of their team and supplies.

The hunters, learning of their desires, returned to the site of the mishap and searched the mountainside for the items that had been thrown from the wagon. They managed to recover a significant number of undamaged articles, including some that remained in the wreckage. Pooling their resources, they bought two pairs of oxen and a wagon from a passing train of emigrants, who also generously contributed items for the use and comfort of the resolute but unfortunate couple. Such acts of charity were common among the men and women of the frontier. The further west one traveled, the more readily the heart responded to relieve the suffering and meet the needs of the unfortunate, especially those injured or impoverished while braving the hardships and dangers of a wild country.

The more rugged the region on our western border, the more boundless the compassion of its inhabitants. Nowhere was a large, unselfish charity more prevalent than among the men and women of the Rocky Mountains.

Free as the breezes that swept those towering summits, warm as the summer sun, bright as the icy peaks that pierced the sky, the spirit of loving-kindness for the unfortunate animated the hearts of the sons and daughters of that mountain land.

The old hunters and gold-seekers of that region served as the faithful keepers of mountain legends, chronicling the adventures of the early emigrants and annotating the passages made by the pioneers in later times. Around their campfires at night, after their meals were finished and their pipes were lit, they filled the lonely hours with tales of dreadful suffering, narrow escapes, and acts of heroism displayed by those who traveled through the mountains. This, as has been noted elsewhere, was the hunters’ pastime.

On one occasion, a hunting party threading the defiles of the mountains spotted suspicious signs in the valley below. Approaching the spot, they discovered that a train of emigrants had been attacked by Indians. The wagons had been looted, the oxen killed, some of the party massacred and scalped, and the rest scattered.

One of the hunters recounts the story from this point:

“Thirsting for revenge, the men immediately divided into groups. With Augur-eye as our guide, I took command of the detachment assigned to search the riverbank. The old Sergeant led the scouting party tasked with crossing the ford and scouring the timber on the right side of the river. The third group was assigned to the Doctor. The weather was cold, and the sky, thick with fleecy clouds, portended a heavy snowfall. The wind blew in fitful gusts, seeming to chill one’s blood as it swept past, whistling and sighing up the glen. The rattle of the horses’ hoofs as the departing groups galloped over the turf faded into the distance. When our small band halted on a sandy beach about a mile up the river, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of the panting horses and the noisy rush of the stream tumbling over the craggy rocks. The ‘Tracker’ was down again, crawling along the sand on his hands and knees, carefully examining the marks left on the impressionable surface. To his trained eye, these marks were readable words and sentences. As we watched his slow progress in impatient silence, the Indian suddenly sprang to his feet, as if stung by a venomous creature. Making urgent gestures for us to approach, he pointed eagerly at something a short distance away. A closer look revealed a tiny hand and part of an arm protruding from the sand.”

“At first, we assumed that the parent, whether male or female, had buried the child in this rough manner – a consoling thought that Augur-eye quickly dispelled. Scraping away the sand partially covering the dead boy, he pointed to a deep cleft in the skull, which told its own tragic story. This discovery confirmed that the old guide was correct: the savages were following the trail of the survivors. One of the men who had escaped and recently joined us appeared so terror-stricken by this discovery that it was difficult for the troopers riding beside him to keep him on his horse. We didn’t linger for additional signs but pressed on with all possible haste. The trail was rough, stony, and ran over a ledge of basaltic rocks, making progress slow, difficult, and dangerous. A misstep by a horse could have proved fatal to the rider. The guide spurred on his Indian mustang, which scrambled over the craggy track like a goat. He disappeared momentarily, hidden by a jutting rock. We heard him yell a sort of ‘war-whoop,’ awakening the echoes in the surrounding hills. Reckless of falling, we spurred on, dashed around the jagged point, and slid rather than cantered down a sloping bank to reach a second sandy beach, where the guide was galloping and shouting. We could see the fluttering garments of a girl running with all her might toward the pine trees. She disappeared among the thick foliage of the underbrush before the guide could reach her. Leaping from his horse, he followed her closely, noting the spot where she had hidden amidst a tangle of creeping vines and maple bushes. He waited for us, motioning us to quickly surround the hiding place, remaining as still as a statue while we arranged our small detachment to prevent any escape. He then glided silently through the bushes, soon disappearing from view. It seemed like a long time, though only a few minutes had passed, before a shrill cry told us something had been discovered. Dashing into the midst of the underbrush, we were met with a strange scene. The hardened troopers seemed spellbound, and I was no less astonished.”

“Huddled closely together, partially covered with branches, were two women and the little girl whose flight had led to this unexpected discovery. In a state of near nudity, the unhappy trio tried to hide from the many staring eyes fixed upon them, not out of indecent curiosity, but simply because no one had immediately realized the condition they were in.”

“However, it soon became clear to the soldiers that the women were nearly unclothed. To their great credit, they removed their thick topcoats and threw them to the trembling women, turning away and receding into the bush. It was enough that the faces of the men who had appeared so unexpectedly were white. Assured that the Indians had not rediscovered them, the destitute fugitives hastily wrapped themselves in the soldiers’ coats and rushed out from their lair, kneeling down and clasping their arms around my knees, pouring out thanks to the Almighty for their deliverance with a fervor that was deeply moving. Looking around, I saw tears streaming down the sunburnt faces of many of the men, whose iron natures were not easily stirred under ordinary circumstances.”

“It was quickly explained to the fugitives that they were safe. As every hour’s delay was a dangerous waste of time, the rescued women and child were carefully clothed in the men’s garments as best as circumstances allowed and placed on horses, with a hunter riding on either side to support them. The cavalcade, led by Augur-eye, moved slowly back to the place where we had left the pack-train encamped with the necessary supplies. I lingered behind to examine the place where the women had hidden themselves. The boughs of the vine-maple, along with other slender shrubs forming the underbrush, had been roughly woven together, creating at best a very poor shelter from the wind that swept through the valley in freezing currents. Had it rained, they would have been soaked quickly, or if it had snowed heavily, the ‘wickey’ house and its occupants would have been buried soon. How had they survived? I struggled to answer this question.”

“Looking around, I noticed a man’s coat pushed away under some branches. Near the few smoldering embers where the women had been sitting when the child had rushed in and announced our arrival, was a small tin pot with a cover, the only utensil visible. As I made these discoveries, I was sickened by a foul stench emanating from the dead body of a man, carefully hidden by branches, grass, and moss, a short distance from the small cage of twisted boughs. Gazing at the dead man, a suspicion too revolting to mention suddenly flashed through my mind. Turning away saddened and horrified, I returned to the cage and removed the cover from the saucepan. The contents confirmed my worst fears. Hastily leaving that terrible scene, the likes of which I hope never to witness again, I mounted my horse and galloped after the party, who were by this time some distance ahead.”

“Two men and the guide were sent to find the spot where the scouting parties were to meet and to bring them quickly to the mule camp. It was nearly dark when we reached our destination. The sky looked black and threatening, the wind seemed to be increasing, and small particles of half-frozen rain stung our faces, clearly indicating the coming snowfall.”

“Warm tea, a good substantial meal, and suitable clothing, sent in case of need by the officers’ wives stationed at the ‘Post,’ worked wonders in restoring bodily weakness. However, time alone could alleviate the shock to their mental state. I cannot say that I slept much during the night. Anxiety that we might be snowed in, suffering a fate almost as terrible as the one from which we had rescued the poor women, weighed on me like a nightmare. More than that, the secret I had discovered seemed to numb my senses and sicken my heart. Throughout the silent hours of the dismal darkness, I replayed the ghostly pageant of the fight and all its horrors, the escape of the unhappy survivors, the discovery of the murdered boy and starving women, and, above all, the secret that I would rather draw a veil over and leave to the imagination.”

A fugitive woman in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains was an object of profound pity. Yet, when she boldly faced the dangers that surrounded her and succeeded, through courage, endurance, and ingenuity, in surviving and escaping the perils that beset her, she deserved our admiration. One such woman was Miss Janette Riker, who proved the strength of the spirit of self-reliance that animated the daughters of the frontier under circumstances that would have daunted and depressed the stoutest heart.

The Riker family, consisting of Mr. Riker, his two sons, and his daughter Janette, traveled through the Dakota country in 1849. By late September, they had ventured deep into the mountains of Montana. Before continuing their journey to Oregon, they camped for three days in a well-grassed valley to rest their cattle and replenish their provisions with buffalo humps and tongues.

On the second day of their stay, the father and his two sons set out on a buffalo hunt, expecting to return before nightfall. However, sunset and darkness arrived without bringing them back to the lonely girl, who anxiously awaited their return all night, seated beneath the white canvas of the Conestoga wagon. At dawn, she followed their trail for several miles to a deep gorge, where she lost all trace of them. After a long and fruitless search, she returned to the camp, grief-stricken and distraught.

For a week, she spent her days trying to find some sign of her missing family, but to no avail. As the lonely maiden gazed at the towering walls that seemed to frown upon her, barring her escape east and west from her prison-house, hope faded in her heart, and she prayed for a quick death. But this mood was fleeting. The will to live soon reasserted itself, and she looked for ways to escape her perilous situation or at least prolong her existence.

Attempting to find her way over the mountains seemed impossible. Her only option was to create a shelter against the winter and remain where she was until she was discovered by passing hunters or Indians, whom she feared less than an existence spent in such solitude and surrounded by so many dangers.

Axes and spades, among the farming implements in the wagon, provided her with the tools she needed. Through diligent labor, to which her frame had long been accustomed, she built a crude hut of poles and small logs in a few weeks. Stuffing the gaps with dried grass and banking up the earth around it, she threw the wagon top over it, fastening it securely to stakes driven into the ground. This provided a shelter that was reasonably rain-tight and weather-proof.

She moved the stove and other contents of the wagon into the hut. The oxen, roaming through the valley, fattened on the sweet grass until the snow fell. She then slaughtered and flayed the fattest one, cutting up the carcass and storing it away for winter. Dry logs and limbs, gathered and chopped with great effort, kept her supplied with fuel. Although she was almost completely buried in snow for nearly three months, she managed to survive and remain reasonably comfortable by creating an opening for the smoke to escape and digging out fuel from the drift covering her woodpile. Her situation was dire, but preferable to the risk of being devoured by wolves or mountain lions, which, drawn by the scent of the slaughtered ox, had begun to prowl around her shelter before the snowfall but were now unable to reach her beneath the snowy bulwarks. However, she suffered more from the spring thaw, which flooded her hut with water, forcing her to move her belongings to the wagon and cover it with the canvas top. The melting snow caused the valley to overflow, and for two weeks, she was unable to build a fire, subsisting on uncooked Indian meal and raw beef that she had salted early in the winter.

Late in April, she was found in the final stages of exhaustion by a party of Indians, who kindly relieved her needs and carried her and her household goods across the mountains, leaving her at the Walla Walla station. This act on the part of the savages, who were a wild and hostile tribe, was due to their admiration for the hardihood of the “young white woman” who had survived the rigors of winter and early spring in that awful solitude – a feat that, they said, none of their own women would have dared to perform. The fate of her father and brothers was never determined, although it was assumed that they had either lost their way or fallen from a precipice.

Miss Riker later married and found a sphere of usefulness as a pioneer wife, for which her strong character admirably fitted her.