FORT LARAMIE, WYOMING.
I quote from my journal:
"Camp No. 99, July 16, Fort Laramie, odometer 1,247.—From the time we
crossed the Missouri in May, 1852, until we arrived opposite this place
on the north bank of the Platte, no place or name was so universally in
the minds of the emigrants as old Fort Laramie; here, we eagerly looked
for letters that never came—maybe our friends and relatives had not
written; maybe they had and the letter lost or dumped somewhere in 'The
States'; but now all hope vanished, regarding the prospect of hearing
from home and we must patiently wait until the long journey has ended
and a missive might reach us by the Isthmus or maybe by a sail vessel
around Cape Horn. Now, as I write, I know my letter written in the
morning will at night be on the banks of the great river, and so for
each day of the year. One never ceases to exclaim, 'What changes time
has wrought!' What wondrous changes in these fifty-four years, since I
first set foot on the banks of the Platte and looked longingly across
the river for the letter that never came."
[Illustration: A Snap Shot; Out on the Trail.]
"This morning at 4:30 the alarm sounded, but in spite of our strenuous
efforts the start was delayed till 6:15. Conditions were such as to
give us a hot day, but the cattle would not travel without eating the
grass in the road, having for some cause not liked the grass they
were on during the night; and so, after driving a couple of miles
and finding splendid feed, we turned them out to fill up, which they
speedily did, and thereafter became laggards, too lazy for anything. So
after all we did not arrive here till 4:00, and with dinner at six, it
is not strange that we had good appetites.
"Locally, it is difficult to get accurate information. All agree there
is no vestige of the old Traders' Camp or the first United States fort
left, but disagree as to its location. The new fort (not a fort, but an
encampment) covers a space of thirty or forty acres with all sorts of
buildings and ruins, from the old barracks, three hundred feet long,
in good preservation and occupied by the present owner, Joseph Wild,
as a store, postoffice, saloon, hotel and family residence, to the old
guard house with its grim iron door and twenty-inch concrete walls. One
frame building, two stories, we are told, was transported by ox team
from Kansas City at a cost of $100 per ton freight. There seems to be
no plan either in the arrangement of the buildings or of the buildings
themselves. I noticed one building, part stone, part concrete, part
adobe, and part burnt brick. The concrete walls of one building
measured twenty-two inches thick and there is evidence of the use of
lime with a lavish hand, and I think all of them are alike massive.
"The location of the barracks is in Sec. 28, T. 26 N., R. 64 W. of 6th
P. M., United States survey."
SCOTT'S BLUFF.
July 20th, odometer 1,308¼ miles.—We drove out from the town of Scott's
Bluff to the left bank of the North Platte, less than a mile from the
town, to a point nearly opposite that noted landmark, Scott's Bluff, on
the right bank, looming up near eight hundred feet above the river and
adjoining green fields, and photographed the bluffs and section of the
river.
Probably all emigrants of early days remember Scott's Bluff, which
could be seen for so long a distance, and yet apparently so near for
days and days, till it finally sank out of sight as we passed on,
and new objects came into view. As with Tortoise Rock, the formation
is sand and clay cemented, yet soft enough to cut easily, and is
constantly changing in smaller details.
We certainly saw Scott's Bluff while near the junction of the two
rivers, near a hundred miles distant, in that illusive phenomenon, the
mirage, as plainly as when within a few miles of it.
Speaking of this deceptive manifestation of one natural law, I am led
to wonder why, on the trip of 1906, I have seen nothing of those sheets
of water so real as to be almost within our grasp, yet never reached,
those hills and valleys we never traversed, beautiful pictures on the
horizon and sometimes above, while traversing the valley in 1852—all
gone, perhaps to be seen no more, as climatic changes come to destroy
the conditions that caused them. Perhaps this may in part be caused by
the added humidity of the atmosphere, or it may be also in part because
of the numerous groves of timber that now adorn the landscape. Whatever
the cause, the fact remains that in the year 1852 the mirage was of
common occurrence and now, if seen at all, is rare.
The origin of the name of Scott's Bluff is not definitely known, but as
tradition runs "a trader named Scott, while returning to the States,
was robbed and stripped by the Indians. He crawled to these bluffs and
there famished and his bones were afterwards found and buried," these
quoted words having been written by a passing emigrant on the spot,
June 11, 1852.
Another version of his fate is that Scott fell sick and was abandoned
by his traveling companions, and after having crawled near forty miles
finally died near the "Bluffs" ever after bearing his name. This
occurred prior to 1830.
THE DEAD OF THE PLAINS.
From the "Bluffs" we drove as direct as possible to that historic
grave, two miles out from the town and on the railroad right of way, of
Mrs. Rebecca Winters, who died August 15, 1852, nearly six weeks after
I had passed over the ground.
[Illustration: The Lone Grave.]
But for the handiwork of some unknown friend or relative this grave,
like thousands and thousands of others who fell by the wayside in those
strenuous days, would have passed out of sight and mind and nestled in
solitude and unknown for all ages to come.
As far back as the memory of the oldest inhabitant runs, a half-sunken
wagon tire bore this simple inscription, "Rebecca Winters, aged 50
years." The hoofs of stock trampled the sunken grave and trod it
into dust, but the arch of the tire remained to defy the strength of
thoughtless hands who would have removed it, and of the ravages of time
that seem not to have affected it. Finally, in "the lapse of time" that
usual non-respecter of persons—the railroad survey, and afterwards the
rails—came along and would have run the track over the lonely grave but
for the tender care of the man who wielded the compass and changed the
line, that the resting place of the pioneer should not be disturbed,
followed by the noble impulse of him who held the power to control
the "soulless corporation," and the grave was protected and enclosed.
Then came the press correspondent and the press to herald to the world
the pathos of the lone grave, to in time reach the eyes and touch the
hearts of the descendants of the dead, who had almost passed out of
mind and to quicken the interest in the memory of one once dear to
them, till in time there arose a beautiful monument lovingly inscribed,
just one hundred years after the birth of the inmate of the grave.
As I looked upon this grave, now surrounded by green fields and happy
homes, my mind ran back to the time it was first occupied in the desert
(as all believed the country through which we were passing to be),
and the awful calamity that overtook so many to carry them to their
untimely and unknown graves.
The ravages of cholera carried off thousands. One family of seven
a little further down the Platte, lie all in one grave; forty-one
persons of one train dead in one day and two nights tells but part of
the dreadful story. The count of fifty-three freshly made graves in
one camp ground left a vivid impress upon my mind that has never been
effaced; but where now are those graves? They are irrevocably lost. I
can recall to mind one point where seventy were buried in one little
group, not one of the graves now to be seen—trampled out of sight by
the hoofs of the millions of stock later passing over the Trail.
Bearing this in mind, how precious this thought that even one grave has
been rescued from oblivion, and how precious will become the memory of
the deeds of those who have so freely dedicated their part to recall
the events of the past and to honor those sturdy pioneers who survived
those trying experiences as well as the dead, by erecting those
monuments that now line the Trail for nearly two thousand miles. To
these, one and all, I bow my head in grateful appreciation of their aid
in this work to perpetuate the memory of the pioneers, and especially
the 5,000 school children who have each contributed their mite that the
memory of the dead pioneers might remain fresh in their minds and the
minds of generations to follow.
A drive of seventeen miles brought us to the town of Bayard, 1,338
miles on the way from The Dalles, Oregon, where our continuous drive
began.
CHIMNEY ROCK.
Chimney Rock is six miles southwesterly, in full view, a curious freak
of nature we all remembered while passing in '52.
[Illustration: Chimney Rock, Platte Valley.]
The base reminds one of an umbrella standing on the ground, covering
perhaps twelve acres and running, cone-shaped, 200 feet to the base of
the spire resting upon it. The spire (chimney) points to the heavens,
which would entitle the pile to a more appropriate name, as like a
church spire, tall and slim, the wonder of all—how it comes that the
hand of time has not leveled it, long ago and mingled its crumbling
substance with that lying at its base. The whole pile, like that at
Scott's Bluff and Court House Rock, further down, is a sort of soft
sandstone, or cement and clay, gradually crumbling away and destined to
be leveled to the earth in centuries to come.
A local story runs that an army officer trained artillery on this
spire, shot off about thirty feet from the top, and was afterwards
court-martialed and discharged in disgrace from the army; but I could
get no definite information, though the story was repeated again and
again. It would seem incredible that an intelligent man, such as an
army officer, would do such an act, and if he did he deserved severe
condemnation and punishment.
I noticed that at Soda Springs the hand of the vandal has been at work
and that interesting phenomenon, the Steamboat Spring, the wonderment
of all in 1852, with its intermittent spouting, had been tampered with
and ceased to act. It would seem the degenerates are not all dead yet.
NORTH PLATTE, NEBRASKA.
At North Platte the ladies of the W. C. T. U. appointed a committee to
undertake to erect a monument, the business men all refusing to give up
any time. However, W. C. Ritner, a respected citizen of North Platte,
offered to donate a handsome monument with a cement base, marble cap,
stone and cement column, five and a half feet high, which will be
accepted by the ladies and erected in a suitable place.