Up the
Platte; across the Rockies; down the Green River canons in my canoe;
across the mountains to Salt Lake; out over the "Rim of the Basin," and
across the desert, guided only by the fact that we knew the Pacific
Ocean was to the west of us, and choosing our road as best we could in
view of the lofty, snow-clad, impassible mountains; seeing thirteen of
our comrades lie down never to rise again, and, when hope and strength
were almost gone, to suddenly come out into a fertile region on the
seventh of March, 1850. How I wished the fellows who slept in Death
Valley could have seen this view. The change from all that barrenness
and desolation to this beautiful, fertile country, covered with wild
flowers and luxuriant live oaks, was as strong a contrast as one could
imagine a sudden coming from purgatory to paradise in the space of a
single hour.
I waked up from my dreamy thoughts, mounted my mule and rode to camp. As
I rode along the nimble ground squirrel, with his keen black eye, would
climb to the top of the high mustard stalks to get a better view and,
suspicious of an enemy within his almost undisputed territory, disappear
in a wink to his safe underground fortress. Fat cattle and horses would
appear before me a moment, and then, with a wild look and high heads,
dash through the tall mustard out of sight.
Next day my trip was toward the western hills, and before I came to them
was confronted with an extensive stretch of chaparral brush, absolutely
impenetrable, which I must go around or stop my progress in this
direction.
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