I grew up on a small farm near Trenton. Things were hard there and my father has a dream that things could be better for us in Oregon where we can start fresh on new, good land and grow in a new place. But I already miss our home and the ease of life in a familiar place. I miss my dog, Josiah, who could not come along.
Father sold our farm to my cousin James. He got married two years ago and he has been looking for a place to make his own. Our place was right near his Father’s and they will work them together. We did not bring much with us. Of all the belongings we had, my parents left most of them behind. We brought a few little things for keepsakes, to remember our old life, is all.
Father said he would not make the same mistakes others have made. He read all he could about how to make such a journey and the guides say most folks try to bring too many things along. We have plenty to eat and what we need for making camp and surviving along the way. They say it will get much harder as we progress, especially in the mountains that lie ahead of us. It has not been too hard for us this far so perhaps Papa is right.
We left Trenton on March 5 and it took us twenty days to get to the Ohio River port of Parkersburg. We used our two old wagons to get that far and those roads were mostly good as they are well-worn and the weather was pretty good, mostly. We found a little mud at the top of the Cumberland but not too much. Old Dan and Bertie, plus two other mules Papa bought for the trip had no trouble pulling us through it.
It took another month and a few days to get from there to Saint Joseph by poled flatboat and steamboat. Some of that time, several days, was spent waiting for Papa to make arrangements for our passage, and packing our belongings into wooden crates he made from the planks of our wagons. The trip on the boats, three different ones, went quickly and before we realized it we were at the jumping off place in the west. It was an easy time, but our work began in earnest when we reached Saint Joseph.
In Parkersburg, we sold what was left of our rig and our faithful mules. I cried when the man led Bertie and Dan away, with the thoughts that I would never see them again. Papa had them on the farm even before I was born. I think that is when I realized that this Oregon journey would be no easy thing, that nothing of our life to that point would be left to us.
Everything is new, and unfamiliar. That is the hardest part. Still, we have much excitement at the prospect of the new life that we hope and trust awaits us. The Holy Bible says "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." And so we rejoice in our trials, such as they have been. The good that awaits us in this new land is more than ever we could hope for. That is the promise and all our hopes reside in it.
In Saint Joe, Papa bought the rig and wherewithal that will take us to the Willamette Valley. We have a wagon, not a big one like you would see back east, but a smaller, lighter one that is more suited to this long and rough journey. It has a cover, but it is too small for all of us to sleep inside. So Papa and the boys sleep outside, underneath it. With us we have 6 oxen; four pull at any one time, the other two walk and “rest.” They are very healthy so far as there has been much spring grass and other greenery for them to eat. We have blankets and clothing and we have plenty of food, but little else.
Papa brought a gun for hunting such game as we can find, also for protection from Indians and the criminal elements that we might encounter along the way. That we now find funny. While we have met a few white folk with whom we would not have cared to share a bed, the Indians have been none but kind and generous so far. We have met Pawnees and Dakotas mostly and aside from some who beg shamelessly, most have been solicitous of our good health and well-being. We have not yet feared encounters with them but Papa is always wary at first. The most danger we have faced has been in fording streams and rivers and an occasional rattlesnake. The snakes were a surprise, who knew such things existed! Even those loathsome creatures will get out of the way if they hear you coming well enough.
Although there have been many, I should not neglect to tell you of the big thunderstorm we encountered! It seemed like the rain would never stop! One thing that has been most surprising here in the western lands is how much sky there is. It seems like the earth is twice as large as it was back home in New Jersey. When a storm comes, it comes from far away and thus gives us plenty of time to get ready. It seems like it will never get here, but it rolls along and you can see that it is coming because it grows larger and larger. Then it arrives with sound and fury. The winds lash at everything, the rain comes down in torrents. We have even seen a cyclone away in the distance, but it did not approach near where we were.
A little more than two weeks ago, a storm struck us as we waited to cross the Big Blue River in the Kansas territory. We waited for it to arrive and we hunkered down underneath any and every shelter we could manage until it passed. There was hail so large that it hurt the animals and turned everything white as far as the eye could see. It did not stay long, though. The rains washed it all away and melted it by and by. It rained then for several hours and turned everything to mud. We had to wait for the river to quell and for the mud to become more firm before we could cross. Waiting is hard for us because Papa says it is important for us to move quickly and not squander time along the way. The more time we spend, the more sure the troubles that can find us later on. After two days, the way was dry enough for us to move on.
But now, I suppose, some of us would welcome such a storm. For about fifteen days we have been in a dryer place. The grasses and plants are fewer and less, although along the Platte River there is still plenty of it for our animals. Papa says that is because we got such an early start, that later on as more wagons pass by, the land will be grazed bare. This road runs mostly along the rocky high ground, quite far from the river, but in the late afternoon we move back toward its banks and meadows so the oxen and horses can graze, and so we have trees and shade for our "roof."
It is amazing to see the changes in the land in these past weeks. After we left Saint Joe, the color of the landscape and the flora was green. There were birds everywhere, singing, and there were many hills and trees. The hills in that country were much like what we knew in the east – rounded, sloping, smooth. What a difference we see here! The land was flat for quite some distance in between – and other than right along the river banks, brown and arid looking. Once we began to see hills again, they are of a completely different character – they are stark-looking – with steep sides that not even a squirrel could climb. I don't see how they should be called hills at all, they have such rugged and steep forms. They are barren of any vegetation, except around their bases and that very scrub-like. It is not like Kansas. It is nothing like New Jersey. I only hope that Oregon is like they say it is, with green trees and fertile valleys.
We passed by Fort Kearny a few days ago and although we did not need to purchase any supplies from the traders there, it was good to see people and we had a dance in celebration. The days have become long and I despaired of ever seeing a civilized place again, not that you could really call that place civilized. It was bustling; a small island of Americans far from anywhere except this road.
The scenes we see stay the same and change little, except over time – at first it was green Kansas prairie, hour after hour. Now it is a great sandy desert, day after day. The place we camp in the evening looks very like the place we started from that morning. It seems like we are not going anywhere at all – except for a slowly changing horizon.
It seems strange now that in the beginning we thought this was going to be such a pleasant adventure. Our day is a monotony of sameness, not only in scenery but in routine. We rise before the dawn and start preparing for our day’s journey. Papa tends to the animals. My brothers and I pack our bedding back into the wagon. Mama and Auntie Florence begin to prepare our breakfast over the small morning fire. It is my duty to help them as soon as the other tasks with the boys are completed.
Did you know that buffalo dung burns when dried properly? It seems an unappetizing fuel for a cooking fire but the food does not suffer ill effects from it and it burns well if dry. By the time breakfast is ready, usually cooked grains or pan bread along with some preserved pork, Papa and brothers have things ready to go.
Each of us has a job to do and the familiarity of our activity is one thing that makes this feel as much like “home” as it does. Home and hearth are wherever we are at, as long as we are together and safe. We are comfortable with each other and with our trail “life.” We eat, then stow the cooking utensils. As it gets light, we are ready to pull out onto the trail. We are charged with being prepared when the “Boss” says, so as not to delay the other members of our party. There are 28 families of us altogether, although seven will not continue with us past Fort Hall, but will go southward to California instead.
Once on the road, we move slowly, steadily west. We travel every day except on the Sabbath. Our covenant says that we will always spend Sunday at rest -- some of our party would like to see that rule changed, but most of the others would not entertain the notion, no matter the reason.
We have an experienced guide to keep us on the course – although at this time he is hardly needed. This path while rough has seen many wagons before ours. The road is wide and not difficult to follow but we are told that farther west it is not so easily followed. It is thought that by then we will have need of this rough, vulgar man who makes his own clothing from crudely tanned hides. He calls himself Old Charles, as if he is talking of someone else, and he has spent many years in this western country. He is not a Christian nor any other kind of a God-fearing man. The town Saint Charles in Missouri is most assuredly not named for him.
Most of us walk. Only those needing a rest or who are ill ride in the wagons so the load is kept as light as possible so the oxen do not tire and become weak; they must preserve the strength to pull us over the western mountains if we are to be successful in reaching our new home.
We have not had much illness, although one old gentleman died suddenly some few days after we left Saint Joseph. Papa said he died of old age. Everyone talks about and fears the cholera, but we have not seen it. One woman has delivered a child so far, and another nearly succumbed to a fever. The child was christened Dusty, in remembrance of the nature of the trail where she was born.
My brothers ride one of the horses occasionally but I am not permitted to do so. I keep hoping they will be thrown off and land in a cactus, but this is simply spite mixed with a small portion of bile and I pray about it each night, that I might be delivered from my human weaknesses and sinful nature.
This land seems barren and changeless at first glance, but on closer view there are some interesting things. There are prairie “dogs!” As we approach their "villages," they look at us and whistle! Their homes are like little mounds of dirt and in each “town” several of them sit up high in the hole in the top of their mound and watch for any dangers that may be approaching. I suppose they are watching for wolves, or snakes. Or perhaps a roaming coyote! As our wagons pass by, they duck down into their holes, and then they pop back up again for another look. Up and down, up and down!
Sometimes the coyotes get right in amongst us and walk along side – just like a dog. They almost look like dogs! They seem to like people, but in quick order some boy will take up a rifle and shoot at them, so they do not stay with us long. They are very quick and no boy has been able to hit one yet. Papa gives my brothers much trouble over this.
We have seen no wolves, but they are around. I heard one howl one evening while we were sitting by our fire. I miss Josiah but we have picked up a new dog along this road – he followed us out from Saint Joseph and would not shoo away. I have named him Pete. I guess he must think we will need his wisdom and guidance later, as I think he must be a prairie dog too! I wonder if he would be as bold as he is if one of these coyotes tried to eat him?
We have seen no buffaloes, but they have been around where we are many times, for there is buffalo dung everywhere, especially along the river. Back in the Kansas territory, where it was green, we would see deer and antelope frequently. We saw enough of them that we had venison with our meals on many nights, even enough that we shared with some Indians once. After we shared our supper with them, they followed us at a distance for several days, seemingly watching out for us. After a time, they moved off in a different direction and we have not seen them again.
Papa is a good shot with his rifle. Many a rabbit along this road has suffered regret and serious misfortune in getting too close to Papa’s rifle. The rabbits that we see now though are not fit to eat -- in fact, they almost don't look like rabbits at all. They are taller, and rangy. They are all hind-legs and ears, and their meat is wormy and stringy. They look more like a cross between a barn rat and an antelope than anything else. As we approach, they at first try to hide in the brush, but as the wagons reach them, they change their minds about hiding and they bound away like deer on their springy hind-legs..
By late morn, we have usually progressed about ten or twelve miles and we stop for a dinner break and to rest the animals for a time. We eat our food cold at noon, usually a dry biscuit and some water – there is not time to make a fire. After this break, we continue on in the afternoon until it is time to stop for the night, usually four or five more hours. The scout has ridden on ahead to pick out a likely place for our night’s rest. The rain storms usually came in the afternoons back closer to St Joe, but now we don’t seem to get any rain at all. Perhaps I would not mind a little mud in trade for a nice cooling rain.
In the evening, we have another hot meal if we can and we rest and repair any of our kit that has broken down. We often sit around our cook fire and as it dies we can see the stars when the skies are clear as they most often are here.
Many times, our “neighbors” in the train stop by our fires to visit (and we with them) and talk about the day, about where we came from and about our hopes for Oregon or California. We are all about the same, all of us are farm folk. A few times, one or two of the young men stopped by to see if they could spark me a little – perhaps they thought they could reach Oregon with a new bride in tow! But I am too young for such thoughts and I have no interest in them. They have become discouraged with their matrimonial prospects at our wagon and have taken their discouragement elsewhere. Papa teases me without mercy and threatens that I will end my days as a hopeless "old maid" but I think perhaps I can afford to wait a little longer.
This journey has become familiar to the point of weariness. Day after day the same and for many days, no change of scenery, not many trees in view, not even an Indian to add interest to it. I wonder if we ever will reach our destination or will all the days of my life be spent on a dusty, dry and rocky trail. The monotony of this desert admits no end – not even a horizon to speak of much – just a hazy smudge of yellow or blue far away in the dusty distance. It is too hot for words and I am bone-sore and weary. There is not a plant in this entire country that does not have a thorn on its end.
But yesterday, a new thing came into view. Out on the horizon, my brother William saw it first – a “spire.” It seemed like a church steeple at first view, but we knew that it was not. Many travelers along this trail have remarked on Chimney Rock – and we will pass by it before suppertime today, just as we passed by Courthouse Rock a couple of days ago. It has been within our view and seemingly our grasp all yesterday noon and all day today. We are making progress! My brothers say if we stop there they shall try to climb it. I have read about this place that seemed so far away and now we are here.
The view of it has raised my spirits, can you imagine? If we have gotten this far, that means we will see other things along this road about which others have written, sooner or later. If there really is a Chimney Rock, then there is a Fort John, a South Pass, a Fort Hall and a Columbia River. There will, after some lengthy and tedious walking, be an Oregon. With grace and a measure of fortune, there will be a new farm and a new life.
Perhaps tonight we will have a dance!
Rachel McLane Evans,
1847
It is amazing to see the changes in the land in these past weeks. After we left Saint Joe, the color of the landscape and the flora was green. There were birds everywhere, singing, and there were many hills and trees. The hills in that country were much like what we knew in the east – rounded, sloping, smooth. What a difference we see here! The land was flat for quite some distance in between – and other than right along the river banks, brown and arid looking. Once we began to see hills again, they are of a completely different character – they are stark-looking – with steep sides that not even a squirrel could climb. I don't see how they should be called hills at all, they have such rugged and steep forms. They are barren of any vegetation, except around their bases and that very scrub-like. It is not like Kansas. It is nothing like New Jersey. I only hope that Oregon is like they say it is, with green trees and fertile valleys.
We passed by Fort Kearny a few days ago and although we did not need to purchase any supplies from the traders there, it was good to see people and we had a dance in celebration. The days have become long and I despaired of ever seeing a civilized place again, not that you could really call that place civilized. It was bustling; a small island of Americans far from anywhere except this road.
The scenes we see stay the same and change little, except over time – at first it was green Kansas prairie, hour after hour. Now it is a great sandy desert, day after day. The place we camp in the evening looks very like the place we started from that morning. It seems like we are not going anywhere at all – except for a slowly changing horizon.
It seems strange now that in the beginning we thought this was going to be such a pleasant adventure. Our day is a monotony of sameness, not only in scenery but in routine. We rise before the dawn and start preparing for our day’s journey. Papa tends to the animals. My brothers and I pack our bedding back into the wagon. Mama and Auntie Florence begin to prepare our breakfast over the small morning fire. It is my duty to help them as soon as the other tasks with the boys are completed.
Did you know that buffalo dung burns when dried properly? It seems an unappetizing fuel for a cooking fire but the food does not suffer ill effects from it and it burns well if dry. By the time breakfast is ready, usually cooked grains or pan bread along with some preserved pork, Papa and brothers have things ready to go.
Each of us has a job to do and the familiarity of our activity is one thing that makes this feel as much like “home” as it does. Home and hearth are wherever we are at, as long as we are together and safe. We are comfortable with each other and with our trail “life.” We eat, then stow the cooking utensils. As it gets light, we are ready to pull out onto the trail. We are charged with being prepared when the “Boss” says, so as not to delay the other members of our party. There are 28 families of us altogether, although seven will not continue with us past Fort Hall, but will go southward to California instead.
Once on the road, we move slowly, steadily west. We travel every day except on the Sabbath. Our covenant says that we will always spend Sunday at rest -- some of our party would like to see that rule changed, but most of the others would not entertain the notion, no matter the reason.
We have an experienced guide to keep us on the course – although at this time he is hardly needed. This path while rough has seen many wagons before ours. The road is wide and not difficult to follow but we are told that farther west it is not so easily followed. It is thought that by then we will have need of this rough, vulgar man who makes his own clothing from crudely tanned hides. He calls himself Old Charles, as if he is talking of someone else, and he has spent many years in this western country. He is not a Christian nor any other kind of a God-fearing man. The town Saint Charles in Missouri is most assuredly not named for him.
Most of us walk. Only those needing a rest or who are ill ride in the wagons so the load is kept as light as possible so the oxen do not tire and become weak; they must preserve the strength to pull us over the western mountains if we are to be successful in reaching our new home.
We have not had much illness, although one old gentleman died suddenly some few days after we left Saint Joseph. Papa said he died of old age. Everyone talks about and fears the cholera, but we have not seen it. One woman has delivered a child so far, and another nearly succumbed to a fever. The child was christened Dusty, in remembrance of the nature of the trail where she was born.
My brothers ride one of the horses occasionally but I am not permitted to do so. I keep hoping they will be thrown off and land in a cactus, but this is simply spite mixed with a small portion of bile and I pray about it each night, that I might be delivered from my human weaknesses and sinful nature.
This land seems barren and changeless at first glance, but on closer view there are some interesting things. There are prairie “dogs!” As we approach their "villages," they look at us and whistle! Their homes are like little mounds of dirt and in each “town” several of them sit up high in the hole in the top of their mound and watch for any dangers that may be approaching. I suppose they are watching for wolves, or snakes. Or perhaps a roaming coyote! As our wagons pass by, they duck down into their holes, and then they pop back up again for another look. Up and down, up and down!
Sometimes the coyotes get right in amongst us and walk along side – just like a dog. They almost look like dogs! They seem to like people, but in quick order some boy will take up a rifle and shoot at them, so they do not stay with us long. They are very quick and no boy has been able to hit one yet. Papa gives my brothers much trouble over this.
We have seen no wolves, but they are around. I heard one howl one evening while we were sitting by our fire. I miss Josiah but we have picked up a new dog along this road – he followed us out from Saint Joseph and would not shoo away. I have named him Pete. I guess he must think we will need his wisdom and guidance later, as I think he must be a prairie dog too! I wonder if he would be as bold as he is if one of these coyotes tried to eat him?
We have seen no buffaloes, but they have been around where we are many times, for there is buffalo dung everywhere, especially along the river. Back in the Kansas territory, where it was green, we would see deer and antelope frequently. We saw enough of them that we had venison with our meals on many nights, even enough that we shared with some Indians once. After we shared our supper with them, they followed us at a distance for several days, seemingly watching out for us. After a time, they moved off in a different direction and we have not seen them again.
Papa is a good shot with his rifle. Many a rabbit along this road has suffered regret and serious misfortune in getting too close to Papa’s rifle. The rabbits that we see now though are not fit to eat -- in fact, they almost don't look like rabbits at all. They are taller, and rangy. They are all hind-legs and ears, and their meat is wormy and stringy. They look more like a cross between a barn rat and an antelope than anything else. As we approach, they at first try to hide in the brush, but as the wagons reach them, they change their minds about hiding and they bound away like deer on their springy hind-legs..
By late morn, we have usually progressed about ten or twelve miles and we stop for a dinner break and to rest the animals for a time. We eat our food cold at noon, usually a dry biscuit and some water – there is not time to make a fire. After this break, we continue on in the afternoon until it is time to stop for the night, usually four or five more hours. The scout has ridden on ahead to pick out a likely place for our night’s rest. The rain storms usually came in the afternoons back closer to St Joe, but now we don’t seem to get any rain at all. Perhaps I would not mind a little mud in trade for a nice cooling rain.
In the evening, we have another hot meal if we can and we rest and repair any of our kit that has broken down. We often sit around our cook fire and as it dies we can see the stars when the skies are clear as they most often are here.
Many times, our “neighbors” in the train stop by our fires to visit (and we with them) and talk about the day, about where we came from and about our hopes for Oregon or California. We are all about the same, all of us are farm folk. A few times, one or two of the young men stopped by to see if they could spark me a little – perhaps they thought they could reach Oregon with a new bride in tow! But I am too young for such thoughts and I have no interest in them. They have become discouraged with their matrimonial prospects at our wagon and have taken their discouragement elsewhere. Papa teases me without mercy and threatens that I will end my days as a hopeless "old maid" but I think perhaps I can afford to wait a little longer.
This journey has become familiar to the point of weariness. Day after day the same and for many days, no change of scenery, not many trees in view, not even an Indian to add interest to it. I wonder if we ever will reach our destination or will all the days of my life be spent on a dusty, dry and rocky trail. The monotony of this desert admits no end – not even a horizon to speak of much – just a hazy smudge of yellow or blue far away in the dusty distance. It is too hot for words and I am bone-sore and weary. There is not a plant in this entire country that does not have a thorn on its end.
But yesterday, a new thing came into view. Out on the horizon, my brother William saw it first – a “spire.” It seemed like a church steeple at first view, but we knew that it was not. Many travelers along this trail have remarked on Chimney Rock – and we will pass by it before suppertime today, just as we passed by Courthouse Rock a couple of days ago. It has been within our view and seemingly our grasp all yesterday noon and all day today. We are making progress! My brothers say if we stop there they shall try to climb it. I have read about this place that seemed so far away and now we are here.
The view of it has raised my spirits, can you imagine? If we have gotten this far, that means we will see other things along this road about which others have written, sooner or later. If there really is a Chimney Rock, then there is a Fort John, a South Pass, a Fort Hall and a Columbia River. There will, after some lengthy and tedious walking, be an Oregon. With grace and a measure of fortune, there will be a new farm and a new life.
Perhaps tonight we will have a dance!
Rachel McLane Evans,
1847
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