Opening the West With Lewis and Clark / By Boat, Horse and Foot Up the Great River Missouri, Across the Stony Mountains and on to the Pacific, When in the Years 1804, 1805, 1806, Young Captain Lewis, the Long Knife, and His Friend Captain Clark, the Red Head Chief, Aided by Sacajawea, the Birdwoman, Conducted Their Little Band of Men Tried and True Through the Unknown New United States

by Edwin L. Sabin

“What white men do we find, at the Pacific Ocean, George?” asked Peter; for both the Snakes and the Flat-heads spoke of “white men” down the Columbia, which was known only as the Big River.

“Traders, Peter. White men from the United States, and from other white nations—England and Russia—who sail there in large boats and trade for furs. Perhaps we’ll all return to the United States by one of those boats.”

“At No-Salmon River is where we enter the Pierced Nose trail, is it?” mused Sergeant Nat Pryor. “I reckon that’s a correct name. ’Cordin’ to Chaboneau and Drouillard the salmon aren’t to be found in any waters east of the Rock Mountains. They all stay west.”

“Oh, murther, an’ aren’t we west o’ the mountains, yet?” exclaimed Pat.

Still north pushed the company, down through the Bitter Root Valley of western Montana, with the line of mountains on the left rising ever colder and higher. In four days’ journey was reached a broad Indian trail, along a river running east. It was the Pierced Nose trail, said old Toby, and the river was the No-Salmon River. The Indian road was to be followed westward, over the mountains, but on the way there would be no game.

So the captains called the No-Salmon (to-day the Lou Lou) River, “Traveler’s Rest Creek,” because here camp was made while the men hunted and mended clothes before again climbing the mountains.

The Pierced Nose trail was plain at first, but on the Idaho side of these the Bitter Root Mountains it soon was lost amidst many other trails, and the snows and the thick timber and the bare rocks. Old Toby himself was well-nigh confused; he had not been along the main trail for many years.

The mountains were very broad, very wild. The jumble of high ridges was steep, and constantly drear with rain and snow. The horses strayed, and went lame, and fell down and broke things. The hunters sometimes brought in a lean deer, sometimes a few grouse, and frequently nothing, so then for all hands there were only a sip of canned soup, and berries.

It was on September 14 that the first of the colts was killed, to be eaten. The soup and the berries were making the men ill. He was a nice little black colt, and Peter hated to have him killed; but what else could be done? On this day, also, they arrived at a clear, rocky river down which extended the Indian road.