Mother found that first Christmas in the upper valley of the Snake River very different. There had been a comfortable home in Davis County, Utah. But this one-how primitive, how formidable, it seemed. But home it was to be, and there was no turning back, so stated Grandfather whenever he observed a half-wistful, half-longing expression on the face of any one of the children old enough to make comparisons from poignant memories of another home.
The snow had come unusually early that year, the November rains turning to frost with snowdrifts piled high about the few dirt-roofed log cabins that hugged the frozen ground. The mad Snake had gouged its brush lined banks, the frozen slush spreading out into the valley inundated all signs of vegetation.
From various points south, the early colonizers had trekked into the valley, crossing the Oregon Trail at Fort Hall, plowing their way on northward, thirteen days from Farmington, Utah to Egin Bench, a distance of approximately two hundred sixty miles-a record trip. They had used a span of splendid horses on wheel with mules on the lead pulling a lead wagon. Resting the horses at intervals of two or three hundred feet, the women and children had often walked to lighten the load. Over Anderson’s toll bridge at Eagle Rick, the trail led, then followed the Corrine-Butte freighting road to Market Lake, on across the sands and lavas to journey’s end.
And now Christmas Eve. A few homemade candles threw questioning shadows about the dark corners of the mud-chinked wall logs and played about the rough puncheon floors. A huge kitchen stove sputtered rebelliously, coughing and hissing as pale flames bravely attempted to eat their way into foot lengths of semi-dry sapling boughs. Mingled odors of foods in preparation for the Christmas dinner permeated the room, foods that would do justice to the occasion. Water barrels but recently filled with icy water from the river bottoms of the Snake had been placed in their respective corners of the kitchen. An uncrated wooden hogshead placed near the washstand was evidence of a recent addition to the family supply of staples, hauled by sleigh outfit from Market Lake, a distance of about thirty miles. Contents? Frozen potatoes shipped by friends from old home in Utah. On the morrow they must be placed out of doors to prevent thawing.
A hewn log work table near the stove was piled high with the ordinary and unusual specimens of culinary achievement. This dinner was to be the highlight of the first winter in the valley. Baked venison, headcheese, finale of the lone porker brought into the valley with the personal belongings; vinegar pie in tallow pie crust; steamed “Lumpy Dick” frozen potatoes with crackling gravy; home-bleached hominy grits, and cornbread constituted that well-planned menu.
Several beds had been spread down on the well scrubbed floor, with the smaller children clambering for the feather tick. From nails conveniently pounded into wall logs, knitted stockings had been suspended, their grotesque contours suggesting the contents; popcorn balls, molasses taffy, hand carved wooden toys, and rag stuffed Punch and Judy dolls.
As the fire burned low, the contracting wall logs loomed ominously through the night as though to register the rapidly descending temperature without.
A lone coyote call hurtled across the frozen stillness and, reverberating, was picked up and mingled with discordant yelps and howls of approaching band as they slunk across the frozen drifts of buck-brush-studded sand dunes. Father and Mother exchanged knowing glances, and the former looked hurriedly toward his rifle.
Then all was silent; the few gutted candles burned low. A dark shadow cast by the moon, stalling momentarily behind a low cloud, enveloped the valley for a brief second, then all was bright again. Stars flashed beacon-like across the sky. Far across the junipers one star stood out brighter than the rest. A new land, a new home, new friends, yet the same bright star looked down in benign benediction to light man’s way.
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