UNCLE PETE’S TRAIL - FANDANGO PASS ROAD

HISTORIC PATHS crisscross the west. The same can be said of historic lives. Confluence of these paths and lives can be found in the charted but rarely visited reaches of northeastern California.

On a trip to Oregon three years back, I stumbled into the Surprise Valley and spent the night at a $48 a night hotel in Cedarville. Doffing luggage from the tourer, I used the available daylight and drove north to check out Fort Bidwell. This was the place I knew Captain Jack had been executed in payment for his hand in the death of General Canby at the conclusion of the Modoc War.

Halfway between Cedarville and Fort Bidwell, Fandango Pass Road heads westward over the mountains. If ever I get a motorcycle more capable of handling gravel roads, I said to myself, Fandango Pass will be on my short list of to-dos.

Today, I would check that one off the list.

RISING EARLY IN ALTURAS, I assumed my usual practice of riding for a distance before stopping for breakfast. State Route 299 heads east, gently gaining elevation before cresting the Warner Mountains at Cedar Pass. Early morning mists cling to the higher reaches and the smell of the late night-early morning rain sweetens the air. Delightful smooth pavement sweeps through turns that descend past clusters of aspen and pine.

In forty minutes, I’ve achieved Cedarville, a town where former Sacramento resident Jamie Day reports: “strangers wave to you and say hello.” [Northern California Traveler, July 2011] This proved to be true as two gents; stopping for breakfast exited their well-worn pickups, inquired about my GSA and where I was going, and offered the latest report on road conditions up that way.

FANDANGO PASS ROAD is nicely graded and maintained. A push button adjustment dampers the shocks on the BMW to better handle the occasionally washboarded surface. The ascent is so smooth and captivating that I neglect to stop for pictures of the broadening panorama as frequently as I should.

The map lists the lakes in Surprise Valley as dry playas, but after this unusually damp-late season, both Upper and Middle Alkali Lakes shimmer in the mid-morning sun.

PETER LASSEN was a Danish emigrant who landed in Boston for a while but, like many of his day, moved west with fortune. His name is affixed to mountains, creeks, high schools, counties and national forest lands. He rubbed elbows with Spanish governors, US military leaders and California politicians. At one point, he settled at the confluence of Deer Creek and the Sacramento River, establishing a settlement he called “Benton City.” To populate the locale, “Uncle Pete” charted the Lassen Cut-off, a route that split from the Applegate spur of the old Oregon Trail and brought settlers to the northern Sacramento Valley. I knew the near-Chico portion of this route as Dad and I explored the Ishi Wilderness and Bruff’s Camp many times in the 60s.

The Fandango Pass portion was the eastern end of this cut-off, named, some say, because men, in crossing this pass late one season found themselves having to dance a fandango at night in order to warm bodies against the freezing October nights. It makes a nice story. Approaching the summit, that morning mist becomes a little more threatening. At the top I survey the rugged terrain and think about those old boys dancing around the fire to keep warm.

THE ROUTE PAST THE SUMMIT is a gradual descent over nicely groomed cinders. Approaching Goose Lake, where the Lassen Cut-off markedly departs from the Applegate Trail, a well-worn hay barn tells me that rugged folks still populate these reaches – and somehow make a living off the land.

Riding a bike, exposed to the elements and free of radio yammer, one is easily transported back in time. The imagination may turn the motorcycle into a mule or an ox and the route may turn from something graded to something needing to be picked through with a long knife and very careful steps. I can’t help but marvel at those who had the will and tenacity to do this.

Looking back at the Warners this morning, I note the threatening clouds and realize I was only moments ahead of getting drenched under a cloudburst. I wonder if I would have bitched about the conditions or danced a Fandango.



NOTES:

In all of our conflict with Native Americans, only one U S Cavalry general was killed in action. His name was not George Armstrong Custer. You can look it up.


The story of Peter Lassen's death is also quite interesting and still shrouded in darkness.  Yo!  NBC folks:  His story is great fodder for one of those "Unsolved Mysteries" episodes.

REFERENCES:

A detailed account of Peter Lassen’s life, exploits and ultimate death may be found on-line at The Nevada Observer. Lassen’s contemporaries read like a who’s who of pre-and post- gold rush luminaries including Fremont, Sutter, and Bidwell. How their paths intertwine is nicely recounted here through the use of both primary and secondary sources:

http://www.nevadaobserver.com/Reading%20Room%20Documents/life_and_death_of_peter_lassen.htm

The Northern California Traveler is published 10 times per year. Mainly a vehicle to promote real estate sales in northeastern California, editor Dennis Smith ensures that the content matches the good nature and good will of the people and the ruggedness of the area. Plus, the real estate listed is an enchanting look back to when we worked on, recreated on – and maybe appreciated a bit more – the land. www.northerncaltraveler.com

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

FOLLOW-UPS, UPDATES AND CORRECTIONS II

Our crack fact-check team here at the Church of the Open Road offers these follow-ups, corrections [and apologies] to previous posts:

TO A GUY NAME JIM - The “Church” apologizes: A correspondent informed the Church of the Open Road that some yahoo in Washington State had sponsored an initiative to change the Washington State seal to incorporate a tape worm underlining the concept that the state’s tax system was sucking the people dry. The “Church” was able to identify said “yahoo” and contacted him out of the blue, electronically suggesting some unkind things about himself and his appreciation for how his tax dollars were spent. Jim, a veteran and a citizen, (and a motorcycle rider) responded with far more civility than was offered by the “Church.” And the Church, proverbial hat in hand, realizing that it had stepped well beyond its middle-of-the-road belief system, (hopefully) graciously apologized.

This post makes that apology public. Jim: Thank you for your service. Thank you for your point of view. And know that it is an honor to read it, disagree with it and (finally) understand the tongue-in-cheek nature by which it was offered. And even if it were not offered in humor, you, sir, deserved better.


REGARDING BOTH SIMPSON CAMP (posts: May 12, June 10, July 10, 2010) AND BRUFF’S CAMP (post: November 8, 2010): Recall that when searching for places visited decades ago, it was discovered that place names related to those enchanted spots were no where to be found on current maps of the two unique and separate areas.

The Church is a little concerned that when a place name is removed from a map, the history of some individual is lost to the proverbial dustbin and the exceptional lessons of their perhaps-judged unexceptional lives will be forgotten.

Bruff is a case in point. Bruff sent his company forward without regard to his own well-being. He cared for the properties of his company to the detriment of his health. He comforted others who traveled the Old Lassen Trail, showing them kindness, compassion and ultimately the way to safety while standing fast in his commitment. He nearly starved.

Without the map listing, would anyone look through the annals of gold rush history to find that he shepherded hundreds of fortune-seeking immigrants to their goals? And how would what-he-did challenge us to help others in our time, if the place name is removed?


REGARDING “AUNTIE DaVONNE” (posts: October 20 and 28, 2010): On this Veteran’s Day, after staging a valiant come-back from emergency surgery, “Auntie DaVonne” declared victory and left this place to be with her late husband who predeceased her a mere six months ago (post: April 8, 2010).

There are things about love that, if people claim to understand ‘em, they probably are just blowing smoke. “Auntie DaVonne” understood love. She understood commitment. She understood her faith to a degree that others may swear to, but never realize.

Dear Sister Lisa: Those of us who understand far less, know that you are in that special place on the other side of the netherworld, now fully embraced by love – the love in which you so passionately believed. Time to rest, dear woman.

The circle is unbroken. The circle is never broken.

THE “ROMANCE” OF BRUFF’S CAMP: PONDEROSA WAY – TEHAMA COUNTY

I am informed that it is difficult travelling down the Sacramento Valley, on account of the moisture; and that there is no river conveyance and the stream is very rapid, and obstructed with bars and snags. And that the mines are exceedingly unhealthy.

J. Goldsborough Bruff:
October 21, 1849 in

Gold Rush

ON THE ROAD, in the saddle, riding through hills and forests and glens and weather, it is easy to romanticize those who have gone before. Those whose evidence of passing is a mere place name and, perhaps a foundation overgrown with vines or a rock chimney devoid of house. We travel in and out of these remote places dreaming daybreaks of melted mist and days ends of fiery sunsets, which give way to carpets of stars across a milky way. In between these dawns and dusks: placer mining rich with gold scooped from the stream bed, or boundless pastures upon which cattle graze, or clear pines felled for posts and rails or cabin walls. A Maureen O’Hara-type has a hot meal waiting and a few terse words that enhance the sexual tension. Pretty soon the credits roll: Republic Films.

A fellow named J. Goldsborough Bruff suggests things probably weren’t quite that way.

Poyle spent another weary day, chasing deer in vain. Only observed a few, at a distance. Baked a cake with some mildewed pinola…

November 18, 1849

ALONG THE PONDEROSA WAY somewhere between the old Campbellville Lookout and Payne’s Creek, where the Lassen cut-off – having traced the narrow divide between Deer Creek and Mill Creek – intersects it, there’s a Forest Service sign marking Bruff’s Camp. I don’t have a picture-taken-personally because it’s been forty years since I went that way. A revisit is on my short list of trips yet to take on the BMW.

BRUFF HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF as president of the Washington (DC) City and California Gold Mining Association. This assembly of 65 incorporated to journey west in late 1848. Many historians consider Bruff’s writings to be some of the best sources of information on the Gold Rush. Most compelling are the months he spent in the foothills of the Sierra / Cascade. Perhaps 30 miles from early settlements in the Sacramento Valley, yet with supplies and wagons deteriorating, he sent his party forward while remaining behind to care for the group’s sundries. His encampment along the Lassen Trail proved to be a highway for many emigrant parties and, as he waited his own rescue, he assisted others with their passage west. Assistance meant providing game; constructing shelter out of wagon remains; ensuring the fire was always burning; ministering to the ill and burying the dead. Deep in the evening of October 31, an aged oak collapsed…

A large limb, capable of making a couple of cords of fuel, had to be cut off, and then the long heavy trunk pryed with levers and rolled off… …and there lay a shocking sight – An aged, grey headed man and his grown son, with their hips buried in the ground, their ghastly eyes turned up in death!

November 1, 1849

THE PARTY THAT WAS TO RETURN for Mr. Bruff, did, indeed – however they came only for the provisions they’d left in his care. They did not return with the horse he had loaned. He did not leave camp with them owing to the fact that he carried “journals, drawings and mineral specimens” he chose not to leave behind. His former colleagues refused him further assistance. So Bruff dug in. He weathered drenching rains and low snow. He loaned goods to passers-through, chronicling meetings with good people (a Mrs. O’Brian and “two curly-headed girls”) and selfish…

A couple of men ask’d me for the loan of a camp-kettle and axe as they were about to cook a meal close by. I readily loaned them the articles & they made fire against a tree trunk. I had worn a gum poncho & tarpaulin hat, but the rain held up for a while, and I took them off and threw them into my tent, while I went to a camp near by; on returning, the strangers were gone, with the loaned articles, my poncho and hat. I hope their gratitude will meet its reward.

November 6, 1849

FOR SEVERAL WINTER-SEASON MONTHS, Joseph Goldsborough Bruff lived in the foothill hinterlands just east of the Northern Sacramento Valley until he and two others were rendered so weakened and ill that they had to abandon camp and follow Lassen's cut-off into the lowlands.  He ended up at Lassen's Rancho near the confluence of Deer Creek and the Sacramento River where he was called upon to make good on the debts of others in the company who preceded him to the outpost.  Behind him, he left the bones of covered wagons, the bodies of those who could march no further and the scattered skeletons of promised riches - riches that seemed so real to the legions who ventured into the western wilderness back in '49, '50 and beyond.

I THINK ABOUT BRUFF as I explore the gold country canyons of the American, the Yuba, the Feather and of Butte and Chico Creeks and those lesser streams that flow west from the Sierra into the valley. I think of him when I see a place name or an overgrown foundation or a naked rock chimney. I think of Bruff and am reminded that the settlement of the west was perhaps ten percent romance and ninety percent hard luck.

####

NOTE:  Like Simpson Camp on the Mendocino National Forest in the Coast Range, I can no longer locate Bruff’s camp on any of the following: The US Department of Agriculture’s Lassen National Forest Map, the US Department of the Interior Geological Survey Quadrangles, or DeLorme’s California Atlas and Gazetteer. But I’ve been to Bruff’s Camp and I’m going back some day.

RESOURCES:

Bruff, Joseph Goldsborough, Gold Rush; the Journals, Drawing, and other Papers of J. Goldsborough Bruff, Captain, Washington City and California Mining Association, April 2, 1849-July 20, 1851. Ed. by Georgia Willis Read and Ruth Gaines. With a foreword by F. W. Hodge. California Centennial ed. New York: Columbia University Press. 1949

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press