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Thisbookisformybrother,NicholasMcMahonBuck,whogotustherewithraregumptionandskill.AmongNewEnglandhorsemen,hehaslongbeenknownasoneofthegreatteamdriversofhisgenerationandheaffirmedthis—andmore—crossingtheOregonTrail.

WhenIstriketheopenplains,somethinghappens.I’mhome.Ibreathedifferently.Thatloveofgreatspaces,ofrollingopencountrylikethesea,it’sthegrandpassionofmylife.

—WILLACATHER

1

IHADKNOWNLONGBEFORE

I rode a covered wagon toOregonthatnaïvetéwasthemother of adventure. I just

didn’tunderstandhowmuchofthatIreallyhad.Nicholasand I realizedbeforewe leftMissouriwiththemulesthatwewouldbethefirstwagontravelers in more than acentury to make anauthentic crossing of theOregon Trail. But that wasnever the point for us. Wepushed mules almost twothousand miles to learnsomething more important.

Evenmorebeautifulthantheland that we passed, or themonths spent camping onthe plains, was learning tolivewithuncertainty.

Thetripwasmyidea,andI fell into it in my usualbarmyway.A few summersago, while taking anafternoon off from a story Iwasworking on in the FlintHillsofKansas,Istoppedontheroadnearastoutgranite

monumentthatmarkedasetof wheel ruts disappearingnorthwestacrosstheplains.

Junctionof

OregonTrailwith

OverlandTrail60RodS-E

Enchanted by the ideathat I could step from amodernpavedroadontothetracks of the nineteenth-

century pioneers—not tomentionwalk all theway toOregon—I paused just longenough to grab a waterbottle and a brimmed hatfrom my car and set outalongtheruts,headingwest.It was a beautiful, breezyday, with sprays of yellowcoreopsis blooming abovethegrassesandmeadowlarksbobbing over the hills. Theold ruts sloped over several

gentle rises, past clumps ofcottonwood trees and lowshrubs at the watercourses,and handsome timberbridges that crossed twostreams. The expansivenessof the landscape washypnotic and physicallyexhilarating, and after thefirst mile I felt as if I werelevitatingon theplains.Thedistant hills of Nebraska

seemed to draw my visionhundredsofmilesaway.

A fewmilesup I stoppedto admire the view afterclimbing a steep rise. Thevalley below was one ofthose dreamywestern vistasout of an Albert Bierstadtpainting—a U-shapedcanyon framed on one sidebyalargestreamandontheother by green and brownhills. In the middle, a tidy

group of shingled rooftopsglowed orange in the sun,surrounded by browsingcattle. Iwalkeddown to thestream, where a signannounced that I hadreached the old HollenbergRanch and Pony Expressstation along the OregonTrail.

The restored ranch andPony Express station aremaintained by the Kansas

StateHistorical Society, andat the interpretive centerthere, built near a modernparking lot, I learned aboutthe place. Gerat Hollenbergwas a German immigrantwho had first crossed theOregon Trail during the1849 California Gold Rush.Hemade a small fortune inthenorthernCaliforniagoldfields, then lost it in ashipwreck off Florida, and

wasdrawnbacktoKansasin1854byhismemoriesofthebeautifulprairie anddreamsoffoundingabusinessalongthebusycoveredwagontrailhehadseenfiveyearsbefore.At the time, marginalizedAmerican farmers“westering”forcheaplandinthe Northwest, religiouszealots,andjustdreamersinsearch of adventure wereflooding across the Kansas

frontier,andinpeakyearsasmany as fifty thousandcovered wagon immigrantsspent the summer crossingtheOregonTrailanditstwomain tributaries, theCalifornia and Mormontrails. Entrepreneurs intentonprofitingfromthistrafficwere building a network of“roadranches”alongremotestretches of the trail,providingakindofearlylog-

cabin convenience store forthe passing wagons.Hollenberg selected a sitealong Cottonwood Creek toattractpioneerswhoneededto water their draft animalsand replenish their drinkingbarrels at the end of theirfirst week crossing theprairie, and apparently hechosewell.Thetradingpostand wagon-repair shop hebuiltontheplains—later,his

wife added an outdoorkitchenandsoldhotmeals—were quickly heralded inpublished trail guides as thelastmajor layoveruntil FortKearny in Nebraska, twohundredmilesaway.

I was intrigued by onedisplay at the interpretivecenter, lying flat in a glasscase. It was a facsimilereproduction of a journalentrymade inMay 1850 by

an Oregon Trail pioneerfrom Indiana, MargaretFrink, describing the scenefromtheriseabovetheriverthat I had just left. Today,theHollenbergRanchsitsona lonely, deserted spot onthehillyplains,withonlythegreenvastnessof theprairiegrasses, and the mosaic ofyellow and purple flowersclimbingthelowrises,fillingintheview.ButFrink’s1850

journal entry described astarkly different place, ascene that could only beimagined 157 years later,looking out over the emptyhills.

In the afternoon wecametothejunctionofthe emigrant roadfrom St. Joseph withour road. . . . Bothroads were thickly

crowded withemigrants. It was agrand spectacle whenwe came, for the firsttime, in view of thevast migration, slowlywinding its waywestward over thebroad plain. Thecountry was so levelwe could see the longtrains of white-toppedwagons for many

miles. It appeared tome that none of thepopulation had beenleft behind. It seemedtomethat Ihadneverseen so many humanbeingsbeforeinallmylife.

That was the momentwhenIfirstfelttherushofadream about the OregonTrail, but the thought

quicklypassedasImovedonto the other exhibits. Theywere mostly reproductionsof paintings of the Kansashills during the 1840s and1850s, when dust billowingup from the wagon trainscreatedahazeallthewaytothe horizon, collections ofoldwheelhubsandshardsofharness unearthed duringarcheological digs, and adescription of the ranch’s

useasaPonyExpressstationand stagecoach stop in the1860s.

The site administratorfrom the Kansas HistoricalSociety, an elderly mannamed Duane Durst, stoodbehind the counter as Iwalkedthroughthemuseumentrance. Duane wastalkative and obviouslylonely, glad to have somecompany for the afternoon.

Hewasaretired farmerandfeed mill manager from thenearbytownofWashington,Kansas,whohadspentmostof his life studying thepatchwork of nineteenth-century “feeder trails” ineastern Kansas that led tothe beginning of the mainOregon Trail nearby. Thisnetwork of roadswas calledthe “junction country” ofKansas, and in many spots

near Durst’s farm, theremnants of the old wagonruts are still visible inunplowed pastures andstream crossings. He wasexactly the kind of walkingdatabase I enjoyed meetingon such a day, and I wasquickly drawn in by thedetailsheshared.

The feeder trails thatmoved northwest throughKansasandthendisappeared

beyond the Flint Hills allemptied into the originalPlatte River Road, as it wasinitiallycalled,themainfur-trapping route to theRockies that passed throughtheArapahoandSiouxtriballandsinwesternNebraskainthe 1820s and 1830s.Renamed the Oregon Trailin the 1840s, the routespanned some 2,100 milesfrom jumping-off towns

such as St. Joseph andIndependence, Missouri, tothe Willamette Valley inOregon, following the greatriver valleys of the Westthrough five present-daystates—Kansas, Nebraska,Wyoming, Idaho, andOregon. Unlike the imageprojected in Hollywoodwesterns, where coveredwagons are pulled byattractive teams of matched

Percheron and Belgianhorses,oxenandmuleswerethe preferred draft animals,Duane told me. Horsesrequiretoomuchforageandthey couldn’t take the heatand the long stretchesbetween reliable sources ofwater. Many moreimmigrantswere dispatchedby shooting accidents andwagon crashes than werekilled by Indians, and the

river crossings were oftentreacherous in the spring,costingmany pioneers theirlives.Butbythefall,familiesregrouped. At majorstopovers like Soda SpringsinIdaho,orFarewellBendineastern Oregon, the longwagon trains paused whilepartners widowed by therivers remarried, and thefestivities often lasted forthreeorfourdays.

MycuriositywasarousedbyanotherdetailthatDuaneshared. Pulling from hiswallet a laminated ID card,he told me that he was atwenty-five-year member oftheOregon-CaliforniaTrailsAssociation, the mainpreservationistgroupforthetrail. Duane describedhimself as a “rut nut,” andhis commitment to thegroup was pretty typical.

Over the past twenty yearshe had rescued severalOregon Trail markers andmonuments that had beenoverrun by farming andother development,relocating them closer totraveled roads where theycould be seen. He hadhelped design and build avisitors’ center at theHollenberg Ranch andcreated Oregon Trail

educationprogramsforlocalschools. An Oregon-CaliforniaTrailsAssociationnewsletter that Duane gaveme described how thegroup’s volunteer workcrews fanned out onsummer weekends acrossbroadexpansesof theWest,restoringmilemarkersalongthetrail,checkingfencelinesforlandencroachments,and

preservingtrailgravesitesinWyomingandNebraska.

Feelings of inadequacyoverwhelmed me as Ilistened to Duane. I am anobsessive-compulsive readerandahistory junkie. Ibrakeby rote at every historicalmarker, I buy out museumbookstores,andforyearsmyinterest incolonialfortsandShakervillages soexhaustedmy two children that they

arenowpermanentlyallergicto the past. I can tell you,right down to the hour,everything that happened atGettysburg, Pennsylvania,during the firstweekof July1863, and each setback thatFranklin Roosevelt enduredduring World War II feelslike it happened to me.FrequentsummerjunketstoMontanaandWyominghadconvincedme that I knew a

lot about the AmericanWest.Butnow,onaperfectKansas day, at an exquisitehistoricalsite,Iwaslisteningtoa rutnutemptyhisbrainon the Oregon Trail, and IrealizedthatIdidn’tknowathing about it. How could Ihavemissed somuch aboutso iconic an Americanexperience?

AndwhatDuanetoldmenext seemed even more

astonishing. Today, almostthe entire 2,100-mileexpanseof theOregonTrail—even where it has beencovered over by modernhighways or railroad tracks—has been meticulouslycharted and marked, withlong, undeveloped spacesnowpreservedasaNationalHistoric Trail. Except fortwo bad stretches ofsuburban sprawl around

Scottsbluff, Nebraska, andBoise,Idaho,mostoftherestof the trail is still accessiblealong remote farm andranch roads in theWest. Inwestern Nebraska andcentralWyoming,wherethetrail runs through relativelyundisturbed federal landsorimmense private ranches,there are stillmore than sixhundred miles of originalwagonruts,justlikethepath

I had hiked that day. Thedreamscapechainofnaturallandmarks and river viewsthat the pioneers saw—Signal Bluff and ChimneyRockalongthePlatte,Devil’sGate on the Sweetwater,Rendezvous Point at theGreen—is all still there,virtuallyintact.

When Duane begandescribing the trail, hehanded me a foldout map

published by the NationalPark Service, and I followedalong as he spoke. End toend, the map stretchedalmost four feet across thecounter, depicting animmensityof terrain,almostcompletely devoid of urbandevelopment, from thebanks of theMissouri RiveratKansasCity to theendofthe Columbia River gorgenear the Pacific coast. The

colored terrain shadings onthemap looked like plattersholdingagiantsmorgasbordof geology—plains, bluffs,high desert, and dramaticriver gorges—along theroute west. To me, theOregon Trail had alwaysbeen just another historicnameplate, likeManassas orPikesPeak,butnowthemapinfrontofmewasopeningitup like a tableau of the

enormous energy of theAmerican experience. Thevisual prompt of the mapwasirresistible,andIformeda strong mental image as Ilooked out through thepaned windows to theendless plains beyond thegroves of cottonwood treesthat curled along thefloodplain of the Little BlueRiver. In my mind’s eye, adusty two-track trail curved

northwest into the mysteryof Nebraska, and thendisappeared into thesnowcapped rim ofWyoming’sMedicineBows.

The map, the hypnoticFlint Hills rising and fallingall around me, the peacefulsurroundings of the ranch,seemed an invitation toramble.Whowouldn’t,giventhechance,want to ride thetrailendtoend?Wanderlust

has always acted likeamphetamine for me and Icould not prevent my headfrommakingthenextleap.

St.JoetoFarewellBendinOregon inacoveredwagon.More than two thousandmiles of open country tocross.Whatadream.

“So, in other words,” Isaid to Duane, “somebodycould still do it. The wholetrail.”

Duane looked at mequizzically, as if I wereasking a question that he’dnever heard before. Themodern trail, he explained,mostly existed as a touristattraction. Families drivingwest in their RVs—headedfor Yellowstone or GlacierNational Park—stopped outof curiosity when they sawsigns identifying OregonTrailsites.Mostofthemjust

wanted to quickly read abrochure and then find thenext campsite with a cableTVhookup.

“But you could do it,” Isaid.“Thetrailisstillthere.”

“In theory, yeah, Isuppose,”Duanesaid.“Butitisn’tgoingtohappen.”

After poking around thegrounds and the PonyExpressstationforawhile,Istepped back inside to say

good-byetoDuane,andthenhiked back east across therise.ThewordsofMargaretFrink had stayed with me,and I stopped at the top tolookback.Itwastemptingtolook across the hills toNebraska and imagine longtrains of white-toppedwagonsformanymiles,withmen hollering at teams,whips cracking, andhundreds of wheels raising

dust, while outridersgallopedthroughthegrassesto flush up game. At thistimeofdaytheriverbottomsall the way to Nebraskawould be obscured by grayclouds of smoke, as thepioneersstoppedtheirtrainsfor the night and cookeddeer steaks and prairiechickens for their eveningmeal. But the plains werequietnow,theaircrystalline.

The cedar roofs of theHollenberg Ranch, lit pinkandamberbythefallingsun,wereallthatIcouldsee.

Itwasalmostdarkbythetime I got back to my car.Dusk is my favorite part oftheday,atimeforexpansivethoughts, and as I drovesouth my mind wanderedback over the ruts and thevisionofajourneythatIhadseen on a map at the

Hollenberg Ranch. Idreamedaboutitallthewayback toTopeka.Buya teamof mules and a coveredwagon,jumpofffromSt.Joe,and then spend an endlesssummer rusticatingway outthere, revived all day by theclangor of harness chains,the scentofmules sweating,andthevastsoulfulhorizonsoftheWest.Iwouldcampatnight at old pioneer stops

and Pony Express corrals,soothed by the rushingwatersas I fell asleepbesidetheSweetwaterorthePlatte.

It was a completelylunatic notion. Except forthe occasional fauxreenactments staged fortourists by Wyomingoutfitters—modern-day“pioneers” are trailed byconvoys of sumptuouslyappointed RVs, and

pampered at night withportable showers andcatered meals—no onetraveled more than sixty orseventy miles of the trailtoday.Iwouldlaterread,inahistoryofthetrailyearsandthe subsequenthomesteading period in thelatenineteenthcentury, that“the last documentedcrossingofthetrailoccurredin 1909.” Just to reach my

rendezvous with dementiaout along the banks of theMissouri River, I wouldspend two or three daysdrivingwest frommy homein New England with mygear loaded into a pickup.Then I would spend fourmonths, via covered wagonand mules, crossing whatnineteenth-century travelerscalled the “Great AmericanDesert.” Across the high

deserts of centralWyomingand Idaho, I would have tocoverstretchesoffortymilesormorewithoutwater.Andwhy did I think that thenotorious and often fatalobstacles that the pioneersfaced—mountain passesstrewn with lava rock,hellacious winds and duststorms, rattlesnakes, anddescents so steep that thewagons could only be

lowered by ropes—wouldmiraculously vanish fromthe trail for me? Only adelusional jackass, orsomeone seriously off hismedications, would pull offthe road at the HollenbergRanch one fine summerafternoon and concoct suchapreposterousscheme.

But you can’t save anaddictive dreamer fromhimself, and that jackass

happens to be me. Already,powerful forces weredrawing me west. I felt anirresistible urge to forsakemy life back east for arapturousjourneyacrosstheplains.

•••

The contagion of roguetravel started earlywithme.Iwasraisedduringthe1950s

and early 1960s on aramshackle old horse farmin New Jersey. My father, amagazine publisher in NewYork City, was boundlesslyenergetic and inventive,devoted to what heconsidered the pressingentertainment needs of hiseleven children. While therest of the country ragedover Pontiac tailfins orplayed golf, we chased

around the menagerie thatmy father had slappedtogether from a nineteenth-century dairy—barnsconverted to horse stables,chicken houses and goatpens, a collection of morethan twenty-five antiquecarriages andwagons, and alarge stone patio and picnicarea set under giant shademaples, where my fatherentertained the lovable

drunks from his localchapter of AlcoholicsAnonymous. We drove tochurch every Sunday in afour-seat surrey pulled by ateam of matched bays, andsleighedintothetoystoreintown in December to pickup our Christmas presents.On lazy summer nights,myfather loved nothing morethan loading his childrenandallofourneighborhood

friends—there could betwenty kids or more—intothedilapidatedyellowschoolbusthathehadpurchasedata junkyard for such outings.Thenwedrovedown to theDairyQueeninBernardsvilleand gorged on ice creamsundaes.

Over the winter of 1958,brooding in front of hisfireplace one night, myfather announced that he

was bored with the schoolbus.Asafamily,hethought,we needed an experiencethatwoulddrawustogether,something that wouldengender in us the spirit ofthe American pioneers. Idon’t have any idea wherethis notion came from. Butthe top-rated AmericantelevisionshowthatyearwasNBC’s Wagon Train,starringWardBond,andwe

were all fans. We didn’tconsider it outlandish whenmy father told us that, forour summer vacation, wewere going on a coveredwagon trip to Pennsylvania.It would be a combinedcamping and coachingexpedition,with stops alongtheway at historic sites likeValleyForgeandGettysburgthat my father wanted hischildrentosee.

Myfatherhadaknackformaking the complex seemsimple,andwewererelaxedabout our preparations forthe trip. One Januaryweekend that yearwe drovedown to the PennsylvaniaDutch country in LancasterCounty and madearrangements with ourregular Mennonite wagonbuilder, Jonas Reif, toconvert a large farm wagon

withhoopsandacanvastop.Weboughtourdrafthorses,ateamofPercheron-Morgancrosses named Benny andBetty, from Jonas’s son-in-law, IvanMartin.My father,my older brother, and Ispent a few delightfulSaturday afternoons thatspring banging around thebarn with rusty hammersand saws,modifying our rigwith racks for cooking pots

and pans, hooks for waterbuckets, and a drop-downchuck wagon table forcooking meals. My fatherwas a former barnstormingpilotandWorldWarIIflightinstructor who had lost hisleft leg in a bad air crash in1946. He stowed his mapsforthetripinanoldwoolenstump sock that he placedunderneath the wagon seat.With shoelaces, he hung a

compass and a clock fromthehoopoverthefrontseat.

We clattered down ourdrive early one Saturdaymorning in July that year,boundforPennsylvania,andthat was a beautiful junketforafathertosharewithhischildren. I was seven yearsold and our covered wagontripwas the dream summerof my youth. In those daysNew Jersey and eastern

Pennsylvania were stillundeveloped, and we drovedown through the greenfarmlands of Somerset andHunterdoncountiesonquietstatehighwaysordirtroads,camping atdairies and stateparks. In the mornings,while the waters of theDelaware or the Schuylkillriver gurgled past ourcampsite, my father wouldrise at dawn and cook up a

big breakfast of scrambledeggs and home fries over awood fire, while my olderbrother and I fed andwatered the horses. Alongthe cool, shaded lanes ofBucksCounty,Pennsylvania,we sang songs together topassthetime,andtookturnslearning to drive the team.On warm afternoons thebumping of thewheels overgravel roads and the

rhythmiccloppingofhoovesmademesleepy,andIlovedstretchingoutinthebackofthewagonandnappingonabaleofhay.

My fatherwanted his children to “seeAmerica slowly,” to bond us as afamily,andthejourneyloomedlonginmemory.

Thehighlight ofmydaysthat summer arrived in thelate afternoon. We hadbrought along on the trip avery gentle and safe oldwestern cow pony, aregistered quarter horsenamed Texas, who wastrailedbehindthewagononaleadline.Atfourorfiveinthe afternoon, when myfather decided that we hadachieved our allotted

mileage for the day, hewould call for either myolderbrotherormetothrowTexas’ssaddleandbridleoffthe wagon, hitch up, andride ahead to scout for aplacetocampthatnight.

I am still thrilled by thesensation of those rides. Assoon as I had Texas allsaddled up I leaped on hisback, dug in my heels, andneck-reinedhim around the

wagon and the team,galloping ahead into thenarrow aperture of lightglowing between the shadetreesonaPennsylvanialane.Within a minute or two Ihadlostsightofthewagon.Ioftenpassedupthefirsttwoor three farms that lookedgood for camping, just tostretch out the ride, lopingover picturesque stonebridges and past fields with

browsing Herefords or tallcorn. I felt so free andadventurous on those rides—loved and trusted enoughto bear the responsibility offinding our camp for thatnight, but also completelyunbounded, with theconfines of family ploddingalonginawagonbehindme,unseen,farbackontheroad.

Those rides were myafternoons as an American

boy,andIalwaysreturnedtothewagonsuffusedwith thethrill of spontaneous travel.Thecoupleswhoownedthefarms that I picked on myrides were always excitedaboutthenoveltyofhavingacovered wagon stay for thenight, and they offered usdinner, showers, or the useof their swimming pools.Sheriffs’ deputies chased usdown with their pickups,

offering loads of grain andhay. Restaurants along thewaylaidoutmealsforusontables in their parking lots.All of this was completelyunplanned, and coveredwagon travel seemed togenerate its ownspontaneous reality andunique bounty of rewards.Nothavingspecificgoals forthe day seemed to be theway to live. Just harness up

in themorning and go.Therestwouldtakecareofitself.Three hundred miles ofgreen roadways down andback from Pennsylvaniaopened as a succession ofheavensforus.

On that trip, my fathergaveusmorethanthegiftofimagination. Travel becamemy endorphin. In a coveredwagon, while riding slowlyout in the open air, every

blade of grass, every fencepost and farm, or themallard ducks rising fromthestreams,assumesavisualand olfactory intensity thatyou can never feel whiletrapped inside a speedingcar.While on awagon seat,the land embraces you,emotionally. The rumblingwheels,thecreakingtop,andthe pull of the driving linesin your hands multiply the

pleasure of travel. A part ofme would always long forthat strength of feelingagain, and no other formoftravelcouldmatchit.

Ourfifteenminutesof famearrivedinthe form of a Look magazine spreadaboutthe1958trip.

The theme of escapebecame embedded with me—Iescapedtolive,Iescapedto elude ennui and theboredom of everyday life, Iescaped to chase off myhereditary chronicdepression.BythetimeIwasateenagermyfatherhadlostinterest in his wagons andhorses for the other greatlove of his life, aviation,mostly because my older

brother and Iwere now oldenough to learn to fly. In1966, when he wasseventeen and I was fifteen,Kernahan and I rebuilt anold Piper Cub in our barnand flew it to California forthe summer, becoming theyoungest aviators ever to flycoasttocoast.WenavigatedoutpasttheRockieswithouta radio, with just a wobblymagnetic compass and a

shoppingbagfullofairmen’scharts.IncollegeItooklongsemester breaks tomotorcycle out west anddown south, then acrossEurope.

In my senior year atcollege, my professorsdiscouraged me frompursuing a life of writingbecause they said that Iwould never make anymoney. But I was drawn to

writingand journalism foracareer because I knew thecalling would never requiremetoremainverylonginanoffice. I wanted open air,horses, or the throbbing ofold cylindershangingout inthe breeze. Journey waseverything forme. I learnedtoliveforthosebright,joyfulintervals of travel, lastingweeks and sometimes evenmonths, when I was

liberated by my latestobsession from the grindingroutine of domesticity andwork—trips toWyoming towrite about cattle rustling,trips to Europe and theMiddleEasttocoverpoliticsandwars,tripstoArizonaorCalifornia to cover wildfiresandearthquakes.EvenafterImarried, had children, andmoved to the country, atleastonelonggetawayayear

was as essential as oxygenfor me. There were alwaysenough magazines ornewspapers around toreward the curious andfootloose like me. I feltcontent as long as I knewthattheboygallopingaheadof the wagon could still bealive.

BythetimeIreachedtheHollenberg Ranch, however,those wandering years were

nearing their end. My lifeseemed to have run itscourse. To make thepayments on my daughters’college education, I hadstayedtoolongatmyjob,atAmerica’s oldestcontinuously publishednewspaper, the HartfordCourant. The Courant wasnow controlled by a shortbillionaire from Chicagowhose borrowings had

bankrupted the TribuneCompany less than a yearafter he bought it. Myeditors had once dreamedabout great writing andscoops, and they loved itwhen I ran out at amoment’s notice and thenscrambled back to thenewsroom with somethinggood about the family of asoldier just killed in Iraq, orthe rude developer from

New York who wanted toconvert a pricelesswatershedintoagolfcourse.But now my editors weregrounddownby thedeclineof print journalism,worshippingatthebehestoftheir corporate masters thenewwebvaluesofpagehits,Twitter feeds, and cuttingcosts. They wanted storiesabout idiotic, “reader-driven”subjectsthatweren’t

news at all—health fads, carwrecks, and celebrityscandals. (Themost covetedstories combinedmore thanone of these elements, acelebrity health fad, say, oreven better, a celebrity carwreck.)Mostlyowing tomyown mistakes, my marriagehadendedand Ihadmovedout of my house, and itssixteen acres of fields andwoods that I loved to roam

and log. I lived now in acharmingbarnhousehigherupinthemountains,buttheplace was lonely.Simultaneously financing aseparation and collegetuitions had left me nearlybankrupt,andmyhousewasover-mortgagedtoitslimits.Manyofmynewbestfriendswereheavydrinkers.

In short, I had becomethat familiar subspecies of

the North American male,the divorced boozehoundwith a bad driving recordand emerging symptoms oflow self-esteem. I knew thatI had to escape again—thistimeinabigway.Itwastimefor me to buy some mapsandateamofmulesandlosemyselfintheWest.

But I also knew that Ineeded a convincingrationale, a truth about

history and the Americanexperiencethatwouldjustifyarisky,lyricaljourneyacrosstheplains.

•••

The urge to wander westwith a team of mulesappeasedanotheroneofmypersonality defaults. As aboy,Idesperatelyfeltaneedtofleethechaoticdinofour

house—new babies wailingdownstairs, youngerbrothers and sisters fightingoverdollsandTonkatrucks,my father’sweekend asylumof Roman Catholic priests,AA buddies, and politiciansstreaminginandout.Ioftenretreatedupstairstomyatticroom,ortoaquietcornerofthe barns, for bouts ofreading that could last allafternoon or night. I

devouredscience,adventure,andespeciallyhistorybooks,escapingmydomesticrealityforanalternativeuniverseofCivil War battles orKlondike dogsled rides. Myadolescentfeastingonbookswas a protective search forprivacyandself thatworkedformeatthetime,andlaterbecame habitual anddelivered other benefits. Icompulsively read ahead in

my course work in schooland college, and as ajournalist I became thenewsroom idiot savant whocouldalwaysbe reliedon toconvert his vault of triviainto some useful angle on abreaking story. My modusoperandi was fixed longbeforemiddleage.Toescapein fact, I had to escape firstintobooks.

That fall, after I returnedfrom Kansas, I curled upbefore my fireplace in NewEngland and binged on thetrail. I began with literaryclassics like FrancisParkman’sTheOregonTrail,and Bernard DeVoto’s TheYear of Decision, 1846, andthen moved on to thesteroidal, massivelyresearchedworkofMerrillJ.Mattes,authorofTheGreat

Platte River Road, and JohnD. Unruh Jr.’s The PlainsAcross. By the end of thewinter my library wasstacked high with piles ofcardboard boxes and books,with separate archivescontaining maps,nineteenth-century trailguides,pioneerjournals,andessays onwagondesign andmules.IquicklyrealizedthatI had been missing a lot—

almosttheidiomofAmericaitself—bynotknowingmoreabouttheOregonTrail.

The exodus across theplains in the fifteen yearsbefore the Civil War, whenmore than 400,000 pioneersmade the trek between thefrontier at the MissouriRiverandthePacificcoast,isstill regarded by scholars asthe largest single landmigration in history. It

virtually defined theAmerican character—ourplucky determination in thefaceofphysicaladversity,thejoining of two coasts intoone powerful country, ourimpetuous cycle of financialbubbles and busts, theendless, fractious clash ofethnic populationscompetingforthesamejobsand space. Before theOregonTrail,Americawasa

loosely coordinated land ofemerging industrial centersin the Northeast, and aplantation South, with afrontier of hotly contestedsoil mutating west. Post–Oregon Trail—with a bigassist from the Civil War—America was a continentaldynamo connected byrailroads and the telegraphfrom the Atlantic to thePacific, with certain

precedents for settlement,statehood, and quicklyestablishing largecommercial cities. ForanothergenerationtheWestwould be destabilized, andourfolkloremade,byIndianfighters and gunslingers,mining and railroadplunderers, and range warsover cattle. But the trailexperience had clarified ourdestiny and national

character. Americans werethose folks who loved toprofess peace-loving values,but who fought abouteverything. AllegedlyAmericawasfoundedinpartto promote religiousfreedom and harmony, butinfactwewereacauldronofdenominational spats,prejudice, and evenhomicidalchurchwars.Thiscreateda lotofconflict,and

for millions of Americans,the solution for problemswhere they were was toquickly sell out, pack theirbelongings, and movesomewhere else, preferablywest. Our economic affairswere chaoticallymismanaged by governmentand exploited by cabals ofstock swindlers and banks.But the huge nationalbountywastooconsiderable

to destroy and Americawould quickly assemble awealthandanélanunrivaledanywhereelseintheworld.

But you couldn’t get tothe bottom of that withoutfirst knowing the OregonTrail. The ruts crossing theplains had not onlyphysically connected afinished continental space,but spiritually cohered ayoung country’s first

principles into a nationalpsyche.FormostAmericans,the time line between theAmerican Revolution andthe Civil War is a seventy-yearblackhole,asifnothinghad happened in between.ButnowIsawintheOregonTrailthebigeventthatfilledthevoidandexplainedwhatwecametobe.

And the details of theprairie migration were

wonderful, crying out forrenewedattention.HistorianRichard Slotkin has shownhow the myth of Indiansavagery was required tojustifythesubjugationofthetribes so that their prairiekingdomscouldbeseizedbythe Americans crossing thefrontier after 1843. But thatimage, faithfully passeddown by purple-sage novelsand Hollywood westerns, is

wildlyinaccurate.Theinitialencountersbetweenthefirstcovered wagon trains andthe tribes wereextraordinarily friendly, andthe pioneers would neverhave made it past Kansaswithout their Pawnee andShoshone guides. Thepioneers and their newIndian partners amplydisplayed the Americanpenchant for technological

prowess, developing shore-to-shore windlasses andflatboat ferries to cross therivers,innovationsasvitaltothecountry’sprogressasthesteam engine and thetelegraph. America’s defaulttoward massive waste andenvironmental havoc wasalso, and hilariously,perfected along the trail.Scammed by the merchantsof Independence andSt. Joe

into overloading theirwagons, the pioneersjettisoned thousands of tonsof excess gear, food, andeven pianos along the ruts,turning vast riverfrontregions of the West intoAmerica’s first and largestSuperfund sites. On issueafterissue—disease,religiousstrife, the fiercecompetitionforwater—thetrailservedasan incubator for conflicts

that would continue toreverberate throughAmerican culture until ourownday.

Another compellingdetail emerged from myresearch that winter. Alongthe Oregon Trail—unlikesuch embalmed historicplacesas IndependenceHallinPhiladelphiaortheCusterBattlefield in Montana—thecontinuum of history is still

very much alive. After theCivilWar,therushtobuildatranscontinental railroadmade the familiar andmapped wagon train paththe preferred route, and theUnion Pacific andBurlington Northern lineswere quickly laid downwithin yards of the originaltrail. The Pony Express, thetelegraph lines, and thestagecoach routes followed,

usually right along theoriginal ruts, and then thebig ranches, cities, and beefpackingyardsfollowed.Earlyinthetwentiethcentury,thenation’s first coast-to-coastmotorway, the LincolnHighway,wasbuiltalongsixhundredmilesofthetrail inNebraska and easternWyoming. The westernreaches of the interstatehighway system—Route 80

through Nebraska andWyoming, routes 86 and 84through Idaho and Oregon—closelyfollowtheoldruts.In the U.S. highway system,the marked “auto trail”following the emigrant roadbetween Independence,Missouri, and Astoria,Oregon is now called the“Old Oregon TrailHighway,” and includesmore than a dozen

interstates and two-lanehighways.

Today, at some of theloveliest and most historicspots along the trail,O’Fallon’sBluffinNebraska,or Register Rocks in Idaho,you can sit and watch alandscape that still humswith western movement.The whistles of the bigyellowUnionPacificengineswail day and night at the

trackcrossings,alongwhatisnow the busiest freightcorridor in theworld. Just afootball field away, ofteneven closer, the semitrailersrace down the interstates inpacks, their metal sidesglaring under the sun likethe white-tops of thepioneers.

And now there is a newscrum along the trail. Overthe past fifteen years, from

the Missouri to theColumbia, the old emigrantroadhasbecomedottedwithinnumerableenergyprojects—ethanol plants, massivewind farms, high-speedtransmission lines,hydrofracked gas fields, andhugedatacentersforGoogleand Microsoft. The OregonTrailcouldaptlyberenamedthe“EnergyTrail.”Allofthispasses by an environmental

treasure, a proud legacy ofTeddy Roosevelt’sProgressive Era—nearly adozen national forests,millions of acres ofpreserved land, that stretch1,500 miles from theMedicineBowsinWyomingto the Cascades in Oregon.The trail today, far frombeing a historic artifact,reverberates with themodernechoesofAmerica’s

most eternal struggle—thebattle between those whowould preserve the plainsand the mountain forests,and those who gaze acrossthe same pristine landscapeandsay,“Drill,baby,drill.”

•••

A sensible plan seemed tohave emerged from mywinter of reading. A long

ride across the plainswouldallow me to experience theincomparable joys andphysical rigors of wagontravel,andIwouldbeseeingthe country slowly, withplenty of time for reflectingon how a fabled landscapehad matured and still borespiritual meaning today. Allthe bombast and bravery ofthe overland years in the1840s and 1850s, the

religious strife, the scams atthe jumping-off cities, thewonder the pioneers feltabouttheunfoldingvistasofthe West, could beconveyed, adequatelyenough, from the saferemove of a library. Butactually riding the trailwoulddelivermetosomuchmore, tangibly connectingme to thehistory I now feltsopassionateabout.

Roamingwestwouldalsoembrace a very oldAmerican theme. HenryDavid Thoreauimmortalized this urge withhis poetic “Eastward I goonlybyforce;butwestwardIgo free.” A century later,beatwriterJackKerouacwasstill exploring this motif inhis road books. Kerouac, ashis friend John ClellonHolmeswrote,“hankeredfor

theWest,forWesternhealthand openness of spirit, forthe immemorial dream offreedom [and] joy.” Thepioneershadfoundthis too.William Barlow of Indiana,whocrossedthetrailin1845when he was twenty-threeyears old, was in manyrespects an emblematicAmerican. His father, S. K.Barlow, led a company offiftywagons across the trail,

carrying several hundredpounds of tobacco fortrading with the Indians. InOregon, the Barlows weredissatisfiedwith theexistingtrailaroundtheCascades,sothey built a newone,whichbecame the famous BarlowRoad. Later, the BarlowshelpedfoundOregonCity,abustling lumber andindustrial center along theWillamette River south of

Portland. As an old man,William Barlow vividlyrecalled his five months onthe plains. “I will now sayagain, for myself and ourcompany,thatIneverpasseda more pleasant, cheerfuland happy summer in mywholelife.”

One of my favoritepioneerjournalistsisGeorgeLawCurry, perhaps becausehislifestorysoremindedme

of my own grandfather andfather.APennsylvanianwhocouldn’taffordaneducation,Currystartedhiscareerasaprinter’s apprentice andworked his way up tobecoming a newspaperpublisher. He crossed thetrail in 1846 and laterfollowed a career trackcommon to many overlandemigrants, becoming aprominent newspaperman

and politician in Oregon,and briefly served as thestate’s acting governor. InMay1846,Currywrotebacktothepaperhehadfoundedin St. Louis, The Reveille,from the banks of theWakarusaRiverinKansas.

Life on the plains farsurpasses myexpectation; there is afreedom and a

noblenessaboutitthattendtobringforththefull manhood. A manupon the horizon-bound prairie feels hisown strength andestimates his ownweakness. He is aliveto every thing aroundhim.Forhimthereisajoy in the “lone elm”grandeur on themounds, beauty in the

grassy and flower-besprinkled couch onwhich he rests, and aglory forever roundhim, stretching hisspirit to its fullesttension.

In the trail journals, Ioftencameacrossthephrase“seeingtheelephant,”atermthat the pioneers used todescribe their anticipation

aboutstrikingoutacrosstheunknowable wilderness oftheplains.Theoriginsofthephrasearenotcertain,butitseems to have been apopular nineteenth-centurycolloquialism that referredtotherarethrillthatfamiliesfelt when leaving theirisolated farms to see theelephantsmarching throughtownwhenatravelingcircusarrived.Thetermwasakind

ofdestroyer-preserverimagethat changed in meaningovertime,anddependingonthecircumstances.

Initially, the pioneersjubilantly expected to “seethe elephant” in theendlessly scenic plains thatthey would encounter afterembarking across theMissouri River. “All handsearly up anxious to see thepath that leads to the

Elephant,”wrotegoldseekerJohn Clark of Virginia in1852, thedayhe left for thetrailon theSt. JosephRoad.But a mythic, balefulelephant also came torepresent the many hazardsof the trail—disease,drowning, or stampedingbuffalo that carried off awagon train’s cattle.PioneerLucyCookemadeadifficultearly-season crossing of the

trailinApril1851,whenthewaterways of Kansas wereperilously swollen fromheavy rains. The wagons ofhertrainhadtobetediouslyunloaded and then pulledacrossevensmallstreamsbychains. “Oh, surely we areseeing the elephant,” Cookewrote in her journal. “Fromthe tip of his trunk to theendofhistail!”

Seeing the elephant, ashistorianMerrillMattes putit, “was the popular symbolof the Great Adventure, allthe wonder and the gloryandtheshiveringthrilloftheplunge into the ocean ofprairie and plains, and thebrave assault uponmountains and deserts thatwere gigantic barriers toCalifornia gold. It was thepoetic imagery of all the

deadlyperilsthatthreatenedawesteringemigrant.”

Intheearly1850s,duringthe frantic California GoldRush, another popularphrase gained circulationamong the mostly young,urban eastern men andEuropeanswhowererushingwest on the trail. “Thecowardsnever started,” theysaid.Ina1962articleonthecovered wagon, a writer for

American Heritage offeredhis own amendment for theold saying. “Only themadmen started!” he wrote.As I made my finalpreparations to depart fortheWest, I knew thatmanypeople would consider meunhinged forwanting to seethe elephant. I was amadman for becoming atwenty-first-century traveleralong the ruts. But I was

cheerful about that. Iwouldlive for the summeraccording to my ownpersonalcreed.

I do not believe inorganized religion, herbalremedies, yoga, Reiki,kabbalah, deep massage,slow food, or chicken soupfor the soul. The nostrumsof Deepak Chopra andBarbara De Angelis cannotrescuepeoplelikeme.

I believe in crazyasspassion. It was crazyasspassion that dug America’scanals, flung the wagonswest,builttherailroads,andpropelledtheGod-fearingtotheir deaths at ColdHarborand Shiloh. My father’sgeneration gave greatcrazyass passion survivingthe Depression and thenfighting a noble world war.Brandy and words mixed

with Winston Churchillbecamethecrazyasspassionthat saved the last freecountry inEurope.Crazyasspassion threw HermanMelville to the seas, JackKerouac on the road, andWilfred Thesiger across thesands. My corporeal selfwould be driving mulesacross the plains, but it wascrazyass passion that woulddelivermetothetrail.

2

MY DREAMS OF CROSSING

MORE than two thousandmilesofwesternterrainwerefortified by two gloriously

farcical delusions. I wouldcrossthetrailalone.And,inaddition to themules and acovered wagon, I would betakingalongaridinghorse.Iknew that I would enjoyexploring on horseback thedistant canyons and riverbottoms that I could seefrom the wagon seat,especiallyafterIreachedthedramatic bluff country ofwestern Nebraska, and my

childhood memoriesrequired me to think ofmyself galloping across thesage every evening to scoutforacamp.Ipicturedmyselfhigh atopmyhorse under acowboy hat, cheerfullytakingnotesaboutmypoeticsurroundings as Isimultaneously juggled thereins, a lead line for themules, my canteens, acompass,andmaps. Iwould

be the happiest multitaskerinthehistoryof theOregonTrail.

To accomplish this,however, I would need myold riding saddle, boughttwenty years earlier on aWyoming cattle drive. In atransaction typical of thearrangements betweenmembersofmyfamily,Ihadlent the saddle many yearsago to my younger brother

Nicholas, in return for hishelp when I was renovatingmy house. The saddle hadsat all those years, mostlyunused, inadustycornerofNick’s barn in Maine. Earlyonemorning inApril, just afew weeks before I wasscheduled to leave on thetrip, I emailed Nick andasked him to ship me thesaddle.

I wasn’t surprised whenNick’s reply arrived a fewminuteslater.Hehadplentyof time on his hands. Thesummerbefore,hehadtakena bad fall from a neighbor’sroofandshatteredthebonesinhis right foot intodozensoffragments.Theinjuryhadnot healed quickly, and forthepasteightmonthshehadbeen confined to either thepostoperative ward of the

Veterans Administrationhospital in Augusta or hisliving room couch. Nick’spostcards and emails havealways been a tonic forme,evoking the literacystandards of the nineteenthcentury, when Civil Warsoldiers and stagecoachdrivers were too busyleading interesting lives tobother much aboutpunctuation or spelling.

Hearing fromNick instantlyput me in the mood forpioneertravel.

“I can send you the sadlejust tell me were and whenand listen hear you asholwhy didn’t you tell me youweremakingtheOregintripthisyearImcomin.”

Some of you are alreadyfamiliar with my brotherNick. Last summer, whileyou were touring the

beautiful seacoast ofMaine,Nick Buck was that rathergenerously proportioned,gregariousfellowwiththeFuManchu mustache and aNAPA Auto Parts cap,rumbling north on U.S.Route 1 near Damariscottainabatteredoldfarmwagonpulled by a team ofmismatched draft horses.Stopping traffic in bothdirections on the busy

coastal highway, Nickwheeled intotheparking lotof the HannafordSupermarket and thentrotted over to thehandicapped parking space,where he tied up his team.(“Whadya mean why do Ipark in handicapped?” Nicksaidtomeonce,whenIwasalong for his Saturday-morning ride. “That’s theonly placewhere they put a

signsoIcantiemyhorses.”)It takesNick a long time toshopatHannaford’s,andnotsimply because he is anambitious eater. Nick is amuch beloved figure alongthemid-coastofMaine,andeveryone wants to stop andtalk when they see him. Atthe supermarket, Nick’swhereabouts are rarely amystery. His boomingbaritone voice carries

everywhere, even throughhardenedwalls.

“OH,YEAH!Did you seethat teamofmine jump theditch? I thought Iwasgoingto lose that whole frickinload of kids off the back ofthesleigh!”

Nick is our family’sRenaissance man. Hevolunteers his wagon andteam every year for freekiddie rides at local fund-

raisers, he’s a popular actorin community theaters, amainstayofseverallocalself-helpgroups,andhislecturesabout horses, stagecoaches,and the old Boston PostRoadhavebeensomeof themost highly attended eventsin the history of severalMaine libraries andmuseums. Nick is also wellknown for being able tobuild or repair anything, a

kind of local handyman andglobal Robin Hood rolledinto one. If yourgrandmother in Waldoborois complaining about herleakywaterheater,Nickwillgenerously offer to drive upthere and install a new one,probably forgetting to sendher a bill, but he’s just aslikelytobefoundrebuildinghomes for hurricane or

earthquake victims in NewOrleansorPeru.

Many people, after theyhave met Nick and spokenwith him for a while, drooloverhiscurriculumvitae.Heepitomizes the personalitytype that down-easters callthe Mainiac—a person socompletely devoid ofpracticality, yet so devotedto fun, thathis life canonlybe considered utterly

romantic. He is alsosomethingofaprototypeforthe middle sons in largefamilies. By the time Nickarrived, there were alreadyseven Buck children. Myfatherandmotherdevotedalotofcaretoraisingchildrenproperly, but they can beclassifiedonlyasburned-outparentsby the timenumbereightwasborn.Thisledtoacurious phenomenon that I

saw in other families. Theolder sons and daughtersreceived an extraordinaryamount of attention andcontributed to my father’spersonalbankruptcyschemebyattendingthebestprivateschools.Butthemiddleboyswere just surplus carnalresults, afterthoughts, andno one cared how theydressed or what they did inschool. Then the parents of

these large Catholic clansgathered a secondwind andshowered the youngestchildren with affection. Butthe middle boys wereneglectedtruantswhocoulddowhatevertheywanted.

During his senior year inhigh school, Nick wassuspended for a minorsmoking violation—he saysthat he was taking the rapforafriend—andneverwent

back,findingthatheenjoyedjacking up barns andworkinginagasstationalotmorethanclasses inalgebraandEuropeanhistory.Afewmonths later he enlisted inthe U.S. Coast Guard. Nickbecamecertifiedasamarineengineerandwasassignedtowork on icebreakers alongthePenobscotandKennebecrivers in Maine. He crewedboatsthatperformedseveral

dramatic sea rescues, andthen he became the lastlighthouse keeper in Mainewhen he took over thewindswept, historicWhiteheadLightStation,onanislandsouthofRockland,running it for eighteenmonths before it wasautomated and abandonedas a manned station. Thetrajectory of Nick’s life wascelebratedtwentyyearslater,

when he returned toWhitehead to lovinglyrestore the light keeper’shouseforthewealthyfamilywho bought the island afterit was sold at a governmentauction.

After the Coast Guard,Nick converted the love ofhorses and antique rigs thathepickeduponouroldfarmin New Jersey into asuccessful sleigh-ride

business at NewHampshireskiresorts.Hespentthenextten winters up there,building huge, thirty-passenger sleighs fromscratch. By day he prancedhis big, dappled teams ofPercheron andBelgiandrafthorsesacrossicyparkinglotsand through the portecocheres of fancy inns,building a considerablereputation as a horseman,

andbynighthepartiedwiththe ski bunnies that hemetinthebars.EverysummerhedecampedforDutchHarborin Alaska, where he ran theengine room of the largestAmerican fish processingboat in the Bering Sea.Whenhewas inhis thirties,agirlfriendpersuadedhimtostop drinking and settledowninMaine.Nickboughta run-down farm in

Newcastle and—sort of—fixed it up. The next fifteenyears were devoted tobuilding and restoringtrophy mansions along theMaine coast, and collectingcarriages and sleighs, andNick imaginatively treatedhis ferocious attentiondeficit disorder with a busyweekend schedule of teamdriving, acting in plays, and

Habitat for Humanityprojects.

But the recessionof2008had wiped out mansion-building inMaine, and thenNick had fallen off hisneighbor’sroof.Hewasnowunemployed, and an invalid,so financially desperate thathisfamilyandfriendshadtothrow fund-raisers to helphim catch up on hismortgage payments and

credit card bills. I hadn’tconsidered Nick for theOregontrip,becausehewasso immobilized by pain andrecurrent infections in hisfoot that he couldn’t evenrise from his couch to cookhisownmeals.Mysisters inBostonhadbeenrunningupto Maine on weekends,housekeepingandcaring forNickasbestastheycould.

Now, on the eve of mydeparture,Nickwasfloodingme with emails, insistingthathe couldmake the trip.His doctors were promisingto give him a clean bill ofhealth soon. He waspassionate about going notonly because, as anexperienced horseman—arguably one of the bestteam drivers of hisgeneration—Nick knew that

I couldn’t possibly make itfrom Missouri to Oregonalone.He also knew that anOregon runwithmuleswasthe dream opportunity of alifetime.

MysisterFerrisssaysthatNickwas“bornatthewrongtime.” There is even aninformalpsychiatrictermforpeoplelikehim:“bornoutofcentury.” His knowledgeabout old wagons is

encyclopedic and adamant.When I was with him onceatamuseumoutsideBoston,Nick saw a restored CivilWar escortwagon and said,loudlyenoughtobeheardbythemuseumdirectora flooraway, “Oh, Christ, look atthat.ThoseareWorldWarIartillery hubs on an 1863wagon. Why would anyonedo somethin so frickinstupid like that?” If it is an

Albanycutter,andyoucallita sleigh,hewill remindyou.Itbecomesfrighteningtobearound him when yourealize that he can do thesame thing across a broadspectrum of artifacts—airplanes, ships, steamengines, antique pickups,churches, breakwaters, andVictorian houses. Nick is agorgeous cluster ofautodidacticism, and you

can’t believe that this guystanding next to you withhydraulic fluid all over hisshirt is more erudite thanthe curators at theSmithsonianInstitution.

There are a few othercontradictions, glaring butcharming. Nick is wellknown in Maine as afastidious builder, and noneof his multimillion-dollarprojects is done until every

balustrade and vaultedceilinghasbeenapprovedbythe architect as perfect. Hisstandards for personalpossessions—his pickup, hisfarm, his furniture—are agreat deal more proletarianthan that. An avid reader,Nickoftensurprisesmewithhis recall of history books,even classic novels. But alack of performance inschool and the general

addled nature of the brainthrough which informationmustbeprocessedresults ina pronounced verbaldyslexia,whichNickcallshis“lysdexia.”DuringDecemberoneyear,NickandIdecidedthat we wanted to watch aChristmasvideotogether.

“Okay, so Rink,” Nicksaid. “Let’s watch JimmyStewart in It’s a WonderfulWife.”

But it’s easy to ignoretheseodditiesbecauseNick’soutlook is so endlessly jolly.Recently,hefacedaproblemwith his elderly cat, Poopy,whowasnotwell.Onenightafterwork,herushedPoopyto the vet. Via our familyemail tree, Nick deliveredthe news about whathappenedthere.

“My cat Poopy passedaway this evening about six

o’clock at the vet’s officewere I had taken him to bepassed on. Because hepassedawaywhilethepaperwork was being filled out Igot out of there with out abill.Ifeelterriblyguiltytobefilled with joy over the factthatIgotoutwithadeadcatandnobill. I thinkImaybeon a paved road to youKnowwere.”

I called Nick tocommiserate about Poopy.But it was one of thoseweeks when he had lost hiscell phone and he wasn’treceiving messages.Eventually, he got back tomeviaemail.

“Rinker Sorry I Missedyour calls. The Cat Poopyhas left the Planet. It was asad day but he had lived along lifeanddiedat the last

momentof it, asmost all ofusdo.”

•••

My email exchanges withNickabouttheOregonTrailtrip became a study of ourdivergent personalities, theamazing wealth ofpossibilities containedwithinsharedDNA.Iwouldwrite Nick long, learned

dissertations on my plans,with links to maps, andtypically overresearchedhistories of the places alongthe trail where I planned tocamp. Nick emailed backabout wheel grease andtools.

“Ihavetwohorseanchorsa wheel wrench my wheeljack actually two if onebrakesdad’sold leather toolkit from the covered wagon

trip ’58 andmy buddyAlancan get some High techgrease that will prolongtimes between greasing thewheels. Blankets for theMules we’l need for coldnights and equine aspiranlots of every bolt on thewagon all perpose tools IhaveaColeman stoveandaKeroseen lantern as well. Oand PS nomatter what anyjerkof waggonmaker says

we’l have to Rebild thebrakesevry100miles.”

I was torn about Nickcoming along. Clearly, hisnonpareil knowledge aboutwagonsand teamswouldbea big asset on the trail. Butthere were compatibilityissues—massive, oceanic,hemispheric compatibilityissues—that I had toconsider. I had difficultypicturing myself, on a

narrowwagonseat, crossingtwo thousand miles ofOregon Trail with a 250-poundbrotherwhosecallingofthemuleswouldbeheardseveral canyons away. I ambookish and neat, with afondness for antiquefurniture, good wine, andcleancars.IfIamdepressedor have writer’s block, Ispend the afternoon loggingin the woods or ironingmy

BrooksBrothersshirts.NickbuysanewCarhartt shirtatReny’s Discount inDamariscotta and breaks itinbyusingitasanoilragonthe way home. For Nick, agood afternoon of loggingwith his brother in theMaine woods usuallyincludes dropping a treeinches from my head,destroying my chain saw,and then ripping out the

transaxle on his truck whiledragging an immense oakouttotheclearedfield.

“Rink, it’s just a frickinchain saw, okay?” NickwouldsaytomeasIcarriedmyprizeHusqvarnabacktomy truck in pieces. “A glidebar, some sprockets, and aplastichousing. If youbreakit,yougettofixit!”

Over the years I haddevisedanelaboratesyllabus

of coping techniques forspending time with Nick. Idouble-wrap my gear inplastic garbage bags as aprophylaxis against thegrimeinhistruck,andIlookaway at meals while hespeaks with an openmouthfull of cole slaw, scallopedpotatoes, and lobster augratin. I’ve mentally trainedmyself to consider itcharmingly down-market

when Nick mangles clichés,drops the g’s at the end of“ing” words, and uses the Fbomb as frequently as mostEnglish speakers use “and”or “the.” In the rural, blue-collar ghettos ofMaine andneighboring New England,“frickin,” “freakin,” and“fuckin” are pause-fillers, averbal tick that can indicateeitherwickedlygoodorbad.

“Rink,I’vespentmylifeinbarnyards andbilges, okay?”Nicktoldmeonce.“How’mIsupposedtofuckinsound?”

Long ago I had decidedthattwodayswithNickwasmy limit. Now he wasproposing months togetherontheOregonTrail.

•••

Nick was particularly avidabout bringing his JackRussell terrier, Olive Oyl,which gave me a nervoustwitch. With her beguilingcocked head, her cheerybark, and the brown patchonherrightear,OliveOylisunquestionably the mostadorable canine since theLittleRascals’mascot,Petey.She is an amazing dog, ableto leap onto the roof of a

minivan while fetching astick. But Olive is alsoincurably filthy, porcinefilthy. Her favorite activitywhenIarriveatNick’splaceinMaineistosprintoutthedoor for a long, strenuousroll inthepatchofdrivewaywhere he changes the oil inhistrucks.Thensheburrowsfor rats in the manure pilebefore racing back to theporch to make a giant

parabola leap onto my lap.Usually, I have stopped attheL.L.Beanoutletstoreonmy way north and I amalready wearing my newAllaghash twill chinos. I feellike taking a shower everytimeIseeOliveOyl.

In his emails, Nick wasnowdiscussingOliveOyl asan indispensable addition to“our”coveredwagontrip.

“RinkthethingtodoistocreatashappyanenviremintforOliveOylasposible.Shewill remember this trip andtalk about it for the rest ofher life and Iwudnt deny itto her for anythin I promistowashherattheendoftheday the same time with thesame hos we wash themules.”

Whenthisdidn’tseemtoconvince me, Nick tried

anotherapproach.“Rink ther are prayeri

dogs and ciotes and problyin wyomin even mtn lionsand Olive Oyl will neverstand for them beinganywerenearrcampshelbegood with the mules and ifit’s a coldnite shecan sleepwith you in the wagon andbelevemeshestoasty.”

Eventually I realized thatit would bemadness not to

bring Nick. He is anincomparable horseman,andIneededhimforsuchanambitious trip.Therewouldbewagonbreakdowns,anditwasn’twisetotravelwithoutaskilledmechanic.Itriedtohavepositivethoughtsaboutthis. Nick and Olive Oylwereapackagedeal,butthiswasanopportunityforme.Icould use the Oregon Trailtrip to cure myself of my

neatness fetish. I couldabandon the Englishlanguage as a work of art.Nick is a recoveringalcoholic, and I couldemulatehissobriety.Callthemules two thousand milesacross the West with yourbrother andhis squalid JackRussell terrier.Returnhomea new man, no longer aboozer, a clotheshorse, or acontrolfreak.

So,weagreed.Nick’sfinalappointment with the VAdoctor was slated for thefirst Friday in May, and hewouldrescheduleitforearlyin the morning. Then hewould drive down to myplace in the Berkshireswitha truck full of wagon jacksand tools, and we woulddepart the same day for theWest.

Therewas justonehitch.Anticipating his recovery,Nick had agreed to performthe difficult lead role in anIrish play, Stones in HisPockets, which wasscheduled to begin itsDamariscotta run in lateJune. In the production,Nick’s role washermaphroditic. He wouldassume the voices andpersonalities of seven

different characters, bothmale and female. “Rink,therejustisn’tanotheractorinMaine who can do that,”Nick told me, insisting thathe couldn’t back out of thecommitment. So, after amonthwithmeon the trail,Nick would take an actinghiatusandreturntoMaine.

After consulting mymaps,Ididn’tthinkthatthiswould be a problem. By the

time Nick departed for hisplay, we would probablyhave reached North Platte,Nebraska, along a lovelystretchofthetrailwherethepioneerswerehemmedinbythePlatteRivertothenorth,andon thesouthbyachainofelevatedterraincalledtheSouth Hills. This naturalcorridor curves northwesttoward Scotts Bluff and theWyoming line, andall Ihad

to do was follow the oldPlatte River Road that hugsthe river. I was reasonablyconfident that I would havemastered themules and thewagonbythen.InearlyJuly,once he was done withStones in His Pockets, Nickwould return for the mostepicportionofthetrail—350miles of undisturbed rutsthat crossed the high desertofWyoming,fromCasperto

Cokeville, in the cutoffcountry out near the Idaholine.

Through the marvelousaccidentoffamily,Inowhadasidekickforthetrail,whichI realized I had desperatelyneeded all along. But whatdid this say about theadequacy of my planning,and how many otherimportant things had Iignored? Several times,

sitting up late at night orearly in the morning,obsessively brooding overmy maps, I realized that Istill didn’t have a plan fornavigating around themodernobstaclesofthetrail—interstate highways fromNebraska to Oregon, or thetangle of housingsubdivisions and mallsaround Scottsbluff andBoise. Therewas no trail to

speak of after Baker City,Oregon, where the old rutswere paved over by theinterstatethatrantherestofthe way to Portland. All ofthis would have to beexplainedtoNickwho,givenhis hyperactive sarcasmgene, would remind meevery time I erred on thetrail.

•••

Still, there was a pleasingverisimilitude about Nickjoiningmeforthejunketoutwest. Two brothersuprootingthemselvestoseekadventure or a better lifetogetherwasaprettytypicalOregon Trail pairing, andour resemblance to thenineteenth-century pioneerswas significant.Nickwas aninjured, unemployedconstruction worker in the

midstof adeep recession inhomebuilding inMaine.Asa print journalist I typifiedan American character typethat had been familiar sincethe industrial revolution—the worker with redundant,antiquated skills displacedbytechnologicalchange.Wewere going to see theelephant because therewasn’t much else going onforusathome.

The theme of personaland financial desperation—thatmostofthepioneersleftforthefrontierbecausetheyliterallyhadnowhereelse togo—was popular withhistorians from the earliestdays of the trail. FrancisParkman, a notoriouslysnobbish Boston Brahmin,went too farwhenhe calledtheemigrantshemetduringhis 1846 crossing “some of

the vilest outcasts in thecountry.” But he wasprobably correct inconcluding thatmost of thewagon travelers weremotivated either by “aninsane hope of a bettercondition in life, or a desireof shaking off restraints oflaw and society, or mererestlessness.”

The 1840s and 1850swere tumultuous decades in

American life, and thechronic instability of theyoung republic had a broadimpact, especially on thefarmersandruraltradesmenwhomadeupthemajorityofthe population. Familieswere disrupted and livesdestroyed by the financialpanicsandbankfailuresthatrecurred every decade,townsweredividedbybitterreligious squabbling and

labor strife, and the biggestpolitical issue of the day—the spread of slavery—haddegenerated into guerrillawarfare on the Kansas andMissouri frontier.Frequently, to be anAmerican then was to beperiodically unmoored,transient, so bereft ofoptions thatmoving onwasthe only choice. Settling thefrontier wasn’t simply

America’s “manifestdestiny.”Itwasasafetyvalvethat prevented a calamitoussocietyfromimploding.

Nickand Iwerecertainlyamongtheunmooredof thetwenty-first century, andthatwasourjointadvantage.Nothing prevented us fromriskingeverythingtotakeontheobsessionofcrossingtheOregon Trail. But escapingour personal problems to

become wagon tramps forthe summer didn’t meanthatwepossessedtheknow-how and skills to cross thetrail.WhileIwaitedforNickto arrive, I woke earlymostmornings to brood overmymaps,spendingwhatIcalledmy “dread hour” at mykitchen table, drinkingcoffeewhile I agonized overthe long, cluttered spacesoutwestwherethetrailhad

been subsumed by thesuburbs of Scottsbluff orBoise, or blocked by theinterstate highways. As amodern wagon traveler, Ialso faced another smallproblem. Before I couldlaunch, I had to learn asmuch as I could aboutnineteenth-century prairieschoonersandmules.

3

MULES OCCUPY AWONDERFULLY ANOMALOUS

placeintheAmericanmind.Althoughthehybridproductof breeding a female horse

with a male “jack” donkeywas indispensable towardcreating the America weknow,most of us have verylittle idea whatmules reallyare.Beyondassociatingthemwith long, floppy ears,ornery behavior, and loud,long braying—a noise thattheycan’tactuallymake—weregard mules as a quaint,mysterious anachronism

about which knowing moreisquiteuseless.

In my own case,ignorance about mules wasparticularly pathetic. I hadspentalifetimearounddrafthorses and mules, drivingsleighs on weekends,skidding out logs in thewoods, whiling away wholeweeks on the farms of myAmish and Mennonitefriends, watching mules

work during planting andharvesting seasons. Now Ihad made the rash decisionto drive a mule team twothousandmiles across someof the most punishingterrain my country had tooffer.Itwasasvitaltomeasit had been to the overlandpioneers to finda team thatcould get me there. Still, Iknew almost nothing abouttheanimals.

Iwasintrigued,asIbeganresearching mules, to learnthat no less a figure thanGeorge Washington wasAmerica’s original maharajaof mules. Historians havelong been squeamish aboutacknowledging that GeneralWashington, like many oftheAmerican founders, wasa voracious land speculator.Few academics and highschoolhistoryteacherswant

to risk their careers bysuggesting to their studentsthat the father of theircountry worked the sameday job as Donald Trump.Washington was a landdeveloper,oftendescribedastherichestofhisgeneration.By the end of theAmericanRevolution, GeneralWashington controlledaboutsixtythousandacresofland,more thanhalfof it in

the promising frontiercountry west of theAlleghenies, in what wetoday call West Virginia,Ohio, and westernPennsylvania.Wrestingcleartitle to this rich bounty ofsoil from the English crownmay not have been aprincipalmotive for fightingthe Revolutionary War, butWashington knew that hewould profit mightily if

independence was achieved.In the 1780s, after theRevolution was over,Washington suffered thewoes of all land developers.Ashetouredhisvastfrontierholdings—relentlesslycollecting rents from tenantfarmers and attempting toevictsquatters—Washingtonenvisioned a busy newcommercial era duringwhich the valueof his lands

would be enhanced byextensive forest clearing,roadconstruction,andcanalbuilding. But the commonbeastforaccomplishingsuchwork,thehorse,wouldneverdo.

The traditional drafthorses imported fromEurope or bred on colonialplantationsweremagnificentequine specimens, weighingup to a ton apiece, their

marbled thighs glisteningunderthesunastheypulledplowsandfarmwagonsoverthe flat corn and tobaccofields of eastern Virginia orPennsylvania. But theseagrarian mastodons wereenormously hungry at theend of the day, and, like somany “purebred” species,sufferedthecommondefectsof animals mated too oftenwithin the same bloodlines.

The big, beautiful draftswereprone to lameness andchipped hooves, they lackedstamina,andessentiallytheycould perform only one job—yankingaploworawagonacross level cropland.Heavydraft horses werenotoriously ungainly on thekind of steep slopes androcky ground thatwould beencountered whileconqueringtheAlleghenies.

Washington and hisfellow Virginia planters hadlong known about theplucky, kick-ass little mulesdeveloped for pack trainsand for pulling light freightwagons in the Spanishterritories of the lowerMississippiandTexas.These“crosses” were bred fromhorses and small Mexicandonkeys,usuallyproducingamule that stood only four

feet at the withers, the partofahorseormulewheretheneck joins the body. Whatthe young republic needednow was something muchbigger—sturdier, draft-quality mules that stood atfiveorsix feet. InSpainandFrance, where farmingrequiredpullingloadsupthesteep paths of terracedvineyards and wheat fields,mules of this size had been

bredforcenturiesoutoftalldonkey sires called“Mammoth Jacks.”Mammothjackswereanyofseveral long-legged, large-boned studs selectivelydeveloped for draftlikequalities, probably fromMiddle Eastern donkeysbrought back from theCrusades. The mammothjacks had eventuallybranched off into several

discrete European breeds:the Andalusian, Catalonian,Majorcan,andMalteselines.ButthecourtsofFranceandSpain, reluctant to sharesuch prize breeding stockwith the colonies of theirrival Britain, had alwaysbanned the export ofmammothjackstoAmerica.

After the AmericanRevolution, however,Washington was a global

hero, and the Europeanswere glad to help the manwho had trounced their oldBritishfoes.In1785thekingof Spain, Charles III,dispatched to MountVernon a shipment ofmammoth breeding stockthat includedanAndalusianjack named Royal Gift. Theshipment included two“jennies,”orfemaledonkeys,suitable for mating with

Royal Gift to create moremammoth studs. In themeantime,Washington’soldfighting companion duringthe Revolution, theMarquisde Lafayette, had shippedfrom France his own gift, aMaltese jack named KnightofMaltaandfourjennies.

An experienced animalbreeder like Washington—he is also credited withdeveloping the American

foxhound—knewwhattodonow. The new jacks had tobe bred like bunnies in twodirections at once. First, tocreate a new crop ofmammoth donkey sires, thejacks had to mate with thejennies. The jacks producedfrom these unions in turnwould be bred to as manydraft-horsemaresaspossible—there were plenty inAmerica—to complete the

finished genetic productcalledmules.

There were problems atfirst. Royal Gift was aninexperienced four-year-oldwho initially seems to havebeen intimidated byWashington’s tall draft-horse mares, and hewouldn’t fornicate withhorses. But after a year ortwoofconjugaltrainingwiththe friendly jennies, Royal

Gift emerged. At his mainestate in Mount Vernon,Washingtonbuiltnewbarnsand fenced in nearbypastures to create what hecalled “the compound,”ambitiously interbreedinghis new Andalusian andMaltese stock for the bestconformation andtemperament.Bythetimehedied in 1799, there were

sixtyworkingdraftmules atMountVernonalone.

But that was only thebeginning. A single jackcould service several horsemaresaday,twentyormorea week, up to a thousand ayear,andMalthusiangrowthjust took over from there.Washington either sold hisjacks outright to otherbreeders,oradvertisedinthePennsylvania and Virginia

newspapers the “at fee”services of his jacks, whomade long breeding toursthroughout the old coloniesand the new frontier statesevery year. The new draftmulesprovedwildlypopular.Many other Virginiaplanters,seeingagoodthing,began importing theEuropean mammothsthemselves, and before longthe Old Dominion had

essentially become a mulebordello. By 1810 theregion’s initial breedingstock had yielded anestimated 800,000 mulesdistributed throughout theSouth and beyond theAlleghenyfrontier.

The early descendants ofthe Mount Vernon stock—tall, drafty, and weighingbetween a thousand and1,200pounds—were initially

called “AmericanMammoth” mules, but thebreed name graduallychanged as the frontiermoved west. In the 1820s,the most prized farmanimals were called“Tennessee” and then“Kentucky” mules, becausethe frontier of Tennesseeand Kentucky were wheremost of themwere workingand the best breeding lines

were being established. Bythe 1840s the frontier hadmoved to Missouri and itwas the “Missouri Mule”that became the Americanarchetype. Thousands ofthese tall, reliable draftanimals—mostly bred fromblack Percheron mares—wereproducedeveryyeartosupply the burgeoningoverland trail traffic. TherapidspreadoftheMissouri

mule and the success offarmersatbreeding themtomeeteachnewdemandweresignature Americanachievements. But it wasgovernment spending—sooftenafactorindevelopinganew industry—that proveddecisiveafterthe1850s.

More than a millionmules were used by theQuartermaster Corps andthe sutler trains that

supplied the Union forcesduring theCivilWar,avitalcontribution when youconsider that provisioning,as much as anything else,helped win the war for theNorth. After the Civil War,the same bloodlines wereused to produce thousandsof mules every year for theU.S.Army’s supplyconvoys,which traveled all summeralongthemanytributariesof

theOregonTrail tomilitaryfortsintheWest.Duringthegreat stagecoach era of theAmericanWestinthe1860sand1870s,mulesdidmostofthe work, even if, later, inHollywood westerns, horsesgotallofthecredit.Perhapsas many as 800,000distinctive, black Missourimules—brandedwithalarge“U.S.”ontheirrumps—weresenttoEuropeduringWorld

War I. In World War II,roughly 35,000 Missourimules were deployed tomountainous or jungletheaters where Jeeps andtrucks couldn’t get through,mostly for hauling lightartillery, ammunition, andsoldiers’ rations. Theanimals played valiant rolesintwoofthemostimportantactionsofthewar—the10thMountain Division’s

stormingof theItalianAlps,andwiththefabledMerrill’sMarauders along theBurmaRoad to China. After theterrorist attacks on NewYork and Washington in2001, the U.S. Marines andthe U.S. Army’s SpecialForces Command quicklyreactivated the muleprograms, and thousands ofdistant descendants ofWashington’s jacks have

been deployed inAfghanistan and othermountainous countriesaround the world. Themarines and the armymaintaintheirherdsatbasesin North Carolina andCalifornia, where mountainwarfaretroopsaretrainedinmulehandling,packing, andveterinarycare.

The advantages of muleshave been known since

ancient times. Fully grownmules tend to have theheight and musculature oftheir mother, whileinheriting the leanerphysique and more nimblelegsoftheirjackfather.Thisproduces a hybrid with thestrength, but nowhere nearthe weight, of the mother.The two most commondraft-mulecrosses todayaremammoth jacks bred to

black or gray Percheronmares, and the sorrel anddun mules produced bymating with Belgian mares.When mature, the hybridoffspring weigh as much asseven hundred pounds lessthantheirmother,givingthefinished mule anextraordinary strength-to-weight ratio and agility farbeyonditsrootsinthehorse.In the equine world, the

most common adjectiveappliedtomulesis“athletic.”

The hybridization ofclosely related but notexactlymatchedspecies,likehorses and donkeys,produces sterile offspring,andmulescannotreproducethemselves. (Donkeys havesixty-two chromosomes;horses have sixty-four. Thiscreates a mule with sixty-three chromosomes,

preventing a full “chain” ofmatchesthatcanproduceanembryo.) But thecontributionsfromthemoreferal side of the donkey siremore than make up for themule’sinabilitytoreproduceitself. Mules endure heatmuchbetterthanhorsesandcan travel long distanceswithoutwater.They requireabouthalfthefeedofhorsesand don’t gorge on grain.

The legs and hooves of amule are stronger and tendnotto“founder,”orgolame,on rocky ground or withhard use. Mules live andcontinue to work until theyare thirty years old, whilemost horses have finishedtheirworkinglivesattwenty.Anothercriticaladvantageiscontributed by the donkey’slarge eyes. Because mules’eyes are set farther back on

the head and are more D-shaped than a horse’s, theirperipheral vision includestheirhindfeet,makingthemexceptionally sure-footedand confident in roughterrain.

Themule’sreputationfordifficult behavior derives,ironically, from its superiorinstincts. Mules have aslightly larger cranial cavitythanhorses, and thus larger

brains, and are moreintelligent and judgmental.Mules also possess, fromtheir donkey side, a moreferal, self-preservationistnature, and intensely dislikeputting themselves indanger. At a water crossingor a steep ravine, thehighlydomesticated and morepliant horse will usuallybehave much like a dog,cheerfully obeying its

master. Spur the horse andurge it forward and it willjumpintothecreek.Amulewon’t do that until itconsiders thenext step safe,or through experience hasseenthesamesituationafewtimes. The placid, saturninefaces ofmules indicate a lotabout their personalities.Mules ponder matters a lotmore.

Tworelatedferaltraitsofmules—akeensenseofsmelland acute hearing—madethem legendary on frontierfarms and the overlandtrails, at least to mensensitive enough tounderstand them. At theapproachofpredators,likeapackofcoyotesoraherdofbuffalo, mules would lifttheir heads and throw theirearsforward,gazingintently

toward the threat. Thismight happen long beforethe perceived hazard wasvisible—a mule’s sense ofsmell extends a mile ormore, even beyond nearbyhills or forests. Once theyare sure of the approach ofan unfamiliar or dangerousobject,mulesstopandrefusetobedriventowardit,akindof early-warning functionthat eventually came to be

appreciated on the desolateplains. (When a wagontrain’s mules indicated theapproach of a buffalo herd,hunting parties wouldquickly mount and rush offfor fresh meat, galloping inthe direction indicated bythe mule ears.) PioneerDexterTiffany,who crossedtheOregonTrail during thebusyGoldRushyearof1849,commented on this while

approachingtheGreenRiverford in southern Wyoming.“My mules know whetherthey are safe long before Ido,&Icannotwhiporspurthem on to one [situation]whichisdangerous.”

The superior instincts ofmules require specialhandling. A good teamdriverstepsoffhiswagonata creek and lets his muleswatch him cross the water

withhisarmsheldintheair,demonstrating to them thatthewater isonlywaist-high.Orhecanrideahorseacrossfirstandletthemuleswatch.Best, he can appreciate thatmules suspicious of a threatfeel vulnerable about beinghitched to a heavy,cumbersome wagon thatprevents them fromexercising their deepestinstinct—fleeing from

danger. This led to thecommonpracticeduringtheoverland era, especially onthe first two hundred milesof trail, ofunhitchingmulesat even a shallow stream,leading them acrossindividually, and thenferrying the wagon over byhandorbyusingchainsandropes.

Mules are also acutelysensitive to voices and

establish trust over timewith a familiar driver. At asteepdownhill,thenaturallycautious mules are terrifiedthat the heavy rig they areattached to will overrunthem from behind. Byrepetition a driver displaysto his team that, on steepgrades, he always brakessecurely, with a perceptiblejerk of the wheels that themulescanfeelthroughtheir

harness. The better drivers“call” their mules properlywith reassuring, soothingwords. Mules like to beaddressedwithfamiliar,one-syllablewords that they canreadily understand andinform them that theirdriver is aware of thedangers they face. Loud,jubilant calling isappropriateonanopenroador during a steep uphill

climb, when the mules cansee for themselves that theyare not in danger and aresimply being urged to pullhard or step lively. But at atricky gate or a perilousdescent, soft, confidence-building talk tells the teamthat the driver will protectthem.

Ofcourse,overtheyears,the human side of themuleworld has been populated

with asmany blockheads asyouwould find at amufflershop or golf course. At thebankofarushingstream,orthe topofa steephill,whenthe mules stop to look thesituation over, the dolt onthewagonseatgetsannoyedat his team and decides towhip them. In unfamiliarterrain,aplasticbagimpaledon barbed wire is snappingin the breeze. Mules are

skittish about that becausethey haven’t seen it before,and it reminds them of apredator. So the “muleteer”beats them there too.Eventually, when the mulestireofgettingbeaten,orarejust fed up dealing with aless intelligent species, theyuse the tremendous poweroftheirhindlegstokickoutthetugchainsandrunaway.Forthis,mulesareknownas

“ornery.” In English we usethe common phrase“stubborn as a mule,” aclassic example of manascribing stupidity to thebeastinsteadoftohimself.

America’s bent towardoverproduction alsocontributed to theunfavorable reputation ofmules. During the peakmule-breeding years, fromthe 1840s to the 1920s,

hundreds of thousands ofmules were indiscriminatelybredeveryyeartosupplytheexpanding frontier, theboomingfarmeconomy,andthe military. Mules wereconsideredlessvaluablethanpurebred horses, and manyfarmers saved their bestmares for breeding withmale horses. Too often, themammoth jacks were “put”instead to inferior mares,

just about any old hagaround the farm. Thisundesirable practice tendedto concentrate a lot of badDNA in mules. Then, afterrudimentary training, themules were quickly shippedoff to auctions that cateredto the kind of agriculturalrube who couldn’t tell thedifferencebetweena“green”or a “well broke” animal.Muleswerelikeusedcars,or

high school athleticdirectors, swapped aroundthe land according to asystem that guaranteedmediocrity anddisappointment.

Overthe last thirtyyears,however, mules havebecome hot, expensivetrophy purchases, muchprized by Connecticut richgirls andCalifornia dentists.Considerable care is now

devoted to making goodmatchesof jacks andmares.Today, a variety of high-quality mules—Paint andThoroughbred crosses fordressage and jumping,Morgan and TennesseeWalker mules for driving,really fine Percheron draftmules—arebeingproduced.

The overland pioneers ofthe 1840s and 1850s, whoseexperience contributed

mightily to the formationofAmerican attitudes, werelegendary victims of thechiselers who ran the mulebusiness. No one actuallyplanned the Oregon andCalifornia trails. They werecreated by an explosion oftravel that happened after1843, when thousands ofneedy or adventurous farmfamilies and gold seekersbegan flocking every

summertothefrontieralongthe Missouri River aroundKansas City. By then, therehad been settlement inMissouri for almost thirtyyears, enough time for theestablishment of mule linesand big breeding farms. Toservice the sudden burst indemand for draft animalscreated by the overlandtrails, Missouri mulebreeders put their jacks to

anything in sight, importedlarge herds of Mexicanmules from Louisiana andTexas, and generally thrivedin the carnival atmospherethat now surrounded themule business along thefrontier. In the autumn,Missouri farms echoed withthe whinnies and groans ofjacks and horse marescoupling. In the spring thecleared lands chimed with

tracechainsandirontiresastwo-and three-year-oldcoltmules were slapped intoharness with a big gangteam, run around for a fewmiles, and thenpronounced“fit”toselltothepioneers.Itwasn’tunusual forone farmor breeding operation tohave a hundred or moremules penned in a singlelarge corral. In lateApril orearly May, the mules were

herded up and run over toIndependence or St. Josephto be quickly sold off as“dead-ass broke” teamsreadyfortheoverlandtrails.

Missouri mule breedersdidn’t consider themselvesdishonest. They consideredthemselves Americans,obligated by birth toaccumulate not quality butcash. They knew that thebustling tent cities and

outfitting depotsmushrooming around thejumping-off towns createdmarket conditions favorableto them. The pioneers whobought their mules wouldnever be seen again. Oncesafely ferried across theMissouri, the wagon trainsdisappeared beyond thebluffs into a prairiewildernessthatwas,literally,a no-man’s-land, a vaguely

mapped “NorthwestTerritory,” or “IndianCountry,” large parts ofwhich were disputed byMexico, Great Britain, andthe United States. Fewreturned from this foreignabyss,wavingalemonlawinyour face, demanding theirmoney back for deficient,greenmules.

Fortunesweremade.Theshorter, less attractive

Mexican mules were bestused as pack animals, or forpulling light buggies, andbrought only $50 ahead, or$100 a team. Prices shot upfrom there for taller,stronger Missouri mules,anywhere between $125 to$250 for a choice team.Pioneer families buying fortheir wagon might wanteither a four-mule or a six-mule hitch. Depending on

the year and the supplies ofmules that season, the priceofateamcouldreach$1,000or more per wagon, a largecapital investment for thetime. The owners of even arelatively small breedingoperationcouldtraveltotheMissouriRiver in the springwith just a dozen or moremules, realizing profits of$700 or so, and then returnhome with enough cash to

payoff theirbank loansandmaybeinvestfornextyearinmoremares,ortobranchoffinto wagon dealerships ordrygoods.Largeroperationsof “mule jockeys” madethousands of dollars inprofitseveryspring.

The enormous economicimpactofthemuletradeandhow Oregon Trail trafficstimulated the Americaneconomy have been

frequently ignored byhistorians,mostlybecause itis a lotmore prestigious forprofessional academics tosoundlearnedaboutSenatorThomasHartBentonor theMissouri Compromise thanto actually know somethingaboutAmerica’sbasicmeansof transportation for acentury—wagonsandmules.Yes, the Oregon andCalifornia trails delivered

thousandsofheartypioneersevery year to the Pacific,developing America’s westcoast and its interior plains.But the convergence of anextensive trail system and aready supply of mules atembarkation points alongtheMissouriRivereffectedahistoric transfer of wealththat left most of the capitalback inMissouri. America’s“westering” urge after 1843

was a mobile bankingnetwork. Cash for mules,cash for mules. After aseason or two selling mulesto pioneers, farmersmorphed intomule brokers,then big outfitters andbankers, then landspeculators and the ownersof paddle-wheel steamers.The transaction was asAmerican as apple pie. Yourisk losing your life to

cholera or to a runawayteam just over that bluffthere; I get possession ofyour family savings forbigger, safer things. Everyyear more pioneers came.Missouri, a critical frontierstate, prospered for manyreasons—good soil, riveraccess, fast-growinghardwood forests—butmostlybecauseofmules.

Boom cycles arenotoriously cruel to theeconomically vulnerable,andthereisnoquestionthatthepioneerswerefleecedbythe mule brokers. AfterbuyinggreenmulesfromtheMissouri River brokers, thepioneers endured brutalshakedown runs across theplains. Throughout the1840sand1850s, therewereravines along the Wakarusa

and Little Blue rivers inKansas,justahundredmilesfrom the jumping-off cities,that became vast boneyardslittered with wagon wrecks,most of them the result ofrunaway mules. The 1849Gold Rush introduced aparticularly hazardouscharacter to the West—theurban, nonfarming dreamerwho couldn’t drive teams.The combination of green

mules with inexperienceddrivers from back east wasonly occasionally fatal, buthundreds of gold bugs andpioneer familieswere forcedtocuttheirmangledwagonsin half and continue westwith carts, abandon theirpossessionsandjoinupwithother wagons, or, in rarecases, return toMissouri tobe resupplied. Wranglingdifficult mules became an

inseparable part of OregonTraillore.

John Clark, the Virginiapioneer who caught goldfever in 1852, traveled theMississippi River systemfrom Cincinnati to St. Joe,and disembarked for theplainsinearlyMaythatyear.Historian Merrill Mattesquotes fromClark’s journal,which describes the scenewhen Clark selected his

mules at “a large coroll fullof stock, many of themyoung and unbroken. Wehad to . . . risk our lives inroping them. After beingkicked across the pen somehalfdozentimes&runoverasoften,weatlastsucceededin leading them out. . . . Itwas laughable . . . to see thewild devils run with allhands hanging on to theropes to keep them in

check.” Other arrivals at St.Joe that year reported beingforced to choose amongemaciated Mexican mulesthat had just been run upfromTexas in a stockdrive,or spending most of Apriltraining their green teamsbeforetheyfeltitwassafetocross the Missouri. Thepioneerjournalsoccasionallyrecorded instances ofuntamed Mexican mules

kickingmentodeath.HenryCoke,apioneerwhocrossedthetrailin1850withastringof pack mules, spoke formanywhenhewrote,“Whatperverse brutes these mulesare....Eh,thebeasts!HowIhate’em.”

Another pioneer, JohnNevin King, was a MexicanWarveteranwhodecidedtocross the trail in 1850 in arelatively unusual way. He

paid an everything-includedfare to an “express train”company,Alexander&Hall,that carried commercialpassengersacrossthetrailinwagons with bench seats.The service included meals,sleeping tents, and cleanlaundry once aweek.Whilestill waiting to depart fromthe jumping-off town ofWeston, Missouri, King

wrote tohismotherback inIllinois.

Soon after arriving intownaTeamcame in,the TeamstersreportingtoAlexanderthat anotherTeamsterhad harnessed his 4mules and hitchedthem to a Timberwagonandwhenreadyto start the mules

becamefrightened,ranoff with the wagonsmashing everything—one of the lead mulesrunning against a tree& killing himselfinstantly the other ranagainst a sapling andstunnedhimselfbadly.

Apparently the situationnever improved. In 1861, ayoung Missouri native

whosecareerasaMississippiRiver steamboat pilot hadbeen briefly interrupted bythe Civil War, SamuelClemens,rodewestfromSt.Josephon theOregonTrail,which now also served as astagecoach route. Clemens,of course, would eventuallyadopt the name MarkTwain,andhis journeywestacross the trail became oneof the most defining in

Americanhistory,beginningthe development of both apersona and a style ofliterature that continues tobe felt today.Twain initiallytraveled west on a lark, toaccompany his brotherOrion, who had beenappointed secretary of theNevada Territory, and heworked as a miner and ajournalist in Nevada andCalifornia before findinghis

voice as a writer. In 1872,Twain published aremembered and highlyembellished account of hiswestern adventures, thenonfiction classic RoughingIt.Twaindescribeshow,atastage stop in southernNebraska, thehorsespullinghisstagecoachwerechangedout for the sturdier mulesthat would be used the restofthewaywest.

We left our six finehorses and took sixmules in their place.But they were wildMexicanfellows,andaman had to stand atthe head of each ofthemandholdhimfastwhilethedriverglovedand got himself ready.And when at last hegrasped the reins andgavetheword,themen

sprung suddenly awayfrom themules’ headsand the coach shotfromthestationasifithad issued from acannon. How thefrantic animals didscamper!Itwasafierceand furious gallop—and the gait neveraltered for a momenttillwereeledofftenortwelvemilesandswept

up to the nextcollection of littlestation-huts andstables.

Butmulesneveroccupieda consistent place inAmerican mythology. If, bysome, they were considereddifficult and unpredictable,many Americans alsoconsidered the mule asymbol of durability and

reliability. The modernimageofthemulehasalwayshad a decidedly southernspin—probably a legacy ofthe “forty acres andamule”policy of the Lincolnadministration during theCivilWar, for settling freedslaves on southernplantations, or thefamiliarityofDepression-eraphotographs of poorsouthernsharecropperswith

their tired-looking, long-eared draft animals. Mulessuggested the South,Tobacco Road, thebackwardness of Alabama’sor Mississippi’s agrarianeconomy left behind by awealthier and moreprogressiveNorth.

This would havesurprised nineteenth-century northerners, forwhom the mule evoked

progress, achievement, andYankee economic drive.Thousandsofnortherndraftmules, fromPennsylvania tothe Great Lakes, were afamiliar and deeply belovedfixturealongthetowpathsofthe barge canals that servedas critical transportationarteries after the Civil War,carrying passengers andfreight betweenmajor citiesand the outlying country.

Towpath mules pullingbarges along the extensiveErie canal system throughNewYork’sFingerLakes,orfrom Easton to Philadelphiaalong the Delaware canalsystem, were an Americanmotif, and up until WorldWarIImillionsofAmericanschoolchildren wererequired to memorize thelyrics of a popular Tin PanAlley tune, “Low Bridge,

Everybody Down,” whichwas also known as the “ErieCanalSong.” In theopeninglines of the song, “fifteenmiles” refers to the distanceamuleusuallytowedabargebefore being replaced byanother,restedmule.

I’vegotamule,andhernameisSal

FifteenmilesontheErieCanal

She’sagoodoldworkerandagoodoldpal,

FifteenmilesontheErieCanal.

The marvelousdichotomy of the Americanmule endures to this day.Stubborn yet reliable, lessattractive than a horse butsomehow more adorable,mules evokeAmerica’s past,particularlythechallengesof

the overland years. Muleswere infinitely moredesirable for coveredwagontravelers as a draft animal,considering the otherchoices. Horses were tooheavy,couldn’ttaketheheat,and required too muchgrain. Oxen were cheaperbutpainfully slow. “I shouldunquestionably give thepreference to mules,” wroteCaptain Randolph B.Marcy

oftheU.S.Army,theauthorof The Prairie Traveler, ahandbook for pioneers thatbecame a bestseller in the1850s. “They travel muchfaster, and endure the heatof the summermuch betterthanoxen.”

A westering Americanneeded mules. Now that Iwas planning on becomingonemyself, Ineededa teamofbigPercherondraftmules,

butIcouldn’trelyonsimplyarriving at Independence orSt. Joe and picking out myteam from the spring herdsdelivered to the jumping-offcorrals. Instead, I spent afitfulwintercombingequinewebsites and phoning mulebrokers from Alabama toIdaho, usually coming upshort. But finally by pullingevery connection I had intheOldOrderhorseworldI

locatedwhat sounded like apromising team at Ropp’sMule Farm in Jamesport,Missouri,runbyalegendaryAmish mule trainer namedPhilip Ropp, who agreed tobegin driving the threemules I had bought to getthem in shape for a two-thousand-mile run acrossthe plains, and to order thecorrect draft harness at thelocalharnessshoprunbyhis

father-in-law,ElmerBeechy.Meanwhile an acquaintanceof mine from earlier tripswest, Don Werner of theWerner Wagon Works inHorton, Kansas, sold me arestored nineteenth-centuryPeter Schuttler wagon andbegan making themodifications I needed foran Oregon Trail run.Werneralsobeganbuilding,out of an old set of wagon

wheels and an axle lying inhis back pasture, a two-wheel “Trail Pup” provisioncart that we would towbehind the main wagon,liberating us from theannoyance of motorizedsupport by a fleet of pickuptrucks. I had designed theTrailPupmyself,modelingitafter the Spanish “carreta”donkey-carts, also called“Red River carts,” which

were used to cross theRockies during the fur-trapping era, and themilitary commissary cartstowedbehindescortwagonsduring the CivilWar. I hadoutfitted myself bytelephone and email, butnow I had a real team ofMissouri mules and anauthentic prairie schoonerandcart.Ifeltasready—and

as fearful—about going as anineteenth-centurypioneer.

4

NICKARRIVEDINHISPICKUP

on the firstFriday inMay. Iwasoverwhelmedwithjoytosee himbut also stabbed by

pangs of worry. He had putonalotofweightduringhiswinter of inactivity and hewalked with a noticeablelimp.Buthelookedbuoyantand happy, finally liberatedfrom his invalid’s bed for arideacrosstheOregonTrail.He had driven hard fromMaine as soon as theappointmentwithhisdoctorwas over, making the tripfrom Augusta in under five

hours. This was one trailhandraringtogo.

Nick and I immediatelyaddressedtheseriousmatterofhowmuchequipmentwecould carry. We knewbeforehand that we wouldhave duplicates of a lot ofitems, and that we shouldeliminate as much gear aspossibletoavoidoverloadingthewagon.Still,myattitudeabout a covered wagon trip

was that we were about toshove off for four or fivemonths of living out of atwelve- by three-footwagonbox. Everything that wasdeartomewouldhavetobewedged inside my newwheeledabodeontheplains.

Nick’sattitudetowardmehas always been that I amtoo acquisitive and fussy. Inhismind,acollegeeducationruins people and he

associates my fondness forworldlygoodswiththat.Butour differences were a lotworse than I thought. It allcame to a head when Nicksawmy piles of gear on theporchofmyhouse.

“Rink, what the frig isthis?”hesaid,holdingupmywheelwrench.

Iwas proud ofmywheelwrench. Ihad found itatanantique store in Vermont

over the winter, and I evencheckedthatitwastherightsize for our Schuttler wheelhubs.

“Nick,” I said. “That’smywheel wrench. It fits thewagon.”

“Rink, this is not awheelwrench.It’safrickinpieceofcrap. It’s cheap alloy fromKorea or China orsomewhere. It will break onthe first wheel. I’ve already

gottwogoodonesinmytoolkit.”

Nick tossed the wheelwrenchafewfeetawayontothe lawn, indicating that hewasstartingarejectpile,andbegan poking through therestofthegearonmyporch.

“Oh, I am not fuckinbelieving this,” he said,holdinguponepieceofgearthat I had carefully stackedinto a waterproof

Tupperware container.“Rink,whatisthis?”

“It’s a shoe shine kit,” Isaid. “C’mon, Nick.Somebodymightinviteusinfor dinner at the ranchhouse,youknow?Wemightwanttolookneat.”

Nick tossed the shoeshinekittowardtherejectedwheel wrench, and ourprovisioning sessionproceededfromthere.

The rejects on my lawnquickly grew into a large,pyramid-shaped pile, avertical yard sale depictingthe vanities of life. Nickdidn’twant to bringmyCDplayer,mysaladspinnerandmixing bowls, or my boccieballset,andontopofthathetossed extra pillows, mygarmentbagforwet-weathergear,mypastacolander,andseveralL.L.Beanbagsloaded

withOregonTrailbooks.Hehad his own container ofharness oil and a leatherpunch, so we didn’t needmine. By the time he wasdone, the pile of my gearthatNickhadrejectedwouldhavefilledabouthalfthebedofapickuptruck.

I was deliberately meekabout all of this, and Nickseemed surprised that Ididn’t put up a bigger fight.

But I had known this wascoming. To cross theOregonTrail,my jobwouldbe to suppress as much ofmyself as possible, tomanage the trip by neverappearing to be a manager.Inexchange forhavingNickalong,Iwouldevaporateasaperson.

Nick was so disgustedwith the chore ofconfrontingmygear, andso

tired after his long drivefromMaine,thathedecidedhe needed a long restroomstopinsidethehouse,ontopof my toilet. Grabbing anillustrated history oftugboatsfrommylibrary,hedisappeared inside thebathroom.

Realizingthatthiswasmylast opportunity, I quicklysorted through the rejectpile andpulledout the stuff

that I still wanted—theboccie set, the kitchen gear,the shoe shinekit, and a lotmore.Racingbackandforthto Nick’s pickup truck, Istowedallof itwayupfrontby the cab, hiding it in thecavities underneath Nick’swheel jacks and tool kits.Whenwe got toMissouri, Iwould have to figure out away to secretly transfer mycontraband stash to the

coveredwagon. Iwouldbuyhay in advance, I decided,and load it into the TrailPup. You can hide a lot ofshoe shine kits under balesofhay.

While Nick was still onthe toilet, I clunked up thestairs next to the bathroomas loudly as I could. Up inthe attic, which was justabove Nick’s head in thebathroom, I dropped some

boxes full of heavy books,and kicked my snowshoesaround a little, simulatingthe sounds of a dejectedbrother returning a lot ofgeartostorage.Isighedandmoaned a lot when I gotback to the bottom of thestairs, just beside thebathroomdoor.

“Jeez,” I said out loud.“My boccie balls. Nickdoesn’t like them. I can’t

even bring my shoe shinekit.”

One of Nick’s betterqualities is that his shortattention span does notpermithimtoholdagrudgefor more than five minutes.Whenhe emerged from thebathroom, he seemedrefreshed, jubilant aboutleaving.

“Yo,arewegoingnow,orwhat?”

As we left my drive Ihabitually reached into myjeans pocket to make surethatIhadmykeys.Buttherewerenokeys,andIsuddenlyrealizedtheenormityofthisleap. I looked back overmyshoulder to my tidy barnhouse, with its neat boardsides, clipped lawns, andflower beds. I didn’t need akey for the door there now.My home was sublet until

November.Mycar keyshadbeen leftatmyotherhouse,with the car, so that mydaughtercoulduseitforthesummer. I had also leftbehind the key to my postoffice box—the friendlypostmistress in town wouldkeepmymail.Ihadnokeys,nothing to open, andnowhere to live, except in acovered wagon. I had neverfelt departure as strongly as

this, as if Iwere leavingoneform of existence foranother.

A few miles west of myhome, the purple-black rimof the Appalachian chainrises steeply from the banksof theBlackberryRiver. It isa purposeful landscape, stillbearing the relics ofAmerica’s nineteenth-centuryiron-makingdistrict.There are snowy-white lime

pits dug into the hills, oldstone furnaces beside theroad, and a long chain ofpicturesque dairies in thevalley. I drove that routeseveral times aweek,onmyway to the supermarket, ortothelibrary.

Now I was leaving thisfamiliar prospect behind togo forthand livemydream.ButasIlookedbackonelasttime on the mountains of

New England, I was rackedby self-doubt, and mystomach and chest swirledwith panic attacks. Beingromantic, always effecting anewescape,wasn’tliberatingatall.Ididn’tevenknowifIcould push mules a merefifty miles on the OregonTrail, and the challenge Ihad taken on seemedterrifying. As we followedthe back roads out over the

Catskillsandthenpickedupthe interstates todrivewest,my spasms of fear returnedintermittently, especiallyearly in the morning. I wasdeparting on a crazyasserrand into the wildernessand had no idea how itwouldend.

•••

In northernMissouri, aswepulled off the highway andentered the largeOldOrdercommunity in Jamesport, Icouldseerightawaythatwehad found a great jumping-off town. It was earlyafternoon during plantingseason and Amish andMennonite farmers wereclattering past the brickfacades on Locust Street intheirspringwagons,carrying

furnitureandpotted flowerstosell to thetouristsoutonthe highway. The two-lanehighway north towardRopp’s Mule Farm wascrowded with big draftteams pulling harrows andcornplanterstothefields.

The Ropp farm was theclassic Amish place, a zoneof fecundity busy with newlife up against low greenhills.Mulecoltswerekicking

up their heels and gallopingincirclesinthepasturesandspring puppies scamperedacross the lawns. In thebarnyard, Ropp’s teenageson was training anattractive riding mule bystandingontopofthesaddleandrunningalongropeoverthemule’searsandrump.

Philip Ropp is short andwiry, with a lean AbeLincoln visage and beard, a

bundle of nervous, cheerfulenergy.Hewasjustabouttorunoffonanerrandandwasworking on the brokenengine of his horse-drawnbrushhog.ButRopptoldmethat my mules were in thelargewalk-inpenattherearof the stables of the mainbarn below. Nick grabbedhis tool kit from the pickupand jumped onto the brush

hog to figureout theengineproblems.

I had expected this to bean emotional moment but,still, Iwasn’t quite preparedfor the heartthrob I feltwhen I first saw that team.Themuleswereenormouslytall—the big gelding, Jake,had to be over seventeenhands—and looked at mewith those beautiful,imperturbable faces that

mules have. The sunlightreaching the pen shone offtheirbroadblackbacks, andit was set off by themushroom-coloredmarkings on their muzzlesandtheinsideoftheirlegs.Iwas smitten right away andcouldn’t believe that I hadpurchasedsuchanattractiveteam so casually, almost byaccident,overthephone.

When I opened the gateof the pen and stepped in,the taller of the two femalemules wheeled on her rearlegs, leaped off the sawdustbedding, and vaultedoutside,showingmehernewshoes when she kicked outgoing through the doorway.ThatwouldhavetobeBeck,and I could see why Ropphad warned me about herskittishness when we first

talked about the team sixweeks before. Bute, a littleshorter, with a small,adorable head and almostMorgan horse good looks,placidly trotted off to joinBeckoutside.

Crazy Beck (left), Steady Jake, andPromQueenBute.

But Jake, a gentle giant,immediately walked over tomewithacuriouslookinhiseyes, his immense long earspushed forward. When Ireachedoutmyhand topathis muzzle and gently grabhimby thehalter,heburiedhis face in my armpit,nuzzlingaffectionatelytosayhello.Ireacheduptoscratchbehind his ears and herubbed his head up and

down along my ribs, liftingme to my toes with hisstronghead.God,did I lovethat mule right away and,right there, I understoodsomething important abouthim. He was so strong andself-confident that he didn’tfear a stranger. He couldafford to be outgoing andfriendly. No beast on earthwasathreattoJake.

Ropp had told me thatJake drove single and that Ishouldtryhimout.Ifoundasingleharnesshanginginthebarn and decided to drivebackup thecountyhighwayto pick up our new teamharness. Jake was classicallyAmish-trained and stoodcalmlywhile I threw on theharness, and his only faultseemed tobe thathepawedthegroundimpatientlywhen

I had him hooked to thewagon—hewasthatanxiousto go. I was eagermyself togethimontheroadandseehow he handled andmovedbecauseIhadlaidsuchplansin having a single-drivingmule to hitch to the TrailPupwhenwemade one- ortwo-daystops.

WhenIreachedthebrushhog up by the house, Nickwas standing over the

engine, parts distributed allaround him, his hands andfacesmudgedwithgrease.

“Nick, c’mon. Let’s tryJake out on the road. Youcanfinishtheenginelater.”

At the road, when Islapped the reins on Jake’srump for a trot, he gamelybowed his head and neck,vaulting forward with anattractive, willing leaptowardwork.His stridewas

effortlessandvery long,andhe naturally curled hishooves high, Percheron-proud, and then poundedbackforthepavement,neverbreaking his trot. He was agorgeously moving animal,unbelievably nimble for hissize.

Itwasadelighttobeonanew Missouri road in awagon pulled by a goodmule, with my brother

besidemeontheseat.OliveOyl sat between us, cockingher head sideways withcuriosity about this newland. Every blade of springgrass and dandelion seemedto reach up to us from thefields, and the fresheningbreeze carried Jake’sdandruffy smell back overour faces. The harness andthe shafts rumbled as theybounced together and the

iron tires sang. Jakerhythmically pounded theroad on new shoes. Thecows and the horses in thefields ran to the fence lines,galloping beside us, to seethebigblackmule.

“God, this is one finefuckin mule,” Nick said. “Ifthe other two are this nicewe’re home free. I can’tbelieveyoupickedsowell.”

“Nick, sometimes you’rejust so idiotically naive thatyougetlucky.”

“Right,”Nicksaid.“Then,the next time? You’re asdumbasastumppost.”

•••

Thenextdaywassunnyandbright, with high cumulusclouds resting in a bigwestern sky aswemade the

Highway 36 crossing westfrom St. Joe to see ourwagon. The bridge over thebroadMissouriRivercrossesrightwheretheferryservicesbearing the wagons ran inthe1840sand1850s.IaskedNick to drive slowly on thebridge so that we could seethe high bluffs on thewesternsideoftheriverthatthe pioneers described intheirtrailjournals.

From there, stretchingmore than a hundred milessoutheastinaseriesofgianthorseshoe bends, theMissouri’s course haddefined the edge of thefrontier. For twenty yearsbefore the Civil War thejumping-off townsalongtheriver—Independence,Kansas City, Westport, St.Joe, and the Mormoncrossing fromIowa,Council

Bluffs—had bustled withdeparting trail traffic. Mulebrokers, wagon dealers, andoutfitters selling flour andsides of cured baconcompeted fiercely for thenew business that arrivedevery spring. Most of thesetowns were foundedexpressly to serve theOregonTrailpioneersorthemilitaryforts,andeveryyeartheir civic boosters sent

thousands of printedpamphlets east to advertisetheir advantages. St. Joseph,which after its founding in1843 quickly overtookIndependence as the mostpopular jumping-off town,mushroomed from apopulation of just fivehundred people in the early1840s to almost ninethousand in 1860. Thesudden boost in economic

activity along the frontierhelped the country recoverfrom thedevastating impactof the Panic of 1837. On abusy spring day, wheneveryone seemed to belaunching for the trails atonce, there were dozens offerries and barges crossingwithwagonsateachspot,sothickontheriverthatitwassaid someone could step

frombarge tobarge andgetacrosstothefarbank.

Asweentered the rollingfarm country of BrownCounty and then drove uptheshoreofMissionLakeinHorton, where the WernerWagon Works sits on asmall plateau above town,myheartracedagain.There,on themowed lawn outsideWerner’s shop, stood mycovered wagon rig. The

Peter Schuttler wagon anditsmatchingTrail Pupwereperchedaloneontheprairie,and from the bottom of thehill near the lake they wereframed by the clouds and adistantfenceline,lovelyandidealized, like a monumentreaching for the sky. Thefresh canvas tops glowedbleachwhite under the sun,and the light glinted off thegreen wagon box and the

matte redwheels.Thesmellof freshwheelpaintand thesound of thewind buffetingthrough the newwagon topfilled me with the romanceof travel, and all of myworries about the tripevaporated in an endorphinrush.

The jumping-off towns along theMissouriRiverfrontier(here,Westport,Missouri, depicted by William HenryJackson) boomedwith overland trafficand became amajor stimulus for thenineteenth-century Americaneconomy.

DonWerner was glad tosee us, and came out of hisshop in worn dungarees, aplaidshirt,andanoldpairoflace-up packer’s boots. Hehad grown up in the 1940son a small Kansas farm,where his father still usedhorses, and retained as afavorite memory riding thefamily’s farm wagons as aboy. He spent his youngadult years working as a

union electrician on bigconstruction projects inKansas City, spending hisweekends restoring coveredwagons for friends. In 1989,Werner was awarded adream contract, an order tobuild eight historicallycorrect covered wagons forthe displays at the NationalOregon-California TrailCenterinMontpelier,Idaho.Werner quit his union job

and used the museumcontract to establish hisbusiness, eventuallyemergingasoneofthemostrespected wagon buildersand wheelwrights in theWest.

Werner showed us themodifications he had madeto the wagon according tomy specifications, includingthe wooden platform bedwithfoammattressthatwas

installed inside the wagonbox.

WhenDon briefly left usto take a phone call in hisoffice, Nick scrambledunderneath the wagon onhis shoulders and rump ashe inspected the runninggear and axles. We hadagreedonaplanaswedroveout that morning. Weweren’t going to raise withDon any issues that were

eitherornamentaloreasytofixback in Jamesport.But ifNick found anythingmechanicallywrongwiththewagon, he would take hisNAPA Auto Parts cap offand stow it in his backpocket. That would be oursignal to quietly discuss thesubject and decide what todo. Nick never took off hishat. But he did find a fewthings that he thought we

should do. The oak brakeshoes did not have rubberpads, and Nick didn’t thinkthat the naked wood wouldlast very long with theconstant abrasion againstthe iron tire rims, especiallyafterwe startedhittinga lotofhills.Nickthoughtthatweshould take along extrabrakeshoes.

“Didyouhappentomakeextrabrakeshoes?”heasked

Donwhenhereturnedfromhis shop. “Or can I takealongsomeuncutoakstock?I’mnotsuretheseoakshoesaregoingtolastverylong.”

Werner frowned andsniffed at the thought. Hewas obviously very sensitiveto any criticism about hiswagonrestoration.

“Oh, that won’t benecessary, Nick,” Wernersaid.“Thosebrakeshoeswill

last you all the way toOregon.Iguaranteeit.”

Nickwasworkinghardatbeing polite, but his FuManchumustache dropped.I quickly looked at him,shook my head, and thenspoke up and changed thesubjectwithDon.

What Werner had justsaid was ludicrous to me.Wooden brake shoeswithout pads—rubbing

against iron tire rimsthrough the first stretch oftheFlintHills—wouldn’tlastevenahundredmiles.But itwasn’t Werner’s fault. Likemost wagon makers today,herestorespristine,“period-accurate” vehicles formuseum displays, or forcollectors who might runhorse-drawn vehicles ten orfifteen miles a year inparades. He doesn’t know

working hitches, and fewwagon makers today wouldunderstandtheproblemswewould have with woodenbrakes over two thousandmiles. And it wasn’t worthanargumentnow,because IhadNick,whocouldrebuilda set of brake shoes in lessthananafternoon.

Therewasone thing thathappened in Horton that Iwouldn’t fully appreciate

untilhundredsofmileslater.When Nick tested the TrailPup wheels by grabbing thespokes just above the huband giving them a strongshake, he grimaced. Whenhe ran his hands over thefront wheels of the mainwagon, I could tell that hewas unhappy. But he nevermentioned anything, andhedidn’t take off his NAPAcap.

In the jumping-offcommotion of our next fewdays,andthentheelationoftravel after we left, Icompletelyforgotaboutthis.And it was typical of ourdifferent personalities that Ifailed to pick up on whatNick was seeing in thewheels. He knowsmechanics, wood, and hubsthat pass or fail the shaketest. I am incurably

aesthetic, and the wagonlooked beautiful. Silenceoften results fromincompatibilities like that.So, the question of thewheelsdidn’tcomeup.

That afternoon, thetruckerwe’dhiredinKansas,DoylePrawl,rolledintopullthe wagon and Trail Pupback to Ropp’s place inMissouri. There, at anAmish welding shop near

Ropp’s farm, we wouldinstall a number ofadditional modifications—arearview mirror, safetylights, brackets and hangersforour ropes andbuckets—that Werner wasn’tinterested in doing becausethey were not “period-accurate.”When we had allthefixesonthewagonmade,the trucker would haul ourmulesandthewagonsacross

the Missouri for his farmalongtheSt.JoeRoad,wherewe’d launchfor the junctionwith the Oregon TrailfartherwestinKansas.

That night, cricketsscreeched and springpeepers peeped from thewetlands as we rode east inthe dark toward theMissouri River. At the riverthe great horseshoe bendwhere the pioneers had

crossed glowed neon purpleand blue from the lights ofthe riverfront casinos. I wasexhaustedandunsettled,stillworriedaboutallofthefixeswe had to make to thewagon, realizing that in themorning I would be dealingwith so much uncertainty.But after we cleared thelightsofSt.JoetheMissourifarmland outside the truckwas moody and quiet, with

just a few lit houses widelyspaced along the road. Thecool air racing in throughthepickupwindows,andmyfatigue, whittled mythoughts down to asatisfying,narrowclarity.

We were jumping off.Uncertaintywasmylifenowand I had to learn toimprovisedaytoday.

•••

The conflict between thereenactor-collectormentality that Wernerrepresented and my owndetermination to make amodern crossing of theOregon Trail went to theheart of what I was doingwith this trip. There is nosuch thing anymore as theOregon Trail. There neverwas a single Oregon Trail.After Fort Kearny on the

Platte in eastern Nebraska,some wagon trains huggedthe north side of the Plattealong the edge of the SandHills, and some took thesouth banks. To avoid eachother’s dust and tohunt forgame,thewagonsfannedoutwidely across the prairie allday. The trains generallyfollowed a set of central“ruts,” or the rivers, fornavigation,butthetrailwest

wasoftenfivemileswideoneithersideoftheriver,orasmuch as twelve miles total,includingbothbanks.Bythe1850s, western Wyomingwas a sprawling network ofwagon tracks and shortcuts—the Lander Cutoff, theFarson Cutoff, the SubletteCutoff, the Hams ForkCutoff—that extendedmorethan a hundredmiles northand south, all of it

consideredtheOregonTrail.Bysomecounts thereareasmany as forty cutoffs andalternate branches from themain ruts along the 2,100-mile route. The “trail” wasreally just an aggregatedlandscape that the pioneersfollowed across the plainsandthenthehighdeserts.

With the trail being thatbroad, innumerable pavedroads, rail lines, irrigation

ditches, and equipmentsheds now interrupt it inmany places. The OregonTrail is what historic spacealways becomes—alandscape blendingmodernitywiththepast.Theoriginal emigrant road runsthrough modern downtownLawrence and Topeka,Kansas. In Oregon, the lasttwo hundred miles of thetrail hugging the Columbia

River are now InterstateHighway84.

The reenactors, the self-appointed protectors of ourpast, hate this. They don’twant to run their shinySchuttler or Studebakerwagons on asphalt, downpast theDairyQueenor theSinclair convenience store.They want ruts, dust,verisimilitude, thegeographic equivalent of

their button and holsterfetishes. Fine, chucklehead,be a reenactor reenactoringinawagon,butIjustwanttoride the old route and seewhat’s out there today. Thereal world doesn’t frightenme. I knew that I would beenjoyingmany long,dreamyafternoons followingundisturbed old trail rutsthrough the lonely bluffcountry of Nebraska and

Wyoming. But because thetrailnaturallymorphedovertime into county roads andstate highways, I would beridingonalotofasphalttoo.That’sthechallenge,thefun,the point, of crossing theOregonTrailtoday.Flashingsafety lights and a rearviewmirror are required to crosswhat the modern trail hasbecome.

I rejected the dogmatic“authenticity” fetish of thereenacting mentality foranotherreason.Thereasonsthetrailhaschangedarethestory of my country. InKansas, theoldSt. JoeRoadthat fed into the OregonTrailbetweenSt.JosephandMarysville is now StateHighway 36. In Nebraska,the Oregon Trail betweenNorth Platte and the

Wyoming line—a mythicstretchalongpinkdesertsoilthat includesChimneyRock—is now Highway 30 andHighway 26. The paving ofthese particularly scenicstretches of the old trailwasn’t a crime against thepast.ItwassomethingcalledAmerican history, economichistory, to be more exact.The original trail wentwhere people wanted to go,

west toward free lands,forming the roadbed of thelargest land migration inhistory, and then itcontinued going in thedirectionthatpeoplewantedto go. Evenbefore the floodof pioneers andhomesteaders crossing thefrontier ended in the 1890s,farmers and ranchers in theWest used the old OregonTrail route, which followed

theriversandthebest, levelterrain, to run their cattleeast into the big slaughteryards and railroad terminalsin Omaha and Kansas City.Those cities grew andbecame major economicengines of the Midwestbecause the Oregon Trailwas gradually convertedfrom a wagon road into acattle-driving route. Later,during World War I, long

stretches of the trail inNebraskawerepavedovertotruck cattle to the slaughteryards of Omaha, so thatcanned beef could morequickly be shipped to themore than three millionAmerican doughboysserving in Europe. TheNebraska beef industryboomed. That’s the trail.Thatisourhistoryandwhatit means today. That’s the

trail I wanted to see.Often,it’s a paved road, requiringsafety lights on a slow-movingwagon.

But by refusing to addfeatures like this becausethey weren’t “authentic,”Werner was teaching meone of the most valuablelessons of the trip. Modernwagonmakingisdeterminedtoremainlockedinthepast,andputtingrealpeopleanda

real team across the trailtoday is a lost art. I wouldhave to figure that out formyself. In that way, therewas something veryauthentic about theexperience I was having.NowIknewalittlebitmoreabout how the pioneers feltas they embarked for theWest.Itwasmyjumping-offtimeandIwasgettingjackedaroundbytheoutfitters.

•••

BackinJamesport,NickandI spent three happy daysinside the largewelding andmachineshoprunbyRopp’sAmish neighbor, IvanSchrock,fabricatingpartsforour wagon and equipmentforourcamp.Schrock’sshopwas busy with plantingseason work, but he carvedoffacornerofthebarnnear

the doors for us to work,strolling over every hour tooffer suggestions about thepartsweweremakingforthewagon. I reached a nicejumping-off moment therein Schrock’s barn.Hammeringawayatananvilononeofourprojects,Nickwould frequently interrupthisprogresstostepoverandhelp someone else fix ahydraulicline,ortoshitriga

cultivator with an oldwindmillpart.KeepingNickfocused can be a full-timejob,anditwasfrustratingtowatch him wander off tohelp someone else everyhour or so. But everyoneracing through Schrock’sshop for spring repairsadoredNickforthis,ortheysimply adored him becauseof his laughter and fun.People would do anything

forhim.Thiswouldbecomea major asset during ourcrossing of the trail, and inJamesport I became morerelaxed, less obsessive aboutmeeting deadlines, andenjoyed letting Nick just beNick.

WhileNickworkedonhisprojects, Philip and Iaddressed the mostimportant challenge of ourhitch—the tongue-reliever

tolifttheheavyweightofthetongue, also called the pole,off the mule collars.Knowledge about tongue-relievers is almostcompletely lost today, evenin the team-drivingcommunity. Heavy wagonsdon’t travel long distancesanymore, and the era oftongue-relievers essentiallyendedinthe1890swhentheblue military escort wagons

of the western plains werephased out and replaced byrail transport. I had seenonly two tongue-relievers inmy life, and both weremounted differently. Buttheycamedowntothesamething—a long chain andspring assembly that ranfromthe frontof thewagonbox, attached to a hitchpointmidwayalongthepole.The chain provided heft,

lifting the pole to the rightheighttotaketheweightoffthemulecollars.Thestrong,industrial-strength springprovided flexibility, allowingthe pole to gently rock upand down with themovementoftheteam.

Ropp and I spent anentire day, standing at themetal presses and weldingstands in Schrock’s shop,fabricating the mounts for

our tongue-reliever, andthen mounting it on theSchuttler wagon. When weweredone,theheavytonguewas suspended almostperfectly at the chest-heightof themule team, and evenNickwasimpressed.

“Rink,whenyoufirsttoldme about this tongue-reliever idea, Icouldn’tevenfindoneinmywagonbooks.Butthissolutionworks.The

weight of the pole is off themulecollars.Ineverthoughtajerklikeyoucoulddothis.”

Nineteenth-century covered wagonswere equipped with “tongue-relievers”totaketheweightoftheheavypole,ortongue,offthecollarsofthemules.

My parole frommechanical idiocy, however,didn’t lastvery long.OnourlastdayinJamesport,whenIdrove into the Ropp farmafter running errands intown, Philip and Nick werestanding by the barn nearthe Trail Pup, thecommissary cart I haddesigned and asked DonWerner to build, which wewouldtowbehindthewagon

to carry the bulk of oursupplies. The Trail Pupwasvitaltoourcrossing,becauseitwouldliberateusfromthefussandobnoxiouspresenceof the pickup trucks andcanteenrigsthatprovidethe“motorized support” ofmoderncoveredwagontripsstaged by reenactors. I hadasked Werner to build theTrail Pupwith a detachabletowing tongue, so that

single-mule shafts could beinstalled when we werecampingsomewhereandthecart couldbeusedas a run-about to make shorter tripsintotownsforsupplies.

Nick and Philip haddetachedtheTrailPupfromthe main wagon, taken thetowing tongue off, andreplaced it with my single-mule driving shafts. TheTrail Pup sat on the grass,

lookingforlornandallalone,resting forward on theshafts.

I walked over and Nickspokefirst.

“Rink, pick up the TrailPup.”

When I grabbed theshafts, the Trail Pupwas soheavy to lift that I couldbarelygetthecart level,andthere was no center ofgravitytobefound.Thebed

wassetsofarforwardontheaxle that the weight was allin the front, and even just asingle passenger would addgreatly to that.Thecarthadno restingmomentwhere itshould be—level on thewheels. No mule, even oneas strong as Jake, couldhandle that load. As apassenger cart, my half-wagonwasaflop.

Idroppedtheshaftsbackdown.

“Fuckedagain,”Nicksaid.“Youboughtacartthatisn’ta cart. There’s no restingmoment.”

There wasn’t time todwell on my design failure.Mymindinstantlymovedtothenextproblem.TheTrailPupwas alsomyemergencybackup plan. If we broke awheel out in western

Nebraska and Wyoming,where we’d often be fiftymiles fromtheclosest town,Iwascountingonbeingableto hook Jake to the TrailPup, tying the other mulesbehind, and riding to safetywith Nick and just theprovisions we needed for adayortwo.ButnowIdidn’thavethat.

“Philip,”Isaid,“doesJakereallyrideokay?”

“Heridesfine,”Roppsaid.“It’s like being on a truck,butherides.”

Jake became my newbackup plan. If we gotstranded in the Wyomingwilderness,NickandIcouldride him out together, or IcouldleaveNickbehindwithenoughprovisionsandwaterfor a day or two and ridealone for help. This wouldrequire a return trip to the

AmishharnessshopwhereIcould trade in my oldWyomingsaddleforalargersaddle that would fit Jake’sbroadback.

I walked down to thebarn, harnessed andhookedJake to the spring wagon,andthrewmysaddleintotheback for a run down thecounty highway to theharnessshop.Itwasalonelydrive and I felt dejected

about my failed design forthe Trail Pup, and alsopressed for time. I wasdetermined to jump off byMay 15, now just two daysaway,but therewere still somanydetailstonaildown.

When I arrived at theharness shop, carrying mysaddle on my shoulder,Elmer Beechy was standingatthefrontcounter.Elmerisa slender middle-aged man

with a scragglywhite beard,glasses,andaplainoldstrawhat—not the flattops thatmost Amish wear. He ismore western thanPennsylvania Dutch. I likedhimrightawaybecauseheissuch anAmerican charactertype, and classic Amish.There is a reason that he’sthebiggestharnessdealerinthe West. Elmer is a bornsalesman who maneuvers

you toward a deal by tryingto make you feel that hereally cares deeply aboutyourneeds.

IexplainedtoElmerthatIneeded a draft saddle builton a wider frame for Jake’sbroadback.Iwouldtradeinmy old high-qualityhandmade saddle for a usedone, which we would thenbuildoutwiththeextratack—a breastplate and

breeching straps for therumps—that traditionally isusedonmules.Ifiguredthatthese modifications wouldcostmeabout$200.ButmyWyoming saddle was sovaluable—I had originallypaid $800 for it—that Iwould probably be able tomake an even trade foreverything and not spendanymoremoney.

Holding it up with onehand, Elmer brieflyinspected my saddle andthen dropped it onto thefloorbythesalescounter.

“This saddle youwant totrade is worthless,” he said.“It’s got a slick seat.Everybody wants paddedsaddles these days. Thatthingwill sit inmyshop formonths and I’ll end up

havingtowholesale itoutataloss.”

“Elmer, this is ahandmadeWyomingsaddle.Look at this thing. I boughtit at the best shop in RockSprings.”

“I’lldoyouafavor,seeingas you already spentmoneyonharnesshere,”Elmersaid.“I’ll take the saddle off yourhands so you don’t have toworry. I’ll be losing money,

but I amwilling to do that,justforyou.”

“Howmuchforthetrade-in?”

“I’llgiveyou$150.Anditain’tworthevenhalfofthat.”

It was the classicjumping-off hustle andAmishcashburn,rolledintoone. Elmer knew that I wasinahurrytogetonthetrailand that there wasn’tanotherharnessshopwithin

hundredsofmilesthatcouldbuild out a mule saddle. Ididn’thaveanychoice.

“Okay, Elmer,” I said.“Can you help me pick outthe right saddle for Jake?Thenwe can get started onthebreeching.”

We ended up finding aused padded saddle on thesalesfloorthatElmersaidhewould “let go” for $350. He

was making $200 before hesoldmealloftheextratack.

While Elmer and I weresaddle-trading, a middle-aged, obviously well-heeledhorse fancier from theKansas City suburbs hadcome in. He drove a shinycream-white SuperCrewFord pickup with theexpensive King Ranchoptions package, and hewore a ridiculously large

rodeobuckleandlizard-skinboots.Hisdaughterhad justmarriedandthenewson-in-lawwantedtojointhefamilyweekends by learning toride. The indulgent father-in-lawwasbuyingeverythingin sight for the new familybrat—chaps, spurs, a fancybreastplate, a Navaho-pattern saddle blanket, thewhole nine yards of cowboypimp.

When the man carriedthis pile of loot up to thefrontoftheshop,hesawmyold saddle sitting on thefloor by the counter. Hewalked over and picked itup.

“Elmer, what’s this?” hesaid.“It’sanicesaddle.”

“That’s handmade inWyoming,”Elmersaid.“Andit’s got the slick seat. Yousuredon’tseemanyofthem

anymore. Tell me, is yournewson-in-lawahe-man?”

“Oh yeah. He’s big. He’stough.”

“Well, we ain’t going tosell any padded saddle tohim.”

“Nope. Padded is fordressage girls. So, what doyouwantforit?”

“Well,I’ll tellyou,”Elmersaid. “Seeing as you’rebuying so much stuff here

today,Iamgoingtodoyouafavor.I’llgive itawaytoyouformyabsolute,AmishWal-Mart, everyday low price,okay?$350.”

“Done,” the man said.“Thanks, Elmer.Wayland isgoingtolovethisbaby.”

Iwasnotbelievingthis.Itwasasifmyoldsaddlewerealeopardthatcoulderaseitsspots. One minute a slicksaddle seat was antiquated,

utterly out of fashion, andunsalable. The next minuteit was studmuffintestosterone additive. ElmerBeechy had made $200 onthat saddle in less than fiveminutes, not to mention allof the other expensive gearhewassellingbothofus.

Thetabforeverythingtheman was buying, includingmy saddle, came to more

than $1,000, and he paid incash.

Iwas still standing there,stupefied.

“Say,Rinker,” Elmer said.“You wanna help thisgentleman carry this gearout to his pickup? I wannaget someone out backstarted on your mulesaddle.”

Jesus. Now I am evenElmerBeechy’serrandboy.I

wasinsuchastaggeredstatethatIdidit,carryingmyoldWyoming saddle, and all ofits memories, out to theman’s shiny pickup,throwing it on, and thenwatchinghimdriveaway.

When I got back inside,Elmer was amiably smiling,not at all concerned aboutwhatIthought.

“Elmer, you just screwedme,”Isaid.“Thatguywould

have paid $500 for thatsaddle. You could have paidmesomuchmore.Yousaiditwouldsithereformonths.It was gone in fiveminutes,ata$200profit.”

Elmersighed.“Rinker,” he said. “You

are looking at a humbleAmish businessman. First Ididyouafavorbytakingthesaddle off your hands.ThenIdidhimafavor,lettingitgo

cheap because he wasalready spending so muchmoney here. Everybody’shappy. But let me ask yousomething. Did you watchmedothat?”

“Yeah, Elmer,” I said. “Iwatchedyoudothat.”

“Good,”hesaid.“Becausenow you’re honoraryAmish.”

When my saddle wasready I unharnessed Jake,

andElmerhelpedme throwon my new mule saddle. IrodeJakeoutacrossthehillymeadows for half an hour.Ropp was right. Jake rodelike a big old BoeingStratocruiser—the samegentle, sweet Jake, but afreighter. However, I couldsteerhim,andhewouldtrotif I urged him hard. InElmer’shands,Ihadbecometheclassicpioneerrube.But

nowIhadaplausibleworst-case scenario plan. Jakecould carry me out of thewilderness if we broke awheel.

•••

When I got back to Ropp’sfarm with Jake, Nick wasworking in the barnyardbehindtheSchuttlermakinglast-minute tweaks to our

modifications and checkingthe axels for grease. One oftheadditionshehadmadetothewagonwhile Iwas gonefilledmewithnostalgia.

After my father died in1975, there was a greatdispersion of his fabulousloot, according to a familypecking order that madesense only to us.Hiswagoncollection had already beensold off, but my sisters

managed to get all of thevaluable dry sinks and thebest antique furniture. Oneofmy brothers ran off withmy father’s leather flightjacketsandhelmets.Nick,ofcourse, securedmost of thecontentsofmyfather’sshop,a mechanic’s booty ofantique tools, anvils,hydraulic jack stands, pilesof wagon parts, and fourhubcaps for a 1967

Oldsmobile 88. I got acardboard box filled withdog-eared reference booksandawornshearlingcoat.

Butthejewelinthefamilycrownwasa simplewoodensign, which Nick had hungfor many years above hisfireplaceinMaine.

On our 1958 coveredwagon trip, my fatherwanted the automobiledriversbackedupbehindus

toknowthatweappreciatedtheir patience. Theydeserved to understand, hethought, why a coveredwagon was running downtheroadsofNewJerseyandPennsylvania in the middleof an otherwise normalsummerinthelate1950s.Sohehadasignmaker inNewYork City paint a simpleexplanationinblackandredletters on a white

background, across a four-foot pine board that hungfrom leather straps behindthewagon.Itread:

We’reSorryForTheDelay—ButWeWantTheChildrenTo

SEEAMERICASLOWLYNewVernon,NewJerseytoValleyForge,

Lancaster,Gettysburg,Penna

The sign was a big hiteverywhere we went thatsummer andwhen the localnewspapers printed

photographs of our wagontrip,SEEAMERICASLOWLYwasalwaysprominentlyfeatured.

The back of the sign hadneverbeenpainted,andoverthe years the pine had agedto a smooth surface. Nickhad painted that white, andthen taken the board to asignpainterinMaineforthesimilar messaging heconsidered appropriate forourtrip.

WeAreSorryForTheDelay,ButWeWantToSEEAMERICASLOWLY

St.Joseph,Ft.Kearny,ScottsBluff,SouthPass,FarewellBend

While I was away at theharnessshop,Nickhadhungthe reverse side of the sign,withitsnewlettering,onthebackoftheTrailPup,whereitwouldbeclearlyvisible todrivers following us on thehighways west. I wascharmed by the idea of

recycling my father’s oldsign. Our tailgate motto,fifty-three years after it hadbeen created for mychildhood covered wagontrip, would still be SEEAMERICASLOWLY.

The sight of our wagonrig finished off with the SEEAMERICA SLOWLY signpossessedmewith jumping-offfever.Westillhadalongpunchlistofminorfixesthat

we wanted to make—extraharnessrings for thedrivinglines, better attachments forourhosesandwaterbarrels,astaff for theAmericanflagwewantedtohangfromthewagon. But, fuck it.Perfectionismwasmyenemynow. We would be dickingaround Missouri for days ifwecontinuedtonoodlewiththese fixes, most of which

could be made after welaunchedonthetrail.

“Nick,”Isaid.“I’mcallingthetruckerinafewminutes.I’m going to ask him to gethere tomorrow, as early inthe day as possible. We’llhaul the mules and thewagons across the rivertomorrow, spend theafternoon making any last-minutefixes,andlaunchthe

next morning. It’s time toleave.”

“Yeah, but I still havemore fixes,”Nicksaid. “Andhave we shopped for food?Rinker, we need food. Weneedhayandoats.”

“No more fixes, Nick.Screw food for now. We’llbuy that at the first Wal-Mart.Doyouwanttohitthetrail?”

“Do you want to hit thetrail?”

“Iwanttohitthetrail.”“Okay, boss. Let’s head

’emupandmove’emout.”

5

THE ERA OF THE CANVAS-

TOPPEDwagonscrossingtheAmericanplainslastedaboutfifty years. During the peak

migrationyearsofthe1840sand 1850s, more than400,000pioneers crossed, inabout sixty thousandwagons, but there were stillremnant wagon trainsrumbling across the prairiewithhomesteaderswell intothe 1890s. A giant wave ofeconomicdestinyrolledwestwith the red wheels. Buthistory is often nonlinear

and event followed eventwithunpredictablecharm.

With time, of course, thecovered wagon became oneof our most enduringcultural symbols, expressingboththewanderingurgeandthe go-getter spirit of asociety that had stumbledupon mobility as an engineof growth. But unlike therailroadsortheclippershipsthat propelled America’s

growth as an industrialpower and a global tradinggiant, the green wagonscrossingNebraska enmasseafter 1843were not a resultof planning or deliberation.Happenstance and localexperimentation, more thananything else, created thedistinctive Americancoveredwagon,anditsexactprovenanceisunknownforavery good reason. By the

1820s, covered wagonprototypes had become socommon, and their designfeatures were sodemocratically shared, thatno one thought it useful torecord their history. But tounderstand the rough ambitof wagon development is tounderstandAmericaitself.

One particularly strongmisconception still persists.During the spring before I

left, as I began to tell a fewfriendsthatIwasheadedforthe plains for a coveredwagon trip, they universallyassumed that I would betaking a Conestoga wagon.There was even aninteresting gender breakabout it. “Oh, so you’retaking a Conestoga across,”one male friend said. “Tellme, how much does thatbabyweigh? It looksbig.”A

womanfriendsaid, “Oh, theConestoga. I’ve seen theselovelypicturesof themwithcouches and carpets inside.Socomfy.CanIcomealongforaweek?”

In fact, the Conestogawagon was an eighteenth-century behemoth,essentially a brigantine onwheels,and ithadvery littleto do with the overlandmigration before the Civil

War.TheConestogawasaneasternwagonand sawonlylimited use out west on thebig commercial roads likethe Santa Fe Trail betweenMissouri and New Mexico,or along the military trailsthatconveyedmunitionsandhardtackfromFortRileyandFort Leavenworth inKansasto thedistant, outlying fortsup in the Indian country ofNebraskaandWyoming.But

there was a connectionbetween the Conestoga andthe lighter, fleeter prairieschoonersofthepioneers.

In the 1730s, the sturdyforebears of today’sLancaster County AmishandMennoniteshadmadeasignificant step forward onthe ground they farmedalong the rich bottomlandsof the Conestoga River ineasternPennsylvania.Briskly

efficient at farming, verycommercial in outlook, theSwiss-Germans wereproducing surplus grain ontheir farms within ageneration of reachingAmerica.Thegrowingcitiesof Philadelphia and NewYorkoffereda readymarketfor these cash crops andwereonlyaweekorsoawaybywagon.Butwhichvehicleto use? The Mennonite

farmers along theConestoga, many of whombuilt their own wagons,simplyadoptedadesignthattheyknewwellfromEurope,and which probably datedbacktomedievaltimes.

The Conestoga certainlylooked medieval. The bighardwood wagons, up totwenty feet long, were builtwith floors that slopedsharply upward from the

middle,witha tall frontandback, to keep the load ofgrain or barrels pressedtowardthecenterofgravity.The sides flared outdramatically like those on acoastaldory,alsotostabilizetheload,sothatthefinishedvehicle looked nautical,capableoffloatingacrosstheriversitencounterednearby.(In fact, empty Conestogawagon beds, their seams

caulked with tar, could befloated across rivers andstreams.) The Conestogaswere massively overbuilt,weighing up to 3,500pounds,andcouldcarryfourtimes their weight—eighttons of grain or cordwood,boundforPhiladelphia.

Conestogas had clunky,four-foot wheels with up tosix-inch iron tire rims. Thewagon body holding the

cargo, and the axleundercarriage, later calledthe “running gear,” wereconnected as one structure,secured together with boltsor iron strapping on theaxles. The distinctive-looking covered top, calledthe “bonnet,”wasdevelopedto protect the cargo againstbad weather. Heavy-gradelinen or cotton sheets,soakedinlinseedoiltomake

them water-resistant, werestretched across a series ofsemicircular hickory or oakhoops, or “bows,” fitted tothesideofthewagon.(Later,aneventhickercotton-linenblend made with hemp—canvas—was deemed moredurable.) Heavy chainslashedtothesidespreventedthe bulging load frombreaking the structure. Thisungainly vehicle, hitched to

long gang-teams of eight totwelve oxen or horses,squeaked and lurched overthe bumpy colonial roads,complaining like the riggingonafour-master.Thousandsof Conestogas were built,and they were usuallyorganized into long cargoconvoysofadozenormore,which could be heardmilesaway. The professionalteamsters who ran these

caravans manned America’searliest inlandtransportation routes,spurring trade, roadbuilding, and thedevelopment of urbanmarkets,andalsohelpingtobuild a sense of continentalunity by linking thedisparate colonies withreliable deliveries of foodandothersupplies.AftertheAmerican Revolution, the

groaning leviathans werehauled over the steep,muddy reaches of theAlleghenies, to connect theold colonies back east withthe new settlements in theOhio River valley. TheConestoga was thesemitruckofyoungAmerica.

The Conestogas werelegendaryfortheirdurabilityand load-bearing capacity,buttheywerealsonotorious

forbreakdowns.Becausethewagon vessel and runninggearwereusuallyconnected,essentially secured togetheras a single unit, the bearingweight of the load wasapplied directly to thehickoryaxle,andfromthereto the wheels. Eight tons ofdownward and sidewaysforce were applied everytime the wheels hit a bumpor someAllegheny bedrock.

Often, shortcuts had beentakenwhilemakingwagons,and the wooden axles orrunninggearpartswerenotalways made from the best,cured wood. Everyoneoverloaded their wagons, tomake as much money aspossible on a westernPennsylvania or Ohio run.Bump, axle break. Bump,axle break. The cursing of

the teamsters echoed acrosstheAlleghenyhollows.

Obsolescence overtookthe Conestoga for otherreasons. By the 1830s, twodynamics were roiling theyoung nation. Theavailability of cheap or evenfreelandonthefrontierwestof the Appalachians hadmadeAmericaaverymobilesociety. Americans hadalwaysbeenabsolutebeavers

about clearing forest land,buttheywerenotverygoodatconservingsoilbyrotatingcrops, contour plowing, orproviding fertilizer to keeptheir ground productive.The dispositive feature oftheAmerican characterwasimpatience, and every fewyearsfamilies justmovedonto fresh, fertile ground,leapfrogging hundreds ofmilesatatime.(Bythetime

hewas twenty-one, in 1830,Abraham Lincoln had livedwith his family on at leastfive farms,moving from hisbirthplace in Kentucky toIndiana, then Illinois.George Donner, the leaderof the famously unluckyDonner Party wagon trainthatwastrappedbysnowinthe Sierra Nevadas in 1846,had lived inNorthCarolina,Kentucky,andIllinoisbefore

migratingwest.)Tofacilitatethesemoves,andtomeetthediverse needs of America’sbrieflytenantedfarms,anewwagon design emerged,moreorlessbyaccident.

The“mover’swagon”thatbegan to appear onAmericanfarmsinthe1820s—so called, we think,because farmers used themto move a lot—introducedseveralmajorimprovements.

The new, boxier wagonswere much shorter thanConestogas, about ten totwelvefeet long,andlighter,with an empty weight ofabout 1,200 pounds. Buttheycould still carry agreatdeal, up to two tons. Tall,four-footwheels in thebackdistributed the load overbumps, and smaller, three-foot wheels in the frontenhanced maneuverability

and turning radius. Thewheelbasewaswide—up tofivefeet—butthewagonboxitself was narrow, usuallyjust a few inchesmore thanthree feet. This designconcentrated most of theweight toward the center ofa wide platform of wheels,givingthenewwagonsmorestability than the old,swayingConestogas.

But one seemingly smalladvancechangedeverything.Itwasatransportationtweakakin to the conversion frompropeller airliners to jets inthe late 1950s, or thewidespread introduction ofautomatic transmissions incars in the 1960s. By theearly nineteenth century,wagon makers beganperfecting a U-shapedassemblyontopoftheaxles

thatactedasacradlefor thewagon box. This part wascalled the “bolster.”Gradually, the bolster wasimproved to provide atighter, more engineeredsupport for the wagon box,called “fitted bolsters.” Therectangular wagon box nowrested on the axles, kept inplacebygravityandthetightframing of the bolster. Thiseliminated the need for

bolting the assembly to theaxle as oneunit.The emptyweight of the box was justheavy enough, and thebolster so perfectly formed,that thewagonand runninggear remained togetherwithoutbeingattached.

The standard Peter Schuttler farmwagon, converted with hoops and acanvas top at the frontier, was theminivan of the plains before the CivilWar.

Itwas ababy step, and itprobablydidn’thappenallatonce. But, once the bolts orstrapsconnectingthewagonbox to the axle wereremoved, the physics werehugely advantageous. Thewagonboxnowfloated free,no longer rigidly bound tothe axles. At a bad turn orbump, at least half of theload stresses were bouncedbackup into the load in the

box, or dissipated into theair.Thisgreatlyreducedthebearing stresses on the axle.The wagon boxes bouncedand jostled a lot, but thatrepresented energy thatwasn’t being transferred totherunninggear.Bump, theharvested corn absorbs theshock. Bump, the cordwoodrearranges itself. At the endof a long day on the wagonseat, a farmer’s butt felt like

roadkill. But the runninggearandaxleswereintact.

By the mid-1820s,Americahadcommenceditsglorious but now forgottenCanal Age. Canals werebeing built everywhere tocarry coal, grain, firewood,and whiskey from thehinterlands to the cities—along the Raritan andDelawarewatershedsinNewJersey, across all of the

Pennsylvania river basins,and throughout the newfrontiercountryinOhioandIndiana. The grandest ofthese was the Erie Canal,which opened for use in1825, “wedding the waters”of the Great Lakes and theAtlantic with a 363-mileditch that crossed fromBuffalo on Lake Erie to theHudson River at Albany,New York. The Erie Canal

was forty feet wide, hadthirty-six locks, and had anelaboratesystemoftowpathsandintersectionswithmajorwagon roads. Thousands ofIrish laborers weredispatched to upstate NewYork to work undersubhuman conditions withwheelbarrowsandshovels.

Nobodyinhisrightmindwould excavate a 363-milecanalthatisfortyfeetacross

by running a big oldConestogaontothecrowdedand dangerous constructionsites. The Irish were dyinglikefliesalreadyandintermsoflaborefficiencyitmadenosense tokill a lotmorewithcapsizingwagons.Historianshavelongbeenfrustratedbya lack of accurate record-keeping during the canal-buildingera,butwedoknowthat farmers along the

western New York frontierbegan selling their mover’swagonstothebuilderofthecanal, the Niagara CanalCompany, which in turnhired wheelwrights andmechanics to improve thesewagons for canalwork. Thelower front wheels of thewagonsmadethemeasiertomaneuver around theobstacle course of dirt pilesandrocksatthecanal’sedge,

andtheywereusedprimarilyat lock sites and roadconnections, to haul awayand relocate theconstruction debris.Overloading was a frequentproblem, but the relativeease with which brokenwagon boxes could bereplaced was an advantage.It was probably along theErie Canal that the practiceof stockpiling extra wagon

boxes and wheels wasintroduced.

Theriddlesofhistoryarealwaysmoreinterestingthanthe proven facts. Did thefarmers, seeing anopportunity to make extramoney over the winter,modify and strengthen theirwagonsspecifically forcanalbuilding? Or did the canalbuilders make most of thedesign enhancements

themselves? At some point,thewroughtironbracesandpins that were used toassemble the running gearwere improved. Wheelbrakes for steep downhillgrades were added duringthe 1830s, but where? Onthe farms or on the canals?Who built the firstreinforced cast steel skeinsto connect the axle to thewheel hubs? In the end,

therearenospecificanswersto these questions, but alarger truth obtains. Twogreat impulses of theAmerican experience—moving from farm to farmalong the frontier, andbuilding canals—resulted inthe mythic prairie wagonthatopenedtheWest.

Within a few years,business-minded visionariessaw an opportunity to

transformacottageindustryinto manufacturingenterprises. After 1850,when the Oregon TrailtraffictookoffbecauseoftheGoldRushandtheexodusofthe Mormons to Utah,wagon manufacturingbecamebigbusiness,amajorengine that drove anexpanding economy. Manycompanies that wouldbecome enduring American

brand names—John Deere,Studebaker, Sears, Roebuck—began by manufacturingwagons, adopting thecommondesignofthefarm-built mover’s wagon andmass-producing it for agrowing market. Distinctivedesigns and wagon featureswere introduced bycompetition in the wagonbusiness, which encouragedendless experimentation. By

the late 1850s, a nautical-looking wagon with flaredsidesandtongue-and-grooveflooring, to improveflotation, was developed inresponsetopioneerdemandfor a better vehicle forcrossing rivers. To advertisetheir superior marinehandling, these designsbecame known as “prairieschooners,” a term thatstuckandeventuallyreferred

to almost any wagon thatcrossed the plains.Overlanders who expectedto establish dry goodscompanies or lumber millson the frontier, and wantedto be already set up forbusiness, knew they couldrelyonthesturdydesignsofthe J. Murphy WagonCompanyofSt.Louis,whichsupplied many of themilitary escort wagons used

duringtheCivilWar,or theTurnbull Wagon Companyof Defiance, Ohio. Most ofthesenameshavefadedfromhistory. But they were greatwagons,built towithstandalot of abuse and to lastforever. You can still seerestored Murphys andTurnbulls rolling along inJulyFourthparadestoday.

Thesenewcompaniesdidwhat nascentmanufacturers

always do—theytransformed a dispersedcottage industry ofhandcrafted products intoone that was organizedaccording to factorypractices. Wagon assemblylines(no,HenryForddidnotinvent that), standardizedand interchangeable parts,and stronger pieces of castiron and steel wereintroduced. Water power

andsteamenginetechnologymade it possible to quicklyand precisely cut axles,bolsters, and other parts ofthe running gear.Improvements in metalforging helped develop ironand later steel “skeins,”thimble-shaped structuresthat connected the axle tothewheelhub,replacingthewooden parts of theeighteenth century. Kilns

were built to cure woodenparts uniformly so theywouldn’t crack whenexposedtoseasonalchangesinhumidity.Wheelhubsandspokes were preciselyengineered and then fittedtogether at wheelwrightstations located where theywere needed—near the spoton the factory floor wherethe finished running gearswerecompleted.

By the mid-1850s wagonpriceshadstabilizedatabout$75 apiece, and replacingbroken parts no longerrequired a long day in thebarnwithwoodplanes,ball-peenhammers,andananvil.Because wagon making hadbeen standardized, partscould be ordered by mail.Later, a telegraphic code ofdedicated shorthand words—to save money on

telegraph costs—wasdevoted just to orderingwagon parts. If ahomesteader or his distantwagon dealer out westneededtheboardforanine-inchtopbox,hetelegraphedfora“Becalm.”Thethirteen-inch tip top box was a“Bray.”Acast-ironaxleskeinwas an “Apollo.” Thetougher steel skein was an“Ape.”

Eventually the wagon-making business becameconcentrated in theemerging manufacturingcenters of the Midwest—John Deere in Moline,Illinois, Studebaker andSears, Roebuck in SouthBend, Indiana, and MurphyandWeber&Damme inSt.Louis. Fortunes were mademanufacturing wagons, firstfor the overland trail traffic,

and then during the hugegovernment stimulusprovided by the Civil War,andmore than thirtywagoncompanies exhibited theirmodels at the 1876Centennial Exposition inPhiladelphia. The businesswas exemplified by anenterprising German-American whose namebecame virtually

synonymous with theOregonTrail.

Peter Schuttler was aGerman immigrant whoarrivedinNewYorkin1834,when he was twenty-twoyears old. He bouncedaround at the edge of thefrontier for several years,learning wagon building inwestern New York andwheelwrighting in Ohio,gaining a reputation as an

innovator who could figureouthow tomakepartswithsaws instead of axes, andwho designed his ownmachinery and lathes. Afterhis first twowagonshops inOhiofailed,Schuttlerrodeabuggy across the plains toChicago, where he brieflydabbled with brewing beerbecause he considered thewagon-building field toocrowded. (At the time,

Chicago had about fourthousand adult citizens, andthirteen wagon shops.) Butin 1843, after he soured onbrewing, Schuttler openedup a wagon works at thecorner of Randolph andFranklin streets, living withhis family in a woodenshantybehindhisshop.

Schuttler’s timing wasfortuitous. In the early1840s, travel along the

OregonTrailhadbeenjustatrickle—no more than twohundredpioneersayear.Butthe reverberations of thePanic of 1837, which hadvirtuallydestroyedAmericanfarming,werestillbeingfelt,andthishadsentanarmyofessentiallyhomeless familieswest in search of newopportunities and cheapland. In 1843, a missionaryand an experienced western

wagon traveler, MarcusWhitman, led an exodus ofabout a thousand pioneersacross the plains, and afterthat Oregon Trail trafficgrewdramaticallyeveryyear,culminatingintheestimatedforty thousand wagontravelerswho flocked to thetrailintheGoldRushyearof1849.

Schuttler, who wouldeventually gather one of the

great Chicago fortunes, justgrew with the trail fromthere.Hewas as disciplinedandmethodical as a Shaker,andearlyonhesawtheneedto build parts that wereprone to breakage withstouter grades of iron, andthat carefully machinedwheelspokesandhubswereessential for the reputationofawagoncompany.Healsounderstood the need to

specialize,andsoonscuttledthe less lucrative lines ofsmall buggies and carriagesthat were dragging otherwagon makers down,concentratinginsteadonthedesign and parts of thestandard farm wagon.Schuttler also profited fromdisaster. In1850hisoriginalwooden shop burned to theground, but he used this asan opportunity to build a

new, fireproof brick factorythatincorporatedeverythinghe had learned aboutbuilding wagons over thepast fifteen years.ThePeterSchuttler works, whicheventually covered morethan ten acres, became oneof Chicago’s biggestfactories, turning out 1,800wagonsayear.

Schuttler and the otherlarge wagon manufacturers

played a critical role inaccelerating America’sindustrial revolution. Theirmetalworking, in particular,became a principal reasonthat America beganovertaking Britain as anindustrial power by the endof the nineteenth century.The demands of producingthousands of wagons everyyear for the overland trailsforced thewagonmakers to

efficiently mass-produceiron and steel parts—wheelhubs, running gear braces,brakes—that had once beenmade by hand. The clunkyandcomplexoldConestoga,with dozens of handmadeparts for each wagon, wasgraduallyreplacedbyamoreelegant, simpler box wagonthatwasnowtheproductofa briskly moving factoryoperation.

Theten-acrePeterSchuttlerworkswasthe largest factory in Chicago, andsupplying the overland trails withwagons created one of the greatnineteenth-centuryfortunes.

The major wagonmanufacturers were locatedin river towns, with goodaccess to the MississippiRiver transportation system,which proved decisive fordeliveringtheirproducts.Asthe Oregon Trail trafficpicked up in the 1840s,outfittersalongtheMissouririveraboveKansasCitywereordering hundreds ofwagonsayearinanticipation

of a new and largeremigrationeveryspring,andSchuttler’s big works nearthe Illinois River, and hisability tomeet the demand,placed him in a strongposition. Shipping efficiencywaskey.MostofthewagonsSchuttler dispatched to theWest were not completelyassembled at the factory.Therunninggearandwheelswere bundled together and

stackedontopofeachotheron big flatboats and, later,bargespulledbysteamboats.The wagon boxes wereloaded with all of theremaining parts—tongues,seats, barrels, roof bows—andstackedneatlybesidetherunning gear. The load ofwagon boxes then rode theMississippi downstream toits confluence with theMissouri at St. Louis,

looking very much likemoderncontainerships.The350-mileruntotheMissouritook about three weeks. Bythe end of April every year,the wharves and clearedfields of Missouri Rivertowns like St. Joseph,Weston, and Independencegleamedwithtallcolumnsofgreenwagons,andovertimean efficient dealershipnetworkwasestablished.

A Peter Schuttler advertisement fromthe1850s.Aggressivemarketingandastrong dealership network gaveSchuttler an advantage over

competitors like Studebaker and JohnDeere.

The Schuttler wagonswerestronganddurable,butnotreallymuchbetterthanaSpringfield or a Studebaker.The company thrivedbecause Schuttler was alively marketer whounderstood that word ofmouth and appearancesmeantagreatdeal.Schuttlerflooded the frontier withattractive pamphletsadvertising his wagons and

dispensed fromChicago thekind of pious commercialmottoes that Americanshave always liked toconsume.(“TheOldReliablePeter Schuttler,” “PeterSchuttler Wagons SpellQUALITY.”) In 1855, whenthe Mormons placed anorder for thirty-five wagonsto support theirnextwagontrain to Utah, Schuttlermade sure that the market

knew why. He hadguaranteed the Mormoneldersthateachwagoncouldhold 3,500 pounds. TheMormons were not liked inAmerica, but theirachievementsontheOregonTrailcouldn’tbedeniedandthis undoubtedly helpedSchuttler. The Saintscontinued to be his bestcustomer. Schuttler wasdubbed“TheWagonKingof

Chicago,” and it is thoughtthatthepopularnineteenth-century pioneer phrase fortheir vehicles, “TheChicagoWagon,” derived from thepopularity of the Schuttlerwagononthewesterntrails.The Peter Schuttler wagonwas the minivan of theplains, and by the 1880s atleast thirty thousandSchuttler wagons hadcrossedthefrontier.

The wagon king ofChicago forged theindustrialist style laterperfected by AndrewCarnegie, John D.Rockefeller,andHenryFord.While pretending to bemodest, he was ludicrouslyself-indulgent.Athisfactoryin Chicago, Schuttler lovedto entertain visitors withtales about his humbleorigins and lifestyle, and he

told stories about workingeighteen-hour days in thefactory and then retiring tohisfamilyinthewoodshackbehind the plant. But bymiddle age, selling upwardsof sixty thousand wagonsand owning Chicago’slargest factory had turnedhim into a rote tycoon.The1860 census showed thatSchuttler was one of threemillionaires in Chicago; it

hadtakenhimjustseventeenyears,buildingwagonsathisscale, to achieve that status.The other two millionaireswere the Marshall Fielddepartment store barons,Potter Palmer and John V.Farwell. The Schuttlers, thePalmers, and the FarwellsweresoonengagedinoneofAmerica’s great mansion-building frenzies, throwingup estates for themselves

and their children all overChicago. Schuttler outdidthem all.ThenewSchuttlershack occupied awhole cityblock bounded by Adamsand Monroe streets, tookthree years to build, and isvariously estimated to havecost between $250,000 and$500,000, ormore than $15milliontoday.

We tend to associate thecreation of the great family

fortunesofAmericawiththebloated, monopolistic trustsofsuchGildedAgefiguresasAndrew Carnegie, John D.Rockefeller, or E. H.Harriman. But Schuttlerpredated them by almostfortyyears,neverfeltthathehad tocorner themarket tosucceed, andbuilthis entirefortune out of a singlefactory that made just oneproduct—wagons.

And for at least the nextcentury, the American styleof transportation—crucialforthenation’sgrowth—hadbeen defined. The ride wasnever good, and your spineachedafteraday’srunuptoNorth Platte. But yourwheelsusuallygotyoutherebecause the chassis and boxwere way overbuilt for thejob. And there was anotherAmerican trait imparted by

the covered wagon:spontaneity.Yeah,let’sdoit,there is free land out inOregon.Let’sbuythisrigfor$75, throw on the top, andfind some mules. Thecovered wagon deliveredwestern dreams, in a hurry.The improvised and rushedwanderlust of the Americancharacter—celebrated byobservers from WaltWhitman to Ken Kesey—

was symbolized by thevehicle that initially crossedtheplains.

The covered wagon’sErector Set quality alsohelped the Americans. AttheMissouriRiver jumping-offtownsonthefrontier,themanufactured pieces couldbe fitted together into afinished wagon in a singlemorning.Only a few simpletools were needed—an iron

wheelwrench,whichusuallycame with the wagon, ascrewdriver for attachingbrackets for the bows, ahammer, and maybe adarning needle and thread,formaking roll-up windowscutintothecanvas.HeretheGerman influencecontinued. The pioneerscalled their wagon bonnets“Osnaburgs,” after the townin Germany, Osnabrück,

where the stout cotton-hemp canvas, treated withlinseedoil,originated.Manypioneers added falsebottomstothewagonbedtostoreequipmentlikeharnesskits or furniture parts thatwouldn’t be used every day.Waterbarrelswereattachedby building a cantileverplatform off the sides, andheld in place by leatherstraps. For her water,

Margaret Frink carriedindia-rubber bottles. It wasnot generally true that thepioneerspainted“OregonorBust!” on their canvas tops,asAmericanlorewouldhaveit.Theyusuallypaintedtheirsurnames and theiroriginating town or countyonthecanvas,inlargeblockletters that could be seenfrom far away. That way,after an evening spent

hunting for game orsearching for water, thepioneerscouldreturntothecrowded encampments andwalk straight to their ownwagon.

The pioneers’ practice ofpainting names andgeographicoriginsonwagoncovers led to an interestingAmerican colloquialism thatstillexiststoday.Intheearlydays of the trail, a large

number of wagon travelersoriginatedfromPikeCountyin easternMissouri, an areathatwasoriginallysettledbybackwoodsmen fromKentuckyinthe1820s.Manyof these painted “FromPikeCo., Mo.” on their wagoncovers,orjust“PikeCounty”or“Pike,”tomakeiteasiertoassemble as a train in thecrowded covered wagoncamps.Naturally,theybegan

to be called “Pikers.” Butbecause therewere somanyPike counties across thecountry that generatedoverland emigrants—Pennsylvania, Ohio,Kentucky, Indiana, andIllinoisallhavePikecounties—“Pikers” became a broad,generalized term that couldrefer to any number ofwagon companies thatcrossed in the 1840s and

1850s. The original Pikersfrom Kentucky andMissouri, in the words ofpioneer diarist WilliamAudley Maxwell, wereconsidered“ofa‘backwoods’class,rathershortinculture,andinpersonalmakeupandlanguage, bearing a generalair of the extremely rural.”Over time “Pikers” becameaccepted as a term thatreferredtopeoplewhowere

slow of speech, plodding,and not ambitious inbusiness.WhenIwasaboy,and I told my father that Ihad a difficult exam inschool the next day, hewouldsay,“Don’tbeaPiker,son.Goupstairs and study.”But I’msurehehadno ideathat the term originatedalongtheOregonTrail.

In The Americans,historian Daniel Boorstin

describedanotherimportanttrait of the covered wagon.“The wagon was plainly acommunity vehicle:everything about it requiredtravelingingroups.Tocrossdeep streamsor climb steepslopes the ox teams had tobe doubled and the wagonsmanaged one at a time.Many ways were found touse the group’s total

resources to conquerobstaclesandreducerisk.”

Indeed, at places likeCalifornia Hill near Brule,Nebraska, one of thesharpest ascents of the trail,or at the steep descent atWindlass Hill above AshHollow, Nebraska, amultitude of hands in thecovered wagon trains wereavailable to help. Everythinginthewagonswasoff-loaded

and carried uphill bybrigades of children andwives.Somemenledmostofthe teams up to the top ofthe hill and watched them,whileothersremainedbelowto hook up and drive thedoubled teams that towedthe wagons over theobstacle. Conversely, at adownhill, the wagons werelightened by brigades ofpioneers carrying furniture

and cooking utensils to thevalley floor. Some men ledthe teams down, whileothers remained at thesummit to hold the heavyropesandtheprairie-craftedwindlasses that lowered thewagonsdown.

I’ve always thought thatthis is why the sight of acoveredwagongoingby,oragroupofthem,arousessuchprimordial emotions.

Perhaps we possess a dimlyrepressed but neverthelessaccessible memory of howmuch community wasformed by the necessitiesand sheer obstacle-climbingalong the trail. That’s whatthe covered wagonrepresents. Families wouldnever forget the powerfulfriendships they formedalong the trail, or whatpioneeringdidfortheirown

nuclearunit.Wehavealwayscalled this the “pioneeringspirit.”

•••

“Pioneering spirit” is aphrasethatwasusedalotinmy family while I wasgrowingupinthe1950s,andit probably explains, too,why I was so drawn tocovered wagon travel. I am

emotionally connected tomypast as a coveredwagontraveler—a time when myfather was so strapping andyoung, fun-loving andemotive,amansowonderfulto love. He was anonconformist in a rigidlyconformist age, but I’veoften felt since then thattherewas a logic behindhiseccentricity.

On our 1958 coveredwagon trip, in the eveningsin our camp, my fatherwould hold me with onehand by the scruff of myneckandwashmyfacewithhis other hand, using awashcloth dipped into abucketofcold,soapywater.Ididn’t particularly like that,but this might have beenbecause my father used thetime to remind me of my

obligations.“Rinker,” my father said

during washing one night,“you fought with yourbrother today. Why do youkeepdoingthat?”

“Dad.Itwasn’tmyfault.Itwas my turn to ride Texaswhenwegot intocamp,butKern stole the horse. So Ikicked himwhen he got offTexas.Bigdeal.”

“Well, okay, son,” myfather said. “But don’t fight.Nexttime,comeandaskmefirst, all right? Fightingwithyour brother is not in thepioneeringspirit.”

On theotherhand, therewere chores required on acovered wagon trip that Ilovedtoperform.

I was this squirrely littleIrish pipsqueak boy whoseemedtounderstandthat I

had too much energy. Mypsychiatrists would laterdiagnose a mild disordercalled hypomania, or thehyperthymic personality, akindofdilutedbipolarism. Iam manic, but notnecessarily depressive. IcannotenjoylifeunlessIamoveractive, or find achallenge that makes meebullient. When I travel tovisit friends, I can’t relax

unless I am clearing fallenlimbs in their yard orrebuilding their fence. Therelated symptoms areinsomnia, obsessive-compulsivereadingdisorder,alcoholism, satyriasis, andfastidiously ironed shirts.Extrapolated backward intothe life of a boy, thismeantsomeonewho lovedtocarrywaterforhorses.

Myfatherscrubbedmeeverynightoutof a watering bucket for the horses,usingtheoccasiontolecturemeaboutthe“pioneeringspirit.”

God, did I love carryingwater for the horses on thecoveredwagontrip.Downtothe river with the buckets,dip them inwhile thewaterriffled over the rocks, andthen clamber up the bankswith the water splashing onmy legs and the galvanizedhandles digging into mypalms. I used a shortstepladder to hold up thebuckets while the horses

drank. Our Belgianshepherd, Midnight, lappedfrom the bottom of thebucketwhenthehorsesweredone. I was always up atdawn, running down to theriverwiththebucketssothatnone of my siblings couldbeatmetoit.

“That’s the pioneeringspirit,son,”myfatherwouldcall out as I ran back andforthtotheriver. “Children,

look at Rinker. He’s solickety-split!”

Childhood competitiondieshard. Iamstill adawn-riser, outside well beforebreakfast, attacking thegarden weeds or spreadingcrabgrass preventer on thelawns, mildly annoyed thateveryone else in the familyremainsinbed.

Now I would be using acoveredwagontoescapeone

life and replace it withanother,pursuingmydreamof being on the plains for awhole summer. I have thepioneering spirit for manyreasons.Butsurely themostimportant is that I stillmissmyfatherso,andthosedayswhen we crossedPennsylvaniatogetherinthewagon seem like the lasttime that we were reallygoodforeachother.

6

I SLEPT IN THE WAGON forthe first time the nightbefore we left, and I lovedmy new womb on red

wheels. Nick and I hadfollowed inhispickupwhileour trucker, Doyle Prawl,hauled the mules and thewagons over the MissouriRiver into Kansas, and afterit started to rainwe pushedthe wagons into theimplement barn at Doyle’ssmall farm. I left the barndoors open so that I wouldfeel as if I were reallycamping. It was a beautiful

Kansas night with light rainpatteringonthetinroofand,far off, I could hear dogsbarking and the traffic ontheSt.JoeRoad.

ThenextmorningIwokeat dawn and immediatelywas gripped by one lastparoxysm of dread. Insidemy wagon womb, I lay onthe pillow with my handsclasped behind my head,brooding, staring up at the

oak bows, unable to chaseaway my fears. Oh, Rinker,what have you done toyourself here? It is twothousandmilestotheendofthe trail.Thereare somanydetails tobeon topofeveryday,andNickwillbelookingto you for answers, for adailyplan.Themaps,findingsupplies, finding water.Harnessing every day. Buteisprobablyadefectivemule,

Beck shies more than anyequineyouhaveeverdriven.Whydoyouhavetobesucha crazyass? You could beback in your house in NewEngland,writing anice, safebookaboutclipperships.

But I felt better after awhile, mostly by schoolingmyself with the basics, thealluring simplicity of wagontravel. My assignment forthedaywas straightforward.

Justfollowthebackroadsupthrough the old junctioncountry to Hiawatha,twenty-five miles away. Itwouldjustbea longhayridenorthwest through Kansas,and thenext daywould justbeanotherhayrideduewestalong the St. JoeRoad.Thiswould be my mantra now:Navigate—and live—day byday.Icouldn’tdefaulttomypersonality as a born

worrier, and looking at thebig picture of the journeywould only rattle me withthe enormity of thechallengewehadtakenon.Icould succeed only bypiecing together a series ofsmall-picturedays.

Nick had slept in theguest room at Doyle’s andcamedowntothebarnearly,whileIwasmakingcoffeeonour Coleman cookstove. He

stood on the concrete floorof the implement shed,freshly showered and inclean clothes, with his L.L.Bean backpack at his feet.His booming voice echoedoffthecorrugatedaluminumwalls.

“Yo, Trail Boss! Let’s getrollin!”

Nickhadbeendoing thisstrange thing for the lastcoupleofdays,alwayscalling

me “Boss.” He had alwayshadthisinexplicablequirkofcharacter. When he visitedmy place and I took him toparties at the homes of myfriends, he became verydeferential, not at all hischeerful, brash self. Often,hecalledme“sir,”asifsomebizarre British class systemappliedwhenhewasvisitingmy world. At the time, hewassupervisingelaborate$3

millionmansionprojects onexclusive islands off thecoast of Maine, but Nickwould tell my friends, “Oh,I’m just a carpenter fromMaine.” This made me feeluncomfortableandIhateditwhen he was implying thathisstatuswasbeneathmine,that our different livesimplied superiority on mypart,inferiorityonhis.

“Nick,” I said. “What isthis ‘Boss’ shit? I am notyour boss.We’re doing thistriptogether.”

“I think it’s better todefine the relationship,”Nick said. “I’m the TrailHand. You’re the Boss. Sojust call me Trail Hand,okay?”

Nick had spent a longtime the night before on acell phone call to his best

friend in Maine, RipleySwan,andheexplained thathe and Rip were worriedabout his brash personality.NickknowsalotmoreaboutteamsandwagonsthanIdo,heisnotexactlymeek,andifhe asserted himself toostrongly we might developconflicts and fight. Therewere decisions to be madeevery day. We might haveemergencies. Somebody had

tobeinchargeforthetriptobe successful. Rip was alsoawarethatNickrarelypaceshimself, throwing himselfinto projects so franticallythat he’s exhausted beforetheyare evenhalfdone.Riphad advised Nick not to“takeownership”of thetrip.The Boss title for me, theyboth thought, would helpNickpolicehimselfandfind

a sustainable level of energyforthetrip.

I didn’t feel that thedenotation of titles wasnecessary,butIwastouchedthat Nick and Rip haddevotedsomuchthoughttothe question. This wasobviously something thatwas important to Nick. Itwouldbegoodmanagementtobuyintohisplan.

I handed Nick a cup ofcoffee.

“All right,TrailHand, goout and grain the mules,” Isaid. “We’re harnessing inhalfanhour.”

•••

Thebiggestsingledangeronour tripwas something thatis both familiar to andgreatly feared by horsemen

—the “hitch runaway.” Ahitch runaway happenswhenhorsesormules,whilebeing hooked to a wagon,suddenly take off becausetheyhavebeenspookedbyadeerbounding intocamporby children riding past onbicycles. When oneunhooked mule on a teamdecidestorun,theothertwowill often try to join it, andin the muling chaos that

follows poles get snappedand wagons are overturned.Hitch runaways injurepeople and wreck a lot ofwagons.

Runaway teams andgetting run over by thewheelswere frequentcausesofinjuryanddeathalongtheOregon Trail, dreadedalmost as much as diseaseand hunting accidents. Inpeak migration years like

1849 or 1852,when literallythousands of wagons werebeing hitched everymorning, therewere dozensof runaway accidents, andmany trail journals I readdescribed how a teamspooked by buffalo, or by aboy getting careless, led tosudden death under thewheels.

After hitching severaltimes in Jamesport, I

appreciated the enormouspowerofourdraftmulesandwas naturally concernedabout this. Nick’s tendencyto focusso intentlyona jobthat he runs out of circuitsto process language,communicating insteadby acrude pantomime of grunts,shrugs,andnodsofhishead,could be fatal duringhitching. Now thedesignation that Nick had

conferredonme,TrailBoss,gave me the authority toestablish the procedure thatwe would follow every day.During harnessing, I toldhim,themuleswouldalwaysbe chained “short” to ahitching post or the wagonwheels, and I would alwayshold the mules by theirbridles at the pole whileNick attached the yoke andthenwalkedbehind tohook

the trace chains. When allwas ready with the hitch,Nick would climb onto thewagon seat, take the lines,andcheckthemanualbrake,making one last inspectionto be sure that the harness,tugs, and lineswere hookedright.Iwouldn’tletgooftheteam until he said, “Thewagon ismine.Thebrake ison.”

Thestandard“triple-tree”design forathree-mule hitch, with the evener barthatkeeps the teampulling thewagoninaconsistentdirection.

“Nick,”Isaid.“Procedure.Communication. You’ve gotto talk to me. We’ve got$30,000worthofwagonandmules here. One dumbassmistakeanditallendsupinaditch.”

“Copy,Boss.Justdon’tgetmadatme ifmyADDkicksinandIforgettotalk.”

“I won’t get mad at you.I’ll just tellyou, ‘TrailHand,speakup.Talk.Bespecific.’ ”

When we were doneestablishing theseprocedures, Nick thankedmeandsaidoneotherthingthatsurprisedme.

“Hitching is such anintense time, Boss. I neverwant to talk because I’mafraid every time I hitch ateam.”

“What? You, afraid? Younevertoldmethat.”

“You didn’t ask. I don’trelax until I’m on the seatand have the lines in myhands.”

This was fascinating tome because I had assumedthat I was the only oneafraid, but we didn’t havetime to explore the issue.Doyle was calling from theporch of his house thatbreakfastwasready.

•••

Nickwassofastidiousabouthitching the mules thatmorning that he soundedlike a prisoner in a chaingang.Hewas PaulNewmanin Cool Hand Luke. “Boss,Jake coming out of pasture,chained,” he said. “Boss,three mules harnessed, let’sreinandyoke,”andsoforth.Hewasoverdoingit,butthis

wasgoodbecauseweneededtodeveloparoutine.

The hitch that dayrevealed the behavioralissues that we would havewith the team. Sweet littleBute regarded herself as aHollywood diva. She wasKateHudson,visitingfriendsinMalibu for theafternoon.All she had to do to fulfillher lifepurposewas lieonachaise longue in a bikini,

lookingskinnyandlovely.Assoon as we had the teamyoked to the pole, Butewould sway out wide withher hips, almostperpendicular to the othertwo mules, and stare at mewith a look of divineboredom. “Oh, like, you’rehitching me?” Before hecould attach Bute’s tugchains, Nick would have totake the trace from its

keeperuponherrump,loopit around her leg, and thenyank her cute diva ass backto the right position. Butepulled the same act everymorning.Jake,anxioustogo,would paw his front hoofjust inches from my footuntil I toldhimtostop,andthengiveme feral lovebiteson my arm. Interestingly,Beck, who Nick and Ithoughtwasgoingtobeour

problem mule, would standpatiently during hitching.She was saving all of hercrazinessforlater.

When everything wasready,Nicksteppedontothewheelhub,heftedhisweightinto the wagon by holdingon to the seat, and thenplopped down and took thelines.

“It’smywagon,Boss.Thebrakeison.”

While Nick held theteam, I made one lastinspection tour around thewagon, switched on ourhazard lights, and thencradled Olive Oyl in myarms and handed her up toNick. Stepping onto theright wheel hub and thenladdering myself up bystanding on the wheel rimand holding on to the edgeof the seat produced an

immenselysatisfying feeling.We were mounted now,readytogo.Thestressofthehitch-upwasover.

Ihad taken the right sideof the wagon seat, thetraditional position for themaindriver.Thebrakeisonthe right-hand side, butthere was another reasonthat the principal driver satthere. In the eighteenth andnineteenth centuries, wagon

roads were little more thancrude earthen pathwaysworn down by traffic, aboggy morass when itrained, andabumpygridofhardened ruts when it wasdry. The shoulders of theroads were indefinite andoften contained deepcrevices or creek ditcheshidden in the grass. Thesafest way for a driver topass a wagon coming from

the other direction was topull rightas far ashecould,concentratingonthegroundjust beside him to seeobstaclesandpotholes.

Our three-mule driving linesarrangementallowedusto“reinin”theentire team, a traditional but largelyforgottennineteenth-centuryhookup.

ButNickandIhadalwaysbeenpretty good “transitiondrivers,” sitting on eitherside of the seat, and if wereached a difficult point inthe road, our seatingarrangement had theadvantage that he was ableto hold the team while Iworkedthebrakes.

WhenIhadsettledintheseat, Nick handed me the

driving lines, but I handedthemback.

“Nick, it’s only right thatyoudrivethiswagonthefirstfew miles. You’ve earned it.And that’s an order, TrailHand.”

“Cool. You’re asking metolaunch.”

“Call the mules, TrailHand. We’re taking this rigtoOregon.”

Doyle’s place has twocleared fields on either sideof the road, but the area isheavilywoodedandweweresurrounded by a tunnel ofgreen forest ahead. WhenNick called the mules, hisbellow briefly shot skywardbut then the sound wascaught and muffled by thethickcoverofspringleaves.

“Jake, Bute, Beck. BigTeam!BigTeam!C’mon,Big

Team!Getonthereyouoddbuggers! Big Team! We’regoing to Oregon with thisrig,BigTeam!”

Nick slapped the linestwice for a trot and themules picked up their feetnicely, in the mood for amorning run. The polebounced and the tug chainsjingled. The iron tires sangon the road. Twelve hooveswere moving in unison and

pounding the asphalt.Behindusthenewoakbowscreakedandswayedateverybump and the wagon boxjumped.

InTroy,Kansas,thereisastately brick courthouse atthe highest elevation intown, and we could see itfromthetopofthefirstrise.The Doniphan Countycourthouse is a magnificentVictorianpileofbrick,listed

on the National Register ofHistoric Places, with aunique, octagonal belfrywith large clerestorywindows. Beside it on thelawn is a tall flagpolewithalarge American flag, whichwasbillowingbrightlyinthestiffwindsaloft.

Aswetrottedtheteamupthe hill toward thecourthouse and theAmerican flag, there was a

sensationfromthewagonofsharply climbing toward thecloudstogooutandseeourcountry.

Theteamwasrunningupthe hill and my heart wassinging now. We wereclimbingtowardskyinsideatunnelofgreentogoseetheelephant. I wasn’t going togive up until we got there.Wewouldneverstoptrying.I would walk the last five

hundredmilesifIhadto.AllI wanted to do for the nextsummerofmylifewasworkhard to put mule shoes inOregon.

•••

Iwasinheavenoutthereontheplains.Ihadspentmanylong winter nights studyingmapsofthefabled“junctioncountry” of eastern Kansas,

so named because it waslittered by the junctions ofmany early-nineteenth-centurytrailsthateventuallyfed into the main OregonTrail along the Platte RiverinNebraska,250milesaway.There were old fur-tradingtrails, military freighterroutesthatranupfromFortRileyandFortLeavenworth,and the ruts of theIndependence Road and the

St. JosephRoad.Theprairiewaswideopen thenand thewagon trains, depending onwhich rivers were high orwherethegrazingwasgood,followed a variety of routesto reach the Platte. In the1860s, the Pony Expresstrail, the stagecoach lines,and then the telegraph linesand railroad tracks cut newfissuresontheplains.Theseroutesgenerallyfollowedthe

main junction trails,diverting here and there forseveral miles for morefavorable terrain, endlesslyintersectingon theirwayuptothePlatte.

Understanding this hadfundamentally changed myview of the overlandemigration. The pioneersdidn’t follow a single set ofruts worn into the prairie.They meandered along a

collectionof trails, requiringmany choices. Each turn inthe road involvedconsiderable freedom, butalsotheperilofnotknowingwhatwas ahead.Now Iwaspassing the junctions wherethese decisions had beenmade,pickingmywayalongthe dirt section roads withmy detailed DeLorme Atlas&Gazetteeranda full setof

geodeticmapsoftheOregonTrail.

During our first threedays out, we were mostlyparalleling Route 36, whichhad been paved over theoriginal St. Joseph Roadearly in the twentiethcentury. We also passedmarkers for theIndependence Road andmanyoldmilitarytrails.Thecountry we were crossing

was a kind of universalAmerican landscape, levelfarm ground in some spots,pale green from recentplanting, and then wetlandsand fringes of forest, withsmall housing developmentsclimbing the Flint Hills.Fromthewagonseat,withateamofmulesinfrontofme,I could easily eliminate themodern, visual obstructions—paved roads, farm silos,

pivot irrigators slowlycircling thecrop fields—andstare across the plains,imagining what each choicealong the trail felt like. Thelandscapereachinguptomewasadioramaof thewagonroutes that had defined thehistoryoftheWest.

Manysectionsof theoldOregonTrailwerepavedover in theearly twentiethcentury to create two-lane blacktops.Here we travel along U.S. Highway36,“The Pony Express Highway,” westofSeneca,Kansas.

It was a lovely day asweambled along with our newmules. The harness chainsjingled,thewheelsdrummedalong the roads, and theprospectof theKansas farmcountry from the highwagon seat was panoramic.The weather was uneven,typical for Kansas in thespring.Forhalfanhourorsowewouldbeinsunlight,andwe would throw back the

canvascoverdirectlyon topof us to let in more sun.Then it suddenly turnedblustery and cold,occasionally spitting lightrain.Wigglingaroundonthenarrow wagon seat, wepulledonjacketsandspreada blanket between our legs.OliveOylsnuggledtightlyinthe space between us andnapped,awelcomesourceofwarmth.

•••

Calling mules is not justsomething theatrical thatmule skinners do. The callsare purposeful, specific.Mules respond to the soundoftheirsimple,monosyllabicnames. They respond todirections like “Get Up,”“Easy Now,” or “Whoa” forstop.Forafasterpace,aslapofthereinsand“Trot,Team,

Trot” will do. “Walk LivelyNow!” is the preferred callforthebriskwalkthatallowsa wagon to cover ground ataboutfourmilesperhour.

In Jamesport, I hadlistened carefully to thecommands that Philip Roppused, as well as hispronunciation. To slow ateamforchallengingterrain,but not to stop them, thecommand is “Easy, Team,”

or“Easy,Now,Team.”ButinRopp’s thick PennsylvaniaDutchaccent, thiscameout“Eas-A, Eas-A.” We wouldhave to pronounce it thatway or the mules would beconfused.

We used modern, BioThane syntheticharnesses, based on a traditionaldesignforleatherdraft-muleharnesses,asahedgeagainstbreakagealong thetwo-thousandmiletrail.

But calling mules wellgoes beyond that. Mule-calling expresses a feelingabout life, a passion for theland that is being crossed,and a loveof the animals infront of you.Mules actuallyhave a great deal ofemotional complexity.Except for the occasionallaggard like Bute, they lovetowork, and they can sensewhentheyareheadedofffor

a long ride and not just abrief run up to thecornfields. Mule-callingdeveloped because the trips—along the nine-hundred-mile Sante Fe Trail, the2,100-mile Oregon Trail—were so long. The driversharedhislonelinesswithhisteam, expressing histhoughts about the lengthyroad ahead, warding offboredom, and trying to stay

awake.Theparticulartimbreof the caller’s voice tells themules who is driving andconveys to them a mood.That iswhy so many mule-callersspeaktotheiranimalswith an animated, singsongstyle.

In nineteenth-centuryAmerica, team-callingwas afamiliar sound of everydaylife. Walt Whitman waslegendary for walking from

place to place, and he oftenheardthemule-callersalongthe busy roads that hefollowed on his rambles upand down the EasternSeaboard and out west. “Ihear the chirp of theMexican muleteer, and thebellsofthemule,”Whitmanwrote in “Salut au Monde!”(“Thebellsof themule” isareference to the bells thatteamsters would attach to

the collars of their draftanimals, to warn anotherdriver of the approach of awagon from the oppositedirection,ondayswhenrainor fog reduced visibility.)Fromthe1840stothe1880s,the country thatNick and Iwere passing through wasthick with mule teamstersand covered freightwagons.Thewornmilitaryroadsthatran through the Flint Hills

curvednorthwesttothetwomainfortsalongthePlatte—FortKearnyinNebraskaandFort Laramie in easternWyoming, and later, aftertheIndianwarsbeganinthe1860s, there were a dozennew forts just in Wyomingtosupply.Mostofthesefortswere founded specifically toprotect the covered wagontrains of the pioneers alongthe Oregon Trail, and the

freighting teamsters and thepioneers often commingledon the trails. One of thelargest and mostrecognizable companies inthecountrythen—theFedExof its day—was Russell,Majors and Waddell, whichran freight, supplied themilitary forts, and carriedmail on theWest’s intricatesystem of trails. In theKansasjunctioncountry,the

freighting season stretchedfrom May to earlyNovember. As the longwagon caravans movednorth toward the Platte, thehills echoed with the muleskinners’calls.

Often, learning why ateamster uses a particularcall tells you somethingabouthisorherpersonality.I asked Nick once why hecalled his teams “odd

buggers.” That sounded likea derisive term tome, but Iknew that Nick loved hishorses.

“It’s from the JamesHerriot book All CreaturesGreatandSmall,”Nicksaid.“Oddbuggers is aYorkshireDales term for all animals.Myhorsesaren’t insultedbyit. They know I’m payingthemacompliment.”

To understand mule-calling, youhave to imagineyourself in a place that youlove, and what you wouldsing, say, to your favoritecanoe or cross-countryskiing trail. Alone on ahiking trail, people sing totheir dogs. When I amworking in my woods athome,IsingintothetreesasI split logs.NowNick and Iwere in the comely junction

country of eastern Kansas,surrounded by green hills,kids at the housingdevelopments circling onsmall bikes, and pheasantsflushing as we rumbled thewagonoverthecreeks.Iwasonthedreamjourneyofmylife and I longed to sing tomynewmules.

When I could see thetown of Highland, Kansas,coming up, and knew that

we were safely establishedon a westward course forHiawatha, I decided that itwastimeformetodrivetheteam myself and learn theproper calling of mules.Thinking about it, I decidedthat I should emphasize afeminine theme. Beck andBute,thebaseteamthathadworkedtogether foryearsattheRoppfarm,weremollies.And Jake is a big, self-

confident guy, obviously thesort of friend to whom Icould say, “Well, Jake, justbetweenusgirls,youknow?”I would call in a style thatacknowledged the femininenatureofourteam.

When Nick handed methe lines, I took a deepbreath,reassuredmyselfthatthis wasn’t going to be asdifficult as I had imagined,

and inaugurated my callingcareer.

“Girls!Let’sGo,Girls!Yo,StepLivelyNow.Girls!Beck!Bute!Jake!Girls,Girls,Girls!Rah, Rah, Rah! Go! Go! Go!Oh, Girls, We’re Going toHiawatha! Don’t be Sissy,Girls!Go!Go!Go!”

The mules stopped. Thewagon lurched to a halt. Assoon as I started callingthem, the mules planted

theirfeetonthedirtroadasfirmly as a runner reachingsecond base and stampinghis cleats on thebag.WTF?Boy, I am really developinginto a unique badass muleskinnerhere.

Nick’s Fu Manchumustache dropped, and helookeddisgusted.

“Jesus, Rink,” he said.“These are well-trainedmules. Amish mules. If you

say ‘Go,’ it sounds just like‘Whoa.’ So they stop. Do Ifuckin have to tell youeverything? You fuckin said‘Go’toamule.”

“Give me a break here,Nick,” I said. “I’m justlearning.”

“And what is this ‘Girls,Girls,Girls’ shit?”Nick said.“You sound like the fuckinlacrosse coach at MissPorter’sSchool.”

“Nick, c’mon, they’refemales,molliemules.Right?I addressed them with theproper respect that youshowallwomen.”

“Oh, God. I am notbelievingthis.”

NickpickedupOliveOyland placed her in his lap,scratchingbeneathherchin,as if she were the onlycomfortleftforhimnow.

“It’s all right, Olive,” hesaid. “The Trail Boss is justlearning. He’s such a fuckinidiothe said ‘Go’ to amule.Butdon’tworry,Olive.He’llgetbetter.”

I decided to revert to acalling style that I knewwould work. I slapped thelineson themulesand triedagain.

“Team! Big Team! BigTeam! Jake! Beck! Bute!Get

Up There Now! Team, GetUp!”

The mules picked uptheir feetandbriskly trottedwestonthesectionroad.Weclattered over the narrowconcretebridgethatcrossedMission Creek, flushing upsome wood ducks thatbecame silhouetted in theskyagainstaredbarnupthehill.

•••

The Peter Schuttler was amemory wheel too. By themiddle of the afternoon,Nick and I were bothfighting sleep, the need toget off the seat for an hourortwoandescapetheeffectsof wagon travel. Themetronomic clopping ofhooves, the exposure tosunlight and wind, and the

bouncingofthewagonwerepowerfully soporific. Weboth had sore backs for thefirst two weeks, until ourbodies adjusted to the hardseat and constant jostling.But neither of us wanted togiveupvaluabletime,whichwouldbetranslatedasmilesnot elapsed, by stopping totakearest.

We began to realize justhow much persistence

would be required to maketwentymiles a day, and theexperience of trying not tonod off on the wagon seatwas actually frightening. Upon our tall seat, above thewagon box, there wasnothing holding us in—noseat belts or sides. Ifwe fellasleepatthelinesandrolledoff the wagon, we wouldeither be caught in the

whippletrees up front orcrushedbythewheels.

“Thisisjustawholelotofwork,” Nick said thatafternoon.“It’snotatalllikeour Saturday-morning rideswithDad.”

The image of ourSaturday-morningrideswithmy father surprised me,because it returned sopowerfullyandremindedmeof how much work in the

barn I had done with Nickwhen we were boys. I hadcompletely forgotten aboutthis period in our lives andwas amused that a coveredwagontripacrosstheplains,almost fifty years later,prompted a memory sopotent.

In the early 1960s, myfather was the associatepublisher ofLook magazine,second only to Life as

America’s big picture title.He actually ran the entireoperation—Mike Cowles,the owner, kept the title ofpublisher for himself but hewas in the office only onceortwiceamonth.TomBuckwas a very inspiring manwho perceived his role aspromoting the career ofeveryone who worked forhim, and his staff adoredhim.“Isupplythecharisma,”

heused to say. “Theydo allthework.”Hewasenormousfun, a quirky high schooldropoutandautodidactwhosold advertising space bytaking clients out to lunchand quoting WinstonChurchill and PierreTeilhard de Chardin. Heworkedhard forLook in themorning and then, afterlunch, manned the phonesfor his “causes”—getting

friends elected to Congressor as governor, raisingmoney for an AlcoholicsAnonymous clinic that hehad cofounded, civil rights.We never saw him duringthe week because mosteveningshewaseitheratanAA meeting or giving apolitical speech. Hisweekends were oftendevoted to entertainingclientsorhisAAfriends,and

the only free time he hadwasonSaturdaymorning.

We all knew that myfatherneeded timealoneonSaturday mornings, just togoof offwith ahorse.Nickyand I were the twohorsemen in the familywholiked to rise early, andmostweekends we walked downthe long hill outside ourhouse together to spend thehoursafterdawninthebarn,

doingchoresandharnessingahorseformyfather.

Nicky was this fun littlebelly laugh of a kid.Hewasenormously tough andenergetic one minute, thenbawling his shorts off thenext. He loved wagons andhorses. When we camedown into thebarn throughthe large space where myfather’swagoncollectionsat,Nicky would caress the

patent-leather fenders ofevery carriage he passed.Then we descended anancientsetofoakstairs intoour boy cave, the stone-foundation stable and tackroom area.The stable cellarsmelled heavily of moistfoundation rock, manure,and harness oil, and NickyandIputteredarounddownthere for hours. We taughtourselves to harness the

horsesbyusing step laddersto reach their withers andheads.

ManySaturdaymornings,myfathertookusalongwithhim in a surrey or abuckboard, and we enjoyedlong,dreamyridesacrosstheNewJerseyhorsecountryortrotted into town andorderedfriedeggsandwichesat the village store. Butusuallywecouldseethatour

father was brooding anddistracted, overwhelmed bythe details of his dense-packed life, and he justwantedtodrivealone.WhenNickyranuptothehousetocheck, my father would tellhim to hitch one of hisfavorite mares, Maxine orBoots, to one of his single-seatracingsulkies.

When we were all donewith the hitch,Nickywould

hold the reins and ride thesulky up to the top of thedrive with his feet danglingoff the seat while I led thehorse by the bridle. Thewindow at the head of thekitchentablewasrightthere,andmyfathercouldlookoutand see that his sulky wasready.

On cool mornings in thesummer, my father wouldtake his buggy ride in an

Irish cardigan sweater withleather buttons and a tweedcap. In the fall, he wore ascarf and one of the tweedjackets from his tailor inDublin. He would step outfrom the house, cross thepatio, and mount the sulkybygrabbinghistrouserswitha hand to heave his bad legpast the tallwheel.Oncehesatdownandtookthereins,hestuffedandlithiscorncob

pipe,blewoutasmokering,and thankedus for bringinguphishorse.

“Nice job, boys,” he said.“Youguysarelickety-split.”

Then he trotted off withhis mare, slapping the reinsfor a fast trot as soon as hehittheroad.Thebuggywhipin his right hand wasperchedatanangleovertherump of the horse, and thesmoke from his pipe

billowed out over hisshoulder. He was anendlessly fascinating andcontradictory man—enormously social yet inneed of solitude, gifted butdemanding with children,superbly organized forbusiness but always broke.NickandIwouldstandthereandwatch him disappear inhissulkydowntheroad,thepounding of the horse

hooves slowly dissipating ashegotaquartermileout.

I had completelyforgotten this image frommychildhood,buttherewasprobably a good reason thatI repressed a memory thispoignant. I had spent myearlyadulthoodterrifiedthatI would turn out like myfather—hiseccentricities,hisfinancial disorganization,andhiswildscatteredenergy

weren’tanexampleIwantedto emulate. But in recentyears I had come to accept,even embrace, his paternalstamp.Thehiminmewasn’tfrightening anymore. Icouldn’t change myselfanyway, and my obvioussimilaritieswithmyfather—escapes from reality incovered wagons and planes,obsessive reading, a devil-may-care attitude toward

social proprieties—were notembarrassments, but theskill set that propelled meoutontheOregonTrail.

Nick’s mental jolt aboutmy father’s Saturday-morning rides also forcedme to reconsider whatmemories are. I sat on thewagon seat brooding aboutit. Why are some cameosfrom our past always there,while other, important ones

are repressed and require aprompt to revive them?Certainly memory isn’tcompletely random. Aninvisible hand of logic andneed, even self-protection,rules our recollections, andmemory is an expression ofcharacter. I had told myselfthat I was out on the trailseeking adventure,knowledge of an epic era ofAmericanhistory,proofthat

amoderncrossingcouldstillbedone.Butnow,asKansasslowly passed by, with theclopping of hooves and theringingofharnessactingasaneuroenhancer,IknewthatIwasalsoouthereseekingmypast.

•••

WecampedthatnightattheBrown County Agricultural

MuseumsouthofHiawatha,ahokey, agrarianLouvreonthe plains. Beside a smallvillage of restored barns,antique tractors and rustingfarm equipment werehaphazardly displayed inlong rows across severalacres of cleared fields. Thegem of this collection wasWindmill Lane, a largedisplay of historicwindmillsgathered from farms

throughout Kansas andNebraska. We stabled themules for the night on agrassy area behind an oldUnion Pacific caboose.While Nick walked off withOlive Oyl to explore thebarns,Ihauledwaterforthemules, lugging the heavybuckets forty yards from awater hydrant. I lit abarbecuefiretocookdinner,

andthenNickandIstrolleddownWindmillLane.

You have not really liveduntil you’ve sampled aclassic Americanhodgepodge like WindmillLane with Nick Buck. Nickdidn’t really know muchabout windmills, but hecouldinstantlyfigureoutthemechanics of the oldDempsters,Aeromotors,andthirty-two-volt Windmeters

that we stopped to look at.From Nick that night, Ilearned all about ninety-degreegearreductions,whatasuckerrodis,andhowyoucan tell, just by looking at awindmill, whether it’sintended for livestockfeeding, or to supply watertoahouse.Iwasinlovewithour trip that first night. Aswe traveled west, I hadexpected to be trapped in

Oregon Trail interpretivecenters or at cowboys-and-Indians farces at the bigrodeo shows. But WindmillLaneinHiawathaseemedtopromise that I would beseeingsomuchmore.

As we returned towardthewagonatdusk,Irealizedthat we had already learnedsomething important.Elaborate travel planningand careful logistics weren’t

required here. We hadreached Jamesport on aMondayandlaunchedtoday,the following Saturday. Wehad spent only five daysjumpingoff.

One thing about Nickwould endlessly impressmeon our trip. He can sleepanywhere. His onlyrequirements for beddingare enough space for hiswidegirthandoxygeninthe

air.Whenwewereplanningthe trip, I told Nick that Iwould be bringing along aspacious four-person tent toerect for him every night aswemadecamp.Iwouldalsopack a double-wide foamcushion to provide morecomfort against concreteslabs or the hard desertfloor. But Nick wasn’tinterested. “Tents are forpussies,”hesaid.“Ineveruse

them, andwe don’twant toclutter the wagon with thatmuch gear.” For the entiretrip, while I slept in mywagonbed,hebeddeddownin barns, horse stalls full ofmanure, sagebrush plains,and abandoned log cabins.He never complained andonly once got a bad night’ssleep.Travelingwithhimforthe summer changed mymind about a lot of things,

and the need for expensiveaccommodations is one ofthem.Ifyouareastoughandas spontaneous as NickBuck, tents and ComfortInnsdon’tneedtoexist.

When Nick and Olivewalkedofftosleepinabarn,I fussed around the wagonforawhile,cleaningupafterdinner, and then I walkedovertothemulesattheirredcaboose, making sure that

theyhadenoughwater. Jakenuzzled me hard when Iscratched him behind hisears.

Aftertheoccasionalrainsthat day, the sky had finallycleared.Thesunwassettingagainst high cirrus clouds,with fleecyWinslowHomeryellows and pinks softeningthesky.AsIfellasleepinmywagonbed,theviewthroughthe narrow canvas opening

concentrated and fusedpastel sky to pastel plains.The mules contentedlymunched on their hay overat the caboose and I heardmy first wail of a UnionPacific whistle, a certainreminder that I was on theOregonTrail.

7

THE EMIGRATION TO

OREGONAND Californiawasepic adventure and socialhistory, but I was intrigued

by the overland years foranother reason. The cast ofcharactersalongthewesterntrailsyieldedmanysurprises,revealing a past morenuanced than Ihad thoughtwas there.The vaudeville ofAmerican lifewas acted outon the trail and, inparticular, religion andconquering genderstereotypes played aformative role indeveloping

theroutetothePacific.Thevery idea of wagon travelacrosstheplainsmighthavebeen indefinitely delayedhad itnotbeen forNarcissaPrentissWhitman,adreamybut persistent evangelistfrom the Finger Lakes ofNew York, who in 1836became the first whitewomantocrosstheRockies.NarcissaWhitman is largelyforgotten today, but her

impact onAmericanhistorywas enormous, and for atimeshewasoneofthemostfamous women inantebellumAmerica.

Narcissa Prentiss was aproductofthe“Burned-OverDistrict” of upstate NewYork. The term was coinedwhen religious fervor sweptAppalachianAmerica in the1820s and evangelizationbecame so intense in

western New York that theareawasconsidered“burnedout”ofnewsoulstoconvert.A natural beauty with afrizzy mane of auburn hairand a pretty, symmetricallyoval face, Narcissa was thethird of nine children in adevoutlyPresbyterian familyfrom Prattsburgh, NewYork. At the age of sixteen,during a “born again”experience,Narcissadecided

to devote her life toconverting AmericanIndians to Christianity. Butshe had spent most of heradultlifeinutterfrustration.As a traveling schoolteacherand busy organizer ofmissionary fund-raisingevents, she remained single,and her applications to theAmerican Board ofCommissioners for ForeignMissions were consistently

rejected because she wasunmarried. (The boardconsidered missionary workbeyond the Missouri River“foreign” because theuncharted plains includedlands disputed by Mexico,Great Britain, and theUnited States.) Narcissasolved this problem byabruptlydecidingtomarryaman she hardly knew, amedical doctor and fellow

missionary zealot, MarcusWhitman. After a hastilyarrangedwedding ceremonyatthePresbyterianchurchinAngelica, New York,NarcissaandMarcusleftforthe Missouri frontier thenextday,arrangingtotravelwith another missionarycouple, Henry and ElizaSpalding.Theimportanceofthe Whitmans’ speedymarriage for American

history can hardly beoverestimated. The 1836Whitman-Spalding coveredwagon train was the first togo beyond the Rockies andcompletetheOregonTrail.

The year before, duringan epic four-thousand-mileround-trip on horsebackbetween western New Yorkand Wyoming to exploreroutes west to the Indiantribes,MarcusWhitmanhad

already made a discoverythat revolutionized westerntravel.Whilecampingatthesprawling Green River fur-trapper rendezvous inWyoming,helearnedthatanearlierexpeditionbyCaptainBenjamin Bonneville of theU.S. Army had traveled athousand miles from theMissouri to westernWyoming with twentyheavily loaded covered

wagons—the first knowncrossing by wagons alongwhat would become theOregon Trail route.DiscussionswithchiefsfromtheShoshoneandNezPercetribes convinced Whitmanthatwagons could cross theremainingthousandmilestothe Pacific by following theBear and Snake riversthroughIdahotoOregon.

To reach the richagricultural lands of thePacific Northwest, wagonswere considered vital. Thetrek of two thousand milesacross the Rockies was sotime-consuming andarduous that it would neverbe practical for farmers topush oxen or mules all theway to Oregon, stake aclaim, clear some land, andthen spend two additional

summers traveling back fortheir families and bringingthemoutwest.Thefirsttripwest would be the onlyjourney. Farming was afamily enterprise, and acompleted family would beneeded in the first year toclear land for crops andharvesttreesforahouseandbarn.

Missionary Narcissa Whitman, thefirstwhitewomantocrosstheRockies,is largely forgotten today, but she hadan immense impact on thedevelopmentofthetrail.

By Narcissa Whitman’sday, the very concept of“pioneer” was associatedwithwagontravel,thoughatfirst the term impliedtraveling by foot. Thederivation of the word issignificant, a linguistic traceofAmerica’sinfluencesfromEurope changing over time.The word began appearingin English in the sixteenthcentury, originating from a

medieval Latin root,pedonem,meaning onewho“goes on foot,” or footsoldier, which slightlychanged meaning in theEuropean Romancelanguagestobecomepeon,aperson of humble socialstatus who was an infantrysoldier, day laborer, oragricultural worker. InFrench, the word evolvedinto paonier and then

pionnier,graduallyacquiringnew connotations as “onewho clears land” and “onewhogoesfirst.”

The Europeans spentmostoftheseventeenthandeighteenth centuries innonstop wars (the ThirtyYears’War,theEightyYears’War),andthewordpionniernaturally acquiredamilitaryconnotation. During thepan-European Seven Years’

Warbetween1756and1763,and later the NapoleonicWarsoftheearlynineteenthcentury, the pionnier (inEnglish pioneer) units weresmall, highly mobile groupsof sappers and engineerswho occupied challengedground first, to build roads,trenches, and fortifications,preparing the way foroccupationbyalargerarmy.On the American frontier,

theterm“pioneer”graduallyassumed a civilian meaningfor thosewho first explorednew lands for farmingdevelopment.Thenounwasprobably introduced withthehelpofFrenchCanadiantrappers, many of whomwere veterans of theNapoleonic Wars. In theGreatLakesregion,andthenthe far West, the Frenchtrappers often returned east

from their winter furexpeditions to find newsettlers clearing forests inwhat they once consideredwilderness, and they begancalling these settlerspionniers.

In theAmerican context,pioneers became coupledwith wagons because thedistances that had to becovered were so vast, andforging into new country so

far from civilization andsettlement (pretty much anunknown experience inEurope) required materialtoobulkyandheavytocarryon foot—furniture, farmimplements, a full kitchenand wood shop. Theperceived need for wagonswas also driven bynineteenth-century genderattitudes, and real necessity.Becausesettlingawilderness

farm without women andchildren was consideredunrealistic, wagons wererequired so that the familycould spend at least part ofthe day as passengers,reducing the agony of thejourney.Backwoodsmen likeDaniel Boone and EthanAllen could disappear intothe great forests formonthsalone, carrying just a smallhaversack, a musket, and a

long knife. But bringing thefamily along required amobile home away fromhome, both for the journeyitself and for camping on aclaim until a log cabin wasbuilt.

Butwagonswerenotyetaproven vehicle.Trips of fivehundred or six hundredmiles from Virginia orPennsylvania to the frontierin Ohio or Indiana offered

thechallengeofcrossingtheAlleghenies over establishedfreight routes, but this wasrelatively mild comparedwith two thousand milesclear across theRockies.Noone knew if the commonfarm wagon could sustainthe tripacross theblisteringWest without constantrebuilding.

As the newlywedMarcusand Narcissa Whitman

sleighed from western NewYork to Pittsburgh, wherethey would pick up asteamer to travel toMissouri, they had assignedthemselves a mythicmission,somethingthathadnot been accomplishedbefore. They would have tocross the arid plains andthentheRockies inawagoncapableofcarryingfemales.

In 1836, there was stillenormous prejudice againstthis. The “heathenish” anddry far West beyond theMissouri River was notconsidered a fit place forwhite women, and to datethe fur-trapping caravanshad used only simple two-wheel carts pulled bydonkeys. They carriedsupplies and pelts, notpassengers. There was

something suspicious, andeven morally offensive toAmerican values, about aman who would proposeexposing delicate females tosuch risk. “Only parties ofmen could undergo thevicissitudes of the journey;nonewhoevermadethetripwould assert that a womancould have accompaniedthem,” said a writer for theinfluential New England

Magazine in1832.Whenheheard about the Whitmans’plans, one of the mostexperienced westerntravelers, the explorer andIndian painter GeorgeCatlin, said that he wouldnottakea“whitefemaleintothat country for the wholecontinent of America.”NewYork Tribune editor HoraceGreeley would later becredited with coining the

motto of manifest destiny,“Go west, young man.” Butinitially Greeley wasvirulently opposed towestern expansion andattacked trail leaders likeWhitman. “For what, then,dotheybravethedesert,thewilderness, the savage, thesnowy precipices of theRockyMountains,thewearysummer march, the storm-drenched bivouac, and the

gnawings of famine?”Greeley asked his Tribunereaders in 1843. “Only tofulfill their destiny!There isprobably not one amongthem whose outwardcircumstances will beimproved by this perilouspilgrimage.”

But theWhitmansdefiedthis conventional wisdom,leaving Liberty,Missouri, inearly April 1836 to rush

across the Kansas plainswith two wagons and catchup with a fur caravan thattheywouldfollowwestalongthe Platte. What laterbecame known as the FirstWhitman Crossing was oneof the great Americanadventure tales, but theWhitmans’ prowess astravelers isn’t what madethemfamousorchangedthecourse of history. It was

Narcissa’s writing thatpopularized the idea ofcrossing the trail. In earlyJune, when the Whitmansand their party were wellalong the Platte, they weremetbyaneastern-boundfurcaravan and Marcus haltedthe wagons for an hour sothat Narcissa could hastilypenanaddendumtoaletterback home to her familydescribing her trip. In the

nineteenthcentury,personalletters were often sharedwith extended families andreprinted in both rural andlargeurbannewspapers,andNarcissa had given herfamilypermission todo thisas a means of encouragingothermissionaries to followherpathwest.

Whitman’sletterscreateda sensation when they werepublished back east, and

evenas far awayasLondon.Her writing style about the“moving village” of thecaravan and its trailingwagonswashighlyvisualandcharminglyself-effacing,andshe confronted with tellingdetail American stereotypesabout the West. TheWhitman party sufferedwhen the mules gave out,and occasionally haddifficulty finding water and

shade, but Narcissa clearlywasthrivingonthetrail.SheandMarcus learned to cookoutdoors every night withbuffalo dung for fuel, theylovedelkandsalmonsteaks,and Narcissa rejoiced abouthavingbeenliberatedfromawoman’s weekly chore ofhaving to do the wash. Shehadmadehercotton-tickingtent herself, and herdescription of bundling up

inside it at night underwoolen blankets made itsound like a cozy home onthe plains. In her letters,Narcissa also graduallyrevealed her growingaffection forMarcus, whomshereferredtoas“husband,”lendingaromanticpatinatoher journey. At night, incamp, Marcus sat on theprairiewith his legs crossedso that Narcissa could use

them as a chair while theyate their elk steaks. Later,readers would learn thatNarcissa had conceived onthetrail.

Narcissa was a newwoman out there on theplains. InMissouri, she hadinsisted on buying a ridinghorseandsidesaddle so thatshe could ride part of theday.Thatimagewasapotentone for nineteenth-century

Americans. Women werenotexpectedtorideastrideahorse like men, except formembers of the aristocracyforwhom“equitation sport”was acceptable, so long asthey rode the ungainlysidesaddlewithboth legsonthe left side of thehorse, toprotect their skirts. (Infoxhunting England, theseequestriennes were called“amazones.”) But non-elite

women like NarcissaWhitman were expected totravelby coachorbuggy,orwalk. Why NarcissaWhitman decided to ignorethis social convention isunknown, but as a travelingschoolteacher she wasprobably already anaccomplished rider. Herpersona as a trailblazerwhowas a rider, not a sedentarywagon traveler, helped

establish her unique appealas an adventurous womanbent on proving that otherAmericanwomencouldalsobravetheWest.

On cool mornings,Narcissa loved gallopingsidesaddle ahead of thewagons on her new horseandevenbriefly losing sightof the party. Her practicalobservations about theplains had an immense

impact on an Americanpublic that still consideredwagon travel in the Westimpossible. The hard, aridsoil of the prairie, forexample, rutted evenlyunderwagonwheels—notatall like the sloppy,treacherousmudoftheEast.Two sentences ofNarcissa’sfrom Nebraska, endlesslyrepeated in newspaperaccounts of her crossing,

probably contributed morethananyotherwords to thewestward migration: “It isastonishinghowwellwegetalong with our wagonswhere there are no roads. Ithink I may say that it iseasiertravelingherethanonanyturnpikeintheStates.”

Americans were alreadywanderers by nature, andthey didn’t need muchprompting to dream of

following Narcissa outbeyond the Missouri.Another widely quotedpassage made Americansfeel that, by crossing thetrail,theywouldbeasfreeasaprairielark.

Iwish I could discribeto you howwe live sothat you can realize it.Ourmanneroflivingisfarpreferabletoanyin

theStates. I neverwasso contented andhappy before. Neitherhave I enjoyed suchhealthforyears.Inthemorn as soon as theday breaks the firstthat we hear is theword—arise, arise.Then themules setupsuch noise as younever heard which

putsthewholecampinmotion.

Whitmandrewthousandsof American families toconsider emigrating acrossthe frontier by franklyconfronting their greatestfears, particularly about theIndian tribes. In Nebraskaand Wyoming, the Pawneeand Shoshone huntingparties that the Whitman

party met were invariablyfriendly and, in the evening,the braves lined up outsideNarcissa’s tent and openedup the flap, just to see theirfirst white woman. Atremote military forts andtrading posts, where thetribes gathered in the earlysummer to trade furs,Narcissa and Eliza weremobbed by squaws whowereoverjoyedtomeettheir

first white women, andembraced them and kissedthemonthecheeks.

“Afterwehadbeenseatedawhile in the midst of thegazing throng,” Narcissawrote, “one of the chiefs,whom we had seen before,camewithhiswife andverypolitelyintroducedhertous.Theysaytheyalllikeusverymuch, and thank God thatthey have seen us, and that

we have come to live withthem.”

Nineteenth-centuryAmericans were alsoterrified of rivers, and mostfamilies had either relativesor friends who had beencarried away when bridgescollapsed or coachesoverturnedattheriverfords.But Whitman’s descriptionsof the western rivers defiedthisimage.Infact,thePlatte

and the Sweetwater werenarrower and usuallyshallower than easternrivers,with natural strata ofsand and bottom rocks thatmade wagon crossings safe,though bumpy, in normalwater conditions. Herrapturous accounts madethe river crossings seemappealing, almost like amodern American weekendraftingadventure.

As her party approachedeachriver,throngsofIndianboys gathered on the banks,stripped to their loincloths,anddivedintothecurrenttoswim the livestock andmules across. Then theyswam back over in groups,laughingandamphibious,tosteer the wagons across bylashing them to logs. Youngbraves competed fiercely tobe on the team that carried

the white women across tothe far banks. Newspaperreaders in America andEuropelearnedthatNarcissaand Eliza rode the rivers incrafts of every conceivabledescription—stick basketswrapped in buffalo hidescalled bull boats, dugouts,cottonwood rafts, andcanoesmadeofanimalskinsandbark—withtheirsaddles

andtrunkspiledhigharoundthem.

“O! if father and motherandthegirlscouldhaveseenus in our snug little canoe,floating on the water,”Narcissa wrote from theSnakeRiverinIdaho.“Ioncethought that crossingstreams would be the mostdreadfulpartof the journey.I can now cross the most

difficult stream without theleastfear.”

Popular apprehensionabout the Indian tribes andthe rivers, in short, wasresolved by NarcissaWhitman’s lettersbackeast.ButWhitmanprovidedevenmoreforanAmericanpublicdeeply inneedofnewspacebut anxious about travelingbeyondthewestern frontier.Liberated from a fixed

house,theroutineofchores,and village life back home,covered wagon travelerscould discover an entirelynew self out on the openplains. Living and foragingday by day under hoopedcanvas, amid spectacularscenery, was almost heavenonearth.OnesentimentthatWhitman introduced aboutthe far West—that she washealthier and happier there

thanatanyothertimeofherlife—would be endlesslyrepeated in the hundreds oftrail journals written by thepioneers over the nexttwenty years, and indeedpresaged the sense offreedom on the plains thatWilla Cather wrote about acenturylater.

But the fame of theWhitman crossing alsoderived from the powerful,

gender-breaking imagerythat occurred three weeksafter the wagons reachedFort Laramie in easternWyoming in mid-June.There, Marcus Whitmansensibly abandoned hisheavier wagon, transferringsupplies to a lighterDearborn wagon and packanimals, to continue onthrough the rougher terrainoftheRockyfoothillswitha

more maneuverable set ofwheels. Narcissa WhitmanandElizaSpaldingnolongerhad a wagon to ride whenthey tired of theirsidesaddles,andwouldmaketherestofthejourneyeitheron horseback or walking.Near present-day Casper,Wyoming, the Whitmansand the caravan they werestill following made adifficult high-water crossing

of the Platte by stretchingbuffalo hides under theirwagons for better flotation.The party then continueddown through the dramaticchannel of landmarks—RedButtes,AvenueoftheRocks,and the Rattlesnake Hills—towardIndependenceRock.

Afewdayslater,NarcissaWhitmanandElizaSpaldinggalloped sidesaddle up abroad,slightly inclinedplain

high above the windingSweetwaterRiver.Theyweresurroundedbydimpledhillsand dramatic rockformations that climbed to7,500 feet and then leveledforaboutaquarterofamileto form a rounded summit.This was the fabled SouthPass that the fur trappershad used since the 1820s.The pass, the benignopening in the Rockies that

madethetrailwestpossible,marks the ContinentalDivide, separating thedrainagesoftheAtlanticandPacific oceans. The viewswest from South Pass arespectacular. Vast sagebrushlands, rimmed by thefoothills along the westernface of the Rockies, stretchtoward the rendezvouscountry along the GreenRiver. Narcissa and Eliza

paused at the top to resttheirhorsesandwaitforthewagon and the pack train,staring off toward thecapacious vistas of theGreen.

It was an epochalmoment for westernmigration, and fewAmericans who read aboutthewomensummitingSouthPass failed to grasp thesymbolismoftheirtiming.It

was July 4, 1836. The firstwhite women had crossedthe Rockies onIndependenceDay.

•••

Marcus Whitman wasfiercely determined tocontinue with his Dearbornwagon to Oregon, todisprove the skeptics whosaiditcouldn’tbedone.The

Idaho extension of the trailalong the Snake River thatthe Whitmans blazed thatsummerisstrewnwithlava-rockboulderfields,dramaticclimbs up through thebuttes,anddifficultdownhillslides,aterrainthatbattereda Dearborn never designedfor such abuse. When hisfront axle broke, Whitmancut the wagon in half andcontinued on with the

wagon rebuilt as a cart—aconsiderable feat of high-desertmechanics.Whenthemules started to give outfarther along the Snake, hejettisoned Narcissa’s heavytraveling trunk, one of herlast possessions from backeast.

“Farewell little Trunk,”Narcissawrote.“Ithanktheefor thy faithful services &that I have been cheered by

thy presence so long. Thuswescatteraswegoalong.”

Near present-day GlennsFerry, Idaho, when theWhitmans decided to risk adangerous crossing to thenorth side of the Snakeacross a series of islands intheriver,thecartcapsizedinthe fiercely churningwhirlpools between theislands, nearly drowning themules.TheWhitmansfinally

staggered into the oldHudson’s Bay Companytrading post at Fort Boise,just a few miles from theborder with Oregon, withexhausted mules and a carthardly worthy of the name.Marcusfinallyconcededthatit was time to abandon hisprized wheeled transportandhavethepartywalkandride the rest of the way to

the Cayuse country on theWallaWallaRiver.

But he had done it. Hehad “made” Oregon with asetofwheels,traveling1,600miles from the banks of theMissouri with a wagon—sixhundred miles farther westthan the Bonnevilleexpedition with wagons in1832. Oregon Trail expertsstill marvel at Whitman’sdetermination and the

resourcefulness of his smallparty. Whitman’s clarity ofpurpose and his ability tosense the mood of thecountry were mostsignificant.Heknewthatthenews that a wagon hadreached the mythicalOregon country—a wagon,in Oregon!—would electrifya nation poised to jump offfor the next phase of itsexpansion, and it did. Two

years earlier he had been ahardworking but largelyunknown doctor in theBible-thumping, canal-boating, Burned-Over lands,3,500 miles away. Now hewas famous for doing thiscrazyass thing. He had putmule hooves and wagonwheelsintoOregon.

After several adventuresin wilderness Oregon, theWhitmanssettledandbegan

buildingtheirmissiontotheCayuse tribe at a beautifulspot along the Walla WallaRiver called Waiilatpu.Marcus built a log-and-adobehouseinthestyleofaNew England saltbox and itwas there, in March 1837,that Narcissa Whitmanestablished anothermilestone, delivering adaughter who was namedAliceClarissa,thefirstwhite

child conceived on the trailand born in the far West.This news was consideredparticularly important in anage when birth control wasall but nonexistent andmarried women, alreadyoverburdened with severalchildren, knew that theycouldconceiveatalmostanytime.Women could quicklycalculate back fromNarcissa’s published diary

andrealizethatshehadbeenon thePlatte, in June,whenshe conceived. After that,she had crossed the drycountrypastChimneyRock,made a difficult ford of thePlatte, galloped up SouthPass, and then made thehellish passage along theSnake River in Idaho—allwhile pregnant. Her safedeliveryofahealthygirl thenextspringprovedthateven

the likely prospect ofpregnancyshouldn’tpreventwomen from crossing thetrail.

•••

Marcus Whitman wouldmake one last—andinvaluable—contribution tothewesternmigration.Overthe winter of 1842–1843 heabruptly decided to make a

dangerouscrossingeastwardalong the trail, to return toBoston and persuade theAmerican missionary boardto continue supporting hismissionary project atWaiilatpu, even though itwas clearly failing. Afterreaching Boston, he arrivedback on theMissouri in thespring of 1843, and wasalarmed to discover aspontaneous gathering of

more than a thousandpioneersnearIndependence,Missouri. The group hadorganized into a train ofabout 120 wagons that wasabout to jump off forOregon. The pioneers hadhiredCaptain JohnGantt, aformer army officer and furtrader, to lead them acrossasfarastheremoteFortHallontheSnakeRiverineasternIdaho, where they planned

toabandontheirwagonsandwalk the rest of the way tothe Pacific, trailing a packtrain. Whitman consideredthe idea of scuttlingwagonsin Idaho disastrous andagreedtoleadtheexpeditionjointlywithGantt.

A few smaller wagontrains and militaryexploration parties hadcrossed to Oregon andCaliforniain1840and1841.

But the 1843 wagon train—called both the “Gantt-Whitman Train” and the“Great Migration”—isconsidered the first masscrossingoftheOregonTrail,andhistorians nowdate thebeginning of the overlandtrail migration to 1843.Interestingly, there is nosingle explanation for thehaphazard gathering ofpioneers outside

Independence in 1843. Thetide of desperate andessentiallyhomeless farmingfamilies had begun to buildin late winter, probablybecause after the Panic of1837 almost half of thebanksinAmericahadfailed.During the deep economicdepression that followed,farmers deprived of bothmarkets and credit realizedthat they couldn’t afford to

buy planting seed that year,and they were forced toeitherabandontheir landorquickly cash out at fire-saleprices. Meanwhile,considerable and well-publicized sentiment wasbuildinginCongresstofloodthe Oregon country withAmerican pioneers, tooverwhelm Britain’s thinlystaffed fur-trading empire,managed by the Hudson’s

Bay Company. Americancitizens would effectivelyseize control of the PacificNorthwest by squatting onthe land—the same practicethat had worked in theAlleghenies during theAmerican Revolution. Thetactic worked brilliantly inthePacificNorthwest,wherethere were about fivehundred English agents andtrappers alliedwith them in

the early 1840s. By 1845,there were already fivethousandAmericans.

The pioneer years areoften depicted as a single,deliberate moment ofhistory, when thousands ofemigrants decided togetherto move west to find newlands and fulfill America’scontinental destiny. In fact,the movement was moreaccidental. It was also a

default toward traditionalpatterns of settlement.Americans were simplydoing what they had alwaysdone, outfitting theirmover’swagonswithhickorybows and a canvas top,loading up, and pushingwest, hopeful that theywould find a solution and anewsituationforthemselveswhen they reached thefrontier, but, really, having

no finished plan. Manypioneer trains were alsoformedbybreakawaygroupsof Baptists and Methodistseager to escape bitterdenominational fighting athome.Departingforthetrailwas an adventure forced onthemby economicnecessityand dreams of morereligiouselbowroom.Therewas no certainty about theoutcome and most families

didn’t really know wheretheywouldendup.

Settlement on the old“Northwest” frontier—Kentucky,Ohio,andIndiana—had established thisrootless American style.Each new stage of frontierdevelopment was a rollinginfrastructure supportingthe next stage movingfartherwest.Americanswhodecided to become pioneers

knew that they could counton the hospitality of thesmall settlements andrugged farms—populatedbyrecent pioneers likethemselves—that stoodbetween them and theMissouri. Meanwhile, therapid development of theMississippi River steamboatbusiness had led to thegrowth of small towns inOhio, Iowa, and Illinois,

convenientlyplacingastringof supply depots along theroads to the Missourifrontier. As the homelessfamilies moved west, theyformed into “companies”thatpickedupnewmembersastheypassednewtowns.

Suddenly pulling upstakes and becoming a“westering” family wasn’tconsidered unusual, and akind of national ethos

formed around the idea. In1843,anewAmericanterm,“Oregon fever,” was coined.“TheOregon fever is ragingin almost every part of theUnion,” theOhio Statesmanreported in April that year.“Companies are forming intheEast,andinseveralpartsof Ohio, which added tothose of Illinois, Iowa, andMissouri,willmake aprettyformidable army.” In May,

theTelegraph in Painesville,Ohio,reported,“Fromtentofifteen teams [with wagons]have passed through thistown every day for the lastthree weeks.” Oregon feverwas contagious and sooneven families with relativelyprosperous farms, and noapparent reason for pickingup and leaving, weredeciding to sell out and join

the adventurous train ofwhite-topsmovingwest.

Whitman’s experienceand natural talents madehim an ideal leader for the1843 wagon train. Arelentless but inspiringtaskmaster, he goadedfamilies to rise early andhitch their teams, withoutstopping more than onenight at a camp.Whitman’sbiographer, Clifford M.

Drury, describes how hewould exhort the 1843pioneers with the motto,“Travel, travel, travel!”Whitman rode far ahead ofthe wagons to scout theroute every day, and hedeliveredthefirstbabybornontheOregonTrail.Onhisriding mule, he was anengaging figure, tall andrugged, dressed in fringed

buckskinpantsandamangyfurcap.

“The Doctor spentmuchof his time in hunting outthe best route for thewagons, and would plungeinto streams in search ofpractical fords, regardless ofthedepthorthetemperatureof the water,” wrote one ofthe 1843 emigrants, J. W.Nesmith. “Sometimes afterthe fatigue of a hard day’s

march, [he] would spendmuch of the night in goingfromonepartytoanothertominister to the sick.”(Wagon masters soonlearned that attractingdoctors to their “company”would help recruit families,andthusincreasetheirguidefees.) When the pioneersreached Fort Hall,Whitman’s insistence oncontinuing with wagons is

credited with saving theexpedition and deliveringthe first big wagon train toOregon.

By the spring of 1844,accounts of the Gantt-Whitman Train—the lettersand journalsof thepioneers—had been published inmany eastern andmidwestern newspapers.Whitman epitomized a newAmericancharactertype,the

benevolentbutdrivenwagonmaster. The first masscrossing had positioned thetrail for rapid growth. By1845, trail traffichadpickedup to 2,500 people crossinginasinglesummer,andthenwith the Mormon hegirathat began in 1847, and thecrazedGoldRushof1849,asmanyas fifty thousandwerecrossinginayear.America’sinsatiable drive west would

have happened anyway, buttheWhitmans’contributions—especially trailblazing thefive-hundred-mile leg alongthe Snake River in Idaho—had been pivotal, definingthe style and the élan of anewageoftravel.

Over the winter that Iread about the Whitmans,NewEnglandwas blanketedby record snows. Thepowdery vortices swirling

past my windows at nightprovided a romanticstimulant that helped merealize something importantabout the Whitmans beforemy dread hours of planningbegan in the spring. Beforeenteringthewildernesswestof the Missouri in 1836,Marcus Whitman was anunknown country doctor inwestern New York, andNarcissawasa schoolmarm,

neither of them possessingthe specific “hard” skillsrequiredforcuttingawagonroad west. The expertsscoffedattheirinexperience,and theyhad toovercomeadeepculturalskepticismthatwagons could be pushed tothePacificNorthwest.Theironly real endowments weresoft skills such as awillingness to accept thehelp of strangers, stubborn

practicality, and the abilityto livewithuncertainty.Butthey became the firstmarried couple to “make”Oregon with a coveredwagon, inviting themultitudethatfollowed.

Starting out, my owndreamsofwesternadventurewere just asunrealistic.Theonly advantages I couldcountonwere the softones—luck, maybe, and

persistence, as well as anenthusiasm for learningwhat I needed to know as Iwent along. More or lessimpulsively, I had bought acoveredwagonandacrankyteam of mules, and enoughcannedchiliandlanternfuelto last me for severalmonths. Maybe that wouldbeenough.InKansas, inmywagon womb at night,exhausted after a day of

splashing across swollencreeksandcarryingwaterforthe mules, I was comfortedby the spunky image ofAmerican womanhood thatNarcissa Whitmanpresented, gallopingsidesaddleup toSouthPass.Ioftenfellasleepthinkingofher asmy guardian angel ofthetrail.

8

NARCISSAWHITMAN’SLITTLE

TRUNK ABANDONED on theSnake was symbolic forme.My own comedy of

discarding began that firstmorning,whenIwokeattheagricultural museum inHiawatha. I had sleptpeaceablyenough,butacrossthethirty-eight-inchspanofthe wagon my head waswedged between a barbecuecooker on one side and astackofbookson theother.Myfeethadrattledallnightonapileofkitchenwareandboots mounded in the back

of the wagon. I felt like anEgyptian pharaoh, buried inhis crypt with all thepossessions needed for thejourneyintothehereafter.

It’s amazing howtransformative twenty-fourhours in a covered wagoncanbe. Ihad left St. Joe thedaybeforeobsessedwiththefear that I was forgettingsomething. Everything Ineeded for four months of

traveltoOregonhadtobeinthat wagon. Now, as Igingerly fanny-walked pastthe barbecue cooker, andthenfellthroughthewobblypile of kitchenware andboots to get out of thewagon, Iwasgrippedby theoppositeobsession.Deep-sixthisshit.

It was dawn, with weaktendrils of light filtering inover the prairie,making the

distant silos and barns glowpink. I pulled on my bootsand rummaged around inthe pile of gear in the TrailPup for the Colemancookstove, propane, andcoffee, got that started, andbegan sorting through myredundantgear.

Creating a new discardpileofmypossessionswasauseful exercise in self-analysis. First of all, the

assortment of kitchenwarethat Ihadassembled for thetrip—glasscasserolecookers,extra Revere Ware pans, apastacooker,andavegetablesteamer—was patentlyridiculous, the prissycollection of a cable-TVchef.Oh,andRinker, isn’t ituseful, you ludicrous fop, tohaveretainedtheshoeshinekitforthislong?Underneaththebalesofhay in theTrail

Pup I retrieved thecontraband that I hadsmuggled past Nick inJamesport—the CD player,the boccie balls, and thebackgammon set. Anotheritem, I thought, trulyburnished my image as apioneer. I had packed myBrooks Brothers bathrobe.Walking back and forth incampeverymorningtocarryhay to the mules, I would

look so fetching in aBrooksBrothersbathrobe.Andlookat this! A can of NiagaraSpray Starch! For ironingshirts! Rinker, from thebeginning of all time to theend of all eternity therecertainly have been andwillcontinue to be a greatnumber of imbeciles, butyouare risingprettyquicklyhere to the top of thedickheadheap.

When I was done, I hadfour large garbage bagsstuffed with excess barnjackets, boots, saucepans,and the restof theyard salethat I had packed. I tossedthe garbage bags beside awagonwheel,walkedovertothe caboose to feed andwater the mules, and thenenjoyedwhatwouldbecomemymostpleasurabletimeonthe trip—the firsthourafter

dawn,beforeNickandOliveOyl woke up. While thewindmills across the fieldwhirled in the morningbreeze,Itidiedupcampandthen stood at the tailgate ofthe wagon, preparingbreakfast.Ilovedbeingalonein camp on the plains. Thesmell of sizzling bacon andtheexpanseofprairie,brightgreen and fresh with dew,

gavemeanexpectantfeelingabouttheday.

On the way out ofHiawatha that morning, wecouldn’t find a SalvationArmy or aGoodwill store. Iasked Nick to stop thewagon on Kickapoo Street,near the door of the socialhallattheFirstPresbyterianChurch. It is strange howpeople behave when theyfear theyarebeingwatched.

Kickapoo Street was aquintessentially placid andsensible residentialneighborhood in a smallKansas town. Nearby,children circled on bikes inthe driveways of lovelyVictorians and prairie-stylebungalows, and peoplewalkedtheirdogs.Liftingthelarge bags of my discardedpossessions out of thewagon, I tiptoedover to the

Presbyterian social hall anddiscreetly placed them onthe steps. Then I tiptoedback to the wagon and weheaded north for thejunction country along theoldSt.JosephRoad.

•••

Mycontributionstothenextattic sale at the FirstPresbyterian Church

remindedmethat,nomatterhowmuchIhadstudiedtheoverland journals and triedto learn from them, I wascondemned to repeat thepioneers’ mistakes. Mychoice of conveyance—acoveredwagon—determinedmybehaviorandhadturnedme into a twenty-first-century retread. Thewestbound travelers whocrossedtheplainsbeforethe

CivilWarwere,inthewordsof one historian, “thegreatest litterbugs ofAmerican history.” By thelate 1840s, a vast solidlandfill of wrecked wagons,ox and mule carcasses,baconbarrels,anddiscardedsinks had replaced thecharming waypoints ofChimney Rock or LizardButte. Dozens of pioneerswould report in their

journalsthattheyhadsimplyfollowed the debris field allthe way to the ColumbiaRiver.

In peak migration yearslike1850and1852,thecrushof wagon travelersconverging at the Missourievery spring created tentcities around Independenceor St. Joseph that weresometimes as large as threesquare miles. The

burgeoning merchant classof these towns knew whatthis jumping-off economymeant. The outfitters had amonth,atmostsixweeks,toextractfromtheoverlandersas much income as theycouldget,andtheytoldluridtales about wagon travelerswhohadstarvedbeforetheyevenreachedFortKearnyinNebraska.

The scare tactics of theMissouri River outfitterswere abetted by a livelysecondarymarket generatedby the trail, guidebooks likeRandolph Marcy’s ThePrairie Traveler andLansford Hastings’sEmigrant Guide that beganto be published as early as1845. These Baedekerscontained elaborate lists ofthe camping gear, guns and

ammunition, and dryprovisions that a typicalfamilyshouldpackandwereavailable at every jumping-off town and even sold inbookstoresinNewYorkandChicago. In addition toadvising pioneers to carry abroad assortment of tents,poles, axes, and tools,Hastings suggested packingat leastsixty feetofrope foreach draft animal. One of

the most popular of theseguides, Journal of Travelsover theRockyMountains tothe Mouth of the ColumbiaRiver, was written by anenterprising IndianaQuakernamed Joel Palmer, whorecommended that coveredwagon travelers amass, foreach adult, two hundredpoundsofflour,seventy-fivepounds of salted bacon,twenty pounds of sugar, ten

poundsof rice, and casks ofvinegar, salt, dried beans,andcoffee.

The pioneers quicklylearnedthattheydidn’tneedall of this loot. In the earlyyears,gamewasstillplentifulalong the trail, and duringseveral dry years in the late1850s the buffalo andantelope grazed near therivers to be near water.Meanwhile, the draft teams

werestrugglingupthesteepslopes of California Hill inNebraskaorRegisterCliffinWyoming, and unloadingand then reloading thewagonsattheriverfordswasbecomingtedious.

The result was a historicAmerican dumping. “Thisjettisoning process began inamildwayafewmilesoutofIndependence or St. Joe,”historian Merrill J. Mattes

writes in The Great PlatteRiver Road. “It began in aserious way at Fort Kearnyand continued to its climaxatFortLaramie.”

One of my favorite traildiarists is FranklinLangworthy, a Universalistminister and scientist fromIllinoiswhocrossedthetrailin 1850. Langworthy shouldbe credited with beingAmerica’s first recycler, a

Goodwill Industries sort ofman. On the trail, when hetiredofthechoreofwashinghis clothes, Langworthysimply threw them out andreplacedthemwiththe longjohns and suits of his sizethat he found on theshouldersof the ruts.Whenhe was done reading avolume of Cicero orVoltaire, he tossed itoverboard for another

pioneer to find and soonreplaced it with anotherbook from the vast prairielibraryathisfeet.

In his delightful andironicScenery of the Plains,Mountains and Mines,published in 1855,Langworthypointedoutthatthe pioneer dump zonestretched all the way to thePacific.Langworthy traveledthe California Trail, the

branch of the overland trailsystem through the desertsofUtahandNevadathatwasdeveloped during the 1849Gold Rush. It departedsouthwest for California atFort Bridger in westernWyoming, after followingthemainrutsoftheOregonTrailforathousandmiles.Inthe deserts of Utah,Langworthy stopped to restat places that were littered

with emigrant graves, orwhere a man ate his lunch“gravely sitting upon thecarcassofadeadhorse.”Hedescribed another desertscene, a few days’ travelbeyondSaltLake.

The destruction ofproperty upon thispart of the road, isbeyond allcomputation.

Abandoned wagonsliterally crowded theway for twenty miles,and dead animals areso numerous, that Ihave counted fiftycarcasses within adistanceoffortyrods.

The Desert fromside to side, is strewnwith goods of everyname. The followingarticles however, are

peculiarly abundant;log chains, wagons,and wagon irons, ironbound water-casks,cooking implements,all kinds of dishes andhollow ware, cookingstoves and utensils,boots and shoes, andclothing of all kinds,even life preservers,trunks and boxes, tin-bakers, books, guns,

pistols, gunlocks andbarrels. Edged tools,planes, augurs andchisels,millandcross-cut saws, good geesefeathers in heaps, orblowing over theDesert, feather beds,canvas tents, andwagoncovers.

An adaptive swap-meetmentality soon prevailed on

the plains. Having beencheated by the Missourioutfitters with poor-qualityflour or bacon, the pioneersquickly learned to justexchange their inferiorbarrels for better-qualitysupplies discarded bysomeoneelsealongtheway.The Missouri Riveroutfitters, and tradersat theforts, were adept atmultiplying their chicanery.

Assoonasacoveredwagontrain disappeared over thebluffs, the merchantsdispatched wagons of theirown to recover the tons offlour and dried beef thattheyknewwouldbe thrownoverboard. The recoveredgoodswerethenhauledbackto the post to be resold tothenexttrainofsuckers.

The American traveler’sremarkable penchant for

oversupplying was a themethat played out in manyotherways.Pioneer journalsrecorded how, when awagon train arrived at afrequently used camp atnight, the men happilyplugged away at theconfused, thirsty steersabandonedjustthatmorningby the preceding wagontrain. Then they cookedsteaks on the cast-iron and

tinstovesalsoleftbehindbyearlier wagons. In this way,each hundred-wagon trainbecame a sort of dustylogistical support system forthe train just behind it, amobile convenience storethat consumed some of itsinventory itself but leftplentybehindforothers.

It’s impressive how, eventhen, America was sosuperlatively organized for

producing waste. The GoldRushof1849wasoneofthegreat boom years inAmerican history, and thebutchersofMissouriandthesteamboat lines had workedovertime the winter before,preparing for what theyexpected to be a recordinvasionalong the trail.Thedocumented tally of 49ersand pioneers who crossedthat year is 25,000, but

historians believe it couldhavebeenashighas32,000.The overloading that springof wagons, carriages, andwheeled vehicles of everydescription—some 49erscrossed the trail pushingwheelbarrows and dogcarts—was epic. After FortKearny along the Platte inNebraska, Fort Laramie ineasternWyoming,about350milesdownthetrail,wasthe

second big stop. It waslocatednearapleasantgroveof cottonwoods at thejunction of theNorthPlatteandLaramieriversandwasapopular resting place wherethe pioneers camped for adayortwototradewiththeIndians and reassess theirloads.ByMay30thatyear—stillearlyinthetravelseason—twenty thousand pounds

of bacon lay abandoned ontheplainsoutsidethefort.

•••

Asweharnessedandhitchedthe team in Hiawatha, Ibegan to realize how muchworkwasrequiredeverydayto get a covered wagonrolling again. Feeding andcarryingwaterforthemules,breakingcampandreloading

the wagon, and thenharnessingandhitchingtookat least an hour. The dustflew from themuleswhile Icurried them, the harnessesdugintomybackasIcarriedthemacrosstotheteam,andthewagonpole creaked as Iraisedittohooktotheyoke.Nick and I worked brisklyand efficiently together andthe last few minutes of ourmorning routine—while I

held the mules up front,Nickattachedthechaintugs—were tense. Even in thecool morning air, as Iclimbedthewheel tomountthe wagon seat, the back ofmy shirt was spongy withsweat. Still, everymorning Ifeltthewonderfulendorphinrushof theUltimateEquineVacation.

We headed due west,divertingamileortwoabove

thepavedRoute36tofollowthe quiet dirt section roadsthat paralleled the highway.The mules were fresh andwantedtotrot.Itwasabriskand clear Kansas morning,withcattleboundingovertothe fence lines tostareatusas we passed, meadowlarksbobbing above thegrasslands, and low, creamysun on our backs. I kepttrackofourprogressonmy

mapsandwaspleasedtoseethat we could make theimportant waypoint ofMarysville, Kansas, an oldtrail andPonyExpress stop,after just a few days ofpleasantcamping.

Wequicklynoticed all oftheproblemswewouldhavewith the team. Bute wasactuallyquitegameforworkand struggled to keep upwheneverBecktrottedahead

of her, but Bute’s hooveswere splayed sideways andtoo small for her bodyweight, and she had anawkward, short stride thatmadeithardforhertokeepup with the more athleticJake and Beck. We hadplanned to trot at least anhour or two every morningtomakegoodtimewhentheairwascool.Atatrot,mulescan make seven miles per

hour. They walk at fourmilesperhour.Iwasalreadymile-obsessedandwantedtogain at least fifteenmiles oftrail before noon, so wecould enjoy leisurelyafternoonsofwalking in thewarmertemperaturesandbeguaranteed our twenty ortwenty-fivemilesperdaybytheevening.

ButBute just couldn’t dothis.Shewasawalker.After

fifteenor twentyminutesoftrotting, she would stumbleand start to favor her rightleg—not limping, justshambling along with anungainly, obviouslyuncomfortable gait. I tensedup with stomach spasmsevery time Bute stumbled,especially whenwe were onpavedroads.Ifshefelltoherknees, the other two muleswouldprobablydragher for

several yards before wecould get them stopped.Aninjured Bute would thenhave to be replaced, a time-consumingsetbackthisearlyinthetrip.

Beck presented her ownclusterof issues.Shewasanimmensely attractive mule,jet-black,tallandleggy,witha naturally long, athleticstride.She loved topullandperform as the “lead” mule

of the team, and her tracechainswerealwaystight.Butshe was an unpredictable,crazy girl who shied ateverything—strange-lookingculverts, a piece of farmmachinery beside the road,cows chasing up behind usin a field—leaping sidewaysin her harness and pushinghard left against the othermules, momentarilybreaking into a gallop and

frothingatthemouthassheboltedaway.

Beck is very strong, andseveral times, when shesuddenly veered sideways,the whole team would bepushedtowardthecenterofthe road and even over thepainted line, which wasdangerous if there wastraffic. Instantly, even whenNick was driving, I wouldgrab the right line and

seesaw it back and forth,grinding the bit into hermolars to get her back inline. Whenever Beck shied,Nick and I would pull theteamback thatway,bothofus gripping with all ourstrengthonasingleline.

But Nick loved ourtwisted sister mule. Sheappealed to his thrill fordanger and his naturalempathyfortorturedsouls.

“Okay, so Beck is justTonyaHardingonsteroids,”Nick said, as we pulled herback toward the shoulderoftheroadoneday.“Bigfuckindeal.Thatjustmakesmelikehermore.She’sthesmartestofthethree.”

I was careful after thatnot to denigrate Beck, butthis was difficult after shemade it clear that shedespisedme. She would act

upinharnessassoonasshecould tell that I had takenthe driving lines fromNick.In the morning, if Iapproached her with theharness, she spookedsideways and looked at meangrily, promising to kickmy brains to a spongiformpulp.

Beck was Nick’s mule,Nick’s project. In thepastures at night, he cooed

toherandcaressedherwithbrushes and gall ointment,whileIcarriedapplestoJakeandlethimburyhisheadinmyarms.

Nick and I discussed theteam andwhat itmeant forour trip several times thosefirst few days.We expectedthemulestosettlequiteabitafter aweekor twoofworkandafter losing theirwinterfat. Perhaps Bute and Beck

would improve. Still,understanding what hadhappenedandwhatwefacedwiththemulesledtooneofthe first big revelations ofthetrip.

Ididn’tbelievethatPhilipRopp had deliberately soldusabadbaseteamofmules.Beck would not have beenshying very regularly on afarmthatwasfamiliartoher.So Ropp wouldn’t have

knownhowbadshewasthatway.Bute’spoor feet,whichmadeitimpossibleforhertotrot, might not have shownup on Ropp’s farm either,because he rarely ran theteam while working hisfields.AmulemanofRopp’sexperience should haveknown about theselimitationsofBeckandBute.ButIwastheonewhomade

thebiggermistake,buyingateamasquicklyasIdid.

“We’rejustasnaiveasthepioneers,” I said to Nick aswe bumped along on thewagon seat. “Don Wernerwouldn’t make the changeswe wanted on the wagon,and Phillip Ropp sold ussomebozomules.”

“But it’s not their fault,”Nick said. “Nobody reallyknowswhat it takes todrive

a team a thousand milesanymore. The art ofhorsemanshiphasbeen lost.We’ve got to reinvent thatourselves.”

“I’mnotgoingtolivethiswhole trip blaming ouroutfitters for ourmules andrig,” I said. “This isour trip,our responsibility. If we’dknownabouttheseproblemsbefore?”

“We never would haveleft,”Nicksaid.

“Nobody knows,” I said.“We’re justgoing tohave tofixourproblemsourselvesaswegoalong.”

This became our creed,almost a religious faith.Nobody knows and wewould have to figureeverythingoutourselves.

Nick and I were alsoadjusting to our very

differentdrivingstyles.Evenwhen I am relaxed andenjoying myself out there, Ihold a team with the linesgathered tightly on my lap,always ready for a mule toshyorfortheteamtodecideto bolt. Fear ismy retentivepersonality. I consider itmygreat weakness and couldspend hours ruminating onwhere it came from. Had Isimplybeenbornthisway—

cautious, skittish, cerebral—or did the chaos of myupbringing forceme towarda need to control? When Iwas a boy, my father hadscaredthehelloutofmeonhorses and in wagons, andstunting in planes, andterrifiedmewithhistemper.I was convinced that ahideous death, or at leastinjury,lurkedeverywhereforme, and my fatalism

extended to virtually everyother aspect of my life. Iturned inmybestworkasajournalistconvincedthatmyeditors would reject it.Logging, I could take thebetter part of an hourroping, notching, and thenfelling a tree. Now I sat onthe seat of aPeter Schuttlerwagon, climbing the hillsand crossing the creek bedsof eastern Kansas, gritting

my teeth and trying not toconfess to Nick that I wasgrippedbyimagesofdisasterevery time he trotted theteam.

Nick had developed hisboldstyleofdrivingoverthepast twenty years in NewHampshire and Maine,lunging his teams throughdrifts and over streams toget his sleighs through. Ifthere’s a challenge to face—

inching a wagon through anarrowspace,backingtogetoutofaparkinglot—Nickisall driver, intensely focusedandjustaboutthebestthereis.Buttherestofthetimehesits cross-legged with thelines loosely gripped in onehand, daydreaming. Heenjoys a rough ride anddoesn’tcarefullyplanaturn,skittering thewagonover atthenextroad.

It was a style driven byNick’s psychology. If youignore a problem longenough,thingswillbuildtoacrisis. The mules will shywide, kicking at their tugchains, nearly toppling thewagon. Then Nick couldrescue the situation andprovehismettle as a driver.The normal precautions oflifedon’toccurtoNick.Oneof my brothers describes

him as “proud to becareless.”

But we were adjusting.During those first few daysinKansas, if Ididn’t likethelookofanintersectionaheadorsawsomefarmmachinerycoming over a hill thatwouldprobably spookBeck,I reached over and took thelines myself or spoke up toNick.

“Nick, gather your linesnow.Hold this teamback. Idon’tlikethelooksofthis.”

It was a frequent refrainand IhatedcorrectingNick.But I was constantly awarethat onemistake could costus the trip. Each time, Iapologized to Nick as soonas we were clear of thedanger.

“You don’t have toapologize,” Nick said. “It’s

notyourfaultthatyougrewuptobesuchanoldlady.”

•••

The other big problem wehad out along the St. JoeRoad in Kansas, and thenlater in Nebraska, were therecreational vehicles.Someday, when historiansperform their “why theMayans declined” necropsy

on American society, theywill marvel at the way that,at a time of high anxietyabout energy resources andcosts, millions of elderlypeople took to the road inthe clumsiest, mostinefficient vehicles everdevised byman.The lunacyofAmericaisallrightthere,intheRVs.

Highway 36 throughKansas is, essentially, a

motorized ghetto for themassive Winnebago andGulf Stream motor homesthat American seniors drivethemselves around in thesedays. As they head outtoward Yellowstone Park orto visit their grandchildrenin Seattle, these roadgeriatrics follow the adviceof their guidebooks andmotor along the “PonyExpress Highway” between

St. Joe and Marysville, andthen lumberup tohighways30 and 26 in Nebraska tofollow the Oregon Trailcountry along the Platte.Spending six figures for aMcMansion mounted on abus chassis is truly anadventure in bad taste.At afew state parks and Sinclairconveniencestoreswherewestopped along the PonyExpressHighway, the proud

owners of a WinnebagoAdventurer or a NewmarMountain Aire wouldoccasionally insist that westep inside their rig for aninspection tour. Everythingdesired by America’sgaudiestconsumersisinsidethese things—immense flat-screen TVs in the kitchenandlivingroom,microwavesbig enough to stew a wholecow in, whirlpool baths,

extra dens and porches thatextend off the sides byactivatinghummingmotors.ThedesignersatWinnebagoand Gulf Stream seem tounderstandtheWalterMittyfantasies of Americanseniors. In most of theseRVs, the driver’s seat iscalled the “pilot’s cockpit.”The passenger side, whichincludes a laptop stand on

the dashboard, is called the“copilot”seat.

Ofcourse,theRVerswerethrilled to see a coveredwagonmoving down the St.Joe Road. Opportunities tocreate traffic hazards aremuch coveted by RVcouples, and they loved us.They were relentlessly baddriversandwouldswaytheirbigGulfStreamsaroundtheback of the wagon, rumble

alongside at four miles perhour, just inches from themules, and then open theirwindowsandflashawaywitha cell phone camera forseveral minutes as trafficbackedupbehindthem.

Severaltimesaday,packsofRVswouldpassusonthehighway, and then thedrivers would stop a halfmile ahead, positioningthemselves to take better

pictures. They parked withabout two feet of the GulfStreamgirthontheshoulderof the road, with theremaining eight feetblocking our westboundlane. The driver of aneastboundRV,curiousaboutwhy the Sun Sport withWisconsin plates hadstopped, of course had tostop too, allegedly parkingontheshoulderofhissideof

the highway.Therewas justenoughroominbetweenforus to squeeze the wagonthroughthisRVgauntlet.

RV occupants, however,have fine, salient minds.True erudition rides behindthose windshields. As weinched ourway through thebehemothVenture-RideandEndura-Maxes blocking ourway,theRVersstoodtotake

pictures and asked usquestions.

“Hey, how come theirearsaresolong?”

“Where’s your policeescort? I don’t see escortcars.”

“Whocooks?Howdoyoucook?”

AswetraveledtheSt.JoeRoad, we found that theSinclair convenience storeswere a comfortable place to

stop. The large roofs builtoverthegaspumpsprovidedshade for the mules, wecouldwaterthemthere,andthen run in for a coffee forme and a Diet Pepsi forNick.TheSinclairswereourroad ranches inKansas.WeranintoalotofRVersthere.

Apparently, there is aconsiderable gassing off offormaldehydes and vinylparts inside a moving RV

that causes aggressivelyboring men to considerthemselves wildly funny.They would come bobbingout of the Sinclair shops intheir veterans’ ball caps andbaggy cargo shorts withsuspenders, see the coveredwagonatthegaspumps,andthen knock off a one-linerthat they were convincedwashilarious.

“Hey, whad’y’a put intothis baby, hunh? Regular orHigh-Test? Ha, ha, ha, ha!Doris, did you hear what Ijust said? Regular or High-Test!Aren’tIfunny?Whatagas!”

One afternoon, outsideSeneca,Kansas, anotheroneof these himbos strolledtowardusacrosstheSinclairramp. His humor wasmorehighly refined than your

average RVer. Any merereference to High-Test orRegular was too hackneyedforhim.

“Hey, how many poundsper square inch do youpumpintothemtires,hunh?Ha,ha,ha,ha!PSIthirty-fiveorthirty-six?Ha,ha,ha,ha!”

As the man walked bytoward his green RV, Beckfollowed him with her eyes,turning her ears slightly in

his direction. Then sheabruptlyspreadherrearlegs,squatted down with herrump, and let off a riverinepiss that splashed onto thepavement. The bladdercapacity of these big draftmulesislegendary,andBeckisclearlyabestofbreed.HerNile of urine ran downhilland formed a shiny yellowmoat around the man’sWinnebagoAdventurer.

As he tiptoed in hisNaugahyde sandals throughthe urine pool, the mancraned his head backwardandyelled.

“Hey! Hey! This is . . .That mule of yours . . .That’spublicurination!”

Nick was up on thewagon seat, sharing somefriedchickenwithOliveOyl.HisFuManchudroppedandhe looked over,

expressionless, at the fatboystandingintheurinepool.

“Thanks for theinformation, bubba,” Nicksaid. “But don’t blame mymule, okay?We trained hertodothat.”

The man stepped insidehis Winnebago, angrilyslamming the door with ametallic bang. Through thetintedwindowsoftheRVwewatched him delicately

remove his sandals with hisfingertips, and then washthem in the RV sink anddrop them into the dishstrainer. Then he plunkedhimselfdownintohispilot’sseat,theWinnebagomufflerroaredwith life, and theRVdepartedtheSinclair,itsreardual tires leaving sparklingtread marks of mule urineonthehighway.

After that, for the rest ofKansas,wedivertednorthorsouth of the Pony ExpressHighwaywheneverwecouldand stayed on the paralleldirt section roads. Moderncovered wagon travelrequires a strict policy ofWinnebago avoidance.Waste is the eternalAmerican by-product, andalong today’s Oregon Trail,RVs have replaced the dead

mules and discardedbedposts.

•••

As we entered the Big BlueRiver country and slowlycrossed the attractivefarmland around Axtell,Beattie,andHome,Kansas,Iwas delighted by one aspectof the trip. The Maywildflowers of Kansas,

growing in the depressionsof the tall prairie grasscountry, are rapturouslybeautiful. On either side ofthe wagon there was aprofusion of prairie flox,purple vervains, andriotously yellow coreopsis,an ocean of petals and tallgrassstemsextendingtothetree lines. In a coveredwagon it takes so long tocross this garden on the

plains, and the fragrancesare so abundant, that all oflife and its possibilitiesseemed arrayed forever, skytosky,FlintHilltoFlintHill.The kaleidoscope ofnaturally litcolorgoingpastthe wagon seat was almostexhausting,toovisuallyrich.

The surprising wealth ofwildflowers on the plainswas something the pioneersnoticed, and wildflowers

played an important role informing a nationalconsciousness about thedesirability of settling thenear West. The rich nativegrowth this close to theMissouri River suggestedfertilesoilandspringrains—landthateventuallycouldbetilled.Fornow, thepioneerswere passing through thiscountry to reach theShangri-laofOregon.Bythe

late 1850s, however, thefrequent references towildflowers in pioneerjournals had convincedmanyAmericanfarmersthatland in eastern Kansas andNebraska could be settledandtilled. Ialsoenjoyedthedescriptionofwildflowersinthe journals because itshowed that, despite thehardships of their crossing,thepioneerswerecapableof

pausing to admire theabundant natural beautytheypassed.

OnMay14,1852,AbigailJane Scott had reached apoint on the plains aboutsixty miles from the BigBlue, and had camped thenight before within sight offortyotherwagons.

Thecountryaswepassalong, looksmore and

more level; and theplains certainlywearacharm which I littleexpectedtosee....Weroll along, level roadsfor the most of thetime, and those whoare walking, or onhorsebackbygoingoffthe main road a littlecan see a sight whichlooks fit for angels toadmire; The little

hollows which at ashort distance fromtheroadwecanseeatalmost any time aregenerally filled withflowers and variegatedwithtenthousandtintswhich are almostsufficient to perfectlyenchant the mind ofeveryloverofnature.

But within two days, assheapproachedtheBigBlue,Abigail discovered anotherside of Kansas. “The coldwind blows very hard andvery disagreeably, and theatmosphere is cold enoughfor a drear Novembermorning.” The winds didn’tabatefortwomoredaysandAbigail was clearly quitemiserable.

The brisk and incessantprairie winds of Kansas andNebraska were one of themost persistent obstacles totravel that the pioneerscomplained about in theirjournals. Men chased theirhatsaquarterofamiledownthrough the hollows andcouldn’t catch them. Mulesspookedatblowingdustandtumbleweed, raw meat waseaten for dinner because

fires couldn’t be lit, andwagoncoversandtentsblewaway in the middle of thenight. The wind exhaustedchildren and turned themintocryingbrats. “ThewindblewsohardIcouldnotgetoutof thewagon for fearofbeing blown away,” wrotepioneer Martha Moore, amember of a particularlyenterprising family thatdrove five thousand sheep

across the trail in 1852, tosell at the trading posts.“The wind so rocked thewagons [at night] that invain I wooed the goddessSleep.”

For Nick and me,mornings spent pleasantlydriving the mules throughattractive farmlands and thelong wildflower patchesmergedintoafternoonswithleadenskies,temperaturesin

the forties, and winds sobrisk that therewas nowayto stay warm. We huddledtogether on the wagon seatwith blankets spread acrossour laps and Olive Oylwedged between our legs.Ourhatsblewoffandhadtobe restrained with chinstraps we made fromshoelacesandrawhidestrips,and there were gusts thatshook the canvas top of the

wagon so hard we wereafraid that the bows wouldcrack.

Theconstantbatteringbythe wind had a curious,counterintuitive effect onme. I found myself evenmore stubborn and self-confident than before, andverydreamyandromantic.Ihad never realized beforejust how tiring anddehydrating long exposure

to thewind canbe, but thismade me feel closer tonature. In modern life wemove from one insulatedigloo to another—air-conditionedbuildings, plushcars, gluttonously overbuilthomes—serially abstractingourselves from nature anditsimpacts.ButnowIhadtoget somewhere in a moreprimitive form oftransportation, a covered

wagon, that instead ofprotectingme immersedmeintheelements.

Therewereothermiseriesof the trail. Five dayswouldgobywhenneitherNicknorI tooka shower,anda filmyresidue of dust, axle grease,mule hair, and hayseedscovered everything in thewagon, including the plateswe ate on every night.Coleman lanterns and

flashlights, jostled by theconstant bumping of thewagon, refused to work, sowe started just living sunupto sundown, without anyartificial light. Beforeharnessing,we had to chasemules every morning. Ourbacks ached from sitting onahardwoodenseatforeightor ten hours every day,holdingbackmules.

But we adored thesimplicity of life out thereand pushing hard every daytowardourtwenty-milegoal.The fragrances of thewildflower fieldssedatedmeand,whenmybrothercalledthe mules, I felt that I wasliving a stanza of WaltWhitman.

9

THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY

PIONEERSCROSSINGTHEBigBlueRivercountryinKansasto the lower Platte in

Nebraskafacedagauntletoftopography and weatherunlike anything most ofthem had ever seen. Thewagon trains generally leftthe Missouri jumping-offgrounds no later than mid-May. By then the springrains had turned the prairieinto a natural if unevenlygreen pasture, providingcritical forage for the draftanimals during the first few

weeks of travel. But thisschedule exposed theoverlanders and theirvulnerable white-tops to acollateral problem—thenotoriously violentthunderstorms that rattleddown thePlatte and theBigBlue in late May and June.Humorist Alonzo Delano, a49er, called the Nebraskastorms “King Lear in theheight of his madness,” and

in 1851 pioneer DanielBacon wrote home to hismother, “You may think itrains in Indiana but if youwanttoseeitstormcometothePlatte.”

Nick and I found thistreacherous realityimpossible to avoid as wepushed on for Marysville.That spring was one of thewettestonrecordforeasternKansas and Nebraska, and

there were several daysduringwhichmorethantwoinchesofrainfell intwenty-four hours, raising the BigBlueandLittleBlueriverstoflood stage. The situationwasthesamethroughouttheWest. The winter before,recordstormsinthewesternmountains had laid down aHimalayan snowpack, andthis was emptying millionsof acre-feet of spring melt

into the Platte Riverreservoirs, which could notcontain the flow. FromGrand Island, Nebraska, toCasper,Wyoming,thePlattewas cresting over bridgesand paved roads, turningcampgroundsandcropfieldsintovast inlandlakes.Alongour riverine Oregon Trailroute—the Platte, theSweetwater, the Bear, andthe Snake—we would not

see a river at less than fullstageallsummer.

On our fourth day out,justwestofAxtell,Kansas,amonster downpour thatlastedfortwohoursdroppedfromtheangry,blackcloudsfesteringtothewest.WhenIcould see the leaves of thetrees a half mile aheadflattenedbytherain,Ipulledup the wagon, handed thelines to Nick, and stood up

on the seat topull the frontofthecanvascoveroverourheads. But the wagon topwouldn’t stay down in thestiffbreezepushingaheadoftherainand I jumpedoff topullthepuckerropestight.Iwas drenched by the time Igotbackintothewagonandwithin minutes everythingon our rig—the mules, thesidesofthewagon,ourfacesand jackets—was splattered

withapuddingofwet,sandymud. Pummeled by theheavy rain, we couldn’t seefar enough ahead of thewagon to navigate very welland we were almost on topof an inundated bridge atWolf Creek before werealized the hazard, whichforcedustodiverttwomilesnorth on muddy roads tofindaroutewest.

The experience wasclaustrophobic. With thecanvas top pulled tight overourheads,ourfieldofvisionahead was restricted toaboutsixtydegrees—justthemulesandwhatwasdirectlyahead of them. Our hatsbumped up against thecanvas, and the woolenblanketspreadoverour lapswassaturatedwithrain.Therain lashed sideways under

the wagon cover, freezingourfacesandourhands.Thestrong quartering windsfromthenorthwestbuffetedthe wagon top and box,almost nautically rocking usback and forth against therunning gear. Beside us, theplains disappeared and nowweweresailorsexperiencingthe narrow aperture ofstorm—punishing rain andwind, rigging struggling

againsttheelements,thefearthatwewouldbeoverturnedby the next gale-force blast.As we slogged through themudpastBeattieandHome,Kansas,Icouldfeelmysocksand the skin of my feetcongealingtogether,apulpy,putrid mass thatdisintegrated against theleather inside my boots. Iwouldn’t feel dry again fortwodays.

•••

For the pioneers, water—how to avoid itwhen itwastoo abundant, and how tofind itwhen itwas scarce—was the great destroyer-preserver on the trail. Theprairie monsoons in theKansas-Nebraska junctioncountry were only thebeginning of the problem.Waterways like the Kansas

andtheBigBlueriverswererelativelystable,withdefinedchannels and high,established banks, and theyebbed and flowedpredictably with the rains.But the Platte just to thenorthwasbothahydrologicwonder and a true monster—serene and enticinglyfordableonehour, and thena raging, turbulent killer anhour or two later. The

largest land migration inhistory took place alongseven hundred miles of ariver valley that was one ofthe most capricious travelenvironmentsintheworld.

With its two tributaries,the North and South Platterivers, the Platte Rivernetwork runs more than athousand miles from itsheadwaters along the eastfaceoftheRockiesincentral

WyomingandColorado.Formost of its course throughColoradoandWyoming,thePlatte is a relativelypredictable river. After aheavywinter, theriverragesbank to bank as it acceptsthe snowmelt from eleven-thousand-foot peaks, orpeaceablyrunsoverexposedriver rock after a mildsnowfall year. But by thetimeitloopssoutheasttothe

plains of western Nebraska,the Platte spills wide acrossflat bottomlands, expandingandcontractingaccordingtothe delayed impact ofsnowmelt and rainshundreds of miles away.Thiscreatedadrainagewithan indefinite main channeland several continuallyshifting, parallel streams,moreadeltaofwaterthanariver, a formation called a

“braidedstream”or“braidedflow.”

Braided flow rivers likethe Platte distribute siltdepositsacrossabroadarea,creating a diverse riparianlandscape—wooded islandstoward the center of thechannel,sandbars,riverrockflats, and abrupt potholedepressions. The resultingvariegation is scenic butdeadly. Eddying currents

formwhirlpoolsasthewaterraces past islands andsandbars, and the flow isdestabilized by runningpastsomanycontrastingsurfacesand shapes. The Platte isfamous for its lovelysandbars, but these aredeceptive.The subterraneanwater flow can often riseunseen to just a footor twobelow the surface,undermining the apparently

dry sand above andconvertingit intoaporridgeof quicksand that canswallow a man or a draftanimalinlessthanaminute.

Exceptduringparticularlyintense high-water years,this hazardous environmentismostlyforgottentoday.Inthe twentieth century, thePlattewas dammed in eightseparate spots for largehydroelectric, irrigation,and

water-containment projects,shrinking its drainage areaand diminishing the oldbraided stream character ofthe river. But in thenineteenth century, thePlatte and its adjacentmudflats were often a mileor more across. Thisrequired not so much asingle fording of the riverbutwhatwagonmastershadto organize as a staged

fording,withthewagonsandteams first crossing deeppools in the channel, thensandbars and low valleys ofriver rock. Chaos was oftenthe norm as two or threewagon companies crowdeddown the banks to cross atonce.

The impetuosity of theriver was maddening. Thewagon trains would stop to“noon”orcampovernightat

popular riverside restingplaces like Elm Island orPlum Creek, and childrenfrolicked and draft animalswere watered at the river’sedge. An hour later,snowmeltandrainsthathadgatheredmomentumthedaybefore, hundreds of milesaway,wouldflowaroundthebend and flood the wagoncamp.The sudden surgesofwater could happen while a

forty-wagontrainwasinthemiddle of fording the river,or become a silent menacewhen the waterunexpectedly rose at night.Frequently,heavylocalrainscombined with snowmeltfrom the Rockies to expandthe river drainage sodramatically that the Plattewasn’t really a river anylongerbutinsteadaseriesofinterconnected lakes. The

wagon companies had towait for days before thewater dropped to fordablelevels.

Margaret Frink, theIndianapioneerwomanwhocrossed to California in1850,was a kind of iteratedNarcissa Whitman.Unusually for awoman in acovered wagon train, Frinkrode sidesaddle all the wayacrossthecountry,andlater

attracted attention for herspirited and detailedpublished diary, Journal oftheAdventures of a Party ofCaliforniaGoldSeekers. Shemust have struck quite afigure, galloping sidesaddleacross the prairie and thenplungingintotherivers,andtheSiouxalongthePlattesomarveled at her appearancethat they called her the“white squaw.” Frink

witnessed a variety of rivercrossings—by commercialferryacrosstheMissouri,byropes lowering the wagonsdownthesteepbanksof theGreen River in Wyoming,and traditional fords alongthe Platte. Here is herdescription of crossing theSouthPlatte at “TheForks,”near present-day NorthPlatte, Nebraska, where theNorth and South Platte

curving in from the Rockiesjoin to form a single, widechannel.

The stream we hadnow reached wasfearful to look at,rushing and boilingandyellowwithmud,amilewide,andinmanyplaces of unknowndepth.The bedwas ofquicksand—this was

the worst difficulty.But there was no waytodobuttofordit....

Of all theexcitement that I everexperienced orthought of, thecrossing of that riverwas the greatest. Agreat many otherwagons and peoplewere crossing at thesame time—mule

teams,horseteams,oxteams, men onhorseback, menwading and strugglingagainst the quicksandand current, many ofthem with long polesin their hands, feelingtheir way. Sometimesthey would be inshallow water only uptotheirknees;then,allat once, some unlucky

one would plunge inwhere it was three orfourfeetdeep.

Thedeafeningnoiseand halloing that thisarmy of people keptup,made the alarm intherivermoreintense.Thequicksandandtheuncertaintyofdepthofwaterkeptallinastateof anxiety. Our horseswouldsometimesbein

water no more than afoot deep; then, in amomenttheywouldgodown up to theircollars. On oneoccasion I wasconsiderably alarmed.Several other wagons,in their haste, hadcrowdedinaheadofuson both sides, and wewerecompelledtostopfor several minutes.

Our wagon at oncebegan to settle in thequicksand, and itrequiredtheassistanceof three or four menlifting at thewheels toenable the horses topullout.

Where we crossed,the river was a milewide,andwewerejustthree-quarters of anhour in getting over. I

here date one of thehappiest and mostthankful moments ofmy life to have beenwhen we landed safeon thenorth side.Thedanger in the crossingconsisted of thecontinual shifting ofthesandybed,sothatasafe ford to-daymightbeadangerousoneto-morrow.

Frink was notoverestimating the danger.That year, at least ninetypeopledrownedintheriversalongthetrail,fortyofthemin the Platte. In hismonumental The PlainsAcross, historian John D.UnruhJr.meticulously totedup trail deaths by category.He concluded that at leastthree hundred pioneersdrowned in the 1840s and

1850s,andhepointsoutthatalmost every overland diaryrecords drownings or nearmisses along the rivers.Thevictims were not justimpatient pioneers,attempting an unsafecrossing when the fordsaheadofthemwerejammedwith other wagons, ormounted riders pushingcattle across the ragingrivers for better grass. “One

inebriated 1853 emigrant,”Unruh writes, “misjudgedrain-swollen Buffalo Creekfor a slough, drove hiswagon in, and was neverseenagain.”

•••

Aswemovedwestwith thewagonthroughnortheasternKansas, word started tocirculate about our progress

via an informal cell phoneand internet grapevine. Theold St. Joe Road betweenSeneca and Beattie wasmostly rural, but betweenthe towns there wereoccasional clusters ofhousing developments builtalong the agriculturalfrontage. Themodest ranchand colonial houses werewellkeptandtheirdrivewaysand yards contained the

usual totems of Americancontentment—vinyl gazebosfacingtheopenplains,boatsontrailers,pilesofchildren’sbikes left by the corner ofthegarage.

Everyone loves the sightofacoveredwagongoingbyand, in Kansas, you can seethe traffic coming frommiles away. Often, as weapproached the next groupofhouses,childrenandtheir

parents had gathered nearthe mailboxes out on theroad,withwheelbarrowsandlittle red wagons filled withwater buckets, apples, andcarrots for themules.TherewerebottlesofGatoradeandham-salad sandwiches forus. Families who saw uscoming from a distancehopped into their minivansand drove into the

supermarket in town forbagsofapplesforthemules.

I began to noticesomething interesting aboutthe families. At severalhomes, the parents, or thepeople who appeared to betheparents,weren’ttherightage. They were in their latefifties or early sixties,sometimes even older, andthe children called them“Mom-Mom” or “Pappy.”

There seemed to be a lot ofgrandparentscaringfortheirgrandchildren out here inKansas.

I was so curious that Iasked one of thegrandparents about it. Thefamily lived in a pleasantgreenCape-stylehousewithamatchinggreengarageandawhite picket fence aroundthe front lawn, about twomiles outside Marysville.

Whenwestoppedthewagonneartheendofthedriveway,Nick steppeddown to standat the frontof the teamandshow the children how tosnack mules by holding anappleupright in thepalmoftheirhands.Themanof thehouse,whoIguessedwas inhismid-sixties, was wearinga white T-shirt, Dickieskhakis,andfashionableKeenshoes. He had stepped back

bythewagonseattoaskmeaboutourtrip.

When I asked him if thekids at the front of thewagon were hisgrandchildren, he smiledpatiently and seemed eagertotalkaboutit.

“Right, they’re ourgrandchildren,” he said.“You’regoing to seea lotoffamilies like ours out here,and anywhere in the

Midwest. It’s meth. Methandtherecession.”

The man explained thathisson,whowasnowalmostthirty,hadnotwantedtogotocollegeorjointhemilitarywhen he finished highschool. He knew that hewanted to work with hishands and dreamed ofeventually owning his ownwelding shop. So he took asix-monthweldingcourseat

thelocalcommunitycollege,then worked in a mufflershop for a year until hefound a better job at afactory outside St. Josephthat fabricated pickuptrailers. But he wasfurloughed after three yearswhen orders for the trailersdried up, mostly due to thenational recession after2008.

Meanwhile, an epidemicof methamphetamine abuse—the underground drug ismade from a mixture ofacidic chemicals and over-the-counterpharmaceuticals—had swept the country,hitting particularly hard insmall towns and ruralcommunities in theMidwest. Meth dealers andwhat to do about them is abigproblemfromIndianato

Arizona. The dealers preyparticularly hard in highschools and communitycolleges.

“Wehadalwaysknownhedid a little meth,” the mansaid. “Buthewasbasically agood kid. He had a decentjob, a live-in girlfriend, hewent water-skiing onweekends with his friends.But after he lost his job he

started dealing in meth. Itbrokeourhearts.”

After his son and hisgirlfriend had two children,their lives spun out ofcontrol,andthemanandhiswifewenttocourt toobtaincustody of theirgrandchildren. The son wasnow in a long-termtreatment facilityrunbythestate of Kansas, and thefamily had not seen his

former girlfriend, themother of the children theywere now raising, for morethantwoyears.

“It completely changedour lives, but we’re actuallyreal happy to be raisingchildren again,” the mansaid.

Theman decided againstretiring from his job as asupervisor at a local sewagetreatmentplant,buthiswife,

a schoolteacher, retiredearly, despite losing a fewhundred dollars a month inpension payments. She hadworked all through thechildhood of her own kids,regretted it, and wantedsomeone home every daywhen her grandchildrenreturnedontheschoolbus.

I saw this later in thetowns of central Nebraskaand all through Wyoming

and Idaho. On Sundaymornings,thecafésoftownslike North Platte, Nebraska,and Douglas, Wyoming,were full of grandparentswhotaketheirgrandchildrenout for pancake breakfasts.Thegrandparentsareraisingthe children because thebiological parents haveskipped off—for whateverreason, not always meth.Thedemandsof thewars in

Iraq and Afghanistan haveoften meant that bothparents in a military familyget deployed at once, andthey leave their childrenwith their grandparents.Layoffs of single workingmothersleadalotoffamiliesto decide to becomemultigenerational again. Awave of bipolar disordersand addiction to video

gamesandgamblinghasalsotakenatollonfamilies.

Later, when I researchedthe subject, I was surprisedtolearnthatwhatIsawfrommy covered wagon wasconfirmedbycensusdata—ademographic change sodramatic that the U.S.CensusBureauhighlighteditin its 2010 populationreports. Today, roughlyseven million American

children live in householdsthat include theirgrandparents.Almosthalfofthese children are beingraised primarily by theirgrandparents, a 16 percentincrease over the numbersforthe2000census.That’sahuge statistical spike forsuch a small subset offamilies. In many westernstatesnow,effortsareunderway to change the laws

affectinghealthcare,sothatgrandchildrencanqualifyfortheir grandparents’ medicalplans.Therearelarge,activesupport groups in manywestern towns forgrandparents raising theirgrandchildren, and thechurches have also jumpedright in, scheduling eveningplay groups and extendedhours for Sunday schoolsthat allow grandparents to

spendtimealoneathomeorgo out for dinnerwith theirfriends while the kids arecaredforatchurch.

Beforewe rumbled off inthe wagon, the grandfatherbeside the road nearMarysville said one otherthingthatIwouldhearagainand again from his peers intheWest.

“Iwisheverycouplehadachance to do this,” he said.

“You do a lot better jobraising grandkids than youdidwithyourkids,andwe’retoo busy to be lonely. I’mvolunteering as a LittleLeaguecoachnextyear.”

Children,ofcourse,rarelyyearn to stand at the endoftheir drives offering bucketsof water and bags of applestopassingtraffic,andIneverwouldhaveseenthis fromaspeeding car. I began to

think of my Peter Schuttleras a plodding socialobservatory, and thecontradiction of being ableto see the modern worldmore clearly from thevantage of a nineteenth-century wagon appealed tome. Seeing America slowlywas, in a way, like eatingslowfood—Iwasn’tcoveringmuchgroundinasingleday,

but I was digesting a lotmore.

•••

At Marysville, Kansas, Idecided to stop for an extradaytorestthemulesandseetheOregonTrailsites,whichhadalwaysbeenmyplan.Amile or two outside town,the skies cleared and wedecided to stop at a

veterinary supply store tobuy some gall ointment andfood supplements for themules, and I also needed tofind hay. While I wentinside, Nick held the mulesfromthewagonseat,talkingtosometouristswhowantedtotakepicturesofthewagonandtheteam.

Northeast Kansas is bighorse country, and thethirtyish woman behind the

counter inside was dressedinawesternshirt,bluejeans,and lace-up packer’s boots.She was a rodeo performerandtoldmethatshebarrel-raced and competed atdressagemeets out as far aswestern Nebraska andWyoming. She was veryknowledgeable and helpfuland wanted to know wherewe were headed with thewagonandteam.

“All the way,” I said.“We’re hoping that we canmakeOregon.”

“Oh,God, Iwould kill todo what you’re doing,” shesaid. “Kill. Okay, so whereare you sleeping tonight?Where’syourcamp?”

I told her that we wereplanningoncrossingtheBigBlueRiver, and then findinga farm nearby to rest themules for a day. We could

either walk or hitch ridesintoMarysville.

“No,”shesaid.“Gotothecorralsrighthere.Justtakearight at the Hardee’s. You’llsee the ball field, the publicpark,andtherodeogrounds.There’s water there, a bigcorral for the mules, andyou’ll be right in town. Justrollthewagonrightinthereandenjoyyourselves.”

“Nobodycares?”

“Nobody cares. Look,those corrals are for you.Every town in this countryout here has publiccampgrounds and corrals.It’ll be that way all the wayout toWyoming.When wego barrel racing? We campat the corrals. Just hit thepubliccorralseverynight.”

When I asked about hayforthemules,shepulledouthercellphoneandcalledher

boyfriend, a local rancher,talkedforafewminutes,andthen toldme that a stackof30percentalfalfahaywouldbe waiting for us at thepubliccorrals.

“Should Ipayyou for thehay?” I said. “I might misshim.”

“You’re not payinganybody for that hay,” shesaid.“AndI’mgivingyoutheranch discount on what

you’re buying here.Everybody is going to be sointo this, all the way out.Your biggest problem isgoing to be dealing with allof the people who want tohelpyou.”

We enjoyed Marysvilleandhadagreatcampthere.At the public corrals, wepulled thewagon out of thewindinadepressionbelowalarge barn, ran our hose

down from the waterhydrant, and washed themules.Theykickedup theirheels and galloped off whenwe turned them lose in thecorrals,happyjusttobewildequinesagain.

Everybody in town,grandparents with theirgrandchildren,policemenontheir patrols, a group ofGerman tourists, came tovisit us in camp, and Nick

entertained these visitors byshowing how Olive Oylcould retrieve a stick fromthe top of a pickup cab.Sitting on our camp chairsdown off left field at thebaseball diamond, wewatched some of the bestsoftball I’ve ever seen—ladies’ fast-pitch, Marysvilleversus RileyCounty. (In thefourthinning,theMarysvilleshortstop caught an

impossible pop fly behindthird and whipped it to thethird baseman, who taggedthe runner and thenwhipped it to second foranother tag, an astonishingtriple-play.) When weturned up for the wagon tocook dinner, I discoveredthat the constant jostling oftheaxleshadbrokenthegasline on our cookstove, so I

walkedamileuptotheWal-Marttobuyanewone.

On thewayback,while Iwas walking along thehighway with a newColeman stove under myarm,apickupstoppedontheshoulder beside me. Thedriver was a fun-looking,studmuffin cowboy, and hisgirlfriend, also wearing acowboyhat,satclosetohimin the middle seat. They

rolled down the window,offered me a ride back tocamp,andthenranhomeforsteaksandbeertojoinusfordinner. There was abeautifulsunsetthatnightinMarysville, with a low deckof cottony cumulus, lit blueandyellowbythefallingsun,and we sat up until afterdark talking, enjoyingourselves,andgoingoverthe

mapsoftherouteswewouldfollowintoNebraska.

By our second night inMarysville,everyoneintownseemed to know that acovered wagon was parkedat the rodeo corrals. Theyoung couples and thegrandparents brought theirchildren down and, whileNickandIshowedthemulesandthewagontotheadults,the children chased around

theballfieldwithOliveOyl,throwing her sticks,squealingwith delightwhenshemadefoxleapsoutofthetall prairie grasses to catchbugs,andsittingaroundinacircle and coaxing her ontoher back so they couldscratchherbelly.

Nick was convinced thatthe children had come intoour camp to learn aboutcovered wagons and the

Oregon Trail. After he hadexhausted all of the adultswithhisgrandblarneyaboutwheelhubsanddraft teams,he called all of the childrenover and sat themdown fora lecture too. This is thewagon tongue, this is awhippletree, and, children,let me show you how thebraking system works. Thekids fidgeted a lot andlooked anxiously back

toward their parents. ButNick has no summaryfunction.Hepalaveredontothe kids for another tenminutes about cast-ironskeinsandoakwheels.

When he was finallydone, Nick grandiloquentlyheldouthisarmsandsmiledatthechildren.

“Okay, kids.Doyouhaveany questions about thewagonortheOregonTrail?”

A bright young girl in apink tank top raised herhand.

“Yes, honey,” Nick said.“What would you like toknowaboutthewagon?”

“Can we play with OliveOylnow?”

Everyonelaughedandthekidschaseddowntotheballfield with Olive Oyl. Nickshruggedandturnedfor thecorralstofeedandwaterthe

muleswhile I steppedup tothewagontocookdinner.

“See,whatdidItellyou?”Nick said. “It would havebeen amistake, big-time, tocome out here without thatdog.”

WelovedthegypsylifeinKansas.Afterdinner,we saton our camp chairs facingthecorrals,watchingthesunfall over the junctioncountry. At the fairgrounds

above the wagon, Nick hadfound a corner in the sheepbarn filled with fresh straw,and slept there. As I dozedoff inthewagon,thedistantbarking of dogs, teenagerssquealing off from theHardee’s in their pickups,and theUnionPacific trainsrumblingthroughbathedmein the familiar night soundsofamidwesterntown.Iwasexcited about the next day,

when we would cross animportant milestone alongthe trail, the Big Blue Riverjustwestoftown.

10

IN THE MORNING, LIGHT

RAINfellthroughlowclouds,obscuring the new concretebridge thatgracefully arches

skywardovertheoldpioneerford at Marshall’s Ferry.Descending the hill inMarysvilleforthebridge,wepassed St. Gregory’s RomanCatholic School, where thestudents knew thatwewerecoming. Smiling, attractiveAnglo and Mexican facesfilled the windows, and thechildrenwerepumpingtheirhands over their heads tourge us on. A few of them

werewavingsmallAmericanflags and one boy held up asignthathehadhandwrittenon a piece of school paper.JESUSLOVESMULES.

I was cautious about andeven afraid of making ourfirstcrossingofthetripovera tall bridge, especially witha team of mules that wereally didn’t know well yet.Bridges are notoriousrunaway zones for teams.A

mule or a horse can get athird of the way across abridge, look sideways andrealize that it is suspendedhigh over water, panic, andthenboltfromsidetosideinan attempt to escape,overturning the wagon orcrashingintooncomingcars.The covered bridges of thenineteenth century, whichprevented horses fromseeing out the side, solved

this problem, but modernopen-air spans can gripthem with agoraphobicterror. I’ve nearly lost ahorse several times crossinglong bridges and, once, Idragged my wheel hubs allthe way down the side of aschoolbus.

Mydreadoftakinghorsesacross bridges is an echofromthenineteenthcenturythat was embedded early in

life. On our 1958 coveredwagon trip, during our fifthor sixth day out, we wereapproaching the old ricketyspan that crossed theDelaware River betweenLambertville, New Jersey,and New Hope,Pennsylvania. With trafficbehindus,myfather trottedour team, Benny and Betty,up the inclined approach tothebridge.Whenthehorses

saw the grated metalroadway of the bridge,through which they couldsee the water below, theybalked and reared, lungingbackward and sideways sothatthewheelsofthewagonbanged against the metalstopsonthewagonbox.

My father was clearlyoverwhelmedbythissuddencrisisatthebridgeand,witha load of children in the

wagon, worried, but hemanaged to calm the teamand then called out to themotorists behind us to backtheir cars away from thebridge. By inching the teambackward, then turning, heshoehorned the wagon offthe bridge entrance andthen, throwing home thebrake, he drove us down anembankmentnearthebridgeentrance to a safe patch of

grass. My brother and Iscrambledoffthewagonandunhitched the team, tyingthemtothewheels.

Myfatherwalkedbackupthe embankment to surveythe bridge. I still rememberthe way he was silhouettedintheharshsunlightagainstthe bridge structure highabove me and how, with aworried look, he pulled offhis Amish straw hat and

wiped his forehead with ared bandanna handkerchieftaken from his back pocket.This was one of the fewtimes that I rememberfeelingthatthismanwhomIreveredandtrustedtoguidemedidn’t knowwhat to do.Maybe he couldn’t protectushere.

When he came backdown the embankment, myfather wiped his forehead

againwithhisbandannaandtold us what he wanted todo.

Witha lengthofrope,hesaid,hewasgoingtolashthepole of the wagon to hisshoulders and pull the rigacross the bridge by hand.To the right of theautomobilespantherewasapedestrian walkway withflooringmade fromwoodenplanks. The horses would

walk on that, he thought,andmybrotherandIwouldleadthemonebyoneacrossthebridge.Therewasashortmetalgratingentrancetothewalkway that would spookthe horses at first. But myfather said that my olderbrotherwouldleadthemoresensible and willing horse,Benny, by a long line, and Iwouldbepositionednext tothe grating with the buggy

whip.WhenBennybalkedatthegrating,Iwouldsurprisehimfrombehindwithalashon his rump, and he wouldprobably jump to thewooden planking, and theotherhorseswouldfollow.

“Boys,”myfather toldus,“when you get up on thewalkway, if the horses startto fuss or run away, just letthemgo.Letthemgo.Whenahorseisafraiditjustwants

to be free to take care ofthemselves. So just let themgoiftheyrearandbalk.”

“Dad,” I said. “That’scrazy. They’ll run away andwe’llnevercatchthem.”

“Just listen to me,” myfather said. “Let them go.Ahorsewillnevergofar.Oncethey’re past what they’reafraid of, they stop. Get theteam and Texas onto theplanksand then let themgo

if you have to. We’ll catchthemontheotherside.”

I felt queasy anduncertain inside because Ididn’t think my father wasright, and I wasn’tcomfortable following thedirections of someone whowasmaking thingsupaswewent along. I was suddenlyfilled with doubt about thistrip.Whywerewe travelingby covered wagon if we

didn’t know what we weredoing? My father shouldhave known about thisbridge.Thewholetripwasabadidea.

Upnearthebridge,whilemybrotherledBennytothewalkway, I stood back withthe buggy whip hiddenbehindmyback,holdingtheother horse, Betty, with aline.When Benny balked atthemetalgrating,Isurprised

him from behind with agoodcrackontheassandhevaulted to the woodenplanking, galloping a fewstrides before he calmeddown, but my brother ranseveral strides ahead of himand then had no troubleleading him across. BettyhadbeenteamedwithBennyforher entire life anddidn’tlikebeingleftbehind,sosheleaped over the metal grate

too,pullingtheleadlineoutofmy hands. Butmy fatherhadsaidjusttolethergo.SoI followed on the woodenplanking, leading our ridinghorse Texas, more or lessherdingBettyfrombehind.

It was an eerie,incongruous feeling, beingsuspended seventy or eightyfeet above the DelawareRiver, herding horses acrossa narrow wooden walkway

that seemed to stretchforevertothedistantbank.Ihad crossed this bridgeseveral times by car, but onfoot I noticed things that Ihadn’tseenbefore.Upclose,the steel structure of thebridge was unbelievablyrusty and corroded, withlarge, scabrous flakeshangingoutfromthebeamsandblowinginthewind.Onthe river below us, teenage

girls were laughing andscreaming as they jumpedoff a houseboat to swim. Iwas frightened by the waythebridgeshookandrattledunderfoot every time a carpassed.

Itwas a longwalk to theothersideoftheriver.Iwasgripped by a long, graydepression while my heartraced with panic attacks. Iwasoftenoverwhelmedas a

boy by feelings of anxiety,and by profoundembarrassment about thekind of family that I camefrom, my fears made worseby my inability to sharethem with anyone else oreven to comprehend whatthey meant. These pangsstruck particularly hardwhenwe all had to file intoMasstogetherandthensitinfrontoftheotherfamiliesat

Christ the King Church. Ibelieved in God then, anddidn’t understand why Hewas being so unfair to me.God, why did you have togive me this crazy family?Why did you give me thiscrazyfather?WhenIprayed,I begged God to suddenlyand miraculously make myfamilynormal.

OnthePennsylvaniaside,Iwassurprisedbyhowmany

trees along the banks wereemergingintomyvision,andthat we were above them. Ilooped and knotted Texas’sreins around his neck, lethim go free, and thenstepped forward with mybuggy whip to get Bettyacross the metal grating atthe end of the woodenwalkway. When she balkedat the grating, I gripped thewhip handle and reached

high with both hands andswungdownhard,liketryingtohitapitchforahomerun,cracking her hard on therump.WhenBettyjumped,Ileaped right behind heracross the grate and divedfor the lead line attached toherbridle.

Ijustmanagedtograbtheline and then quickly rolledover and held on for dearlife, sitting down on the

grass as Betty cantereddownhill off the bridgeembankment. That was myarrival in Pennsylvania. Itwas all one fluid motion:leap, grab the line, flip overto a sitting position, andthengethauledonmyassbya big draft mare for theNantucket sleigh ride intoNew Hope. But I had her,and after she got to thebottom Betty stopped,

walked over to a tall greenpatch, and began browsingongrass.

Westillhaveawonderfulphotograph ofmy father, ina simple denim work shirtwithsweatlavingoffhisface,pullingthewagonacrosstheLambertville–New Hopebridge as my youngerbrother Bryan contentedlysuckedhis thumbupon thewagon seat. By this time a

statetrooperhadarrivedandheld the traffic up behindthe wagon. My father wastall and strong, six feet fourinches with big, tabletopshoulders, so keeping thewagonmovingafterhegotitstarted was not much forhim.Theironwagonwheelsbumpedandsangacrossthemetalgrating,andmyfatherwore the mien of a manstruggling without

complaint against a heavyload. I was so elated aboutgetting the team and thewagon across that I forgotmy embarrassment aboutmy family, and of course Iadmired how strapping aman my father was. Hecould do all of these thingsdespitehisamputation,onawoodenleftleg.

The image of my father pulling thewagon by hand across the Delawarestill resonates more than fifty yearslater.

NewHope,abusytouristtown, was festive that day.The tourists and theresidents poured out of theicecreamshopsandantiquestores and crowded aroundthecoveredwagon,askinguswhat we were doing. Wecarriedsomewaterandoatsover for the team and thenrelaxed in town. My fatherbought us all ice creamconesandwesatonbenches

in a small, shaded park thatoverlooked the river andwatchedthemotorboatsraceby.Itwaspleasanttobeoutof the sun and we all felt asense of accomplishmentabout getting our rig acrosstheDelawareRiver.

Wecamped thatnight ina park built beside the oldtowpath of the DelawareCanal. In camp, I loved torest in the evening the way

that I had seenWard Bondand his trail hands do it onWagon Train. They wouldmakeasemicircleofsaddlesaround the campfire, puttheir saddle blankets on topof the saddles, and thenrecline with their heads onthe saddles, with pieces ofstraw clasped in their teeth.That’showIdidit.Withourcampfire burning, I wasresting against my saddle

staring at the flames whenmy father walked over withhis camp stool, sat besideme,andsqueezedmyknee.

“Hey, you and yourbrother did a good jobwiththe team today, son. Youwere a big help gettingacrosstheriver.”

“Dad. I didn’t doanything.Iletthehorsesgo.”

“Nope.Isawyoufromthebridge.Bettydraggedyouall

thewaydownthehill.”“Bigdeal,Dad.Ididn’tdo

anything. First I let thehorses go, and then Bettydraggedmedownthehill.”

“Allright,son.You’renotlistening to me, but it’sokay.”

“Dad. I’m listening. Youkeep saying that I’m notlistening,butI’mlistening.”

Myfather lithispipeandblew out a smoke ring. He

stared at the flames of thecampfireforawhile.

“Okay, son. All I amsaying is that sometimesyou’re doing quite a lot bynot doing anything. You’renot quitting. You just keepgoing. That’s the pioneerspirit.”

The idea that I could bedoing quite a lot by notdoinganythingatall, justbynot quitting, was quite

beyondmeatthetime,butIdidfeelthatnightthatIhadthe pioneer spirit.With theembersofthefireglowingatmyfeet,Idozedoffwithmyhead resting on my saddle.Myfather letmesleepthereall night and I woke in themorning draped in theblanket he had placed overmebeforehewenttobed.

•••

I was momentarily relievedwhen we got to the bridgeovertheBigBlue.Themuleslooked ahead on the road,saw the uphill climb to thespan, and pushed their earsforward. They bowed intotheir collars withdetermination to pull hardfor the incline. Jakehadthisenormously attractive habitofskippingastride,swinginghis head from side to side,

andthenbendinglowforthework ahead. The mulesdidn’t seem to mind theriver. Still, I kept my linesgathered in case we hadtrouble.

“These mules have beenoverwater before,” I said toNick. “They seem fine withthebridge.”

“It looks that way,” hesaid.“We’llsee.”

Asweclimbedthebridgea wide black line of heavymetal, bisecting thepavement, began to emergein front of us. Beck threwherearsforward,turnedherheadsidewaysto lookattheominousblackline,andthenbegan pulling hard on herbit, trotting sideways andthen even cantering in herharness, kicking with herrear legs. She was spooking

the other two mules, whobegan to fuss and try tobreakawaytoo.It’stheherdinstinct inmules.Onemulerunning and starting tobreakawayisverydangerousbecause the other membersoftheteamdon’twanttobeleft behind. I held back themulesashardasIcould,butthey were threatening nowtorunaway.

“Oh, fuck,” Nick said.“That’s an expansion joint.Themulesdon’tlikethat.”

It was the runawayapproach. Beck was kickingup an enormous fuss now,frothing at the mouth andjumping sideways, trying tobreak into a gallop bylaunching off her hind legs.Bute, who would imitateanything Beck was doing,startedtofusstoo.Wewere

abouttolosetheteam.Nickisamuchbetterdriver thanme,andmuchstronger,andI gave the lines to him andreached over with bothhandsforthebrake.

“Holdthemback,Nick!”Isaid. “But we can’t turnaround.Wehavetogetthemoverthejoint.”

Expansion joints areintersecting sections ofheavy-gaugesteel,fittinglike

a huge zipper, that allow abridge to flex with changesinhumidityandheat,andtovibrate gently under thestress of heavy traffic. Theyare just the kind of heavyman-made shape, likemanhole covers, thatprovoke the fiendishimagination of mules.There’s a bogeyman there,crouching on the road, justwaiting to leap up and bite

you in the belly when youget close to it. Big, dark,man-made shapes. To amule,they’rethedevil.

Beck and Bute werefussing terribly in theirharness now, breaking intoshortgallopsandpushingofftheir hind legs, dancingagainst the pole, wanting torun away but knowing thatthey wouldn’t cross theexpansionjointahead.Aswe

gotclosertheybegantorear,leapingupanddownofftheconcretepavement.

Only Jake was beingsensible.Hepushedhis earsforward and looked at thejoint. Then he swayed hisheadfromsidetosidewithagrim expression. His bodylanguage said, “C’mon, girls.It’s just another bogeymanoutthere.We’regoingtogetto the joint and then we’re

going to jump it. Cut thecrap.”

Wewereatthejointnowand Beck and Bute werepanicked, rearing andrefusing to cross. Desperateto escape the joint, theyswayed violently sideways,pushing the pole from onesidetotheother,allthewayto the wheel stops. I couldfeel the wagon tippingalmostupontwowheels.

“Nick,it’sJake!Jakeiskeyhere. Jake will jump thejoint. Jake! Jake! Jump thejoint,Jake!”

“Get the whip, Boss,”Nickyelled. “When I say so,give Beck a good crack ontheass.”

It was madness now atthe joint. The oncomingtrafficfromtheothersideofthe bridge raced past us asthe team shied into their

lane. The driver of a whiteminivanstoppedrightbesideus,rolleddownherwindow,and began spooking theteam even more by takingpictures with a strobe flash.Moreminivanmoronscameon after this. These driverswere crazy, pulling evencloser to the team to getpictures, completelyoblivious of the danger. Itwas a circus show for them,

even as the mules spookedsideways and were nowrearing just inches fromtheirfrontfenders.

I had the whip in myhands but I knew that Iwasn’t going to lash Beck.We were about to lose theteam and anymoment nowthey were going to rearbackwardandboltsideways,snapping the pole andoverturningthewagon.Fuck

it,Ithought,we’llrebuildthewagonsomehow.We’llwalkthemulesacross.Itwillbeamess up here. I knew thatwe’d have problems atbridges—it was a big dreadhourfear.Ihadhandledthisallwrong.

Nickwasexpertlyholdingthe team back and stillcallingforthemulestocrossthejoint,butBeckwascrazynow,rearing,kickinghertug

chains, frothing at the bit.But I knew that if I lashedher,thisearlyinthetrip,shewould expect it every timeand run away at everybridge.

Jake was swaying backand forth, ready to jump.The morons in theirminivanskeptstoppingrightbesidetherearingteam.Butthiswasgood,Irealized.Theline of idle cars on our left

was herding the team fromthat side, and there wereguardrails to the right. Wemight just gallop throughthischuteandgetthemulesstopped later. But, Christ, IwouldhavetoholdtherightlineforNick.ButhowcouldI do that and manage thebrake?Wehadonlyasecondortwoleftbeforearunaway.

I held the whip high sothe mules could see it and

yelledtoJake.“Jake!It’scoming,Jake.I’ll

tap you and then you jump!Lead these mollies over thejoint!Hereitcomes,Jake.”

I reached down from theseat and tapped Jake gentlybutfirmlyonhisrightrump.

Oh, that was one greatAndalusian spawn rightthere. RoyalGift left behindsuch dignity and strength.As soon as I tappedhimon

the rump Jake swung hishead down, curled hismassive neck, leaned backon his powerful rear legs,andcrouchedtojump.

Beck is crazy. Herpsychology is fantasticallyneurotic.Thebogeymanwaswaitingthereunderthejointtojumpupandbiteher,butthere was noway, now thatshe saw Jake crouching tojump,thatshewouldlethim

get ahead of her in harness.Now the secondAndalusianwas back on her rear legstoo, rearing. Jake and Beckwere bodies in unison,crouching, getting ready tovault.

The moment when Jakeand Beck vaulted the jointtogether showed me whymules are now winningjumping competitions alloverthecountry.

The power andathleticism of a big draftmule are extraordinary. Justbefore the mules jumped,Nick screamed at them inhis booming voice—“Beck,you odd bugger, JUMP, youcrazy mule!”—and then hereleased the lines andslapped the mules on therear at just the rightmoment, when their rumpswerewaylowandtheirfront

knees were bent, poised tojump.Whaboom, with littleBute in the middle yankedupward, just along for theride, with a glorious rattleand bang of the harnesschains and the pole, and allthe whippletrees straining,we were airborne over theBigBlueRiverinKansasandcatapultingoverthejoint.

Thetouch-and-gothatwemade over the joint on the

Marysville bridge lastedlonger than I believedpossible. For a second ortwo, I could see spacebetween the front wheelsandtheconcretefloorofthebridge.

Thewagon landedwithaloud bang on the other sideof the joint, jolting us, andwe both had to brace ourlegs against the footrest tostay on the seat. Nick

managed the team adroitlyafterthat,looseningthelinesfor a second or two so thatBeck could race forwardagainst her harness andrelease her need to flee, butthen he pulled the mulesback to an anxious walk,constantly releasing andthen restraining the teamwith his strong, brawnyarms.

We were in runawaydeacceleration mode now,putting out the spoilers andreversing thrust to slow thebig jetdownontherunway.I slammed the brake homeevery time the mulesthreatened to gallop away,then released it when theysloweddownagain.Therearwheels skidded sideways onthewetconcreteeverytimeIappliedthebrake.Thiswasa

moment when Nick’ssupremecomfortinthefaceof danger, his calm duringchaos, saved us. Build to acrisis, enjoy it. Each timeBeck turned sideways andthreatened to gallop, hepulled her in the otherdirection, to distract herattention from runningaway. He didn’t yell at themules—which would justspook them more. He

merged his personality withtheirs. His voice—callingthemgently,butfirmly—wastheirbrainnow.

At this moment, lovingforgiveness of your mulesandtheabilitytocalmthemwere key. Nick worked atgeniuslevelonthat.

“Oh, Big Team.Goooooood Team.Gooooooood Team. It’s allright, Beck. Beck, it’s all

right. We just won theNational Steeplechase, girls.You won the steeplechase,team. Jake, you’re a pisser.Youdidwell,Jake.”

There were two moreexpansion joints on thebridge, andboth timesBeckand Bute reared again ontheir hind legs, refused tocross, and swayed sidewaysagainst the pole. Nickhandled this by steering the

team against the rightguardrails on the bridge,withourwheel hubs just aninch or two from the heavymetal rails,whichpreventedBeck from jumping in thatdirection. He held his rightlinerockhardagainstBeck’sbit, so that she had noleeway and could rear onlystraightahead.

IgotintoNick’sheadandtried to timemy nextmove

with his. Tap Jake’s rump,andheledtheteamoverthejoint. It was all onechoreographed moment.Mules,taxiintopositionandjump. We were goldmedalists at jumping mulesbythethirdjoint.

As we trotted down thewesternportalofthebridge,Nick calmed the mules bycalling them in a low voice,

while I worked the brake inandout.

We stopped the mulesbelow the bridge, afterturning north along the BigBlue.Myarms and stomachmuscleswere trembling andmychestwasheavinginandout.Ifeltdesperateforair.

“Rink, you handled thatjustright,”Nicksaid.“Itwasa good idea not to whip

Beck. I was wrong and youwereright.”

“Yeah, but I planned thispoorly,” I said. “I shouldhave walked ahead andshown the mules that thejointswere safe.Thatway, Icould have stopped thetraffic.”

“Oh, see? That’s so you,Rinker.We’ve justhadabigsuccess here, gettin acrossour first long bridge, but

Rinker saysheblew it.Whydo you have to blameyourselflikethat?”

“Nick, I am not thehorseman you are. I’m astandardbreddriver.”

“Boss, no,” Nick said.“WhenwegettoOregon?”

“What?”“You’re not goin to

believehowgoodyouareatdrivinteam.Iwillmakeyoubetter.”

•••

The sun occasionally cameout as we headed north onthe section roads and I wasjubilant, late that afternoon,when we crossed theNebraska line, in mixedscrub country and mowedfields a few miles belowSteele City. By deadreckoning, and carefullyconsulting my geodetic

maps, we managed to findtwo markers for the oldIndependence Road andthenourfirstmarkerfortheOregon Trail. We weremaking what the pioneerscalled the Big Blue–LittleBlue transit, up through achoke point on the trailcalled The Narrows. TheFlint Hills were recedingbehindus.

“Trail Hand,” I said,looking atmymaps. “We’vemade one hundred twenty-fivemilesinfivedays.”

Still, we were in OregonTrail purgatory for the nextseveral days. At Steele City,the same storm system thatwould level Joplin,Missouri,a few hours later passeddirectly over our heads,forcingusintoanemergencycampintheequipmentshed

of an abandoned farm. TheLittle Blue reached floodstage over the local roads,andwehadtoremaininoursoggy bivouac for an extraday, and then more rainsforcedus intoaquickcampin Strang, Nebraska, wherewelostourColemanlanternand gave up on using anyartificial light. At night, thelocal farmers would driveovertoourcamps,splashing

throughthepuddlesintheirpickups. They begged us tostayat theirplaces fora fewdays. This was the worsthigh-wateryearinacentury,they told us, and all of thecreek crossings would beflooded. Across southernNebraska, there were roadsclosed all the way up pastAuroraandGrandIsland.

But I wanted to makemore miles across what I

was now calling the lakedistrict of southernNebraska. Several times,along a lovely stretch ofrolling hills called the LittleSandyCreekcountry,weslidthe wagon down a muddyhill to find, along the creekbottoms, a bridge that wasfloodedwithalmosttwofeetof rushing water, with noway to get the rig turnedaround on the narrow road.

But by walking over thesubmerged bridge with myarms outstretched—myboots sank above the anklesin the mud and gravel, andthe water splashed up pastmy knees—I was able toshowthemulesthatcrossingthe swollen creeks was safe.Butewastheonlymulewhobalked at the water. But bygoading the much stronger

JakeandBeckat thewater’sedge,weyankedheracross.

We pushed on throughseveral fords a day like that,and through a series ofmiserable,wetcamps.Atoursqualid, swampy camp onthe abandoned farm inSteele City, I cooked ourmealsontopofaJohnDeererotary mower in theequipment shed, tentingmyselfwithablankettokeep

the fliesand thecinderdustoff our food. At night, Icouldatleastretreatoutsideto the wagon, but Nick andOlive Oyl were trappedinside the implement shed,coughing and heaving allnight from the dust stirredupbythemules.

But there werecompensations, at least forme. At Steele City, I spentmyfirstnightsleepinginthe

covered wagon during athunderstorm, and it wassurprisinglycomfortableandwarminthere.Purpleburstsof light flashed through thewagon cover as lightninglanded on the plains. Theconstant, rolling thundernearby shook the ground,passing up through thewheels and gently rockingthe wagon. The rainpoundinghardonthecanvas

top sounded like a timpanidrum,butIwasalwaysdry.Irealized that the pioneershad fashioned an almostperfect roof design againstthe rain, with thesemicircular top preventingthe moisture from evergaining purchase on a flatsurface.

The Schuttler was anoutdoor pavilion exposingme to the intensity of the

storm but protecting mefrom its dangers. The viewsof the black clouds andlightning rolling over theprairie, and the rivulets ofrain trickling down thecanvas cover, filledmewithcontentment, a kind ofmelancholy lonelinessof theplains. We were living sosimply and haphazardlynow, cobbling together anexistence from what we

carried in the wagon orcould find on abandonedhomesteads. It feltincomparablyromantictobethere and Iwanted this triptolastforever.

11

A BIG THUNDER CELL

FINALLYlandedrightontopof us just east of Shickley,Nebraska.Wewere pushing

northwest on paved roadsout past Fairbury, trying tomake our transit from theLittle Blue to the Platte,surrounded by storms soviolent that the mules werebeginning to spook. Mulesare actually quitecomfortable in a storm, aslong as they are left free inanopenfieldorcorral.Thenthey bunch together forprotection, point their

rumps toward the storm,and patiently wait out theweather while the rainpummels their backs. Butwhen a storm arrivesoverhead, they are terrifiedof being restrained byharness and a wagon,because that deprives themof their feral ability toprotect themselves.Nowwewere on the open plains,with thunderbolts fusing off

purple and orange auras asthey landed all around us,and amenacing black cloudswirling low directly ahead.Atmost,wehadtenminutestogetthemulestoshelter.

At an attractive farmahead, we saw a womanchasing aroundher lawnonaridingmower,tryingtogetthe last of her grass cutbeforethestormhit.BehindthetreelinealongtheroadI

could see an extensivecompoundofbarnroofsandgrainbins.Therewouldhaveto be a feedlot corralsomewhere in there. Withthemules jumping sidewaysandbeginningtopaniceverytime another lightning boltlanded,weranthewagonuptothefarmandIjumpedoff.

“Ah, ma’am, we need toget these mules unhitched

before that cell lands on us.Canweuseyourcorrals?”

The woman lookedconfused and uncertain andbit her lip. Her hair wasblown up past her ears bythe wind and she glancedhurriedly around, as iflookingforhelp.

“Oh, Idon’tknow. Iwishmy husband was here. He’sstillinthefields.”

“Well,ma’am,ifwecouldjustgetinthere...”

“Oh, no! Did I just saythat? I didn’t mean it thatway.Ofcourse,goin,goin.Ijust don’t know where he’dwantyou.”

“Isthereacorral?”“Allaroundthebarns.”“Okay,we’ll findone. I’m

sorry, I can’t talk. We havetorush.”

“Rush. Go. My husbandwill be back after the stormhits.”

IwavedtoNickandthenranaheadof thewagon intothefarmyard,foundacorral,anddecidedthatitwouldbebesttoruntheteamarounda longgraybarnon the left.Therewasn’t any time now.Lightning was touchingdownontheplainsonthreesidesofus,andthewindhad

pickedupsostronglyitblewmyhatoff.

“Nick! Don’t stop thewagon. Just get around thebarn facing out. Quick! Wehavetobeunhitched.”

Ihadn’tcheckedthebarn,buttherewasn’tanyreasonIwould have thought of that.As soon as the mulesapproachedthe lowpensonthegroundfloor,agrotesqueroar of grunts, squeals, and

the sound of dozens of feetsloshing through wetmanure rose from the barn.Damn. Hogs. There musthavebeenhundredsofthemin there. The roar wasdeafening, and the mulesimmediately began to leapaway from the sound, withBeck rearing in her harnessand refusing to walk ahead,and then Bute rearing andacting out because that’s

what Beck was doing.Somehow,Nickgottheteammoving forward again anddisappeared around the farendofthebarn.

I will never forget theimageofNickandthewagonreemerging around thecorner of the barnunderneath the stormclouds. The mules wererearingawayfromthesoundofthehogsononeside,and

bolting sideways from thelightning on the other side.It was a complete spectacleofchaos.

Nick’s display ofhorsemanship wasextraordinary. Every timethe team reared and balkedhe screamed at the mulesabove the wind to moveforward again. Hogs,lightning. Hogs, lightning,with Nick in the middle

lashedbytherainandwind,absolutely fearless andincapable of giving up,holding back a team thatwould have defeated almostanyotherdriver.

WhenNickfinallygottheteam past the hog pens IknewwhatIhadtodo.Beckand Bute were still rearingandturningsidewaysagainstthe pole and I was terrifiedabout scrumming in there

beside them, but I didn’thaveanychoice.Don’tthink.Just do it. I splashed acrossthewetgrasswithanarmfulofleadchainsandleapedupfor Beck’s bridle, managingto get her lead chainattached before I went forBute.

Holdingontotworearingmules like that, I was justone of those jerky littlelifeless marionettes in a

Pinocchio show, suspendedbetween the bridles of twoleaping mules, bobbing upon one arm and offmy feetwhen Beck reared, thenyanked sideways again andup to the other side whenBute pulled high. Now Iknewwhatitfeltliketobeacondemnedmaninmedievaltimes who got quartered byhorses. There was onespectral moment when a

thunderclap boomed rightontopofusandbothmulesreared together. I waslaunchedhighbetweenBeckand Bute and reached myzenith over black mule earsjust as a thunderbolt hitnearby,sparkingoffapurplespear of light on the mistyplain.

It was just one madassdysfunctionofrearingmulesafter that. The rain was

pounding now. Nickmanaged to stumble off thewagon and with his pudgy,stiffhandsripthetugchainsaway. Fearlessly, he pushedupthroughtherearingteam,grabbed a lead chain, andwalked Jake over to thecorrals, and then camebackforBute.

IwasleftalonewithcrazyBeck, pinned between thepole of the wagon and a

rusty corral fence, holdingon to her lead chain as sherearedafewmoretimesandher front shoes passed rightbymy face. I found I couldalmost bear the fear if Iclosed my eyes, and that isprobably why I didn’t senseNickcomingupfrombehindme to take Beck. Then Iheard myself spontaneouslycallingoutagainstthewind.

“Oh, God. I am nevergoing to be able to do thisalone. God, I can’t do thisalone.”

Nick shouldered past meintherainandgrabbedBeckbythebridle,leadingherofftothecorrals.

I was humiliated by myadmissionofvulnerabilityinfront of Nick, but therewasn’t any time to dwell onmy feelings now. I ran over

behind Nick and Beck tohelpstriptheharnessoffthemules. Once we had theharness off and the teamsafelybehindthecorralgate,the mules stood togethernear the center and turnedtheir backs west into thestorm,waitingplacidlywhilethewindandtherainlashedtheirbacks.

Nick and I stood in therain with our arms resting

on the iron corral railings,looking over to the mules.My shoulders were sorefromholdingbackBeckandBute, and the lead chainshad turned my hands intocube steak. Underneath myshirt, the rain ran over myback, pastmy belt line, anddownmylegsintomyboots.

I was upset with myselffor my spontaneous wailingin the rain. I didn’t want

NicktointerpretwhatIsaidas an indirect request forhimtoabandonhisplanstoreturn to Maine and act inhis play. We had discussedthe problem a few timesalready and I had alwaysreassured him that I wouldfindawaytocontinuealonefor the five weeks when hewouldbegone.Butnowmytrueworrieshadburstoutin

the most embarrassing way,andIfeltguiltyaboutthat.

“Nick,” I said. “I’m sorryforwhatIsaidbackthere.Itjustcameout.I’mnottryingtotalkyouintostayingafterNorthPlatte.”

For once, Nick didn’thave a sarcastic reply. Therain hadmatted his grayinghair against his ears and hejust stared straight ahead atthemules.

•••

At Shickley, Nick and Iestablished our road ranchlayover style. The couplewho owned the farm, Donand Shirley Kempf, wereexceptionallyhospitable andexcited to have a coveredwagon running throughNebraska,andtheywerethebeginning of a long run ofhappy Nebraskans who

welcomed us onto theirfarms,fedus,gaveushayforthemules,andevendroveusahead on the trail to scoutour routes. At the Kempfs’,wetookour firstshowersofthe trip, pulled the wagoninto their large implementshed for repairs, and evenwent off one night to theirchurch supper. Nick, whobored too easily just sittingaround with nothing to do,

acted as a mechanicalambassador for theexpedition,helpingDonandhis brother-in-law rebuildtheirfieldcultivator.

I am a master at self-deception, and at first Irefused to use my time atShickley torturing myselfwith worry about what Iwould do afterNick leftmein North Platte. I didn’tblame myself, either, for

exposingustoarunawaybydriving the team throughstorms. We were makingimpressive time acrosseastern Nebraska, and notstopping for bad weatherwasoneof the reasonswhy.One advantage of havingspent the prior winterreadingpioneerjournalswasthe knowledge thateverything that had

happened to us so far waspredictable.

Perhaps the best accountofthedangersoftravelinginstormy weather with muleswaswrittenbyNilesSearls,a49er from Albany, NewYork, whose Diary of aPioneer was a Gold Rushclassic. Searls paid $200 tobecarriedtoCaliforniawithTurner and Allen’s thirty-eight-wagon “Pioneer Line,”

a transportation experimentthat drew an excitedresponse when it wasannounced in St. Louis inthe spring of 1849. Thepassengers would be sparedthe bother of buying theirownwagonsanddraftteams,andinsteadwouldbecarriedto California in the six-passenger mule wagons ofthecommercialline,withallof their provisions and

sleeping essentials providedaspartofthefee.

TurnerandAllenenticedgold seekers to their linewithabeautofaboast.Theypromised to deliver theirpassengers to thegold fieldstwo thousandmiles away inonly sixty days—half thetraveling time of aconventionalcoveredwagontrain. To live up to theiradvertising, Turner and

Allen amassed a large herdof threehundredmules thatwould have to perform theconsiderablefeatoftravelingalmost thirty-five miles perday. A gullible, pro-trail,pro-development westernpress helped promote thescheme. TheDailyMissouriRepublican pronounced theplan a “magnificententerprise” and wroteapprovingly of the elegant

wagons and “the finestmules” that Turner andAllenwoulddeploy.ByMay,more than 250 gold seekershad subscribed for the trip,anddemandwassohighthatTurner andAllen planned asecond wagon train later inthespring.

This was 1849, a yearwhen the frenzy to reachCalifornia gold was sointense that all wisdom had

percolated from theAmerican brain. Speed inreachingnorthernCaliforniawas everything, and Turnerand Allen were actuallypikers in that department.The craziest westeringschemeofallwasdevisedbya head case New Yorkernamed Rufus Porter, aninventor and balloonenthusiast who was thefounder of Scientific

American magazine. LikemanyAmericans,Porterwasswept up by the visionarypossibilities of a masscrossing toplunder thegoldfields of the Pacific West.Porter became convincedthatgiantballoons,poweredby twin steam enginesborrowed from a paddle-wheeler, could loft as manyas two hundred Gold RushminerstoCaliforniaatonce.

The rush to reach the California goldfields createdmany crackpot schemes,like Rufus Porter’s steam-powereddirigible“AirShiptoCalifornia.”

Porter’s aerial palace,complete with twenty-sixwindows, a long exhaustpipe for steam sticking outthe rear, and a giantAmericanflagflutteringovertherudders,wasdesignedtoride beneath an immensecigar-shaped dirigible. Theengineering was lunacy, butPorter’s marketing wasbrilliant. He proposeddispensing entirely with the

notorious jumping-offhassles along the MissouriRiverbylaunchinghis“aeriallocomotive”fromNewYork.The coast-to-coast trip,Porter’scalculationsshowed,could bemade in just threedays—five days if theprevailing headwinds wereparticularly bad that week.Porter aggressivelyadvertised his “Air Line toCalifornia” in eastern

newspapers and magazines.Amazingly, over twohundred suckers paid asubscription price of $50,which includedthree-coursemeals and wine, for theinauguralballoonhoptothegold fields. That winter, alarge crowd gathered in aLong Island cornfield towatchPortertestamodelofhis airship. But the craftnever left the ground

because the steam engineswere far too heavy for theballoon.

The would-be Porteraeronauts, however, werethe lucky ones—they neverhad to leave in the firstplace. The 125 payingpassengers on the firstTurner and Allen PioneerTrainwerenotsofortunate.

The Turner and Allenexpedition of 1849 was the

Edselofwagontrains.Moses“Black”Harris,themountainman hired to guide thethirty-eight wagons of thePioneerLineacrosstheruts,died of cholera before theexpedition leftIndependence. Many of theteamsters hired by TurnerandAllendesertedalongthePlatte, forcing thepassengers to drive themules themselves, adifficult

taskconsideringthatmostofthe mules were not “thefinest” at all but wild andgreen, and few of thepassengers had anyexperience beyond drivingone-horserigsinthecity.Atleast twentypassengersdiedof disease, and violent free-for-alls for discardedprovisions broke out whentheoverloadedwagonswereprogressively lightened at

river crossings. A ton ofcuredmeats was left at onecampsite in Nebraska, fiftygallons of liquor werepoured into a Wyomingstream, and the last of thecoffee and sugar wasdepleted by Soda Springs inIdaho. Fleeing mules andwreckedwagonsforcedmostof the “passengers” to walkthe final seven hundredmiles into California. The

survivorsofthePioneerLineendedupreachingCaliforniaaftermore than fivemonthsof suffering, and foundersTurner and Allen barelyescaped being lynched. InOregon Trail lore, the term“Turner and Allen” becamesynonymous with disasterandadvertisinghype.

Most of the problemsfaced byTurner andAllen’strain derived from a simple

fact of life that I had justfaced: mules andthunderstorms do not mix.Of the threehundredmulesthat the Pioneer Linedepartedwith,onlyhalfwereleftbythetimethetrainhademerged from thethunderstormbeltincentralNebraska.Mostofthemhadrun away, harness and all,during thunderstorms and

hailstorms and vanished ontheplains.

Niles Searls’s publisheddiary described thedifficulties of introducingskittish green mules to thestormyspringtimeclimateofNebraska. After 1849,accounts like his wouldpersuade many pioneers tochoose the more ploddingbutlessexcitableoxen.

Wehave several timesinthistripexperiencedheavy showers andonceortwicehavehadhail. The rain fell intorrents accompaniedbyawhirlwindandhailthe size of hickorynuts. Two of ourcarriages were oversetby the gale andoneofthem crushed toatoms. Mules and

loose stock werestampededandran forhours.CaptainTurner,whowasonhorseback,wasstruckinthefingerby a hailstone, whichdislocatedthe joint. Inthe short space of tenminutes no less thanthreeinchesofhailandrain fell. Our onlycoursewastoturnourteams to the leeward

and,inthelanguageofthe seaman, scudbeforethegale.

At Shickley, scuddingbefore the gale seemed tohavebecomeourpermanentchallenge—we were delayedtwo days there by morestorms rolling over theplains from the Rockies. Ichided myself for beingunrealistic in my planning

anddespairedthatwewouldeverreachthePlatte.Maybeliving with this muchuncertaintywas beyondme.But what was mostinteresting about the trailexperienceso farwas that itwas also making me moreunrealistic. The dream ofpushing mules to Oregonstill acted so powerfully onmethat Icould imagineanynumber of contingencies

that would allow me tocontinue once Nick wasgone. At North Platte, Iwouldhireacowboy to ridewith me for a month andhelp handle the mules. Icould carefully stage theteam every night at corralfences, where the mulescould be chained while Iunhitchedalone.Icouldfinda ranch and hole up for amonth, studying trail

journals and ironing myshirts until Nick was back,even if thiswould delay ourarrival in Oregon untilOctober.

But speculations likethese were just distractionsthat prevented me fromfacing a deeper problem. Ihated asking Nick for help.This was still the big,unresolved legacy of mychildhood and Catholic

upbringing—an obdurateguilt complex about askingfor what I needed, whichonly exposed me asvulnerable and weak. Myfatherhaddrilledthisintoallofus,butespeciallytheolderboys.Weweretheoneswhohelped someone else andnever asked for helpourselves, especially from ayounger brother. When wedrove into town to shop for

food or visit the Sears,Roebuck store, if my fathersawanoldwomanstrugglingacross the green with hershopping bags, he hustledthe boys out of the car tohelphercrossthestreet.Wegotbonuspointsifshewasanun, or blind. This was ahugepainintheassbecausethe Seeing Eye Foundationfor blind people hadheadquarters nearby, and

the hills around our placewere dotted with conventsfor retired nuns. Every timewe drove into town mybrothersandIwerejumpinginto an out of the car likecircusclowns.

Never ask for help—provideit.NowIwasonthedreamjourneyofmylifeandsurroundedeverydaywithasurfeit of help. Receivinghelp,not providing it,made

me feel guilty. I couldn’tpossibly ask onemore favorofNick.

And I certainlyunderstood Nick’s problem.He is ferociously loyal tofriends and to hiscommitments, whether it’sbuilding a house or alongstanding promise to actinaplay.IfhestayedontheOregon Trail with me, hewould disappoint everyone

who was counting on himforStonesinHisPockets.

•••

Nothing is ever very privatewith Nick, and I could tellthat he was mulling thingsover. Between the storms atShickley he was spending alotoftimeonhiscellphonetalking with friends back inMaine, his booming voice

echoing over the soybeanfieldsashewalkedouttotheedges of the barnyard. Iheard just snippets of hisconversations—“Well,Rinker, you know,” or“North Platte.” If I lookedtowardhim,Nickpressedhisfinger deeper into his earand walked farther out intothefields.

During our secondafternoonatShickley,Itook

a long, relaxing pickup rideoutovertheNebraskaplainsto scout the trail ahead,whileNickspentafewhoursintown.WhenIreturnedtothe Kempf farm, Nick wassitting quietly near thewagon in the implementshed, changing the batteriesin the hazard lights on therearoftheTrailPup.WhenIstepped toward the back ofthe wagon for one of our

camp chairs, I found a neatpile of my clothes—bluejeans, several shirts, myunderwear and socks, allmeticulously folded. Igrabbedmy travel bag fromthe wagon and placed thepile of clothes inside,amazed.

“Jesus, Nick. I can’tbelieve this. You did mylaundry.”

“I found a laundromat intown. Does that surpriseyou?”

“Well, sure. You foldedmyshirts.”

“You seem to forget thatwehavethesamemother.”

Clutching the hazardlights in one hand, Nickcarriedhis chair over to thewagon to sit beside me.When he spoke, his voicewas low, not his usual

baritone foghorn, and heseemed very relaxed aboutsomething.

“Listen, I’ve made mydecision,” he said. “I’m notgoing back to Maine. I’mgoing to stay with you forthewholetrail.”

I was too grateful andflabbergasted to respondrightaway.

“But, Nick, what aboutyourplay?”

“Don’t worry about myplay. I talked to all of mytheater friends about it.They all agree it’s a no-brainer. Why would I startthe Oregon Trail and notfinish it? I want to be outhere. Every horseman inNewEnglandwillbe jealousofmeforthis.”

It was hard forme to behumbleandsaywhatIreally

felt then, but I knew that Ihadto.

“I do need you, Nick. Ican’t get across the trailwithoutyou.”

“Weneedeachother,”hesaid. “When you sent methatemailaboutthesaddle,Iknewthatthiswasmyticketout.IneededtogetthefuckoutofMaine.”

“Okay. But I appreciatethat youare sacrificinga lot

here.”“Rink, no. Don’t pull a

guilt trip on yourself. I hateitwhenyoudothat. It’sourtrip. We’re doing thistogether.”

We talked for a whilelonger sitting beside thewagon, and then I realizedthat I was immensely tired.A great burden had beenlifted from me. Ever sincethe bridge at Marysville I’d

beenwakingatthreeo’clockin the morning to brood,turning from shoulder toshoulder for two hoursbefore first light, trying toreassuremyself that I couldsurvivewithoutNick.NowIfelt exhausted. I stood up,gripped Nick by theshoulder,squeezedhard,andthenclimbedintothewagonfor some sleep—my firstafternoon nap of the trip.

While King Lear at theheight of hismadness ragedoutside, I slept soundly forseveralhours.

•••

Along the Little Blue, Idiscovered walking. Themonotonousrumblingoftheironwheelsandtheploddingof twelve hooves on thedusty section roads, hour

after hour, became a prairielullaby, and by noon or oneo’clock every day I wasdrowsy on the wagon seat,nodding off sideways andthen frantically grabbing onto the brake handle as Iswayed above the rotatingspokes.

For me, falling off thewagon and then gettingcrushed by the wheels wasone of the most frightening

dangersofthetrip.Asaboy,I snaredmy leg once in themovingspokesofoneofmyfather’s buggies, and wasflipped upside down anddragged along a graveldriveway. I lostmost of theskin on one cheek and myhead ached for days. I knewfrom the trail journals thatfew wagon trains reachedOregon without fatalitiesunderneath the wheels, and

the casualty rate wasparticularly high amongchildren.

Oneofthemostpoignantaccountsofdeathunder thewheelsappearsinthejournalwritten by Lucia LoraineWilliams, an Ohio pioneerwho made a speedy butperilous crossing in aseventy-wagontrainin1851.AlongthePlatte,whileLuciaand her three-year-old

daughterHelenwereintheirwagon,itwasblownoverbya windstorm. Later, Helenalmost died of scarlet fever.At the large Ash Hollowpioneer encampment incentral Nebraska, theWilliamses’trainmetapartyof Sioux raiders who werecarrying Pawnee scalps stillwet with blood. A monthlater, just after crossing theGreen River in western

Wyoming,Williamsandherhusband, Elijah, decided tolet their ten-year-old son,Johnny,apopularboyonthetrain,rideforthedaywithabaggage wagon far behindthem. But the driver fellasleep, probably from theheat and the monotony ofthe ride, and his team ranaway.Johnnyfelloffandwascrushed by the wheels.Riders were sent ahead to

alert the Williamses aboutthe accident, and theyrushedbackfortheirson.

“Poor little fellow, wecould do nothing for him,”Luciawroteinalettertohermother that fall. “He wasbeyond our reach and Oh,howsuddenly,onehalfhourbefore we had left him inhealthaslivelyasalark,andthen to find him breathless

so soonwas awful. I cannotdescribetoyouourfeelings.”

Johnnywas buried in thehigh desert, a halfmile eastof Fontenelle Creek. Manyyears later, Lucia’s closestfriend in the train, EstherLockhart, described theimpactof Johnny’sdeathontheotherpioneers.

The entire train wasimmediately stopped.

We were the first toreach poor littleJohnny, andwe sawatonce that he wasbeyond earthly aid.The heavy wagonwheels had passeddirectly over hisforeheadand face, anddeath must have beeninstantaneous. Theinnocent victim neverknew what happened

to him and when Mr.Williams, who was anextraordinarilydevotedfather,sawthelifeless form of hischild he was besidehimself with grief andanger. He ran for hisgun and was about toshoot the unfortunatedriver when four menoverpowered him andtookhisweaponaway.

Later,whenreasonandcalm judgmentreturned to thedistraught father, hewas thankful he hadbeen restrained fromcommitting a heinouscrime.

The driver wasbroken-hearted overthetragedy.Hedidnotrecover from theeffects of this

deplorable accidentduring the remainderof the journey.A rudecasket was improvisedfrom a large trunkbelonging to Mrs.Williams,andthebodyof the dear little ladwhohadbeenamerrycompanion a fewhours before, andloved by everybody,was tenderly buried

near the scene of theaccident. After somehymns had been sungandafewprayerssaid,a wooden marker wasplaced at the head ofthe grave. His parentswishedthistobedone,as they felt that wewere now in aneighborhood wherethe Indians would notdisturb such places.

On the headstone waswritten the little lad’sname, his age and thebrief circumstancesattending his death.Then, with manyregretful tears for thepromising young lifeso suddenly andcruelly cut short, wedrove sadly away,leaving him alone inthe wilderness, in his

last long sleep. Formany days we couldnot forget thisagonizing experience.It hung over us like ablack shadow. It tookall the joy out of ourlives, it had been sosudden, sounnecessary, so full ofall that was sad andtragic.

My drowsiness now alsohad a lot to do with theweather. By the middle ofthe day the flatlands ofNebraska were hot, andbeside us the mixed fieldsand scrub prairie wereluminously green under acloudless sky, with sleepy,vapory mirages rising overthe tree line of the LittleBlue. The heat didn’t seemto affect Nick at all and I

askedhimtopullthewagonup while I changed intocanvashikingboots.A long,brisk walk would improvemycirculationandwakeme.

“You’ll be all right?” Isaid.

“I lovedrivin teamalone.Enjoyyourselfoutthere.”

I knew that the faster-walkingmuleswouldquicklyoutpace me, and that Nickwould daydream off and

forgetaboutme.IaskedhimtowaitifIfelloutofsight.

“Sure,” Nick said. “Here,take Olive Oyl. She’ll enjoytherun.”

It was rhapsodic outthere. As the wagon slowlypulled ahead of me ourAmerican flag snapped inthe breeze, six bright redwheelsturnedupcontrailsofdust,andthesunhighinthesoutheast sky cast a long,

cockeyed shadow—asilhouette of mule ears,canvas tops, and churningwheels slanting across thescrub brush. On foot, theprairie seemed even morewideopen,andoncemore Iwaslevitatingonplains.Ifeltbetter, wide awake, rightaway.

Nick, of course,daydreamed and forgotabout me. The wagon

disappeared off the far riseand I wouldn’t see it againfor two hours. But it wasrefreshing to feel soabandoned, wrapped insolitude. Narcissa Whitmanhadgallopedaheadofthefurcaravan, losing sight of thewagons. IwaswalkingaloneonplainsthatIhaddreamedabout for years, our transitto the Platte was nearlycomplete, and my brother

was staying withme on thetrail.

12

IN1906THEHOMESTEADERS

WHO lived along the waterydraws of the abandonedOregon Trail witnessed the

spectacle of a thin, very oldman, incongruously dressedin a three-piece gabardinesuit,walkingeastwardacrossthe old emigrant road. Hewas leading a team of oxenpulling a covered wagondecorated with patrioticmottoes and an Americanflag. The prairie schoonerhobo was living simply offtheland,campingatoldtrailstopslikeFarewellBendand

Independence Rock,supportinghimselfbysellingfive-cent postcards toschoolchildren.His ideawassimple, but so idealistic thatno one had thought toarticulate it before. Beforethe Oregon Trail wasobliterated by progress—thefarmer’s plow, irrigationditches,newrailroadsidings—he wanted to mark it forposterity.

Ezra Meeker was ageriatricburstofenergy,theJohn Muir of the OregonTrail, who reinventedhimselfforlastingfameaftera life of spectacular successand failure.Born inOhio in1830, Meeker first crossedthe trail as a pioneer in thepeakmigrationyearof1852,settling in Puyallup,Washington, and quicklyestablishing himself as a

prototypical westernachiever.Hemadeafortunegrowing hops for breweries,indulged a grand tour ofEurope and returned tobuild his wife a fabulousItalianate mansion inPuyallup, then lost it allwhen a plague of aphidsdestroyed his crops in the1890s. Meeker dabbled inmany businesses after that,briefly entered politics, and

was involved in severalunseemly squabbles overefforts to promote thebusiness prospects of thePacific Northwest. But hedidn’t become a householdnameuntil1906when,attheage of seventy-six, he beganhis covered wagon journeyacross the trail, stoppingalong the way to haranguecrowds about theimportance of preserving

trail history and installinggranite“MeekerMarkers”atimportanttrailjunctions.

Meeker was rakishlyhandsome and hadmaturedinto elfin old age. With hislong white beard, floppybrimhat,andgimpyteamofoxen—“Twist”and“Dave”—Meekermadeanimprobablehero, but America soon fellin love with the geezeradventurer bent on saving

the Oregon Trail.Oddsmakers inChicagoandNew York took bets onwhereMeekerwoulddieontheplains,butheastonishedeveryone by making it pastthe Missouri River by theendofthesummerandthencontinuing on toIndianapolis, where hewintered over and printed ajournal about his walk, Ox-Team Days. In the spring,

finding that he enjoyed traillife,MeekercontinuedontoNewYork,wherehescuffledwith police who wouldn’tallow him to run his oxendown Fifth Avenue. InWashington,D.C.,heranhisrig onto the White Houselawn and enlisted PresidentTheodore Roosevelt to helphimpreservethetrail.

Meeker was a big,visionary thinker. Not

content with merelypreserving the trail, headvocated the creation of anational commercial andmilitary road across theWest, linking growing citieslike Denver and Salt LakewiththeEast,andspurroadsthatwouldconnectwiththevast national parks that hadbeen created during theProgressive Era. Swimmingand fishing facilities, hotels,

and even towers withnavigational beacons forpassing airmail planes wereall part of Meeker’s plan.Noneofthiswasbuiltduringhis lifetime, and Meekerwould receive no credit forhis elaborate transportationdreams. But the nationalparkssystembuiltduringtheNewDeal,andtheinterstatehighwayspavedinthe1950s,eventuallycreatedanetwork

ofconcreteandopenspacesremarkably similar toMeeker’soriginalscheme.

Meekershowednosignofslowing down in old age. In1910,attheageofeighty,hemadeanothercrossingofthetrail by covered wagon, andthen progressed throughtransportationtechnologybymaking several morecrossings by train,automobile, and—at the age

of ninety-four—open-cockpit biplane. He died in1928, just two years shy ofhis hundredth birthday,while working with HenryFord on still another rig, astretchedModelA outfittedwith a covered wagon top.Meeker called it the“OxMobile” and wasplanning to use it thatsummer to make a newcrossingofthetrail.

Ezra Meeker was a geriatric dynamoand visionary whose frequentrecrossings of the overland route werecriticaltopreservingthetrail.

AfterMeeker’sdeath, theorganizations that hefounded or inspired—theOregon Trail MemorialAssociation and theAmerican Pioneer TrailsAssociation—managed tostage a few commemorativeevents at major trail stopslike Independence Rock.Workers from the WorksProgressAdministrationandthe Civilian Conservation

Corpsbuilt anOregonTrailMuseum at Scotts BluffNational Monument inwestern Nebraska. But itwasn’t until 1982 that agroup of trail enthusiastsand historians founded theOregon-California TrailsAssociation (OCTA), whichhas carried on the mostlythankless work of markingremotestretchesofthetrail,preventingencroachmentby

housing developments andenergy projects, andidentifyingpioneergraves.

But Meeker did leavebehind one vital legacy.During his 1906 trip, heinstalled more than thirtyinscribed monuments alongthe trail, and a hundredtemporary wooden tabletsawaitingpermanentfixtures,a rudimentary chain thateventually became the basis

formarkingthetrail.Onhissubsequent trips, Meekerlobbied state governmentofficials to follow hisexample, and his popularitymade him hard to resist.After World War I, severalstategovernmentsalong thetrail—Kansas, Nebraska,Oregon—installed hundredsofgranitemarkersalongtheoriginalruts,andtheseweresupplemented by U.S.

Department of the Interiormarkers across more thanfour hundred miles of thetrail on public lands inWyoming.Therelativelyfewstone markers that Meekerinstalled himself, and thegovernmentgranitemarkers,collectively came to beknown as Meeker Markersanddozensofthemstillexiston the trail today. Everyyear, the state chapters of

OCTA regularly replaceworn or vandalizedmarkerswithmetalstakes.

Though relatively simple,Meeker’s contribution hadlasting effects. The trailroute was now staked,known. Without themarkers, hundreds of milesof trail would have beenoverrun by irrigationprojects and new roads andlost to history. In 1982,

OCTA’sfounderGregoryM.Franzwa published a three-hundred-pageboundeditionof geodetic maps coveringthewholetrail,anditisnowpossible to pick up the trailin the suburbs of KansasCity and follow the originalroute more than twothousandmiles to Portland,Oregon.

By early June, with theMeeker markers and the

Franzwamapsasourguides,Nick and I had completedthe firstbig legof thetrip—the250-miletransitfromSt.Joe to the Platte. Now, atMinden, Nebraska, justbelow the Platte, we wouldrestthemulesforafewdaysand make some neededrepairs to the wagon. Butsurely the biggest delight oflayingoveroncewereachedthe Platte was meeting a

latter-day EzraMeeker whoembodied his spirit ofpreservingthetrail.

•••

In 1997 the former policechief of Minden, Nebraska,BillPetersen,hadjustretiredfrom the National Guardafter a thirty-one-yearweekend career. Worriedthat he would not have

enough to do on weekends,hewentdowntoahardwarestoreonaSaturdaymorningto buy some anglingequipment and purchase afishing license. In a stateguidebook containingsuggestions about popularfishing spots along thePlatte, he noticed severalnotations for the OregonTrail, which ran rightthrough prime fishing

country. As he began todabble with fishing onweekends, Petersen becameinterested in the trailmarkers andcommemorative plaquesmarking the trail, and thenbecame concerned that amarking system meant topreserve a treasured historyreally wasn’t beingmaintained very well. Hebegan immersing himself in

trail journals and histories,joined OCTA, enrolled in aRut-Swale IdentificationCertification Course, andassigned himself the job ofmeticulously restoring themarkers, or adding newones, along a 250-milestretch of the trail east ofGothenburg. Intrigued, hequit fishing and beganspending most of his timemarkingthetrail.

I had first heard aboutPetersen, now the presidentof the trail association’sNebraska chapter, when westopped off at the OCTAnational headquarters inIndependence, Missouri, aswedrovewesttopickupourmules.Afterweleftwiththewagon, I contactedPetersenby cell phone from Kansas.He sounded skeptical aboutwhat we were trying to

accomplish and told me hedid not believe that anyonehad made an unassistedcrossing of the trail sinceEzra Meeker’s last run in1910. But, at sixty-eight,Petersen is computer-savvy,and he began following ourprogress on his laptop mapof the trail, which heoverlaidwithweathermaps.He was impressed that wehad pushed through the

rains past Marysville andShickley, and that we werepretty much tracking thetypical daily mileage of thepioneers. He offered us theuseofasmallvacationtrailerparked behind his house inMinden if we made it thatfar.

Itwasrainingagainwhenwepulled intoMinden overtheMemorialDayweekend.Minden is a popular tourist

townandfarmingcenterjustsouth of the main OregonTrail junction with thePlatte,anditstandshonestlyon the plains, classicallymidwestern, with very littleof the suburban creep thatmarsotherAmericantowns.Therailroadtracks intersectwith large grain elevators atthe edge of town and therestoredoperahousefacesalovely town square. We

found Petersen’s modestranch house on BlaineAvenue,afewblockswestofthe tidy, shaded mansiondistrict.

Petersen is a thin,energetic man in cowboyboots, blue jeans, and anIndian-print shirt, withthinning white hair and agravelly voice. He iseffortlessly gregarious andhelpful.Whenwe pulled up

withthewagon,hecameoutfrom his house and offeredto help us find a farm withcorrals for the mules. Wesettled into the comparativeluxuryofthebackyardtrailerbehind Petersen’s house,feeling almost guilty aboutaccepting the comforts ofcivilization again. Everymorning we stepped acrossthe dewy patch of lawnbehind Bill’s house and

entered the small diningnook beside the kitchen,dawdling over coffee andbreakfast prepared by Bill’scheerfulwife,Nancy.

Nick called the instantbondingweweremakingonthe trip “trail family.” InNebraska, we never lackedfortrailfamily.

Petersen patrols thePlatte River valley in apurple and red Dodge

pickup equipped with adashboard Compaq laptopthat, with GPS software,constantly updates hispositiononornearthetrail.Hispickupbed is filledwithmetal stakes, Oregon Trailsigns, and equipment forupgrading trailmarkers.Hispersonaldiscstorageofdataaboutthetrailandtrailsites,not simply inNebraska, butfrom Independence to

MountHood, is up there inthe gigabytes. He soonproved to be an invaluablesource of information aboutthe trail and, in betweenrunningerrandstohardwarestoresforNick,whilehewasrepairing the wagon, andbuying supplies for our legacross central Nebraska, Ispent several afternoonswithPetersen learningmoreaboutthetrail.

Petersen has spent thepast few years studying aforgottenbutimportantspurof the trail, the Fort KearnyCutoff, whichwas originallydeveloped in the late 1860sasamilitaryfreightcorridorbetween Nebraska City ontheMissouri and the Platte,and was later used byremnant wagon trainscarrying homesteaderslooking for a shortcut west.

Heusesoldpioneerjournals,newly unearthed maps, andlocal land records toestablish the original route.Documenting theinnumerable cutoffs in thewest, Petersen believes, tellsan important story abouthowthetrailwasreallyusedbythepioneers.

“The single biggest errornewcomerstothetrailmakeis believing that it was this

singlesetofrutscrossingtheplains,”PetersentoldmeonedayaswedrovetowardTheNarrows, a choke point onthetrailnearOak,Nebraska,where the pioneers wereforcedbyhigh terraindownto the banks of the LittleBlue.“Thetrailwentalloverthe place. There’s anenormous amount ofcountry between here andIndependence, Missouri, or

St.Joe,andwheneverpeoplethought that they hadinventedashortcuttogettothePlattequicker,theytriedit. When they got to thePlatteand,yes,hadtofollowthose banks, they were stillallovertheplacelookingforforage or better campingspots. Some days they wererightontheriver,somedaysfour miles away. Our trailmarkers are just indicators.

There’s an immense swathof land on either side ofthem that was all really theOregonTrail.”

Afewmilesnorth,nearamuddy crop field filledwithwild turkeys and yellow iris,Petersen stopped beside amonument dedicated toRobert Emery, a stagecoachdriver who in August 1864wheeled his wagon aroundnear The Narrows after

beingchasedbyIndiansandracedbacktotheprotectionof a wagon train, saving hisnine passengers. Themonument is one of severalin the area dedicated to theIndian wars that ignitedthroughout the West afterthe late 1860s, mostlybecause the tribes hadconcluded that the U.S.government had nointention of enforcing

treaties that guaranteedthem protection fromsettlers and buffalo hunters,and had now turned on thewagon trains they oncewelcomed.ButPetersensaidthat the meaning of theEmery monument goesbeyondthis.

“It’s significant that thisstage driver galloped backfor the protection of thewagon train, because it

showstheoverlappingtrafficthatwasalwaysonthetrail,”he says. “The pioneers cutwhat would eventually alsobe the stage routes, thetelegraph lines, theBurlington Northern andUnion Pacific tracks, andeven today’s Route 80. TheOregon Trail was aneconomiccatalystforalotofhistory since then, eventoday.”

But continued economicdevelopment in the Westremainsthebiggestthreattopreserving the trail.Advances in irrigationtechnology and a spike incommodityfarmpricessince2008—mostlya resultof theethanolboom—havemadeitfinancially desirable forfarmers to develop thegullied fields and wetlandsalong the bottomlands of

rivers that were unploweduntilafewyearsago.There’sa new sod-busting rush inAmericatoday.Thebigneweffort is the expansion ofcenter-pivot irrigators.These are the large, gantry-like structures of sprayerbars,mountedonall-terraintires, that rotate in a circlearound a crop field from acentral source of water.(This is the method of

irrigation that gives theMidwest, from the windowof an airliner, theappearanceofbeingamatrixofbrightgreencircles.)Cornprices that shot up from$105permetric ton in2002tomorethan$250pertonin2011havedriven farmers tosod-busthilly,virgingroundthat they used to ignore.AcrosstheMidwest,thereisa brisk entrepreneurial

business in building bridgesfor the pivot-irrigatorwheels, so that creeks andsharpgulliesinthefieldscanbe crossed by the circlingirrigators. All the way outfrom St. Joe, whenever wereachedapavedhighway,wesaw dozens of long-bodypickups and flatbedsspeeding by, carrying thesewelded structures toexpandingfarms.

McMansions built byretired couples, wind farms,and oil and gas fields inWyoming are increasinglycrisscrossing sections of thetrail that were pristinelandscapes with visible rutsten years ago. As weapproached the hamlet ofOak, Nebraska, from thenorth, Petersen pointed outan eight-section pivot thatwas slowly moving across a

hilly cornfield. As wewatched, the pivot irrigatorinchedupamoundedriseinthemiddleofthefield.Later,whenwereturnedalong thesame road, the pivotirrigator had completelydisappeared down the farside of the same rise. Thelandbeing irrigated today isthathilly.

“There’saprimeexampleright there of the biggest

threat to the trail today,”Petersen said. “The trailcame through on the top ofthat saddle of land you seethere.When the Little Bluewashigh,thewagonshadtokeep to the high ground toavoid themarshy areas. Butthat new pivot hasannihilated theold ruts.Weare losing more and moretraileveryyear,andyoulosethe trail experience as you

lose the authentic visualenvironment that it oncehad.”

But Petersen alsoreassured me that longstretches of the trail justahead remained intact. Athiskitchentable,withalargecoffeepotbetweenus,wesatup for two nights andmappedoutourrouteacrossthesouthbanksofthePlattethrough Nebraska, carefully

marking, with a bluehighlighter, every road wewouldfollow.Themapworkwasexciting.Inmanyplacesthetrailroutewovebackandforth across the asphalt forseveral miles. But once wereached the Platte belowKearney,justhalfaday’srideby mule, we would enjoylong stretches of dirt roadsalongtheriverthatweretheoriginal trail. The

countryside along the Plattewas remote andundeveloped, Petersen said,andthetwomainfeaturesofthe trail that the pioneerssaw—the river itself and thegulliedSouthHills thatkeptthem along the banks—areunchanged.

Along other sections ofthe trail, especially aparticularly scenic stretchthroughthebluffsofprivate

ranches after Ash Hollow,we would be riding theoriginal dirt ruts. Everytwenty-fivemilesorsotherewere small rodeo corrals,private ranches, and publiccampgroundsinsmalltownswhere we could stayovernight. Many of theseovernightspotswere formerpioneer camps or PonyExpress stops.Wewouldbe

seeingagreatdealoforiginaltrail.

Bill was also concernedthat we would take thechallenge of following the“original trail” too seriously.There were many obstaclesof terrain ahead that thepioneershadconqueredonlybecause they were travelinginlargetrainsofwagonsthatoffered them a generouspooloflabor.Teenagersand

children helped unload thewagonsandcarriedtheflourcasksandbedpostsuptothesummits of sharp hills. Atsteep downhill grades, thewagons were lowered byteams of men with chainsandropes.

Petersen knew that wewouldn’t have thisadvantage.Hepointedoutafew problem areas on themap, like the sharply rising

hillsafterO’Fallon’sBluff,orthe first big ascent of thetrailwhere thewagonswereunloaded, California Hill.The Platte was runningexceptionally high this year,he said, and there wereplentyofotherplaceswherewe’d find the trailsubmergedinlakes.Withhisbluehighlighter,hecarefullymarked routes around thesebarriers.

“Don’toverdoit,”hesaid.“I’mnomuleman, but I doknowgrades.Bymybook, ifyou follow Route 30 andthen Day Road aroundCalifornia Hill, you’ve stilldonethetrail.”

Minden was also animportant mechanicalreckoning for me. I haddreamed about this trip foryears, and planned andplanned. But now that I’d

come the first 250shakedown miles, I wasconfrontingmymanyerrorsof foresight. The barewooden brakes that DonWerner had assured uswould “last all the way toOregon” were already shotfrom slowing down thewagon over the low, gentlegrades of the junctioncountry.Twohundredmilesahead, we would face the

perilous canyons anddownhill plunges aroundCalifornia Hill and AshHollow,Nebraska.Whenweremovedtheoakshoesfromthe brake assembly toinspectthem,therightbrakefell apart in our hands.Oneof Bill Petersen’s friends, awoodworking hobbyist,completely rebuilt the brakeout of fresh oak. In afarmer’sbarnnorthoftown,

Ifoundacoilofthresherbelt—a durable rubber,reinforced with nylon, usedto convey power from anengine to a thresher orcombine—which Nick cutinto enough brake pads tolastusfortherestofthetrip,protecting the woodenbrakesfromtheworstabuseofthehillsahead.

Ihadalsoconcluded thatthe fifty gallons ofwaterwe

were carrying would neverdooncewegotpasttheforksof the Platte, where thetowns and ranches thinnedout and we would need tocarry more than a one-daysupply. Scrounging aroundanotherfarm,Ifoundabluefifty-five-gallonplasticdrumthathadbeenusedtodelivercornsyruptobakeries.Nickspent a day and a halfbuilding a cantilever

extensiontotheTrailPuptomountthebarrelandplumbit with a spigot and hose,whileIranbackandforthtohardware stores ordumpster-dived for thelumber and parts that weneeded. We added racksbeside the plastic barrel forour food coolers and potsand pans. My pretty,exquisitely restored PeterSchuttler now looked like a

hobo rig, with a thickcoating of matted wheelgrease, dust, and prairiegrassonthesides.

The Minden layover justmade us hungrier for moretrail. We were acclimatednowtomovement, freedom,the languor and sweetexhaustion of long daysbehindthemules.Sittinguplate at night with my mapsand a pot of coffee

separatingmefromawhite-haired, reincarnated EzraMeeker, was dreamy. Thelong, serpentine line of ourplanned route along thePlatte,withthebraidedflowof the river marked on theFranzwa and DeLormemaps, and triangle hatchesfor the wetlands, wasbeguiling. Nick and I wereimpatient to launch for thePlatte, andafterdinnerwith

Bill andNancyonour thirdnight we drove out to thewagon and carefullyreloaded our supplies, usingbungee cords to secure ourfood coolers on the newTrail Pup extension.Afterward, we sat on ourcamp chairs beside thewagon and stared up at thestars.

“Rink, I just want to getbackonthetrail,”Nicksaid.

“Lifeissimpleoutthere.”

•••

The next day, as we fell inalong the Platte, I couldinstantly see why thepioneers found the rivervalley so seductive andnavigable. To our right thesilvery chain of the riverstretched northwest until itdisappeared over the

horizon, its waters at fullstageskimmingbysoswiftlythatthewagonseemedtoberacing beside it. Within ahalfday’sridefromKearney,theSouthHills appearedonthe left. They were low androunded at first but afterCozad they broke into aseries of sharply rising,jagged bluffs, withmesmerizing beige andgreen badlands falling in

between.Together, theriverandtheparallelhills formedthe natural shoulders of theavenue where the coveredwagons had fanned wide,searchingforthebestforageor clear air away from thedust created by the trainsahead.

Historian Merrill Matteshaswrittenthatthepioneerswere “welding a continenttogetherwithwagonwheels”

as they followed thishighwayacrosstheplains.“IfGod smiled on America’scredo of Manifest Destiny,”Matteswrote,“Heshoweditmost clearly in providing ageographically centralcorridor up the Platte.” Forthenexthundredmiles,untilThe Forks at North Platte,we hugged the same coursealong the river on narrowpavedroadsanddirttracks.

The trail on the southside of the river wasuninhabited and desolate.But through the mistycondensation rising off theriverwe could see the grainelevators and shiny silos ofthe farm hamlets on thenorth side. Alfalfa Centerwent by, then Odessa andElmCreek.Bythemiddleoftheafternoon the jinglingofthe harness and the

rumbling of the wheels hadput me to sleep again, andonce more I caught myselffromfallingoffthewagonbygrabbing thebrakehandle. Igot off to hike, and enjoyedthe way that the Schuttlerwhite-top disappeared intothe green vastness ahead asthe mules outpaced me. Itdidn’t matter to me if thewagon got too far ahead, orif Nick daydreamed and

forgot about me. I wasbounded by the South Hillsoffmyleftshoulder,andtheriverflowedpasttomyright.EverythingIcouldseealongthe funnel of land inbetween was the OregonTrail.

13

OUR DAYS OF ENDLESS

BEAUTY along the Plattemade it difficult to believethat we were traveling

through a great valley ofdeath. After the late 1840s,however, the Platte Rivervalley was just that, anavenue through the bluffsthat led to anepidemiological cul-de-sac.Evenbeforethewagontrainsleft IndependenceorSt. Joe,themassing in thecampsofso many disparate groupsvirtually guaranteedoutbreaks of infectious

diseases like measles andsmallpox,butthegreatkillerwasAsiaticcholera.Afteranoutbreak in Calcutta in the1820s, the Vibrio choleraebacteria were carried acrosstraderoutesbyratsonships,exploded across Europe inthe1830s,andreachedNewOrleansin1849,justintimeto travel up the MississippiRiver in the springsteamboats to meet the

swelling Gold Rushmigration.

The swampy drainage ofthe Platte extended severalhundred yards from themain river channels. Theexpanseofstandingpoolsofbrackish water and salty,alkaline mudflats oftenbegan just a few steps fromthewagonruts.Thiscreateda natural petri dish for themicroorganism responsible

for causing cholera, and thepioneers were adding freshhost material for bacteria—human waste, animalmanure, the carcasses andoffal of slaughtered animals—every day. Biologists nowknow that the alkalinedeposits that occurrednaturally along the PlatteRiver flats mimicked thesalty delta conditions of thebacteria’s native India,

encouraging the growth ofVibrio cholerae in thesqualid waste piles of thecamps. The anarchy oflatrines in the campsfestered overnight,becomingkillersforthenextarriving train. When theriver rose after storms,choleratraveleddownstreamseveral miles in a singlenight.

Viewed in this way, thelargest land migration inhistory created a fascinatingintersectionbetweenhumanneed and biological self-destruction. For 450 milesthe Platte offered thepioneers everything theyrequired in an otherwisearid, hostile environment—clearnavigationpointswest,water, fresh game, andtimberforcookingfires.But

thePlattealsoprovidedidealconditionsfordisease:warmtemperatures,alkalisoil,andmud holes that acted asstewpotsfororganicwaste.

Throughout May andJune every year there weredozens of covered wagontrains along a single fifty-mile stretch of the Platte,and every one of themfunctioned as an ad hocdisease transmission system

for thewagonsdownstream.Cholera, which attacks thedigestive system andintestines with acutediarrhea, followed byconvulsions and vomiting,can turn victims purple andblueinthefaceandcauseanagonizing death withinhours. Illinois pioneer JohnNevin King rode a paid“express train” to Californiain 1850, similar to the

Turner and Allenexperimentof1849,andsawfour men in his group diebefore reaching the forks ofthe Platte. “Tis awful whenyou see an acquaintance atnoon well and in theenjoyment of health andlearn in the evening that heisacorpse.”

Thecholeraoutbreaksonthe Platte have to beconsidered an economic

indicator, not just a matterof health. Families suddenlydispossessed of their farmsbyfinancialpanics,oryoungeasterners overwhelmed bythe irrational exuberance ofgold fever, either had nochoice about traveling westorwere toocrazedbygreedtoreadthewarningsigns.Inpeak migration years like1849 and 1852 as many as2,500 pioneers died every

year between the jumping-offcitiesandFortLaramieinWyoming, making for anaverage of four graves permileall thewayacross fromIndependence or St. Joe.Historiansnowestimatethatthe toll from cholera wasbetween twenty thousandand thirty thousand deathsbetween 1849 and the CivilWar.

Theproblem,mainly,wasignorance, and the longdelays in communicatingscientific knowledge in thenineteenth century. Doctorswho had treated patientsduring earlier outbreaks inParis and in the teemingindustrial cities of Englandsuspected that the sourceofcholera was contaminatedwater, particularly brackishwatermixedwith sewage in

the low-lyingdocksideareasinhabited by the workingclass. In 1854 an Englishdoctor, John Snow,identifiedapollutedLondonwell as the source of acholera outbreak, adiscoverynowthoughttobethe beginning of moderngerm theory. Snow’s workwas not widely knownoutside England, and mostAmericans continued to

believe in the medieval“miasma theory” of diseasetransmission—that noxiousvapors from swamps andbad air carried disease.Snow’s research finallyreached North America inthe 1860s, but this was toolate to save the emigrantsduring the peak travel yearsalongtheOregonTrail.Thisinvasion of humanity,implantedonthisecosystem,

was killing the participantseveryday.

The pioneers seemed tounderstand the threatposedby the imperfect watersupply, but did very littleabout it.Abigail JaneScott’s1852 journal aptly describesthe infectious trap posed bythe Platte. After her train“struck” the Platte in lateMay, Scott reported seeingasmanyasten“freshgraves”

every day along theshoulders of the trail,complained about sicknessinherowntrain,andpasseda wagon company fromSpringfield, Illinois, thathadturnedbackfortheMissouriafterburyingonememberofits party in the afternoonand another the nextmorning.Butliketherestofthe wagon companies,Abigail’s train was

desperately dependent onthewaterthatwaskillingitsmembers. A single coveredwagon carrying five or sixpioneers, drawn by thirstyoxen or mules, required uptoseventygallonsofwateraday.

But decent water washardtofind.Scottfoundthewater from the mainchannels of the Platte—roilingwithmud,sticks,and

sand brought down by thespring rains—distasteful.“The water of the Plattebeing so mudy and warmthat it was impossible todrink it.” Instead, thepioneerswereforcedtorootaroundinthemudholesandswamps along the edges ofthe river drainage, eventhough they knew thesesources of water wereunhealthy. “The great cause

of dierrehea which hasproved to be so fatal on theroad,”ScottwroteonJune8,“has been occasioned inmost instances by drinkingwater fromholes dug in theriver banks and alongmarshes.” She knew. Still,Scott and her partycontinued drawing waterfrom the brackish andcholera-infested mud holes,a practice they would

continue until they reachedthe cleaner banks andnaturalspringsaftercrossinginto thehigherelevationsofWyoming.

Virginian JohnClark alsocrossed in the busyemigrationyearof1852and,as early as St. Joe, observedtheimpactofcholeraonthecrowdedjumping-offcamps.A shortage of spadesmeantthat many cholera victims

were buried so poorly thattheir toes protruded fromtheir graves, and shadyvolunteers lingering on theedges of the campscheerfullyofferedtohelpdiggraves, only to run off withthe flour casks and cookingpots of the deceased, whichwere quickly resold toincoming pioneers. Clarkdescribed another scenewhen his train camped one

afternoon between the BigBlueandthePlatte.

We pitched our tentsbut soon found wewere in a distressedcrowd. Many Oregonfamilies. One womanand twomen lay deadon the grass & somemore ready to die ofcholra, measles &small pocks. A few

men were digginggraves, others tendingthe sick. Women &children crying, somehunting medicine &none to be foundscarcely;thosethathadwere loathe to spare.With heartfelt sorrowwe looked around forsome time until I feltunwell myself.Orderedtheteamsgot

up & move forwardone mile so as to beout of hearing ofcrying&suffering.

Theroteburialsalongthetrail numbed many of thepioneers.Thereisrarelyanymention of a religiousservicebeforethedeadwereinterred, and pioneersalready inured to death bypassing a dozen or more

graves a day seemed moreintent on keeping thewagonsmoving.Afterhastilyhacking away at the hardprairie soil, the survivorsburied the latest choleravictims in graves so shallowthat the outline of the bodycould still be clearly seen.Manyfamiliesworriedthatanew grave would bedisturbed by coyotes anddeliberately buried their

dead on the shoulder of thetrail,oreveninthemiddleoftheruts.Then,thirtyorfortyteams andwagonswere rundirectly over the grave tohide its existence frompredators.

Trail scholars areparticularly grateful toMicajahLittleton,anativeofGeorgiawhoquithis jobona Mississippi Riversteamboat to cross to

California in 1850. Littletonbecameasortofprofessionalgrave-spotter, meticulouslyrecordingthenamesofoverthree hundred of the dead,carved on headboards, thathe saw between St. Joe andSouth Pass. He oftenwandered far off the mainruts in search of additionalburials and founddozens ofunmarked graves hundredsofyards fromthemainruts.

Littleton’s precise noteshelped historians to makeestimates of the completedeath toll in a bad cholerayear. An accurate grid ofburial sites has also helpedtrail experts establish howfarthewagontrainstraveledawayfromthemainpath.

During just two days inthethirdweekofJune1850,Littleton found thirty-onegraves along thePlatte.One

gravehedescribeddepictsacommonsightalongthetrailand demonstrated thehastiness of the burials. Histender sadness yetresignation about the scenemust have been typical forpioneers who, by the timethey reached Fort Laramie,regarded another new graveasnomorenoteworthythanapassingantelope.

I passed one todaywhat appeared to be awoman poor creature.Herskirtsanddresslaysome 15 feet fromhergrave as though Shehaddroppedthem....Her bed a few yardsfurtherandherpillowsand blankets withsome other clothinglay around like it hadbeen only a few hours

Sinceshewasburied,asadspectacle.Itcauseddeepemotionstothrillin my bosom to lookon the Sad Sight butSooner or later we allhave to render up anaccounttoourGod.

Thereseemstohavebeena supreme irony, however,about being surrounded byso much misery and death.

Bodies stacked five and sixdeep in the camps did notdiminishtheaestheticappealof the Platte Valleylandscape, and in manyjournals there was aprevailing sense of charmedtravel. One afternoon inearly June 1852, AbigailScott saddled her horse andleft the “very sandy” roadbeside the Platte for a rideup through the nearby hills.

Scott’sjournalentrythatdayis significant because itchallenges the traditionaldepictionofpioneerwomenas either passengers in thewagons or weary walkershurrying the children alongon foot, while the mengalloped off to hunt buffalo.LikeNarcissaWhitman andMargaretFrink,Scottwasanavidequestrienne.

Inoneplace thebluffscame up very near tothe river, and Iascendedonhorsebackto the top of thehighest one that wecould see from theroad, and there saw,indeed a romanticspectacle. The Plattebelow me flowing onin peaceful music,intersected with

numerous islandscovered withtimber. . . . Theemigrants wagonscattle and horses onthe road in eitherdirection[stretched]asfar as the eye couldreach.

Overthenext twoweeks,hardlyadaywentbywithoutScott’s remarking on the

majestic terrain. She foundthe“columnsabovecolumnsofsandandsandstone”thatthe wagon trains used asnavigation points—CourthouseRock,JailHouseRock, Chimney Rock—aesthetically irresistible. OnJune 15 her train reachedScotts Bluff in westernNebraska,thegatewaytotheRockies. To the west, shecouldseethepurpledomeof

Laramie Peak, seventymilesaway.

“The hills have a trulygrandromanticappearance,”Abigailwrote, “calculated tofill the mind withindescribeble amazementapproaching almost tosublimity.”

Over those same twoweeks, the Scott train hadcovered more than two

hundred miles and passedfifty-twofreshgraves.

•••

The theme of beautyintimately mingling withdeathoccurredtome,too,atthe end of our first day outfrom Minden, when werested and watered themules on the site of apopular pioneer wagon

camp that we reached bycrossingasmallbridge,nowthe location of the PlumCreekCemetery.

Nick and I had spent theday running themules westalong roads thathugged theriver, following BillPetersen’s trail markers, sothatwereachedPlumCreekwith a wonderful feeling ofhaving “struck” thePlatte inthe morning to follow the

old ruts for the rest of theday.Yellowconeflowersandbitterweed glowed in theuntilled fields, and thewindfrom the river blew asummer snow ofcottonwood seeds across uson the wagon seat. Themules picked up their feetandwantedtotrotwhenwereached the long, cooltunnelsofshadebeneaththe

occasional groves ofcottonwoodsalongthetrail.

The Plum CreekCemetery stands on a levelpatchofopenprairiewithabreathtaking view to theSouth Hills. The burialground is primarily knownfor its memorial to thethirteenvictimsofanattackon a wagon train by aCheyenne and Arapaho warparty in 1864. But I was

particularly intrigued by anintricately carved marbleheadstone that stood nearthe entrance to thegraveyard and dates to oneyearlater.

Sarepta Gore Fly, aMissouri native, hadoriginallytraveledacrossthetrail with her husband,William, in1859,to jointheColorado Gold Rush. TheFlys decided to return to

Missouri in 1865 and weretraveling eastbound on thetrail when Sarepta suddenlydied—probably of cholera—in early June. In the earlytwentieth century, herheadstone was found bychildren playing in a fieldnearPlumCreek,anditwasmoved to the cemetery in1930. The professionalcarving on the headstoneand the impressive use of

type fonts made it obviousthat the marker couldn’thave been made locally in1865. Over time a legendgrew about how the stonereachedthislonelystretchofthe Platte. Sarepta’shusband,WilliamFly, itwassaid, was so disconsolateabout losinghiswifethathetraveled east to Kearney,supervisedthecarvingoftheheadstone by a stonemason,

and then pushed the two-hundred-poundstoneallthewaybackalongthePlatte inawheelbarrow.

The story is almostcertainly apocryphal.William Fly was a practicalmanwhohadparticipatedinboth the California and theColorado gold rushes andwould move on to asuccessful career as aMontana rancher. It’s far

more likely that he hauledthe headstone back to PlumCreek on the family wagon,or caught a ride on one ofthe many freight wagontrainsthatbythe1860swerepassing through Kearneyeveryday.

But for more than acentury the wheelbarrowstoryhasbeen retoldas if itwere historic truth, andvariantsofitareapersistent

westernmyth. I had alreadyencountered it at the graveof Susan Haile nearKenesaw, Nebraska—herhusband, Richard Haile, issaid to have pushed herheavy marble headstone allthe way from St. Joe. (Thisversion of the legend isusually told with an O.Henry twist, that RichardHailewasforcedtoresorttoa wheelbarrow because he

hadsoldhisteamandwagonto pay for the headstone.)Over the summer I wouldencounter four moreversions of thewheelbarrowstory at trail graves fartherwest, and there are anynumber of stories like it onother overland trails. RandyBrown,aWyominghistorianand preservationistwho hasexhaustively studied trailburials, concludes that “the

wheelbarrow aspect isprobably an embellishmentadded in later yearsby localpeople.”

I was fascinated by this.The serial legend of amourning widower pushinga gravestone for his wifeacross the plains in awheelbarrow seemed to bean ineluctable narrative ofthe Oregon Trail. Standingalone before Sarepta Fly’s

headstone, I wondered howshared stories like this getstarted, why they are socontagious, and what theymean. Perhaps the earlyhomesteaders, whose fieldplowsoftenturnedupbonesfromshallowpioneergraves,felt a need to atone for thehaphazard placement of somany bodies across theplains.Maybethedesolationof the earlyhomesteads, the

sadness of the constanthowling wind, naturallyconjured up an image of alonely man pushing awheelbarrow. Pioneerwidowers were well knownfor hasty remarriages, oftenbefore they had evenfinished the trail, and thejournalsare fullofexamplesof thirty-year-old men withseveral childrenwooing andwinning teenage girls.

WilliamFlywasknowntobedifferent, however, and didnot remarry for seven years.The image of a disconsolatebut determined husbandpushing a heavywheelbarrowacross the trailcertainlyimpliedtruelove.

We pushed on and thatevening made the six-thousand-acre Robb Ranch,which stands on the southbanks of the Platte, across

from a large island in theriverwithtimberstandsandcleared pastures. Theproprietor there, Joe Jeffrey,is a joyful, round-facedveterinarian inhis seventies,a self-described “cowboypoet” who delivershumorous lectures acrossthecountryonthehistoryofouthousesandfenceposts.Asign on his barn reads POSTHOLES FOR SALE. Jeffrey took

us down to the southernportion of his ranch andshowed us the old pioneerford across PlumCreek andthe deep swales cut by thewagonsthatstillremaininafew of his unplowedpastures. We ate home-raised Angus steaks in theranchhousewithJoeandhiswife, Dianne, swappedstoriesandlaughed,forming

another of those rapid,intensefriendshipsoftravel.

TheRobbRanchhadalsobeen a crowded trailencampment,andthatnightNick and Olive Oyl sleptwith the bones of thepioneers, out in the tallprairie grasses behind theranch barns. From mymattress in the wagon Ilooked out through thewagon cover to a moonlit

landscapewheretheoldandthe modern trail merged.The South Hills, lustrousand black, were profiledagainst a lighter sky, andonthe summits the rotatingbeacons from threecommunications towersflashed red.Coyotes howledfrom the tree line at PlumCreek and I could hear therumble of the trucks onRoute 80, across the river. I

was optimistic about ourprogress on the trail andpleased about the wagonmodifications thatNick haddone in Minden. We hadcome thirty-two miles thatday,wateredthemulesthreetimes, and arrived at theRobbRanchwithafullday’ssupply of water still in ourtanks.

•••

The next day, just south ofGothenberg,Nebraska,NickandIrestedthemulesintheshade near anotherattractive trail remnant, anold log cabin called theMidway Pony ExpressStation, which stands nearthe house and barns of thehistoric Lower 96 Ranch.The ancient checked logsand the cedar-shingled roofof the Civil War–era cabin

are protected from theweatherbyamodern,three-sided aluminum implementshed, tastefully painted inslate gray and light blue tomatch the Platte Valley skytones. I was touched by thestory I learned there aboutthecabinandtheLower96.

Midway Station is aclassic example of how anold pioneer encampmentand trading post morphed

into something new witheachphaseoftransportation.After the brief, colorful lifeofthePonyExpressendedin1861, the Midway Stationbecame a stagecoach,freight, and mail stop,conveniently located alongthePlattejustaone-daypullby mule from Plum Creek.The station probably got itsname because it wasconsideredthemidwaypoint

between Atchison, Kansas,and Denver, Colorado, onthe Overland Mail route,when the stage roads weremoved north during theCivil War, to avoid Texas,which had joined thesouthern Confederacy. Butplace-names in the Westoften have multiple origins.Midway might also havebeen named because itstands justa fewmiles from

thefabled100thmeridianatCozad, Nebraska (100longitudinal degreeswest ofGreenwich, England), theline that roughly bisects theNorth American continentrunningnorthfromTexastoNorthDakota.

ThespotwhereIwasnowcarryingbucketstowaterthemules was truly saturatedwith history—the kind ofplacethatmakesabookturd

feel light in the knees. InJune 1860 a Pony Expressrider named Jim Mooremade what is still regardedas one of the greatendurance rides of all time.Receiving a westboundgovernment dispatchmarked “Very Important,”he left Midway Station andgalloped all the way toJulesburg, Colorado, only todiscover an important

eastbound dispatch forWashington that had to becarried back to Midway.Changing horses at PonyExpressstationseverytentofifteenmiles,Moorecoveredthe 235-mile round-trip inless than fifteen hours,averaging more than fifteenmiles per hour. But legendsinevitably get stretched andthe distance given in manyhistory books is 280 miles,

kitingMoore’saveragespeedup to nineteen miles perhour.

In 1879 the explorer andgeologist John WesleyPowell, later the director ofthe U.S. Geological Survey,established the 100thmeridian as the “moistureline,”often locallycalledthe“dry line,” separating therelatively fertile plains ofeastern Nebraska and the

arid scrub country to thewest. (In Nebraska, anaverage of twenty-two totwenty-eight inches of rainfalls annually east of the100th meridian; twelve tosixteen inches falls to thewest.) Revisions to theHomesteading Act underTheodore Roosevelt—a pro-rancher Republican—allowed settlers west of the100th meridian to claim a

full section of 640 acresinstead of the original 160acres,becausethedrier landwassomuchlessproductive,and this is one reason whyeasternNebraskaiscropped,and western Nebraska ismostly cattle country. Innearby Cozad there is ahistorical marker on Route30 at the 100th meridian,where theOregonTrail, thePony Express route, the

transcontinental UnionPacific, the LincolnHighway, and moderninterstateRoute80intersect.TheConcordcoachesoftheCentral California & PikesPeakExpressCompany,laterthe Overland MailCompany,rannearby.

Intheearly1880s,twentyyears after its run as aPonyExpress station andstagecoach stop, Midway

was developed into asuccessful ranch by aPennsylvanian, HenryLaurens Williams, whosefamily eventually expandeditintotheLower96,aspreadalong the Platte thatincluded8,000acresofcattlerange and 1,500 acres ofcrop ground. More than acentury of history issymbolized by the old logcabin station, lovingly

preserved by fourgenerations of the Williamsfamilyandtheirin-laws.Itisbelievedthattheoriginallogcabinsitewasasmalltradingpost along the fur caravanroutes to theRockies in the1820s and 1830s, and thestructure itself was builteitherinthe1850sasaroadranch on the Oregon Trailor in 1860 for the PonyExpress. (Some historians

question the building’s pastasaPonyExpressstop.)Thecabinwas incontinuoususeastheLower96’sbunkhouseuntil1956.

Larry Gill, seventy-one,who married into theWilliamsfamilyinthe1960s,is the fourth-generationowner-manager of theLower 96. He was mowinghis daughter’s lawn on theedge of the ranch when we

pulled by with the wagon,andheinterruptedthisworkto follow us up to theMidway Station in hispickup. Gill is a fit,Hollywood-handsome manwho is usually dressed infaded blue denims, pointypacker’s boots, and modernnylon shirts that he buttonsup to his Adam’s apple toprotect his chest from theblazing Nebraska sun. Gill

reminded me a lot of otherranchers Ihadmetover theyears.Heisnotoneofthoseboastyboy cowboys who telltall tales, but is instead amodest,gregariousmanwhoexudes a spirit of curiosityaboutvisitors.

Gill told me that, overtime, the Williams familyhas spent at least $100,000on periodic restorations ofthe old Midway-Station-

cum-bunkhouse—“andthat’s in old dollars, youknow?” An infestation ofpowderpost beetles in the1960s required the expertadviceofentomologistsfromthe University of Nebraska.ThevagariesofPlatteValleyweather—heavy rainsfollowed by scorching heat,snow in the winter—causedmoisture to wick up fromthe foundation and sill,

rotting the lower logs fromthe inside.To replace them,Gill and his ranch handsharvested new cedar logs inthe South Hills and milledandmortisedthembyhand.Heconsideredthisworktheobligation of any ranchingfamily that has inherited asignificant vestige of theOregon Trail, a way ofreassuring the public that

history could be preservedonprivatelands.

A few years ago, whenGill began to think aboutretiring, he faced a problemcommon among ranchfamilies today. His threechildren have successfulcareers and either havemoved away or are notinterested in ranching. Gilland his wife have beengradually selling off their

grazingrangetoneighboringranches, but theywill retainand farm the most valuablebottomlandsalongthePlatteso that his children caninherit a substantial familyasset. He has purchasedenough life insurance tocover the estate taxes whenhe and his wife die. Morethan130yearsofcontinuousfamily management of the

Lower 96will soon come toawell-plannedend.

But there was still onemore chore to perform,which had just beencompletedwhenNick and Irolled through with thewagon. Gill didn’t want toencumbereitherhischildrenortheeventualowneroftheremaining ground on theLower 96 with theresponsibility of perpetual

care for theMidwayStationlog cabin. After makinganother round ofrestorations on the oldbunkhouse, Gill spentalmost $30,000 pouringconcrete footings andordering the attractive,prefabricated implementshed that now shelters theoriginal structure. The biggoalwas protectingMidwayStation from moisture, and

thelogcabinisnowencasedin a dry metal barn, withsetbacks and space on thesides and in the backdesigned to encourage adryingcirculationofair.Thepitched roof extends farenough over the front toprotect the facade of thecabin from rain and snow.This side, facing southwest,willremainopen,sothattheOregon Trail tourist buses

entering the Lower 96 allsummer can still enjoy theoriginal prospect ofMidwayStation. Visitors can strollinside to see the originalfloorboards, the oldfurniture, and thephotographsof the ranch inthe nineteenth century,when theOregon Trail rutswere still visible beside thesplit-railcorrals.

The new metal implement shed thatprotects the Midway Pony Expressstation and road ranch, nearGothenburg, Nebraska, is one of themostcreativepreservationeffortsalongthetrail.

Thenewimplementshedat Midway Station sets offthe lines of the original logfacade and its windowcasements like the frameona valuable print or oilpainting. The new roofbathes the cabin in shade,protecting the log-and-adobe structure from directsunlight, and the spaceinside is cool.Gill’s solutionforMidwayStationisoneof

the most sensible historicpreservations that I’ve seen.Government didn’t do this;he did it, with his ownmoney.

I stood in front ofMidway Station marvelingabout this while I wateredthe mules from the ranchspigot. When I put mybucket down to scratchJake’s ears, Olive Oyl divedin headfirst for a drink,

overturning the pail andspooking Beck, who rearedso high that I could see hershoes above my head andthen leaped forward to runaway. I was quickly overrunbytheteam,butmanagedtopullmyselffromunderneaththe hooves by propping onekneeagainst thewagonpoleand wrapping my armaround Jake’s head. Nickimmediately saw what was

happeningandas Ibouncedalong on the poledesperately hanging on toJake, he steered the mulestoward a cottonwood grove,where they stopped. It wasonly the brilliant mulehandling of Nick thatprevented me frombecoming one of thosewagontravelerswhoatnoonare well and in the

enjoyment of good healthandintheeveningacorpse.

I was winded and rattledby the brief runaway, I wasfuriousatBeck,andmykneewasbruisedandmyshoulderached from clinging one-armedtoJake.AfterIhelpedNick back the team awayfromthetrees,Iwalkedoverto the log cabin and sat atthe kitchen table for a fewminutes,takingdeepbreaths

as I slowly feltmyheartbeatreturningtonormal.

The experience becameanother case of fearmotivating me to push on,not discouragingme, and atMidway Station Nick and Imade a mid-afternoondecision that became habit-forming for the rest of thetrip. We had alreadycompleted our allottedtwenty-fivemilesfortheday,

and now we were on acomfortableranchwherewewerewelcome to camp. Butwe had made more thanthirty miles the day beforeand could easily bring ourtotal to thirty-five milestoday, making our two-daytotal almost seventy miles,substantially revising myexpectations for the trip.There were still four hoursofdaylightleftandthemules

weren’tspent.Myadrenalinedrip from the runaway, andthen from bouncing alongon my ass beside thegalloping team, emboldenedme. This was mixed withanger at Beck. Fuck you,crazygirl mule. I am goingfor more miles thisafternoon,alotmoremiles.

WhenIaskedGilliftherewas a ranch farther westwhere we could camp, he

suggested the farm andfeedlot of a friend, JimHecox, which sat on thebottomlands of the Platterightonthetrail.

“Jimwon’t be there,”Gillsaid.“He’llstillbeoutinthefieldscuttingalfalfa.Butyoudon’t have to worry. He’llpull in tonight when you’reasleep and be delighted tosee a wagon parked in hisyard.”

•••

We clattered off the Lower96 with a wonderful feelingof being passed from ranchto ranch, and frommemorable trail stop tomemorable trail stop, byhappy Nebraskans. Theranchroadcurvednorthwestfollowing the old ruts anddelivered us to a largegraniteOregonTrailmarker

out on paved Highway 47.On both sides of thehighway, the river wasfloodedoutintolarge,sandylakes. Turning in for theHecox place, we splashedthrough deep ponds thatrose above our wheel hubsand covered the wagon inmud.

That night we wereexhausted,filthy,sunburned,andcoveredwithtrailgrime,

and I felt stiff from myrunaway drubbing by themules.Butourdaily routinewas exhilarating. The trailhad turned me into anexuberant workaholic. Riseatdawnandcarrywaterandfeed for the mules, harnessandhitch,walkor rideon awooden Schuttler seat allday, carrymore water, thenlug theheavyharness again,washthemules,cookdinner,

and snake a hose across theranch to refill our barrels atnight.Unloadandrepackthewagon, every day. Theendurance required shouldhave been toomuch for us,but across these Nebraskaplains endurance just begatmore endurance. Even thesmallest decisions seemedmomentous now. I was tootiredandsoreafterdinnertowashourdishesand instead

collapsed, with my clothesand boots still on, into mywagonbed.Fuck thedishes.Fuck hygiene. We’ve doneseventy miles in two days.The dishes could wait untilthemorning.

I was too hyped by theday to sleep right away, andtheviewout thebackof thewagon was too beautiful toignore.TheSouthHillsrosesharply inthedistance,with

thedeepfoldsofthecanyonswashedinpasteltwilight.AsI stared over my bootstoward the hills, I realizedthatIhadresolvedformyselfone of the great debatesabout the overland years.Somehistorians,oftencalled“economic determinists,”argue that America’sfrequent cycles of financialcollapse and farm failuresdrove the majority of

pioneers to the trail. Otherscholars, sometimes called“adventure theorists,”postulate that romanticyearnings for exotic traveland for fulfilling manifestdestinyweremoredominantmotives. Reaching middleNebraska, I decided, hadturned me into a diehardeconomic determinist.Forgetadventure.Adventuregetsprettystaleafterawhile

and you’re not much of aromantic after a month onthe trail. No one would dothis,dayafterday,unlesshehadto.

14

AN APPARITION WAS RIDING

WITHmeacross the trail.AtcriticalmomentsofthetripIwas flooded with memories

of my father, and reflexivecomparisons of ouradventure now and ourcovered wagon trip toPennsylvania in1958.Therewas something pathetic, Ithought, about a sixty-year-old mule skinner remainingso dependent on his past. Ireminded myself of thosedrollWASPs that youmeetat New England cocktailparties, palavering away

aboutrestoringtheirfather’soldwoodenboat.But thenIexperienced an intensemoment out past ChimneyRock that forced me toreconsiderthepsychictattooofpaternity.

At North Platte, we laidover for two days at apleasant house and pasturejustsouthoftownownedbyafriendlyretiredcouplewhobecameourtrailfamilyfora

couple of days, Don andSheila Exner. Nick made aparticularly heroic entranceat theExnerplacewhen themules balked and rearedwhile he was squeezing thewagon through the narrowspace between twooutbuildings, scraping thewheel hubs against a discharrow parked near one ofthe sheds. We used ourlayover in North Platte to

resupply and visit the localmuseums, the huge UnionPacificrailyards,andBuffaloBillCody’srestoredmansionnorthoftown.

Don Exner is seventy-three but looks muchyounger, and he is a brave,stoicman.Hehad spenthiscareermanagingWoolworthstores in the Dakotas andNebraska and then wasalmost completelyparalyzed

from thewaist down after athirty-foot fall from a houseroofwhenhewasinhisearlyfifties.Doctorstoldhimthathe would never walk again,butDonrefusedtobelieveit.He hobbles gamely betweenhis house and garage shopon crutches, grimacingwithpursed lips as he forces hislegs up at every step, andperforms his farm choressitting on a golf cart that is

outfitted with convenientlylocatedtoolkits.

From the age of eightonward I had watched myfather slowly decline fromthe phantom pain attacksthat he suffered from hisamputatedleftleg,andbeingaround someone like Donoften reminds me of him.My father struggled aroundour farm on crutcheshimself, racked by searing

pain, and helping him upfrom the barn at night orwatching him being carriedoff to the hospital forDemerol shots was part ofmy childhood routine. Thelast few years had beenparticularly edgy in thisregard, because I had oftenwrittenstoriesaboutsoldiersreturning from Iraq andAfghanistan, missing armsand legs. The details about

phantom pains still bothermeandwheneverIwroteanarticle about injured warveterans, I was likely to bemildly depressed andpreoccupied for days.Whileresearching one of thesearticles, I read a studydocumenting how modernmedical science has madevery little progressunderstanding andalleviating phantom pain

andhow,forthemajorityofamputees,thefrequencyandintensity of attacks willincrease with age. That isoneconsequenceofthewarsinIraqandAfghanistanthatwe don’t often read about.Thousands of children ofveterans across the countrywill spend their childhoodsas I did, watching theirfathers grimace and twitchwith severe pain when the

unpredictable phantomattacks return. There isprobably a family rushing awar veteran to the hospitalfor morphine or Demerolshotsrightnow.

Don is a lot quieter andmore stable than my fatherwas, but there were somesimilarities that struck me.Hehasthesameclearolive-tone skin, symmetrical ovalface, andbaldpate, and like

my father’s his face relaxeswith an amused, saturnineexpression when he findssomething ironic. Dragginghislegsaroundthehouse,henever complains about hishandicap.Withournewtrailfamily in North Platte, Iwoke inthemorning feelingthat I had just returnedhome for a long vacationwith my parents, and waslooking forward to joining

themforbreakfast.Eventheway the light fell across thewainscotingandfurnitureinthe house reminded me ofmyfather’slibrary.

Nick and I had made animportant revision of plansback in Minden. We werestill determined tomake anunassisted crossing withoutmotorized support, but itdidn’t make sense to leaveNick’s pickup all the way

back in St. Joe. We wouldneed the pickup to closedownthetriponcewegottoOregon, andwe didn’twanttotraveltwothousandmilesonanairlinertoretrieveit.Ifwe wrecked the wagonsomewhere or our wheelsbroke, we would need thepickup within a couple ofhundredmiles.Sowelandedon the plan of leapfroggingthetruckaheadofusoncea

month. FromMinden, NickhaddrivenwithBillPetersenbacktoKansas,andthenwehadplacedthetruckforwardin North Platte. Now Iwanted to place the truckanother two hundred milesahead because I knew thatwewouldhavetoreshoethemules and probably makewagon repairs at our nextplanned layover, somewherein eastern Wyoming. I had

madearrangementswiththeNorthPlatteValleyMuseumin Gering, Nebraska, nextdoor to Scottsbluff, to parkthepickupthereforacoupleofweeks.

The drive west toScottsbluff would giveme achance to scout the trailahead and then I wouldeitherfindabusorhitchhikeback to North Platte. Onemorning, at breakfast with

theExners,ItoldNickaboutmyplans.

“Trail Hand,” I said.“You’ll have to play touristwithoutmetoday.I’mgoingto drive the Toyota up toGering.”

Don looked up from hisplateofbaconandeggswithanamusedsmile.

“Oh,I’mnotsureit’ssafefor a youngman like you tobe thumbing rides across

Nebraska,” he said. “I’llfollowyouuptoGeringandthen run you back in ourcar.”

I felt guilty aboutaccepting Don’s help, but Icould see that he reallywantedtheexcursion,soweagreed to leave afterbreakfast.

We reached Gering byearly afternoon. I parkedNick’spickupintheshadeof

a pine grove beside themuseum and then walkedovertoDon’scartotellhimthat I would quickly return—I just needed to tellsomeoneatthemuseumthatIhaddroppedoffthetruck.

“Allright,”Donsaid.“Butdon’t be long. I can’t sitforeverinthecar.”

ThemuseuminGeringisoneof those localgemsthatyou can find all over the

West. The displays insideinclude an exquisitecollection of Indianarrowheads, a Studebakerprairie schooner, and anIndian bull boat made ofbuffalo hide. My book turdcompletely got away fromme and I forgot about Donout in the car, and then Iwastedmoretimediscussingthe pioneer lore of western

Nebraska with the museumdirector.

When I finally steppedtoward the glass doors nearthe museum entrance, Icould see Don outside,struggling up the walkwayon his crutches. The pathwas treacherously strewnwith large pinecones fromthe trees. Every time hethrew a crutch forward, itlanded on a pinecone and

threw him sideways, andDon grimaced with eachlabored step, trying to righthimself.Goddamnit, Rinker.You promised him not to belong. He drove all the wayouthere foryou.Nowyou’velethimdown.

Don stopped to rest in apatch of sunlight along thewalk. The survivor’sexpression on his face wastheonemy fatherhadworn

when he pulled the coveredwagon across the bridge toNewHopein1958.Thefleshtones and perspiration onhis bald scalp and highcheekbones were also thesame.

Suddenly I wasn’t in myownmoment andmyvisionofDonhadcrossedovertoastrange junction space. ANiagaraoflightnessfilledmyabdomen and chest—

whether froma racingheartor just an extremecalmnessinside, I couldn’t tell. Oh, Ican’t believe this. I am wayout here in westernNebraska,andmyfatherhascome.

The rest arrivedspontaneously. I couldn’tprevent the words and thethoughtsthatwelledup.

Dad. I’m sorry that Ididn’t make it to you that

weekend, but you died threedaysbefore Icouldget there.I have detested living all ofthese years knowing howmuch I neglected you after Ileft for college. But I had toget away from you.Can youaccept that? I was planningoncomingback,Ireallywas.TheotherthingthatIalwayswanted to tell you so youcould feel better about us isthat I always remembered

what you told me that lasttimeon thephonewhenyoucalled me in Albany. Yousaid,“Son,you’renotgoingtoamount to much until youget an opinion piece in theSunday New York Times.”Dad, I was fucking twenty-five years old, and a totalcrazyboy. It’s amiracle I gotout of bed in the morning.But that article that youwanted me to write, which

happened to be a prettydecent piece about prisonreform, appeared in theSundayWeekinReviewninedays after you died. Therewere many more after that,okay? I just wanted you toknowbecausebyyourlightsIcertainly haven’taccomplishedallthatIcouldhave,but Ididdo that.Lateon Saturday night when Iknew that the newspaper

trucks had arrived I walkedin the rain down to thebottom of State Street andbought the paper. I stood atthebottomofthehillreadingmy story. There’s a view oftheHudsonfromthereandIcould see the lights on thetugboats pushing oil tendersnorth and I’m not going tobullshit you and say that Icried but I did spend a verylong time down there just

regretting and regrettingprofoundly that you didn’tlast long enough to see this,buttherewasnothingIcoulddobutstandthereandthinkabout you. I thought aboutyou, then, and a lot later. Ijust wanted you to knowabout the article. Dad, Iknow I let you down, butcan’t you let me go? I wasnever worth it in the firstplaceandIwouldknowthat

youarefinenowifyouwouldjustletmego.Dad,letmego.

You never know the realedge of pulling out of atrance like that, but I soonfoundmyself outsideon themuseumwalk, kicking awaythe pinecones so that Donwouldhaveaneasier time. Iwas embarrassed about myrudeness, but he was morepainedthanannoyed.

“I thought you said youwouldn’tbe long,”Donsaid,perspiring fromtheeffortofsteadying himself on hiscrutches. “We should getmoving.”

Don and I had lunch inGering and thendrovebackacrosstheplains.EverytimeI watched him struggle onhiscrutchestogetoutofhiscar, or I noticed him usingthe hand controls for the

acceleratorandbrakeswhilehe drove, I manicallyseesawedupanddownagain—feelingmy heart race oneminute as I thought aboutmy father, and thenafterward experiencing anextreme, chemical calm. Itwas as if a lifetime ofdepressive cycles—the dark,gloomy lows, immediatelyfollowed by the sharp,ebullient highs—were

concentrated inside me aswedrovefromScottsblufftoNorthPlatte.

We stopped in Paxton,Nebraska, along the Platte,tomeetNick and Sheila fordinner at a famous oldwestern landmark,Ole’s BigGame Steakhouse andLounge, and Nick and Ienjoyed wandering throughthe rooms looking at thetrophies from the founder’s

safaris in Africa, and thephotographs on thewalls ofNebraska cattle roundupsand jackrabbit-huntingparties.

After dinner, I flashedagainout in theparking lot,when the evening lightfalling on the river caughtDon’s determined jaw as hestruggled back toward hiscar, reminding me again ofmy father. I let themoment

pass and Don and I drovequietly east together as thedarkness gathered on Route80. I was exhausted andconfused by my emotionalreckoning with my fatherand when we got to NorthPlatte I collapsed into mywagon bed with my clothesandbootson.

Over thenext fewdays, Iwas occasionally moodyabout my father’s reprise,

but I enjoyed the therapyofdriving mules across theplains.NickandIhadalwaysbeen able to discussanything, no matter howpersonal, and the long,scenic stretches along thetrail togetherhadreinforcedthat. Nick is a veteran ofmany self-help programsand nothing fazes him. Heknows the jargon. When Idescribed what happened

with Don Exner in Gering,hetriedtobehelpful.

“Rink, you’re not anymore fucked up than thenext guy, okay? Nobodyreally recovers fromanything. I’mfuckedup.Myfriends are fucked up.Everyone in the family istotally fucked up. You justhappened to seeDaddykeelover in the fields too many

times. You still feel guiltyaboutit.”

“Iwishtheypaidovertimeforguilttrips,”Isaid.“I’dberichbynow.”

“Look, Daddy was ourenabler,” Nick said. “That’swhyIdriveteamandyouarethis frickin dreamer. Daddyenabledusforthistrip.Whywouldn’tyouthinkofhimontheOregonTrail?”

“You’re probably right,” Isaid. “There’s no cure forme.”

“There’s no fuckin curefor any of us, Rinker. Getinto it, dickhead. I’m fuckedup, you’re fucked up, okay?Fuckedupisnormal.”

Nickwasright,Idecided.Fucked up is the universalcondition of man.We werecrossingtoOregonbehindacranky team of mules—the

very definition, theapotheosis, the pinnacle, offucked up. I woke in themorning to harness mules,fucked up, obsessed all dayon making more miles,fucked up, and collapsedonto my squalid wagonmattress everynight, fuckedup.Iwashavingagreattime,enjoyingthebestsummerofmy life, fucked up. Fuckedupisgood.

I began to relax aboutthingsalotmore.Fathersdonot let go, andmemories ofthem condense with age.NickandIwerecrossingthetrail, fifty-three years afterourPennsylvaniatrip,thirty-sixyearsaftermyfatherhaddied. Having him along forthe ridewas asmuchapartofthejourneyasthejinglingof harness, my afternoon

walks,orthehardblueskiesagainsttheSouthHills.

•••

Twenty miles out of NorthPlatte, along the shores of amodern man-made lakecalled Sutherland Reservoir,we reached a T in the roadnear a prominent chokepoint along the trail,O’Fallon’s Bluff. Here, the

SouthHillsabruptlytumbleddown to the river, forcingthe pioneers either north tofordtheriverorduewest,upthe gently rising, sandyslopesofabroadplateau.Onthe westward route, thewagons would continue tofollowtheavenueformedbytheriverandtheSouthHillsout past Alkali Lake andHappyHollow, tomake the

“upper ford” at CaliforniaHill.

Today,thenorthernrouteis blocked by Route 80,which is only a few yardsfrom the old trail, so wecouldn’t turn that way. Thewesternroutewouldcarryusaround the lake to a sandy,inferior farm countrywhereI suspected we would havedifficulty finding a place tocamp. I could tell from my

maps that the landscapeahead was the chain ofroller-coaster hills that BillPetersen had warned meabout.ButIcouldn’tseeveryfar ahead. It was just aSahara out there. Theprevailing westerly windsrocketing across the plainshad churned the bluffs intogiant clouds of sand thatobscuredtheroadsandsky.

ItwaslateafternoonandIwas tired. Beck had beenshying a lot all day, and Iwasn’t sure that the mulescould pull our rig, with fivehundred extra pounds ofwater added to the rear oftheTrailPup,overthesteephills of O’Fallon’s Bluff. Buttherewasnoplacenearbytocamp, my late-afternoonmania for more miles wasquickly turning into an

evening mania, and therewere still two hours of lightleft. I decided to push onpast a homestead calledDorsey’s Road Ranch,another trail waypoint thathadenjoyedasecondlifeontheplainsasaPonyExpressandstagestop.

We could see what kindof troublewewere in asweclimbed the first rise afterDorsey’s.Thewesternfringe

of the bluffs extended as aseries of sharply rising hillsdirectly in front of us, withno section roads turningwest to allow us to getaround the heights. But itwasn’t just the climb—thesteepest so far of the trip—that we faced. The windsblowing hard from thewesthad turned the sandy edgesof the bluff into animpenetrable gale of sand.

We couldn’t see how highwe would have to climb, orhow far the hills stretched,andwewereprobablygoingto be driving blind throughthe sand blasts. In thenarrow channel of clear airthat we could see to thewest, dark, low rain cloudswerepushingin.

We were completelyboxed in.Therewasnowaywe could turn the wagon

around on the narrow road.Our only choice was topenetrateuphill throughthesandclouds,hoping thatwecould summit theindiscernible space beyondand then descend into theclearbynightfall.

IwasfrustratedbecauseIhad studied this stretch oftrailseveraltimesduringthewinter, andknew that I hadto find a way around the

high terrain. Now we wereheaded straight forO’Fallon’sBluff.

“Nick,” I said. “I’vescrewed the pooch on thisone.”

“Boss, we’re on the trail,right?Wasn’t that amarkerbackthere?”

“We’reonthetrail.”“So?Fuckit.Let’sgo.The

trail’s the trail. What’s thenameofthisplace?”

“O’Fallon’sBluff.”Nick slapped the lineson

the rumps of the mules.“Hup, Team! Hup, Hup!C’mon,youoddbuggers,it’sjustawhorecalledO’Fallon.O’Fallon’sBluff,Team!Bute,Jake,Beck!O’Fallon’sBluff!”

By now we’d learnedsomethingsabouttheteam.Bute,acomplete laggard forwork, nevertheless pulledhardon thehills. Itwas the

procrastinatingmule in her.She mostly wanted to laybackalldayandletJakeandBeckpulltheload.Butwhenthere was work to do thatcouldn’t be avoided, shewanted to get it over in ahurry. When she saw a hillcoming, Bute leaped into afast walk-trot, leaned hardinto her collar, andsomehowlungedhershorterlegs ahead of the team. Jake

and Beck hated that andnever wanted to be leftbehind by Bute, so theyraced forward together as ateam, all six tug chainspulled tight. We knew toexploit that now, and Nickyelled to Bute in his bestmule-calling baritone andtouched her rump with thewhip.

“Bute,youoddbugger,upthe hill, Bute!We’re cutting

your weight down for theprom, Bute! Bute! Get up!We’regoingtotheprom.UpO’Fallon’sBluff,Bute!”

The edge of the bluffsroseasamoundedgrasslandon our right, a little higherthan the wagon top,protecting us momentarilyfromthewind.But thenthevegetatedgroundfelltowarda small canyon just ahead.We had another quarter

mile of clear air before wereached the high groundobscuredbythesandstorm.

As we started uphill, Ikeptmy hand ready for thebrake and told Nick that ifthesummitwasobscuredbythe sandstorm, I’d lock thewheels to reassure the teamwhen we felt the wagonlungedownhill.

“Nick! Here we go! Justsee if you can keep them

straightontheroad.”“Yup, Team! Yup, Team!

O’Fallon’s Bluff, Bute! Oh,fuck,Rink.Lookatthishill.Ilovethis.”

Itwasjustawispyedgeofwind and arid soil at first,dust devils on a Nebraskahill. I could feel a sensualpittingofsandonmyhandsand cheeks. But as weclimbed higher the blastingsand stung my skin, even

throughmy clothes.On theexposed ridge below thesummit, the wind buffetedus even harder—thirty-fivemiles per hour, forty-fivemiles per hour, I couldn’ttell. Our hats ripped upagainst the parade stringsunderourchins,andIcouldsee Beck’s harness rise offherrump.

Farther up the hill, weentered a noiseless zone

where the wind racing pastour earswas so compressedthat there was no sound atall except for a muffledjinglingofthetugchainsandthe groan of the wagontongue. Nick’s voice, callingthe mules, reached me as adistant, hoarse whisper.There was nothing to seestraightahead.

Bump. The wagonlurched sideways—hard left.

I couldn’t see or hearanything in the blindingcloud of sand. I could onlysense thewagonby the seatofmypants.Oh, yes.That’sthree axles back. The TrailPup is in the ditch, pullingright, jackknifing the mainwheels left. Beck had beenthrownleftbythelurchandwas pulling hard right toregainherfooting.ButNick,feeling her pull right, was

trying to keep her left,thinkingthatshewasleavingtheroad.

Frommyposition on therightsideof thewagonseat,Beck, on the right of theteam,wasdirectlyinfrontofme.Assheregainedtheedgeof the road Inoticeda clearvisual reference by staringstraight down at her rearhooves—practically the onlything I could see. Her right

hind hoof and her right tugchain were about eighteeninchesfromthefuzzylineofgreenprairiegrassthatgrewalong the road shoulder.Hoof to prairie grass—eighteen inches. That wasmydistancefromtheedgeoftheroad.

This was instrumentflying, in covered wagonmode. I could almostperfectly assess our position

on the road by Beck’sdistance fromthegrass line.Sheneededtogetrightagainto be on the edge of theroad, but Nick couldn’t seeanythingfromhissideofthewagon and kept pulling herleft. Bumpety-bump, bump,bump, the right Trail Pupwheelwasskiddingsidewaysinto the rough off the roadandswayingthemainwagonoffcenter.

I leaned hard into Nick,yelled into his ear, andgrabbed at his knees for thelines.

“Nick! I can see the edgeoftheroad!I’lltakethelines.Youcall.”

All of this happened injustafewsecondsandnowIhad the lines firmly in myhands.When I inched Beckback right I picked up theedge of the road and then

pulled her even farther intothegrass,hopingthatIcouldstraightenthewagonandgetthe Pup wheel out of theroughedgeofthetrail.Iwasdriving entirely by feel now,steeringtherigaccordingtothesurfaceIcouldsensethatthewheelswerepassingover—bump, bumpety-bump,bump, bump, bump. Thenthe ride suddenly turnedsmooth.Yes,I’mbackonthe

grassyedgeoftheroad.Holdit steady on the grass tostabilize the wheels. Aftertwenty yards of that, Icoaxed the team left andcould see the prairie grassagainwhereitwassupposedto be—eighteen inches offBeck’s hoof.Good.The ridewas smooth andwe had sixwheelsbackonsolidground.

It was just a thing ofdriving beauty after that,

with a thrilling sense ofdanger, competence,instinct, and joy. I wasamazed, too, at the wonderof personality. Beck, ourLizzieBordenofamule,wasalwaysactingoutwhentherewas nothing to fear. Now,under terrible conditions,she was pulling like thebejesus, and her steps wereso consistent that I coulddrive through a sandstorm

bylookingatherhooves.Forthe rest of that blind pull Iwas one fluid sensation ofshoulders and handscoordinating driving lines,mule bits, and wheelsdampened by dust.My eyeswere bloodshot from thesand and wind but Iwouldn’t take them off myeighteen inchestothegreenline of prairie grass. Therewasstillnovisionahead,and

notmuchsound,andIdidn’tknow where the hill endedbut somehow I felt secure,neurologically fused to themulesthroughthelines.

There was a brief clearspace of air just below thesummit of the first hillwhere the moundedgrasslands returned. Iquickly looked west beforewe reentered the sandplumes and it was an

exhilarating sight. For thirtymilestheverdantcropfieldsshonegreenalongthePlatte.Directly below us, shafts ofsunlight punching throughthebreaks inthe lowcloudsbrilliantly lit the aluminumgrain bins on the farms.There were storm cloudsfarther west. Then wedisappeared again into thebrownfuryofsand.

There must have beensomething about emergingfrom the sand plume to seetheintensevistabelow.Iwasoverwhelmed with a single,pellucid sensation. I feltcompletely free. Nothingexisted behindme or aheadofmeonthetrail.

Uncertainty. Complete,purified uncertainty—that’swhat I was living for now. Ididn’tknowwhatlaybeyond

these hills. There was noplacecertaintogo,nocampthat we knew of tonight.What did pushingmules upthissandyhellofhillsmean?Beck had been a shyingmaniac all day andnow shewaspullingthroughthesandclouds like adreamgirl.Myfather had appeared to meunannouncedinGering.Ourpathwest carried us towardanotherthunderstorm.ButI

didn’twant certainty now. Iloved living this way and Ijust wanted three mules,Nick, and the trail. All Icould do was continuemoving west, west, west, afanaticformiles.Myrewardfor that was learning toembraceuncertainty.

We were still trapped bythe blowing sand when wecrested the first hill. I couldtell that the wagon was

heading downhill againwhenthepole liftedandthetrace chains went slack. Ireached over for the brakewith my right foot and feltthrough the lines themulesmomentarily panicking andthen relaxingwhen I lockedthewheels.Wedescendedintheblowingsandforanotherminute until we reached aclear spot along thegrasslands again, and the

next hill was obscured foronlyaboutfortyyards.

The restof thehillswerelowerandthewindbegantoabate. Over them, we weredriving blind for only aminuteorless.ButIhadmymantra now. Uncertaintywas a sacrament and thequest for miles meant thatwe’d never know where orhowwe’dendtheday.

•••

It was nearly dark whenwefound the first road leadingwest, away from the hills.Once more we were racingdark clouds over the Platteto find shelter and dodge arunaway before the stormhit. The plains beyondO’Fallon’sBluffwerelitteredwith sad, ragtag farms,mostly deserted. These run-

down areas, which wouldbecome a common sight aswe moved west, wereproduced by theconsolidation of farmingthat has taken place inAmerican agriculture overthe past thirty years.Mechanization, chemicalfertilizers, and improvedseed hybrids have allowedfarmers to efficiently tilllarge parcels of several

hundred acres, even morethan a thousand acres, atonce. In the past, a typicalone-mile-square parcel ofcropland, containing 640acres and called a “section,”supported four family-owned farms of 160 acreseach. (Many areas even had“eighth-section” farms ofeighty acres apiece.) Whenthese smaller, less efficientfarms were abandoned or

sold, the larger, prosperousfarming outfits that boughtthe acreage ripped out theold tree lines and irrigationsystems to join theneighboring fields into onegiantcropfactorythatcouldbe “plowed through” withhuge John Deere or Casetractorsforamileorlonger.With typical Americanindifference to aestheticsand road views, however,

many of these newagribusiness firms havesimply left the old housesand barns along the roadfrontages to rot. There arehundredsofclustersofthese“ghost farms” throughoutthe Midwest and Westtoday.Whilethebestgroundsurrounding the farmsshimmers with mile-longfurrows of wheat and corn,the sun-bleached old hay

barns and wooden housesalong the road lookabandonedandforlorn,theirdoors and clapboard sidingflappinginthewind.

Just before the stormhit,we finally found a family ofrenters at one of these run-down farmswilling to letuscamp, and we stripped theharness off the mules andgot them into a corral as itbegan to rain. Nick

wanderedoffwithOliveOylto sleep in a dilapidatedsemitrailer that had beenconverted intoahorsebarn,and he would wake in themorning with a beard ofmanure plastered to thewhiskers on one side of hisface.Ispentmyfifthnightofthe trip sleeping in thewagon during athunderstorm.

While the rain poundedonthecanvastop,IcountedthesectionlinesfromNorthPlatteonmyDeLormemap.We’d covered thirty-twomiles that day. The mulesweren’t even spent, and, atthisrate,wecouldbeinAshHollow in two days—450miles fromSt. Joe inexactlyamonth.

Pushing on for the hillsafter we’d already done our

twenty miles for the daywasn’t a sensible decision.We should have campedbeforereachingthelakeandtaken O’Fallon’s Bluff earlyin the morning, when thewinds were lighter. It was amistake. But these mistakeswere working for us. Afterthe storm blew over, I fellasleep to the frantic callingof screech owls, who forsome reasonhad decided to

dive-bomb thewagon top. Ithought back to my sandyepiphany up on the bluffs.Perhaps,onacoveredwagontrip,therewerenomistakes.Only luck and persistencecounted. My father hadtaken theDelaware thatdayin 1958 on a guess and aprayer. We had just takenO’Fallon’s Bluff, one ofseveralobstaclesonthetrailI was warned not to cross,

drivingblindinasandstorm.Uncertainty and unplanneddayswerekitinguswestwellaheadofplan.

15

CALIFORNIA HILL IS ONE OF

those places along the trailthat Daniel Boorstin wasreferring to when he

describedthecoveredwagonas “plainly a communityvehicle: everything about itrequired traveling ingroups.” After fording theSouth Platte channel nearpresent-dayBrule,Nebraska,the pioneers crossed twentymilesacrossabreathtakinglyscenic plateau to the NorthPlatte drainage, which theyfollowed northwest intoWyoming and the Rockies.

Several fingers of badlandravines, however, coursedthroughthescrubandbrushplains around CaliforniaHill, and the only access tothe plateau was a smooth,sharp incline between thecanyons.Thepulltothetopinvolvedanelevationchangeof about three hundred feetin less than a halfmile, oneofthesteepestgradesonthetrail.

All summer during thetrail years, as hundreds ofwagonsconvergedabovetheSouth Platte, California Hillbustled with purposefulchaos. The white-tops wereparked at all angles, spreadlike dominoes between thecanyons.Theflourcasksandtrunks of the pioneers werestrewn in piles everywhere.Familiescampedandcookedastheywaited for their turn

on the hill. Children earnedtheir keep scurrying uphill,carrying the contents of thewagons piece by piece, andthe canyons sang with thesounds of jangling harnessandgroupsofmenshoutingas the draft teams weredoubled and the lightenedwagonswerepulledupslope.

Studying choke pointsalongthetraillikeCaliforniaHill, I was often struck by

the paradoxes of Americanthinkingabout thepioneers.We think of them assojournersinthewilderness,explorers almost, bravelyconquering the “GreatAmerican Desert.” But themany places where theterrain forced the pioneersto gather enmasse acted astransient, urban clusters,cities of people in mobilehomes traveling to the next

big ford or bluff, there toclusteragainasanessentiallyurban unit. The pioneerswere mostly rural farmers,but on the trail they had torelyonthenegotiatingskillsand habits of organizationdemanded of city dwellers.Schoolteachers andhistorians depict thepioneersasexemplarsofthatsupposed American trait,“rugged individualism.” But

rugged individualism waswrapped in an envelope ofgroupenterprise.

Even before I left NewEngland, Ihadknownthat Iwouldn’ttakeCaliforniaHill.The old ruts are nowpreserved by OCTA with afencelineandanarrowgateallowing access to touristson foot, but preventingdamage to the historicswalesbyteenagersonATVs

anddirtbikes.Nowadaysnoone wants a team of mulesscramblingupthere,either.Ihad planned to divert westto Big Springs on Highway30 and then climb to theplateau along the steep butgradedDayRoad.

Mostof theOregonTrailexperts, including BillPetersen, hadwarnedme toresistonetemptation.Thereis now a dusty, steep ranch

road that tightly circles theperimeteroftheoldtrail,butthis grade is actually steeperthan the original ruts.Conquering that gradewouldallowmetosaythatIhad climbed California Hill.But this was consideredfoolhardy and I would berunning the risk of gettingstuck or wrecked up there.An unassisted climb up thehill in a loaded wagon,

pulling a heavy Trail Pup,wouldbeinsane.

We reached CaliforniaHill late in the afternoon,tired and hot after a thirty-mile run from O’Fallon’sBluff. Today, there is apullout and a historicalplaque dedicated toCaliforniaHillatthebaseofthe rise, along Highway 30.Excited about reaching thismilestone of the trail, I

stepped from the wagon toread the plaque and todescribe to Nick thenineteenth-centurybustleofCaliforniaHill.

Nick gazed north up thesharp rise with a quiet,farawayexpression.

“Rink, I can put thesemulesuponthatridge.”

Ididn’twanttoattemptadifficult ascent like this,risking the whole trip after

coming almost five hundredmiles.

“No,” I said. “It’s toodangerous.”

“Icameoutheretodothetrail,” Nick said. “The realtrail. I canput themulesonthatridge.”

“Nick. Why do you dothistome?”

“Daddy used to say that.Likeitwasmyfault.”

“You’recrazy,”Isaid.

“Wealreadyknowthat.”The moment condensed

our history as brothers. InMaine, Nick was known forfastidiously buildingmansionsandreconstructingburned-out summer campsin record time,but thatwaswhen he was working forsomeone else. On his owntime,hesankboats,strippedgears pulling swimmingfloats from rivers, and

wreckedwagonsandsleighs.Essentially, crossing theOregon Trail together, wewere a case of collaboratingDNA presenting symptomsofincurablebipolardisorder.Iproceedwithanabundanceof cautionandprefernot tobe dead. Nick is thrilled bydangerandproceedswithanabundanceofrisk.

“Boss?”hesaid.“Rinker?”“Letmethink,”Isaid.

I leaned against Jake’sneck, scratching his ears,andstareddownattheriver.Itwasahazyafternoonandasmudgypallofmoistureroseover the curving channel ofthe Platte.Thewrongmovehere could end the trip.Butwithout Nick I wouldn’tevenhavebeenatCaliforniaHill. Besides, Iwas addictedto mileage now. Instead ofthe twenty miles that I had

planned, we were nowregularly loggingtwenty-fivemiles by late afternoon.Reachingtheplateaudirectlyfrom herewould save us aneight-mile detour, oncemorebumpingourdailygainto almost thirty-five miles.There was still light in thesky and I was overwhelmedby my evening mania fordistance.

Shit. I simultaneouslyhated Nick’s ass and lovedhimforaskingmetodothis.

“Nicholas Buck,” I said.“You are a miserablebraggart, a shamelessdaredevil, and a horribledresser.”

“Great, we can do it!Thanks,Boss.OliveOyl!Hesaidyes!”

“You do know that yourassisgrassifwegetstuckup

there.”“Boss, relax. The mules

willclimbthishill.Haveyoueverknownmetofuckup?”

“Oh,Christ,”Isaid.“Let’swaterthesemules.”

•••

Western hills are deceptive.The ridgeline seen from ahill’s base elevation on theflats isoftena false summit,

but you have to reach it tosee the succession of higherrisesafterthat.Thesandhillformations of Nebraska arehigh grassy dune after highgrassy dune. As weclambered up the first risewith the teamIdidn’tknowwhat we’d find, except thattheridgethatIsawprobablyhidafewmore.

I realized the magnitudeof our error when we

reachedthefirstsummitandstopped beside the OCTAinterpretive sign. The fenceline protecting the oldswalesblockedourway,andtheoriginaltraildisappearedover the green hill on anorthwest diagonal. Thepioneershadexpertlypickedtheir terrain along a narrowcorridor of uphill slopebetweentheravines.Buttheperimeter road that we

wouldhavetofollowactuallyplungedbackdown into theneighboring canyon,requiringtwodropsintothehollowsand twomore steepclimbs. The footing on thepath was a deep, chalkysand. Steep canyon wallsroseonthenorthandsouthsidesofthelastclimb,wherethe soil roadbedwas erodedabout eight feet below thecontour line. The wind had

blown onto the roadbed adeep blanket of black, driedtumbleweed,twofeethighinsome places, and we wouldhavetoplowthroughthattoreachthesummit.

It was an Everest formules. I had neverattemptedtopushateamupsuch steephills, andwehadnowinsertedourwagonintosuch a narrow space thattherewasnoturningaround.

We were committed, butthat is far too polite awordfor our predicament. Wewerefucked.

I sighedand tookadrinkfrom my canteen, took offmyhat, andwipedmybrowwithmybandanna.

“Jesus,” I said to Nick.“Can the mules make thatlasthill?”

“Boss,chill.Whenwegetintocamptonight?”

“Yeah?”“You can take your

medications.”We plunged down

throughthe firstravine,andthen up the rise, withoutmuch difficulty. I held justenough pressure on thebraketokeeptherigoff themules until the last part ofthe downhill, and thenreleased two tons of wagonand trailer on the mules to

forcethemnearlytoagallopandgainmomentumfortheclimb. But the next hillpresented a new problem.Just before the climb, theroadturnedsharplywest.Atthebottom,Nickhadtoslowthemulestoawalktosafelynegotiate the turn, denyingus a running start for thehardverticalpullahead.

But the mules lookeduphilltothewallofdustand

black tumbleweed andwouldn’t stop for the turn,pulling right through thebrake and fishtailing thewagon around the bend.They dug in their haunchesforthepull.

Bute leaped forward andtriedtopulltheothersalongwith her, as she’d done thenight before. I couldn’tbelieveBute’sgumptionhere—shewasthelittlemulethat

could. At a moment ofexcitement like this, herdmentality, the stampedeinstinct, takes over withmules, and it means a lot.Jake and Beck were nowfuriously competing forpositionasthelead.

Oh, mules. Thank you,George Washington ofMount Vernon. Thank you,Royal Gift. These blackAndalusians were

spectacular beasts. I hadnever seen such athleticismanddrive.

The front hooves of theteam pounded the sand,their shoulders were bentlowandfarforward,andthetracechainsagainstthetreeswere tense and metallicallycracking from the pressure.Twelve hooves poundingsand and threshingtumbleweed created so

muchdustthatIcouldn’tseethe slope ahead of us. Therunning gear banged andcreaked and the mulesgruntedinsideourcosmosofdust.

Nick was pleading withthe mules now, beggingthem, leaning all the wayforwardonthe footboardsothat he was out over theteam and slapping the lineson their rumps. He was

desperate. His bravadoterrifiedhimnow.His voicecracked as he called themules.

“Big Team! C’mon, BigTeam! Beck! Jake! Bute!Oregon! Oregon, Big Team!Wegottamake thishill,BigTeam!”

In the swirl of emotionand heart stoppage that ourexpeditionnowwas, Icalledthemulestoo.

“Team! Jake! Beck! Wehave to make this hill. Wecan’t stop! Oregon, Team!Oregon!”

Nick was hoarse now,calling the team in a creakywhisper. Olive Oyl waswhimpering and shakingwithfearbeneaththewagonseat, and Iwashangingwayoff the side of thewagon tolook straight down at thewheels, with both hands on

thebrake,barelyabletostayon the seat. If the wheelsstopped and began to giveeven an inch backward, Iwouldhave to throwon thebrake to prevent fourthousand pounds of wagonfrom pulling the mulesbackwardontopofus.

In the dust, andwith thedeep bed of blacktumbleweed, Nick couldn’tsee the track ahead. He

pulled the team too far totheleft,intoabeachofsandand tumbleweed thatseemedtoswallowBute.Shewas pumping her legsfuriously now, without anytraction underfoot. Butpullingtheteambacktothecenter would have slowedourmomentum.

We were just inchingforward now. Only Jake inthe center position on the

pole had any purchase onthe hardtack middle of theruts,andhewasstillpullinglike a monster. Ourmomentum was stalled, thewagon nearly motionless,seventy feet from the top.We were doomed, a pair offoolhardy easterners ruinedonCaliforniaHill,morethana thousand miles fromOregon.

Nick seemed Lilliputiannow, his bravado spent, andmy confidence in hisprowesswasevaporating.Hewas too hoarse to call theteamexceptinawhisper.

But the team, especiallyJake, wouldn’t stop pulling.We moved forward anduphill, a foot at a time, andnear the crest I panickedwhen I realized that if westoppedtooearly,beforethe

heavy Trail Pup behind uswasofftheslope,thewagonwould plunge back down inreverse.

I grabbed the lines fromNick and called the mulesthelasthundredfeet.

“Team! To the flats! Tothe flats, Team! Jake! Beck!You’re gorgeous! To theflats!”

With supreme stamina,their mighty chests and

bellies heaving, theirhaunches pushed low to digin their hooves, the mulesgruntedusoverthetop.

Onlevelground,withthebrake set, we sat speechlesson the wagon seat, ourhearts still pounding. Thebreeze racing across thebroadplateauliftedourshirtcollars and hats. The onlysoundwastheheavingoftheteam.Finally,Nickspoke.

“This is one fuckinawesome team. I cannotbelievetheseanimals.”

Wecontemplatedthatforawhile, stillchemicallyhighand euphoric from theadrenaline pumped byCalifornia Hill. Both of usarrivedatthesamethought.

“We are going to makeOregon,”Isaid.

“Yeah,” Nick saidhoarsely. “We’re gonna

makeOregonthissummer.”

•••

The plateau surrounding uswas uniformly flat andstretchedformiles,aheavenof wheat fields in the sky.Once more it was dusk, wehadnoplacetocamp,andanewstormwithlowsnarlingcloudswasbearingdownonus from the northwest. We

walkedthemuleswestinthefadingeveninglightuntilwefound a farm where themiddle-aged couple whoowned it welcomed us in,telling us to bed the mulesdown in their goat pastureand then inviting us intotheirkitchen foradinnerofpancakesandelksteak.

The storm blew in anhour after dinner. I sattoward the rear of the

wagon, propped up by mygear and wrapped in quilts,and wrote notes about theday.Totheritualsofwagontravel—prairie dreamscapesallday,PlatteRiverstormsatnight—I was now adding anew routine. As my white-toprockedwiththewinds,Idebriefedall themistakesofthe day. At the bottom ofCaliforniaHill, Ihadknownthere were probably farms

withwaterandgrass for themulesontheplateau.Icouldhaveoff-loadedallofourhaybales but one, emptied ourwater barrels, and taken offourgrainandreturnedforitlater. Then I should havewalked the slopebehind thewagon.All told, ourwagonscouldhavebeenlightenedbya thousand pounds,immensely increasing our

chance of making the steepgrade.

Ourrigon the first slopeofCaliforniaHillnearBrule,Nebraska.Theexpertssaid that we could never “take” thisobstacle, but Nick was determined totry.

But maybe I waschanging. As the prairiewinds howled, and mywomb of oak bows andcanvasbuffetedandcreaked,Iputdownmynotebookandstretched out to sleep, oncemore luxuriating in thenocturnal romance ofsleeping under a white-topinhardrain.Ipreferredthatto a nocturnal cataloging ofmy errors. Mistake by

mistake, haphazard decisionby haphazard decision, wewere steadily moving west.We had taken CaliforniaHill, and I have never sleptsowell.

16

THE OLD PIONEER CAMP AT

AshHollow,Nebraska,alongthe banks of the NorthPlatte, is one of the most

scenic and accessibleOregonTrailsitestoday,andit also typifies what themodern trail has become.The original ruts thatplunged off the tablelandand dropped for the Plattearetoosteepforautomobiletraffic, and the state ofNebraska has mostlyprotected them by securingconservation easementswhere the trail crosses

private ranches, or byfencing them off on stateparklands. But a two-lanestate road that descendssteeply from the plateau,Highway26,closelyparallelsthe nineteenth-centurypioneer route, and the oldruts themselves crisscrossthe blacktop several times.HistorianMerrillMatteshasdescribed the downhill rideinto the fabled pioneer

camping grounds seen bycontemporary tourists.“Modern highwayengineering, ironing ruggedtopography into gentledeclines and curves, makesthe automobile descent intothe Hollow seem painless.”But hereMatteswasmerelycommenting on therelatively shelteredexperienceofseeingthetrailbycar.

For more than an hourNickand Imanaged the jobof guiding two tons ofwagons down a steep pavedslope.ThebrakesontherearwheelsoftheSchuttlercouldhold back only part of theload. The downhill gradientwas so steep that themulesalso had to help hold backthe wagons, by leaningbackward into the harnessbreeching straps on their

rumps, bracing their weightagainst the force of thewagon falling downhill.“Putting” a team against itsbreeching is uncomfortableand awkward for the mulesandcanbeterrifying for thedriver because so muchdepends on the footingunderneath the animals.Only Beck on the right,walking the graveledshoulder of the road, had a

surface beneath her to gripwith her hooves. Jake andBute were constantlyfightingtoremainuprightastheir steel shoes slipped onthe slick, hot tar of theroadbed. Every time theystumbled their harnessslacked and the wagonlunged forward, threateningto overrun and panic theteam.

While Nick drove andcalled—“Hold back! Holdback!”—I gingerly jockeyedthe brakes. But locking theironwheelrimsfortoolongon the slick asphaltjackknifed the rig, swayingthe pole and the teamtoward the guardrails, andwe were burning out thebrakes. Our new thresher-belt brake pads billowedsmoke, and the acrid smell

of burning rubber followedus all the way down to thevalleyfloor.

Still, it was glorious toreachAshHollow.Fromthehighway,westareddownthenearly vertical sides of anarrowravinetotherightofthe wagon, topped by whitecliffs, stretching for fourmiles down to the NorthPlatte.Naturalspringsfeedacreekthatrunsthelengthof

thehollowfloortotheriver.OnJuneandJulynightsafterthe late 1840s, this oasis ontheNorth Plattewas a busycamp town, with hundredsof wagons parked abovepicturesque Sioux tepees,U.S. Cavalry detachments,military freight caravans,and parties of buffalohunters traveling east to St.Louis, their donkey cartspiledhighwithrobes.

The mass of humanitywedged into the narrowhollow inevitably createdproblems—choleraoutbreaks, fights over straycattle, trading disputes withtheSioux—andthepioneerscomplained intheir journalsabout having to herd theiranimals several miles downthe Platte to find a grassyarea that had not beenforagedoutbyearliertrains.

During long camps thatmight last two nights, thepioneers paused to bakepastries from the abundantsupplyofwildberries in thehollow, andAshCreek rangwith thehammerblowsandsaw cuts of impromptuwagon-repair shops. AshHollow was a nineteenth-century mobile home park,throbbing and noisy, withthe lowing of cattle and the

caterwauling of whiskeydrinkers echoing off thecanyon walls all day andnight. Here too, however,thenoiseandconfusionofabusy wagon camp didn’tprevent the travelers fromenjoying the uniquelandscape. Lingering,powerful memories of thesylvan beauty of the hollowdominated the pioneerjournals.

Ashiseleven-wagontraincrossed from the south tothe north fork of the Plattein1849,IsraelHalestumbledon the decaying bodies offour white men who hadapparently been scalped byan Indian war party. Halewasincapableofdwellingonthat image once he saw thelovely ravine enticing thewagons onto the NorthPlatte.

Struck Ash Hollow. Itis a narrow, sandyvalley with low ashtrees scattered alongits side. We had notdriven far when wefound considerableunderbrush, such ascurrents, rose bushesandseveralshrubsthatI did not know thenameof.Themorningwas clear, the air was

pure and the rosesnearly in full bloom,and sent forth a flavorwhich can better beimagined thandescribed. The airappeared perfectlyscentedwiththemandI think if they hadnamed the place theValley of Roses itwould have been amore appropriate

name, for there werefiftyrosebushestooneashtree.

Over time, Ash Hollowwould also come tosymbolizethetragicclashofcultures between the whiteemigrants and the NativeAmericans that eventuallydoomedtheIndiantribes.In1855, a detachment of sixhundred U.S. Army soldiers

commanded by GeneralWilliam S. Harneysurrounded a band of BruleSioux led by Chief LittleThunder near Blue WaterCreek,sixmilesnorthofAshHollow, slaughtering eighty-six braves and capturingmost of their women andchildren. Harney’sexpedition was launched inretaliation for an incidentthe year before, when an

inexperienced Armylieutenant, John Grattan,had brashly marched hissoldiers into a large BruleSioux camp outside FortLaramie, Wyoming,demanding that the chiefsproducetheIndianwhohadshot a Mormon pioneer’scow,eventhoughtheBruleshad already offeredrestitution for the cow bygivingthepioneerhispickof

their sixty-horse herd. Theusual army bumbling wasinvolved. Grattan was arecentWest Point graduate,unfamiliar with Sioux ways,and his French-Canadian“interpreter”couldnotspeakthe Brule dialect and wasdrunk. After shots wereexchanged, Grattan and allthirtyofhismenwerekilled.The carnage in bothengagements was senseless

andproducednoresults,andhistorians generally creditthe so-called GrattanMassacre and the Battle ofBlue Water Creek as theevents that set off thedisastrous series of Indianwars that racked the westaftertheCivilWar.

The tribes had alreadybeen decimated by a silentkiller introducedwestof theMissouri by the army forts

and the overland emigrants.The arrival of diseases suchas cholera, measles, andsmallpox, to which theSioux, the Pawnee, and theOsagetribeshadneverbeenexposed, began to have adevastating impact after the1849 Gold Rush. Historianshave never been able toaccurately estimate howmany plains Indians diedfrom the introduction of

European diseases in themid-nineteenth century, butit is clear that it causedwidespread panic anddisruptioninthelivesofthetribes.

“Some Indians quicklyrecognized theconsequences of thesediseases,” JohnD.Unruh Jr.wrote in The Plains Across,“[and] by 1850 a FortLaramie observer reported

that frightened nativesweredeserting the trails in hopesof avoiding the deadlyperil. . . . The demographicimpact of cholera aloneamong the [tribes] wasconsiderable. Thesepopulation losses hadobvious implications for theability of the western tribesto resist the Americanexpansionistonslaught.”

Captain HowardStansbury,anarmysurveyordispatchedacrossthetrailin1849 to explore new routesandfileareportforhisunit,the U.S. Corps ofTopographical Engineers,poignantly described onescene at Ash Hollow.Stansbury’s mounted unit,trailed by five supplywagons,reachedthepioneercampinearlyJuly.There,he

found a small band of “tall,graceful” Sioux camped atthe head of the valley. TheSiouxhadinvitedagroupofemigrants into their lodgesbut quickly decampedwhencholera broke out. Thediseasehadalreadyspreadtothe Sioux band, however,and a few days later theyreturned to Ash Hollowbegging for medical help.Then they disappeared

again.The next morning

StansburysawasmallIndianvillage on a bluff across thePlatte.

“Thetotalabsenceofanyliving thing about theminterested us from curiositytocrosstheriver,herenearlya mile wide, with a strongrapid current,” Stansburywrote in his journal. Afterwading across, Stansbury

found five tepees with ninedead Sioux inside, theirbuffalo robes, spears, andcampkettlesarrayedaroundthem.Hewas touchedmostbythebodyofaprettySiouxteenage girl, carefullywrapped and laid out aloneinoneofthelodges.Shewas“richly dressed” in scarletleggings, ornaments, and apair of new moccasins

beautifullyembroideredwithporcupinequills.

“I learned that they alldied with cholera,”Stansbury wrote, “and thisyoung girl being consideredpast recovery had beenarranged by her friends inthe habiliments of the dead,enclosed in the lodge alive,andabandoned.”

There is very littleevidence today of the

chaotic, crowded wagoncities,orthecolorful,scruffySioux camps, described bythe pioneers. AshHollow isnowamostlydeserted,well-preserved scenic spaceoperated by the state ofNebraska as a historic park.Afterrestingthemules,Nickand I spent a lazy, pleasantafternoonastourists,drivingthe wagon around to theOregon Trail sites—an old

fur trappers’ cabin that wasprobably used as a tradingpost during the overlandyears, and a well-appointedvisitors’ centerandmuseumperched on the ridge abovethe North Platte. From aparkinglotonthewestedgeof the hollow, an asphaltpath climbs Windlass Hill,the sharp, three-hundred-footdropwherethepioneerswere forced to lower their

wagons with ropes. I wasstruck several times thatafternoon by the irony ofvisiting preserved space, thecontrast between past andpresent on celebratedground. The mules cloppedfrom historic marker tohistoric marker alongsmoothpavedroads,passingneatly mowed picnicgrounds,attractiverestroomstops, and pullouts

commanding spacious viewsofthePlatte.Everythingwasas orderly and well-appointedasthecampusofawealthy New Englandcollege. This is what we sooften find when searchingfor history—emptiness,quiet, acresofmowedgrass.Battlefields where hundredsofmendied on a single daybecome vast, pristine lawns,as lovely as a landscape by

Constableor vanGogh, andhistoric birthplaces are solovinglymaintained that it’shard to believe anyone everlivedthere.EdithWharton’scellarbecomesagiftshop.Inthe cemetery quiet of theseplaces, all the clangor andhell of actual history—thesmell of manure wherehorses were bedded, earthscorched from fire pits orcannonball explosions, the

stench from bayonetsripping flesh—has beensanitized away. Whilepreserving history, weremove it. There’s nothingwrong with this, of course,and I’d rather see abeautifully maintainedbattlefield than a Wal-Martparking lot.But that iswhatwe’re doing while visitinghistoric space. It’s Versailleswithout the hideously

overdressed and clownisharistocrats, a Potemkinvillage without the rottingslumsbehindthefacades.

From Windlass Hill, acurving path of wheel ruts,darkagainstthegrassyridge,meanders south, markingthe route that the pioneersfollowed out of the hollowintotheNorthPlattevalley.Iwasexcitedaboutthat.AfterAsh Hollow, we would pick

up the trail across severalprivate ranches and thedusty, unpaved Platte RiverRoad, bumping along onoriginal ruts for almost fiftymiles. We were just a fewdays away fromsomeof themost dramatic scenery onthe route, the sandstonewaypoints of CourthouseRock, Jail House Rock,Chimney Rock, and ScottsBluff, which the pioneers

knew from theirguidebookswere the gateway to theRockies.

At the bottom of thehollow, a low concretebridge carries motor trafficacrossthePlattetoLewellyn,and the summer touristsspeed west along the pavedhighway.Weturnedleftatasmall cemetery on the riverto remain with the OregonTrail. The Platte there is

moody and dark, withancient cottonwoodsgrowing out of the black,muddy floodplain, and thesharply rising cliffs to ourleft narrowed our vision tojust the dark tunnel of thetrail. We emerged eightmileslaterinbrightsunlightontoabroadgrasslandplainthatswepttowardoneofthemost dramatic escarpmentsin the west, an old Sioux

camp and lookout point,SignalBluff.

•••

The immaculately restoredbunkhouse at the SignalBluff Ranch felt palatial tous, and the fun-lovingranchers there, John andNancy Orr, were the besttrail family yet. Nick rebuiltthe mule bridles and

replaced the thresher-beltpads on the brakes, while Iwrotelettershomeandtooknotes. But there was stillmore greenhorn revenge forus.

Late in the afternoonduringourfirstdayofrestatthe ranch, I was sitting onthe deck of the bunkhouse,writing letters and enjoyingthe spacious view down thePlatte. When the sun

emerged from behind acloud, I was suddenlyblinded by a strobe of lightbouncing off the felloe onthe front wheel of theSchuttler.

Felloes are thesemicircular wooden parts,just below the iron rim ofthe wheel, into which thetopsofthespokesarefitted.Butwhy had a long strip ofpaintpeeledoffoneofthem,

revealing underneath whatlooked like a shiny patch ofplastic?

I could see what theproblem was as soon as Iwalked over to investigate.Alongaboutsixinchesofthefelloe, a shiny coating ofcheap plastic filler—likeauto-body shop “bondo”—had been skimmed over thewood. When I pressed mythumbagainstthefelloe,bits

of the brittle plastic fell offand blew away in the wind,revealingagapingstretchofdry rot underneath. Therewere more bondo strips onthebottomfelloe,andontheother front wheel. Ourwheels, the one part thatcouldn’t fail if we were toreach Oregon, were riddledwithrot.

“Nick! Have you seenthese front wheels? They’ve

been bondoed over. They’rerottenunderneath.”

Nick’s Fu Manchudroppedandhesteppedoverfromhischair,wherehehadbeenworkingonthebridles.Helookedatmyface,sighed,and then stared at theground.

“Oh, Christ. I’ve beenprayin for weeks that youwouldn’tnotice these fuckinwheels,”hesaid.“Theymust

have slicked over that rotandthenpaintedthewheels,so theywould look fine. It’sanoldwagonmakers’trick—bondoovertherot.”

“Howbadisthis?”“One rotten felloe won’t

collapse the whole wheel.Somewhere ahead we’ll finda shopand I’ll cutout all ofthe rot and rebuild thewheel.”

I suddenly rememberedthe grimace on Nick’s faceback inKansas,afterhehadgiventheTrailPupwheelsahard shake when we werepickingupthewagons.

“What about the TrailPupwheels?”Isaid.

Nick scowled and limpedback to the Trail Pup,pointing a stubby finger atthe joint where the bottom

ofthespokesjoinedthehubontheleftwheel.

Whenheleanedontothewheel and gave it a hardshake, a faint creaking rosefromthehubandIcouldseespace opening up andclosingonthejoint.

Nickexplained that therewas probably dry rot insidethe wheel spokes and hubs,whichexplainedtheloosefitand the creaking noise they

made. That had beenpainted over as well. If wereachedroughterrainwherethe cart leaned over on oneside, the load could shift tothe low wheel and lead to“hub failure,” breaking thewheel.

“Nick,whydidn’tyoutellme?”

“Ifwe’dstoppedwaybackin Kansas to rebuild all ofthese wheels, we never

would have left. There’s atleastafifty-fiftychancethesewheelswilllastallthewaytoOregon.”

I turned away from thewagon, disgusted withmyself for paying so muchfor a rig with fourquestionable wheels. Oncemore,Ihadbeenasnaiveasthe pioneers. We had nowcome 450miles in exactly amonth—spectacular

progress.ButwestillhadtheBlackHillsofWyomingandthen the Rockies to cross,andIdidn’tevenknowifmywheelswouldhold.

•••

Leaving Signal Bluff andriding our first long stretchof original ruts was lyrical.The trail meandered westpast towering flattop buttes

and golden grasslands thatstretchedtothehorizon.Wewere now in famous ranchcountry,wherethebigherdsoflonghornhadbeendrivenup fromTexas to the Platteafter the Union Pacifictrackswerelaidin1867.Butreaching the cattle landspresented a new problemthat I had completely failedtoanticipate.

The scrub grasslands ofwestern Nebraska lookremote, but the region isheavilyfenced.Everymileorso along the trail a longbarbed-wire fence line randown from the South Hillsand crossed our path,culminating in an obstaclecalleda“cattleguard.”Cattleguardsareweldedstructuresof parallel steel pipes, likeprison bars laid flat, placed

on top of a deep trench onthe trail. Cattle that havewandered off from theirherds and broken throughfence lines won’t cross theguards, because they lookstraight down through thebars and see the trench,confining them at leastrelatively close to theirintended range. Thesefamiliar structures onwesternroadsarealsocalled

“auto gates,” because theyallowapassingcarorpickupto rumbleover thepipesontop of the trench. Horsesandmuleswon’tcrosscattleguards either. To let thecattleandhorsesthroughforthe frequent local cattledrives,however,barbed-wiregates are built adjacent tothe guards. The gates areattached to the fence lineswithcircularloopsofwire.

But these gates aremaddeningly inconsistent.Depending on the ranch orthe age of the fences, someof themwere child’s play toopen, with aged, slack wireholdingthegateposts,whichwereeasytomanipulate.Butmanyofthegateswerebuiltwith new, extremely tightloops of wire. To open thegate, cowboys crouch downlow between the strands of

barbed wire, push hardagainst the post with oneshoulder, and thenmove anarm up past the strands ofbarbed wire to close theattachment. For the tightergates, most cowboys alsocarry a large, pliers-typedevice called a “gate jack,”whichpulls theposts tightlytogether,making it easier toclosethegate.

Veteran cowboys makethis Houdini act look easy.But easterners like mecrouchup against theposts,feebly attempting to openand shut the wireattachments, ripping theirshirtsanddrawingbloodonthe rusty strands of barbedwire.

The standard “gate jack” of theWest,used by ranchers to open and shutstubbornbarbed-wiregates.

There were fourteencattleguardsandgatesalongthe trail after Signal Bluff,and they were particularlyfrequent after Rush Creek.After opening a gate, wewoulddrivethemulesdownthrough the gulch at theedgeof the cattle guardandthen call them up the steepsidesbackontothetrail.

The cattle guard gateswere a test of our

personalities. Thereprobably isn’t a barbed-wiregate in the West that Nickcan’t grunt open, but Istruggledwithmostofthem,chastising myself forforgettingtobuyagatejack.By the end of the day weboth had been stabbed bybarbed wire several times,andtherightshoulderofmyplaid cowboy shirt wasripped open and stained

with blood. Under theblazing Nebraska sun, theblood clotted quickly andhardagainstmycottonshirt,and the scab reopened andbledeverytimeIjumpedoffthe wagon to push a newgate. I found that pouringwater from my canteen onthe wound kept it soft andhelpedittoheal.Afterafewdays of opening gates, myshoulderwas callousedwith

scar tissue and barbecuedpurple and red where thesuncamethroughthetearinmy shirt. For several days,whenIwokeinthemorning,my bloodied shoulder andshirt had matted onto mysheet, and I ripped thewound open getting out ofbed. But the fresh bloodtrickling down my back feltwelcome and warm,reminding me of the

gratifying soreness I felt athome after a day of logginginthewoods.

We encounteredmore than 250 cattleguards’sometimestwelveorfourteeninafifteen-milestretch’acrosstheWest.

We made the rodeocorrals at the desertedhamlet of Lisco that night,another camp where thesweetexhaustionof theday,and the poetic sunset overthe Platte, seemed joinedtogether as a singlesensation. The cowboysfromthelocalspreads,RushCreek Ranch and MuddyCreek Ranch, had spent thedaywatchingourwhite-tops

cross the rangeland, andmanyof themdroveover intheir pickups to see themules. They brought hay,tolduswhattoexpectaheadon the trail, and swappedstories while we sat on ourchairs and stared across therivertotheSandHills.

From the cowboys, welearned that we faced morebad weather ahead. A hugethunderstorm system was

forming over the Rockiesand was expected to pusheast the next day, dumpingconsiderablerain,andwouldprobably cause floodingalong the low banks of theNorth Platte nearBridgeport, Nebraska,blocking the trail. Oncemorewewereracingagainstthe stormsof thePlatte andwe had to get past

Bridgeport by sunset thenextday.

17

NICK’S BRAVURA DRIVING

STYLE FINALLY caught upwithus thenextmorningatLisco.Toreachthegateata

cattle guard just above theremoterodeocorral,wehadto curve southwest, plungethrough a runoff ditchbeside the road, and thenclimb a sharp hill oftreacheroussoftsoil,muddyfrom the recent rains. Nickloudly called the mules andbroke them into a trot tobuild momentum for thehill, taking the incline on adiagonal, but I was sure we

shouldbegoingmuchmoreslowly.

It became a classic trailclusterfuck. While I wascalling“Eas-A,Eas-A,Eas-A”and reaching over towardNicktorestrainthelines,hewas slapping the rumps ofthe mules and calling “Yupthere! Big Team! Up thehill!” The team listened toNick and gamely scrambledupthehillatanangle.When

we reached the road weheard a sharp Bang! frombehindandthemulesstarteddigging in their hooves topull a heavier load, as if wesuddenly had a gang plowattached to the rig.Somethingwaswrong.

“Whoa! Whoa, Team.Whoa!”

I pushedhome the brakeand stood up on the wagonseat to look back over the

cover and couldn’t believewhatIsaw.TheTrailPuplayonitsleftside,mostlyintactbut smashed in places, likeanoverturnedsemitraileronahighwayembankmentafterajackknifeaccident.

“Goddamnit, Nick. Weflipped the Trail Pup. TheTrailPupislyingonitsside.”

“Hold these mules. Letme get back there. I wanna

seeit!IwannaseeitandseeifIcanfixit.”

I was surprised by howcalm I felt about our firstaccident of the trip. I wasalmost elated about it. Thepioneer journals hadindoctrinated me thatcompletely. I had alwaysknown that there was noway we could cross toOregonwithout at least onewagon wreck, and now we

had a baptism by disasterthatwouldproveourmettle.We had to be coollyanalytical and showourselves that we couldquicklyrecoverandgetbackonthetrail.

ItoldNickthatwewouldunhitch themules from thewagon and drive them overto the corrals before weassessedthedamage.

Nick was frantic withworry as he drove the teamaway, looking back over hisshoulder and calling out sothathisloud,boomingvoiceechoedovertheplains.

“Tell me what’s broken!CanIfixit?What’sbroken?”

Itwas amusing, in away,toseemybeautifulTrailPupsprawled sideways on theroad. Our external waterspigots, equipment hangers,

hoses, and ropes had allsnapped off and were lyingin pieces on the road. Balesof hay, grain sacks, and ourcamping and cooking gearhad spilled through thecover where the oak bowshad snapped. Nick’scantilever extension was atestament to overbuilding—the structure had held, butthe cooler racks on the sidewere shattered. The SEE

AMERICA SLOWLY sign waspitched up vertically fromprairietosky.

But I could see that wehad escaped relativelyunscathed. Our mistakehadn’tbeenNick’sracingtheteam uphill, but negligentlytaking the incline on thediagonal.TheSchuttler,withits four wheels evening outthebumps,hadlulledusintoa false senseof stability.We

had completely forgottenthat the two-wheel Pup farbehind on the rig wasinherently tipsy, especiallyonslopedterrain.Takingthehill on an angle hadtransferred the weight ofmore than a thousandpounds of supplies andwater onto the low wheeland, when it all shiftedsidewaysatonce,overturnedthecart.

But the dumping of thewagonhadbeensoswiftthatthe wheels, miraculously,weren’tbroken,andtheonlybig part that was damagedwas the oak tongue thatconnected the cart to themain wagon. The tonguewas now a mass of twistedsplinters. The heavy steelfittingconnectingthetongueto the wagonwas bent, andwe would probably need to

heat itwithwelding torchesto hammer it back intoshape. The oak bows wouldhavetobereplaced.

Flipping our Trail Pup was the firstaccident of the trip, and held us upalong the Platte until we could makerepairs.

We were now strandedonasecludedstretchoftrail,with no ranches or houseswithin sight, and we werenever going tomake it pastBridgeport today. But as Iinspected the downed TrailPup I remembered that themanager of Muddy CreekRanch,DanHanlon,whomIhad met at the corrals thenight before, lived just fourmileswest.Hanlon,a joyful,

beer-belliedmanwho rarelyshaved, was not a quietcowpoke.Hewasoneof theboastyboys, dressed in jeansthathadn’tbeenwashedinaweek,scuffedpacker’sboots,and a Resistol straw hatbrowned by the sun, sweat,and grime. But theboastyboys are often themostfun,andsometimesthemost generous. He hadextended the Nebraska

welcome as he stepped intohis pickup to leave thecorralsthatnight.

“Anyoldgoldarnthangyawant?” he said, wiggling animaginary cell phone nearhisear.“Justgivemeajingleon the brain-cancer deviceand I’ll be right there in ajiffyforya.”

I had written Dan’snumber down inmy pocketnotebook. Relieved to

discover that I had cellphone coverage, I dialedhim, and he answered rightaway.WhenItoldhimwhathad happened, Hanlon saidthatwecould fix thecart inhis shop and that he’d bedown with a pickup andtrailerinfifteenminutes.

WhilewewaitedforDan,Nickmadeabriefinspectiontour around the cart, and Iwas relieved by his

confidence about makingrepairs. We were bothamazedthattheoverturninghaddonesolittledamagetothewheels—maybethehubsweren’trottenafterall.

“Icanhavethiscartbackonthetrailtonight,”hesaid.“AllI’mgonnaneedisasix-foot section of cured oak,water spigots, and somehardware, and we’ll need tofigure out somethin to

replace those bows. Just getmetoafuckinshop.”

Danroaredinalittlelaterin a big rusty King Cabpickup with a bad muffler,pulling a trailer. It took ushalf an hour to unload thecart, right it, wheel it uponto the trailer with ramps,and then strap it down.Westacked the hay, gear, andbroken parts beside it. AsDandroveoffwithhiscrazy

trailer load of dismemberedTrail Pup, he promised tocall the lumberyard inOshkosh to see if it had theoak stock that we needed. Itold him that we’d rehitchthe mules and be down onhis ranch with the mainwagonwithintwohours.

Nickstoodwithhishandson his hips while thecrippled Trail Pup rumbledover the cattle guard and

then disappeared west onthe muddy trail. He took adeep breath, turned towardme, briefly stared at theground, and then lookeddirectlyintomyeyes.

“Rink, justfortherecord,I apologize about this. Thisaccidentwasmyfault.”

I can’t account for myfeelings just then but I feltterriblyguiltyforNick,andIloved him. I wasn’t angry

about dumping the TrailPup, but I knew I couldn’texplain that to him. Butthere was something that Icould accomplish here.Nick’s penchant for recklessdriving, his break-it-so-we-can-fix-it style, was a threatto the trip. His insistencethatonlyheknewmulesandwagons, that his judgmentabout driving was alwayssuperior to mine, was

manifestly wrong. I had tomove the conversation tothatwithoutmakinghimfeelbad for me and blaminghimself.

“Nick, I’m not angry,okay? Let’s start there. Wetook the hill on a diagonal.Neitherofussawthat.”

“Don’t be so fuckinpolite,”hesaid.“Youtoldmeto go easier on the speed, I

should have listened. That’swhatflippedtheTrailPup.”

“Nick, I’m actually happyabout this. It’ll be funproving thatwe can quicklygettherigbackontheroad.It’sjust...”

“Mydrivin.”“Your driving. I mean,

can’t you just listen to me?You can drive morecarefully.”

“I should have beenlistenin.Iwasdrivintoofast.I’m gonna start listenin andthis won’t happen again. Ipromise,Boss.”

“All right,” I said. “Wedon’tneedtotalkaboutthisagain. Just fucking listen tome, okay? C’mon. Let’sharnessthesemules.”

Muddy Creek Ranchstood back from the trailaboutaquarterofamileand

had a ramshackle stuccoranch house buried in acottonwood grove, lots ofbarns and corrals in theback, and a yelping pack offurry blue heeler andAustralianshepherdpuppiesscrambling underfooteverywhere we walked. Ourafternoontherewasanotheremotional reprise for us.Nick was determined toprove that, having broken a

wagon in the morning, hecould have it back on thetrailbynightfall,andIknewthat he would exhausthimself doing that. My jobwas to pretend that nothinghad happened and to runaround in the ranchpickup,like an obsequious deliveryboy, providing just-on-timedelivery of parts. AtMuddyCreek, I felt that I haddiscoveredacompletelynew

aspectofmanagement.Ihadto handle things sodiscreetly, so invisibly, thatthere wasn’t really a TrailBossatall.

While Nick hammeredaway outside the ranchimplement shed with animmenseball-peenhammer,to bend the heavy steelfittingsbackintoshape,Iraninto Oshkosh with DanHanlon and found the last

piece of cured oak stock atthelumberyard.Iranitbackto the ranchand then racedinto Bridgeport for theplumbing supplies weneeded to fix the brokenwater barrel attachments.When I got back fromBridgeport,Nickhadalreadyfinished building out thenewTrailPup tongue.Withhis immense strength, hehad lifted the heavy Trail

Pup by the tongue, single-handedly hauled the cart allthe way across the ranchyard,andreattachedittothewagon.

When I drove in, Nickwascollapsedagainstoneofthe wheels of the mainwagon, playing with OliveOylandacoupleoftheblueheeler puppies, who werescrambling around on hislap.

“Ican’tbelievethatyou’vegotthismuchdonealready,”I said to him. “You’re amonsterforwork.”

“I told you we could bebackonthetrailtomorrow.”

“You look spent,” I said.“Why don’t you go into thehouseandtakeanap?”

“I think I will. We canfigure outwhat to do aboutthebowslater.”

I knew from my wagonresearch in the spring thattheonlysourceforreplacingour broken bows was anAmishwoodshopinOhio—too far away to expect atimely delivery now. Nickwouldn’t like it, but Ithought that I couldsomehow shitrig new bowsfor the covered top of theTrailPupmyself,agoodideatohaveonaNebraskaranch,

wherenothingeverseemstoget thrown away. Cruisingthescrappilesbehindoneofthe barns, I found severalsections of five-eighth-inchplasticconduitpipethathadbeen used on the pastureirrigators, and couldprobably be fashioned intobows.Intheshop,therewasapileofbracketsthatIcouldbend into shape with vise-grips,toholdtheplasticpipe

tothesidesofthecart.Working frantically so

that IwouldbedonebeforeNick woke up, I cut theconduit down with ahacksawanddrilledholesforthe brackets on the sides ofthe Trail Pup. Then Iassembled everything,dustingoff the canvas coverbefore I pulled it over thenew bows, and cinched ittightwiththepuckerropes.

My solution wasn’telegant. The plastic conduitwasmuchnarrowerthantheoriginal oak bows, andunderneath the canvaswagoncover thenewplasticbows looked like ribsshowing through the looseskin of a starving dog. Butthe assembly would at leastholdtherainandthedustoffour feed and gear, and our

rig looked like a set ofmatchedwhite-topsagain.

When Nick finally cameout,Iheardhimgroanfromthe corner of the housewhen he saw the newcoveredtop.

“Oh, shit me,” he said.“Youdidn’tfixthebows,didyou? I thought you wouldwaitformeonthat.”

“Nick,it’sagoodfix.Ididallofthismyself.”

Nickstoodonthetongueof theTrailPupandranhispudgy hands over the newplastic bows. He leaned hisshoulder onto the first bowand gave thewholeworks abriskshove.

“All right, Boss. This’llhold in the wind. It looksuglierthanastumppost,butit’sadecentrepair.”

I smiled and quietlylaughedwhenNicksaidthat,

and he must have seen thecontentmentonmyface.

“I’m gonna tell everyoneathomeaboutthis,”hesaid.“You’ve had a total fuckinpersonality transplant. Youcan actually fix somethinnow.”

“Thanks, Nick. I reallyappreciatethat.”

For the rest of theafternoon, while the windblew dust devils down from

thebluffs,NickandIwereablurredfrenzyofhammeringand driving in screws,making the rest of therepairs. We were done wellbeforedark,andthenwesatbeside the wheels on ourcampchairsandplayedwiththeblueheelerpuppies.

•••

The layover for repairs atMuddy Creek stalled usagain along the Platte. Forthe next two days we werestrandedat the ranchas themonster storm system wewere worried about lashedthrough western Nebraska,pushing the river over itsbanks at a giant bend sixmileswest of the ranch andblocking the trail with animmense lake. We quickly

fellintothelifeoftheranch.Between the worst rainsqualls we helped Dan runhis cattle to new pastures,splashing on horsebackthrough the sandy mud upontheSouthHills,andNickroamed through the ranchhouse and barns with histool kit, replacing leakyhydraulicfittingsontractorsand repairing broken lightfixtures. I spent the rainy

afternoons lounging on acouch in the ranch house,poring over my maps andreadingpioneerjournals.

The forced stop provedmoreusefulthanIexpected.With enough time on myhands to calculate our totalmileage from St. Joe, Irealized that we had made490 miles in a month, justtenmilesshyofmymonthlygoal. I had always roughly

calculated that we wouldtraverseonestatepermonth—Nebraska in June,Wyoming in July, Idaho inAugust—andwewere easilymeeting that pace, whichwould put us near Oregonby September. My furtiveinstinct about pushing themules until late in the dayseemed tohavea logicnow.There would always beobstacles along the trail—

weather, breakdowns,detours around roughterrain—but we werecompensating for the losttime by the extra five oreightmiles wemade duringour evening runs. I evenliked being delayed on thePlatte,becauseouradversityseemed so appropriate.Franklin Langworthy,MargaretFrink,Abigail JaneScott, andMark Twain had

been stalled by the floodingPlattetoo.

Whenwefinallyleft,Danreached into thebackof hispickup and gave us a sparegate jack, which we coulduse at the cattle guards inthe rangelands ahead. Hedecided to ride the wagonwithNick to check thehighwater on the river ahead,andhegavemehisbestcowhorse, a spirited paint, to

ride beside the rig. As wesplashed through thepuddled sand along the trailwhere the Platte wasdropping back within itsbanks, I swayed thepaint inS-turns behind the wagonand then galloped off toexplore a dry stretch ofbottomlandsalongtheriver.We were past the 100thmeridian dry line now, therains would probably abate,

and this was the dreamjourney by horseback that Ihad always imagined formyself.

•••

After Bridgeport, Nebraska,the landscape changeddramatically, fromgrasslands to spare, drysagebrush country, and thesoil turned from sandy

brown to pink. We wereentering the magic, pastelgeologyofwesternNebraskathat was celebrated by thepioneers and becamefamiliar to Americansthrough the paintings ofWilliam Henry Jackson andAlbert Bierstadt. Today theonly route along the southbanks of the Platte is thetwo-lane Highway 92, aprime example of the

Oregon Trail adapted formodern use by paving theruts with asphalt, but I wasdelighted to see that theprospect from the wagonseat was virtuallyunchanged.

The wagons hadnavigated west through anatural gallery of art. Twoadjoining formations, thesand-colored CourthouseRock and Jail House Rock,

werethefirstinalongstringof landmarks composed ofsandstone,clay,andvolcanicashthathadbeenerodedbythe ceaseless Nebraskawinds and over centuriesseparated from thesurrounding formation ofbluffs.Aprofusionofyellowconeflowers and rudbeckiagrewattheirbaseandgreensagebrushfringedtheirsides.Thenwe cleared a rise and,

fromalmost fortymilesout,the lavender and pinkpinnacle of Chimney Rockcameintoview.

Chimney Rock, risingalmost 350 feet above thesagebrushplainoftheNorthPlatte valley, is a pointedsandstonecolumnrestingona conical base. In theirdiariesandlettershome,thepioneersmadethislandmarkas recognizable to

Americans as Niagara Falls.Virtuallyall the traildiaristsmentioned it, usually inconsiderable detail, and thetrail annals now containtwenty-one sketches ofChimney Rock, many ofthem displaying remarkableline-drawing skills, made bythe pioneers. Because itcouldbeseensofarawayonthe horizon, Chimney Rocklingered within sight of the

wagons for almost a week,and the pioneers used thepinnacle as both a forwardand a reverse waypoint forsixtymilesormore.Pioneerswhocampedand fixed theirwagons near the rocklearned to judge westerndistances by eagerly hikingthe “few miles” to thecuriosity and finding that itwas more like five or sixmilesaway.MargaretFrink’s

husband scrambled up thebaseof the cone and carvedtheirnamesintothesoftredrock.

Chimney Rock in western Nebraskawas among the first of a string ofnatural waypoints that the pioneersusedtosteerwest.

The diary entries andsketches of Chimney Rock,often reprinted in localnewspapers across thecountry, created additionalallure about the trail. Thecentral duality of the landmigration—aestheticwonder trumping hardship—prevailed here. AtChimney Rock, the campswere crowded and choleraoccasionally returned. The

draftanimalswerebeginningto give out because thesandiersoilsandsparserainsto the west supported onlythin grasses. The traildepartedhere forabout twomiles below the Platte, andthere were long walks forwater.But thebeautyof theunfolding western terrainwasthepredominanttheme,as if the pioneers needed anaturalwonder reaching for

theskytoalleviate—ordeny—the hunger, dehydration,and death they saw allaroundthem.

Virgil K. Pringle was aConnecticut native whosefamily had moved to St.Charles, Missouri, north ofSt. Louis, in 1826,establishingalendinglibraryand a dry goods store. In1846,thePringlesdecidedtofollow a brother out to

Oregon, and they reachedChimneyRockonJune19.

The dramatic river views and rockformationsoftheWest,likeScottsBluffon the Nebraska-Wyoming line,astonished pioneers who were used tothemore predictable geography of theEast.

Passed the chimney intheforepartofthedayand the formation ofthe bluffs have atendency to fill themind with awe andgrandeur. Thechimney might passfor one of thefoundries in St. Louis,were it blackened byburningstovecoal.

Aswedroppedthewagondown into the broad valleyalong the North Platte, thepurple beacon of thepioneers glowed against theyellow Nebraska sky, andremained within sight forthree days. We found acomfortable, fenced pasturefor the mules at the oldpioneercampnear therock,slept through another nightof violent thunderstorms

beneath the escarpments atScottsBluff,andthenturnedthe mules toward MitchellPass, the route through theWildcat Hills that thepioneers followed after U.S.Army engineers built amilitaryroadin1851.Itwasa hot day and the muleslaboreduptheeasternslopeof the pass, and our brakepads smoked all the waydowntheotherside.

From the summit of thepass we could see the hazyblue domeof Laramie Peak,more than ninety milesaway.Thereweremore raincloudsahead,andoncemorewewouldracethestormstoshelter. But nothing rattledme now. Our shakedownwith adversity—the endlessrains, the endless barbed-wiregatesofNebraska—wasbehindus,andbeforeus lay

amythicstretchoftrail,350miles of original rutsthrough the WyomingRockies.

18

THE OREGON TRAIL IN

WYOMING canbe thoughtofas a giant game oftopographic stealth. The

emigrant road gracefullycurved in a long bendaroundtheRockies,runningnorthwest and thensouthwest, following theNorthPlatteandthealluringbanks of the Sweetwater foralmost five hundred milesacrossthehighdesertplains.Because the east face of theRockiescouldnotbedirectlycrossed with horses anddonkeys, over time the

CheyenneandtheShoshone,and then the fur trappers,avoided the impassablemountains by following ameandering route along thelower foothills and the flats.Trailblazers like MarcusWhitman and Jim Bridger,andthentheemigranttrains,endlessly refined the routeinto a system of camps andcutoffs to save travelingtime. The result is both

ingenious andmagnificentlybeautiful. After Scotts Bluffand Fort Laramie, thepioneers spent a week withthe alpine heights of theLaramie Range directly totheirleft,paidtheMormonsto ford them across thePlatteatpresent-dayCasper,and then twisted their waydown through the dramaticrock formations along theedges of the Rattlesnake

HillsandtheGraniteRange.The snowy, heavenly WindRiver Range rose afterCasper as a lavender andwhitemosaicinthesky.

The pioneers couldinstantlysensethattheyhadentered a vastly changedlandscape—the real West.Stands of juniper andponderosa pine rose steeplyon the Rockies and theirfoothills, darkening the

upper views, and thepioneers called easternWyoming the Black Hills.(The termwasbroadlyusedin thenineteenthcentury torefertohighgroundthatwasheavily timbered with pine,reflecting the sun as black,and only later formallyassigned to the Black Hillsregion of South Dakota.)The water, dropping fromstreamswithsources twenty

or thirty miles away in themountains,wascleanernow,but sometimes a forcedmarchofadayormorewasrequiredtoreachit.Thesoilwas dry and brownish red,with a thick overlay ofscented sagebrush andscattered clumps of shortgrass for forage. After theford at Casper the inclineswere mostly gentle and the

land underfoot appeared tobeflat.

That was the genius ofthe trail in Wyoming—forthat matter, almost all thewayacross.Appearanceviedwith reality in a long,gradually staged feat ofclimbing.FromSt.JosephorIndependence along theMissouri, the pioneers hadnow ascended more thanthree thousand feet in

elevationwithouteverreallynoticing it, except for theoccasional dramatic climbslikeCaliforniaHill.Thebaseterrain through the BlackHills was more than fourthousand feet above sealevel. Over the next fewweeks, again without everreally noticing it, thewagontrains would climb another3,500 feet to the 7,500-footSouthPass, as thecontinent

imperceptibly rose towardits divide. In 1860 SirRichardBurton,theeminentVictorian scholar andexplorer, took a celebratedstagecoach ride across thetrail to Salt Lake, recordinghis observations in thebestsellingCityoftheSaints,laterdigestedasTheLookoftheWest1860.HecalledthePlatte-Sweetwater route “aline laid down by nature to

thefootoftheSouthPassoftheRockyMountains.”

The high RockyMountaincountrypresentedother paradoxes. After theBlack Hills, the wagon rutswere generally flat, but theground underfoot wasgravelly and bumpy. Theconstant pounding over therocky terrain and the drydesert air cracked thewooden running gear parts

andwheels,causingfrequentbreakdowns. In Wyoming,the high mountain countryreceives thirty-five inchesormoreofprecipitationayear.But just a few miles away,alongtheOregonTrailroutein thedesertsbelow, annualrainfall rarely exceeds teninches, in some places lessthan five inches a year.These stark contrasts of thewestern high plains were

enchanting, but stressful.The reliable winds and thestunning views of thesnowcapped Wind Riverslulled the pioneers intothinking that they weretraveling throughinvigorating, springlikemountain air. In fact, thereduced oxygen level as theelevation rose winded boththe draft animals and thepioneers walking beside the

wagons, and they werebaking all day in the aridterrain.

Thewagon trains arrivedat the Fort Laramie tradingpost in easternWyoming tofind the usual frenzy ofdiscarding and wagonabandonment as theemigrants lightened theirloads for the mountains orconverted to pack trains.Outsidethefort,someofthe

wagons were even beingburned, and they weresurrounded by a wastelandof the emigrants’ castoffpossessions. While parentsforaged through anotherfamily’s ditched goods forwhat they might use, thechildren were put to workbreaking up the boards ofscuttledwagons for cookingfuel. Once more, the trailexperience reinforced a

natural American benttoward waste, followed byavid recycling.Wagons thatsix weeks ago had beenpurchased for top pricesalongtheMissouri,makingaconsiderable dent in afamily’s savings, were nowwarming another family’sbaconandantelopesteaks.

“Wagons are worthnothing,”onecorrespondentwrote back to a Missouri

newspaper in 1859. “Wefrequently cook our supperwith the spokes of a betterwagonthanhalf the farmersinSt.LouisCountyown.”

Pioneers who consideredNebraska dry now realizedthat they hadn’t really seenthe Great American Desertyet. On reaching Wyoming,Niles Searls, the 49er fromAlbany,NewYork,wrote inDiary of a Pioneer, “The

countryarounduspresentsadreary desolate appearance,thegrassbeingparchedwithdrought.” Kansas pioneerJohn Boardman lay over fortwodays at FortLaramie toattend lively dancing“fandangos” outside thearmy barracks, but the trailthat followed was sobering.“After we left Laramie wecame to the BlackHills, theworst of all traveling,”

Boardman wrote, “[it is]hilly, sandy and full of wildsage—’tisdeathonawagon.”

For us, the remotecountry through the BlackHills was our only choice.The segmenting of thewestern reaches of the trailinto a maze of cutoffs andbranch routes begins ineastern Wyoming. AtGuernsey, the “main ruts”proceeded due west along

thesouthbankofthePlatte,through the alkali plainstowardCasper.Inthe1850s,however, an Oregon Trailcutoffalongthenorthbankswas blazed through theBlack Hills. This northerndetourforCasperwascalledThe Child’s Route, after agoldseeker fromWisconsin,AndrewChild,whofollowedthe northern banks andpublished a map of his

eighty-mile route in aguidebook in 1852. TheChild’sRoutewasbusywithwagon trafficafter1853andwasoneofmanyinstancesofnineteenth-century cutoffsthat, once blazed, proved aspopularasthemainruts.

We had to workexceptionallyhardtransitingthe hill country, but I likedbeing forcedonto the cutoffalongthenorthbanksbythe

same kind of problem thepioneers faced—an obstacle,this time a modern one,blocked our way. Interstate25, the big north-southhighwayrunningfromTexasto Montana, cut across themain ruts below Glendo,Wyoming, and there wereno access roads around thefour-lane.Onehundredfiftyyears after thewagonswentthrough, we were

experiencing ourselves themultitude of choices offeredby the broad associatedterrainoftheOregonTrail.

The isolated Child’sRoute through the BlackHills is now mostly scrubgrasslands used to grazecattle, and over the pastcenturythewanderingherdshave obliterated the wagonruts. The long fence linesbetween grazing ranges

required time-consumingsearches for gates. Theranchers we met in easternWyoming said they hadheard that therewere a fewold granite markers for thetrailpastWendoverCanyon,but they had never seenthem. The trail, essentially,hadvanished.

After climbing Rifle PitHill west of Guernsey inanother violent sandstorm,

we turned the wagon up adusty ranch road that mymaps showedwould lead usto the cutoff over the BlackHills. We were grateful toleave civilization behind fora few days and climbedsteeply over the first dustyrise to enter remote,enchanted space. The trailran up and down throughhigh stands of cedar andponderosa pine, and the

moundedplainswere brightwith goldenrod, white andpurple thistle,andbloomingyucca plants. In themorning, thedewdryingonthe sagebrush released thepungent camphor on thebranches, filling theairwithasharpscent, likemothballsmixed with cinnamon andnutmeg.

That night, on theCundallRanch,wemanaged

to find the oldwagon campatCottonwoodCreek,whichwas marked with a plaque,and the next morning Idiscovered a relatively easyway to make the terrainwork for us. The terracedfoothills of the Rockieschanneled the North Platteinto a series of oxbows farbelowus,aplacidnavigationbeacon that glowed silveragainst thepinkplains.All I

had todowas climb for theheightson footaheadof thewagon,andthenguesstimatethemostpassableroutethatwouldkeeptheriverinsightwhile cutting off the extramiles presented by theoxbows.Whenthehillsweretoosteeptoclimborblockedmy view of the river, I usedmy compass to follow acourse due northwest overtheflats.Wefoundonlytwo

Oregon Trail markers inthree days. But the creekwashes that we splashedover seemed to be the sameones marked on the maps,and from the high ground Icould see that we weremaking steady progressalongtheNorthPlatte.

I hiked most of the day,scoutingapathaheadofus,thensignalingNickfromtheheights around the worst

gullies and sagebrushthickets. Up the hills, Icarried the heavy gate jackon my shoulder in case Ifoundanotherfenceandhadto search for a gate, and onthedescentsIwalkedslightlyahead of the wagon with afour-foot length ofponderosa pine on myshoulder, to throw in frontoftherearmainwheelsifthebrakes couldn’t hold the

wagons.OliveOylranaheadof me in wide circlesthrough the scrub grass,clearing the trail of prairiedogs and snakes, which wewereafraidwouldspookthemules. This was one of theplaces along the trail whereNick’s superlative drivingskills proved decisive. Heexpertly held the team backthrough the descents intothe creek washes, or called

themules over the inclines,simultaneouslyoperatingthebrakesbydepressinghisfooton the brake handle. It wasarduous work, but I wasexhilarated by conqueringthis secluded country andmakingourgrittywaynorth.The hills rang with purposeeach timeNick brought thewagon up. The pole bangedand the canvas top swayedandcreakedoverthebumps

andsagethickets,andNick’svoice echoed through thecanyons.

“Yup, Team! Yup, Jake,Beck! Big Team, Big Team.You’re my odd buggers! Tothe top now, Big Team. Tothetop.”

We emerged from theBlackHillsafewmilesbelowGlendo,findinganimproveddirt road marked on themaps that led us to a state

highway,whichwe followedtotherodeocorralsintown.My shoulder was callousedand sore from three days ofcarrying the gate jack overthe hills, and our white-topwas splattered with mudfromthecreekwashes.Iwasrelieved about reaching thefamiliar comforts of thepublic corrals. Still, I waswistful about the backcountrybehindus.Thereare

no Oregon Trail rutsthrough the Black Hills ofeastern Wyoming anymore.Butwehadblazedapathofour own and this seemedlikeafavorableomenforthewildernesswefacedahead.

•••

Escaping thewagon seat forlongstretchesofthedayandscouting up through the

ponderosa pines wasimmensely satisfying, andthe Black Hills cleared myhead. I had worried allwinteraboutnegotiatingthisblank space on the maparound Interstate 25, butnow pushing through thefoothills of the Rockiesrequired nothingmore thanwalking on two legs andusingmyeyestosteerbytheriver. I swelled with simple,

unalloyed feelings ofaccomplishment andpleasurable fatigue.Walkingdown from the high timbertosignaltoNick,Isatonflatrock ledges with my legsdangling over the edge,taking in the dazzlingmontage of terrain thatdropped to theNorthPlatteand watching the dreamyimage of our white-topclimbingtheridges.

I was still muddling overmyghostencounterwithmyfatherbackatScottsbluff.Inthe late 1970s, after myfather died, I had gonethrough a similar period ofunexpected “visits” fromhim. I was then a young,struggling writer in NewYork, anxious about myfuture, and often foundmyself in Manhattanneighborhoods where I had

spent time with him as aboy. The wedding-cakefacade of the old LookBuilding on MadisonAvenue,or the tulipbeds inCity Hall Park in lowerManhattan, where he hadbeen arrested during anantiwar demonstration,prompted strong memoriesof him, and then anotherone of our conversationswould begin. Afterward, I

felt guilty about not havingbeen able to helpmy fathermorewhilehewasstillalive,andconfusedthatIharboredsuch strong resentmenttowardsomeoneIalsoloved.

I had the emotionalintelligence then of a lawnmower. My father’sreappearance in my lifeseemed too macabre andembarrassing to share withanyone else, andmy rearing

as a Roman Catholic hadprogrammed me to thinkthat if I ignored innerconflict it would simply goaway. (My mother and myaunts encouraged me to“thinkpositive,” and topraymore often.) Emotionalhealth was not a topic thatparents or other adultsdiscussed with the young,and no one ever introducedme to the idea that

depression was bothcommonandremediable.

One of my girlfriends,however, could see that Iwasunhappyanddistracted,and she pushedme to see atherapist. I went reluctantlyat first but then began toenjoy myself, graduallyopening up enough to besteered toward the sensibleconclusion that feelings ofragetowardadifficultparent

like my father werepredictable, even normal,anditdidn’tmeanthatIhadfailed to love him. “Whydon’tyou just thinkof thesetalks with your father asordinaryconversations?” thetherapist asked me. “Manypeople have imaginaryconversations with familyand friends. They visit theirparents’graves.”

This was reassuringadvice, but mostly I missedthe point. Now that I hadbeen to a therapist, Iexpected my problems todisappear, and I didn’t diganydeeperthanthatintomycomplicated feelings aboutmy father. Eventually, as Iclickedpastthemilepostsoflife, new prompts—takingout my first mortgage,expecting my first child,

getting stalled on a bookproject—would arrive, and Iwould tailspin down againinto a six-month mire ofsleeplessness, depression,and return visits from myfather.

One scene from my pastreturned with annoyingfrequency. My father had alot of difficulty letting go ofhis children once they lefthome,andhisinterestinmy

early career bordered onobsession. He had alwaysbeen disappointed that theGreat Depression in the1930s and then theresponsibilities of raising alarge family had forced himinto a business careerinstead of the moreromantic, cerebral work heoftenimaginedforhimself—writing. The classic,frustratedcreativestuckina

“suit”job,hewastorturedinold age by a sense that hehadwastedhislife.Throughme, however, he couldvicariouslyenjoyframingthetimbers for a writer’s life.During college, I made themistake of telling him thatoneofmyhistoryprofessorshad told me I was alreadydoing “master’s level” workon my term papers, afterwhichmyfatherinsistedthat

I send him copies ofeverything I wrote. When Isent him something, herepliedwithlong,wanderingletters with suggestions formaking the paper “evenbetter,” and he embarrassedme by even contacting myprofessors with tips forgradingme,andsteeringmeinnewdirectionsof study. Ibegantofeelaneedtopushhim away, but was still too

dependent on his approvaltoaskhimtostop.

The turbulent events ofthelate1960sprovidedidealsocialcoverformenlikemyfather, who, during the uglydivisions over the war inVietnam, were becomingdisenchanted withtraditional politics andtoying with new identities.My father experienced apersonality shift typical for

the time, trading in his oldcircleoffriends—politicians,bishops, newspapercolumnists—forhisnewbestfriends,antiwaractivists.Hisspeaking style, honed byyears of AA lecture tours,and his establishmentcredentials as a successfulbusiness executive witheleven children, were idealfor the times. He beganmaking appearances at

colleges anddemonstrationsacrossthecountryorganizedby a prominent antiwargroup, Clergy and LaityConcerned. Late inNovember 1970, he reachedme in my dorm room atBowdoin College in Maineand told me that he wouldbe speaking in Boston in acoupleofdaysatanantiwarforum at Tufts University.He would be sharing the

stage with a number ofantiwar leaders, includingthe historian Howard Zinn.He askedme to drive downfor the evening so that Icould listen to “theoldmangivingthemhell.”

“We’ll go to dinnerafterward at Durgin Park,”he said. “It’ll be a nicechance for us to gettogether.”

I didn’t have theheart tosay no, and I was already afan of Howard Zinn’s workand curious about hearinghim speak. Bundling upagainst the brisk Novemberweather in extra sweatersandaleatherjacket,Iroaredoff the campus on mymotorcycle after my classeswere over, determined toenjoy a lastdusk rideof theseason.

The overflow crowd atthe auditorium atTuftswastypical for an early-1970santiwar event—lots ofgrungy college studentsdressed in long scarves andthrift-store coats, with asmattering of prosperous-looking older couples fromthe western suburbs ofBoston. Howard Zinn wasalready speakingwhen I gotthere, delivering a literate

and impassioned defense ofcivil disobedience thatbrought the audience to itsfeet with applause andcheerswhenhewasfinished.I was immediately worriedabout my father, who wasthe next to speak, becausethere was no way he couldmatch Zinn’s erudition andconvincing style. But Iunderestimated him. Hebegan quietly, almost

inaudibly,explainingwhyhecalled his talk “TheConfessions of aDisenchanted American.”Patiently, with a lot ofhumor, he described hisdifficult personal journeyfrom Depression-eraScrantontostartingafamilyand a successful businesscareer in the 1950s, all ofwhichhadmadehimfiercelyloyal to traditional politics

and led him to frequentlytake time off from work tohelp elect governors,senators, even a president,John F. Kennedy. But thecarnage in Vietnam andWashington’s refusal toacknowledge the growingunpopularityof thewarhadturned him against “thesystem.”Hespokeabouttheimportance of moraloutrage, insisting that

protesterswerestillpatrioticAmericans. “I have notabandoned my country,” hesaid,raisinghisvoiceonlyatthe end. “My country hasabandonedme.”

It was a very effectivepiece of conversationalstorytelling and the crowdcheered with approval.Howard Zinn was the firston his feet, clapping as hewalked across the stage to

shakemyfather’shand.Ihadalways been embarrassed bymy father’s awkward andjuvenescent embrace ofradicalpolitics,one reason Ihad turned away from himsince my teens, but at thatmomentIwasproudofhim,and impressed. Ididn’tevenknow thismanwhom I hadbarely seen in the past fewyears,orthathecouldmoveacrowdlikethis.

After the event was overthe audience mobbed thespeakersneartherearoftheauditorium, and I couldn’tget close to my father. Iwaved from a distance nearthe door and he cheerfullywaved back, and I noticedthat he was talkinganimatedly with two oldercouples, and makingarrangements to meet themoutsideattheircar.Idrifted

outside to wait for him,expecting that I’d have toshare him at dinner withtheseoldfriends.

I was standing near thecurboutsidewhenmyfatherfinally emerged anddescended the stone steps,tall and elegant in his woolovercoatandtweedcap.Thepeople he was leaving withhad just pulled up in theircar and he waved and

motioned that he would beright over, and then hereached out and shook myhand.

“Yourspeechwasgreat,”Isaid.“Ididn’texpectittobethatgood.”

“Oh, I am sort of gettingthis one down,” he said. “Ireallyappreciateyoucomingdownlikethis.”

“So, dinner?” I said.“Where am I supposed to

meetyou?”“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I

have to run off with thesepeople.ButI’llbebackagainsoon.I’llcallyou.We’llgotodinneratDurginPark.”

What I said then wasrobotic, just syllables to getthroughthemoment.

“Fine,Dad.I’llseeyou.”My father tapped me on

the shoulder and smiled,givingmeathumbs-upashe

pulled his leather glovesfrom his coat pocket. Withthat,hedisappearedintothenightshadowsontheedgeoftheTuftscampus.

Aspittingrainhadstartedto fall and, underneath thecampus lampposts, thestudent walking pathsglistenedwithmud. I foundmymotorcycle a few blocksaway, jumped hard on thefootstarter,guessedmyway

through themaze of streetsto the interstate, and drovenorth,azombiebiker in therain. I borenorth through ablack landscape on a blackmotorcycle, so black insidethere were no edges, noshapes, no emotionalcontours to assess as aspecificfeeling.BythetimeIreachedtheMaineTurnpikeIwas so frozen that I couldbarely move my arms to

steerthebike,andIstoppedtowarmupatatwenty-four-hour diner in SouthPortland.

Later, when I thoughtabout that night, I couldn’tdecidewho Iwas angrier at—himorme. But therewasalways a solution for this.The Catholic doctrine ofsilence fixed everything andrepression wasn’t a fault—itwas the only way I could

cope. I tried not toremember.My father was avery princely, intriguingman, always changing,always presenting a newside,andIcouldn’tstaymadathimformuchlongerthana coldmotorcycle ride backtoMaine.

•••

After the Black Hills, theWyoming flats were broadandwideopen,mostlycattlecountry, but there werelovelysmalltownsandviewsof man-made lakes everyfifteen or twenty miles, andthe traveling would be easyuntilwegotbeyondCasper.We slept at feedlots and atthe state fairgrounds inDouglas, where morecowboys pulled into our

camp and waited for us toget the mules settled incorrals before taking us outfor dinner. Wyoming is avast state, but everyone inthe cattle business seems toknow everyone else, and Ienjoyed swapping taleswiththe cowboys. I talked abouttheranchesandcattledrivesI had been on, while theybrought me up to date ontheanticsofhedgefundand

mediabillionairesbuyingupfamous old ranches.Wyoming was my Shangri-la, and I was glad to havereached the high plains thistime theway I did, swellingwith self-confidence aboutgetting across the BlackHills.

19

WESPENTTHEJULYFOURTH

weekend in trail nirvana. Afewmiles north of Douglas,Wyoming,asweclimbedthe

hillsalongtheChild’sRoute,a local cowboy and CivilWar reenactor named BillSinnard flagged us down inhis pickup and told us thatthe Wyoming Division ofState Parks and HistoricSites was inviting us tospendtheIndependenceDayweekendattherestoredFortFetterman,justahead,wherethe festivitieswould includeUnited States Cavalry

reenactments, wagon ridesfor the tourists, andluncheon and dinnerbarbecues.Thefortyacresofthe fort grounds werefenced, and we could turnour mules loose to grazewhile we enjoyed thehospitality of the historicsite. Two hours later wejacked open the gate belowthefortandcalledthemulesuptoabroadplateauwhere

an immaculately preservedofficers’ quarters and amunitionsbarncommandeda breathtaking vista of theNorthPlatte and the rollingplainsbeyond.WhileIsetupcamp and ran a hose downfrom the main buildings towashsixweeksofcongealedmudandtumbleweedoffthewagon,Nickentertainedthetourists and reenactorswith

hismarvelous palaver aboutwagonsandmules.

I had read about FortFetterman since Iwas aboyand was delighted to makethis unexpected stop. Thefort was built in 1867 andnamedafteranotherfrontierbounder, Civil War veteranCaptain William J.Fetterman. The winterbefore, while marching outto protect awood-gathering

detail in the BighornMountains, Fetterman haddisobeyed orders andallowed a small decoy partyled by LakotawarriorCrazyHorse to lure him over thenearby ridges.Contemporary accountsclaimed that Crazy Horseand his braves taunted thesoldiers by dismountingtheir war ponies, pullingdown their loincloths, and

contemptuously flashingbare-ass moons. WhateverCrazy Horse did, it worked.Fettermanchasedthebravesover Lodge Trail Ridge,whereamixedambushpartyof Cheyenne, Arapaho, andLakota fighters promptlyannihilated his entirecommand of eighty-onesoldiers and civilians. Themilitary disaster quicklybecame one of those events

that typified the luriddistortion of fact during theIndianwarsofthelate1860sand 1870s. In the easternpress,Fettermanwas laudedasaheroandtheoutcomeofhis tactical lunacy waslabeled a “massacre.”Vengeancewouldhavetobeexacted, and the final,genocidal campaign of theAmericans against theIndians began. During the

subsequent Powder RiverWar the Lakota, Cheyenne,and Arapaho wereeventually surrounded,starved out, and forced intothe cultural obliteration ofreservationlife.

At the time, the renewedtraffic of covered wagonsthat began after the CivilWar was gradually shiftingto the Child’s Route alongthenorthbanksofthePlatte,

and thenew fortbecameanimportant waypoint andresupplyingcenterineasternWyoming. Fetterman wasalso a major stop along thefamedBozemanTrail,whichwasestablished inthe1860sto funnel traffic north aftergold was discovered in theDakotasandMontana,anditbecame the primary routeinto the Powder Rivercountry for cavalry units,

miners, and ranchers whowereinvadingCheyenneandSioux lands, breaking stillmore government treatiesthathadpromisedthetribesexclusive use of theirtraditional hunting grounds.Afteritstwenty-yearspellasa lonely, frigid gulag forcavalrymen, the fort areawas developed into a busyranching and outfittingcenter, Fetterman City,

which was knownthroughout the west for itsbustling tavern andwhorehouse, called theFetterman Hog Ranch,which drew cowboys,soldiers, and railroad menfrommilesaround.The fortand Hog Ranch eventuallyfell intodisuse after thecityof Douglas was founded inthe1880s.

Fetterman was a relaxinghiatus for us, but I wasworried about the fencingarrangement around thefort. In addition to a cattleguard near the entrance, asecond cattle guard alongthe distant fencing to theeast glimmered in thesunlight aswe set up camp.Afterfillingtheirbellieswithgrass, the mules would getbored and begin exploring

the fence perimeters, and Iknewtheywouldbetemptedto jump the cattle guards.We were carrying portableelectricfencing,whichcouldeasily be strung across thecattle guards and, afterretrieving it fromunderneath our gear in thewagon, I headed off acrosstheplateauwith the fencingkitcradledinmyarms.

Nickwasstandingnearbywith a crowd of cowboys,tourists, and Civil Warreenactors gathered aroundhim, yapping away in hisboomingbaritoneaboutourtrip.Thiswasnotafavorableenvironment for me. AwillingaudiencebroughtoutNick’sboastyboy,feedinghisneed to chide the older,more cautious brother, andaftersixweeksonthetrailhe

was tired of my fastidiousattentiontodetail.

“Nick, would you like tohelpme fence off the cattleguards?” I said. “The mulesmighttrytojumpthem.”

“Oh, here we go,” Nicksaid to the crowd out pastmyshoulder. “Mybrother isthetrailbossonthetrip,youknow? So I have to be thebrains of this frickinoperation. Rinker, there is

nowaythosemulesaregointo jump a cattle guard. Iguaranteeit.”

Everyone laughed atNick’stouchingburlesqueoffamily.Iwasannoyedathimfor humiliating me in frontof strangers but decided togive up. Forget it. This wasjust another case of myworrywart nature spoilingthespontaneityofthetrip.Istowed the portable fencing

back in the wagon andwandered off to explore thefort.

Therewasawarmbreezeup on the plateau and I feltlazy and supremelycontented about our trip sofar.Back inNebraska, I hadmadeoneofmymostusefulpurchases of the trip—acheap pair of imitation-suede slippersboughtat theScottsbluff Wal-Mart. After

long afternoons scoutingaheadof thewagon,myfeetwere sore and I wanted togetoutofmybootsoncewemade camp.But the groundunderfoot was prickly withscrub grass and sage, and Ineeded something at leastmoderately sturdy againsttheground.Astheafternoonworeon at Fetterman, I putonmyWal-Mart slippers torelax, sat down inmy camp

chair,pulledthebrimofmyhat down against the sun,and fell into a dreamyhaze.Fort Fetterman on theFourthofJuly.Itjustdoesn’tgetbetterthanthis.

Half an hour later, I wasabruptly wakened by thesound of a pickup skiddinginto the fort parking lot. Acloud of dust blew over thewagonandavoiceyelledout

throughtheopenwindowofthetruck.

“Hey! Them mules ofyoursare jumping thecattleguard! They’re headed east,backtoMissouri!”

Shit.Damnitall,whydidIlisten to Nick? Runningacross the fort grounds, Icould see the last mule—itlooked like Bute—vaultingthe cattle guard andgalloping uphill. Her shoes

glintedinthesunlightasshekickedsidewayswithjoyandthen disappeared over thefar ridge. The team wasalreadyahalfmileaway.

Nickhalfran,halflimpedover to the pickup, pulledopenthedoor,yankedOliveOyl inonhis lap,andyelledtotherancheratthesteeringwheel,“Let’sgo!”

“Nick, no,” I said. “Don’tchasethemules.They’ll just

run farther. And your foot.Wecan’taffordtohurtyourfoot,here.”

“Nah. I’ll get ’em. OliveOylwillhelpmeherd.”

Asthepickupspungravelleaving the lot, headingsoutheast toward themules,IcalledtoNicktostopatthetop of the ridge, where hecould keep the mules insight.

Iwasall aloneat the fortnow, but I did have BillSinnard’s cell phonenumber. I called and toldhimwhat happened, andhesaidthathe’dbebackatthefort in fifteen minutes, assoon as he could load hisfour-wheeler onto a trailer.Heknewthecountryeastofthe fort and could help uscatchthemules.ButSinnarddidn’t know how far they

couldrun.“Howmanymiles is it to

thenextfence?”Iaskedhim.“Howfarcantheyget?”

“Oh, hell, we don’t domiles in Wyomin,” Sinnardsaid. “That pasture east ofthefortisatleastathousandacres.”

I ran back to the wagon,scooped some oats into abucket, and grabbed ourthree lead chains, carrying

them wrapped around myneck. There wasn’t time tochange into my boots, so Ijust charged east across thesage in my Wal-Martslippers.

I have made somepathetichikesinmylife,butmy Fort Fetterman mule-recovery recon ranks rightup there with Wrong WayCorrigan or Evel Knievel’srideintheSkycycleoverthe

Snake.IwasgoingfortheD.B. Cooper Award. I washeaded off on a steeplysloped sagebrushplain,withthree heavy stainless steelchains around my neck,carryingafullbucketofoats,inmyWal-Martslippers.

Fromthewindowofacaralong a highway, a walkthroughthesagebrush lookslikethemostattractivethingthat a body can do with its

legs.But,upclose,sagebrushis not very negotiable. Firstof all, sagebrush is tall—waist-high in some places,more than shoulder-high inothers. It grows soirregularly that there is nolinear path through it,requiring amule reconmanlike me to make severaltwists and turns aroundevery sagebrush. Thecowboy novelists have

grievously ignored thisaspect of their favoritevegetation.On foot throughthe sage, at best, there is anoverlandgainofaboutthirtyyards for every hundredyards walked. I stumbled alot, dropped my bucket,trying to skirt the sage tooclose, and then hanging upmyWal-Martslippersontheclingybranches.

I was windedwhen I gotto the top of the first rise. Icould see the mules far off,still more than half a mileahead of me, with no fenceline in sight. They werehaving a fine time downthere, kicking up their heelsand galloping together,rolling around in the dirt,free mules again, in thelargest pasture of their life.The mule that I could

tentatively identify as Beckstared back towardmewitha sublime look of uttersatisfaction, expressing withherbodydemeanorandearsexactly how she felt aboutme.

“Fuck you, Rinker Buck.I’ve taken seven hundredmilesofyourshitandnowIget to enjoy a real playdatewithJakeandBute.”

Ididn’twantthemulestogain on me so I startedrunning, especially on thedescendingslopes.Butitwastoo much work dartingaround a large sagebrushplant every ten or fifteenyards. What the hell, Ithought.Ihaveanadvantageherewithoutmyheavybootson. Wal-Mart slippers arelight. So I started jumpingthesage,tomaintainamore

consistent bearing towardthemules.

Steeplechasing acrossWyoming sage inWal-Martslippers, however, doespresent one problem. InWyoming,wildlifebiologistshave recently compiledreports showing that thepronghorn antelopepopulation is temporarilydeclining, probably due todroughtandenergyprojects,

but there are still thousandsof them in every herd.Apparently, antelope diewith intense regularity.Carcasses do not decayquickly in the high, arid air,and antelope seem topreferdying on the east side ofsagebrushclusters.Anteloperib cages are particularlyresilient and remain fullydeployed, about eighteenincheshigh,manyyearsafter

death. Antelope bones arealso exquisitely camouflageda sun-bleached brown andyellow, which perfectlyblends in with the desertfloor and the sagebranches.Unseen,andasdangerousasthe tangle-wires of aWorldWar I battle trench, theantelope rib cages lurkbehindthesagebushes—notbehind every one, but inrandom sequences that are

quite unpredictable tosomeone making a run likemine.

Iwasphilosophical aboutthis. You learn somethingnew on every trip. It washardgoing,butatleastIwasfamiliarizing myself withwhat must have been acommon problem for thepioneers—bushwhackingthrough a hazmat site of

camouflaged antelope ribcages.

Every time I encounteredanewsagebrushplantinmyway, there was a delightfulsense of vaulting into theunknown. Leap, reach myapex over the center of thesagebrush plant, phew! Noantelope rib cage on theother side. But this wasmerelytemporaryrelief.Thenext time itwas: leap, reach

myapex,oh, shit, there’s ananteloperibcageinmyway.

When a man in mysituation says, Okay, don’tpanicnow, itmeans that heis already panicking.Instinctively, at the first ribcage, I spread my legs tomiss the highest ribs, butthis just forced me into avery awkward, wheels-uplanding, and then asomersault into the next

sagebrushplant.Ilostathirdof my load of oats and twolead chains. After standingup and re-straighteningmyself and my load, Icontinued tovaultdownhill,determinednot tomake thesamemistaketwice.

Leap,reachmyapex,fuckme, another rib cage. Okay,let’s try tucking the legs intoa cannonball descent thistime.

I can now report withauthoritythata$6.99pairofimitation-suede Wal-Martslippers is just amagnet forantelope ribs. You cannotget past your apogee over asagebrush plant without aWal-Mart slipper hangingup either on the highestantelope rib, a sage branch,or the other Wal-Martslipper. The result is severe

face-plants on the sandy,abrasiveWyomingsoil.

After another quartermile of this, my cheeks andhandswereburnisheddownto a raspberry luster, theshoulders of my shirt wererippedopenagain,andtherewas a sore spotonmy rightkneewhere the heavymetalclips on the lead chainsbanged hard every time Ihunguponanotherantelope

rib and cratered into thedust. My new Wal-Martslippers were tattered andripped.

But I told myself that Ihadtoretainfocusandkeepgoing. I was following thepath of the pioneers, andmaybe even WinstonChurchill.Don’tlosesightofthe mission, no matter theodds.

For once, Nick hadfollowed instructions. Therancherhaddroppedhimoffat the top of the tallest rise,where he could keep themules in sight. ThesagebrushthinnedoutatthehigherelevationandIhadaneasier time trudging upthere. Nick had sat downbetween twoclumpsof sagewithOliveOylsittingonherhaunchesbesidehim.

“God, you look uglierthan a stumppost,” he said.“What did you do, falldown?”

“Anteloperibcages,Nick.They’reallovertheplaceouthere.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t haveknownthat.Inthetruck,wejust plowed through. By theway, why the fuck did youbringanemptybucket?”

“It wasn’t empty when Ileftthefort,douchebag.Theoats spilled out when I fellover.”

“Oh, okay. I just figuredyou were more coordinatedthanthat.”

“Thanks, Nick,” I said.“How’sthefoot?”

“I’m on the edge. Ishouldn’t push it anymore.But you can’t catch themulesalone.”

“Don’tworry.BillSinnardis coming with his four-wheeler.”

I explained my plan toNick.WhenSinnardarrived,I would motion for him topickupNick,whileIherdedthe mules toward what hadto be a distant fence line. Iwouldholdthemagainstthefencecornerfromadistanceandthen,whenNickandBillgot there, we would catch

Jake first, because he wouldwalk over expecting us toscratchhis ears.Butewouldbe easy after that. Beckwould be her usual pain intheassbut shewasn’t goingtoletButeoutofhersight.

“Okay, but take OliveOyl,” Nick said. “She’ll helpyouholdtheteam.”

Nick stood up and madeshooing motions with hisarms.

“Olive Oyl,” he said.“Help the boss herd themules.Okay?Listentohim.”

Olive Oyl cocked herhead and nodded, and thenranoffdownthehill for themules.

Itwas a longmarch east,butthepastureseemedmoreheavilygrazedonthefarsideof the rise, with lesssagebrush growth, and Icould make easier progress

inmyslippers.Ontheflats,Ifrequently lost site of themules, but I was confidentthat they would eventuallybe stopped by a fence line.When Bill Sinnard arrivedon his four-wheeler, heskitteredoffthebottomsideof thecanyonandbraked ina cloud of dust beside me.He was carrying lead linesaround his neck and had abucket of oats clutched on

hislap.ItoldhimthatIhadlostsightofthemules.

“It’s all right,” Sinnardsaid. “Icouldseethemfromup top. There’s a corner inthe fenceby thewashdownthere. They’re already nearit.”

“Goback formybrother.He’s got a bad ankle andshouldn’t be walkinganymore. I’ll head east andyouandNickcancatchup.”

Bill roared off on thefour-wheeler, taking the hillin a diagonal climb. Hemotioned for Nick to climbonto the seat behind him,and they bounced backdowntherise together,withNick’sbigbellybobbingoverthe bumps against Bill’swaist and ass, BrokebackMountain–style.

OliveOylwasarealteamplayer that afternoon.

Chasing cattle in Nebraskaand running interferencewith the prairie dogs andsnakesintheBlackHillshadhoned her herding skills.WhenImotionedforher tohold the mules along thesouth fence, sheyappedandleaped up on her hind feet,snarling at the mules andnipping at their legswhenevertheytriedtobreakfrom the fence corner.

Meanwhile, I was holdingthemules on the other sidebyrunningbackandforthinanarcnorthwest.

As we approached themulesintightercircles,theywere trapped in the cornerof the fence and knew it.Jake took a few tentativesteps towardme,hoping fortheeventualpayoffofanearmassage. Bute was verycurious about the bucket in

my hand, which she knewmeant sweet oats. Beck wasstill expressing Screw you!with her rump. The mulebodylanguagewasclear.

Okay, we’re done. Butwe’vehadourfun.And,Boss,yousurelookasinineinthoseWal-Martslippers.

When Nick bounceddownwith Bill on the four-wheeler,Ididn’twanthimtothink that I was angry, so I

deferred to his feelings ofsuperiority about managingmules.

“Here, Nick,” I said,handing him two leadchains.“Youcatchtheteam.But get Jake or Bute first.Don’t mess with thatgoddamnBeck.”

Of course, just to provehimself,hecaughtBeckfirst,costing us an extra tenminutes while he slowly

approached her and thenbobbed and wove in thescrubbrushasBeckwheeledaway fromhim.But as soonashehadaleadonher,Jakewalked over for earscratches, andBute foroats,andwehadallthreeonlines.

We were now about twoandahalfmiles fromcamp,anditwasaglumwalkbackover the hills. Bill putteredoff on his four-wheeler,

leadingBeckwithoneofthechains.Ididn’twantNicktoplacehisweightonhisankleall theway back to the fort,so I clasped my handstogether tomakea stepandhoisted him up onto Jake’sback.HeledButefromtherewhileIledJake.Besideusonthe sandy hills, the late-afternoon sun cast talldiagonal shadows of ourpathetic little caravan—one

beefy brother ridingbareback on a mule, theother leading the way onfoot, tripping against thesage in his Wal-Martslippers.

Back at the fort, afterwehad the mules secured, Iwanted to be alone and Igrabbed my toilet kit,scrambleddowntheplateau,and hiked east across theplains to the banks of the

North Platte. The sandyoxbowtherewasshadedbyacottonwood grove, with aflock of American whitepelicans swimming in a stillpool and snowy egretswading on the edges. Istrippedbare,dived intotheriver, and washed andshaved.

Under a low, falling sun,theNorthPlattewasbathedin light orange and blue. I

swamoutacross thepelicanlagoon and floated on myback,staringattheskywhilethe feathery river currentturnedmeincircles.Ifeltsofree out there, cast off fromtheworld.Itdidn’tmattertomethatourprogresstowardOregonwas so farcical.Thetrail was my inebriateagainst depression, myhedgeagainstboredomwithlife. I didn’t care what

happened next on theChild’sRoute.Wewould letthe mules rest for anotherdayatFortFetterman.Thenall Iwanted todowaswakeat dawn in the sage-scentedair of the Wyoming plains,call the mules for Casper,and pick up the pink rutstoward Independence RockandSouthPass.

•••

Layingover foranextradayat Fort Fetterman yieldedone of the best surprises ofthe trip. In the earlyafternoon a living legend oftheOregonTrailshowedup.Randy Brown, a trailhistorianwholivednearbyinDouglas, had driven over toFetterman to enjoyIndependence Day at thefort,buthewasalsocuriousabout the two easterners

traveling through in acovered wagon andwondered ifweneededhelpnegotiating the cutoffsahead. I had used Brown’sGraves and Sites on theOregonandCaliforniaTrailsall the way across fromMissouri and found it aninvaluable resource. Gravelocations are importantwaypoints along the trail,comprising a kind of gritty,

forensic record of thegroundthepioneersactuallycrossed,offeringaninfinitelymore detailedmap than thegeneralizedtraildescriptionsoffered by academichistorians. Brown’s exactingaccount of each grave andhow it got there, and hisbiographies of buriedpioneers, also provide vitalhistorical and geographicinformation on the various

fords of the Platte or whymajor cutoff routes wereused in certain years. I hadnotexpectedtomeetBrown,butnow Iwas sittingbesidethe wagon with him, mymaps spread across ourknees,absorbingawealthofdetailaboutthetrailahead.

Unlike such traditionalscholarsasJohnD.UnruhJr.orMerrillMattes,Brownhasnever enjoyed the security

and prestige of a universityprofessorship or a positionwith the National ParkService.Hebeganwanderingthe trail in the late 1970sduringhissummersofffromteaching in rural one-roomWyoming schoolhouses,developing the concept thatthe hundreds of graves stillto be found beside the rutswere time capsules leftbehind by pioneer families,

revealing insights thatcannot be found inpublished histories. Browndoggedly cross-checksinformation about eachgrave in emigrant journals,land records, andnineteenth-centurynewspapers. A lifetime ofsearching for graves alongthe Oregon and Californiatrailshasalsoallowedhimtocreate a more complete

portrait of nineteenth-century American life, thepageantry of charactersthrown west by the greatlandmigration.

One of Brown’s bestmonograph sketches, forexample, narrates thetragedy of Charles Stull, adeaf and mute man fromPhiladelphiawhodecidedtocross the Oregon Trail,aloneandonfoot,duringthe

peak emigration year of1852.StulldiedofcholeraatCastle Creek, just west ofAsh Hollow. He was foundbythemembersofapassingwagon train, who examinedhisbodyand found$2.75 inhis pockets, along with acertificate attesting to hisgraduation from thePennsylvania School for theDeaf and Dumb inPhiladelphia. I learned from

Brown’s account howcrowded the trail was thatyear, and new details aboutthe cholera plagues. Brownalso portrayed how early-nineteenth-centuryeducators andphilanthropists foundedschools for the deaf andcirculated beautifullyillustratedpamphletsonsignlanguage. Stull was anexemplary product of that

era. He was one of the firststudents at the Philadelphiaschool for the deaf, and heandhisbrother,anengraver,published one of the firstsign-language manuals, anillustrated broadsheet titledAn Alphabet for theInstruction of the Deaf andDumb.

ThenarrativebackgroundBrown provided about thegrave along Castle Creek

tellsussomethingimportantabout nineteenth-centuryvalues during the great landmigration. The SecondGreat Awakening, whichinspired Narcissa Whitmanand thousands ofevangelicals like her toventure west, also producedthe reformist zeal that wasso pronounced in Americabetween the Revolution andthe Civil War—a nascent

suffrage movement, theantislavery crusade, andsocially minded educationalreform. Perhaps Stull feltempoweredbyhissuccessatthe Pennsylvania School fortheDeafandDumbandthatiswhat led him to hazard adangerous crossing by footacross the trail. His silentjourney, however eccentric,evinces the yearnings of asociety that was embracing

mobility and personalchange.

A native of Michigan,Brown moved to Wyomingin 1977 to teach in ruralschools, and becameinterested in the trail beforeOCTAwas founded. At thetime, the idea of preservingthe trail as a livingmonument was still in itsinfancy, following a longperiod of neglect and then

the distractions of theDepression andWorldWarII afterEzraMeekerdied in1928.Brownhaslongservedas the chairman of OCTA’sGravesandSitesCommittee,andforthirtyyearshasspentmost of his free timeidentifying and reinterringpioneer remains. He hasfastidiously restored aboutforty graves and otherimportant sites along the

Oregon Trail alone, and hisrestoration work stretchessome 1,800miles across thewestern trails, from easternNebraskatoCalifornia.

Brown had no particularpurpose in mind when hebegan exploring the trail inthelate1970s.“IthinkIwassimply fascinated by theexistence of so many longstretches of original rutsmore than a hundred years

after the trail was actuallycrossed,” Brown told mewhenImethimforadayofgravetoursafterwereachedCasper. This was aboutfifteen years before the trailcountry of Wyoming begantobe exploited forgaswellsandpipelines,andtherewasvery little concern forpreserving the pioneerenvironment. Even nearmajor landmarks and

intersections, the trail wasmostly empty and poorlymarked.Detailedmapswerenot available to the public,fewmodern trailguideshadbeen published, and, Brownsays, “It would never haveoccurred to people to haveall of these interpretivemuseums.” Brown is avoracious reader andresearcher, and as hediscovered more and more

evidence of unmarked trailgraves, he realized thatproper identification ofburial sites would not onlyaddtoknowledgeabouttrailhistory but honor thepioneerdead.

In many areas, especiallynear his home in easternWyoming, Brown began toappreciate that vagaries ofboth the past and thepresent had combined to

preserve critical sections ofthe trail and pioneer graves.By the time they reachedWyoming,thepioneerswereawarethatthemuddyPlattewas not the best source ofwater. They began to travelin the higher ground of theRocky foothills to rely onfreshcreeksforwater,whichtook them several milesaway from the flatter landalong the river. Later, these

hilly areas were consideredagriculturally undesirablebecause ranchers andfarmers knew that theycouldn’t plant corn orharvest hay there, andeventuallytheseparcelswerepreserved as public landscontrolled by the federalBureau of LandManagement(BLM).“Whenwe got there in the early1980s,”Brownsays,“thetrail

was just waiting for us,mostlyundisturbed.”

One grave that Brownshowed me, along theChild’s Route above theNorth Platte, demonstrateshow researching burial sitescanrevealimportantthemesabout the Oregon Trailmigration that are largelyforgotten today, and alsoshows Brown’s persistencein preserving trail graves.

BrowntookmebycartothegraveofQuintinaSnodderly,a pioneer from Iowa whodied in 1852 just west ofGlenrock, Wyoming. Thegrave sat on high land neartheentranceroadtoaranch,andthesitewasamixoftheoldandthenewthattypifiesOregon Trail country. Abeautifully restoredhomesteader farm with alog-cabin house and a red

Scandinavian barn stoodbelow, and the blades of anew wind-turbinedevelopment swayedthrough the sky in thedistance.

“Quintina”was a popularnineteenth-century name, aborrowing from Latin thatindicated a fifth-born child.Quintina was a native ofTennessee whomoved withher husband, Jacob

Snodderly, to Iowa, livingthere with their eightchildren for several yearsbefore deciding to migratewestoncemore,thistimeonthe Oregon Trail. TheSnodderlysweretraveling inawagon train of evangelicalBaptists led by a popularcircuit-riding minister, JoabPowell, whose story typifiesnot only the sweep ofAmerican history but an

important factor in OregonTrail migration. Manynineteenth-centuryAmericans, having spentyears warring with theirneighborsoveronedoctrinaldifferenceoranother,wouldpull up stakes andmove onto seek more religiousfreedom, frequentlymigrating by stages all theway across the NorthAmericancontinent.

Joab Powell was adescendant of TennesseeWelshmenwhobelonged toa unique sect, the “FightingQuakers,” who abandonedthe Quaker doctrine ofnonviolence during theRevolutionary War, afterconcludingthatresistancetoBritish rule was justified bybiblical texts. During theSecondGreatAwakening inthe 1820s, Powell made a

common denominationalswapofthetime,leavingtheSociety of Friends for themore evangelical Baptists.Powell was a spellbindingspeaker and an impressivefigure,weighingalmostthreehundredpounds. Likemanyconverted evangelicals, hewas vehemently opposed toslavery, and his smallcongregation of ProvidenceBaptistswashoundedoutof

Tennessee and moved toMissouri, where Powellhomesteaded a 640-acrefarmandtraveledwidelyasacircuit preacher. But aftertwenty years Powell hadconcluded that Missouri,racked by bloody battlesbetween pro-slavery andantislavery vigilantes, wasnot hospitable toabolitionists either, and itwas time tomove on again.

In1852heledamigrationofBaptists to Oregon, in partbecausehefeltcalledbyGodto join thepoliticalbattle toadmit Oregon to the Unionasafreestate,whereslaverywould not be allowed. TheSnodderly family of Iowaapparently decided to jointheBaptistwagontrainafterreaching the jumping-offcamps in St. Joseph in thespringof1852.

Quintina’s remains werediscoveredin1974,whentheownersof the ranchoutsideGlenrock were building anewdriveway and the gravewas overturned by a roadgrader. The gravestonefound at the site indicatedthat the pioneers were in ahurry and didn’t have timeto finish carving the rock.The inscription washammered into a flat stone

found nearby with whatappearstohavebeeneitherascrewdriverorawoodchisel,by an amateur hand. Itssimple text, with the first“N” inscribed backward,read “QUIИTINASNODERLY D J.” (“D J”probably signified “Died inJune.”) In Graves and Siteson the Oregon andCaliforniaTrails,Brownandhis coauthor, Reg Duffin,

described the condition oftheremainswhentheywerefound.

Anexaminationof theskeleton revealed thecauseofdeath.Mostofthe ribs had beencrushed, probably bythe heavy wheels of acovered wagon. Theskeleton was inotherwise perfect

condition, withfragments of a greenribbon bow stillaround the neck. ThePowell wagon trainprobably crossed theNorth Platte River atthis point and theaccident may haveoccurred as thewagons climbed theriverbluffstoenterthe

north bank [orChild’sRoute]trail.

The owners of the ranchrealized that they hadprobably unearthed apioneer grave, andappreciated the importanceof preserving the remains,but as yet there was noOCTA to contact, and theydidn’tknowwhattodo.Thefamily placed Quintina’s

bones and the headstoneunderneath the couch intheirlivingroom,wheretheyremained, pretty muchforgotten, for ten years. Atsome point Quintina’s skullwas dispatched forexamination by a forensicscience team at ColoradoState University in FortCollins. The forensic teamwanted to make a facialreconstruction, and then

castit inplaster,torenderafuller portrait of a pioneerwoman. But that work wasnever completed andQuintina’s skull remainedexiled in Fort Collins foryears.

In 1984, the familystoring Quintina’s headlessskeleton underneath theircouch contacted Brown,who had now become wellknown for his reburials of

pioneers. They were sellingthe ranch to move toWashington State, andthought that it was time toproperly dispose of thebones. Brown drove up toGlenrockinhisFordBroncoII, and carried Quintinaaway in a cardboard box.Through OCTA, he raisedmoney toprepare a reburialspot and buy protectivefencing, and a friend of

Brown’s, ahandyman in theDouglasschoolsystem,builta simple pine coffin forreinterringtheremains.

But Brown couldn’tproceed with a properreburial without Quintina’sskull,andthisprovedtobeastumbling block. Despiterepeatedcallsandletters,hegot the runaround everytime he contacted ColoradoState University’s forensic

scienceteaminFortCollins.In themeantime,Quintina’sskeleton remained in thecardboard box, now inBrown’scare.Heputtheboxof bones in a corner of hiscomputerroomathishouseinDouglas.

“Thiswasstillprettyearlyinmygraverestorationdays,and itwasavery frustratingperiod for me,” Brown said.“Theresultsofananalysisof

Quintina’s skull were goingto be vague anyway, and itseemedtomethataforensicscienceteamshouldbemorerespectfulof theneedtogether back into a propergrave.”

Negotiations with theFort Collins team went onfor months, and finally theuniversity scientists agreedtoreleasetheskull,ifBrownwould drive down there

himself and carry it away.Onthearrangedday,Brownmade the 350-mile round-trip to Colorado. On theuniversity grounds at FortCollins, he found thepathologist with Quintina’sskull in his office, andtogether they packed it in acardboardbox,cushioningitfor the ride back toWyoming with Styrofoampeanuts. Quintina rode

Interstate 25 back towardher original resting place inthe front passenger seat oftheFordBroncoII.

Brown selected thereburial place with care,choosing ground very nearthe original burial site on agrassy knoll overlooking theNorth Platte. QuintinaSnodderly’s remains,thirteen years after theywere unearthed by the road

grader, were returned toWyoming soil in the newpinecoffinintheautumnof1987.

Brown was undecidedabout what to do withQuintina’s headstone,because he was concernedabout leaving it outside intheelements,whereitmightdeteriorate over time.Originally, the headstonehad probably been laid flat

ontheground,notmountederect. During the centuryafter Quintina’s death, theWyoming winds and rainhad covered the headstonewith a deposit of sandy soil,which had supported ahealthy native growth ofgrass and wildflowers,preservingitalmostintact.

At the time, the city ofCasperandthe federalBLMwere collaborating on plans

tobuildanewmuseum,nowthe National Historic TrailsInterpretive Center, whichBrown thought would be afitting location to preserveand display the headstone.Working with the newmuseum staff, Brownarranged for the originalheadstone to be exactlycopied inall-weatherplasterbyacuratorialshopthatalsospecializedinmakingprecise

castsofdinosaurbones.Theoriginal headstone is nowdisplayed for museumvisitors behind protectiveglass at the InterpretiveCenter in Casper. Theattractive facsimileheadstone was placed atQuintina’s new grave inGlenrock. Brown installedthe new cast at the gravewithafriendwhohashelpedthe Interpretive Center

gather pioneer artifacts, andwho isalsoadevoutRomanCatholic. When thetombstone cast was reset intheground,shesaidaprayerwhile sprinkling holy wateronthegrave.

During reburials thatoccurduringtheschoolyear,Brown has often recruitedthe students from his one-room schoolhouses to helprehabilitate grave sites, and

they are frequently the onlywitnesses when the pioneergraves are rededicated withsimple ceremonies thatinclude Bible readings andpoems written by thestudents.

“I still remember thestudentsIhadwithme,eachdaythatwemadeareburial,”Brown told me. “I taughtthem to be respectful ofhuman remains, but that a

skeleton was not somethingyou should be afraid of, orconsider strange. Humanremains are part of oureducation, our appreciationofthepast.Thekidslearnedhow to use a post-holedigger and tomake fence. Iexplained the history of thetrail in each area. I still feelvery spiritual about everyoneofmyreburials.”

The day I visited theSnodderlygravewithBrown,astrongbreezewasblowing,swaying the tall grasses, andkilldeers and mourningdoves were calling nearby.Antelopeboundedbyonthegolden plains. The tastefulpine-pole fencing, andOCTA’s practice ofmowingthe grass both inside andaround the border of thepreserved grave, make

Quintina Snodderly’s finalresting place look like alonely but artful outpost ontheruts.

Brown’s simple devotionto task andhumandecency,rare in the America thatmost of us know, was verymoving tome.Aswe droveoff, curious, I asked Brownwhat he did with the boxthat for so many years had

contained QuintinaSnodderly’sremains.

“I put it back in thecorner of my computerroom,” he said. “It’s stillthere. I’ve never thoughtaboutituntiltoday.IguessIjust don’t want to part forgood with QuintinaSnodderly. Also, it’s a goodbox.”

20

NICKANDIHADOURfirstbigfight at Casper. We hadmadeexcellenttimerunningthe mules up from Fort

Fetterman and decided togive them another restbefore we faced thescorchingdesertsahead,andalocaltaxidermistofferedushis large pastures out byPoisonSpiderCreek, on thewestern fringes of the city.We had now spent nearlytwomonthsonthetrailandallofmyclotheswereruinedfrom scouting through thesageandgate-jackingfences.

Wewouldn’thitanothercityuntil Pocatello, Idaho,morethan five hundred milesaway, but we had broughtNick’s truck forward toCasper two weeks before,convenientlypositioningmefor a long, lazy afternoonshop. After I made amorning run to thehardware stores for Nick,gettingtherestofthedayoffwaseasy.

“Okay, so, Nick. HowaboutIhelpyouwithwagonrepairstoday?”

“Go away. I don’t wantyour college-educated assanywherenearmywagon.”

“Nick, how fair is this tome?You’reconsigningmetoa life of mechanicalincompetence.”

“Not my problem. Goaway.”

“I’ll hold your greasegun.”

“Goaway.”Aftereighthundredmiles

of wagon travel throughrural prairies, indulging thecommercialpossibilitiesofamodern,mall-envelopedcitylike Casper was deeplytherapeutic, and it was easyto get carried away. As ithappens, downtown Casperhas just about the best

western wear emporium inthe country, Lou TaubertRanch Outfitters, so Ibought a new wardrobe ofcowboy shirts there, andthen crossed town forMurdoch’sRanchandHomeSupply,where I boughtnewCarharttjeans,aleathervest,and new work gloves. Ineeded a haircut, so I gotthat, found a Japaneserestaurant for lunch, and

dawdledoverafinedaily,theCasper Star-Tribune. Nick’spickup needed routineservicing, and I didn’t likethewaythewaterpumpwasscreeching,soIstoppedataLubeExpress and got anoilchange, a coolant systemflush,andanewfanbelt.AtDog World, I splurged onPup-Peronis and Milk-Boneminis for Olive Oyl. Icouldn’t stand the grime in

Nick’s truck anymore and IpulledintoanAutoZoneandbought new floor mats,Armorall vinyl shine, andLittle Tree hanging carscents.Ispenttherestoftheday in the shadyparking lotof theFortCasparMuseum,contentedly devouringmuseum pamphlets anddetailingNick’sToyota.

Back at Poison SpiderCreek, as I drove in toward

the wagon, I was dismayedto see the debris field ofhardware wrappers, tools,wood scraps, KFC chickenbones, and grease rags thatNick had strewn all aroundthe Schuttler. He hademptiedouttheTrailPuptomake plumbing repairs onthewaterbarrels,buthewastoo exhausted after hisexertionstocleanup,andallofourpossessionswerelying

aroundinhaphazardpilesorblowing away in thewind. Ihad enjoyed such a fineafternoon shop. Now I hadreturnedtomyhomeontheplains and it was FortLaramie, 1852, with thewagons burning. All of myrage about Nick’s slovenlyways,aftersomanyweeksofsuccessful repression,exploded in a fireball ofanger.

“God fucking damn-it-alltohellanyway,Nick.Whatisthis obduratemind block ofyours about creating ashithole wherever you are?But don’t worry. I don’tmind! I like being yourfuckingmaid.I’llcleanupallbymyself.”

Itwasjustaboutthemostdumbass thing I had eversaid, and I immediatelyregretted it. Nick erupted

from his camp chair,disgustedlylookedinsidethepickupatmybundlesofnewclothes, and spunaround toface me, his sunburned,perspiring face flushed withrage.

“Oh, I see! So I am hereall fuckin afternoon in thehot sunmaking repairs thatyou fuckin could never do.And you are off doin yourfuckin girlyman buying new

Carhartt jeans and gettin ahaircut. Rinker, you don’tknow dickshit about life.Fuckyourdumbass.”

“Nick,ifyoudon’tliketheway I am running thisexpedition, you can get inyourfuckingtruckanddrivehome. I’m done with yourpigstyshit. I’vebeenputtingupwithyourfuckingfilthformy entire life and I’mdone.Understand?”

Men, of course, areeminently rational andastonishingly articulatewhen they argue. You cannever tell from their bodycues that they are angry.After I had unloaded myshopping-spree haul fromthe pickup, Nick decided tousetheToyotatocarrysomepower tools and electricalcords that he had borrowed

fromthetaxidermistbacktotheranchimplementshed.

Nickmade the short runback to the implement shedintheToyotaatthirtymilesper hour, in reverse. Engineroaring, spewing up cloudsofdust, theToyotabouncedbackward down through agulch and then camepartiallyairborneoutthefarside, still heading for thebarn in reverse. At the big

doorways, Nick did not seethe two heavy steel poststhat had been sunk inconcrete near the entrance,to prevent a runaway truckfromhittingthebarn.

Themetallic clang of theToyota’s bumperhitting theposts echoed so loudly thatthe mules jumped in thepasture.Nick’s head bangedagainst the rear window ofthe cab. I could see from a

distance that both thebumper and the tailgatewere dented. Nick stormedout of the pickup, throwinghisarmsintheair.

“See? Fuckin see? This iswhatyoumakemedo!”

The next fifteen minuteswere theworstof the trip. Iwas furious at myself forinitiating a fight, andastounded at thecontradictions in my

character. Nick flips theTrailPupinNebraska,andIamfine.Nickdoesn’tpickupthe wrappers for his woodscrewsandplumbingtapeinWyoming,andI freak.Iwascompletely in the wrong,detested myself for it, andwasterrifiedthatNickwouldtake me seriously and packuphistoolsandhisdoganddrive home. Brooding andspeechless, I wandered

aroundcamppickingupandreturninggeartothewagon,while Nick, cursing,inspected the damage to histruck, occasionally kickingthe fenders and slammingthedoors.

It was a standoff to seewhowouldbreakthesilencefirst,but finallyNickwalkedoverwithamelancholy lookon his face, Fu Manchumustachedroopeddown.He

reached over to shake myhand.

“Rink. I’m sorry. I didn’tmean what I said. I shouldhaveignoredhowstupidyouare.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Istarted it. I’m sorry. If I didas much work as you, Iwouldn’t clean up aftermyselfeither.”

“We’re brothers, Rink.We will always be brothers.

Onceyou’reabrother?”“What?”“You just can’t fuckin

undoit.”Among males, conflict

resolution requires a rapidreturn to the basics,preferably sports orautomotivemechanics.

“Rink, did you have mypickup serviced?” Nick said.“You got it detailed too. I

can’t believe that. It looksgreat.”

“I did it myself, Nick. Itwasfun,”Isaid,handinghimthe receipts for the oilchange, the radiator flush,andthenewfanbelt.

“Fuckin A. Thanks. IalwaysfeellikeanewpersonwhenIcleanoutmytruck.”

I offered to drive NickovertotheMurdochstoretobuynewjeansandshirts,but

he wasn’t interested. Hedidn’t want to blow moneyon clothes until, he said, hehad “greased the lastwheel”onthetrip.

Nick wanted some timealone and, that night, hedrove intoCasper, foundanAAmeeting,andwenttothemovies. I puttered aroundthe wagon, enjoying thesolitudeoftheplainsandthecompanyofOliveOylwhile

the coyotes howled out byEmigrantGap.Thenext350miles across original rutswouldbethetoughest,mostremote stretch of the tripand,asIstaredatmymaps,Iworried about whether wehad enough water to makethe long runs between theriversahead.

•••

Reaching the Oregon Trailin Wyoming and notconfronting the Mormonexperience would be likereaching Paris and notstudyingthecathedrals.Youcannot understand onewithout the other, and theMormonhegira toSaltLakethatbeganin1847,andthenmightily expanded duringthe Gold Rush era, is thecourageousandviolentfable

of America itself. WallaceStegner,thedeanofwesternwriters, devoted at least athird of his Pulitzer Prize–winning career to writingabout theMormons, andheconsidered the Mormonstruggle, and their recordofboth persecution and gravemisdeeds, to epitomize thetorturedhistoryoftheWest.In The Gathering of Zion:The Story of the Mormon

Trail, Stegner pointed outthat theMormons not onlytransformed the OregonTrail but colonized a swathof the West that extendedfromUtahtothemountainsof Idaho, and as far west asthegoldfieldsofCalifornia.

“They built acommonwealth, or as theywould have put it, aKingdom,” Stegner wrote.“But the story of their

migration is more than thestory of the founding ofUtah. . . . The Mormonswere one of the principalforces in the settlement oftheWest.”

Mormon-hating is stillone of America’s mostpopularreligioussports,andthe Roman Catholics,southern evangelicals, andJews who despise theMormons have consistently

ignored one salient truth.JosephSmith,thefounderofthe Latter-day Saints, for allof his bombast, satyriasis,and murderous ways, wasthe only true prophet of anativedenominationbirthedon American soil, and hedramatically changedAmerican history.Mormonism is a religionand, likeallof them,grosslyimperfect, but there has

always been a glaringhypocrisy about Americanattitudes toward the Saints.During the bloody wars inthe 1840s over where theywould eventually settle inthe west—battles mostlyconducted in Missouri,Kansas, and Illinois—theMormons got killed a lot,andtheykilledalotofotherpeople. The Mormons areabhorred for harboring

many strange beliefs. Theybelieve that we preexist asspirit children, can becomedivine during postexistence,and that, as the Book ofMormon describes, theAngel Moroni revealed toJosephSmiththatoneofthetwelve tribes of Israelsomehow escaped theMideast and reached NorthAmerica, to gestate forcenturies as an Indian tribe

preserving the values ofChristianity. The Church ofLatter-day Saints practicesbaptismofthedead,evenfornon-Mormons.

But the Mormons arestrangecomparedtowhom?The biblical heroes ofmainline Christianityinclude a long list ofmurderers, adulterers, andwarmongers,nottomentionthe philandering popes,

genocidal Knights Templar,and Klan-loving SouthernBaptists who have ledvarious branches ofChristianity since then.Traditional Christiansperform some very bizarremental gymnastics of theirown.TheybelievethatJesuswas born to a virgin, andthatduringCommunionHisbody and blood aretransformed into a thin

waferbakedinRhodeIsland.Whichdenomination,whichdoctrine, is more “correct”?None of them are evenremotely correct, of course.It’sallmadeupanyway,anddogma is simply anotherexcuse for introducinguseless human conflict.Organized religion,mankind’s oldest, mostexcitingadventure,toooftencomes down to one church

accusing another church ofheresy. It is the worship ofhypocrisy, squared.Mormons have neverenjoyedamonopolyatthis.

The wonderful storybegan in the 1820s inNarcissa Whitman country,the Burned-Over District inupstate New York. TheSmiths of Palmyra, NewYork,werethekindofhappyfamilythatreliablyproduces

prophets. They werefarmers, prone to cropfailure and nasty landdisputes,whomovedarounda lot.Young Joseph,born inVermont in 1805, wascrippled as a boy aftersuffering a bone infection,and walked for many yearswith crutches. By the timehewas a teenager, however,Smith was able to hikeunassistedandenjoyedlong,

solitary walks over therolling countryside belowLake Ontario. The Smithswere swept up by theevangelistic zeal of theSecond Great Awakening,whichopenedthemtomanyinteresting experiences.They had visions, woke upfrom dreams reporting thatthey had been visited byGod,andpracticedavarietyof arts common at the time

—folk magic, séances,miraculous healing. As ayoung man Josephsupplemented the skimpyfamily income by treasure-digging for buried gold andreligious artifacts that hebelievedhadbeenstashedinunderground crypts. Smithclaimed that placing theright “seer stone” in his hatwould help reveal the

location of these losttreasures.

The visits by the aptlynamedAngelMoroni beganin 1823, when Joseph waseighteen. Moroni informedJosephthatabookofgoldenplates, probably containingrevealedtexts,wasburiedonahillneartheSmiths’home,but the angel initiallyprevented his new humanfriend from finding the

plates right away, in muchthe same way that Moseswas extensively tested byGod before he climbedMount Sinai and returnedwith the TenCommandments. Over thenext several years Smithcontinued his frustratingsearch for the buried texts,met and eloped with aPennsylvania girl, EmmaHale, and, with her help,

found the golden plates.Joseph, Emma, and somefriends translated theplates,which emerged as the coreoftheBookofMormon.

The Book of Mormoncontained everythingrequired in an Abrahamicwork of literature—lots ofwandering around thedeserts by a chosen people,periodsofpeacefollowedbyperiods of intense violence,

and wonderfully alluring,made-up events. All of thisculminated in theappearanceofJesusChristinNorth America a few daysafter his reported ascensionfromtheMountofOlivesinJerusalem. Jesus returnedlater to convert theNephites,descendantsofthegroup thathadwandered tothe Americas from biblicallands. This revised travel

plan of a resurrected Jesus,nowincludingseveralNorthAmerican stops, could nothavearrivedatabettertime.During the Second GreatAwakening, the Burned-Over District and othertrans-Appalachian regionsalong the frontier throbbedwith resentment over theEuropean and still vaguelypapist roots of Christianity,and there was considerable

hunger for an indigenousAmerican church. A hugeamount of church-shoppingwas already happening, andthe new Mormon faithofferedahomegrown,made-in-the-USA doctrinalpackage not available in theother evangelicaldenominations. Smith’sfusion of mysticism withtraditional Christianityprovedhighly attractive at a

time when religiousemotionalism had pushedmany Americans to dabbleintheoccult.

Smith promoted to greatadvantage twootheraspectsofMormonism.Atthetime,during the 1830s, asdescribed so well in W. J.Rorabaugh’s The AlcoholicRepublic, a surplus of cornwhiskey—the most efficientway to preserve andmarket

a valuable crop—had madealcoholism rampant inAmerican cities and smalltowns, even among theyoung. Another reliablesurplus from Virginia andNorth Carolina, tobacco,had addicted millions moreto nicotine. Evangelicalmoralists were alsoscandalized by the manywhorehousesbuilt along thenew water canals to service

the men and boys diggingthe trenches. As reformistzealsweptthroughchurchesand political parties, SmithpositionedMormonism as akind of 12-step program forpersonal improvement.Converts vowed to abstainfrom sex outside marriage,and to stop drinking,smoking, and evenconsuming hot stimulantslike coffee and tea.

Meanwhile, Smith and hissuccessors, especially theredoubtableBrighamYoung,weresuperborganizers.TheMormons bought up hugetracts of land andhomesteaded new areas asreligious-agriculturalfiefdoms. They sold theircrops as a cooperative unit,organized their own drygoods stores and breedingfarms, built churches and

temples together, andpreferredtobarterandtradeamong themselves, forminga clannish economic self-determination that madethem not only powerful butresented by non-Mormonneighbors. This blending ofabstemiousnessandfinancialdrive proved deeplyappealing during the 1830sand 1840s, when thousandsof Americans were losing

their farms and businessesbecause of the serial panicsand bank failures racking ayoung,unstablecountry.

Few organized religions,however, can prosperwithout stunningmisbehaviorbytheirleaders.Smith’s new faith soonstumbled over his secretendorsement of pluralmarriage, or polygamy, apractice he justified with a

great deal of theologicalmumbo jumbo designed toconceal his chronicphilandering. Smith was anattractive man and aspellbinding speaker, andwomen swooned during hissermons. He rarely met afollower’s pretty wife orteenage daughter whom hedidn’t covet, and many ofthem succumbed to hischarms without Smith

having tomakemuch of aneffort. Under an impressiveveil of deceit, Smith waseventually “sealed” to forty-fivewives,andhissuccessorBrighamYoungwouldgoonto build two adjoiningmansions in Salt Lake tohouse his own fifty-onewives and estimated fifty-sevenchildren.

The Mormons werewidely despised for all this.

By the late 1830s ChristianAmerica had settled on astrategy for dealing withthem that had already beensuccessfullyusedagainst theeastern Indian tribes—violent harassment andcontainment.TheMormonswere hounded out of NewYork and into Ohio, andthen through Kansas,Missouri, Iowa, and thenbacktoIllinois,bylate-night

vigilante groups maraudingthrough their settlements,shooting cattle, poisoningwells, and engaging inpitchedriflebattleswiththeSaints. The clannishMormons fought back.Smith organized a secretMormon militia known asthe Danites, for“peacekeepingpurposes,”hesaid, but in fact their mainbusiness was murdering

non-Mormons andapostates.

Religions truly gain theabilitytotakeoffwhentheirleaders are martyred, andSmith fell victim to thisuseful form of departure in1844. In Nauvoo, Illinois,Mormonism had prosperedduring an extraordinaryperiod of controversy andtemple building when,among other advances,

Smithcameupwiththeideaofposthumousbaptism.ButSmith made the mistake ofshutting down anddestroying the press of adissident Mormonnewspaperthataccusedhimof polygamy andworshipping multiple gods,andawarbrokeoutbetweenthe Mormon factions,forcing the governor ofIllinoistointervene.Charges

were eventually filed againstSmith for incitingariotandtreason, and Smith and hisbrotherHyrumwereheldinthe jail at Carthage, Illinois.On the night of June 27,1844, a mob with facesblackenedbygreaseattackedthe jail. Hyrum was shot inthe face and Joseph wasriddled with bullets whileattemptingtodefendhimselfwith a pistol. After calling

out his last words to theLord,theprophet,nowquitedead, fell out through awindow.

The internecineMormonbattles on the frontier, andthe development of theOregonTrail,occurredmoreorlesssimultaneouslyinthelate 1830s and early 1840s,andperhapsitwasinevitablethat the growth of apowerful nativist religion

would coalesce with thegreat migration westward.Even before Smith’s death,the Mormon leadersgathering around BrighamYoung had dreamed ofmaking an escape far awayfrom the violent, anti-Mormon frontier in theMidwest,andin1846Youngbegan dispatching Mormonexploration parties beyondSouth Pass in Wyoming

along the nascent OregonTrail. The Mormonseventually decided tocolonize the uninhabiteddesert region around GreatSaltLakeinUtah,becauseitwas naturally protected bymountains thatwouldmakeit difficult for their enemiesto harass them there, andthe plentiful water fallingfrom the Wasatch rangewould make it possible to

irrigate the land. The SaltLakebasincouldbereachedrelatively easily by blazing aninety-mile spur off theexistingwagonroad.

Between 1846 and theearly 1870s, more thanseventy thousand Mormonswould cross the OregonTrail. Thousands of themwere impoverished Englishand Scandinavian workerswho had been displaced by

the industrial revolution,and who were ripe for thepicking when theMormonsbegan evangelizing in theEuropean slums. TheMormons were the largestsinglegrouptocrossthetrailand compared their exodusto the Jewish flight fromEgypt, which is now anintegral part of their faith.This identity has often ledthe LDS Church to make

outsize claims about theirright to control themoderntrail and the writing of itshistory, assertiveness thatmakes Mormons ascontroversial today as theywere in the nineteenthcentury.

There is no doubt that,with their practicedefficiencyandthoroughness,the Mormons acceleratedthe development of the

Oregon Trail. BrighamYoung had the mind andmanagement skills of amilitary quartermaster, andafter 1847 he converted theMormon resources at hisdisposal into a bustlingcovered wagon enterprise.By establishing a series of“winter camps” in Iowa andNebraska, the Mormonemigrants and their wagonscould be ready for early-

spring departures. TheMormons replaced thehaphazard system of riverfords with a network offerries across the Platte,allowing Mormons to passforfreebutcharginggentiles$3perwagon.(Inpeakyears,the traffic jam awaiting theMormon ferry crossing atCasperstretchedbackonthetrail for twenty miles. One49er said, “The Mormons

have as good a gold minehere as any in California.”)TheMormonsweretheonlyorganizedgroupon the trailto operate west-to-easttraffic, so that wagons,supplies, and scouts familiarwiththetrailcouldreturninthe fall and then lead anewgroup in the spring. TheLDS published precisemileage guides, and aMormoninventorevenbuilt

a wooden odometer thatclacked against the wagonspokes so that theMormontrains knew their exactdistance to the nextwaypoint. Bad credit? Noproblem. Young establishedaPerpetualEmigrationFundto underwrite the travelexpenses of impoverishedconverts and made bulkpurchases of wagons fromthePeterSchuttlerworks in

Chicago. Mail service,creature comforts such asbathhouses andbarbershopsat “halfway houses” alongthe trail, and dairies andvegetable gardens toreplenishthewagonpantriesof the faithful were amongtheamenitiesthatMormonsaddedtothetrail.

Because the majority ofMormons departed fromNauvoo, Illinois, and then

traveled through Iowa toreach the Missouri, theygenerally followed thenorthbank of the Platte throughNebraska. This northernroute was also followed bymore than 100,000 non-Mormon pioneers and wascalled at the time theCouncil Bluffs Road or theGreat Platte River Road.There were also plenty ofMormons who followed the

southbankofthePlatteafterdisembarking fromsteamboats along the lowerMissouri.AtFortLaramieineastern Wyoming, theMormons joined the flowofwagontrainsalongthemainOregon Trail for fivehundred miles to FortBridger, and then departedfromthemainruts for theirninety-mile run south intoSaltLake.

Lessthanahundredmilesof the 1,300-mile route theMormons followed to SaltLake followed wagon roadsthatdidn’talreadyexist—forthe rest, the Saints weresimply following the oldIndiantracesadoptedbythefur trappers and then thegentile wagon trains. Butpolitically connected LDSleaders and churchhistorianshave long insisted

that the Mormons createdthe“MormonPioneerTrail,”and they have waged asuccessful campaign toconvince federal agencies toreclassify long portions ofthe Oregon Trail throughNebraskaandWyoming,andmany historic sites, asexclusively Mormon. Therenamingof the trail to suitMormons’ needs has evenextended to the published

maps of the National ParkService and the Bureau ofLandManagement,angeringmany trail enthusiasts,western ranchers, andscholars. Promulgating themyth that there was adistinctMormontrail,writeshistorianMerrill Mattes, “isnot merely inaccurate, it isan injustice to label theentire northern route as

exclusively ‘The MormonTrail.’ ”

Randy Brown, and manyother members of theOregon-California TrailsAssociation, point out thatthey have many friends inthe group who areMormons. But they areannoyed that politicalinfluence by the LDSChurch, and what some ofthem call the activism of a

“Mormonmafia” within theParkServiceandtheBureauof Land Management, havedistorted the historicalrecordtosuittheneedsofasinglereligion.

“The Mormons can dowhatever they want to outhere because the state ofWyomingthinksnooneelsecares,”saysBrown.“Therestof us, non-Mormon trailenthusiasts, don’t have the

money and influence thatLDShas.”

Recently, the Mormonshave become even morecontroversial along the trailfor their efforts toreinterpret Mormonism’sdarkest hour, the 1856handcart disasters that leftmore than two hundredMormon converts fromEurope dead, as one of themost admirable and sacred

momentsoftheflighttoSaltLake.

BrighamYoung’svauntedempire-building abilitysuffered an unusual setbackin1855,whenacrop failureinUtahsuddenlydiminishedLDScontributions, reducingthe church’s ability tocontinue importingEuropean converts. Youngwas desperate because bynow he knew thatMormon

expansion in Utah reliedheavily on the annual surgeof converts from overseas.Instead of telling theEuropeans to wait a yearuntil sufficient funds wereavailable, he devised astrategy of shipping themover from England andhavingtheconvertscontinuetheirjourneyfromIowaCitywith inexpensive handcartsthat the immigrants would

construct themselves, andthenpush1,300milestoSaltLake. Just about everythingwent wrong with Young’shandcart scheme.Difficulties in findingenough ships to carrymorethan 1,800 EuropeanMormons from Liverpooldelayed their departuresuntil too late in the spring,the lumber that the churchprovided the emigrants to

build their own handcartswas green and quicklysnapped in the Nebraskaheat, and herds of buffalostampeded the oxen pullingthe provision wagons,depriving the handcartcompaniesofsufficientfood.Many of the Europeanconvertsweretravelingwithchildrenandelderlyparents,andtheagoniesofpushingahandcart with all of their

possessions and provisionsacrossthearidOregonTrailwere intense. Three of thefive handcart companiesbroughtoverfromEuropein1856madea safepassage toUtah. But the breakdown inMormon discipline doomedthe last two groups—theWillie Handcart Company,and the Martin HandcartCompany,namedafter theirleaders, James Willie and

Edward Martin—which didnot leave Iowa until mid-August.

Winter blizzards canbeginintheRockiesasearlyas October, and the WillieandMartin companieswerestrung out between Casperand South Pass when thefirst storm struck onOctober 19, 1856. Afterholing up in the meagerprotection offered by the

Wyoming bluffs, thehandcart companies werefoundby rescueparties sentout from Salt Lake andencouraged to continuethrough the heavy snows.Struggling uphill throughmore than a foot of snow,the holes in their bootswrapped in rags, thehopeless Mormon handcartpioneersbegandyingby thedozen, especially at a place

consideredthemostarduousclimb of the trail, theboulder-strewnRockyRidge,a few miles east of SouthPass. As many as fifteenmembers of the WillieCompany were buried in amass grave in a canyonnearby, at Rock CreekHollow. Meanwhile,members of the MartinCompany had begun dyingof hypothermia and

starvation, but the survivorssomehow managed tostruggle farther west andreacha somewhatprotectedcove near another fabledOregon Trail site, Devil’sGate, where the SweetwaterRiver cuts through adramatic three-hundred-foot gorge of the GraniteRange.Thecovewasshapedlike a horseshoe against theGranites and the ground

inside was a frozen bog.Camping and building firesthere were hellish. Fifty-sixMormon converts died andwereburied inwhatbecameknownasMartin’sCove.

At one point in lateOctober, as below-freezingtemperatures began to formiceontheSweetwater,therewere almost a thousandshiveringMormonshuddledin tents and abandoned log

cabins betweenDevil’s Gateand Rocky Ridge. With thehelp of theMormon rescueparties,mostofthesurvivorshad staggered into thepromised land of Utah byearly December, but notbefore a total of 215 haddied.

At the time, manyMormons risked censure bytheir church for criticizingBrigham Young’s

mismanagement of thehandcart emigration, a viewthat is still privatelyexpressed by some churchmemberstoday.Butduringabellicose Sunday sermon atthe Mormon Tabernacle inSalt Lake that November,Young made it clear thatdissentwasnotpermittedinhis church. For anyonewhoquestioned his decision tobring the emigrants forward

solateintheseason,hesaid,“Let thecurseofGodbeonthem and blast theirsubstance with mildew anddestruction, until theirnames are forgotten fromtheearth.”

That party line hascontinued,andevenbecomehardened over time. By the1870s, the LDS leadershipsettled on a strategy ofrepackaging the senseless

1856 dying as a parable ofnoble suffering, the kind ofmythmakingthatoftenhelpsreligion grow. The Willieand Martin handcart dead,victims of Brigham Young’soverreaching, becamemartyrs. From the 1870sonward, teams of Mormonresearchers and gravehunters have combed theOregon Trail from the RedButtes near Casper to

beyondSouthPass,markingburial sites and landmarks,andelevatingthemassgraveat Rock Creek Hollow, andthewinterrefugeatMartin’sCove,tothestatusofsacredsites.Beginninginthe1990s,theWyomingandUtahlocalLDS divisions, called“stakes,” have aggressivelybought up thousands ofacres of deeded ranchlandalong the trail and now

operate theseparcelsasvastsummercamps forMormonteenagers, who push replicahandcarts around Devil’sGate and up toward RockyRidge to reenact thestruggles of their ancestors.Along the most scenic andfamous stretch of theOregon Trail, the hundredmilesbetweenIndependenceRock and South Pass, theLDS now operates an

ambitious museum-buildingand evangelization programforsummertourists.

The federal governmenthasstretchedtheprincipleofseparation of church andstate to an amazing degreeto assist the Mormonreoccupation of the SouthPass segment. In 2003, aclause quietly placed in anappropriationsbillsignedbyPresident George W. Bush

granted the LDS a twenty-five-yearlease,automaticallyrenewed, of federal landaround the fabled pioneerencampmentatDevil’sGate.Since then, under Mormoncontrol, any reference toDevil’sGate—throughwhichmore than 600,000Americans passed from fur-trapping days onward—hasbeen obliterated from themaps and highway signage,

and the national landmarkhas been retitled with thepreferred Mormon place-name, Martin’s Cove. TheLDS now operates Devil’sGate as a religious site forMormon youth, who everysummer travel toWyomingfrom all over the world tospendaweekortwo,attiredin “period dress” skirts andpioneer bonnets and hats,pushing wooden handcarts

along the renamed OregonTrail. It is as if theGettysburg battlefield inPennsylvania was renamed“Sisters of Charity” or“Mother Ann SetonHospital” simply because agroup of nuns from nearbyMaryland traveled toGettysburg in 1863 to helptend the sick and thewoundedaftertheepicCivilWar battle. The LDS

estimates that betweenfifteen thousand and twentythousand Mormon Youth—in LDS vernacular, they arecalled MYs—camp in tentcities along the Sweetwaterevery summer. Today, thereareaboutfivetimesasmanyMormons reenacting thetrail every year inWyomingthan there were actuallytraveling it for real in the1850s.

•••

AfterCasper,aswefollowedthe trail markers alongPoison Spider Creek andthen slowly climbed themules up to the summit ofEmigrant Gap, I wasn’tworried about what wewould face ahead inMormon land.But from thehigh ridge of the gap wecouldsee theepic stretchof

desertthat laybeforeus.Animmensity of pink sand anddirty-white alkali flats,ringed by the parchedRattlesnake Hills, stretchedthrough the mirages. Thenightbefore,Ihadcalculatedthat the mules had beenconsuming about forty-fivegallons of water a day, buttheywouldprobablyrequiremore like fifty gallons a dayacross the scorchedexpanse

ahead.Wewerecarrying105gallons and would needevery drop of it before wereached the Sweetwater atIndependence Rock, at leasttwodaysaway.

That would be our lifenow for 350miles, almost amonth’stravel,duringwhichwe would pass only twotowns. To reach the Idaholine,wewouldmakeaseriesof river-to-river forced

marches, and the earth’smost elemental resource—water—would become ourceaselessquest.

21

WE HAD NOW ENTERED

WHAT I called theAcropolisstretch of theOregon Trail.For the next two weeks we

would travel over theoriginalwagonruts,througha series of dramaticsandstone and graniteformations—Avenue of theRocks, Independence Rock,Devil’s Gate, Split Rock—thatmarkedourwaytowardthe continental divide atSouth Pass. After EmigrantGap, we met no one elsealong the dusty two-track,CountyRoad319,alsocalled

OregonTrailRoad.Thelandsurrounding us was openand remote, preserving thesceneryof thepioneerswitha mesmerizing Grecianduality. The powdery sandand shelves of black rockbeside the wagon wheelswere tangible enough. Buthazy mirages obscured thebase of the Rockies as thedesert receded toward thehorizon. The Rattlesnakes

and theWind Rivers in thedistance became blurrypurple mounds floating inhardbluesky.

The dreamy, vacantsensation induced by thelandscape was enhanced bythe dry desert heat andrising elevation. AfterEmigrant Gap we wouldclimb from five thousand to7,400 feet, and then remainat over seven thousand feet

until we reached the BearRiver valley in Idaho. Thehigher altitudes slowed us,calmed us, and winded usand the mules, and thesecondary effect of high airis amild euphoria that lastsall day. Now instead of justbecoming sleepy from themonotony of wheel bumpsand jingling harness, I wasenveloped by the fog ofdeserthallucination.

Hypoxia, or the oxygendeprivation experienced athigh altitudes, causesweariness and sore joints,but the more importantsymptom is a kind ofelevatedoptimismaboutlife,an impaired judgment notaligned with the realitysomeone is facing. Short-termmemory alsobegins tofade. We ran into the firstinstance of this dreamy

forgetfulness about a mileafter Avenue of the Rocks,when we crossed a longalkaliflatthatledtothefirstin a series of barbed-wiregates along the 75,000-acreRattlesnake GrazingAssociation ranch. There,after jacking the gate andwatering the mules, Ijumped back onto the seatand told Nick to call theteam, leaving behind one of

our water buckets and thestepladder that we used toloadandunloadthewagon.Ididn’tdiscoverourlossuntilthatnight,whenwereachedWillowSprings,asmalloasisin the desert shaded byancient willows that wascrowdedwithpioneercampsinthe1850s.

Nickwassurprisedbymynonchalance when I toldhim that we had left the

bucketandladderbehindusonthetrail.

“Whatthehell,”Isaid,asIbegancarryingwatertothemules.“Wedon’tneedthreebucketsanyway.Andwecanjust buy another laddersomewhere.”

“How far is it to thenexthardwarestore?”

“Four hundred miles,” Isaid.

“Are you okay, Boss?”Nick said. “You are usuallysoanalaboutpossessions.”

“Who gives a shit? It’s abeautiful Wyoming night.Allwehavetodotomorrowis get pastHorseCreek andthen follow the trail toIndependenceRock.”

Nick was not as affectedbythehighaltitudeasIwas.The forgetfulness andoverconfidence caused by

the lower oxygen levelswoulddogmefortherestofour journey through theRockies. I should have seenthelostbucketandladderasa warning sign, but I hadalready begun to experiencethe effects of the highelevations and didn’t realizethat.Later,however,Iwouldunderstand this as perhapsthe most important lessonprovided by retracing the

trek of the pioneers. Hubrisand feelings of invincibilitywould be required toconquer themany obstaclesahead.

•••

Independence Rock slowlyroseasagiantbumpon thehorizon as we cut acrossopen country to avoidflooding near Pathfinder

Reservoir, where the NorthPlatte River is dammed andmeetstheSweetwater.Itookthe lines from Nick anddrove the team myselfbecause I wanted to becalling the mules as weapproached the famouswaypoint, but I didn’t sayanythingtohimatfirst.Nickcontentedly daydreamedwith Olive Oyl in his lap,staring off across the flats,

and it took another mile ortwo for him to notice thetall, rounded eminencerisingoffthescrubplains.

“Whoa, is that IndividualRock?” Nick finally said.“That is some big motherstone.”

“Independence Rock,TrailHand.Mile815onthetrail.”

Independence Rock, along theSweetwaterRiverinWyoming,becamea popular camping ground wherethousands of pioneers scrambled upthegranite sides to carve their initialsandhometown.

From severalmiles away,it was easy to see why theimmense natural wonderahead, bounded by theSweetwater River on itssoutheastside,hadshelteredone of the largestcampgroundsalongthetrail.The huge mound ofnaturally polished graniterises almost 140 feet abovethe desert floor, coverstwenty-eight acres, and is

more than a mile incircumference. Pioneersfrom the East and theMidwest had never seen afreestanding rock of suchhuge proportions, and theyknew that this giganticsignpost in the sky markedtheir transition from themuddy and diseaseddrainageof thePlatte to thecleaner flow of theSweetwater. The two-day

run down from FortCasperwas desperately dry, and byearly summer places likeAvenue of the Rocks andProspect Hill had becomeanimalboneyards,withoxenandmulecarcassesscatteredacross several acres. Themorning and afternoonshade provided by the rockcreated a comfortablelayover spot where thepioneers could trade with

other wagon trains, refilltheir barrels, and bathe andwash their clothes in theriver.

We arrived at theSweetwater with our twomain barrels empty, and Iusedatentpoleasadipsticktomeasurewhatwas left inoursmallbarrelmountedonthe side of the wagon—itcametoabout threegallons.The area around

Independence Rock is nowmaintained by the state ofWyomingasa rest stopandtourist site along the two-lane highway betweenCasperandLander,Highway220. A paved walk withinterpretivesignswindseastto the rock and the air-conditioned pavilion of theDivision of State Parks andHistoricSitessitsattheedgeof thehighwaypull-off.AsI

refilled our barrels from thewater spigot behind thepavilion I could see a dirtaccess road down thehighway with a gate wherewe could take the wagonthrough to reach the oldpioneer camp. I walkedinside the pavilion to tellsomeone that we’d becampingattherocktonight.

The uniformed DivisionofParksemployeeinsidewas

sixtyish and bored, weariedby dealing with tourists allday. I cheerfullybriefedhimaboutourtripandexplainedthat we’d be pulling thewagonaround theback sideoftherockforthenight.

“You can’t do that,” hesaid. “You have to have apermit from the parkranger.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where’stheparkranger?”

“On vacation. He won’tbebackuntilMonday.”

The Parks man told methat tourists on foot werewelcometowalkbacktotherock through the narrowgate at the end of thepedestrian trail. But thelarger gate down thehighwaywasstrictlyforstatetrucks.No“civilianvehicles”were allowed beyond thatpoint. Besides, he said, the

mules might damage ahistoricsite.

Fuck this dullard, Ithought. For almost acentury, hundreds ofthousands of fur trappers,cavalrymen, and pioneershad camped here, and theiranimals had pawed theground and shit all over theplace every night. Whatdamage could we possiblycause?

Still, I felt wonderfullypassive about meeting thismoron.MyWyomingdeserthigh saved me here. Theremust be something aboutoxygen deprivation, not tomentioneighthundredmilesonthetrail,thatwasturningme into a cupcake. TheOregon Trail was the bestanger-management therapyI’dhadinyears.

“All right, then,” I said tothe bonehead behind thecounter. “We’ll be movingon.Happytrails!”

“Happytrails,”hesaid.Outside, Ipulledthegate

jack from the back of thewagon and then stopped atthefrontwheel,belowNick.

“We’re good to go, TrailHand.Seethatgateupthereat the end of the access

road? When I jack it, bringtheteamthrough.”

“Yup, Team! Yup! BigTeam! Big Team! Jake!Individual Rock, Jake.IndividualRock.”

Nick clattered the rigthrough the gate and downto the Sweetwater, where,behindtwenty-eightacresofArcheangranite,wecouldn’tbeseenfromthehighwayorthe rest stop pavilion. No

onecared,ofcourse,andourcampat IndependenceRockwas one of the best of thetrip. With towels and somerope, Nick rigged the gatejack as a shoulder yoke sothat I could carry twobuckets of water at once. Iwalked back and forth to abend in the Sweetwaterwheretheflowracedarounda grassy bank, genuflectingintotheshallowwateratthe

edge to fill thepails.Then Icarried them back to thewagon, where Nick wasshampooing the team, andrinsed each mule with bothbuckets. It was cool in theshadow of the Granitesbeside the rushing river andthe evening exercise wasrefreshing. After dinner, Igrabbed one of the campchairs and climbed upIndependence Rock,

meditating on the dreamycurvesoftheSweetwaterfarbelow. I tried to imaginewhat the view must havelooked like 160 years ago,when the smoke fromdozens of campfires filledthe valley with haze, cattlebrayed all night, and the oillamps hung from the hoopsmade a thousand canvaswagon tops glow likeJapaneselanterns.

I would have heard, too,the echoes of hammersagainst chisels, even pastsunset.

During the trail years,reachingIndependenceRockaroused a kind of collective,Paleolithic carving gene, apowerful urge among thepioneers to leave behindsome evidence of theirarrival. While the wagontrainsrestedforadayortwo

at the rock, the pioneersfound it irresistible toscrambleupthecurvedwallsand chisel in the hardgranite their names orinitials, the year, and theirhometowns.Thereisnowayof knowing exactly howmany pioneers left theirinitials or names behind onIndependence Rock becauseerosion by wind and waterover the past century has

removed thousands of theseinscriptions. But perhaps asmany as twenty thousandoverland emigrantshammered their names orinitials onto the rock,turning it into a crowdedmaze of graffiti. “[The rock]being painted and markedevery way, all over, withnames, dates, initials, &c,”wrote 49er J. GoldsboroughBruff,“itwaswithdifficultyI

couldfindaplacetoinscribeit.”

Thesignaturesleftbehindon the granite visitors’ bookat Independence Rock are avital historical record, andonce again the heroicfieldwork of Randy Brownprovides the background.His encyclopedic HistoricInscriptions on WesternEmigrantTrailsisoneofthemostfascinatingvolumeson

the Oregon Trail. For over450 pages of his illustrated,folio-size book, Brownmeticulously records everyknown inscription on thewestern trails from KansastoArizona.Heprovideslongintroductory sections onsuchcelebratedcarvingsitesasSignatureRockandNameRock in Wyoming, andbiographical digests of eachpioneer carver who can be

established today. Brown’sinventoryof the inscriptionsonIndependenceRockalonerunsforeighty-twopages.

From Brown we learnmany compelling detailsabout the inscriptions. Thedated carvings onIndependence Rock haveallowed historians toconfirmwhenmilitary unitsand exploration partiesreachedtheSweetwater,and

when the doomed DonnerPartyof1846gotthere.Thestagecoacherathat followedthe initial pioneer years canalsobedocumentedbymanysignatures. Instead ofcarvingtheirnames intothegranite,many pioneers tooka shortcut, daubing theirinscriptions with a mixtureoftar,blackpaint,andwheelorbacongrease,probablyasa message to friends and

family in wagon partiesbehind them that they hadsafely arrived atIndependence Rock. Butthese seemingly temporarymarks actually becamepermanent,aproductof thenatural desert chemistry.Over time, the tar mixturewas degraded by the desertheat. But enough residualmaterial remained topreventthegrowthofdesert

lichensontheletters,leavingbehind a kind of primitivemezzotintimagethatBrowncalls a “shadow inscription.”Many of these shadowinscriptions are still legibletoday and allow chroniclerslike Brown to trace thearrivalofspecificindividualsor wagon trains, providingcritical cross-checkingreferences against

sometimes unreliablepioneeraccounts.

Rip-off artists thrived atIndependence Rock. Thepioneers were entranced bythe opportunity to leave apermanent record on therock, but many of themdidn’t have the time or thepatience to carve their owninitials. Stone carvers oftencamped at IndependenceRock for several weeks to

help pay the costs of theirtrip to the California goldfields, and they werenotorious for overchargingto inscribe a family’ssurnameupontherock.Thecommercially mindedMormons were perhaps themost ambitious. In 1852,Michigan emigrant ThomasPotter found a group ofSaints established forbusinessatthelargepioneer

city around IndependenceRock.

A party of Mormonswith stone-cuttingtools were located onthe spot and did aconsiderable businessincuttingnamesintherock at a charge fromone to five dollars,according to thelocation. . . .Menwho

passed there a yearlater said that all thenames previously cutin the rock had nearlyall been erased andnew ones put in theirplaces. So transient isour fame! Thescheming Mormonsmade a nice fortunefrom the emigrants ina few years by cuttingtheirnamesintherock

for a fancy price andwhen they had passedonerasingthesenamesand cutting others intheirplaces.

The accumulatedfrustrationsof the trail aftereighthundredmiles,andthecrowded, competitiveconditions in the camps,unleashed another classicAmerican response to stress

—murder. In the pioneerjournals,homicidessuddenlyspiked toward crime-wavefrequencyas thecontinentaldividedrewnear,almostasifthe pioneers weredetermined to establish aviolent legacy for the Westand inaugurate clearprecedents for frontierjustice.AttheMormonferrycrossing at Casper, thetraffic backups often

stretchedeast formiles, andarmed road rage incidentsoften ledto fatalities.At theconfusing Sweetwater fords,it was often difficult to sortout the ownership of cowsandcalvesafterseveralherdscommingledwhilebeingrunacrosstheriveratonce.Mendueledwithriflesandpistolsover that. At busy pioneerstops like Devil’s Gate, andin the old Green River

Rendezvous country ahead,semiretired fur trappers ranfrontier saloons insideslapdash log cabins. Thealcoholic foreplay producedtheusualresults.Thereweregunfights over women, overhorses, and competingclaims about shot game. In1852 Virginia pioneer JohnClark reported that, atDevil’s Gate, a pioneer gotinto a fight with his wagon

driver, shot and killed him,andwas “tried and hung onour old waggon atsundown.”

The practices at thehastily convened murdertrials were fairly consistent,and the pioneers usuallytried to imitate the legalvenues they rememberedfrom back home. After amurderer was disarmed,either the wagon master, a

lawyer, or a ministertraveling with the train wasappointed judge. The jurorswere selected from themenofthecompanyandstoodina semicircle around theaccused. A larger crowdformed a humanamphitheater behind them.A defendant’s chances ofacquittal appears to havebeenaboutasgoodas thoseof accused criminals in

czarist Russia. After beingfound guilty, the murdererwas strung up from thenearest tree, but becausethereoftenweren’tanytreesfor miles around, a crudegallows was constructedfrom wagon poles. (Theprisonerusuallygottowatchthe construction of thescaffold before the “trial”even began.) Therewasn’t alotoftimebeforethewagons

hadtomoveon,anddiggingin the hardtack desert soilwas difficult. Account afteraccount describes how themurderer was buried in ashallow grave, shoulder toshoulderwithhisvictim.

Along the ruts betweenthe North Platte and theSweetwater,accidentaldeathand murder seemed to lurkalmost everywhere. In lateJune 1852, Wisconsin

pioneerPollyCoonpassedalone tree along theSweetwater with aninscription carved on thetrunk indicating the gravesof a “Man Woman & boy”who were found with theirthroatscut, themurdererormurderers unknown. Thenext day her train passedanother wagon companymourning the death of twomenwhohaddrownedwhile

driving cattle across theriver, and then hours laterthetrainarrivedatagroveoftrees where a man had justbeenhangedforshootinghisbrother-in-law.

“It seems that there aresome demon spirits near us& the reflection is not verypleasing,” Coon wrote. Buteverything elsewas fine, forthe most part. “Our Co are

all well except Ma who isratherunwell.”

•••

We entered Mormoncountry the morning afterour camp at IndependenceRock, turning west up intothe Granites throughRattlesnakePass.Foralmosttwo centuries this scenicarea, where the Sweetwater

races through a dramaticgorge with vertical wallsrising three hundred feetabove the water, was calledDevil’s Gate. From the fur-trapping era in the 1820s totheendofthestagecoacherain the 1890s, as many as700,000 travelers passed byorcampedovernightatthesegranite portals. On theSweetwater plain nearbytherewerelog-cabintaverns,

mail drops, replacementhorse corrals, andencampments of “summersmithies” who operatedwagon repair shops. In the1870s, under the leadershipof a cannyFrench-Canadianfrontiersman turned cattlebaron, Tom Sun, Devil’sGate became the locus of afamous ranch that wasdeclared aNationalHistoricLandmarkin1960.

But that is so yesterdaynow, so gentile. Since 1997,when the LDS Church tookadvantageofadisagreementbetweentheSunRanchheirsand bought the easternportionof the rancharoundDevil’s Gate, the nationalidentity of theOregonTrailin central Wyoming hasdisappeared. Martin’s Cove,as Devil’s Gate is nowknown,isthefirstinastring

of Mormon sites over thenext hundred miles thathave transformed theOregon Trail into ashowcase pilgrimage site, aGolgothafortheMormons.

As we neared the top ofthe pass, I wasn’t sure whatwe’d see on the other side,but I was determined toreform Nick before we mettheMormons. A lifetime ofreporting in the West had

familiarized me with theSaints, and I had alwaysenjoyed putting on myMormon,likeanactorgoinginto character for a filmshoot.Mormonslikealotofinsignia and uniform-typeclothing, name badges, justthe right black backpacksand shoes, and exactingperiod dress whenreenacting. They areneatness geeks, and I had

made sure that both Nickand I shaved that morningbeforewe left IndependenceRock. With Mormons, afondness for corny countryand western music,bubblegum pop, andsincerity laid on as thick asmeringue also helps a greatdeal. Family is everything,and the bigger the better.Within ten minutes ofmeeting a new Mormon I

usually try to slip in that Iam the fourth of elevenchildren, information whichhelps obscure that I am aborn drinker, smoker, andcurser.Iwasprettysurethatthe American flag flutteringon our wagon and the SEEAMERICA SLOWLY sign wouldalso be real assets for us atMartin’sCove.

Aswecrestedtheridge,Ishifted my shoulders,

wiggledmyassonthewagonseat, and adjusted mycowboy hat. It was time togoMormon.

“Okaynow,Nick,” I said,“you’ve got to put yourMormon on here,understand?”

“Oh! I can fuckin doMormon.”

“Let’sstartbyeliminatingtheF-bomb.”

“WhatdoIsayinstead?”

“Fudgeisfine,fiddlesticksisalsogood.”

“What about ‘shit’ and‘goddamnit’?”

“Shit is shucks or shoot,and goddamnit isgoshdarnit. Don’t forgetplease and thank you andyes, ma’am, or no, sir. Oh,and,Nick?”

“What?”“For the rest of this

morning, I am ‘Brother

Rinker’andyouare ‘BrotherNicholas.’ Older men areusually called ‘Elder,’ okay?It’s great. You don’t evenhave to remember thefuckingguy’sname. Justcallhim‘Elder.’ ”

“What about thewomen?”

“Sister,”Isaid.“Got it,” Nick said. “Just

watch. I am goin to be the

best fuckin Mormon youeversaw.”

We called the mules tothetopofthepassandthen,cresting, gazed down on aglorious Potemkin villagealong the Sweetwater plain.For the past fifty miles wehad not seen any trace ofhumanityorhabitation—notasinglehouse,adriveway,oreven a mailbox. The onlycars or trucks we saw were

along the brief stretches ofhighwaywehadtakenwheretheoriginaltrailwasflooded.But now, spread out alongthe oxbows of theSweetwater,wecouldseeanimmense, retro-nineteenth-century jamboree, theextraordinary hustle ofMormon metabolismeverywhere.

Down below, at large,graveled parking lots

excavated out of the plainsinfrontoftheoldSunRanchcabins, there wereMormonelders greeting touristsstepping out of their RVs.There were acres of yellowschool buses from Utah.Satellite pods of Port-o-Potties, disguised by theMormons as log-cabinstructures, but betrayed byPVC vent pipes that stuckout of their roofs, were

staged at three-hundred-yard intervals. Brightlycolored tent cities swarmedalong the bends of theSweetwater. Large,prominent signs every fewyards—NO SMOKING ONENTIRE SITE, BUSES UNLOADHERE, MALE URINAL, SISTERSREST ROOM—testified to theMormon fetish for order.The quaint overtones ofnineteenth-century wagon

life were reinforced by thepresence of replica handpumps, replica hitchingposts, replica log cabins.And, everywhere, parked inneat rows, there werehundredsofreplicaMormonhandcarts. My first thoughtaswecameoverthepasswasthat the parking lots ofreplica handcarts in themiddle of the Wyomingdesertmustbevisibletothe

astronauts orbiting in theInternationalSpaceStation.

Hundreds of MormonYouth raced around theplain in period dress. Theywere darting along asphaltand dirt paths pushingAmish-made woodenhandcarts freighted downwithbackpacks,Rubbermaidthermos water jugs, plasticchairs, grocery bags,campfireequipment,andthe

audiogear forhymn-singingat night. The heartierMormonboyswere pushingteenage Mormon sistersaround in their carts,sometimes two or three atonce.

At the bottom ofRattlesnake Pass, we rolledthe wagon in between theWelcome Area and theMormon Handcart Visitors’Center,whereagentlemanly

elder with a fringe of whitehairbeneathhiscowboyhatgreeted us. He was dressedinthepracticaluniformthatthe mostly retired“missionaries” from Utahwear while spending sixmonths volunteering at theMormon shrines—a brownWyoming Trader canvasvest, nondescript khakis, aplainwhiteshirt,andalargebrown plastic nameplate

with white type. The eldergreeter was hospitable butsurprisedtoseeus.

“How come you didn’tcall?” he said. “We like toknow in advance whensomethingspeciallikethisisgoingtohappen.”

I explained that we wereriding theOregonTrail in acoveredwagonandnormallydidn’tcallahead inadvance.

Besides,wehadnothadcellphonereceptionfordays.

“Got a point, there,” theelder said. “Well, it doesn’tmatter. All of God’s peoplearewelcomehere.”

TheeldercouldseethatIwas curious about Martin’sCoveanddidn’twantme tobegin my visit with thewrongimpression.

“We operate this as anational historic site,” he

said.“Therearethousandsoftouriststhatcomethrough,ahundred thousand asummer. Members of allfaiths. We get the Jewishpeople, Catholics, evenfollowers of the Muslimbeliefs.Wetreatthemallthesame.”

“No evangelization?” Isaid.

“No evangelization,” hesaid. “Of course, if a visitor

asks a question aboutreligion, that’s different.We’re glad to provideinformation about theChurchofLatter-daySaints.You’d be surprised howmany people are drivingaround on the highwayslookingforanswers.”

“Oh,Ibet,sir.”While Nick held the

mules,Istrolledthroughthelog-cabin compound of the

old Sun Ranch, which theMormons have restored toshowcasecondition.Thelogsides are aged to perfectionand the mortar chinking isfreshly whitewashed. Everywalkway and patch of grassbetweentheshadetreeswasimmaculatelykept.

TheMormonsnowrunahandcart museum in therambling wings of the SunRanch house that, like

everything LDS, isexquisitelywelldesignedandtasteful.Thetypefaceonthewall exhibits (“Prelude toDisaster:MountingDelays&TwistsofFate”),theartwork,maps, and four-colorillustrations are ofSmithsonian quality. Theoverall decor of soft, creamwhitewallsandbeigetrimisso soothing that visitors

willinglydigesttherewritingofhistoryonthedisplays.

I fall in love with theMormons every time. Theyare divine exhibitors. Theantique portable wagonorgan for conductingmusical services along thetrail, the charming oldpoplar handcart decked outwith plates, embroideredcloth napkins, quilts, andgingham bags of flour, the

replica odometer, themaplerolling pins and butterchurns,thelovelybonnets—oh,justeverythingMormon,everything—would makeMarthaStewart smile inhersleep. In the museum, theescape to a sanitized worldof nineteenth-centurycovered-wagon travel isenhanced by inspirationalmusic quietly piped inthrough ceiling speakers—

it’s a combination of Enya,John Tesh, and Kenny G.TheMormons say that theydo not evangelize at thisnational historic site, but inthe handcart museum awhole wing is devoted to“TheGospel of Jesus ChristRestored.” It containshagiographic accounts andportraits ofBrighamYoung,mural odes to Mormonism,andlargedisplayspresenting

thehandcartdisasterof1856as a kind of nineteenth-century social welfare state:“HANDCART PLAN: The PoorWelcome Less ExpensiveTravel.”

All of this is presentedinoffensively, not urgently.The theme-park feelinginsidethehandcartmuseumwas quaint, watercolored,and genteel, as if a sedatedWaltDisney, after a proper,

posthumous baptism, hadbeen rescued frompostexistence and broughtbacktodesignthespace.

The Mormons areeffective because theyexploitsomethingsobasicinthe national psyche thatmost of us have lost theability to see it. Americanson summer vacation,especially the RVers, areidiots, and haven’t read

anything in years. Theirevery cranial neuron hasbeenerasedbywatchingFoxNews. The brains ofAmerican tourists willaccept practically anythingas truth because there isnothing else up there tocompete with newinformation. Just saysomething, anything,preferably in bland, thirty-six-point type, and it will

stick. And so, “BrighamYoung: The AmericanMoses” doesn’t have toconvert anyone. TheMormons are converting somany people these days inCambodia and Swazilandthey don’t even needAmericans anymore. Theyjust want to makeMormonism nonthreateningand palatable, chicken soupforthesoul.

AsIwalkedupthesweptpathbacktowardthewagon,thinking aboutMormonism’s brilliantfusion with Disneyism, myears could not believe thewords that they werehearing.

At the wagon, Nick wasengaged in deep,contemplative conversationwith the Mormon eldergreeter. Nick was sitting on

the wagon seat holding thelines, with Olive Oyl in hislapandhishatpushedupata jaunty angle. I had neverseenNickquite thisearnest,andtheMormongreeterwasobviously impressed. Hestood with his foot restingon the wheel hub andpropping his chin up withhishand.

“Well, you know, Elder,”Nick said, “I actuallybelieve

thatJesushadmefalloffthatroofforareason.Ineededtospend eight months on thecouchthinkinaboutmy life,takin stock of my values.Then Brother Rinker camealong with this missionacross the West. It was acallin and I had to respectit.”

“Have you figuredeverything out now?” theelderasked.

“Elder,that’sGod’swork,”Nicksaid.“LetHimfigureitout. We’re just here onplanet Earth to do the bestwecan.”

“Verywell said, son,” theelder said. “It’s important tobehumble.”

“Humble!Boy,Elder,haveI worked on being humbleforthelastyear.”

I was afraid that I waslosing Nick. I had to get us

outofthere.“BrotherNicholas,”Isaid.

“That pot of gold for us atthe end of the trail won’twait forever. We best begettingon,Godwilling.”

The Mormon elderstepped away from thewagon wheel and reachedhishandouttoshakemine.

“Be careful out there onthetrail,son,”hesaid.

“Oh, I will, Elder. Thankyou.AndGodbless.”

I took the lines and ranthe mules down past theparkinglotsandthepasturesfull of handcarts. When wewere out of Mormonearshot,Nickspokeup.

“Hey, Rink, don’t youthink youwere shovelin theshitalittleheavybackthere?What is this ‘Godbless you’crap?”

“Oh, and Nick, Jesuskickedyourassoff that roofforareason?”

“Rink,you’retheonewhotoldmetodoMormon.”

Beyond the lastMormonRV park, we turned westthrough a cattle guard gateto stay with the Sweetwaterthrough the Sun Ranch.Nearby, three teenageMormon sisters in bonnetsandlongskirts,exhaustedby

a long handcart trek, weresitting together against theersatz log-cabin wall of aPort-o-Pottie, resting. OliveOyl ran over and jumpedinto their laps. Behind us,out over the Granites, lowcumulus clouds shaded thepeaks. With the groups ofhandcartreenactorspushingup toward Martin’s Cove,andthegrayandgreenhuesonthemistymountains, the

scene reminded me ofThomas Cole’s Travelers intheSwissAlps.

22

THE HILLY BUTFEATURELESS SCRUBLANDS

of the Sun Ranch presentedour biggest challenge yet.Forthenextthirty-fivemiles

we would disappear into adryabyssbelowtheGraniteswith nothing to support usuntil we reached the nextranch. At Willow SpringsandthenwhilewecampedatIndependence Rock, localcowboys who dropped bythe wagon to visit had toldus that the ragingSweetwater had washed outthe trail ahead, and weprobablywouldn’tbeableto

follow the river. Escapingsouth to the paved highwayat Muddy Gap Junctionwasn’t a good option either,becausewewouldexpendallof our water getting there.But my high-altitudeeuphoriapreventedmefromregistering bad news and,carefree, we pushed on forthe foothills bordering theriver.

I knew from the pioneerjournals that we had tospend most of the dayfollowing a consistentbearing slightly north ofwest, about three hundreddegrees on my compass.Within a few miles a largeand unmistakable waypointthat the pioneers had reliedon, a cleft peak in theGranites called Split Rock,would appear on the

opposite side of theSweetwater,almostduewestof our position. “Yesterdayfromthetimewestartedwesteered to this cliff with asteadiness that wasastonishing,” wroteKentucky 49er Dr. JosephMiddleton, “never deviatingfromitmorethantheneedledoes from the north pole.”Split Rock.We would trackthis“gunsight”peak for the

next twenty-four hours andthen when it was abeamproceed due west to theghosttownofJeffreyCity.

For most of the day webumped west along therange of the Sun Ranch,sometimesonawagontrack,sometimes not, and we sawonly one trail marker. Bymid-afternoonIbegantoseethe large V-shapedformation at the highest

point in the Granites,bearing north-northwest,rightwhereitshouldbe.

“Split Rock,” I said toNick. “All we have to do iskeep that rock right thereuntil dark. Then we cancampanywhereandfindourwayoutinthemorning.”

Westeeredforthe“gunsight”breakinthe Granite Range, Split Rock, fornearly a day, but even a waypoint asclear as this did not prevent us fromgettinglost.

Butthebigsplitmountainaheadofuswasillusory,andI wouldn’t realize until theend of the day that I hadbecome a literalist, a strictconstructionist of trailliterature. Following a giantlandmark fifteenmiles awaywas too vague, a centuryafter the main ruts hadfissuredintoamazeofcattletracks, pickup roads, andbreaks in the scrub pines

constantly inviting us inevery direction over rough,unmarked terrain. ContentthatIcouldseeSplitRocktoour right, I picked ameandering route thatclimbed the foothills here,and dipped into washes ofpurple thistles and yellowconeflowers there. At theSun Ranch watering holes,where there were large,mean-looking herds of

longhorncattle,Beckstarteddancing in her harness andshying, frothing at themouth and threatening torun away. We threw OliveOyl off to chase the cattleaway, but Beck was stillactingcrazy.

In the vast West, thesensation of being lostusuallyarriveslongafteryouare lost, and the limitedturning radius of a covered

wagon provides almost noopportunity to turn around.You can drive in circles forhours because themoonscape of sand andcreek washes always looksthe same. By late afternoonwearrivedataverydefinablefork in the cattle trackswhere a right turn wouldtake us almost due northtoward the Sweetwater, andaleftturnwouldtakeusdue

westintothehighcountry.Ihikedbothforksforalmostamile but couldn’t find anytrail markers or much of aroute, and when I returnedto thewagon I toldNick toproceed on the west fork,because it seemed to followmy compass bearingnorthwest. Split Rockquickly slipped behind thefoothillscrowdingaroundus

andwewouldn’tseeitagainforhours.

Iwassupremelyobliviousat first to the navigationriddlewe faced, themoderndanger of riding a coveredwagon through the Rockies.Therewerenocloudsofdustfrom the covered wagonsahead, and no fresh wagonruts, to follow. Myconfidencethatthetrailwaswell marked was also

misplaced. The governmentsurveyors and OCTAvolunteers who mark thetrail, occasionally, are ridingin pickups or on four-wheelers, and turningaroundandhavingtoretracetheir tire tracks back to thelast fork is a smallinconvenience. Theimportanceofmarkingforksin the trail has beencompletelylost.Fornoother

reasonexceptthatthisistheway it is done, intersectionsalong the Oregon Trail arealmost never marked today.When you arrive at a fork,thenexttrailmarker,maybe,is a mile or two away—toofartobeofanyusetoamuleskinner.

Finally,whenweemergedon a high, cleared plateau,Split Rockwas right off ourbeam again, so large that I

felt I might bump into itwithmynose.

“There we go, Nick,” Isaid. “We’re right on thetrail.”

“Likehellweare.That’sasheerdrop-offaheadofus.”

I was irritated that Nickthought he could readterrain better than I could,and that he was nowassuming responsibility fornavigation,but I steppedoff

thewagonand crossedwestacross the plateau. At theedge, I was staring straightdown a cliff, which curvednorth around the plateauintosteepcanyons.Itlookedasthoughweweretrapped.

“You’re right, Nick,” Isaid, back at the wagon.“Fuck.Wearenowofficiallylost.”

“I could have told youthatthreehoursago.”

Lifting Olive Oyl off thewagon so she could runrattlesnake patrols in frontof me, I poked through thelowgroundofftotheright.Ifound a route through thegullies and boulder fieldsdownthere,andthenwalkedbacktotheplateau,signalingto Nick to carefully followme through the low area byobservingmyhandsignals.Itwas grueling work, inching

the mules over rocks andsage growth that toweredover the wagon top, butwhen we had climbed backto the high ground I pickedupanindistinctcattletrack.

Traveling by foot, andbeingabletoseethegroundmore closely, gave me adistinct advantage. I beganpickingupmorecattletracks—the bigger hoofprints ofthe mother cows, and the

smaller, deer-size prints ofthe calves—and followedthem north. By walkingthirty or forty yards out tothe sides of the track, I wasable topickup theprintsofshod horses. Okay, good, Ithought, somebody wasmoving cattle through here,fairly recently. InWyoming,late June and early July areoften the roundup and calf-branding season, when

mothersandtheircalvesaretaken off their winter rangeand pushed up into thehigher greenpastures in themountains. Following theroundup tracks would takeme somewhere, probably tosome high corrals, but Ididn’t knowwhether or notwe could get thewagon outofthere.

After a mile or two offollowing a narrow rim

where canyons fell steeplyoff on either side, the trackaheadopenedupintoawell-traveled cattle road, and Icouldmakeoutwhatlookedlike barbed-wire corralsahead. I waited for thewagonandclimbedbackup.

“Nick, I’m pretty surewe’re off the Sun Ranchnow,” I said. “I think thosefences ahead are the springcorrals of the Split Rock

Ranch. Sorry about this. I’msupposedtoknowwhereweare,butIdon’t,really.”

“Don’t worry about me,”Nick said. “I love drivingteam through country likethis.”

At the corrals, thelandscape below us openedto a vast, end-of-the-hillsvista where the flats on theSweetwater ran for milesovertotheGranites,andthe

ground just ahead graduallysloped down toward theriver. I still didn’t knowexactly where we were, butthe Sweetwater was rightbelow us, where it wassupposedtobe.

“It’salltrail,Nick,”Isaid.“We’removingwest, on theriver.”

“Rinker,halfthetimeyoudon’t know what the fuckyou are doing, but at least

you act like you do. We’refine.”

There were a couple ofothersetbacksthatnight.Aswe unharnessed, I noticedthatweweremissingoneofourleadchains,andwewerenow down to two, for threemules. The lost chain wasprobablyanothercasualtyofhigh-altitude forgetfulness,back at Independence Rock.And the plug on our rear

waterbarrelhadpoppedout,probably when we crossedthe boulder fields in thecanyons below, and a lot ofthe water had spilled. Thethirty gallons we had leftwould be just enough towater themules tonightandinthemorning,butthenwewould be out. After that, Ihad no idea how far wewould have to push themuleswithoutwater.

After dinner I called forOliveOyltorunaheadofmeon snake patrol and Ifollowed the cattle pathrunning downhill from thecorrals. Years before, on along cattle drive in the RedDesertcountrytothesouth,a legendary western sheriffand range detective, EdCantrell, had taught me toread cattle andhorseprints,and I was able to pick up

mostofthetelltalemarksofa classic spring cattle drive.Most of the cattle hadfollowed a steady southerlycourse on the higher,smooth range. In the steepdraws below, I knelt on onekneeinthesandandsawtheprintsofcowdogsandwell-shod horses where thecowboyshad gallopeddownto round up stray steers.There were two distinct

tracks from pickup tirespulling trailers—probably achuckwagonrigandastockvan for the horses. Therewas a burn mark at thecorrals where a brandingiron had been used. Aftercalf-branding up at thecorrals, the herd must havebeen driven below for areason,andIcouldseefrommy maps that somewheredown there the highway

curved up again for JeffreyCity. I concluded that theherd I was following hadbeen trucked to theirsummer pastures, and forthat therewould have to beloading ramps andbig gatesbelow,whichwould only belocatedonthehighway.

As I climbed back tocamp, I decided that in themorningwewould turnduesouth instead of northwest

along the Sweetwater,following the safety of theherdtracksbacktoaknownroad.

I didn’t sleep very wellthat night. My trailnavigation had been off allday, and we were down tothe bottom of our waterbarrels. I had performedpoorly, just a third of theway across the Acropolisstretch of ruts, and this

mademedoubtmyabilitytonegotiatewhatIknewwouldbe even more challengingtrailahead.

Iwokeup at three in themorning, couldn’t get backto sleep, and sat broodingwith my legs hanging overtheendboardsofthewagon,smokingmypipe.Icouldseethe outline of the Granitesand stars flickered besideSplitRock.Thedeserttothe

westwasvastandblack,withjust a few far-off lightsshining weakly from theranches. My dread hourlasted until dawn and myflagellant impulses carriedme ineverydirection—Nickwaslosingconfidenceinme,Beck would run off, wewould deplete our watertomorrowbeforewereachedaranchorcreek.

Maybe the Oregon Trailwas beyond me. I shouldn’thave come west. Therewasn’t a clear path of rutsahead of us, justindecipherable space thatyou got lost in, leadingtowardmore indecipherablespace.

•••

Weharnessedearlythenextmorning and followed theherd prints down throughthedrawsand, sureenough,there were cattle chutes, anearthen truck ramp, and abig gate opening to thehighway. But the elation ofhaving tracked our way outof the maze of Sweetwatercanyons soon gave way toanxiety. After several hoursofplodding along the lonely

highway, there were deepcavities on the haunches ofthe mules, a sign ofdehydration, and our waterbarrelswereempty.Wehadtogettheteamtowater.

Finally, fromamile off, Isaw the large welded-steelletters of a ranch sign,suspendedfromtallpostsoflodgepolepine.

SPLITROCKRANCH

Asweturnedthemulesinat the ranch driveway, theybroke into a trot and thentried to gallop—they knewthatweweremaking a stopandthattheywouldsoongetwater. I was intrigued bywhat we’d find aheadbecause Split RockRanch isone of those Oregon Trailstops that demonstrate howfrontier settlement led toboisterous economic

development in twodirections, east and west,after the initial emigrationperiod ended with the CivilWar. From the long gravelentrance, we approached adistant cluster ofwhitewashed log cabins,barns,andcorrals,shadedbycottonwoods and nestledinto a break in the folds ofthe Granites. The 200,000-acre spread typified the

immense dimensions ofwestern ranches that wewouldbecrossingnow.Theranch’s rolling expanse ofplains and high countryincludes twelve miles ofriverfront along theSweetwater, six hundredacres of irrigated alfalfafields, shaded creek draws,and elk and mountain lionhabitat in the mountainforests.Theprivatelandand

adjoining grazing acreageleased from the governmentsprawlsovertheentirevalleybetween two mountainranges, theGranitesandtheGreens, andadrive throughtheranch,northtosouth, isthirty-sixmiles.

Until the 1890s, therewere still wagon companiesriding through the trailcountryofcentralWyoming,and the homesteaders

headed west were joined bymilitary freight convoys, thestageandmaillines,andthelong pack-mule caravans ofminers. (Gold wasdiscoveredintheSouthPasshillsin1866.)Cattleherdsof2,500 head or more weredriven east against thistraffictorailheadsineasternWyoming and slaughteryards inNebraska,andwereoften stopped for two or

threedaystograzealongtheSweetwater. U.S. Armycavalry units, dispatched tomaintain order and toprovide protection fromIndian raids, camped thereall summer.Thecorralsandlog cabins at Split Rockbecame a Pony Express andstagecoach stop, a telegraphstation, and a post office,and there were largewatering troughs and livery

stables for horses. Thesummer population of oneofthesebusyoutpostscouldnumber more than ahundred, and there weremany settlements like SplitRock—Devil’s Gate andFetterman City behind us,the Ellis Ranch and BurntRanchahead.

After World War I, themechanization of farmingand the transferof traffic to

distant rail lines andhighways emptied most ofthese western ranch towns,turning them into lonelyagrarian outposts with justone or two families spreadout over several miles ofrange.Itwashardtoimaginethatthelonelyplainwewerenow crossing once bustledwith so much life andcommerce. As weapproached the ranch, I

realized somethingimportant about our tripthat I had never consideredbefore. For all of myplanning and my existingknowledge of the West, Ihad been stunningly naiveabout navigating these vastspaces. In the nineteenthcentury, the Oregon Trailhadbeenmarkedwith freshwagon tracks, and therewere ranches the size of

small towns every fifteen ortwenty miles. But thecongestion and settlementthat had once supportedwagon travel haddisappeared.Steepingmyselfin the pioneer journals andhistory books—literaturedating to a timewhen theseplains teemed with humanactivity—had lured me intothinking that I could easilyfind my way. But without

thatnaïveté,andwithoutthewillingness to tolerateuncertainty, I would neverhavebegunthistrip.

Rolling into Split RockRanch was also interestingbecause itwas the locale foroneof thegreat fabricationsofAmericanlife.Intheearly1860s a young man with ahardscrabble past, WilliamFrederickCody,burstoutofthe Kansas Territory and

began to work along theOregon Trail as abullwhacker for the freightlines,aU.S.Armyscout,andan avid buffalo slaughterer.“BuffaloBill,”ashebegantocall himself, was a greatstoryteller, and he went ontobecomeoneoftheworld’sgreatest showmen, touringAmerica and Europe withhis flamboyant circus aboutwestern life, “Buffalo Bill’s

Wild West Show,” whichmade him a fortune andestablished him as aninternational celebrity. Butvery few of Buffalo Bill’sstories about himself checkout today, and even in hisown lifetime he wascelebrated more for hisflamboyant mendacity thanfor any actual daring deedsintheWest.

While he was still ateenager, it is possible, butfar from certain, that Codyworked for the PonyExpress, probably buildingcorrals and working as astable boy. But a true WildWestfigurelikeCodywouldnot sit at a bar tellingeveryone that he hadmuckedout the stalls at theRed Buttes Station. In hisvarious autobiographies

Cody alleged that “one day”(heneverprovidedthedate)in1860or1861heracedoffonhishorsefromRedButtesand galloped across theSweetwater stretch of thePony Express route thatfollowed the Oregon Trail.At Split Rock, as the storycontinued, Cody learnedthat the rider scheduled totakeoverat thenext stationhad been killed. So he

continued on as areplacement rider and rodeall the way out to RockyRidge near South Pass andthen back to Red Buttes.Cody claimed that he hadcompleted the ride,“accomplishing on theround-trip adistanceof 322miles,” which was aconvenientfourmileslongerthantherealrecordholder’sdistance.

Scholars have nowconcluded thatBuffaloBill’sfamousrideneverhappened,andinfacthewasnotaPonyExpress rider at all. (“Thereseems no point in resistingthe inevitable; Bill’s ponyriding represents anotherspate of fiction,” wrotehistorian JohnS.Gray in aninfluential article in theKansas Historical Quarterlyin 1985.) The best that

anyone can figure out todayis that Buffalo Bill’s fabledride was a “composite”fabricated out of theexperiences of several otherriders.

ButIlovedthistaleofthefrontier and what it meant.ThestoryofCody’s“longestride in the West,” endlesslyrepeatedinpuffpiecesabouthim in eastern newspapers,helped build his reputation,

andhewentontoshowhowfortunes could be madecapitalizing on tall tales ofthe American West,becoming the spiritualgodfather of the Hollywoodwestern. Cody was a classicrésumé-bloater, a braggartimpresario who prosperedby exploiting the gullibilityof the American people,mostofwhomaresopoorlyread, so bamboozled by

religion and thesensationalist, mogul-worshipping press, and sodesperate for heroes, thatthey’ll believe almostanything that a grandbullshitter likeCody shovelsout. Cody’s style of self-promotionisstillverymuchapartofAmericanlifetoday.

When we drove in withthe Schuttler, Cooper andMattie Stevenson, the

children of the ranchmanagers,were dozing on abench out by the hitchingposts. They were kids onsummervacationatafar-offranch, looking quite bored.Cooper was eleven and hissister Mattie was nine, andtheywere both tall for theirage, with handsome,attractive faces. They werestylishly but practicallydressed in jeans with rodeo

buckles, plaid western-cutshirts, and pointy stirrupboots. Cooperwas snoozingbeneathabigbuckaroo-stylecowboyhat.Whenwepulledthemulestoastopnearthehitching post, the childrenwokeup and lookedover atus,cautiousbutcurious.

“Say,” I said, “we’ve beenrunningthesemulesfromSt.Joe. Do you think we could

fillourbarrelsandwatertheteam?”

Mattie jumped up fromthe bench and ran towardtheranchhouse.

“Mom! Mee-uuuuules,Mom!Mules and a coveredwagon!”

“We can water yourmules,”Coopersaid.“Butletme just see what my Momsays.”

Their mother, JenniferStevenson, came out a fewminutes later,andshewasatake-charge cowgirl withrunway model good looksandlongblondhair.Shewasdressed in jeans with a bigrodeobeltbuckle,awestern-cut shirt, and roping boots.Jennifer was glad to see us,butalsoedgyandtough,andvery knowledgeable aboutwesternranching.

Jenniferhadgrownupona farm in Wheatland,Wyoming, dreamed ofranchingallthewaythroughthe University ofWyoming,met her husband, Travis,andtogether theyeventuallylanded at Split Rock, one ofthe jewels of the West,wheretheyhavebuiltuptheherd and improvedprofitability. Cooper andMattie began to ride early,

and their parents havetaughtthemtoropeandcutsteers—Cooper is alreadywinningatrodeosandsavingmoney for college. In someways it’sa lonely life.At theJeffrey City school, therewere four students,including Cooper andMattie, and it’s a one-dayround-trip to Lander orRawlins to shop forgroceries. But running a

spread like Split Rock alsoprovides a lot of romanceand variety. In her pickup,Jennifercarriesariflewithalarge, long-range scopebeside her against the door,for plugging coyotes, whichshe can hit from severalhundred yards away. In thewinter, when the Split RockRanch makes extra moneyhosting big-game hunters,Jennifer guides the visitors

upintotheGranitestoshootmountainlionandelk.

Jennifer was surprisedthat we had found our wayto the ranch through themaze of canyons on theSweetwater, but wasexpectingacatch.

“Where’s your supportvehicles?”shesaid.

“We don’t have any,” Isaid.

“All theway from St. Joewithoutsupport trucks?Oh,okay. We haven’t seen thatbefore.”

It was a sore point withStevenson, and many otherranchers we met along theSouth Pass segment. Everysummer, when the PonyExpress reenactors ride thetrail, they roll into the localranches with as many asforty-five support vehicles—

horse vans, RVs, cateringtrucks—blocking the roadsfor miles. The Mormonhandcarters—several groupsof 150 or more can hit thesame stretchof trail atonce—block the local roads anddisrupt cattle drives. It washard for most ranchers atfirst to distinguish us fromthese reenactors. Most ofthem thought that our trail

of support vehicles must bejustoverthehill.

WhileCooperandMattiehelped us water the team, Idescribed to Jennifer ourtangled route through thecanyonsabovetheranch.

“How did you know todivert away from the river?”she asked me. “I think theSweetwater is still floodedupthere.”

“Ididn’t,” I said. “Wegotlostupthere.”

“No you didn’t. You gotfromtheSunRanchtohere,right?It’salltrail.”

Jennifer explained thatcattle grazing in theSweetwater hills had prettymucheliminatedevidenceofthe Oregon Trail ruts, andthat when we had pushedduewestinsteadofnorthfortheriverwewereactuallyon

a stretch of the associatedterrainnowattributedtotheCaliforniaTrail.Noonecansay for sure today why onestretch was called theCalifornia Trail and theother the Oregon Trailbecausewagonsdestinedforboth places used eitherroute. The California rutshad lost their definitionyears ago and had becomean endless series of dead

endsinthecanyons,andthehigh water along theSweetwater this year hadwashed out the northernpath along the river. Thishappens every ten years orso, when the riverextensively rechannels itself,forming new oxbows everyhalfmile,andthetrailalongits banks has continuallychanged.

“There isn’t anyconsistent trail throughthere,” Jennifer said. “Thereprobably never was. You’reprobably going to have thesame problems gettingaround Rocky Ridge andfindingSouthPass.”

Jennifer’shusbandwasoffcutting alfalfa that day, andhe had forgotten to leave awrangling horse behind inthe barn. She and the

childrenweredawdlingonahot day, putting off goinginto the corrals andwrangling on foot. FromKansas onward, at theranches and at roadintersections where familieshad stopped towatch us goby with the mules, we hadenjoyed giving children andgrandchildren wagon rides,and I suggested to Jenniferthat Nick take Mattie and

Cooper in the wagon intoJeffrey City. Jennifer and Icould follow later in herpickup.

“Mom! Don’t even thinkabout saying no,” Mattiecalledout. “Sir, justholdonthereaminute,okay?Ineedtogetmyhat.”

WhenMattiecameoutoftheranchhousewithherbigstrawhat on, I stood besidethewheel to help her up to

the wagon seat, but sheraisedherhand.

“You think I can’t climbintoawagon?”

Mattie nimbly monkeyedup thewheel and saton thewagon seat next to Nick.Olive Oyl poked her headout from beneath the seat,between Mattie’s legs.Cooper climbed up thewheelandsatontheoutsideoftheseat.

“Okay, honey,” Nick saidto Mattie. “We’re just gointohandlethislikearealslowmule-drivinlesson.Okay?I’llshowyoufirst.”

“I don’t need showing,”Mattiesaid.“Handmethemlines.”

Mattie gathered the linesfirmly in her lap and slowlypulled them toherwaist, sothe teamcould feel on theirbits that she was there, and

spokesoftly to themat first,justasitshouldbedone.Shehad already learned theirnames.

“Bute, Jake, Beck,” shesaid, “we’re headed forJeffreyCity.”

Then she slapped thelines on their rumps andbrightlycalledthemules.

“Team!Getonthere,youlazy critters! Get up there

Jake! Buuute! Get up there,youoldmules!Gitmovin!”

The mules pranced withtheir front hooves andleaped forward into theirharness. While the wagonbumped awayNick held hisarmshighabovehisheadtoshowthathewasn’thandlingthemules at all.Mattiewasdoing all of thedriving, andhe was just a passenger onthewagonnow.

IlookedovertoJennifer.“Has she driven team

before?”“Idon’tthinkso,”Jennifer

said. “Oh, maybe, I don’tremember.We have friendswith teams. But it doesn’tmatter. That’s Mattie. Sheusuallyknows.”

IstoodtherewithJenniferwatching the wagon turnwest as the noontime lowcumulus rolled in. The sun

caughttheSchuttler’swhite-top andgreen sides,makingthem shine brightly. Mattieslapped the lines on themules once more andcontinued her sopranocalling. “Beee-uuuu-ute! Idon’t see you pulling hard,muuule! Get up there, youcritters!” Her blond hairblowing back underneathher cowboy hat remindedme of Narcissa Whitman

galloping uphill for SouthPass, and filled me withhappinessaboutthetrip.

23

OUR TIME OF TRIUMPH

HALFWAY across the trail—ascending South Pass tocross the continental divide

—arrived in mid-July. Werestedthemulesforanextradayatamagicalspacealongthe Sweetwater, the EllisRanch, and the youngarcheologist and ranchmanager there, CharlesTurquie, briefed me on thebest route to follow aroundRockyRidge,thebigobstaclethat stood between us andthe pass. The dramaticscenery along the

Sweetwater is virtuallyunchanged from pioneerdays. But the emigrants’many cutoffs to avoid theworsthills, followedby goldmining, stagecoaching, andthe modern Mormonreoccupation,hasturnedtheapproach toSouthPass intoa labyrinth of intersectingruts and tempting wrongturns.Inthemostdreamlikesetting, through exquisite

country to savor slowly in acovered wagon, our nextweekwouldbehell.

Summiting Rocky Ridge,legendaryasoneofthemostpunishing climbs of theOregon Trail, had neverbeen part of my plan. Thegateway to South Pass is atwelve-mile geologicwonderland where the trailtwists upward throughelaborateformationsofdark

feldspar and basalt rockstriated with pink schist, agiant sculpture park leftbehind by the collisions ofthe earth’s crusts aeons ago.The route culminates in anabrupt seven-hundred-footrise over an ascendingstaircaseofgravelandbrownshale. On the roundedsummit, Rocky Ridge, at anelevation of 7,300 feet, thespinesofstonecoalesceinto

two broad boulder fields. Itwas on this desolate pile ofrocks that the handcartMormons suffered in thesnow, and all of the earlypioneers struggled. Whentheir draft animals gave outand collapsed onto therocks, the overlandcompanies lightened theirloads and pushed thewagonsbyhand,easingtheir

axles over the boulders onewheelatatime.

There was no reason forme to tackleRockyRidge inthe wagon. After 1853 themostpopularroutetoSouthPass was the SeminoeCutoff,aparallelwagonroadthat followed the southbanksoftheSweetwaterandavoided the boulder fieldsabove. The wagons alsobypassed Rocky Ridge by

following the creek beds tothe north, and these pathswere worn down by heavytrafficafterminingbegan inthelate1860s.

All of these alternativeroutes around Rocky Ridgeare considered the OregonTrail, but everyone had adifferent opinion aboutwhich ruts to follow. Tworanchers warned me aboutthe narrow bridge at

Strawberry Creek, whichthey didn’t think the muleswould cross, and othersadvisedmenottofollowtheold tracks of the Point ofRocks stage road to theLanderCutoff,whichwouldrequire crossing difficultterrain at SlaughterhouseGulch. Nobody really knew,and once more I faced theriddle presented by themultiple cutoffs and the

broad,maddeningvaguenessof the Oregon Trail. Therewas no single preferredroute. We were heading offfor the big moment of thetrip, crossing the RockyMountain divide, into achasmofdoubt.

But the return of theMormonstotheSweetwateroffered some help, andCharles Turquie told usaboutthisaswesatarounda

campfire at the Ellis Ranchthe night beforewe left. AllalongtheapproachtoSouthPass, the Mormons havestaged a series of large,visible camps on BLM landfor handcarting MormonYouth, often at importantintersections of the trail.After crossing the river tothe north banks out of theranch, we would follow themost prominent set of ruts

west and eventually see aslatemarkeratthesiteoftheold St.Mary’s Pony Expressstop. A few miles later wewouldn’t be able to miss alarge, elaborately designedMormon monument—fencedin,andmarkedwithahistorical plaque—dedicatedtothe1856handcartvictimswho died on Rocky Ridge.Farther west we would seethe colorful tents of a

Mormon Youth site, theSageCreekCamp.

Turquie told us to turnnorthat theMormoncamp.The road would climbthrough the canyon andthen, at the top of theterrain, branch south again,skirtingaroundRockyRidge.We would then follow thatserpentine track downthrough the gulches andbacktothemaintrail.

The country up topwouldbeconfusing,Turquiesaid, but if we missed theturnoff south for the trailwe’d end up on the well-marked Fort StambaughRoad, and along it therewould be plenty of trackssouthforthetrail.

“Just don’t try RockyRidge at all,” Turquie said.“Nobody can get a wagonacross that. Rocky Ridge is

the only place around herewhere I’ve ripped the tiresoffmytruck.”

•••

We left the Ellis Ranch forSouthPassthenextmorningin a cheerful, expectantmood. The mules werejaunty after two days ofpasture rest and poundedtheir front hooves into the

pink sand of the ruts,perking their long earsforward and asking to trotwhenwereachedthehills.

We found the slatemarker for the St. Mary’sStation and then thesubstantial Mormonmonument to the handcartvictims, on the top of ahilltop toour left.Butwhenwe reached a turnoff norththatlookedalotliketheone

for Sage Creek Camp, therewas no Mormon camp. Alonely, faux log-cabinMormonPort-o-Pottiestoodup on the hill, its PVC ventpipeglinting in the sun.Butthe hillside was otherwisedeserted and I concludedthat our failure to find SageCreek Camp was justanother example of theendlessly confusingdirections provided by

westerners. The turnoffwouldprobablylookjustlikethisoneandbeamileortwoahead. We continued topush west on the mostobviousruts.

As we cleared the nextrise and began to descenddownhill, the climb aheadlooked very rocky, withbrown and black ledgesglinting in the sunlight.Therock formation was stepped

and the climb so steep thatall we could see beyond itwas blue Wyoming sky. Bythis time, the terrain oneither side of us wasimpassable. To the left theslope fell sharply downhill,andtheboulderfieldstotheright looked like the dumpzone of a quarry. Thestaircaseofrockaheadofuslooked far too abrupt, and Iworried out loud to Nick

about climbing the obstacleinthewagon.

“Oh, I can put themulesup through that,”Nick said.“Itdoesn’tlookthatbad.”

Asweneared thebottomofthesmallvalleybeforetherock slope, we saw thedistantfiguresoftwopeopleeasingdownthetrackaheadofus,pickingtheirwayovertherockledges.Therewasn’tenough room for two-way

traffic and we decided tohold the wagon and waterthe mules while we waitedfor them to descend. As Iwatered the mules I lookeduphill at the hikers. Theywere carryingwalking sticksand had water bottlesstrappedaroundtheirwaists,and they looked like amarriedcoupleoutforadayoftrekkingalongthetrail.

The man lookedsurprisedandwassoexcitedabout findingus thathe ran

thelastthirtyyardsdownhilltothewagon.

“I can’t believe this,” hesaid. “Who are you? I neverexpected to see a coveredwagonwayouthere.”

His namewas SamPeeryand he was a dentist fromLogan, Utah. Peery and hiswife, LaVora, weredescendants of Mormonswho joined the trail exodusfrom Illinois in 1849 and

1851,andtheyhaddrivenupfrom Utah for the weekendtomakeapilgrimagetypicalfor Mormon couples. Theywanted to see WillieHandcart shrines erected bytheLDSandtohikesectionsof the South Pass segment,and they were particularlyinterested in exploringRocky Ridge to learn moreabouthowtheheavywagonsof their ancestors had

crossedtherocks.Peerytoldme that he was a horsemanhimself and owned a draftteam and a covered wagon.Like a lot ofMormonswhoenjoy horses, he hadparticipated in several“Mormon Wagon Trains”along the overland trailroutes.

While we waited for hiswife to reach us, Peerylookedbackuptheslopeand

thenwipedhisbrowwithhisshirtsleeve.

“You do know, by theway, that you’re headedstraightforRockyRidge?”

“That can’t be RockyRidge,” I said. “We haven’treached the Mormon campyet.”

“There is no Mormoncamptoday,”Peerysaid.“It’sSaturday.Thosekidsclearedout of there yesterday and

headed back for Salt Lake.They’ve got churchtomorrow.”

He couldn’t really meanthis. It was impossible, I’dbeen told, to miss theMormon camp. My voicewasafalsettonow.

“Youmeanwemissed it?Missed it? What do we donow?”

Ilookedoffthesideofthewagon toward the steeply

plummeting ground to ourright, and then left, up theboulder fields. The basaltchute surrounding us wasonly a few feet wider thanour wheels. Once more, wewere boxed in.We couldn’tturn the wagon around andour only choice now wasstraightahead, acrossRockyRidge.

Iknewthat Ihadtowalkahead to scout the terrain

and thought that Sam, awagonman,mightbeabletohelp, and I asked him if hewouldcomealong.

“Sure,” he said. “It’sactuallynot as badup thereas they say. I think there’s awaythrough.”

By this time LaVora hadreached us and the Peeryssaidthattheyconsideredourmeeting providential.Mormons are wonderfully

candid about what theyconsider the spiritualcoincidences of life anddon’t seem embarrassedabout blurting out themysteries of their faith infront of strangers. God, thePeeryssaid,hadsentthemtoscout theridgeand leadourwagonacrosshallowedland.

“LaVora,” Sam said. “Weare angels today. We weresentforthem.”

“We are angels today,”LaVora said. “There is areasonthatwemetthemlikethis.”

As I climbed the steep,rocky path uphill with thePeerys, I decided that theywere angels. Ambassadorsfrom God had miraculouslyappeared to guide us overthe notorious Rocky Ridge,and the terrain itself didn’tlook as bad as all the trail

expertshadtoldmeitwouldbe.The stepped rock ladderto the ridge wasn’t going tobeverydifficult,atleastforadriver like Nick. In manyplaces the ledges werediagonal to the trail, and byanglingthepoleat thesamediagonal we could ease thewheels over axle by axle.Nick would see the samething. Most of the ledgeswere eroded from wagon

and foot traffic and hadeither sandor small pebblesonthetop,whichwouldgivethe mules some purchaseagainsttheirshoes.

The summit seemednavigable—just barely—too.I could instantly see whyRocky Ridge had assumedmythicstatusduringthetrailyears. The rounded, highground ahead of us stoodalone, separated from the

other peaks, and the fierceWyoming winds preventedsoil formation, exposing thebedrockoftallboulders.Buttheviewswestwerespaciousand the ruts below droppedthrough a green Jordan ofgrassy meadows along theSweetwater. Most of theelevation gain toward SouthPasshadalreadybeenmade,and the pioneers couldn’t

resist taking this brutalshortcuttotheirdestination.

Best, we would not haveto cross two boulder fieldson the top, just one. Afterthefirstboulderfield,whichappeared to be about sixtyyardsacross,therewasaredtwo-track in the sandcurving around the secondformation of rocks.Modernpickup traffic around thesecondfieldofbouldershad

reduced the challenge ofRockyRidgebyhalf.

The worn spots on therocks across the summitshowed that the pioneershadsimplycontinued in thesouthwest direction of theruts below, taking thehurdles of rocks head-on.The boulders were huge—someofthemtallerthanourhubs. But the rock strataagain met the trail at a

diagonal, roughly north tosouth. Between the rocklines, there were jagged butrelatively flat intervalsmarked with sparse greenvegetation, where theprotection of the rocks hadallowed shallow deposits ofsoil.

When I walked to thesouth side of the boulderfield and stood on top of alarge rock, I could see that

therewas just enough spaceto squeeze the wagonthrough these flat intervals.Wewould takeRockyRidgeat a diagonal, crisscrossingthe summit several timesalong these flat areas. Butthe only way we could getthe wagon swung backaround for the next tripbetween the rockswouldbeto maneuver the team backand forth in a K-turn,

carefullywatchingtobesurethat we didn’t jackknife theTrailPup. Itwouldbe tight,butdoable.

Before I left the ridge tohike down forNick and thewagon, I explained my planto Sam and LaVora. Whenthewagongottotheridge,Iwantedthemtostandattheclearest point at the end ofeach interval, so that Nickcould see through the rocks

to his end point each time.When he started K-turning,they could repositionthemselves in the best placetoshowtheendpointofthenextinterval.

Sam thought that myroutewouldbedifficult.Thepioneers had obviously cutstraight across the center ofthe rock field to avoid theclifflikeedgesofthesummit.Maneuvering wagons along

theperimeterriskedpushingthewheelsdangerouslycloseto the edge and falling intothe steepcanyonbelow.Butwe didn’t enjoy theadvantage of a wagon trainwithplentyofmenavailableto lift the wheels over theboulders, and our onlychoice was taking the rockfieldatadiagonalfromedgetoedge.

Ididn’tsaymuchtoNickwhen I got back to thewagon.BythistimeItrustedthe seamless, tersecommunicationthatseemedtocomenaturallytouswhenI was leading the waythrough rough terrain onfoot and he was driving thewagon. Our body languagetogether seemed almostspiritual tome now. Just byleaning my shoulder and

arm left or right, or placingmy footon a rock,Nick gotit.

I explained to Nick thatthe Peerys would stationthemselvesonthesummittomark the narrow sandavenuesbetweenthehighestrocks. When we couldn’tavoid boulders, go easy ontheaxles.Babythewheels.

“Gotit,”Nicksaid.“You’llguideme?”

“I’llguideyou.”“Let’sgo,”hesaid.“We’re

takin Rocky Ridge. I wasbornforthisfucker.”

•••

We ascended the ledgesclimbingtoRockyRidgeaxlebyaxle,pausingateachstep,like an old canal boat risingthrough the locks. Themulesadjustedsplendidlyto

the work. Beck’s crazinessseemed to fade with achallenge like this, as shenarrowly focused herattention on remaining themost forward mule oncomplicated terrain. Jakewas athletic and calm. Butewenevereventhoughtaboutbecauseshewasso lazythatallshewantedtodowasstepup daintily from rock torock, her loose tug chains

trailing behind her like aprom dress. It wasfascinating to watch themules.They all turned theirheadssidewaysateachledge,to look out past theirblinders and take advantageof their wide rear vision, towatchtheirhind legsontherocks.

The wagon cover behindhim prevented Nick fromseeingthetworearaxles,but

Iwasstandingtotherearofthe wagon and giving himadvisories all the way up.Theteamhadtobestoppedand thewheels gently easedovereachnewobstruction.

“Rearmainsattheledge.”“Rearmains.”“TrailPup.”“TrailPup.”Itwasanagonizinglyslow

climbwith thepolebangingandthetugchainscrackling

with tension each time weforcedanaxleover thenextledge. I ran back and forthontheledges,signalingNickto angle the pole correctlyfor the next rock step, thenrunning back behind thewagon to call out the axlesreaching the big hoist overthesamespot.Several timesJakeandBeckstumbledandspun their hooves onslippery, smooth rocks, and

the wagon fell backwardwith a giant groan of painfrom the running gear. ButNickstoodonthebrakeandheldtheteamwiththelines,calming them in a low,soothingvoice.

“Good, Team, good. Restnow.Justrest.Thenwe’lltryagain.You’remyteam.”

Iwassaturatedwithsweatandmyeyes stung from thesaltyperspirationpouringoff

myforehead.Iwaswobblyinthe high mountain air andstumbled several times onthe ledges, and the sharpedges of rock slit my bluejeansattheknee.Inthebackofmymind I heard a deep,gravellyvoice,BillPetersen’sin Nebraska. “I’m no muleman,butyou’renotgoingtoget that wagon over RockyRidge. Go around.” But thegauzy, high Wyoming air

druggedme like ether and Ifelt defiant andinexhaustible. Nobodyknows.Theexpertssaidthatwe couldn’t do this. But wewere climbing Rocky Ridgetoward our Mormon angelsandwewouldmakeittotheotherside.

Near the summit, at theedgeoftheboulderfield,westopped towater themules,mostly to relax them, and I

explained the rock field toNick. From his high perchon the wagon seat he couldseetheflatchannelsbetweenthe spines of rock and howwe would have to steerthroughthem.

“Boss, I can do this. Butit’sgoingtotaketime.”

“We’ve got all day. Wecancampjustbeyondhereifwewant.”

But it didn’t take thatlong. Istoodat the first twoboulders in our way andwedged small rocksunderneath the wheels andpushedonthespokestohelpthe wagon over, and Nickentered the first channel,reached LaVora at the end,and pulled wide and duewest. Then he backed theteam so expertly that heneededonlythreeK-turnsin

reverse to enter the nextchannel. Forty yards away,Sam was standing on a tallrock and holding his armswide to mark the nextchannel.

The work wasexhilarating but stressful.Therewereafewspotsalongthechannelswhere Ihad torun back and either wedgerocks under the wheels orhold back the spokes so the

axlesroseevenly.AtthetopofthestonesNicklockedthebrake and held the team sothat the wagon sat perchedsidewaysatacrazyangleonone wheel. Then he gentlypumped thebrake to let thewheel rim skid down theother side of the rock. Hespoke softly to themules tokeep them calm. In a fewplaces, where the channelnarrowed to just our hub

width, we left skid marksandredpaintontherocks.

Nick tipped the wagononly once, when hemisjudgedhis distance fromthe rocks on the right sideandputbothrightwheelsofthe Schuttler on the top ofboulders. I could hear theload shifting as the wagonstarted to lean over on itsside, but I didn’t have timeto call to Nick. He caught

the near-spill just in timeand calmly pulled the teamand the pole even harderright,sothatthefrontwheelpivoted and skiddedbackward down the rock.Then he eased the rearwheel down by turning leftandstandingonthebrake.

It was a masterly displayof driving skills, but thewheels landed hard and thewagon box banged against

the running gear as theSchuttler slid off the rocks.We stopped to inspect thespokes and hubs and theyseemed fine. I ran back andforth repositioning SamandLaVora so that Nick couldsteer for them at eachchannel, occasionallyreturning to the wagon tohelpthewheelsoveranotherrock.

The maneuvering at theend of each channel tookforever.ButNickwaspatientforachangeandtheOregonTrail had disciplined himinto amore cautious driver.Back and forth, back andforth,heexpertlysteeredthemules through the K-turns,turning the wagon one wayin reverse, so the Trail Pupangledintheotherdirection.After forty-five minutes, we

were off the rock field andonto the smooth track thatskirted the rest of thesummit.

We had taken RockyRidge diagonally. To gainsixty yards west over aboulder field, we hadtraversed almost threehundred yards in a series ofS-turns.Itwasn’tthewaythepioneers did it but I didn’tgive a damn because now I

couldseeclearwest,throughtheopeningoflandbetweentheWindRiversandtheRedButtes below. I felt that Icould almost touch Oregonfromtheheights.

The wagon on top of Rocky Ridge.Ascendingtherockstaircaseeastofthecontinentaldividewasoneofthemostarduouschallengesofthetrip.

Before we left for themeadows below, Nick heldthe mules on the windysummit and our flagsnappedinthebreezewhileIstood near the front wheelsand thanked the Peerys.They were excited abouttheirdaynow.Tothem,thereal-life image of a coveredwagon summiting RockyRidge was divinely inspired.Godhaddirectedthemhere

to see this and witness itwith photographs, so thatother Mormons could seetoo and witness. UtahMormonslivesuchrelativelyisolated lives that theydon’trealizehowunusual it is forsecularAmericanslikemetohear people talk so openlyand matter-of-factly abouttheirreligion.Samspokefora few minutes about thestories he had grown up

with,thesacrificestheSaintshad made to cross to Utah,andtherolethatpilgrimagesto places like Rocky Ridgeplayed in sustaining hispersonal faith. Now he hadseenawagoncross the fatalRockyRidgeandthedayhadsealed him with theMormonmartyrs.

This was all theologicalziti to me, but I loved andenjoyed the Peerys, and

everything Mormon, thatdayonRockyRidge.Indeed,standing with them on thehighrocks,IwasaMormon.My theory about religion isthat we should believe inevery one of them. Screwdoctrine—it’s all made upanyway, and too divisive.When I feel like beingspiritually revived by greatmusic, I drive over onSunday to my local Bethel

AMEchurchandgetagooddose of gospel hymns, andthen I’m an AME soulbrother for the rest of theday.WhenIfeellikehearinganintelligentsermon,Igotoa synagogue, and then I’madevout Jew. I loveMennonite and Quakermeetings because thosefaiths are so devoted tosocial service that I canalways rely on an invitation

to the next flood-reliefmission or the building of aHabitatforHumanityhouse.That’s my dogma. Justborrow any old goddamnreligion that happens to bearound when you need itand enjoy the pleasure ofbeing with welcomingpeople. Today, on windyRockyRidgebeneath ahardblue Wyoming sky, I wasMormon.

Sam and LaVora saidagainthattheythoughttheywere“angels”senttohelpusover Rocky Ridge. But NickandIweretheirangelstoo.

“It’savisionthatyougaveus,” LaVora said. “Now wehave seen a covered wagoncross Rocky Ridge. We canbelieve it happened now. Itaffirmsourfaith.”

“I don’t have the sameamount of faith as you,” I

said. “But I guesswe can allbeangelssometimes.”

“That’s true,” Sam said.“Godblessnow.We’llneverforgettoday.Canyoujustbecarefulouthere?”

“Oh, we’ll be careful,” Isaid. “You just saw howcarefulweare.”

We all laughed,exchanged contactinformation, and then Samand LaVora turned east to

go, holding hands as theystepped high over the firstrocks.Iwalkedwiththemtothe edge of the ridge andwatchedforaminuteortwoastheydescendedtheledges,a happy, obliging Mormoncouplerecedingdownhillontheold,scuffedruts.

“Angels, Nick,” I said,backatthewagon.“MormonangelsguidedusoverRockyRidge.”

“Well,Ihappentobelievein all that shit,” Nick said.“Those people were angels.You don’t have to be someBible-whackin birdbrainfrom Alabama to believe inangels.”

Taking Rocky Ridgeinfuseduswithenergy.Ihadstudied Rocky Ridge formonths the winter beforeandlearnedtofearit,andalloftheOregonTrail“experts”

had exhorted me not tocross it. But nobody knows.Nobody had taken a wagonover those rocks in acentury. Fear was just adeceptive veil obscuring theunknown. But when we gotthere and saw the terrain, itwas just a lot of hard workcrossinglargerocks.

The wagon box gentlybumpedover the sandy rutsandtheoakbowscreakedin

the wind as we descendedfor the bottomlands alongthe Sweetwater, McLeanMeadows.Wehadsavedhalfa day by crossing RockyRidge, and along the boggyedges of the river we sawmoose, beaver dams, andsandhillcranes.

24

THE SNOWMELT RAGING

DOWN FROM the WindRivers had turned WillowCreek, which we had to

cross to stay on the mainruts, into a twenty-acreswamp. July is usually themiddleofthedryseason,butin this record high-wateryear thechannelwasalmostas broad as a river.Circuiting the mud fieldsalong the banks on foot, Icould see a trail marker ondry ground on the far side.But we couldn’t reach itacross this Euphrates

morass, which would havequicklyswallowedthewagonandmules.We turned backfortheSweetwatertofollowthe Riverview Cutoff to theSeminoe Cutoff, whichwould leadus backwest forthepass.

I almost welcomed beingforced onto the SeminoeCutoff. I had always beencuriousaboutwhatitlookedlike, and the history of this

popular shortcut connectedthe three main periods oftrail development in theWest.Theroutewasnamedfor Charles “Seminoe”Lajeunesse, a member of aprominent trapping andguiding family from the furdaysof the1820sand1830swho turned to another lineof work after 1850, whenEuropean tastes in hatschangedfrombeavertosilk,

effectively ending thebeaver-trapping era.Lajeunesse saw the newopportunity offered by thegrowing covered wagontraffic on the Oregon Trailand took over the fort andtrading post atDevil’sGate,quickly building it into abusy trail stop. But thisbusiness was threatened in1853 when heavy snowmeltand rains raised the

Sweetwater over its banks,causing a traffic jam ofwagons all the way back toIndependenceRock.Tokeepthetraffic—andhisprofits—flowing, Lajeunesse blazed apath along the plains southof the river for a hundredmilesbetweenIndependenceRock and South Pass. Thenew road eliminated theneed for the multiple fordsrequiredonthenorthbanks

andsidesteppedtheperilousRocky Ridge. Over time,especially after theMormonhandcart disaster at RockyRidge in 1856, the SeminoeCutoffbecamethepreferredroad and was heavilytrafficked by wagon trains,and then by militaryconvoys, mining caravans,and stage lines during thelast,busyphaseofthetrailinthe1880s.

Butnoteverywagontrainor stagecoach driverfollowed exactly the samepath along the south banks,and the tangled ruts of theSeminoe road eventuallysuffered from the neglectthatbecametypicalofmanyother Oregon Trail cutoffs.To trail purists, theexasperatingmazeofchoicesmadebythepioneershadtobe resolved somehow, in

order to preserve a single,agreed-upon NationalHistoric Trail. By the latetwentiethcentury,thisefforthad evolved into a “mainruts” approach to mappingandmarkingthetrail,whichallowed many importantcutoffs todisappear intothecattle andpickup roads thatgenerally followed the sameterrain.

This issuewasmorethanacademic to me. Likethousandsofwagontravelersbefore me, I had just beenforced off the main ruts atWillow Creek in a high-water year and would needtopickupthefarendoftheSeminoe Cutoff to continuewest to the continentaldivide. The Seminoe Cutoffwas the Oregon Trail, butthereisnodefinable,marked

Seminoe road anymore.After we crossed a bridgeover the Sweetwater, therewere several two-trackcutoffs bearing southwestacross the broad basinbetween the mountainridges, all of themunmarked, and any one ofthem the possible Seminoeroute. I eliminated the firsttwo because of hilly terrainandwhat looked likedistant

fencelines,andfinallyaskedNick to turn west on thethird track, not because Iknew it was the right one,but because we had to startmoving toward South Passsomewhere. We wereheaded straight across openrange, and Iwaspretty surethat we wouldn’t see anysign of life or acquire anavigation fix until the nextbig waypoint, a former trail

stop, cavalry fort, andmining town called BurntRanch.

By now, I consideredmyself an Oregon Trailsurvivor and accepted theimprecise standards of trailnavigation. South Pass wasabout fifteen milessouthwest across thehardtack desert, with thegoldhillsoneithersideofuswedging us onto level

ground. There was nomarked road. Any route wefollowed between WillowCreek andBurntRanchwasthetrail.

As he turned the muleswest on the two-track,Nickasked about how I knewweweregoingtherightway.

“Nobody knows, TrailHand.”Isaid.“We’reontheOregonTrail.”

•••

Burnt Ranch, originallycalled South Pass StationaftertheU.S.Armyfortbuilttherein1862,wasanotherofthose junctions along thetrailthatoncethrobbedwiththe energy of westeringAmericans. Hundreds ofwagons filed through everyday to merge at theintersection of the Seminoe

Cutoff and themain ruts atthe “last crossing” of theSweetwater. The openprairie outside the fort wasthe scene of emotionalpartings as some familieselected to proceed duewestto Idaho on themountainous Lander Road,while others continuedsouthwest to the SubletteCutoffrouteor followedthemain ruts to Fort Bridger.

There were separateMormon and gentile postoffices and Mark Twain,Horace Greeley, and SirRichard Burton passedthrough on the stage lines,immortalizing the last stopbefore South Pass in theirbooks. The road ranch gotits final name during theIndianwarsinthelate1860swhentheSioux, fedupwiththe continued impact of the

emigrant traffic on theirtraditional lands, and thefrequent violations of theirtreatieswith thewhiteman,burned the fort and itsoutbuildingstotheground.

Burnt Ranch was also animportantplace intheWestthat influenced frontierdevelopment in ways mostAmericans forget today. In1857, to encouragecontinued settlement of the

West, Congress passed thePacific Wagon Road Act,which among otherimprovements to the trailcalled for the surveyingof ashorterroutetoIdahoacrossthe bottom of the WindRivers and the forestedBridger-Teton wilderness tothe west. Frederick W.Lander, a hotheaded butexperienced explorer andengineer, was assigned the

job. He made Burnt Ranchthe trailhead and mainsupply depot for the trail-building job, which becameone of the largestgovernment-financedprojects of the nineteenthcentury. Lander hiredhundreds of workers fromthenewMormonsettlementatSaltLakeandsuppliedtheenterprise with large mule-team caravans that ferried

provisions and equipmentfrom U.S. Army depots inNebraska and easternWyoming. “With crowds oflaborers hauling wood,erecting buildings andtending stock,” writeshistorian Todd Guenther,“the area was a beehive ofactivity.”

The engineers, loggingcrews, and workers quicklyhacked out what became

knownastheLanderCutoff,whichsavedmorethansixtymiles,almostaweek’stravel,across the mountains. Inplaces, the Lander Cutoffwas a steep up-and-downride, but the route offeredcooler, high terrain andplentifulwater,anadvantageover the scorching desert ofthe main ruts to the south.Eventually an estimated100,000 pioneers took this

route, and the 230-mileLander Cutoff wasconsidered an engineeringmarvelofitstime.

This model ofgovernment support for amajor development projectbecame popular and wasaccepted as the new normfor western growth. Eachnewphaseoffrontiergrowth—the railroads, ranching,mining—was also supported

by either outrightgovernment subsidies, landgiveaways, or federallysupported irrigation andbridge-building projects.That was the traditionestablished by the OregonTrail and it has alwaysamusedmethatthemythof“rugged individualism” stillplays such a large role inwestern folklore andAmericanvalues.Infact,our

vaunted ruggedindividualism was financedby huge governmentlargesse.

Forthepastweek,lookingahead on my maps, I hadassumedthataplaceasbusyandprominentinthehistoryof theWest asBurntRanchwould have to be wellmarked. But nothing wastherewhenwereachedwhatI concluded was the end of

theSeminoeCutoff,andthespot was as deserted as anywe found on the trail. Aworn pickup road turnednorth across the river,probably indicating a ranchabove, but the heavy screenof cottonwoods and brushgrowing along the banksprevented me from seeingverymuch.

After a long afternooncrossing the unmarked

Seminoe Cutoff, I felt thatwehadtomakeacertainfixonBurntRanch to establishour position before welaunched for the pass. Myguidebooks and mapsshowed that a large stonemonument—carved andplaced by an early trailpreservationist, H. G.Nickerson—stoodjustabovetheranchbuildings,markingthe intersection of themain

rutsandtheLanderCutoff.Iwould have to hike acrossthe river to find themonument and confirmourposition.

Nickwasanxioustopushon for South Pass, andannoyed that Iwasbeing someticulous. We looked atmy maps together and hewas certain that the creekbed in front of us wasOregon Slough, which we

could splash through rightnow and regain the mainruts over the hill we sawahead. But there wereseveral piles of rusty waterpipe and pumpingequipmentlyingaround,andthe creek looked so evenlycut that I suspected it hadbeen rechanneled into anirrigationditch,whichmightnot run in the originaldirection indicated on the

map.ThiswasnottheBurntRanchIhadlearnedaboutinmybooks.

“Boss, it’s your readindisease again,” Nick said.“You’re overthinkin theproblem. The trail is rightthere,overthathill.”

“Nick, we have to know.SouthPass isn’t that easy tofindandthisisourlastfix.”

“I bet you the pioneersdidn’t mess with crap like

that. They just went rightoverthehill.”

But my abundance-of-cautiongenewouldn’tletgo.Thiswasourlastreliablefixbefore South Pass. I had toknow.

“There were a hundredwagonshereeverydaywhenthe pioneers were comingthrough,” I said to Nick.“They followed the wagonsin front of them. I’m hiking

in to find the Nickersonmarkersowe’resure.”

I was pleased about thechance to explore BurntRanch for another reason.The sitewas once a famousroad ranch and stagecoachstop, and this is what I hadcome west to see. It was aseriousmiscalculation, but Ihad noway of knowing thisas I stepped off the wagonandhikedtowardtheriver.

•••

Behind the screen of treesalong the river I found anarrow wooden bridge thatcrossedtheSweetwater.Thebridge had no side rails andwasbarelywideenoughforapickup,buttherewasalargeopenfieldbeforeit,andNickcouldalwaysswingtheteamaround there if he decidednottocross.WhileIhunted

for the trail monument, Idecided, Nick could bringthe mules into the ranch,water them, and let themstand in the shade. Iwalkedout to where he could seeme, yelled, and thenmotionedwithmy hand forhimtocomeinandcrosstheriver.

WhileNickdroveinwiththemules,Iwalkedbeyondathick grove of trees, which

hadhiddenfrommyviewonthetrailanattractiveclusterof restored log cabins, animplement shed, andfarming equipment parkedon the plains.The buildingsand farm equipmentindicated that Burnt Ranchwasprobablybeingusedasacow camp. But the placeseemed unoccupied and Iassumedthatitwaslikealotof western ranches now—a

lonely outpost for grazingcattle,checkedonceortwicea week by an absenteeowner.

While I began exploringfor the Nickerson marker, Iheard the clatter of wheelscrossing the wooden bridgeand Nick franticallyscreaming at the mules,especially Bute, and at firstthought that he might havetumbledtherigintotheriver

when themules spookedonthenarrowspan.ButasIranback I saw the wagonemergethroughthetreeline,apparently unscathed. Nicklooked rattled when hepulledup.

“Well, that nearly endedthe trip right there, Boss.Frickin Bute wouldn’t crossbuttheothertwoyankedheralong. There’s nowaywe’re

drivin the team back acrossthatbridge.”

“Ah, shit, Nick. I guess Imadethewrongdecision.”

“I’m not commentin onyour decision. We’re justgoin to have to walk theteambackacrossonebyone,andthenpullthewagonsbyhand.”

Pulling four thousandpounds ofwagon across thenarrow bridge would be

nearly impossible. We weretrappedonthewrongsideoftheSweetwater.Ihadblownthis one and we both knewit.

While we were standingthere thinking about asolution, a pickup truckpulled to an abrupt stop onthe hill across the river,blowing off a large cloud ofdust.Thedriver jumpedoutandcrouchedontheground,

readingourwagon tracks inthe sand. Then he returnedto his truck, slammed thedoor, raced down the hill,andturnedinatthegatesina plume of dust, headingstraightforus.

“It looks like we’ve gotcompany,”Isaid.“Thismustbetherancherwhoownstheplace.”

“What does he care?”Nick said. “We’re not doin

himanydamagehere.”“From the way he’s

drivingthattruck,Ithinkhecares.”

I decided to meet thepickup halfway and walkedback across the bridge. Thepickup driver locked hiswheelsandskiddedsidewaystoahaltbesideme.Thethin,angry man inside startedscreaming out the openwindow before he had even

stopped. He looked sixtyishand was dressed in workclothesandaballcap,andhehad probably driven out tohis spread thatday tocheckhis cows or irrigation pipe.Thewomaninthepassengerseat beside him, who Iassumed was his wife, wasglaring past him at me. ItwassoonclearthatnothingIsaidwasgoingtobeofmuchuse.

“Do you realize thatyou’re on private property?”he said. “My privateproperty?”

“Sir, Idorealize that. I’msorry if I aminconveniencing you. We’rejust riding this rig acrossfromSt.Joeand...”

“Bullshit! Anybody goodenoughtogetawagonfromSt. Joe would know this isthe last crossing of the

Sweetwater and you justcrossed it the wrong way.How stupid do you think Iam?”

I explained that I hadcrossed the river onto theranch to find theNickersonmarker. I want to confirmthewaypointofBurntRanchas my last fix before SouthPass.

“Well I can confirm it’sBurnt Ranch! I own it.

You’re violating privateproperty.”

It was immediately clearthat after nearly a thousandmiles of travel across thetrail we had found the oneasshole in a hundred wholackedthehospitalitywehadfound everywhere else. Theprotocols for crossing thevast rangeland across theWest are quite flexible, andfor a good reason. Most

ranches spread out from arelatively small parcel ofdeeded land along a sourceofwater to themuch largerleasedgrazingparcelsownedbytheBLM.Thispatchworkof ownership oftenmakes itimpossible for outsiders torecognize the boundariesbetween private and publicland, and the BLMdiscouragesprivatepropertyowners fromdenying access

between its allotments,which would make themlandlocked and thusof littleuse. This is particularlyimportant along theNationalHistoricTrailroutewe were following, becausethe BLM and the parkservicearealsochargedwithguaranteeing access tovaluablehistoricsites.

With our covered wagonand mules, we hardly

represented a threat to therancher, but I would laterlearn that he’d had adifficult, erratic relationshipwith OCTA for years,sometimes flatly denyingaccess to small groups oftrailenthusiastswhowantedto see Burnt Ranch and theNickerson marker, but inother years relenting andallowing groups in.(Ironically, that summer

OCTA was giving him a“Friend of the Trail” awardin an attempt toplacate thelandowner of an importanttrail site.)Our problem thatdaywas straightforward. TogetfromtheBLMlandattheedge of the Burnt Ranchentrance, where we hadevery right to be, to thehistoricmarkeronthemainruts, we had a few privateacres to cross. But for

reasons we never didunderstand this had set therancher off, and angermanagementdidnotappeartobehisstrongsuit.

“Sir,nowthatyou’vetoldus this isBurntRanch,we’llbe on our way,” I said. “Itwill take us some time.Wedon’t think our mules willcross the bridge again, sowe’ll lead them across and

then pull the wagons byhand.”

“If they were mygoddamn mules they wouldcross,” the rancher said.“What kind of a horsemanareyou?Youknowwhat I’ddo if I owned those mules,don’tyou?”

“No,sir,Idon’t.”“I’d whip the shit out of

them and show them who’sboss.”

“Well,sir...”“Get in the back of the

pickup. I’ll run you to thewagon.”

Before I could even sitdown in the bed of thepickup, he stepped on thegasandbouncedoffoverthebridge, and I was throwndown beside his corgi cowdog.

When we got to thewagon,Nickseemedtosense

how bad the situation wasbut decided that he wasn’tgoingtoletthatpreventhimfrom being himself. Hesteppedforwardtothetruckandreachedouthispalmtoshake the rancher’s hand,but he ignored him. Pullingoff his cap and throwing itonto the hood of his truck,the rancher reached insidehis glove compartment andyanked out a BLM map.

Red-faced and angry, hespreadthemaponthehoodofhistruck.

“You see these yellowshaded areas here? That’sBLM land. You see theseblueareas?That’sstateland.These little white areas areprivateland.Asyoucansee,youarenowonprivateland.Myland.”

“Well,sir...”

“Youdon’thavetobeyes-sirring andno-sirringme todeath.I’mjusttryingtohelpyou here. Do you want aneducation,ornot?”

“I would love aneducation,”Isaid.

“Youmeantotellmeyoutraveledall thiswaywithoutaBLMmap?”

The rancher remindedme of those Emperor Nerostate troopers who cannot

handouta routine speedingticket without pestering adriverwithastringofuselessand humiliating questions.The cops of America areposter-boys of low self-esteem.Theiruniforms,sillyhats, and sparkling patentleather girdles freighteddown with shiny handcuffs,walkie-talkies, and spraycanistersofMaceapparentlydo not make them feel

secure enough, so theyalways add the hostileinterrogation to make surethat the accosted citizensknowwho is in charge.Theowner of Burnt Ranch wasthat kind of control freak.He loved asking snarlingquestions that reallyweren’tquestionsatall.

But it would defeat mypurposetoconfronthim.AllIwanted todonowwas get

the wagon back across theriver, hitch the team, andmove west on the trail. Iwould have to swallow mypride and give the rancherthe law enforcementtreatment.Kissthetrooper’sbuttandappealtohislowIQby making him feel thateverything he says isprofoundlyuseful.

“I probably should havethought to carry a BLM

map,” I said to the rancher.“That is a very goodsuggestion.”

At this point, therancher’s spousal unitdecidedthathewasn’tdoinga good enough job insultingus. By now she had steppedout of the pickup cab andshestartedyellingacrossthetruck.

“Honey! Don’t listen tohim!He’s lying! They’re not

riding the Oregon Trail!They just came out heretodaytoviolateourpropertyrights!”

This harridanperformance by therancher’s wife aroused theirdog,thecorgi inthebackofthe pickup, who apparentlywas quite influenced by hermoods.Ihadalwaysthoughtof corgis as harmlesslapdogs, ritually placed

across Queen Elizabeth’sknees when she wasphotographedforoneofherjubilees, more or less just aslightly uglier and beefiercousin of the next mostridiculous canine brat, thePekinese. But I wasmisinformed about this.Corgis are vicious littlebastards,bred forsheepandcattleherding.Theyarebuiltlow to the ground for

snapping at the hooves ofcows and sheep, and whenthat doesn’t work, taking abiteoutoftheirsnouts.

When the rancher’sshrew began to shriek, thecorgi jumped off the pickupandattackedOliveOyl.Thecorgi’s mouth snapped shutinto a lock grip on OliveOyl’s rump almost before itlanded. Olive Oyl managedto turn her neck enough to

get a bite or two out of thecorgi, but it really wasn’tmuch of a contest and thecorgiwouldn’t letgo.Atmyfeet, inbetweenme and therancher, it was just onemadass tangle of dogsyelping and blood falling tothe sand, andNick ranoverand tried to separate thedogs.

“Just kick the shit out ofthatlittlesonofabitch,”the

rancher yelled. “It’s a corgi.Youcan’thurthim!Kickthelivingshitoutof that stupidbastard.”

Nickhadthesensenottodo that, and the rancherstepped over and did ithimself,bootingthecorgisohard that it tumbled severaltimesoverthepatchybrowngrass,yelpinginpain.

Bending down on oneknee, Nick retrieved Olive

Oyl, who was now bleedingfromtherumpwithavisiblepatch of her flesh and hairgone, andcradledher inhisarms. Speechless, but tryingto comfort Olive Oyl, heturned for the wagon toplaceheronmybed.

“You’ve got to kick thesesons of bitches to get themtobehave,”theranchersaid.“Corgisdon’tmindit.”

His wife added a quiteusefulthoughtofherown.

“You see, even our dogdoesn’t like your dog! Whydid you come onto ourland?”

Apparently the rancherwas quite used to thesplendidnonsequitursofhiswifeandheignoredher.Butthe Corgi’s attack, and nowhisshrewishwife,madehimfeel sorry for us. Suddenly

contrite, he motioned mebacktothehoodofhistruckand stabbed with his fingeronthemap.

“Okay, your only waterafter you clear the pass isPacific Springs, but I don’tthink you’re going to makethat tonight. You shouldstophere.You’rewelcometocamp on our land, or gothrough the gates and layoverontheBLMland.You’ll

be comfortable here, andhave water. That’s what Iwould have told you if youhadcalledfirst.”

Mood swings thisbeautiful are ordinarilysomethingtobeenjoyed,buttherancherwastooangrytobe trusted. I didn’t want toantagonize him again byrejectinghisoffer.Fornow,Iwould temporize andcontinuetosuckass.

“Thank you,” I said.“That’s a generousoffer, sir,butmaybeweshouldgetthewagon back across thebridgefirst.ThenI’lldiscusswithmybrotherwherewe’llcamp.”

“Suit yourself. I’m justoffering you a nice place tocamp.”

Hesteppedtothebackofhis pickup and grabbed a

chain from his hodgepodgeofranchgear.

“Here,” he said. “Hookthistoyourpoleandmyballhitchwhen I back up.We’llget your wagon back acrosstheriver.”

It was glum work, but Iwashappytohavethewagonmovingintherightdirectionagain. After chaining thewagon to the pickup, Ifolloweditacrossthebridge,

looking back over myshoulder. Nick, downcastandsullen,waswalkingoverto the fence line to get thefirst mule, and I felt awfulforhimand forOliveOyl. Ichecked on her in the backofthewagonbeforeIturnedto go for the other mulesmyself, and shewas lying inasmallpoolofbloodononeof my bed blankets, fastasleep. All of this was my

fault, I thought,butIhadtoremain focused and get usoffBurntRanch.

Our Burnt Ranch hitch-up was the swiftest inOregon Trail history.Without saying a word toeach other, Nick and Iplaced the mules abreast,yoked up, and hooked thetraces, and Nick scrambledup the wheels and noddedthathewasready.

“Let’s get the fuck out ofhere,”hesaid.

“Go,” I said. “I’ll walkbesidethewagonuntilwe’rethrough the gates. Iwant toputablanketontopofOliveOyl.”

“See if she wants anywater.”

Afterweclearedthegate,I climbed into the back ofthewagonontherun.OliveOyl woke up and greedily

lapped up the water I heldfor her inmy lap, and thenbegan lickingmyhands andwhimpering, begging forsympathy. I shimmiedforwardinthewagononmyrear to our food bin andfound some beef jerky,which she swallowed in afew bites. She licked thewound on her rump a fewtimes and then dozed off

underneaththeblanketIputoverher.

“Nick,”Icalledforward.“Ithink she’s all right. Shedrank water and I gave hersome beef jerky. She justwantstosleep.”

“Oh, she’ll heal,” Nickcalledback. “Here come thebumps.I’mtakingthemulesacrossthecreek.”

From the back of thewagon I could feel the

wheels splash throughOregon Slough, and then Iheard the grunting of themules as they climbed thebanksandpulleduphill.

I was humiliated oncemore when I climbed backonto thewagon seat. At thetopoftheriseaboveOregonSlough, there was a tallconcrete trail marker rightwhere the main ruts madethe “last crossing” off Burnt

Ranch. Nick had been rightand we should have justproceeded directly off theSeminoeCutoffupthemostobvioustrack.

“Nick, I’m sorry. Idefinitely screwed thepoodlebackthere.”

Nickhandedmethelinesto drive and stared vacantlyat the hills to the south,beginningalongbrood.

“Don’t say nothin, allright?”hesaid.“I’mnotmadatyouandI’mnotevenmadat that motherless assholebackthere.IamjustworriedaboutOliveOyl.”

The wind pushed againstus as we turned back ontothe main ruts. We wereclimbing gently uphill andwith the elevation gain thebrownhillsandsagearounduswereturninglightgreen.I

was morose about myfuckup at Burnt Ranch andrehearsed inmymind all ofthe things Icouldhavesaid,should have said, to themalevolent moron backthere.

A few minutes later, wehad one more bizarreexchangewiththemercurialowner of Burnt Ranch. Aswe bumped along the rutswest of the ranch we heard

thewhine of a four-wheelerbehind us, and he emergedonthecrestofthehill.

“Oh, shit,” Nick said.“What does that bastardwantnow?”

“Itdoesn’tmatter,”Isaid.“We’rebackonfederalland.”

The rancher pulled upbesidethewagon.

“Are you sure you don’twanttocamponourplace?”hesaid.“There’sabigstorm

coming tonight. My wifesent me back up herebecauseshethinkswemighthave been too hard on you.Camp here and you canmake the pass in themorning,easy.”

“Oh, I think we’ll pushon,” I said. “Is this the onlytwo-tracktothepass?”

“You’ll pass anothermarkeror two.But just stayon these ruts right here.

There’s some cattle tracksthatcomeinnorthtosouth,but stay on this one.Eventually it turns duewest.”

“Okay,thanks,”Isaid.He sat on his four-

wheeler and watched us go,callingoutonemorething.

“Haveasafetrip!”We plodded along the

bumpy ruts for a while, not

saying anything, but finallyNickspokeup.

“How come they alwayssay that, ‘Have a safe trip!’?The biggest assholes in theworld are always telling youtohaveasafetrip.”

I was too disconsolate toreply.

Ahead,twosandydimplesof land, pink in theafternoonlight,begantoriseon thehorizon. Iwaspretty

surethattheyweretheTwinMounds, marking theentrancetoSouthPass.

25

THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

AT SOUTH Pass was sofeatureless and lacking inphysical drama that it

seemed to have nosignificance at all. Thebroad, slightly humpedsaddle of land beyond theTwin Mounds wasindistinguishable from thesurrounding terrain andmanypioneers had rumbledthrough with their wagonsbeforetheyrealizedtheyhadcrossed the divide. “Therewe saw the far famed southpass,butdidnot see ituntil

we had passed it,” wroteIllinois pioneer AmeliaHadleyin1851.“Iwasallthetime looking for somenarrow place that wouldalmost take your breathawaytogetthroughbutwasdisappointed.” The “visualanticlimax”ofSouthPass,asone geologist described it,stumped even experts sentout to find it. Captain JohnFrémont, the “great

pathfinder” dispatched byCongress in 1842 to surveythe Oregon Trail, identifiedthesummitofSouthPassasthe land directly in betweenthe Twin Mounds, whichwas more than two mileseast of the true ContinentalDivide.

ButifFrémontmissedtheexact spot, he did not missthe main point. CrossingSouth Pass, which by the

1850s had been nicknamed“Uncle Sam’s Backbone,”required gradual, notextraordinary, effort.Naturehadcreatedaneasy-to-climbgateway that was ideal forcovered wagons. In hisreport to Congress, TheExploring Expedition to theRockyMountainsintheYear1842, which was widelyreprinted by commercialpublishers and became a

popular trail guide for thenext decade, Frémont’sdescription of the gentleascent was received aswelcome news by ageneration of nomadicAmericans.

From the impressionon my mind at thistime,andsubsequentlyonourreturn,Ishouldcompare the elevation

which we surmountedimmediately at thepass, to the ascent ofthe Capitol hill fromthe avenue, atWashington....Itwillbe seen that in nomanner [South Pass]resemblestheplacestowhich the term iscommonly applied—nothing of the gorge-like character and

winding ascents of theAllegany passes inAmerica, nothing ofthe Great St. Bernardand Simplon passes inEurope. Approachingit from the mouth ofthe Sweet Water, asandy plain, onehundred and twentymiles long, conducts,by a gradual andregular ascent, to the

summit, about seventhousand feet abovethe sea; and thetraveler,withoutbeingreminded of anychange by toilsomeascents,suddenlyfindshimself on the waterswhich flow to thePacificocean.

A natural pathwaythrough the mountains that

requirednomoreeffortthana lobbyist’s stroll ontoCapitol Hill was just one ofthemany dualities of SouthPass. Misunderstandingswere inevitable because theterm “Continental Divide”refers to the division ofwatersheds and rivers,flowing in oppositedirections, and does notnecessarily mean that thehighest land has been

reached. Over time, SouthPass would generate a site-specificliteratureallitsown,much of it unintentionallydeceptive. Virtually everypioneer journal wouldmention—simply becausethe information wasrepeatedintrailguides—thatthe divide at South Passseparated the drainages ofthe Mississippi and theAtlantic waters from the

Pacificwaters.Butthisgrandhydrologic principle waspractically worthless. Thelast rim of mountains incentral Wyoming simplyseparated one desert fromanother.Findingwatercouldstillbemaddeninglydifficultfor the next five hundredmiles, and the pioneerswould often spend thesecond half of their journeyto Oregon or California

making desperate scramblesbetween the rivers tosurvive. And by no meansdid reaching the division ofwaters at South Pass, at anelevation of 7,400 feet, endthe steep wagon climbs forthe pioneers. Along theLander Cutoff there werestill nine-thousand-footpeaks to conquer, and thepopular Sublette Cutoffwouldn’t end until the

wagons climbed and thenperilously descended an8,300-foot killer calledDempseyRidge.

But South Pass was thehalfwaymark on the wagonjourney, and by now thepioneers had survived twomonths of Platte Riverstorms, the outdoor cholerawards, and thehigh-altitudeweariness of the Rockies.There had to be something

to say about reaching suchan importantmilestone. Forthe gifted Margaret Frink,who understood that thesmall, telling detail iseverything, the sparesurroundings at South Passpresented few problems. Inher Journal of theAdventures of a Party ofCaliforniaGold Seekers, shereported finding the firstpost office in almost a

thousand miles along thetrail,andinthedistancesheheard live music at thesummit, but these wereincongruities that evokedthe long journey she hadmade from civilization, andthemanymiles she stillhadtogo.

We could hardlyrealize that we werecrossing the great

backboneoftheNorthAmerican continent atan altitude of 7,490feet. . . . Near thesummit, on each sideof the road, was anencampment,atoneofwhich the Americanflagwasflying,tomarkthe private post-officeor express officeestablished by Gen.James Estelle, for the

accommodations ofemigrants wishing tosend letters to friendsathome.Thelastpost-office on our way wasat St. Joseph, on theMissouri River. Westof that stream wereneither states,counties, cities, towns,villages,orwhiteman’shabitations. The twomud forts we had

passed were the onlysigns of civilization.Therewasanoff-handcelebration of ourarrival at the summit.Music from a violinwith tin-panaccompaniment,contributed to thegeneralmerrimentofagrand frolic. In theafternoon we spentsome time writing

letters to our friends,to be sent back by theexpress.Oneachletterwe paid the expresschargeof$1.00.

Another contradictionpresented by South Pass—which fromafar sounded somysteriousandremote—wasthatitservedastheportaltothe nearby campground atPacificSprings,whichwasas

clamorousandthrongedasawalled medieval city. WhenhereachedPacificSpringsatthe end of June 1850,Franklin Langworthycamped “amidst thousandsof other emigrants.” The“splendid carriages” of thecommercialpassengertrainspassingthroughontheirwayto the gold fields remindedLangworthy of the busytraffic along the avenues of

New York. The braying ofcattle and human voices,violin playing, and thatfavorite pastime of boredAmericans—rifle and pistolshooting—kept Langworthyawakeallnight.

Themerriment at PacificSpringsprobablyhadalottodo with the time of year—most of the wagon trainsreached South Pass and thepopularcamptotheweston

or near the Fourth of July.Reaching the ContinentalDivide on the nationalholiday was considered afavorable omen and anexcuse to celebrate, and thepioneers serenaded theneighboring wagons withbands, shared whiskey andmolassesmixedwithbrandy,andsatupallnightwatchinggroups of men ignitingfireworks made out of

gunpowder, clusters ofwood, and rags stuffed intotin cans and water buckets.Perhaps the mostmemorableof thesedisplaysoccurred in 1849, when aMissouri pioneer built hisfire at Pacific Springs tooclose to a keg of blackpowder being carried westfor the Gold Rush. A sparkfromthefirelitsomespilledpowder nearby and set off

the keg, which explodedwith a magnificent boomand flash and then barrel-rolledoutofsightacrosstheplains.

•••

At the Twin Mounds, Idecided to walk the laststretch to the top of SouthPass and savor it alone.Thedusty ruts curved gently

uphill, disappearing aboveinto ametallic overcast sky.It was a lovely hike thatrevealed the graphiccontrasts of nature in theRockies. The snowfields oftheWindRiversglitteredonthe north horizon, the vastalkaliflatsoftheGreenRivercountry opened straightahead, and storm cloudsboiledblackandgrayvaporsto the northwest. The

westerlies were blowing sohard that I had to lean intothewindtomakeheadway.Iwas exhausted and filthyafter two days without ashower, and my whiskeryface itched from sunburnand perspiration, but it wasexhilarating to reach thecontinental divide. In twomonths we had traveledalmost a thousand miles,confirming my estimates

from the winter before, andthere didn’t seem to beanything that could stop usnow.

But these were justmathematical calculations,and it felt as though we’dbeen gone for two years. Inthethinairof theRockies, Ihadlostallsenseoftimeandthe routines of life I knewback east. I couldn’tremember the last time I

knewwhatdayoftheweekitwas.AfterCasperthebatteryin my watch had grownweak, and it was no longerkeeping accurate time, butthatdidn’tmatter.Iwokeinthemorning, harnessed andhitched themules, and thenrode or walked ahead of aSchuttler white-top untilrosy light told me to stop.Finding water was theprincipal metric of my day.

Iterated drudgery—thesound of mules plodding,wheel hubs creaking, andwatchingOliveOyl runningsnakepatrolsaheadofmeonthehighdesert—wasmylifenow.

A familiar irony of themodern trail greeted me atthe summit of South Pass.The preservationists andBLM managers responsiblefortrailupkeepseemtohave

thought of everything,except the possibility of areal covered wagon comingthrough. A large BLMbarbed-wire enclosure, toward off pickups and dirtbikes, had been placedaroundtheEzraMeekerandH.G.Nickersonmonumentsat the top, and the fenceblocked almost all of thelevel ground on the crest,forcing Nick and the mules

down into the badlandgullies and tall sage to thesouth. After poking aroundthe summit awhile andadmiringthemonuments—Iwas particularly impressedwith the craftsmanship ofNickerson’s monument toNarcissaWhitmanandElizaSpalding—I explored theroutesouthandthenwalkedback and raisedmy arms tohand-signalNick.Ilostsight

ofthewagonseveraltimesasNick plunged the Schuttlerthrough the gullies, and thesagebrush crackled and splitagainst the wheels and thewagoncover ashe squeezedthroughthetallvegetation.

When we regained thetrail on thewest side of thepass, I could see that thesituation was stillunfavorable forus.The trailtoward Pacific Springs,

furrowed by thousands ofwagonsrollingoverthesamespot, and by pickup trafficlater, curved sharply anddeeplytotheright.Therighttrack sloped sharplydownward, about two feetbelow the high track on theleft. This would place mostof theweight of thewagonson the right wheels, and Ibriefly considered emptyingour water tanks to relieve

the load on the Trail Pup.But this would remove onlyacoupleofhundredpoundsfrom the low wheel and Ididn’t think we could dowithoutourremainingwateratPacificSprings.

Stumbling through thesagebrush to check theground ahead, I yelled backtoNick.

“Nick!Theslope.Lookattheslope!Slow,slow!”

“Iknow!Icanseeit.”WhenIheardthecrash,I

was just out of sight of thewagon. But I knew what ithad to be. A brief, sharpcrack of splintering woodwasfollowedbyaloudcrashasoneof thewagonssettledonto the trail, the samesound I’d heard when weflipped the Trail Pup inLisco. Nick was calling“Whoa!”tothemules.

Shouldering back uphillthrough the sage, I knelt ontop of the high wall of thetrail, lookingalmost straightdown toward the wagonsfrom above, crestfallen atwhat I saw.The rightwheelof the Trail Pup hadshattered,andseveralof thespokeswerescatteredonthetrail likefallenjugglingpins.The impact of the wagoncollapsinghadsnappedboth

spigotsonourtanksandtheonly water we had for themules was gushing out in astream, puddling up on thedustofthetrail.

The starkness of thatmoment took my breathaway, andmymind seemedcompletely empty ofsolutions. I had neverimaginedasituationthisdire—no worst-case-scenarioplanning could encompass

it.Wewerefortymilesfromthe nearest help, and theonly water we had tosupport the mules wasracingoutofourbarrelsandfalling downhill, with agurgling sound that seemedtomockallofmyplans.

Looking down at theshattered wheel, I couldeasily see what hadhappened.Insidethebrokenhub, and in several of the

splintered wheel spokes,therewasacoreofblackdryrot.

“Nick, hold those mules!TheTrailPupisdown.”

Nickwasfranticupfront,and I knew that he wouldwant to jumpoff thewagonand rush back to assess thedamage.

“Isithubfailure?Tellme!Is it hub failure?Letmegetbackthere!”

“Nick, how do I know?The Trail Pup is down.We’vegotashatteredwheel.JustwaituntilIgetthere.”

I slid down the exposeddirtwallofthetrailandtheninched my way forwardagainst the wagon. I wassurprisedbyhowcalmIfelt.Later,Iwouldconcludethatthethinairat7,400feetjustdidn’t provide enoughoxygentoletmegetexcited.

The altitude slowed medown so that a kind ofdelayed, deliberativepreservation instinct tookover.

Think, think, Rinker,don’t react. I’d expected allalongthatourwheelswouldbreak somewhere, but Icouldn’t focus now on thedisappointment of thathappening just a quartermile from victory, at South

Pass, so far from help. Icouldn’t dwell either on theoverall dimensions of ourpredicament. Details, ahundreddetails,crowdedmythoughts. But I had tomaintaincockpitcomposurehereandconcentrateonjustthe two or three things IneededtodonowtobeatthestormtoPacificSprings.

Atthefrontofthewagon,I deliberately stood off

several steps from thewheels, so Nick couldn’thand me the lines andscramble back to see thedamage. I had to calm himdown first. I asked for mycanteen, which Nick tossedoffthewagon.

Ialsohadtoworkhardatnotcastigatingmyselfforthebroken wheel, because Ishould have known thiswould happen. The Trail

Pup wheels had sat in theraininKansasforyears,andthemoisture hadwicked upthrough the spokes to thehubs, rotting the wood inseveral places. With somesanding and fresh paint, thewheels looked finewhenwepickedthewagonupinMay.Butafterathousandmilesofuseandthentheheatofthehighdesert, theundermined

oakcouldn’ttakethesteeplyslopedtrailatSouthPass.

“Nick, there’s dry rotthroughthatwholewheel.”

“FuckinDonWerner.”“Nick. It’sreallymyfault.

I bought the wagon in ahurryknowingthehistoryofthewheels.ButDonWernerisn’t here now. Philip Roppisn’t here.We can’t just callBill Petersen for help.Nobody knows, Nick.

Nobodycanhelpus.It’sourresponsibility to get out ofthismess.”

“Fuck.Iknow.”Nick pushed his stubby

indexfingerintohisearandburrowed around for awhile, looking off vacantlytoward the plains andOregon Buttes. When helookedback,hewassmiling.

“You knew all along thiswouldhappen,right?”

“Yeah, sure. We wouldhave to break our wheelssomewhere. But not here.Not at South Pass, fortymiles from the nearesttown.”

I looked northwesttoward the storm cloudsrolling black and gray overeach other past the bottomof theWindRivers.Amistycurtain of rain was fallingbehind them. We had, at

most, a half hour to reachPacific Springs. When Ilooked up at Nick on thewagon seat, he was smilingagain.

“This is the whole trip,right here,” he said. “All Ihave heard out of you thissummer is ‘TrailHand,waittillyouseeSouthPass.’Nowwe’re here, and it’s thebiggest clusterfuck of my

life. I love it. We’re stillmakinOregon.”

The storm clouds wereracing in so quickly thatwemight be forced to unhitchand unharness the mules,lettingthemgoontheplainsso they wouldn’t panic. Wewould have to camp in athunderstorm in opencountry and then somehowcatch the team in themorning. But adversity was

myamphetaminenowand IlovedourjourneyandNick.

“We’re still makingOregon,”Isaid.

NickisalotstrongerthanIamandIneededhimbackat the Trail Pup to pull thepin, now twisted in itsmount, thatheld the cart tothemain wagon. I told himnot to waste a lot of timelooking at the wheelsbecausewewereabandoning

theTrailPupfornow.WhileI held the mules, he couldalsotransfertwobalesofhayfrom the cart to the mainwagon. I did a quickmentalinventory of our supplies inthe Schuttler and knew thatwe had our cookstove andfuel, and probably enoughfood in one of our storagecoolerstogetusthroughthenight.

Wewould have to figureout the rest later. Our onlyprioritywasreachingPacificSprings and getting ourfencing set up before thestormhit.

I heard a lot of moaningand cursing from behind asNickexaminedtheshatteredwheel, and then a loudthumpashegruntedthepinout of the Trail Pup hitchand the cart fell to the

ground.ThewagonshookasNickthrewthehayonboardand thenhe rejoinedmeonthewagonseat.

“Fast-walk the mules,” Isaid, nodding toward thestorm clouds. “We’ve got tobeat this storm to PacificSprings.”

When we reached thelevelfloorofthevalleybelowthe pass, I was annoyed atmyself again, surprised by

the frailty of my thinking.Back in the crippled TrailPup, we had left behindseveral bags of emergency“packing cubes”—aconcentrated dry mix ofalfalfa and grain used byhunting outfitters for muletreks into the mountains. Ihad bought them in Casperas a precaution. If we gotstranded somewhere in thedesert,thecubeswouldkeep

themules alive for a day ortwowhileoneofuswentforhelp.

It was a big mistake tohaveforgottenthecubes.IfIwentbackon foot for them,wewouldriskgettingcaughtin the storm. But if I didn’tgo back, we might not getbeyondPacificSprings.Istilldidn’t realizehowmuch thehigh altitude was affectingme, and I was angry at

myself for vacillating over adecision.ButItoldNickthathe would have to hold theteamwhileIwalkedbackforthepackingcubes.

Itwastheloneliesthikeofmy life. I ran along the rutsuntil theybegan to slopeupfor the pass and then pacedmyself to a walk, breathingdeeply for air, trying not tothink about my mistake offorgetting the cubes. Just

keep going. You don’t knowwhere anything leads.Nobody knows. Keep going.When I reached the TrailPup it laycrazilyon itsside,pieces of the platform Nickhad built back in Nebraskaandourequipmentscatteredontheruts.Thecart lookedso forlorn. I had designed itmyself, and all of our hopesfor crossing the trailunassisted were invested in

that cart, but now it laycrippled between two highdirtwalls below South Pass,a symbol of my vanity andnaiveté.

Stopthinking, idiot.Moveforward.

Rummaging around intheload,Ifoundtwobagsofpackingcubes,hoistedthemout,andthengenuflected inthe mud left behind by ourbroken water barrels and

threw the forty-pound bagsontomy shoulders. At first,they didn’t feel very heavy.On the slope, I leanedforward slightly to let theeighty pounds on myshoulders push me fasterdownhill.

I had another interestingflashback tomy father rightthen, and was fascinatedabout how the mysteriousworkings of memory could

raiseanimagethathadbeendormant for fifty years.During our covered wagontripin1958,wehadstoppedsomewhere in Pennsylvaniajust before reachingLancaster—Morgantown,maybe, orBlueBall—tobuygrain for the horses.One oftheAmishmen at the grainmillwheeledoverahandcarttotaketheheavygrainsacksto thewagon, but before he

could reach us my fatherpicked up both sacks,balanced them on his hipswithhishands,carriedthemover, and threw them ontothewagon.

The Amish there musthave knownmy father fromearlier trips. They alllaughed, their gray beardsshaking,atthemanstandingthere on the loading dock,uselessly,withthehandcart.

“TomBuck!”oneofthemsaid.“Andhe’sdoingthatonawoodenlegyet.”

ButnowIwasstruggling.When I reached thebottomof the slope,without gravityto helpme, I realized that Icouldn’tmake it all thewayback to thewagonwith twobags. I dropped one bag onthe trail, forced myself tomakeittothedistantwagonwithout stopping, threw on

thebag,andglumlyreturnedfor the second bag. All ofthis was taking too muchtime.WemightnotbeatthestormtoPacificSprings.

Stopthinking.Justgobackforthesecondbag.

Winded, I reached thewagon a second time andclimbed up to the seat, andNickslappedthelinesonthemules, calling them forPacificSprings.Itookalong

drink from my canteen. Iwas amazed by anotherappearance of my fatherduring the trip, and I toldNickaboutit.

“Nick, those werehundred-poundbagshewascarrying,” I said. “I couldn’teven get back here withforty-poundbags.”

“Rinker,youaresofullofshit sometimes that Iagonize about you,” Nick

said. “All Daddy had to dowascarrythosebagsacrossaparking lot. He wasn’tcrossin the frickin Wyomindesert. Why exaggerateagainstyourself?”

“I’mnotexaggerating.Hemade it to the wagon withtwobags.Icouldonlyhandleone.”

“Well, good,” Nick said.“That’s your memory. ButTom Buck isn’t here right

now. We are. And we’regettin to Pacific Springsbeforethisstorm.”

Wehadtotravelonlytwomiles to reach PacificSprings. I used the time toanalyze our situation andcalculateeverythingwewereup against. We had justdropped our only source ofwaterandfeedforthemulesbehind us on the trail. Ourdog was injured, and I had

no idea whether we’d findforage or water at PacificSprings. I was unfamiliarwith the maze of trail andfence lines we’d have tocross to reach the highwayto Farson, and after thatwe’d have to travel nearlythirty miles over thescorching alkali flats to ourfirst water on the LittleSandy River. I’d alwaysknown Wyoming would be

ourtougheststate,andmosthorsemen I knew wouldhave given up by now andcalled for help. But wecouldn’tevendothat.Therewasn’t cell service out here,andthereprobablywouldn’tbe any until we reachedFarson.

It started to rain as wepulled into Pacific Springs.The old pioneerencampment had endured

theusualtransitionfromthewagon days, briefly housinga post office, a telegraphstation,andastagestop,andthen enjoying a fewdecadesof prosperity as a ranchingcenterwithcorrals,atavern,and a famous whorehouse.But it was now just acollection of moldering logcabins with fallen roofs andcow manure on the dirtfloors. The springs

themselveswereswampland,trampled into mounds ofmudandgrassbythecattle,stretchingoffnorthtowardashallow creek. A decrepitbarbed-wire fenceranabovethemudlinebetweentwoofthecabins.

To the northwest, theblack snarling clouds werebeginningtodroplow.

“This has got to be thefastest unhitching in

history,” I said to Nick. “I’llunharness the mules. Youput the fencing up againstthatbarbedwire.”

Nick had the fencingalmostdonebythetimeIledoverthefirstmule.Therainwas falling harder now,pooling up on his cowboyhat and then dropping as awaterfall off the rim. Wewere both forcing ourselvesto cheer up because at least

there was water that wecould see, out in the clearcreek beyond the swamps.Nick couldn’t resist thisopportunitytomakelightofour awful day. Bending lowinabow,he swepthishandtoward the fence opening,gesturingme in like a hoteldoorman.

“PacificSprings,Boss,”hesaid. “Welcome to theshitholeoftheWest.”

“Ah, c’mon,Nick,” I said.“Use your imagination.Thiswas a pioneer encampment.There were hundreds ofwagonshereeverynight.”

“It’sashithole.”“Nick, theyplayed fiddles

by lantern light. They hadsquaredances.”

“It’sashithole.”“C’mon. Cheer up. Wait

till you see the Big SandyStation tomorrow, or the

Green River Rendezvous.We’ll camp at EmigrantSprings on the SubletteCutoff.”

“Shithole, shithole,shithole,”Nicksaid.“Yougoto sleep every night in acoveredwagon.Igettosleeponsoggymanurepiles.Fromnow on, I’m callin it theShitholeTrail.”

When I bent over tolaugh, the rain pounded

through the holes in theshoulderofmyshirtandrandownmybackandlegs.

“Screw you, Trail Hand.Let’sgettheothermules.”

•••

PacificSpringswasn’tsimplythemostmiserable camp ofthe trip. It was the mostmiserablecampofmylife.Inthe middle of one of the

most unforgiving deserts inthe West there was watereverywhere—wind andwaterlashingusfromabove,water ponds everywhere westepped, rainwater seepingthrough every joint in thewagon—but we could usenone of it. The springsthemselves, trampledbeyond recognition by acentury of cattle grazing,stretchedforfiveacreslikea

giant mud pie across theflats.

The mules hadn’t beenwatered since themiddle oftheday,backattheSeminoeCutoff, and I knew that Iwould have to carry at leastfifteen gallons from thesprings to get the teamthrough the night.The onlyroute out to the clearwaterat the edge of the springswas along the patchwork of

conical, grassy hummocksthat stretched across theswamp.AsIstartedoutwitha bucket, the grass moundslooked temptingly sylvanand ideally spaced—patiostonescrossingtothefabledsprings, I thought, placedthereformyconvenience.

Iwasevencheerfulaboutit. Disaster had struck, andwewerenowdeprivedofourbarrels of water and

provisions for the team.Butthis was where crazyasspassion and endurancewould count the most, andwewoulddefineourselvesbyluggingenoughwaterforthemules.

Grassy hummocks inWyoming, however, are aruse of the landscape. Forfour or five leaps across thelovely green mounds, thefooting was good. But then

the sixth and seventhmoundscollapsedassoonasI landed on them, pitchingme knee-deep into a sludgeof black mud mixed withcowurine.Givinguponthehummocks, I sloshedthrough the windingchannels of sewage, dippedinto the creek for water,sloshedallthewayback,andthenatthefenceheldupthefilthy pail for another

ungrateful mule. Back andforth I went. I had reachedthewatershed of the Pacificand it was a bovine septictank.Ididn’tsomuchfinishwateringthemulesasdecidethat one hour of thisrevolting therapy wasenough.

Back at the wagon, Nickwas sitting against a wagonwheel beneath a gray tarprigged from the spokes to

protect him from the rain,with Olive Oyl curled on ablanket on his lap. He wasmassaging her wounds withmule salve and combing thedried blood off her whitecoat with a smallscrewdriver. He asked mewhat we were having fordinner.

Iscroungedaroundinthebackof thewagon, realizingthatmostofwhatweneeded

for dinner was back in thedowned Trail Pup. Inaddition to our cookstove,we had one saucepan, twofamily-size cans of Hormelchili, no beans, and someleftoverMinuteRice.Ifoundplastic spoons, but we hadnoplates.

Iprotected thecookstovefromtherainwithmydenimjacketandmanaged togetafeeble fire going, throwing

the chili and rice into thepantogether.

“We’ll have to eattogether out of the pan,” IsaidtoNick.“Wedon’thaveanyplates.”

“Oh, I can find plates,”Nicksaid.

Nick crawled out fromunderneath the tarp,rearranged Olive Oyl on ablanket, and thendisappeared behind one of

the log cabins. I heard aprying, crunching sound,demolition noise. When heemerged through the rain,Nick was carrying threecedar shingles that he hadripped from the log cabinroof.

“Boss,”Nicksaid,handingmeoneoftheshingles,“Thisisaplate.Andthis...”

Nick cracked the secondshingle in half against his

knee.“Isaspatula.”Our cedar dinner china

wastastefullydecoratedwithlong green stains where thecopper roofing nails hadbeen. With my penknife, Iscraped off some dry mossand lichens. Nick wiped offhisplateagainstthesleeveofhis hoodie.We crouched inamiserablelakeofmudnearthe rear of the wagon with

the tarp stretched betweenour cowboy hats. When Iladledthechiliandriceontoour shingle plates, thecopper stain leached upthrough the rice, turning itgreen.

“Bon appétit,” I said,handingNickhisdinneronashingle.

“Bon appétit,” Nick said.“Just in case I forget to say

so, I’m really glad I stayedwiththistrip.”

I still felt terrible aboutOlive Oyl, and didn’t wanther to spend the nightoutside in the rain. I toldNick that he could sleepwith Olive in the wagonuntil she healed. Nickpolitely declined the offer.He didn’t think that my“college-educated ass” couldstand a night in the storm

andfeltthatOlivewouldfeelmore secure bundled upwith him on the groundunderneaththewagon.

NickandOliveOylhadawretched night. They wereflooded out underneath thewagon and spent the nightmigrating in the darkbetween the log cabins,trying to find one withenoughroofforadrybedofmanure.

I didn’t sleep very welleither.The rainpoundedallnight against the canvascover and I could hearthunder far off, rollingacross the high plains, butthe Schuttler was not thecomforting wagon-womb Ihad enjoyed during earlierstorms. Pacific Springs wasone long dread hour. Wehad been on such a highcrossing the Sweetwater

valley, fording streams,conquering Rocky Ridge,makinggoodtimeaswesawthe most epic and historicstretchofthetrail.Butnow,as we faced the longestdesert stretches of the trail,our provisions cart and ourwatersupplylayinwreckagebehindusatSouthPass.Wewere sailors, cast adrift offthe Horn in a leaky boatwithout food or water,

figures out of Melville orConrad.

Still, I felt strangelyenergized by our litany ofdisasters. Blind endurancewas all that we had left fortomorrow. I didn’t know ifthat would be enough todeliver us to Farson, but Ididn’t feel hemmed in orbored with life’s challengeseither. Journey waseverything and the more

difficultitbecamethemoreIfeltthatIwaslivingthelifeIwanted.

26

DESERTS ARE NOT TORTURE

SIMPLYbecausetheyarehotandlackwater.Desertsareaplanet of sameness offering

only false turns and dashedhopes. I scoutedon foot thenext morning among theinnumerable cattle tracksandold stagecoachrutsofasection of the trail calledParting of the Ways, wheretheSubletteCutoffbranchedduewestforIdahowhilethemain ruts proceeded southto Fort Bridger. But thealkali plains out there werean infinite regress of rock

piles anddead ends. Finally,in desperation, I climbedback onto the wagon andtold Nick to steer straightacrossthesageonacompasscourse for the Big SandyRiver, and we stumbledupon the highway forFarson. After two morehours of probing the fencelineswefoundagateontoacattle road that led to theblacktop.

Nickwas exhausted fromnotsleepingthenightbeforeand spent most of theafternoon flopped on thewagonbed, so Idrovealonefor hours along the lonelyhighway to Farson. For fouror fivemiles across the flatsthe monotony of sage andpink sand was endless but,far off, a rise in the landtempted me with visions ofreaching a green, irrigated

valleyon theother side.ButeachtimeIcalledthemulesover the rise, all I could seewas the identical monotonyof sand and sage, climbingonce more through themirages to another rise.Dreary rise to dreary rise, Ispent the day fighting offsleep and worrying aboutfindingwaterforthemules.

In the late afternoon, astocky, cheerful trooper

fromtheWyomingHighwayPatrol,EdSabourin,stoppedon the opposite shoulder ofthe highway and startedtakingpicturesofthewagonwithhis iPhone—toshowtohis wife and children athome.Ipulledupthemulesto stop and he walked overfromhispatrolcar.

“Whoa, where are youguys from?” Sabourin said.

“Nobody told us you werecoming.”

Sabourintoldmethatwewere still twelvemiles fromFarson, where we could usethe old wagon camp andPony Express stop, the BigSandy Station, which had astable and public corrals forthe mules. The town haddeveloped lately as a serviceareaforthebighydrofrackednatural gas fields in the dry

basins farthernorth,andwecould probably find amechanic who could runback to South Pass toretrieve our Trail Pup.Sabourin offered to doublebackfortownandmakesurethatthewaterwasturnedonat the Pony Express stables,and arrange for a rancherfriend to deliver us somehay.

“Anythingelseyouneed?”Sabourinsaid.

“Water,”Isaid.“Weneedwater for the mules. Maybetwentygallons?”

Sabourinradioedfromhispatrol car and twentyminutes later adeputy fromthe Sweetwater Countysheriff’s office showed upwiththreefullcoolersloadedinto the back of his SUV.Nick woke up and held the

mules while I emptied thecoolers and the mulesgreedily slurped downseveralgallonsapiece.

After so many hours ofriding alone, it was a joy tohaveNickonthewagonseatagain, and we had only onemorerise toclearbeforewesaw the welcome, irrigatedlands of the Eden ValleynorthofFarson.Ihaveneverbeen so happy to see green

again. Broad alfalfa fieldsstretchedeastandwestfromthebanksoftheLittleSandyRiver and we passed farms,horsesgrazinginpasturesoftallgrass,thenaschoolandaBaptist church. A day thathad begun with so littlehope, with so few resourcestorelyon,wouldsoonendatthe meeting of two sizablerivers, the Little Sandy and

the Big Sandy. We hadreachedwater.

Butourstruggleforwaterwas far from over. Afterspending several days usingFarson as a base for wagonrepairs, we would make aseries of forty-mile dashesfor water across a barrenalkali flat called the LittleColorado Desert. FromFarsonontheBigSandy,wewould head on a beeline

southwest for the GreenRiver,thentotheHamsForkatKemmerer.AfterclimbingDempseyRidge to aunique,high-countrysourceofwatercalled Emigrant Springs, wewould crest the last of theWyoming Rockies to dropsteeply down to the BearRiver in Idaho.Theparcheddesert of the cutoff countryof westernWyoming wouldenforceabrutaldisciplineof

travel. We couldn’t stop tocamp each night until wereached the next source ofwater.

“River to river, Nick,” Isaid. “Everything else getseliminatedasaworry.Butatleast we’ve proved that wecandothat.”

“I like itwhen life is thatdirect,” Nick said. “We’rejustgoinforwaternow.”

•••

Farsonwasagreat trail stopforus.WecampedattheBigSandyPonyExpressStation,which sat on a hill besidetown overlooking a greenoasis formedbythe flowsofthe Little Sandy and BigSandy rivers,withexpansiveviews of the pink desertstretching southwest. Theold log-cabin structures and

natural pastures along theBigSandyhadevolvedintheusual way—from pioneercamp and road ranch alongthe Oregon Trail to PonyExpressandstagecoachstop,then to a livery, blacksmithshop, and telegraph stationduring the homesteadingyears, and finally into thepublic corrals and rodeogrounds serving the

northern portions ofSweetwaterCountytoday.

We spent our firstmorning there patchingfence and repairing thestables so that the muleswouldbecomfortableduringthe long stop required toretrieve and repair theTrailPup. Olive Oyl slowly gotbetter after three days ofmoping in the wagon andbegan running around at

night, chasing sticks downbytheriverforchildrenwhovisited our camp. Nickestablishedhisbedroomonacushion of dried straw andmanure in the stable,nearapile of plastic and woodentoys used to entertainchildrenduringtherodeos.Islept in my wagon bed,delighted to be lulled tosleep by the sound of theracing river current below

andthecomfortingghostsofthe past at the Big SandyStation.Itwashere,in1847,that mountain man JimBridgergaveBrighamYoungadvice on leading the firstMormon trains into SaltLake. In the 1860s, MarkTwain,HoraceGreeley, andSir Richard Burton stoppedhere on their stagecoachtripswest.

ThewholetownofFarson—population 324—becameour trail family. In themornings, I climbed out ofthecoveredwagonandNickrose from his dirt hovel inthePonyExpress stable andwe walked over to Mitch’sCafé for breakfast, falling innaturally with the bachelorranchersandgas fieldcrewswhoweretheregularsthere.They lovedNick andwaved

him over to their tables assoon as we stepped in,wanting to hear hisincomparable yarns abouthorses or about fishing inAlaska.Afterbreakfast,Nickran off to a shop nearHaystack Butte with a localcowboy and talentedmechanic, Tell Brenneman,to chip the rot out of theSchuttler’s front wheels andrepair them with steel bolts

and epoxy glue. I stayedbehind to go overmymapswith the ranchers, many ofwhom hadworked cattle orwrangledwildhorsesontheedgesofthedesertwehadtocross. Gradually, I piecedtogether a route across thecutoffstoIdaho.

Thenextafternoon,NickandTellwoundtheirwayupto South Pass by the backtrails in a pickup and long

trailer, retrieved the TrailPup, and hauled it back toFarson. When we cut intoone spoke on the unbrokenwheel of the cart, we foundmore black rot andconcluded that we wouldhave to ship both wheelsbackeast toberebuilt.Thatwouldtakeat leastamonth,and I reluctantly decided toleave the Trail Pup behindand transfer our water

barrelsandprovisionstothemain wagon. Ditching theTrailPupandadmittingthatmy prized design forcrossing the West was nowmore trouble than it wasworthwouldbedifficult,butIwasphilosophicalabout it.Like the pioneers, I wastrimming down andabandoning excess weightforthepunishingcrossingofthedesertsahead.

But wagon master BenKern,aveterantrailexplorerand booster whom we hadmet in Casper, saved us.When I called him and toldhim about our accident atSouth Pass, he offered hisown “kooster” half-cart forthe rest of our trip. It hadbeen sitting in a friend’sbarnyard since his last bigwagontripand,withinaday

ortwo,hecouldrunitdowntoFarsonforus.

Iwas frantic for the nexttwo days, makingarrangements to ship thebroken wheel hubs to DonWerner in Kansas forrebuilding,andarrangingforthe bed of the Trail Pup tobe shipped ahead of us toIdahowhere, later,wecouldhavethenewwheelsshippedand rebuild the cart. I was

dubious about using DonWerner again, butNick andI concluded that we had nochoice. Sending the wheelsall theway back toOhio orPennsylvania to anunfamiliar Amish wheelshopwouldtaketoolong.

Nick was furious that Iwas considering paying fornew wheels. But I resortedoncemoretoappreciationofthe pioneers.Many of them

had problems with theirMissouriRiveroutfitterstoo,but what could they doabout it, a thousand milesaway, out beyond SouthPass? Their only choice hadbeen to ditch their wagons,or cut them into carts, andcontinue moving west.There was a harshdeterminism about it, adefianceofmodernity that Iliked. Taking on a covered

wagon trip in 2011 wasn’tany different from takingoneonin1850.

Thenextmorning,whenIcalled him in Kansas, DonWernerwasdefensive.Afterwe flipped the Trail Pup inNebraska, I had sent him apicture of the downed cartwith a note of thanks forbuilding such a strongvehicle. I now realized thatthiswasamistake.

“Well, when you flippedthat cart in Nebraska, youdamaged the wheels,”Wernersaid. “Everythingonthat rig was perfect when itlefthere.”

“Don, we found rot inbothwheels.There’sdry roton theSchuttlerwheels too,which we’re repairing rightnow.”

“Notfrommyshop,therewasn’tanyrot,”Wernersaid.

“You didn’t know what youwere doing. You’ve abusedthatwagontoomuch.”

I toldWerner that I hadalready shipped the wheelhubs back to him, and gavehim amonth to rebuild thewheels and ship them to usin Idaho. When we weredone with the trip, I wouldsettle up with him for thecost of rebuilding thewheels.

When I got back to thewagon after my call, Nickwas disgusted with me foragreeing to pay Werner forthewheelrepairs.

“You’re payin him to fixthosewheels?”hesaidbeforestalkingoff.“Thiswasallhisfault.”

Isighed,andstareddownat theBigSandy,whichwasracing at flood stage aroundthe corners of the old trail

stop, carrying logs anddebris underneath thehighway bridge. Itwas earlyAugustandwewerehalfwaytoOregon.Wehadsurvivedperil after peril and I knewwecouldmake it therestoftheway by the fall. It didn’tmatter anymore how manymistakes I made. It didn’tmatter that, toNick, almostevery decision I madedefined me as a college-

educated jackass withnonexistent mechanicalskills. The whole trip wasjust one long collection ofmistakes, and, to put muleshoesinOregon,Ihadtobewillingtomakethem.

•••

At night, at the Big SandyStation,aswesataroundthewagoncookingHormelchili,

no beans, and brewingcoffee, the oil fieldmechanicsandrancherswhowerehelpingusmakerepairsdropped down the hill tovisit.EdSabourincameoverafter finishing his highwaypatrolsanddroveNickbackto his house for a shower.Wildlife officers from theBLM wanted to sit downwith me and my maps,offering tips about how to

get across the LittleColorado Desert. Everybodywanted to be a part of ourride and to help. We hadenjoyed the same kind ofhospitality at the publiccorrals since Marysville,Kansas, a thousand milesaway.Thiswasmore than alesson in how spontaneityandunplanneddays are stillso richly rewarded in theAmericanWest.On theBig

Sandy, I found the soul ofmycountry.

The Americans todaywho like to whine all thetime because they say thattaxes are too high and thatgovernment costs toomuchshould leave their televisionsets behind for a while andgo out and see the countrythey live in.Fora change intheirlivestheycouldeducatethemselves about America

by reading a book. Theywould learn by suchactivities that nothinghappens by accident, andthat the cordiality of theAmerican West existsbecauserealAmericanswithreal problems willed overmore than a century that itbeso.

During thehomesteadingyears that began after theCivil War, the recurrent

financial panics of a veryprimitive Americaneconomy sent successivewaves of displaced farmingfamilies west on theoverland trails. There wasstill free land out west,availablethroughavarietyoffederalprograms,butmostlythrough the Donation LandAct of 1850 and then threeseparate Homestead ActspassedbyCongress in1862,

1909, and 1916. Theessentiallyhomeless,rootlessAmerican farming familieswho took advantage of thissensiblegovernmentlargesseoften departed for theWestnot knowing where theywouldendup.

Many of these familiesdidn’t find land right away,and the small settlementsand nascent towns of theWest discovered that they

had a problem. When thehomesteading familiesarrived, they needed a placeto camp for a few weekswhile they waited for theirland claims to be approved.The families camped besidetheir wagons near the edgeof town, or sometimes onvacant prairie lotssurrounded by the newhouses and general storesthat were shooting up, and

gradually improvementswere made to make thenewcomers morecomfortable while theywaitedfortheirland.Barrelsmounted on wooden standswere set up for water, wellsweredug,andouthousesandplatform lean-to shelterswerebuilt.

These temporarysettlements were called“camp towns,” a term that

was carried west after thesimilarshantytownsthathadalways formed on theoutskirts of rapidlydeveloping cities likePittsburgh, Cincinnati, andChicago. Stephen Foster’spopular minstrel song of1850, “Camptown Races”(“Gwine to run all night!Gwine to run all day! Doo-dah!Doo-dah!”), evoked thetransient camps of African-

Americans,wherebettingonhorse races was common.These camps sprouted uparound the rail yards in hisown native westernPennsylvania and in anygiven year, there weredozens of similar camptownsallacrossAmerica. Inthe nineteenth century,America was a developingcountry with an emergingtown grid ringed by

boisterous, haphazardlyorganized camp towns.That’swherepeoplelived.

The need for these camptowns never went away.America throbbed withfinancial panics through the1890s, and during WorldWar I thousands of U.S.Armyrecruitswerestalledinsmallwesterntownsbecauseof traffic snarls on therailroads. The Great

Depression and the DustBowl of the 1930s flungmillions more out onto theroads. We think of theAmerican West as aboundless, scenic spacewhere city dwellers andtourists roam for a fewweeks in the summer,vacationing and visiting thenationalparks. In fact,moreoften than not, the oldfrontier lands beyond the

Missouri River have been aplacewherealotofpeopleatonce needed a place tocamp.

Franklin Roosevelt’s NewDeal had an enormousimpact on all of this, andpermanently changed notonly the face of theAmerican landscapebutournational character. Themillions of men dispatchedacross the countryside to

work in such New Dealprograms as the CivilianConservation Corps, theWorks ProgressAdministration, and thePublic WorksAdministration built theaccessroads,lodges,bridges,and campsites at thenationalparks.Therewasnonational park system tospeak of before theDepression. The millions of

acres preserved a quartercentury earlier during theProgressiveEraweremostlyjust forests and empty openlands, with no entranceroads or campgrounds toaccommodate people. (Theoriginal progressive idealhadbeen topreserve forestsand wildlife habitats aspristine natural spaces, notnecessarily places that thepublic would actually visit.)

But creating better accessand facilities for federallands was only thebeginning. The CCC alsobuilt,inallforty-eightstates,an extensive system of stateparks—more than eighthundredinallbetween1933and 1941—and developedmore than fifty thousandacresofstatecampgrounds.

Many of these newparkswerebuiltrightontopofthe

old camp towns.During theGreat Depression, whenmillions of people were onthe move again, the NewDeal built them parks withclean bathrooms, showers,cooking pavilions, and firepits. The government effortto build national and stateparks—alegacyasimportantas Social Security or stockmarket regulation—was soextensive that a whole new

architectural look wasneeded to systematize whatwas happening. CCCforestry projects and theexcavationsforroadbuildingproduced a lot of logs andstones. The CCC also builtan impressive network ofsawmills, to produceplanking and cedar shinglesforparkrangers’housesandpicnic pavilions, and theagency helped support itself

by selling finished timber tothe commercial lumbermarket. These basicmaterials were put to usecreating the “governmentrustic” style, a look thatmerged features from theAdirondack, “arts andcrafts,” and log-cabindesigns with the distinctivepoled porches, shinglesiding, and intersectingeaves and dormers that still

dominate park architecturetoday. This look provedattractive, and thecontingencies of aneconomicdepressionhadaninteresting and lastingimpact onAmericandesign.Today,themansiondistrictsof Vail and Beaver Creek,Colorado, Jackson Hole,Wyoming, and Lake Tahoe,California, are heavily

influenced by this lodge-style“parkitecture.”

During the 1950s andearly 1960s, when theinterstate highway systemwas built, America was onthemoveagain.Touringthenational parks createdduring the Depression wasthe only vacation manyfamilies could afford,gasoline was cheap, andmany working-class families

from the Midwest ownedsmall pop-up campingtrailers that auto and steelindustry workers used forhunting and fishing trips.Families drove out toYellowstone or GlacierNationalParkforacoupleofweeks, camping at the CCCfacilitiesalongtheway.Statetourist agencies consideredfree or modestly pricedcamping facilities an

important asset, both forestablishing a reputation forhospitality and capturingtourist dollars for nearbytowns. During the postwaryears the states spentconsiderable sums addingfree showers, recreationpavilions, and ball fields tothe summer campgrounds.On public lands along theNorth Platte River inNebraska and eastern

Wyoming, and the SnakeRiver inIdaho,anetworkoffishing access points withcampgroundswasalsobuilt.The public pump-priminghelpedbuildtherecreationalhuntingandfishingindustryintothe$150billionsectoritis today, andoncemore theechoes of nineteeth-centurypioneer life influenced thelook and economicprosperity of the country.

West of theMissouri,manyof these campgrounds andpublic amenities were builtnot just near the OregonTrail, but on the OregonTrail.

TheranchingsystemthatevolvedintheWestafterthe1880s developed anotherkind of facility that can befound in virtually everywesterntown.Largeherdsofcattle have to be moved

twice a year, in the latespringandearlyfall,betweensummergrazingareasinthemountains and the winterrangelands below on thesagebrush flats. Ranchesaren’tsomuchasingleplaceas a collection of grazingareas, someprivately ownedby the rancher, somegovernment “allotments” onBureau of LandManagement(BLM)parcels,

interconnected by cattlepaths, feedlots, andhighways.Nationwide,about35 million calves are bornevery year, usually inFebruary, requiring a massmovement of cowboys andhorses to tend the herdsevery winter. But winterwindsandstormsoftenforcethe closure of highways,trapping cowboys and theirstock trailers overnight, or

for a few nights, in smalltowns.InsparselypopulatedWyoming, at the approachof a large storm, the statehighways are locked shutwith heavy metal gates, sothat motorists can’t getstrandedona lonely sectionofroaddriftedwithsnow.

Asaresult,formorethanacenturynow,mostwesterntowns have maintained“public corrals” with good

access to the highways, sothat the ranchers can turntheir horses loose in a safeplaceandthencampintheirtrailers or find a nearbymotelforthemselves.Today,manyof thesepubliccorralsalso serve as the local rodeogrounds. Before that, theywere Pony Express stables,stagecoach stops, andmilitary bivouacs.Along theOregonTrail,manyof these

public spaces began theirexistence as overnightcampingspotsforthewagontrains.

Today, the West is stillfull of such places, creatinganinterestingpoliticalirony.Some of the mostconservative, red-statebastions in America—Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho—are the most park-richstates of all, with rodeo

corrals, state fairgrounds,and free or inexpensivemunicipal campgroundsnearly everywhere. Untoldmillions in tax dollars werespenttobuildthesenationalassets, and millions ofdollars of public funds arespenteveryyeartomaintainthem.Thepubliccorralsandparks measurably improvethe quality of life and thelocal economies. But this

region is also the Tea Partybelt, where the centralideological pretense of thedayisthatgovernmentistheenemyandthateverypennyof taxes collected is apoliticalcrime.

The picture inWyomingis typical of most westernstates. In Wyoming, traveland tourism—a sectorheavily subsidized bygovernment—is a $3 billion

annual business. In Casperalone, there are two largeOregonTrailmuseums, onemaintained by the city, theother by the BLM, and thetouristsflocktothemonthewaytoYellowstoneNationalParkorFossilButteNationalMonument. The federalgovernment pours roughly$6 billion into Wyomingevery year, more than $4billion of that for assorted

BLM, forestry, tourism, androad projects, makingWyoming one of the mostfederallydependentstatesinthe country. According tofederalstatisticscompiledbythe news serviceWyoFile.com, in 2011Wyoming residents paid anaverage of $6,795 in federaltaxes,butthestatecollectedmore than $11,000 percapita in federal funds. In

Wyoming,therearetwiceasmany federal employees—thirteen thousand—as stateemployees. Federal dollarsflow into the state andprivate coffers of Wyomingas plentifully as waterspillingovertheNorthPlattedams. Tea Party antitaxactivism isn’t just hypocrisy.Itistotalbunk.

Over the summer, wecampedatsmall-townpublic

parks and the public corralsdozens of times, across twothousand miles of America.Welivedonthepublicspaceestablished by the pioneers.Rugged individualism andmanifest destiny, for whichthe West is still celebrated,are fine things to believe in,but they never existed asabstractions. People weredesperate and they neededfree land and free places to

camp, which governmentdecided to supply, and stilldoes. This national legacywas one of the bestdiscoveries of crossing theOregon Trail, but we neverwouldhavefounditwithoutdetachingourselvesfromtheumbilical cord of theinterstates and the motelchains, forcing ourselves toforageeverynightforaplacetostay.

•••

We left Farson early in themorning after a five-daycamp. Ed Sabourin met uson the hill above the publiccorrals, his cruiser lightsflashing, so that he could“escort” us up the highwayuntilwemadetheturnontothedustyFarsonCutoff.JustbeforeMitch’sCafé,hegavehis siren a squeal and the

ranchers and waitressespoured out of the café andstoodintheparkinglotwiththeircupsofcoffee,cheeringandurginguson.

“Go get ’em, boys!We’rerootinforya!”

“Yo, Nick! Don’t let amulesitonyou!”

One of the rancherswhohad helped me with themaps had scrawled a motto

onthebackofapaperplacematwithhispen.

OREGONORBUST!

NickandIspentthenextfifteen hours bouncing andrattling across the draws ofthe Little Colorado Desert,swapping driving dutieswhileoneofussoughtrelieffromthesunanddustintheback of the wagon.We hadjust one mission to

accomplish by nightfall, orevenafterdark if it came tothat. We had to reach theGreenRiver,morethanfortymiles away across thescorchingsands.Wehadjustenoughwater in our barrelsto keep the mules hydratedfor twenty-four hours. Butwewouldprobablybeemptyby the morning, and wouldhavetowaterthemulesandrefill the barrels from the

Greenbeforewe tookonanevenlongerforcedmarchforwater—morethanfiftymilesto the Hams Fork River onthe western edge ofWyoming. There was nostopping until we madecamp within sight of theGreen. I discovered,however, that I could justbarelytoleratethetediumofsand and black rock bynoticingtheminutepatterns

of life in the desertenvironment. There was afascinating connection, too,between observing thewildlife and navigating overthesands.

The desert actuallyteemedwithwildlife,whichIcould easily see by keepingtrack of the geologicformations we were passinginthewagon.Spiny,exposedskeletons of rock beside the

trail usually announced theapproach of a dry creekwash, where there wereoften prairie dog coloniesdrawn to the undergroundflows of water. Because theprairie dogs were there,prairiefalconsandred-tailedhawks were circling low forprey.Thecreekwasheswereunnamedbutmarkedonmytopographic maps, and bylooking ahead through the

mirages for theraptorbirds,I could roughly gauge ourprogress across the endlessflats.

Observing thewild horseherds also providedoccasional waypoints, and

relieffromtheboredomandheat of crossing the desert.Piles of stallion manurebesidethetrail—droppedbythedominantmalestomarktheir breeding area and toprotecttheirmareharems—graduallyincreasedinheightaswenearedthecenterofaherd. Near the tallestmanure piles, worn, single-filehorsepathsdippedsouthas the land fell to an

occasional watered draw ormud hole. The mares andtheir foals lingerall summeras close as they can to thewater draws, and we oftensaw small herds there,browsingontherichergrassnear moisture. “Bachelorherds”ofyoungstudsdrivenaway by the dominantstallion wandered closer tothe trail, nibbling on theshort, sparse grass away

from the draws. They werescrawny and looked lonelyand lost, and they pointedtheir ears and galloped overfrom the hills nearby,curious about the mules.The taller themanure piles,the closer we were to thedraws to the south,manyofwhich were also marked onthemaps.

We were also passingthrough the southern edge

oftheJonahgasfields,oneoftwovasthydraulicfracturingzones that stretched northalmost to the Wind Riversand the Tetons. The oldcutoff country to theGreenRiver Rendezvous was justonelong“EnergyTrail”now,and Nick and I startedcounting the gas pads wecould see in the distancefromthewagonseat.By theend of the day, we had

passed forty-sixwells.Thesetoo were marked on themaps—Little ColoradoWellNumber 5, Little ColoradoWellNumber13.

That was our life untilnightfall, watching thewildlife, and navigatingacrosstheruts,accordingtothewealthofdetailavailablefrom the seat of a coveredwagon. We watched forhawks,assessedtheheightof

stallion piles, and countedfrackedwells,cross-checkingthese fixes on our maps.Whenbattlingsleepbecametoomuch,butIcouldn’tnapin the bumpy wagon bed, Iclimbed off and walked.Several times we thoughtthatwesawtheGreenRiver,butthesewerefalsesightingscausedbythe lowafternoonlight slanting through themirages.

At dusk, the landsuddenlydroppedoff toourright and we could see alarge, S-shaped lake, gray-blue in the weak light, andthen a ribbon of oxbowsfalling to the south. It wasthe big reservoir where theriver was held back by theFontenelleDam.

“TheGreen, Nick. That’stheGreenRiver.”

We pushed on throughthe dark for two miles,occasionally losing the rutsas we steered for the river.Westoppedonahighriseaquarter of a mile from theGreen, stumbling around inthe dark as we unharnessedand built fencing for themules. I carried the last ofourwater to the teamwhileNick made dinner with justthelightfromtheburnersof

the gas stove. The viewsdown to the river and theflats beyond werespectacularandweweretootiredtosayverymuch.

“Forty-two miles in oneday,”IsaidtoNick.“TheBigSandytotheGreen.”

“It feels likeFarsonwasamonthago.”

“It was a month ago.Thereisnotimeouthere.”

“I don’t ever want to goback home,” Nick said. “Iwant to live out here in thewagon for the rest of mylife.”

Thedesertcooledrapidlyafter the sun set. I wrappedmyself in an extra blanketand stared down from thewagonat thesilverybandofthe river. Deserts aresupposedly barren spacesbutIhadnavigatedalldayby

the clues of the terrain andthe richness ofwildlife. Theblack expanse of the cutoffcountry to the west seemedinviting and I would find awaythroughtheretoo.

27

WEMADEOURLASTCAMPinWyoming at 8,300 feet onthe top of Dempsey Ridge.From the alpine heights we

looked across an immensegorge to the sandstonepalisades of Fossil ButteNational Monument. Fortwodayswehadclimbedthemules up the steep ruts ofthe Sublette Cutoff,emerging every few hoursonto a series of steppedplateaus that were brilliantwith yellow rudbeckia andpurplethistles.Wefilledourwater barrels at the Hams

ForkRiverand,almostatthetop of the ridge, at the oldwagon campground atEmigrant Springs. We sawnooneandatnighttheonlysounds we heard were thewind whistling through thewagon cover and the mulesplacidly grinding theirmolars on high mountaingrass,whichfilledmewithasense of complete isolationand freedom. River to river

and pasturage to pasturagewe had followed the oldpioneer road, living as theydid,simply,offtheland.Butwestill facedan inescapableirony of the Oregon Trail.Reaching these beautifulplacesalsorequiredescapingthem.Our only route downto the safety of the BearRiver valley in Idaho was atwo-thousand-foot plungethroughRockCreekRidge.

The trail we patchedtogether across the oldpioneer shortcuts—wefollowed portions of theFarson, Slate Creek, andSublette cutoffs—was aboutseventy miles shorter thanfollowing the main rutssouthtoFortBridger,and itdeliveredus tohighcountrythatone1849pioneercalleda “perfect oasis in thedesert.” In the early days of

the trail, the last mountainbarrierbeforetheBearRivershelteredexoticremnantsofthe fur-trapping era, a mid-nineteenth-century meltingpot high above theneighboring desert. Smallbands of Shoshone andSnake Indians were campedon the ridges above HamsFork, and these wereinterspersed with colorful“Frenchmen” camps of

mixed-marriage fur trappersand Indian squaws. As furtrapping waned and the bigsummer rendezvous alongtheGreenRiverended,theseIndian and French tradersdriftednorthtoresupplytheemigrant trains by sellingcrafts, equipment salvagedfrom abandoned wagons,and preserved food. Thepioneers would encounterthesetradingcamps—eacha

sort of mixed-race fleamarket, bake sale, andentertainment center—allthe way west to theColumbiaRiver,asthecrudemerchant system originallyformed to service the furtrappers evolved intospontaneous road ranchessupporting the whitemigration.

In 1849, mapmaker andartist J. Goldsborough Bruff

met one trader above theHamsForkwhohadcountedmore than three thousandwagons that passed thoughduring the month of Junealone. “Here was a mixture,whitewomen,andsquaws&children, of every age andhue,” Bruff wrote, and theywere camped in a mixedsettlementoftepees,coveredwagons, and temporarysummer houses made of

brushandsticks.Thetraderswere dressed in deerskinshirts and pants, and thecampswerefilledwithcrudelogboothsdisplaying Indiangoods and provisions—moccasins, skin water jugs,dried fish, and smokedmuskrat. “Fat ponies andhorses” for sale browsed inthemeadows.

For the covered wagontravelers who had diverted

due west and missed FortBridger, the mixed-racecamp below EmigrantSprings was the firstopportunitytotradeinmorethan 250 miles, and theywere fascinated by thesemountain nomads. Onenight Bruff and a party ofmusicians from his coveredwagontrain,carryingviolins,a bugle, and an accordion,walked over to the traders’

camp nearby and wereinvitedinsideoneoftheskinlodges.

Our party of a dozen,and the Frenchmen &squaws, all crowdedaround the interior ofthe lodge. . . . Theyperformed severallively airs, such as“Dan Tucker,” “Carryme back to old

Virginia,” “Zip Coon,”Etc. accompanied bysinging, whichdelighted the tradersmuch, andparticularlytheIndians.

Another “pleasantdivertissement of the mindand eye,” as one pioneercalled it, greeted the wagontravelers as they climbedabove Emigrant Springs at

seven thousand feet. Thickstands of mature whitebarkpineandaspenswayedinthemountain breezes, the firstextensive shade that thepioneers had found sinceAsh Hollow in Nebraska,650milesbehind them.Thesurprise of finding carvingsurfaces as inviting as thesetreeshadthesameeffectonthe pioneers asIndependence Rock or

Devil’s Gate. By 1850 thelower trunks of what wasvariously called Pine Groveor Aspen Grove were socoveredwithnamesthatthepioneershadtoclimbtothehighbranchestofindaplacein the bark to leave theirinitials. Pioneers and theirchildren shinnied up thetreesashighastheycouldtoseeiftheycoulddiscoverthenamesoffriendsorrelatives

who they knew werecrossing the trail in front ofthem.

Wisconsin pioneer JaredFox established a nearrecord fora speedycrossingin 1852 when, relentlesslylightening his load andpassing fifty to a hundredwagons a day, he reachedOregon City by theremarkable date of August17.Foxisalsoappreciatedby

trail historians as ameticulous recorder ofdetail.Hurryingoverthetopof the Sublette Cutoff, hepaused long enough todescribe theelaborate forestofinitialsatAspenGrove.

Passedthroughagroveofsome20rodsshade,the most timber wehave seen in athousand miles & in

this grove there is Isuppose 5 or 10thousand, for aught Iknow,namescutinthetrees. Some printedwith chalk or waggongrease, red paint &anything andeverything.Datesfrom1845 to the present,butmost1850&manyof them are 10 to 15feetfromtheground.

But there was a price tobe paid for these scenicpauses, and the time savedbycuttingstraightacrossthedeserts. Dempsey Ridgedropped to the Bear Rivervalley as a straight defilewestwith precipitously highcanyon walls, which limitedthe pioneers’ ability tomaneuver around cliffs andformations of slate ledgesthatfellinstepstothegrassy

bottomlandsbelow.Thetwothousand feet in elevationthatthepioneershadgainedin fifteen miles of climbingfrom the Hams Fork wouldnow have to be shed in lessthantwomilesofdescent.Itwas a wagon driver’snightmare,andnegotiatingitwas made possible only bytheadvantageoftravelinginwagon trains, whichprovided enough human

labor and restrainingequipment to hold back thewagonswith ropes after therear wheels had beenchained. The wagons werealsoloweredbyropingfallenlogs or large rocks to therearaxle,addingdragfortheslope.

There were two routesdown this covered wagonchute. The first trendednorthwest over milder

terrain to the top ofDempsey Ridge and thendropped through a series ofexcavatedswitchbackstotheBear River just a few milesfrom present-day Cokeville,Wyoming.Butthisroutehasgradually disappeared overtime through neglect andreforestation. The secondroute plunged due westdown to a secondaryelevation,RockCreekRidge.

In high-water years, theRock Creek descent wasnotorious for gullies andwashed-out trail where fast-running creeks crossed theruts. The Rock Creek rutsareaclassicexampleofhowsolving one problem ofwagontraveloftencreatedanew one. In the early 1850sthisroutehadbeenrelocatedaway from steep fifty-footcliffsthatwerehiddeninthe

tree groves and required anemptyingof thewagonsandthen a difficult belaying ofthe wagon boxes andrunninggearwithropes.Butthe new routewas prone towashouts and difficult creekfords.

Inher1852diary,AbigailJane Scott reported that shewalkedtenmilesthedayherwagon train crestedDempsey Ridge, probably

because of the need tolighten the wagons for thesteepslopes,andbecausetheexperience of sitting on awagon pitched straightdownhill was bothfrightening and dangerous.“We traveled two mileswithout unlocking thewagonwheels,” Scottwrote,“andinmanyplacesthemenheld back the wagon inadditiontohavingbothback

wheels locked.” The dreadassociated with the finaldrop intoIdaho’sBearRivervalley was expressed by thename the pioneers gave thisstretchoftrail.Theexitfromthe Sublette Cutoff wascalledthe“RockSlide.”

I didn’t deliberatelychoose the Rock Slidebecause I preferred a last,perilous descent out ofWyoming. We could have

followedthemainrutssouthtoward Rock Springs andFort Bridger, and thenpicked our way along theranch roads and highwaysthat curled in a long looparoundFossilButteandthennorth onto the Bear River.However, the paved Route30, portions of which wewould have to follow toremainwiththemainruts,isbusy with semitruck traffic.

This notoriously accident-prone two-lane highway iscurved and dropsprecipitously throughcanyonswithalmostnoroadshoulders, and severaltruckers and ranchers I’dspoken with in Farsonwarned me to stay off thehighway. Besides, waterwould be difficult to find intheparchedbuttecountrytothe south. Emigrant Springs

below Dempsey Ridge wasour last chance to refill ourbarrels for the final assaulton the Rockies. The end ofthe Sublette Cutoff was ouronlymodernwagonroutetotheBear.

•••

During our torpid days inthe deserts, and then whilewe climbed up through the

rock outcrops and pinegroves of Dempsey Ridge,Nick took long afternoonnapsonthemattressbehindmeandIspenta lotof timealoneonthewagonseat.Themules were peaceful andeasy to handle and softlytuggedthelinesinmyhands.The wildflower fields werelyrical gardens in the sky. Ifell into the combinedmelancholia and joyful

romance that comes withrigorous travel and I feltmeditative about my past,winsome. I was completelyat home on the coveredwagon, at rest with myself,andwas finallybeginning tounderstand the forces thathad driven me west andcompelled me to provemyself.

WhenIwasincollege,myfriends and my professors

occasionallychastisedmeforcomplainingaboutmyfatherandhismeddlingways.“Youneed to accept that familiesare always difficult,” myfavorite professor, JamesBland, said tome once. “Atleast your father cares. Hehas goaded you to do goodwork.”

When I graduated fromcollege in 1973, I won thehistory prize and was

selectedasacommencementspeaker, but my father wasnot there to share this withme. He had retired andmovedtoruralPennsylvaniatwo years earlier and hishealth had rapidly declined.There were some weekswhenhewas fine and couldremain active, and hesounded on the phone as ifhis old exuberance hadreturned, but there were

other weeks when hisphantom pains were sosevere that his doctorsworriedabouttheimpactonhis heart. Themonth that Igraduated was not a goodone and he couldn’t travelnorth to Maine. My closestfriends from New Jerseydrove up instead andbecamemysurrogate familyfortheweekend.

But there was one lastfavor that he could provide.On a motorcycle trip souththat spring, I had talkedmywayintomyfirstwritingjob,at the respected BerkshireEagle in westernMassachusetts, a “feederpaper” for talent hoping tomove on to big-namepublications in New York.My responsibilities wouldinclude taking photographs

forthestoriesIwrote.Iwasknowledgeable aboutphotography but completelyunskilled at using a camera,butthiswasexactlythekindofchallengeIenjoyed.Ihadthreemonths to givemyselfa crash course in takingpictures before the jobbegan.Irentedacheaproomin aboardinghouse inGreatBarrington and found workatanall-nighttruckstopout

on the turnpike, but I stillcouldn’t afford to buy acamera. When my fatherlearnedaboutthatheofferedme his best 35-millimetercamera, a Nikkormat, andseveral expensive lenses.They justhappenedtobe inNew York, he said, gettingserviced and cleaned at “thebest photo shop inManhattan.”Icouldstartmyfirst job with the finest

photoequipmentavailable.“Why don’t we meet in

thecitynextweek?”hesaid.“I can give you the cameraandshowyouhowtouse it,andwe’llgotolunch.”

The details about ourluncheon date seemed a bitoff. Inthepast Ihadusuallymetmy father at publishingindustry haunts where hefelt comfortable and wouldrun into old friends,

fashionable midtownrestaurantslikeSardi’sorthe21 Club, but this time heasked me to meet him at aseedy IrishpubwayoveronTenthAvenue, because thatwould be closer to hisparking lot. I got there ontime and chained mymotorcycle to a parkingmeter between a PuertoRican bodega and a usedfurniture store on Forty-

Sixth Street, feeling out ofplace while I waited for myfather at the bar,whichwasmostly filledwith idlers anda few construction workersdrinking beer with theirlunch.

My father arrived late,carrying a small travel bagand a brown manilashopping bag with paperhandles, and I tried not toshow my reaction to his

appearance. He lookedjauntyinhiscrispwhiteshirtand a summer-weight Irishtweed jacket that Irecognized from yearsbefore, but it no longer fithim. He had lost a lot ofweight and the thinnedcurvature of his cheeksreminded me of an oldpicture of him that mymother had kept on herdresserforyears,takenwhen

he was in his mid-thirtiesand underweight, stillrecoveringfromhisaircrashin1946.Buthewassprightlyin that photo and his facebeamed with optimismaboutthesmallmagazinehehad just founded. Now, thesadness in his eyes and thedefensive inflection in hisvoice were things I had notnoticedbefore.

Wemovedtoatableawayfrom the bar andmy fatheraskedme if Iwantedabeer,and said that he wasorderingoneforhimselftoo.ThiswasthefirsttimeIhadeverseenhimorderadrink.He had been sober fortwenty-five years and hisidentity as an AA disciplewas so complete that Iconsidered it an inseparablepart of his personality. I

musthavelookedsurprised.“Well, son,” he said.

“Sometimes after a life ofsuccessful sobriety a manlikemedecides that it’s safetodrinkagain. Justa little. Icanhandleitnow.”

Afterweorderedasimplelunch of hamburgers andfrench fries, my fatherstartedemptyingthecameraand lenses from the paperbag.Hehadalsobroughtme

a new camera bag withseparate storagecompartments for film,lenses,cleanser,andthelike.HethoughtthatIwouldlook“real smart,” “a youngreporter on themake,”withthe camera bag slung overmy shoulder as I chasedaround the Berkshires formy stories. He explained afewthingsaboutf-stopsandexposure speeds that I

alreadyknewandregaledmewith stories about thefamous Life and Lookphotographers he’d knownover the years. I loved myfather most for this trait.The stores of informationand trivia that were hiddenin his memory, and thenpresented later asconversationalsurprises,hadalways impressed me, and Ienjoyed myself at lunch.

Therewereglimmers,lastingjust a few moments, of hisoldbrioandappeal.

When my father hadarrived at the bar I wasoverwhelmedbyasensethathe had been wandering thestreets for a while, almostsecretively. This wasn’t animpression that I couldgrasp very well and I forgotaboutit.Butthen,Iknew.AsIplayedwiththe lenses that

he had given me,experimentingwithinsertingthem into the aperture ringof the camera and thentwistingthelensshutwithasnap, I noticed that theywere all labeled with fresh,shiny stickers. CASH FORGOLD, the stickers read,above an address on Forty-Seventh Street. The cameraboxitselfhadthesameshinystickers,oneoneachside.

I probably wouldn’t havefigured this out, except thattwoofmybest friends fromcollege were photographymajors,andtheyoftenmadetripstoNewYorktobuythebest camera boxes andlenses—Nikons, Leicas, andMinoltas—at the steepdiscounts offered in theForty-Seventh Streetpawnshopdistrict.

Oh, I thought, my fatherhad been artful aboutsmoothingthisover,butnotquiteartfulenough.Hisbestcamera had not spent thelast few weeks in a photoshop for cleaning. He hadhocked it for cash on hisprevious trip to New Yorkandhad just retrieved it, forme,fromapawnshop.Alongwitheverythingelsethatday,thediscreetwaythathehad

fished the pawnshop receiptout of the bottom of theshopping bag, and thenstuffed it into a side pocketofhissportcoat,made itallfall into place. It was thatbad for him now. He waspawning his possessions toget through themonth. Hisgifts for me, his buyinghabits, had always been soextravagantthatI’dtakenhiscarefree life for granted.

Now I tried not to thinkabout where he’d found thecashtospringhiscameraforme, let alone to buy gas forthe long drive fromPennsylvaniatoNewYork.

The welter of emotionsthat coursed through methen—guilt, love, empathy,fatalism about his future,andpining for thepast—feltlikeaturbulentoceaninside.I couldn’t even attempt to

disguisemyfeelingsbecausethereweretoomanyfeelingscollidingatonce.

Oh, fuck me, Dad. Fuckme,fuckme,fuckme.You’resuch a great person, soblindly altruistic andbeguiling, and look at thetroubleyou’reinnow.

By the time he finishedhis second beer, with abourbon chaser—“just togive the brew some taste”—

hewas slurring his words. Ihad already told him that Ihad to leave by earlyafternoontogetbackintimefor my evening shift at thetruck stop. I didn’t like theway he was fumbling formoney in his pockets so Ispentmostofwhat Ihad inmy wallet to pay the bill,which at least gave mesomething to feel goodabout.

Out on the street, myfatherwishedmewellatmyfirst job, encouraged me towork hard, and said that hewasplanningontakingoutasubscriptiontotheEagle, sohecould followmyprogressas a reporter. If it was allright,hewouldcallonceinawhile to make suggestionsabout making my copybetter.

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “Butjustgoeasy.You’vegotyourownstufftoworryabout.”

We shook hands and,before he turned to go, Ithankedhim for the cameraand threw my new cameracase over my shoulder at arakishangle.Iwantedhimtohaveanimageofmedashingoff to report my first story.He smiled at that, winked,laughed quietly, and started

down Tenth Avenue. Inoticed again how thin hewas.Hewalkedwithastoop,hisneckandhiswristswerenolongerbuffalo-brownandbrawny,andhedidn’t try tohide the limp from hiswooden leg anymore. Ah,shit, Dad. Shit. Watchinghim walk away and thendisappear around the nextcorner felt like the loneliestmoment of my life and I

worried that I would neverseehimagain.

There were brokencumulus clouds overnorthern Manhattan as Idrove up the West SideHighway,andIlikedthewaythat the sunlight pushingthrough the holes in theovercast made glitteringpatterns on the Hudson.Instincttoldmetobegreedyand not sad about the day,

and I was manically happyaboutmynewcamera.Don’tconcentrate on him, Ithought. Don’t think abouthim.Itwillkillyoutoworryabout him. Throw yourselfinto learning to takepictures. I decided to find aphoto shop on the waynorth, buy some film, andstart takingpicturesatworkthat night. The sky openedup north of Peekskill and I

wanted to put as muchdistanceaspossiblebetweenmeandNewYork. Ipushedthe bike hard and reachedmy new refuge in themountains in under threehours.

•••

We stopped the mules at alovelyspothighontheridgewhere the ruts curved into

theshadeofanaspengrove.Thiswasprobablyoneofthespotswherethepioneershadscrambled up the treeswithcarvingknives in their teethto leavebehind their initialsornames,butofcoursetimehad erased any evidence oftheir inscriptions. As Istepped down from thewagon to explore the routeofftheridge,thedarknessofthe white bark pine groves

below looked spooky andtreacherous. This wasanotherplace,likeCaliforniaHill or Rocky Ridge, wherethe difficulties of a moderncrossing seemed condensedatasingleobstacle.Oncewestarted downhill, the steepcanyon walls below wouldprevent us from turningback. I wouldn’t enjoy theadvantage of a large wagontrain and its labor pool of

men to restrain my wagon.Nickwouldhavetotrustmeto have made the rightdecision, even though therewasn’t really a choice at all,and I would have to trusthim to drive us out of thecertain hazards we facedbelow.

“TheRockSlide,Nick.It’souronlywaydown.”

“Do we know what’sthere?”

“A two-thousand-footdroptotheBearRiver.”

“Fuck,let’sgo.Ican’twaittodothis.”

At first, dropping downthrough the shade of thewhitebark groves wasrefreshingly cool andpeaceful. But as soon as wewere off the summit androunding the first corner ofthe trail downhill, a canyonwall of loose sandstone and

rockrosetoourright,higherthan the wagon top. Thespring rains had distributedathickscreeofgravelontheledgeinfrontofus.Therearlegsofthemulesslippedoutfrom underneath them andtheycouldn’tholdthewagonbackalongthe ledge.Butbypushing the brake back andforth and judging thedistance ahead to theslipperygravelbeds, I found

that I could jolt the wagonback against the mules andpullthemuprightatjusttherightmoment, forcing themtopulltheloaddownhillandgaintheirfooting.

I was grateful then for alifetimeoffearaboutmovingwagonsdownhill. Itwas likedriving a heavy truck overhills. Never coast. Never letthegravityof the loadapplyon the team. Pivot the

weightofthewagonsagainstthemules, pulling them aft,so that they will be heldupright by the load and canenjoythestabilizingeffectofthe harness pullingbackwardontheirshoulders.

Coordinatingourdescentwas difficult for Nick andme, but it was also veryathletic—thiswasdistractingandhelpedalot.Therewereplaceswherethetrailcurved

downhill at a 20 percent or30 percent slope and wewerelookingalmoststraightdown at themules.When Ilocked the wheels, we wereboth thrown forward andfought with our thighs andour feet, wedging againsteachother toremainonthewagonseat.Each time,Nickcould feel my hips tensingfor stability before I threwthebrake.

Whenhefeltmetenseforthe next push of the brake,Nickcalledthemules.

“Yup,Team.Yup.Pull!”ButIcorrectedhim.“Don’t call the team,” I

said. “Don’t slap the lines.Noexcitementatall.Hands.Talk to them with yourhands.Calm,calm.”

Nick looked annoyed buthewaswillingtogiveuphisvestigialdrivingself.

“Fuck.You’regivingmeadriving lesson? But you’reprobablyright.”

We reached a place thendriving mules that wasbeyond all experience ortraining. Wordless intuitionandsharedphysicalityjoinedus.Reachrightwithmyarmfor the brake and tense leftagainst Nick on the narrowwagon seat. The mules feltthe brake retard the wagon

and gently lowered theirnecks into their collars andpulled downhill. Nick heldthe lines sharply back andthen slightly releasedpressure to move the teamforward. Thecommunicationpassed frommy brake arm through myhip to Nick and then downthe lines to the mules, fiveminds fused to manage theloaddownthesteeppitch.

Wewereoutof thewindnowandtherewasnobreezetocoolusorcarryaway thesound of the wheels. Theiron rims screeched againstthe rocks while the harnesschains cracked against theload. The high wall on ourrightheld in the acrid smellofthesmokingbrakes.

We were just adescending cauldron ofshrieking brakes and

burning thresher belt now.When the mules felt thebrakes land hard they heldtheir legs rigid, skimmingalongonthegravelforafewfeet.Thedustraisedbytheirhooves billowed up pasttheir bellies and spreadsideways, completelyobscuring our view. Therewas no terra firma now. Icould feel how the wagonwas doing only through the

musclesofmybrakearm. Itwas a magic carpet ridebehind mules glidingthroughcloudsofdust.

•••

When we reached RockCreekRidge,thetrailcurvedsharplytothewestandthendisappeared around thecliffs, and we couldn’tbelieve what we saw. The

grade plunged steeply downacross a slick rock face ofbrown slate thatwouldbe achildren’s slide for themules. I could imagineholding themain wagon offthe mules—perhaps justbarely—but the heavy cartbehind us would probablyjackknifeacrosstheslateandoverwhelm us, pulling usbackward into the canyonbelow.

ButNickhadanidea.“Hold these mules for a

minute,” he said. “I knowwhattodohere.”

Nick reached underneaththe seat for a heavy chain,threw it onto his shoulder,and then slid down thewheel and disappearedbehind the wagon. I heardtherattlingofthechainbackthere for a minute or two

andthenheclimbedbackonandtookthelines.

“Whatdidyoudo?”Isaid.“I roughlocked the cart

wheels.It’llworkfine.”I had heard about

roughlocking, but wouldnever have thought to do ithere.Bywrapping thechainaround the spokes of thewheels on both sides of thecart and then hooking theends onto the running gear,

Nick had locked the wheelsso they wouldn’t turn. Nowthe one-ton cart acted as adrag on the rig, to which Iwould add the brakingpower of the main wheels.We had converted ourprovisions cart into ananchor.

Still, Ididn’t likethelookof the slick table of slateplunging downhill andaround the corner of the

cliffs. There was no way ofknowing from above howmuch longer the ledge was,orifitgotsteeper.

“Jesus, Nick. I don’tknow.”

Nick looked at me,grimaced, shrugged hisshoulders, and then gentlyelbowedmeintheribs.

“I’m glad you’re afraid,”he said. “At least I’m dointhe trail with someone who

knows this can bedangerous.Areyouready?”

I took a deep breath andexhaled.

“Let’sdoit.”“Ease-A, Team,” Nick

said, quietly, slightly pullingthe lines. “Team, slow.Hold’em back, Jake. Hold ’emback.Team,slow.”

I released the brakehandle and quickly adjustedto the rhythm of sledging

downhill. The roughlockedcart provided tremendousdrag on the rig, but theSchuttlerstillwantedtoraceahead as soon as the brakeswere released. Brake, thenrelease, let thewheels roll aquarter rotation. Brakeagain. Release. Gravity hasnever impressed me somuch. My shoulder wasalready thrown out andaching from the braking

above but I was fixated onthetugchains,keepingthemtightsotheteamwasalwayspulling downhill. The ironrims screeched over theslate,thebrakepadssmoked,andthepolebangedbetweenJakeandBeckeverytimethefront wheels hit a bump ontheledge.

The mules were evenfarther below us now, but Ididn’t dare look forward to

judgetheslope.Ihadtoleanwayoutonthebrakehandleto see the tug chains, andthen look straight back forthe cart. Brake and release.From nowhere, aspenbranchessuddenlyappeared,whipping my face. I felt abump from behind andquickly looked back. I hadjackknifed the rig with thebrake and the right wheelhubofthecartwasscraping

thecliffs.But thiswasgood,providingmore drag on theload.Ijockeyedthebraketokeeptherightwheelslightlyhungupontherocksandweleft a deep gash where thehubdugintotheshalecliff.

Itseemedtotakeforever.Release, lock the wheels.Release, lock the wheels.Keep those tug chains tight.Skid the cart up against thecliff embankment. I didn’t

know that we had reachedthebottomoftheledgeuntilthescreechingof thewheelsover rock stopped and webegan to push up dust. Wewere level againand I couldseethebacksofthemules.

Nickwas smiling broadlyon the wagon seat, ecstaticto have roughlocked hiswheelsandmanageda teamdownaWyomingmountainlikethis.Itwasamomentof

supreme triumph.Wordlessly, never reallyexpressing to each otherwhat we had to do, we hadloweredseveraltonsofmuleandwagondownoneof thesteepestwagonslopesintheWest.

“Jesus,” I said.“Roughlocking. It reallyworked. How many timeshaveyoudonethatbefore?”

“Oh,thisisthefirsttime.”

“Jesus. Why didn’t youtellme?”

“Rink,thinkaboutthat.IfI had told you, you wouldhaveshityourpants.”

•••

The trail disappeared uphillas a switchback that curvednorthwest again, aroundevenhighercliffs.Nick tookthe chain off the wheels of

the cart but when wereached the top my heartstopped again. The pitchdown over gravel and dustwas almost as severe as theslate tables above and thetrail had now dramaticallynarrowed. The canyongradually coming in frombehind us had grown into adeep gorge and, off Nick’sside of the wagon, we werelooking down at the tops of

maturepineandaspentreesthat were a hundred feetbelow us. It was a sheerdrop-off, and the width ofthe trail provided justenough clearance for thewagon.

I was terrified aboutstaying on the wagon andbriefly tempted to climbdown the wheel, squeezebetween the team and thecliffs, walk down to scout,

and see if the trail becameeven more narrow. Myexcuse would be that if onewheel went over the edgeandpulledthewholerigintothe gorge, one of us neededto be alive to go for help.Nick could sense my fearandofferedmeanout.

“You should be off thewagon here,” he said. “Weneedyouonfoottocheck ifthe trail is wide enough. I

can manage the lines andbrakewithmyfoot.”

It was an act of will—where the determinationcamefrom,Idon’tknow—toturndownhisoffer.

“Shit, I reallydowantoffthiswagon,” I said. “But I’mnot doing that. I’ve got thisbrake routine now with themules.”

We both looked forwardto study the trail again, and

the physics of our descentwere clear. There werecurves ahead where thegorge beside us droppedmore than a hundred feetstraight down. One mulejumping to the left, onebadjackknifeofthecart,andwewould be pulled over theedge.We both realized thatifthewagonstartedtofall,Iwould probably be able toget off in time on my side.

ButNickwouldplungewiththerigintothegorge.

“Shit,”Nick said. “This isgointobefuckingreat.”

As we started to inchdown, I wasn’t really awareof my surroundings, and Ididn’thavetimetobeafraid.All I could do was lean outover the side of the wagonwithmyhand on the brake,staring ahead at the tugchains to make sure they

were tight, and thenquicklylooking back at the cart tomake sure it wasn’tjackknifing. The instant thecart wheels started tojackknife out of sight Ireleased brake pressure,waiteda second for themtostraighten out, and thenfaced forward again toreapplythebrake.

Brake, release. Brake,release. Our American flag

scrapedagainstthecliffsandNick held the team so tightagainst the wall that Icouldn’t see any spacebetween the rocks and thehubs. My face passed justinches fromthebouldersonthe ledge and my cheekswere whipped again byaspen saplings growing outoftherocks.

There were moments ofpanic.Twoorthreetimesas

wedescendedJakeandBeckreached high with theirnecks to snag an aspen leaffrom the scrub growthhangingfromthecliffs.Thispushed the pole almost intotherocks.Wepassedseveralcone-shapedpilesofelkscaton Beck’s side and I knewthatifshegotastrongwhiffof unfamiliar wildlife shemight bolt and try to runaway. But Beck quietly

sidestepped each pile and Icould tell that the teamsensed how hard I wasworking to keep the weightof the wagons off theirshouldersandbacks.

Iwasnervous, too, aboutthetrailsuddenlynarrowing,ortheleftsideofthegroundsuddenly giving way fromthe weight of the wagons.But I was still lookingbackward to keep the cart

straight and couldn’t see formyself.Almostinvoluntarily,I begged Nick forresassurance.

“Nick, the trail. Howwide?”

“Wider.We’regood.”Itriedtodisciplinemyself

not to ask again, but then Idid.

“Still wide,” Nick said.“We’re almost to thebottom.”

When I feltNick pull upthe team and call “Whoa” Icould hear water running. Islowlyturnedaroundtofaceforward and waited for thedust from our descent toclear.

We had reached thebottomof the elevation, butahead of us the creek hadwashed out the trail. Therewasatwo-footdroptoreachthecreekbed,thenanatural

corduroy of driftwood andlogs. In the middle of thecreek therewas a deeppoolofmovingwater,andthenasteep climb through riverrock andmud to regain thetrail. It was the kind ofobstacle that would haveworried me five hundredmilesago,butnotnow.

My arms were shakingandmyheartwasstillracingbut I needed something to

do. I took the lines myself,easedtheteamoneaxleatatime into the creek bed andacross the logs, and thenslapped the mules’ rumpsthrough the water and upthroughthemuddybankstothetrail.Movinguphillagainand being able to call theteamfeltlikesalvation.

We stopped in the shadeslightly uphill of the creekand sat for a long while,

speechless, drinking fromour canteens. I was stillshaking several minuteslater.

FromouruphillpositionIlooked back and saw ourfresh wagon tracks on thetrail.TherewerespotswhereI could see that we hadn’thad more than a foot ofclearance. We were thatclosetofallingsidewaysintothegorge.

“Nick, you told me thetrail got wider. But look atthatspot,wherethecliffjutsout. We were almost overtheedge.”

“Okay, so I was lyin. Bigfuckin deal. I knew I couldthread us through thatneedleandgetusdownherealive. Besides, if I waswrong?”

“What?”

“We’d be dead. Wewouldn’tgiveashit.”

•••

After the gorges, the trailrose and fell across two setsof foothills, but there werewide, grassy meadows inbetweenandIknewthatwehad reached thebottomlands of the BearRiver. Overcome by my

exertions all day in the thinair, I stumbledseveral timescarryingwater for the team,but I steadied myself byclinging to Jake’s bridle andthen asking him to raise hishead to hold me up. Wewere still hours away fromCokeville and I had to leavethe wagon a few times totrackusonfootthroughthecattle ranches, once moreexperiencing the strange

effects of hypoxia. As Iscouted ahead through thegulches, I looked back atNick on thewagon seat.Heseemedminiaturizedandfaraway, and I was afraid thathe wouldn’t be there thenexttimeIlooked.Myarmsseemedgrotesquelylongandbent, as if I were looking atmyselfinafunhousemirror.

But these momentspassed quickly and the

oxygen deprivation helpedtoo.With even the slightestexertiononfoot, I felt light-headed and weak,disconnected from theground underfoot and evenfrom my arms and legs.Nothingworriedmeandmybrain wouldn’t engage withmy old obsession for detailand following maps. Atsunset, we finally found theBLMdirtroadthat followed

the final stretch of theSubletteCutoffruts.

It was dark when wereached the asphalt roadalong SpringCreek, and thevalley leading to Cokevillewas grassy and cool. Theevening inversion of colderair replenished our oxygensupply,andIfeltbetter.Themule shoes clopping on tarsoothingly mixed in the airwith the splashing of the

creekasitracedthroughtheoxbows below the road.Watersprinklershissedbackandforthonthelawnsofthehorse farms, catching thelight fromthebarnsas thin,silveryfans.

Cokeville was quiet,except for the occasionalrumbleof adiesel semiorafreight train. The UnionPacific linerunningupfromsouthernWyoming rejoined

ourrouteonthewestbanksoftheBearRiverand,ontheeast banks, the shortcutbetween the big interstatesof Wyoming and Idaho,Highway 30/89, had beenpaved right over the mainruts. After 350 miles of thedesolate, original ruts, wehad returned to thesandwiched transportationcorridorofthemoderntrail.

Ahead of us, the onlything I could see was afamiliar lit sign, the purpleandorangelogoofaFlyingJtruck stop. It was the onlyplacewecouldcampandwepulled in, fenced the mulesinside a dry, brown-grassfield behind the truckparking lot, and then wentinside to feast on hot dogsandfriedchicken.

Exhausted,Iclimbedovertheendboardsofthewagon,flopped onto my mattress,and untied my bootlaceslying down. Behind me Icould hear the humming ofthe truck stop and, now,instead of rivers flowing, Ilistenedtothelowrattlingofair conditioners cooling thesleeper berths in the parkedtrucks. Through the wagoncover I could make out the

high purple-black rim ofDempsey Ridge and theprofound blackness of RockCreek gorge. It still didn’tseem possible that we’dcome down through there.My stumblebumperformance while wateringthe mules, and my bizarrelonging for Nick when Ihikedaway fromthewagon,seemed like mental lapsesthat had happened to

someone else. That is thenocturnalOregonTrail, justbefore welcome sleep. Timeand distance seemimplausibly stretched, andthe day just experiencedseemsalongtimeago.

O, Wyoming. I havealways given my all to you,butyouhavepaidbackevenmore. But this time,Wyoming, you tookeverythingIhad.

A Union Pacific whistleshrieked at the CokevillecrossingandIlistenedastheclacking of the iron wheelsfadednorthbehindme.Thewhistle sounded at a fewmore road crossings, areceding, meditative wailthat evoked space, thepassagesbetweenmountainsand rivers, the enormousenergy and drive unleashedby the trail. Persistence is a

drug that delivers strength,but italsodullsoursenseofreality. My last thoughtbeforefallingasleepwasthatweareallalotmorecapableof conquering obstacles andfearsthanwethink.

28

IDAHOBECAMEOURDAYSOF

heaven stretch of the trail.The balsam vastness of theBear River valley and then

theMartianemptinessoftheSnake River Gorgeentranced us as the breezyafternoonsofAugustpassedby.Therewasnothinglefttoprove after five hundredmiles of original ruts, andNick and I happily rodealongthetwo-lanehighwaysand dusty back roads thatcrossed the surreal corridorof beauty that the pioneerssaw.Theoldcoveredwagon

stops—Register Rock, ThreeIsland Crossing, BruneauDunes—were nowcomfortablestateparkswithbarbecue pits, waterhydrants, and horse corralsthat conveniently appearedahead in the early eveningwhen we needed to camp.Oregon was just a month’sride away and now wewantedtolivespontaneouslyand enjoy what themodern

trailhadcometobe.AtSodaSprings, we camped behindtheninthholeoftheOregonTrail Country Club. AtGrandView,wehoseddownthe mules inside the carwash at Gus’s Gas. In LavaHot Springs, we rolled thewagonintotheparkinglotofRiverwalkThaiandIboughtus a take-out lunch ofdrunken noodles and beefsatay.

We could see right awayhow Idaho’s spectaculargeology had bedeviled thepioneers. At the end of thelast iceage,fifteenthousandyearsago,muchofUtahandsouthern Idaho had been avast inland body of water,BonnevilleLake.Butthelakehad suddenly breachedabove American Falls andsentmillionsofcubicfeetofwater crashing over the

volcanic landscape atseventy miles an hour,carving the dramatic basaltgorges along the SnakeRiver. The breakage fromthe gorgeswas carried awayby the racing water likeshattered china anddistributed as thick debrisfields of lava rock thatextendedformilesalongtheriverbanks. The pioneers,dependentontheriverboth

fornavigationandforwater,were trapped inside thisvolcanic skillet, just as theyhad been trapped by thecholera swamps along thePlatte. Following the rockfields along the Snakeexhausted the pioneers andtheirdraftanimals,andafterjust a fewmilesmule shoesand iron wheel rims werereduced to slivers.The riveritself was close, but

maddeningly inaccessible—the only route to the waterwas straight downperpendicularcliffs.

The pioneers struggled during the hotweeks of August over the lava-rockfieldsandsteepmountainbuttesalongthegorgesoftheSnakeRiverinIdaho.

In peak migration yearslike 1852, when sixtythousand pioneers crossedto California and Oregon,the calamities of overlandtravelweremultipliedbythesheer number of wagonsoccupying the same narrowspace along the river. ByAugust the animalboneyards along the Snakeexceeded what the pioneershad already seen on the

alkali flats of Wyoming.Esther Bell Hanna was aPennsylvanian who crossedthat year, and her narrativeis considered importantbecause she typified thethousands of ardentChristians who migrated inwagon trains strictlysegregatedbydenomination,motivatedmore by religiouszeal thanfinancialnecessity.AttheageofeighteenEsther

married a Presbyterianminister and left for thefrontier the same day,joining awagon train groupplanning a “PresbyterianColony”thatwouldpopulatethePacificNorthwestbeforerivalBaptistsandMethodistscould establish too strong afoothold. (The more pious,themoreschismatic,andtheHannas left thePresbyterianwagon trainwhen the other

familiesrefusedtostoptheirwagonsalldaytoobservetheSabbath.) But there was nodispensation for the faithfulfromconditionsonthetrail.In her narrative CanvasCaravans, Hanna describedthe combined carrion fieldand invalid ward thatstretched for three hundredmiles after thewagon trainslefttheBearandclimbedfortheSnake.

I do not think I evershallforgetthesightofso many dead animalsseen along the trail. ItislikesomethingoutofDante’s Inferno—thisbarren waste of lavapeopled with theskeletons ofanimals. . . . Lost twomoreoxentodayoutofourtrain,onedrownedin the river, another

died from fatigue. Acamp near us at noonhad12sickinit,allthesame disease, some ofthem very low. . . . Ofor more patience toendureitall.

Every draft animal orhead of beef that droppedrepresented a privation fortheowner,eitherintermsofadditional possessions that

hadtobejettisonedfromthewagons, or loweredexpectations of establishinga herd in theNorthwest. InHard Road West, historianand geologist Keith HeyerMeldahl describes how, bythe time the travelersreached Idaho, “theaccretion of hardshipsinevitablyworedownspiritsandcivility.”Meldahlquotesone particularly colorful

49er,IllinoispioneerIsraelS.P.Lord,whose trail accountwas patched together fromarticles he sent back toIllinois for the WesternChristian newspaper. Lordwasoneofthefirstpioneersto travel the HudspethCutoff,apopularshortcuttotheCaliforniaTrailblazedin1849 between Soda Springsand City of Rocks insouthern Idaho. Lord

describedhisfellowtravelersas “cross, peevish, sullen,boisterous, giddy, profane,dirty, vulgar, ragged,mustachioed, bewhiskered,idle, petulant, quarrelsome,unfaithful, disobedient,refractory,careless,contrary,stubborn, hungry andwithout the fearofGodandhardly of man before theireyes.”

TheHudspethCutoffthatwefollowedourselvesbeforepicking up the main routealong the Snake had beenconsiderably softened overtime,mostlybytheextensiveirrigation projects builtduring the homesteadingyears,andthenbythepavingof roads afterWorldWar I.Occasionally, cattle fencesforced us up onto theplateauneartheriverandwe

spentlongafternoonseasingour wheels over fields ofpumpkin-shaped lava rock.At the higher elevationsalong the Portneuf Range,themules struggled throughthe passes and I was forcedto empty our water barrelsand walk behind the wagonto lighten our load. But bythe evening the trail alwaysseemed to deliver us to thehospitality of a Mormon

ranch or a riverside parkwith spacious views towardthe mountains. We wereinuredtothehardworkandlong days by now, and ourpassage along the Snake feltlikeavacation.

The pleasant nightsounds of ourwagon campsin Idaho—mules eating,water spraying throughirrigation sprinklers in thefields, our white-top

creaking in thewind—mademe feel dreamy,contemplative, more willingtoacceptmymotivationsformaking this trip. I wasreminded of the same kindofovernightstopsthatIhadmade as a boy with myfather.Intheorangeembersof our charcoal grill I couldseetheflamesofmyfather’sfiresatValleyForgeoralongthe Delaware Canal. That

was a half century ago,thousandsofmilesaway,butthejoyfulvagabondingIhadshared with him thatsummer felt here, now,joined, shared across elastictime. Maybe the Mormonsare right about the livingactivelycommunicatingwiththe dead and I was unitedforeverwithmyfatheronaneternalcoveredwagontrip.Ididn’tunderstandnowwhyI

had spent the last few yearsworrying about turning outlikehim.Nightafternightincamp, while the sun fell asan orange disc against thedistant Sawtooths, I wasfilled with acceptance, asoothing accommodationwith aging and the passageof time. I was campingbesidemycoveredwagon inIdaho, once more sealedwithmyfather,enjoyingthe

sunsetinPennsylvaniaalongtheSnake.

•••

In Idaho, our tempo alsochanged. We had visitors,and we quickly acquiredmodern trappings of the“community vehicle” thatDaniel Boorstin haddescribed. I was grateful allsummer about my decision

not to include familymembersandfriendsonourride, mostly because Iquicklyrealizedthatveryfewof them could endure theregimen of filth anddrudgery thatNickand Ibynow embraced, and I wastoo obsessed with reachingOregon to want anyonealong who might slow usdown. But I made oneexception, knowing that by

central Idaho I would feelmore relaxed and willing tomake compromises, curbingmy mile-Nazi tendenciesnowthatOregonwasalmostinsight.

Twoofmyclosestfriends,GeorgeandCindyRousseau,a flying couple from theeastern shore of Maryland,had begged to come alongonthewagonrideassoonastheyheardaboutmyplans.I

temporizedatfirst,butstillIconsidered them excellentcandidates for coveredwagon travel. George is amechanicalaceandnonstoptinkerer,andhecouldtakealot of the burden of wagonrepairs off Nick. Cindy, atrim, brown-faced brainiacoutof the JewishsuburbsofBaltimore, has fabulous lifeskills. She harvests wildmushrooms and berries,

hunts rabbits with hawks,and her favorite hobby iscollecting and restoringfucked-up friends. In thewoods,hermapreadingandscrappy, sarcasticbanter aretop-notch.

When we talked on thephone one night, about amonth before they weregoing to come, however,Cindy told me that Georgecouldn’tgetvacationtimein

August. She had decided tobringalonga friendofours,her current project, DonnaMoran, who was in themiddle of a divorce and,Cindy said, could use the“covered wagon cure.” WeagreedthattheywouldflytoSalt Lake in mid-August,findarentalcar,andtrackusdownonthetrail.

WewereupearlytohitchthewagonthedayCindyand

Donna were scheduled toarriveandIwashappyaboutthe timing. We would bespending most of the dayclimbing up and down thefoothills west of Lava HotSprings, on a section oforiginal trail called OldOregon Trail Road, and soour guests’ first impressionswouldbeformedbythekindof authentic surroundingswe’dseenallsummer.Butas

I pushed themules throughthe canyons behind town toreach the trail, Nick’sForward Sensing OlfactoryRadar picked up a strongsignalbelow.Hepointedtwofingers south, toward theSunnyside Sinclair and Delialong the highway, wherethe rooftop fan wasdischargingabiglardycloudofcookingexhaust.

“They’re cookin friedchicken down there,” hesaid. “It’s real good friedchickentoo.Icantell.”

Iwasdisgustedbecause IwantedCindyandDonnatoseeus first on real trail, butNickinsistedthatheneededa“healthybreakfast.”

So, we took the FriedChickenCutoff forNick.Aswe clattered down the hilland crunched across the

gravel parking lot of theSinclair, we saw Cindy andDonna leaning against thehood of their rental car—theyhadseenourwhite-topfromthehighway.Theyhadleft Salt Lake very early andthey both looked eager fortrail. Cindy, dressed incamouflagecargoshortsandarimmedsunhat,hadwaterbottles dangling from herbelt loops, and she was

testing a new solar chargerthat she had bought for thetrip,soshecouldchargehersmartphone and track ourprogress across the trail viaGPS. Donna, the ultimatetall, skinny blonde, wasapplying suntan oil to herlong, thin legs. Stereoscopicimagesofthemulesreflectedin the lenses of theirsunglasses as weapproached.

Cindy started flashingaway with her smartphonecamera.

“Oh, look at you guys!”shesaid.“Thisissocool!I’mposting these pictures, rightaway. No one believes thatI’mreallygoingonacoveredwagontrip.”

Havingvisitors alongwasfun right away. Nick and Icouldn’tbelievehowquicklyCindy andDonnawere able

to identify each mule, justfrom the descriptions I’dsentinmyoccasionalemails.Olive Oyl, ecstatic to havegirlfriends around, wasdancingonherhindlegsandbegging for scratches. Nickloved the company andwaswonderfully hospitable. Thearrival of two upmarketwomen from the east coastnaturally drew out hisWagon Professor Buck. He

patiently gave them mule-driving lessons, explainedevery piece of harness, andregaledthemalldaywithhisfishing and sleigh-drivingyarns.

Cindy was aware of myworrywart reservationsabout having company anddeterminedtofulfillonevowshehadmadeaboutthetrip.

“Okay,what’sourgoalforthe day?” she said. “I

promised you, Rinker. Weare not slowing your assdown.”

“I’d like to make therodeocorralsatMcCammonby late afternoon,” I said.“Most of it is original trailalong the Portneuf River,and then we follow that totheSnake.”

“Okay. I’llGPS it,”Cindysaid.

“Fine,Cindy,butwehavemaps. That solar charger isgoing to conkoutwithinanhour and then you won’thave GPS. Chill. We havemaps.”

“Luddite. Just becausewe’re on a covered wagontrip doesn’t mean we can’tuseGPS. I really don’twantto put up with yourtechnophobiaallweek.”

“Cindy, I’m the one whojust came fifteen hundredmileswiththisrig,butnowIneedyourGPS?”

“Dickhead.”“Cindy,you justgothere,

andyou’realreadycallingme‘dickhead.’That’sprobablyarecord.”

“Oh,look,I’vegotit,”shesaid,wavingherindexfingerto move the GPS mapforward onher phone. “Old

Oregon Trail Road to EastSublette Road, and then weturnnorthfortheriver.Thisisgoingtobefun!”

Wedecidedtodivideintoteams. Nick would takeDonna in the wagon for along mule-calling lesson inthe morning while Cindyand I scouted ahead in therentalcar.ThenCindyandIwouldrun the teamtherestofthewayupthePortneufin

the afternoon while Nickand Donna took the rentalcarandshoppedfordinner.

It was a delightful day,notsimplybecauseIenjoyedthe reunion with an oldfriendandNickandIneededtime away from each other.Cindy had always beenskeptical about my claimsabouttheWestandthoughtthatIexaggeratedtheRidersof the Purple Sage splendor

ofmysurroundings,butthatwas just the kind of day wehad. In the afternoon, asCindyandIclimbedtheoldwagon road towardMcCammon, low cottonycumulus clouds raked thepeaksandacowboyherdingsteersonagorgeousdapple-gray horse galloped over,asked about our trip, andgave us directions for ashortcut around the

interstate into McCammon.Childrenonbikescircledthewagonaswepulled into theoutskirts of town and Iborrowed a barbecue grillfrom a couple sitting ontheirporch,stowingitinthebackoftheprovisioncart.

When we reached therodeo corrals, Cindy andDonna were great aboutfalling into the routines ofcamp. They helped us

unharness the team andcooed at the mules andbabied them during washes,giving them extra-longshampoos. Olive Oyl hadcompletely transferred herloyalty to the girls andwouldn’t leave their side. Itwas great, introducing somefemininitytoourwagontrip.But we nearly had a trailmutiny when we startedunloadingthewagon.

BackinAnnapolis,Donnais a marathon entertainerandchef, and thekitchen inherMcMansionsparkleslikethe glass counters at anApple Store. Cindy hadwarned me about that—Donna needed a coveredwagontrip,shesaid, tocureher neat freak—but I hadforgotten what she said.When I handed out theplastic dairy cases that we

kept our kitchen gear in,Donna looked at our potsand pans and dishes andstood straight up with onehand on her hip and theotherpinchinghernose.

“This is disgusting,” shesaid. “I am not cooking ontopoffilthlikethis.”

Cindy came over for alookherself.

“This is revolting,” shesaid.“Rinker,youusedtobe

socleanandneat.”Ididn’t thinkourkitchen

gear looked that bad.A fewof our dishes were stucktogether because the nightbefore we had accidentallyspilled some harness oil onthem after dinner, andclustersofdoghair,hayseed,and oats had stuck to ourfingerprints. I had scrapedmostofthescorchedMinuteRice, Wesson Oil, and

Hormelchili,nobeans,offofthe pots and pans. Yes, ourfoodcoolerswereshinywithcooking oil and axle greaseandslippedoutofourhandsona rainyday.But thiswasnormal. Everything wasshipshape, exactly as itshould be on a coveredwagontrip.

IexplainedtoCindythatIwashed the dishes myselfeverymorning.

“Whatdidyouwashthemwith?” Cindy said. “Motoroil?”

“A caveman wouldn’t eatontheseplates,”Donnasaid.“Getoutofherewhilewedoarescueclean.”

Nick walked over to seewhat the fusswasabout.Hepulled an undershirt out ofour laundry bag and beganrubbing the grime off thefryingpan.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies,”hesaid. “Let’s not panic here.I’ve got some GreaseMonkeyScrubinmytoolkitandI’llshinethesepotsrightupforya.”

Donna raised her voicenow.

“Go. Both of you.Out ofthiscampforanhour.”

Perhaps I could smooththings over by offering tohelp.

“Cindy,” I said. “Whileyouwash,Icandry,okay?”

“Did you hear her,dickhead?” Cindy shrieked.“Out!Outofthiscamp!Whydon’tyougosomewhereandtakeashower!”

“There’s detergent andScotchBriteinthebottomofthegreencooler,”Isaid.“I’llgetitforyou.”

“Go!Outofthiscamp!”

IlookedovermyshoulderasNickandImeeklywalkedtowardtown,andwhatIsawis still one of my favoriteimagesofthetrip.CindyandDonna were bent over aplastic washbasin with ourkitchen equipment spreadout on the grass. Olive Oylsnoozed in the shade of thewagon behind them. Thepressure nozzle on the hosewas spraying a rainbow-

coloredfanofwater,andthewind picked up the foamydetergent along Cindy andDonna’s tanned arms andblewitawayinbubbles.

When we got back anhour later the whole campsmelled like Brillo pads andPalmolive cleanser. CindyandDonnahadevenwashedthemule buckets, our campchairs,andthewagonseat.

•••

Cindy didn’t believe myclaims about westernnightlife either. After mytrips herding cattle orcovering wildfires inWyomingorArizona,Ioftendescribed to her how Iwould drive every night tothe nearest set of publiccorrals and camp, enjoyingthe carefree, bumptious

companythat I foundat thelocal rodeo grounds. Therodeo corrals of the West,liketheDairyQueensintheMidwest, are major datingsites. The fun, wisecrackingcowgirls and their hunkyboyfriends all start rollinginto the corrals togetheraround six o’clock in theevening, in pickups towinghorse trailers, four or fiveteenagers sitting on each

other’s laps in the cab. Forthe rest of the night theygoof off and flirt, cook hotdogsandsteaksonbarbecuegrills, smoke and sneakbeers, and then saddle upand chase around the ringfor a couple of hours,practicing their roping orbarrel-race turns for thesummer rodeos. There’salways an extra horse and Iloved those nights in the

West, cantering around therings with a pack of youngriders.

“You’re such anexaggerator—nobody livesthat way anymore,” CindysaidacoupleoftimeswhenItoldheraboutmylatesttrip.“Youjustgotothecorralstolookatprettygirls.”

But, sure enough, theteenagers in their pickupsand horse trailers started to

arriveaboutanhourafterwegot to the McCammoncorrals. While Donnacooked up a shish kebobfeastonthegrill,CindyandIhelpedtherodeokidsunloadand saddle their horses.They were an attractivegroup,mostly just fifteen orsixteen, but seeming mucholder because they were soexperienced with theirmounts.

Cindy and I sat high onthe rodeobleachers, sharingsome wine, watching theriderscircleontheirhorses.

“Okay, so I’m sorry,”Cindy said. “I never shouldhave doubtedwhat you saidaboutlifeouthere.Willitbelikethiseverynight?”

“Pretty much. All youhavetodoisrollinwiththerig, and the fun begins.

Everyonewants tobe apartofyourtrip.”

“Nobodycareswhereyoucamp?”

“Nobodycares.Justlive.”“Okay, so how are you

doing?Youlooksotrim.”“Yeah, thanks. From Ash

HollowinNebraskatohere,I’ve probably walked fourhundred miles ahead of thewagon, jacking fences. I

must have lost twenty-fivepounds.”

“Drinking? What aboutdrinking?You’reonlygettingone more wine tonight, bytheway.”

“Cindy, I got drunk onenight in early July in acowboy bar in Glenrock,Wyoming. The rancherswere buying, okay? But thatwas seven hundred milesago.Nodrinking.There’sno

time to drink when you’rerunningmules and scoutingtrail.”

“Okay, sleeping. Whatabout sleeping? Maybe youactuallysleepnow?”

“Like an old dog.There’sno insomnia on theOregonTrail.”

“Okay, reading. Whataboutthereading?”

“Cindy, you’re not goingto believe this one, but

nothing. I’ve read exactlytwo pages of WallaceStegner since we left.Whatis reading, anyway? I don’teven remember thatperson.I don’t have time forreading.”

“Oh, boy,” Cindy said.“Where are we?What statearewein,again?”

“Idaho.”“Idaho. But they have

doctors, right? They must

have doctors in Idaho. Wecangetyouchecked.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Let’s eatdinner,andthenwe’llputupyourtent.”

The McCammon corralsswelled with sociability thatnight. Two draft-horsecouples from nearbyranches, towing along theirgrandchildren, dropped byto inspect the Schuttler andourmules, and theygaveus

several bales of alfalfa hay.More teenagers pulled inwith their horse vans, andthe rodeo grounds began tofill up with young familiesandchildrenasanamateur-league softball game beganonthediamondnearby.Thetown maintenance mandroppedovertovisitandtellus thathehadrelocated thelawn sprinklers so that theywouldn’tsprayonCindyand

Donna’s tent. He wouldleave the door to therestroomsnear theball fieldunlockedforthenight.

Afterdinnerweborroweda couple of horses and tookturns galloping around therodeo ring, and I wassurprisedbyhowwellDonnarode.CindyandIstoodwithour arms resting on the toprail of the arena fence,watching her circuit on a

buckskin mare. Donnaleaned in almost perfectlywith the gait of the horse,signaling a turn more withherbodythanthereins,andthenpulledupinfrontofusinawispofdust.

“Go, girl,” I said. “Howcome you didn’t tell us youcouldridesowell?”

“It’s only my third orfourth time on a horse,”

Donna said. “I love this outhere!”

Then she galloped offagain.

“See,whatdidItellyou?”Cindy said. “This is so goodfor her. It’s the coveredwagoncure.”

•••

Nick and I felt joyfullyreunited as a wagon pair

after Cindy and Donna left.West of American Falls thecontrasts in the landscapepassed like a lyricalmicrocosm ofAmerica.Outpast Dietrich and Gooding,where the ground isirrigated, there is a greenEden of dairy farms thatlooks likeMinnesota. Otherstretches along the Snake,where the land is notwatered, could pass for

Death Valley. Along theOwyheeMountainssouthofBoise,theAugustpotatoandonion harvest was underway, and the open trucksracingbywithseveraltonsofpungent onions made themules sneeze. We campedseveral timesat state fishingpullouts along the Snake. Inthemorning I loved wakingearly,stuffingourdishesandpots from the night before

into my knapsack, hikingdown to a quiet cove alongtheriver,strippingbare,andsteppingintothewateruptomychest.Ifloatedthedishesandabottleofdetergentoutbehind me to wash them,and then held them fartherout to rinse in the current.WhileIshaved,bylookingatthe reflection of my face intheriver,iridescentcirclesof

soap and dish detergenteddieddownstream.

By Homedale, at thewestern edge of Idaho, thelong stretches of lava-rockfieldsandconcretehighwayshad worn the mule shoesdowntothin,shinyshardsofsteel. We stopped for twodays and camped at thefairgrounds in town to findblacksmiths and to greasethe wheels. Nick hitched a

ride with a rancher back toAmerican Falls to retrievehispickup.Homedalewasanenjoyable, civilized respitefor us in a quintessentialAmerican small town, andwe ate breakfast and dinnerat the Owyhee Lanes andRestaurant, bowling afterdinnerbeforewereturnedtocamp.

Still, our domicile at thefairgroundsandthepleasant

routines of Homedalemademe feel hemmed in, stalled.More than three months ofobsessing for miles hadturned me into a feral,nomadic creature whocouldn’t stop moving, andlifewasnolongerlifeformewhen the wagon wasn’tpushing west all day. Atdawn, I shivered throughanhour of anxiety while I fedand watered the mules. I

could almost smell Oregonnow, but we weren’t thereyet. It was only eight milesaway and I couldn’t standthesuspense.

Themorningwhenitwastime to go, Nick helpedmeharness themules and thenleanedagainstthemetalgateof the fairground corrals,looking down and gentlytoeing the dust with oneboot.Hepushedhiscowboy

hat back on his head andlookedup.

“Boss, I’m headin intotownforhardwareparts,andthen I think I’m goin to dosome clothes at theLaundromat.Okay?”

“Nick, now?” I said.“Now?”

“Rinker, I think youshoulddrivethis laststretchinto Oregon by yourself.This is your trip. You

decidedtodo it. I really likethe idea of getting back toMaine and telling everyonethat you drove the mulesintoOregonalone.”

“You think I should dothat?”

“I think you should dothat.”

And so, solo with themules, I drove the last,dream stretch into Oregon.It was a beautiful, cool

morning to be alone on awagon, and the harnessjingled and the iron rimssang as I passed the alfalfafarms and the irrigatedorchards along the quietroad west. The country inwestern Idaho is hilly, andfrom the tops of the rises Icouldseethegoldenfoldsofthe Owyhee Mountainsahead. I passed a mobilehome with lovely gardens

andmyheartstartedtoracewhen we reached theStateline Store: GAS—BEER—POP. At Deer Flat I saw thelarge green sign ahead andstartedtosingtothemules.

WELCOMETOOREGON

I wanted to cry butcouldn’t,IwishedNickwerethere to share thiswithme,and I was proud of mymules. There was a nice

breezeonmyfaceasItalkedto the team and I thoughtagainofmyfatherandwhatIwouldtellhimnow.Thankyou, Dad, for raising us socrazyass, because that wasthe reason I could not onlyimagine this trip, but do ittoo.Rightthen,Ididn’tmindatallbeingjustwhoIwas—aloopy, anachronistic,dreaming jackass who hadcrossed to Oregon in a

coveredwagon.ThatwasthejourneyIdreamedformyselfandnowwewerethere.

At the large greenWELCOME TO OREGON sign Ipulled the team onto thesandy shoulder of the roadandtappedthesignwithmyhandaswepassedby.

“TwelveshoesinOregon,Team!BigTeam!BigTeam!Jake! Beck! Bute! Big Team!

Twelve shoes in Oregon,Team.”

The road into Oregonfromthere twistsbeautifullydown into an agriculturalvalley along North AlkaliCreek. Irrigated alfalfa andsoybean fields are plantedlike wall-to-wall carpetingacross the bottomlands and,to the west, browngrasslands rise to theOwyhee Range. I passed

several horse farms, and, atone of them, a buckaroowearing a wide sombrerostraw hat was saddling achesty palomino-paint at ahitching post beside a redbarn. He waved, quicklyfinished cinching his saddlegirth, and galloped out tomeet the wagon. Thecowboy was named ClydeandhewastrainingthepaintforaclientupinPrairieCity.

He rode beside me for anhourandwe talked,and thespontaneous trailcompanionship seemed likesomethingIhaddreamedformyself about arriving inOregon.

A few miles ahead, theroad joinedsome lowgrassybanksalongtheSnake.Clydetied his horse to the rearwheel of the Schuttler,climbed onto the wagon

seat,andheldthelineswhileIwateredthemulesfromtheriver.

Clyde galloped off afterthat, a friendly cowboyonapretty paint disappearinginto the green bottomlands.On the road ahead, thewheelsrhythmicallysoundedon the pavement joints, andmy blue jeans wererefreshingly wet and coolfromwateringtheteam.The

scent of freshly mowedalfalfawashypnotic.IwasinOregonnow, alonewithmymules on the road towardKeeney Pass, and I didn’tthinkthatIwouldeveragainenjoysuchaperfectday.

29

PROBABLY VERY FEWNINETEENTH-CENTURY

OVERLANDERS believed theexaggerated claims aboutpigs fattening to the size of

cowsandturnipsgrowingasbigaspumpkinsinthefertilePacific Northwest, butnevertheless there was awidely shared assumptionthatOregonwouldbegrassyand arboreal.Disillusionment was therewardforgettingthere.Thelong “rain shadow” cast bythedistantCascades limitedprecipitation to eight inchesorlessayearontheleeside

of the mountains. EasternOregonisthefaredgeoftheGreat American Desert andthepioneersandtheirfailingdraftanimalswouldstruggleacross another threehundred miles of salt flatsandyellowish-brownravinesbefore they reached thegreenWillametteValley.

For the wagons, easternOregon became one longbreakdown lane. After

bangingovereveryrockanddry creek bed along 1,700miles of river frontage, anddrying out and cracking inthe desert heat, theSchuttlers and theStudebakers were fallingapart faster than thepioneers could repair them.Many pioneers, followingthe example of Marcus andNarcissaWhitman,cuttheirdisintegrating wagons into

one-axlecartsandcontinuedonwithasingledraftanimal.Whenthosebrokedowntoo,theywalkedorrodetherestof the way to the ColumbiaRiverandthenboateddowntothePacificcoast.

There was no single wayto reach the endof the trailand a lively atmosphere ofexperimentation prevailed,turning the last stretch tothePacificintoabusyjalopy

andboatworks.As farbackas the middle Snake, manypioneers decided to leavetheir wheels and runninggear behind. Then theycaulked the wagon boxesandfloatedthemdownriver,making long, difficultportages between the Snakeandthesmallerriversahead,following a meanderingnorthwest course to theColumbia. In high-water

years, theseunwieldywagonscowscapsizedintherapids,and in low-water years theyran aground, and the riverscontinued to exact sizabledeath tolls. Accuratelycalculatingthepercentageofwagons that made it all theway across is impossibletoday,butprobablynomorethan half of the white-topsthat left the jumping-offgrounds along the Missouri

finally made it past theCascadesintact.

The scuttled wagons andparts along the linearjunkyard of eastern Oregonrarely sat for very long onthe desert floor. Milledlumber was a valuable assetin frontier America and itwas aggressively recycled,often more than once.During the flatboat andcanal era in the 1830s and

1840s, coal, grain, andlivestock fromPennsylvania,Ohio, and the upperMidwest were floated tomarketsinNewOrleansandbeyondalongtheMississippiriversystem.Afterthecargowasunloaded,someoftheseflatboats were poled backupriver, but that wasarduous work and few rivermen enjoyed taking on theMississippi’s powerful

southern flow. Import-export towns like NewOrleans were rapidlyexpanding at the time andneeded lumber. On theLouisiana waterfront, theflatboats were carefullydisassembled and the deckplankingandframingtimberwere sold to be planed forhouses, furniture, andwagons.ThesalvagevalueofWisconsinorIllinoislumber

carried downriver as aflatboat often delivered alargeshareof theprofits foracargotrip,andhundredsofboats were built every yearwith the explicit idea ofquick resale on the NewOrleanswaterfront.

In the 1850s, the samekindofindustrywasbuiltupat the Dalles and othersettlements along theColumbia River. For a fee,

teams of carpenters wouldtake apart a wagon and usethepartstofashionaraftora keelboat, sometimes evenbuilding a crude sleepingshanty on deck, and thepioneers continued towardthe Willamette Valley onthese marine contraptions.Commercial boat operatorsalso hauled payingpassengers downstream,many of them accepting

payment in the form ofwagons and teams. AtPortland and Oregon City,most of these vessels wereconvertedtofishingboatsorriver ferries, or taken apartandsoldbytheboardfootashousingorfurniturelumber.Inmostyears,ofcourse,themajority of wagons thatreachedOregonmanagedtostruggle over the BlueMountains ahead and then

follow the Barlow RoadCutoffaroundtheCascades.But hundreds of thousandsof board feet of milledlumberalsoreachedthewestcoast as wagon salvage,providing building materialfor mining camps, farms,and theburgeoning citiesofnorthern California andOregon.

It’s interesting tospeculate just how far a

single board from a coveredwagon might have traveled,andhowmanyusesitservedbefore ending up as tavernflooringorsidingonaliverybarn in Portland orSacramento. Certainly theleftovers from theestimated150,000wagonsthatcrossedthewesterntrail systemwasa lot of wood. At antiquestores in Oregon andCalifornia,I’veseenplentyof

blanket chests and oldhutches with handwrittenplacards stating that theyhave been “expertly”appraised by antiquefurniture specialists andlabeled “19th Century, RealWagon Boards.” It’s a greatsales pitch and, in manycases, probably true. Giventhehand-me-downnatureofthe nineteenth century’srural economy, it’s not far-

fetched to conceive of thegreatest land migration inhistory as something morethan a removal of needyfamiliesandreligiouszealotstocheapWesternlands.Theiconic covered wagonschurning up dust on theirway toward Oregon werealso a massive transfer ofvaluable resources from theforested East to the drierWest.

•••

Oregonflummoxedusinthesamewaythatitflummoxedthepioneers.Thealkali flatsstretchingupfromtheSnakemicrowaved with dry heat,and,asIkneltinthesandtoopencattlegates,dustdevilsblewdownfromtheOwyheehills.InNyssa,wepassedanoutdoor bank clockregistering 102 degrees, and

Inoticed thatnight that themetal frames of mysunglasses had left barbecuemarks onmy face.Our cartwheels got hung up on agatepost at Keeney Passabove Vale, and we spenthalf an hour on thescorching summit gruntingandheavingthewheelsbackonto the trail. Oh,sumptuous,verdantOregon,the land of my dreams!

Rinker, youmaybe the firstwagon traveler in a centurytocrossthetrail,butyouarealso that century’s mostgullibledunce.

Nick spent two daysfixated on wagon repairwhile we camped at therodeo corrals along theMalheurRiverinVale.Afewdaysbefore,IhadspokenbycellphonewithDonWernerin Kansas. Our Trail Pup

wheelshadbeenrebuilt andI had him ship them toIdaho, where I had found atruckertohaultheTrailPupand new wheels to Oregonand then return ourborrowed cart toWyoming.Keeping thewagonsmovingacross the trail was gettingexpensive—all told, I hadnow spent over $5,000 onTrail Pup repairs andshipping.

When I scouted the trailahead, my expectationsabout enjoying a leisurelyrun down the home stretchweredashed.Therutsnorthof Vale up through AlkaliGulchwereasauthenticandbeautiful as the Acropolisstretch inWyoming, butwewere blocked again by aninterstate. When theinterstate highway systemwas built in the 1950s, the

Oregon Department ofTransportation solved theproblem of routing trafficthroughthenarrowcanyonsandovermountainridgesofthe state by selecting theproven terrain of thepioneers.U.S.Highway84—today called the “OldOregon Trail Highway”—covers long stretches of theoriginal Oregon Trail rutsthroughout the state.

Searchingforaroutearoundthe interstate on the seven-thousand-acre Birch CreekRanch, I found a prominentstonetrailmarkerhighupintheOwyheefoothills,butthetrail route below became amorass of muddy cattletracks that disappeared intoa man-made lake, LoveReservoir, which was builtearly in the twentieth

century to sustain a largecattleoperation.

Dejected and sunburned,my water canteen emptyafter a long afternoon ofhiking theOwyhee foothills,I sat on a rock near themuddy fringes of LoveReservoir, once againstymied by trail interruptus.This was the story of ourtrip, the conundrum of themodern trail. My beloved

rutshadjustvanishedundera lake and ahead, behind ascreen of craggy badlands,they were paved over by afour-lanehighway.

AsIglumlyclimbedbackupthefoothills,IfoundaNOTRESSPASSING sign at abarbed-wire gate, with aphone number for a landmanagement company backin Idaho. I called that nightwhen Ihadcell reception in

Vale. Rancher Vince Holtzwasexcitedtohearfromme.Holtz ran a typical westernagricultural operation—cropfarming and a large seed-growingbusiness inwesternIdaho, and rangeland forcattle at the Birch CreekRanch in Oregon, seventymiles away. He had heardabout our trip when wepassedjustafewmilesfromhis farm near Marsing,

Idaho, and was thrilled thatsomeone was making anauthentic crossing of thetrail.Hehadspent theweekworried that we would getlost when we reached thelasttrailmarkeronhisranchatWillowCreek.ButhehadnowayofcontactingusandwashappywhenIcalled.

“Oh, a guy can easily getlostupthere,”hetoldmeonthephone.“Butthere’saway

through on original trailaroundthelake.I’llcomeupthere tomorrow and leadyouthrough.”

I didn’t like the idea ofinconveniencing theproprietor of a substantialranch, butHoltz insistedondriving up from Idaho thenextdayandguidingus.Heturned out to be one of thebestfindsofthetrip.Butourstruggle was far from over

and Iwould soon learnwhythe pioneers consideredeastern Oregon unremittinghell.

•••

The Trail Pup was myGettysburg,myGallipoli,myperpetual Pearl Harbor andDien Bien Phu. Theinvention that I was soproud of, and which had

made our trip possible, justwouldn’tstopboomerangingback to torture me. It wasmyWatergateonwheels,my$13,000 boondoggle of thetrail.

Nick and I decided that,becausewewerenowonlyacamp or two from FarewellBend,wemightaswellkeepthe pickupwith us until wedecided where to end thetrip. So, while he lingered

behind inVale for ahealthybreakfast of fried chickenand tater tots, I pushednorth out of town in thewagon alone, singing to themulesas the irrigatedalfalfacountry went by, thenturning north a few milesabove town for the markedtrailupthroughthesaltflatsofAlkaliGulch.

Everything was runningwell and I loved pushing

mules up the mountainsthroughclassictrailcountry,alone on the wagon.Antelopeboundedbyonthescrub-grass hills and prairiefalcons swooped low overtherange.Thesaltflatswereas hard as pavement and itwas a joy looking back overtherigandseeingmyjauntyTrail Pup, freshly rebuilt byNick,bouncingalongbehindthe main wagon with its

Americanflagdancinginthewind.

Nickwasdelayedwhenapartofhisbumperfelloffashe bounced through AlkaliGulch. He circled back tolook for the missing part,which put him out of cellphone contact, when Idropped behind a tall,rounded peak beside thetrail,TubMountain.Iwasinthemiddleofsingingoneof

my favorite songs, “I’m aRamblin’ Wreck fromGeorgiaTech,” to themuleswhen I heard a loud bang!from the rear. The mulesstarted digging in to pull asuddenlyheavierload.

“Team, whoa! Whoa!Jake. Just relax now. Jake,holdthem.”

Ididn’thavetolookbacktoknowwhathadhappened—itwastheLiscosoundthat

I heard, the South Passsound of splintering woodand then a heavy cartcollapsing and dragging onthesand.TheTrailPupwasdown.

WhenIdid standupandlook back over the white-top, Icouldsee thatbothofthe shiny new cart wheelswere intact, but angled inand resting against the box,collapsedfromthecenter.It

was axle failure this time.NowIwouldhavetowaitinhundred-degree heat forNick to catch up, and oncemore pause and reorganizeforrepairs.

Ishouldhavebeencrying,but I could only laugh atmyself. We were twelvemilesfromVale,twenty-fourhours after Nick hadcompleted a $5,000 rebuildon the cart. Itwas not even

noon yet. It took only thatlong for the Trail Pup toonce more shit the bed.Everything on the trip hadgone so well so far, exceptforthisonesmallproblemofstaffing that I hadoverlooked. Yes, RinkerBuck, the twenty-first-centurytrailbossandwagonarchitect, had undeniablydesigned one of the mostattractive Trail Pups since

the fur-trading days. ItcomplementedtheSchuttleras adorably as a shinyAirstream Bambi followingan SUV down the highway.For reliability, however, theRinker Buck Trail Pup wastheChernobyloftheOregonTrail.

ForsomeoddreasonthatI still can’t figure out—except that memory doesworkinstrangeandamusing

ways—I was reminded thatmomentofsittinginamovietheaterasaboyandlisteningto the lyrics of a popularRodgers and Hammersteinnumber from South Pacific.While taking baths on apalm-fringed Hawaiianbeach,MitziGaynorandtherest of the female castspontaneously broke intosong, lamenting the state oftheirboyfriendrelationships.

I’ve always loved the tuneand, now that it was soappropriate, I began singingit to themules, improvisingmyownlyrics.

I’mgonnawashthatmanrightoutamyhair

Andsendhimonhisway.

I’mgonnathrowthatTrailPupintothe

SnakeI’mgonnathrowthat

TrailPupintotheSnake

I’mgonnathrowthatTrailPupintotheSnake

Deep-sixthatfuckertoday.

The song therapy feltgood and I was at one withmy life, my mules, and my

wagon. Desert meadowlarkssangalongwithmefromthehills and the mulescontentedly munched onwild sunflowers growingbeside the trail. I hadscrewed the poodle again.Big fucking deal. Litteringthe trail once more withbroken wagon parts andfreshly splintered wood justmademeabetterpioneer.

As he came over the riseinhispickup,NickexcitedlyhonkedhishornandskiddedtoastopbehindthecrippledTrailPup.

“This Trail Pup is like abadgirlfriend,”hesaid.“Shenevergoesaway.”

“We’re throwing thatfucker into the Snake assoon as we get to FarewellBend,”Isaid.

Wagon Professor Buckquickly diagnosed what hadhappened.Thecast-ironhubskeins on the wheels wereconnected to the woodenaxleoneithersidewithabiglag bolt extending severalinches into theoak.The lagbolt hadn’t failed, but theoak axlehad,probably fromsitting out in the open inDon Werner’s Kansaspasture for years, then

drying out after bouncingacross a thousand miles ofdesert.

“Running gear failure,”Nicksaid.“Metaltowoodisyour weak point in everyrig.”

I quicklydecided thatwewould again abandon theTrail Pup beside the trail.We could always find acowboy ahead who wouldhelpusretrieveitlater.Nick

yanked the drop-pinattaching the Trail Pup tothemainwagonandIheardthe tongue drop to the trailwith an ignominious plop.Whileheunloadedthewaterbarrelsandprovisionsinthecartintohispickup,Iwoulddrive ahead to meet VinceHoltzatWillowCreek.

Andso,cheerfullysinging“I’mGonnaWashThatManRightOutaMyHair” to the

mules, I climbed the wagonup through the sunnyOwyhees.Calamitiesseemedto suit me and I was filledwith a lightness of being.The skin on my hands wasstretched tight and bakedtranslucentbythesun,andIwasnowsothinthatmybelthung loose on my waist.Abandoning the Trail Puphad reduced our load by aton and the mules were

giddy about pulling thelightened rig. In country asgolden as the wheat hills ofMontana, my wagon waslight,thelineswerefeatheryinmyhands,andthewheelspadded gently over acushionofdust. Iwanted toridemySchuttlerforever.

•••

In theWest,youcanalwaystell the working ranchersfrom the rich-boy hobbyistsoutofJacksonandPaloAlto—the real deal could easilybe mistaken for the servicemanager at the local JohnDeere dealership. As Iclimbed the rises throughBirch Creek Ranch, I couldsee Vince Holtz far ahead,leaningagainstthefenderofhis battered pickup and

photographing the wagonand the mules as Iapproached. He was tall,rangy, and white-haired,withaboyishfaceandhandsthat were calloused andsmudged from turning a lotof wrenches. He wore aCarharttT-shirt, ratty jeans,and scuffed black workshoes.

Iapologizedforbeinglateandexplained thatwe’d just

dumped our provision cartbehind us on the trail.Nickwas still back there loadingour hay and oats into hispickup.

“Oh, you don’t have toleave your wagon on thetrail,”Vincesaid.“Howbigisit?”

“Half the size of thiswagonhere.”

“I’m going back to helpyour brother.We can easily

fitthecartinmytruckandIknow a shop inHuntingtonwherewecanfixit.”

Vince handed me bottlesof chilled Gatorade andspringwaterfromacoolerinthe back of his pickup andtold me to wait for him atthenext cattle gate.When Ireached it, I steered themules into another largebloomofsunflowersandsat

inthebrightsunlightsingingsomemoretunestothem.

When Nick and Vincefinallycameup,weformedajaunty, shitrig caravan ofvehicles, bobbing up anddown the hills. The TrailPup and itswheels hungoffthe back of Vince’s pickupandbalesofhayandourgearwere stackedhighonNick’sToyota. Vince led the waythrough his ranch, turning

northeastforLoveReservoirat the Oregon Trail markerbelowWillowSpringsCamp.I followed with the wagonand Nick brought up therear. I could relax and justenjoydriving through lovelycountrynow.Fortherestofthe day Vince would guideus through Birch CreekRanch,andheknewthewayto Farewell Bend on theoriginaltrail.

Wehad losta lotof timemonkeying around with theTrail Pup and our tripthrough Birch Creek Ranchwouldbe the longestday allsummer.After he guided usaroundthelakeandoverthesteep dam embankment onthe far side, Vince stoppedseveraltimestoexplainhowthe first homesteaders hadbuilt their aqueduct downfrom the hills, and then

fenced in the old OregonTrail country for cattlerange. He showed us thedeepwagon swales that stillexistonhis lowerranch.Allof this took time and wedidn’t stop the wagon andfence in the mules untileleven o’clock that night. Itwasaftermidnightwhenwefinally dumped the remainsoftheTrailPupattheSnakeRiverGarageinHuntington.

The mules had been inharnessforfifteenhours,butI was elated. For fourmonths now, fromSt. Joe, Ihad carried on the back ofthe wagon the SEE AMERICASLOWLY sign that identifiedFarewell Bend as ourdestination, our end-of-the-trail goal. We were nowcamped just a mile awayfromtheoldpioneerstopontheSnake.

I thanked Vince for agreatdayandtoldhimthatIwasworriedthathestillhadanhour’sdrivetogetbacktohisfarminIdaho.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” hesaid. “If a guy decides tomakeatriplikethis?”

“Right.”“Thingsworkout.I’mjust

luckyImetyou.”I thanked him again and

he rolled down his window

after stepping into hispickup.

“I’llseeyousoon.Mywifereally wants to meet yourmules.”

•••

Fantails of welding sparkssprayed through the air asNick and the owner of theSnake River Garage, SteveStacy, rebuilt the Trail Pup

axle. It was another repairinterlude thatmorphed intoa covered wagon party forus. Merri Melde, aphotographer andendurance rider whom wehadmetbackinIdaho,droveup for theweekend to sharecamp and shoot pictures ofus riding the trail. VinceHoltz and his wife, Sue,drove back to Huntingtonwith a large shopping bag

full of apples for the mulesandseemedtobeverytakenwith the team. We all sataroundonlawnchairsintheshade of the cottonwoodtrees at the garage, drinkingcoffee and eating take-outbreakfast burritos while wewatched the axle beingrebuilt.

We faced onemore perilahead. To get aroundanother stretch of the

interstate,wewouldhave tofollow the original ruts thatclimbed a notorious wagongraveyard in the ravinesabovethetownofLime, theBurnt River Canyon. Thefifth-generation owners ofthemountaintop ranch thattherutscrossedwereexcitedaboutguidingusthroughthearea, and they were certainthatnowagonhadbeenover

the original trail there inmorethanahundredyears.

But there was a bighazardat theend,along theBurnt River below thecanyons. When the firstrailroadswereintroducedtoeasternOregoninthe1880s,thesurveyorswereso intenton following the favorableOregon Trail terrain alongthe river that they laid therails adjacent to the ruts.

Freight trains ran throughthis section of track severaltimes a day, after emergingthrough the tunnel on thenorth face of LookoutMountain. If a locomotiveroared through we wouldhave no warning until thetrain was almost on top ofus. Then we would besharingthetrailwithamile-long freight train, separatedbyonlyafewfeet.

Steve Stacy offered toround up enough pickuptrucks and trailers to ferrythemulesandwagonsnorthalong the interstate. But Iwas entranced by theopportunitytocoveranotherfifteenmilesoforiginalruts,and I didn’t want to truckthe mules after 1,800 milesofunassistedwagontravel.Iwouldtakemychanceswiththetrains.

On our second day inHuntington,Iwasanxioustoput theBurntRiverCanyonrutsbehindus,butNickandStevewere still finishing therepairs on the Trail Pup. Idecided to forge ahead overthe canyons with MerriMelde, and Nick and Stevewould catch upwith us latein the day, bringing therepaired cart forward on atrailer.

Itwasafun,rigorousday,with some of the toughestdriving of the whole trip.Merri clickedawaywithhercamerawhile I threaded theteam through the ravines,andby late in the afternoonwe had splashed across thelast creek and reached thebottom of the canyon. Ipulledthemulesuptowaterthem, a few feet away fromtheUnionPacifictracks.

I stared down the track,which disappeared into thefoothills along the narrowriver plain. Our graveledroute literally abutted thetracks to the left, and therewas a steep embankmentsloping down to the rightwhere the ground had beenbuilt up to lay the elevatedtrackbed.Wefacedaclassicrunaway scenario if a trainrumbledoutof theLookout

Mountain tunnel behind usand spooked the mules.Theywouldprobablyprotectthemselves by not turningleft onto the tracks, or rightover the embankment, butinstead galloping straightaheadtoescapethesoundofthetrain.

ItoldMerrithatifatrainarrived and the team tookoff,Iwouldletthemulesrunthemselves out. Once they

realized that the rushingsound behind them was atrain—something theyrecognized by now—theywouldtireandslowdown.

“Ireadsomewherethat ifateamtakesoff,it’sbettertostayonthewagoninsteadofjumping off,”Merri said. “Isthattrue?”

“I don’t know,” I said.“But stay with the wagon. Imay need you to hold one

lineandhelpmecontroltheteam.”

Of course, just a minuteortwoafterweturneddownthe access road and werecommitted, I heard themetallic echoing of wheelsagainstrailsandthemuffledroar of turbine exhaustfunnelingoutoftheLookoutMountain tunnel behind us.I knew that the freight trainwould be a big one—more

thanamilelong—andthatitwould clatter andbangoverthe rails for almost fifteenminutes, less than three feetfromthemules.

But I was also countingon one thing. All the wayacross from Missouri we’dmet Union Pacific trainsalongthetrail,thoughneveras close as this, and theengineers had always wavedand slowed down the trains

as they passed. In June, wehadmetseveralengineersatthe big Union Pacific yardsinNorthPlatteandtheytoldus that they were allexchanging informationabout our crossing, keepingupwith our progress acrossthe West. The fraternity oftrainmen knew that theUnionPacific tracks huggedtheOregon Trail across thecontinent, and this was the

first time they hadencountered a coveredwagon. They loved seeingourwhite-topsandflutteringAmerican flag from adistance. This engineerwould have to know aboutus.Myluckacrosstheplainshad been good so far. Ihadn’t reached the BurntRiverCanyoninOregonjusttomeettheoneengineerinahundred who didn’t

recognize theSchuttlerwiththe American flag along histracks.Themulesmightnotspook if I could just get theengineer to slow down andeasepastuswithhisturbinesatanidle.

Whenthelocomotivewasa hundred yards off, I gavethe lines toMerriandstoodup on the seat, waving myhat first and thendramatically raising and

lowering my arms—slow,slow—tosignaltheengineer.

Good.Thisguywasswift.Insteadofsignalingmebackwith a blast of his whistle,which might frighten themules,hewavedhisballcapoutthroughthecabwindowand then flashed his biggrimy center light severaltimes. Black exhaustbillowed from the engineventsastheengineerflooded

his turbines to make theminefficient, to slow the traindown without applying hisscreechingbrakes.

The train was coming,butIfeltcomposed,resignedto fate. The diffused historyof the Oregon Trail feltspiritual now. The path ofpurpose and hope thatspanned the plains hadjoined everything—tracksthat followed the wagon

ruts, churches rebelling, furtrappers and dreamyadventurers, wagonmillionaires, new irrigationditches,themagnificentfollyand stoic sacrifice of a landjoined by a route throughSouth Pass. And now, linehand to throttlehand,mindto mind, I was joined withthat engineer like thebondsofmancelebratedbyaWaltWhitmanpoem.

The rumble of the trainwas louder now, with theechoes of the rear carsthunderingoutofthetunnel.Thetracksbesideusvibratedand groaned from theapproaching load. I tookthelines back from Merri andspoketothemulesabovetheroar just behind us. Theyhad to know that I wasawareofthehazardcoming,

and that I would protectthem.

“Justatrain,Team.Justatrain. Jake! Bemy boy, Jake!Bemyboy.Holdthemback,Jake.Holdthemback.”

A whoosh of noise,turbine exhaust, andcompressedhotairblewpastas the grimy yellow engineapproached. Beck started todance in her harness,lowering her neck to leap

into a run, but I caught heras hard as I could with theright line, double-wrappingthe leather against myhands. Jake turned his headto quickly look back at meand then leaned sidewaysand nipped Beck hard justbehindherears.

“Thataboy, Jake. Eas-A,Eas-A,Team.Jake,that’smyboy.Justatrain,Team.Justatrain.Eas-A.Eas-A.”

As the locomotive wentby my left cheek I gave theengineer the “A-Okay” withone handwhile still holdingthe lines, and the engineerlooked down and smiledfromhisopenwindow.TwothumbsupinaredCarharttT-shirt. Whooooosh,harrumph, harrumph,harrumph, metal to metalclanging, the long freighterbegan to pass. The boxcar

doorsjustafewfeetfrommyfacerattledontheirmounts.

“Justatrain,Team.Justatrain.Jake,Beck.Eas-A,Eas-A. Hold them back, Jake.Walk,Team.Walk.”

Beck danced in herharness a few more timesand threatened to bolt, butJake was sick of her shit bynow and arched over withhis neck and planted a bigferalbiteonherneck.Once

she could see more trainahead of her and realized itwasn’tathreat,Beckcalmeddown, and Bute looked sorelaxed that I thought shemight fall asleep in harness.Jake had one ear floppedbackwardtolistentomeandone ear forward followingthe train. He was pullingbackward against the yokewith his massive neck and

chest to keep the team at awalk.

“You’re my boy, Jake.You’remyboy.”

Ka-plunk-ka-plunk-ka-plunk, for more than tenminutes, the train rumbledby.

Iwasstillguardedaboutarunaway, but thrilled by thesight of the narrow canyonwalls, the plodding mules,andthelongcurvingoutline

of the train, sound andimage merging against theorange triangle of lightwhere the canyon endedahead.Whilethelocomotiveand the front carsdisappeared around the endof the canyon, the rear carswere still screeching andlurching beside us. Thetracks cracked loudly withirontension.

Thetrainwasgonebythetime we reached the end ofthe Union Pacific accessroad, leavingbehind the railyard smell of brake fluid,greaseonrust,andbleachedpaint. The canyon seemedstrangely quiet as wereached Sisley Creek andthen turned northeast tofollow the Oregon Trail uponto the ridges again,towardGoldHill.

“Good team! Good team!Jake! Beck! Bute! You’re myteam!Iloveyou,Jake!”

We rose through hillsstriated with basalt rockledges,andthengreenshort-grasspastures—thefairylandcontrasts of the trail. Faraway,thetrainmovingnorthacross the plains blew threeshort blasts of its whistle,probably at a road crossing.But I told myself that the

engineer knew that hiscaboose was safely past thewagonnowandhappyaboutit. He was shrieking hiswhistle as a good-bye to themulesandme.

30

THEOREGONTRAILWASMY

homenow,andtherhythmicsightsandsmellsof thetrailcountry were comforting

and familiar. Through thefirstweeksof Septemberweharnessed and hitched themules early every morning,drinking coffee and pullingon extra shirts against thecold. Nick had his pickupnow and often drove aheadto scout our routes andmake fried chicken stops,andIenjoyedthesolitudeofdriving the mules alone upthrough the old mining

district of SuttonCreek andQuartz. Drawing deeply onbrisk autumn air scentedwith sage, I sang to themules andgavewagon ridesto children waiting by theirmailboxestowave.

I didn’t want my wagonjourney to end and deludedmyself intothinkingthat ifIprocrastinated about it, Iwouldn’t have to make adecisionaboutstopping.But

as we approached BakerCity,thenightsweregettingcolder and it was oftenraining, and new snow hadfallen overnight on theElkhornpeaks to thewest. Iknew that I would have tostop by October to avoidgetting trapped by winterweather in the mountains.The trail from here wasmostly on heavily fencedsmallfarmswherewewould

never get through, or pavedover by Interstate 84. I hadprovedmypointbyreachingOregon and couldn’t pushthetripmuchfarther.

Besides, as far back asIdaho, I had been torturedabout what to do with themules when the trip wasover and often lay awake atnightinthewagonworryingabout it.Closingup the tripand finding a decent home

for the mules requiredstopping somewhere longenoughtothinkaboutitandmake calls, and I beratedmyself for lack of planning.But that’swhat the tripwasall about. We’d done quitewell all summer livingspontaneously day by day,allowing events and thesurprisesofthetrailtoguideus.Ihadnoplans.Ilivedinacovered wagon. I relied on

thegenerosityof trail familyand slept like a hobo inpublic parks and rodeoarenas. It was too addictiveand satisfying a life to tossawayfordomestichabitslikeplanning.

At Baker City, Nick haddriven ahead in his pickupalong the Powder River tofind the ranch belonging toVince Holtz’s brother-in-law,wherewehadbeentold

we could camp. But he gotlost in the maze of ranchroads up there and didn’treturn. As I pushed themulesnorthonHighway30,I realized that I had badlymiscalculated the sunset.TheElkhornMountainsriseabruptly to the west afterBaker City, blocking theevening light, and the roadwas pitch-black by seveno’clock.AsIpushednorthin

thedarknessofthehighway,the only thing lighting myway were the headlamps ofpassingcars.

But I wasn’t drivingcompletely blind. Pickuptrucks and minivans startedpulling over ahead of me,and everyone had asuggestion about where Icould stop and camp—asister’s place here, theparkinglotofachurchthere.

As I passed a very sweet-looking ranch on the right,the rancher was pulling outofhisdriveinafour-wheelerwith the lights on. I askedhim if I could camp thereand explained that I mightneedtostayforafewnightsto rest the mules andresupplyinBakerCity.

“My other place justnorthisbetter,”therancher,Mike Williams, said. “I’ve

gotfouracresoffencedgrassfor the mules, and a bigwatering trough. If it rainsyoucansleepinthebarns.”

I yelled ahead to aminivan driver to ride infront of the wagon slowlywithher emergency flasherson. A pickup was parkedrightbesideme,andIaskedthatdrivertofollowmewithhis flashers going and highbeams on, to light my way

from behind. My rear LEDstrobeswereflashingtoo.

That is how I arrived atourfinalcamp,inthemiddleof a mixed transportationparade of wagons and cars,with three sets of flashersbouncinglightofftheyellowdivider line on the highway.The purple-black rimof theElkhorns was etched in thesky to the west as I turnedup the ranch road.My trail

family escort of ranchers inpickups and mothers withchildren in minivansfollowedthewagonin.

The Williams ranch wasideal, if spongy underfootfrom heavy irrigation. Ipulledtheteamupagainstacorral fence tounharness inthe dark and gave a few ofthe trail family kids ridesaround the corral on Jake.WhenNickfinallyfoundme

weusedhispickuplightsforillumination to bathe theteam. One by one, whentheir baths were done, themules happily galloped offintothebroadgreenpasture.

It was cold that night inthe Elkhorns, and when Istepped from the wagon inthemorningNickandOliveOyl were huddled togetheron a wet patch of grass,shivering with a soaked

blanket wrapped aroundthem. God. I still couldn’tbelieve that they had sleptoutdoorsthisway,nomatterthe conditions, for fourmonths. I had to get themundersheltersoon.

“Yo, Sidekick,” I yelled.“Coffee coming right up.We’reoutofbaconandeggs.HowaboutHormelchili,nobeans,forbreakfast?”

“Great. Put on an extracanforOliveOyl.”

Both of us loved BakerCity,which remindedmeofaminiatureEugene,Oregon,or maybe Leadville orTellurideinColorado.Itwasagracefulandgentrifiedoldmining town that had beenbuilt a few miles from thetrail during a preciousmetals boom after the CivilWar. There was a palatial

robber baron–era hotel, theGeiser Grand, and a trailmuseum run by the BLM,the National HistoricOregon Trail InterpretiveCenter,builtonahighbluffabove the ruts three milesout of town. The breakfastjoints were great and therewas a wine bar, and a goodbookstore,onMainStreet.

I couldn’t stand thethought of another layover

on the trip with Nick andOliveOylsleepingoutsideinthe cold, on wet irrigatedground no less, so I rentedhim a room at the OregonTrailMotel and toldhim tosplurge onmeals across thestreet at the Oregon TrailRestaurant. I found alaundromat, washed ourclothes, and then wanderedinto the spacious library a

block off Main Street tocheckmyemail.

Oneof the first emails inmy inbox had no subjectheadingbut itwas fromSueHoltz, back on her farm inIdaho:

HiRinker,

VinceandIhavebeentalking,andwewouldbehonoredifthewagonsandmulesremainedhereandapartoftheranch.

Wewouldloveforyoutoletusknowwhatyourplansareforthem,andwe’dliketohavetheopportunitytotalkwithyouaboutthem.

Wewerereallytouchedbywhatyouhavedone.

Pleasecontactus,we’dappreciateit.

Thankyou!SueHoltz

MyheartracedandIhadalmost no interest inanswering the other emails

thathad accumulated inmybox.Sue’s language—“apartof our ranch”—indicatedthat shewanted to keep theteam together, and since Iknew that the Holtzes werenot experienced horsepeople, the only thing Suecould mean was that sheessentiallywantedtobuytheteam and treat her ranch asan equine retirement farm.But Ihadno ideawhat they

were willing to pay for thewagons and team or even ifthey had the right pastures,barns, and the wherewithaltocareforthemules.

Sue’s email jolted meback to reality. After fourmonths of the trailwithmyAmish mules, I wasphilosophical about themand pragmatic about what Ihadtodowiththeteam.Yes,Beckwasaphobicmesswho

had given me nervosaextremis all the way acrossthe trail, and she hated meso much that Nick alwayshadtoharnessher.Butehadbadfeetandwaschronicallyallergictowork.IlovedonlyJake, and passionately. Buttogether they were a greatteam of Andalusians, thefirst mules in a century tocrosstheOregonTrail,andIhad watched them as a

threesome for four monthsnow, huddling togetheragainststorms,affectionatelynipping at each other whencompeting for feed, kickingup their hind legs with joywhen they were let free inthe high pastures at SignalBlufforPoisonSpiderCreek.They had pulled like thebejesus and never given upover California Hill andRockyRidge.

Mulesareverysocialandfraternal, they often bondtogether for life, and I hadheard stories about ananimal completely breakingdown and spiraling off intoprolonged mule depressionwhen a partner died or ateam was broken up andsold. Beck and Bute hadbeen together all of theirlives.Jakewasablessedsoulof the earth and loved his

mollies. I owed it to themules to findthemadecenthome, together. I would bethe cad of the century tobreakupthisteam.

Ithadneverbeenmyplanto keep themules. Shippingthem back east would costalmostasmuchasIpaidforthem, and my relativelysmallspreadinNewEnglandwouldn’t support abigdraftteam. Philip Ropp was so

enamored of Jake that hehadofferedtobuyhimbackafter our trip was over, buthehadshownno interest inreacquiringBeckandBute.Iwas determined to keep theteamtogetherbutknewthatit might be difficult. InIdaho,picturesofusdrivingtheteamacrossthetrailhadappearedon the frontpagesof several newspapers, andthe television stations in

Pocatello and Boise hadbroadcast stories about us.Twomule brokers from thenorthern part of the statehad tracked me downthrough the TV reporters,and they were anxious tobuy the team. One of themofferedtomeetusanywhereI wanted in Oregon to buytheteamandthewagonandsaid that he would bring$25,000 in cash. Not

includingtheexpensiveTrailPup repairs, this was prettymuchwhatIhadinvestedinthe wagon and team, and Iwas tempted. But bothbrokers acknowledged thatthey would probably breakup the team, saving Jake forthebig fallmule auctions innorthern Idaho, where theyexpectedhimtofetchaveryhigh price, and selling offBeck and Bute to outfitters,

whowouldusethemaspackanimals for the fall huntingseasonintotheRockies.

The team was attractiveto the brokers because themules were obviously inprime condition. After fourmonths of thirty-mile days,they weremuscular but notat all underweight, withshinyblackcoatsandplentyof energy. All of thehorsemenwe passed on the

trail were surprised at howathletic and healthy themules looked after almosttwo thousand miles of hardwork.

Nick deserved all of thecredit for this. From hissleigh business days inNewHampshire,heknewhowtoworkateamhardalldayandthenbabythemulesatnightwith high-quality feed andfastidious care. Nick was

usually worried about howmuchmoney I was blowingon the trip, but notwhen itcame to the best raw grainand expensive vitaminsupplements for the mules.He bought them boxes ofgelatin mix at supermarketsbecause gelatin is known topromote nail growth inhumans, and it would helpkeepthemules’hoovesfirm.To ward off the muscle

soreness and mildinflammation caused by herbad feet, he kept Butecomfortable byadministering two doses aday of liquid equine aspirin.Themulesatethebestalfalfahay we could find, and webought them apples andcarrots whenever we couldso that their diet wasbalancedwithvegetablesandfruit.We ate like shit every

day, subsisting on Hormelchili, no beans, Slim Jims,and canned chocolatepudding, and never tookshowers. Themules ate likeroyalty and got a longrelaxingbatheverynight.Allof this showed when wereached Oregon. The teamwasasbuffasracehorsesatatrack.

I was enjoying myself inBaker City, and even went

onadatewithasaleswomanI met at the D&B RanchSupply store. But my jointobligations to Nick and themules weighed heavily onme, and I knew that Icouldn’t enjoy thesatisfaction of finishing thetrip until I made the rightdecision about the mules.Nickwasreluctanttodiscussselling the team, because heknew the pressure I was

under and didn’t want tocrowd a decision thatinvolved my ability torecoversomecostsfromthetrip.But IknewthathewasparticularlyfondofBeckandwouldworryaboutheriftheteam was broken up. Wetalked about the situationone afternoon outside theimplement shed at theWilliams ranch,whereNick

was helpingMike repair hisdischarrow.

“It bothersme that I stilldon’t know what to do,” Isaid. “I shouldhaveplannedbetterthanthis.”

“Stop worryin, Boss,”Nick said. “The thing I’vealways said topeople is thatRinker is completely fuckedup. But things work out forhim.”

I walked over to thewagontositonacampchairand think about things.Themules were browsingcomfortably in the grass ofthepastureandIstaredwestbeyond them to the whitepeaksoftheElkhorns.

•••

I called the Holtz Ranch inIdaho fromabenchundera

tall shade tree at Geiser-Pollman Park in BakerCity,whichoverlooked awindingstretchof thePowderRiver.I reached Vince, who toldme that he had dozens ofacresoffencedpastureathisOregonranch,whereheandSue lived for long stretchesduring thewinter toprotecttheirlandfromelkpoachers.He and Sue would love tobuy a work sleigh and use

the team on their winterpatrols protecting the elkherds.IfIsoldhimtheteam,he would also build fencesfor a seven-acre summerpasture, and walk-in barns,on his Idaho farm. Hisbrother-in-law on thePowder River had a stockvan and equipment trailersto haul the team and rigdowntoIdaho,moreor lessright away. When I told

VincewhatIhadinvestedinthe wagons and mules, heoffered me $21,000 for thewhole package. He couldwire themoney tomy bankaccountrightaway.

“Suehasalwayswantedateam of mules,” Vince toldme. “Whenwesawyourideacrossthetrailonourranch,wewereverymovedbywhatyou’vedone.It justseemstous that mules that have

crossed the trail all the wayfrom Missouri deserve agoodhome.”

Vince and Sue were alsoattracted to the symbolismofowningtheteam.Bothoftheir spreads, in Idaho andOregon, sat on the OregonTrail, and they had alwaysenjoyed this pioneer legacy.NickandI,Vincesaid,couldvisit Idaho anytime wewanted to drive the team,

and he had already movedone of his RVs down to thespot on his farm where themulepasturewouldbebuilt.He was hoping that we’dvisitforaslongaswewantedonthewayhome.

Trail family doesn’t getmuchbetter thanthis,andIknew that I had just beenhandeda turnkeypackage. Iwould not have to break uptheteam.

I toldVince that Iwouldgive him an answer by theend of the day, explainingthat I didn’t want Nick tofeel I’d been hasty about adecision or failed to consulthim.OnthewaybacktotheWilliams ranch in Nick’spickup, I receivedcalls fromboth of the mule brokers,who gave me big salespitchesaboutwhytheywerethe best ones to buy the

team. “Hell, the only mulestocross theOregonTrail inahundredyears?”oneofthebrokerssaid.“Everybodywillwanttobuythat.”Theywereanxious to drive down toOregon to haul away thewagonsandmules.

I found Nick back incamp, leading Bute acrossthe pasture to chain her tothe fence while headministered her afternoon

dose of liquid aspirin. Ihelped him with that andthen we sat on the edge ofthe watering trough to talk,and I explained the offerfrom Vince and Sue Holtz,andwhatthebrokerswantedtodo.

“It’s a brain-deaddecision,” Nick said. “TheHoltzes are great people.They’rejustgointoputButehere on chocolate bars and

alfalfafortherestofherlife.But,hey,it’syourcall.You’restillthewagonboss.”

“I’m going to sell themules to Vince and Sue,” Isaid.“It’stherightdecision.Iguess you know what thismeans.”

“Iknowwhatitmeans.”“Thetripstopshere.”“Yeah, but not really,”

Nick said. “I’ll be bullshittin

aboutthisfuckerfortherestofmylife.”

It started to rain and Iwent over to the wagon tocall Vince Holtz back andclose the sale. Nick decidedto drive into town and visitthe Oregon Trail museum.When I was done speakingwithVince,Ipulledonarainslicker and walked over tothe mules in the pasture.Beck and Bute kicked up

their rear hoofs and ranaway, but Jake came rightover, bowing his head andburying it under my arm. Iscratched behind his ears,andhisdandruffmixedwiththerainremindedmeofthesmell of freshly trimmedhooves in the blacksmithshopsofPennsylvania.

“Ah, shit, Jake,” I said.“Shit, shit, shit. You’re my

boy.But I amgoing tohavetosaygood-byesoon.”

Jake smelled the applethatIhadboughtforhiminBaker City and started tonuzzle hard for it in thepocket of my rain slicker. Ihelditoutforhimontheflatof my hand. I patted himsomemore and enjoyed thesensationofhiswarm salivamixingwiththecoldrainonmyhand, and then I turned

back to the wagon to sit intherainandbrood.

•••

BysellingthemulestoVinceandSue, Ihad landedonanemotionally sensible plan.Nick and I wanted to gypsyaroundtheWestforawhilebefore returning home,taking in the rodeos andmule-driving competitions

that we hadn’t had time forwhile crossing the trail, andtheHoltzeswantedustousetheir place in Idaho as abase.Theyinvitedustostaythere as long as wewanted.This would allow us togradually decompress fromthe trip, commuting aroundfor a few weeks via pickupand remaining close to thetrail.Wecouldpartwiththemulesinstages.

The morning that thetrucks arrived to trailer themules and wagon down toIdaho, Nick and I were upearly at theWilliams ranch,brushing and bathing theteam, labeling the harness,andsweepingoutthewagon.I had bought myself a usedChevy pickup fortransporting the gear Iwanted to keep back east,and I used it to cruise

around Baker City off-loading my filthy mattressand blankets in dumpstersand distributing our otherexcess gear to thrift stores.Closing down the trip hadgone well, and everythingwas shipshape for the drivedowntoIdahotodelivertheSchuttlerandmules.

Settling in with ournewest trail family in Idahowas seamless, and a lot of

fun. All of the pressures ofthetripwerebehindusnowand the Holtz place sat ontherollinghillsofavineyarddistrict, a little Napa inIdahooverlookingtheSnakeRiver and a trail landmark,LizardButte.Nickleftafteracoupleofdaystoheaduptoa big mule event, HellsCanyon Mule Days inEnterprise, Oregon, while Istayed behind in the

comfortable camping trailerparkedbeside thenewmulepasture. Vince had alreadypurchased a beautiful one-horse victoria, and a teamfore cart, from a wagondealer in Oregon, and Itaught them how to hookJake. Vince and I bouncedaround between his farmand his seed-drying shedswith Beck and Bute hitchedto the fore cart, pulling

trailers loaded withequipment and seed bags. Iquickly fell into the life ofMarsing, the smallagricultural town on theriver near the farm, and weoften drove Jake down forbreakfast at theWhitehouseDrive-In, or dinner at aMexican restaurant, tyinghim to fencepostswhilewedinedinside.

Nick thrived back inOregon. Before headinghome by a circuitous routethrough the Dakotas andthen parts of the South, tovisitwagonshops,hewantedto take in not only MuleDays in Enterprise but thelargest rodeo and wagonparade in the West, thePendleton Round-Up inPendleton, Oregon. By thistime everyone in the horse

world had heard about ourtrip, and Nick’s arrival atMule Days was classic.Within a few minutes ofpulling into Enterprise hehad announced in his bestRadio FreeEurope baritone,in response to an eventorganizer’s question, “Oh,yeah! I’m the one that justfinished drivinmules acrossthe Oregon Trail!” He wasmobbed by all the mule

skinners, their wives andtheir grandchildren, andoffered a free place to sleepin town. He showed up atthe corrals early everymorning to help the muleowners harness their teamsforcompetitionevents.Nickentered the toughest event,team log-pulling, with aborrowed pair ofmules andwonfirstplace.

Nick did just as well atPendleton, where I caughtup with him a week later.One of the biggestattractions at the weeklongPendleton Round-Up is anevening entertainment,Happy CanyonNight, whenmore than five thousandspectators crowd the rodeobleachers towatchakindofwestern-themed outdoorvaudeville show. When

another actor backed out,Nick agreed to play aburlesquepartthatcalledfora man dressed as a frontierwoman to drive across thestage in abuggypulledby amule. The cowboy in drag,furiousaboutcatching “her”husband visiting awhorehouse, breaks intosong.Nickwasoutfittedinafull-figure gingham dress, ablond wig, and a large bra

stuffed with straw. In themiddle of Nick’sperformance, thewig felloffand the dress parted at theback seams, spilling thestraw fromhis falsies acrossthe stage. Undeterred, Nickfinished his song as the restofhis costumedisintegratedaround him, and the crowdwentwild.Hewasacelebrityfor the rest of the week atPendleton.

Atbreakfastandlunchintown, Nick frequentlyinterrupted our meals tosign autographs for touristson their Happy Canyonplaybills, and cute cowgirlsblew him air kisses acrossthecafé.

“I still can’t believe youkept singing after your brabitthedust,”Isaid.

“Rink, the thing you’vegot to understand aboutme

is that I am a professionalactor,” Nick said. “I had awardrobe malfunction. Thesame thing happened toJanet Jackson at the SuperBowl.Bigfuckindeal.”

•••

Nick dreads change, and Ican always tell when he isapproaching it. Because hisdays are often frantic and

out of control, he clings totheroutineshecanrelyon—sitting with Olive Oyl atnight, feeding his horses,wanderingoffafterdinnertovisit friends. When theseroutines are interrupted, orare about to be interrupted,hegetsmoodyandcurtandhis sense of humordisappears. After we gotback to Baker City andmovedintotheOregonTrail

Motelforafewdays,hewasedgy and preoccupied. TheOregon Trail was his homenow too, and our wagon-tramp life all summer washis routine. He was jumpyabout knowing that it wastimetoleave.

One morning while weate breakfast, Nick satquietlywithhisheadburiedinanewspaper,actingasifIweren’t there. Neither of us

wantedtosaygood-bye,andthere was a dark cloud ofsilence between us. But IknewthatIhadtospeakup.

“Nick, it’stimeforyoutoleave for home, you know?Whataboutyourtourofthewagonshops?”

Nick’s Fu Manchudropped and he looked upwith a surprised look, butthen a resigned one,shrugginghisshoulders.

“You’re right,” he said.“Butcan’twejustspendonemore day together?We candrop my truck off for newtires, and then go visitmuseums.”

“Good,” I said. “I wouldlikethat.”

I had already spent anafternoonwanderingaroundBaker City, looking forpresents for Nick. At theranch supply store, I found

the exact model and brandofanAmerican-forgedsetoffence pliers that Nick hadcovetously eyed back inWyoming. I found the lastball cap in town silk-screened with OREGON TRAILon the front, as well as anillustrated guide tonineteenth-century farmimplements. The clerkbehind the counter at thebookstore helped me wrap

the gifts in attractive paperandribbon.IknewthatNickwouldn’t take any moneyfromme,butIstoppedatanATMjustincaseandstuffedmypocketswithcash.

The next morning, afterbreakfast,wedroveuptothelarge Oregon Trailmonument near the centerof town, where there wasenough space to park ourtrucks bumper to bumper.

Aswesattogetherinthecabof Nick’s Toyota, I cradledOliveOylinmylapandNickopened his presents. Heloved the fence pliers andeagerly began thumbingthroughthefarmequipmentbookaswespoke.

“How did you know Iwanted these fence pliers?”Nick said. “I can’t believethat. Thanks. These arereallygreat.”

“I saw you looking atthem that daywewent intoDouglas for parts. The FortFettermancamp.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Youmay not know how to usetools, but you sure as fuckcanbuythem.”

“Thankyou,Nick.”Nick spoke for a while

abouthowthetriphadmadehimfeel like“turningoveranewleaf”whenhegothome.

Hewasgoingtocleanupallthepilesofusedlumberandfarm machinery in his yardand rebuild his saggingporch.Healways feltbetter,hesaid,afterhecleanedouthis pickup, and sprucing uphisplacewouldfeellikethat,a “major lifestyleimprovement.”

He was also lookingforward to his monthlong

tourofwagonshopsaroundthecountry.

“Okay now look,” I said.“On the way home? Nobuying any more wagons.You’ve got enough wagonsinyourbarn.”

“Oh,Jesus,”hesaid.“Ijusttold Mother on the phonelast night that you’ve finallygotten control of yourcontrol freak. That’s not

controlling your controlfreak.”

“Shit,” I said. “You’reright. I’m sorry. But look,about Mother. Just keepbullshitting her, okay? TellherI’mgreatsoshe’shappy.”

“I’m goin to bullshit thatladytillthemoongoesdownon that one. ‘Mom, Rinkylost his control freakon theOregon Trail, and now he

can’t find it again.’ But toeverybodyelse?”

“Shit.”“Rinky’s a frickin control

freak.”“Okay, that’s fair,” I said.

“But it’s not really true. Ididn’t freak when youflippedtheTrailPup.”

“Oh, see? You’re goin tobe remindin me about thatoneforever.”

“No. I’m going to bereminding you aboutCalifornia Hill and RockyRidge.Youweresogreatonthosedays.”

Nick was fidgeting withhis fingers, drumming themon the Toyota steeringwheel.

“Oh, fuck, Rinker. I hatesayinggood-byetoyou.CanIjustsaythatI’llneverforgetthis trip? Imean, I’ll always

be the guy that drove teamall the way across theOregon Trail. Thank you.Ah, shit, I don’t even knowwhat I’m sayin here. WhatamIsayinhere?Thankyou,Rinker.IwouldbedeadrightnowifIwashomeinMaineandyouhadn’t letmecomealong.”

My heart was skippingwith roller-coaster emotionsand I could feelmy eyes fill

with moisture. I hated itwhen Nick ignored his owncontribution and heaped allofthepraiseonme.

“Nick. I’m going to sayjust one thing. You stayedwith me at Shickley. I’llnever forget that and Icouldn’t have crossed thetrailwithoutyou.”

Nick sighed, turned thekey in his ignition, and

reachedoverandhuggedmeshouldertoshoulder.

“Go,Rink. I love you butwehavetodothis.”

“Okay, me too,” I said.“Doyouhavemaps?Didyoubuymaps?”

“You don’t think I canfindmy ass back across thecountrybynow?”

“Money?I’vegotcash.”“Don’t need money

either.”

“Cellphone?”Nick slapped all of his

pockets, pawed around thepickup for his cell phone,and then asked to borrowmine.

On my phone, Nickdialed his own number andweheardthemuffledringofhis cell coming from abrown paper bag full ofcandy bars and Slim Jimsbehindtheseat.

“See? I told you,” Nicksaid.“That’swhereIputmycellphone.”

I gaveOliveOyl one lasthugandhandedhertoNick.I stepped out of thepassenger side ofNick’s caband walked around to hisside,shookhishandthroughthe open window, and webothsmiledandlaughed.

“I love you, WagonMaster,”Nicksaid.

“We did this together,” Isaid.“Together.”

Nick’smufflerroaredandhe pushed his RPMs highthrough the gears as heturned south toward theinterstate. Olive Oyl wassittingonNick’slapwithhersnout pushed forward outthe window, and the windflattened her ears. As thewhite pickup disappeared Iswelled with regret about

partingwithhim,butthenacloudracedofffromthesunand the Oregon Trailmonument was illuminatedin brightness, with deepshadows cast into theengraved words, and I feltlightinside.

Now I knew what it wasliketobepartofateamthatwas broken up and forseveraldaysIwaslonelyand

misplaced when I woke inthemorning.

31

ISPENTTHENEXTFEWdaysalone inBakerCity, treatingthe effects of wagonwithdrawal by clinging to a

town that felt like home.Everyone seemed to knowme as “the covered wagonguy.” The manager of thelaundromat on CampbellStreet was consideringchucking everything inOregonandmovingwithherhusband and children to alog cabin in Alaska, andwanted my advice on that.Betty’s Books gave me thebulkdiscountwhenIbought

a stack of pioneer journals.Wakinguptomotelshowersevery morning wasluxurious, and at therestaurant across the streetthe Trail Boss Burger, withjalapeños and provolone,was the best helping ofproteinI’dhadallsummer.Iwas loitering, reluctant topartwiththehobolife.

VinceandSueHoltzwereexpectingmeback in Idaho,

where we were planning onhitching Jake to their newcarriage and making an all-day tour of the vineyards.Afterthat,IwouldridewithMerri Melde up in theOwyhees and then enjoyseveral trail family reunionsonmy leisurely drive home.Buttherewasstillonemoretrail pilgrimage that Iwantedtomake.

In the early 1840s, themain ruts of the emigrantroad after the BlueMountains in northeastOregon proceeded north toa place called Waiilatpu onthe Walla Walla River, inwhat would becomeWashington State. Marcusand Narcissa Whitman hadspentelevenyearstherewiththe Cayuse tribe after theirhistoric crossing in 1836.

The Whitman Missionserved as a vital frontieroutpost in the early days ofthe trail, resupplying wearypioneersontheirwaytotheColumbiaRiverandofferingmedicalcareprovidedbyDr.Whitman. I had heard thatthe restored mission andvisitors’center there,runbythe National Park Service,was a moving and peacefulsite. I couldn’t end the

summer of my dreamswithout saying good-bye toNarcissa.

I drove up through theUmatilla National Forest inlateSeptember,enjoyingthesolitude of the long pickupride.IntheCayuselanguage,Waiilatpu referred to theflat plains that stretch fordozens of miles along theWalla Walla and meant“place of the people of the

rye grass.” The WhitmanMission there is windsweptand serene, beautifullymaintained by the parkservice. Beneath a tall,rounded hill, topped by agranite obeliskcommemorating theWhitmans, Doan Creekwinds through cottonwoodgroves that border broadgreen pastures and old trailruts.Mostofthebuildingsat

the mission have collapsedor were burned duringIndian raids in the latenineteenthcentury,buttheirfoundations have beenidentified and carefullymarked, and the attractivevisitors’ center contains asmall but interestingmuseum on the Whitmansand the early trail years.With a couplewhohad justcompleted a

transcontinental bicycle tripfrom New York City toAstoria, Oregon, I wentalong on the afternoon tourand lecture delivered by ayoung, earnest park servicehistorian.

Even the kindest ofbiographers have concludedthat Narcissa and MarcusWhitman were miscast asmissionaries, completelyunsuited by temperament

and ill-prepared bynineteenth-century culturalmores to minister to thesmall Cayuse band. Aftersettling at Waiilatpu in thelate autumn of 1836 andbuildingtheirfirsthouse,theWhitmans spent the nextdecadelivingasrefuseniksinthe host Cayuse society.Initially, Marcus Whitmanwastoobusybuildingfences,ablacksmithshop,andbarns

tospendmuchtimewiththeCayuse, and Narcissa wasperpetually frustrated bytribal conventions as shebegan Bible classes for thenatives. She never learnedCayuse and expected thenative people to understandwhen she explained thedifficult concepts of reformChristianity in their brokenEnglish.TheCayuse sawnoneed to strictly observe the

Sabbath when they hadalreadyspentseveraldaysofthe week learning aboutChristianity, theyinterrupted their Christianeducation every summer totravel to the mountains toharvest berries, and theytreated the Whitman houseas just another one of theirlodges, strolling through atallhours,sittingonthefloorto talk, and helping

themselvestowhateverfoodthey saw on the counter.Eventually the Whitmansbuilt a new, larger housewithaseparate“Indiangreatroom” walled off from thefamily quarters. Visitors tothe mission were surprisedbyNarcissa’s condescendingtreatmentof tribalmembersand often described her as“haughty.” The word the

Cayuse used when referringtohermeant“veryproud.”

WithNarcissarefusingtochange and adapt toCayuseways,andMarcusfrequentlyabsent to organize aterritorial government orlead wagon trains, theWhitmans came tosymbolize the unbridgeablegap between the whitesettlersandthenativetribes.There were many other

problems and even tragedy.At the age of two, theWhitmans’ daughter, AliceClarissa, drowned afterwanderingoff to play in thecreek, andNarcissa fell intoa long,deepdepression thatdidn’tliftuntilsheadoptedafamily of pioneer orphans.The wagon trains nowflowing through themissioneverysummerdecimatedthelocal Indian tribes by

introducing Europeandiseases for which thenatives had no immunity,and the Cayuse suspectedMarcus Whitman oftreacherybecauseheseemedable to cure measles andsmallpox among the whitetravelersbutnotinthetribe.The Whitmans’ evangelicalwork with the Indianseventually collapsed amidbitter recriminations, which

includeduglyspatswithrivalCatholic and Methodistmissionaries plying thefrontierforconverts.

But the Whitmans werestill celebrated as foundingpioneers, especially afterMarcus successfully led thefirst large wagon train westin 1843. They were roadranchersnow,plantinglargevegetablegardensandwheatforthesummerpioneersand

running a thrivingblacksmith shop for thepassingwagontrains.Bythemid-1840s, the mission forthetribeshadevolvedintoabustling, whites-only trailstopwithaschool,atradingpost, and a transientpopulation of fur trappers,traders, and pioneers oftennumberinginthehundreds.

Marcus Whitman’sidentityasbothamissionary

and a medical doctor hadimperiled his positionamong theCayuse from thestart.Bythefallof1847,thefrontier clash of culturesalong the Columbia Riverplateau had led to acomplete social collapse.The Cayuse and manyneighboring tribes werebeginning to resent theendless stream of wagontrains along the Oregon

Trail every summer, and aharsh winter in 1846–1847had decimated the wildlife,contributing to a beliefamong the tribes that thewhite man was taking toomuchgame.TheCayuseandthe Umatilla hadtraditionally served moremigratory tribes as tradersand berry pickers. But now,in a market swelling withpassing pioneers, they had

beendisplaced as tradersbythe Whitmans. Factionswithin both tribes, abettedby a group of mixed-racetrappers, resented theevident wealth that theWhitmans had amassed byservingthewagontrains.

As tensions rose amongthe Cayuse and sporadicviolence broke out, theWhitmans were warned byfur traders and tribal chiefs

to abandon their missionandmovetothesafetyoftheWillamette Valley. ButMarcus was proud of therole that the WhitmanMission now played for thepioneers along a strategicstretch of the Oregon Trailand refused to move on. InOctober 1847, as the last ofthe wagon trainsdisappeared over thehorizon for the Columbia

River, an epidemic ofmeaslesanddysenterybrokeout,andasusualmostofthewhitechildrenatthemissionrecovered while the Cayusechildren died in greatnumbers. In lateNovember,enragedbythedeathoftheirchildren and convinced thatthe Whitmans hadcontributedtotheepidemic,asmallbandofangryCayusemade an all-day assault on

themission, killing fourteenwhites, including Narcissa,Marcus, and several of theiradoptedchildren.

News of what becameknown as the “WhitmanMassacre” did not reachWashington, D.C., until theearly spring of 1848, but ithad a lasting impact on theterritorial drive of America.For the next twenty years,politicians, army generals,

andfreelanceIndianfighterswoulduse the “slaughter”oftheWhitmansasarationalefor escalating the campaignagainstthewesterntribes.Inthesummerof1848,amidapopularoutcryabout Indianattacks, Congress createdthe Oregon Territory, thefirst territorial governmentwest of the Rockies, andappropriated funds to buildarmy forts to protect the

pioneers. The Civil Warwould interrupt efforts toempty the plains of thewandering tribes, but thewar against the Indianswould resume in earnestonce the whites tired ofkillingeachother.

In the meantime, theOregon Trail was reroutedaway from the gruesomeremnants of the WhitmanMission. Instead of going

north to the Walla Walla,pioneers now pushed duewest for the Columbia. TheWhitmans left behind atragic statement aboutmissionary zeal, and a darkstain on American history.Over eleven years on theWallaWalla, theWhitmanshadevolvedfrombenevolentmissionaries to the Cayuseto commercial proprietorswho prospered from a

continued influx of whitesettlers. Their deathsbecame a rallying cry forethnic cleansing. FewAmericans at the time, ofcourse, perceived this as aclassiccorruptionofvalues.

ThecommongraveoftheWhitman Massacre victims,called the “Great Grave,”standstodayinasmallopenareaofmowedgrassalongabend in Doan Creek.

Pheasantscallandtreefrogssound from the nearbymarshes, and cattails andwillowbranchesbend inthebreeze.Ifelttherethemixedspirituality and melancholythatIoftenexperiencewhenvisitinghistoricgraves.Afterthe other members of thetourgrouphad left for theircars, I sat on a bench andmeditated about NarcissaWhitman.

History almosteverywhere is tragic andironic, but in America thecontrasts are more starkbecause we set such highideals. Fortified by stirringEnlightenment appeals totherightsofman,wefoughtawarof liberation from theBritish crown and thendecided to constitutionallyprotect the enslavement ofour African laborers. The

greatevangelicalpulsationofthe 1820s spread religionand inspired useful socialreform, while alsounleashing decades ofdenominational squabbling,evenmurder,inthenameofChristianity. We fought theCivil War over slavery thatcost more than 600,000deaths but still sugarcoatwhat happened bydescribing it as an

unresolved conflict over“states’ rights.” I try not toeven think anymore aboutthe serial idiocy ofleadership during my ownlifetime, when sixtythousand American liveswere squandered inVietnam, Afghanistan, andIraq. Perhaps someday we’llbegin teaching our childrenthe full, demythologized

truth about ourselves, but Idoubtit.

Narcissa Whitman livedthis national irony to thefullest. Propelled bymissionary zeal and visionsof a frontier utopia where“heathen” pupils wouldpatiently consumeChristianity, she was thenunwilling to changeaccording to the conditionsshe actually found in the

West. Her ultimate missionwas unsuccessful, but herjourney getting there, andwriting about it, was epicand changed her times,openingthegate forwomenand families to join thelargest land migration inhistory. Which one do weremember? Who was therealNarcissaWhitman—theproud, self-importantevangelist from the Finger

Lakes, incapable of gettingalongwiththeCayuse,orthebrave, adventurous womangalloping sidesaddle upSouth Pass? Theinconsistencies of historyand character don’t requireus to choose between theseidentities. NarcissaWhitmanwasboth.

Still, sitting beside hergrave, I felt settled aboutmaking Narcissa Whitman

my heroine as I crossed thetrail. I was comfortableabout my own westernquest. The wrong outcome,ornooutcomeatall,isoftenthe only result of a journey.Walkabouts and odysseyshave always been common,and we needn’t search toohard for tangible returns.Journey for journey’s sake isenough. For weeks ormonthsofaclimbora trek,

we are forced to be in themoment. For NarcissaWhitman, this meant a lot.Behind her, the trappedenergyofacountryexplodedwestfortwothousandmiles.

I didn’t accomplish thatmuch calling mules fornearly two thousand milesacross the plains, and Iwouldn’t be returninghomea changed person. Thebenefits of the trip related

mostly to journeying itself. Ihad proven to myself that Icouldscoutforvanishedtrailon modern terrain, and Idroveteamalotbetternow.My habitual impatiencewassuspended to deal withfrustration after frustrationonthetrail. I’mnotworriedanymore about my father’sreappearances in my life,because they’re justsomething to live with and

accept. I know a great dealmore now about a seminaltimeinmycountry’shistory.But, mostly, I had indulgedin a wonderful summer ofromanceandgrit.

The sun was fallingagainst the distant wheatfields,itwastimetogo,andIdrove south enjoying theanvil-black peak lines of themountains and the lights ofthecombinesinthefieldsas

I passed the scattered farmcommunities on the waybacktoBakerCity.

•••

In Idaho, Vince, Sue, and Ienjoyed our vineyard tourbehind Jake in the newcarriage, getting a littleboozy by nightfall aftersampling our share of localchardonnay and merlot. In

the evenings, from a fire pitoverlooking the Snake, wewatched the sun dropwhileSue taughtme to cook stewin Dutch Oven pots. Vinceand I cannibalized partsfromanolddischarrowandweldedthemintoaportablebarbecuehearththatIcoulduse on theway home. I ranthe farm errands into townwith Jake and the carriage,dropping down past the

faux-Tuscan villas to crossthe old trail ford at LizardButte.

Ileftforhomeearlyintheafternoon on a warmOctober day, after takingJake out for a last carriagedrive. Beck and Bute wereway off among the trees intheir new pasture andweren’tgoingtocomedownto say good-bye tome, so IsavoredmytimewithJake.I

grained him as a reward forourpleasantride,cleanedhishooves,andgavehima longbath with a hose strung upfromSue’sdogkennels.

“Ah, screw it anyway,Jake, I’m leaving today butI’llbeback,Ipromise.”

When I massaged hiswithers and lower legs withshampooandabrush, Jake’seyelids began to flutter andhe dropped his head and

began to snore. I told Jakethat it was fine for him totake a snooze. I justwantedhimtoknowhowthankful Iwas for theway he heldmeup that day when I nearlypassed out at the bottomofDempsey Ridge. I thankedhim for holding the molliesback and being the calmcenter of the team somanytimes.

Jake woke up when ablackflylandedonhisrumpandheswishedatitwithhistail, showering me withbubblyshampoo.

“I’llmissyou,Jake,”Isaid.“I wish I could bring youhome. But you belong herewiththegirls.”

I hosed Jake down withthe spray nozzle on full justthe way he liked it. At thefencegate, Ipulledanapple

fromthefeedbox,helditforhim, scratched behind hisears one last time, and thenwatched him canter off tojoinBeckandBute.

Mytruckwasright there,packed and ready to go. Ihad said good-bye to Vinceand Sue at breakfast. I tookone last look at the mules,browsing on grass andswishing flies under thetrees, and then I startedmy

truck and drove down pastLizardButte.

I turned left after thebridge over the Snake andheaded east along the trailcountry. The basalt cliffsalong the river gleamed inthe sunlight, and theausterity of landscaperemindedmeoftheausterityofmission.Journeyisall,andwedidit,wemadeit,wegotthere. We had followed the

PlattetotheSweetwater,theSweetwater to South Pass,and thenwe slid the wagondownDempseyRidgetotheindescribable beauty alongtheBear.Brokenwheelsanda thousand miles of fencescouldn’t stop us. Theimpossible is doable as longas you have a great brotherand good trail friends.Uncertainty is all. Crazyasspassion is the staple of life

and persistence itsnourishing force. Withoutthem, you cannot cross thetrail.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CROSSING THE OREGON

TRAIL AND then spendingmorethantwoyearswritingaboutitconstantlyremindedme of Daniel Boorstin’s

description of the coveredwagon as “plainly acommunity vehicle” thatrequired working in groups.Even while lost in theremoteWyoming desert, orstrugglingoverthelava-rockabyssof Idaho, Iwas alwaysconfident that I could findhelp ahead. In this way ourcovered wagon trip was notso much an adventuresharedbytwobrothersbuta

display of the communalingenuityandhospitalitystilltobefoundintheAmericanWest.Thereassuringfeelingof being handed off everydayfromranchertorancher,andfromtrailexperttotrailexpert,remainsmystrongestimpression of the trip.Likewise, my research intothe history of the trail wasbuilt upon the heroic

scholarship of many whocamebeforeme.

MybrotherNickdeservesmost of the credit for thesuccess of our trip. Hisoutstanding horsemanship,mechanical and harness-making skills, alacrity atmaking friends, and abilityto get by with limitedresources almost anywheremade the trip possible. Thedifficulty of finding friends

and family members whocan rise at dawn and thensustainphysicalactivityonaproject all day has been amajor inconvenience in mylife, butNickmade an idealpartner. I am especiallygrateful for his decision inSchickley, Nebraska, toremain with the trip. It israre for two brothers tosharea journeyasuniqueas

this, and I will alwaysrememberhisgifttome.

The Oregon-CaliforniaTrails Association (OCTA)of Independence, Missouri,struggles with a small staffand budget against suchmodernthreatstothetrailasmining and energy projects,housing developers, andhordes of dirt-bikingenthusiasts. Chapterpresidentsandvolunteers in

the eight states throughwhichthetrailspassperformthe largely unrewardedfunctions of marking thetrail, applying forpreservation grants, andtestifying at court andfederal agency hearingswhen the trail is threatenedwith new developments orroad-building. OCTA alsomaintains an invaluablewebsite devoted to the

history of major trail stopsand pioneer histories andpublishes the OverlandJournal, an excellentquarterly on selected trailtopics and research that Ioften used while compilingthe history sections of mybook. Before we left on ourtrip, association managerTravis Boley andheadquarters managerKathryn Conway shared

withusmaps,insightsonthetrail, and a complete list ofOCTA contacts in eachstate. This help provedinvaluable during our four-monthjourney.

OCTA also publishedRandy Brown and RegDuffin’sGravesandSitesonthe Oregon and CaliforniaTrails, and Brown’sHistoricInscriptions on WesternEmigrantTrails,whichwere

immensely useful towardunderstanding the historywe were passing andprovided exact directions totrail sites.The compendiumofgeodeticmapsonthetrailoriginally compiled byOCTA founder GregoryFranzwa,MapsoftheOregonTrail, published by thePatrice Press in St. Louis,wasindispensableforfindingour way in the backcountry

and narrow canyons ofWyomingandIdaho.

Philip Ropp of Ropp’sMule Farm in Jamesport,Missouri, fulfilled the oneessential requirement Iplaced before him: sellingmeateamthatcouldmakeitto Oregon. Yes, Bute was alaggard with pigeon-toedhooves, and Beck was ourLizzieBordenofthetrip,butJake’s imperturbability and

goodsensemadeupforthis.BuyingateamasquicklyasIdidandthenrealizingwhereIhaderredonlyenrichedthepioneer experience for me.Ropp and his neighbor,machinist and blacksmithIvan Schrock, made itpossible forus togetallourwagon modifications doneon time. Elmer Beechy andthe leatherworkers at theJamesport Harness Shop

quickly made all theadjustments and fabricatedthe extra parts I needed forour rig. Beechy taughtme avaluable lesson in jumpingoff economics by quicklyflipping my trade-in saddleat a profit. God bless theAmish for theirindustriousnessandfun.

Don and ConnieWernerat the Werner WagonWorks in Horton, Kansas,

maintain one of the bestwagon restoration shops inthe country and produced aserviceable rig under a tightdeadline. I realize now thatthe problems we later hadwith the wheels and brakeson our Peter Schuttlerwagon were mostly theresult of my unyieldingambition to reach Oregonclashing with modern-restoration standards. The

Meader Supply Corporationof Rochester, NewHampshire, promptly filledour orders for harnessreplacements and shippedthem ahead of us on thetrail. Dan Hathaway ofIllusion Farm in Fryeburg,Maine, was always availablewhenNick called for adviceon the veterinary care andshoeing of the mules, andindeed deserves a great deal

of credit for the excellentshapetheywereinwhenwereached Oregon. Ripley andSusan Swan of HallelujahFarm in Lisbon,Maine, alsoprovided much neededequineandhumanhelp.

InKansas,Iwanttothankmuleman Doyle Prawl ofTroy forhelpingushaul thewagonandmulesacross theMissouri River and thenbuilding wagon parts. The

groundskeepers at theBrown County AgricultureMuseum in Hiawatha andthe Four Mile Corner RestArea in Sabetha maintainbeautiful camping facilitiesfor transients like us. PonyExpress reenactor FrankWesselandhiswife,Cheryl,welcomedustotheirfarminAxtell for an overnightcamp. In Marysville, Kenand Arleta Martin of the

Oregon-California TrailsAssociation graciouslyinterrupted their schedulesto escort us around themany trail sites in the area.Morethanadozenpeopleintown dropped down to ourcamp at the fairgrounds tooffer help and gifts of foodandfreehay.ThevolunteersattheHabitatThriftShopinMarysville left the door oftheir shop open at night so

that we could curl anextension cord outside torecharge our cell phones.The staff at the HollenbergRanch State Park graciouslyallowed us to use therestored Pony Expressstation there when weneeded shelter from heavyrains.

RidingacrossNebraskaina covered wagon was amonthlong immersion

therapy in kindness, areminder of the essentialdecency of my country.When thunderstormssurrounded us just after wecrossed the Kansas line,NormanRupprechtofOdell,Nebraska, flagged us downatarainycrossroadsandledus to safety nearby at anabandoned farm, thenreturned the next morningto help us with chores and

run errands while we werestranded for another day. Acouplecampingnexttousatthe Rock Creek StationequineparkdrovemetotheFairburySaleBarnsoIcouldbuy replacement harnessparts for the team. AtShickley, when we wereagain trapped by storms,Don and ShirleyKempf andWill and MargieSwartzendruber allowed us

tocampattheirfarmfortwonights, take showers, andborrow their pickup, andeven took us along to theirchurch supper. My conceptof “trail family” began toform at Shickley with theKempfs andSwartzendrubers. I havealready visited them twicesince, and they will belifelong friends. Also atShickley,retiredcowboyBill

Eich of Geneva, Nebraska,adopted us as his “trailproject” and followed ourwagon tracks for threenights to visit us in camp,running down the harnessparts, camping equipment,and plumbing supplies weneeded to add an additionalwater barrel. I stillwear thesilk cowboy bandanna thatBill gave me to protect myface and neck against the

dust and sun. I have lostcount of the number ofhappy Nebraskans whodropped into our camp inthe evening and brought usfood,water,andfreebalesofhay.

At Minden, Nebraska,wherewepaused just belowthe Platte River to reoutfitandmakewagonrepairs,Billand Nancy Petersen, andtheir son Jim,were gracious

andfun-lovinghostswhofedus, welcomed us to sleep intheir backyard camper, andcharted the rest of the trailin Nebraska for us. Bill, thepresident of the OCTAchapter inNebraska, has anencyclopedic grasp of thetrail and frequently helpedme track down obscurereferences on trail history.The way that the originalfur-trappingrouteacrossthe

Rockies followed by thepioneers eventually grewinto a cattle-driving road, amilitary freight route, thePonyExpress, telegraph, thestagecoachroad,therailroadtracks West, and then eventheLincolnHighwayandtheinterstate highways, isessential towardunderstandingthetrail’srolein American history.Petersen intimately knows

the history of each phase ofdevelopment and wasinstrumental in helping meunderstand the organicnature of the trail. Hisknowledge of the majorcutoffs in Nebraska andWyoming also helped merealize that what today isknownasa“trail”wasinfacta broad landscapesupporting migration andsettlementacrosstheWest.

In Minden and nearby,woodworking hobbyist RossWright built us a new rightbrakeoutofoakstockwhenour original brakedisintegrated after just 250miles.FarmerandhorsemanKevinChristensengaveusaspool of thresher belt thatwecouldcutintobrakepadsand also lent us a secondwagonseatfortherestofthetrip. Tom and Theresa

Delaet let us pasture themules at their farm, andTom opened up his shopwhileNickwasrepairingthewagon and building aplatform for an additionalwaterbarrel.GeneHunt,thesuperintendent of the FortKearnyStateHistoricalPark,welcomed us to the PlatteRiver country with abarbecueandashadyspottorest the mules. Gene also

provided us with a map ofNebraska state parks andpublic corrals and told usthat we were welcome tocamp at any of thesefacilities, even if we arrivedtoo late in the day to findanystaff.

We alsomade camp andenjoyed the hospitality of“cowboy poet” Joe Jeffreyand his wife, Dianne, at theRobb Ranch near Plum

Creek, Nebraska. John andNancy Orr at thespectacularly beautifulSignalBluffRanchnearAshHollow lent us theirbunkhouse while we restedthemules for two days, andNancy found us new collarpads at theHaythorn ranchinArthur.JohnOrr’stourofthe high country aroundSignal Bluff allowed me tosee how the pioneer trail

alongthePlatte,andthebigencampment nearby at AshHollow, intruded ontraditional Sioux lands andeventually led to one of theearliest conflicts of theIndian Wars, the Battle ofBlue Water Creek. DanHanlonat theMuddyCreekRanchnearLiscorescueduswith a pickup and trailerwhen we flipped our TrailPup, opened his shop while

we fixed it, took us on ashort cattle drive, andsuggested routesaround theflooding of the Platte. Thecowboys at the Rush Creekand Sun ranches nearOshkosh were kind enoughnot to laugh when theyattempted to teachme howtoopenbarbed-wiregates.

LarryGillattheLower96Ranch and Jim Hecox inGothenburg were also

wonderfully hospitable, andGill later made time for along interview about hispreservation of the MidwayPony Express Station. AnnSmith of Cozad, Nebraska,took wonderful pictures ofNickandmewiththemules,and she and her husband,Tony, gave me aninformativehistoricaltourofthe100thMeridianarea,andtheir family’s historic

homestead farm, when Ipassed through on the wayback from Oregon. I havedescribed in the book howgrateful I am for thehospitality and instantfriendshipofDonandSheilaExnerinNorthPlatte.

In western Nebraska,Barb Netherland, then thedirector of the North PlatteValley Museum in Gering,arrangedforustocampona

nearby horse farm, let usdrop Nick’s truck on themuseum grounds, and tookmeona tourof theoriginalOregon Trail route, pioneergraves, and the fur-tradingstation at the scenicRobidoux Pass in theWildcat Hills. Barb alsoprovided introductions to anumber of Mormon andwestern Nebraska trailhistorians.

The park rangers andstaff at the U.S. NationalPark Service’s Scotts BluffNationalMonument invitedus onto the site to deliver acoveredwagonlecture,andIam particularly grateful toRobert Manasek, theresource managementspecialistatScottsBluff,whogavemea tourof thepark’sarchives and showed memany pioneer artifacts and

the original watercolors inthe William Henry Jacksoncollection there. It is ashame that I couldn’t findroom in the book to writemore about the remarkablecareer of Jackson as anexpedition photographer,artist, and adventurer.Readers interested in howthetraillookedattheheightof the nineteenth-centurymigration can find his

pictures on the web or insuch excellent coffee-tablebooksasAnEye forHistory:The Paintings of WilliamHenryJackson.

In easternWyoming, Dr.Charles Cawiezell and hiswife, Luanne, opened thegrounds of their equineclinic and spacious house,and fed us wonderful mealswhen we stopped for vetchecks, shoeing, and teeth-

filing for the mules.Cawiezell also read andoffered comments on thecholera section ofmy book.Rancher Bill Reffalt of FortLaramie let us keep themules overnight in hiscorralsandlentmeapickuptoscoutthetrailahead.

Wagon master Ben KernofEvansville,Wyoming,whohas made assisted crossingsof virtually everymajor trail

in theWest, caughtupwithus within a few days of ourreaching the state, found uscamping spots in GlenrockandCasper,scoutedthetrailwith me as far asIndependence Rock, andthen drove all the way toFarson with a replacementprovisions-cart after webroke our wheels at SouthPass.

Randy Brown, chairmanof the Graves and SitesCommittee of OCTA,probably has done morethan anyone else alive topreservetheoriginalOregonandCaliforniatrails,andhiswork identifying andpreserving graves and othersiteshasaddedconsiderableinformation to ourknowledgeofroutes,pioneercamps, and river fords.

Brown was kind enough tospend twodays showingmesites along the trail inWyoming, and weexchanged dozens of emailsfact-checking points, placenames, and pioneerhistories. I often relied onBrown’s monographsketches when describingthemajorcutoffsandsitesofthe West. Brown also readmy manuscript and made

severalusefulsuggestionsforimprovement.

Modern Wyominghomesteaders Polly HindsandLyndaGerman run oneof America’s most uniqueretailinglocations,MadDog&ThePilgrimBooksellersinlonely Sweetwater Station—the sign outside reads OLDBOOKS, FRESHEGGSFORSALE—andPollywasgenerouswithher time, explaining the

impact of the recentMormon developmentsalongtheSouthPassstretchof the trail. Jeanne Maherand her grandson, CharlesTurquie, have done anextraordinary job protectingthe wildlife corridor alongtheSweetwaterRiverattheirEllisRanchnearSweetwaterStation, and Charles wasmost helpful in showing usthe various routes through

SouthPass.TylerCundallofthe Cundall Ranch nearGuernsey, Wyoming, BillSinnard at Fort Fetterman,BillLarsenoftheRattlesnakeGrazing Association inCasper, Jennifer StevensonattheSplitRockRanch,andTena Sun of the SunRanchallowed us to cross the trailon their land and helpedwithdirectionsand support.Vikki Correll and her

daughter CrystiannaCrawford of the Split RockCafé in Jeffrey City allowedustocampontheirgroundsand rose early to feed usbreakfast.

IhavedescribedhowSamandLaVoraPeery of Logan,Utah, interrupted their dayto climb back up RockyRidge and assist us acrosssome of the most difficultterrainofthetrip,andIwas

moved by their religiousfaithand theirdedication tostrangers. Elder Doug Ellettand his wife, Beth, of St.George, Utah, welcomed usintoRockCreekHollowandmade us dinner when wecamped beside the WillieHandcart burial site, anddrove us ahead on the trailto scout our route to SouthPass. In Idaho, severalMormon ranchers and their

wives extended us similarcourtesies. While I disagreewith many policies of theChurch of Jesus Christ ofLatter-day Saints along themoderntrail,particularlytherenaming of Devil’s Gatealong the Sweetwater, theindividual Saints Imetwereunfailingly helpful anddevoted followers of theGoodSamaritanrule.

The residents of Farson,Wyoming, particularlyWyoming Highway Patroltrooper Ed Sabourin,cowboy and mechanic TellBrenneman, and farmer andpilot Allen Stout, werelifesavers when we limpedinto the old Big SandyStation after breaking ourwheelsatSouthPass.Myoldfriend Joe Cantrell of RockSprings, now a district

engineerwith theBureau ofLand Management, met usin Farson and offered goodadviceontheroutesthroughthecutoffcountryofwesternWyoming.

In Idaho and Oregon,ranchers Justin Smith,Gordon Thompson, TonyClapier, Joe and GlendaAdams, John and StephTeeter, Chip and LeilaLockett, and Wade Harris

allowed us to use theircorrals. Steve Stacy of theSnake River Garage inHuntington,Oregon,helpedNick rebuild the axle of ourTrail Pup and arranged forus to climb twelve miles oforiginal trail through theLangley Ranch above BurntRiverCanyon.PhotographerMerri Melde of Oreana,Idaho, who writes theEquestrian Vagabond blog,

waswonderfulcompanyandmademanycontributionstoour trip. Mike Williams ofBaker City, Oregon,welcomedusontohis ranchfor our last long camp.Wagon collectors andreenactors Lloyd and JulieJeffrey of Glenns Ferry,Idaho, who have plungedinto the Snake River atThree IslandCrossingmorethan thirty times with their

covered wagon and drafthorses, spent an afternoonwithmeexplainingtheperilsof river fords with horsesandwagons.

I will never be able tothank Vince and Sue Holtzof Caldwell, Idaho, andFarewell Bend, Oregon,enough for offering apermanent home to ourmules and for theirwonderful hospitality

afterward. Their brother-in-law, Curt Jacobs, hauledJake,Beck,andButeandourwagonstotheirnewhomeinIdaho.

Thestaffsofthefollowingmuseums and interpretivecenters generously sharedtheir archives and answeredmy queries while I waswriting the book: theNational Frontier TrailsMuseum in Independence,

Missouri; the Great PlatteRiver Road ArchwayMonumentandtheMuseumofNebraskaArt inKearney,Nebraska; the Fort CasparMuseum and the NationalHistoric Trails InterpretiveCenter in Casper; theNational Oregon/CaliforniaTrail Center in Montpelier,Idaho; and the NationalHistoric Oregon TrailInterpretiveCenter inBaker

City, Oregon. At the trailcenter in Montpelier,executive director BeckySmith and mountain manreenactor Kurt Morrisonhelped make arrangementsto receive our rebuilt TrailPupwheels.

Ireadnearlyonehundredgeneral-interest histories onthe West and the emigranttrails, from BernardDeVoto’s The Year of

Decision, 1846, to RichardSlotkin’s brilliant andexhaustive series on themythology of the frontier,Regeneration ThroughViolence, The FatalEnvironment,andGunfighterNation, and relied onreference books like RobertFrazer’s Forts of the Westand Nick Eggenhofer’sWagons, Mules and Men:How the Frontier Moved

West. For readers interestedinmoredetailedhistoriesofthetrail, JohnD.UnruhJr.’sThe Plains Across andMerrillJ.Mattes’sTheGreatPlatte River Road aremonuments of scholarship,dense-packed withinformationandstatisticsonthecommercialscamsofthejumping off towns, Indianandpioneercooperationandconflict, cutoffs and

alternate routes, the choleraepidemics, and religiousstrife.Mattes,acofounderofOCTA and a formerNational Parks Servicehistorian, worked from the1930s to the 1990s, and iscredited with rescuingWestern trail scholarshipfrom the “main ruts”mentality to a moresophisticated approach thatappreciated, as he put it,

“that the various routes andtrails were all simplycomponents of one bignatural and providentialtravel corridor, the PlatteRiver Valley.” Mattes spentalmost three decadescompiling what has to beconsidered one of the mosttriumphant volumes inAmericanhistory, thePlatteRiver Road Narratives(Universityof IllinoisPress),

a six hundred-pagebibliography of more thantwo thousand pioneerjournals, with biographicalsketches, journal excerpts,andmanuscriptlocationsforeach one.Marathon readerswilling to spend a fewmonths with Mattes’sresearch opus will learnmoreabouttrailhistorythanby reading several otherbookscombined.Ipaid$160

formycopyandfeastedonitfor three years, relyingheavily on Mattes’s preciseentries when quoting fromthepioneerjournals.

Keith Heyer Meldahl’sHard Road West: Historyand Geology along the GoldRush Trail vividly mixespioneer accounts withscientific descriptions of theterrain they were crossing.WillBagley’sexcellentseries

on the western trails—SoRugged and Mountainous,With Golden Visions BrightBeforeThem,andSouthPass—offers new research andadditionalpioneervoicesnotheard in earlier histories.The monographs andarticlesofToddGuenther,ahistory and archeologyprofessor at CentralWyoming College, wereuseful when I was writing

about the South Passsegment of the trail, andGuenther was kind enoughto help me straighten outsome details about thecutoffs in the area of BurntRanchandtheEllisRanch.

The best and liveliestsources about the trail, ofcourse, are the original trailjournals and travel guideswritten after 1843. I readmore than thirty original

pioneer and Gold Rushjournals, and excerpts ofmany more, which Iidentified in my text whenquoting from them. Ifollowed the practice ofalways trying to obtain anoriginal copy of themanuscriptor thepublishedjournal on the web or atantiquarian bookstores, butin cases where these werenotavailableIattributedmy

source to the history bookwhereIfoundit.ForreadersinterestedinreadingthebestjournalsIwouldrecommendeither used or republishedvolumes of FranklinLangworthy’s Scenery of thePlains, Mountains andMines, or Gold Rush: TheJournals, Drawings andOther Papers of J.Goldsborough Bruff.KennethL.HolmesandDale

Morgan have done anexcellent job editing themultivolumepioneerjournalcollections published by theUniversity of NebraskaPress, Covered WagonWomen and Overland in1846.

For my chapter onNarcissa and MarcusWhitman,IreliedmostlyonNarcissa’s own publishedletters and the

comprehensive, two-volumebiography written byClifford M. Drury. RichardSlotkinreadandcommentedon sections of that chapterand I cross-checkedinformation with otherpublished histories,including an essay by ToddGuenther, Erin Hammer,and Fred Chaney, whichincluded a very useful mapof the Whitman route after

South Pass, in the Winter2002/2003 issue of theOverlandJournal.

I was able to cobbletogether my history of theAmerican mule frompioneer accounts, and theexcellentweb databases andhistories offered by theAmericanMuleMuseum inBishop, California; WesternMule Magazine; the NorthAmerican Saddle Mule

Association; and RuralHeritagemagazine.ThestateofMissouri, which after the1840s became the mule-breedingcapitalofAmerica,has fundedextensivestudiesonmules,andIreliedonthepublications of the StateHistorical Society ofMissouri; the MissouriAgricultural History Series;and the University ofMissouri College of

Veterinary Medicine. In1994, Melvin Bradley, aUniversity of Missouriprofessor of animal scienceandmuleloverwhowasalsoknown as “the mule’s bestfriend,” published his sixhundred-page opus, TheMissouri Mule: His OriginandTimes,acopyofwhichImanaged to locate at a usedbook store in Kentucky.Susan Orlean’s excellent

article on modern mules inthe February 15, 2010, issueof the New Yorker, “RidingHigh:MulesintheMilitary,”confirmedmanydetails thatI originally learned fromspecialforcesveteransofthewar in Afghanistan. BetsyHutchins in Rural Heritageand Steve Edwards inCowboy Showcase havewritten superbarticles titled“HowtoBuyaMule.”These

included vital tips aboutmaking detailed inquiriesabout a mule’s bad habits,carefully checking their legsand hooves, and “[taking]your time while muleshopping,” advice Icompletely forgot whenbuying my own team ofMissourimules.

Iconsideredtheevolutionof the PennsylvaniaConestogaand thecommon

farm wagon that eventuallybecametheprairieschoonerof the plains—in particular,its role in developing theAmerican economy andmanufacturing technology—an important aspect of mytale. I was able to pull themany strands together withthe help of Jack Day ofMonkton, Maryland, theformer secretary of theCarriage Association of

Americaandavicepresidentof the Carriage Museum ofAmerica in Lexington,Kentucky, and thepreeminent builder ofwagons and stagecoachestoday, Doug Hansen of theHansen Wheel and WagonShop of Letcher, SouthDakota. Histories andarticles that I was able toobtain on the internetincluded Dan R. Manning’s

“TheChallenger,” about theSpringfield WagonCompany; “Wagons of theWest” by Jerry Adams; theWheels that Won the Westwebsite; and “WagonMakers & the Wheels ofHistory” by John Knarr,published by the NorthManchester (Indiana)Historical Society in May2010. On eBay, I obtainedoriginal nineteenth-century

wagon manuals and salespamphlets with detailedspecifications and companyhistories from the PeterSchuttler Wagon Co. inChicago, the StudebakerBrothersManufacturingCo.in SouthBend, Indiana, andtheJ.Murphy&Sonswagonfactory in St. Louis. I wasable to follow thedevelopment of the largerConestoga into the smaller,

more streamlined mover’swagon of the 1830s—paticularly the developmentof the fitted bolster—byexamining the wagoncollections at the MercerMuseum in Doylestown,Pennsylvania; the CornwallIron Furnace in Cornwall,Pennsylvania; and thePioneer Village museum inMinden, Nebraska. Thephotographs and displays at

the Erie Canal Museum inSyracuse,NewYork,andtheNational Park Service’sRoeblingBridgeTollhouseatMinisink Ford, New York,providedseveralexamplesoffarmwagonsatworkonthecanals. Merrill Mattes’sTheGreatPlatteRiverRoadandWillBagley’sSoRuggedandMountainous have longsections about wagon parts,wagon-cover inscriptions,

and how the wagons werepurchased and put togetheron the frontier. PeterSchuttler Companyhistories,theEncyclopediaofChicago, and JohnCarbutt’sBiographical Sketches of theLeading Men of Chicagocontain extensive materialon the Schuttler family andtheir house-building spreeafter the Civil War.Communications manager

Julia Tunis Bernard andmuseum director BeverlySmith at theWells Fargo&Co. in San Franciscoconfirmed informationabout the company’s earlystagecoaches.

I am happy to havewrittenabookthatcontainsa long section expressingambivalence about theMormons,becauseIfeelthesame way about my own

“birth religion,” RomanCatholicism.Iknowsomanywonderful, accomplished,and open people within theSaints that I am tempted toignore the often clumsyadministration and publicrelations of the official LDSChurch. Lately, there havebeen encouraging signs thatLDSleadersandscholarsarepromoting a more tolerantapproach to issues like

minority membership, therole of women and gayrights, and a more honestassessment of thecontroversialrolesplayedbyJoseph Smith and BrighamYoung, polygamy, and theChurch’s violent history onthe frontier. But a bookabout theOregon Trail andwhat it has become todaycannot ignore the Church’sefforts to control important

historic sites and retellfrontier history to its ownadvantage.

Wallace Stegner’s TheGatheringofZion:TheStoryoftheMormonTrailremainsthe single best book aboutthe Mormons and a classicwork of history. Fawn M.Brodie’sbiographyofJosephSmith, No Man Knows MyHistory,isalsoexcellent,andI also relied on John G.

Turner’s Brigham Young,Pioneer Prophet, and TheMormon Experience byLeonard J. Arrington andDavis Bitton. DavidRoberts’s Devil’s Gate:Brigham Young and theGreat Mormon HandcartTragedy, and Tom Rea’sDevil’s Gate: Owning theLand, Owning the Story,documentthe1856Mormon

handcart tragedy and itsrepercussionstoday.

The LDS Churchmaintains an extensive webarchive on the Mormoncrossing to Utah after 1847that includes individualpioneerjournals,historiesofeach year’s crossing,descriptions of theMormons’ impressivenetworkofroadranchesandtrail markers, and

documents on the 1856handcart crisis. I found thework of ChadM.Orton, anarchivistwiththeFamilyandChurch History Division oftheChurchofJesusChristofLatter-day Saints, especiallyinformative. LDSpublications such as “WillieHandcart Historic SitesInformation” and the“Handbook for TrekLeaders” at the Mormon

historic sites in Wyomingwere also very helpful. Iobtained the May 2006agreement between theBureau of LandManagement, the LDSChurch, and the AmericanCivil LibertiesUnion,whichessentially converted anational landmarkalong theOregon Trail in Wyoming,Devil’s Gate, into aMormon-controlled site,

and renamed it by thepreferred LDS place name,Martin’s Cove. AttorneyMegan Hayes of Laramie,Wyoming,whowashiredtorepresent the ACLU in itsaction against the BLM andthe LDS Church, explainedduringaphoneinterviewthereasons forsettlingthecase.EricHawkins, the print andbroadcast mediarepresentative of the LDS

Church in Salt Lake,answered my questions andconfirmed details of myaccount. The MormontakeoverofDevil’sGatewasextensively covered in theWyoming press, andoccasionally by nationalnewspapers, and I consultedarticles published by theBillings Gazette, the GreenRiverStar,theDeseretNews,theCasperStar-Tribune,the

New York Times, and theLDS News operated by theChurch.

My lifelong associationwith the Amish andMennonite communities ofLancaster and Snydercounties in Pennsylvania,and the Old Ordersettlements now spreadthroughout the Midwest,helpsmegreatlywhenever Ipurchase horses, wagons, or

harness.Ireceivedhelpfrommany Old Order friendswhile preparing for my tripacross the Oregon Trail,particularly John R. Martinof Ephrata, Pennsylvania,Lamar Martin of Leola,Pennsylvania, Aaron Martinof Versailles, Missouri, andRufus and Alice Martin inVandalia,Illinois.

Myagent,SloanHarrisofICM, performed his usual

miracles of remaining intouch, arranging for moretimeformetofinishwriting,readingandcommentingonmy manuscript, andencouraging me during along writing process.Heather Karpas, JosieFreedman, and HeatherBushong at ICM areunfailingly helpful andprompt.

Illustrator MichaelGellatly, whose work hasgraced my earlier books,surpassed himself with linedrawings, and I am gratefulto mapmaker Jeffrey Wardfor responding to myspecific requests for eachmap.

Writers who complainthat they don’t receiveenough editing, or can’t gettheireditorstoreturnphone

calls, should try and place abookwithJofieFerrari-Adlerat Simon & Schuster. Overthree years, working with amanuscriptthatatonepointhad ballooned to over250,000 words, Jofie neverlosthisfocusorinterest,andhis suggestion that I digdeeperintofamilymemoriesto explain my reasons forcrossing the Oregon Trailgreatly improved the book.

Jofie has a steel trap mindfor details, an excellent BSdetector, no pause button,and a touching and rarehumility. The support ofpublisher Jon Karp andassociate publisher RichardRhorerhasbeenheartening,and I am grateful for thehard work of JuliannaHaubner and JonathanEvans.CaryGoldstein,AnneTate Pearce, Dana Trocker,

and Jackie Seow were alsowonderfullysupportive.

I am blessed with manyfriends who understand theloneliness of writing andreach out to support mewith dinner invitations,moralsupport,andweekendjunkets, especially GeorgeandCindyRousseauandtheentire Rousseau family, Boband Judy Spiering, ScottAsen, Kirt and Kerri-Lee

Mayland,EileenFitzgibbons,Danielle Mailer, PeterMcEachern, CynthiaOneglia,DanWhalen,TonyBill,andHelenBartlett.BillyRichards and Tracy Bartellsare the most steadfast offriendsandhaveoftengivenme a quiet place towrite attheir Blue Sky Ranchestablishment in Gardiner,New York. My brotherAdrian Buck offers me the

refuge of his quiet place inMaine.

My sisters Bridget Buckand Ferriss Donham, andtheir husbands, RalphMoore and Will Donham,are always exceptionallysupportive,andmychildren,Paper Buck and CharlotteBuck, are loving and loyalbeyondreason.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

©ROBERTMITCHELL

RINKER BUCK began hiscareer in journalism at theBerkshire Eagle and was alongtime staff writer for theHartford Courant. He haswrittenforVanityFair,NewYork, Life, and many otherpublications, and his storieshave won the Eugene S.PulliamNational JournalismWriting Award and the

Society of ProfessionalJournalists Sigma Delta ChiAward. He is the author ofthe memoirs Flight ofPassage and First Job. Helives in northwestConnecticut.

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INDEX

Anoteabouttheindex:Thepagesreferencedinthisindexrefertothepagenumbersintheprintedition.Clickingonapagenumberwilltakeyoutotheebooklocationthat

correspondstothebeginningofthatpageintheprintedition.Foracomprehensivelistoflocationsofanywordorphrase,useyourreadingsystem’ssearchfunction.

Imagesarereferredtoinboldface.

Afghanistan:warin,135,413“AirShiptoCalifornia”,Porter’s,158,

158alcohol:onRinker’sOregonTrailtrip,

378TheAlcoholicRepublic(Rorabaugh),

265Alexander&Hall(“expresstrain”

company),41

AlkaliGulch(Oregon),386,387AllCreaturesGreatandSmall

(Herriot),92AmericanBoardofCommissionersfor

ForeignMissions,100AmericanFalls(Idaho),369–70,380AmericanHeritage:coveredwagon

articlein,19–20AmericanPioneerTrailsAssociation,

168TheAmericans(Boorstin),78anteloperibs:andrunawaymules

incident,247–48,249ArapahoIndians,4,182,244Army,U.S.

atBlueWaterCreek,213BurntRanchaspostof,313–14

Codyasscoutfor,294andfirstknownwagoncrossingof

OregonTrail,100Indiansand,213–14andMitchellPass,232mulesin,34,35,42,43insmallwesterntowns,344SpecialForcesCommandof,3510thMountainDivisionof,35inWyoming,293SeealsoCavalry,U.S.;specificperson

AshHollow(Nebraska),78,174,211–16

AspenGrove(Wyoming):initialsat,354

“autogates.”Seecattleguards

AvenueoftheRocks(Wyoming),107,273,276

Bacon,Daniel,128BakerCity,Oregon,29,396,397,398–

99,401–2,404,405–8,409,414Baptists:aspioneers,110,371BarlowRoadCutoff(Oregon),385BarlowRoad(Oregon),18Barlow,S.K.,18Barlow,William,18BattleofBlueWaterCreek,213–14BearRiver,100,129,340,352–56,

360–64,367,369Beck(mule)

andBigBlueRivercrossing,146–50

inBlackHills,237

atCaliforniaHill,206–9,211–12callingof,93,94,237andcrossingbridges,146–50,151anddifferingdrivingstyles,122hogsincidentand,154,155atHoltz’Idahoranch,404,414Mattie’s(Stevenson)drivingof,

298Nick’srelationshipwith,120Nick’sspecialcaringfor,400–401atO’Fallon’sBluff,197,198,199,

200,201inOregon,392–95,399–403personalityof,49,49,82,86,198,

200,201,399pissingby,124problemswith,119–20,122

andRinker’sdoubtsaboutthetrip,82

andRinker’semergencybackupplan,59

Rinker’sgoodbyeto,415Rinker’srelationshipwith,120,

189andRinker’ssolodriveinto

Oregon,381atRockCreekRidge,363,365atRockyRidge,305–6asrunawayatFortFetterman,

246–51asrunawayatMidwayStation,189saleof,396–97,399–404selectionof,49,49shoesfor,380

atSplitRock,289andtrainatLookoutMountain,

392–95weatherand,154–56Seealsomules,Rinker’s

Beechy,Elmer,44,59–62Benny(Buckfamilyhorse),141–43,

144,145–46BerkshireEaglenewspaper,357,359Betty(Buckfamilyhorse),141–43,

144,145–46Betty’sBook(BakerCity,Oregon),409Bierstadt,Albert,2,229BigBlue–LittleBluetransit,151BigBlueRiver

Clark’sdescriptionofdeathalongthe,180

ebbandflowof,130Rinker’scrossingof,136,139,140,

146–50BigBlueRivercountry(Kansas):

Rinker’sOregonTrailtripin,125–27,128–39,140,146–50

BigSandyPonyExpressStation(Wyoming),334,339,340,343

BigSandyRiver,338,339,340,342BigSprings(Nebraska),204BirchCreekRanch(Oregon),386–87,

390–91BlackHills(SouthDakota),234BlackHills(Wyoming),234,235–37,

238,242Bland,James,356BlueMountains(Oregon),385

BlueWaterCreek,Battleof,213–14Boardman,John,235Boise,Idaho,5“bolster”,wagon,69–70Bond,Ward,9,145Bonneville,Benjamin:expeditionof,

100,108BonnevilleLake(Idaho),369–70BookofMormon,263,264–65Boorstin,Daniel,78,203,373BowdoinCollege:Rinkerat,12–13,

239,240,356BozemanTrail,244Brenneman,Tell,341Bridgeport,Nebraska,221Bridger,Jim,233,340bridge(s)

andBigBlueRivercrossing,140,146–50

atBurntRanch,315–23andDelawareRivercrossing,141–

43,144,145–46expansionjointson,147–50irrigationtechnologyand,173inLittleSandyCreekcountry,151atStrawberryCreek,300

BrownCountyAgriculturalMuseum,97–98

Brown,Randy,183,251–58,269,278,279

Bruff,J.Goldsborough,278,353–54BruneauDunes(Idaho),369Buck,Bryan(brother),141,142,143,

145

Buck,Ferriss(sister),25Buck,Kernahan(brother),9,11,12,

79,141Buck,Nicholas“Nick”(brother)

asactor,28–29,156,161–62,405artifactknowledgeof,25askingforhelpof,160–61andchildrenalongthetrail,134,

297–98anddailylifeontrail,127,151–52,

164,165,175,405anddecisionaboutdriverfor

OregonTrailtrip,87–88drivingskillsof,121,225–26,237,

304,307–8,362–66,407andfather’scollections,62–63father’srelationshipwith,196,205

fearsof,85–86feelingsaboutOregonTrailtripof,

336,350,405,407financialaffairsof,24andflashbacksoffather,333ashorseman,24,28injuriesof,22,24andlaunchingofOregonTrail

trip,82,83,84,85–86,87–88inMaine,22–26,121Mormons’meetingwith,281,282,

284,285–86Oregonactivitiesof,404–5personalityof,22,23,25,26–27,

28,47,54,57,83–84,95,121,149–50,161,205,225–26,245,334

andplansandpreparationsforOregonTrailtrip,21–22,24–29,30,45–47,48,50,51,53–54,57–58,59,62,63,64

andPoopyproblem,25–26popularityof,404–5professionalbackgroundof,23–24reputationof,22,24,25,205returntoEastof,405–8sleepof,83,98,139,336,338,340,

356,398volunteeractivitiesof,22–23,24wagonshopstourby,405–7SeealsoBuckfamily:covered

wagontripstoPennsylvaniaby;specificsiteorincidentonOregonTrailtrip

Buck,Nicholas“Nick”(brother)—andRinker

Casperfightbetween,259–62andNick’splanstoreturnto

Maine,28–29,156–57,160–62,165,336

relationshipbetween,45–47,50,82,83–85,155–56,160–62,165,201,206,225–26,228,245,262,305,367,368,375,379,407,408

andRinker’sfeelingsabouttheOregonTrailtrip,416

andRinker’sgettingridofpossessions,114

andRinker’soldridingsaddle,21–22,162

andRinker’spresentsforNick,406

andRinker’ssolodriveintoOregon,380–82

andsellingthemules,401,402–3Buck,Rinker

andaskingforhelp,160–61crazyasspassionof,20,82,335,

381,416depressionof,238–39,251doubtsof,292dreamsofOregonTrailtripof,1–

7,112financialaffairsof,13flashbacksaboutfatherof,192–96,

201,238,332,333,356–60,372,414

hypoxiaof,274,277,287,291,306,329,332,367

impactofOregonTrailtripon,414,416

motivationof,189,190,337,372naivetéof,293–94,332andNick’splanstoreturnto

Maine,156–57,160–62,165,336

Nick’srelationshipwith,45–47,50,82,83–85,155–56,160–62,165,201,206,225–26,228,245,262,305,407,408

personalandprofessionalbackgroundof,8–14,21,23,78,79–81,80,94–97,121,194–95,238–39,357

personalityof,8,14,26–27,28,54,79–80,83,121,122,150,160–

61,228,245,407returntoEastof,415–16rolemodelfor,96–97,160self-imageof,312–13uncertaintyasmantraof,201,202,

294,416SeealsoOregonTrail,Rinker’strip

on;specificpersonortopicBuck,Tom(father)

antiwarspeechof,240–42appearanceof,357–58,360cameraof,357–60collectionsof,62–63deathof,62,194–95declineof,192–93andDelawareRiverbridge

crossing,141–43,144,145–46,

194asenabler,196andfamilycoveredwagontrips,8–

9,10,11–12,12,63,79–81,80,141–43,144,145–46,194,202,332,372

financialaffairsof,23andliftinggrainsacksincident,

332,333NewYorkCitymeetingbetween

Buckand,357–60Nick’srelationshipwith,196,205,

381“Piker”commentof,78and“pioneeringspirit,”80

Buck,Tom(father)(cont.)professionalbackgroundof,8,95

retirementof,356Rinker’sflashbacks/memoriesof,

191,192–96,201,238,332,333,356–60,372,381,414

Rinker’srelationshipwith,14,121,145–46,194–96,238–42,356–60,372,381

asrolemodel,96–97,160Saturday-morningridesof,94–97volunteeractivitiesof,95

Buckfamily,coveredwagontripstoPennsylvaniaby,8–9,10,11–12,12,13,63,79–81,80,141–43,144,145–46,191,194,202,332,372

BureauofLandManagement,U.S.(BLM),254,257,269,300,317,318,319,320,328,343,346,347,367,398

BurlingtonNorthernRailroad,16,172BurntRanch(Wyoming),293,312,

313–23BurntRiverCanyon(Oregon),392–95Burton,SirRichard,234,313,340Bush,GeorgeW.,271–72Bute(mule)

andBigBlueRivercrossing,147,150

atBurntRanch,316atCaliforniaHill,206–9,211–12callingof,93,94cattleguardsand,245andcrossingbridges,147,150,151atFortFetterman,245,246–51andhogsincident,154,155atHoltz’Idahoranch,404,414

Mattie’s(Stevenson)drivingof,298

Nick’sspecialcaringfor,400–401atO’Fallon’sBluff,198,199inOregon,392–95personalityof,49,82,86,91,198,

399problemswith,119,120andRinker’sdoubtsaboutthetrip,

82Rinker’sgoodbyeto,415andRinker’ssolodriveinto

Oregon,381atRockyRidge,306asrunawayatFortFetterman,

246–51saleof,396–97,399–404

selectionof,49shoesfor,380andtrainatLookoutMountain,

392–95weatherand,154,155,156Seealsomules,Rinker’s

CaliforniaHill(Nebraska),78,116,174,197,203–9,209,210,211–12,234,399,407

CaliforniaTrail,38,40,116,252,297,371

camera:Rinkergetsfather’s,357–60camptowns,212–13,344,345.Seealsospecificcamp

canalsmulesand,42–43wagonsand,70–71

Cantrell,Ed,291CanvasCaravans(Hanna),371carts

wagonsrebuiltas,108Seealsohandcarts;“TrailPup”cart

CascadeMountains,385CasperStar-Tribunenewspaper,260Casper,Wyoming,233,234,235–36,

257,258,259–62,268,279,347CastleCreek(Wyoming):Stullgrave

at,252,253Cather,Willa,106Catholics,23,411Catlin,George,103cattleguards,218–20,219,220,229,

244–45,246Cavalry,U.S.,212,243,244

CayuseIndians,108,410–13,414CensusBureau,U.S.,135CentralCalifornia&PikesPeak

ExpressCompany,186CheyenneIndians,182,233,244Child,Andrew,236children

andcastoffsalongOregonTrail,235

casualtiesamong,162–64CayuseIndian,412grandparentsasraising,133–36inMarysville,137–39inOregon,396,398Stevenson,295–98atWhitmanmission,412

TheChildsRoute(Wyoming),235–36,243,244,251,254,256

ChimneyRock(Nebraska),5,56,109,115,182,191,216,229–31,230

cholera,177–81,183,212,214–15,230,252,370

ChurchoftheLatter-daySaints.SeeMormons

CityoftheSaints(Burton),234CivilWar

homesteadingafterthe,343–44andIndianwars,412mulesin,34,35,42OverlandMailrouteduring,185reenactorsof,243,245Rinker’sviewsabout,413wagons/cartsin,44,71,72

CivilianConservationCorps(CCC),168,344,345

Clark,John,19,40–41,160,180,280Clemens,Orion,42Clemens,Samuel.SeeTwain,MarkClergyandLaityConcerned,240Clyde(Oregoncowboy),381Cody,WilliamFrederick“BuffaloBill,”

191,294–95Coke,Henry,41Cokeville,Wyoming,355,367–68Cole,Thomas,286ColoradoStateUniversity(Fort

Collins),Snodderlyremainsat,256–57

ColumbiaRiver,383,410,411,412,413

Conestogawagons,66–68,70,74“TheConfessionsofaDisenchanted

American”speech,Buck’s(Tom),240–42

continentaldivide,107,273,299,324–25.SeealsoSouthPass

Cooke,Lucy,19Coon,Polly,280–81cordiality,western,343–44corgiattackonOliveOyl,319–20CorpsofTopographicalEngineers,

U.S.,214CottonwoodCreek(Wyoming),3,

236–37CountyRoad319(Wyoming),273CourthouseRock(Nebraska),182,

216,229

Cowles,Mike,95CrazyHorse(Lakotawarrior),244crazyasspassion,20,82,335,381,416CundallRanch(Wyoming),236–37Curry,GeorgeLaw,18–19cutoffcountry

mapof,349Rinker’sviewsabout,351Seealsospecificcutoff

D&BRanchSupplystore(BakerCity,Oregon),401

DailyMissouriRepublican,157Dalles(Oregon),384debris:alongOregonTrail,40,115–

18,235DeerFlat,Oregon,381Delano,Alonzo,128

DelawareRiver:Buckfamily’scrossingofbridgeon,141–43,144,145–46,194,202

DeLormeAtlas&Gazetteer,89,175demographics:changesinU.S.,135DempseyRidge(Wyoming),326,340,

352,354–55,356,368,415,416desert

Rinker’stravelsin,338–42,348–51

andSouthPassasseparatingtwodeserts,325–26

SeealsoLittleColoradoDesertDevil’sGate(Wyoming),5,270–72,

273,280,281,293,311,354.SeealsoMartin’sCove

DeVoto,Bernard,14

DiaryofaPioneer(Searls),157,235DoanCreek(Oregon),413doctors

withwagontrains,111SeealsoWhitman,Marcus

DonationLandAct(1850),343Donner,George,68DonnerParty,68,278Dorsey’sRoadRanch(Nebraska),197Drury,CliffordM.,111Duffin,Reg,256Durst,Duane,3–7

ElkhornMountains,397,398,401EllisRanch(Wyoming),293,299–301Emery,Robert,172EmigrantGap(California),262,273EmigrantGuide(Hastings),115

EmigrantSprings(Wyoming),334,340,352,353–54,356

energyprojects,17,350“EnergyTrail,”350Enterprise,Oregon:HellsCanyon

MuleDaysin,404equipment/supplies

CindyandDonna’scleaningof,376–77

andcrashatSouthPass,331,335–36,337

anddailylifeontrail,127,151andendofRinker’sOregonTrail

trip,404forlaunchingRinker’sOregon

Trailtrip,26,45–47,64,98Nick’srejectionofRinker’s,45–47

equipment/supplies(cont.)Rinker’sgettingridof,113–15in“TrailPup”cart,113–14,223,

331,335–36,337,389,399ErieCanal,70“ErieCanalSong,”43Estelle,James,326Exner,Don,191–94,195–96Exner,Sheila,191,193,195TheExploringExpeditiontotheRockyMountainsintheYear1842(Frémont),324–25

families:aspioneers,100–101,102FarewellBend,Oregon,4,6,166,387,

389,390,391farming,201–2

FarsonCutoff(Wyoming),55,348,352

Farson,WyomingRinkerat,339–42,343,347–48,

356Rinker’stravelsto,333,337,338–

39fear,Rinker’sviewsabout,310FettermanCity,293FettermanHogRanch,244Fetterman,WilliamJ.,243–44FirstPresbyterianChurch(Hiawatha,

Kansas),114–15flatboats,384–85FlintHills(Kansas),1–2,4,6,53,89,

92,125,151Fly,SareptaGore,183–84

Fly,William,183,184flying:Rinker’sinterestin,12FlyingJtruckstop(Wyoming),367–

68FontenelleDam(Wyoming),350Ford,Henry,168TheForks(PlatteRiver),176FortBoise(Idaho),108FortBridger(Wyoming),116,268,

313,338,353,355FortCasparMuseum(Wyoming),260FortCasper(Wyoming),276FortFetterman(Wyoming),243–52,

259,406FortHall(Idaho),109,111FortKearnyCutoff,171

FortKearny(Nebraska),3,55,92,115,116,118

FortLaramie(Wyoming),92,107,116,118,178,181,213,214,233,235,268

FortLeavenworth(Kansas),66,89FortRiley(Kansas),66,89FortStambaughRoad(Wyoming),301FossilButteNationalMonument

(Wyoming),347,352Foster,Stephen,344FourthofJuly:onOregonTrail,327Fox,Jared,354Franzwa,GregoryM.,169,175Frémont,John,324–25Frink,Margaret,3,7,77,131–32,181,

229,230,326fuckedupcondition,196

Gantt,John,109Gantt-WhitmanTrain(1843),109–12“gatejacks,”219,219,277TheGatheringofZion:TheStoryoftheMormonTrail(Stegner),263

GeiserGrandHotel(BakerCity,Oregon),398

GeologicalSurvey,U.S.,186Gering,Nebraska:Rinkerin,193–95gettinglost,Rinkeras,288–92,296–97“ghostfarms,”202Gill,Larry,186–88,189GlacierNationalPark,6,345Glendo,Wyoming,237–38Glenrock,Wyoming,378GoldHill(Oregon),395

GoldRush(1849),California,2,19–20,36,40,71,73,112,116,117–18,157–60,158,177,214

GoldsboroughBluff,278GPSsystem,375GrandView,Idaho,369grandparents:asraisingchildren,133–

36GraniteRange(Wyoming),233,270,

281,286,287,288,292,293,296.SeealsoSplitRock

Grattan,John,213–14GrattanMassacre,213–14grave-spotter,Littletonas,180–81graves:alongtheOregonTrail,5,

180–81,252–58,271,280,413

GravesandSitesCommittee,OCTA,253

GravesandSitesontheOregonandCaliforniaTrails(Brown),252,255–56

Gray,JohnS.,295GreatAmericanDesert,383GreatAwakening,Second,253,255,

264,265GreatDepression,239,344,345“GreatGrave”ofWhitmanMassacre

victims,413GreatMigration,109.SeealsoGantt-

WhitmanTrainTheGreatPlatteRiverRoad(Mattes),

14,116

GreatPlatteRiverRoad(Wyoming):Mormonson,268

Greeley,Horace,103,313,340GreenMountains(Wyoming),293GreenRiver,36,107GreenRiverRendezvouscountry,280,

327,334,340,348,350,353Guenther,Todd,314Guernsey,Wyoming,235guidebooks,115–16

Hadley,Amelia,324Haile,Richard,183Haile,Susan,183Hale,Emma,264Hale,Israel,213HamsForkCutoff(Wyoming),55,

340,355

HamsForkRiver(Wyoming),348,352,353

handcartdisasters(1856),Mormon,269–71,284–85,300,301,312

handcarts,Mormon,283,284–85,286,296,300

Hanlon,Dan,224–25,226,228,229Hanna,EstherBell,371HappyCanyonNight(Pendleton,

Oregon),405HardRoadWest(Meldahl),371Harney,WilliamS.,213Harris,Moses“Black,”159HartfordCourantnewspaper,13Hastings,Lansford,115HaystackButte(Wyoming),341Hecox,Jim,189,190

HellsCanyonMuleDays(Enterprise,Oregon),404

help,askingfor,160–61Henry,O.,183Herriot,James,92Hiawatha,Kansas,83,93,97–98,113–

15,118Highland,Kansas,93Highway25,236,238,257Highway26,56,211Highway30,56,174,186,204,356,

367,397Highway36,51.SeealsoSt.Joseph

RoadHighway47,190Highway80,17,172,184,186,195,

197

Highway84,17,386,396Highway86,17Highway89,367Highway92,229Highway220,276HighwayPatrol,Wyoming,339highwaysystem

andhistoryofOregonTrail,16–17,55,56,89,90,167

andobstaclesonOregonTrail,29inOregon,386,391–92,396andwesterndevelopment,345Seealsospecifichighway

HistoricInscriptionsonWesternEmigrantTrails(Brown),278

historicalpreservation,215–16.SeealsoOregonTrail:preservationof

“hitchrunaways,”84–86,85,87hogsincident,154–55Hollenberg,Gerat,2,3HollenbergRanch,2–7,8,13Holmes,JohnClellon,18Holtz,Sue,391,398–99,401–3,409,

414–15Holtz,Vince,386–87,389,390–91,

397,399,401–3,404,409,414–15Homedale,Idaho,380HomesteadAct(1862,1909,1916),

186,343homesteading:aftertheCivilWar,

343–44horses

andBigBlueRivercrossing,140

crossingbridgeswith,141–43,144,145–46

mulescomparedwith,4,32,35–36,43

andNickashorseman,24,28readinghoofprintsof,290,291–

92womenand,104,107,112,181–82

Horton,Missouri.SeeWernerWagonWorks

Hudson’sBayCompany,108,110HudspethCutoff(Idaho),371–72huntingandfishingindustry,346Huntington,Oregon,391–92hypoxia(oxygendeprivation),274,

277,287,291,306,329,332

Idaho

geologyof,369–72,370Mormonsin,372aspark-richstate,346–47Rinkerin,369–81,400,414–15andRinker’sdreamsofOregon

Trailtrip,7Rinker’splansfortraveling

through,228Rinker’svisitwithHoltz’sin,404,

414–15waterin,372

“I’mgonnawashthatmanrightoutamyhair”(song),388–89

Independence,MissouriasbeginningofOregonTrail,16andGantt-WhitmanTrain,109

asjumpingofftownforOregonTrail,51,75

tentcitiesnear,115IndependenceRock(Wyoming),107,

166,168,251,271,273,274,275–81,275,287,291,354

Indianwars,92,172,214,244,293,313,412.Seealsospecifictribeorbattle

IndiansconversiontoChristianityof,100,

213,411–12firstmeetingbetweenwhite

womenand,105andFirstWhitmanCrossing,105–

6whitecultureclashwith,213

SeealsoIndianwars;specificpersonortribe

initialsatAspenGrove,354atRegisterCliff,116

InteriorDepartment,U.S.,169interstatehighways.Seehighway

system;specifichighwayIraqWar,135,413irrigationtechnology,172–73

Jackson,WilliamHenry,52,52,229JailHouseRock(Nebraska),182,216,

229Jake(mule)

appearanceof,48–49andBeckasrunawayatMidway

Station,189

andBigBlueRivercrossing,146–50

inBlackHills,237atCaliforniaHill,205,206–9,

211–12callingof,93,94,237andcrossingbridges,146–50,151atHoltzranchinIdaho,414,415Mattie’s(Stevenson)drivingof,

298Nick’sspecialcaringfor,400–401atO’Fallon’sBluff,198inOregon,392–95,398,399–403personalityof,82,198,399problemswith,119andRinker’semergencybackup

plan,59–62

Rinker’sgoodbyeto,415Rinker’srelationshipwith,49–50,

98,120,189,415andRinker’ssolodriveinto

Oregon,381atRockCreekRidge,363,365,367atRockyRidge,306asrunawayatFortFetterman,

246–51saddlefor,59–62saleof,396–97,399–404selectionof,48–50,49shoesfor,380andtrainatLookoutMountain,

392–95Seealsomules,Rinker’s

Jamesport,Missouri,48,53,57,58,84,91,114.SeealsoRopp’sMuleFarm

JeffreyCity,Wyoming,288,291,296,297,298

Jeffrey,Dianne,184Jeffrey,Joe,184JohnDeerewagons,71,72,75,75Jonahgasfields,350JournaloftheAdventuresofaPartyofCaliforniaGoldSeekers(Frink),131,326

JournalofTravelsovertheRockyMountainstotheMouthoftheColumbiaRiver(Palmer),115–16

jumping-offtowns/camps,51,75,77,115,180.Seealsospecifictownorcamp

KansasBlueRivercountryof,125–27,

128–39,140,146–50“junctioncountry”of,4andlaunchingofRinker’sOregon

Trailtrip,82–84,86–88Rinker’stravelsin,82–94,113–15,

118–25,126–27,128–39,140,146–50

Rinker’stravelsthrough,112RVsin,122–25weatherin,90,125–27,128–30,

131Seealsospecifictownorsite

KansasHistoricalQuarterly:Gray’sarticlein,295

KansasStateHistoricalSociety,2,3–4

KeeneyPass(Oregon),382,385Kemmerer,Wyoming,340Kempf,Don,156,161Kempf,Shirley,156,161Kennedy,JohnF.,240Kern,Ben,341Kerouac,Jack,18,20Kesey,Ken,77King,JohnNevin,41,178“kooster”half-cart

Kern’sloanof,341returnof,386

Lajeunesse,Charles“Seminoe,”311–12

LakotaIndians,244Lambertville,NewJersey:Buckfamily

crossingofbridgein,141–43,144,

145–46Lander,FrederickW.,313–14LanderCutoff(Wyoming),55,300,

313–14,326LanderRoad(Wyoming),313Langworthy,Franklin,116–17,229,

326–27LaramiePeak(Wyoming),182,232LavaHotSprings,Idaho,369,373Lifemagazine,95,358Lime,Oregon,392Lincoln,Abraham,68LincolnHighway(Nebraska),16,186Lisco,Nebraska,220–21,222LittleBlueRiver,6,40,164,173LittleColoradoDesert(Wyoming),

339–40,343,348–51

LittleSandyCreekcountry(Wyoming),151

LittleSandyRiver,333,339,340LittleThunder(Siouxchief),213Littleton,Micajah,180–81LizardButte(Idaho),115,404,415Lockhart,Esther,163–64LodgeTrailRidge(Wyoming),244Lookmagazine,12,95,358TheLookoftheWest1860(Burton),

234LookoutMountaintunnel(Oregon),

392–95Lord,IsraelS.P.,371–72LouTaubertRanchOutfitters(Casper,

Wyoming),260LoveReservoir(Oregon),386,390

Lower96Ranch(Nebraska),185–89lumber,384–85

MaineNickin,22–24,121Nick’splanstoreturnto,28–29,

156–57,160–62,165,336MalheurRiver,386Mammothjackmules,33–34,35,38ManifestDestiny,103,176,347Marcy,RandolphB.,43,115Marshall’sFerry(Kansas),140Marsing,Idaho,404Martin,Edward,270MartinHandcartCompany,270,271Martin,Ivan,9Martin’sCove(Wyoming),270–71,

272,281–86.SeealsoDevil’sGate

Marysville,Kansas,118,136–39,140Mattes,MerrillJ.,14,19,40–41,116,

176,211,252,269Maxwell,WilliamAudley,78McCammon(Idaho)rodeocorrals,

374–79McLeanMeadows(Wyoming),310mcMansions:andpreservationof

OregonTrail,173media

coverageofRinker’stripby,400pioneerpublicationsin,111–12Seealsospecificpersonororganization

Meeker,Ezra,166–68,168,169,170,175,253,328

MeekerMarkers,169

Meldahl,KeithHeyer,371Melde,Merri,391,392,393,394,409Melville,Herman,20memories

andRinker’sflashbacks/memoriesofhisfather,191,192–96,201,238,332,333,356–60,372,381,414

Rinker’sviewsabout,97,388Mennonites,66methamphetamines,134Methodists:aspioneers,110,371,411Mexicanmules,39,41,42MexicanWar,41Middleton,Joseph,287Midnight(Buckfamilyshepherddog),

80

MidwayPonyExpressStation(Nebraska),185–89,188

Minden,Nebraska:Rinker’sstopat,169–75

Missourijumping-offtownsin,39mulebreedingfarmsin,38–40SeealsoIndependence,Missouri;

Jamesport,Missouri;St.Joseph,Missouri

“Missouri”mules,34,35,38–39,40MissouriRiver

jumping-offtownsalongthe,51,77

andRinker’sdreamsofOregonTrailtrip,7

Rinker’stravelsalong,54

and“seeingtheelephant,”19wildflowersby,125

MitchellPass(Nebraska),231–32Mitch’sCafé(Farson,Wyoming),341,

348Moore,Jim,185–86Moore,Martha,126Moran,Donna,373–77,378,379MormonPioneerTrail,269Mormons

beginningoftravelsby,112atBurntRanch,313–14cultureof,281–82,283,303,372anddemandforwagons,71ferriesoperatedby,233handcartdisasters(1856)of,269–

71,284–85,300,301,312

handcartsof,283,284–85,286,296,300

inIdaho,372impactonOregonTrailof,263,

267–68,269,271–72,281–86atIndependenceRock,279atMartin’sCove,270–71,281–86Nick’smeetingwith,281–86asreenactors,272Rinker’smeetingwith,281–86andRinker’sviewsaboutreligion,

309atRockyRidge,300–301SageCreekCampof,300–301andSchuttlerwagons,76,268inWyoming,262–72,279,281–

86,296

SeealsoPeery,Lavora;Peery,Sam“mover”wagons,68–70,71,110MuddyCreekRanch(Nebraska),220,

226–27,228Muir,John,166mules

advantagesof,35,36–37behaviorof,36,82,86,91benefitsof,35–36breedingof,32–33,35,38–40canalsand,42–43drivers’relationshipwith,37,91–

94economicimpactoftradein,39–

40andexpansionofAmericanwest,

36–43

harnessesfor,91historyof,31–43hitchingof,84–86,85,87horsescomparedwith,4,32,35–

36,43hybridizationof,32–33,35ignoranceabout,31image/reputationof,36,37–38,

42–43importanceinAmericanhistory

of,31instinctsof,36–37Mammothjack,33–34,35,38–39Mexican,39,41,42inmilitary,34,35,42,43“Missouri,”34,35,38,40aspackanimals,39

priceof,39“putting,”212reputationof,36,37–38andRinker’sdreamsofOregon

Trailtrip,7Rinker’sresearchabout,31–44roleinOregonTrailtravelof,1,4,

40–42associalanimals,399–400andtongue-relievers,57–58,58trainsand,392–95Seealsomules,callingof;mules,

Rinker’s;specificmulemules,callingof

anddriver-mulesrelationship,91–93

purposeof,90–91

Seealsomules,Rinker’s:callingofmules,Rinker’s

andBigBlueRivercrossing,140,146–50

atCaliforniaHill,206–7callingof,26,88,92–94,127,149–

50,198,199,207,208,212,222,237,306,361–62,363

cattleguardsand,244–45,246anddailylifeonthetrail,118,127Donna’s(Moran)callingof,375drivinglinesfor,87anddrivingstyles,121inHiawatha,98andhogsincident,154–55andlaunchingofOregonTrail

trip,82,86–88

Mattie’s(Stevenson)callingof,298Nickfondnessfor,95,119–20,

127,149–50,154–56,160,189andNick-Rinkerrelationship,84–

85Nick’sspecialcaringfor,400–401andplansforOregonTrailtrip,26problemswith,119–20andRinker’semergencybackup

plan,59–62atRockyRidge,399roleinRinker’stripof,1,59–62selection/purchaseof,43–44,48–

51,120trainsand,392–95“triple-tree”hitchfor,85

waterfor,185,188–89,272,307,329,335,338,339,350,368,381

weatherand,126,153–56,159–60,331

SeealsoBeck;Bute;Jake;Ropp’sMuleFarm

murder:alongOregonTrail,279–80Murdoch’sRanchandHomeSupply

(Casper,Wyoming),260,262MurphyWagonCompany,71,72

NameRock(Wyoming),278TheNarrows(Nebraska),151,171–72

NationalGuard,169NationalHistoricLandmark,281NationalHistoricTrail,5,312,317NationalHistoricTrailsInterpretive

Center(BakerCity,Oregon),398NationalHistoricTrailsInterpretive

Center(Casper,Wyoming),257,258NationalOregon-CaliforniaTrail

Center(Montpelier,Idaho),52NationalParkService,U.S.,6,252,

269,317,410NationalRegisterofHistoricPlaces,

88national/stateparksystem

developmentof,167,344–45,346–47

SeealsoNationalParkService,U.S.

Nebraskafarmingin,201–2andmodernizationofOregon

Trail,56originalOregonTrailrutsin,5aspark-richstate,346–47pioneerwagontrainsin,7Rinker’sOregonTrailtripin,150–

52,153–65,169–76,177–90,191–202,203–10,211–21,222–32

Rinker’splansfortravelingthrough,228

sandstormin,197–201,202

TurnerandAllen’sPioneerLinein,159

weatherin,151,152,157,159–60,164,187,197–201,202,209,221,228,231,232

Nesmith,J.W.,111NewDeal,167,344–45NewEnglandMagazine,103NewHope,Pennsylvania:Buck

family’scrossingofbridgein,141–43,144,145–46,194

NewYorkCity:meetingbetweenRinkerandhisfatherin,357–60

NewYorkTimes,Rinker’sstoryin,194–95

NewYorkTribune,103NezPerceIndians,100

NiagaraCanalCompany,70Nick.SeeBuck,Nicholas“Nick”Nickerson(H.G.)marker,314,315,

316,317,318,328NorthAlkaliCreek(Oregon),381NorthPlattValleyMuseum(Gering,

Nebraska),193–94Nyssa,Oregon,385

Oak,Nebraska,173OCTA.SeeOregon-CaliforniaTrails

AssociationO’Fallon’sBluff(Nebraska),17,174,

197–99,201,202OhioStatesmannewspaper,111OldIndependenceRoad,151OldOregonTrailHighway,17,386OldOregonTrailRoad,373,375

Ole’sBigGameandSteakhouseandLounge(Paxton,Nebraska),195

OliveOyl(Nick’sterrier)andBeckasrunawayatMidway

Station,189inBlackHills,237atBurntRanch,319–20,321,323atCaliforniaHill,205,207andCasperstopover,260,262andCindyandDonna,374,376,

377corgiattackon,319–20,321,322,

323anddailylifeontrail,151–52,328,

405andearlydaysofOregonTrail

trip,90,94,98

inFarson,340inHiawatha,114atIndependenceRock,275andlaunchingofOregonTrail

Trip,86atMartin’sCove,285,286atMarysville,137,138,139atMuddyCreekRanch,227andNick’sreturntotheEast,406,

408Nick’swalkingwith,164inOregon,398,406,408atPacificSpringscampground,

335,336andplansforOregonTrailtrip,

27–28,50atRobbRanch,184

andrunawaymulesatFortFetterman,246,249,250

RVincidentand,124andselectionofRinker’smules,50sleepof,28,98,202,336,377,398atSouthPass,333atSplitRock,289,290,291andStevensonchildren,298andweatherontrip,126andWindmillLanevisit,97

100thmeridian,185,186,229Oregon

eastern,383,384,387,392–95asendofthetrail,384highwaysystemin,55,386,391–

92,396imageof,383,385

Nick’sactivitiesin,404–5Rinkerin,381–82,383–95,396–

408Rinker’ssolodriveinto,380–82scuttledwagonsandpartsin,383–

85weatherin,385,396

OregonButtes,330Oregon-CaliforniaTrailsAssociation

(OCTA),4–5,168–69,170,204,206,253,256,258,269,289,317

OregonCity,Oregon,18,385OregonDepartmentof

Transportation,386“Oregonfever,”111OregonSlough(Wyoming),315,321,

322

OregonTrailcastoffs/debrisalong,40,115–18,

235ascattle-drivingroute,56ascommercialandmilitaryroad,

167creationof,38cutoffsandbranchesof,55,89death/casualtiesalong,4,162–64,

177–81,182,183–84,213,271,279–81

earlynamesfor,4economicimpactof,40,52,172endof,4,6,384firstbabybornon,111firstknowncrossingofwagonson,

100

firstmarkerfor,151firstmasscrossingof,109FourthofJulyon,327gravesalongthe,5,180–81,252–

58,271,280,413historyof,55–56importancetowesternexpansion

of,15–16,40ironyof,352lastdocumentedcrossingof,7lengthof,4mapsof,6,89,151,169,173–74,

175,197,202,236,254,269,312,314,315

markersandmonumentsalongthe,4–5,166,167,169,170,171,

172,182,190,198,215,237,272,288,289,300,311,312,386,387

modernizationof,16–17,29,55–56,89,90,229,236

Mormonimpacton,263,267–68,269,271–72,281–86

motivationofpioneerson,29–30asNationalHistoricTrail,5numberofimmigranttravelerson,

2,73,112numberofwagonscrossing,385obstaclesalong,19,29,174,202,

236“original,”174overnightspotson,174preservationof,4–5,17,167,168,

172–73,187,188,253–54

publicamenitiesalong,346purposesof,56,167reclassificationofportionsof,269reenactorsand,7,55–56,58,272,

303reroutingof,412–13Rinker’sdreamabout,3,21,81Rinker’sresearchabout,14–17“roadranches”along,2–3roleofmuleson,1,4,40–42roleofwagonson,100–101“ruts”on,55spiritualhistoryof,394touristson,6andwagonmanufacturing,71,73,

74Whitman’spopularizationof,103

SeealsospecifictopicorexpeditionOregonTrailMemorialAssociation,

168OregonTrailMotel(BakerCity,

Oregon),398,405OregonTrailMuseum(BakerCity,

Oregon),403OregonTrailMuseum(ScottsBluff,

Nebraska),168TheOregonTrail(Parkman),14OregonTrailRestaurant(BakerCity,

Oregon),398OregonTrail,Rinker’stripon

benefitsof,414completionoffirstbiglegof,169costsfor,386,387,388,400,401

dailylifeon,118,127,151–52,164–65,175,189,190,328,356,375–76,379,396,405

driverfor,87–88,93–94earlydaysof,86–98emergencybackupplanfor,59–62endof,387,391,396–408finalcampon,397–98firstaccidenton,222–28,224friendstravelon,373–77andgettinglost,288–92inspirationfor,1–2,6–7launchingof,64,82–88mediacoverageof,400mistakesmadeon,174–75,202,

210

motivationfor,1,14,30,97,189,190,372

motorizedsupportfor,193–95Nick’sdesiretogoon,24–25,26–

27,28Nick’sfeelingsabout,336,350,

405,407andNick’splanstoreturnto

Maine,28–29,156–57,160–62,165,336

andNick’sreturntotheEast,405–8

plansandpreparationsfor,6–8,17–20,26–29,30,45–54,57–62,82,228–29

problemsduring,118–25

andRinker’scrazyasspassion,20,82,335,381,416

Rinker’sdelusions/doubtsabout,21,82–83

andRinker’sdreamsoftrip,1–7andRinker’sreturnhome,414–15andRinker’ssolodriveinto

Oregon,380–82Rinker’sviewsabout,152,414,

415–16roleofmuleson,1,4,59–62seatingarrangementonwagonfor,

87simplicityoflifeduring,127Seealsospecificperson,incident,orlocation

Orr,John,216

Orr,Nancy,216OsageIndians,214outfitters,Missouri,7,56,74,115,117,

118,120,342.SeealsospecificpersonOverlandMailCompany,185,186OverlandMailroute,185OverlandTrailmonument,1–2OwyheeLanesandRecreation

(Homedale,Idaho),380OwyheeMountains(Idaho),379,380,

381,385,386,409“Ox-Mobile,”168Ox-TeamDays(Meeker),167oxen,159–60,167oxygendeprivation(hypoxia),274,

277,287,291,306,329,332,367

PacificSpringscampground(Wyoming)

Rinkerat,334–37Rinker’stravelsto,320,326–27,

328,330,331–32,333–34PacificWagonRoadAct(1857),313“packingcubes”:Rinker’sretrievalof,

331–33Palmer,Joel,115–16Panicof1837,51,73,109–10Parkman,Francis,14,29–30PartingoftheWaysTrail,338PawneeIndians,16,105,163,214Peery,LaVora,302–4,305,307,308–

10Peery,Sam,302–4,305,307,308–10

PendletonRound-Up(Pendleton,Oregon),404–5

Pennsylvania:Buckfamilycoveredwagontripsto,8–9,10,11–12,12,13,63,79–81,80,141–43,144,145–46,191,194,202,332,372

PennsylvaniaSchoolfortheDeafandDumb,252,253

Petersen,Bill,169–75,182,193,197,204,306,330

Petersen,Nancy,171,175phantompain,192–93,356“Pikers,”78PioneerLinetransportation,157,158–

60“pioneeringspirit,”79–81,80,146pioneers

castoffs/debrisof,115–18derivationandconnotationof

word,101–2familiesas,100–101,102andfrontierdevelopment,109–12ashelpingothers,110–11initialsof,354motivationof,190outsupplyingof,115–18paradoxesabout,204popularityof,111publicationsof,111–12religionand,110,255,371ruggedindividualismof,204,314weatherand,126,130womenas,102–3,108–9,181–82

Seealsospecificpersonorwagontrain

ThePlainsAcross(Unruh),14,132–33,214

PlatteRiverbenefitsofferedby,178casualtiesalong,163,180choleraand,177–79,370Clark’sdescriptionofdeathalong

the,180descriptionsofcrossingsof,131–

33dumpingnear,118andFirstWhitmanCrossing,106,

107,109PlatteRiver(cont.)

TheForkson,176

Frink’sviewsabout,131–32andinspirationforRinker’strip,7Mormonferriesacrossthe,268andNick’sreturntoMaine,28–29andobstaclesalongOregonTrail,

174Peterson’scommentsabout,173–

74problemsalong,55,178Rinker’stravelalong,175–76,

177–90,191–202,203–10,211–21,222–32,233–42,243–51

Scott’sjournalabout,179–80,181–82

turbulenceof,130–31TurnerandAllenPioneerLine

and,159

waterofthe,179–80,254weatheralongthe,129,131,187,

197–201,221andwesterndevelopment,345–46Whitmanstravelalongthe,103,

106,107,109PlatteRiverRoad,4,29PlatteRiverValley

aestheticappealof,181,182Seealsospecificsite

PlumCreekCemetery(Nebraska),182–84

PointofRocksstageroad,300PoisonSpiderCreek(Wyoming),259,

260,272,399PonyExpress

Codyand,294–95

andexpansionofAmericanwest,16

atFarson,339,340HollenbergRanchasstationfor,

2–7Marysvillestopof,118inNebraska,185–86reenactorsof,296stopsalongOregonTrailfor,174,

197andtrailstothewest,89,90andwesterndevelopment,346inWyoming,293,294–95,300,

301,339,340Seealsospecificstop

“PonyExpressHighway,”90,122,124–25.SeealsoSt.JosephRoad

Poopy(cat)problem,Nick’s,25–26Porter,Rufus,157–58,158Portland,Oregon,385PortneufRange(Idaho),372,375postoffice,SouthPass,326Potter,Thomas,279PowderRiver,397,401PowderRiverWar,244Powell,Joab,255,256Powell,JohnWesley,186prairieschooners,44,66,71ThePrairieTraveler(Marcy),43,115Prawl,Doyle,54,82,83,86,88pregnancy:ofwomen,104,108–9,111Presbyterians:aspioneers,371Pringle,VirgilK.,231

prints,hoof:readingcattleandhorse,290,291–92

ProspectHill(Wyoming),276publiccorrals,137,346,347PublicWorksAdministration(PWA),

344“putting”mules,212

QuartermasterCorps,U.S.Army:muleswith,34

QueenBute(mule),49

railroadsandhistoryofOregonTrail,16,17Seealsotrains;specificrailroad

ranchingsystem:developmentof,346RattlesnakeGrazingAssociation

Ranch(Wyoming),274

RattlesnakeHills(Wyoming),107,233,272

RattlesnakePass(Wyoming),281,283RattlesnakeRiver,273recreationalvehicles(RVs),122–25RedButtes(Wyoming),107,271,308reenactors

ofCivilWar,243,245Mormonsas,272ofOregonTrailtrips,7,55–56,58,

272,303ofPonyExpress,296

RegisterCliff(Wyoming),116RegisterRocks(Idaho),17,369Reif,Jonas,9religion

pioneersand,110,255,371

Rinker’sviewsabout,20,309,413andWhitmans,410–11Seealsospecificreligion

RendezvousPoint(Wyoming),5TheReveille(St.Louisnewspaper),

18–19RiflePitHill(Wyoming),236rivers

braidedflow,130drowningsin,132–33andFirstWhitmanCrossing,105–

6weatherand,131Seealsospecificriver

RiverviewCutoff(Wyoming),311roadranches

layoverstylefor,156

SeealsospecificranchRobbRanch(Nebraska),184RockCreekHollow(Wyoming),271RockCreekRidge(Wyoming),352–

56,360–68RockSlide(Wyoming),355–56,360–

62RockyMountains,gatewayto,216RockyRidge(Wyoming)

bestrouteto,299andCody’sPonyExpressride,294descriptionof,299–300asgatewaytoSouthPass,299Mormonhandcartdisasterat,

269–71,284–85,300,312mulesat,399Peerysat,302–4,305,307,308–10

Rinker’ssummittingof,299–310,308,337,407

Rinker’stravelsto,297Stevenson’sconcernsabout,297

rodeocorrals,374–79,386Roosevelt,FranklinD.,344Roosevelt,Theodore“Teddy,”17,167,

186Ropp,Philip,43–44,48,49,50,54,57,

58,59,62,91,120,330,400Ropp’sMuleFarm(Jamesport,

Missouri),43–44,48–50,54,57–62,93

Rorabaugh,W.J.,265RoughingIt(Twain),42Rousseau,Cindy,373–79Rousseau,George,373

RoyalGift(mule),33,148,207“ruggedindividualism,”204,314,347runaways

andBeckatMidwayStation,189atFortFetterman,246–51“hitch,”84–86,85,87

RushCreekRanch(Nebraska),220Russell,MajorsandWaddell

Company,92Rut-SwaleIndentification

CertificationCourse,170

Sabourin,Ed,339,343,347–48saddle

forJake,59–62Rinker’soldriding,21–22,162

SageCreekCamp(Wyoming),300–301,303

SandHills(Nebraska),55,220sandstorm

inNebraska,197–201,202inWyoming,236

SantaFeTrail,66,91SceneryofthePlains,MountainsandMines(Langworthy),116–17

Schrock,Ivan,57Schuttler,Peter,72–77.Seealso

SchuttlerwagonSchuttlerwagon

advertisingfor,75–76,75developmentandmanufactureof,

65,72–77,74,75drawingof,69Mormonsand,76,268popularityof,69,76

reenactorsand,55Schuttlerwagon,Rinker’s

brakeson,53,85,86,174–75,211,212,237,307,361,362–64,365

atBurntRanch,315–23childrenand,136comfort/discomfortof,127,337crashatSouthPassof,329–33anddailylifeonthetrail,118,127driverfor,87–88drivingstylesfor,121effectsoftravelingon,94felloeson,216–18,227–28andlaunchingofOregonTrail

Trip,64,82,84–86andoverturningofTrailPupcart,

222–28

andplansforRinker’sOregonTrailtrip,26

purchaseof,44,330repairson,53–54,57–59,62,64,

120,174–75,222–28,259–62,339,341,342,343,386

Rinker’sfeelingsabout,390andRinker’swalking,176atRockCreekRidge,360–66atRockSlide,361–62atRockyRidge,305–10,308atRopp’sfarm,54roughlockingof,363,364

Schuttlerwagon,Rinker’s(cont.)saleof,399–404SEEAMERICASLOWLYsignon,10,

63–64,223,282,391

tongue-relieversfor,57–58“TrailPup”cartascomplementary

to,388weatherand,152Werner’smodificationsto,51–54,

120,174wheelson,54,217–18,329–33,

341,342,362–64,380Scott,AbigailJane,125–26,179–80,

181–82,229,355ScottsBluffNationalMonument

(Nebraska),168ScottsBluff(Nebraska),29,182,216,

231,233,238Scottsbluff,Nebraska

andpreservationofOregonTrail,5

Rinker’stripto,193Searls,Niles,157,159–60,235Sears,RoebuckCompany,71,72,160SEEAMERICASLOWLYsign,10,63–64,

223,282,391“seetheelephant,”19,20,29SeeingEyeFoundation,160SeminoeCutoff(Wyoming),300,311–

13,314,322,335Seneca,Kansas,124September11,2001,35Shickley,Nebraska:Rinker’sstopat,

153–62,407ShoshoneIndians,16,100,105,233,

353SignalBluff(Nebraska),5,216–18,399SignatureRock(Wyoming),278

Sinclairconveniencestores,55,122,123–24,374

Sinnard,Bill,243,246,249,250,251SiouxIndians,4,131,163,212,213–

15,216,244,313SisleyCreek(Oregon),395SlateCreekCutoff(Wyoming),352SlaughterhouseGulch(Wyoming),

300sleep

forNick,83,98,139,336,338,340,356,398

forOliveOyl,28,98,202,336,377,398

andplansforRinker’sOregonTrailtrip,28

onRinker’sOregonTrailTrip,83,94,98,139,152,162,176,184,202,210,242,292,336,338,340,350,368,378,397

Slotkin,Richard,16Smith,Hyrum,267Smith,Joseph,263,264–65,266–67SnakeIndians,353SnakeRiver

campgroundsalongthe,346deadanimalsalong,371andgeologyofIdaho,370,370Hanna’sdescriptionof,371pioneerson,384Rinker’stravelsalong,372,375,

379–81,385,389,391

andRinker’svisitwithHoltzs,404,414,415

weatheralongthe,129Whitmanstravelalongthe,100,

106,107–9,112,113SnakeRiverGarage(Huntington,

Oregon),391SnakeRiverGorge(Idaho),369Snodderly,Jacob,254–55Snodderly,Quintina,254–58Snow,John,179SodaSprings,Idaho,4,369SouthHills(Nebraska),29,174,176,

182,184,187,190,196,197,218,228SouthPassStation.SeeBurntRanchSouthPass(Wyoming)

barbed-wireenclosureat,328

andCody’sPonyExpressride,294descriptionof,325,326effortsneededforcrossing,324–

25andFirstWhitmanCrossing,107,

109,112golddiscoveriesin,293mapof,302Mormonsand,271–72postofficeat,326retrievalofTrailPupcartfrom,

339,340,341andRinker’sretrievalof“packing

cubes,”331–33Rinker’ssummittingof,327–28Rinker’stravelto,251,296,297,

299–310,311–23

RockyRidgeasgatewayto,299asseparatingdeserts,325–26andterraininWyoming,234wagoncrashat,329–33Whitman(Narcissa)at,107,109,

112,298,328,414womensummiting,107SeealsoBurntRanch;continental

divide;RockyRidge;TwinMounds

Spalding,Eliza,100,105,106,107,328Spalding,Henry,100SplitRockRanch(Wyoming),290,

292–98SplitRock(Wyoming),273,287–92,

288,294,296.SeealsoSplitRockRanch

SpringCreek(Wyoming),367St.Joseph,Missouri

asbeginningofOregonTrail,16foundingof,51andinspirationforRinker’strip,6,

7asjumpingofftownforOregon

Trail,51,75tentcitiesnear,115

St.JosephRoad,19,54,56,82,83,89,115,118,122–25,133

St.Mary’sPonyExpressstop(Wyoming),300,301

Stacy,Steve,391,392Stansbury,Howard,214–15SteeleCity,Nebraska,151,152Stegner,Wallace,262–63,378

Stevenson,Cooper,295,296,297–98Stevenson,Jennifer,295–97,298Stevenson,Mattie,295,296,297–98Stevenson,Travis,296,297StrawberryCreek(Wyoming),300Studebakerwagons,71,72,75,193,

383Stull,Charles,252–53SubletteCutoff(Wyoming),55,313,

326,334,338,352,354,355,356,367.SeealsoRockSlide

SunRanch(Wyoming),282,284,286,287,288,289,290

Sun,Tom,281SunnysideSinclairandDeli(Idaho),

374

SutherlandReservoir(Nebraska),196–97

SuttonCreek(Oregon),396Swan,Ripley“Rip,”83–84SweetwaterCountySheriff’sOffice,

339SweetwaterRiver

andinspirationforRinker’strip,7“lastcrossing”of,313,315–23Mormontravelalong,300–301Rinker’stravelsalong,233,270,

271,272,275–86,275,287–98,299,300,304,310,311–12,315–23,337,340

weatheralongthe,129Whitmanstravelalongthe,106,

107

TeaParty,347Telegraphnewspaper(Painesville,

Ohio),111tentcities,39,115Texas(Buckfamilypony),11,79,142,

143Thesiger,Wilfred,20Thoreau,HenryDavid,18ThreeIslandCrossing(Idaho),369Tiffany,Dexter,36tongue-relievers,57–58,58tradingcamps,353–54TrailBossBurger(BakerCity,

Oregon),409trailfamilies,171,397,398,402,409.Seealsospecificfamily

“TrailPup”cart

abandonmentof,331,335,337axlefor,44,388–89,391atCaliforniaHill,204,208cantileverextensionfor,175costsfor,386,387,388,400asemergencybackupplan,59–60equipmentandsuppliesin,113–

14,223,331,335–36,337,389,399

gettingridofpossessionsin,113–14

importancetoRinker’sOregonTrailtripof,58

oaktongueof,223–24,226–27atO’Fallon’sBluff,199,200inOregon,386,388–91,392

overturningof,222–28,224,342,407

andplansandpreparationsforOregonTrailtrip,44,47,50,51–54,58–59

purchaseof,44repairof,58–59,340,341–42,387,

388–89,391,392,400retrievalof,339,340,341,390–91Rinker’sdesignof,44,59,388atRockyRidge,305,306,308atRopp’sfarm,54shippingtoIdahoof,341signfor,63–64atSouthPass,328,329–33,335,

339assymbolofRinker’svanity,332

watersupplyin,197andWerner-Rinkerrelationship,

341–42Werner’sworkon,51–54wheelsfor,54,59,386,388,389

trainsmulesand,392–95Seealsospecificrailroad

TransportationDepartment,Oregon,386

TravelersintheSwissAlps(Cole),286TribuneCompany,13Troy,Kansas:andlaunchingof

Rinker’sOregonTrailtrip,88truck,Nick’spickup

accidentin,261atAmericanFalls,380

inCasper,259,260,261,262andlaunchingofOregonTrail

trip,82leapfrogplanfor,193inNebraska,193andNick’sreturntotheEast,406,

408inOregon,387–88,389,390,396,

397,398,406servicing/detailingof,260,262

truck,Rinker’s,404,415–16TubMountain(Oregon),388TuftsUniversity:Buck’s(Tom)

antiwarspeechat,240–42TurnbullWagonCompany,71TurnerandAllenPioneerLine,157,

158–60,178

Turquie,Charles,299,300,301Twain,Mark,41–42,229,313,340TwinMounds(Wyoming),323,324,

327

UmatillaIndians,412UmatillaNationalForest(Oregon),

410,412uncertainty

Rinker’sviewsabout,1,201,202,294,416

Whitmansabilitytolivewith,112UnionPacificRailroad,16,17,98,139,

172,186,191,218,367,368,392–95Unruh,JohnD.Jr.,14,132–33,214,

252

Vale,Oregon,386,387

VietnamWar,413WagonTrain(NBC-TV),8–9,145wagons

AmericanHeritagearticleabout,19–20

“bolster”for,68–70box,74brakesfor,70–71,85,86,87breakdownsof,67–68Buckfamilytripsin,8–9,10,11–

12,12,13,63,79–81,80,141–43,144,145–46,191,194,202,332,372

andBuck’s(Tom)collections,62–63

Buck’s(Tom)loveof,95canalsand,70–71

ascastoffsalongOregonTrail,40,235,394

ascommunityvehicles,78–79,203–4

Conestoga,66–68,70,74asculturalsymbol,65Dearborn,107–8anddifficultiesdescending

DempseyRidge,355driversof,87ineasternOregon,383ErectorSetqualityof,77andfamiliesaspioneers,100–101,

102firstknowncrossingofOregon

Trailby,100andGantt-WhitmanTrain,109

graveyardfor,394historyof,65–79impactoneconomyof,71,73–74importanceof,100–101,102manufacturingof,71–77,74,75militaryand,71misconceptionsabout,66modernmakingof,51–54,56“mover,”68–70,71,110namesandgeographicoriginson,

77–78Nick’sloveof,95andnumberofwagonscrossing

theOregonTrail,385andpioneerfamilies,102prairie,44,66,71priceof,72

andquantityofpossessions,115rebuiltascarts,108andRinker’sdreamsofOregon

Trailtrip,7ritualsoftravelingby,209–10salvageof,384–85tongue-relieversfor,57–58,58weatherand,127,152forWhitmanCrossing(1836),

102–3,107–8andwomenaspioneers,102–3SeealsoSchuttlerwagon,Rinker’s;

“TrailPup”cart;typeofwagonWaiilatpuMission(Oregon),108–9,

409–14Wal-Martslippers,Rinker’s,245–49,

250

walking,andWhitmanscrossing,107walking,Rinker’strail

atBearRiverbottomlands,367atBurntRanch,314–16inIdaho,372inNebraska,162,164–65,176andnumberofmileswalked,378inOregon,386–87atRockCreekRidge,364–65atRockyRidge,304–5atTwinMounds,327–28inWyoming,238,290

WallaWallaRiver,108,413Washington,George,31–32,33–34water

inIdaho,372

formules,185,188–89,272,307,329,335,338,339,350,368,381

PlatteRiver,179–80,254andRinker’sdreamsofOregon

Trailtrip,7andRinker’shypoxia,274inWyoming,234,254,262,272,

274,276,277,291,292,295,296,307,325–26,328,329,333,337,338,339–40,348,350,356

weatheralongtheBearRiver,129anddangersonOregonTrail,157,

158–60inKansas,90,125–27,128–30,

131

mulesand,126,153–56,159–60,331

inNebraska,151,152,153–56,157,159–60,164,187,197–201,202,209,221,228,231,232

inOregon,385,396oxenand,159–60alongthePlatteRiver,129,131,

187wagonsand,127,152inWyoming,234–35,236,270–

71,311–12,327,331,333–35,336–37,346

Weber&DammeWagonCompany,72

WeekinReview,194

Werner,Donald,44,52–53,54,55,56,58,120,174,330,341,342,386,389

WernerWagonWorks(Horton,Kansas),44,51–54

West,AmericanCivilWarand,15,16,43cordialityof,343–44cultureclashesin,411–12development/expansionof,15–17,

36–43,109–12,343–47homesteadingin,343–44importanceofOregonTrailto

expansionof,15–16mulesrolein,36–43parksystemin,344–45Seealsopioneers;specificstateortopic

WesternChristiannewspaper,371Westport,Missouri:asjumpingoff

townforOregonTrail,52wheelbarrowstory,183–84WhiteheadLightStation(Maine),23–

24WhitehouseDrive-In(Marsing,

Idaho),404Whitman,AliceClarissa,108–9,411Whitman,Marcus

backgroundof,100andBonnevilleexpedition,100deathof,412,413andFirstWhitmanCrossing

(1836),102–9andGantt-WhitmanTrain,73,

109–12

imageof,112,413importanceof,108,112,233marriageof,100andNarcissa’strunk,108inOregon,108,383,409–14andWaiilatpuMission,108,409–

14Whitman,NarcissaPrentiss

backgroundof,99–100andconvertingIndiansto

Christianity,100,411–12deathof,412,413andFirstWhitmanCrossing

(1836),102–9andgender-breakingimageryof

women,106–7

ashorserider,104,112,165,298,414

imageof,413impactonAmericanhistoryof,99,

101,112,413–14marriageof,100motivationof,253inOregon,108–9,383,409–14pictureof,101pregnancyof,108–9Rinker’smeditionsabout,413–14atSouthPass,107,109,112,298,

328,414talents/skillsof,112trunkof,108,113andWaiilatpuMission,108–9,

409–14

writingsof,103–6Whitman,Walt,77,92,127,394WhitmanCrossing,First(1836),100,

102–9,113WhitmanMassacre,412,413WhitmanMission(Waiilatpu),108–9,

409–14wildhorseherds,349wildflowers,125–26,127WillametteRiver,18WillametteValley(Oregon),384,412Williams,Elijah,163,164Williams,Helen,163Williams,HenryLaurens,186Williams,Johnny,163–64Williams,LuciaLoraine,163,164Williams,Mike,397,398,401,403–4

WillieHandcartCompany,270,271,303

Willie,James,270WillowCreek(Wyoming),311,312,

313WillowSpringsCamp(Oregon),387,

389,390WillowSprings(Wyoming),274,287WindRiverRange(Wyoming),233WindRivers,235,273,308,311,313,

327,330,350WindlassHill(Nebraska),78,215,216WindmillLane(Hiawatha,Kansas):

NickandRinker’svisitto,97–98women

onFirstWhitmanCrossing(1836),102–3

gender-breakingimageryof,106–7

andhorses,104,107,112,181–82Indiansfirstmeetingofwhite,105aspioneers,102–3,108–9,181–82pregnancyof,104,108–9,111assummitingSouthPass,107Whitman’simpacton,106–7,

413–14Seealsospecificwoman

WorksProgressAdministration(WPA),168,344

WorldWarI,35,56,169,344WorldWarII,35,43Wyoming

governmentsubsidiesin,347

Mormonsin,262–72,279,281–86,296

originalOregonTrailrutsin,5aspark-richstate,346–47PonyExpressin,293,294–95andRinker’sdreamsofOregon

Trailtrip,7Rinker’sgettinglostin,288–92,

296–97Rinker’splansfortraveling

through,228Rinker’stravelsthrough,233–42,

243–58,259–72,273–86,287–98,311–23,324–37,338–51,352–68

travelingandtourismin,347

waterin,234,254,262,272,274,276,277,291,292,295,296,307,325–26,328,329,333,337,338,339–40,348,350,356

weatherin,234–35,236,270–71,311–12,327,331,333–35,336–37,346

SeealsospecificsiteWyomingDivisionofStateParksand

HistoricSites,243,276WyomingHighwayPatrol,339.SeealsoSabourin,Ed

TheYearofDecision,1846(DeVoto),14

YellowstoneNationalPark,6,347Young,Brigham,265,266,267,268,

269–70,271,284,285,340

Zinn,Howard,240,241

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData

Buck,Rinker.TheOregonTrail:anewAmerican

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F597.B89 2015978—

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ISBN978-1-4516-5916-0ISBN978-1-4516-5918-4(ebook)

PHOTOCREDITS

Frontendpaper:RinkerBuck;Backendpaper:VinceHoltz

SueHoltz:iv,vii;PaulFusco:10,12,80,144;WilliamHenryJacksonCollection;ScottsBluffNationalMonument:52;PeterSchuttler

WagonCo.brochure:74,75;Author’sCollection:90;WhitmanCollege

Collection:101;RufusPorterMuseum:158;ShorpyHistoricPictureArchive:168;NicholasBuck:209,224;

SamuelPeery:308

Contents

Epigraph

MapoftheOregonTrailChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7

Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21

Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31

AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorIndex