The Sierra Mountains of Nevada and California contain some of the most beautiful snow-topped peaks, rich valleys, white-capped rivers, cascading waterfalls in the country. The area holds a pretty captivating charm about it. Indians have lived in this landscape for centuries, a few white folks for decades. Back in the late 40s, early 50s, miners forged through the area on their way to dreams of gold rush prosperity. A fair amount of those people died trying to cross unfamiliar terrain, insurmountable obstacles.
Winters in the Sierra are brutal with snowfalls measured in feet, not inches, and wind and temperatures that bring frostbite, or worse in minutes. Such was the fate of the Donner Party down near the Truckee back in the winter of '46. That was a tragedy so gruesome, I s'pect it will be remember for generations. But it examples the common challenges presented to the unprepared.
My partner and me know the ways of the mountains, though most of our time is spent in other ranges, further east like Wyoming and Colorado. But on occasion, we have we have reason or circumstance to cross those Sierras, and such was the case three months ago, in the dead of winter.
We were traveling on horseback, not far from Lake Bigler, up near an area known as Eagles Falls. It's a beautiful area in any season, but treacherous in the heavy snows of winter. It's not a populated area. Nearest towns are Carson City to the east, and Virginia City to the south, both more than a full day's ride in good weather. Huntin's good. Food ain't scarce. Bears abundant but mostly hibernating. Three or four feet of snow ain't uncommon. Steep rocks making for deadly falls require sharp eyes and slow travel.
Most of the Indian tribes, the Wa She Shu (known to white folks as Washoe), the Maidu, and the Paiute are scattered now, long since overrun by the white prospectors seeking gold and silver fortunes. The Washoe call the lake "Da ow go," which white folks pronounce Tahoe. You can see the lake from areas surrounding Eagles Falls.
Heyes likes to kid me that my eyes are a reflection of that lake, but I don't see it. That lake is the most beautiful crystal blue and clear that you could imagine. I've been down along it's shore a time of two and you can see so far down into that lake that fishing ain't a sport, it's a death sentence for the fish. You know exactly where to drop a line and you can actually watch the fish chomp down on the hook.
But my thoughts are wondering, so I'll get back to the story, back to January. Back to Eagles Falls. Heyes and I had spent the night in an area known as Emerald Bay, right along the shore line. It's a little inlet area that usually provides a bit of protection from the winds that blow across the waters. Now, as the sun rose over the lake, we were climbing to higher higher elevations, traveling some on horseback, but mostly walking, tugging the reins of our horses, that, like us, were trying to tromp through three feet of snow and migrate around wide drifts of five or six feet. Took us four or five hours to reach the frozen falls and the clouds were threatening more snow. So we found ourselves a little alcove in the rocks, tall and deep enough to house our horses as well as us from the harsh elements.
We unsaddled and hobbled the horses, unpacked what we needed, gathered wood for a fire, and settled on beans and coffee for supper as neither of us much wanted to get stranded out in the approaching storm. After eating, we both ventured outside a bit to relieve ourselves before huddling together near the fire to sleep.
That's when we heard it, a low, muffled, wailing kind of sound way off in the distance. We stopped and listened. That sound never relented. In the darkness, we couldn't see much beyond the nearest trees. I thought maybe it was an injured animal, sounding it's final calls before death. Heyes thought maybe the winds got caught between trees and rocks in such a way as to cry that single, constant tone. Either way, we determined it weren't our to discover. At least not yet.
Next morning, we went out again for the same reason, and heard the same, near constant low sound. It was almost musical, just one two notes in some sort of rhythmic pattern. We decided that after we broke camp, we'd follow that sound to see what it was.
We stayed above the source of sound, figuring if it was something dangerous, the higher elevation would give us an advantage. We still had to travel a lot on foot as the newly fallen snow had added more than a few inches of powdery snow.
Heyes was walking in front and he spied it first, far in the lower distance, close to the lake shore. There were maybe fifty Indians, all milling around in groups. One sat cross-legged near the shore, slowly striking a drum in a constant, rhythmic pattern. Two canoes were sanded on the beach and it looked like someone was lying in one of them, all covered in furs, except the head. The other canoe was half full of rocks and neither one of us knew why.
Heyes pulled his telescope from his saddle bags so we could take turns getting a better look. The one lying in the canoe wore a beaded headband with four white feathers protruding out the top. A group of five or six people were hovering over a campfire, stirring a pot of something. After a time, one of them used a gourd to scooped something out of the pot, and he carried the gourd over to the canoe and waded into the water. He dipped his fingers into the gourd, them smeared the contents on the face of the body lying in the canoe. Another group carried furs and things too small for us to distinguish and placed them in the canoe. All the while the drum continued to sound.
I looked at Heyes and he looked at me. We knew we were watching a burial. We knew this was a sacred ceremony, not meant for the eyes of a white man. We knew we was being disrespectful, but we was both fascinated and couldn't bring ourselves to look away.
They moved the canoe with the body into the water. One man stood in the Icy water, keeping the canoe steady as others started picking up rocks from the shore and loading them into the now floating canoe and we watched the canoe slowly sinking deeper into the water until just the edges remained afloat. Then two Indians climbed into the other canoe and a couple of men tethered the two together. The two started paddling out into the water, pulling the burial one behind. When they reached the center of the lake, one of the Indians untied the tethers and pulled the canoe up beside them.
We could still hear the drum beating and now the two men in the boat started chanting some sort of repetitive musical sounds, all the wile loading more rocks into the burial canoe until the weight of the rocks finally sunk the canoe into the depths of the water.
I felt like I should offer some display of respect for what we had witnessed, so I made the sign of the cross. Heyes saw me and did the same. We took great care in backing away from the sight, stayed real quiet and continued on our way east toward Carson City. We traveled maybe ten more miles that day before we made camp in a cluster of trees. We built a small fire, just enough to keep us warm and cook the rabbit I shot that afternoon. Wasn't till near nightfall, when we were finishing the last of our coffee that either of us spoke of what we had seen that day.
"Heyes?"
"Yeah, Kid?"
"Think it was wrong of us to watch that?"
"Maybe. It was out in the open, though. All the birds and animals could watch if they had a mind to. S'pose a person passing by could to, as long as they was respectful."
"Why do you suppose they buried him in the water?"
"Sailors bury men at sea, but I always heard Indians believe that lake hold magic. Maybe that lake leads their dead to the afterlife, the Spirit World."
"Sort of like white folks believing you should open a window when someone dies in a house, to the spirit can find it's way to the heavens."
"Yea, sort of like that, Kid."
"What we saw was... an honor, wasn't it."
Heyes nodded.
"I don't think I'll ever forget that."
Heyes shook his head.
"Good night, Kid."
0-0-0-0-0-0-
Lake Tahoe holds many Indian legends and this story represents a combination of the rituals of various tribes. It is said that there are many, many Indians buried more than a thousand feet into the depths of Lake Tahoe.