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Reminiscences by Maj. J. G. Trimble, United States Army, (Retired) - Page 1
The following data is extracted from Northwestern Fights and Fighters.
I. The Kind of Country They Marched Over
Should an officer stationed in Oregon receive an order about the 25th of December to march his company three hundred miles to take part in an Indian war, both he and his men would, most likely, consider the same a very cool proceeding. And they did. Now, this is about the distance from Camp Harney to the Modoc country. Our instructions were "light marching order," instead of comfortable wagons where one could stow a tent and numberless blankets. However, what comforts or necessaries could be taken along were piled upon those unfortunate mules and off we went.
The snow lay pretty deep at home, but we launched out into the great prairie, which resembled one huge, fleecy cloud, and in imagination the effect was the same as riding on the unsubstantial sky which possessed almost as much sustaining power. We plodded on through the virgin whiteness, never before disturbed by foot or hoof, and at the day's end dismounted to sleep in its folds. The old campaigner does not, however, take such a desolate view of the situation.
Instantly, on halting, the great sage-brush plant is lighted; no shivering over a few green boughs or saturated logs dug from the wet, but a veritable can of kerosene. This great source of comfort in the winter wilderness grows to the height of six feet or more, bearing branches some inches in thickness and a stock fully half a foot in diameter, all oily and odorous. One bush is sufficient to thaw the benumbed feet and limber the aching joints. Then a pile can be gathered for the cooks and the fire by night. And in the same dreary neighborhood grows the red willow fringing the springs; this adds an intensity to the heat more than enough for all purposes.
Thus we moved on day by day, varying the monotony by an occasional dousing in slightly frozen streams, climbing the rugged bluffs, skirting the shallow lakes, winding over the great alkali plains that are even in summer white as snow. At the end of one hundred and fifty miles we ascended the mountain ridge that incloses old Camp Warner.
Now we quitted the sage-brush and the wind-swept valley for the somber solitude of the forest. Here the snow lies deeper, and our tired and panting animals must be lightened and shown the way. Here our spare grain sacks of "chicken gunny" are brought into service for foot-covering; and unlucky is he who fails to secure a supply of these air-letting stockings, the coarseness of the texture preventing the melting of the snow on the foot.
Now is our camp cheered by the fires from the pine, fir and juniper, and we linger long at night beside the fragrant heat. The hungry horses champ the scanty supper from the canvas nose-bag, threshing their icy tails and glancing with knowing looks at the accustomed blaze. The isolated sentinel moves cautiously among them or seeks shelter beside the convenient tree. The storm rages far overhead, and the air is filled with glistening diamond-like particles. The great forest monarchs bend and crack in the blast, ever and anon with a shiver discharging their overladen tops. At last fatigue claims rest. So, scooping the snow from the frozen ground on which we scatter a few hemlock boughs, all stretch themselves beside the smoldering logs in chilly slumber. This is the oft-repeated picture of our bivouac.
In the dark, cold morning after rather superficial ablutions, the frozen lash-ropes are thawed, the packs adjusted and we move out, but do not mount; horses will wade through snow two feet deep by alternating the lead, but beyond that man must break the way. So on we go, up and down the mountain, plunging sometimes armpit deep, dragging our unwilling beasts and often stopping to rescue a comrade or his horse from total submersion. The blazes on the trees are quite indistinct, the storm battening the snow far up on the weather side. The fairy-like track of the snowshoer can be sometimes sighted through the timber. He is our mail-carrier in these parts. Lightly equipped with letter-bag and staff, he skims quietly past the pine openings, up and over the ridge, and disappears. He is seldom met by the weary traveler blundering along the heavy trail, who casts envious glances at the beautiful mark which impresses him as the sign of some subtle, hidden motor. Still on we trudged and finally descended the long mountain side into Goose Lake Valley. Now we embarked upon the ice, and a full day's journey was made over the bosom of this beautiful lake.
Again our route took us through the sage-covered
Source: Northwestern Fights and Fighters
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