I will admit it has been a while since I have last recorded my thoughts and progress on this adventure. The last four weeks have been very busy, what with the move from Indiana. We began the hectic week arriving in Independence, Missouri. Tomorrow marks a momentous occasion for our family. It is the day we head onto the trail. We have stayed for a week in Independence and are ready to leave. Allow me to run you through the events leading up to now.
Upon our arrival in Independence, around noon on May, 1, the first thing we did was to set up camp. We unanimously decided on laying out the tents and wagon on the outskirts of town, around three miles east of Independence. We chose to leave Laura, Anne, and Grace at our camp. Our plan was for Laura and Anne to stay with Grace and keep an eye on her during daylight hours, whilst I was in town.
Each day I traveled by horseback to the small Missouri town. The first day I took preliminary actions to ensure the success of the trip, buying supplies. People have said that Independence sells you items for the cheapest compared to forts along the way to Oregon.
I decided to take advantage of this by asking around to see if anyone had any recommendations on where I should shop. Next to everyone said they prefered Muhlenbruch’s Market. One friendly couple, however, stood out. They said for the best prices and highest grade products to shop at Jorgensen’s General Store. Knowing I would soon need to begin starting a wagon train, I began to converse with the family. They were Iowan farmers named Kenneth and Erica Flag. It turns out they were moving to Oregon to pursue their farming career, a side reason for our venture. Kenneth and I really hit it off. They also had children, Grace and Josh. There was no question that we would start a wagon train it was simply a matter of finding other members to join us.
We agreed that, to keep things simple I would take it upon myself to find two more parties for the train, bringing our total to four. It wasn’t at all difficult for me to find another person to join us. While looking to purchase spare wagon wheels, I just so happened to bump into a nice Kentucky farmer by the name of James Seiple. He was without a train so I decided to recruit him.
I thought it would be best to buy some food and other standard necessities first. I decided to get small-to-moderate amounts of the following: flour, bacon, coffee, et cetera. We also needed other basic supplies such as toiletries and candles. I’m typically a forgetful person, so I am almost certain that I left something off the list.
Later that same day, James, Kenneth, and I left at about 9:30pm for the Stone Saloon downtown Independence. We talked, almost the whole night, about our life before the trail. Kenneth was a corn, wheat, and beans farmer. He left behind his mother and father back in Iowa. James was the opposite. He raised and sold livestock, but life was getting boring for him. Unfortunately for him, his whole family has been killed due to dysentery and cholera. Where he came from dysentery was very thick and there have been many deaths, many of which came from his family. Nearly half of his small village have fallen from the disease. He is abandoned the near-wasteland for love and a new life in Oregon.
The real questions on our mind, however, were who was to be the last party on our train, and when our soonest possible departure time would be. Regardless, it was late and we all called it a night. Besides, Anne and I would be able to answer the first problem the very next day.
The solution was right in front of my eyes once I returned to the campsite late that night. While I was gone in town, another wagon pulled up around 100 yards north of ours. I waited until the next day to introduce myself and my family. The Swansons were a lovely family of five. Albert, the bread winner of the clan, was a Swedish farmer. They had two boys and a daughter. They spoke little English, but we could still understand bits and pieces.
They were overjoyed once offered the opportunity to join our wagon train. So we then faced our next problem: When were we to leave?  It turned out, we arrived in Independence at one of the busiest times of the year for travelers wishing to get on the Oregon Trail. There were trains leaving the town as far as the eye could see. Because of this, we wanted to take some time and relax before setting off. We also would like to avoid as many traffic jams as possible when exiting town.
We it was also imperative for us to discuss the order of wagons in our train. We organized a meeting in the saloon two nights before our departure to discuss this. We have decided, in unanimous agreement, that the Swansons will lead the group. This is because of their small amount of livestock, a mere two oxen. They also have a 14 year old and a 10 year old son that can help scout at the front. We have decided that they can use my horse for such. My family will be next in line. We have a strong pulling force, keeping us at the correct pace. Flags are next, followed by James Seiple. We decided to keep him last because he is a single man with little distractions. He should easily be able to keep up with the train without lagging behind.
Now the journal is all caught up to the present time. We leave tomorrow.

N. Cline

If I had to guess our average daily mileage from Independence to our current location, Independence Rock, I would say around 15 miles. To say I have been busy would be an understatement. I wake up everyday at 4:00am, awoken by the gunshots of our watchguards. We take shifts in the night to decide who will stay awake and patrol the area at different times during the camp’s slumber. Kenneth and I serve from the time our train begins to sleep, around 8:00pm, to midnight. From there, James and Albert take over until morning. We then round up the livestock and wagons and prepare ourselves for the long day ahead. We wake the children and server breakfast at 5:30am. A trumpeter signals the start of a new day at 7:00. The day from then on is simply work, walking, or guiding the oxen along the trail. Noon is our eating and drinking break. Waiting for noon to come can be difficult, but it gives us hope through the burning heat of the Sun that we can rest soon.
Night is simple. We arrive at what might look to be a comfortable spot, come to find it is no different than the last. In spite of the hard wagon floors or ground on which we sleep, most of our train is asleep in seconds. Part of this is due to exhaustion; the rest is credited to boredom. Before we can sleep, however, we must park our wagons. A traditional way of doing so is driving them in a circle and putting our cows, oxen, mules, and other animals in the middle of the ring. The wagons act as a sufficient pen for them to stay in and rest until the next day comes.
Because I have recorded so few times in this journal, it has caused me to backtrack weeks, or months, at a time. Please excuse my ill preparation as I struggle to recollect some of my fuzzy memories pertaining to the course of events on the trail.
Although we have had many interesting experiences on the trail, only a few stick out in my mind as the most memorable and exciting. Although the Kansas River was more scary than anything else, it provided us with a good experience. There was no denying that the river was wide; in our encounter the river looked to be no less than a quarter mile in width. This didn’t discourage us, though. Albert almost immediately noticed the extreme rocks that lined the bed of the river. There was a sort of path of rocks that looked to have been formed by earlier pioneers and animals. It looked risky, but our only other choice was to walk alongside the river for a better opportunity which might not come. We took the chance. The Swansons went first. Albert guided the oxen while his boys walked behind. His wife carried their daughter safely across. Next it was our turn. We used the same method as them except we kept Laura in the wagon. We made it across safely, however, we lost my farm plow! It quickly moved down the river, faster than I could stop it. James and the Flags made it across fine, other than some lost cooking equipment.
Alcove Springs was the most beautiful sight I’ve laid my eyes on. Roughly seven miles south of Marysville, Kansas, the tall grasslands and wooded groves of the east side of the Big Blue River make Alcove Springs one of the most lovely glades on this side of the Mississippi. My only complaint was the mosquitoes, which were only put at bay by the rubbing of mud on our bodies. We learned of the idea from an Oregon Trail handbook that we purchased back in Independence.
Because of minimal bathing opportunities, I have refused to get myself unnessarily filthy. As a result, I left Alcove Springs with half of my body swollen red with bites from nature’s blood-thirsty insect. The other members of our train, especially Anne, warned me of the risk of the mosquito transmitted disease, malaria. I disregarded their futile attempts to make me spread mud across my body. I still wonder how am still healthy. Maybe it was that I had an immunity to the illness. Or, perhaps none of the mosquitoes that bit me carried the dreadful virus. Whatever the case, I have yet to experience any symptoms.
Other notable mentions along the trail was Chimney Rock, a fantastic landmark in the Nebraska Territory. Essentially, the rock is an enormous stone pillar that stacks 300 feet vertically. Not far away, about 20 miles west, is Scottsbluff, another large rock formation. This one, towering 800 feet, is astounding. To stand at the bottom, it looked like it were to fall on you at any moment. The monument almost looked like a large rectangle in the sky.
Catastrophe has also struck our train. Kenneth Flag’s boy, in attempt to pick up a toy he dropped off the front of their wagon, fellow off their wagon and startled the mules that were walking alongside Kenneth. It was too late to stop the series of events that followed. First, the mules pushed forward, spooking the oxen. The wagon then ran at full speed, moving the train out of line. Somewhere in the process, the oxen had trampled the life out of poor Josh. We held a brief funeral that noon. It consisted of prayers and a proper burial.
We have also experienced other scares. At one spot near Fort Kearny, Anne began to to show symptoms of whooping cough. Her non stop sneezing and coughing led us to believe the worst. Fortunately it went away in three days’ time, proving itself to be a common cold. On multiple occasions, food became increasingly scarce. We were practically forced to slaughter three of our cattle until we could purchase more. It was a good plan.

Many other pioneers have just arrived at Independence Rock. We are still camped here simply to show our patriotism by participating in the festivities for Independence Day.
We have the best camp spot, right next to the rock. In a nutshell, the rock is a very small mountain, and a very large boulder. The children of our train have spent most of their free time playing on the rock. It was great to see them doing something other than walking or sleeping. It was healthy.
What I found most intriguing about the site were the engravings. Nearly everyone here has taken their turn climbing to their desired height to etch their name into the stone. Each family in our train did their own engraving. Most people decided, including us, to keep their message brief and general.

This usually just meant signing their name:

N. Cline Family
July 04, 1848

I plan on writing more frequently.

N. Cline

Our train is camped roughly 3 miles south of Fort Bridger, Wyoming Territory. We were headed here because of its excellent fur trading opportunities. With the winter approaching we thought it might be a good idea to invest in warmer garments and blankets. Unfortunately, we are camped right next to a hostile Indian tribe, the Shoshone. They tried to attack us, but I was quickly able to communicate with them via their translator. It turns out, they don’t have guns, but spears and archery sets. We gave them three of our hunting guns in exchange for them letting us stay here. The other guards and I are taking extra precautions tonight in order to ensure our safety. Some of these include lighting up the camp with candles and guarding different corners of the wagon circle. If they attack us, we will be ready.
Also, a notable mention was that just a couple of months ago, we reach South Pass. The South Pass is a few-mile gap in between the Rocky Mountains. Without the pass, I can’t see how western expansion could be possible. Riding our wagons over the large mountains would be nightmare.

Today was quite successful. We headed north toward the fort this morning and restocked all of our consumables, candles, toiletries, and various other camp equipment at the trading post. The Shoshone tribe, as a whole, were passive. However, some of them must not have gotten the memo. Around midnight, a small band of men sneakily approached our camp, shooting Kenneth in the arm. James, Albert, and I were ready. We struck, retaliating against the five men. They used the guns we had traded with them earlier. It was a full on firefight. Fortunately, we were far enough away that from the Shoshone camp that it didn’t wake them. There were three casualties on their side. My sharpshooter hunting skills fended the other two away. We then reclaimed our guns and kept an even closer watch the rest of the night. We then took Kenneth to the fort doctor, where he was successfully treated for his injuries.
Aside from just resupplying our essentials, we planned to take a short, three day break from the monotonous hiking and traveling. We were disappointed to see that, unlike many forts we’ve stayed at along the trip so far, Fort Bridger was merely a crude collection of rough-hewn log buildings. Because of this, and the rude and insolent community members, we decided to depart by morning. 

N. Cline

It is getting colder out, as we near our final destination. I’m writing this entry late at night, while on guard duty. Today we reached Whitman Mission, a small collection of buildings located in the Washington Territory. For one of the first times along the trip, we have neighbors. They aren’t pioneers, either. We circled our wagons right near a nice family’s farmhouse. The Johnsons are very nice natives of the area, and they taught us much information in regard to the mission.
Whitman Mission was established in 1836. As it turns out, one year ago, there was a massacre here in which Marcus and Narcissa Whitman were brutally murdered by Cayuse Indians. I didn’t let the horrific past of this area scare me away, however.
The mission is located in the Walla Walla River valley. The trip here was certainly a challenge, due to the rolling hills. The grassy meadows and quaint adobe buildings that greet you make the struggle worth it. Once we made it over the final hill and noticed the property in its entirety, we realized it was not the beautiful, flourishing village about which we imagined. The mission is complete with a granary, blacksmith shop, and a mill, many to all of them burned down and raided. The most accurate phrase to describe the mission is a deserted wasteland. Only on the south side did we find a lone wagon parked outside the Johnson’s farmhouse.
In coming here we passed yet another landmark, Soda Springs. Soda Springs is a beautiful area consisting of naturally bubbling pools of carbonated water. I even dared to take a drink of the water. They say not to drink too much, because it may cause you to become sick due the akali.
We have begun to hit mountains, a whole different experience. From a distance they are beautiful. However, as you approach them, you find yourself mentally preparing for the rough terrain ahead.
We wanted to stay for as long as possible, as this is the last stop until Oregon, but we had to leave sometime. The ambience of death and destruction hanging over the place is too much to bare. We just want to rest.  We decided we’d go in two days. I would spend most of my free time talking to the Johnsons. It felt good being able to have a conversation with someone that I haven’t been stuck with for the past six months. It was refreshing.
Al Johnson look roughly the same age as I. They had two children, Manny and John. We discussed anything we could think of. I haven’t seen a newspaper in half a year so it was nice to hear some news. A main topic of conversation was the future. It seemed healthy to look forward to a better life than to dwell on the hardships of the trail.
Like all good things, they must come to an end. We leave tomorrow morning.

N. Cline

The Johnsons told us that, to make it the rest of the way to Oregon, we had two real options. The first was the waterway passage, the Columbia River. The alternative way was the Barlow Road, a long stretch of trail that will lead you to the promise land of Oregon. To avoid major complications, we settled on the Barlow Road.
The family of four spoke of the trail as being thin and difficult to traverse. They said the location was around three miles west of Whitman Mission. The narrow trail, which requires a toll, takes you southwest to Oregon. We trusted their word and headed westbound.
Once we reached the start of the trail, we were greeted by two, armed men. The toll fare varied, depending on what type of animals you had, whether you had a wagon, and other determining factors. As we were a family with a wagon and team, the admission price was $2.50, however, we had six cattle, which were ten cents each. This raised our total fee to $2.80. We only had $1.72 left from our $250. We didn’t come all this way just to have to turn around. Luckily, they accepted barters. We gave them three of our shovels plus the $1.72. James Seiple was the only one on our train who was able to pay the full amount. The Swansons and Flags were also forced to give up some of their valuable farm equipment. The two men also gave us information on how long we would have to travel before we reached the major checkpoints, Dalles, Mt. Hood, and, the final destination, Oregon City. The trail also passes near Fort Vancouver, a last-minute place to restock supplies. By the time you reach that area of the road, however, you are very close to Oregon City, and it would be foolish to stop for supplies.
Today was our first day on the Barlow Road. We have yet to experience major difficulties, but we are expecting some. The trail is only about as wide as our wagon in some places, making the commute a challenge. Also, the trail is jam-packed full. There are miles and miles worth of wagon trains here. It is especially frustrating when a wagon in front of us stops. Well, needless to say, the trip will be over soon. At this point, there is no telling when that day will come.

N. Cline.

We’ve made it to Dalles. We are staying only one night here because we need to keep moving forward. The nights have gotten increasingly colder and longer as the days pass, one-by-one. Our wagon has experienced only minimal damage. Because of the rough road and overhanging trees, our wagon cover has been ripped. Anne plans to use spare canvas to repair it by morning. The Swansons, however, have been so fortunate. One of their wagon wheels snapped along the trail, tipping the wagon drastically to the right. Much of their small belongings tumbled down a ravine, into the river. Luckily, it was already late. The time was 5:00pm so we decided to stop and camp for the night so their wheel could be replaced. The roughness and bumps of the Barlow Road have not caused as much damage as it has inconvenience. Little Grace constantly  complains about her aching tongue, a result of her biting it. Well, in spite of our troubles, and the stress it causes me, I need to get some shuteye. Now that we have reached Dalles, we begin to head north up the road.

Until we arrive near Mt. Hood,
N. Cline

The trail has begun to bend, curving around Mt. Hood. Our instructions, based on our Oregon Trail handbook, show that we head around the North side to eventually head southwest to reach Oregon City. You can see the beauty of Mount Hood from the trail. Updates are minimal. There is simply not much happening.

We are roughly halfway between Mount Hood and Oregon City. Although the temperatures are plunging, we have yet to see snowfall. I believe Grace has fallen ill with the flu. She has begin to show symptoms that lead me to believe so. I doubt that it is anything major.

Grace has passed. During this last stretch, she, my daughter, came down with what we now know to be pneumonia. It was a tragedy. All we could do was sit and watch the life slowly drain from her eyes. She would have loved to make it this far, to start a new life. Anne has wrapped her in cloth. We plan on moving quicker along the trail so that we may bury her properly in Oregon. This is a luxury that we could not earlier afford when dealing with the remains of Josh Flag.

Christmas is approaching, but we finally made it to Oregon City. To say I am happy would be an under exaggeration. I’m elated! Anne, Laura, and the other women of the train kissed the Oregon soil right as we met it. The men, however, are now faced with a more difficult task, choosing land. This is where we all said goodbye. It was one of the most challenging things I have had to do. We have spoken with these people, and lived with them, for the past six months. Now we move our separate ways. Who knows, maybe we'll cross paths again someday.
I have decided to make my claim of 640 acres of land in northern Oregon, near the Columbia River. This is the ideal location because of great fishing, water collection, and recreation opportunities.
We have to go a bit more north than we would have liked. This is because settlers, like ourselves, have been coming to Oregon, via the trail, for the past decade. Lots of good land has already been taken. Granted, they have earned the land the have received. For instance, they didn’t have any handbooks to tell how to get to Oregon safely. The wrote the handbooks. It was even tricky getting to the office to claim the land. This is because of the large number of people now arriving in the promise land.
In spite of the loss of my precious daughter, I think we are all grateful for us having made it here, safe and sound. We stopped right inside Oregon limits to dig her a grave. She will be greatly missed.
We still plan to do everything previously discussed. These include starting a farm, having more children, and enjoying life.
Nobody has traversed the 2,000 miles of the Oregon Trail without sacrifices. If you were to ask anyone if it was worth it, their answer would be no short of a resounding yes. Yes.

N. Cline