On
April 1st we bid our good friends farewell. It was a sad day
for us. All our old neighbors came to help us pack our things
into our three wagons, and we set off…. We packed our
cooking utensils, tin cups, tin plates—with provisions
to last six months. Mother, my little brothers—Daniel,
aged ten, and Lemuel, aged eight, and Thomas Crafton, all rode
in a wagon. Our drove of cattle numbered 165, including 28 working
oxen….
Some
of our best oxen became poor and unfit for work, and were left
on the sandy desert, some 40 miles this way of it, to shirk
for themselves; and they probably died, or were “cared
for” by the Indians. An ox would lie down in his yoke,
and could not be got up; so we would unyoke and leave him.
After
passing the 40 mile desert, and crossing the Truckee River thirty
two times, we came to Truckee Lake…some of the way being
obliged to drive our wagon the edge of the Lake; some of the
time the water coming almost to our feet—keeping the women
in constant dread of being drowned. It was a fearful time for
the timid female passengers, both young and old. At night we
camped at the foot of the Sierra Nevada; and were told by the
Pilot that we would have to take our wagons to pieces, and haul
them up with ropes.
[The
men built a road out of stones and dirt.] It took us a long
time to go about two miles over our rough, new-made road up
the mountain, over the rough rocks, in some places, and so smooth
in others, that the oxen would slip and fall on their knees;
the blood from their feet and knees staining the rocks they
passed over. Mother and I walked, (we were so sorry for the
poor, faithful oxen), all those two miles—all our clothing
being packed on the horses’ backs. It was a trying time—the
men swearing at their teams, and beating them most cruelly,
all along the rugged way.
