Sir George Simpson, Chairman Of That Company,
Had Given Me Letters, Which Ensured The Assistance Of Its
Servants.
It was indeed a rest and a luxury to spend a
couple of idle days here, and revive one's dim recollection
of fresh eggs and milk.
But we were already in September.
Our animals were in a deplorable condition; and with the
exception of a little flour, a small supply of dried meat,
and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the trader, had nothing to
sell us. He told us, moreover, that before we reached Fort
Boise, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had to
traverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-
and-twenty hours after leaving water, before we met with it
again. There was nothing for it but to press onwards. It
was too late now to cross the Sierra Nevada range, which lay
between us and California; and with the miserable equipment
left to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach Oregon
before the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by the
winter's snow.
Mr. Grant's warnings were verified to the foot of the letter.
Great were our sufferings, and almost worse were those of the
poor animals, from the want of water. Then, too, unlike the
desert of Sahara, where the pebbly sand affords a solid
footing, the soil here is the calcined powder of volcanic
debris, so fine that every step in it is up to one's ankles;
while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and covering
one from head to heel.
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