Just one reason why I will never tire of reading history and exploration, extracted from:
Anonymous (1891). A Memorial and Biographical History of Northern California. Lewis Publishing Co., Chicago IL.
Colonel J. J. Warner, now of Los Angeles, a member of the Ewing trapping expedition, which passed north through these valleys in 1832, and back again in 1833, says:
“In the fall of 1832, there were a number of Indian villages on King’s River, between its mouth and the mountains; also on the San Joaquin River, from the base of the mountains down to and some distance below the great slough. On the Merced River, from the mountains to its junction with the San Joaquin, there were no Indian villages; but from about this point on the San Joaquin, as well as on its principal tributaries, the Indian villages were numerous, many of them containing some fifty to one hundred dwellings, built with poles and thatched with rushes. With some few exceptions, the Indians were peaceably disposed. On the Tuolumne, Stanislaus and Calaveras rivers there were no Indian villages above the mouths, as also at or near their junction with the San Joaquin. The most hostile were on the Calaveras River. The banks of the Sacramento River, in its whole course through the valley, was studded with Indian villages, the houses of which, in the spring, during the day-time, were red with the salmon the aborigines were curing.
At this time there were not, on the San Joaquin or Sacramento river, or any of their tributaries, nor within the valleys of the two rivers, any inhabitants but Indians. On no part of the continent over which I had then, or have since, traveled, was so numerous an Indian population, subsisting on the natural products of the soil and waters, as in the valleys of the San Joaquin and Sacramento. There was no cultivation of the soil by them; game, fish, nuts of the forest and seeds of the field constituted their entire food. They were experts in catching fish in many ways, and in snaring game in diverse modes.
On our return, late in the summer of 1833,we found the valleys depopulated. From the head of the Sacramento to the great bend and slough of the San Joaquin we did not see more than six or eight live Indians, while large numbers of their bodies and skulls were to be seen under almost every shade-tree near water, where the uninhabited and deserted villages had been converted into grave-yards; and on the San Joaquin River, in the immediate neighborhood of the larger class of villages, which the preceding year were the abodes of large numbers of these Indians, we found not only many graves, but the vestiges of a funeral pyre. At the mouth of King’s River we encountered the first and only village of the stricken race that we had seen after entering the great valley; this village contained a large number of Indians temporarily stopping at that place.
We were encamped near the village one night only, and during that time the death angel, passing over the camping-ground of the plague stricken fugitives, waved his wand, summoning from a little remnant of a once numerous people a score of victims to muster in the land of the Manitou; and the cries of the dying, mingling with the wails of the bereaved, made the night hideous in that veritable valley of death.