The recent award-winning film, “The Revenant,” cast actor Leonardo DiCaprio as Hugh Glass, an early 19th Century American frontiersman and mountain man. The film depicts an 1823 incident where Glass, along with a party of beaver trappers led by Jedediah Smith, was attacked by an Arikara Indian war party near the mouth of the Yellowstone River. Several men were killed and Glass was shot in the leg. After the deadly skirmish, the expedition abandoned their boats, cached their pelts and headed overland for Fort Kiowa, an American trading post on the Missouri River.
Shortly after the Indian attack, Glass, who had been hired to hunt game for food, was critically injured by a large female grizzly bear that ripped his scalp, punctured his throat, broke his leg and ripped him open in numerous places. The party couldn’t carry him to safety so two men were promised an $80 bonus to remain behind and bury Glass when he finally succumbed to what they considered mortal wounds.
“Many explorers, trappers and frontiersmen have etched their legends
into the annals of Western history, but few have equaled
the incredible exploits of the mountain man James Clyman.”
After nearly a week pulling Glass on a litter, his comrades, fearful of another Indian assault and anxious as the main party traveled ahead toward safety, took Glass’ gun, knife, tomahawk and fire-making kit and left him for dead. But Hugh Glass didn’t die and over the next several weeks he crawled and stumbled 250 miles to the fort. He survived by eating insects, snakes, carrion meat and anything else he could find. Other than the bear attack and Glass’ remarkable survival, most historians consider the rest of the movie to be a fictional tale with little substantiated proof.
Many explorers, trappers and frontiersmen have etched their legends into the annals of Western history, but few have equaled the incredible exploits of the mountain man James Clyman.
Clyman, also a member of that 1823 expedition with Smith and Glass, was unusual among early trappers because he kept a journal in which he chronicled his adventures. Although telling tall tales was considered an art among mountain men, Clyman’s first-hand recollections are a conspicuously sober and meticulous record. His prior experience as a land surveyor compelled him to take measurements and write down facts. He was a keen, thorough and precise observer of the landscape around him.
Readers of this column may remember that, in 1846, Clyman was making his way east on the newly opened California Trail when he ran into the westbound Donner Party. James Reed, a leader of the group along with George Donner, was excited to see Clyman because the two had mustered together in the Black Hawk Indian War in Northwest Illinois 14 years earlier. Among the volunteers in that regiment were Clyman, Reed and a tall, country lawyer named Abraham Lincoln. Clyman strongly advised Reed to avoid the shortcut they were considering, but the stubborn Reed refused his advice and the rest is history.
The life of a 19th Century mountain man was exciting, but often violent and brief. One fur-trading partnership reported that over a six-year period, the company employed about 180 men. Of those hired, 94 were killed by Indians. That doesn’t include the men who died from bear attacks, blizzards, hypothermia or drowning. For these bold frontiersmen, death lurked behind every hill, tree and boulder.
Like all mountain men, Clyman was independent and self-supporting. He wore a fringed buckskin suit and carried a powder horn, shot pouch, tomahawk, knife, pistol and a muzzle-loading rifle. Besides buckskin pants and shirt, trappers often wore an overcoat made from a thick Hudson’s Bay blanket. No matter the season, Clyman needed nothing that he couldn’t obtain using only the equipment on his back. Clyman was stingy with words and not easy to know, but when the chips were down, he was the man to have at your side.
In February 1824, Clyman and the famed trailblazer, William Sublette, were trapping in the Rocky Mountains. One morning a frigid wind chilled their hands so badly that they couldn’t hold the flint and steel to start a fire. Sublette was freezing to death so the pair began heading for a timber stand about 5 miles away. Clyman was so cold that he dismounted and began trudging through deep snow to warm up. Sublette and the horses fell behind Clyman’s determined pace. Clyman eventually reached an old Indian shelter where he built a roaring fire. He ran back half a mile to find Sublette and the horses, which he then brought to safety.
A few months later, Clyman was leading a group of trappers when they were attacked by hostile Indians in present-day Wyoming. During the ensuing fight, the men became separated and Clyman lost his horse and all of his supplies except for his knife, powder, rifle and 11 bullets. He was 600 miles from Fort Atkinson – the closest settlement – on the Missouri River. After waiting nearly two weeks for his men to show up, there was nothing to do but start walking, avoiding Indians along the way.
Clyman’s journal narrative minimizes this epic trek, but his friend John Hustis later described the ordeal.
“He was cut off from his party & he was obliged to turn his face eastward. Avoiding rivers as dangerous [Indians] he began his journey. Shooting such buffalo as was necessary for his subsistence he occasionally would rest & dry his meat. Once he killed a badger for the skin to cover his feet as his moccasins had given out & it cost him one bullet, which were now becoming precious. Clyman killed in succession three buffaloes with one bullet, which he successfully cut from the animals & rounded again with his teeth. After 80 days wandering he had three remaining bullets & a small amount of powder. Once he saw the American flag flying at Council Bluffs & some men making hay nearby, he fainted away.”
During his journey, a Pawnee Indian chief had protected Clyman from hostile villagers who had stolen his knife, gun and powder. The friendly chief returned the weapons and saved Clyman’s life. All he asked for in return were the locks of Clyman’s long hair, which were promptly cut off with a butcher knife as a memento of the occasion. In his typical, understated style, but with an unmistakable hint of humor, Clyman wrote, “I barely saved my scalp but lost my hair.”
