This morning, after going some two miles up the banks of the river, we
turned off to the south and wound up over the bluffs, and traveled a
level, dry region, almost destitute of vegetation. After going over this
tableland for about twelve miles, we again came down to the river,
through a steep and sandy ravine. Our feet would sink into the sand some
six or eight inches in walking over it, and was thrown up in showers by
the wheels of our wagons. We stopped for the night some twelve miles
farther beyond where we reached the bottom. The day has been warm,
though cloudy. The earth is parched with drought, and if rain does not
fall soon, vegetation will be entirely checked. The flood of emigrants
is rushing past and behind us, all in haste to surpass each other in
reaching the land of gold. Some of the fastest travelers have already
gained much time upon us; a few have gone by us who started as late as
the fifth and sixth of May. But they are now compelled to go more slow,
as the feed with which they supplied themselves on the start is
exhausted, and their teams are becoming weak. One of our party waded
across the Platte today for the purpose of ascertaining the condition of
the grass on the other side, as from our side it looks quite forward.
The water was nowhere above his knees. Two of our men who left us on
Sunday for the purpose of hunting buffaloes have returned. They were
completely tired of their sport, having succeeded in capturing one of
those huge animals and wounding half a dozen more. Distance, nineteen
miles.