Women of the West

Lovely Crowd at Annie’s

Janet Fisher

A lovely crowd turned out for my book reading and signing at Annie Bloom’s Books in Portland. It was such a cold, rainy evening. Icy rain hammered me as I drove into the city. I wondered if anyone would come out on such a night. But Portlanders don’t let anything like a little rain stop them. The people came.

Annie's 3.15.16Here is Annie’s as I arrived early on that wet evening. But a warm welcome awaited inside.

Molly Bloom, the silky black cat who rules the store, soon made her presence known, and I was determined to get her picture this time. I never got my own picture of her last time I had an event there with my first book, A Place of Her Own. So I must confess the rest of my pictures of the event are of Molly. None of the crowd. None of me speaking. Just Molly.

Annie's.Molly hidingShe seemed a little shy at first. “I’m not quite ready to go out there yet.” I knew the feeling. Here she has tucked herself under the table where I sat to do my reading, a little different from other venues where I usually stand. But it was pleasant, conversational.

I do want to thank my cousin-in-law Judy Fisher, who helped with serving wine after my presentation. She and my cousin Jack came over from Lake Oswego, and it was great to see them. And a special thanks to Stephanie, the human at Annie’s who handled the event and introduced me.

I had some surprises. A friend who had known my father came. She had worked with him when he served on the State Board of Education years ago, and even had dinner once at my parents’ house at the farm. Also in attendance was someone who had worked on the archeological digs at Champoeg, a significant locale in the story of The Shifting Winds.

Annie's.Molly checkingMolly kept busy before we started. “I just need to check something over here in the stacks.”

As I began to do my reading Molly started working the crowd in earnest. She traipsed around the chairs. She paused for gentle strokes on her silky fur. She leaped into laps. My camera was on the corner of my table. I considered stopping midsentence to get a better picture, but decided that would break the flow, and it was an intense scene. I could have asked someone beforehand to do pictures, but didn’t. Even with Molly’s antics the reading was well received.

And we had a great Q & A. Many of the people knew the history that surrounds my story, so we had a vibrant interaction. Quite a few were interested in A Place of Her Own too. All in all, a delightful event. And afterward Molly was all worn out.

Annie's.Molly sleepingSigh. “It’s a big job running an event like this. But I am content. It went well.”

My thanks to everyone at Annie’s. This was my go-to bookstore when I lived in Portland, just up the street, and I always love going back there. It’s such a pleasure to be able to share my own work in this warm and friendly place. Like Molly, I was content.

NEXT UP: News on an exciting upcoming event.

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COUNTDOWN – 3 DAYS TO LAUNCH

Janet Fisher2 Comments

Fort Vancouver

In today’s post counting down to the book launch of The Shifting Winds, we’ll visit the Hudson’s Bay Company’s Fort Vancouver, a thriving center of British civilization in the wilderness of the Oregon Country in the nineteenth century. When the story begins, this fort has been the center of the fur trade in the Pacific Northwest for seventeen years, having been established in 1825. Today, the city of Vancouver, Washington, has grown up around the site, and with archeological investigation and in-depth study of early drawings and descriptions, an elaborate reconstruction project has brought back the palisade walls and many of the buildings, offering a glimpse into the fort’s glory days. It’s now a National Historic Site maintained by the National Park Service.

(Troy Wayrynen/picturesbytroy)

National Park Service photo by Troy Wayrynen

The above photo provides an artistic portrayal of a finely crafted lantern with the fort bastion behind. This fort was no rustic outpost. The commander’s residence, an elegant two-story house which he shared with his second in command, looked like a mansion to protagonist Jennie Haviland. The house included a public sitting room and formal dining hall for gentlemen, where substantial meals were served, sometimes with wine, but no “spiritous liquors.” Within the palisade walls the company was a self-sufficient establishment with workshops for carpenters, blacksmiths, coopers and others, as well as a school house, a chapel, a brick and stone powder house, and more. Outside, farming activities required more employees than the fur enterprise.

Nancy Funk, wearing period clothing, takes care of a garden at the Fort Vancouver National Historic Site in Vancouver, Washington. (Troy Wayrynen/picturesbytroy)

National Park Service photo by Troy Wayrynen

In the above photo taken at the beautifully reconstructed site, you can see some of the gardens typical of the fort’s past, and behind the gardens, the palisade walls with bastion at the corner. The large hip-roofed building on the far left with the chimney is the Big House where Dr. John McLoughlin lived as Chief Factor of the fort.

When the Company sent Dr. McLoughlin out to the Oregon Country, he selected this site for the Company’s western headquarters because he found a broad fertile plain there and he intended to grow things while conducting the fur trade. Grain, fruits, and vegetables flourished on this land, as well as livestock. He also wanted a site on the north side of the Columbia River because the British had recently made an offer to the United States to resolve a contentious boundary dispute, agreeing to set the boundary between the two nations along the Columbia. That would have essentially given today’s Washington State to the British. I guess we all know that offer was not accepted.

The Company initially built the fort a short distance inland from the final location, but after four years they moved it closer to the river and gradually developed the remarkable establishment it became.

village

National Park Service photo

The Company employed many people, and while some lived inside the fort walls, many more lived in a village just outside. Some of the reconstructed buildings of the village are shown in the above photo.

When Jennie visits the fort in our story, she’s curious about the houses outside the walls and asks her escort Alan Radford about them. He tells her they’re the workmen’s cabins, and she asks, “‘Do you live in one of these cabins?”

“Oh no. I live inside the fort. The gentlemen live inside.’

“‘Oh.’ She puzzled over that. ‘How do you decide?’

“‘Decide?’

“‘Yes. How do you decide who’s a gentleman?’

“‘Well, the officers and clerks are gentlemen, and the common workers are not. It’s simple enough.’”

Jennie finds that surprising but focuses on the fort as the wagon carries them inside. She’s amazed. “‘It’s like a small city right here inside the walls.’

“Lights glittered around her now, twinkling from the many windows of the fort buildings—glass windows, real glass windows. And the buildings! There were real frame buildings. Not simple little crude log cabins like those at Willamette Falls. . . . The frame house directly in front of her . . . had proper white weatherboarded walls, a proper shingled hip roof, shutters beside the tall glass windows, and a wide veranda that crossed the entire front, with a gracefully curved staircase forming a half circle from the veranda to the ground.”

Jennie has been invited to stay in that house, the Big House, as the guest of Dr. and Mrs. McLoughlin, but discussion ensues about where American mountain man Jake Johnston will stay. He has traveled with their party from Willamette Falls for his own reasons. With sudden decisiveness, Dr. McLoughlin says Jake will stay in the Bachelor’s Quarters next to the Big House. But Alan doesn’t appear to like that decision. When he begrudgingly leaves to make arrangements, Jennie quietly asks Jake what’s wrong.

Jake’s response: “‘With Radford? Well, it’s only gentlemen who are allowed to stay inside the fort, and I don’t think Radford considers me a gentleman.’ Jake grinned at her, and her brows rose. She wasn’t sure Jake was a gentleman either, but she was surprised at the rigidity.”

NEXT: Dr. John McLoughlin

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COUNTDOWN – 5 DAYS TO LAUNCH

Janet Fisher1 Comment

Mountain Men

With five days to go until the launch of The Shifting Winds, today’s post will focus on those intrepid mountain men who went out into the wilds of the Rocky Mountains to trap beaver for the American fur companies in St. Louis. From the early 1820s until 1840 these trappers worked the mountain streams and developed a lifestyle of their own. Company caravans took supplies to the Rockies for an annual summer rendezvous where they traded for beaver the mountain men had gleaned during the year. So the trappers never had to leave the mountains. Some didn’t go home to the States in all that time, maintaining a tenuous link with civilization as they had once known it.

George profile jpgPhotos courtesy of Douglas County Museum

George Abdill may not look like a mountain man in the pictures above and below, but the spirit of a mountain man lived in George’s heart.

Some years ago when I decided to write a book about the American frontier, with mountain men and pioneers and British fur traders, I went to see George Abdill, director of our local Douglas County Museum at the time. George was a man who held in his mind so much information, a person could ask him a question and he would answer with a chapter. When I told him about the setting and characters of my story, he smiled and sat back in his chair, his tone turning wistful. “If I could go back in time and choose what I would like to be, I would be a mountain man.”

George headshot jpgWow! What a great source for these stories!

He’s not wearing buckskins in the photos. He doesn’t have a powder horn and bullet pouch slung over his shoulder. And he’s not carrying a muzzleloader, but he knew how to shoot one and told me how to reload the single-shot weapon on the run while riding full tilt after buffalo. So, imagine him in buckskins, as he could have surely imagined himself.

The mountain men who trapped beaver in the Rocky Mountains generally wore buckskins because these trappers worked in rough country and the durable buckskin protected their own skin, also because they lived and worked with Native Americans who often wore deerskin clothing themselves. Fringes—or whangs—on the outer arm seams and leg seams offered more than style. The fringes helped the garment shed water by acting as wicks, an important feature for men who waded into streams to trap beaver and faced all kinds of weather.

Here’s how protagonist Jennie Haviland sees American mountain man Jake Johnston on first meeting:

“She managed to push back to arm’s length and quickly surveyed him from the smiling face down over the buckskin-covered length of him to the moccasins on his feet. He wore a buckskin shirt, much like their young Indian guide’s—fringed, embroidered, belted at the waist—but unlike the guide he wore long, trim-fitting buckskin breeches with fringes running down the outer seams. He was armed—a knife in a sheath on his belt, a pistol stuck into the belt, and powder horn and bullet pouch slung over his shoulder. With determination, she pushed back harder and he released his grip on her.

“He spoke with a drawl, still smiling. ‘Ma’am, may I have the utmost pleasure and privilege of welcoming you to the fair Willamette Valley? My name is Jacob Obadiah Johnston.’ He backed up a step, sweeping one hand before himself as he gave her a deep bow, the long fringes on his buckskin sleeve swishing with the motion. Standing straight again, he grinned wider. ‘My friends call me Jake. And you would be . . . ?’

“She could only stand and stare . . .”

The Shifting Winds is the fourth pioneer story I wrote, the fourth serious novel, and its pages are infused with the information and spirit provided by mountain man dreamer George Abdill. I wish he were still alive to thank for all the help he gave me.

NEXT: Joe Meek, Mountain Man Extraordinaire

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COUNTDOWN – 7 DAYS TO LAUNCH

Janet Fisher2 Comments

First Travelers on the Oregon Trail

The launch for my new historical novel, The Shifting Winds, is now seven days away, one week, and I plan to do a blog post each day from now until the day before the event. For each post I’d like to share some historical factoids that relate in some way to the book, from today’s brief overview of the first travelers on the Oregon Trail to bits of information on mountain men, the Hudson’s Bay Company, and other background elements that may work into a tapestry of color surrounding the story.

469.diorama oxen & wagonThe photo above was taken at the National Historic Oregon Trail Interpretive Center at Baker City, Oregon, a diorama showing a typical oxen-drawn wagon on the trail west.

Jennie Haviland, protagonist of The Shifting Winds, comes west across the Oregon Trail in 1842 with one of the earliest wagon trains of emigrants from the States. But fur traders first blazed that trail across the continent. As early as 1812 men employed by John Jacob Astor, founder of Fort Astoria, were probably the first white men to locate South Pass, a remarkably gentle passage across the otherwise rugged Rocky Mountains which made it possible for later emigrants to cross the Continental Divide with ease.

Missionaries began to make their way across the trail in the 1830’s, stopping along the way at the Rocky Mountain Rendezvous, the raucous summer gatherings of American mountain men and traders. In the words of mountain man Joe Meek in our story, “My heavens! That was the time fer big doin’s, mind ye, when the company sent out supplies, and after bein’ temperate all year, we let loose a mite, we did. A man would spend mebbe a thousand dollars a day on—” Jennie’s pa interrupts before Joe can say more.

The first white women to cross the trail, missionaries Narcissa Whitman and Eliza Spalding, traveled by wagon in 1836 with their husbands, Marcus Whitman and Henry Spalding. After a few days at the rendezvous, which must have brought a little shock to their sensibilities, they took the wagons as far as Fort Hall in what is now eastern Idaho, the first to take wagons that far. Beyond that point they used pack animals.

481.Ft Hll exterior

The picture above shows the Fort Hall replica my daughter, granddaughter, and I visited when we backtracked the trail taken by our ancestors.

By 1840 as beaver played out in the Rockies, the American mountain men held their last rendezvous and some headed for Oregon. Joe Meek and his friend Robert Newell managed to get three wagons from Fort Hall to Walla Walla, the first to take wagons overland as far as the Columbia River.

As promoters sang the praises of Oregon, hoping to gain the land with settlement, more emigrants dared take the trek. A fair-sized party of seventy or so left the States in 1841, but about half the party went to California, all of them leaving their wagons at Fort Hall.

That brings us to 1842 when just over a hundred emigrants took the journey, the group my fictional Haviland family joined. This group also left the wagons at Fort Hall and went by foot and horseback to the Columbia River, where some proceeded either by boat or raft down the river, while others like the Havilands took horses over the Cascade Mountains.

The story of The Shifting Winds opens as the family approaches their destination, Willamette Falls, soon to be named Oregon City. Jennie expects to see a thriving town there, a semblance of civilization in this godforsaken wilderness, but she has a few surprises in store.

NEXT: Willamette Falls

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Outtakes #9 – A Place of Her Own

Janet Fisher

This Outtake reveals another short bit taken from the end of an Oregon Trail scene at the top of p. 124 in A Place of Her Own. The Maupins have survived the precipitous drop down Laurel Hill and have just come into the rich prairies west of the Cascade foothills. The cut is just 176 words, but words are words. And I desperately needed to take more out. At least it gave me more in one fell swoop than the single filler words I snipped throughout the manuscript. Clip…..


The photo above, by Robin Loznak, appears in A Place of Her Own, illustrating Douglas Firs on the family farm. Similar trees of this species would have been growing in the area depicted in this scene, though no doubt larger than these. Pioneers trekking into what is now the State of Oregon found Doug firs some 300 feet tall. Two or three men could lie head-to-foot across the diameter of a stump from one of these giants that might have been as much as 800 years old.

~~~

Near evening a cabin appeared, nestled against a grove of firs at the edge of a broad meadow. The scent of a hearth fire reached Martha’s nose, and she took a long, satisfying breath of it. People began spilling out the cabin door, running toward the wayworn travelers. A man reached them first. He lifted his hat and rubbed a hand across his thin, curly hair. “Welcome to Oregon.”

A united but somewhat ragged thank you answered him back.

He introduced himself and his wife, who came up behind him, and Garrett introduced the family. The woman went straight to Martha and gripped both her hands. “My dear, what a journey for you. When are you due?”

“December.”

The woman smiled and nodded. “Oh, you’ll be settled by then. Come sit a spell and have some supper with us.”

“That’s so nice of you,” Martha said. “You must see a lot of travelers, living here.”

The woman laughed. “We do, and we love it. We all took that trip, God bless us, and we all understand.”

468.diorama mother & childThis photo taken at the Interpretive Center in Baker, Oregon, shows a part of the continuing diorama depicting a wagon train on the Oregon Trail. The woman makes me think of Martha and her little Nora, oldest of her two at the time. My heart tightens as I imagine the strain of traveling that perilous trail with such a precious, vulnerable child. Another even tinier. A third on the way. What a thrill to know in this short Outtake that they have almost made it through. Of course, Martha would have been full in her pregnancy by then.

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Outtakes #8 – A Place of Her Own

Janet Fisher

Returning to my Outtakes series, this post includes another scene slashed from the Oregon Trail chapter of A Place of Her Own, except that a few lines of it were salvaged for a scene that did make the cut. Although there’s some excitement here you may enjoy, I snipped this because I didn’t feel I had an adequate picture of the scene in my mind, and I still needed to trim more words to reach the target word count. This gave me 415. Clip…..

469.diorama oxen & wagonThe photo was taken at the National Historic Oregon Trail Interpretive Center near Baker City, Oregon, one of the fine dioramas inside the center, which gives an authentic impression of that dusty trail.

~~~

Martha stumbled over the rocky road, Nora in one hand, Louisa in the other arm. The wagons jolted, wheels bumping over the rocks. Alkali dust covered everything. Garrett’s growing hair and beard looked white, matted with the white dust. He stopped the oxen and Martha stood where she was, covering her mouth in hopes of drawing clean air, but it didn’t work. Garrett poured water from his pouch onto a cloth, and wiped it over the noses of the oxen, cleaning off a little of the dust.

The animals nodded their massive heads, as if to thank him, and one nuzzled him a little. Old Bob loved to be stroked under his chin, and Garrett obliged for a moment. Zack raised his dust-smudged nose and snorted. He started forward, pushing past Garrett. The loose cattle caught whatever scent Zack smelled and moved ahead with the same urgency, passing Martha and the girls like a stream dividing around three stones.

She heard Garrett’s frantic voice. “Stop them! Don’t let them drink the water. It’s alkali. Stop them!”

“Come on,” Martha said to Nora, dragging her along.

The wagon held back the oxen from going faster than Martha on the rocky path, even with Nora in tow. She contemplated putting the children in the moving wagon, but what if the oxen tipped it over in their frenzy? Careful not to trip on a rock, she ran on. The loose cattle were all ahead now. Larry galloped up, then Newt, hooting and shouting, trying to turn them back. Martha worked her way around the outer edge until she was above the sickly looking water hole. She put the children on a big rock and climbed up after them. The cattle wouldn’t come up here, but she could yell at them from this high place.

She waved her arms and yelled as loud as she could, and the girls did the same, their high-pitched shrieks as loud as her shouts. Garrett was at the water, driving the poor creatures back. So thirsty. So desperate for water. But the alkali water could kill them in a matter of hours. The trail along here was littered with the bones of oxen and fresher dead beasts–along with discarded trunks and furniture . . . and another human grave.

A chill raked Martha despite the heat.

She yelled again, wanting to cry out her own despair, embracing the excuse, until finally the men turned the cattle and managed to move them on.

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Outtakes #7 – A Place of Her Own

Janet Fisher2 Comments

Continuing the Outtakes of words cut from A Place of Her Own before publication, we come to this short segment, which is an extension of the Oregon Trail scene that ends at the upper third of page 115. Martha knows she’s pregnant by this time, but she isn’t sure Garrett knows. Although I kept a few of these words, I clipped this description of lowering a wagon down a steep hill because there’s another more powerful scene of lowering a wagon down the longer, steeper Laurel Hill on pages 121-122. Also, before visiting the site I didn’t have a clear picture of the setting in mind and decided I’d better leave the scene out. More words cut. Word count dropping, dropping. Clip…..

520.Windlass HillWindlass Hill, the site of this scene, may not look so high or so steep, unless you think of getting a covered wagon down it. I took this photo on our 2014 family trip backtracking the Oregon Trail following the release of the book.

~~~

The higher [Martha] climbed, the more she could see the incredible landscape around them. . . . Garrett caught up with her just as she reached the top, and she stood aside to let him lead. He didn’t say anything. He said little these days that didn’t have to be said, as if the words might drain his energy and he had to save it all for the daily ordeals. She felt something of that herself. She could scarcely catch breath to breathe, let alone use it to talk.

She plodded after him across the high tableland, until the beaten wagon tracks seemed to lead right off into the sky ahead. Garrett stopped the wagon at the edge of the rim, and she hurried to his side. Her heart lunged when she looked down. The land dropped away in front of them in a long, steep bank. Surely he didn’t plan to go down here. But wide scraped tracks led right down the slope to a tree-filled hollow at the bottom.

Garrett unhitched the oxen and began to tie heavy ropes around the wagon’s axles. Larry brought her the children and went to help him. They locked the back wheels by sticking a pole through the spokes from one wheel to the other. Newt held the oxen until Garrett looped the ropes around their yokes. Then with the oxen behind, holding the wagon from falling, the men slowly let out the rope and lowered the cloth-topped vessel down the sandy incline. Martha didn’t think she breathed once until it settled, rocking a little, on the valley floor. But she must have.

“Let’s get down and get on our way,” Garrett said.

Larry motioned for Newt. “We’ll bring the cattle.”

“Help us with the girls first,” Garrett said, “and lead the oxen down. I’d better give Martha a hand.”

When he reached toward her, she took his hand, thankful for his firm grip as they scrambled down the bluff. Did he know the treasure she held inside her? She hadn’t spoken of it yet. Could he tell? If he’d marked the days and noticed her lack of monthlies, maybe he knew. But he hadn’t touched her in that way for so long, how would he? Every night they fell into bed exhausted. Maybe he remembered from before. Maybe he read it in her, the way he read other things of nature.

As soon as he had the oxen hitched again and heard the boys bringing the cattle, he started out once more. Martha had thought they might rest awhile in the pretty hollow, but they had a few hours of daylight. With the girls back in the wagon, she started after him, every step sending up a wave of pain, from her feet feeling every rock through the thinning soles of her boots, up into her ankles and knees.

~~~

517.ash hollow bluffAsh Hollow lay near Windlass Hill, but farther than I imagined when I wrote the scene, and clearly a more rugged drop from the high tableland. Water in the lovely Ash Hollow became known as a source of the dreaded cholera that ravaged emigrants trekking west. The Maupins were lucky to be spared this deadly disease.

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Conference Across the Mountains

Janet Fisher7 Comments

Three friends from my Eugene writing group trekked east with me this weekend for some western flavor at a Women Writing the West conference at the Eagle Crest Resort near Redmond, Oregon.

780.Erin.meThe highlight for me was meeting my editor Erin Turner. Erin, shown with me at right, is the Editorial Director of TwoDot Books, the Globe Pequot imprint for A Place of Her Own and for my next book as well, The Shifting Winds.

Here we are after the Saturday lunch in front of a Pendleton blanket displayed for the evening’s raffle.

It was great meeting Erin face to face and having a chance to sit down and talk with her about the upcoming book and just to chat. She’s a wonderful editor. I feel like a very lucky writer.

At th783.Molly.mee book signing Saturday evening I had the pleasure of sitting next to Molly Gloss, keynote speaker for the conference, bestselling author of Falling from Horses.

Molly’s many awards include the Oregon Book Award, Pacific Northwest Booksellers Award, and the PEN West Fiction Prize. Molly also wrote Jump-Off Creek, The Dazzle of Day, Wild Life, and The Hearts of Horses.

784.condoMy friends and I rented a condo at the resort for the weekend, a lovely place nestled among the tall junipers, a bit apart from the conference center, so quiet only the delightful twitter of birds surrounded us. We each had a room of our own in the two-story building. We decided we could live there if we took a notion. At right is a glimpse inside.

786.ladies.at.doorAnd at the front door of our condo, below, my good friends and fellow travelers show a little attitude at the end of an intense weekend of workshops, networking, bookselling, and fun. From left to right: Elizabeth King, Lynn Ash, and Carol Brownson.

 

We are ready to head west again for home, inspired to do great things with our next big writing projects.

 

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Backtracking the Oregon Trail #3

Janet Fisher

Day Two ~ The High Desert

468.diorama mother & childThe tattered wagon covers didn’t look white anymore. Gray dust coated every surface, working its way down into every nook. . . . Animals and people alike looked thin. So little grass. Even when they heard about grass ahead, they’d find much of it eaten off already by the companies that came through before. . . . She was five months pregnant.
—A Place of Her Own: The Legacy of Oregon Pioneer Martha Poindexter Maupin, Janet Fisher. (Guilford, CT, Helena, MT: TwoDot/Globe Pequot Press, 2014), pp. 119-120.

Most women who traveled the trail were mothers or soon to be mothers. It was the mothers who, more than anyone, looked both forward and back, remembering home and how it was made. It was the mothers who tried to stretch the protective fabric of home across the 2,000 miles to a new place.
—Women’s Voices from the Oregon Trail, Susan G. Butruille. (Boise, ID: Tamarack Books, 1993), p. 89.

13 Saturday Travel 5 miles this morning, then stopt to water at a spring; it is near night we are still traveling on, through dust and sand, and over rocks, until we find water, had none since this morning.
14th Sunday morn, Campt last night after dark after traveling 15 miles in a large bottom, near some puddles of very poor water found out this morning that it needed straining Afternoon, after traveling 10 miles we have campt on the bank of Powder river about 1 oclock another ox sick, we will rest here untill morning—
—The diary of Amelia Knight, in Covered Wagon Women: Diaries and Letters from the Western Trails, 1840-1890. Vol. 6, 1853-1854, Kenneth L. Holmes, ed. (Glendale, CA: The Arthur H. Clark Co., 1986), p. 65.

460.high desertOnce out of the mountains we came into high desert country with scattered sagebrush on rounded hills. The emigrants coming the other way were just beginning to see the occasional tree and a few touches of green after endless dusty expanses that could scarcely support life. Did they know what awaited them in the blue ridges on the horizon? Many carried guidebooks that described the various landmarks along the way. But those guidebooks often glossed over the looming difficulties.

First stop for us on this second day of travel was the remarkable National Historic Oregon Trail Interpretive Center at Baker City, Oregon, in that high desert country—definitely a worthwhile stop for any Oregon Trail history buffs, or anyone with an interest in this era of the nation’s history.

The day was heating up fast, and no shade to park in. Fortunately someone had built shaded areas with tables where we ate lunch. We carried lunch supplies with us. Here, windbreaks gave some protection against the battering winds, but breezes still whipped our hair and grabbed at packages. Then I took my granddaughter Calliope inside to tour the place while my daughter Christiane stayed by the sheltered table with the dog.

The interpretive center offers many life-sized dioramas of typical Oregon Trail scenes that put you right into that world, as well as artifacts and informative presentations. Several of the photos on this post and the previous one show these realistic dioramas, while my first post in the series, “Backtracking the Oregon Trail #1,” includes photos of the interpretive center’s outdoor display of actual covered wagons. The photo of the high desert on this post was taken from our shaded table there.

Inside, as I remained watchful of Calliope, I looked upon the diorama of the mother and child (above), and my heart went out to the mothers on that trail. Martha had two little girls to watch out for along that trek. Nora was almost four and Louisa going on two. Little ones can be a handful when you’re stationary, let alone on a trail into the wilderness with all the potential for danger. A child climbing in or out of a moving wagon could get run over and either injured or killed. Many died of cholera, a dread for emigrants of all ages. And Martha had the added burden of being pregnant during the whole trip.

466.diorama horseThe animals in the dioramas are real, the handiwork of an expert taxidermist. But, my granddaughter was assured by one of the staff members, the people are not. Even so, these human statues are created with exquisite detail so you can even see the veins in their hands. Wonderful realism.

And you hear the sounds. The creak of wheels on the rocky track. The clip-clop of hooves. The cry of voices. Free your imagination and you’re there on the trail, experiencing, feeling.

I had a pleasant visit with a woman in the office who I’d spoken to earlier by phone and left a copy of my book for them to consider for their gift shop.

Driving southeast from Baker City, we watched the temperature. It crept up to 101 in the shade and virtually no shade. Yet as the day wore on we appreciated the raw beauty as the sun lowered, casting a smoky glow to paint pinks, golds, and oranges on every ridge.

Bugs splatted the windshield like scattered rain. They must have pestered the weary oxen and the people that trudged through here. And the heat kept bearing down—until evening, when the nights cooled—unlike nights Martha would have remembered back home in Missouri or Illinois.

Pocatello, Idaho, our destination for the night, seemed far away. We’d be coming in after dark once again.

NEXT: A stopover at the Fort Hall replica at Pocatello

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Backtracking the Oregon Trail #2

Janet Fisher

Day Two ~ The Blue Mountains

469.diorama oxen & wagon[The roads] were harder than before. Steeper. Rockier. Dustier. Rivers wilder. There was an occasional tree now, sometimes wooded areas even, with tall conifers and cottonwoods. . . . The trail here was littered with the bones of oxen and fresher dead beasts—along with discarded trunks and furniture—and another human grave. A chill raked Martha despite the heat. The smell of death assaulted her nose.
—A Place of Her Own: The Legacy of Oregon Pioneer Martha Poindexter Maupin, Janet Fisher. (Guilford, CT, Helena, MT: TwoDot/Globe Pequot Press, 2014), p. 119.

Sep 3d We came, I think, eleven miles; over the mountains; the scenery was delightful all day but the road was extremely hilly and rough . . .
September 4th We came, I think, fourteen miles this day over the principal range of the Blue mountains, traveling all day through a densely timbered region . . .
—The diary of Abigail Jane Scott, in Covered Wagon Women: Diaries and Letters from the Western Trails, 1840-1890. Vol. 5, 1852, The Oregon Trail, Kenneth L. Holmes and David C. Duniway, eds. (Glendale, CA: The Arthur H. Clark Co., 1986), pp. 121-122.

3d Sunday . . . Traveled along the west side of the valley at foot of mount about 3 miles when we came to a small stream and then commenced ascending the mountain, very steep in many places and continues to ascend for about 6 miles. very hard drive but at the top found the grass burnt off and there was no water, so had to go on till we came to Grand Ronde [River], ten miles, worst hill to go down that we have found yet. long, steep and rocky. . . .
5th Tuesday . . . Hard times. many cattle are failing and all are very poor and a good many get lost among the thick timber. . . . Traveled on about 7 miles on a mountain ridge sometimes on one side sometimes on the other. pretty sidling in places . . . begin to hope we are getting out of the mounts.
—The diary of Cecelia Adams & Parthenia Blank, Covered Wagon Women: Diaries and Letters from the Western Trails, 1840-1890. Vol. 5, 1852, The Oregon Trail, Kenneth L. Holmes and David C. Duniway, eds. (Glendale, CA: The Arthur H. Clark Co., 1986), pp. 302-303.

Tues Sept 21 Traveled 20 miles. . . . Here we commence climbing the Blue Mountains. . . . Had to camp without water. Found hard hills to day and very stony. Saw 5 graves and 5 dead cattle.
—The diary of Martha S. Read, Covered Wagon Women: Diaries and Letters from the Western Trails, 1840-1890. Vol. 5, 1852, The Oregon Trail, Kenneth L. Holmes and David C. Duniway, eds. (Glendale, CA: The Arthur H. Clark Co., 1986), p. 245.

455.road uphill blue mtsA formidable barrier loomed in front of us as we drove southeast from Pendleton, following the Oregon Trail pretty closely. Rising suddenly from a wide, flat landscape, the ridge looked barren except for a few tree clumps in the hollows. The highway took a wide sweep to zigzag up the hill. You could feel it on the heavily loaded car. Ears popped. My breath caught, imagining wagons rolling down this grade from the other direction.

We soon climbed into rugged timbered mountains. Mostly pines. And worked our way across, with lots of ups and down. Ridge after ridge. These were the Blue Mountains, the worst mountains the emigrants had crossed so far on their entire journey.

You don’t give much thought to those rising and falling grades while driving a car on a smooth highway—although we saw a few cars stopped with raised hoods. But when you let your thoughts drift back to a time when every rise meant a long, hard pull for weary oxen and every drop meant the danger of a wagon rolling out of control—forward or sideways. And every stone on a gravelly track meant the risk of losing a wheel or even overturning the whole vessel. Then the ups and downs become a whole lot more serious.

458.blue mts long view (crop)And think of where they were on that incredible journey. They were nearing the end. They’ve been trudging across a seemingly endless track for almost 2,000 miles. How daunting for them to reach the roughest part now. The oxen are so weary, many are just giving it up. Not enough food. Sore feet. Loads feeling heavier by the day. Now this. They drop and die. And sometimes people do too. Still, in their weariness, some diarists remarked on the splendid beauty of it. The fine timber.

After a long haul across this range we came alongside a gravelly creek which tumbled into a large flat expanse surrounded by a ring of mountains. Out ahead we could see where we would have to climb another ridge. This was the Grande Ronde Valley, admired by many travelers. The name comes from the French grande ronde, meaning “fine large valley” or “big round valley,” so named by the early French-Canadian trappers. A respite before the next rise. The Grande Ronde River mentioned in the above diary flows out of the Blue Mountains.

Our next climb brought us into sparse pine woods, which offered scattered shade amid jutting rock bluffs and scanty tufts of dry grass. This ridge wasn’t nearly as rugged or deep as the last. Reverse the direction of travel and you realize this was only a hint of worse to come for those westbound pioneers. Could they even imagine what was awaiting them in the ridge ahead?

[The photo at the top was taken in the National Historic Oregon Trail Interpretive Center near Baker City, Oregon]

NEXT: A stopover at the interpretive center just outside Baker City, a highlight on our journey

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