Daria on the Trail
From Fort Casper to the Sweetwater
DISCLAIMER:
I neither wrote nor own A Song of Ice and Fire. I did not create, nor do I own Daria Morgendorffer. They belong to their respective owners.
If you are reading this story and are enjoying it, please write and post a review. My native language is English, but I can also read Spanish and French.
This story is based on an idea by HolyPaladin2
Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail
Orrick Trout POV:
I woke up the next morning with a feeling of apprehension. Today we'd be leaving the last outpost on the Platte River and setting for the Sweetwater River. I'd been warned that this would be one of the more difficult parts of our journey. Daria had helped with our guidebooks and warned me that the guidebooks said that our animals faced the risk of nearly two days without good water. She'd also suggested that I check anything the guidebooks said against the counsel of the men at the Fort and local freighters and stable hands. I'd done so, and asked stable hands, soldiers, and freighters about the water between this place and the Sweetwater. The girl's information was good: I was told that while there were several springs and pools between the Platte and the Sweetwater, most of them had bad water. The only spring that had good water was a place called Willow Springs, part-way between where we'd leave the Platte and reach the banks of the Sweetwater.
I'd decided to go by way of Bessemer Bend; I wanted to see to it that our animals were watered for the journey ahead. We drove a couple of miles west of the station and came to a place that had clearly once been used as a ferry. While the ferries had long since been broken up for firewood, there were still ample signs that the trail had once been heavily used by earlier Emigrants. The track by the Bend was still used, but I could tell that it was far less so than the road we'd taken to the station. We paused, unyoked our oxen, and let them graze and drink water.
One of the Yankees, Harry Bass, walked up to me while my oxen were drinking.
"We goin' to camp here, Captain?" he asked.
"No," I said. "We're going to Willow Springs like I said at the meeting last night," I said. "There's good water there and bad water in-between. We're going to water our animals here, then set out."
"Was that something Fancy said?" said Bass.
"That was something the soldiers and freighters at the Station said," I replied. "Books can only tell you so much. They know how things are here."
Bass nodded and said nothing. Whatever he might think of Daria, he respected the way I made decisions. So did the other people in my company. Our people began to unyoke our animals and let them drink. Only when we were certain that they'd had enough water did we set out for Willow Springs.
Daria:
I woke up feeling a weight in my stomach. Today we were leaving Fort Casper and striking out for South Pass and the road beyond to Oregon. Despite the crude one-story log buildings that constituted what the Army in the here-and-now called the Platte River Station, as far as I was concerned, this here was the very edge of the frontier. There was nothing between this place and the Dalles except wilderness, scattered camps, and the Indians. I wondered if I'd live through this and felt a shiver of fear go through me.
I rolled up my blanket and set to it. I helped Kara and Jilla with the packing and then helped make breakfast.
"Good morning, Daria," Kara said when we sat down to eat. "Are you feeling better?" I'd broke down the night we arrived at Fort Caspar when I'd turned on my cell phone and called home. I'd reached Aunt Amy and told her about my circumstances, I tried to talk to Mom, but my cell phone battery died before I could say more than a couple of sentences.
"Somewhat," I said. "I know I'll be grieving a while."
"Things like this take time," said Kara. "I grieved for many months after losing my mother and after I lost my father."
"Thank you," I said. We hugged.
Captain Trout walked over to where we were eating and said "Daria, I have some more work for you."
This sounded ominous. I didn't know whether asking what sort of work would have done any good. It probably wouldn't. Captain Trout made me help yoke the oxen. I suppose I needed the practice but I didn't like it. The yokes were still heavy, I was still awkward, but somehow I managed. I'd never make it as a pioneer woman, but I told myself that I was learning how to fake it.
Our first couple of miles were along the old track leading from the fort to the ferry. It was little used since the two bridges had been built, but there was once tremendous traffic during the Gold Rush and several years afterwards. We paused and let the animals drink their fill. I helped unyoke the oxen so they could drink. It would be the last good water we'd see for some time.
We resumed our journey after we yoked our animals again. The trek to Willow Springs was slow and hot. As usual, much of my view was what I could see from the low spots used by our Company and the other wagons out there, aggravated by the dust that the wagon trains in front of us were kicking up. The landscape was dry and barren and while there was some grass near the trail, there wasn't much of it. Fifteen years plus of wagon traffic had caused serious overgrazing. I hoped that the oxen could handle the strain: I hadn't known a blamed thing about farm animals before I started and hoped they wouldn't collapse or die on us.
It seemed hotter than it was in Nebraska. There was a reason for that: I'd left my 21st century clothing back at Fort Laramie and I was now wearing a woolen pioneer woman's dress. The fabric was heavier and thicker than anything I'd have worn back east and I sweated just as much as I would have outdoors on a hot day in Highland.
I had a nasty scare along the way: I saw dead oxen and mules lying by the side of the road. I wondered what killed them: my primary suspect was "The Bloat," the deadly aftermath of farm animals drinking the alkali-laden waters between the Platte River Station and the Sweetwater River. Of course it could also be something else: some bacterial or viral disease that killed farm animals. I looked at the dead animals and abandoned farm wagons and shuddered. There but for the Grace of God go we. I was relieved when we arrived at Willow Springs late in the afternoon and made camp.
I got a good look at Willow Springs that evening. As a contributing member of the Trout Party, I helped draw water from the Springs and got a close-up view. I was not impressed. Willow Springs may have been a pretty place when the fur trappers and the Indians had it to themselves, but heavy use by countless westbound wagon trains turned what might once have been a pleasant stopover into an ugly, dirty place with a watering hole I didn't like or trust one damn bit. We were also short on firewood. I drew water, brought it back to the wagon and hoped to God that neither I nor anyone else in our party caught something nasty.
Orrick Trout POV:
We arose early the next morning. We had a long trek ahead of us. I wanted to go at least as far as Horse Creek although I really hoped that we could go all the way to the banks of the Sweetwater. I took special care to see to it that our beasts were watered before we departed: seeing the dead animals dead from bad water had been a sobering experience and I wanted none of that for my Company. After the animals had been watered and our wagons repacked, we yoked our oxen and set off.
We followed behind the Johnson Party. Captain Johnson was no fool, and despite the fact that he lacked my experience, he'd also learned about the bad water at Alkali Slough and detoured around it. I might not have enjoyed breathing Johnson's dust, but none of our ox teams tried to bolt for the Slough.
Several hours later, we reached Horse Creek. The water was mineral-laden, but drinkable. Both Johnson and I decided that we'd make camp. Tomorrow we'd reach the banks of the Sweetwater, which we'd follow until we turned away to take the Lander Road.
The following morning, we awoke early, I walked up and down the line of our wagons, and was relieved to see that they still held up. We'd passed a couple of wrecked wagons the day before, reminders that this Overland Trail was anything but safe,
We set out for a day of hard travel. We drove for several hours and paused for mid-afternoon meal. Our oxen weren't happy. Their unhappiness was understandable. Neither I nor my family were happy. But the beasts were biddable enough to move and we went on. After more hours of crossing this barren land of sagebrush and yellowed clumps of grass, we encountered a herald: an east-bound trader with his pack-mules. I waved at him to stop and he paused.
"How far to the Sweetwater?" I asked him.
"Just a few more miles," he said.
I thanked him and our Company resumed moving. Two hours and a bit later, we reached the banks of the Sweetwater River.
Author's notes: The trail from Fort Casper/Platte River Station was one of the more understated but very real hazards of the Emigrant Trails leading from the banks of the Missouri River to Oregon, California, and the Salt Lake Valley. The alkaline waters of many of the springs in the area could and did kill numerous horses and draft animals that belonged to Emigrants and other unwary travelers.
