The three of them looked at each other, thinking hard. “So big that you can’t see it?” Nathan finally said. “How could that be?”
Kathryn smiled sweetly. “It just is.” She waited for almost a full minute as they talked among themselves. Then Nathan looked up and shrugged. “We give up.”
“It’s South Pass,” she chortled. “Don’t you remember, Christopher? Just yesterday morning we came over it, but we weren’t even sure that we had crossed it because it is so wide and so gentle a rise that it doesn’t seem like a pass at all.”
“All right,” Nathan agreed. “That was a good one.” There had been some excitement in the company the day before at the thoughts of crossing the Continental Divide. Orson Pratt and others rode ahead to pinpoint it. But when it came down to saying where the exact spot was where the water would flow to the Pacific instead of to the Atlantic, no one could do it with certainty. A short time later they had come to Pacific Spring and everyone had wanted to take their first drink of “Pacific water,” but at the actual pass no one could actually say, “This is the exact spot where the continent divides.”
Nathan turned to Derek’s two sons. “And do you remember how high Elder Pratt said South Pass was?”
Instantly Benji’s hand shot up. “Seven thousand eighty-five feet.”
“That’s right,” Nathan answered, not surprised. Christopher was the one who could tell you every piece of a horse’s harnessing or every part of the wagon. But Benji was the one who was always counting and tabulating things. He loved numbers.
“All right,” Kathryn said, “since no one guessed mine, I get another turn.” She thought quickly. “We passed it this morning. It is very important to every traveler on the Oregon Trail. You have to make a choice there. Guess what it is.”
Christopher started dancing up and down. “I know, I know. It’s the Parting of the Ways. That’s where we could have gone to Oregon if we wanted.”
“Good, Christopher,” she answered. “It’s your turn.”
Chapter Notes
After spending six days at the “last crossing,” the longest delay they had seen up to that point, the Latter-day Saints of the Pioneer Company finally left the North Platte River. What came to be known as “the Mormon Ferry” was put into operation at a site near the present-day site of Fort Caspar in Casper, Wyoming. Nine men were assigned to remain behind to man it. Later, as the water levels began to drop, the Latter-day Saints moved the ferry downstream several miles.
Back at the Elkhorn River, twenty miles west of Winter Quarters, Elders Parley P. Pratt and John Taylor were gathering the people who would come west with the Big Company. Daniel Spencer’s company was the first to leave, rolling out on 18 June, the same day that the Pioneer Company was launching their “Mormon Ferry” about seven hundred and fifty miles to the west.
The Pioneer Company crossed South Pass on 27 June 1847, the third anniversary of the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum Smith. It is not known exactly where Orson Pratt was when he took the barometric reading on South Pass and concluded it was 7,085 feet high. Today it is marked on the maps as 7,550 feet in elevation. William Clayton indicated that South Pass was two hundred seventy-eight and a half miles from Fort John (Fort Laramie), which would make it a total of eight hundred twenty-one and three-quarters miles from Winter Quarters.
Chapter 43
The Pioneer Company of the Latter-day Saints reached the Little Sandy River about four-fifteen on the afternoon of June twenty-eighth. They were about twenty-five miles west of South Pass and moving across a vast expanse of sagebrush desert broken here and there only by a few dry hills. Off to the north the towering, snowcapped Wind River Mountains continually drew the eye, but there wasn’t much else, besides the great herds of antelope, that caught one’s attention.
Actually the Little Sandy was more like a substantial creek than a river, in the eastern sense; but out here any water was a welcome sight, and Nathan wasn’t surprised that it was labeled a river. It was about three rods wide but only two feet deep, though the current moved along quite rapidly. The water was filled with silt from the sandy nature of the soil in the area, but the bottom was solid and presented no substantial problems for the wagons. In half an hour they were all across and on their way again.
They had gone only about a mile, however, when four riders and three packhorses appeared in the distance. Brigham immediately signaled for the train to come to a halt. One rider was not a surprise. Elder George A. Smith had ridden ahead to scout the way. But he had gone alone.
Nathan was staring forward. “I’ll go see what’s going on,” he said.
Derek, who was taking his turn at driving, handed the reins to his wife and climbed down from the wagon. “Hold them here,” he said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
They reached the lead wagons about the same time that Elder Smith trotted up and swung down. The other three men slid off their horses. Two stayed where they were; the third stepped forward with Elder Smith. One look told Nathan that these were mountain men—trappers and traders of some kind. The one coming up with the Apostle was not a particularly big man. He was maybe five foot ten and weighed no more than one hundred sixty or seventy pounds. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt, trousers made of tanned deerskin, and knee-high boots made of soft leather, probably calfskin. His hat was dusty and battered, showing many days of sun and rain. He wore a heavy beard and mustache that nearly hid his mouth, but his eyes were like two black marbles set in deep brown cheeks. They were pleasant and alert. His nose had a pinkish hue, suggesting more than one night cuddled up with a bottle. His face was so weathered from being out-of-doors that it was hard to assess his age, but Nathan guessed he was around forty, maybe a little older. The other two looked much the same as this one did, perhaps a bit shabbier. All in all, they presented a fascinating and arresting sight.
“President Young,” George A. Smith said, walking up to Brother Brigham, “may I present Mr. Jim Bridger.”
A ripple of surprise and excitement went through the men who had come forward. Jim Bridger was one of the most famous names in the West. They were even now on the way to his fort. Could this really be him?
Brigham stepped forward and gripped his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bridger. My name is Brigham Young.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Young,” Bridger said, shaking his hand. “A group came through a few days back saying there was a large company of Mormons on their way.”
“There is,” Brigham said, “and we’re just the first. In fact, we were looking forward to stopping at your fort. We hoped to have a chance to talk with you about our possible destination.”
“Well,” Bridger said, “me and my men here are on our way to Fort Laramie to do some trading. But I’ll tell you what. If you’re willing to turn off the road here and camp for the night, we’d be pleased to stay with you and answer whatever questions you might have.”
“I’m sure you know Moses Harris,” Brigham began.
“Old Black Harris?” Jim Bridger exclaimed. “That’s what we all call him. Sure do. What’s that sidewinder up to nowadays?”
They were in a small grove of trees near the Little Sandy. It was about seven-thirty, but the sun had not gone down yet and the shade still felt good. Brigham and the other members of the Twelve had asked for the meeting with the mountain man, but soon many others in the company gathered around to listen. Nathan and Derek stood together a little behind Bridger and his two men.
“We met Harris at Pacific Spring,” Heber Kimball explained. “He’s waiting there for some of the emigrant companies to guide them on to Oregon.”
“That old horse thief,” Bridger laughed. “And he’ll probably charge them two hundred dollars to do it too, even though the road is as plain as a wart on a purty woman’s nose.”
There was an appreciate chuckle around the circle. Harris had offered to guide the Mormons for a hefty fee and Brigham had politely declined. Brigham went on. “Mr. Harris was not very encouraging in his reports. He said he’s well acquainted with the Bear River valley and the Valley of the Salt Lake, but he said the regions around the Salt Lake are not favorable to settlement. Would you agree with that?”
“Did he try to talk you into going up to Cache Valley?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Brigham answered.
“Thought so. That’s a favorite place of his. He’s hoping to attract settlers up there so he can set up a fort and make some money for himself.”
The mountain man leaned back, thoughtful now. It seemed evident to Nathan that Bridger had been nipping at a bottle ever since they had camped. He was relaxed and affable, but his speech sometimes slurred just a bit. “As for the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, you’d be better off going to the Utah Lake. It’s about a day’s ride further south.”
“Harris mentioned that too,” George A. Smith said. “He said there’s more timber there.”
“Along the creeks,” Bridger said, “but not by the lake itself. But it’s good soil around there. Been there forty or fifty times myself,” he added. “Lots of wild cherries and berries. Never seen no grapes there, but plenty of other stuff. Further south, the Indians grow corn, wheat, and pumpkins as good as any you could find in Old Kentuck.” He was rambling, warming to the subject.
“I understand the Hastings Cutoff runs just south of the Great Salt Lake,” Brigham came in. “How far is the lake from your fort, would you say?”
“Not sure exactly. Two- or three-day ride. Been there fifty times at least.”
“Hastings said it was a hundred miles. Does that sound about right?”
Bridger looked at his companions. They nodded. “’Bout that, I guess. Better watch out for them Utah Indians. Mean bunch down there. If they can catch a man alone, they’ll abuse him real bad.” He leaned forward, realizing he sounded discouraging. “Won’t bother an armed group like this, though. You’ll be fine.”
“Are you saying that the valley around the Salt Lake is all right for settlement?” Brigham persisted.
“Ain’t as bad as Harris told you,” he agreed. “He’s just trying to take you to Cache Valley.” He looked around at the men. “We call it that because a lot of us use it to cache our furs and hide them from the Indians until we can take ’em out for trading. It’s cold there, though.”
“In Cache Valley?” Willard Richards asked. Bridger was jumping from topic to topic like a bird on a limb.
“No. Well, it’s really cold there too, but I meant the Valley of the Salt Lake. It’s cold there. You’ll get frost ’bout every month of the year. Probably can’t grow corn.”
The members of the Twelve looked at each other with some dismay. It was obvious now that Bridger was just a touch drunk. How much that was affecting his memory was hard to tell.
“Actually,” Heber said, “we’re looking pretty seriously at stopping in the Salt Lake Valley. But you don’t think that’s wise?”
Bridger had turned and was looking at some of the men listening to his report. “Been in these parts since ’22,” he said expansively. “Barely eighteen when I come. Hired on with Colonel William Ashley to come west and get furs. Been here ever since. Twenty-eight years now.”
“Twenty-five,” one of his men corrected.
“That’s what I said,” he shot back.
“Mr. Bridger,” Brigham broke in, “we thank you for your information. This has been most helpful.”
“Harris doesn’t know what he’s saying,” the mountain man said. “The Valley of the Salt Lake is all right. ’Cepting for the frost. Not sure if you can grow corn there. Utah Lake valley would be better. Further south is better yet.”
“We’ll take that under consideration.” Brigham stood. “Thank you again.”
The next morning as Derek went down to get the team and bring them back to the wagon, he saw Jim Bridger and his two men saddling up their horses. Their packhorses were already loaded. Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball were there with them, along with a few other men. Curious, Derek moved over closer to hear what was going on.
As he got there, Brigham was handing the trapper a piece of paper. “This is a pass for our ferry at the last crossing of the Platte,” he explained. “This will get you and your horses free passage across the river.”
“Much obliged.” Bridger folded it and stuck it in some pocket inside his coat. “You’ve got plenty of water between here and the Green River, except for one stretch of about twenty miles. But even then there’s grass for your animals. You’ll be all right.” There was no liquor in the man now, Derek could tell. He spoke quickly and with confidence. His eyes were clear and probing. “And as for the Great Salt Lake Valley, except for the cold, it would be a good place to bring your people.”
“The Lord can temper the weather, Mr. Bridger,” Brigham said easily.
There was a derisive laugh. “The Lord hain’t done that very often for us, has he, boys?”
They laughed, shaking their heads.
“More ’n one man been frostbit by the Lord, Mr. Young.”
Brigham laughed now too, not in the least offended. “Well, unless the Lord changes his mind, I think we’ll be settling on the Valley as our final stopping place.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Young,” Bridger said, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I’ll give you one thousand dollars for the first bushel of corn you grow in that valley.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Bridger,” Brigham shot right back, “you start saving your money, because I’ll deliver that bushel personally to you.”
About noon of the second day they crested a low ridge, and there about a quarter of a mile ahead, cutting its sinuous way through the barren bleakness, was a ribbon of dark green. Those were the trees and willows, but here and there they could see open patches of water that were at least three or four rods wide.
“Is that the Green River, Papa?”
“Yes, Christopher,” Derek answered. “That’s the Green.”
“Hmm,” Nathan said. “It’s wider than I thought. Pretty impressive for out here, I’d say.”
“It’s strange,” Kathryn said. “There’s not a living thing taller than a gopher, then suddenly you come upon a river like that making its way through the whole of it.”
“It’s not hard to see where it got its name, is it?” Rebecca said.