After the last post, I struggled a bit with whether I should keep going with the journal. This portion is far tamer, but I was more creeped out by it. The general mood of the party is…off. I don’t know. Judge for yourselves.
Okay, so I’ve made some progress on the room, along with the journal. The rug is taken care of, as is most of the furniture. I kept the desk because it’s super cool. The drawers had three false bottoms. One won’t open without a key, so I’ll get a locksmith over to fix that, but the other two popped right open. The third one takes up well over half the depth of its drawer, so I’m looking forward to getting it open.
The first had another stack of letters with dates ranging from 1876 to 1904. They are to correspondence with a gentleman in Cornwall, England. I haven’t read through them entirely, but the brief skim I gave them was truly fucking creepy. I’m starting to realize there’s more to this than just the captain’s journal. Several letters mentioned B.H. and his tour of the west. No idea who B.H. is, but if you’ve got any idea, leave a comment.
The second drawer had some lipstick, a pearl-handled hair brush, and some metal that I can only assume are the quills. More on those later. I also found a really cool lighter that I can’t wait to take it to a dealer I know (I collect old matchbooks and cigarette cases. Boring and weird, I know.)
Anyway, no real warnings for this post. Hope you enjoy it!
From the journal of Captain Grady White
May 27, 1856
I requested leave for Privates Crossly and Bronson, which was approved. They left by coach this afternoon. I do hope the best for the two, though I have concerns about the mental fortitude they possess.
My guide has finally arrived, and we plan to leave with haste upon first light. We have stocked up on provisions, mostly jerky, beans, coffee, and two bottles of whiskey. I like a drink before bed, as does my new companion.
We discussed the route in detail, and he drew a few lines on the maps I studied. His name is Gregor. He chose it in place of his given Arapaho name. He has no surname. Just Gregor. His Arapaho name is Wonoonbisiseet. He prefers to be referred to as Gregor by the white man and says we speak the native tongue just well enough to offend all that hear it.
I am happy that we seem to align well. He speaks with knowledge of the area and has a strong command of the language. His grammar is better than those within the camp, which isn’t meant as a brag, though, amongst this group of braggarts, it should be.
Again, we leave in the morning, and I shall be pleased to have this camp behind me. The affairs of this camp are not those I choose to be associated with any longer than necessary.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White
May 27, 1856
I was awoken from slumber by young Mr. WS Foster. He apologized for the late hour but told me he needed to speak with me.
He offered his services on the trek, saying he has a keen sense of direction and can be very useful around camp. I questioned his cooking ability, and he laughed heartily. It was uplifting to hear laughter after the dark tales of the last few days.
The pair of us woke Gregor and discussed the idea. Gregor acquiesced and was most grateful for the extra hand.
I feel there is more to him enlisting his services with us than he is letting onto, and hope it doesn’t become a distraction along our journey.
Again, until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White
May 28, 1856
Foster met up with us at the mess hall. I was running through the route yet again with Gregor and Foster approached.
The Major was close behind. I was afraid there would be a disagreement. Foster turned to the Major and declared that he had entered into my service.
The Major laughed and clapped him on the back.
Major: You’ll learn more from these men than any amount of time spent here at this camp. I wish I could come along. Things are…well, let’s just say, things are…fluid at the moment. You’ve picked the perfect time to leave.
Me: Thank you, sir, for sending young Foster with us. We’ll be sure to return him in one piece.
Major: Well, we’ll see about that. And hell, who knows if we won’t be in pieces when you return.
With that, the Major turned and left.
We sorted our supplies, and the stable hands finished loading our pack animals. By noon we were underway.
The day was warm but not unbearable. I felt immensely better, having left the camp behind.
Gregor eluded to the same, saying he felt light as a morning mist. I gather that must be a good thing.
We traveled along a small river as it made its way down the canyon from the melting snow above. Had we the time, I would have spent days here, writing my memoirs and enjoying everything this wonderful land offered. As it was, we pushed through.
By evening the terrain had changed to a tight, boulder-strewn riverbed with an occasional bank. We set camp at the first suitable area we could find.
Foster fetched firewood while Gregor and I partook in an evening snifter of good whiskey. The lad had no idea what he was missing.
Dinner was a rousing success. Foster had found wild strawberries for dessert, and Gregor shot and dressed three sage grouse. I say I’ve not eaten that well since Illinois.
After the meal, we enjoyed another drink while Foster tended the fire. He doesn’t take liquor, so we assigned him the first watch.
I had been sleeping comfortably for the first time in several days when Gregor shook me awake. He placed his hand over my mouth to stifle any sound and pointed to a nearby tree.
I saw…nothing. Just a tree.
Foster came bounding into camp at that moment and dropped an armful of firewood. The tree Gregor had pointed at was gone. It had to be our imagination. A ten-foot pine doesn’t just vanish.
I strode to the spot the tree had occupied and found nothing but a few needles on the ground. Likely fell from the tree as it vanished.
Gregor was next to me.
G: These aren’t pine needles.
He held one in his hand. It looked to be a quill of sorts.
Me: That explains it. A porcupine snapped the tree and took it away as Foster arrived.
G: these aren’t from a porcupine. They feel almost…metallic.
F: What’s going on?
I am not ashamed to admit that I jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t heard him approach. He and Gregor thought it the funniest thing they’d seen.
Gregor gathered the quills from the ground, and we returned to camp. It was decided we would continue this conversation in the sunlight.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White
May 29, 1856
I write this at roughly four in the afternoon. Gregor is gone searching for a mule.
We found a game trail that took us up above the riverbed. The going has been less arduous than yesterday, though I admit I miss the sound of the river. I occasionally catch sight of it in the canyon below, but it may as well be in Oregon Country for how far away it seemed.
Earlier this afternoon, we came upon a tree fall on the trail. While sorting it out, one of the mules panicked and bolted with a good portion of our food. Luckily each mule had been loaded with food, so we should have enough to complete the trip.
Gregor has gone off searching for the animal, though I fear it fell into the canyon or traversed the nearby hills and is no longer reachable.
We have set up camp here while we await Gregor’s return.
Foster and I discussed the metal quills in detail, with neither of us able to come to a fitting conclusion on what they are or where they came from. They are shorter than a porcupine quill and quite flexible. We tried cutting one to inspect the material, but it only caused our blades to dull and a notch in the hatchet blade where we struck it. Foster even went so far as to place one in the fire, which amounted to nothing more than a faint red glow from the heat.
Overall, I must say this trek has me questioning our safety. Gregor seems to be on edge as well.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White
May 29, 1856
Gregor returned at suppertime. Foster had been cooking stew and biscuits, which were delicious. I take back my earlier jibe at his cooking abilities.
Gregor found the mule. He returned with a portion of it, along with the remaining supplies it had been carrying. The poor animal had befallen some sort of predator. Its flesh was clearly torn, and the lower 2/3 of its body was gone. Gregor said he found it in a clearing several miles north of our camp.
It seems impossible the thing could have traveled so far so quickly, while it had taken Gregor two hours to locate it. His tracking skills are second to none, and his horse is far superior to any I’ve seen. No mule could outrun it.
The provisions rescued from the pack were fouled by blood. A few of the canned goods are still intact, though the flour and rice are ruined. The survey equipment was still in one piece, though a mirror was missing from one instrument. It hadn’t been broken or forced. Someone must have been careful to remove it without damaging the equipment.
The realization that someone or something was out there with the skills needed to dismantle and then reassemble complex tools is frightening. More so that it also disemboweled our mule and possibly left metal quills behind after stalking our camp the first night.
Foster has been sitting silently since Gregor detailed his journey. I see the light in his eyes as he tries to make sense of what’s happening. I hope he does. We need him on this journey.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White
A side note: The next three pages of the journal are scribbled out. There is some sort of stain on the pages that makes a full transcription difficult, but I think I managed to get the gist.
On May 30th, they traveled away from the river and canyon, making their way up to what I think is the Estes Park area. Some of the features he describes lead me to think they traveled up the canyon from Loveland. I can’t confirm this, obviously, but that makes the most sense to me.
On June 2nd, he reported seeing a large boulder tumbling down from a rockslide. He swore there were small figures running alongside the boulder as it fell. The size of the rock caused several more to fall, creating an avalanche of boulders and shattered trees. They became stuck in the area and made camp.
He wrote: The hellish landscape would take hours to traverse. We’ve made camp and are considering our next moves. It may require that we turn back and take a different approach…
The next lines are blurred and covered in the stain that I can’t seem to get through.
There was one last transcribable portion, which read: …seems as though our fear was founded. It has to be following… and then more stains and scribbles until: …endured another night, likely the last with this bur… As I said, it’s hard to make out what he wrote.
There was a sketch on the next page of a creature. I need to figure out how to post a picture in the update so I can include it. I hope it wasn’t a depiction of anything they encountered, because if so, damn.
And since he technically provided this information,
Until tomorrow,
Cpt. Grady White