pages 298-299

Pages 298-299

                It had been a long tiresome ride, so after a light supper, we read just a short while, then retired, blowing out the kerosene lamp, only to find the room still quite light, as the moon poured its rays in through the windows, with the out of doors most like day.  Soon we were fast asleep, tired from the long buggy ride, and with all thoughts of tomorrow forgotten,  We slumbered away until the crack of dawn broke the stillness of the night with the sun pulling itself atop the craggy mountain peaks to flood the country side, a dry like morning and a slight breeze with little whirling pools of dust or whirligigs that flitted over the valley like little whirling breezes, filled with the dust and debris they had collected, made quite a commotion as they whisked briskly in a whirring manner past the kitchen door into the canyon below.  Jim said this indicated a dry spell, and for several days this kept up.

                Jim spent much time each day harrowing until he had a deep mulch to preserve and hold the moisture below the mulch.  Then finally , the letter came, my sister, husband and three sons would be in Rupert.  This had to be planned, I set to work to get things in readiness, even doing a big washing and ironing, they would stay first with our folks, later spend much time with us, and we would make the trip to Rupert to bring them out.  The evening before, Jim went for the white top or mountain hack, we were to borrow from our good neighbor and friends.  We did much the night before in preparation, so when the soft cool breeze flooded the canyon preceding the dawn, Jim went out to get the team ready, while I prepared breakfast and our lunch.

                The hours and minutes seemed to take wings as we hurried about, with a saucy magpie from the pole corral mocking our every move.  This caused the whistling and chattering of other birds, a very pleasant morning with the turtle doves too enlivening the air with their sad sweet note.  These birds were like feathery alarm clocks, for their cooing breaks the stillness with the very first faint rays of dawn, joined by the querulous voices of other birds glad of a new day.  With Shirley Creek much noisier as it flowed along, tumbling, dashing over rocks and obstacles, with a cool mist hovering above it.  The last minute I thought to feed the chickens, and with the rest of the stock coming for their hay just as we were ready to drive away.  Jim had filled the manger, so we went on, opening and closing the gate securely and we were off for the long ride.

                We had not gone far into the flats when we could notice the dryness, for this was an arid valley, using our field glasses to draw out and observe things at a distance, with the sun becoming warmer and brighter as the time passed, drawing out the dusty smell of the sage, while birds sang from its tops and grasses and flowers flourished beneath it.  Now the sage was becoming smaller, filling in with grease wood and the clearings with June grass and thistles making excellent grazing for range cattle, that became more numerous as we drove along.  Mirages too again appeared as on other trips, only to find it the same as all the rest when we would arrive at this point of view.  Raft River was not a mirage though.  For the willows were plainly visible through our field glasses along its banks.  Raft River, the cross roads of the west, a good many years ago.  Here we thought we would stop, water and feed and eat our own lunch, then we’d be refreshed for the rest of the trip.

                We hadn’t sat eating long when a tall white haired cowboy appeared from down along the river, on a most beautiful mount, we had heard of him, born to the saddle and the range, with the herding of cattle in his blood, with a large ranch and heard of cattle.  He sat straight in the saddle, as he said, “I’ve been hunting cattle, had some stray away, just thought I’d ride a spell, might run across them.”  Turning to us, he said, “you are new to this country, this here is part of the Old Overland Trail, many is the covered wagons I’ve seen go through these parts.  This river was named Raft River by those pioneers who couldn’t ford it and had to build rafts to get their wagons and goods across, those going on west used this valley as a guide for others.”  He said, pointing in another direction, “Kept this trail going to Boise and other points.  I’ve seen them come, three to four and more wagon trains, women, babies and children, being pitched from side to side.  There were those with woebegone looks, with misery written on their faces, half sick, food about gone, horses with little flesh left on them, wagons creaking as though about done for, from the long weary trek.”

                Jim wanted to go, but I nudged his arm, I wanted to wait awhile longer.  This old cowboy knew things my ears were itching to hear, always wanting to learn more, especially of this vast western country I had suddenly become a part of, with its out of doors one huge amphitheater; for my learning and my viewing.

“The old Raft,” he went on, “was a mile stone to the many hundreds that traversed its lonely and sometimes miserable trail.  The raft is around sixty miles long from its source over the line in Utah.” Here his horse became a bit nervous, stomping, shaking his head and switching his tail, a beautiful animal, petting his neck, he said “Whoa, old fellow, you’ve seen younger days too, never you mind, we’ll be hunting them strays afore long, just want to talk a bit to these young friends of mine.”  The horse seemed to understand, quieting readily.  When we made a comment, he said, “Oh, he’s smart, I raised and trained him from a colt.”  Going on once more about the country he then said, “This river empties into the Snake or so to speak the two of them meet.  I’ve ridden along and played along its banks as a boy.  It’s almost a part of me, or sort of a pal.  I’ve watched beavers build dams causing it to overflow,  I’ve roamed the full length of it, I’ve cooled my feet on hot summer days, I’ve watched wild ducks nest and hatch from the bushes along its banks, to swim away and birds build their nest in the willows and hatch their young to fly to other parts from it and most of all the blessings it had been to the wagon train folks for water was everything in a dry country, many of them when they would come to a river like this would camp for a day or two, to wash and get cleaned up before going on.

                Here, his horse pawed the ground again, starting off at the same time.  Jim took advantage of it, clicked to his team and we were off, leaving the old cowboy to his strays and dreams, of his long ago boyhood days.  I couldn’t help but watch as we parted, the beautiful horse and the long strides he took, as they galloped off through the sage, with the wind for his guide and the echo of a bawl now and again from the ever drifting grazing herd.