Archaeological detectives reopen the case of the Donner Party
The clues are covered by snow now, 158 winters removed from events that haunt these hills and the history books. Before railroads, interstates and...
Los Angeles Times
TRUCKEE, Calif. — The clues are covered by snow now, 158 winters removed from events that haunt these hills and the history books.
Before railroads, interstates and ski towns, the families of George and Jacob Donner hunkered in this area during the terrible winter of 1846-47, snowbound in a pine-ringed meadow a couple of miles north of the old pioneer trail now flanked by vacation homes.
Many know the Donner Party story — or think they do. A wagon train of 81 emigrants was trapped in the Sierra. Nearly half died, and many survivors resorted to eating the dead.
But the soil still holds secrets. Those long-ago tales of cannibalism have endured for generations without scientific proof.
Intent on bringing a full account of the Donner Party to light, a team of archaeologists over the past two summers has combed a 10-by-20-foot checkerboard of earth with the meticulous care of homicide detectives.
Radar, DNA, dogsThey have deployed ground-penetrating radar and turned to DNA tests more common in murder cases. Forensic tracking dogs sniffed the site. They unearthed shards of 1840s hand-painted china, antique buttons and a chunk of slate from a child's chalkboard. A link from a woman's gold chain surfaced. So did pioneer wagon hardware and pea-size musket balls, some dented as if chomped by teeth during a meal.
There also has been bone, thousands of beige crumbles no bigger than a bottle cap lurking amid the charcoal stain of an old campfire hidden by time and topsoil. The unsettled question, of course, is whether it is the butchered bone of humans.
Put simply, the archaeologists hope to reinvent the Donner Party. Cannibalism has dominated the story since the first lurid newspaper reports of 1847. While the search for ironclad proof remains a core aim, their overriding mission is to expand the historical narrative of those awful four months in the snow.
A personal stake"Everyone talks of cannibalism, over and over," said Schablitsky, of the University of Oregon. "We want them to hear the rest of the story."
Watching from the sidelines of science is someone with a more personal stake.
Lochie Paige is the great-great-granddaughter of George Donner, the farmer from Springfield, Ill., who lent his name to the ill-fated expedition.
One recent day found her at Alder Creek amid late-winter snowdrifts. This scenic landscape, once a place of starvation and death, is today a picnic ground.
"I know," she says simply, "this is where my life started."
Survivors and their early descendants endured taunts and avoided mention of the ordeal, but the contemporary clan has emerged from that veil of shame. They have held two reunions in the past decade. Some even abide a few jokes among themselves (the reunion fare, one wag noted, didn't include ladyfingers).
Paige confronts the past in presentations to any open audience, be it the Native Daughters of the Golden West or the fourth-grade classes the 60-year-old registered nurse has adopted near her Sacramento, Calif., home.
A wrong turnHer ancestors' key mistake, Paige and historians agree, came in taking a shortcut through the rugged Wasatch Mountains and the searing Salt Lake Desert, which squandered precious weeks and left five dead. Depleted and demoralized, the Donner Party hit the Sierra as winter struck.
When the axle broke on George Donner's wagon, the clan fell behind the rest of the pack. A fierce storm pinned the bulk of the group — 59 ragtag settlers — just west of Truckee, beside what is now Donner Lake. The historical record is full of accounts of cannibalism at the lake camp as winter wore on.
Six miles back, George and Jacob Donner sought refuge for their families and hired hands in hastily erected lean-tos of pine boughs and canvas at Alder Creek. In all, 22 people dug in as snow buried the meadow, turning their world black and white. Although most of the children survived, all but one adult perished, and no diaries were discovered. The story of life and death at Alder Creek was largely lost.
Paige's great-grandmother, Elitha Donner, talked little of that winter of starvation she endured at age 14. A few other survivors, as adults, insisted the dead weren't eaten at Alder Creek. But historians say such claims appear dubious given rescuer reports of cannibalized bodies at the family's compound.
Lochie Paige figures the earth will settle the conflict.
"I accept that cannibalism was part of my family's story," she said. "But to be honest with you, I hope they can prove it never happened."
So when Schablitsky talks of digging in the soil of Alder Creek, she includes a rationale often reserved for the likes of homicide detectives: providing closure to the family of victims.
"Lochie brings us the reason we're doing this — at least part of it," she said.
The turf originally was pinpointed in the early 1990s by Don Hardesty of the University of Nevada, Reno. He found provocative artifacts, but never absolutely settled a nagging question: Did the Donner family winter at Alder Creek?
Dixon, a University of Montana assistant anthropology professor, and Schablitsky returned to that vicinity intent on finding answers.
The depth of their discoveries, about a foot below the moist meadow surface, suggested an age of about 150 years, as did shattered ceramic tableware featuring a hand-painted sprig pattern from that era.
Looking at the distribution of bone and artifacts, Schablitsky and Dixon noted that the debris abruptly ended along a precise line, as if drawn by a ruler. They theorize this is probably an edge of the family's enclosure.
"Ground zero"The biggest piece to the puzzle was the discovery of a campfire. Over the course of the two summers, the scientists followed a gray layer of ash, the likely result of snow runoff from a winter fire. They eventually found a circle of charcoal and bone. Schablitsky calls it "ground zero."
By analyzing the types of bone pulled layer by layer from around the campfire, the team intends to reconstruct the Donner diet. Did they start with the last of their oxen, the big bones buried deepest, then turn to wild game or their pet dogs, settling on small rodents and then finally eating the dead?
Several pieces are etched with clues. The most tantalizing show up under Shannon Novak's electron microscope.
A forensic anthropologist at Idaho State University, Novak can spot tiny slice marks probably produced by a cleaver or a Bowie knife. The cuts are discolored where flesh was severed, exposing the bone to more intense thermal damage during cooking.
Several also have a buffed appearance on an end. Pot polish, it's called, produced by tumbling around a roiling cast-iron caldron over a fire. Historians say Donner survivors boiled bones in a broth to derive the last bit of nourishment.
The biggest breakthrough could yet come with a technique borrowed directly from police: DNA analysis.
At Trace Genetics, a San Francisco Bay Area laboratory, several chunks of bone are being ground into dust and subjected to tests bent on recovering DNA. If any genetic material proves to be human, the scientists will try to accomplish a true multigenerational feat of forensics: determine the identity of the long-ago victim.
Dixon and Schablitsky want to wrap this up, both for science and for descendants such as Lochie Paige.
After last summer's dig, Paige invited the archaeologists to dinner at a lodge on Donner Lake. They drank port, and Paige shared some old family secrets.
For their part, the archaeologists made a vow. If they identify human remains, they will turn them over to the survivors. Any remains will be buried ceremoniously, the first and last rites of the Donner Party.
The archaeologists then will try to provide a more nuanced account of the pioneers' struggle in the Sierra, buttressed by tangible proof, the whispers from the earth.
"We want to revise the narrative," Dixon said. "We want to tell the story of their life over those final months, not just of cannibalism. We want to restore the humanity to the members of that party — and to their descendants."
When vice president of Sub Pop Records Megan Jasper isn't running things at the office, she's working in her garden at her West Seattle home where she and her husband Brian spend time relaxing.