e summit of the
Sierras, on the shores of Donner Lake. The words of McGlashan may now
best serve our purpose.

"Generally, the ascent of the Sierra brought joy and gladness to weary
overland emigrants. To the Donner Party it brought terror and dismay.
The company had hardly obtained a glimpse of the mountains, ere the
winter storm clouds began to assemble their hosts around the loftier
crests. Every day the weather appeared more ominous and threatening. The
delay at the Truckee Meadows had been brief, but every day ultimately
cost a dozen lives. On the twenty-third of October, they became
thoroughly alarmed at the angry heralds of the gathering storm, and with
all haste resumed the journey. It was too late! At Prosser Creek, three
miles below Truckee, they found themselves encompassed with six inches
of snow. On the summits, the snow was from two to five feet in depth.
This was October 28, 1846. Almost a month earlier than usual, the Sierra
had donned its mantle of ice and snow. The party were prisoners!

"All was consternation. The wildest confusion prevailed. In their
eagerness, many went far in advance of the main train. There was little
concert of action or harmony of plan. All did not arrive at Donner Lake
the same day. Some wagons and families did not reach the lake until the
thirty-first day of October, some never went farther than Prosser Creek,
while others, on the evening of the twenty-ninth, struggled through the
snow, and reached the foot of the precipitous cliffs between the summit
and the upper end of the lake. Here, baffled, wearied, disheartened,
they turned back to the foot of the lake."

These emigrants did not lack in health, strength, or resolution, but
here they were in surroundings absolutely new to them. A sort of panic
seized them now. They scattered; their organization disintegrated.
All thought of conjoint action, of a social compact, a community of
interests, seems to have left them. It was a history of every man for
himself, or at least every family for itself. All track of the road
was now lost under the snow. At the last pitch up to the summit of the
Sierras precipitous cliffs abounded. No one knew the way. And now the
snows came once again.

"The emigrants suffered a thousand deaths. The pitiless snow came down
in large, steady masses. All understood that the storm meant death. One
of the Indians silently wrapped his blanket about him and in deepest
dejection seated himself beside a ta