April 21, 1847, just west of St. Louis
It sure feels good to be starting our trip, and what an auspicious day to start a new diary! We just crossed the Mississippi this morning, right at dawn. The West is before us, and from here on out we’ll be living out of our wagon. Mama seems a little sore about it, but I feel that once we get moving properly she’ll cheer up nicely. I have a little time to write, waiting for the Johnsons and then the Ostroms to make it across on the ferry, then we’ll all get going. I know it’s still a ways until we get to Independence, that’s where they say the Trail really starts, and sure there’s farms and little towns and things to stop at between here and there, but it feels like this is the real “West.” I’ve always heard people talking about it, but now we’re really here.
There’s not much here on this side of the river. It’s mostly open prairie as far as the eye can see. Well it’s flat, so you can’t see too far before the trees are in the way, but there’s plenty of wide open spaces.
I’m sure glad to be out of St. Louis. It’s a nasty place. The men are vulgar and are fond of ;cursing and spitting their tobacco just about everywhere. It seems like the further west we get, the less civilized the people are. Well I suppose we won’t have to deal with other people too much soon enough, except of course for the rest in our train. Then the people we meet out in Oregon of course, but surely they’ll be better than the gamblers and brutes we saw in St. Louis.
Listen to me, not an hour into our adventure and I’m already complaining. Well, that’s behind us now. Onward and forward to a better life!
April 21, evening.
Goodness! What a walk! Pa and Mr. Ostrom both say we made fifteen miles or so. They seemed a little disappointed, but we stopped here in a little camp by the road just the same and it sure didn’t seem short to me. My feet are positively aching. Of course I walked most the entire way, what with the wagon still chock full of stores and supplies.
Pa says we’ll make better time tomorrow. I guess I’m either going to have to get stronger or my feet are just going to plain fall off. I only jest, sure my feet are sore, and I got a whole bunch of blisters, but I feel even more excited now then when we set off. If the going is this good, I’ll walk all the way to Oregon City.
Anyways, we camped, I helped Mama with the fire and supper and coffee. There ain’t much light left, which is how I’m writing this, but I’m glad I got a little time to enjoy myself. Timothy’s still running around full of vigor, but Andy’s fallen straight asleep without eating supper yet. He’s going to be mighty cranky when we wake him up.
I hope I get a little writing in time tomorrow.
April 22, morning, maybe 15 miles west of St. Louis.
I wish I could have written this last night, but it was too dark.That doesn’t matter too much, because I still remember, clear as day. Ha ha. It was the stars! Gosh I wish my friends at home could have seen how pretty the stars are out here. Sure they were pretty back home, but I’ve never seen them like this before. So bright! So clear! I thought they were bright after supper, but then we all turned in to sleep and snuffed the fire out. Well I suppose I was just too excited to sleep so I stayed up and watched the stars. The Milky Way was magnificent. Back home it sort of looked like a dull glow, but out here, with the campfires out, no lamps, no nothing, it looked so thick, like it really was a big long streak of milk wiped across the sky.
I must have seen a dozen shooting stars, more than I ever seen before in my life all put together. I wish the moon had been out, then maybe it would have been bright enough to write. Yet maybe the stars wouldn’t have looked so nice if it had been up. Oh, the nights should be so nice in the summertime when it’s warm out.
Whoops, bacon’s almost done!
June 8th, midday, middle of Kansas, west of Independence
We’re stopped because the Brown family broke an axle. The men are busy arguing over how best to fix it, so I have a little time to write. There are more wagons in the train now since we left Independence. That means a lot more people to talk to. It also means lots more things to break down.
We’re out in the wild proper now. We’re seeing a lot more grizzlies. Any loud noise, and you can see scores of big black heads rising up out of the tall grass to see what the commotion is. Thank goodness they’re keeping their distance.
Speaking of talking, I had a nice long chat with John Partridge as we walked. He’s about the only person here around my age. He works for Mr. Carter, the trail guide. He is a sort of apprentice, but not precisely. He’s been on this trail three times out to Oregon, so he knows it like the back of his hand. But he’s not going to keep this profession. He says this is going to be his last trip out, and means to stay. He’ll get his own homestead, just like us. I think that’s just fine. I think it would be bully for us if we knew our future neighbors already.
And he’s so handsome too! I wonder if I should ask Mama and Pa if he could court me. You know full well, Diary, how that worked out with James back home. But that was a year ago. I’m only a year younger now than when she married Pa, so Mama can’t keep using the excuse of me being too young for too much longer. And it’s not like I’ll be meeting many young men once we build our farm. And none so fine as John.
June 11-12, around midnight
The cloudy weather finally cleared up, and I got a wonderful view of the stars again. The moon is out this time, and near about full, so I have plenty of light to write by, and how! I can see just about everything. If I stand on the driver's seat I can see just for miles and miles, almost as clear as day. I can see big puffy clouds blowing in the breeze near the horizon. You don't usually think of clouds like that, as if they just disappear when the sun goes down, but no, they carry on the same as always.
I'd have thought with the moon out, the stars would be dimmer by comparison, like how you can't see the stars in the day. They don't look a shade dimmer than they had a couple weeks ago when the moon was new. I wonder if they'll just keep getting brighter the further away we get from civilization and all their lights and smoke.
June 21st, after midnight? Maybe 2 AM?
So many shooting stars! I've never seen the like! Mr. Carter called this a “meteor shower,” says he's seen them before but never so many all at once. Everybody's been woken up and watching it, save for the babies, and far as I can tell nobody else has seen so many either. Mama says it must be good luck. I'm lying on my back watching them now. They're just coming outwards from one spot in the sky, almost directly overhead. I don't know how to describe it. It's like if you were in a dark tunnel, like a train tunnel moving at fantastic speed, except there are lights on the walls of the tunnel, and you're moving so fast they become just streaks. That's what it's like. It's glorious.
June 29th
John thinks we might have crossed over to Nebraska, but he's not exactly sure. The soil's a little sandier, which means a little harder going for the wagons but not too bad. There are some low hills too, though 'hills' sounds a little too much. They're barely little rises, but it's not as flat as it used to be in Kansas. I can’t wait to see the Rocky Mountains
John and I chat a couple times a day now. Might be nice laying under the night sky with him and watching the shooting stars. And by laying I mean chatting and nothing else, if anybody's snooping right now, you busy body.
July 2nd
I've gotten dysentery. So does maybe a quarter of the others. I'm afraid there's not much to do about it but hang back with the little crowd at the rear of the wagon train, wait for them to pass ahead when you need to, then after you finish you rush to catch up, which isn't easy when you're feeling ill.
It'd be so nice to go back behind one of those little hills. Get a little privacy. They don't look too far, but they're far enough that you'd never catch up, and the whole train would have to stop to wait for you. That'd be worse than anything.
The whole thing is just barbaric. No one should have to live like this. I'll be glad when it's done.
July 3rd
I've got a fever. Riding in wagon. Pa cleared out enough space to lie down. I'm scared. I wish I were home.
July 5th
My fever broke last night, and how. I was laying there, feeling miserable for myself, and all of a sudden I started sweating buckets. Had so much energy back I could have started walking if the train hadn't already stopped for the night. I guess that was mostly just my spirits because after I got up I was still a little woozy. Still, I got to get some fresh air and sleep under the stars again. I think that's about the only joy I've gotten on this misadventure.
It's funny, I guess as I laid there under the stars, I think I was still a bit delirious. It looked like the stars were moving. I don't mean east to west like usual. I mean like moving compared to each other. Spinning around in circles, like they were dancing, changing constellations and such. Maybe I was already asleep with my eyes open and already dreaming.
July 7th, midday, somewhere in Nebraska
Mr. Carter found a nice spring with good water, so we're stopping for a few days for a long rest. Most of the train is sick with the dysentery now, so it's just as well. Part of me would like to get on with the trip, but boy my feet could use a little rest. My shoes aren't looking too keen either.
July 8th, morning
Last night, after camp fires were out, I snuck off with John behind one of those hills for a little privacy. We haven't had one talk alone to ourselves. Mama, if you're reading this, we didn't do anything naughty. And if I did do something naughty, I wouldn't be writing about it in my diary, shame on you.
Anyway, he told me all sorts of stories about the trail and what it's like in Oregon. He's only been down the river and to Oregon City and its falls, not the Valley beyond, but it still sounds wonderful. I told him a little about home. But also I taught him all I know about the stars.
He's seen them plenty of course, but he didn't know anything about the constellations, beyond the Dippers of course. I showed him all my favorites, Cassopiea and Pegasus and the like. Oh, and my favorite numonic... pneumonic... memory device. “Follow the arc to Arcturus,” that's the arc of the Big Dipper's handle, Arcturus is at the bottom of Bootes, the Shepherd. “Then speed on to Spica.” It's so bright, it's easy to spot Spica with those instructions. It's in the Corona Borealis, the northern crown.
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When I told John that he said he'd go up there and fetch it for me, and I could wear it like a princess. Well I could hardly abide that much foolishness, but I'd be a liar if I said I didn't blush.
Strange thing is, we started seeing new constellations I've never seen before rising in the East. It didn't take long either, we weren't out that late. Also I'm familiar with constellations all year round from back home.
Now I know you're supposed to see new constellations when you go south. I remember seeing pictures of them back when Pa was still thinking of taking a ship down south around the horn of South America instead of walking the Oregon Trail. I was looking forward to that so I looked it up, they've got constellations like the southern cross.
I didn't know you'd get new constellations from going west. None of these I remember out of that book. John says that we're jogging a bit north as we're heading towards the Columbia River, so maybe that's the reason. But shouldn't I remember these from winter nights? It kind of hurts my head thinking about how that's supposed to work.
Change of subject, did you know that John, as a bachelor, is going to get 160 acres for his homestead in the Valley once we get out to Oregon? But if he's married, then he'd stand to get 320 acres, just like Mama and Pa. It seems to reason it'd just make sense if he got married before he got there. He could find a preacher or maybe a captain to do the services when we got to a fort. I wonder if Mama would find that reasonable. Knowing her she still wouldn't listen. Oh well, last night was wonderful anyway.
July 9th, morning
It's awful. Susan Miller and her little boy Jacob have passed away. I was just speaking to her yesterday. She had a fever but it wasn't worse than the one I had from a few days ago. They just didn't wake up this morning. I feel so sorry for poor Mister Miller. He's still got two little girls with him. They've come all this way, and still have so much further to go, and they've already lost so much. I wonder if widowers still get those 320 acres.
The men are digging the graves and we'll have a little service. Then we'll move on, just like that. This trail is so inhumane what it does to us. I’ll be so grateful once we get to our plot and have a home we can build.
July 11th
A lot of people are getting sick now. It’s something else than dysentery. Different symptoms. I’m wondering if maybe that spring we found wasn’t so good as we supposed.
Mother Williams passed away. She was an older lady, but it wasn’t her time. It’s very sad.
I talked with John about this. He says he’s known a lot of people who pass on these trips. Usually it’s from disease, like typhoid. Sometimes the water has poison in it. Or accidents. He says he saw a man get snakebit and die from gangrene. All told he guesses maybe one out of twenty, maybe one out of a dozen pioneers don’t live to see the end. I wonder if Pa knew that before we left. I suppose he must have, and weighed it against just staying home.
July 28th west Nebraska?
Water’s a lot more scarce now. The ground is turning to desert. Sometimes that makes for easier going, sometimes not. Mr. Carter says we’re not too far away from Fort Laramy. That must mean we’re near Wyoming if not there already.
Or maybe we’re close to Colorado. I remember in school we learned that the Spanish Conquistadors named it “The Color Red” because of the red rocks that were there. Well, we’re seeing lots of red rocks. I don’t mean little rocks but big boulders rising up out of the earth, weathered by the elements. It’s very pretty out here, though it also feels strange, like we don’t really belong here. I wouldn’t want to live here, so I’m glad we’re only passing through.
Anyway, I hope we make the Fort soon. We could all use some much needed rest. And medicine. We’ve lost three more people this week. So it’s already worse than John was supposing it might be.
August 22, west of Ft. Laramie, Wyoming
John and I are chatting regularly after supper now, when the stars are out. We don’t have to run off anymore. I think Mama and Pa are taking a shine to him.
The stars seem like they keep getting brighter somehow. And they don’t sparkle so much. John said that’s probably because we were up higher. In altitude he means. He doesn’t know how high we are, but he said it's higher than back in Kansas.
I asked him when we’d see the Rocky Mountains and he laughed and said we were already there. There are plenty of passes where you don’t even see the peaks, you just go up higher. I guess he saw me doubting, but he pointed out how chilly it is now. And he was right, it’s hotter in the day now, in August, but the nights are getting cold.
I’m not excited to be up high any more. It makes sense that it gets colder when the air gets thinner. The stars don’t seem so inviting to me any more. It must be so icy cold up there
.
August 28
Pa fell. He didn’t get up. He’s in a real bad way. We had to abandon some stuff from the wagon so we could stretch him out. He wasn’t even sick. One minute as healthy as always, the next he collapsed.
Mr. Carter says he thinks it was a stroke. I’ve heard that term before, but I still don’t understand what it means. Mama says it just means it's like he’s been ‘struck’ down by God. Except that doesn’t really explain anything.
I’m scared. I wish we had never come.
August 30th, morning
Pa died. He never woke up. We paused to bury him. The ground here is rocky and we couldn't dig very deep. It was the same with the four other graves we dug. Then we moved on.
September 4th
I feel so sad for Mama. It's like she's broke inside. I want to tell her that things will be alright. If John and I get married, then she and the boys can come live with us on our homestead. They'll be well taken care of. I want to tell her that, but I don't think she wants to hear it right now.
September 14th
We can't find the Fort. Fort Bridger. They say we're lost. They say Mr. Carter doesn't know what he's doing.
Mr. Carter and John say that's not true. They say it's almost impossible to get lost on this part of the trail as we're just following the river. All the landmarks are the same, the fort just isn't here any more. And they'd know since they were just here the year before.
There was a great big fight about it, talking about how forts don't just get up and walk away. And if it had been burned down by a war party there'd be evidence, then Mister Williams called Mr. Carter a “dirty liar” and Mr. Carter beat the tar out of him.
Everybody's very upset and scared we're lost. Nobody trusts Mr. Carter anymore. But I trust him. John says Mr. Carter's telling the truth, and if John says it, it's true. We have to just keep going.
September 16th
We keep going. There's still no fort. The landmarks all look the same to me. I'm not saying that John is wrong, I just don't understand how he can be sure where the fort is supposed to be. Mr. Williams is agitating about turning around to Ft. Laramie and getting a new guide. Mr. Carter says that's “damn foolish.” It will take forever to get back, there won't be any guides going west so late, and the fort won't want them for the winter.
We're still following the river. Strange thing, it doesn't seem to be getting any smaller like you'd expect a river to do when you follow it upstream.
September 17th
The Williams family left. Must have fled in the middle of the night, they didn't even wake us. The Olsen family has caught something bad. I don't think they'll make it.
September 18th
We woke up to half our train gone. They must have lit out after the Williams family turned tail. John's spirits are very low, but I try to keep him happy. After we buried the dead we set off again.
September 20th
Mr. Carter ran off. I think he might have been a liar after all. John is very very upset. He's leading us on though. He's very brave. Most of the people remaining don't talk much anymore. We're not moving very fast.
September 22nd
I don't like looking at the night sky anymore. There's too many stars I don't recognize now. The arc of the Dipper doesn't lead to Arcturus anymore. I don't see Arcturus at all. Or Spica. It's usually cloudy at night anyway these days. And it's getting a lot colder.
The nights are longer than the days now too, by a lot. Is that right? Isn't it supposed to be about the same? When was the equinox?
September 25th
Timothy is real sick. His body's all swollen up and he's got these marks all over his body, like they're pustules or he's been bit by some kind of vermin.
September 26th
Timothy died. Mama covered his body with a blanket. We didn't dig a grave. Same as the others.
October 1st
I keep thinking about Timothy. I keep thinking about that time we ran into that trading party. He spent the whole day running around with that Indian girl his age playing silly games with each other. Every time I think about that, it makes me smile. Then I remember that he’s gone now, and will never be again. I hate that he’s gone and I hate that I was smiling and all I feel is sad again.
-I lost count. It should be October? Wyoming? Oregon country?
When we woke up about half our oxen were dead. Somebody killed them but we don't know who. It was like they were butchered, but not really. Their throats weren't slit and their bellies weren't gutted, but pieces of their bodies were missing. We had to abandon many wagons, but that was no big loss, as their families were already dead.
-Midday
We're in what must be a big valley. There's just dead grass. It seems like it goes on forever. We can't see the edges because the clouds are so low and it's misty. It's not freezing, but the cold is so chilly it seems to creep through your clothes. Mama is clutching Andrew real tight, never leaving his side. I can't blame her.
-Evening?
We saw lights today. They were terrible. We don't know what they were. We're still in that misty valley, and whatever made them was up in the clouds. There were green ones and purple ones and they spun around in the sky for over an hour. They were pirouetting and cartwheeling and it was like they were dancing and searching, if that makes any kind of sense. For a while we were too scared to move, then we got under our wagons because that felt safer somehow. One of the Rogers boys was crushed under a wheel when their oxen startled. Nobody moved until the lights went away. Nobody knows what they were. Nobody is talking about it. I don’t know if they want to forget it and pretend that we didn’t see them. What if they come back?
-
Most people are gone now. It's me, John, Mama and Andrew, and a few others. The river is gone and we've been climbing up a long sloping hill. There's nothing else we can do but keep moving. The stars are out again. And the moon's following us now. Meaning it isn't setting like it should. I must be going mad. I haven't mentioned it to another soul. I wonder if they noticed too?
–
We made camp tonight in a terrible place, but we were too tired to go on. Food's almost out. There are still these rocks, but it's not the same as in Colorado, they're not red. These are white. There are a bunch of scrubby little pine trees around. John says he thinks that's because we're so high up now. None of it does a thing to keep out the wind. It blows and blows and it's terribly cold. We could hardly keep a fire lit on account of it, right at the lee of one of those big boulders. The others slept but I couldn't, I was up all night under those horrible stars. I couldn’t recognize any of them. It tried to make shapes out of them, but none of the shapes I made were real things. The trees just shook in the wind. Wildly, like they were trying to tell me something. I think the stars were too.
–
Mama and Andy are gone. They didn't die. They didn't sneak off in the middle of the night. I saw them a minute ago, and now they're gone. I don't see where they could have run off to. Is it me? Do they hate me?
–
It's been three days since Mama left me. It's very cold and I don't know if it's still October. I don't know where we're going except for west. John is here, and Mrs. Thompson, and I don't remember his name. We don’t talk. I hope the Williams family made it back to the fort. I wish we had.
–
John left me.
–
We abandoned the last wagon. No sense in it anyway.
–
I got to the terrible camp. I'm alone now. I'm not sure what's happening. I've been going west this whole time and yet here I am at this place again, with the white rocks and the wild waving scrub trees. I'm sure it's the same place, and yet it's changed. Somebody's taken all these big white long stones and stuck them up on end. It looks like pictures of old temples, from the Old Country, but it's not. That would mean people. Civilization. I don’t think anybody’s ever been here before at all. This place is just the awful horribleness of the wild.. It's the opposite of everything human.
I suppose I shall die here. I'm not going to move on tomorrow. I'm tired of that, body and spirit. I’m just going to write things down until the end comes. In case I’ve gone mad and people find my remains. Please tell Mama and John that I’m sorry.
The stones are making the wind howl. And scream. And also singing at the same time. The wind is screamsinging. I feel like I can just about hear the words.
The moon is coming down now. I don't mean setting, I mean coming down.
It's so close now that I can hear it.
I'm thinking about those grizzly bears. The ones that popped their heads out of the grass to look. What would they see now?
I hate the sky, but it doesn't matter. Its glory exceeds me.
That's not the moon.