Journal of a Journey to the Mississippi

May 14, 1843

Dear Journal,

The thick wooden wheels of our covered wagon groaned loudly today as we bumped along the muddy trail in western Kentucky. We have been traveling for weeks, leaving behind our old farm to head west toward new opportunities. My boots are caked with dark Kentucky soil, and my legs ache from walking alongside our heavy oxen, Barnaby and Duke. Mama says that patience is just as important as sturdy leather boots on a journey like this. Whenever the wagon tilts over deep rutted paths, my little sister Clara squeezes her rag doll tightly, while I hold the reins to keep the oxen calm.

May 17, 1843

Dear Journal,

We paused near a clear stream this afternoon to give the livestock a chance to rest and drink. While Papa checked the iron rims on the wagon wheels, Mama and Clara searched the forest floor for wild greens and berries to supplement our meager rations of salted pork and hard biscuit bread. The forest here is filled with towering oak and hickory trees, but Papa pointed out that the trees are starting to thin. He told us that the great Mississippi River is just beyond the next rise of hills. The thought of reaching the western border of Kentucky makes my heart beat fast. That river marks the boundary between the world we know and the vast wilderness ahead.

May 19, 1843

Dear Journal,

We finally reached the high bluffs of Columbus, Kentucky, overlooking the massive Mississippi River! I stood on the edge of the high clay cliff and gasped at the sight below. I had never seen a river so wide, muddy, and powerful. Giant logs floated down the rushing brown current as if they were nothing more than tiny wooden toothpicks. Far across the churning water, I could see the distant green shore of Missouri. Down at the riverbank, a heavy wooden ferryboat was waiting to carry wagons across the deep water.

May 20, 1843

Dear Journal,

Tonight is our final camp on the Kentucky side of the river. The evening air smells of river silt and woodsmoke from our burning oak campfire. A few other pioneer families have joined us at the landing, and their voices sound comforting as they swap stories of the road. Mama baked sweet cornbread in the heavy iron Dutch oven, and Papa played a lively tune on his fiddle while Clara danced barefoot near the fire. Tomorrow morning, our wagon will roll onto the creaking ferryboat, and we will cross the mighty Mississippi. I feel a strange mix of fear and excitement in my chest, but as I look up at the bright blanket of stars above Kentucky, I know we are ready for whatever lies across the river.