THE PAST
As I've pointed out before, we had been gradually gaining elevation ever since we left St. Joe, but the rise is so gradual that one hardly notices it. That changed in a big way after Fort Laramie. As I remembered from the trip in '49, for the next week we were always climbing up something, or going down something, frequently on terrible roads. I had to pay a lot more attention to my wagon driving than I had in Nebraska Territory, and Jenny had to do most of our book reading. We were still reading "The Scarlet Letter. It was difficult at times, because the author never used just one sentence, when he could use ten! We often got tangled up in long, long descriptions that just slowed down the story, without having any particular significance. Also, there were quite a few words that neither of us knew the meaning of. Since most were just part of his long-winded narrative - and not really important to understanding the tale, itself - we either guessed at them, or ignored them.
At Independence Rock, our party joined with the hundreds (maybe thousands) who had preceded us, inscribing their names in paint or axle grease, or carved into the rock. I had resisted the temptation on the California trip - probably remembering my grandmother talking about "fool's names and fool's faces" appearing in public places. However, when Jenny wanted to do it, I couldn't help thinking how nice it would be to have our names written side-by-side, forever. We'd never see them, of course, nor would anybody else who knew about us, but still it seemed worthwhile. We found a spot on the rock not completely covered with other names, and wrote ours in white paint. I thought about surrounding them with a big heart, but it was still a long way to Oregon, and...
For the next week after passing the rock, we followed up the Sweetwater River. There are at least seven or eight river crossings - none particularly difficult, but time consuming. Obviously, the road climbs, but only in small increments, and I doubt that many people believe, at first, that they have actually reached South Pass, 7,500 hundred feet above sea level, on the Continental Divide. On the California trip, I think I expected to arrive on some craggy mountain top, not a flat open area of sagebrush and other low vegetation. But if its look is disappointing, it is a major landmark on the trip. From that point on, we were truly in The West, where all rivers flow to the Pacific, not to the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico.
Memories of the horrors of the Humboldt Sink in Nevada make the desert between the Big Sandy and Green River seem pretty minor. But I don't think anyone in our party but me had been across the Sink, so this desert was a new experience. The way wasn't strewn with dead livestock and abandoned wagons, like in the Sink, but it was without water or animal feed, and the road was terrible. We crossed at night, to escape the blazing sun, and had no particular problems. Still, it was a night to remember.
At the Green River, we did have a problem. It is a substantial stream, wide and deep and with a swift current. There is a ferry to take wagons across, but the cattle have to swim. Ours refused to do that. We would force them into the river, and they'd swim a short way, then turn around and come back to shore. We tried to force them forward several times, with no luck. Finally, we secured them for the night, and went to bed.
In the morning, we had no better luck. I don't remember having such trouble on the trip in '49, but it didn't matter. We had neither the brains or the skill to get the cattle across the river. We were "rescued" by some packers on their way to Salt Lake City, who claimed that - for $50 - they could quickly solve our problem. Fifty dollars seemed steep, but we were stymied, and with everyone contributing, we were able to raise that amount. With our help, the cattle were driven a short distance upstream, to where the river was divided into narrow channels by several islands. The animals had no hesitation in swimming the short distance to the first island, then the channel to a second island, and then to the other side. Mission accomplished.
Some in our party were less than happy about having paid our rescuers $50 for so simple a solution. We could have easily done the job by ourselves, for free! I guess that's right - if we had known about the islands. We didn't, so it seems to me like money well spent. We were quickly on our way, again.
As I remembered from the California trip, the three weeks from the Green River to the Snake River at Fort Hall were through a country of very steep hills and beautiful valleys along the Bear River. Jenny and I enjoyed both the scenery and each's other's presence. Fort Hall was as unimpressive as the first time I saw it and, after an awkward crossing of the Portneuf River, there was little to remark on as we headed west down the Snake.
We had finally finished reading "The Scarlet Letter." It had taken a long time, partly because (as I pointed out, earlier) it was hard reading. I think we both greatly improved our reading and understanding skills before we got through it. The other reason it took a long time was because the story provided us with a lot to talk about.
From the start, I had wondered if the book was suitable for a 15-year old girl. I continued to worry as we got into the subject matter - some of which, I barely understood! - but Jenny was game, and it was interesting, so we kept going. Before we were done, it had provoked a number of deep and complicated conversations.
In case you don't know the story, it is set in Massachusetts, not long after the first "Pilgrims" arrived from Europe. We always say that the Pilgrims came to America so they could have religious freedom. That was particularly true of the Puritans, who settled around Boston. Unfortunately for all the arrivals who weren't Puritans, "freedom of religion" did not apply to them. The Puritans had very strong, very specific, beliefs about right and wrong, and they treated any deviation from their teachings as "sin," and they treated "sin" just like any legal crime. People who didn't believe the Puritan way were forced out of the colony. Those who stayed were subject to what any non-Puritan would consider extreme laws, the simplest violations of which were subject to extreme punishment. The punishments could include hanging, whipping, or shaming. In "The Scarlet Letter," Hester Prynne was forced to wear a letter "A" on her clothes for the rest of her life, so everyone would be constantly reminded of her "sin."
Most of what I just wrote, I have learned in recent years. When we were reading the book, I knew only the most basic facts about Puritan culture, and Jenny knew nothing about it, at all. Both of us were confused and amazed by so-called "Christian" people adopting what appeared to us as extremely non-Christian punishments. Discussing all this - with neither of us knowing what we were discussing! - slowed our reading quite a bit.
Another early problem we had was not being able to tell for sure what Hester's "crime" was. The author is slow to spell this out - actually, I don't think he ever does say it, right out front. Hester is brought from prison and made to stand for hours before the towns people, a large letter "A" sewn to her dress, and carrying a baby. The magistrates try to get her to tell who fathered the child, which she will not do. Obviously, this was part of the "sin," and was also the reason for the letter "A." It took a while for me to figure out what the "A" stood for. It was for adulteress; in other words, a woman who had a baby with someone other than her husband.
I barely knew the word "adulteress," and it was completely unknown to Jenny. In what could have been a funny conversation, but which turned rather complicated and serious, I found out that Jenny not only didn't know the word, she couldn't understand the concept.
"How can a woman have a baby with someone who isn't her husband?" she asked me. At first, I thought she was joking with me, but it didn't seem like a Jenny thing to joke about. As we talked around the subject, I found out that she knew far less about how babies are produced than even I did (which is saying a lot!) As I recite this now, I can't believe we actually had this conversation. There were some preliminaries but, basically, it went like this.
"Jenny, marriage doesn't make it possible to have babies. It just makes it acceptable. In most societies, having children is part of the marriage process - husband and wife raise a family, together - but that's tradition, not biology. Actually, almost any woman could produce a baby with almost any man."
She looked very skeptical. "Are you sure about that?"
I had to smile, I'm sure. "Well, don't ask me for any details about how it happens, but yes, I am sure that it can happen as I said. Marriages are the only way to make it acceptable in most societies, and with the Puritans, it was the only way it wasn't considered 'sinful,' and punishable as a 'crime'."
Both Jenny and I had a lot of trouble relating to the reactions of the various people to the "sin." Not only did all the townspeople shun Hester for the rest of her life, but Hester and the minister (who was the obvious father, from the start) believed strongly that they had sinned, and spent the rest of their lives wallowing in that fact. Nobody lived happily ever after - except perhaps their daughter, but the author only expressed rumors about her life. It was not a happy book.
We started another book, "The Confessions of a Pretty Woman." The title sounded lurid, but it was really a simple story about "merry old England," when a certain class of people could think of nothing but popularity and wealth. It was interesting, but gave every indication that it would end like "The Scarlet Letter," with everybody unhappy. When we arrived in Oregon with the book unfinished, we set it aside without remorse.
***
At Raft River, the trail to California diverged southwest, while our route continued due west down the Snake. Since we parted from Starkey and Smead, I'm pretty sure I had been the only one of our party who has traveled overland, before. (My "expertise" probably wouldn't have been credited by the Reverend, but I think there was more than one Holt who valued me for more than just my good looks and sparkling conversation.) After passing Raft River, it was terra incognito for all of us.
It took us four days to travel from Fort Hall to Raft River, but that was because we stopped to aid some fellow travelers, who were having "Indian troubles." Indians had stolen all their oxen, and when we went looking for the animals, we found several dead from arrows. We continued to search another whole day, but never found the others. While most of us were out looking, a large band of Indians stood across the river, chanting and making threating movements. The Indians dispersed when the rest of us returned to camp.
We had seen a lot of Indians on the trip, but never had we been subject to any hostilities. Although no attempt was made to attack us, their killing of the oxen was clearly an act of wanton aggression. The party who had lost their livestock was stranded without aid, so oxen were loaned, some wagons abandoned and their loads consolidated, and we were all eventually able to continue on our way.
It took us two and a half weeks to travel from Raft River to the islands in the Snake near Fort Boise. There were nice views of the river at times. Other than that, the trip was unremarkable, as we passed over a sagebrush plain on miserable roads. As we rested near the islands, we were surprised to see the Jones family approaching. The Reverend didn't try to hide his displeasure, but the rest of us were pleased to have them back in the fold, again.
We had been free of Indian trouble since Raft River, but it began again - in earnest! - in the stretch between the Owyhee and Malheur rivers. Their aims seemed to be horse stealing (they got a few) and general intimidation of us. They would gather in large groups, whoop and holler, and wave their bows at us. I don't think they ever meant to attack us, maybe because we all had guns, and they seemed to have only a few. There was one confrontation, when some of the men were out looking for strayed or stolen cattle, that resulted in one traveler being shot by an Indian. It was serious, but not fatal. I never heard the details of what had actually happened.
Once we started the climb into the Blue Mountains, we seldom saw Indians. After the weeks of passing through gray sagebrush, the evergreen forests and lush meadows of the Blues were more than welcome. The Grand Ronde valley was amazingly lovely in mid-summer (but perhaps not so welcoming in mid-winter!).
On August 4, we emerged from the forest onto the top of a grassy hill that descended very steeply for several miles. It seemed like the whole world was spread out before us. The valley of the Umatilla River was directly below us, while in the distance we could see the mighty Columbia, making its way to the Pacific Ocean. . Still far to the west were the Cascade Mountains, topped by snow-covered Mt. Hood, a volcano (but not an active one). We still had some weeks of hard traveling before we reached the valley of the Willamette - our final destination - but there was no question in any of our minds that we had truly made it to Oregon!
Once down to the Umatilla, many of the wagon trains split up. Some families formed new partnerships, while others went on by themselves. We stayed with the Johnsons and the Jones family, although it was clear to everyone that the Reverend was barely containing his disdain. When we arrived at the Deschutes River, and a choice had to be made about which of two routes to follow, the final split occurred.
One route - often called the Whitman Cut-off at that time, and later the Barlow Road - climbed the mountains to about 5,000 feet, passing just south of Mt. Hood. The way then descended through the Sandy River canyon, directly into the Willamette Valley. An alternate route was to stay at the level of the Columbia River all the way to the Willamette. At first consideration, staying on more or less level ground seemed more logical than climbing over a mountain. However, local people warned us that the river route was quite difficult, with deep sand and many marshes and sloughs to navigate. Some who tried it turned back; those that didn't usually found that it took more time - and a lot more hardship - than going over the mountains would have. The roads over the mountain were considered generally "good" - by overland standards! - with the very steep descent down Laurel Hill being the worst part.
When Jones declared that he was going over the mountain, the Reverend immediately decided on the river route. Michael had stayed loyal to the Reverend to that point, but he and I discussed it, and agreed that the river route was probably a bad choice. We parted company with the Johnson family, and the Jones-Holt "train" started for Mt. Hood.
We had good weather all the way. The road couldn't be considered "good," but was no worse than many others we had traveled in the previous months. We had been warned about Laurel Hill, the extremely steep grade the road descended beyond the summit pass. Some said it was the worst descent on the entire Oregon Trail, and I could only think of a couple of others that came close. To get down the steepest part, we had to lock the wagon wheels, and chain the wagons so that we could slowly lower them. It was difficult, scary work, but we got all our wagons down safely. We still had to ford the Zigzag and Sandy rivers several times, but the water was low, and we had no particular problems.
In mid-August 1851, we reached the Willamette Valley, and made our way south to the vigorous new town of Salem, Oregon Territory. We had made it!
***
You are probably interested in how the other members of our party fared. The Starkey group arrived in Salem several weeks before us. As I suspected, they had waited for us on the Platte as long as it seemed prudent, then went on to Oregon with no particular problems. John and Jane McCully stayed in Salem that first winter, but then moved south to the gold camps near the California border. Sim Smead met his brother, and they quickly moved on, I think maybe to the southern Oregon mines, like the McCullys. John Starkey settled in Salem, and was already preparing a home for his wife and daughters who would come in '52. He wasted no time in becoming a well-respected businessman and civic figure.
The Reverend finally made it to the Willamette, but not before he had more than anybody's share of bad luck - much of it brought on by bad planning! The way down the Columbia turned out to be the disaster predicted, and he had to backtrack, to eventually make his way around Mt. Hood. He decided to lay over several days on the east side of the mountain, which unfortunately had him traveling over the mountain in an unusual early-season rain and snow storm. He left two of his sons near the summit, while he took the rest of the family down the west slope. They managed to get down Laurel Hill all right, and to ford the Zigzag River, but the Sandy was too deep and swift, and the Reverend left his family and walked for help. They all were eventually reunited, but it took several more weeks of being apart and stranded in the wilderness.
I haven't dealt with many preachers in my life, and I don't want to judge them by my feelings about the Reverend. All I'll say is, if God is using people like him to coax the rest of us to Heaven, God has a really hard row to hoe!
Not forgetting the Jones family, they established a land claim not far from ours. The Reverend's son and the Jones girl did get married, but not to each other.
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