nt,
the clerk at the store formed the letters on stiff pasteboard. He then
cut them out to make a paper stencil, through which the shape of the
letters was transferred to the stone by crayon marks. The letters were
then cut out with a cold chisel, deep enough to make a permanent
inscription. The stone was so hard that it required steady work all day
to cut the twenty letters and figures: THE OREGON TRAIL, 1843-57.

We drove out of Pacific Springs at a little after noon and stopped at
the summit to dedicate the monument. Then we left the summit and drove
twelve miles to the point called Oregon Slough, where we put up the tent
after dark.

The reader may think of the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains as a
precipitous defile through narrow canyons and deep gorges. Nothing is
farther from the fact. One can drive through this Pass for several miles
without realizing that the dividing line between the waters of the
Pacific and those of the Atlantic has been passed. The road is over a
broad, open, undulating prairie, the approach is by easy grades, and the
descent, going east, is scarcely noticeable.

All who were toiling west in the old days looked upon this spot as the
turning point of their journey. There they felt that they had left the
worst of the trip behind them. Poor souls that we were! We did not know
that our worst mountain climbing lay beyond the summit of the Rockies,
over the rugged Western ranges.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Nooning beside the prairie schooner.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

REVIVING OLD MEMORIES OF THE TRAIL

THE sight of Sweetwater River, twenty miles out from South Pass, revived
many pleasant memories and some that were sad. I could remember the
sparkling, clear water, the green skirt of undergrowth along the banks,
and the restful camps, as we trudged along up the stream so many years
ago. And now I saw the same channel, the same hills, and apparently the
same waters swiftly passing. But where were the camp fires? Where was
the herd of gaunt cattle? Where the sound of the din of bells? The
hallooing for lost children? Or the little groups off on the hillside to
bury the dead? All were gone.

An oppressive silence prevailed as we drove to the river and pitched our
camp within a few feet of the bank, where we could hear the rippling
waters passing and see the fish leaping in the eddies. We had our choice
of a camping place just by the skirt of a refreshing green brush with