In the years since I first started writing novels, I’ve explored the west’s many legends: the gambler, the gunfight, the soldier, the fallen woman, the rancher, the half-breed. I’ve written about the Utes whom I greatly admire as among the best horsemen in the west.
The one symbol – or legend – I’ve never written about, but have been fascinated with, is the emigrant.  I’m in the midst of correcting that neglect.

One of my friends disagreed with my use of emigrant in speaking of those traveling across the country to California or Oregon. Emigrants, she contended, come from other countries. But that was the term given them in my handy “The Prairie Traveler” written in 1859 by an Army officer.   I mentioned the book before and you’ll probably hear much more from it because it has become my bible.

While it’s fun writing about the vivid characters that populate western fiction, I don’t think there’s been enough written about the “everyman” who risked everything to make the four to five month perilous journey to an uncertain future. My true heroes have always been those who packed everything they owned in a wagon, risked Indians and drought and mountains to achieve a dream.

We often talk about movies here. I haven’t seen any mention of a movie called “The Oregon Trail,” starring Fred McMurray, another of my off-beat favorites. It’s probably as true to the real facts as any film I’ve seen.

I come by my interest honestly. I grew up on tales my father told of his father’s homesteading in Arizona. My grandfather took his wife and six children to homestead in Arizona in 1912, and the stories are wonderful, including one in which my grandmother went outside to find by dad, then two, playing with a rattlesnake.

But as usual, I digress. More stories about that later.

I thought, instead, I would include some more information about the trail west for these sturdy individuals. The journey from the jumping off point of towns along the Missouri River to California or Oregon usually took six to eight months. Many guidebooks promised no more than three to four months time – a summer vacation. But the guidebooks were wrong.    Starting in mid-April, the emigrants would discover that the overland passage took every ounce of ingenuity and tenacity they possessed. They traveled in wagons with no springs, under a canvas that heated up to 110 degrees by midday, through drenching rains and summer storms.

Many used my trusty “Prairie Traveler” handbook that advised using oxen instead of mules. You could also hitch a cow to a wagon if necessary, or ride an oxen as one would ride a horse.

One feature that fascinates me about the “Prairie Traveler” is the mile by mile description of the route. By the mid 1850″s the trail was plain for all to see, worn by earlier wagons, but information was still necessary.

Here are a few excerpts from the Handbook giving directions from Westport, Missouri to Pike’s Peak.

4 ½ miles (west from Westport): Indian Creek – the road runs over a beautiful country. Indian Creek is a small wooded stream, with abundance of grass and water.

8 3/4: Cedar Creek – the road passes over a fine country, and there is a good camping place at Cedar Creek.

8 ½ miles: The road is smooth and level, with less wood than before. Camping good.

9 ½ miles: Willow Springs – at nine miles the road passes “Black Jack Creek,” where there is a good camping place. The road has but little wood upon it at first, but it increases toward the end of the march.

At 20 miles, our traveler reaches the Big Bend of the Arkansas – “The road strikes the sand-hills of the Arkansas River. They are soon passed, however, and the level river bottom is reached. The river has a rapid current flowing over a quicksand bed . . .

Then we reach Black Squirrel Creek. “This is a locality which is very subject to severe storms, and it was here that I encountered the most severe snow-storm that I have ever known on the first day of May, 1858. I would advise travelers to hasten past this spot as rapidly as possible during the winter and spring months . . .”

And on it goes, mile by mile, the handbook stating where the grass and wood flourished, where to cross the river, and remarking on the best sites for camping, hunting and resting.

It makes fascinating reading, particularly as I imagine myself sitting on the wagon seat, my backside longing for the day to end, yet looking forward to the next stage of the journey.

I’ll continue to offer more directions in coming weeks and hope you’ll come along for the journey.

Do you love stories and films about real Western characters?  I do.  One of my favorites is Calamity Jane, whose outrageous lifestyle and genuine courage made her a frontier legend.

The record of Calamity Jane’s life is a mixture of fact and fiction.  Much of that fiction was invented by Calamity herself.We do know that her real name was Martha Jane Cannary, and that she was born in Missouri in 1852. In 1866 her family emigrated to Montana.  Her mother died on the trail, and her father passed away the following year.  Martha Jane became the head of the family and eventually struck out on her own.           

By the time she was 13, Martha Jane could cuss like a man and had learned to like whiskey.  She was a fearless rider and a dead shot.  In 1870 she became a scout in the campaign against the Indians.  At this time she began dressing in men’s clothes.  Sometimes she even passed as a man.  Her heart was warm and womanly.  But men’s clothes suited the rough work she did.  Her appearance also made it easier for her male associates to accept her as an equal.           

 Around the same time, she acquired her nickname.  Calamity claimed it was given to her by an officer she rescued from an Indian attack.  More likely it came from her way of drawing trouble wherever she went.  As one old-timer said, “If she sat on a fence rail, it would rare up and buck her off.”           

 Calamity remained with the army until the mid-1870’s.  Then she met James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickock and rode with him and his friends to Deadwood, South Dakota.  In Deadwood she worked as a pony express rider carrying the U.S. mail through dangerous country.           

Legend has it that Calamity and Wild Bill were lovers.  She was almost certainly in love with Bill, but he was married to a girl back East and had no romantic interest in Calamity.  After Bill was shot dead during a poker game, Calamity chased down his killer.  The man got away but was eventually recaptured and hanged.Calamity remained in Deadwood for a time.  During the winter of 1878 she helped nurse residents through a smallpox epidemic.  After that she returned to the army for a time, drove freight wagons, tried ranching, and finally drifted to Texas.           

In 1885, at the age of 33, Calamity married Clinton Burke and later gave birth to a daughter.  No one knows for sure what became of the child.            

By now Calamity Jane was a legend.  Friends persuaded her to cash in on her fame.  She toured and made many public appearances, some of them with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.  But hard living had taken its toll.  She returned to South Dakota where she died in 1903, at the age of 51.  At her own request, she was buried next to Wild Bill, “the only man I ever loved.”           

I’ve always wished someone would make a good, historically accurate movie about the life of this amazing woman (the Doris Day musical, delightful as it was, doesn’t count).  How about you?  What actress would you cast as Calamity?  Who are some of your favorite real-life Western characters?  Don’t forget to sign up for our contest!  We have some great prizes.               

Confession time: I am the probably among the world’s worse travelers when it comes to packing.

When I go on a trip, even a weekend trip, I have a tendency to over pack. This is particularly true when I’m driving. I will take at least two suitcases, an ice chest, a minimum of five books and quite possibly the kitchen sink.

I think it goes back to my childhood. I was a Campfire Girl. Like Girl Scouts, we were taught to always be prepared. You never know, for instance, whether there will be a freak ice storm in August, or a heat wave in January. You never know whether you’ll be tempted to go to a formal restaurant or a Kentucky Fried Chicken window. And I must have at least two bathing suits and at least one coverup for frequent trips to a pool.

I know. Excuses. Excuses. But I can’t help myself. I’m a packaholic.

Everyone has their most admired person. My most admired person is Libby Hall, president of RWA when I first went on the board. We had ten day meetings in July – three to four days of board meetings and six days of conference. Most of us dragged huge oversized suitcases, book bags, carry-ons and purses large enough for a Great Dane. Libby carried one carry-on for all ten days. Ten days! Ten days of parties and formal events and presiding over luncheons and dinners, etc. Wonder of all wonders.

I was shamed but, unfortunately, not shamed enough to change my profligate packing.

So I was bemused — while researching a new western series – to find a recommended wardrobe for one man embarking on a three-month journey across the western plains. It comes from “The Prairie Traveler,” the Best-Selling Handbook for American Pioneers (published 1859).

Here it is:

2 blue or red flannel overshirts, open in front, with buttons.
2 woolen undershirts.
2 pairs thick cotton drawers.
4 pairs woollen socks
2 pairs cotton socks.
4 colored silk handkerchiefs.
2 pair stout shoes, for footmen.
1 pair boots, for horsemen.
1 pair shoes, for horsemen.
3 towels.
1 gutta percha poncho.
1 broad-brimmed hat of soft felt.
1 comb and brush.
2 tooth-brushes.
1 pound Castile soap.
3 pounds bar soap for washing clothes (for three months?)
1 belt-knife and small whet-stone.
Stout linen thread, large needles, a bit of beeswax, a few buttons, paper of pins and a thimble, all contained in a small buckskin or stout cloth bag.

Being written by a man, it doesn’t deign to offer advice on women’s wear, but I would guess it would be two dresses, two pair of cotton drawers, etc.

I fear I would make a terrible pioneer, but the above information provides some inspiration. Perhaps on the next weekend trip, I can leave the kitchen sink at home.