Daria on the Trail
To the Green River
DISCLAIMER: Another reminder that Daria on the Trail is a western, not a tale of dragons, swinging swords and magical creatures. I did not write A Song of Ice and Fire and I don't own it. I don't own Daria Morgendorffer and other Daria characters mentioned in this story: they belong to MTV Viacom. This story is based on my research on the REAL Oregon Trail, not on the computer game of the same name.
This story is written for my amusement and for ego gratification, not for profit. If you enjoy this story, say so. Post a review. Even a few short words saying that you're enjoying this story means a lot. English is my native language, but I also read Spanish and French.
Daria on the Trail* Daria on the Trail* Daria on the Trail
Ninth Crossing of the Sweetwater
July _, 1860
Daria:
Our "Nooner" by the Ninth Crossing of the Sweetwater lasted much longer than usual. I believe that the Captain was aware that this was likely to be our last chance to post letters to friends and family until we reached Oregon. By now I was quite aware that not only would we have to ascend two mountain passes in the Rockies, we'd also have to cross what I thought of as southern Idaho. I did a lot of scribbling myself: a long letter to Marcus and Bethany Ann, a shorter letter to Lieutenant Stokes, and a note for Earl which I was leaving behind for him to pick up and read before he and his buddies set off for California. I then helped Mr. Trout write a letter for the Colonel back at Fort Laramie. I then helped Mrs. Trout write a short note to her friend Mrs. Farnsworth in St. Louis. I had thought that I'd also have to write letters to Mr. Mudd's folks telling them about his death on the Trail, but I'd been relieved by some of the other Emigrant women. Most of us were done by early afternoon and we were able to set out.
The rest of that first afternoon on the Lander Road was much like a typical day on trail leading to South Pass, the exception being that we didn't have to cross anything like Rocky Ridge. The differences were minimal, at best: more sagebrush for the oxen, a small creek or two, and a mountain range that slowly began to inch closer and closer. My spirits lifted as I saw that the trail would either run to them or run by them: they reminded me of a couple of excursions I'd made to the uplands of Cibola. I thought of Mom and Dad and Quinn and Rikka and hoped that they were doing well wherever they were.
That first evening we again camped along the banks of the Sweetwater. We'd be leaving it soon: the Lander Road would cross the divide and we'd follow it to the Big Sandy River. I again bundled with Susana and little Martin, grateful for the warmth and the fact that both of them were too tired to kick me in my sleep.
The following day Captain Trout called a short meeting to announce that we were about to cross the Continental Divide. He'd talked with Captain Johnson and that we'd celebrate our crossing when we camped along the Big Sandy River. Several men said that we were still months away from Oregon and that crossing the Divide was no big deal. I spoke up and said that I thought that crossing the Divide was a big deal worthy noting, whether we threw a big celebration or simply drank a toast with whiskey, tea or a swig of water. Captain Trout thanked me for sharing and the meeting adjourned shortly afterwards.
The next morning we left the Sweetwater and continued west for some miles, the wagons and oxen of our combined trains kicking up dust and blowing it in our faces and hands. I remember that day more for an incident than for that day's travels. Some movement caught my eye, a bird of some sort. I didn't know what species. I lost sight of it, of course. But when I went looking for it again I saw some movement near the ground: cloth stuck to some sage brush. Some instinct told me that this could be something useful. I asked Susana's pardon and went scurrying over what it was and discovered that it was some woman's sunbonnet and had the look of something that had been in the sage brush for at least a day. I picked it up and looked it over. It was a nice sunbonnet. Back at Brown I might have done the right thing and turned it in to the lost and found. However I'd been doing without decent head-covering since before I'd left Fort Laramie and was tired of the never-ending sunburn I'd gotten on my face, ears and scalp. I hoped it didn't belong to anyone from our Company or Captain Johnson's.
"DIBS!" I yelled.
Susanna grinned at me when I came back.
"What was that about?" she said.
"Someone lost a sunbonnet," I said. "If I can't find the owner, I plan on keeping it."
Our combined company continued rolling and we put more miles behind us. Whatever happened, whether I made it to Oregon, died on the Trail or some miracle happened and I was rescued, this journey was proving to be a lesson in patience. That evening we reached the Big Sandy River. We were now on the far side of the Continental Divideāa bit less than half-way to the Willamette Valley, but an important landmark our journey. After I helped Susana unyoke her oxen and helped her unload her wagon, I made my way over to Captain Trout's wagon to see how they would celebrate. I discovered that plans for a big party had been thrown out the window: instead, our most company decided to go for more modest celebrations, mostly confined to family and close friends. Captain Trout opened a bottle of corn liquor that he'd gotten from someone and poured a dollop in each of our cups. I asked for only a little in mine: as a rule, I drank only a little, mixed with water: Dad's alcohol abuse had worried me since I was young and I did not want to become an alcoholic, especially out here.
"A toast!" Captain Trout said in Andal. "To those we have met, to those we travel with, to those we have lost along the way! We have crossed the spine of this great land and Gods willing, we will follow the western waters to the Willamette!"
"To our friends!" he said.
"To our friends!" we toasted. I lifted my cup and drank. Despite my diluting it, the bourbon hit me harder than it usually did and I didn't figure out until the following day that it was not only because I was unfamiliar with hard liquor, but also because we were somewhere over seven thousand feet in elevation.
"Another toast!" said Captain Trout. "To our families, to those who came with us and the ones who remained at home!" We all paused a moment, thinking of those here as well as the ones back home. I thought of Mom, Dad, Quinn and Rikka. We lifted our cups again and drank.
I expected us to drink it all down right then and there, but that wasn't the way they did it in the Riverlands, or at least not in the Trouts' household. We stood there silently thinking of family and friends, those here, those left behind, and I suppose those who'd passed on.
Then we drank.
I'd planned to keep my big mouth shut, but the booze loosened my tongue.
"Another toast!" I said. "To life! L'Chaim!"
Orrick, Kara and Kennard didn't dare try pronouncing the Hebrew. That didn't stop then from joining me.
"To Life!" they chorused.
Our little celebration ended shortly afterwards. I begged off a dinner invitation and returned to Susana Mudd's wagon shortly afterwards.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"Not yet," I said.
"I've made you some," she said.
"Thank you," I replied.
"You've been drinking," she said.
"Just a little," I said. "Today was worth celebrating. We did cross the Continental Divide."
"You planning on having any more?" she said.
"Not for a couple of weeks, maybe longer," I said. "Not until we get down from the mountains. Maybe just before Captain Johnson's people split off for California."
Susana looked at me skeptically, causing me to wonder what sort of family she came from. Did they have drinking problems? I decided that I wouldn't be surprised if they had.
The next day Susana and I packed up, found and yoked the oxen, then hit the trail. Our company was in the lead today, but we weren't the lead wagon and had to eat other people's dust. I grimaced. I didn't know much about Oregon either in the here-and-now or back in my time-line's twenty-first century, save that most of it was dry except for the Willamette Valley and the Pacific Coast. I'd be eating a lot of dust between here and the Cascades.
We traveled fourteen miles that day. I began to worry about water for the first time since we left the Platte and headed for the Sweetwater. I didn't think there were any more alkali springs where we were going, but I wasn't sure. We'd get to water tomorrow, I told myself. I wasn't sure how far we were from the Green River but I thought I remembered the guidebook saying that there was at least one creek between here and there. I made a note to myself to go looking for driftwood. With any sort of luck Susana and I wouldn't have to spend so much time scouring the landscape looking for animal dung.
I discovered that my worries about water were unnecessary. There were some creeks along the way: creeks we had to ford, but creeks that provided water for ourselves and for our critters. They were hassles to cross but I was learning to appreciate the wet stuff.
We didn't reach the Green River until about four days later. Let future historians remember: wagon travel is s-l-o-w. People sneering at passenger trains and airport delays should shut up and count their blessings! They have no idea as to how long it takes and how much hard work is involved just trying to get from here to there if you travel overland.
Orrick Trout:
The first several days on the Lander Road were much like the ones we'd had on the older portions of the Overland Trail. The difference was that the river no longer ran beside the trail: instead, we had to cross a lot of little streams flowing down from the mountain range north of the road. While the fords were not as deep as some of the ones I'd crossed back in the Riverlands or the Crownlands, the water flowing across them ran more swiftly than they had back in Westeros. We crossed these carefully: our wagon covers down, a team of oxen in front of our wagons, a yoke of oxen behind the wagons to keep them steady, and our women and younglings sitting in the wagons instead of wading across. By the Grace of the Gods and the Three-In-One God's Saint Christopher, our oxen and wagons forded these streams safely.
Despite the fact that the landscape was much like the lands we'd already crossed, I found that I liked this part better. The lands here were beautiful, dry like the Dornish marches, yet with handsome snow-capped mountains nearby. The road was new and showed it, and our first couple of days on it were easier on us than the trail leading to the Dragon's Spine. While we were still too far from the mountains to hunt for fuel, we had ample grass and brush for our oxen and water close at hand for our beasts and for ourselves.
Our first difficult crossing was at a ford going across what the Yankees called the New Fork. The water was deep enough that I not only used teams before and after each wagon, but also had an ox tied to a line upstream from our wagons to keep them steady and to make sure that the current didn't spill their contents into the water. Our going was slow and we were jeered at by members of other parties for our slow pace, but our wagons forded the New Fork successfully while two wagons from another company foundered, spilling their goods and their occupants into the fast-flowing water.
After crossing a couple more streams, we came to the Green River. There we rested to let the animals graze and allow me to study the river. The Green River had a reputation as a treacherous stream, a reputation that ran all the way back to Westport, a river that had drowned more than a few emigrants, mules, and oxen who failed to treat it with respect, and even some who did. Looking at the Green, I was reminded of the old stories that persisted even after the coming of the Faith of the Seven: of wrathful water-spirits angry about men's profanation of their streams taking their revenge by tipping over carts and wagons and drowning both men and beasts. It was said that sometimes when a company of travelers prepared to cross a particularly treacherous river, they would throw a serf or a child into the water before crossing to appease the water spirits. Some people still threw puppets into the current. I remembered sermons from more than one Septon declaring such stories as lies and blasphemy, yet the drownings still happened, particularly after heavy rains or during snow melts. I didn't believe the old stories and I wasn't about to throw a puppet into the Green before we crossed it.
Daria:
To my surprise, I got a visit from Mrs. Carp the day after we crossed the New Fork. We usually didn't have much to do with each other. We saw each other when we did laundry and when we went looking for fuel for our campfires but we didn't hang out with each other. She seemed a little agitated about something.
"Daria, could I ask you something?" she said in Andal.
"Sure," I replied.
"I'm looking for rags," she said.
"I should warn you, but when I joined the company I had little more than the clothes on my back," I said. "I didn't bring much with me."
"I know, but the widow you travel with," she began.
"Mrs. Mudd," I said.
"Mrs. Mudd might have some," she said. "I need them for some sewing."
She seemed a little nervous. I wondered what that was about.
"I'll ask," I said.
Together we went looking for Susana. I felt obliged to come along. Jessa's grasp of English was still a little shaky. We found her and it was an interesting conversation.
"Jessa wants what?" said Susana.
"She says she wants some rags," I said.
"What for?" said Susana.
"I don't know," I said. I turned to Jessa and she told me that she needed them to make a doll. At least that's what it sounded like. She seemed a little shifty-eyed when she said it was for a doll. Something was hinky. I didn't know much about Riverlands customs and what little I knew mostly came from the Trouts. There was more going on than I thought.
"How soon do you need it?" said Susana.
"Soon," Jessa said in English. "I pay."
"Is it for a birthday or something?" said Susana. I translated.
"Something like that," Jessa said with a quick nod and a nervous smile.
Something's definitely hinky, I thought.
"Not necessary," said Susana. She got into her wagon and pulled out a worn, stained blouse. "Is this good enough?"
"Good enough," Jessa said with a quick smile. "Thank you." She smiled and nodded at us and took off.
Susana glanced in the direction of the Carps' wagon and then at me. She still grieved for her husband, but her sorrow had lifted enough that she was again noticing things. "Do you know what that was really for?" she asked me. "I don't think that was just for a doll."
"I don't know," I replied. "I'm still finding out things about Riverlanders that I didn't know."
Author's Notes:
A reminder: I am one of those people who don't believe that Westerosi common is spoken or written like contemporary English. A Riverlander and your average American talking with each other would either need to know the other's language or would need a translator.
There really was a mail drop near the Ninth Crossing of the Sweetwater River back in 1860. The buildings were later burned during the Indian wars of the later 1860's.
The Riverlands custom about throwing a puppet into a river before crossing it to appease the water spirits is something I invented, not something from either A Song of Ice and Fire or from A Game of Thrones.
The Trout Company has good reason to be wary of the Green River. A lot of pioneers drowned trying to cross it.
