Forlorn Hope
This diary belongs to: Noah Graves
This diary was gifted to me by my sister during the christmas of 1844.
October 23, 1845
We met up with a party of fur trappers heading down from Fort Chipewyan yesterday, decided to head west together as far as our common road takes us. Weather fair, no wind. Snow in the air, none on the ground.
October 27, 1845
A mysterious sickness has claimed several oxen, and the trappers were forced to abandon two of their carts. Two of their party, George and Leanna, borrowed two of our horses to ride ahead and search for a trading post selling animals, and hopefully come back to fetch the abandoned carts before they’re plundered. This path sure ain’t the most travelled one, but raiders are sure to be hiding somewhere around these parts. Weather overcast with heavy wind and a light snowfall. We were hoping for a late winter, but the Lord seem to be busy elsewhere. A storm might be brewing beyond the horizon.
November 2, 1845
A storm was indeed brewing. Two days past, we woke up to thundering rains and lightning roaring across the sky. We haven’t been able to leave our carts since then. The Lord be with us.
November 9, 1845
Another sickness has struck our party, and this time it’s us people that are targeted. The miasma from our long hold-up in the carts is the most likely cause, some say. Us still healthy are taking double shifts behind the oxen in order to keep up the pace. The snow has returned, and some are talking about the risk of being trapped in the rockies during the winter. Leanna and George have yet to return. Weather overcast with medium to heavy snowfall and medium N.W. wind. Heavy freezing.
November 12, 1845
I’ve fallen ill to the very same sickness like so many of my friends and family. As of writing, I’ve been resting amongst the furs and hides of the traders for a day. May the Lord give me strength to walk again soon, the solitary creaking of the wagon is driving me mad. Weather clear but very cold, the ground no longer visible under the snow.
November 18, 1845
Still bedridden, but others previously sick has taken to driving the carts once again, but it’s a slow and grinding sickness that leaves men weak and thin. We’ve entered a vast woodland that seem to stretch on endlessly in every direction. Weather freezing, overcast with medium snowfall and a heavy northern wind.
November 26, 1845
The sickness won’t leave me, and I’ve been sleeping for days. But the feverish sleep is a tiresome one. A heavy blizzard has been forcing us to shelter underneath a protruding cliff for almost seven days. Everyone in good spirit despite this setback, plenty of food and firewood. Leanna and George have yet to return.
November 28, 1845
Despite the fever, I’ve had a fair night’s sleep for the first time in days. I haven’t been able to keep any solid food down for the last couple of days, and the weakness is really getting to me. The blizzard is still raging on, but people seem to be getting along decently. I pray to the Lord to see us through this trial and still let us pass these mountains.
November 29, 1845
I awoke to absolute silence. The blizzard had subsided, everything was white. A wall of solid white guarded me from the world. A solid wall of snow had gathered at the foot end of my sleeping-cart. Previous mornings my comrades had had the habit of tearing the snow down a couple of times a day in order to let fresh air in. Not so today. The air was thick and warm, and I could almost smell the miasma in the air. The piles of damp pelts only made it worse. As I crawled toward the wall of white it struck me that it wasn’t just the silence that felt alien, but the lack of scents. No coal, no brewing coffee, no boiling porridge. Breaking through the snow took more time than I care to admit, and once I broke through, I was blinded by the eye in the sky and the clear blue mass above. I winced and moved back into the cart, letting my eyes adjust to the extreme light. I moved back out and looked out through the hole in the snow. Everything was still white. Lumps sticking up here and there from the snow resembled carts, trees and other indefinable objects. Coughing, I tried my voice of the first time in days. It was hoarse, and my throat ached, but I yelled nonetheless. Once, twice, thrice. Only the echo of the woods cared to answer my strained pleas for some kind of response. Shaking, I tried to stand up but instead I fell head first into what I thought was a pile of snow just behind the cart. I rammed my head into a wooden crate, and stars were dancing before my eyes while I laid in the snow gazing towards a blurry sky. I gathered myself and succeeded in sitting on the small wooden crate that had assaulted me minutes earlier. Looking around, I once again yelled at the shapeless piles of snow surrounding me. Still no response. I stood up on my rickety legs and walked towards another huge mass of snow beside my cart. Just outside of the other cart, I saw a snowy figure shaped in an uncanny way. Brushing away the snow, I come upon a face I recognize. Uncle Ian. The old man looked peaceful, as if the cold had taken him only minutes ago. He still had his favourite pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. Moving past him, I dug out the cart only to find it empty. Cart after cart in the camp line, all empty. Aside from occasional frozen bodies, sitting peacefully in and around the carts, in the same fashion as my uncle: Peaceful, looking like they simply fell asleep doing their daily chores and never woke up again. A couple of carts seemed to be missing, along with most of the animals. I discovered a couple of oxen and a mule swallowed by the snow, but nowhere near the 40-50 animals our parties kept during my last shift steering the cart. Strangely enough, other vital rations seemed left behind: Dried meats, water skins, bourbon and firearms. Did they all just head out into the woods, or do they intend to return for me and the other provisions?
If they decided to abandon the weak and head on into the winter forest, wouldn’t they had prioritized food over skins and oxen? I can’t say that I blame them for feeling a strong urge to move on, but something just doesn’t seem to ring true. Ian spoke plenty of his time with the Kootenai-tribe and of the beings they believe inhabit these forests, but proud Christians like these folks doesn’t seem like the kind to get scared by fairy tales told by some mad redskins. I felt a chill creeping down my spine, remembering one of the stories told by Ian. About the years of horror endured by the Kootenai. Being cut off in the middle of the wilderness, not being able to trade or gather new provisions in fear of the beings of the forest. A truce was later made, and the Kootenai and the beings agreed to stay out of each other's domains. This truce held for generations, but since the white man had invaded the holy forests, something has started to stir in the dark heart of the forests.
December 1, 1845
Despite a strong urge to get moving, something primal within me convinced me to remain for another two days at the forlorn camp. The weather is still clear, the sun is bright and the forest is till silent. Not even the winter birds seem to be around anymore. It’s like.. they’ve all just left this damned forest. The sickness has left me weak, horribly weak, but I think it’s time for me to walk today. There’s no shortage of food here, but I have an intrusive feeling that something here is wrong. And that something might happen if I don’t move. Besides, there are several winter months ahead of me. And who knows when the weather will turn again.
December 4, 1845
I left camp on the 2nd with a rifle and all the food I would carry. The water was too heavy for me to bring, so I’ll have to rely on melting snow. The first day couldn’t have brought me more than a couple of miles away from camp, but I can’t be sure. The sparsely populated forest looks about the same everywhere I go. The weather is still clear, so it’s an easy task to navigate west. But God knows how long the weather will be on my side.
December 6, 1845
I was awoken last night by a bear, attempting to break into my improvised tent. I wasted two bullets scaring it away. I couldn’t sleep any more that night, I made a fire and huddled by it til the sun rose. The morning was bright and beautiful with no wind, but the clouds began creeping in during the morning hours. I came upon the remnants of a camp mid-day. Digging through the piles of snow, I came upon human remains. Torn, gnawed. I suspect the bears are getting desperate and attack people. Though, the scratch marks along the thigh bone look too precise to be the work of any bear. And the butchering seemed to methodical. Fortunately, the head was missing so I couldn’t determine if it had been someone I knew. The sight will nonetheless haunt me. I decided not to dwell in the camp any longer, and headed out without searching through the remaining piles of snow, fearing what I might find. I have heard stories about redskins turning to cannibalism in rituals, but this seem like and odd place for such a ritual…
