In the cemetery at Ashland, New Hampshire, there is a gravestone that doubles as a community record. Reuben Whitten died in 1847. His neighbors paid for the stone. They didn't carve his birth date or a Bible verse. They carved this:

Thirty-one years after the fact, the people of Ashland remembered who fed them. They remembered because the summer of 1816 never came, and what followed reshaped the geography of American settlement in ways still legible on a census map.

The growing season collapsed in stages. Snow fell across Vermont and New Hampshire on June 7 and 8, with drifts reaching twenty inches across the region and a foot of snow recorded in Craftsbury, Vermont. Near Randolph, a farmer went out to check his sheep in the June storm, got lost, and was found dead three days later. The cold eased. Then on August 13, frost killed the corn crop north of Concord. In Amherst, New Hampshire, a violent storm on August 20 dropped temperatures thirty degrees in hours. By September 26, the thermometer at sunrise in Hanover read twenty-six degrees.

That August frost was the turning point. Corn was what poor families depended on. The New Hampshire Patriot reported in October that "Indian corn, on which a large proportion of the poor depend, is cut off." Oat prices climbed from twelve cents a bushel to ninety-two. In Connecticut, the Reverend Thomas Robbins confided to his diary on September 5: "I presume no person living has known so poor a crop of corn in New England, at this season, as now." In Vermont's higher elevations, families survived on nettles and hedgehogs. Historian John D. Post would later call it "the last great subsistence crisis in the Western world."

Then the wagons started moving.

From his office in Hartford, the publisher Samuel Griswold Goodrich watched them pass:

Westward migration from New England had been building since settlers left Ipswich, Massachusetts, to found Marietta, Ohio, in 1787. The War of 1812's end opened routes. But 1816 turned a current into a flood. Vermont may have lost as many as 15,000 people in the years that followed. The state's total population still grew between the 1810 and 1820 censuses, from 217,895 to 235,981, but that aggregate conceals what happened town by town. Craftsbury, which took a foot of June snow, and Norwich, which lost the Smith family to Palmyra, New York, were among the communities hollowed out. In Massachusetts, Ipswich posted a confirmed population decline by 1820, dropping to 2,653 residents. The remaining population couldn't carry the tax burden. Chebacco Parish broke away entirely in 1819, becoming the Town of Essex.

The destinations were the Ohio Valley, Indiana, Illinois. The routes ran overland through upstate New York, years before the Erie Canal opened in 1825. The Smith family's path from Norwich to Palmyra traced what thousands followed: rough roads, no navigable waterways, weeks of travel requiring draft animals, a wagon, and enough cash to survive the journey.

Which meant the people who left had just enough to gamble on somewhere else. The families who couldn't afford a wagon stayed and ate nettles.

Among those who departed: Joseph Smith's family, whose relocation to western New York set in motion events that would produce the Book of Mormon. Among those who stayed: Reuben Whitten, who grew wheat on his south-facing slope and shared it.

The migration story follows the wagons west. Ohio fever. The frontier opening. Whose land those wagons were heading toward receives less attention in the telling. The Ohio Valley was not empty. New England families fleeing agricultural catastrophe were arriving on contested ground, accelerating displacement already underway. The available historical record on how indigenous communities in those receiving territories experienced this particular wave is thin. That thinness tells its own story.

The weather returned to normal in 1817. The people who left didn't come back. The towns that lost their young families carried the absence for decades.

Whitten's neighbors remembered. They carved forty bushels of wheat into stone, because in a season defined by departure, what they chose to preserve was the man who stayed and fed people.