We were now on the old and well-travelled Emigrant Trail from the Missouri to Oregon. But emigration that way had mostly ceased, and the general unattractiveness of the country was shown, by its leaving no settlements behind. Much of the route had always been a natural road across the plateaus; but in crossing the "divides" and descending into the abrupt valleys, considerable digging and blasting had been done here and there. We neither saw nor heard of any Indians, and I judge the country as a whole was always too barren and desolate to support any thing but wolves. Night after night we heard these howling around us, and sometimes by day a single cayote would skulk across the road; but they took good care to give our Remingtons and Spencers a wide berth. How the cayotes or wolves of these plateaus, and of the Plains, manage to live, it is hard to say. There seems little for them to subsist on ordinarily. And yet camp where you will at night, an hour afterwards the whole surrounding landscape becomes vocal with them. First, it is a solitary yelp, and then a constantly widening chorus, until thousands of the cowards seem to be on the bark. One night we got out to walk, over a piece of extra bad road, and as we rounded a rocky point toward the coming station, suddenly a score or more of them opened on us at once. It was pitchy dark, and the suddenness of their onset certainly startled us; but we sent them our compliments in the direction of the sound, from a Spencer carbine and two revolvers, and that was the last we heard of them. The Indians sometimes counterfeit their howling, in order to take travellers unawares; but otherwise, however startling, there seemed to be little real danger about it, as they seldom or never attack a man.
We crossed Snake River on a rude ferry-boat, stage and all, and found it to be there some two or three hundred yards wide, by perhaps forty feet deep. Its banks were abrupt—its water of the same pea-green, as that at Niagara. It was skirted by narrow bottoms on either side, and then came precipitous basaltic walls, hundreds of feet high to the plateau above. This plateau again was of the same sterile character, as the country already passed over—devoid of animal and vegetable life, except wolves, sage-brush and grease-wood, and even these didn't seem much inclined to nourish there. The Snake itself seemed to be an abrupt cut, through the heart of a vast volcanic plateau, as if following in the track of some ancient earthquake.
Snake River Station was on the north side, just at the foot of the high basaltic bluff, which here rears its majestic front six hundred feet or more perpendicularly into the air. Half way up, a small river bursts forth, and descends in a beautiful cascade two or three hundred feet, whence it rushes like an arrow down the broken, rocky hillside, and so off to the Snake itself. This fleecy waterfall, against the black basaltic bluff, is the first object that strikes you, as you descend into the valley of the Snake, and is a charming feature of the landscape just there. Our route lay along the Snake for many miles, and at several other points we observed similar cascades, on both sides of the river, though none so large or lofty as this. The conclusion seems inevitable, that subterranean streams, having their sources in the far away Mountains, pervade all this barren region; and could these be tapped and brought to the surface, all these plateaus might be made cultivable and fertile. No doubt a way of doing this, by artesian-wells or otherwise, will be found in the future, when the continent fills up more, and Idaho becomes necessary. But these cascades could be utilized immediately, to irrigate much of the bottoms of the Snake at trifling expense, if anybody chose to settle there. These bottoms, as a rule, appeared very rich; but in the absence of rain there for months, were no better than a dust heap. At Snake River Station, indeed, attempts had been made to raise potatoes, and other garden vegetables, and the results seemed encouraging. No doubt, rye, oats, barley, and flax might be grown there thus very readily; but probably the region is too elevated, and too far north, for the more delicate cereals to succeed well.
The great American Falls of Snake River were twenty miles or so farther up, and, much to our regret, we failed to reach them. Mr. Halsey intended taking us that way, but he was already overdue in Boisè, and as I myself had lost a fortnight by illness at Salt Lake, and the weather was threatening, we concluded to hasten on. These falls have been described by some travellers, as much superior to Niagara; but the station-keeper at Snake River said he had visited them the previous spring, and they seemed to him to be only about a hundred feet or so in height in all. He described them, as consisting of two Falls—the first about twenty-five feet high, with foaming rapids to the second or main fall, which itself then goes down perhaps seventy-five feet or so more. He said, however, that a party of soldiers, from an adjacent post, had measured them only a few weeks before, and they reported them as one hundred and ninety-four feet high in all, by perhaps two hundred yards wide, and with the black basaltic walls of the cañon rising some six hundred feet above them still, on either side. During seasons of high water, this would make them quite worthy, indeed, of their great reputation. But the volume of water there for many months in the year must be so small, that it is to be doubted whether they ordinarily approach the grandeur and sublimity of majestic old Niagara. However, Idahoans set great store by these Falls, as the chief wonder of all that region; and as the country just there has little else to brag of, perhaps it is well not to gainsay them.
From the Snake to the Boisè, as already intimated, the country was, if anything, still more barren and desolate, than the region we had just passed over. In some places, it was strewn thick for miles with black volcanic stones and rocks, glazed and scarred by ancient fires, with no signs of ordinary animal or vegetable life anywhere. In such localities, the wolves disappeared, and even the inevitable sage-brush and grease-wood disdained to grow; or, if they grew at all, only eked out a miserable existence. Once across this high "divide," however, we struck the valley of the Boisè, which soon introduced us to an excellent region again, and as we neared Boisè City we found ranches and farms everywhere thickening up. Horses and cattle were out grazing by the roadside in considerable numbers, and down in the bottoms frequent squads of stacks indicated, that goodly crops of hay and grain had been cut and harvested. Wagons now appeared again on the road, as beyond Bear River, (we had not met a single one since leaving there), and people flocked to the doors and windows as the stage rolled by. Once across the "divide" between the Snake and Boisè, the whole country sloped gently to the Boisè, and we spun along and down these descending grades at a splendid gait. We made one hundred and twenty miles, in the last twenty-two hours out from Boisè City, and rolled up to the Overland House with our last team as fresh and gamey as stallions.
Our general ride from Bear River, however, was hardly an enviable one. There were but three of us—Mr. Halsey, myself, and L. We had mattrasses along, which we carried on top by day, and at night arranged into a passable bed. So, too, we had india-rubber pillows, and robes and blankets in abundance. But the weather was very disagreeable, even for the season, and though convalescent I yet found myself far from strong. We left Bear River about 10 p. m., in an ugly storm of rain and sleet, well tucked in for a night's ride; but in an hour or so were roused up by the stage coming to a dead-halt, and the driver singing out—it sounded half-maliciously—"Good place to walk, gents! Bad place ahead!" Out we got for a dismal walk of a mile or more, through a soft and yielding bottom, where the horses could hardly pull the empty coach through, and then in again with muddy boots and disgusted feelings generally. Just before daybreak, we struck a long and steep "divide," where the sleet had thickened into snow, without stiffening the ground enough to bear the coach up, and here again we had another cheerful walk of a couple of miles or so, to relieve the blown horses. At King Hill, the last serious "divide" before reaching Boisè, we had another promenade of a mile or two, through five or six inches of snow, just after midnight; but I managed to stick by the stage. The weather continued raw and cold, rainy and sleety, by turns, and we found it necessary to keep well wrapped up, except in the middle of the day. At night our mattrasses proved too narrow for three, after all, and Halsey's shoulders or knees were constantly punching into either L. or me. He and L. usually slept right along all night, but I got scarcely a genteel wink from Bear River to Boisè. By sunrise ordinarily we were up, and then came a general smoke and talk over the night's experience. By nine or ten a. m. we halted for breakfast, which usually consisted of chicory coffee, stringy beef or bacon, and saleratus-biscuit. Sometimes we got fried potatoes in addition—which helped the meal out somewhat—but not often. Late at night we stopped for dinner (only two meals a day), which was generally only a poor edition of breakfast over again, with the courses perchance reversed. Bilious and aguish with that accursed mountain-fever still hanging about me, I need scarcely say, I had little relish for such a bill of fare, and indeed scarcely ate a "square meal" from Bear River to Boisè. Fortunately, among other extras, Mr. Halsey had had the forethought to lay in a half a bushel of apples, just fresh from the tree at Salt Lake, and these we all munched ad libitum as we journeyed along. They were always juicy and cool, piquant and delicious, when nothing else was palatable; and for my part, I really don't see, how I would have got through without them. We were three days and three nights on the road continuously, never stopping except forty minutes or so at a time for meals. The last twenty-four hours out, the weather was raw and cold even for November; and as we rolled into Boisè, with every joint aching, the lights of a town never seemed more winning and welcome. At the Overland House, they were already full. But they gave us a good hot supper, followed by a "shake-down" in the parlor, and every comfort at their disposal.
A word more about kind Mr. Halsey. A New Yorker by birth, he drifted west when a boy, and at an early age became clerk on a Mississippi steamer. Subsequently, he followed the Army in 1857 to Utah, and was engaged for awhile in the Q. M. Dep't. at old Camp Floyd. Then he passed into Mr. Holladay's employ, and now for several years had been his general superintendent at Salt-Lake, with a handsome salary of course. He was a quick, sharp man, about thirty-five, devoted to business, and sure to make money anywhere, if there was money to be made. Slightly conservative, he was still a strong Union man, and especially proud of Grant and Sherman, whom he had known before the war. He was a robust and hardy man, of the kind that can chew cast-iron or digest pebble-stones (and hence, Idaho pies and biscuit!), but with a heart as big and tender as a woman's. In the spring of '65, he attempted to stage it from Atchison to Salt Lake, but had to walk most of the way, because of the execrable roads that season. Day after day, he and a single companion pushed on ahead of the coach, frequently fording streams up to their arm-pits, especially among the Mountains, where they must have been icy cold, and never even changed their clothes the whole way. They were never dry, or even comfortably warm, for a day together; and yet they reached Salt Lake all right, and he said, never seemed to mind it. It is of such men, that the Border is made up, and these are the ones that accomplish such miracles out there. Such men are always the pioneers of the race, and the rightful founders of empire. "Natural Selection," I suppose, steps in and duly provides them, by the "survival of the fittest." We were indebted to him for many courtesies, in various ways, and would duly acknowledge this here. Afterwards we met him in San Francisco, and subsequently, I believe, he settled in New York. Stalwart, go-ahead, whole-souled Mr. Halsey, good fortune attend you, wherever you may go!