Going two miles this morning, we came to a little stream called the
Little Cottonweed. Our trail led over a hilly country, presenting every
variety of scenery, from the level plain to the bold bluffs, with here a
few shrubs of pine and cedar. These evergreens are the only objects
generally which enliven the plains in which they are found, as they
usually grow in the moist barrens and indescribable places, deep ravines
and nearly naked rocks. At length we have come into the region of wild
sage so well known and so much hated by the emigrant, as it grows in the
most inhospitable regions. It is a low, bushy shrub, with thick and
light-colored leaves, resembling to some extent the leaf of the
cultivated sage and exhaling a similar scent. Our road is very
circuitous. We have, in a few hours, traveled toward every point of the
compass. Laramie Peak, which we first saw from Scotts Bluffs, is still
in sight, several miles to the south of us. Its snow-capped summit
presents a strong contrast to the green hill and prairie, which are just
putting on their summer apparel. Today we swapped our wagon for one we
found abandoned by the road. We made a good trade. Distance, twenty-one
miles.