Passing With Donner

February 26, 1847

My dearest Susan;

I went in search of the land of gold, sunshine, and plenty - milk and honey - and instead found misery, snow, and starvation. I fear we will never make California my love. So I’m writing these missives not only to tell you how sorry I am and that I love you with all my heart, but also as a last testament. This journal will be as truthful as I can make it and those who come after can judge for themselves.

This journey with the Donner Party has turned into a living nightmare. There was another hard freeze three nights ago and temperatures have dropped precipitately. Too many have died. The only thing keeping my very soul from freezing is the warm thought of you waiting for me. If God has a miracle in store I pray he sends it soon. All I desire is to get across these mountains and return to you.

There has been some relief from natives who were willing to trade but our stores are bone bare. I had to shoot the dog, Towser. a few days back in order to have any food at all. It nigh broke my heart to do it. His poor pleading, trusting eyes burnt into my very core… Yet, I had to do it. He was naught but skin and bones himself, yet his meat will last a few days. Please forgive me.

February 27, 1847

Mary Conner came to me today begging for a bit of meat … ox, dog, or anything. She has a little boy - Michael - who is but four years old. The waif is barely hanging on. I gave her a bit of the dog meat, though I can ill afford to do so. Little Michael wolfed it down half raw like it was ambrosia. I pray that this deed buys my soul some mercy for I don’t have much left for myself. Some few have said that God is testing us and the righteous will make it through to paradise … As for me, I think if God tests man this way it is no wonder so few pass.

Pete Wilson fell out earlier. He just keeled over and died. His lips were blue. When we removed his boots his toes were black with frostbite. Lord help me, I took the boots. They were in better shape than my own since I broke through a frozen pond this morning and soaked my feet. If I hadn’t swapped I’d have been frostbit bad. Even so I think I may lose a toe or two.

It is said by the preachers that hell is a burning pit of fire and brimstone. Well, at this point I have come to believe that hell is instead a frozen endless wasteland of ice where the very marrow of a man’s bones freezes to a lump. As I forge through snow drifts knee high the very thought of a burning pit makes me long for it. Just to be near a good fire … Well, I suppose that’s blasphemy as may be, but, I’d about sell my soul to Lucifer himself for a good fur lined coat.

I pray I make it through another night. I hope you are looking at the stars tonight as I am. Perhaps your wishes upon them will have more effect than my own.

February 28, 1847

We lost three souls last night. Karl Dalton, Ted Hilshire, and his wife Catherine. When we opened their tent this morning we found them stiff and cold in each others arms. One last embrace I guess. At least they got to pass on to their reward together. Michael Holmes divvied out their clothes and goods .. not that there was much to divvy.

Little Michael Conner looks near to death as well. His ma is carrying him next to her chest inside her coat in the hopes that what little body heat she has may be enough to offer succor. The poor lad just lay his head on her shoulder and barely moves. I don’t believe he’ll make another day.

We are even eating the hides of our last catch. It’s like gnawing of old leather. My teeth are so sore I can’t barely chew. This whole journey has been a living hell. We are deep into the pass, but I think we are in purgatory and being weighed.

March 1, 1847

The Donners told us they would commence to eating the dead people soon and, God forgive us, it has come to pass. I’m telling you this so you understand. I don’t know if I’ll make it through this. We had to leave John behind two days go and Ada died yesterday. My stomach is so pinched I may have to start gnawing off my own fingers just for a bit of sustenance.

Yet, we found a camp by a lake. A relief party reached us … They know we were forced to cannibalism and I see the sidelong looks. They have pity, yet are frightened. They are taking some of the party ahead, including myself, but we had to leave some behind at Alder camp to await more help as they were unable to travel. May God have mercy on their souls.

March 5, 1847

The worst storm yet has caught us at the top of the pass. We are huddled around a meager fire between some large rocks as the blizzard assaults us. The snow is so deep it reaches my chest. We had to dig out a spot in which to make a fire and it as by a miracle that we have managed to keep it burning.

I am but a mere skeleton myself. My arms are but sticks and my stomach a burning hole of need. This is not a weight loss program I recommend … Please forgive my attempt at humor. At least I can still make one … My stomach is cramping and my head is feverish.

March 6, 1847,

We have once more had to resort to cannablism … I don’t know if I will be able to live with myself even if I make it through this. The horror of it all keeps me awake. I can hear the voices of our dead comrades in the wind … moaning, crying, and screaming. I am afraid I am losing my mind.

March 7, 1847

The storm finally abated today. Of the 17 of us there are eleven left. John Stark found us and is leading us down. We will continue as we can, but I do not hold much hope for redemption. We will forever hold the stigma of what we had to do on that horrific mountain.

March 10, 1847.

My hands are shaking, and this is barely legible even to me. I hope you can read my scrawl. My eyes are blurry and I feel feverish. I know we are only a short way from being free of this nightmare, yet I do not believe I will make it. I have asked one of our rescuers to take this letter and get it to you if (when) I die. My feet are frozen chunks and the tips of my fingers are so numb I can no longer feel the pencil. Hopefully when I die it will be at a low enough and warm enough altitude that my earthly remains can be buried.

I am sorry, my love. This letter is not what I would wish to send you … yet, it is a testament to my love for you that I am able to write it at all. Please forgive me for all I have done. We shall see each other in paradise if not California.

Yours forever,

Frank