The Forlorn Hope — 1846, the Donner Party’s Snowshoe Escape
By the middle of December 1846 the Donner Party had been trapped for over a month beneath the eastern wall of the Sierra Nevada, snowed in at Truckee Lake (now Donner Lake) and along Alder Creek, with the high passes choked under fathoms of snow and the food nearly gone. The overland journey that delivered them there — the Hastings Cutoff, the lost weeks in the Wasatch and the Great Salt Lake Desert — belongs to our sister site, Wagon Wheel Diaries. This entry begins at the snowline, with the decision that fifteen of the strongest emigrants would strap on improvised snowshoes, abandon the camps, and try to walk over the mountains to bring back rescue. They called themselves, with grim accuracy, the “Forlorn Hope.”
Seventeen people left the lake camp on December 16, 1846, but Franklin Graves — a Vermonter who knew the craft from the northern winters of his youth — had been able to fashion only fourteen pairs of snowshoes from sawn oxbows and rawhide. Two of those without them, Charles “Dutch Charlie” Burger and ten-year-old William Murphy, turned back almost at once, leaving fifteen to go on: ten men, five women, and among them the two Miwok vaqueros Luis and Salvador, who had been sent up from Sutter’s Fort weeks earlier with relief mules and had themselves become trapped. They carried what amounted to about six days’ rations — finger-thin strips of dried beef, a little coffee and sugar — and expected to reach the Sacramento Valley in perhaps a week or ten days. Instead they were on the snow for roughly a month, and what happened in that time became the most harrowing single episode of the entire Donner catastrophe.
Within days the small column was lost, snow-blind, frostbitten, and starving. A blizzard pinned them down at a place the survivors afterward called the “Camp of Death,” where the first men died and where, in extremity, the living first cut flesh from the dead to keep from dying themselves. The cannibalism was deliberate, agonized, and openly recorded by the survivors afterward; they were careful to note who had eaten and who had not, and to keep relatives from being made to eat their own kin. Near the end, two of the party — the Miwok guides Luis and Salvador, who had refused to take part — were shot by another member, William Foster, and their bodies eaten as well, the only killings in the ordeal and a stain the survivors did not hide in their testimony.
Of the seventeen who set out, seven came down out of the mountains alive — two men and all five women. They reached the edge of the Sacramento Valley near Johnson’s Ranch in mid-January 1847, more than thirty days after leaving the lake, and it was their arrival, and the story they carried, that set the first organized relief expeditions moving back toward the buried camps. The Forlorn Hope did exactly what it was named to do: it brought help. The cost was that fewer than half of those who carried the message survived to deliver it.