[IX]
THE VOYAGING OF THE PLATTE
Several days had gone by since, on this noon of August 15, in this year 1842, the Frémont little squad, toiling where never before had stepped human foot—foot of Indian nor foot of even hardy trapper—at last stood upon what they believed to be the highest point of the Rocky Mountains. To-day we know that Frémont Peak, at the western border of Wyoming, is not the highest point of the Rocky Mountains; it is outranked by many another peak; but mere figures cannot always measure human endeavor, and in boldly assailing and overcoming this the highest, most kingly peak within their knowledge, there to plant their flag, Lieutenant John C. Frémont and companions show as fine quality of spirit as though the crest had been a thousand feet further. They did their best, to the limit of opportunity.
To-day is August 23. The great South Pass from which still onward stretched into “Oregon” the wagon-wheel track of the first American emigrants has been re-crossed; and again at Independence Rock, Frémont has paused to inscribe amidst the thickly written names a large cross—token of westward pressing Christianity and civilization. This cross he filled with softened India-rubber, to preserve the trace. From the Rock he continued east on down the Sweetwater to its mouth. Here at its juncture with the Platte he is about to launch, on the morrow, his rubber boat.
This boat (which smelled very disagreeable—“wuss’n the tar springs at head o’ Yellowstone,” complained William New) was twenty feet long and five feet wide, when unfolded, and had air-tight compartments to be blown up or inflated so that it should not sink if capsized. It already had capsized, once, on the Kansas River, at the start of the expedition from Missouri.
Now the lieutenant was determined to canoe down the Platte, through the canyons, to see what the river looked like where it was hidden from the trail. Kit Carson shook his head over the plan.
“You’d better not,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. Thar air nothing but red canyons, one after another, cl’ar till the Platte gets out the mountains, at our fust camp above Laramie. Canyons air full o’ falls an’ rapids, an’ some o’ those rocks sticking up will punch a hole in that rubber contraption, sure. Fitzpatrick tried the trip, by boat, once, an’ lost all his pelts an’ ’most lost his life.”
“Chut!” smiled the lieutenant. “My orders are to survey the Platte, and that seems the only way to do it. With this boat and good men to handle the paddle I’ll start at day-break and meet you at Goat Island for breakfast!”
So was it arranged that the main portion of the company should cut across by the land trail, as before taken, for Goat Island where they had left the Platte for the Sweetwater on their way out; and that the lieutenant and his crew should go on down by water.