28th. Sunday. Crossed a sand ridge about two miles, and travelled down
the bottom about four miles, where we found some grass and camped. Our
horses are failing fast. Kit Carson says truly that the Humboldt is the
burying ground for horses and oxen. We pass daily great numbers of dead
stock at the camping grounds, in the sloughs, and in the river. The
river is nothing but horse broth, seasoned with alkali & salt. The
appearance of emigrants has sadly changed since we started. Then they
were full of life and animation, and the road was enlivened with the
song of "I am going to California with my tin pan on my knee." "Oh,
California, that's the land for me," but now they crawl along hungry,
and spiritless, and if a song is raised at all, it is, "Oh carry me
back to Old Virginia, to Old Virginia's shore." Well, they say misery
loves company, so we can have some enjoyment after all, for there is
plenty of that kind of company. No one seems to know where we are, even
those who traveled the route last year, several of whom are along. Last
year the road led immediately on the bottom, but this year it is on the
sage plains or second level of the river, the bottoms being so swampy
that they cannot be crossed. The Mormon guide for this end of the
route, is good for nothing. Yesterday was the worst day for dust that
we have had. Every body was literally covered with it so that the
drivers could not be recognised.