Lenoir

Sweetwater River

The road battered wagons would be hauled along the cold Sweetwater River for many miles, through a breathtakingly beautiful valley. There they would come across the next great landmark, Independence Rock.

Natives of many tribes, such as the Ute, Blackfoot, Crow, and Kiowa, had visited the sight prior to the invasion of European emigrants. They had left marks on the giant mound, which rose like a 12 story turtle. Slowly it seemed to emerge from the landscape upon approach, but then expanded like a loaf of rising bread the closer one got. The mound covered 25 acres or more.

Some adventurous travelers had written their names and the dates of their visit on the rock. The dust storms, wind, and weather would erode away many of the names over time, but the ones near the top and hidden in little caves and crevices and sealed with tar and paint, would survive for many generations to see.

Jessica's lovesick boy, Daniel, had told young Maggie that he would write her name at the top of Independence Rock that sweltering July. But he got vertigo on the way down and he managed to break his arm. The bone wasn't protruding but he wasn't in good shape for courting after that.

It was a serious injury without benefit of a doctor's care. Not that medicine was great in that day and age. At least it wasn't a leg, but they still splintered it, put it in a sling, and put him on a mule.

The group decided to rest for a few days near the famous rock. Those healthy enough took the opportunity to make trades with other wagon trains camped nearby. On the last day Lenoir was sure she saw pretty young Maggie batting her eyelashes at a tall boy from the next train over.

It wasn't her business and gossip was a sin according to Clarence so she thanked the woman she had traded with and gathered her items into her basket. Walking away she felt peaceful and happy with her trades. She had gotten eggs, a couple sewing needles, and a nicely hand carved wooden spoon.

As they made ready to head for the pass, Lenoir anxiously checked through their food. Some pork had spoiled in the heat, so she threw it to the side of the trail. She kept the bag that had held it, in hopes that she could wash the smell out of the fabric and reuse it.

She worried that they had not brought enough food, but perhaps their oxen were not as weary as some of the other animals in their train because they started out carrying less weight. Clarence had proved an adequate enough hunter to keep them and a few less fortunate wagons and their many children fed.

The number of graves they saw every day along the trail did nothing to calm her nerves. The few names and dates they saw on roadside markers painted a picture of tragedy after tragedy. The Oregon Trail did not care if you were rich or poor, young or old, alone or with dependents, it was indifferent to the health or happiness of its occupants. It was a situation where survival of the fittest might mean who is willing to eat the most disgusting thing, who was in the right place or wrong place at the exact time, who was willing to sacrifice the most precious possessions, and who simply was genetically predisposed to survive such grueling trials as the Oregon Trail could provide.

Sickness was an ever present shadow, parasites lurked in meat and water, ignorance killed countless. They were poisoned by plants they had misidentified, or were simply not vigilant and aware of their surroundings at all times. Cougars, Bears, Moose, and other large animals were obvious dangers, but many travelers got bitten by tics and mosquitoes, bringing sickness and death.