To Alta California: Portolá's View
no. 42
From the start, Gaspar de Portolá would have told you that duty bound him more firmly than any chain. Though not a man who relished the tumult of distant frontiers, he accepted his orders with the stoic resolve befitting a soldier of Spain. A native of Catalonia, Portolá had served his king on multiple frontiers. This experience taught him one guiding principle: unwavering discipline wins the day, whether on a sun-baked battlefield in Old Spain or amid the uncharted horizons of the New World.
In 1767, he arrived in Baja California to act as governor, initially overseeing the expulsion of the Jesuits. Shortly thereafter, the Crown commanded him to undertake the most ambitious task yet: secure the remote land called Alta California, rumored to be both a strategic prize and a place of spiritual promise. Tension hovered between spiritual aims and military objectives—between Franciscan friars led by Father Junípero Serra, who saw in this venture a holy crusade, and the royal soldiery, whose presence under Portolá’s command would determine whether they lived or died in that unknown land.
A New Directive and a Burden of Command
Rumblings in Madrid warned of foreign encroachments along the northern Pacific coastline, particularly from the Russians and British. What better bulwark than a Spanish presence in the largely unoccupied region beyond Baja California? Thus, the Crown instructed Portolá to sail or march north, claim San Diego Bay, and press to Monterey, an anchorage praised in fading Spanish charts and diaries. The plan would involve both military detachments and Franciscan friars, ensuring that the empire and the Church arrived hand in hand.
From the outset, Portolá knew the Sacred Expedition—so named by ecclesiastics—would bring two distinct motivations together. The friars aspired to plant the cross upon each new mission site, while Portolá’s job was to erect fortifications, maintain discipline, and see the soldiers’ side of things done. Despite the differences, an uneasy but functional partnership formed: without the friars’ spiritual vigor, morale might crumble; without the soldiers’ muscle and leadership, survival itself might slip from their grasp.
Among those who joined the venture, there was a figure little known to popular histories but well regarded by the expedition's men: Miguel Costansó, a military engineer from Barcelona. He had arrived in New Spain in 1764 with the brigade of Lieutenant General Juan de Villalba, just as the empire sought to reorganize and strengthen its northern defenses. Well-educated, especially by the frontier standards, Costansó was “probably the best educated and most able man of all the members of Alta California’s founding expedition.”
For Portolá, Costansó’s presence was an asset beyond measure. There was an officer trained to fight and chart unknown coastlines, record topography, and plan fortifications. Whenever Portolá needed a precise map of newly seen hills or coves, Costansó would produce one, meticulously annotated. Whenever they stumbled upon a vantage point that might serve as an outpost, Costansó would study it, jotting down coordinates in a neat hand. His diaries—later recognized as some of the most comprehensive of the entire expedition—presented a measured, almost scientific view of the soldier’s trials.
In 1769, Portolá led two overland columns north from Baja California while two ships struggled along the Pacific coast. One soldier wrote in his notes (cited decades later by historians) that the traveling was like crossing an endless furnace of rocks and sand, with only scattered oases to sustain them. The men of Portolá’s command advanced step-by-careful-step, their scabbards clanking in rhythm with the hooves of pack mules. Food supplies were never plentiful. Wells ran dry unexpectedly. Worst of all was the specter of scurvy, an invisible enemy that slowly robbed men of energy, loosening teeth and inflaming the gums.
During these trials, Portolá revealed a side of himself that outsiders seldom saw. Though outwardly stern, he was attentive to details of daily life: the rationing of water, the needs of the sick, and the intricacies of travel along rocky passes. Rather than merely barking out orders, he delegated tasks but demanded thorough reports from subordinates. One of those subordinates, Lieutenant Pedro Fages, would later reflect on Portolá’s calm leadership even as men dropped out from illness and desertion.
On one dusty stretch of trail, the small band encountered a group of local indigenous people. Uncertain gestures were exchanged—tobacco leaves and bits of cloth from the Spaniards, freshly hunted game from the Natives. Portolá and his men recognized the moment’s delicacy. They needed to find fresh water or die. The local Natives were required to know that these armed newcomers, with steel swords and tall hats, were not intent on violence. Tension crackled in the air. But Father Serra and the friars intervened, offering small gifts and smiles. Gradually, the tension eased.
Still, not every encounter went so gently. Portolá had to caution his soldiers that too heavy a hand might spark conflict, even war. Tales circulated among the ranks of earlier skirmishes in Baja California between Spanish troops and Native groups. When men chafed under forced politeness, Portolá reminded them of their mission to do their duty. He knew that in these lands, rashness would be their defeat.
Reaching San Diego: A Fragile Foothold
Arriving at San Diego Bay, Portolá’s overland force encountered grim news. One of the ships, delayed or blown off course, had contributed to a shortage of supplies. Dozens lay ill with scurvy. Graves marked the hillside, each telling the story of a life lost in pursuit of Spain’s outstretched empire. The camp was a skeleton of what Portolá had hoped: lean-tos, gaunt soldiers, everything overshadowed by despair.
Without delay, Portolá set about imposing some semblance of order. He assigned watch rotations, oversaw the distribution of precious rations, and ordered shallow defensive trenches dug along a small bluff. Soldiers sometimes complained that they were too sick or hungry for such exertion, but Portolá insisted that soldiers do their duty.
Here, more than ever, their relationship with the friars came to the fore. Father Serra devoted himself to the dying, refusing to step aside from the calls of mercy. Serra sometimes would preach to men too weak to rise from their bedrolls. Portolá respected the friar’s tenacity but saw how it led to friction: Serra, guided by faith, wished for harmony with the Natives immediately. Portolá, mindful of potential hostilities, pressed for vigilance. And yet, they found the middle ground. They had to. Survival demanded it.
Miguel Costansó, meanwhile, recorded nearly everything in his diary—harbor soundings, approximate distances, the condition of the men, and the incessant threat that disease and want persistently cast over their encampment. Beyond the scurvy, other fevers circulated in the cramped tents. Tempers flared. The mission, it seemed, tottered on the edge of collapse.
Although San Diego was important as a first foothold, the King’s orders insisted they carry on to Monterey Bay. By mid-summer of 1769, Portolá assembled a contingent of able-bodied soldiers, Costansó among them, as well as Lieutenant Pedro Fages and a handful of friars, to push north in search of the fabled harbor Vizcaíno had praised generations ago. This would be known as the Portolá Expedition. Week after week, they trudged along a coastline of sweeping bluffs and winding inlets.
In one of the more exasperating episodes, they accidentally passed right by Monterey without recognizing it. The old charts lacked detail; the viewpoint from the land was nothing like that from the sea. Some among the ranks, exhausted and half-starved, called for a retreat. But Portolá pressed onward. He was not a man to give up the King’s order lightly. That determination led them, astonishingly, farther north than they intended—where they stumbled upon the great estuary known as San Francisco Bay—the Golden Gate of California.
Costansó took careful notes, referencing latitudes and longitudes, exclaiming in his diary the “immensity of this discovery, which no previous chart has revealed.” Soldiers looked out on that vast body of water, battered by winds and fog, some suspecting they might starve if they lingered. But Portolá directed the group to keep exploring, though caution reigned supreme. Ultimately, with resources nearly spent, they turned back.
Months later, after reorganizing and attempting the search again, they finally confirmed that they had located Monterey Bay properly. The sense of relief among the men was palpable. They built a small presidio with guidelines drawn up by Costansó and braced themselves for the next wave of challenges. Portolá noted in official dispatches that what was accomplished there was done only by the grace of discipline—and with God’s favor, as the friars would add.
Throughout it all, the men under Portolá’s command viewed him as a steadfast figure, neither charismatic nor particularly beloved, but trustworthy. His measured presence afforded them the confidence to keep moving forward, no matter the obstacles. Privately, some soldiers confided that they found comfort in his calm; he never seemed to panic, never threw about blind accusations, never raged at them. He shared the same meager fare when supplies were low, never placing himself above the common soldier.
That is not to say Portolá’s leadership was without controversy. He and Father Serra clashed discreetly over how best to treat the Native peoples, how quickly to establish new missions or outposts, and whether the chain of command should always rest firmly in the governor’s hands or, at times, yield to ecclesiastical concerns. Each man bore a fierce sense of obligation. Portolá’s was to the Crown, whose orders he could not ignore. Serra’s was to his faith and the souls he wished to convert. More often than not, they found a fragile equilibrium, aided by the bridging presence of men like Costansó and Fages—soldierly figures who also recognized the friars’ vital role.
In January 1770, with San Diego secured and Monterey recognized, Portolá returned south. It was a humble exit from a region whose destiny he had helped set in motion. Later, he would return to Spain. Over time, the missions proliferated, each forging complicated new relationships with Indigenous societies. Soldiers and friars arrived in fresh waves, some forging alliances, others encountering conflict. Pedro Fages eventually served as governor, while Costansó continued making maps and recommendations from Mexico City, working on various colonial projects.
A Soldier’s Reflection
In letters now lost to time but referenced by subsequent historians, Portolá reportedly admitted to moments of doubt. He questioned whether holding these far-flung outposts in a vast and unfamiliar land was genuinely feasible. But he never questioned his duty to try. His was the soldier’s creed: you do the job assigned, trusting your discipline to see you through.
Viewed through the lens of centuries, Gaspar de Portolá stands as the quiet architect of Spain’s early foothold in Alta California. He left no voluminous spiritual diaries like Serra, nor did he remain long enough to watch the missions multiply along El Camino Real. Instead, he secured the realm for his king, bridging the gap between the empire’s strategic necessity and the friars’ sacred vision. He also benefited in no small measure from the skill of engineers like Costansó, whose diaries and designs helped ensure the survival of each struggling encampment. The men who marched behind Portolá remembered him as even-tempered under adversity, determined when storms battered the coastline, or scurvy threatened to tear the expedition apart.
In the end, Portolá’s legacy may be precisely what he set out to do: to plant the banner of Spain where it had never flown before and to do so without letting the mission shatter on the shoals of hardship. His name endures as a steady hand at the helm during a precarious hour—when a solitary band of soldiers, friars, and an indispensable engineer named Costansó threaded their way north, forging the first chapter of Spanish California. And though others would garner more fame—Father Serra for his religious fervor, Costansó for his meticulous records and cartographic brilliance, Pedro Fages for his later governorship—those who walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Gaspar de Portolá knew that his soldierly resolve and measured leadership paved the way for them all.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Fireman, Janet R., and Manuel P. Servin. “Miguel Costansó: California’s Forgotten Founder.” California Historical Society Quarterly 49, no. 1 (1970): 3–19.
“probably the best educated and most able man of all the members of Alta California’s founding expedition,” p.3.
Moss, James E., and Thomas L. Scharf, eds. The Journal of San Diego History 21, no. 2 (Spring 1975). "Fages." San Diego History Center.
Smythe, William E. History of San Diego, 1542–1907. Part 1–2.