A Road Taken

Mister, get out from under there!"

Half asleep and shivering from morning's chill, I ignored the command and lay there not wanting to rise. I did not immediately recognize which one of my camping companions was rudely awakening me, but I would get even. Unexpectedly, before my eyes fully opened, something jabbed me painfully in my back. I rolled over to confront the interloper who had ended my slumber, but instead came face-to-face with the end of a rifle barrel.

"Get out now, or I shoot you where you lay."

I sat up quickly to obey and crashed my head into something hard. "Son-of-a-bitch!" Knocked back to the ground, I realized fast that I was no longer bedded down in my tent. I was on the ground, looking up at a wood platform which I had painfully challenged with my head. Four wheels supported the platform.
"Son, come on out. You're bleeding. And watch your language. There are children and women around."

Blood on my forehead, I got on my hands and knees and crawled out from under what I now recognized as a covered wagon. There were others in the vicinity. The surrounding terrain was not Big Bend. There were mountains above us and we were at the mouth of a canyon near a river. I looked at the gun bearer. He seemed 50 or so, medium length dark brown hair, with a lighter brown beard to match. He wore a dirty ragged hat, overalls, plaid shirt and black boots.

I had no idea where I was, but my head hurt and I felt woozy. Sitting on the ground, I leaned against a wheel and gingerly felt my wound. More a gash than a cut, it had become quite bloody. I requested my antagonist lower his weapon. "I'm unarmed, not even a knife." I adlibbed to explain my presence, "Indians took everything I had including my horses. Don't know why they let me keep my hair."

He lowered his flintlock rifle. "You're lucky to be alive. Maybe it's that odd-looking outfit you're wearing. Or maybe them Injuns thought you were just another crazy white man to be avoided." He bent down and checked my forehead. "My name's Franklin Graves." He gestured toward three women preparing food by a campfire. "That's my wife Elizabeth, and two of my daughters. Sarah, bring something from the wagon to wrap his busted noggin. And try to find our guest some other clothes."

"Yes, father," answered the taller of the two younger women, both possibly in their early 20s." She handed the ladle in her hand to her mother and walked toward the wagon. Her father stopped her to tell her something, then set his rifle against a stump and took off in the direction of other wagons. There were at least seven I could see from my seat.

While waiting for the help, I examined my clothes. I was quite a sight. I wore black nylon gym pants with vertical optic-yellow stripes down the legs, white athletic socks on my feet, and sandals. My t-shirt was silk screened with the cover of Led Zeppelin's fourth album ... the one with the old man carrying the bag of sticks. The shirt was a gift from my 9-year-old son who worried about me aging when I became 30. The last thing I remembered about the camping trip to south Texas was getting up during the night wearing this outfit and heading to the restroom. Now, I was either dreaming, or something mindboggling had happened to me.

Daughter Sarah returned and handed me clothes. "Here are some pants and a shirt. No boots yet." She then began ripping a rag of linen, "What's your name?"
"Robert Grant." I felt no need to lie.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Grant." Turning her head and raising her voice, "Mary, bring some hot water." Back to me, "My father's gone to tell our leader, Mr. Donner that we've added a member. Where did you get the strange clothes you have on?"

"Store bought in New York." At the time, it made more sense than saying Walmart. That would have been hard to explain. "What did you say your wagon master's name is?" My history teacher's brain had begun to stir. More than one name I had heard that morning seemed familiar.

"Our leader is George Donner. Along with his brother Jacob, and the Reed family, they began this trip back in Illinois. Our family has only been with these people for a couple of days. Mr. Donner stopped the wagons here to wait for a guide to show him the best trail to California. So, we joined up." Her sister arrived with the water and stood by us, holding a steaming iron pot. Sarah dunked some of the torn linen, squeezed it, and began to wipe my forehead.

Jolted, I reacted, "Damn, that's hot."

"Has to be, to clean the cut," she said firmly. "Mr. Grant, this is Mary Ann. She's my younger sister."

"How do you do?" In reply, she smiled slightly, nodded and lowered her eyes.

"My sister is shy most of the time," explained Sarah. "Mary Ann, go to the Murphys and see if they have an extra pair of boots. Leave the pot." Dipping, then wringing the rag a second time, she asked, "What are you doing out here alone? Where did you come from?"

"I left Ft. Bridger with a friend, trying to catch up with California bound wagons that had recently passed through the fort. My friend Matt was feeling poorly and died of consumption the second night out of Bridger. We were both from Georgia." Another fabrication, because at this point the truth provided no answer I could acknowledge or willingly accept.

As I finished the story, she was tying off a bandage fashioned out of dry, unused linen. Sarah's hands were rough-skinned but tender while nursing me. "And when did you run into the Indians?"

This young lady was persistent. "Next day, after I buried Matt, I resumed my journey, taking our supplies and his horse. Just short of sundown, a hunting party of 8-9 redskins surrounded me, took both horses and all useful possessions such as food, water and guns. I put up no fight, didn't complain, and just kept smiling. That was day before yesterday. "

"There, all done. You must be hungry, so I'll get you some food. Do you want coffee?"

"Yes. Much obliged." Sarah was already headed back to the campfire. My eyes examined her at a distance. She wore a pale blue dress protected by what originally was a clean white apron, now soiled by hundreds of miles of travel and hard work. Covering her feet were high top shoes, well broken in. Shielding her black hair and forehead was a tied-down sunhat of sorts. Her complexion was a dark tan after months under the sun. I studied her as she moved around putting together a meal for me. Trail life had not yet suffocated her femininity.

The bandage was tight and my head throbbed. It was time to be honest with myself and admit the reality of my situation. I wasn't dreaming. This was not a nocturnal vision, nor were these people historical re-enactors portraying the 'Donner Party' ... this was the Donner Party. I was no longer camping down by the Rio Grande in 2015; however, I was on my way to California in 1846. Regrettably, my current traveling companions were the ill-fated group of 80-plus American pioneers who became trapped by deep snow in the Sierra Madre Mountains. Harsh winter conditions combatted with little food and shelter killed 36 of the group. They are assured of their extended place in history because some resorted to cannibalism for survival.

On a personal level, the how and why of my time travel was not nearly as consequential as where I found myself.

Sarah walked up with my meal: hard bread, unidentified boiled green leaves, and chunks of mystery meat. Also, a cup of coffee to wash it down. "Here you go. Last of our bear meat. The rest is in the stew over the fire. Hopefully, this will make you feel better. I have to help mother with other chores, so you take it easy 'til dad gets back. We should hear from Mary Ann shortly about something for your feet. And don't mess with the bandage." She sounded more mature than her years.

I devoured the food fast, set the plate aside, and rose to my feet and walked to the other side of the wagon. Coffee still in hand. I scanned the nearby peaks. Ahead to the west, were the Wasatch Mountains. The wagons were parked in a valley not far from future Ogden, Utah. The month is August and the change in route Donner received from trail guide Langford Hastings will guarantee the tragic events that unfold. I shook my head and looked up at the sky, "Why have you done this to me? Why here?" My complaining to the Almighty was cut short by human voice, "Mr. Grant, where are you?"

Back around the wagon, I found Mary Ann clutching a pair of second-hand boots. Next to her was another girl in her early teens. "This is Mary Murphy. The boots belong to her brother Lemuel. He's big for his age, especially his feet." Sarah's joking sister had evidently misplaced her shyness. The younger Mary giggled.

"Another Mary. This could become confusing. Well, thanks to both of you, and of course to Lemuel for the footwear. These are much appreciated." Feeling more at home, "Mary Ann. Do you think I could have some more coffee?

"Give me your cup and I'll go ask Sarah."

Excusing myself, I climbed into the wagon and quickly changed while Mary Murphy stood outside. The Zeppelin shirt became an undershirt. I tried to make conversation with the girl through the canvass. "How's your trip been? Did you run across any buffalo or Indians? When did your family join the Donners?"

She was like most of the modern teenagers I'd taught, stingy with words and in a hurry to finish my history quiz. "Trip's been tolerable. Seen Indians more than once. No buffalo. I don't recall about the Donners." After she took a breath, "Mister, Mary Ann is bringing your coffee."

"I'm done." I jumped down from the wagon in my new, but used, outfit.

Mary Ann passed me the cup, "I have to walk Mary back to her wagon. Her mother's looking for her. Then I have to help Sarah. See you later, Mr. Grant. Let's go Mary."

"Thanks again." I watched the two Marys hurry away. It was an uneasy feeling to know the fate of so many. Having met them, I was glad both these girls would survive the coming misfortune. But I felt dishonest when I looked down at the borrowed boots. Sadly, my benefactor, 12-year-old Lemuel Murphy would soon be dead. His legacy was one shared by all Donner Party members. Their names appear on a plaque in Donner Memorial State Park located on Donner Lake below Donner Pass. The California park contains a monument, museum and several notable sites where party members struggled against winter trying to survive. The sites include graves.

"Damn. I wish I had chosen to be a math teacher." Hopefully, no one had heard me.

Mary Murphy, 13, would attain additional notoriety in her life. Her second husband named Marysville, California after her. The town also has an elementary school bearing her name. A valued community member she died at 35. By chance, I had been to Marysville on a visit to adjacent Beale Air Force Base to see the SR-71 Blackbird. The sleek ebony jet was an incredible flying machine which still holds several speed records. It flew coast to coast in 67 minutes. In contrast, Mary's family left Tennessee in March and joined the Donners in May. August now, the last survivors would not be rescued until next March. I shook my head and again talked to no one, "A year versus a little more than an hour. Times do change."

A commotion turned my attention in direction of the campfire. Two men were standing near Sarah and her mother. One of the men had a deer slung over his shoulders. After a few minutes he walked off carrying the fresh meat. Sarah gave a hug to the remaining man who was probably her husband. While talking, twice they looked over at me standing to the rear of the wagon. When the talking ceased Sarah brought him over, "Mr. Grant, this is my husband, Jay Fosdick. Just returned from hunting."

I reached out my hand and shook his, "How you doing? Any luck finding game?"

"We brought back a young buck. Bill Pike is cutting and divvying up the edibles. Sarah said you were hurt. Feeling alright?"

"Yes. Your wife is a fine nurse and a good cook."

At first, none of us noticed Franklin Graves had returned to the family area. He gestured for us to come over by the fire. There he informed everyone that we would pack up before nightfall and depart at daybreak for the mountains. "Robert, you're welcome to come with us. We don't have any spare horses to give you and I don't imagine you want to try walking back to Bridger. Plenty of work to keep you busy and we'll get you to California." I was surprised he even knew my name, let alone called me Robert.

"Mr. Graves, you have a fine family. And it's kind of you to make such an offer. "

He laughed, "Wait 'til you meet the rest of the brood. I have nine children. You've only met the two oldest. Anyway, if you want to sleep on it, let me know your decision in the morning. I've got to go and check on the oxen."

Of course, I already knew about his family. I knew his namesake, 5-year-old Franklin Jr. would die after being rescued, and so would his wife and a 1-year-old daughter. This generous family man who took me in, was going to die Christmas day in the Sierra Madres. Sarah and Mary Ann would be at his side. The three of them and Sarah's husband Jay were part of the snowshoe group who attempted to cross the mountains and bring help to the others. Sarah was close by when flesh from her father's body was eaten. She too ate human meat, but from a different body. Those involved in the cannibalism agreed that no one should have to eat a loved one's flesh.

My extensive knowledge of the tragic events to follow was gut wrenching. I felt sick. I was making a conscious effort not to meet other individuals, especially children. Two years before the Texas camping trip, I had read an entire book centered on Sarah's experiences. Before the wagons reach the Sierra Madres, they have to cross the nearby mountains, and then the Great Salt Lake Desert. Hardships along the way will cause more delays and ensure a fatal rendezvous with winter conditions at high elevations.

I needed to take a 'thinking' stroll. Looking around at this land new to me, Capt. James T. Kirk came to mind. Often, he and his crew found themselves temporally out of place due to time travel. Kirk's guidance was the 'Prime Directive' ... Starfleet personnel were prohibited in interfering in historical events. My situation was awful. Warning them about struggles ahead would be useless. George Donner had already been warned and foolishly ignored it. Trying to get back to Fort Bridger would be near impossible and if I made it, I might be faced with a similar circumstance. It would be dangerous to alter history.

Sitting down by the river, I contemplated continuing with the party. But what if I helped and saved the wrong person, history-wise that is? And if I made it, what would I do? I could walk off somewhere along the trail but there was nowhere reasonable to go. Kirk had a script that dictated the appropriate action for him. I didn't. The history fanatic in me said leave now. The human in me insisted I should help as many as possible.

"Mr. Grant. We're about ready to eat, so we can finish packing up before dark." Sarah had found me, but she did not seem to be in a hurry. Surprisingly, she sat on the grass beside me. "Beautiful this time of day."

"You know Sarah you can call be Robert."

"Might not be proper, me not being married a full year."

"When did you and Jay get hitched?"

"A week before we began going west."

"So, what plans do you have when you arrive in California?" A useless question. I don't know why I asked it.

"Children and a farm. It will be our first, and only home, if you don't count the wagon. I want a simple life for Jay and me, after all this hard travelling." She sounded hopeful. "Mr. Grant, we better go back."

I helped her to her feet. As we began the walk back, I thought about her sitting in the snow holding Jay as life slowly left him during a frigid December night to come. The next day, while her companions sought nourishment from Jay's flesh, she was still mourning her loss. Supposedly, she had given the others permission to eat her husband. Sarah was one tough lady.

On the way back to camp, I began humming Led Zeppelin's 'Going to California' off album four.

"That's a nice tune, different but relaxing. Where did it come from?"

"I think it's an old English madrigal. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a boy." Story telling was becoming easier.

"Are there words with the music?"

"I can remember a few. My favorite are 'Standing on a hill in my mountains of dreams ... telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.'"