In the sage lands there came points where one might say the Trail could be identified by its "countenance", that is by the shade of color of the sage growth, sometimes only a very light shade at that, yet unmistakable where one had become accustomed to see it, like a familiar face. To me this search became more and more interesting, and I may say fascinating, and will remain a pleasant memory as long as I live.
It is not my purpose to give a detailed account of this second trip beginning at The Dalles, Oregon, March 16, 1910, and ending at Puyallup, Washington, August 26, 1912, twenty-nine months and ten days, but only refer briefly, very briefly, to some experiences, a passing notice only.
At San Antonio, Texas, we camped in the Alamo, adjoining to that historic spot where David Crocket was killed. At Chicago the crowds "jostled" us almost like the experience in New York three years before. I crossed over the Loop Fork of Platte River, three-quarters of a mile wide, in the wagon box under a moving picture camera to illustrate the ways of the pioneers of the long ago. We encountered a veritable cloudburst in the Rocky Mountains in which we very nearly lost the outfit in the roaring torrent that followed, and did lose almost all of my books and other effects. Later Dandy pulled off one of his shoes in the mountain road and became so lame we were compelled to abandon farther driving, then we shipped home. Then came the great misfortune of losing Jim out of the car, and never got him back. Nevertheless, I have no regrets to express and have many pleasant memories to bear witness of the trip. All in all it was a more strenuous trip than the drive to Washington and all things considered it was prolific in results.
Part of the time I was alone; but I didn't mind that so much, except for the extra work thrown upon me.
One more incident, this time a pleasant one:
One day as I was traveling leisurely along, suddenly there appeared above the horizon veritable castles—castles in the air. It was a mirage. I hadn't seen one for sixty years, but it flashed upon me instantly what it was—the reflection of some weird pile of rocks so common on the Plains. The shading changes constantly, reminding me of the almost invisible changes of the northern lights, and it so riveted my attention that I forgot all else until Jim's barking ahead of the oxen recalled me to consciousness, as one might say, to discover Dave and Dandy had wandered off the road, browsing and nipping a bit of grass here and there. Jim knew something was going wrong and gave the alarm. Verily the sagacity of the dog is akin to the intelligence of man.
As just recorded, the second trip was ended. I had long contemplated contributing the outfit for the perpetuation of history. It did not take long to obtain an agreement with the city authorities at Tacoma to take the ownership over and to provide a place for them. Before the whole agreement was consummated the State of Washington assumed the responsibility of preserving them in the State Historical Building, where by the time this writing is in print the whole outfit will be enclosed in a great glass case, fourteen feet by twenty-eight, in one of the rooms of the new State Historical Building. The oxen, from the hands of the taxidermist, look as natural as life, while standing with the yoke on in front of the wagon, as so often seen when just ready for a day's drive.
The wagon, typically a "Prairie Schooner" of "ye olden days" of the pioneers, with its wooden axle, the linch pin and old-fashioned "schooner bed", weather-beaten and scarred, would still be good for another trip without showing wobbling wheels or screeching axle, as when plenty of tar had not been used. Of this "screeching" the memory of pioneers hark back to the time when the tar gave out and the groaning inside the hub began with a voice comparable and as audible as of a braying donkey, or the sharper tone of the filing of a saw. Is it, or was it, worth while to preserve these old relics? Some say not. I think it was. Taxidermists tell us, barring accidents and if properly cared for, the oxen are virtually indestructible and that a thousand years hence they may be seen in this present form by the generation then inhabiting the earth, who may read a lesson as to what curious kind of people lived in this the twentieth century of the Christian era.
A map of the old Trail nearly forty feet long has been made with painstaking care, an outline of which will be painted on the inside of the glass case. Nearly a hundred and fifty monuments, or thereabouts, have been erected along the old landmark. Photographs of most of these have been secured or eventually all will be. The plan is to number these and display them on the glass with a corresponding number at the particular point on the map where each belongs. These will doubtless be added to as time goes on to complete the record of the greatest trail of all history—where twenty thousand died in the conquering of a continent, aside from the unknown number that fell by the resisting hand of the native uncivilized savages. It's a pathetic story and but few, very few, of the actors are left to tell the story.