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I Don’t Think We’re in Kansas Any More

 

. . . But we were in Kansas for a couple of days, because that’s the beginning of the Oregon Trail (and the California Trail, as I mentioned, which is lesser known because no one made a video game about it). It officially started in Independence, Missouri, then almost immediately crossed into Kansas territory, no river dividing the state and territory.


Our trip out west followed the Oregon Trail as closely
as modern (paved preferred) roads allowed

Besides crossing over into Kansas, we also left U.S. 50, which had faithfully delivered us from Addyston, just down the hill from where we were staying in Cincinnati, to Kansas City. We headed northwest on Kansas 10, and across fields we saw the Blue Mound, the first landmark the emigrants saw on the Oregon Trail. It’s just before you enter Lawrence, and it’s just a hill, about 1,000 feet high, but many of the travelers climbed it for the view.


The Blue Mound near Lawrence, Kansas,
is the first landmark on the Oregon Trail

At Lawrence, we crossed the Kansas River, the first obstacle the emigrants faced. Then we followed the trail north on U.S. 24, and turned off on a side road to stay at Perry Lake State Park. Well, all I’ll say is it didn’t measure up to Missouri state parks. We set up on a very unshady site, where we were scolded by an Austrian lady when we almost put our sewer hose in the water turnoff. But the sign says they have sewers. No, she said, it doesn’t. She was nice, but I told her she should check with management, because it clearly says sewage on the sign. No worries, though, we don’t need it. However, there was also an infestation of Emperor Hackberry moths from the only tree anywhere near our site. Mike didn’t mind them, but they almost drove me batty. They landed on us willy-nilly and it’s weird to be covered by flying creatures. It was sort of like The Birds, but with moths and they didn’t hurt us.


An Emperor Hackberry moth making
itself right at home on my shirt

Before I continue our journey, I want to mention that we didn’t go to Manhattan, Kansas. We were close, but alas, it was not on the Trail. However, it has a large part in the mythology of my family, because in about 1949 or so, my grandmother, Alice, and her sister, Margie, drove my dad’s Model A Ford from Cincinnati to Manhattan, Kansas, where they met up with their son/nephew (my dad), who had gotten a ride to Manhattan from someone at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, where he was stationed. That way he would have his car while he was stationed in Denver. The rest of the story is that he drove the Model A off Long’s Peak at some point, banging up his friend Dick as well as himself, but they both recovered. The Model A did not. But my grandma and great aunt had a pretty great time driving cross country by themselves (as I recall, they took a bus back), and I remember thinking they were a lot like Lucy and Ethel when they told tales about that trip.

Anyway, we missed Manhattan but to get back to the route we did take—we got up early the next morning, packed up quickly to escape the moths, who settled down at night, and headed for Topeka, where we found a pancake house. It was well worth the slight detour from U.S. 24 (the road that currently follows the old Oregon Trail), and we had a delicious breakfast before heading out to find Oregon Trail Road a few miles down the highway, in St. Marys, Kansas. It’s a gravel road now, but it supposedly follows right along the old wagon trail in northeastern Kansas. We saw a cholera cemetery, the Jesuit mission at St. Marys, as well as a Pony Express station and a road ranch for  the trails. Places the emigrants could camp and get supplies were called both ranches and stations.


    The actual Oregon Trail near St. Marys, Kansas             Cholera cemetery on the Trail

Going toward our destination that evening, we passed a historical marker about Alcove Spring, which is now on private land, so we could only read about it. But it seems as if it marked its place in history by being a campsite for the famed Donner Party (before things turned bad for them) and Edwin Bryant, one of the Donner Party actually gave the site its name, because the spring  was located in an alcove in the rocks.

Our last stop in Kansas was at the Hollenberg Ranch, which is, according to their museum, the only Pony Express station still located at its original spot and unchanged since the mid 19th century. The Pony Express was in business less than two years, from 1860 to 1861, before it was replaced by the cross-continent telegraph system, but it made a big impact. We’ve seen a lot of Pony Express stations and roadside markers, especially in Nebraska along the Great Platte River Road portion of the Oregon Trail.

There are historical markers about the Pony Express
all along the Trail in Nebraska in particular

  
One of the rooms of the Hollenberg ranch house
is a recreation of the supply store that would
have sold essential items to the emigrants

And yes, right after we stopped at Hollenberg Station, we crossed into Nebraska and the Platte River portion of our trip. Our first night in Nebraska, we stayed at Rock Creek Station State Park, and we liked it so much we stayed another night. In between, we hiked from our campsite down to the actual Rock Creek Ranch to see the historical sites there.


One of the buildings at Rock Creek Station in Nebraska

Rock Creek Station has a number of buildings, some original, some reconstructed, as well as a bridge over Rock Creek that was rebuilt at the spot where the builder’s son thought it had once stood. There’s a pretty good story about the builder of the Rock Creek Bridge, which is where Wild Bill Hickok got his start as a gunman. David McCanles built the bridge, which he charged emigrants a toll to cross. He made a lot of money during the traveling season, and in the offseason he came up with a scheme: he would sell the bridge to someone in the early fall, when many travelers were still passing through and using the toll bridge, then repossess it in the spring when the buyer couldn’t make payments, since no one took the trail during the winter. He did this three times, but on the third try, the new owner of the bridge had hired some hands to help around the ranch. One of them was James Butler Hickok, and when David McCanles came around to repossess the bridge, Hickok shot him; another hand shot McCanles’s helper, and McCanles’s 12-year-old son, Monroe, took off for his home at that point, surviving the gun fight. Hickok and the other hand buried the bodies and apparently sometime not long after took off west, where Hickok became Wild Bill. A good story, and probably maybe at least partly true.


Wild Bill Hickok (Wikipedia)

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