Chapter 26: High Desert to the Sweetwater

 

June 25, 1847. The Platte is behind us. Now we cross the desert toward the Sweetwater, carrying what water we can. We can’t bring enough for the animals. Oxen can survive on dew, but horses and mules need more.

 

The sand stung Mac’s face as he rode Valiente beside his wagon on Friday. He pulled his neckerchief over his mouth and nose. A strong wind whistled through the canvas wagon covers and made the horses and mules skittish. Nothing bothered the placid oxen, although they lowered their heads toward the dry ground to escape the dust.

In midmorning the teams perked up and pulled faster. Valiente danced to run free. There must be water nearby.

Pershing trotted along the wagon train on horseback. “Don’t let your animals loose,” he shouted. “The water’s poison.”

Mac reined in Valiente and kept his oxen in line. He saw Jenny struggling with Poulette. “Can you hold her?” he called.

“I’m trying.”

Zeke rode over to Jenny, grabbed her bridle, and walked Poulette over to the wagon. “Get in,” Zeke told her. “I’ll tie our horses behind and ride with you.”

Mac wanted to object, but he had his hands full keeping Valiente under control and stopping the oxen so Jenny could climb in the wagon. “Much obliged,” he said to Zeke.

“Pa calls this Poison Springs,” Zeke said. “Full of alkali. Not drinkable, but the animals smell water and want at it.”

In the distance a small basin of water sat surrounded by swamp. Mac’s wagon passed it safely, but Josiah Baker’s gelding bolted and drank at the spring.

“What’ll happen to him?” Jenny asked.

Mac shrugged. “Depends on how much he drank. Could die. Could just get a bellyache.”

“Better water ’bout five miles farther,” Zeke said. “Pa says we’ll stop there.”

“Not a very long day,” Mac said.

“Have to take the water where we find it.”

Pershing called the halt at another sluggish creek. The emigrants cooked a quick supper and filled their barrels with slimy water—not pleasant, but safe for animals and people. Baker’s gelding drooped, but was still alive the next morning.

Right before they set out, Mac jotted:

 

June 26, 1847. A miserable camp last night, but enough grass for the teams. Pershing hopes to get to Willow Springs tonight. Better water there.

 

The ride the next day was dry and rough, but a lighter wind kept the grit tolerable. They reached Willow Springs in midafternoon, where sparkling cold water turned the valley bright green with grasses and small willows. This time when the teams bellowed at the scent, the drivers let them go. Mac barely unyoked his oxen before they rushed for the stream. After they drank their fill, he yoked the lead pair back to the wagon to pull it into the circle for the night.

Wood and water were plentiful. That evening the travelers built a bonfire and filled the air with music. Pershing declared a Sabbath rest the next day, so no one rushed through chores.

A white powder resembling snow blanketed the ground around the spring. “Saleratus,” Doc said, sniffing, then tasting the powder. “Same as soda.”

Mac took a pouchful of the powder back to Jenny. “Doc says it’ll make bread rise.”

Jenny frowned. “You sure?”

“Try it. Worst that happens is we throw out the loaves.”

Jenny shook her head, but took the powder. “I’ll use it in the biscuits tomorrow.”

The next morning she exclaimed, “It worked!” Soon he smelled freshly baked biscuits, though something smelled burned as well. Jenny brought him a biscuit dripping with honey. It was an off color, and he eyed it suspiciously.

“Saleratus made it green,” Jenny said. “I don’t have the hang of baking with it, and the bottoms burned. But they’re soft in the middle.”

Mac bit in. “Nice change from flapjacks,” he said, nodding his thanks.

After the Sabbath service, Abercrombie organized a hunting party. Mac looked at Jenny. “You need me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Go on.”

Pershing led the hunters into the hills above the Willow Creek valley. “Might as well scout while we hunt,” he said. The hills were arid, with trees only at the crests. The terrain spread ahead in waves of craggy cliffs and deep creek valleys. Pershing pointed out a valley in the distance. “Sweetwater’s over there,” he said. “We’ll follow it to the summit.”

“Deer!” Abercrombie shouted. The men had hunted together enough by now that they naturally split up to drive the small herd into a ravine. They picked off five animals and dismounted to dress the meat.

The men spent a few more hours hunting and shot some grouse. “Enough,” Pershing said. “This’ll feed us for a few days.”

Back at Willow Springs, Mac found Jenny baking more biscuits. “I think I figured it out,” she said, handing him one that was golden brown. “Didn’t burn this batch.” He ate and wrote:

 

June 27, 1847. Good hunting today. Next landmark is Independence Rock.

Monday morning a light rain fell. “Be easier to cross the desert in the rain,” Pershing said. “Keep your barrels open to collect the water.”

The terrain was too rough to permit the wagons to move quickly. Creek beds that began flat narrowed into steep ravines bordered by rocky ridges. Zeke and Joel rode ahead to find the easiest route. They switchbacked up hillsides, trying to avoid loose scree so the wagons wouldn’t tip.

“Watch out!” Pershing shouted at one driver. “Your wheel’s on the edge.”

Just then, the rear wheel lost traction, and the wagon started to list. The driver cracked his whip, and his oxen quickened their pace, pulling the wagon back on to firm ground.

“Takin’ us twice as long as it should,” Abercrombie complained at the noon break.

“You want to scout?” Pershing asked.

Abercrombie spat. “That’s young men’s work.”

“Then let the boys do it,” Pershing said, slapping his hat on his head.

The rain had ended, and Mac walked with Jenny through the damp dirt beside the trail. She panted heavily. “We’re in the mountains for sure now,” Mac said, taking her hand and guiding her over a patch of rough rocks.

“Thank you,” she said. “Will it get worse, do you suppose?”

“Probably. We’re not to the summit yet. South Pass is still a couple weeks away.”

“So far to travel.” She sighed. “And what will we find in Oregon?”

Mac grinned. “Who knows? The fun is in the getting there.”

Jenny stopped, hands on her hips. “Fun? You almost died, and you call it fun?”

“That’s behind us now.”

Jenny marched ahead.

“What’s wrong?” Mac said, catching up to her. “This is a grand adventure. I’ve never seen so many wonders.”

“Maybe it’s an adventure for you,” she said over her shoulder. “I have a baby to worry about.”

The baby. Mac was silent. Once they reached Oregon, he’d have to decide what to do with not only Jenny, but her child as well. They would need a home.

The travelers camped that night strung out on a gravelly hill that had barely enough flat space for wagons and tents. A small creek ran below the camp, bordered by a little grass for the animals.

The next morning they started early under blue sky, eager to find their way out of the desert. They reached the Sweetwater, but the parched, barren terrain didn’t change.

“We follow the Sweetwater toward South Pass,” Pershing said. “Last river to the east. Once we pass the summit, rivers all head to the Pacific.”

Reaching the Sweetwater didn’t improve the emigrants’ morale. Jenny and Esther squabbled over something—Mac didn’t know what. Abercrombie couldn’t speak a civil word to anyone. Even the docile oxen tossed their heads and snorted when Mac unyoked them.