September 20, 2009

Near Trail’s End

By Mark Gibson
The Chronicle

     The sun has only just risen above the eastern hills, but breakfast is long over and the kitchen packed away. Horses and mules have been fed and watered, night fencing packed into bags and loaded into the back of a horse trailer.      Outriders stand as their horses graze on fresh grass by the water trough, the mules are tied to the sides of the wagons awaiting their harness.
     It’s 7:30 in the morning, Dufur time, and following a full day of rest the Oregon Statehood Wagon Train is preparing for its final day on the historic Dalles Military Road. Some of those riding the trail today have been on the trail for over a month. Others for a week or two, still others have only just arrived to join the train as it winds its way through Boyd, down Eightmile Creek to The Dalles.
     Wagon Master Bill Vixie greets visitors and passengers, checks and rechecks that everything is organized and ready, and by 8:30 the mules are in harness, yoked in pairs and hitched to the stagecoach and two wagons that make up the train.
     With a great many days on the trail, outriders and teamsters know their roles. Kelly Collins rides point, Cynthia Palmquist rides the hindmost, others slip in around and between the wagons and the call is given to start. The train sets out with a rumble of wooden wheels and a clinking of harness chains.
     It isn’t far to their first stop, Dufur School. Children gather in orderly groups, wagons are loaded and driven about the parking lot, unloaded and loaded until all have had a chance to experience, however briefly, what it is like to ride in a mule-drawn vehicle.
     Kids yelp as the stagecoach sways under the weight of the driver mounting his high seat at the front, then the stage lurches forward. The sensation is that of a rolling ship, swaying and bucking atop a heavily treaded bulldozer.
     In the wagons, there is no sensation of being on a ship. They are pure bulldozer, every lump and irregularity of the road transferred directly to the passengers. It is surprisingly noisy, the rumble of the wheels generating a host of squeaks and rattles. The familiar “clip clop” of horse and mule blends into the general roar, accented by the clink of harness chain.
     The short trips around the parking lot give a sensation of speed; it takes longer to load the children then to traverse the short distance. But as members of the wagon train wave goodbye and head for Boyd Loop Road, all sense of speed is lost.
     A mule-drawn wagon travels an average of three miles an hour. Awaiting its arrival on a lonely stretch of road not far away, patience is a first requirement. A good hour goes by before a low rumble gives the alert, and small figures appear around a distant curve of the road. They grow slowly, resolve themselves into outriders and wagons, pass in a roar, and then fade slowly around the next curve.
     By the noontime stop, they have traversed Boyd Loop, dropped down US 197 to the junction of Eightmile Road, where they stop for lunch. In a car, the trip takes about five minutes.
     Joining the train as they pack up the lunch table and head to The Dalles, one realizes just how tough the early pioneers migrating west really were.
     Surrounded by the canvas cover, awash in the rumble of movement, a passenger is constantly adjusting to the little jerks and bumps of forward progress. It’s a little like traveling in a car with cruise control, only the driver is constantly tapping the brake in an irregular pattern.
     Starts and stops are sudden and complete. Surrounded by the din and sensation of motion, one imagines that one has gotten somewhere. It’s 11 miles to the outskirts of town, but a first check on progress reveals that the train hasn’t even begun.
     One doesn’t expect to be wondering, “Are we there yet?” after only a handful of miles, but it’s been hours since lunch. Even this short stretch becomes never ending, traveling along at a fast walk. It’s late afternoon by the time the Columbia River is spotted below.
     After four hours, a mere 11 miles, one can easily understand why the wagon crew, who have hundreds of miles behind them, are talking about the end of the trail, of homes and showers and real beds.
     One can understand, a little better, just how tough the settlers were, who upon reaching The Dalles faced the prospect of rafting their wagons down the Columbia River or crossing the Cascades on the Barlow Road. Settlers who, at the end of their roads, still had to build their homes before making up their real beds.