<h3>REACHING THE END OF THE TRAIL</h3>
<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">After</span> leaving the Snake River we had one of the worst
stretches of the trying journey. From the lower crossing
of the Snake River at old Fort Boise to The Dalles is
approximately three hundred and fifty miles over mountains
and deserts. It became a serious question with many
travelers whether there would be enough provisions left
to keep them from starvation and whether their teams
could muster strength to take the wagons in. Many
wagons were left by the wayside. Everything that could
possibly be spared shared the same fate. Provisions, and
provisions only, were religiously cared for. Considering
the weakened condition of both man and beast, it was
small wonder that some ill-advised persons should take
to the river in their wagon beds, many thus going to their
death.</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-068.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="343" alt="The cataract of the Columbia." title="" /> <div class='attrib'>Benj. A. Gifford</div>
<span class="caption">The cataract of the Columbia.</span></div>
<p>The dust got deeper every day. Going through it was
like wading in water as to resistance. Often it would lie
in the road fully six inches deep, so fine that a person<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</SPAN></span>
wading through it would scarcely leave a track. And
when disturbed, such clouds! No words can describe it.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-069.jpg" width-obs="500" height-obs="195" alt="Shifting sands of eastern Oregon." title="" /> <div class='attrib'>Benj. A. Gifford</div>
<span class="caption">Shifting sands of eastern Oregon.</span></div>
<p>At length, after we had endured five long months of
soul-trying travel and had covered about eighteen hundred
miles, counting from the crossing of the Missouri, we
dragged ourselves on to the end of the Overland Trail at
The Dalles on the Columbia River. From here my wife
and I, with the baby, went by boat down the river, while
Oliver took the ox team on to Portland by the land way.</p>
<p>The Dalles is a name given to the peculiar lava rock
formation that strikes across the Columbia, nearly two
hundred miles from the mouth. These rocks throw the
great stream into a fury of foaming rapids. An Indian
legend says that the Bridge of the Gods was once near
The Dalles, but that the bridge broke and fell.</p>
<p>On the September day in 1852 when we reached The
Dalles, we found there a great crowd of travel-worn people.
This assemblage was constantly changing. It was a
coming-and-going congregation.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-070.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="383" alt="Where the Columbia cuts through the Cascades." title="" /> <div class='attrib'>Gifford & Prentiss</div>
<span class="caption">Where the Columbia cuts through the Cascades.</span></div>
<p>The appearance of this crowd of emigrants beggars
description. Their dress was as varied as pieces in a
crazy quilt. Here was a matronly dame in clean apparel,
but without shoes; her husband perhaps lacked both<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</SPAN></span>
shoes and hat. Youngsters of all sizes were running about
with scarcely enough clothing to cover their nakedness.
Some suits and dresses were so patched that it was impossible
to tell what was the original cloth. The color of
practically everybody's clothing was that of desert dust.</p>
<p>Every little while other sweat-streaked, motley-dressed
homeseekers would straggle up to this end of the long
trail. Their thoughts went back to their old homes, or to
the loved ones that they had laid away tenderly in the
shifting sands of the Plains. Most of them faced the future
with fortitude; the difficulties they had met and mastered
had but steeled them to meet the difficulties ahead. There
was an undercurrent of gladness in their souls with the
thought that they had achieved the end of the Overland
Trail. They were ready now to go on down the Columbia
to find their new homes in this great, unknown Land of
Promise.</p>
<p>Almost every nationality was represented among them.
All traces of race peculiarity and race prejudice, however,
had been ground away in the mill of adversity. The trying
times through which these pioneers had just passed had
brought all to a kinship of feeling such as only trail and
danger can beget.</p>
<p>Friendships, sincere and lasting, came as one of the
sweet rewards of those days of common struggle and
adversity. Few of the pioneers are now left to talk over
the old days; when any of them do meet, the greeting is one
of brotherhood indeed.</p>
<p>We camped but two days on the bank of the Columbia
River. When I say "we," let it be understood that I
mean myself, my young wife, and the baby boy who was
but seven weeks old when the start was made from
Eddyville.</p>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-072.jpg" width-obs="439" height-obs="600" alt="St. Peter's Dome—one of the sentinels of the Columbia." title="" /> <div class='attrib'>Kiser Bros.</div>
<span class="caption">St. Peter's Dome—one of the sentinels of the Columbia.</span></div>
<p>I do not remember the embarking on the great scow for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</SPAN></span>
our trip down the Columbia to the Cascades. But incidents
of the voyage come to me as vividly as if they had
happened but yesterday.</p>
<p>Those who took passage felt that the journey was ended.
The cattle had been unyoked for the last time; the wagons
had been rolled to the last bivouac; the embers of the last
camp fire had died out. We were entering now upon a
new field with new present experiences, and with new
expectancy for the morrow.</p>
<p>The scow, or lighter, upon which we took passage was
decked over, but without railing, offering a smooth
surface upon which to pile our belongings. These, in
the majority of cases, made but a very small showing.
The whole deck surface of the scow was covered with
the remnants of the homeseekers' outfits, which in turn
were covered by the owners, either sitting or reclining
upon their possessions, with but scant room to change
position or move about in any way. There must have
been a dozen families or more on the boat, or about
sixty persons. These were principally women and children;
the young men and some of the older ones were still
struggling on the mountain trail to get the teams through
to the west side of the Cascade Mountains.</p>
<p>As we went floating down that wonderful old river,
the deep depression of spirits that, for lack of a better
name, we call "the blues," seized upon us. Do you wonder
why? We were like an army that had burned the bridges
behind it. We had scant knowledge of what lay in the
track before us. Here we were, more than two thousand
miles from home,—separated from it by a trackless,
uninhabited waste of country. It was impossible for us
to retrace our steps. Go ahead we must, no matter what
we were to encounter.</p>
<p>Then, too, we had for months borne the burden of duties<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></SPAN></span>
that could not be avoided or delayed, until many were on
the verge of collapse from strain and overwork. Some were
sick, and all were reduced in flesh from the urgent toil at
camp duty and from lack of variety of food. Such was
the condition of the motley crowd of sixty persons as we
slowly neared that wonderful channel through which the
great Columbia flows while passing the Cascade range.</p>
<p>For myself, I can truly say that the journey had not
drawn on my vitality as it had with so many. True, I
had been worked down in flesh, having lost nearly twenty
pounds; but what weight I had left was the bone and sinew
of my system. The good body my parents had given me
carried me then and afterwards through many hardships
without great distress.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-075.jpg" width-obs="264" height-obs="700" alt="Multnomah Falls along the Columbia; named after a famous Indian chief." title="" /> <div class='attrib'>Benj. A. Gifford</div>
<span class="caption">Multnomah Falls along the Columbia;
named after a famous Indian chief.</span></div>
<p>In our company, a party of three, a young married
couple and an unmarried sister, lounged on their belongings,
listlessly watching the ripples on the water, as did
also others of the party. But little conversation was
passing. Each seemed to be communing with himself
or herself, but it was easy to see what were the thoughts
occupying the minds of all. The young husband, it was
plain to be seen, would soon complete that greater journey
to the unknown beyond, a condition that weighed so
heavily upon the ladies of the party that they could ill
conceal their solicitude and sorrow. Finally, to cheer up
the sick husband and brother, the ladies began in sweet,
subdued voices to sing the old familiar song of "Home,
Sweet Home," whereupon others of the party joined in
the chorus with increased volume of sound. As the echo
died away, at the moment of gliding under the shadow of
the high mountain, the second verse was begun, but was
never finished. If an electric shock had startled every individual
of the party, there could have been no more simultaneous
effect than when the second line of the second<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></SPAN></span>
verse was reached, when
instead of song, sobs and
outcries of grief poured
forth from all lips. It
seemed as if there were
a tumult of despair
mingled with prayer.
The rugged boatmen
rested upon their oars
in awe, and gave way
in sympathy with the
scene before them, until
it could be truly said
no dry eyes were left
nor aching heart but
was relieved. Like the
downpour of a summer
shower that suddenly
clears the atmosphere
to welcome the bright
shining sun that follows,
so this sudden outburst
of grief cleared away
the despondency, to be
replaced by an exalted,
exhilarating feeling of
buoyancy and hopefulness.
The tears were
not dried till mirth
took possession—a real
hysterical manifestation
of the whole party,
ending all depression for
the rest of the trip.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>On this last stage of the journey other parties had much
more trying experiences than ours. John Whitacre, afterward
governor of Oregon, was the head of a party of nine
that constructed a raft at The Dalles out of dry poles
hauled from the adjacent country. While their stock
was started out over the trail, their two wagons were put
upon the raft. With the women and children in the wagons,
perched on the provisions and bedding, the start was
made to float down the river to the Cascades.</p>
<p>They had hardly begun the journey when the waves
swept over the raft. It was like a submerged foundation
upon which their wagons stood. A landing a few miles out
of The Dalles averted a total wreck, and afforded opportunity
to strengthen the buoyancy of the raft with extra
timber carried upon the backs of the men for long
distances.</p>
<p>Then the question arose, how should they know when
they would reach the falls? Would they be able to discover
the falls in time to make a landing? Their fears finally
got the better of them and a line was run ashore; but
instead of making a landing, they found themselves hard
aground out of reach of land, except by wading a long
distance. This occurred while they were many miles
above the falls, or Cascades. At last they gave up the
raft and procured a scow. In this they reached the head
of the Cascades in safety.</p>
<p>As we neared Portland we felt that a long task had been
completed. Yet reaching the end of the Overland Trail
did not mean that our pioneer struggles were over. Before
us lay still another task—the conquest of the new land.
And it was no easy work, we were to learn, to find a home
or make one in the western wilderness.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></SPAN></span></p>
<h2>PART TWO</h2>
<hr style="width: 15%;" />
<h2>SETTLING IN THE NORTHWEST COUNTRY</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN href="images/illus-078-big.png"><ANTIMG src="images/illus-078.png" width-obs="400" height-obs="349" alt="This is the region in which Ezra Meeker settled in 1852" title="" /></SPAN> <span class="caption">This is the region in which Ezra Meeker settled in 1852, when it was all known as the Oregon Country and had not been divided into Washington and Oregon. The journey from Portland to Kalama, where the first cabin was built, is shown by line 1. The line marked 2 shows the route followed in the journey to explore the Puget Sound region. The brothers went as far as Port Townsend, but turned back to make the second home at Steilacoom. Line 3 is the trail through the Natchess Pass, the trail that Ezra Meeker followed to meet his father's party coming up through the Blue Mountains.</span></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-079.png" width-obs="500" height-obs="290" alt="Looking for work on the good ship Mary Melville." title="" /> <span class="caption">Looking for work on the good ship Mary Melville.</span></div>
<h2>CHAPTER TEN</h2>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
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