Trail, it must be remembered, is essentially an ox-team trail. No more
effective instrument, therefore, could have been chosen to attract
attention, arouse enthusiasm, and secure aid in forwarding the work,
than this living symbol of the old days.
Indeed, too much attention, in one sense, was attracted. I had scarcely
driven the outfit away from my own dooryard before the wagon and wagon
cover, and even the map of the old trail on the sides of the cover,
began to be defaced. First I noticed a name or two written on the wagon
bed, then a dozen or more, all stealthily placed there, until the whole
was so closely covered that there was no room for more. Finally the
vandals began carving initials on the wagon bed and cutting off pieces
to carry away. Eventually I put a stop to such vandalism by employing
special police, posting notices, and nabbing some offenders in the very
act.
Give me Indians on the Plains to contend with; give me fleas or even the
detested sage-brush ticks to burrow into the flesh; but deliver me from
cheap notoriety seekers!
I had decided to take along one helper, and a man by the name of Herman
Goebel went as far as The Dalles with the outfit. There William Marden
joined me for the journey across the Plains. Marden stayed with me for
three years, and proved to be faithful and helpful.
And now a word as to my oxen. The first team consisted of one
seven-year-old ox, Twist, and one unbroken five-year-old range steer,
Dave. When we were ready to start, Twist weighed 1,470 pounds and Dave
1,560. This order of weight was soon changed. In three months' time
Twist gained 130 pounds and Dave lost 80. All this time I fed them with
a lavish hand all the rolled barley I dared give and all the hay they
would eat.
[Illustration: Preparing to cross a river; unyoking the oxen.]
Dave would hook and kick and perform every other mean trick. Besides, he
would stick his tongue out from the smallest kind of exertion. He had
just been shipped in off the Montana cattle range and had never had a
rope on him, unless it was when he was branded. Like a great over-grown
booby of a boy, he was flabby in flesh, and he could not endure any sort
of exertion without discomfort. At one time I became very nearly
discouraged with him.
Yet this was the ox that made the round trip. He bore his end of the
yoke from the tidewaters of the Pacific to the tidewaters of the
Atlantic, at the Battery, New York City, and on to Washington City to
meet the President. He finally became subdued, though not conquered. At
times he became threatening with his horns, and I never did trust his
heels.
[Illustration: Taking off the wagon box.]
The other ox, Twist, died suddenly on August 9, 1906, and was buried
within a few rods of the trail. It was two months to a day after his
death before I could find a mate for the Dave ox, and then I had to take
another five-year-old steer off the cattle range of Nebraska. This
steer, Dandy, evidently had never been handled; but he came of good
stock and, with the exception of awkwardness, gave me no serious
trouble. Dandy was purchased out of the stockyard at Omaha. He then
weighed 1,470 pounds, and the day before he went to see the President he
tipped the scales at the 1,760-pound notch. Dandy proved to be a
faithful, serviceable ox.
On the journey Dave had to be shod fourteen times, I think, and he
always struggled to get away. Once, on the summit of the Rocky
Mountains, we had to throw Dave and tie him hard and fast before we
could shoe him. It takes two shoes to one foot for an ox, instead of one
as for a horse, though the fastening is the same; that is, by nailing
into the hoof. At one time Dandy's hoofs became so worn that I could not
fasten a shoe on him, and so I had what we called leather boots put on,
that left a track like an elephant's; but he could not pull well with
them on.
[Illustration: Calking the wagon box to turn it into a boat.]
Besides the oxen we had a dog, Jim. More will be told of him later.
An authentic prairie schooner, a true veteran of the Plains, was out of
the question. In building the new one, use was made of parts of three
old wagons. The woodwork of the wagon had to be new throughout except
for one hub, which had done service across the Plains in 1853. This hub
and the bands, boxes, and other iron parts were from two old-time wagons
that had crossed the Plains in 1853. They differed somewhat in size and
shape; hence the hubs of the fore and hind wheels did not match.
[Illustration: Launching the schooner to cross the river.]
The axles were of wood, with the old-time linchpins and steel skeins,
which called for the use of tar and the tar bucket instead of axle
grease. Why? Because if grease were used, the spokes would work loose,
and soon the whole wheel would collapse. The bed was of the old
prairie-schooner style, with the bottom boat-shaped and the ribs on the
outside.
My first camp for the return journey over the old trail was made in my
own dooryard at Puyallup. This was maintained for several days to give
the wagon and team a trial. After the weak points had been strengthened
and everything pronounced to be in order, I left home for the long
trip.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Great changes had taken place along the old trail through
Washington and Oregon; here are strawberries growing where the forest
stood in 1852.]
The first drive was to Seattle through the towns of Sumner, Auburn, and
Kent. In Seattle I had a host of friends and acquaintances, and I
thought that there I could arouse interest in my plan and secure some
aid for it. Nothing came of the effort. My closest friends, on the
contrary, tried to dissuade me from going; and, I may say, actually
tried to convince others that it would be an act of friendship not to
lend any aid to the enterprise. I knew, or thought I knew, that my
strength would warrant undertaking the ordeal; I felt sure I could make
the trip successfully. But my friends remained unconvinced; so after
spending two weeks in Seattle I shipped my outfit by steamer to Tacoma,
only to meet the same spirit there.
One pleasant incident broke the monotony. Henry Hewitt, of Tacoma,
drove up alongside my team and said, "Meeker, if you get broke out there
on the Plains, just telegraph me for money to come back on."
"No," I said, "I'd rather hear you say to telegraph for money to go on
with."
"All right," came the response, "have it that way, then."
Henry drove off, perhaps not giving the conversation a second thought
until he received my telegram two months later, telling him that I had
lost an ox and wanted him to send me two hundred dollars. The money was
immediately wired to me.
Somehow no serious thought of turning back ever entered my mind. When I
had once resolved to make the trip, nothing but utter physical
disability could deter me. I felt on this point just as I did when I
first crossed the Plains in 1852.
From Tacoma I shipped again by steamer to Olympia. The end of the old
trail is but two miles distant from Olympia at Tumwater, the extreme
southern point of Puget Sound. Here the first American party of
homeseekers to Washington rested and settled in 1845. At this point I
set a post, and afterwards arranged for a stone to be placed to mark the
spot.
On the twentieth of February I went to Tenino, south of Olympia, on the
train. My outfit was drawn to this place by a horse team, the oxen being
taken along under yoke. Dave was still not an ox, but an unruly steer. I
dared not intrust driving him to other hands, yet I had to go ahead to
arrange for the monument and the lecture.
The twenty-first of February was a red-letter day. At Tenino I had the
satisfaction of helping to dedicate the first monument erected to mark
the old trail. The stores were closed, and the school children in a
body came over to the dedication. The monument was donated by the Tenino
Quarry Company; it is inscribed "Old Oregon Trail: 1843-57."
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
A prosperous fruit farm along the trail.]
In the evening I addressed a good-sized audience, and sixteen dollars
was received to help on the good work. The spirit of the people, more
than the money, was encouraging.
At Chehalis, Washington, the Commercial Club undertook to erect and
dedicate a monument. John R. Jackson was the first American citizen to
settle north of the Columbia River. One of the daughters, Mrs. Ware,
accompanied by her husband, indicated the spot where the monument should
be erected, and a post was planted. A touching incident was that Mrs.
Ware was requested to put the post in place and hold it while her
husband tamped the earth around it.
At Toledo, the place where the pioneers left the Cowlitz River on the
trail to the Sound, another marker was placed by the citizens.
[Illustration: The first boulder marked on the old trail; near The
Dalles of the Columbia.]
From Toledo I shipped the whole outfit by steamer down the Cowlitz
River, and took passage with my assistants to Portland, thus reversing
the order of travel in 1853. We used steam instead of the brawn of
stalwart pioneers and Indians to propel the boat. On the evening of
March the first I pitched my tent in the heart of the city of Portland,
on a grassy vacant lot.
On the morning of the tenth of March I took steamer with my outfit,
bound up the Columbia for The Dalles. How wondrous the change!
Fifty-four years before, I had come floating down this same stream in a
flatboat with a party of poor, heartsick pioneers; now I made the trip
enjoying cushioned chairs, delicious foods, fine linens, magazines and
books--every luxury of civilized life.
That night I arrived at The Dalles, and drove nearly three quarters of a
mile to a camping ground near the park. The streets were muddy, and the
cattle were impatient and walked very fast, which made it necessary for
me to tramp through the mud at their heads. We had no supper or even
tea, as we did not build a fire. It was clear that night, but raining in
the morning.
Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the Landmark
Committee at The Dalles. What should they do but provide a monument
already inscribed and in place, and notify me that I had been selected
to deliver the dedicatory address!
The weather of the next day treated us to some hardships that I had
missed on the first overland journey. Ice formed in the camp half an
inch thick, and the high wind joined forces with the damper of our
stove, which had got out of order, to fill the tent with smoke and make
life miserable.
The fierce, cold wind also made it necessary to postpone the dedication
for a day and finally to carry it out with less ceremony than had been
planned. Nevertheless, I felt that the expedition was now fairly
started. We had reached the point where the real journey would begin,
and the interest shown in the plan by the towns along the way had been
most encouraging.
[Illustration: The Dalles, on the Columbia River.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN
IT was the fourteenth of March when I drove out of The Dalles to make
the long overland journey. By rail, it is 1734 miles from The Dalles to
Omaha, where our work of marking the old trail was to end. By wagon road
the distance is greater, but not much greater--probably 1800 miles.
The load was very heavy, and so were the roads. With a team untrained to
the road and one of the oxen unbroken, with no experienced ox driver to
assist me, and the grades heavy, small wonder if a feeling of depression
crept over me. On some long hills we could move only a few rods at a
time, and on level roads, with the least warm sun, the unbroken ox would
poke out his tongue.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
An apple orchard in Washington.]
We were passing now through the great farming district of eastern
Oregon. The desert over which we had dragged ourselves in those long-ago
days has been largely turned into great wheat fields. As we drew into
camp one night a young man approached, driving eight harnessed horses.
He told me that he had harrowed in thirty-five acres of wheat that day,
and that it was just a common day's work to plow seven acres of land.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Where a wheat farm of today has taken the place of the unbroken prairie
in eastern Oregon.]
I recalled my boyhood days when father spoke approvingly if I plowed two
acres a day, and when to harrow ten acres was the biggest kind of a
day's work. I also recalled the time when we cut the wheat with a
sickle, or maybe with a hand cradle, and threshed it out with horses on
the barn floor. Sometimes we had a fanning mill, and how it would make
my arms ache to turn the crank! At other times, if a stiff breeze sprang
up, the wheat and chaff would be shaken loose and the chaff would be
blown away. If all other means failed, two stout arms at either end of a
blanket or a sheet would move the sheet as a fan to clean the wheat. Now
we see the great combination harvester garner thirty acres a day, and
thresh it as well and sack it ready for the mill or warehouse. There
is no shocking, no stacking or housing: all in one operation, the grain
is made ready for market.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
In spite of the wide-spreading farms and fruit orchards, there are still
forests in Washington and Oregon, and lumbering is still a great
industry.]
As we journeyed eastward, the Blue Mountains came into distant view.
Half a day's brisk travel brought us well up toward the snow line. The
country became less broken, the soil seemed better, the rainfall had
been greater. We began to see red barns and comfortable farmhouses,
still set wide apart, though, for the farms are large.
In the Walla Walla valley the scene is different. Smaller farms are the
rule and orchards are to be seen everywhere. We now passed the historic
spot where the Whitman massacre occurred in 1847. Soon afterward we were
in camp in the very heart of the thriving city of Walla Walla. It was
near here that I had met my father when I crossed by the Natchess Pass
Trail in 1854.
Another day's travel brought us to Pendleton, Oregon. Here the
Commercial Club took hold with a will and provided funds for a stone
monument. On the last day of March it was dedicated with appropriate
ceremonies.
That evening I drove out to the Indian school in a fierce rainstorm to
talk to the teachers and pupils about the Oregon Trail. A night in the
wagon without fire and with only a scant supper sent my spirits down to
zero. Nor did they rise when I learned next morning that the snow had
fallen eighteen inches deep in the mountains. However, with this news
came a warm invitation from the school authorities to use a room they
had allotted to us, with a stove, and to help ourselves to fuel. That
cheered us up greatly.
There was doubt whether we could cross the Blue Mountains in all this
snow. I decided to investigate; so I took the train. About midnight I
was landed in the snow at Meacham, with no visible light in the hotel
and no track beaten to it.
Morning confirmed the report of the storm; twenty inches of snow had
fallen in the mountains.
An old mountaineer told me, "Yes, it is possible to cross, but I warn
you it will be a hard job."
It was at once arranged that the second morning thereafter his team
should leave Meacham on the way to meet me.
"But what about a monument, Mr. Burns?" I said. "Meacham is a historic
place, with Lee's encampment in sight." (It was in 1834 that the
Reverend Jason Lee had crossed the continent with Wyeth's second
expedition.)
"We have no money," came the quick reply, "but we've got plenty of
muscle. Send us a stone and I'll warrant you the foundation will be
built and the monument put in place."
A belated train gave opportunity to return at once to Pendleton, where
an appeal for aid to provide an inscribed stone for Meacham was
responded to with alacrity. The stone was ordered, and a sound night's
sleep followed.
I quote from my journal. "Camp No. 31, April 4, 1906. We are now on the
snow line of Blue Mountains (8 P.M.), and am writing this by our first
really out-of-doors camp fire, under the spreading boughs of a friendly
pine tree. We estimate we have driven twelve miles; started from the
school at 7 A.M. The first three or four miles over a beautiful farming
country; then we began climbing the foothills, up, up, up, four miles,
reaching first snow at three o'clock."
True to promise, the mountaineer's team met us on the way to Meacham,
but not till we had reached the snow. We were axle-deep in it and had
the shovel in use to clear the way, when Burns came upon us. By night we
were safely encamped at Meacham, with the cheering news that the
monument had arrived and could be dedicated the next day.
The summit of the mountain had not been reached, and the worst tug lay
ahead of us. But casting thoughts of this from mind, all hands turned to
the monument, which by eleven o'clock was in place. Twist and Dave stood
near it, hitched up, and ready for the start as soon as the order was
given. Everybody in town was there, the little school coming in a body.
After the speech we moved on to battle with the snow, and finally won
our way over the summit.
[Illustration: A monument to the old trail, on the high school grounds
at Baker City, Oregon.]
The sunshine that was let into our hearts at La Grande was also
refreshing. "Yes, we will have a monument," the people responded. And
they got one, too, dedicating it while I tarried.
We had taken with us an inscribed stone to set up at an intersection
near the mouth of Ladd's Canyon, eight miles out of La Grande. The
school near by came in a body. The children sang "Columbia, the Gem of
the Ocean," after which I talked to the assemblage for a few moments,
and the exercises closed with all singing "America." Each child brought
a stone and cast it upon the pile surrounding the base of the monument.
The citizens of Baker City lent a willing ear to the suggestion to erect
a monument on the high-school grounds, although the trail is six miles
off to the north, and a fine granite shaft was provided for the
high-school grounds and was dedicated. A marker was set on the trail.
Eight hundred school children contributed an aggregate of sixty dollars
to place a children's bronze tablet on this shaft. Two thousand people
participated in the ceremony of dedication.
News of these events was now beginning to pass along the line ahead. As
a result the citizens in other places began to take hold of the work
with a will. Old Mount Pleasant, Durkee, Huntington, and Vale were other
Oregon towns that followed the good lead and erected monuments to mark
the old trail. A most gratifying feature of the work was the hearty
participation in it of the school children.
[Illustration: _Howard R. Driggs_
A sheep herder's wagon in the sage-covered hills of Wyoming near the
Oregon Trail.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRAILING ON TO THE SOUTH PASS
THE Snake River was crossed just below the mouth of the Boise, about
where, almost fifty-four years before, we had made our second crossing
of the river.
We were landed on the historic site of old Fort Boise, established by
the Hudson's Bay Company in September, 1834. This fort was established
for the purpose of preventing the success of the American venture at
Fort Hall, a post established earlier in 1834 by Nathaniel J. Wyeth.
Wyeth's venture proved a failure, and the fort soon passed to his rival,
the Hudson's Bay Company. Thus for the time being the British had rule
of the whole of that vast region known as the Inland Empire, then the
Oregon Country.
Some relics of the old fort at Boise were secured. Arrangements were
made for planting a doubly inscribed stone to mark the trail and the
site of the fort, and afterwards, through the liberality of the
citizens of Boise City, a stone was ordered and put in place.
[Illustration: _Brown Bros._
Sheep ready for shipment at Caldwell, Idaho.]
At Boise, the capital of Idaho, there were nearly twelve hundred
contributions to the monument fund by the pupils of the public schools.
The monument stands on the State House grounds and is inscribed as the
children's offering to the memory of the pioneers. More than three
thousand people attended the dedication service.
The spirit of cooperation and good will towards the enterprise that was
manifested at the capital city prevailed all through Idaho. From Parma,
the first town we came to on the western edge, to Montpelier, near the
eastern boundary, the people of Idaho seemed anxious to do their part in
marking the old trail. Besides the places already named, Twin Falls,
American Falls, Pocatello, and Soda Springs all responded to the appeal
by erecting monuments to mark the Old Trail.
One rather exciting incident happened near Montpelier. A vicious bull
attacked my ox team, first from one side and then the other. Then he
got in between the oxen and caused them nearly to upset the wagon. I was
thrown down in the mix-up, but fortunately escaped unharmed.
[Illustration: The monument to the trail at Boise, Idaho.]
This incident reminded me of a scrape one of our neighboring trains got
into on the Platte in 1852, with a wounded buffalo. The train had
encountered a large herd of these animals, feeding and traveling at
right angles to the road. The older heads of the party, fearing a
stampede of their teams, had ordered the men not to molest the
buffaloes, but to give their whole attention to the care of the teams.
One impulsive young fellow would not be restrained; he fired into the
herd and wounded a large bull. The maddened bull charged upon a wagon
filled with women and children and drawn by a team of mules. He became
entangled in the harness and was caught on the wagon-tongue between the
mules. The air was full of excitement for a while. The women screamed,
the children cried, and the men began to shout. But the practical
question was how to dispatch the bull without shooting the mules as
well. Trainmen forgot their own teams and rushed to the wagon in
trouble. The guns began to pop and the buffalo was finally killed. The
wonder is that nobody was harmed.
From Cokeville to Pacific Springs, just west of the summit of the Rocky
Mountains at South Pass, by the road and trail we traveled, is one
hundred and fifty-eight miles. Ninety miles of this stretch is away from
the sound of the locomotive, the click of the telegraph, or the voice of
the "hello girl." The mountains here are from six to seven thousand feet
above sea level, with scanty vegetable growth. The country is still
almost a solitude, save as here and there a sheep herder or his wagon
may be discerned. The sly coyote, the simple antelope, and the cunning
sage hen still hold sway as they did when I first traversed the country.
The old trail is there in all its grandeur.
[Illustration: Monument at Pocatello, Idaho.]
"Why mark that trail!" I exclaimed. Miles and miles of it are worn so
deep that centuries of storm will not efface it; generations may pass
and the origin of the trail may become a legend, but these marks will
remain.
We wondered to see the trail worn fifty feet wide and three feet deep,
and we hastened to photograph it. But after we were over the crest of
the mountain, we saw it a hundred feet wide and fifteen feet deep. The
tramp of thousands upon thousands of men and women, the hoofs of
millions of animals, and the wheels of untold numbers of vehicles had
loosened the soil, and the fierce winds had carried it away. In one
place we found ruts worn a foot deep into the solid rock.
The mountain region was as wild as it had been when I first saw it. One
day, while we were still west of the Rocky Mountains, in Wyoming, two
antelopes crossed the road about a hundred yards ahead of us, a buck and
a doe. The doe soon disappeared, but the buck came near the road and
stood gazing at us in wonderment, as if to ask, "Who the mischief are
you?"
[Illustration: Deep ruts had been worn in the solid rock of the trail
through the mountain country.]
Our dog Jim soon scented him, and away they went up the mountain side
until Jim got tired and came back to the wagon. Then the antelope
stopped on a little eminence on the mountain, and for a long distance we
could see him plainly against a background of sky.