Daria on the Trail:

A Death By The Sweetwater

DISCLAIMER: I did not create nor do I own either A Song of Ice and Fire or A Game of Thrones. George RR Martin is their creator and he owns them, not me. Nor do I own Daria Morgendorffer. She belongs to MTV Viacom.

This story is based on my research on the REAL Oregon Trail, not the computer game of the same name. The real Oregon Trail had less opportunities for hunting but offered better opportunities for actually arriving in the Willamette Valley.

This story is written for my amusement and for ego gratification. Still, if you are enjoying what you're reading, please write and post a review. My native language is English, but I can read French and Spanish

Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail

Daria:

The next day was far less eventful. No wrecks, no hostile Indians, no arrogant Westerosi noblemen. We arose early, I helped Kara and Jilla load the wagon, I set to cooking breakfast while Captain Trout and the other men yoked their ox teams, then we set out. After scraping off the dishes and rinsing them with a bucket of water, we loaded the wagon and then we set out.

We hadn't gone five miles when we again crossed the Sweetwater River. Shortly afterwards we arrived at Ice Slough, a landmark on the Trail that had gotten much play in our guidebooks. The Ice Springs were a layer of ice from previous winters buried under an insulating layer of peat. The ice remained frozen during the season of travel and presumably all the way to the next freeze. Mountain men, Emigrants and other travelers dug into the peat and dragged up large chunks of ice, providing cool water and a welcome relief to the long, hot pull travelers were making to and from South Pass. We paused, dug out some ice, and most of us drank. I was leery of the water quality and held off sipping while others drank. The Ice Springs seemed almost too good to be true: how long would such a blessing last? I couldn't help but think that a few more years of over-use would ruin it for subsequent travelers.

I finally gave in to temptation and drank: I sorely missed ice water. I lucked out in spite of my skepticism: there was still enough ice in the water keg that I was able to enjoy a cool drink before we began moving again. Sipping ice water made me nostalgic, I kept thinking about the kitchen back in Lawndale, taking ice from the refrigerator, pouring tap water from the sink, and either listening to Quinn chatter to her friends or Dad watch sports on the television.

Ice Slough proved to be quite the topic of conversation among most of our company.

"An Ice Spring!" exclaimed Mr. Wilson. "Ain't that something? I bet you don't have anything like that back in Westyros!"

"Not really," said Captain Trout. "At least not in the Riverlands. I expect that they had a lot of them in the North. They had long, cold winters north of the Neck and I don't doubt that they have some up there. Winters are cold and most years, springtime isn't much better. Some years it can snow all the way to Midsummer's Day."

Mr. Wilson thought about it. He might not have had much education, but he was a farmer and he was as aware of the seasons and midsummer as anyone else in the company.

"Snow in Midsummer!" he exclaimed. "Brrr! Must be cold up there!"

"It is," Captain Trout replied.

"How come they don't move south?" asked Mr. Wilson.

"They're cussed folk," Captain Trout said diplomatically "They aren't that fond of people from the other six kingdoms." Our company had one Northman: Joss. Joss was working for Parkhurst to pay for his journey west. I wondered what his story was. We never had more than a few words and he was unwilling to share it. As someone who also felt she had plenty to hide, I was going to respect his boundaries.

We ate our "Nooner," then began moving again.

We plodded westward for the rest of the day. Despite Wyoming having a reputation as a mountain state, our route was out in the wide open spaces. True, there were mountains and rock formations, but most of them were well off in the distance, set back a considerable ways from the Trail itself.

Near the end of the day we made camp about seven miles or so west of Ice Slough. Our guidebooks said that the trail would split shortly: one fork was the original route, the other would lead to the Seminoe Cutoff that detoured away from the worst features of the old South Pass route.

What can I say about our journey? Scenery-wise, despite my missing trees and wanting to be closer to real mountains, I found that I was enjoying the view of Wyoming's wide open spaces. I liked the way the sunlight played on the rocks and I got a chance to enjoy some wildlife. If the buffalo were gone from these parts, I could still sometimes see deer and what I guessed were antelope off in the distance: way off in the distance because they knew better than to get too close.

-(((O-O)))-

I assumed that the next day would be like the one before. We'd awaken early, load the wagons, cook breakfast, harness the oxen, and set out. During the day I'd be looking for animal droppings for fuel, trees being rather scarce out here. Pause for a noon meal, resume travel, make camp, unload the wagons, cook dinner, then try to get some sleep. Wash, rinse and repeat. I was not expecting our Company's first death.

We were plodding along, your narrator scanning the areas off to the sides for fuel, when I heard Mrs. Mudd make a loud scream. Captain Trout gave the signal and our train came to a complete stop. I dropped what I was doing and made my way to where Mrs. Mudd was keening.

"He fainted!" she cried. "He fainted!" Hell, I thought, What the hell happened? I'm no doctor. I was also acutely aware that I was the only one in our Company who had Twenty-first century first-aid training, but that didn't make me either an MD or a nurse. Despite my lack of training, I went over.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"He fainted!" Mrs. Mudd replied. "He was walking along just fine, then he said he felt dizzy, then he folded."

Fainting or something else. Heat-stroke maybe? I was no doctor, I was just what they had.

"Is he still awake?" I said.

"He was," Mrs. Mudd replied.

"Let's try to get him in the shade," I said. The sun was climbing and the wagons gave no real cover. "Hey, could somebody put up a cover so this man could have some shade?"

"Do what the woman says," said Captain Trout. That got a couple of guys reaching into their wagons and pulling out a tarp, rope, and tent-poles. They used them to make some shade.

I knelt beside Mr. Mudd to get a closer look.

"What, which?" said Mr. Mudd. I could see that he was disoriented and was having difficulty speaking. He also seemed to have trouble moving his left side. I was going to guess that it was heat-stroke although it could well be something much worse.

"And let's put something under his legs so we can get some blood to his head," I said. "Maybe that would help. Also, could somebody bring some wet rags? Maybe if he cools off, he'll feel better."

"And somebody go run up to Johnson's company! Get that man Struthers!" shouted Captain Trout. The Johnson Company had a genuine MD, howbeit a nineteenth-century doctor, one I wouldn't trust to treat a bruised elbow. Captain Trout said that the Seven Kingdoms had men called Maesters. Maesters were supposedly polymaths and held command of a variety of subjects. Not that I trusted them either: if I had my druthers, we'd call 911 and try and keep Mr. Mudd comfortable until a medevac helicopter thuttered in and whisked him away to a fully-staffed hospital in Laramie or Salt Lake City. I didn't have my druthers. This was 1860 and medicine was primitive.

Someone brought a water keg and rags. I poured some water on the rags and started dampening Mr. Mudd' face and forehead, trying to cool him down. Mr. Mudd stared at Mrs. Mudd, then grasped her hand. His lips moved, he was trying to say something. After what seemed like incredible effort, he took a deep breath, then said "Take…Love…Miss," then his eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious. Mrs. Mudd let out a loud, keening wail.

A man with a doctor's bag came running up, then dipped his head under the canvas. "I got here as fast as I could," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I think it's a stroke," I said. "Mrs. Mudd said that her husband was walking along, then said he felt dizzy, then collapsed. "When I came over, he was on the ground, he was disoriented, his left side seemed paralyzed, and he had difficulty speaking. He spoke a few words, then his eyes rolled back and he went unconscious."

"Why did you?" said Struthers.

I glared at him and pointed at Mr. Mudd. "Later," I growled. Dr. Struthers opened his bag and started bringing out medical instruments. The only ones I recognized was a stethoscope and a hand mirror. He first put his fingers on Mr. Mudd's wrist and checked his pulse. put his stethoscope to Mr. Mudd's chest and frowned. Mr. Mudd jerked, then made a noise that sounded something between a gasp and a gurgle, then fell back down. Dr. Struthers put his stethoscope to Mr. Mudd's chest, then looked worried. I picked up Dr. Struthers' small hand mirror and put it next to Mr. Mudd's nostrils. I took it back and looked at it. Let's make sure, I thought. I wiped it with my sleeve and looked again. There was no condensation on the mirror.

Shit, I thought.

Dr. Struthers glowered at me. I handed his hand-mirror back to him. He put it against Mr. Perkin's nostrils, then frowned.

"No pulse?" I said.

"No," said Dr. Struthers.

"No breathing either," I sighed.

"I know cardiopulmonary resuscitation," I said. "That would keep blood flowing until his heart starts again. Would that help?"

"No," he said. "He's gone."

"Mrs." He began.

"Mrs. Mudd," I cut in.

"Mrs. Mudd, I'm sorry," he said. "Your husband has passed."

Mrs. Mudd let out a keening wail, then started crying.

I remembered an episode from a TV show I saw when I was very young. A doctor was dying and cycling between Heaven, Hell and Purgatory. While he was in Heaven, he was approached by a pioneer girl who asked him if he could have saved her from Cholera. He never got a chance to answer, but I was in the same situation and I knew my answer: I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing. That left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Dr. Struthers turned his attention away from the woman and towards me.

"You, woman, are you a doctor?" he said.

"No, and I don't claim to be," I replied. "I know some first aid but I am not a physician."

"So why were you playing at being one?" he asked rudely.

"Doctor, let me point out the obvious," I said. "You are not going to be everywhere at every time. There is going to be a time lag of minutes, hours, and even days between the time people get injured or fall ill and you arrive. Somebody had damn well better do what they can to help the patient before you gallop in to save the day. I did what I could this time. It wasn't enough. Maybe I can do better next time."

We glared at each other. I refused to back down.

"I'm a medical doctor," he said.

"And I'm what our Company has for a first responder, Doc," I said. "I'm also a first responder who knows her limitations."

Dr. Struthers continued to glare at me, then stood up. "Women," he said, then walked off.

We buried Mr. Mudd along the trail a short time later, near a couple of graves that somebody had dug several years earlier. I realized that it was a terrible thing to be buried out in the open hundreds of miles away from family and friends. At least he'd have company, I thought. It was poor consolation for Mrs. Mudd, who continued crying as we washed Mr. Mudd's body, then wrapped it up for burial.

We buried him there, then we resumed our journey. We paused at the turnoff for the Seminoe Cutoff. Captain Trout and Captain Johnson using the pause to canvass our respective parties as to whether they wanted to stay on the old trail or take the Seminoe Cutoff. Captain Johnson had had a Company meeting a few days ago and pointed out to his people that while the Seminoe Cutoff might be easier, they'd still have to back-track if they wanted to take the Lander Road. He came back a few minutes later: his people decided to stay on the old trail. We resumed our journey. We stayed on the trail longer than we might have otherwise: winter was coming. We crossed the Sweetwater once, twice, three times. A north wind blew the trail dust to the side and away from my face and I was able to see a cluster of buildings in the distance. I thought I remembered reading that the site was called St. Mary's Station.

We had a big day tomorrow: we'd be crossing Rocky Ridge.

Notes:

Ice Slough was a real feature on the Oregon Trail. People would stop, dig down about eighteen inches into the peat, and bring up chunks of ice. The ice was pure enough to drink and provided welcome relief for countless travelers for about a decade and some. Unfortunately, the ice springs were eventually overexploited and by 1863, the water quality had gone so bad that people who tried to use the ice in the water were sickened by it.

I am not a physician, so I'm not sure that I'm describing stroke symptoms properly. My idea was that Mr. Mudd had what at first seemed to be a heat stroke, then a cerebral hemorrhage. Daria did what she could, but like I said, she's a layperson who knows some first aid, not a medical professional.

The quality of physicians in the mid-19th century US was not that high, particularly out on the Trail. Daria knows this and won't back down like she might to a physician from her own time.

Next: The Trout Company crosses Rocky Ridge