Columbus and Other Heroes of American Discovery

by N. D'Anvers

Overjoyed at the thought of being almost within sight of the river at the mouth of which their comrades were awaiting them, the little band pressed on with renewed vigor, and on the 24th September they reached the banks of a wide and rapid river—known as the Mad among the natives, on account of its wild and turbulent course—where a consultation was held as to whether it should or should not be followed. It was wide and deep enough to admit the passage of canoes, and it might possibly flow into the Columbia. The Canadians one and all preferred traveling by water to “scrambling over the backs of mountains,” their trips up and down the St. Lawrence and across the Great Lakes having rendered them the most expert of oarsmen. Already they saw themselves shooting from the Mad River into the Columbia, and thence to Astoria.

Embarkation was almost unanimously decided on—although one or two of the older members of the party hinted at the difficulty of return, if, after all, the Mad River did not flow into the Columbia—and a fatal mistake would probably have been made, had not two Snake Indians from the West arrived in the nick of time, with the glad tidings that a trading post, situated on the upper branch of the Columbia, was not far off, and that from it the passage down to the sea was easy.

The programme was changed at once. The encampment was broken up, the Mad River crossed, and a little later the post alluded to was reached. It was deserted, but its log huts afforded an admirable shelter during the construction of canoes for the voyage down the river; and on the 18th of October all was ready for the last stage of the long journey. Fifteen canoes were launched on the Henry River, so called after the owner of the trading post, and a day’s paddle brought the Canadians to its junction with their old friend the Mad River.

The united streams now took the name of the Snake, and turned out, on examination, to be identical with the Lewis fork of the Columbia—a fact which greatly cheered the travelers, though their troubles were by no means yet at an end. The Snake was encumbered with rocks, its bed was seldom level, and again and again the canoes were nearly upset in the rapids. Not a human creature was to be seen on the banks; and as prairie succeeded prairie, and one wilderness of deserted mountains after another was passed, the spirits of the adventurers flagged.

On the 28th October the climax of the difficulties was reached. The Snake River entered a “terrific strait,” its whole volume being compressed into a space less than thirty feet in width, beyond which it flung itself down a precipice, and continued its course, raging and roaring in such a manner that Hunt named the cataract the Lion Caldron, a title which it still bears. In attempting to navigate this awful passage, one of the canoes was completely destroyed, and one man drowned, while his comrades barely escaped with their lives. Further progress by water was evidently impossible. The hope of shooting rapidly down to the sea had again to be abandoned; and, thoroughly disheartened, the travelers prepared to strike across country again, with a view to reaching the banks of the Columbia lower down.

Exploring parties were sent out in different directions to ascertain the best route; all of the baggage which could possibly be spared was buried in caches; and early in October the march was begun across a dry and trackless wilderness, tenanted only by a few wretched Shoshones, who fled at the approach of the white men.

Toward the end of November a large encampment of Snakes was reached, where provisions and some really trustworthy information as to the route to the coast were obtained; but it was bitterly cold, and the sufferings of the party between the Indian camp and the Columbia were extreme. Not until the 21st January did the long-sought waters of the great stream of the West come in sight, and the transport of the weary travelers at this happy conclusion of their long wanderings may be imagined.

The spot at which the Columbia had at last been struck was a little below the junction of its two great branches, the Lewis and Clarke, in about N. lat. 46° 8′, W. long. 118° 50′. Its banks were dotted with the miserable huts of a wretched horde of Indians called Akai-chies, who wore nothing but the undressed skins of animals, and lived by fishing, scudding up and down the Columbia in rude canoes of pine logs hollowed out by fire.

From these Akai-chies Hunt received the first tidings of his comrades of the sea expedition; but fortunately, perhaps, for him, the simple savages only knew of the presence of white men at the mouth of their river, and could tell nothing of the disasters which had overtaken them. Eager to join their friends, the traders now pushed on along the Columbia as rapidly as possible; and at a little village somewhat further down, they heard not only of the massacre on board the Tonquin, but of a plot for their own destruction. A party of braves said some wandering savages had arranged to attack the camp at night and carry off all the horses. With Hunt, to be forewarned was to be forearmed, and the precautions taken prevented any second tragedy; but it was with a sinking heart that he led his men in the last stage of his awful journey. If the rumor of the massacre on the Tonquin were true, there was of course little hope that the few survivors of Astoria had been able to hold their own against the natives, and the great expedition across the continent might perhaps end in the death of all concerned.

Early in February, after great sufferings from hunger and fatigue, canoes were at last obtained from some Indians, and, embarking on the Lewis fork of the Columbia, the Canadians rapidly shot down the river of so many memories to Astoria, where they arrived in safety, haggard, half-starved, and in rags, after a journey which occupied nearly eighteen months.