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 San
Francisco Call, Volume 105, Number 62, Sunday, 31
January, 1909
WHERE FREMONT CROSSED THE
SIERRAS: The Intimate
Narrative of Strawberry Valley and Historic Pass of
the American River
By Camilla L. Kenyon
High up in the Sierras, the road that has
climbed toilsomely along the steep bluffs of the
American river swings suddenly around the rose of a
craggy spur. A green valley opens out before you.
Its floor so nearly level that Its gentle
undulations are not seen after the long upward
struggle of the road. Precipitous ridges and sheer
gray cliffs inclose it. Dark clusters of pine and
fire break the sweep of open meadows. The river
pours its snow fed waters in a succession of swift
cataracts, with a wild, continuous chanting. The
air has the sparkling clearness of high altitudes;
the sky above the jagged summits is a marvel of
melting blue.
This is Strawberry valley, its naming an
instance of that strange lack of originality which
Americans display when thrown upon their own
resources in the matter of nomenclature. The
Spaniard falls back upon his endless calendar of
saints; the Indian's brief vocabulary yields a kind
of elemental poetry. But Strawberry valleys are
scattered over California as though the most
striking and essential feature of .' any region
were the fact of Its producing strawberries.
The Tahoe stage, which left Placerville at
earliest dawn, rumbles into the valley at 4 in the
afternoon, and halts for a moment at a house, the
first In many miles, that stands in the shadow of a
tremendous cliff of sheer naked granite. This, by a
refinement of banality, has been called "Lover's
"Leap," a name that may stand out boldly upon the
map. but gives up all claim to existence in the
presence of that bleak magnificence. The house Is
low and old, but Its long verandah is of a
suggestive depth and coolness to the dusty
traveler, who for 12 hours has been rattled about
like a pea in a pod. It is a chance but that. In
response to that silent invitation, he descends
forthwith, and the stage with its four strong
horses goes lumbering on without him.
The country all about Is wild and stern, a
tumble of barren rock with intervening woody vales
of a fairy-llke beauty in their tender green and
lavish broidery of exquisite alpine flowers. Far
higher than the Yosemite, the really heavy timber
does not flourish here; yet there are splendid
pines growing along watercourses and in the rich
soil of meadowy, flats. And there are lakes without
number all about, and* streams that take their
arrowy leap from high gorges where the snows
dissolve slowly Into nameless tarns. Everywhere is
the inexhaustible treasure with which nature
rewards her pilgrim. At first he struggles
feverishly to possess It. all, but one 'day wisdom
comes; he lets it possess him and is content.
Yet this tale could be told, and, with endless
elaboration, of any of the high Sierra valleys from
Shasta to Mount Whitney. It is the human element
that gives Strawberry its claim to distinction, for
this valley was once and again the scene of vital,
if too scantily remembered chapters in the history
of our state.
The Sierra Nevada presented a terrible obstacle
to pioneer overland travel. The Rockies, the
"backbone of the continent, were easily traversed;
South pass was tedious, but quite without danger.
It was when summer, already on the wane, the
emigrant faced the all but impenetrable barrier of
the California range that his heart failed him, and
in the grim defiles of these mighty mountains were:
enacted the direst tragedies of pioneer days.
But Fremont and his band achieved the all but
impossible feat of crossing the Sierra in
midwinter; and that with so scant a knowledge of
'the country that they missed the true pass
altogether, and only by marvelous good fortune
struck at length the American river, which led them
on to New Helvetia (Sutter's fort), then the
objective point of all overland travel by the
northern routes. And it was into Strawberry valley
that they emerged when, descending from the
labyrinth of icy peaks, they came, first upon the
river so friendly even in name&emdash;El Rio de los
Americanos.
 At
the lower end of Strawberry valley a creek comes
tumbling from a side canyon into the main stream.
In the angle of the two the forest rangers have set
up their white tents, and you may sit upon a camp
stool in great comfort on the precise spot where
60-years ago a band of haggard, half-starved men
issued from the snowy gorge. The smaller, stream is
Strawberry creek, which, if traced to its remote
headwaters, would be found springing from the snows
of Roundtop, not the eminence here locally so
called, but the true' peak of that name, which
rears its grim head miles to the eastward. From
that point Fremont and his men descended, following
the little stream to its junction with the
American, and so on to their longed for haven by
the placid Sacramento.
NOTE: Since 1921 this has been
the site of the Sciots
Camp cabin tract.
At the time Fremont made his seemingly desperate
attempt, he knew of only two other, parties having
"passed through the mountains (Walker's and
Chile's), and both," he says, "were engaged upward
of 20 days in the summer time in getting over." The
first Indians whom he tried to induce to guide him
shook their heads and drew their hands across their
necks and foreheads to indicate the depth of snow
upon the mountains. Not all the scarlet cloth the
white men offered tempted them. Later they secured
the services of another reluctant aborigine by
marching him forward between two rifles, but at the
end of the second day he. decamped.
But cross 'the party must, having little other
choice than to perish in the wintry desert.
Fremont's only concession was to abandon the
howitzer, which had been dragged with incalculable
toil all the way from St. Louis. He cheered on his
disheartened men by reminding the "of the beautiful
valley of the Sacramento, with which they were
familiar from the description of Carson, who had
been there some 15 years; ago, and who, in our late
privations, had delighted us in speaking of its
rich pastures and abounding game." Yet, as they
penetrated farther into the range and entered the
region of deep snows, they were a grimly silent
company, for "to almost all the enterprise seemed
hopeless."
The advance with the horses and baggage was
tedious and painful. The animals (67 mules and
horses at the start) were nearly starved, though an
occaslonal grassy spot afforded a little pasture.
The snow averaged about five feet in 'depth, but in
places was as much as 20. Provisions were very low.
They had no tallow or grease and little salt. The
poor dogs were doomed one by one to the camp
kettle.
But after a week of toils and dangers, their
hearts were uplifted by a glimpse of the promised
land. On February 6, l844, Fremont and a scouting
party on showshoes gained the summit of a lofty
peak, which, according to government engineer who
surveyed this region years ago was Roundtop. "Far
below us, dimmed by the distance, was a large
snowless valley, bounded on the western side, at
the distance of about a hundred miles, by a low
range of mountains, which Carson recognized with
delight as the mountains bordering the coast.
"There," said he, "is the little mountain--it is
fifteen years since I saw it; but I am just as sure
as if I had seen it yesterday." Between us, then,
and this low coast range was the valley of the
Sacramento; and no one who had not accompanied us
through the incidents of our life for the last few
months could realize the delight with which at last
we looked down upon it. At the distance of
apparently 30 miles beyond us were distinguished
spots of prairie; and a dark line which could be
traced with the glass, was imagined to be the
course of the river; but we were evidently at a
great height above the valley, and between us and
the plains extended miles of snowy fields and
broken ridges of pine-covered mountains." Yet, even
at that inclement season "the purity and deep-blue
color of the sky are singularly beautiful; the days
are sunny and bright, and even warm in the noon
hours; and if we could be free from the many
anxieties that oppress us, even now we would be
delighted here; but our provisions are getting
fearfully scant." Pea soup, mule and dog was the
fare.
On February 10 they camped at an elevation of
8,050 feet. On the 14th Fremont looked down from a
lofty peak upon Tahoe, "a mountain lake at our
feet, so entirely surrounded by mountains that we
could not discover an outlet. Snow could be
distinguished on the higher parts of the coast
mountains; eastward, as far as the' eye could
extend, it ranged over a terrible mass of broken
snowy mountains, fading off blue in the
distance."
On the; 16th Fremont and a single companion
"traveled along the crests of narrow ridges
extending downward in the direction of the valley*
* *Toward sundown * * * descending the mountain * *
* we encamped on the headwaters of a little creek
where, at last, the water found its way to the
Pacific." This was Strawberry creek, henceforth to
be their guide.
"The night was clear and very long. We heard the
cries of some wild animals which had been attracted
by our fire, and a flock of geese passed over
during the night. Even these strange sounds had
something pleasant to our senses in this region of
silence and desolation * * * We started again early
in the morning. The creek acquired a regular
breadth of about 20 feet, and we began to hear the
rushing of the water below the icy surface* * * I
was now perfectly satisfied that we had struck the
stream on which Mr. Sutter lived.'*
 From
the summit of the pass, which was attained by the
whole party on 20th, they saw Tahoe (the "mountain
lake" of Fremont's map) once more and witnessed the
splendid spectacle of the valley in a thunder
storm. "The sky cleared off brightly, and we saw a
shining line of water directing its course toward
another, a broader and larger sheet. We knew a this
could be no other than the Sacramento and the bay
of San Francisco * * * but we were yet almost
afraid to believe that we were at last to escape
into the genial country of which we had heard so
many, glowing descriptions, and dreaded again to
find some vast interior lake, whose bitter waters
would bring us disappointment. * * * We. had the
satisfaction to know that at least there were
people below. Fires were lit up in the valley just
at nightfall, appearing to be in answer to ours;
and these signs of life revived In some measure the
gayety of the camp. They appeared so near that we
Judged them to be among the timber of some of the
neighboring ridges; but having them constantly in
view day after day and night after night, we
afterward found them to be fires that had been
kindled by the Indians among the tules, on the
shore of the bay 80 miles distant.
"We continued to enjoy the same delightful
weather: the sky of the same beautiful blue, and
such a sunset and sunrise as on our Atlantic coast
we could scarcely imagine. And here among the
mountains. 9000 feet above the sea. we have the
deep blue sky and the sunny climate of Italy and
Palermo, which a little map before me shows, are in
the same latitude."
Fremont's Introduction to the American river was
a bath in it. On February 23 he and Kit Carson came
out upon the junction of Strawberry creek and the
American. Here the river is compressed between
great boulders, and at the narrowest point Carson
sprang over. Fremont sought to follow, but the
parfleche sole of his moccasin slipped on the icy
rock and he fell into the roaring stream. Carson,
with commendable devotion, leaped in to the rescue,
and both finally clambered out without injury.
There is a log laid across the stream now, so such
chamois like feats ' are happily unnecessary. And,
Indeed, it says much for the vigor of the
Involuntary bath that they survived the plunge, for
the stream goes hurtling over the boulders with
appalling, force, plunging from pool to pool with a
deafening noise of its clear green waters.
Step by step as the wayfarers descended, the
country, grew more friendly. The green foliage, the
mild air, the singing birds, filled them with
delight. The magnificence of the forests is
Fremont's constant theme. He describes the
manzanita. "a new and singular shrub." Their
hardships are by no means over. Pruess, the
botanist, is lost and endures great sufferings.
Another grows light headed and wanders away, but is
finally rescued. As they descend they meet Indians,
some speaking Spanish, and learn that they are
indeed upon the Rio de Los Americanos. On the 6th
of March they arrive at Slitter's fort. But we have
roamed a long way from our mountain valley.
With the increase of overland travel and the
growth of the Carson valley trade, the pass of the
American river became a well trodden way. The old
emigrant route from Hope valley strikes the present
road nearly opposite Echo lake, and is known as the
Hawley trail. Strawberry valley forms one of those
natural gateways in a great mountain barrier by
which, until man' begins to fly through the air
instead of crawling upon earth, travel and traffic
must be controlled. In the 10 years after Fremont's
time many a weary mule and ox pastured in its green
meadows, many a campfire shone upon the dark front
of Lover's leap
An Item copied from the Placerville American
into the San Francisco Herald of June 5, 1857,
says: "On Wednesday, 20th Inst, Mr. A. Haws, with a
pack train of five mules well laden with assorted
merchandise left our city enroute for Carson
valley. On the same day about 2 p. m, Major Ormsby,
who left this place on the 6th inst with a pack
train, returned from Carson valley, having made the
trip in 14 days. The growing Importance of the
trade with the people of the valley makes the
making of a good road between Placerville and that
place imperative. Our own best Interest would be
promoted by it. It Is a wagon road that we
need"
And the road was built in time for the mad rush
of the early sixties when the Virginia City
excitement was at !its height. So heavy was the
travel through the pass that the road was blocked
for hours together. Then every few; miles had Its
roadhouse, offering refreshment for man and beast.
You still come upon their ruin along the highway,
usually no more than a crumbling: chimney. Largest
and most frequented between Placerville and the
state line was this of Watson's in Strawberry
valley. It was known then as Slippery ford, a name
since transferred to Kyberg's, 11 miles on the
hither side. The indisputably genuine "slippery
ford" is here, a few rods below the present bridge
at the upper end of the valley. The river runs over
an outcropping of granite as smooth as a polished
floor, the water slipping by with a swiftness that
must have brought many a wagon and its load to
grief.
NOTE: This transfer of the name
Slippery Ford is shown on quite a number of
maps.
The present Strawberry valley house Is but the
sufficiently renovated mule barn of the old
establishment. The same family are In possession,
and there Is a white haired old woman whose tales
of those stirring days sound strangely in the quiet
of the valley. The original house was on a much
larger scale, but even so, the thronging guests
overflowed it, and late comers slept in rows upon
the floors. It burned down one winter night, and
only the foundations are left, hidden In the rank
grass of the meadow.
Much treasured and still In use is the old
register, preserving In the faded ink of Its
earlier pages names that have become of a half
legendary fame, as well as other entries no less
interesting, such as "Snowed in, by thunder!" and a
record of the fluctuations of a poker game that
apparently lasted four days.
Horace Greeley was a guest here; his name
appears more than once, though not in a hand that
can be Identified at his. You axe told that over
this very road he took his famous rides with Hank
Monk. "Sit still, Horace. I'll git you thar," said
the driver to the man of fame, who fretted at the
prospect of an engagement unfulfilled; and the
white hat bobs wildly as the horses go plunging
down the grade. Hank Monk is in the record very
often, and the queer labored writing is no doubt
his own. And so It goes on till we reach the name
of David Starr Jordan and others renowned in our
own day, and are far away from the wild times of
the sixties, when humanity from all quarters of the
earth poured like a river through this valley to
spread out and be lost upon the desert.
Even today the. pass has an importance that one
accustomed to think of travel only in terms of
railroading is by no means prepared for. The gray
highway is an artery through which though no more
at fever heat, there still pulses a steady flow of
human life. For once again the gold lust lures men
on over the mountains into the wastes beyond. Weary
foot travelers plod by. their prospecting tools
upon their backs, or packed with other humble gear
upon a patient burro. Whole families on the move
will pass, with a wagon or two heaped with
household goods and animals with children, cats and
poultry. There are droves of cattle, on their way
to slaughter to feed the canvas cities of a day.
Other herds, less tragically destined are making
for some cool, green mountain pasture. Horse
traders come by in bands, wild Gipsy looking
creatures, with some forlorn women and babies, and
a bunch of small, clean limbed horses of the bronco
breed. Automobiles effect a passage now and then,
their tires slipping in the sharp sand, and once
our sight was dazzled by the spectacle of a
veritable prairie schooner bearing a family of
belated pioneers all the way from Missouri. It Is
the pageant of life, as one sees it anywhere,
changeful and strange and fevered, and above all
evanescent, set against a background ever
changeless (in our small sense), ever serene,
beautiful and austere--the old sphinx-- countenance
of nature, looking unmoved upon the ant-like toil
of man.
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See the route in detail as determined by Bob Graham and
Peter Lathrop from Frémont's narrative and from his
determined coordinates
