Someday I'm going to have to traverse the route of the Oregon Trail.
You see, along those wagon ruts near Fort Hall or the Blue Mountains and Chimney Rock, I've laid to rest some dear friends and family. I owe them all an apology.
If only I had realized just how deadly cholera, dysentery and typhoid fever were, I would have fed you more than your meager rations. I wouldn't have kept such a grueling pace. I would have spent more time with all of you and less time hunting. (Though I would have appreciated if at least one or two of you had come along to carry meat from time to time.)
I regret trying to ford the river when it was 9.3 feet deep, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Next time I'll trade a wagon tongue to hire the guide. I draw the line at the Barlow Toll Road though, it's still a rip off.
Insert Disk 2 into Drive A: to read the rest of this thought.
My brain is a curious thing. It bounces from place to place, from the exceedingly strange to the terribly mundane. Every once in awhile, something will pop into my head that is just completely out of nowhere. Totally random.