What is not good is that we recently learned that you are not out ahead of us as we have thought all along. A few nights ago, a party of trappers and mountain men coming from Oregon and headed for St. Louis arrived in our camp. They told us that there are no Mormons on the trail west of here. So the rumors we heard that you were still in Iowa are likely true. This is very disheartening, since our plan has been that once we caught up with you I would leave the Reeds and join you while Peter went on with them to California. Now it looks as though I shall have to go on to California as well until we learn where you are. I have thought about writing to you many times but despaired of finding a way to get a letter to you. But today we arrived at a well-known stopping place along the trail. It is called Ash Hollow. There is an abandoned cabin here, left by some previous trappers. It has been turned into some sort of a general post office by the emigrants. The whole outside wall is covered with notes and bulletins announcing lost horses or cattle. Inside, a recess in the wall is filled with letters which have been deposited there in hopes that someone going east will pick them up and carry them with them. That got us to thinking that maybe we could write to Melissa in Nauvoo, then ask her to send it on to you.
I was determined to write a letter and leave it at Ash Hollow, but then Mr. Reed suggested we would meet others going east, and that would be more sure than leaving it at Ash Hollow. This will give me more time to write to you.
Since you shall soon be following behind us, I should like to talk about life on the trail. I don’t mean to discourage you, but out here there is a saying, “I have seen the elephant.” At first I didn’t know what it meant. Now I understand. Crossing the continent is like meeting a huge elephant which blocks the way. It always seems to be in your path, no matter what you do. This is not child’s play out here and only the hardy seem to survive. Some in our party have already turned back or just stopped at some creek or another and said, “This is far enough.”
I am sure we are experiencing things that you will not. Our wagon train consists of different parties who have banded together more for protection than out of a sense of unity. Out here where the elephant lives, contention is easily come by. Our group is constantly bickering and fighting over trivial things. It reached a state some time back where we finally split off from one another. How this happened gives much insight into the character of our group.
Two men in the Oregon portion of our company were in partnership with one another—one had furnished the oxen and the other the wagon for the trip west. Why they ever agreed to be partners is a mystery, for they did not get along and fought with each other constantly. One night, there was a bitter argument because one of them wanted to take his oxen and go on ahead. It turned so ugly that they disrupted the whole camp. It was decided that something had to be done. Out here it is a simple democracy—the majority rules—and so a vote was taken. We in the California company outnumber those going to Oregon, and our men decided to give the wagon and team to the partner who had a wife and who was willing to work. The other man, being a bachelor, and quarrelsome and lazy as well, was to get nothing. But this decision made the Oregon party angry and they said we had no say in the matter. They took their own vote and chose another solution.
You will think I am telling a tall tale, but I saw this with my own eyes. The Oregon group decided to divide the property evenly between the two men. How do you do this when the property includes a wagon and oxen? Well, they sawed the wagon in two, right down the middle, leaving each man with half the oxen and half a wagon. The married man had the front half of the wagon and the bachelor got the back half. We drove off the next morning, leaving him standing there with the back half of a wagon, his oxen, and no way to hitch them up. Such is the folly that we have seen manifest. Our people were so disgusted, that was when we who are going to California and those going to Oregon split from each other.
Then we learned more disturbing news. Colonel Russell and others, most notably a Mr. Edwin Bryant, have left us. Mr. Bryant is a newspaper editor from Kentucky who is traveling to California so he can write a book. He is a fine man and a true gentleman. He has become good friends with Mr. Reed and also Peter. Bryant and the colonel and several others were greatly concerned that our progress was too slow. We are nearly through June and we haven’t even reached Fort Laramie yet. Those with experience say that if we are not to Independence Rock (which is two hundred miles west of Fort Laramie) by the Fourth of July, there is danger of having the mountains of the Upper California closed by the snow. We will be lucky to reach Fort Laramie by Independence Day, and that is a great worry. But instead of everyone working together to help the slow ones—the very thing President Young did when we were driven out of Far West—these men are going to leave and strike out on their own. Bryant is apologetic to Mr. Reed but will not change his mind.
This leaves me sick with worry. I think even Peter is beginning to be concerned, though he tries hard not to let me see it. Mr. Reed however is still optimistic. In the book called “The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California,” Mr. Lansford Hastings describes another route to California which bypasses Fort Hall and the Oregon Trail. It is much shorter and will save us a month. So Mr. Reed says we will be fine, though we are behind the normal schedule.
As we pass some of the more notable landmarks, I cannot help but think that you soon will be seeing these same wonders. Chimney Rock, for example. It was the most stirring sight we had seen since our departure. We first saw it at a distance of about 35 or 40 mi., standing out like some great sentinel guarding the way. It lies a mile or so south of the river and is well named. Peter says that it looks much like the great chimneys on the cotton mills around his home of Preston, England. At the base it is a rounded hill, much like a pyramid in shape, but out of the center of that rises a shaft of rock like some giant’s needle rising to what Peter guesses is four hundred fifty to five hundred feet above the plains.
Then there was what is called Scotts Bluff, a few miles farther west from Chimney Rock. Some say these bluffs mark the end of the Great Plains and the very beginnings of the Rocky Mountains. How it gets its name is another interesting story about life on the trail. According to what Peter was told, a few years ago there was a party of fur trappers headed downriver for the States. There was some kind of accident near here and a Mr. Scott was severely injured and could not walk. The others left him, promising to send for him when they caught up with a larger party at a rendezvous. But when they reached the rendezvous site, they told the others that Scott had died. It was late in the season, and they feared that if they went back they would all die. They supposed that he would be dead anyway, even if they went back.
The next spring, they found Scott’s bones at the rendezvous site. What is so awful and remarkable is that the rendezvous site was about sixty-five miles from where they left him. Because of his injuries, they could only suppose that he must have crawled all of that way, only to find no one there waiting for him. This is what they mean about seeing the elephant.
Buffalo play a more important part in our lives than ever I dreamed. Everywhere the eye turns there is evidence of the great beasts. We see live ones in the distance quite often, but one can scarcely turn this way or that without seeing bleached skeletons of long-dead animals on the prairie. We have left any trees behind, except for the meager stands of timber along the rivers and creeks. The prairie is as featureless as the sea. So in addition to eating buffalo meat, we use “buffalo chips”—their dried dung—as firewood. These chips are everywhere and are easily gathered, even by the children. They catch fire easily and burn quite hot and without as much odor as you might think. Without them, we would find it difficult to build cooking fires out here.
Fort Laramie, Saturday, June 27th
I have been writing this letter since mid-June, but late this afternoon we arrived at Fort Laramie, which is near the junction of the Laramie River and the North Fork of the Platte. This is a wonderful day. Though by any other standards this would seem like an outpost of the rudest and simplest sort, here in the midst of the wilderness it is the most welcome sight we have seen since leaving Independence. But the more important news is that there is a small party of trappers and emigrants from California led by a Mr. James Clyman, who is an acquaintance of Mr. Reed. They fought together in the Black Hawk War. They are returning to the States, and Mr. Reed says he is sure that his friend will carry our letter back with him. At last we have our “postman.” He is going to St. Louis and will take it there. From St. Louis, it should be only a few days upriver to Nauvoo into Melissa’s hands. Then I hope she will send it on to you as soon as pos-sible.
Therefore, I shall finish quickly. We love you. We pray for you every day. We also pray for Will and Alice, who, like us, are taking a different route to the place of gathering.
All our love,
Kathryn and Peter
Kathryn handed the thick envelope to Peter, then held on to it for a moment so as to catch his attention. “Will you tell him how important this is to us, Peter?”
He nodded, and she finally let go. “Mr. Clyman seems like a decent man,” he said. “I think we can trust him to see that it gets back to the States.”
“Even if he wants money, Peter,” she went on, the anxiety clouding her eyes, “it’s urgent that we let your family know that we are now ahead of them.”
“I know, Kathryn. I promise I’ll talk to him. Now, you’ve had a long day. Try to get some rest. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
She smiled at him through her tiredness and nodded. “I am weary, but I am so pleased to know that someone will take our letter back.”
“As am I,” he said. He bent down and kissed her, blew out the lamp, then pushed through the flap. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Their tent was a short distance away from where the largest of the three Reed wagons was parked. He could see the lamplight through the canvas and the shadows behind it. Margret Reed was getting the children ready for bed, he guessed. Then, beyond the wagon, he saw two dark figures silhouetted against the light of Reed’s campfire. Pleased, he moved forward, slowing as he approached the fire.
James Reed looked up at the sound of his footsteps. “Ah, Peter. Come join us.”
“Thank you.” He stepped over a log and sat down across from the two men.
He saw now that both men were smoking cigars. James Clyman reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew another one, holding it toward Peter. “Cigar?”
Reed laughed before Peter could respond. “No, Peter here is a Mormon. As you may know, Mormons don’t believe tobacco is good for you.”
Clyman looked surprised. “Really? Why is that?”
A little flustered, and certainly not wanting to offend the man he was about to ask a favor of, Peter hesitated for a moment. “Well,” he began, “we believe that it is not good for the body.”
The man from California considered that, then nodded. “You’re probably right. Filthy habit, but hard to break.” He put the offered cigar away again. “A Mormon, eh? Heard a lot about them, but never met one before.”
“Peter’s as fine as they come, Clyman. I’ll vouch for that.”
Pleased and surprised, Peter inclined his head. “Thank you, Mr. Reed.” Then he looked to Clyman again. “You’ve come from California?”
“Yes siree, all the way from Mr. Sutter’s fort on the American River.”
“And you saw no other Mormons ahead of us on the trail?”
He shook his head. “Reed told me that you were expecting your people to be ahead of you, but there’s none that we met, at least none that were admitting to being Mormons.”
“It would be a large party, maybe even a thousand people.”
This time the shake of his head was emphatic. “Nothing like that. You’re the largest group so far. Sorry.” Then he saw the envelope in Peter’s hand. “A letter for the States?”
“Yes, sir. My wife was wondering—”
“Be happy to,” Clyman said, cutting him off.
Peter stood and handed it to him. “If there’s any charge . . .”
He gave a curt wave of his hand. “I said I’d be happy to.”
“Much obliged,” Peter said gratefully. “If our people are still behind us we’d like to get word to them.”
“Consider it done.”
James Reed was watching the other man. “Mr. Clyman and I are acquaintances from some years back. What I didn’t know then was how distinguished a reputation he has out here. Mr. John Baptiste Reshaw, at Fort Bernard last night, was telling me that you were part of William Henry Ashley’s Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Is that true, Clyman?”
There was a brief nod. “I’m afraid John Reshaw talks a little too much.”
Reed turned to Peter. “That may not mean much to you, Peter, being from England, but Ashley was one of the pioneers in the fur trading business here in America, a competitor to John Jacob Astor’s American Fur Company. Those who worked with Ashley are almost legendary in America—Jedediah Smith, William Sublette, Tom Fitzpatrick.”
“Just men,” Clyman said quietly. “Good men, but still just men.”
“Is it true that you were one of those who discovered South Pass?” Reed asked.
“Well,
rediscovered
might be a better word. Some of the earlier explorers had talked of a broad, gentle pass over the Continental Divide. But yes, me and Jedediah found it in eighteen twenty-four.”
“The Continental Divide?” Peter asked.
“Yes, where the waters are divided. Everything this side of the divide flows into the Atlantic Ocean eventually. Everything on the other side goes to the Pacific.”