Dream Journey

The sun plays peek-a-boo as it awakes from behind Gold Hill.

Its light beams through the camper window and dances on my eyelids. I turn away underneath my down comforter, but to no avail. It’s time to get up. The air inside the camper is nippy and the wind outside holds up its hand to a meadowlark’s flight to the rock. But, with a flick of the thermostat, the heater whirls on and soon I am toasty warm.

A visit to our mini-bathroom is refreshing. Then a few steps more bring me to the fridge and microwave for a delightful breakfast of asiago bagel with lite veggie cream cheese and hot Frappuccino. I settle on the couch to feel the sun’s rays warm my face and give thoughts to our plan for the day.

We’re going to explore the ranch’s neighborhood—the Guernsey historical area of Fort Laramie, Register Cliff, and the Oregon Trail Ruts.

Well-fed and watered, we jump into our car and zoom along the miles of well-paved roads and beautiful scenery. Homes, ranches, businesses, and antelope dot the landscape.

With window down, the wind blows across my cheek. I watch as the grass fields fly by.

And then, I remember…

The sun rolls across the prairie horizon like a giant fireball, shooting its beams of light like arrows into my eyes. I roll away under my blanket, but to no avail. It is time to get up. The air is chilly. I shake out my boots and strap them up. I keep my blanket wrapped around me and my clothes until the shivering stops. I stagger over to the women’s rock to relieve myself. Following me is Grandma Bessie. I must hurry because I know she cannot wait too long.

I walk back to the neighbor’s breakfast fire. It is good to hear voices and to be handed a biting hot tin cup of coffee. The family in the forward wagon is nice. We share what is needed. This morning I feel safe and hopeful as I watch the folks readying the horses and wagons, cattle and goats, for the day’s journey. It is a long line of wagons.

I do not know everyone. Some have great dreams of new life, land, business, wealth: some seem to want to disappear into the prairie grass.

Some days I feel worried. Is our guide honest and good? What will the next hill reveal? Will the wagon wheel hold? Will the corn meal and water last? Mr. Emory, three wagons forward, broke his leg yesterday when the horse spooked—maybe a rattler. He is hurt bad and has to lay in the wagon while Mrs. Emory leads. She is afraid of how he is doing and prays every night that they made the right choice to leave home.

She misses her piano and her sister. The wagons are moving now. Coffee time is over. Little Baby Sara, in the behind wagon, is crying again. I think I’ll carry her while I walk. More grass, more hills today. I’ll do sewing tonight. My jacket and socks have big holes.

About a week now, and I see Ft. Laramie down the hill! I see 10 or 12 large buildings, many soldiers’ tents, wagons, flags, women in dresses and kids running around! I am saved! We will all restock our wagons. Share stories and news. Maybe there will be a community dance! I will brush my hair real good. Maybe trade some stitchery with other women. I can rest for a few days.

The fort is like a city. It has all it needs. I wander around the buildings and breathe in the smells from the bakery. The people’s faces are all different—English, Irish, German, African, Chinese, Nordic. They talk of fur trading, land exploration, mining, railroads and gold. They talk of Indians, some friends and some foes, of treaties and promises, of retaliation, and of getting the good land. The Indians are here, too, trading their pelts for dry goods, tobacco, beads, and alcohol. Whole groups of Indians have set up camp waiting for goods and livestock promised in trade for land.

The officers’ wives talk of Indian raids on ranchers, but they also whisper that bad white men paint their faces and cause the Indians to be blamed for their murderous deeds. I am happy at the Fort. There is a telegraph line. I see the Pony Express change horses. I have new thread and needles. I leave the General Store to hear a child’s indignant screams of delight. The Fort’s pet elk has welcomed himself into the officer’s residence and eaten another toy, “He’s chosen mine this time! Mine!”

A few days hurry by, and we head out from the Fort. I look back. There is hardly anything green to be seen but a few half-dead trees along the parade grounds and some desert roses climbing the Commander’s house fence, but it is an oasis with the Laramie River nearby. As our wagon train snakes out across the plains, I see some Indians watching us from a distant hill. I am searching for a home as I walk through their home. Somehow, I wish we were all walking together towards a better place. More grass, more hills, some wild flowers paint the hills ahead. I feel better. Before dinner, I will gather some flowers and press them into this diary.

This day’s journey ends at Register Cliff. It is like a fortress wall of sandstone 100 feet high, up from the river bed floor. The wagon train beds down and I hurry with my chores so I can run to the rock. Glory! Glory! Look at all the names! See how many folks have come before me! I am not alone! Let me add my name! I am here, too! I am on a great journey, too! I go to sleep with visions of other folks reaching their new homes, their new dreams.

Morning comes. The sun is bright, rolling over the hills. It is too quiet. I hear little baby Sara crying, again. No, it is sobbing. Baby Sara died last night. We bury Baby Sara on a hill near Register Cliff. She will not be alone among the others whose journey ended here. The day is slow to come together, but the wagons must move on. Sara’s mother can hardly move her feet to stay with the wagons. I walk with her awhile.

Another day of prairie, but we roll along the North Platte River. It is wide across this flat land and looks like a road itself. But, we all know by stories from trappers, Indians, soldiers and guides that the river is a force beyond our control. Its gentle surface hides an iron grip that will hold you, wagon, horse, and cattle, and take you down. The cottonwoods bending over the river are weeping for lost travelers.

This day is good. The hills ahead dance with colors, bees and butterflies. The children are singing and playing games on the rocks as we start the climb up the hills on the Oregon Trail. We all are working hard to push and pull our lives up these hills—but the way is marked like an inviting, open door!

The ruts from earlier wagons are clear to mark the trail, and passage is easier over the sandstone openings. We all want to add to the passage and chip away at obstacles on the pathway. A group of soldiers is camped and resting in a nearby gully. It is good to hear familiar greetings. We push on and over several hills. Time now for us to stop and rest. A stream and basin is our wash tub. How glorious—clean clothes for tomorrow! I rest well tonight surrounded by my friends. Tomorrow I will awake to more prairie grass and hills, but I can see a guide to my destination. The night sky is clear of clouds. It will be chilly in the morning. Now I will rest as the silky fabric of the Milky Way floats down and covers me with sweet dreams.

Fort Laramie, Register Cliff and Oregon Trail Ruts are located near the town of Guernsey. From the ranch, it is about an hour’s drive to Guernsey and a full century's journey into the past.

Additional References: Wyoming Cultural Heritage Website, Guernsey Website, Wyoming Tales and Trails Website, on-site information at the National Monuments

-- Beverly Flaven

Note: Beverly's Dream Journey is a compilation of true stories that can be read among many others at the ocations and references above.