<h3>A PLAN FOR A MEMORIAL TO THE PIONEERS</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">The</span> ox is passing—in fact, has passed. The old-time spinning
wheel and the hand loom, the quaint old cobbler's
bench with its handmade lasts and shoe pegs, the heavy
iron mush pot on the crane in the chimney corner,—all
have gone. The men and women of sixty years or more
ago are passing, too. All are laid aside for what is new in the
drama of life. While these old-time ways and scenes and
actors have had their day, yet the experiences and the lessons
they taught are not lost to the world.</div>
<p>The difference between a civilized and an untutored
people lies in the application of experiences. The civilized
man builds upon the foundations of the past, with hope
and ambition for the future. The savage has neither past
nor aspiration for the future. To keep the flame of patriotism
alive, we must keep the memory of the past vividly
before us.</p>
<p>It was with these thoughts in mind that the expedition<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></SPAN></span>
to mark the old Oregon Trail was undertaken. There was
this further thought, that on this trail heroic men and
women had fought a veritable battle—a battle that
wrested half a continent from the native race and from
another mighty nation contending for mastery in unknown
regions of the West. To mark the field of that battle for
future generations was a duty waiting for some one; I
determined to be the one to fulfill it.</p>
<p>The journey back over the old Oregon Trail by ox
team was made during my seventy-seventh year. On
January 29, 1906, I left my home in Puyallup, Washington,
and on November 29, 1907, just twenty-two months
later to the day, I reached Washington, our national
capital, with my cattle and my old prairie schooner. Not
all of this time was spent in travel, of course; a good deal
of it was taken up in furthering the purpose of the trip by
arranging for the erection and dedication of monuments
to mark the Trail.</p>
<p>To accomplish the purpose of marking the trail would
have been enough to make the journey worth while to me,
besides all the interest of freshening my recollections of
old times and reviving old memories. There is not space
in this book to dwell on all the contrasts that came to
my mind constantly,—of the uncleared forests with the
farms and orchards of today, of the unbroken prairie lands
with the ranches and farms and cities that now border
the old trail from the Rockies to the Mississippi. There
is nothing like an ox-team journey, I maintain, to make a
person realize this country, realize its size, the number of
its people, and the variety of conditions in which they
live and of occupations by which they live. I wish I
could share with every boy and girl in the country the
panorama view that unrolled itself before me in this
journey from tidewater to tidewater.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The ox team was chosen as a typical reminder of
pioneer days. The Oregon Trail, it must be remembered,
is essentially an ox-team trail. No more effective instrument,
therefore, could have been chosen to attract attention,
arouse enthusiasm, and secure aid in forwarding the
work, than this living symbol of the old days.</p>
<p>Indeed, too much attention, in one sense, was attracted.
I had scarcely driven the outfit away from my own dooryard
before the wagon and wagon cover, and even the map
of the old trail on the sides of the cover, began to be
defaced. First I noticed a name or two written on the
wagon bed, then a dozen or more, all stealthily placed
there, until the whole was so closely covered that there was
no room for more. Finally the vandals began carving
initials on the wagon bed and cutting off pieces to carry
away. Eventually I put a stop to such vandalism by
employing special police, posting notices, and nabbing
some offenders in the very act.</p>
<p>Give me Indians on the Plains to contend with; give me
fleas or even the detested sage-brush ticks to burrow into
the flesh; but deliver me from cheap notoriety seekers!</p>
<p>I had decided to take along one helper, and a man by the
name of Herman Goebel went as far as The Dalles with the
outfit. There William Marden joined me for the journey
across the Plains. Marden stayed with me for three years,
and proved to be faithful and helpful.</p>
<p>And now a word as to my oxen. The first team consisted
of one seven-year-old ox, Twist, and one unbroken five-year-old
range steer, Dave. When we were ready to start,
Twist weighed 1,470 pounds and Dave 1,560. This order
of weight was soon changed. In three months' time Twist
gained 130 pounds and Dave lost 80. All this time I fed
them with a lavish hand all the rolled barley I dared give
and all the hay they would eat.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-178.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="392" alt="Preparing to cross a river; unyoking the oxen." title="" /> <span class="caption">Preparing to cross a river; unyoking the oxen.</span></div>
<p>Dave would hook and kick and perform every other
mean trick. Besides, he would stick his tongue out from the
smallest kind of exertion. He had just been shipped in off
the Montana cattle range and had never had a rope on him,
unless it was when he was branded. Like a great over-grown
booby of a boy, he was flabby in flesh, and he could
not endure any sort of exertion without discomfort. At
one time I became very nearly discouraged with him.</p>
<p>Yet this was the ox that made the round trip. He bore
his end of the yoke from the tidewaters of the Pacific to
the tidewaters of the Atlantic, at the Battery, New York
City, and on to Washington City to meet the President.
He finally became subdued, though not conquered. At
times he became threatening with his horns, and I never
did trust his heels.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-179.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="391" alt="Taking off the wagon box." title="" /> <span class="caption">Taking off the wagon box.</span></div>
<p>The other ox, Twist, died suddenly on August 9, 1906,
and was buried within a few rods of the trail. It was two
months to a day after his death before I could find a mate
for the Dave ox, and then I had to take another five-year-old
steer off the cattle range of Nebraska. This steer,
Dandy, evidently had never been handled; but he came of
good stock and, with the exception of awkwardness, gave
me no serious trouble. Dandy was purchased out of the
stockyard at Omaha. He then weighed 1,470 pounds, and
the day before he went to see the President he tipped the
scales at the 1,760-pound notch. Dandy proved to be a
faithful, serviceable ox.</p>
<p>On the journey Dave had to be shod fourteen times, I
think, and he always struggled to get away. Once, on the
summit of the Rocky Mountains, we had to throw Dave<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></SPAN></span>
and tie him hard and fast before we could shoe him. It
takes two shoes to one foot for an ox, instead of one as for
a horse, though the fastening is the same; that is, by nailing
into the hoof. At one time Dandy's hoofs became so
worn that I could not fasten a shoe on him, and so I had
what we called leather boots put on, that left a track
like an elephant's; but he could not pull well with them
on.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-180.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="388" alt="Calking the wagon box to turn it into a boat." title="" /> <span class="caption">Calking the wagon box to turn it into a boat.</span></div>
<p>Besides the oxen we had a dog, Jim. More will be told
of him later.</p>
<p>An authentic prairie schooner, a true veteran of the
Plains, was out of the question. In building the new one,
use was made of parts of three old wagons. The woodwork
of the wagon had to be new throughout except for
one hub, which had done service across the Plains in 1853.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></SPAN></span>
This hub and the bands, boxes, and other iron parts were
from two old-time wagons that had crossed the Plains in
1853. They differed somewhat in size and shape; hence
the hubs of the fore and hind wheels did not match.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-181.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="392" alt="Launching the schooner to cross the river." title="" /> <span class="caption">Launching the schooner to cross the river.</span></div>
<p>The axles were of wood, with the old-time linchpins and
steel skeins, which called for the use of tar and the tar
bucket instead of axle grease. Why? Because if grease
were used, the spokes would work loose, and soon the whole
wheel would collapse. The bed was of the old prairie-schooner
style, with the bottom boat-shaped and the ribs
on the outside.</p>
<p>My first camp for the return journey over the old trail
was made in my own dooryard at Puyallup. This was
maintained for several days to give the wagon and team a
trial. After the weak points had been strengthened and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></SPAN></span>
everything pronounced to be in order, I left home for the
long trip.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-182.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="343" alt="Great changes had taken place along the old trail through Washington and Oregon; here are strawberries growing where the forest stood in 1852." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div>
<span class="caption">Great changes had taken place along the old trail through Washington and Oregon; here are strawberries growing where the forest stood in 1852.</span></div>
<p>The first drive was to Seattle through the towns of
Sumner, Auburn, and Kent. In Seattle I had a host of
friends and acquaintances, and I thought that there I
could arouse interest in my plan and secure some aid for it.
Nothing came of the effort. My closest friends, on the
contrary, tried to dissuade me from going; and, I may say,
actually tried to convince others that it would be an act of
friendship not to lend any aid to the enterprise. I knew, or
thought I knew, that my strength would warrant undertaking
the ordeal; I felt sure I could make the trip successfully.
But my friends remained unconvinced; so after
spending two weeks in Seattle I shipped my outfit by
steamer to Tacoma, only to meet the same spirit there.</p>
<p>One pleasant incident broke the monotony. Henry<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></SPAN></span>
Hewitt, of Tacoma, drove up alongside my team and said,
"Meeker, if you get broke out there on the Plains, just
telegraph me for money to come back on."</p>
<p>"No," I said, "I'd rather hear you say to telegraph for
money to go on with."</p>
<p>"All right," came the response, "have it that way,
then."</p>
<p>Henry drove off, perhaps not giving the conversation a
second thought until he received my telegram two months
later, telling him that I had lost an ox and wanted him to
send me two hundred dollars. The money was immediately
wired to me.</p>
<p>Somehow no serious thought of turning back ever entered
my mind. When I had once resolved to make the trip,
nothing but utter physical disability could deter me. I felt
on this point just as I did when I first crossed the Plains
in 1852.</p>
<p>From Tacoma I shipped again by steamer to Olympia.
The end of the old trail is but two miles distant from
Olympia at Tumwater, the extreme southern point of
Puget Sound. Here the first American party of homeseekers
to Washington rested and settled in 1845. At this
point I set a post, and afterwards arranged for a stone to be
placed to mark the spot.</p>
<p>On the twentieth of February I went to Tenino, south
of Olympia, on the train. My outfit was drawn to this
place by a horse team, the oxen being taken along under
yoke. Dave was still not an ox, but an unruly steer. I
dared not intrust driving him to other hands, yet I
had to go ahead to arrange for the monument and the
lecture.</p>
<p>The twenty-first of February was a red-letter day. At
Tenino I had the satisfaction of helping to dedicate the
first monument erected to mark the old trail. The stores<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></SPAN></span>
were closed, and the school children in a body came over
to the dedication. The monument was donated by the
Tenino Quarry Company; it is inscribed "Old Oregon
Trail: 1843-57."</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-184.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="320" alt="A prosperous fruit farm along the trail." title="" /> <div class="attrib">Brown Bros.</div>
<span class="caption">A prosperous fruit farm along the trail.</span></div>
<p>In the evening I addressed a good-sized audience, and
sixteen dollars was received to help on the good work. The
spirit of the people, more than the money, was encouraging.</p>
<p>At Chehalis, Washington, the Commercial Club undertook
to erect and dedicate a monument. John R. Jackson
was the first American citizen to settle north of the Columbia
River. One of the daughters, Mrs. Ware, accompanied
by her husband, indicated the spot where the
monument should be erected, and a post was planted. A
touching incident was that Mrs. Ware was requested to
put the post in place and hold it while her husband
tamped the earth around it.</p>
<p>At Toledo, the place where the pioneers left the Cowlitz
River on the trail to the Sound, another marker was
placed by the citizens.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-185.jpg" width-obs="275" height-obs="186" alt="The first boulder marked on the old trail; near The Dalles of the Columbia." title="" /> <span class="caption">The first boulder marked on the old trail; near The Dalles of the Columbia.</span></div>
<p>From Toledo I
shipped the whole outfit
by steamer down
the Cowlitz River, and
took passage with my
assistants to Portland,
thus reversing the
order of travel in 1853.
We used steam instead
of the brawn of stalwart
pioneers and Indians
to propel the boat. On the evening of March the
first I pitched my tent in the heart of the city of Portland,
on a grassy vacant lot.</p>
<p>On the morning of the tenth of March I took steamer
with my outfit, bound up the Columbia for The Dalles.
How wondrous the change! Fifty-four years before, I had
come floating down this same stream in a flatboat with a
party of poor, heartsick pioneers; now I made the trip enjoying
cushioned chairs, delicious foods, fine linens, magazines
and books—every luxury of civilized life.</p>
<p>That night I arrived at The Dalles, and drove nearly
three quarters of a mile to a camping ground near the park.
The streets were muddy, and the cattle were impatient and
walked very fast, which made it necessary for me to tramp
through the mud at their heads. We had no supper or even
tea, as we did not build a fire. It was clear that night, but
raining in the morning.</p>
<p>Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the
Landmark Committee at The Dalles. What should they
do but provide a monument already inscribed and in place,
and notify me that I had been selected to deliver the dedicatory
address!</p>
<p>The weather of the next day treated us to some hardships<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></SPAN></span>
that I had missed on the first overland journey. Ice
formed in the camp half an inch thick, and the high wind
joined forces with the damper of our stove, which had got
out of order, to fill the tent with smoke and make life
miserable.</p>
<p>The fierce, cold wind also made it necessary to postpone
the dedication for a day and finally to carry it out with
less ceremony than had been planned. Nevertheless,
I felt that the expedition was now fairly started. We
had reached the point where the real journey would begin,
and the interest shown in the plan by the towns along the
way had been most encouraging.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-187.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="313" alt="The Dalles, on the Columbia River." title="" /> <span class="caption">The Dalles, on the Columbia River.</span></div>
<h2>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</h2>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />