Tales of Trade, Migration and Conquest

Part 4: The Great Platte River Road

In the nearly four years we’ve been traveling in our Next Chapter van, Leslie and I have grown accustomed to encountering various flavors of weather: Snow, sleet, rain, frost, heat, wind, fire. We’ve learned to dodge, hunker down, turn back or get off the road and into a hotel if warranted.

But tornados? That was a new one.

We do most of our traveling between the Pacific and the Rockies, and bona fide twisters are pretty rare in that part of North America. On our spring road trip along the Santa Fe and Oregon National Historic Trails, however, we ventured into the central and eastern Great Plains, where tornados are definitely not rare. And on the 11^th day of our adventure, after we had completed our journey east along the Santa Fe Trail and pointed the van west toward Oregon, stormy weather moved into the area we were traversing.

Not Southern California stormy. Great Plains stormy. We didn’t know it at the time, but as we headed west from our campsite on a goat farm in Missouri toward Kansas and Nebraska, the National Weather Service had issued a tornado watch for the area we’d be driving into.

After stopping in Independence, Mo., for lunch and a visit to the National Frontier Trails Center, we crossed into Kansas that afternoon in torrential rain. We reached our Hipcamp site on a small ranch outside the town of Wamego in the Flint Hills, where we met Melanie, one of our hosts, who helped us find a place on their property to park for the night. As we were settling into our evening routine, blissfully unaware of the meteorological ruckus transpiring elsewhere in the region, Melanie’s husband, John, stopped by to alert us to the tornado watch. He sternly advised us to take it seriously if the watch escalated to a formal warning, and said that if it did, we should join them immediately in the tornado bunker in their house, which is built into the side of a hill.

This was reassuring and alarming at the same time. Also, it left us at a bit of a loss. At home, we subscribe to local emergency alert systems and can receive push notifications on our phones warning of imminent flooding, fires, mudslides and other calamities. We had no connection to such a service in rural Kansas, if one even exists. I wasn’t sure how we would know if a “watch” escalated to “warning” or, even more dire, a “tornado emergency.”

And I must confess that my familiarity with tornadoes is pretty much limited to repeat viewings of “The Wizard of Oz” and “Twister,” so I really wasn’t sure what to do if a one were to show up while I was piloting a camper van down a long flat stretch of rural highway.

Happily, the night passed uneventfully, save for the percussive pounding of raindrops on our metal roof. And it wasn’t until after we had returned home that I remembered that a year earlier, I had purchased a portable emergency radio that can tune into the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s local weather broadcasts, and stashed it in one of the van’s gear boxes. Where I promptly forgot about it. So, only my failure of memory kept us from monitoring the tornado situation in Kansas in real time. As we learned later, tornadoes indeed battered the region that day, and the next and the next, along with heavy rains, flooding and glass-shattering hail. But we encountered nothing worse than downpours.

Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.

Of course, travelers on the Oregon Trail in the 1800s had no ability to predict the weather at all, nor could they wait out storms in the comfort of a heated, water-tight conveyance. And it made them miserable more often than not.

The Platte River in Nebraska. (John Krist photo)

Death on the trail

I remember when we were camped on the Platte, the whole sky became black as ink. A terrific wind came up, which blew the cover off the wagons and blew down the tents. When the storm burst upon us, it frightened the cattle, so that it took all the efforts of the men to keep them from stampeding ... The rain came down in bucketfuls, drenching us to the skin. There wasn’t a tent in the camp that held against the terrific wind ... Finally, in spite of the efforts of the men, the cattle stampeded.

— Diary of Mary Elizabeth Munkers Estes, 1846.

Our tent was completely drenched, and some of our things that were inside, such as bedding folks and so on. You who have never experienced the pleasure of being awakened sundry times during the night by the falling of pearly drops onto their faces can scarcely imagine the pleasure such waking affords, especially when it brings the consciousness of a hard thunder storm raging without and the certainty that there is nothing but the thickness of cotton cloth to shelter us from the pelting rain.

— Diary of Charlotte Stearns Pengra, 1853.

Mary Estes’ diary entry is in a publication called Voices From the Trails that I picked up at the National Frontier Trails Museum in Independence, Mo.; that of Charlotte Pengra is from a book I read before our trip titled Women’s Diaries of the Westward Journey, by historian Lillian Schlissel. The diaries are instructive, for the real-time record of the lived experience of so many of the emigrants — men and women and children, uprooted from friends and families and all that was familiar, enduring a miserable months-long battle with the elements and the landscape — punctures the aura of noble adventure that grew up around the pioneer experience as the years passed and time sanded off the rough edges of memory.

The museum in Independence focuses on stories of the Santa Fe, Oregon, California, Mormon Pioneer, and Lewis and Clark National Historic Trails. Two of those — Lewis and Clark, and the Santa Fe — helped set the stage, but the Oregon, California and Mormon trails were the primary conduits for the great westward migration that saw as many as half a million Americans cross the continent between 1840 and 1870.

The numbers are estimates; nobody clocked emigrants in and out along the trail. But in 1840, the U.S. population was 17 million; a statistically comparable migration today (perhaps 3% of the total) would involve more than 11 million Americans pulling up stakes and heading west.

And it was a perilous journey: Death could and did come from cholera, drowning, firearm accident, being crushed by a wagon, trampled by livestock, gored by bison, complications of childbirth. Dueling exhibits in two of the Oregon Trail museums we visited along the way cast the danger in diametrically opposite terms, one crowing optimistically that “90% of the pioneers made it to their destination” and the other noting mournfully that “1 in 10 of the emigrants died on the trail.” Either way you cast it, a 10% mortality rate would classify the “Oregon fever” that swept the nation in the 1840s as among the deadliest afflictions to infect Americans in the 19^th century.

Roadside trail artwork at Scott Springs. (John Krist photo)

Landmarks

After our brush with tornado weather in Kansas, we followed the trail northwest into Nebraska on April 26. This was approximately the time of the year when Oregon Trail parties would have set out, late enough for spring grasses to to have grown adequately to nourish livestock but not so late that the emigrants would encounter winter snow in the mountains near the far end of their five-month trek. On our way to Nebraska that day, we stopped at several trail landmarks, including Scott Springs and Alcove Spring, both favored layover spots for pioneer wagon trains, and Hollenberg Ranch State Historic Site, sometimes called Cottonwood Station, where travelers could purchase meals, lodging and replacement livestock.

Alcove Spring. (John Krist photo)

Cottonwood Station. (John Krist photo)

From there, we headed to Fort Kearny State Historical Park and the broad, shallow and muddy Platte River, which travelers on all three major emigrant trails followed for hundreds of miles across Nebraska and into Wyoming. Oregon Trail travelers generally stayed on the south bank of the Platte, while the Utah-bound Mormons stayed on the north. Those following the California Trail to western gold fields could be found on both sides. The heavy traffic along that corridor led to it becoming known as the Great Platte River Road.

The trails all diverged after surmounting South Pass, the relatively low crossing through the Rocky Mountains in Wyoming that was the linchpin of the entire westward migration. (More on that in the next installment of Next Chapter Notes.)

The typical Oregon Trail emigrant family’s rig was a relatively lightweight wagon, typically a Murphy or Studebaker — not one of the massive Conestogas, which were intended primarily for heavy freight hauling on established roads — typically 10-12 feet long, 4 feet wide, with 2-foot sides and a canvas cover. It was crammed with provisions, about a ton in all at the journey’s start, as well as camp gear, leaving no room in the bed for passengers. Most who traveled the Oregon Trail walked all or most of the way.

The wagon would have been hitched to a team of two or four mules or oxen, the latter being not a breed of animal but a job description: Oxen are simply castrated male cattle that have been trained to pull stuff. Some emigrants tried to haul family heirlooms and furniture with which to start their new households in Oregon, but little of this survived the trip, being discarded at river crossings or steep slopes where it proved nothing but a dangerous liability. It’s been said that the Oregon Trail is the world’s longest graveyard, but it could equally be described as the world’s longest yard sale.

Fort Kearny. (John Krist photo)

We camped that night near Fort Kearny, a reconstruction of the first military post built specifically to protect emigrants on the trail, on the shore of a small lake in Fort Kearny State Recreation Area. There’s not much to the fort replica — a log palisade, the parade ground, a blacksmith/carpentry shop — but there are displays recounting its roles between 1848 and 1871 as a Pony Express station, stagecoach stop and military post, where troops eventually protected not just trail travelers but also the crews building the Union Pacific Railroad, which would ultimately render the emigrant wagon route obsolete.

Not far from Fort Kearny, as the trail reaches western Nebraska, it crosses the Platte and begins following the river’s primary tributary north into Wyoming. The landscape begins to change dramatically there, the flat monotony of the Central Plains yielding to a much more varied topography. Where the western landscape begins its gradual rise to meet the Rockies, the North Platte has carved a valley into remnants of the ancestral plains, sculpting cliffs, bluffs and towers from hundreds of feet of sedimentary and volcanic ash deposits. Two of the most prominent are Scott’s Bluff and Chimney Rock, which served as landmarks for westbound travelers and inspired countless emigrant diary entries.

We passed Chimney Rock at ten o’clock. This is the most remarkable object that I ever saw, and if situated in the states, would be visited by persons from all parts of the world ... It can be seen for 20 miles before you get to it.

— Joseph Hackney, 1849 (Voices From the Trails)

Scott’s Bluffs — this singular formation is one of the great landmarks, about 700 miles west of the Mississippi. At a distance as we approached it, the appearance was that of an immense fortification with bastions, towers, battlements and embrasures.

— Alfred Jacob Miller, 1873 (Voices From the Trails)

They’re impressive if you saw them after having lived your entire life in the eastern half of North America. But if you are a westerner, you might roll your eyes. Formations like that are everywhere out here.

California Hill wagon ruts. (Leslie Leavens photo)

From Fort Kearny, we headed for the town of Scottsbluff, Neb., stopping along the way to examine a set of wagon ruts on California Hill, still visible more than 150 years after they were cut into the prairie soil by countless iron-shod wagon wheels. We also stopped at Chimney Rock National Historic Site to take in the view that had captured the imagination of so many emigrant travelers, although it was late in the day and the visitor center was closed.

It also was cold, windy and wet — again. After minor debate, Leslie and I agreed to abandon our plan to drive to a boondocking site in a nearby recreation area, and headed into town instead for a warm motel room and dinner in a surprisingly good restaurant. It apparently was prom night in Scottsbluff, and we shared the cozy dining room there with a gaggle of young women in sparkly dresses. The Tangled Tumbleweed identifies itself as a “tapas style restaurant” and we took them at their word, ordering numerous dishes and expecting typical small-plate portions.

“Tapas” apparently means something different in a town of 14,000 out on the lonely High Plains. We ate delicious leftovers for the next three days.

Emigrant wagon with Chimney Rock in the distance. (John Krist photo)

Camping with llamas

The weather had improved marginally during the night, so the next morning we visited Scotts Bluff National Monument and hiked along a trail that roughly follows the old emigrant wagon route. The monument’s eponymous bluff looms 800 feet above the North Platte, and is capped with an erosion-resistant layer of 22-million-year-old limestone that has protected the softer sandstone, ash and siltstone beneath it from being consumed by the elements. Bundled against a chill wind, we followed the path as it skirted the base of the bluff  and led us to a faint set of pioneer wagon ruts obscured by the tawny prairie grass of last year’s summer.

Scotts Bluff. (John Krist photo)

It was Day 14 of our road trip, and our destination for the night was a Hipcamp site outside of Casper, Wyo. We headed northwest from Scottsbluff along the North Platte, and crossed the state line half an hour later. Around midday, we pulled off the highway near the small town of Guernsey to visit another pair of Oregon Trail highlights: Register Cliff State Historic Site, which preserves a popular emigrant camp site on the North Platte where travelers carved their names into the soft sandstone of a prominent ridge, and Oregon Trail Ruts State Historic Site, commonly referred to as the Guernsey Ruts, where wagon traffic was forced from the river bank over a hill of the same soft sandstone and in time carved  a 5-foot-deep trench into the rock.

Inscription at Register Cliff. (John Krist photo)

Guernsey Ruts. (Leslie Leavens photo)

The sites are only a few miles apart, and between them we stopped at what appeared to be a convenient lunch spot on the bank of the river. When we pulled in, we found a concrete picnic table and a lovely spit of sand, along with signs informing us that although it was private property, visitors were welcome at “Madison Cook Memorial Beach.”

Aside from an enlarged photo attached to one of the signs, there was nothing explaining who Madison Cook was or why a beach had been named after her. A quick bit of Google sleuthing after we were back home, however, uncovered the family tragedy behind the picnic site: Madison was a local woman whose partner killed her in 2021, when she was only 20 years old. Her killer was arrested and eventually pleaded no contest to a charge of second-degree murder. Madison’s friends and family trucked in sand to create the beach and installed the signage, and the site is now a popular launch and take-out for locals inner tubing on the placid North Platte.

Madison Cook Memorial Beach. (John Krist photo)

We didn’t know any of that as we enjoyed our picnic. What we did know was that it was a peaceful and beautiful spot, with spring sunshine cascading through the still-bare cottonwoods and the river’s gentle current lapping at the beach. As memorials go, it is a fine one.

Beyond Guernsey, we continued on to Casper and our camp for the night at the 30-acre Cloud Peak Llama and Alpaca Ranch, a few miles out of town. As we pulled up the ranch driveway, I climbed out to open the gate. Leslie pulled through, and while I was fumbling to latch it behind us I realized that a mixed herd of llamas and goats and donkeys was headed across the pasture toward us at top speed.

If you have never seen a shaggy adult llama galumphing straight at you, trailed by a thundering crowd of other furry animals of various shapes and sizes, I can assure you it is an arresting sight. I quickly chained the gate shut and jumped back into the van, the four-legged crew tailing us as we drove up to the house. (We got to see the stampede again the next morning, from a more comfortable distance, when a trash truck pulled up at the end of the driveway and the resident menagerie galloped to the gate to watch as the trash cans were emptied.)

King (queen?) of the Cloud Peak llamas. (Leslie Leavens photo)

Our campsite was in the fenced pasture with all the critters, which in addition to llamas included several dogs and munchkin cats, miniature Mediterranean donkeys, fainting goats, horses and chickens. Our host advised us not to leave any camp gear outside overnight because one of the horses would drag it away, so after enjoying the sunset and an unexpected day’s-end rainbow, we packed up everything but our sand mat before retreating into the van for the evening.

The next morning, we found our coffee routine enlivened by the attentions of a miniature horse and a bottle-fed baby goat named JJ who insisted on joining us, which Leslie managed to capture on video. I’m not sure I would want all of our days on the road to begin this way, but it was a charming welcome to Wyoming.

Coming in Part 5: Across the Great Divide.