tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63116891183817478402024-03-13T05:44:23.379-07:00PandaBabyAdventures with our Ancestors Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.comBlogger409125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-73003845814457921952023-02-16T18:22:00.001-08:002023-02-17T19:31:17.830-08:00From the Pen of Mary Ann Sherrill at the Bear River<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtUSaEAkgjqD7CsRdIKPv5zLStuohIeHpSBPyiqSPgZ_BgcVoD-sxB8VFh4R402-OywvsYgA5oiOtVzVaAdmhX_fXb3Gn10dKjge50a4VfyJ08z30q8GUAp6AMkfDVtV0_T8W6X0s7sC0YGwWRTYh32__zfxoEcsE3PlKKT7FIv5W8yxCiZbfDzY4/s599/The%20Bear%20River,%20Wyoming.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="599" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtUSaEAkgjqD7CsRdIKPv5zLStuohIeHpSBPyiqSPgZ_BgcVoD-sxB8VFh4R402-OywvsYgA5oiOtVzVaAdmhX_fXb3Gn10dKjge50a4VfyJ08z30q8GUAp6AMkfDVtV0_T8W6X0s7sC0YGwWRTYh32__zfxoEcsE3PlKKT7FIv5W8yxCiZbfDzY4/w400-h178/The%20Bear%20River,%20Wyoming.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bear River, Wyoming, (Public Domain Image)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">What would this journey of ours be like without the many rivers and streams? Simply impossible. The rivers water our stock, grow grass for their feed, grow timber for our cook fires, give us drinking water and washing water for laundry. We complain about the difficulty of steep or muddy river banks, the quicksand on the bottom, the swift currents, but the rivers are essential to making this trip possible.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-55976494863134390182023-02-16T02:39:00.002-08:002023-02-19T22:57:00.180-08:00Diary of Mary Ann Sherrill - at Cokeville, Wyoming<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We have made it through all the obstacles on this portion of the trail. We crossed the Big Sandy River, survived the dreadful Sublette Cutoff, and took the ferry over the deep Green River at La Barge.<br /><br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2urzCevAAtX3JAoBpQPrrV33jC1EHyT47XOEJl66ynsnmy8ICznS5CB98Exa9t4KKTynakOwNj9QD7x_CcoSfHxKT_jKrGMfBRSF2TqDXe3fxA4OQvWFA2OJ51yeMLocydeSI5zYHSqkkngl2yXz-bhSQBfqKLwdeUSfWdhDTaB0iBpD8Pg8Msno/s899/Green%20River%20cliffs,%20Wyoming%20by%20Thomas%20Moran.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="899" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2urzCevAAtX3JAoBpQPrrV33jC1EHyT47XOEJl66ynsnmy8ICznS5CB98Exa9t4KKTynakOwNj9QD7x_CcoSfHxKT_jKrGMfBRSF2TqDXe3fxA4OQvWFA2OJ51yeMLocydeSI5zYHSqkkngl2yXz-bhSQBfqKLwdeUSfWdhDTaB0iBpD8Pg8Msno/w400-h301/Green%20River%20cliffs,%20Wyoming%20by%20Thomas%20Moran.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green River Cliffs, by Thomas Moran, 1900, in Public Domain<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we crossed a mountain range before arriving in Cokeville. Next we cross the Bear River and accompany it for about four days until we arrive at Soda Springs in Idaho. The landscapes, the rivers and mountains, even the sky and the clouds, all seem to me to be larger than life. Sometimes I feel like an ant, it is all so big and makes me feel so small.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-58562406739696399242023-02-07T02:12:00.011-08:002023-02-16T02:40:46.684-08:00Journal of James Sherrill: It's all About the Riversl<p><span style="font-size: medium;">For all that the Oregon Trail is on dry land, even etched many inches deep into the land, our wagon train is actually following a series of rivers. We crossed the great Missouri River at Council Bluffs, and then followed the Platte River as far as the Sweetwater River, which joined our trail before Devil's Gate. We stuck to the Sweetwater - a river whose pure, sweet taste matched its name - until just before we reached South Pass.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After going through the pass, we came to Pacific Springs -- not a river, but an important stop on the Oregon Trail, being the first water after leaving the Sweetwater. The water was alkali, barely drinkable for man or beast. The grounds all around the springs was fouled with manure from the oxen, and muddied from all the tramping in the damp ground. There were bodies of dead oxen laying around the springs, putrefying and making it very unpleasant for a stopping place.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We were relieved to move on, crossing a dry river, a branch of the Sandy. Next we came to the Parting of the Ways, where folks taking the easier trail through Fort Bridger to our south, and folks going farther south to Utah and the Mormon center at Salt Lake, took the left hand fork in the trail. We took the right hand fork in the trail, striking out on the Sublette Cutoff, straight towards Cokesville on the Bear River, where the Oregon Trail came up from Fort Bridger towards Fort Hall. We were cutting off the part of the trail that went along the Big Sandy River,, and then the Green River and then the Bear River. <br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRieXpB0fXDlEm42Jrgf0Nk_aZ9DK3prEcmadf4YPHHOVJcduGHbSEnkTTPqVj1BIEUWC0B8Axz4tvL_5-DFJfZftrInvvy6yX-i9r7jUqfpbYCfFdMLg4faLd8_6Dr-snUUh0xcZ0m-JeQGzFJUSf7Frgs7drA9krf5XINiV5Iuka4m3VDk1krqh/s802/Green%20River,%20Wyoming%20Thomas%20Moran%20Public%20Doman.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="802" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRieXpB0fXDlEm42Jrgf0Nk_aZ9DK3prEcmadf4YPHHOVJcduGHbSEnkTTPqVj1BIEUWC0B8Axz4tvL_5-DFJfZftrInvvy6yX-i9r7jUqfpbYCfFdMLg4faLd8_6Dr-snUUh0xcZ0m-JeQGzFJUSf7Frgs7drA9krf5XINiV5Iuka4m3VDk1krqh/w400-h127/Green%20River,%20Wyoming%20Thomas%20Moran%20Public%20Doman.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Green River, Wyoming |Source = Christie's |Date =
1878 <br />Author = Thomas Moran, Permission = Public Domain (see note below)<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">First we crossed the Big Sandy, and after filling our water barrels and every container to the brim, we set out across the forty-five waterless miles that made the Sublette Cutoff so dangerous. We started in the middle of the night, after giving the oxen and everyone a rest, and we drove on through for the next twenty-four hours, pausing again at night, to rest in the cooler temperatures.<br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNUdW-1pl81UwFV1u20z7SYUqJp1CKN62vXj1Er1tc6y1jBsHweYLvwXr_eCY5VUOIEgm2eDLvs1AbPcXBq8hVwHr2VLnJkD34hvP2HGdl8nSWV__zaFlArpWLnyNqwpNXSd0O1HWuMWIhl9gjsd8rjFnijgwI_u8yXnqk6aDJvtk5phgKX5rfPtU/s797/green%20river%20lake%20wyoming.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="797" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNUdW-1pl81UwFV1u20z7SYUqJp1CKN62vXj1Er1tc6y1jBsHweYLvwXr_eCY5VUOIEgm2eDLvs1AbPcXBq8hVwHr2VLnJkD34hvP2HGdl8nSWV__zaFlArpWLnyNqwpNXSd0O1HWuMWIhl9gjsd8rjFnijgwI_u8yXnqk6aDJvtk5phgKX5rfPtU/w400-h256/green%20river%20lake%20wyoming.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White Rock (left), Squaretop Mountain (right) reflected in Green River
Lakes.<br />Bridger-Teton National Forest. 2012 Photo by Julie Campbell.
Credit: US Forest Service.</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5xFzT052gDCRCys4JVhUl3VHF1i7UTiL7vKLGe-5ogcXc6NHLa5ap5EO1bxmhreQYUC8hPwZp6tMlXxIY5prxZgETv9J4GClg-Tp-yrIN6fdzXdTY9BwJjJ7PdwgVS4OXy1NBPrS0hC4frNQq_YBwBpk1WfTE6cUnd8RD8PrHNaBhBqxmSz1k04G/s93/public%20domain%20copyright%20symbol.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="93" data-original-width="81" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5xFzT052gDCRCys4JVhUl3VHF1i7UTiL7vKLGe-5ogcXc6NHLa5ap5EO1bxmhreQYUC8hPwZp6tMlXxIY5prxZgETv9J4GClg-Tp-yrIN6fdzXdTY9BwJjJ7PdwgVS4OXy1NBPrS0hC4frNQq_YBwBpk1WfTE6cUnd8RD8PrHNaBhBqxmSz1k04G/s1600/public%20domain%20copyright%20symbol.png" width="81" /></a><p></p>This work is in the <b><a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Public_domain" title="w:en:Public domain">public domain</a></b> in the United States because it is a <a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Copyright_status_of_work_by_the_U.S._government" title="w:en:Copyright status of work by the U.S. government">work prepared by an officer or employee of the United States Government as part of that person’s official duties</a> under the terms of <i><a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/en:United_States_Code/Title_17/Chapter_1/Sections_105_and_106" title="s:en:United States Code/Title 17/Chapter 1/Sections 105 and 106">Title 17, Chapter 1, Section 105</a> of the <a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Code" title="w:United States Code">US Code</a></i><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Although we didn't follow the Green River, it meandered so that we had to cross it right where it was swift and deep. This was near the little town of La Barge, and we took advantage of the ferries, a rare opportunity on the Oregon Trail. From La Barge we had to navigate a mountain range that was between us and Cokeville, Wyoming, where we could rejoin the main Oregon Trail. The Oregon Trail follows the Bear River from Cokeville all the way to the Soda Springs. We have heard much about those delightful geysers, and are eager to see them.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFDa8Nvmb1O1MCTPPPho_9bsm32vtJTOGYc4IUszW6am4Rt-yW3NADb_7yQkuuJTuod6Ergj6se0AdR2IslR9wsL9bf_ErkP12BEdKs7Nk8aUn-su8lRe6ccnux8-oGWJp3y4cD9X22OOc-2H8xZrsSVujbVm8aTB1dymQoV6vErJJu6LjqkqaCJp/s1130/public%20domain%20art%20file%20notice.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="197" data-original-width="1130" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFDa8Nvmb1O1MCTPPPho_9bsm32vtJTOGYc4IUszW6am4Rt-yW3NADb_7yQkuuJTuod6Ergj6se0AdR2IslR9wsL9bf_ErkP12BEdKs7Nk8aUn-su8lRe6ccnux8-oGWJp3y4cD9X22OOc-2H8xZrsSVujbVm8aTB1dymQoV6vErJJu6LjqkqaCJp/w400-h70/public%20domain%20art%20file%20notice.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click once to enlarge image, click again to return.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-85235594606334969132023-02-06T00:33:00.005-08:002023-02-16T21:17:21.526-08:00Pandababy Blog will Return by Tuesday Feb 7 2023<p> Don't give up -- James and Mary Ann, and the whole wagon train ensemble, have many adventures to come. We beg pardon for the sudden 'time out' and will return tomorrow.<br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-29782340444680079662023-01-26T15:20:00.008-08:002023-02-16T18:26:48.874-08:00Romance on the Oregon Trail<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Marriage never looked so good! In 1852, a white male citizen 21 years of age or over, qualified for a grant of 160 acres. If married, their wives were entitled to a like amount - held in their own name! </span><span class="markedContent" id="page142R_mcid7" style="font-size: medium;"><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*9.96px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*36.01px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*397.32px); transform: scaleX(1.15836);">In 1853 provisions were added to the law to recognize a widow’s right to a land claim.</span><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*9.96px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*471.33px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*397.32px);"> </span><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*6.48px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*471.48px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*395.40px);">6</span><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*6.48px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*475.60px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*395.40px);"> </span><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*9.96px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*479.04px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*397.32px); transform: scaleX(1.11638);">The law was </span><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*9.96px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*36.00px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*409.45px); transform: scaleX(1.16434);">further amended in 1854 to grant Donation Land Grants to orphans. James Sherrill and Mary Ann Evans were among many who married before leaving on the Oregon Trail, and expected to have a honeymoon on the trail. It was a romantic view which they quickly learned did not match the reality of the dangers, illness and grubby conditions prevailing on the Oregon Trail.</span></span></p><p><span class="markedContent" id="page142R_mcid7"><span dir="ltr" face="sans-serif" role="presentation" style="font-size: calc(var(--scale-factor)*9.96px); left: calc(var(--scale-factor)*36.00px); top: calc(var(--scale-factor)*409.45px); transform: scaleX(1.16434);"><span style="font-size: medium;">Others met their future spouse on the journey, and married as soon as they arrived in Oregon. One such bride was <a href="https://www.wikitree.com/index.php?title=Evans-42032&errcode=saved" target="_blank">Amelia Caroline (Evans) Parker</a>, who was in the same wagon train with the Sherrills and Evans families. She traveled with Jacob Thompson and his wife Rhoda (Evans) Thompson, and was probably a niece or younger sister of Rhoda. Amelia was only sixteen. James Parker, a single man twice her age, was also on the wagon train. When they reached Oregon, they made arrangements to get married, on December 30, 1852. They lived on their Oregon Land Grant in Marion County the rest of their lives, and raised their family there. Below is an image from the Bureau of Land Management of their 123.12 acre land claim. One South and Eight West in Section 24 is just south of Silver Falls Highway, and west of the falls, north of the town of Sublimity.</span><br /></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWjjta6lblQF4kifsfStekDgTKPyf2iNpFEk_wV5tfLaE-ZmzxfAZpNxVhuvTSL90DgZkgQ-YDj5gXDrl43eYIUWbiogP0JsRiqXCFbJGhkFWsGHVq9vmS-gmXDaPEX9DcygbYxOJH4WfjaDehyuP72DX9O-ICm3CR6mJLZW_kISvwFbEHT-g8l92/s994/Amelia%20Caroline%20Evans%20and%20James%20Parker%20BLM%20record%20for%20their%20123.12%20acres.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="871" data-original-width="994" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWjjta6lblQF4kifsfStekDgTKPyf2iNpFEk_wV5tfLaE-ZmzxfAZpNxVhuvTSL90DgZkgQ-YDj5gXDrl43eYIUWbiogP0JsRiqXCFbJGhkFWsGHVq9vmS-gmXDaPEX9DcygbYxOJH4WfjaDehyuP72DX9O-ICm3CR6mJLZW_kISvwFbEHT-g8l92/w400-h350/Amelia%20Caroline%20Evans%20and%20James%20Parker%20BLM%20record%20for%20their%20123.12%20acres.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amelia Caroline (Evans) Parker and James Parker had this land grant<br />of 123.12 acres in Marion County. Image in Public Domain (a Government Document).<br />Click once on the image to enlarge, once more to return to blog. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="markedContent" id="page142R_mcid7"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Many of the families who emigrated to Oregon were, like the Evans and Sherrills, traveling with relatives. Most often they claimed their land grants in adjacent plots. If you follow the link to the <a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Space:1852_Wapello_County_Wagon_Train" target="_blank">1852 Wapello County wagon train,</a> you will see a graphic there showing where Richard Evans, James Sherrill, Jacob Thompson, Edward Evans and others located near each other and next to the Willamette River.</span><br /></span><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-8223151410440581842023-01-24T22:43:00.019-08:002023-02-07T02:20:46.396-08:00Edward Evans Speaks Up: short and brutal or long and safe?<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eighteen miles after we crossed the Continental Divide at South Pass, we came to a crucial decision: short and brutal, taking the Sublette cutoff, or long and safe, going to Fort Hall by way of Fort Bridger.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of the people on our wagon train were in favor the cutoff, and dismissed the dangers of forty-five miles with no water and little grass. All of us in the Evans section were in favor of taking the safer, though longer, route. We were voted down. My dad Richard was so disgusted, we thought he might insist on leaving the wagon train and going the longer route on our own. He spoke with the deep feelings of a reticent man who is forced by circumstance to declare himself. He reminded people of the value of even a single trained oxen, and added that it wasn't fair since they would do most of the suffering but they had no vote in the matter.</span></span><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQXhLKqZ3xmnRv137-OOBvsSvcY5wd5xHttFwnVmCt9rvZaiFj5A7w0ULuI6uGUI8vdPn_6DlGZkuITxAQQBAfIPV2RrxUntF8Qg_2zAY7s0X2T7MVU2tqYYuE5Y5oc6Yfhmwy7m-WG6g_gvBpuXT-5DFn9Ea6WJRCcvzoWSuDQ0_UN6dlwuglhTK/s998/sublet%20cutoff%20at%20partin%20gof%20the%20ways%20or%20to%20fort%20bridger%20on%20the%20way%20to%20fort%20hall.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="998" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQXhLKqZ3xmnRv137-OOBvsSvcY5wd5xHttFwnVmCt9rvZaiFj5A7w0ULuI6uGUI8vdPn_6DlGZkuITxAQQBAfIPV2RrxUntF8Qg_2zAY7s0X2T7MVU2tqYYuE5Y5oc6Yfhmwy7m-WG6g_gvBpuXT-5DFn9Ea6WJRCcvzoWSuDQ0_UN6dlwuglhTK/w400-h236/sublet%20cutoff%20at%20partin%20gof%20the%20ways%20or%20to%20fort%20bridger%20on%20the%20way%20to%20fort%20hall.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snippet from: Oregon Trail Map; Encyclopædia Britannica;<br />https://www.britannica.com/topic/Oregon-Trail#/media/1/431743/6781;<br />access Date: Jan 24, 2023<span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">. <span style="font-size: small;">Click on image for larger font.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I have increasing respect for my
father, as I observe his wisdom and kindness every day on this journey. But I am a young, single, man on this train, even if I do have my own wagon. I already spoke out once.
It's too bad others on our trip have not learned to value him properly. He recommended everyone add an extra barrel or
two of water, strapped on the sides of the wagons, and reserved for the
oxen. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> He held out for starting each day of travel in the middle of the night, to spare
the animals the heat of the day. </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Two men with lanterns walked at the head of our wagon train during those nights we traversed
the fort-five mile sagebrush desert. A more disgusting portion of the trail
I hope to never see. There were so many dead oxen, mules and horses, that we
were hard put to avoid their carcasses and stick to the trail. The dust was
deep and tainted, making me wish I didn't have to breathe. [See John Steele,
July 15th, 1850, cited in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span style="color: blue;">WyoHistory.org</span></a>]</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
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</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Our animals began that section in
better shape than most, and all of them came through in good health, ready to
pull our wagons the rest of the way to Oregon. Not so with some in our train.
Haste truly does make waste. and they had to replace their trained oxen with
half-trained, and more expensive, animals at Fort Hall.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">At Fort Hall we said
farewell to those in our wagon train who were going south to California, to seek
their fortune in the gold fields. We preferred the black gold of the rich and fertile earth in Oregon, and we each likely thought the other was making a big mistake. As mother would say, "Time will tell."<br /></span></span></span></p>
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Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-10284004227477710152023-01-21T02:43:00.011-08:002023-02-07T02:28:32.093-08:00Diary of Mary Ann Evans, On the Oregon Trail:<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Leaving South Pass, we are on the west side of the Continental Divide. Rivers flow west to the Pacific Ocean. Whether fast and dangerous or slow and deceptive, each river crossing is the potential for disaster. We cross rivers with steep banks leading into and out of the water, rivers with quicksand, rivers with sudden deep pools. Only two had ferries, none had bridges since the second day out from the Missouri River. Water is life to our livestock and to us, but to those who have had all their possessions swept away, or even had a family member drown, the rivers are loss, and even sudden death. Starting on this journey, I could not have foreseen what danger we would find in crossing all these rivers. They look so pretty, and even peaceful.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It is ten days of travel to arrive at Fort Bridger, where they have a blacksmith and supplies of food and clothing. But our wagon train has voted to take the Sublette Cutoff to Fort Hall, skipping the detour to Fort Bridger. Many who are planning to go on to the Mormon center at Salt Lake City, and others who want to the easier trip to Fort Hall, left us at the Parting of the Ways, and went south. We headed west across the dry lands of the Sublette Cutoff, straight towards Cokesville and the Bear River. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We have seen fur traders, and soldiers, and even small wagon trains heading east, back where we are from. They have their reasons, but today we met an eastbound wagon train which was all women and children.Their husbands and fathers had all died of a fever, and they were going back to their families in the east -- all of them widows. I burst into tears when I heard their story. God have mercy on them.<br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIN9YMG6XYN9jcngHW81uN98Vll4k1YXuovgSiG5w6YcJ9xJyTj5daw9SkSfh3w2CtgNmsBre5G5dC7r1gF8XfyuKl0GnfaZSTTJC5qRTky8F0vVltOQim5Ts8jkwukvJx39faei-Ivinept8W6MR0tCNzWyP4YyW8mBtFrYKIWMh_6s1FMf-0zm-j/s960/Bierstadt%20evening%20camp%20on%20the%20Oregon%20Trail%201863.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIN9YMG6XYN9jcngHW81uN98Vll4k1YXuovgSiG5w6YcJ9xJyTj5daw9SkSfh3w2CtgNmsBre5G5dC7r1gF8XfyuKl0GnfaZSTTJC5qRTky8F0vVltOQim5Ts8jkwukvJx39faei-Ivinept8W6MR0tCNzWyP4YyW8mBtFrYKIWMh_6s1FMf-0zm-j/w400-h266/Bierstadt%20evening%20camp%20on%20the%20Oregon%20Trail%201863.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Albert Bierstadt - <i>Oregon Trail</i> - 1863</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday we had Indians visit our wagon train camp -- again. This has happened often on our trip. They come for food, and to trade their ponies for guns. We don't give them guns, but some people have done so.They were from the Cayuse tribe, and were friendly, because they wanted to trade for our horses, which are larger and stronger than their ponies. Not wanting to let our horses go, we gave them a meal and </span><span style="font-size: medium;">tobacco to keep the peace with them. I shudder to see long black hair dangling from scalps tied to their </span><span style="font-size: medium;">lances.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-13674748158967973492023-01-20T03:50:00.002-08:002023-01-20T03:50:46.177-08:00Follow the Evans' Wagon Train on the Oregon Trail with this Map:<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This map is similar to the one Richard Evans used to bring his family to Oregon Territory in 1852. Follow the link to the National Park Service to see the map below in a scalable PDF file. Downloadable.</span> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmaaSlb33kquJYSbHzJlnHznBLoYo8EKa4kOUFcz8Q7IKLZSwcvZP8LZjGDuaRDjPXx7YcovcUQbT4wakwtQwDG0KWi0wxP34nv105qwNRStJgdb79Mp9c5RqgwhXIk9V9fOZnKkSSI0SA41IVRMFaigBif-3j_eyK2jLFftk8-7f4k70rvGRKIXl/s1460/OREGmap3%20largest.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="1460" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmaaSlb33kquJYSbHzJlnHznBLoYo8EKa4kOUFcz8Q7IKLZSwcvZP8LZjGDuaRDjPXx7YcovcUQbT4wakwtQwDG0KWi0wxP34nv105qwNRStJgdb79Mp9c5RqgwhXIk9V9fOZnKkSSI0SA41IVRMFaigBif-3j_eyK2jLFftk8-7f4k70rvGRKIXl/w400-h226/OREGmap3%20largest.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enlarged<a href="https://www.nps.gov/oreg/planyourvisit/upload/National-Park-Service-Oregon-Trail-Map-508.pdf" target="_blank"> Oregon Trail Map from the National Park Service</a><br />Section between Fort Laramie and Fort Bridger<br />Click on map once to see large version, click once again to return.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-52568019128335787842023-01-19T14:22:00.009-08:002023-01-27T17:51:25.274-08:00Mary Ann's Diary: I can see South Pass ahead of us.<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> It
has been one week's travel from our camp at the Ice Sloughs, and I
missed all the sights, lying in the wagon with a fever. I feel weak but
am able to sit up on the jockey box at the front end of our wagon.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now I can see South Pass ahead of us. We will cross the Continental Divide! We'll be on the <i>western</i> side.<br /> <br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6CAPxy7Lv208IJ4QEFVivCiCnkULLrDtmdqAPgaSd_FvZNz-ntaNBOTf779j6wo8XPPnQS7aU34ng73GCc9LJIAxGFnSBjDvasM0_qHAliHRexG_qY0HBYkjpqMoWgaUhFByEfKg_Ep0AW7dOHo8DaeH9ppks-51QDeX5oW7IYmuse5NnRQsXdep/s600/South%20Pass%20Wyoming%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6CAPxy7Lv208IJ4QEFVivCiCnkULLrDtmdqAPgaSd_FvZNz-ntaNBOTf779j6wo8XPPnQS7aU34ng73GCc9LJIAxGFnSBjDvasM0_qHAliHRexG_qY0HBYkjpqMoWgaUhFByEfKg_Ep0AW7dOHo8DaeH9ppks-51QDeX5oW7IYmuse5NnRQsXdep/w400-h255/South%20Pass%20Wyoming%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what we saw as we approached South Pass. The ascent was so gradual,<br />it was hard to believe we were at the top of the Continental Divide.<br />CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=91976</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We
already passed the "Point of No Return" when we left Fort Laramie. Now
we have less distance to Oregon than we would have if we turned around
and went back home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The trail has changed us all, in ways large and
small. We are quick to clean up after a meal and pack it all back up,
getting back on the trail each morning. James and the other men are very
fast at packing up the tents they sleep in, and stuffing them back onto
the undercarriage of the wagons. They can hook up a team of oxen in no time!
No one hesitates to pick up a buffalo chip and toss it into the fuel
pile on the canvas stretched under the wagon. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">We
look forward to the Indians crossing our path on the trail, now that we
know they would rather trade with us for food and clothing, than do us
harm. Of course they would take any opportunity to capture a horse, or
even an ox, so we must be vigilant, but we don't get hysterical anymore
when someone says, "Indians!" Although we are always wary - of course!</span><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-73041691718169295272023-01-18T00:33:00.009-08:002023-01-22T15:16:09.151-08:00Only a Touch of Fever<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> "Oooh, what happened? I'm so dizzy"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Here now, Mary Ann, don't try to get up. You've had a touch of fever," Nancy replied.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh mama, I feel so weak." Tears slid down Mary Ann's cheeks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Now
don't cry, daughter. You will feel just fine in a couple of days. Try
to drink this tea. It even has sugar in it." Nancy bustled around and
set pillows behind Mary Ann's shoulders.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mary Ann leaned against the pillows and sipped her tea. "This is so good, it almost tastes like lemonade."</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I squeezed the last lemon from Fort Laramie into the tea. With sugar, it has a sweet-tart flavor."<br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyLJ8xkdZqwB3_MERHR9oC6ik4zOcQPBBr0mwGpvLucMSy-wdSyA5hhLJX46-FM6Z8oi2uWKwDxIYGsqDz7D23WwBQZQMBr0pkIO5j2DwqLLw99YwnbAIjey1PVZtlluhCfLBrmQ_D6j5XTi1_F3DYH2F2UM2I1qrJXQ3T_oAigpHZjND12APupp96/s601/posies%20for%20Mary%20Ann%20at%20South%20Pass%201852.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="601" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyLJ8xkdZqwB3_MERHR9oC6ik4zOcQPBBr0mwGpvLucMSy-wdSyA5hhLJX46-FM6Z8oi2uWKwDxIYGsqDz7D23WwBQZQMBr0pkIO5j2DwqLLw99YwnbAIjey1PVZtlluhCfLBrmQ_D6j5XTi1_F3DYH2F2UM2I1qrJXQ3T_oAigpHZjND12APupp96/w400-h254/posies%20for%20Mary%20Ann%20at%20South%20Pass%201852.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>Posy of Wyoming wildflowers, for Mary Ann Sherrill, from 6 year old Mary Kyniston -<br />from<a href="https://www.blm.gov/programs/natural-resources/native-plant-communities/about-native-plants/wyoming" target="_blank"><i> BLM Wyoming Native Plants Program</i></a><i>,</i> see Footnote at end of page<br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Did anyone else get sick, mama?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"James was sick for two days, but he is well now, and little Mary Ann Kyniston has been sick but is well now."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh no, how long have I been sick?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"You
fainted one week ago when we were camped at the ice sloughs. Your fever
was very high, and it was fortunate we were camped where we had plenty
of ice to help bring your fever down. Go back to sleep now, Mary Ann.
When you wake up, I'll have some buffalo stew for you to try."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Thank you mama." Mary Ann slid down the pillows and fell asleep wondering where they were now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Footnote on "BlM Wyoming Native Plants"<br /></span>Posy for Mary Ann is made up of Wyoming wildflowers:<br />Left to Right, the flowers are: (orange) Badlands mules-ears; (pink)
Indian paintbrush;(orenge) - Badlands mules-ears again; (fading
pink)Blazing star; (lavender) Fuzzy tongue penstemon </p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-59291979486875649442023-01-16T00:35:00.014-08:002023-02-08T21:35:50.664-08:00Tonight we are camped at the Ice Springs in Wyoming.<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It has been five days since we left Independence Rock, and we stopped at the ice springs this evening. Men are going out with shovels and buckets to get the ice that lies a foot below the surface plants. We hear some of them talking about making Mint Juleps. We are Methodists, and we don't drink hard liquor, but I can make a nice cold minty drink without the bourbon. I still have sugar from Fort Laramie, and mint in my seasonings, and the ice in the spring is free. I'll surprise James with a cool minty drink, served up in our matching hammered copper mugs that the Thompsons gave us for a wedding present. Meanwhile, I can catch up on my entries in this diary:<br /></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We are making good time on the trail. It is mid-July, and we should be over the mountains before the snows. We see such strange rock formations on this trail, given terrible names by the travelers. We passed one such place around noon after leaving Independence Rock - travelers are calling it Devil's Gate! We could see it from the trail, but the trail went around it, not through it. Here is a watercolor of Devil's Gate, by an artist who was also on the Oregon Trail:<br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5PiTTguP96KDV3_RiAEYM8kvEu60y7fs1PsfSksxXNBpm9ciiLY3-XdIBlBdKW2Hsn2IyUvDBAOfas_P-RKOFpRGPT5WscYIGAvSzdzFqvlgElMKwe6fSEDGXSAy2_SpCe_UbTpq1jbc6MoSbwrGrECxUWV78Wa3KGb6CSVxxlt0wSn3hns2YKJD/s1800/Devils%20Gate%20by%20Alfred%20Jacob%20Miller%20-%20watercolor%201858%20-%201860.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1514" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5PiTTguP96KDV3_RiAEYM8kvEu60y7fs1PsfSksxXNBpm9ciiLY3-XdIBlBdKW2Hsn2IyUvDBAOfas_P-RKOFpRGPT5WscYIGAvSzdzFqvlgElMKwe6fSEDGXSAy2_SpCe_UbTpq1jbc6MoSbwrGrECxUWV78Wa3KGb6CSVxxlt0wSn3hns2YKJD/w538-h640/Devils%20Gate%20by%20Alfred%20Jacob%20Miller%20-%20watercolor%201858%20-%201860.png" width="538" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;">Watercolor of Devil's Gate, by Alfred Jacob Miller, done 1858 - 1860<br />[see copyright note below]</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday we crossed the Sweetwater River five times in between hills called The Narrows. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 80px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was so narrow between the hill and the river bank that our wagons couldn't turn around, and as the wagon train closed up on the trail behind the fords, which could take only one wagon at a time, we were in the most dreadful situation. The horns on the oxen were prodding any animals - horse, oxen or mule - that was being driven or ridden through The Narrows. The rearmost wagons came relentlessly onward, for they couldn't see around the bends in the canyon. They didn't know we were nearly stopped because of the many tight crossings, several of them very deep. Added to our misery was the sickening smell of many dead cattle, and there was no place to drag their bodies away, like we did on other parts of the trail. [Adapted from James Evans see Copyright Notes at the End]<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It could have been a picturesque place, but I remember it with a shudder of fear. It seemed as if we would never get out of there! I started thinking of Psalm 23, "Even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me". Knowing that our Lord God is with us is all that gives me courage to keep going at times like this.<br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEpyzkgL8HHbUIlejs_BrSChDpbeopKg2y_JYEAaWJXY4L4qRrPnl6L7M0BR2q8MII1HKoSDIZfEda7HQPPBrLXkuO_mggcPKmasp5cZjFDaHyjIeQfTlR50RAFIF_7SVkxLJ7wBFc7oIkUOGgC3y1WU2DfSh4P8KvjR3FXoUcwPU_PECk0_WHSMo/s476/New%20-%20The%20Narrows%201849%20on%20the%20Oregon%20Trail%20by%20artist%20James%20Wilkins.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="476" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEpyzkgL8HHbUIlejs_BrSChDpbeopKg2y_JYEAaWJXY4L4qRrPnl6L7M0BR2q8MII1HKoSDIZfEda7HQPPBrLXkuO_mggcPKmasp5cZjFDaHyjIeQfTlR50RAFIF_7SVkxLJ7wBFc7oIkUOGgC3y1WU2DfSh4P8KvjR3FXoUcwPU_PECk0_WHSMo/w400-h284/New%20-%20The%20Narrows%201849%20on%20the%20Oregon%20Trail%20by%20artist%20James%20Wilkins.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist James Wilkins sketch of the Narrows, 1849. From his book,<br />"An Artist on the Overland Trail". [See Footnote on copyright]<br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><span><a name='more'></a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJvJv_dsPY4LfNKdU0a_ydm0K9KaDRRCJheYALNycsfkcbvejlbkqBuGbJUs5KznwIZtmqjtdvCnnfNflGCOsJWYhoBYQC35i6NMk94TnVoQ767xdn5g_U-mp1qVf2JptptoTeTIE3vidgbfVyh7mQfK8ung07ErO-uXhk2O8ASLmDOftd29g2g1B/s33/Public%20Domain%20Icon%20-%20very%20small.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="33" data-original-width="33" height="33" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJvJv_dsPY4LfNKdU0a_ydm0K9KaDRRCJheYALNycsfkcbvejlbkqBuGbJUs5KznwIZtmqjtdvCnnfNflGCOsJWYhoBYQC35i6NMk94TnVoQ767xdn5g_U-mp1qVf2JptptoTeTIE3vidgbfVyh7mQfK8ung07ErO-uXhk2O8ASLmDOftd29g2g1B/s1600/Public%20Domain%20Icon%20-%20very%20small.png" width="33" /></a></b></i></div><p>Footnote on Copyright:<i><b> Works not in <a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/copyrights" title="w:copyrights">copyright</a></b> and therefore in the <b><a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/public_domain" title="w:public domain">public domain</a></b> because they were created in the author's lifetime plus 100 years:<br /></i><i>(James Wilkins 1808 - 1888) <a href="https://www.wyohistory.org/encyclopedia/three-crossings" target="_blank">The Narrows, 1849</a>,<br /><span style="font-size: small;">(<span>Alfred Jacob Miller 1810 - 1874) <a href="https://art.thewalters.org/detail/21430/the-devils-gate/" target="_blank">Devil's Gate, 1859 - 1860,</a> <a href="Online " target="_blank">The Walters Art Museum</a></span></span></i><br /><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span>(James Evans) <a href="https://www.wyohistory.org/encyclopedia/three-crossings" target="_blank">Untitled Notes on Oregon Trail Journey 1850</a></span></span></i><a href="https://www.wyohistory.org/encyclopedia/three-crossings" target="_blank"><br /></a><i><br /></i></p><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-84260509218952940742023-01-15T06:05:00.007-08:002023-02-16T21:22:34.883-08:00From Register Cliff to Independence Rock in two weeks.<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mary Ann sat near the campfire at Independence Rock, and reviewed her diary for the past month. She was amazed to realize they had come over twice as far between Register Cliff and Independence Rock, as it was between Scotts Bluff and Register Cliff. That clever little wooden odometer on the back wheel of their wagon would tell her the mileage they traveled, even if they didn't have Richard's journal on the Oregon Trail from his first two journeys.They had seen so many marvelous sights, but the greatest thing they had done was to ford all the creeks, streams and rivers from the start of their long trip on the Oregon Trail. Some were shallow and easy, others were deep and swift. One way or another, they got over all of them, and very few of them had bridges, or even ferries.<br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTew4POmZDrgdu3s5WQXmBo9N1lbGOgk4DnXCv0ZMMZCJcQCxrfEHS9ex41HdRMWsG6jYXHQur8ahvkamHSiTy_PeRS65TooyTr-WGaQPxXiZ1azexOIJ3ASFTc64rbaLKfiq9zREWQe_MbIClpTG-vTp8BQaW75mLaotqenSzalWpMkSFKkPniplM/s4172/Independence%20Rock%20by%20william%20Henry%20Jackson.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3098" data-original-width="4172" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTew4POmZDrgdu3s5WQXmBo9N1lbGOgk4DnXCv0ZMMZCJcQCxrfEHS9ex41HdRMWsG6jYXHQur8ahvkamHSiTy_PeRS65TooyTr-WGaQPxXiZ1azexOIJ3ASFTc64rbaLKfiq9zREWQe_MbIClpTG-vTp8BQaW75mLaotqenSzalWpMkSFKkPniplM/w400-h297/Independence%20Rock%20by%20william%20Henry%20Jackson.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Independence Rock by William Henry Jackson, 1929,<br />Courtesy of J Willard Marriott Digital Library at the University of Utah</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Next, they had ten days travel ahead of them to South Pass, the wide valley on the Continental Divide. From South Pass going west, all rivers emptied into the Pacific Ocean. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mary Ann was thankful for the Sioux moccasins she bought at Fort Laramie for herself and for Mary Jane. Her little niece toddled bravely along beside her for short stretches every day on the trail. When Mary Jane started to stumble, Mary Ann put her in the wagon for a nap. She felt like having a nap herself, but she couldn't add to the weight the oxen were pulling. She couldn't risk them failing from exhaustion before they reached their destination.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-41837990840599011812023-01-13T22:27:00.007-08:002023-01-14T00:47:51.544-08:00Camping tonight at Register Cliffs: Mary Ann's Diary<div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We left Fort Laramie behind this morning. Our wagon train drew lots for the third train to leave today, since we were too many wagon trains to all leave at once. The clever wooden odometer on our wagon wheel tells us we have come eleven miles from the fort to Register Cliff, where we will camp tonight. I am so glad for the monuments and mileposts of the trail, as it gives us all something to look forward to, and a feeling of accomplishment as we pass the mileposts one by one.</span><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR36zuSxxAIIRZLTRcJcyzPxocXTBVEScRrH8XIS6XTjDDm8U3GJwBcQCc9S1dsTvdJ9RleMD0UApE3bJhMp7zubIi8WXj1-plCrSOd1RHY_sBmgSG8SHAvT1MlGjLkOSi7oEex-T9FA8Yrt74MnA9LrVAvLjrWWrPkkLEdrC1Uv2Zyy-pyXU-fJJU/s761/Oregon%20Trail%20Register%20Cliff%20Public%20Domain.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR36zuSxxAIIRZLTRcJcyzPxocXTBVEScRrH8XIS6XTjDDm8U3GJwBcQCc9S1dsTvdJ9RleMD0UApE3bJhMp7zubIi8WXj1-plCrSOd1RHY_sBmgSG8SHAvT1MlGjLkOSi7oEex-T9FA8Yrt74MnA9LrVAvLjrWWrPkkLEdrC1Uv2Zyy-pyXU-fJJU/s320/Oregon%20Trail%20Register%20Cliff%20Public%20Domain.png" width="272" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Register Cliff, Wyoming. Public Domain Image.<br />Click once to see large image, once more to return to blog.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">My father took my brother Edward, and James and a few other men, to see the cliff up close. He didn't tell them beforehand that he was going to show them where he carved his name and date on his first trip to Oregon in 1850. Our family knew, of course, from his stories when he returned in 1851. I wonder if they will do any carving this afternoon. I hope James will carve our names and the year.<br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0TfgWw9lC07rvVrgsL5-yOQSIn_uRUtzfbxwDCzS46vEwnfe1CTIpvnM0FYr-YzSxJ4swygXZc0XlwjfEQq0ykN0tnQsUlbIcQnIMNihaktxgtAWHsCN5IqYM-c9-aYdWThwaawhGSf6U8FtVclb9nBG9Wq3P85pUnA82pzdgdbWrYbRSZva-NzO/s521/Oregon%20Trail%20Register%20Cliff%20close%20up%20copyright%20CC%203.0.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="461" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0TfgWw9lC07rvVrgsL5-yOQSIn_uRUtzfbxwDCzS46vEwnfe1CTIpvnM0FYr-YzSxJ4swygXZc0XlwjfEQq0ykN0tnQsUlbIcQnIMNihaktxgtAWHsCN5IqYM-c9-aYdWThwaawhGSf6U8FtVclb9nBG9Wq3P85pUnA82pzdgdbWrYbRSZva-NzO/s320/Oregon%20Trail%20Register%20Cliff%20close%20up%20copyright%20CC%203.0.png" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Register Cliff close-up snippet: Copyright Creative Commons<br /><a class="external text" href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en" rel="nofollow">Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported</a> license. By <span class="licensetpl_attr" style="font-size: larger;"><a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Chris_Light" title="wikipedia:User:Chris Light">Chris Light</a></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="licensetpl_attr" style="font-size: larger;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />We stayed so many days at Fort Laramie, that we will have to be back on the trail first thing tomorrow morning. Tonight there will be folk dancing after dinner, and singing before lights out. I love it when we all sing the old hymns together. My favorite is "Abide With Me". It only came out a few years ago, but everyone knows the words already.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;<br />The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;<br />When other helpers fail and comforts flee,<br />Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I am very young but I have learned that Jesus will help us in the little things if we but ask Him, and not only in the great concerns of life. It truly is like the new hymn we learned back at Fort Laramie - we do have such a friend in Jesus.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-57127043884699996352023-01-11T15:10:00.002-08:002023-01-12T23:13:19.067-08:00West of Fort Laramie: Back on the Trail<p><span style="font-size: medium;">James was guiding the lead oxen, as usual, and Mary Ann walked beside him on the first morning after leaving Fort Laramie. They were talking about the tent meeting, when Mary Ann suddenly dashed over to the side of the trail, and bent over, sick to her stomach. James left the oxen to guide themselves and ran to her side.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"What is the matter Mary Ann?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Don't worry James, I don't have a fever or anything bad. It's the baby. My mother explained it to me, how in the first months women can be queasy after a meal."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I never noticed my mother or sisters having that problem, dear."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"That is because you were in a civilized place where women had privacy for moments like this."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh - am I in your way?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"No," she smiled up at him,"it comforts me that you care. Just don't worry. Nancy said this would pass in a couple of months."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Months!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, months, James. It will be seven months more before the baby is born, and only the first part is so uncomfortable."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Mary Ann, I want you to take a rest, and ride in the wagon this morning, you and Mary Jane. I'll watch after Mary Kyniston."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I think I'd feel worse with the wagon rocking over ruts and rocks. Please, James. I'll be fine. I like walking - just don't hover over me."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"You know yourself best. You must take care for two now, though."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"This is our honeymoon adventure, James. Let's enjoy it." James laughed and walked back to the oxen, which were plodding along behind the Thompson's wagon as if he had never left them.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-7076292247345004752023-01-09T21:44:00.004-08:002023-01-15T06:32:58.921-08:00Gilmore Callison Preaching at Fort Laramie<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gilmore was still preaching from John chapter 3:<br /><i>"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and Only son,<br />that everyone who believes in Him shall not perish,<br />but have eternal life.<br />For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world,<br />but to save the world through Him.<br />Whoever believes in Him is not condemned..."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The preacher was still talking, but James was already caught up, thinking of the words he heard: <i>"...that everyone who believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." </i>Was it this simple then? Just believe that God sent Jesus to be his Savior? Preacher Gilmore had much more to say. Now he was quoting from another book in the Bible, Romans, chapter 5:<br /><i>"But God proves His love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James was thinking hard. 'But I am only twenty-two years old. What have I done that is so bad? I don't <i>feel</i> as if I need saving.' The same hymn they sang in the beginning was starting up again, and Gilmore asked anyone who wanted to declare their need for Christ their Savior to come right now, up to the front. He would pray for them and give them a New Testament Bible. Something was tugging at James to get up, and go up there with others who were walking to the front of the tent. He resisted. This was just a desire to conform to what others were doing, James told himself. He would not be led about like a sheep. He kept singing, the last verse was next:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Are we cold and unbelieving,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Cumbered with a load of care?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here the Lord is still our refuge,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Take it to the Lord in prayer."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thankful the service was done, he escorted Mary Ann back to their wagon. Richard and Edward went to check on their oxen. Nancy was walking on the other side of Mary Ann, asking if she was sleeping well at night.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"No, mama, it is so noisy here. People up all hours talking and laughing, I don't see how anyone can sleep."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"It will be better when we are back on the trail," replied Nancy. "There's just too many people here."<br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQtVMq-Hwmp3ILTpZKJtS9B-jPsUBSny7VwrqP8vpuoOBGRePudZ4fxRH37ZZyBJqzUmP0oB0rFOXKT9JXEoNNnxSqLrxS38aIusfUPaf0OXqY9_GZfxYNWUcaBRNWZBskL5Vf0QugvD2qdXNmU7Xg1eP6sKs9fB8_0kEHlIKUWTtWbOmqQfgZfrB/s1240/William%20Henry%20Jackson%20Fort%20Laramie.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="1240" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQtVMq-Hwmp3ILTpZKJtS9B-jPsUBSny7VwrqP8vpuoOBGRePudZ4fxRH37ZZyBJqzUmP0oB0rFOXKT9JXEoNNnxSqLrxS38aIusfUPaf0OXqY9_GZfxYNWUcaBRNWZBskL5Vf0QugvD2qdXNmU7Xg1eP6sKs9fB8_0kEHlIKUWTtWbOmqQfgZfrB/w400-h283/William%20Henry%20Jackson%20Fort%20Laramie.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAFgAAABTCAYAAAAbUsD3AAAMiklEQVR4Xu1caVBVRxY+7iCuo4gb7guKuAOKARUdFRERXMY1EqJgUhOSUjNlZv7OogmWY7RKxVJRB9eKogTQKEJUHNkUAoKIC2gcwBWXAO5zvzvzHPK4fV/f7T2m6p0qih+vb/fp75579u5Ga9ceekcCff7FXPyzk84INLIDrDOiZtPZATYWX7IDbAfYYAQMnt4uwXaADUbA4OntEmwH2GAEDJ7eLsF2gA1GwMDp39bW2v1gA/GlK3/8Q8MCuKammu7cLqMHD+7Tg4f36dGjh/RCkILaF7X06uVLEYtmzZuTQwsHauHgQB06dKQOv+lIHTs6k2uPnuTo2NJIvBTPnRsSaHuAKyvK6UphPpXeuiEC++6dmHtSTI0aNRKB7tW7L7kP9iCXzl0Uz6H3A3kL59oG4JeCNObl5tBPP10WQTWCAPbQoSNo2PBR1FyQelvQ2xcvrAvwC+FTz8q6SDk5mVRbU2OVPTs4OtLo0d40epS3qFasTVZx0/DZFwpq4EzKD1Rd/Yu19yiuB6A/+GACjRrlZdX1DQe4quoxfZ9wlO7evWPVjbEW6969BwXOmEXt2rW3Cj+GAlxy7SolJh0TPQGl1KJFC8FL6CAA0U7wDhzf61Ho7xpBvVRVVdHDh4KXIeg5pYS5p00LIrdB7kofVTzeMIBTUk5StqBvealZs2Y0cOBA6t27t/jXvj2fhD169IhKS0vp5s2bdO3aNXr16hXvkuTpNZb8/adwj1czUHeA3759S4mJ8VR4JZ+Lny5dupC3tzcNGjRIs7WHdBcWFlJGRgZVVFRwrT/Y3YMCA2dR48aNucYrHaQrwAD3yHcH6MaNEot8AFh/f3/q16+fxbFKB8CoXr9+nc6cOcMFdL9+Aygk9HeGgKwbwNhUUuIxKijIk8UD+g/Aenp6EoIDIwk8ZWVliUBb0tWQ5KCgUN3Z0Q1gHp0LqZ07dy63ftVrt0VFRXT48GGLUaKXtw9NnPhbvZYV59EF4OKrhRQff1iWsZEjR9L06dOpSZMmum7A0mS3b9+muLg4gn7moeDgObp6F5oBhp+7OzaGamVcsXHjxtGkSZMMVwnmACoFF887CNFe2EeR1LZtO573YXGMJoCh4+L+sUs2iPDz8xM+u4kWGak74NmzZ6LbBYDu379PT58+fa9DocPbtGlDzs7O1KNHD+rTpw+1bt263vxqwDVN4urakxYsXKqLQGgCGMma5KTjTPCgFmbMmMHFKF5WcXExZWZmin4tb1YNhhJ+s5eXFw0YMEBcC8/v27dPkU9svokZQSHk7j5UkWDUG5z6pXodjMTNtq2bhKiqWpKJrl27Unh4OJfOLSsro+TkZKqsrNS0oeHDhxP+AC6PzsXLYL3Ili2dKDLyM2oufDFqKPWrvvRp/GD1AJ8/n0bp53+UXBuf8YoVK8QwV47evHlDp06dEgMDreTq6krjx4+nQ4cOcYGLyBFfV1JSEtOF8/WdSD7j/DSxpkpFQDq2bPk7M+UIbwF+rhzBKO7fv1/Us1pJDbgLFiwQVQte7okTJyRZQAbuk0++0BRhqgI4K/OfgvP+gyRT8HWXL18uq3cBbmxsrGaVAAa0gIvnEX3GxMQweZk0aSqN9hyjWgZUAbxzxxbBut+TXHTRokWy4S/Uwp49e2wuuXWZR5IIX5MUoTLy8bJPrQcwamixgt8rRZ07d6aIiAhZ6cXnaCuda1ILUrxDisvLyyX39ZHgF3dy6awKZMUSDNUAFSFFs2bNomHDhjEZgb7dtWsXN6Mwkm5ubgSPBL4vCD5xdXW1UODsqMigzZ8/X/SZWXT58mU6flza5dQSQisGmKUeYJVXr17NNAhwh7Zt28ald5ELRuQ3eLDg5kgkhJQEEeAL+Q/42IGBQhmdkWBCMmj9+vWSvjOkF1KshhQBDJ9307fRkr7jkCFDaPbs2Uwerl69SgcPHrTII9KXc+bMIbh6UqQG3AsXLojBB1QEghEWISGEfLI54aVEff6lEEY7WuS/3rNKzmhcKy6io0cPSS4yc+ZMGjFiBJMBGLZbt27JMti/f38RBJaUaQEXC/ft25cWL17M5CE7O1soFiRK/h4q5Iv7D3AzFuD09B/p/Lk0yUWioqKYaUjkFjZs2CAb/kItREZGGiK5Jobx4lauXEmtWrWS3APKT5s2bZL8zc/Pn8b6+BoL8PHj31FRYUG9RfA5r1mzhrl4bm4uHTt2TJY56EnoXD3Uwrx588SKhlTZyNfXV5RkKYKdWLt2rWQk6D5kqBD5hRgL8O7d26mi/F/1FoGVR3DBooSEBLp06RLzd3gL+AL0MGhyrhgPOix3rUvXbvThh8t4pvjVGEVGbuuWjfTkSVW9Rdzd3UXDxKKdO3fSnTvsvogxY8bQ1KlT6z2uVOdqBRcMsAwd+igiV0QZC/DGjV9L5h+QlgwKCmIuDv0L/5VF8D7ghdQlW4CL9eELwyc2J3RuwpNQSookOPqbPxNCXXMaO3YsTZnC7i9Yt26dbMUjLCyMevbs+X5aW4ELBk6ePEkXL9bv52jatCmtWv0npfgqS1caBfDSpUupV69eIvO2BNfmABulIkJDQ8nDw8Pm4NpcRRhl5KZNm0ZIc/JWfxH+6mHQpL53mxo5I9w0rflcc5DQGChXz4MulWvIRr5Eyn+2ipuWkHBEsucMDCPQYIW4eXl5Qt9EfD2B0Rvc/Px8OnLkiKwhCgkJETrfpYuZsoGGUABFIZSLKq5T+F9/oY+/HabMyF1IP0vnzqVKrqE0VNYbXFRJtm7dKvjpT5gYQABWrVpFTk5OkmPQDrt582bJ3xSFymoBlkv2wA+GP8yivXv3ir0OIL3BheShkozwWI6sk+ypoL9EFVCyyIizMgmWS1daiuaQjz1w4IDu4KIAC7WA+S3RwoULCRk7FqEijT42c1KcrlQrwVhYS8IdURIiNiWldZa3AKktKCiglJQUWbVgAgv5kmXLlskm3KOjo+n169f1AMaRsLCwCEvv73+/awFYrmQUHBwsNn6wCA0mvE0hpkrE48ePxX6xuiWju3fvihIrp2/r8gAJRBNM9+7dmbzJlYy8x4yjCRMmWwdguaKni4uLmNPVIyuG9KWpEsG/M+mRaD6cPJkNEL6G7du3M4ue4eEryLmTCz8bWiRYTk3gNyk9pzT81RNchOBLliyR7V432QcpBFWV7bUCLNd4Yl66tyW4iA6R52DV9wCoMY0nzyjubxm0pVyhF2F6w5ZapwICAsRuR1uCC8lFqV4OXOwHmTNk0KTIZq1TYMZS8x/8YngNPF2OJoOmh86F/vfx8RHPgVg6OYQaHEJjFo+KgguGhlaUD647Bw4XxsRsZh6NlWsNrTsPwIWkoVyek5PDb0gkRsIVQ+Nht27dLM6DvPaOHTuYhs3JqRUtj/i9xS/A0kKqAcbE+fm54skitQRwYRTxOcOSl5SUiA3YiPiUNGCjYwcqCUEEz8klzI0iLHIkLAqaGSoUYT3Ubu39c5oAFkPUuFj6+WflLahyKcfnz5//6ggB/F3TMSz4xG3bthVbp3CEAOEvK7fAQuf06dOUnp7OBK/BHCEAhzyHYMx3YmQ+V07kIBBnz56ltLQ05jBceYA2qQZxCMbEpVwSqKGAC52L9gE5tQBe1XbwsN6YJhVRd1K5ENo0DvoRHZisfKxmhceYACoGlQqE2HKkOCTmYFg3gPH54cQRDJ8cwS/FsS4cMbDkRnHwLzsEQQSMZmpqqkV3scEfpcVOlRwGR94Cviqv5VcCNl42utYBLM/Jpf+Lw+AmALC5E8kJ4oVHPITQGi4W+tIsRV2W5oOnYbrOgAdYzIezcNMDgw37mnRTEXU3D5DT0k5TZsYFS5i8/x3FSPTuwqeFX4zbTngIZR60xcJ3hh8tlc+Vmgf2AJ3r48cbe8TXEIBNG7peUixeKaPmhikUUnmulOEJxc0BxpcSEDCTBrpJd3PyvFjeMYYCDCbQLJj4fbzQ/FfGy5Oh4xBE4FIkvfxcaWZv0Y7QyRQtVJ8MBxgMNJRrvVCVwGV1POG0prdcGkOhASX0WdE31gHYxOxLwQhlZ2dQVvZFVWpDzabRFekpHCQcKdyXptWI8q2fQl8NiqD/dIFoOKvMt5j0KNwMZbpakXWgUcv8eNbZuZNwpGwkDRX+EJpblWwlwVKbvFdZIV4OWlZ6k+7dq+TOopnPhc8edbPe/70cVFENTW/0GxLAdfdWW1tT73pbeCBS19ui2mB+va2aY1Z6YyvO11ABNmSztpjUDrDBqNsBtgNsMALWm94qgYb1ttPwVrIDbPA7sQNsMMD/BjCf1ZxEBOKPAAAAAElFTkSuQmCC" />Fort Laramie by William Henry Jackson.<br />In the Public Domain, (Authors life plus 70 years).<br />Picture taken by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Paul_Hermans" target="_blank">Paul Hermans<br /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-86903047685515270612023-01-09T11:59:00.007-08:002023-01-17T12:45:27.628-08:00Fort Laramie: A Tent Meeting<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Their wagon train was still at Fort Laramie Saturday night, as the wheelwright was finishing up the last of the repairs for their wagons. Several wagon train leaders at the fort decided to stay over on Sunday, and then leave on Monday at staggered intervals, to keep from bunching up on the trail.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Richard heard that a preacher, who was on one of the wagon trains, would be holding a tent meeting on Sunday. He persuaded James and the rest of the husbands and fathers, to bring their families the next morning.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was sunny on this Sunday morning, and t</span><span style="font-size: medium;">he singing drew them to the big tent pitched outside the fort. The preacher was teaching the congregation a new hymn of such sweetness that they all hurried to get seated and join in. The lyrics seemed almost instinctive, fitting their experiences so well. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"What a Friend we Have in Jesus</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">All our sins and griefs to bear</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What a privilege to carry</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything to God in Prayer."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The third verse was so right for this journey of theirs:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Have we trials and temptations,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Is there trouble everywhere?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We should never be discouraged</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Take it to the Lord in prayer."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The preacher was telling them how his friend, Joseph Scriven, had written this hymn to comfort his mother when his father died. Unable to get there for his father's funeral, he mailed his newly written hymn, with the musical notations, to his mother </span><span style="font-size: medium;">in Ireland. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> It was just two years ago, and not many had heard the new hymn yet. James sang it softly in his fine baritone voice, and Mary Ann's alto voice harmonized with him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Folks, my name is <a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Callison-269" target="_blank">Gilmore Callison</a>", said the preacher in a familiar Kentucky drawl. "The text for this morning is in the book of John, chapter 3. verse 3: Jesus replied, <i>Truly, truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.</i>"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James sat up straight and took a deep a breath. This must be it - the secret he was looking for.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">to be continued <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-9287251790197391642023-01-07T23:54:00.006-08:002023-01-08T00:22:13.840-08:00Fort Laramie on the Oregon Trail: Shoes for Oxen, Wheels for Wagons<p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'll be gone this morning with the oxen, Mary Ann. It's our turn at the blacksmith's shop. He's charging a fair price for the oxen - one dollar per hoof, same as for the horses, even though he has to put on two separate plates, one for each half of the split hoof on the oxen. I'm having the four oxen on the spare team shod also. They aren't pulling much of the time, but they will have the same distance to go and they need to be ready to replace our best team if necessary."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Thirty-two dollars sounds like a lot of money, James."</span><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0jpkcUBlZhDdfbi-ITACg5bRh8nmqqZomvouYpIbxOcplhEqdRHJKyKapmyTfguu3RVj35k_4TAUJrN1aBZsC74OP8OvKW3LlSki_gbbjWZyIeNsEeUYdloRTLY4T4O-rQD0QOUgLoyvnZ1069-SiquqZkpKRAdykfbcfuth3xxX05JOjPAOxKP9/s1275/ox%20shoe.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="878" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0jpkcUBlZhDdfbi-ITACg5bRh8nmqqZomvouYpIbxOcplhEqdRHJKyKapmyTfguu3RVj35k_4TAUJrN1aBZsC74OP8OvKW3LlSki_gbbjWZyIeNsEeUYdloRTLY4T4O-rQD0QOUgLoyvnZ1069-SiquqZkpKRAdykfbcfuth3xxX05JOjPAOxKP9/w138-h200/ox%20shoe.png" width="138" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ox shoe for one half of the cloven hoof, by
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Justlettersandnumbers" target="_blank">
</a><a title="User:Justlettersandnumbers">Justlettersandnumbers</a><br /> <a class="extiw" href="https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/deed.en" target="_blank" title="w:en:Creative Commons">Creative Commons</a><a href="https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/deed.en" target="_blank"> </a><a class="external text" rel="nofollow">CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Don't worry, Mary Ann. We planned for these expenses. Our wagon and wheels don't need repair, so it is less than is set aside. Would you like to see if there is a new sunbonnet, or perhaps moccasins, that you'd like to buy?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Thank you James, I'll look for moccasins. My shoes are so worn already. Is there anything you need from the store here?"</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJ609h1hW2NNDGzHWDAlYpGo4voXBbi4Uf73NxtjM1l-M85tWQV588uRrVFuWN1Zs-5Zqw6dFJRl33fMDKJlSBj3WMO7fR0dKAELccrQTvP12gTPVAb5Vjet-Tn52fiQGZ3FCGnRK_BsjeI0sBEYxpNf2YH03Fp_Hb4UE0oeeExdXirLqRFIVU2jI/s464/moccasins%20by%20Santee%20Sioux.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="388" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJ609h1hW2NNDGzHWDAlYpGo4voXBbi4Uf73NxtjM1l-M85tWQV588uRrVFuWN1Zs-5Zqw6dFJRl33fMDKJlSBj3WMO7fR0dKAELccrQTvP12gTPVAb5Vjet-Tn52fiQGZ3FCGnRK_BsjeI0sBEYxpNf2YH03Fp_Hb4UE0oeeExdXirLqRFIVU2jI/w168-h200/moccasins%20by%20Santee%20Sioux.png" width="168" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moccasins by Santee Sioux - <br />maybe similar to the pair Mary Ann purchased</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm getting another pair of boots. We have over fourteen hundred miles left to go, and I didn't bring an extra pair when we left home. At least the leather goods here are a reasonable price."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm going to buy moccasins for Mary Jane too. She will be walking everywhere before we get to Oregon. I wish Eliza could see her now. She'd be so proud of her."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I know you miss your sister, Mary Ann. I wish she could be here too. We'll just have to love Mary Jane double - once for us, her aunt and uncle, and twice for her mother being gone."</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-35605468741693637722023-01-06T21:18:00.010-08:002023-01-13T04:11:13.209-08:00New People and Old Names on the Oregon Trail:<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> "Mama," began Mary Ann.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, dear," replied Nancy Evans.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Mama, look what I got in trade from an Indian woman at Fort Laramie yesterday."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Why, those are the most cunning, tiny, deer skin booties I ever saw. What lovely bead work. Oh, my dear, don't tell me you are going to have a baby." <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, I think James and I are going to have a baby. I'm not certain yet, but maybe..."<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"That's exciting news, Mary Ann. I hope you will take good care of yourself, and eat well. Don't skip meals."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Oh yes, I'll be careful. We are thinking of what to name the baby. If it is a boy, we want to name him *Hugh Richard: "Hugh", after James' father Hugh and "Richard", after my father Richard."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm sure Richard would be very happy to have a grandson named after himself," replied Nancy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"If it is a girl," continued Mary Ann, "we are thinking of naming her **Ann Elizabeth: "Ann" after James' mother Ann, and "Elizabeth" after papa's mother, Elizabeth (see <i>Note</i>). Plus your middle name is Ann, so it works both ways."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nancy pulled the pan of corn bread off the fire before it burned, and told Mary Ann that she would need naps and rest as the baby grew. "I want you to come and tell me whenever you feel too tired, and I'll make sure you get the rest you - and the baby - will need."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">* James and Mary Ann did name a son, born in 1858, Hugh Richard.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">** James and Mary Ann named their first child, a girl, Ann Elizabeth. She was born a few months after they arrived in Oregon Territory, but she lived only one day. In November 1853 they had another daughter, who they also named Ann Elizabeth. She grew up and married a neighbor, Constant Barchus.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Note</i>: Richard Evan's father, Revolutionary War veteran Edward Percy Evans, married first, Sarah Vaughn, and after her death, married Elizabeth Howard. Elizabeth raised Richard Evans from a baby, and was the only mother he would remember, but he was born to Sarah (Vaughn) Evans, who died within the next three years.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-88708389208740004032023-01-05T01:24:00.009-08:002023-01-13T07:42:34.309-08:00Mary Ann Sherrill: Rejoicing to be Nearly to Half Way to Oregon.<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The day before yesterday our wagon train crossed to the south side of the Platte River so that we could buy supplies at Fort Laramie. The Fort has the only general store of any note for eight hundred miles. At first, the men planned to wade across the Platte, or ride their horses, and leave us all camped on the north side of the river. What a great outcry was heard when they told us their plan! We all felt it was worth the trouble of another river crossing, to be able to choose what we wanted. After shopping, we stayed camped outside of Fort Laramie, among the many wagon trains camped here. Closer to the Fort are the teepees of tribe after tribe of Sioux Indian, who live here for protection against their enemies.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzUsAxzc7gKGT0AIN6vIJZjJcqgjIm5za3Flmuko1FEfrcn3O1i2a-mzjaXD03wX0lweGhqiXHlxGBKop0D7RkDQN2vhdEQYt1Qn_FMhlBzGDWlf8fj9to2VE69MvqiWFo8yAwtmjzqdsNF8u_1IVw9HUh7e0Ckq4pN4pPd8ZBQuCDqHvYEnTzh95/s452/Fort%20Laramie%20by%20Alfred%20Jacob%20Miller,%201837.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="452" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzUsAxzc7gKGT0AIN6vIJZjJcqgjIm5za3Flmuko1FEfrcn3O1i2a-mzjaXD03wX0lweGhqiXHlxGBKop0D7RkDQN2vhdEQYt1Qn_FMhlBzGDWlf8fj9to2VE69MvqiWFo8yAwtmjzqdsNF8u_1IVw9HUh7e0Ckq4pN4pPd8ZBQuCDqHvYEnTzh95/w400-h301/Fort%20Laramie%20by%20Alfred%20Jacob%20Miller,%201837.png" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After a meeting with the wagon master, of all the section heads in the wagon train, my father came to ask each head of a family to meet with him. James went to the meeting, as did Jacob Thompson, William Leach, Thomas Martin, and the rest of the heads of families in our section. James returned to our wagon to tell me what has been decided. He said that Fort Laramie is over 600 miles from where we crossed the Missouri River, and it is the last outpost on the Oregon Trail for getting worn oxen shoes replaced, and cracked wagon wheels repaired. With all the other wagon trains camped here, we have to wait a couple of days for our turn with the blacksmith. Everyone agreed with the wagon master, that we must take this opportunity to renew our preparations for the rest of the trip.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We ran out of sugar a week ago, so I bought more sugar at Fort Laramie. Tonight, with the concentrated lemon syrup, also from the fort's general store, I made lemonade with cold water from the swift running, nearby Laramie River, which joins the Platte River by the Fort. After our nightly prayers of thanksgiving, we had a dance. You'd think that after a long and strenuous day of toil, we would all just want our dinner and our beds, but dancing, in squares or in circles, was exactly what we all needed. We wanted to celebrate the distance we had come already, and rejoice that we are nearing the half way point of South Pass. Other sections of the wagon train were making music and dancing also, and some joined together for a larger group of dancers. Even with the celebrations, all the men took their turns at their assigned guard duties, making sure the horses and oxen were not stolen or strayed overnight.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-63956768527847067312023-01-04T02:55:00.003-08:002023-01-04T19:56:35.926-08:00From the Pen of Mary Ann (Evans) Sherrill (part 2) More Relatives<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Counting up the rest of her relatives who were traveling to Oregon with them, Mary Ann remembered to add Her Kyniston cousins to her mental list. Her seven year old cousin Mary Ann Kyniston rode with Richard and Nancy Evans, even though Edward Kyniston, age 4, and Thomas Kyniston, age 8, who were her brothers, and their father, Thomas Kyniston, had their own wagon, and were in the wagon train. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She had to count William Holloway, even though her sister Eliza Jane (Evans) Holloway had died, William was still a relative. Their little baby had been in her care ever since her sister passed away, and now she was bringing her one year old niece, Mary Jane Holloway, to Oregon. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mary Ann quickly constructed her mental list of the rest of her relatives who were traveling with them. The Leach family and the Martin Family were down to earth, practical people who encouraged Mary Ann to ride in their wagons and while away the long hours of travel listening to outrageous stories of their family adventures. She resolved to write them in her diary every night so they would be remembered.<br /></span></p><dl><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Leach-8331" title="">William P. Leach</a>, 32 years, m. to Polly Ann (d. 6 Jun 1902)
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Martin-78565" title="">Polly Ann (Martin) Leach</a>, 31 years
</span></dd><dd><span style="font-size: medium;"> (Polly Ann's sister <a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Martin-78554" title="">Virginia Ellen (Martin) EVANS</a> m. <a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Evans-41327" title="">David EVANS</a>, son of Richard & Nancy): David and Virginia EVANS stayed in Iowa.
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Leach-8332" title="">Rachael Leach</a>, 7 years old
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Leach-8341" title="">James Leach</a>, 5 years
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Leach-8340" title="">David Leach</a>, 2 years
</span></dd></dl><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><dl><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Martin-78580" title="">Thomas J. Martin</a>, 27 years (brother of Polly Ann Leach and Virginia EVANS) (d. 6 May 1869), on the Census for 1850 Wapello Co. Iowa
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Plough-181" title="">Selena (Plough) Martin</a>, 26 years
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Martin-78581" title="">John Martin</a>, 13 years
</span></dd><dd> <span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Martin-57992" title="">Mary J Martin</a>, 8 years
</span></dd></dl><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-46512062670373405102023-01-03T00:41:00.009-08:002023-01-26T07:16:55.433-08:00From the pen of Mary Ann (Evans) Sherrill: a Wagon Train of Relatives<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My father, Richard Evans, is in charge of our section of the wagon train - 14 wagons out of 110 wagons altogether. It's a well organized wagon train, with each section having a captain to keep people going, solve problems and keep the peace. The captains meet each day with the wagon master, who decides when and where we would halt, and for how long.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every day of our trip is a delicate dance, balancing the need to get to Oregon before the snows hit the mountain passes, and not driving our oxen so hard they die and leave us stranded. Our wagon master is doing a good job, and knows the trail - where to find good water, where to cross the rivers, and so on. There are people who grumble, who expected to go faster, or who think they can do a better job of leading the wagon train. The captain has the confidence of the majority, since he has been over the trail before, and has the maps and the scouts.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm proud of the way my mother quietly prepares a good meal every night, and of the way my brother Edward drives his team at a steady pace, not showing off, just keeping his place in the line. My uncle Jacob Thompson is like Edward - driving steady, taking good care of his oxen. Jacob's wife is an Evans - Rhoda Evans, 28 years old. They have a son, James, seven years old, and Rhoda's (cousin? sister?) Caroline Evans, age 16, with them. I feel very secure and comfortable, traveling with my family all around me.<br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsybueICX00H7p_l1jR0HwSOKq89tmtOH5DALWx_xFJ1FLD_jZzcz-qsysfivDsy8sea_g9t8aoNb19o3QQ9zFePFPQ19UqLAi2n2WhwPfWOeLsYhi0f7IBSEFreKhhAA4uXY3IDXOKPHdFxbqc-oc3IfNVUkW_zDUmsdSOyDPCLZGIhnjwIBiO6yw/s800/Antelope.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="800" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsybueICX00H7p_l1jR0HwSOKq89tmtOH5DALWx_xFJ1FLD_jZzcz-qsysfivDsy8sea_g9t8aoNb19o3QQ9zFePFPQ19UqLAi2n2WhwPfWOeLsYhi0f7IBSEFreKhhAA4uXY3IDXOKPHdFxbqc-oc3IfNVUkW_zDUmsdSOyDPCLZGIhnjwIBiO6yw/w400-h238/Antelope.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antelope - image courtesy of Orland Ned Eddins. Click for larger image<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the past several weeks, our wagon train has forded so many tributaries of the Platte River, that I have lost count, but we are making good time over the prairie. We passed Scotts Bluff, and Fort Laramie, and last night we camped at Independence Rock. We can see the beautiful Wind River Mountain Range ahead. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning the men rode into camp after a short time hunting, and they brought back three antelope, seven grouse and a turkey. The meat is welcome for a change in diet, and to make our supplies in the wagons last longer. My husband James shot two of the antelope, but it will all be shared with our section, and if we have more than we can use, some of the meat will make a gift to another section that has too little.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-21738715309396729602023-01-01T20:58:00.006-08:002023-09-03T11:39:14.559-07:00Mary Ann Views Chimney Rock - another Day, Another Monument<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>From Mary Ann Evan's Trail Diary: </i> A single day of travel from Courthouse Rock we saw another amazing monument of Nature. It is called Chimney Rock, for obvious reasons. We read about Chimney Rock in every guide to the Oregon Trail that we found in print. Visible from over thirty miles away, it is unique in appearance, and assures travelers that we are on the right path, and that we are going to get to Oregon Territory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Chimney Rock was a challenge for every young man in our wagon train. They wanted to climb it. They wanted to measure the height. They wanted to leave their names carved into it. I didn't have much use for Chimney Rock, except that we would have a layover on the the trail for one day, so we could do our laundry, if the weather would cooperate.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgta1C2NpfixUVh4TB7WeoE7sFzdXDEm__ra_1ld56snEA56orXBLZ5e1zVfKlfhz5KxMytSPZt2M8bifnTqY_QtlQD1o26_xyWSmL3Psndz4k59GGRk-PEMFvThEtTdTROeEA_1JtIkMjVLWCCagN9WMRrwtLei5o1rAbYQtdwGLavrwjDHvSgwcjx/s1620/1620px-Chimney_Rock_NE.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1620" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgta1C2NpfixUVh4TB7WeoE7sFzdXDEm__ra_1ld56snEA56orXBLZ5e1zVfKlfhz5KxMytSPZt2M8bifnTqY_QtlQD1o26_xyWSmL3Psndz4k59GGRk-PEMFvThEtTdTROeEA_1JtIkMjVLWCCagN9WMRrwtLei5o1rAbYQtdwGLavrwjDHvSgwcjx/w400-h266/1620px-Chimney_Rock_NE.jpg" width="400" /><br /><span class="language en" title="English"><b></b></span> </a><a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chimney_Rock_National_Historic_Site" title="w:Chimney Rock National Historic Site">Chimney Rock National Historic Site</a>, Morrill County, Nebraska, USA</td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Creative Commons ‘Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International’<br /><a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/17362366@N00" target="_blank">Mike Tigas</a><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James wanted something more practical than leaving his name for posterity carved into the rock. James wanted to bring home some buffalo meat, or at least an antelope. For all the unexpected accidents, sudden losses of property and life, and the discomfort of extreme weather that was present on the Oregon Trail, there was also the joy of the hunt, the excitement of trading with the Indians, and the amazing beauty of nature on display, every day of the trip.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James had noticed that the stresses of the trail brought out the best, or the worst, in their fellow travelers. He wanted to be one who gave forth his best when in a hard situation. Reason number 101 that I adore my new husband. This has been an amazing honeymoon - with my parents and brother and niece and James' relatives. But someday we'll be able to tell our grandchildren that we traveled 2,300 miles for our honeymoon.</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-32661007399816379352022-12-30T23:59:00.046-08:002022-12-31T02:19:32.975-08:00James Sherrill: Scenic Wonders and Tired Travelers - June the 12th<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was June the 12th, only three weeks into the trip to Oregon. Already the women were complaining about the trip: the dust, the lack of privacy, the difficulties of cooking every meal over a campfire instead of an iron, wood burning stove, the weary work of hauling water from the Platte, or one of its tributaries. The things they could find to complain about were endless. James could hear them morning and night as they broke camp and made camp.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ij6uN51OiY81h-a4GZeWcNu306zShzOBSS-Z2vbNfeUumVx9hYg8CiYZqQkBXITud1twiE-H1MfI9bRDBSesThypqAqL1vDIofoKG2YMnYwLm5P3OsAPwhLgCJ2mWP5qrEfBCSXtAjlsIGUu6Y5DWxm07EBJ-jwI-m1cr0x0k15RXl5urP0_0nAQ/s1029/Monarch%20iron%20range%20circa%201850.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="1029" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ij6uN51OiY81h-a4GZeWcNu306zShzOBSS-Z2vbNfeUumVx9hYg8CiYZqQkBXITud1twiE-H1MfI9bRDBSesThypqAqL1vDIofoKG2YMnYwLm5P3OsAPwhLgCJ2mWP5qrEfBCSXtAjlsIGUu6Y5DWxm07EBJ-jwI-m1cr0x0k15RXl5urP0_0nAQ/w400-h318/Monarch%20iron%20range%20circa%201850.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monarch iron wood burning stove circa 1850s<br />by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Hardyplants" target="_blank">Hardyplants</a> at Wikipedia - <a class="extiw" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Creative_Commons" title="w:en:Creative Commons">Creative Commons</a> <a class="external text" href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en" rel="nofollow">Attribution 3.0 Unported</a> license.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James was so proud of his young bride, Mary Ann! She was such a trooper - no complaints from her. Instead, she told stories to Mary Kyniston that made the little girl giggle, and made jokes with her mother, Nancy, that put a smile on her tired face. Oh yes, his new bride was a blessing to him, way beyond anything he had expected.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tonight they were having buffalo stew - again. Instead of complaining that all they had was buffalo, buffalo, buffalo, Mary Ann said it was wonderful they had good meat off the hoof, and could save the stores they were hauling for when game was scarce. She had amusing comments about the monuments and wonders of the trail. Today it was Courthouse Rock - that huge block of sandstone and clay, standing up in the middle of the flat plain. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v016VRbZiy60SKHYPfIEwmsqaj4uuQCs7oNgK4tq8b8fLMwrC7GwJzpk0TeT9GnQKmkfn5PmiqBuxSPdSYp1NznugsOi7MoJFdSVgOOGiNkAAKSskDpZpAUVSizqAPCO-q-hxNA65ZPHXN-odWXovy255bEKkuj0hf4cPtehmfv0NzdCVCRD6TWO/s437/courthouse%20rock%20cropped%20-%20a%20public%20domain.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="437" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v016VRbZiy60SKHYPfIEwmsqaj4uuQCs7oNgK4tq8b8fLMwrC7GwJzpk0TeT9GnQKmkfn5PmiqBuxSPdSYp1NznugsOi7MoJFdSVgOOGiNkAAKSskDpZpAUVSizqAPCO-q-hxNA65ZPHXN-odWXovy255bEKkuj0hf4cPtehmfv0NzdCVCRD6TWO/w400-h281/courthouse%20rock%20cropped%20-%20a%20public%20domain.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courthouse Rock - a Public Domain image by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Caddywagon" target="_blank">Caddywagon</a> at Wikipedia<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She threatened to throw them all in the Courthouse Rock jail if they didn't come quick to dinner while the food was still hot. The wagon train was making good time, at least on the days when they were not interrupted by soldiers, or by Indians, or by a stampede or a thunderstorm. It was a conundrum, how many things could just crop up out of the blue to deter, delay or discourage them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">James was beginning to see some advantages in the way Mary Ann, and her family, studied the Bible and learned verses by heart. Yesterday, after that awful stampede, they had first thanked God for saving their wagon and animals and themselves from harm. Then they began discussing the benefits of trials, and quoted to each other Romans 5:3 - 5 "but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope: and hope maketh not ashamed: because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There were other similar verses they quoted, but it was enough for him to try to assimilate even one of them. Was this what made them so different from other people on the wagon train? They didn't grumble or complain, they didn't get mad and lose their tempers, or swear, and more than what didn't happen, they were kind and loving, not only to each other, but even to strangers. "I could certainly use a better attitude", thought James. "I need to pay attention and find out how they do this. How do they get this Helper they talk about, this Holy Ghost?"</span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-84210807860342369262022-12-29T23:12:00.001-08:002022-12-30T14:50:18.692-08:00James Sherrill: Stampede!<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We could see the wagon train ahead of us on the trail as we came down a slight hill, and it was plain what started the trouble. "Somebody's untrained, worthless dog had gone over the bank of the Platte to cool off. He stayed there until all the teams had passed. The loose stock was just coming up - when the dog bounded from the water and shook himself. Away went cows, horses, bulls, and all."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"When the stampede started the loose cattle were half mile behind the wagons, which was the distance they were allowed to keep, but on they came with renewed vigor..." "The captain, taking in the situation at a glance, clapped his spurs to his mare and bounded along the line with a trumpet voice for those in the wagons to 'halt and drop your wagon tongues'. But it was too late for all to accomplish."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Some of the oxen stopped and some did not. One of the runaway oxen fell down and broke its neck, and that gave the pioneer mother time to get out of the rear of the wagon with her baby, and get down the bank of the river. The damage from this stampede was a few broken wagon tongues, several smashed wheels, one ox with a broken neck, another with a broken leg, and two days layover for repairs. no one was crippled, although some were bruised." [see <i>The Brazen Overlanders of 1845</i>, page 74, by Donna M. Wojcik, c. 1976]<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It made us see why some wagon trains had rules against dogs, and didn't allow them to run loose. The terrible fury and power in all those huge animals running out of control, smashing into wagons, running over people and anything in their way, was terrifying to watch. That night, our wagon train voted on new rules for keeping dogs on a leash or under restraint. Passed unanimously. </span><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">[]
Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6311689118381747840.post-83962310016924043072022-12-28T20:01:00.006-08:002023-01-16T16:34:20.439-08:00Thunder and lightening and pouring rain -<p><span style="font-size: medium;">it is a typical Platte River valley summer storm. The horses and oxen are terrified and trying to bolt. Everyone who was sleeping under the wagons or in a tent are crowding dripping wet into the nearest wagon. Nobody is writing a blog in this storm, and neither is Pandababy. Please come back tomorrow when we have dried out and had a nap. We will have an exciting tale for you, I am sure.<br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbkYY5lO_aMFWJupJdU-LP86OmBhtmNaI0earGfG6SvNbIaQ1UofpKv_qY6Vnhmq_TNIPsrEAdzr97uI7fCkQy8kdb17RPRhw0Fy9xcOk_Xbr3fSWwRwci7QKq-X3JSLKLfK4vaXtfrQq25ipg5oVOnjxDOIpg-lzmRmmXp3g59gtqWvIjHeQXyKkR/s5736/Albert_Bierstadt_-_A_Storm_in_the_Rocky_Mountains,_Mt._Rosalie_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3319" data-original-width="5736" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbkYY5lO_aMFWJupJdU-LP86OmBhtmNaI0earGfG6SvNbIaQ1UofpKv_qY6Vnhmq_TNIPsrEAdzr97uI7fCkQy8kdb17RPRhw0Fy9xcOk_Xbr3fSWwRwci7QKq-X3JSLKLfK4vaXtfrQq25ipg5oVOnjxDOIpg-lzmRmmXp3g59gtqWvIjHeQXyKkR/w400-h231/Albert_Bierstadt_-_A_Storm_in_the_Rocky_Mountains,_Mt._Rosalie_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Storm in the Rocky Mountains by Albert Bierstadt <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table class="layouttemplate mw-content-ltr" lang="en"><tbody><tr><td><img alt="Public domain" data-file-height="196" data-file-width="196" height="64" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/62/PD-icon.svg/64px-PD-icon.svg.png" title="Public domain" width="64" /></td>
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Thank you for visiting the vegetarian bear.</div>Pandababyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13181377360157289102noreply@blogger.com0