I have been working on another novel that is a sequel to They Looked West. My wife and I were on location in Eastern Wyoming last week, exploring the trails and trying to get a feel for the terrain. As we arrived in the area that is part of the story, we found ourselves near Old Fort Laramie. This isn't the city of Laramie where the University of Wyoming is located, but a small frontier town located just inside the Wyoming-Nebraska state line along the Platte River. The city of Laramie is on the other side of the divide, Laramie peak, and one hundred and fifty miles separate the two like-named areas. Most people I've talked to when I told them where we were thought I was talking about the modern city of Laramie near present-day Cheyenne. Nothing could be farther from the truth and Fort Laramie is in the middle of nowhere.
As we found ourselves searching for the old Fort area, we were pleasantly surprised to see that the state of Wyoming has preserved the Old Fort and have made a beautiful dedication to the remains that are still standing the test of time. Stepping out of the truck we were greeted by the usual Wyoming wind that is constant throughout the day in that part of the state. The first thing I noticed as we started walking through the Fort buildings area, was how the site was laid out by the Military. The post is wide open for an attack from Indians if they had chosen to do so back in the Indian Wars of the 1860's and 1870's. The Fort is not setup like your normal television western with large timbers standing neatly tied together, and with watch towers and large swinging gates in the front. Fort Laramie is a post consisting of twelve buildings spread out over twenty acres next to the Platte river. The horse corrals are down by the river, offering a tempting treat to the nomads of the plains. The barracks are at least three hundred yards from the corrals, making for a long run to get to the animals in the event of an attack. I'm sure that many a sentry, walking his post along the river at night near the corrals wondered if it might be his last guard duty in this life
Across the Platte river, you can see the distant hills for nearly twenty miles in any direction. As I stood there taking pictures of the vast views, I was reminded of how quiet and lonely it must have been for those men stationed on this post. The majority of the buildings still standing were built out of stone and mortar. They looked to be as strong as the day they were built. The stones were cut from a rock quarry that is at least fifteen miles west from the post. A site exists there, with a monument and a hillside, that still bears original rifle pits that the army dug in order to form a defensive position so that rock cutters could do their work without the Native Americans in the area attacking them as they worked. It must have been quite an ordeal to ride through hostile Indians on a daily basis in order to cut and haul rocks to build your post.
The post was equipped with several large and small artillery pieces, some were remnants of the civil war while others were modern at the time. A Gatlin gun was in use and the post had its own method for making bullets and reloading spent cartridges. As I walked the compound, it appeared to me that the main event of the day was sitting down and dining. Separate rooms were afforded officers and enlisted men with kitchens in each building. A sign at the post bakery read that every soldier was given two loaves of bread per day in their rations along with other staples to live on.
Very few women were stationed at the post and those that were unfortunate enough to hang out there were high-ranking post commanders wives and families. The soldiers washed themselves and their clothing in the nearby Platte river. When I walked to the river's edge, I could just see the men trying to bear the ice cold water of the river as it flowed from the high Wyoming peaks year round. It was a weekly regulation that enlisted men bathe their bodies. I'm sure that, given the choice, most soldiers would have forgone that duty during the dreadful winter months, but barracks living would have been unbearable with several hundred men living in tight quarters.
As you walk the parade grounds you are treated to monumental stands that describe the buildings and surrounding areas. Most of the reading stands have black and white pictures of the era and you can compare the pictures of how it looked back in those bygone days. There is one picture that really interested me, it was a picture of the 1868 Treaty being signed by the Native Americans as they sat in conference with the delegates of the government and put quill to paper for reservation lands. It shows the Indians across the river from the fort with blankets wrapped around their torso sitting in mass, while officers of the government stood and pointed to large maps that were set up for viewing. In the background, you can see the teepees that stretched for miles on end. The picture and article state that there were over twenty thousand Native Americans attending the event that started in early April and continued until late September.
For many years Fort Laramie was the furthest most military post on the frontier. It was started as a fur trading post and then sold privately to the military and became Fort William, later it was renamed, Fort Laramie. The path of the Overland migration routes that worked themselves across this country, routed through Fort Laramie. It was essential, not only for trade but for weary travelers looking for resupply and rest on the long journey to the western horizons of the Rocky Mountains and beyond. The famous Oregon and Mormon trails passed through Fort Laramie on their way to the expansion of the west. Millions of pioneers trekked through the Fort as they traveled to their destinations further up the trail. During hard times with Indian depredations, the Fort offered a safe haven for vulnerable wagon trains heading west. And the post stood for all to see, that the United States of America was committed to the safety and well-being of its citizens in perilous times.
While me wife and I were in the area, we visited another Fort on the path west and that was Fort Fetterman. It stands on a lonely hill about fifteen miles north of present day Douglas Wyoming. It was a far reach for the military from Fort Laramie, but it offered more presence in the region during the Indian troubles. History says that the soldiers posted to Fort Fetterman were given the worst duty in the Army. Water and wood needed to be hauled by hand for several miles each day from the Platte river up a steep hill to where the post was located. While I was there looking over the area, the wind was so strong I could hardly stand in one spot without weaving back and forth. I can only imagine, being stationed there during the cold winter months with freezing conditions and barracks life, for entertainment. Those men were living statues of time as they performed their duties in the harsh Wyoming climate.
Following the Oregon trail northwest from Fort Laramie, the first view that came into sight for the weary pioneers would be Laramie peak about fifty miles to the west. Before this landmark, the Oregon trail offered countless miles of rolling hills and valley floors filled with buffalo grass for as far as the eye could see. Small waterways crossed the trail and numerous cottonwoods could be seen with their tall expanding foliage in the valleys where the streams had water. Other than several protruding rock formations, such as Scott's Bluff, Chimney rock, and Courthouse Rock, the prairie was void of eye seeing grandeur other than the majestic buffalo which littered the grasslands with their huge hulking forms.
Looking at Laramie peak off in the distance the day I was there I couldn't help my thoughts as I wondered just how omnipotent that peak must have been for the Martin, Willey handcart companies, as it came into sight that fateful October of 1856. Reports from the diaries I have read stated that the pioneers could see that Laramie Peak was already snow-capped that year. As my wife and I followed along some of the Oregon trails on this trip, it became apparent how much suffering the pioneers were subjected to. Pushing one of the handcarts into the steady wind that predominantly travels in a Southeasterly direction, would have been enough to break down and ruin most human beings, mentally and physically. Add meager rations, unacceptable fall and winter clothing and scarce protection from storms and night time temperatures and you get the feeling that these Saints were cut from a special heavenly roster, long before their mortal bodies followed the trail to Zion.
Taking my camera and wife in hand I set out like it was just another stroll down memory lane. The trail followed the river and after seeing several concrete benches stating In loving Memory of along the trail, I suspected something might not be in harmony with my cakewalk attitude. After a good mile or so I looked at my better half and remarked the usual 'it's just up around the next bend I'm sure.' Well after twenty or more bends in the crooked trail and another mile or so we came across a metal bridge spanning the river and onto a dirt road. Looking up the well-traveled road we could see the monument area another mile up the road. Trudging up the hill, this time, I heard a sound and turned around to see a touring car passing us as its occupants waved and nodded their heads in friendly gestures. Wondering where they came from my wife gave me the look of death. "They must have some kind of road up here for old people," I said as some old gents and their female friends climbed out of the car. Another car passed by as we walked up the dusty road to the visitors center, but this time, I didn't even look up because I knew I was in deep trouble with the misses.
Arriving at the monument out of breath and sweating profusely, I tried to make light of the fact that we had reached our destination and it was well worth the effort. We made our way along the path through the Wyoming cedars that tell the story, and we saw the evidence of all that passed through this part of the frontier. The pictures I've posted don't do the trail justice. Those tracks are cut from hard sandstone and to get four or five feet deep over time, boggles the mind on how many wagon wheels it would have taken to grind that hard rock into the wind blowing sand. Footpaths were still visible, as all wagon occupants were probably forbidden from riding in the wagons while descending the steep hill over the rocks. The trails of the pioneers wound back and forth through the buffalo grass and rocks, leaving their traces for all generations to see and feel. My camera was on fire as I tried to capture the moment for all time.
When we finished up at the monument the arduous task of walking back to the truck hit us straight in the face in the form of Wyoming wind and heat. On this day the temperature Gods took the degrees up a few notch's, just to teach ole Southwick a lesson, because by the time I finished that walk I was looking like Chevy Chase in Vacation, with a shirt wrapped around my head and a scarlet sunburned face, looking half dead, as he came out of the desert. I really knew I was in trouble when my better half reminded me that I told her she should wear her cowboy boots for the day because we would not be doing much walking. During the last mile of the suffrage march, she opted to take her boots off and walk barefooted the rest of the way because the modern cowboy boot was not made for hiking conditions. I quickly reminded her that I would be fortunate enough to survive myself and make it back to the truck alive but I was not in any condition to carry her along as well. I reminded her of the fact that she would have to be abandoned on the trail like in the old days, for I would be in no condition to come back for her later. This jest on my part didn't quite go over as expected.
As I turned the truck around and started to drive back out onto the main road I paused and re-read the sign that said .4 miles. Looking to my left was a nice oiled-down dirt road, graded for car traffic, and the sign was intended for a nice .4 mile drive to the monument theater. A sick feeling came over me as Patty re-read the sign and turned her eyes on the sunburned windblown trail master that had marched her into the unknown prairie abyss. "Well look at it this way, we got our exercise in for at least several days. Since we are on vacation and eating fast foods, it kind of all works out for the best doesn't it?" I asked my wife, as the only sound in the truck was me swallowing.
Looking back on the trek, I went back and measured out the hike, we traversed 2.8 miles in and 2.8 hot miles out. Not bad for a set of mid, sixty-year-old timers. I didn't share this information until the swelling in our muscles and sore feet had subsided several days later in both of us. I was five hundred miles from home and the drive back with that knowledge out on the wind would have led to a revolt.
We traveled along the trail from Fort Laramie through present day Casper Wyoming and into the rocky regions of Independence Rock and Martins cove. I had previously scouted this area many times, so we passed through that area rather quickly. In researching these areas and gleaning the stories and tales for my novel, I was puzzled by several events and facts that stared me in the face at every junction of my studies.
In my opinion, the handcart disaster didn't need to happen. As history affords us, the companies of Handcart travelers left Florence, which is near present-day Iowa city, on August 17th, which was against the better judgment of experienced scouts and trailsmen of the time. One hundred or more of the original companies stayed behind in Florence, and parts of Iowa because of the warnings of the experienced men. I can only imagine how it must have felt to the weary Saints as they captured their first view of snow capped Laramie peak and realized that what they had been warned about they were now going to head straight into the clutches of nature's fury. Sad that the tragic event transpired, but the souls that were lost to the ravages of nature and the trail will forever be held as legend and folklore. Traveling the trail many times in my life, I have come to a great appreciation for all those pioneers and Saints that braved the unknown and marched into the vast wildernesses just to better themselves in this life.
One of the most puzzling things in this life concerning the pioneers and Saints was how devastating cholera was to the people. I have studied the disease and its effects on mankind in earnest while presenting part of the story in my first novel. One in ten died from the disease. One fact that keeps coming up in my mind, is that with all the blessings bestowed upon this earth by our father in heaven, why wasn't his prophets, scholarly gentlemen, leaders of the nation etc. given the simple remedy that makes cholera obsolete. Three simple words would have given the pioneers and people building this great nation a fighting chance, "boil the water, my children," I will always be baffled by that simple fact.
Returning from the trip, I have reviewed my pictures and have included some of the ones that I think point out my thoughts here. The distances along the trail are vast and the wagon pioneers averaged 15 miles on a good day without weather conditions. I took one picture looking north along the trail and in the distance, you can see the foothills looking North to Douglas Wyoming. Driving along, it took me about an hour to reach the point that is shown in the picture, but it would have taken the pioneers a grueling six days of up and down through the valleys and over the washes and arroyos that are nearly unseen to the naked eye.
Time and the elements have a way of erasing things that have transpired in the past. The great trail and all of its participants have now faded and the memories and small stories that can be gleaned from diaries here and there are fading as well. For the most part the average daily citizen has no knowledge of what took place in this country from 1830 through 1900, but if you want to take the time and listen to the winds along the trail, you can see and feel what our forefathers saw and felt as they made the famous trek across the prairie. If you go out there, like I did I promise you will gain a whole other appreciation of what it took to make this country the place it is for all of us now to enjoy.
