Daria On The Trail Independence Rock One

Daria On The Trail

DISCLAIMER: A Song of Ice and Fire and A Game of Thrones are the creations of George RR Martin and are his property and HBO's. Earl was created by Mike Judge. I don't own them. Nor did I create or own Daria Morgendorffer. She belongs to MTV Viacom, not me.

This story is also based on my research on the REAL Oregon Trail, not the computer game of the same name. I wrote it for fun and ego gratification, not for financial rewards. If you are enjoying what you're reading, PLEASE write and post a review.

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Daria:

I woke up that morning feeling tired but relieved. Our Company had made it to the Sweetwater. We'd avoided the alkali springs between Bessemer Bend and the Sweetwater and our animals are still alive. We wouldn't be abandoning our wagons and taking what little we could carry on our backs back to Fort Caspar in hope of refuge. We still had a shot at getting to Oregon. We'd be able to push on.

I smiled. Despite the fact that pioneer women were too busy to play tourist, I knew that there were some memorable landmarks along the trail. The guidebooks said that we were probably within shouting distance of Independence Rock, one of the major landmarks of the Overland Trails. It wasn't quite the halfway-point on the Trails: that wouldn't come for our Company until we were somewhere on the Lander Road, but many Emigrants acted as if it was. They'd pause, carve their names in the rock, and celebrate. Then they'd either yoke their oxen or harness their mules and push on.

I hoped we'd stay there a bit. I wanted to see it and perhaps climb it. I'd made a bucket list several years ago about places I'd want to see in the American West and Independence Rock was on it, along with the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone. I wasn't in any position to head for the Grand Canyon and getting to the Yellowstone was too dangerous for a tenderfoot like a certain Daria Morgendorffer to try on her own, so Independence Rock moved up the cue of possible.

Most companies reached Independence Rock on the 4th of July. We wouldn't. Not today. The Company started later than other companies, then had delays at Windlass Hill and again at Fort Laramie, so we already missed it. We'd briefly celebrated Independence Day just short of Fort Caspar. We were now much closer to Bastille Day.

Orrick Trout POV:

I woke up that morning with a feeling of accomplishment. Our Company had made it to the Sweetwater. We'd avoided the alkali pools between Bessemer Bend and the Sweetwater and our animals are still alive. Our company might still come to grief when we faced the half-known and unknown obstacles lying ahead of us, but we wouldn't be mourning our lost dreams and limping back to the Platte River in defeat.

I hadn't given much thought to Independence Rock. I had heard of it, I'd thought that it was but one of many of the wonders of stone shaped by the Gods here, but it didn't mean that much to me. The Americans set some store by it, but our people did not. Had I been leading a wagon train composed entirely of Westerosi, I might have chosen to pass it by.

But I wasn't leading a company of Westerosi. I was leading a company mostly composed of Yankees. To them, the Rock was something special. If today wasn't the anniversary of the Yankees' separation from the kingdom of Great Britain, the Rock still meant something for them. I'd be a fool to ignore their feelings, so I decided that we'd stop and camp for a couple of nights, then hopefully move on.

Daria POV

We packed up, loaded the wagons, yoked the oxen, and started rolling again. Our route wasn't obstacle-free: we had to cross the Sweetwater River to stay on our intended path. I wondered if this was the first crossing of the Sweetwater River.

When we cleared the ford, I realized that we'd been lucky. We still had our oxen, Georg Stauffer still had his dairy cows, Oliver Parkhurst still had the pony he'd bought from the Indians, and Bob the buffalo calf was still attached to one of the Stauffers' cows. Georg's cow's new calf attracted notice back at Fort Casper. I'd seen Captain Trout and Mr. Stauffer talking about him and suspected that they had something in mind for him later on.

Several hours later we arrived at Independence Rock. Independence Rock is a remarkable landmark, both in the here-and-now and in the world I'd parted from. I don't know exactly how it was formed, but to me it looked like a giant sea turtle sprawled out on the Sweetwater river plain. A giant pink granite sea turtle sprawled out next to the Sweetwater river plain. Several companies were already camped there and as we drew closer, I could not only see people walking around covered wagons but walking on the rock itself. I realized that I'd come upon something unique not only in place, but in time. I stopped to gaze at it: a great pink granite dome surrounded by a shifting mass of moving and stationary covered wagons, lowing animals, and clusters of pioneers moving around below and on it. I realized that I'd arrived at an important moment in history: even if I returned to my proper place and time, then drove out here for a visit, I realized that I'd never see anything like this ever again.

We found a place to camp and circled our wagons. Our company was in a pretty good mood. We'd not only crossed the Plains, but we'd come to the Sweetwater and were about to begin our assault on the Rocky Mountains. What's more, they—we—remained in a good mood while we were going through the routines of making camp. And as I listened to the low hubbub from the other companies, I realized that they were in a good mood, too.

I glanced at my digital watch. It was around One O'clock, at least if my guess was correct. Today wasn't the Fourth of July, it was the Eleventh. Some of the other pioneers were singing, a couple had found liquor somewhere and were making patriotic toasts to the health of the USA, a republic that was about to face one of its greatest challenges in a year or two. Here's to the Fourth, I thought. But for me, the Eleventh was close to Bastille Day, another holiday I increasingly respected, even if I had little respect or use for the Second Empire and Napoleon III. There was a song that went with it. If I couldn't start singing for the French, I could sing it at someone. I thought of Cersei Lannister Baratheon, the boy-king Joffrey, and Tywin Lannister and started whistling La Marseillaise.

"What are you whistling?" said Kara.

"I'm whistling the Marsaillaise," I said.

"I never heard of it," said Kara.

"No reason you should," I said. "It was the national anthem of the French Republic."

"The French had a republic?" said Kara.

"They've had two so far," I said, gambling that French history on this world didn't diverge too much from that of my home universe. "The First Republic was established in 1792 and lasted twelve years and the Second Republic lasted for four."

"Twelve and four?" said Kara.

"The French kept changing their minds," I said.

Kara started laughing. "But Daria, we've had kings for thousands of years," she said.

"And you all have had rebellions all during that time," I replied. "The Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions. I can't believe that the Seven Kingdoms were all that orderly and peaceful."

"A point," said Kara.

"So how many more republics did these French have where you came from?" she asked.

"Three more," I said with a frown.

"Three more?" Kara said incredulously.

"Well, they did get conquered by the Germans in 1940 and then there was the Algeria crisis in the 1950's," I confessed reluctantly.

Kara started laughing again. "You are one of the most cynical women I've ever met and yet you still believe in republics."

"I still do," I said. "I believe that people can govern themselves without kings or great lords."

"Well good luck with that," said Kara.

I thought of the upcoming Civil War, or what some older Texans I'd heard call The War Between the States. Yeah, Good Luck, I thought.

-(((O-O)))-

Kara, Jilla, and I stayed busy for much of the morning. After breakfast we hand-washed some clothing and hung it out to dry on an improvised clothes line. That didn't stop me from glancing at Independence Rock.

Kara noticed. "You want to climb that rock, don't you?" she said.

"I confess that it's on the list of things I want to do before I die," I said.

"Really?" she said. "For how long?"

"Believe it or not, but I've wanted to see or climb Independence Rock for years before I came here," I said, "here" meaning the Oregon Trail in 1860. I did want to climb Independence Rock, although I was looking for a good time to broach the subject.

Around mid-day we fed Jilla and Minti and the guys. The meal was anything but memorable: yet more bacon and biscuits. I wondered if there were any trout in the Sweetwater. I'd scrounged and packed some fishing line and metal fish hooks back at Fort Laramie. I probably wouldn't have time to do any fishing myself, but Kennard had heard stories from other people about some of the other rivers we'd be crossing and was looking forward to trying his luck along some of the rivers and streams we'd be crossing. I'd thought about doing some myself back at Fort Laramie but since realized that I'd probably be too busy.

After lunch, I helped Kara and Jilla clean the dishes. Women's work. Meh.

I confess I couldn't keep my concentration on washing up. I kept glancing over at that certain landmark that I wanted to climb.

After I was done, I caught Captain Trout and Kara when they were together and said "Kara, Cap'n, I'm wondering if I could have some time off."

"You want to climb that rock, don't you?" said Kara.

"Yes," I said.

She glanced at her husband. He nodded. "Well, then, go ahead," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

"I want to go!" shouted Minti. I stopped and looked at the older Trouts: that was their call.

"Only if you stay close to Daria and do what she tells you," Mr. Trout said sternly.

"I'll do my best to bring her back alive," I said.

Minti made a grin stretching ear to ear. "Remember, you're sensible and not like Othar," I said. I wondered how many times Othar had climbed the Rock today. My bet was on at least three times.

Together, we walked to the edge of our Company's campground, taking pains to carefully step over the wagon tongues so we wouldn't trip over, and made our way to Independence Rock. I paused and studied it. I could see people clambering all over the rock, so I knew that climbing it was possible. I would have to be careful about what route we'd have to take to climb it.

I had climbed a dome like this one before. There'd been one like that in Cibola when I was a kid; the locals called it the Way Marker. We'd gone there on a field trip and I'd joined the troop of Highland eighth-graders and climbed to the top. This one was different: it was about the same height as the Way Marker but the incline was a lot steeper. I'd have to be careful. I walked around the base, nodding hello to some of the other Emigrants looking at the Rock, reading some of the inscriptions they and others had carved into the pink granite, then saw a party of Pioneer rock-climbers descending about sixty yards away.

There, I decided. That was where I'd go up.

Together, Minti and I walked over to where the other Emigrants were coming down. We passed several small children that belonged to one of the other companies. I wondered who was letting the little monsters run loose. This was not a place I'd let any young kid run around by himself. The pioneers finished getting down and Minti and I walked over to where they'd reached flat territory. We then stopped and looked up the Rock. We can climb this, right, Morgendorffer, I silently said to myself.

"Let me look at your shoes," I said. I looked at Minti's shoes. Kara told me that Minti had already gone through a couple of pairs since they'd left Westport several months ago and these were showing some signs of wear. For that matter, I suspected my own boots had lasted well past where the shoe designers thought where I ought to replace them. Mine were still holding up, but I suspected that they'd start falling apart in a few weeks.

"Let's check our shoe-laces," I said. I said it for me as well as for her. I knelt and tightened my boot-laces. I checked Minti's shoes. The ascent was a steep grade and I did not want to fall down. "All right, let's go," I said. Together we began climbing the rock.

It was a slow, plodding climb. It was as bad or worse than any staircase I'd ever climbed. Minti was panting on the way up and small wonder: by my guess we were about a mile above sea level. We did pass Emigrants coming down, people carving their names into the stone or having other people carve their names for them, and people complimenting me for my beautiful daughter. I'd learned better than to contradict them, so I smiled and thanked them and walked on.

Did I have the strength to get to the top, I asked myself. I turned around and looked back. Yes I did.

"I'm tired," said Minti.

"Just a bit further," I said. "It won't be too long now and this is something you'll remember for the rest of your life." We paused and took a few breaths.

"OK, let's go," I said. Okay was not a word in Andal but by now we all were using it even when we spoke Andal.

More climbing, more panting, more concern that I'd gone out of my mind, and then I realized that we'd reached the top.

"We did it!" I said, smiling at Minti.

"We did it!" cried Minti . "Hooray!"

"Now let's go see what there is to see," I said.

There was quite a bit. Not only were there Emigrants walking all over the Rock, but also several Mormons carving names into stone—for a price, of course. I thought I'd remembered reading somewhere that after the paying customers were out of sight, they'd scrape off what they'd carved and carved somebody else's name there. I decided that if I gave in and did some graffiti, I'd do it somewhere else.

Most of the Emigrants were clearly Americans. They were easy to spot: not only did they dress in typical emigrant wear but they spoke American-accented English. Most of them seemed to be from what I thought of as the Midwest—Great Lakes states like Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Michigan, and also what had only recently been frontier states like Missouri and Iowa. There were also a couple of people from further east. Not so many Southerners, I noticed. There were also some Europeans. Most of them were hard to physically tell apart from Americans: the only way I could tell with some of them were their languages. I heard French, German, and what I suspected were Scandinavian languages.

There were also a couple of Westerosi. I was beginning to recognize some of the different accents and idioms. I didn't recognize their accents and had no idea where they were from. I had no idea what prompted them to come all the way out here when there was cheaper land that was easier to get to from the Arch. Gold seekers, maybe? Or maybe, like Captain Trout, they wanted to be a long way off when the quarreling over succession to the Iron throne and the move to secession kicked in the US. As grueling as this trip was turning out to be, I was beginning to believe that distance greatly aided safety.

I hadn't had my fill of looking at the view from the top of Independence Rock, but Minti looked a little bored. I was not ready to come down. So I told her that we ought to look what we could see from the top of the Rock.

It was quite a view. No less than five wagon trains had made camp on the plain below or near Independence Rock. Some of them used oxen like we did, a couple of them used oxen, one used a mixture of both, and there was a company of Mormons using hand carts, God have mercy on them. The campsites were semi-detached hives of activity, with Pioneers ranging to the Sweetwater to gather water or traveling to visit other wagon trains. I asked Minti to count the number of wagon trains in English, then count the number of wagons. We counted about ninety of them. Many of the wagons had painted slogans or designs on their canvas tops, but almost all of them were still in their factory paint jobs. I'd learned to tell the difference between a Studebaker and Schuttlers , howbeit mainly by paint scheme. Minti recognized two more makes.

We stared at the campsites for a little longer, then Minti said that she was getting tired. I told her that I didn't blame her.

"We can go back down in a couple of minutes," I said, looking at my watch. "But you know something?"

"What?" said Minti.

"What we're seeing here is something only some people will ever see ever," I said. "When you're a grandmother and there's a railway to Oregon, you can tell them that you traveled west in a wagon train and climbed to the top of Independence Rock."

We got up and walked to the path we'd taken to climb. My boots were still tight enough to handle the path down.

Minti and I were about to start down when I heard a voice behind me speak in a familiar accent say "Daria, is that you?" I turned around and my jaw dropped in astonishment when I recognized who it was.

"Earl?" I said. "What the Hell are you doing here?"

Author's note: Like I said earlier, this story is partially based on personal research. I actually climbed Independence Rock last year.