The Oregon Trail ~ by Elyssa

Oregon Trail Story!

It all started in 1840 when 900 immigrants started to cross the Oregon Trail during the Great Migration. For 25 years, people pulled up stakes day after day, moving West. In one decade, 12,000 people made it across the Oregon Trail. My family and I soon headed West with the Migration. I am the oldest of two other kids, my younger brother Christopher and my youngest sister Libbie. Christopher and Libbie were very important to me. I wanted to give them a lot of attention because my mom and dad had frightened them when they told us about the dangers that could happen on the Oregon Trail. They were the loves of my life. I wanted them to know that I loved them and wanted them to be happy. I tried to help them not think about our parents' warnings.

It was tricky packing up our life because our wagon had to be strong and not too heavy. As we traveled, we had to leave things behind. Sometimes it was an easy decision, but other times it was hard. When we decided to leave the rolling pin behind, my mother cried. "Do I have to? It was my mother's. I remember she always used it to roll out her biscuits, and they were awful good biscuits, " she sobbed. The 2,000 mile journey would soon change my family and many others.

In effort to make her feel better, I told her, "We can't give up trying to find our way. But we have to remember that sometimes it takes bending to avoid breaking."

Mom smiled and hugged me.

Before Mom and Dad were sick, and before I felt hopeless, we had many adventures along the trail. They all reminded me to not give up trying to find our way. I had to keep reminding myself that it takes bending to avoid breaking. I prayed that I would not break before getting to Oregon.

Once my father was driving a nail into the wagon to hold a pail for water, the nail flew out and struck me in the eye. Without thinking, I grabbed the nail and pulled it out. I then covered my eye; it was throbbing with pain. I thought that I was never going to be able to see again. Screams filled the air. My dad ran to me, picked me up, and repeatedly asked, "Are you OK? I am sorry! I am so so sorry." I knew he did not mean to do anything to me. I knew my dad felt really bad. "Maybe we should go home," he muttered as he walked away.

I forgave my father for what he did. It caused nearly total loss of vision in my right eye. Now, I can barely see out of it, but luckily, I can still see perfectly out of my left. That was close to a breaking point, but we didn't stop.

Three months later, my brother accidentally chopped off one of my fingers while chopping wood. I look down at my hands everyday. At first I worried that I would not be able to hold my little sister or my little brother. I also thought that I would not be able to do anything with my little siblings because they would be scared of my missing finger. I wanted to avoid seeing people in case they stared. It turns out that I was lucky, it only changed little things in my life. I can still play with my siblings, and do everything I did before without the finger my brother chopped off. Again, I had to remind myself that it takes bending on the Oregon trail, and sometimes it takes losing things that are important!

There were 10,000 deaths that occurred on the Oregon Trail between 1835 to 1855. While people talked about Indian attacks, only four percent of the people who died were killed by Indians. Almost all of the families ran out of food and water . While we were still traveling on the trail, both of my parents got ill with a fatal sickness called Typhoid. My mother recovered from the sickness, but my dad did not. Two months after we left, he died. He left my mom with me, Christopher, and Libbie. I was really sad and I know everyone else in my family was also. My mom and I cried many times a day. Christopher and Libbie were too young to know what was really going on. All they knew was that our dad was gone and was not coming back. "Where is Daddy?" Christopher would ask. "When is he coming back to play?" Libbie would question. Tears would run down our faces as Mom and I would try to comfort them.

We traveled one month after my dad died. It was really hard for my mom after my dad died because he left my mom with Christopher, Libbie and I. When Christopher was only six, we stopped along the Oregon Trail. Suddenly he was gone. Before Christopher disappeared, he told me he would be back in a hour or so. I reminded him, "Make sure you are with a partner. Always go places with someone a little older than you."

"No, no, I will be safe," Christopher promised. Christopher did not want to tell my mom that he was going to go with some Indians to get some help and some food for everyone. He did not want to tell me. All he said before he left was, "I know there is someone that can help us." I didn't listen closely, but when he didn't come back I knew that he had gone with the Indians. He had gone to get some help and trade for food to bring back.

After two days had gone by and my brother was still not back to camp, I was starting to panic. "Is he Ok?" "Is he still alive?" My mother did not want to go look for my brother because she was scared of what she would find. I felt very sad that my mother would not go look for my brother with me. But I had to understand that she was fragile. I realized that my mother was afraid to look because of what happened to my dad and now what she feared was happening to my brother. So I waited, too.

Finally, I gave up hope my brother would come back. I went to look for him in the dim morning light. When I found him, he was laying face down on the ground. The Indians had left him alone with the wolves, and he was torn to pieces. I thought that I had already experienced enough suffering for the whole trip, but when I found my brother dead, not far from the camp, so close to us, my heart shattered. If we had only looked sooner, could we have saved him? What am I going to do without my brother? How will I tell Mom? I also felt fear, who is going to die next? Is it going to be my mom, my sister, or me? It was the first time I felt anger swelling. I was kinda mad at my dad for making us go West. None of this would have happened if we weren't on the Oregon Trail.

Through my tears, I dug a shallow grave. I placed my brother carefully inside and covered him with the dirt from the trail. I said a silent prayer and watered the grave with my tears. I prayed that my brother was in a place where he could play and no longer look for food. I walked slowly when I returned to the trail. I felt broken.

My mother could not go on. We made it to the next settlement and stayed. We lived with other broken souls, too tired and sad to continue on.

Eighteen years later, in the spring of 1858, my mother met and married a man named Elijah Utter. He was a widower with six children. A year later a new baby girl was born. My mom and step-dad often talked about calling Oregon their ''home." We would settle there with numerous families who were ready to continue on. On May 1st ,1860, we were ready to leave, we were ready to brave the trail again.

Everyday we were nearing the most dangerous part of the journey. The wagon train would soon take the California cutoff. We had learned tricks to protect ourselves. When the Indians came, we would get into a large circle, protecting ourselves like we had seen the bison do against the wolves. One time when we were trying to get the last wagon into the circle and he did not make it, he was shot. An arrow killed him. We learned to share food. Many adults were so hungry that they would dig up the graves along the trail, especially of the the young children, with the intention of eating them. My family refused to participate in this practice. They also ate two of the dogs that followed us to Oregon. It was not a place anyone felt comfortable. It was scary. But I kept telling Momma, "Never give up. And never, under any circumstances, think about the facts. We must continue on."

My mom, my little sister and I were sitting in the wagon looking through our supplies for items we could leave behind so our wagon would be lighter. At the same time, our eyes landed on some things that were my dad's. When I saw the clothes that belonged to my father, I started to get teary-eyed. Then I looked at my mom and little sister; they were also teary-eyed. Then my mom started sobbing. She said, "I miss him; I miss him so much! Why was he the one that got sick and did not recover? Why wasn't I the one who did not recover? Why him? Why not me?"

I yelled, "Don't say that. It is not your fault that he did not recover and you did. So...just don't say that."

Thirty-minutes later Elijah walked up and said, "Are you ready to leave?"

My mom wiped her face and said, "Yes, we are ready." Before we left, Mom placed my father's belongings on the ground, next to the trail. "Hopefully, someone will get good use of these." I ran and got my sister and brought her to my mother. We hugged my mom so tightly, she had to tickle us to get us off.

I kept thinking how we were getting closer and closer to Oregon and how it was going to get harder and harder. While I wasn't feeling courageous and I had a lot of fear, I was focused on our future! The most important thing to the rest of my family was getting to Oregon safely, without any more deaths. I wondered about our future, would it be worse or better? I was hoping it was going to be better than on the Oregon Trail. It's important to remember, "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." For us, Oregon kept us going.

By ~ Elyssa