Daria on the Trail:
Top of the Rockies.
DISCLAIMER: This crossover story is a Western based on an idea by Ultimate Paladin. A Song of Ice and Fire was written by George RR Martin.. Daria was created by Glen Eichler. I own neither property. A Song of Ice and Fire is the property of George RR Martin and Daria is owned by MTV Viacom. I seek no financial compensation for this story but I welcome reviews.
This story is based on my personal research on the real Oregon Trail, not on the video game of the same name.
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We departed late the next morning: we spent part of it having Katy Harris' funeral and burial service. As typical out here, there was no coffin or headstone: instead, Katy's friends washed her body, then wrapped her body in a white sheet before setting it in the ground. The actual combined burial and funeral service was led by a guy of course, a Presbyterian deacon who unbent enough to read from The Book of Common Prayer. The division of labor for burial In this day and time was divided between the sexes: washing the bodies of the newly-dead and then wrapping them for burial was women's work, while the actual grave-digging was the men's work. When they were done, they covered it with stones to keep wild animals from digging up her corpse and put up a wooden grave marker
Our journey resumed at its usual slow pace. We were definitely in the mountains now: not inching along on level ground with the mountains being nothing but remote blue or gray shapes on the horizon. It was beautiful, the prettiest scenery I'd seen since I joined the Trout Company back in Nebraska. It was beautiful here: tree-lined mountains, forests, fast-running creeks, a grassy way passing between tall timber. It was not the sort of scenery I wanted to associate with death and dying, but that was what we had. We continued rolling upward, our weakened oxen straining at the burden of our wagons and their cargo, we Emigrants walking beside them on foot.
We climbed over the first rise that day, a divide between the North and South Piney Creek. I wondered if it had a name: it probably did, something in one of the native people's language that I couldn't hope to pronounce even on a good day. I wondered if we ought to call it Harris Pass. Probably, but I doubted that the name would stick. We rolled down to South Piney Creek and then began climbing again, straining the oxen that pulled our wagons.
By dusk we reached a meadow and made camp. It was a lovely place, still green despite the grazing of other Emigrants' livestock, and surrounded by mountains. Some of the mountains still had patches of snow. It also had a stream and a bog with little green-covered islets that made gathering brush much easier than it had been earlier. Parts of it looked like it would be great habitat for beavers. Our camp site would have delighted photographers and landscape painters if any of them should come this way. It turned less delightful after sunset when the temperatures dropped and the mosquitos came out in force.
Still, I was able to leave with some good memories. One of them was unexpected: Mrs. Haley stopped by and gifted us with some berries. I hadn't seen berries since I'd caught a glimpse of some strawberries in a garden patch back at Fort Laramie. "I thought you'd like these," she said. I saw them and practically started drooling. It was a struggle to keep myself from grabbing them and wolfing them down on the stop.
"Thank you," said Susana.
"Thank you," I echoed. "I'd sooner have these than a dragon coin from Queen Cersei's hand," I said.
Mrs. Haley gave me a strange look.
I shrugged. "Well, it's true," I said. "We haven't been eating properly out here and berries make for better eating out here. You can't eat a gold piece."
Mrs. Haley gave me a strange look. "You know, dear, you have some strange notions," she said.
"I like money well enough," I replied. "But I'd like to be healthy enough to enjoy it. I'd like to keep us from getting Scurvy."
I won't say much more except that if the berries weren't as sweet as some of the ones I bought at stores and farmer's markets, they were far more appreciated.
Despite the mosquitos, both Captain Trout and Captain Johnson held a joint meeting of all the adults in our companies and declared a pause. Captain Trout told us that this was the best grazing that our animals had had since our company left Kansas and that our animals had best feed and recover their strength before we resumed our journeys. We had a hard road ahead. I thought of the California-bound Emigrants and shivered. Our journey wasn't likely to be much better: we had a long journey along the Snake River ahead of us as well as the Blue Mountains.
Our oxen were still grazing the next morning when I got up and started helping Susana Mudd with their daily routine. We gathered more wood for cooking, did laundry, then set to mending our clothing. We were all starting to look a bit ragged, one of the many small details ignored by Hollywood costume designers, and it showed. Susana set me to mending some of young Martin's trousers, tactfully concealing a grin as I slowly and carefully sewed up tears. My best sewing wasn't anywhere near her mediocre, but she kindly hinted that I needed more practice without being rude.
Except for the mosquitos, I'd say that our time in the meadow was idyllic. The scenery was lovely, we got to catch up with some of our chores, and we got to visit not only the other ladies of our company, but also the women in the Johnson Company and the Renton Company, a group that had set off from St. Joseph. The Renton was a mixed bag: a mixture of Americans from the Lake States, a couple of Southerners, two German families and a few more people from the Riverlands, including a couple of women working their way across the continent as servants. Kara and our Train's other Riverlander women fell on them with glad cries and happily exchanged news and gossip. Most of them had left the Riverlands months after the Trouts had.
Their delight in meeting folk from their old home was tempered by the news they brought with them. Their part of the Riverlands had been been hit by numerous bandit raids. At least the raiders claimed to be bandits: the women, at least, thought that the raiders had been sent by Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westlands. Kara's face went pale after she heard of one raid. I knew why: her oldest son and his wife lived near there. I wondered if his village had been hit and hoped that they were still alive.
I told Susana about the Riverlands gossip. She empathized: some of her forebears had died in Indian attacks generations back and their fates were still recounted in old family tales. We both made it a point to visit her wagon before we set to cooking dinner. She walked over and gave Kara a hug.
After our day of rest and another chilly night, we arose early and began the routine of breaking camp: folding the blankets, loading the wagons, cooking breakfast. A couple of women had walked away from camp and found more berries: ripe edible berries, and what's more they were willing to share. I took some and gratefully ate them, as did Susana. Martin might have balked but we both ganged up on him and insisted that he eat some: overland travel might be the adventure of a lifetime, but malnutrition was a constant companion.
After breakfast we went looking for Susana's oxen. We found them among a small herd of our livestock as well as those of the other companies camped here and it was some bother to sort out who owned which one. Learning to ID individual oxen was not a skill I had before this trip. We yoked them after we got back to our wagon, then ate a hasty breakfast.
"You know, this place is beautiful," said Susana said as we were dining.
"Isn't it just?" I said. "It's lovely." And it was. In another time and place it would be fun to camp here instead of just passing through.
Our journey resumed after we packed our cookware and dishes again. We had to cross three passes here: Wagner Pass, another rise lying between some creek and another creek leading to the Salt River, and a third pass leading down to the valley floor.. Kennard blew his horn and we began to move out.
It was slow going and the oxen showed signs of strain. I worried again about the weight of my pick and shovel and took the pick out of the wagon and hand-carried it over the summit. The view was lovely but we only paused for just long enough to rest our oxen and use the brakes as we set off downhill to the middle creek.
"Are there any more like this?" Susana said worriedly.
"You're not going to like this," I said.
"What?" said Susana.
"The guidebook said that we have to cross three more passes before we reach the valley floor."
"Three?" said Susana.
"Three," I replied grimly.
We found the middle creek but we didn't stay on it for very long: I'd say about a mile. Our Captains walked up to the summit to check the gradient and to see how far we'd have to go to the distance. After an hour or so, they came back down, then separated: Captain Trout to talk with us, Captain Johnson to talk to his people. He stopped and smiled at us when he reached our wagon.
"So Captain, what is the word?" I said in English. I could have said it in Andal, but Susana didn't speak it.
"We're going to double-team it," he said.
"So who goes first?" I said.
"I do," said Captain Trout.
It was a slow, laborious process, even more time-consuming than our trek over Rocky Ridge now far to the east. Captain Trout would select teams from different wagons and hitched them before the ox teams from different families. Then the doubled-teamed wagons would set off, one after the other. Captain Trout possessed a wonderful knack for choosing which yokes to task for pulling each wagon: most teams made the ascent twice, others only once, and none of them three times. At first, most of the ox teams ascending the hill came from our company, but as the day wore on, some of our teams helped pull Johnson wagons up to the summit before unhitched. I later asked Captain Trout how he'd learn to pair off which teams to what wagons and he told me that it was a skill he'd mastered during Robert's Rebellion in Westeros.
We didn't all make it over the hill that day. A handful of wagons, some from the Johnson Company, a couple from that other California company, were on the other side of the rise at twilight. The Captains made a decision: The women and children would walk down to where we had paused while men from all three companies would guard the wagons up and downhill. It was risky: I didn't think we'd get hit by bandits or hostile Indians, but I was coming to the reluctant conclusion that conditions here had significantly diverged from what I remembered from college classes and the public television channels.
Susana and I hosted a family from the other California company for dinner and for breakfast the next morning: the Billings. They were originally from western Pennsylvania. There were three of them: Robert, Melissa, and May, their daughter. It had been Robert's decision to set off for California; Melissa, like a good mid-19th century wife, had agreed to uproot her life and go with him. Like some of the other families I'd met, they'd also set out from St. Joseph. Unlike most of the company I'd met, they were town-folk and had a rough time adapting to life on the trail.
We shared some of our stories. I hinted that I had a sketchy background and that I did have some college. Robert and Melissa were neutral on the slavery question, but when it came to Westerosi, I learned that Robert had been influenced by the Know-Nothings. The Know-Nothings had been much like they were in the universe that I'd come from, except that they also had it in for Westerosi: Robert thought they wanted to take over the continent. I couldn't help but laugh when he said that. I told him that while I thought some of the nobles had big ideas, most of the commoners who came here sought their own land and to get away from their nobles and oppression.
"They'll want a king," said Robert.
"Bunkum," I replied. "Most of them are fleeing from the Lannisters and the Baratheon claimants. I think they've had their fill of kings and noblemen. They'll make fine republicans and if any trouble breaks out the guys will look forward to joining the militia and putting paid to the nobles who drove them out of their old lands. Rifles do a lot better than pointy sticks at putting down mounted knights."
We didn't argue very long: just long enough for us to disagree and for Robert to accept that I wasn't going to give in. We all turned in shortly afterwards. Despite our argument, we enjoyed a peaceful night. If there were any Indians nearby, they left us alone. So did the wolves.
The next morning Susana and I made breakfast for Martin, ourselves, and our guest. I was amused to learn that Martin had picked up some Andal on the way. He wasn't fluent yet, but he'd learned a lot more Andal in a few weeks' time than I'd learned over several years of hard study. When Robert remarked that it was a useless skill, I reminded him that there were more than a few Andals headed west, and that the US would probably have Andals as neighbors as long as the Arch remained open. And with that thought in mind, Robert went back uphill to retrieve his wagon and oxen.
"I take the long view," I said. "As I see it, as the years roll by, the original Westerosi immigrants will grow old and die. As their children and grandchildren grow up, they're going to find that they'll have less and less in common with any Westerosi who come through the Arch after their parents did. They'll become Americans."
"What about their religion?" said Melissa.
"The Westerosi say that their Book of the Seven was composed over 4000 years ago. Our Bible and Torah were put together much more recently. Don't you think there's a chance that even assuming God did appear on Planetos back then, something in the Book of the Seven might have gotten garbled or distorted since then? "
Melissa's eyes widened. That was something she hadn't thought of.
"And don't you guys have competent evangelists or are they all duffers?" I said.
"No, of course not," Melissa said hastily.
Melissa sat and tried to think of another tack. "And why might they want to convert?"
"There are going to be a lot more of us than there are of them and we'll have something they want," I said.
"What?" said Melissa.
"Bachelors and bride material," I said.
"And what about you?" she said.
"Me? I'm Jewish," I said. "We're a stiff-necked people. It says so in Scripture."
Author's Notes: Daria and her wagon train have descended from the ridge dividing Hobble Creek from the Smith Fork of the Salt River (9150 feet) to near the top of the Salt River Pass (7630 feet) near present-day Smoot, Wyoming. The landscape has broadened out here and there appear to be lovely views northward towards Wyoming's Star Valley. Daria's company is near the route of US Highway 89, which runs from Evanston, Wyoming north to the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. I believe that the trail ran on the west side of Star Valley, then turned northwest up Stump Creek.