The sound of his own screams was the first thing Hugh Glass heard when consciousness returned. He was lying in a shallow scrape in the earth, covered by a bear hide and a thin layer of dirt and leaves. His leg was broken. The flesh on his back had been ripped away, exposing his ribs.
His scalp was nearly torn off. He was alone, unarmed, and somewhere in hostile territory, two hundred miles from the nearest help at Fort Kiowa. The men who had dug that grave, John Fitzgerald and a young Jim Bridger, had given him up for dead. They had taken his rifle and his knife, covered him as best they could, and fled when a band of hostile Indians appeared on the horizon.
Glass had been with them for three days, clinging to life while they waited for him to die, and they had grown tired of waiting. He did not die. He set his own broken leg, and on September 9th, 1823, he began to crawl. The men who had left him behind were part of an expedition up the Missouri River led by William Ashley and Andrew Henry, two of the most influential men in the booming fur trapping trade.
Glass had already spent years in the Western wilderness when he joined them that year. The expedition had traveled up the Missouri to the Grand River, near present-day Mobridge, South Dakota. From there, Glass and a small group led by Henry set out overland toward the Yellowstone River. About twelve miles south of what is now Lemmon, South Dakota, Glass was scouting ahead of the group when he came upon a grizzly bear and her two cubs.
The bear attacked before he could raise his rifle. Armed only with a knife and his bare hands, he fought the animal and managed to kill it, but not before it had nearly destroyed him. His companions, alerted by his screams, found him gravely wounded beneath the dead bear. They did their best to bandage his wounds and then sat back to wait for him to die.
Henry was pressed for time to reach the Yellowstone. He asked for volunteers to stay behind with Glass until he passed and then bury him. Fitzgerald and Bridger stepped forward and began digging the grave. But after three days, Glass was still breathing.
When the two men spotted Indians approaching, they panicked. They took Glass’s belongings, including his knife and rifle, and left him in the grave they had dug, covering him with the bear hide and a few inches of earth. Now Glass crawled southward toward the Cheyenne River, a hundred miles away. Fever and infection frequently knocked him unconscious.
Once he woke to find a grizzly standing over him; according to legend, the bear licked his maggot-infested wounds, which may have helped prevent further infection. He fed on wild berries, roots, and whatever he could find along the way. On one occasion, he drove two wolves away from a downed bison calf and ate the raw meat. It took him two months to crawl to the Cheyenne River.
There he built a raft from a fallen tree and let the current carry him downstream to the Missouri, and eventually to Fort Kiowa, four miles north of present-day Chamberlain. After months of recovery, Glass set out to find the two men who had abandoned him. He found Bridger at a fur trading post on the Yellowstone River. Bridger was only nineteen years old, and Glass chose not to kill him.
When he later confronted Fitzgerald, he held back as well, because Fitzgerald had since joined the army. After surviving his ordeal on thoughts of revenge, Glass spared both of them. Before the bear and the shallow grave, Glass had been just one of many hard men working the frontier. Afterward, he became a legend.
But the American West of that era produced more than one man who refused to die, and their stories reached back even further, to men whose names would be carved into the map itself. Jedediah Smith earned that kind of name, though he paid for it in ways his contemporaries did not. On his first journey across the Mojave Desert, Smith and his men crossed the Eastern Great Basin Desert, a stretch of country he called the land of starvation. After crossing the Colorado River into Arizona, they headed south along the mountains until they reached a Mojave Indian village near present-day Needles, California.
The Mojave had first encountered Smith’s party at a Southern Paiute settlement in present-day Utah. Smith’s men had arrived there exhausted and nearly famished after a grueling journey through the mountains. They carried no beaver skins or other trapper’s goods, so there was nothing to suggest they were fur traders. The Mojave received them with traditional hospitality, fed them, and guided them first down the Virgin River to the northern Mojave rancherías and then to the main Mojave settlement in the Mojave Valley.
When Smith departed, Mojave guides accompanied him south to the San Bernardino Valley and Mission San Gabriel. Their reception there was far less cordial. The mission fathers imprisoned the two guides, and one was sentenced to death for aiding a foreigner into Spanish territory. Smith later wrote in his journal that the priest at the mission managed to secure a pardon for the man.
Smith returned east by a different route, leaving behind a record of the complex and often perilous interactions between explorers, Native Americans, and Spanish authorities in that era. Joseph Reddeford Walker, born the same year as Smith, learned to navigate those same perils, but in a very different way. At fifteen, Walker and his older brother fought alongside Andrew Jackson at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. He grew into a striking figure, standing six feet four inches tall with flowing hair and a large beard, and he possessed a rare ability to travel through the West without falling prey to Indians, bears, starvation, or the harsh elements.
What set him apart from other men with similar survival skills was his leadership. He had foresight, planning ability, and, most crucially, excellent interpersonal skills. When the ex-military man William Sublette sought a viable route to the Pacific, a challenge not yet accomplished in wagon-friendly terrain since Lewis and Clark, his choice was Walker. Before entering the Salt Lake Basin, Walker’s party halted at the Bear River.
There they hunted until each man had packed sixty pounds of dried and jerked meat, a precaution often overlooked by ordinary mountain men, who tended to overindulge when game was plentiful and suffer shortages later. The preparation ensured their survival. They set off, and upon reaching the Great Basin, Walker’s first task was to find a group of local Shoshone and ask for directions. With that information, the party proceeded westward.
Along the way they encountered the Hute Indians, a tribe known for their primitive lifestyle of gathering roots, beetles, and lizards and hunting small game. Referred to as the Diggers, they were unfamiliar with the technology and goods of white men. As the trappers sought meager supplies of beaver, the Indians stole whatever they could. Walker tried to keep his men calm, but some disregarded his advice and killed several individuals who had taken their traps.
The action turned the Diggers’ greed into anger. Soon the party found itself surrounded by a large group, estimated at between eight hundred and nine hundred. Walker ordered his men to quickly fortify a defensive position using their packs, behind which they huddled. The Indians advanced but at about 150 yards suddenly sat down on the ground.
Five chiefs approached to ask if Walker’s group would join them for a peace talk. Walker declined. Instead, he demonstrated the power of their rifles by shooting at some unfortunate ducks, hoping to convey their strength. The gesture did not prevent hostilities.
The next morning, the Indians attacked as the trappers resumed their journey. With no other recourse, Walker and his men opened fire, killing thirty-nine Diggers. The action effectively eliminated the immediate threat. The expedition then began advancing into the Sierra Nevada along a river later named for Walker.
Unable to locate a pass, they commenced a challenging ascent through fields of boulders, snow-filled gorges, and steep-walled canyons that left them famished and exhausted. Walker prevented mutiny only by permitting the men to slaughter and eat several horses. Seventeen more horses were sacrificed before they encountered substantial game again. It took nearly three weeks of treacherous climbing over icy cliffs and rocky walls to reach the summit.
The descent on the western side offered little respite. As they came down, Walker’s party became the first documented white men to gaze upon Yosemite Valley. They found a spot where horses could be lowered with ropes, and after negotiating through boulders, Walker discovered a viable trail. By the end of October 1833, the party caught sight of the Pacific Ocean before proceeding to Monterey, the capital of Upper California.
They camped near the mission at San Juan Bautista. Through the intervention of an American ship captain, Walker obtained a passport, demonstrating respect for Spanish authority in California and ensuring a favorable reception from the Spanish governor. Unlike many explorers who neglected such protocols, Walker understood that respect and courtesy in foreign lands carried significant weight. Returning via a less challenging route, the Walker party arrived at the Bear River rendezvous on July 12, 1834, with all trappers accounted for.
The pass they had discovered would later become a major route for immigrants heading to California. In 1862, aged sixty-four and with failing eyesight but still remarkably strong, Walker was leading a group of gold prospectors through New Mexico when they began to run low on water. He assured them he had traveled this way years earlier and knew the location of a reliable spring to the southwest. On the third day, at the base of a dry and unpromising mountain, Walker told them to start climbing, promising that near the summit they would find a flat rock and the spring.
He also warned them to be cautious of Apache raids. True to his word, they found the spring exactly where he had described it. His caution proved accurate as well: that same day they encountered three white men hanging by their ankles from a piñon tree. In 1863, Walker led another group of prospectors into what later became known as Horse Thief Basin in Arizona.
As supplies of food and water dwindled, Walker, nearly blind by this time, set off with one companion toward the trading post at La Paz, a daunting two hundred miles away. Along the way, they were ambushed by a pair of Mexican bandits who caught his companion off guard. Despite his impaired vision, Walker drew his weapon and fired, driving the outlaws away. Joe Walker died on October 27, 1876, at the age of seventy-eight, and was buried in Martinez, California, leaving behind a legacy of exploration, resilience, and leadership in the American West.
Not every famous explorer of that age earned his reputation so honestly. John C. Frémont served as a prime example of the impact of propaganda in history. If you relied solely on his accounts, which were actually written by his brilliant and talented wife, you would believe he was the most heroic and dashing adventurer ever.
The most remarkable accounts of Frémont’s explorations, however, come from the letters of his topographer, a meticulous German named Charles Preuss. Frémont first met Kit Carson on a Missouri River steamboat in St. Louis during the summer of 1842. Frémont was preparing to lead his first expedition, a role he secured through the political connections of his wife and influential father-in-law, and he needed a guide to take him to South Pass.
Carson, who was familiar with the area, offered his services. The five-month journey, undertaken with twenty-five men, was a success largely due to Carson’s skills and knowledge. Significant topographic information was collected primarily by Preuss, whom Frémont viewed as a reliable assistant. Preuss’s letters revealed a different story.
He described himself as a gloomy man, frustrated by the childish Frémont. In one amusing incident, Frémont and his party crossed the Rockies via South Pass, a wide, sandy saddle that lacked the dramatic scenery Frémont had envisioned. Disappointed by the anticlimactic landscape, Frémont didn’t even bother to take topographical observations at the crest. A few days later, upon reaching the Wind River range, Frémont decided to climb what he arbitrarily believed to be the tallest peak in the Rockies.
The peak he chose, later named after him, stood at only 13,745 feet, lower than Gannett Peak just five miles away and shorter than fifty-five other mountains in nearby Colorado. Nonetheless, convinced of its grandeur, Frémont insisted on making the historic climb, dragging his party along. The ascent was crucial for Frémont’s career and image as the Pathfinder, but according to Preuss, it was more comedic than heroic. Carson, the leader, walked too quickly, causing tension within the group.
Frémont, always excitable, appointed a young man to take the lead since he couldn’t act as the guide himself. Soon after, Frémont developed a headache, and the group stopped around eleven o’clock. He decided to postpone the climb until the next morning, hoping for renewed strength and cooler weather. The following day they attempted the ascent again, but the party soon became separated.
Preuss found himself alone in the snow a thousand feet below the summit, while Frémont, having grown hungry, returned to camp, unable to find his way up. Preuss took some readings and also returned to camp, dripping with sarcasm: “I could not keep from remarking that in such an undertaking some preparations for sleeping, eating, and drinking would not be altogether amiss, and might indeed be more conducive to success. ”
They finally reached the summit on the fifteenth, and the climb became a legendary part of Frémont’s legacy. On the return trip, the group encountered the Platte River, which was in flood.
Frémont decided to split his men, sending the larger group overland while he, Preuss, and five others navigated the rapids using a raft he had brought for just such an occasion. Shortly after setting off, the raft capsized, resulting in the loss of many scientific records and data. These stories illustrate a man who, throughout most of his career, relied heavily on those around him to do the work. When he did use his own judgment, it often lacked common sense.
Frémont had an extraordinary streak of good luck, remarkable given the dangers of his profession. Many of his expeditions benefited from mild winters and favorable weather; had he faced even a moderate blizzard, his entire party might have perished. On one expedition, his men dragged a massive carriage-mounted howitzer that fired twelve-inch cannonballs, intended to intimidate Native Americans. The action alarmed leaders in Washington, who were concerned that a supposedly peaceful scientific expedition was carrying such a weapon, which could provoke Mexico or Britain.
They sent orders for him to leave it behind, but he never received the message. Eventually he abandoned the howitzer in the snow high in the mountains, but not before using it to hunt buffalo by firing indiscriminately into herds. Frémont stumbled into his marriage, narrowly escaped deadly encounters with weather that always seemed to bypass him, and made political missteps that rarely had consequences. In the end, his luck ran out.
Following an unsuccessful bid for the presidency, he served as an inept and unpopular general during the Civil War, ultimately relieved of his command by Lincoln. Poor business decisions squandered the wealth he had amassed from his exploration career, leaving him destitute. His talented wife supported them through her writing. Frémont died in 1890 in a boarding house.
Long before Frémont ever saw the Rockies, another man had already lived through an ordeal that made even Hugh Glass’s crawl look like a modest hardship. In 1527, Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca embarked from Spain as part of a royal expedition aimed at colonizing the mainland of North America. After a relatively straightforward crossing of the Atlantic, the expedition encountered a hurricane near Cuba. They secured a new ship, likely with the natives relieved to see them depart, and eventually landed near present-day Tampa Bay, Florida.
There the expedition leader, Narváez, claimed the land for Spain. That marked the beginning of their troubles. Despite being unfamiliar with the region, Narváez decided to divide the group, sending some men by land and others by sea in search of gold he believed was somewhere nearby. Cabeza de Vaca opposed the plan but was overruled.
The land party, including Cabeza de Vaca, soon became lost in Florida’s harsh environment. After months of battling hostile natives and navigating through swamps, the group reached Apalachee Bay with 242 men, mistakenly believing they were close to Mexico. They found themselves starving, injured, and trapped in swampy terrain. In a desperate bid to escape, they slaughtered their horses, melted down the metal from their gear, and used deer hide to create a bellows, forging tools and nails to construct five rudimentary boats.
Cabeza de Vaca was put in charge of one vessel, each accommodating fifty men. Depleted of supplies, they followed the coastline westward until they encountered the Mississippi River. The powerful current swept them into the Gulf of Mexico, where another hurricane scattered the five rafts, with some, including Narváez’s, lost forever. Two of the rafts, including Cabeza de Vaca’s, wrecked near Galveston Island.
The survivors attempted to repair the rafts using their remaining clothes, but a large wave soon washed them away. The number of survivors dwindled quickly. They were enslaved by various Native American tribes, passed from one to another over several years. By 1532, five years after leaving Spain on what had turned into a disastrous journey, only three other members of the original expedition were still alive: Alonso del Castillo Maldonado, Andrés Dorantes de Carranza, and Esteban, an African slave.
Despite these hardships, Cabeza de Vaca ended up exploring much of what is now the southwestern United States and parts of northern Mexico. He traveled on foot along the Gulf of California coast to present-day Sinaloa, Mexico, over roughly eight years, living in extreme poverty and occasionally in slavery. Eventually he reached the colonized lands of New Spain, encountering fellow Spaniards near modern-day Culiacán. From there he traveled to Mexico City and later sailed back to Europe in 1537.
Remarkably, despite his long enslavement by various tribes, he became a staunch advocate for Native American rights. His advocacy brought him into conflict with authorities, leading to his arrest for poor administration in 1544 and his return to Spain for trial in 1545. Although eventually exonerated, he never returned to the colonies. Cabeza de Vaca died in poverty in Valladolid around 1558.
His written account of his adventures is now considered a classic of colonial literature, and his name remains well known today. The men who survived the American frontier often did so by luck, by skill, or by refusing to accept the grave that others had already dug for them. Some, like Smith and Walker, mastered the land itself. Others, like Frémont, were carried by the competence of the people around them.
And a few, like Glass and Cabeza de Vaca, simply refused to die, crawling out of their own graves to live another day.
