History

I have never particularly enjoyed American history, perhaps because my own schooling in it was a dry stone that skipped through time from war to war. I never got my feet wet; I never submerged myself in a way that made history come alive. But driving across the western states, I fell through and submerged. Artifacts on the land brought parts of the story to life and sparked my curiosity.

In Nevada, driving east on Rte 50, I crossed and re-crossed the trail of the Pony Express. A single track, eroded or pounded into a furrow about eighteen inches deep wended across the desert. It was not hard to conjure a galloping horse and weary but determined rider following the track. The pony express operated only eighteen months from April 3, 1860, to late October 1861. It stretched nearly 2,000 miles from St. Joseph, Missouri, to Sacramento, California, a route that relays of riders completed in ten to sixteen days.

Historical markers offered some of the few pull offs on secondary highways, and as such, made good spots to stop and enjoy a brief meal. In Wyoming, driving south on 120 towards the Medicine Bow, I pulled off. The stone marker had been pushed from its foundation, but the message was still clear, and drew my eye to the two-wheel track that stretched off across the rangeland. The track began where the road construction crews left it unaltered, beyond the range fence. Here was the overland route, the Oregon Trail. Was it the passing of so many wagons that rendered the route visible 140 years later? Eight miles west, I learned, the trail crossed the North Platte River. I wondered about the crossing. Likely it was muddy and wet in the right season, churned from wooden wheels, feet and hooves. The festival of abundant water would have balanced the challenge of the crossing. Would pioneers camp along the banks to wash clothes, drink deep and fill water skins and other containers? How much water did they need to carry to cross the dry plains? I learned later that in many places the route followed waterways for exactly this reason, and in fact, water borne diseases were a major cause of death along the route. So much for my celebration of abundant water!

In Nebraska, I encountered the Great Cattle drive over breakfast. Cowboys and Ranchers, I learned from the marker, brought herds from Texas to Montana to replenish the dwindling buffalo. The cattle did quite well – they were still there grazing just beyond the marker. The boundary of the marker held a score or more of brands chiseled into the rock from the nearly six million head of cattle urged along this route.

Three miles east of Chadron, Nebraska, I stopped at the Museum of Fur Trade and was captivated by artifacts from a global obsession with fur: playing cards, hand drawn and unwaxed; a birch bark canoe, large enough to carry four men and their cargo; medicine bottles and sun glasses; bales of buffalo robes. But it was outside that fully piqued my imagination. Dug into a hillside was the sod-roofed housing and trading post of the couple that worked this land. Shelves held items for sale, their prices marked in buffalo robes. The couple’s small living quarters contained a bed, table and hearth, and now, a sign that read, “This is rattlesnake country. Stay Alert.”

Finally I returned to my own overland trail, continuing east against the traffic of time.