Other years when crops failed I started out with a team and covered wagon in the autumn, going twenty miles on one side and seventy on the other to buy and trade provisions. Once on my last trip I was overtaken by a storm. I never crossed bridges until I got to them. I had an extra horse tied beside the team. He got frightened at one of the frail bridges and crowded the team so one wheel slipped off into the mire at Marshaw Creek, ten miles west of Pocatello. The team just could not pull it out even after I had unloaded all the wheat, flour and supplies. I unhitched and fed them and we got up into the wagon to eat our lunch. I always took one of the older and one of the younger children with me. They kept us company and were a great comfort. "We can't stay here all night," said the older child, "What will we do?"
"No one can cross the bridge until they help us out," I answered, and before we had finished our lunch, one of the finest big teams I had ever seen came along. There were two big strong men in the wagon. They had to unhitch and help us out, but then they went on without even offering to help load the sacks of wheat back into the wagon. I managed it someway and was soon on the road rejoicing in our winter's supply of provisions.
The account ends abruptly, with her simply managing things somehow. She doesn't take us very far into her own life. We rather see more into her willingness to get things done on her own, and how much she traveled, often without Fred.
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