This story a part of the True Ghost Stories page on Obiwan's UFO-Free Paranormal Page. Please do not copy or distribute without permission from Obiwan and/or the original author!
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1998 21:17:07 -0700 (PDT)
To: guestbook@ghosts.org
yourname elizabeth york
email erzabet@hotmail.com
story Hi, Obiwan!
Congratulations on your new baby! I hope you're having fun :)
I was so glad to chance by "ghosts.org" today and find new stories posted that I thought I'd pester you with this experience I had in the Spring. Dealing with some STRONG impressions I had while visiting an historic place, this could either be viewed as a ghost story, a psychological study, or a report on the effects on the brain of altitude change. I titled it, "The Donner Campsite." I can't say for certain what happened while I was there, but I will never forget the feelings I had that day. If you post it, I would welcome the comments of anyone who reads it.
Thanks!
P.S. I have another story posted on your site called, "Gentle Ghost."
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Anybody familiar with the history of the American West, or who has seen the movie "The Shining," has heard at least vaguely of the Donner Party. This was a group of some ninety pioneers who, in the late fall of 1846, while attempting to emigrate into California, were trapped in the Sierra Nevada Mountains by an early snowfall. They had no choice but to camp high in the mountains and wait-out the incredibly vicious winter. Their agony lasted almost six months, nearly half in their number dying of exposure or starvation during that time. As the food supply diminished, some of the living turned to cannibalizing the remains of the dead in order that they might survive. In short, they experienced hardships like few have known, and led a miserable existence huddled in their makeshift cabins and tents which were near what is now called Donner Lake and the city of Truckee, California.
Being a history buff, I focused my interest on the Donners' story for a couple months back in 1992, and read every written account I could find on the subject until I felt as though I knew these long-dead people. Usually I could discuss my extracurricular scholarly pursuits with my egghead, Ph.D of a boyfriend, but he would have none of this cannibalistic pioneer stuff. I begged him to visit their mountain campsites with me (he was the one with the car), but he would not set foot in that part of the country unless he was wearing skis. So, while I got to spend winters swooshing down the slopes near Donner Lake, I never had the chance to explore the way I would have liked.
Finally last April, while vacationing alone (I had dumped the tweed months before), I decided to spend some time in Reno, Nevada--do a little gambling, soak-in some kitsch... The highway from my home in San Francisco to Reno passes by Donner Lake, and although my interest in the topic had waned, I planned to stop and make my first Springtime visit. As I wound my way higher into the Sierras, I found myself getting excited, as though I were about to see beloved friends for the first time in years. Self-analysis caused me to suspect altitude sickness, although I had never felt this odd during any of my previous mountain trips.
Half a mile before the lake exit is a scenic overlook with a spectacular view of the beautiful blue water, and of the snow covered peak--Donner Summit--that the emigrants were unable to cross all those years ago. As I stepped out of the car, my first inexplicable thought was, "I can smell them." I snapped a couple pictures, then moved the viewfinder from my eye and just stared at the summit, tear welling up. Then I came out of my daze, chiding myself for being so melodramatic, and drove down to the lake.
The museum associated with the Donner Party and Emigrant Trail should have fascinated me, but my mind was elsewhere as I looked through the personal effects and photographs on display. Even going to two nearby cabin sites didn't stir me much, although I was very aware of the gruesome tales, the death and suffering, associated with each spot. It was a quiet, gorgeous place, if not a little somber, but I did not have a spell like the one I had while staring up at Donner Summit.
Approximately six miles from the lake was a second camp at a creekside where two families, the George and Jacob Donners, and their teamsters, were believed to have passed that miserable winter. About twenty five people were trapped there 152 seasons ago: less than half survived. Initially I considered not going out of my way to visit, but deep down felt a draw and turned off of the interstate. Marked simply as a picnic ground, the site is off a two-lane highway. It was about 4:30pm when I pulled in and parked, the sole visitor there. This didn't worry me, as I am used to secluded hikes. I dutifully read the historical markers, and found the beginning of the short and, according to the sign posted, unchallenging trail that circled through the area.
There had been recent visitors on the trail. I noted many varying sizes of sneaker tracks, as well as the imprint of bicycle wheels, in the dirt. At first I walked along with complete confidence. But about a hundred feet in I kept getting the urge to look behind me. It was utterly ridiculous, but I sensed I was not alone. Yet company of the human or other large mammal variety was nowhere to be seen or even heard. My pace quickened. To my right, so small in the distance, was my car, and I yearned for that car. A panic built up within me that I would never leave this place alive. The real life scenario I was in began to take the tone of a waking nightmare, for no apparent reason. Yet I bore ahead.
I reached an old tree with a burnt-out hollow at the base of the trunk that is marked as the site of George and Tamsen Donner's tent (archeological evidence does not support this, however). I took a Polaroid shot of it, but the picture was overexposed, and I was out of film, and, of course, all my film stock was back in the car. As unbelievable as it was to me, if I wanted a picture (and I did), I would have to retrace my steps and possibly endure the terror that was with me the first time around. After some reflection, I decided that if I did return to the supposed tent site, I would approach via the other half of the trail, which I hadn't yet seen. So I hurried ahead to survey, discovering that the ground there had been saturated by the creek, creating bog-like conditions. Desperate as a stalked animal, I worked my way over some fallen logs, teetering, nearly falling, nearly twisting an ankle, not being my careful old self. For some irrational reason, I wanted off the trail so badly that my usual caution was secondary.
Once on the safety of pavement my mind cleared, and I realized I needed to use the bathroom. Luckily there was one near the car. I went into the Women's stall, which thankfully was well kept. While I sat in there, I heard erratic noises in the Men's room next door--a scuffling sound, like boots dragging across cement, and then more subtle sounds that reminded me of "tinkering," like someone milling through a toolbox. I listened calmly. There were no trees close to the structure, so I first told myself it was only water pressure in the plumbing. But this was merely a modernized outhouse, lacking even the luxury of a sink. So I rationalized further. It didn't sound like an animal: at any rate, the bathrooms were sealed well enough to prevent such invasion. And there was no reason for a human (Out here? Without transportation?!), to be hiding in there: a homicidal maniac would've attacked me by then, a person in trouble would have called for my help. I didn't know what was making those noises, and I wasn't going to find out. I finished up my business with relative composure, considering the directions in which my imagination was headed--had the latrine been built over one of the tent sites? Once back outside, I stopped to listen. The noises were no longer perceptible.
Instead of making the obvious choice of speeding away while I still could, I retrieved a new pack of film from the car and started back to the head of the trail, feeling like I was pressing my luck, yet determined to overcome my nonsensical, raging unease. This time out I began to calm down, though still felt watched. I again found the George Donner Tree, took some pictures, removed a discarded juice bottle from what might have been the hearth, and ran my fingers along the scorch marks that could have been made by a long-dead fire, reflecting on those who had desperately sought warmth decades ago.
Walking back the way I had come, the panic and fear almost vanished. Yet these were only to be replaced by an exceedingly hollow sorrow. "I have never been more alone in my life," I thought to myself. As illogical as it was, I literally felt as though I had no one left in the world. The intense grief that washed over me was, fortunately, my last unsolicited emotion for that day.
I climbed behind the wheel of my car, thankful to be leaving and to have such an efficient means of escape, and proud of myself for not succumbing to whatever was racking my emotions. I sped toward the neon lights of Reno, looking forward to re-entering the land of the living.
I am not sure what caused my feelings to go haywire that afternoon. Maybe all the facts swimming in my head were playing tricks on my subconscious. Perhaps, on this one occasion--despite my love of nature and the trust I have in myself-- my solitude had gotten the better of me.
Or maybe other people's strong emotions do imprint themselves on the environment, as some have theorized. If this were the case, the panic I felt over never leaving the camp area alive would have obviously derived from what those people agonized over during the winter of 1846-1847. Furthermore, Tamsen Donner, legendary for her intelligence, resourcefulness, and devotion as a mother and wife, had eventually sent her children to their safety over Donner Summit with a relief party, remaining by her husband's side until his death. After shrouding his body, she was the last person to leave the campsite, walking away alone in hopes of joining her daughters in what is today the state capital of Sacramento. Could I have felt the traces of her probable loneliness and grief floating about amongst the air molecules as I, too, was walking away?
If ghosts do exist, my hope is that those who suffered so much in life are not eternally bound to the place that was their frozen hell on earth. Reflecting on my sojourn at Alder Creek still fills me with wonderment... and gives me the chills.