Journey Down the Ohio River

May 12, 1818

Dear Diary,

We have been drifting down the Ohio River for three days now on our wooden flatboat, which Pa built himself back near Pittsburgh. The boat is large and sturdy, shaped like a big rectangular box, carrying our entire life within its heavy pine walls. We have our two cows, Daisy and Clover, huddled in the stern, along with crates of tools, sacks of cornmeal, Ma’s favorite rocking chair, and all our winter blankets. The river is wide and brown, sweeping us smoothly west toward our new home in southern Indiana.

During the daytime, Pa and my older brother, Thomas, stand at the long wooden oars called sweeps. They use them to steer us away from dangerous sandbars and fallen logs hidden just beneath the water's surface. Ma says the river is a moving road, carrying hundreds of families like ours who hope to find fertile farmland.

May 16, 1818

Dear Diary,

A heavy fog rolled over the water early this morning, turning the whole river into a silent sea of gray mist. Pa told us to keep quiet so he could listen for the sound of rushing water, which warns of hidden rocks near the shore. Sitting on the roof of the small boat cabin with my dog, Barnaby, I listened so hard my ears hurt. Through the gloom, the tall green treetops on the Indiana shore looked like mysterious giants standing guard over the frontier.

When the sun finally burned away the fog, the landscape appeared grander than anything I had ever seen. The rolling hills were covered in thick, dark forests of oak, maple, and walnut trees. Pa pointed toward the bank and whispered that beneath those tall trees lay rich, dark soil just waiting for a plow. My heart skipped a beat with excitement, though I know clearing that thick forest will mean months of hard chopping.

May 20, 1818

Dear Diary,

We finally landed near a small river settlement called Madison, nestled right beside a wide bend in southern Indiana. Pa tied our flatboat securely to a massive sycamore tree growing near the water's edge. Step by step, walking onto dry land after weeks aboard the boat felt strange; my legs felt wobbly, as if the solid ground were still rolling like river waves!

Today, we began taking apart the heavy wooden walls of our flatboat. Pa explained that nothing goes to waste on the frontier—the timber from our boat will become the floorboards and walls of our very first log cabin. Tonight, we are sleeping under a canvas shelter while Pa and Thomas clear brush for our homestead. As I write this by the warm glow of our campfire, night owls are calling to each other in the deep woods behind us. It feels like the start of a grand new adventure.