Day Three

July 2nd, 2014

We had our own tender mercy this morning. We slept at a campground last night, and so were not as close to the bus. We knew we were in a bit of a hurry, but we were counting on Grandpa to give us warning of when the bus was going to leave.

As we pulled into the parking lot, we looked around, and the bus wasn't there! Mom pulled her phone out to call Grandpa, and then realized that her phone was off. We didn't know where the bus had gone, or where our first stop was. 

Mom turned her phone on and called Grandpa. We then found out that for the first time ever, the bus had taken a wrong turn and had to backtrack (since this happened, there has been at least one other wrong turn that has turned out to be very helpful for us). 

If this hadn't happened, we would have been at least ten minutes behind the bus, which meant that we would have missed much of our first stop, which was Chimney Rock.

Chimney Rock is a rock that looks like a chimney (betcha couldn’t have guessed that!). It juts up about 200-300 feet. It has a wide base, and then narrows into a single rock column. This rock happens to be very significant in the history of the west. 

We were able to see the rock up close through our bus driver's camera.

When the westward-ho adventurers came across the U.S on the Oregon Trail, they passed right by this rock. As this was before the age of digital photography, computers and easy long-distance travel, this was probably one of the most amazing natural wonders that the travelers had ever, or would ever, see. More than that, it was a mile marker and a beacon of hope. It was a significant and very recognizable landmark. 

One interesting thing about our visit there was the signs all over the trail in front of the visitor’s center, and just all over in general. They looked like this:

Our guide told us that every visit so far, he had seen at least one rattlesnake. Ok, I don’t like snakes. At all. Especially ones with long, painful and poisonous fangs. I was a little bit nervous, but as long as I stayed in the middle of a large group, holding someone’s hand (and maybe a weapon), and watched all sides of me at the same time, I was fine (jk, I wasn't quite that bad).

I loved the last words inscribed on the grave of a Mormon pioneer we visited:

her last words are inscribed on the bottom and start with "tell John..."

We then went to a national cemetery. There were thousands of graves, many of them from unknown U.S. soldiers.

The amount of graves, and the knowledge that this cemetery, Fort McPherson, was one of the smaller grave sites, was humbling. I could really feel a special spirit.

The grave we had come to visit was especially sad.

The massacre represented by this common grave was the start of the Great Plains War, and it all started with a Mormon Cow (and yes, this cow started something so big that it deserves to be capitalized).

It was a whole fiasco with a cow wandering into an Indian camp, the Indians eating it, the Mormon who owned it complaining to Ft. Laramie, and a detail sent to the Indians. 

The commander brought a drunk translator. The translator deliberately screwed the translation, and the soldiers thought the Indians were saying, “No cow. No deal.” (Really, they were trying to say they already ate it, and negotiate on the price)  

So the commander ordered the cannon fired (just in the air). Unfortunately, it was full of grapeshot and was fired right into the Indians, killing the chief. They promptly massacred the soldiers. 

Only the translator and one soldier escaped; the soldier wounded. That was the start of the Great Plains War.

After we visited the cemetery, we drove to the hotel in Kearney, Nebraska. We went swimming, and had a nice evening.

See ya!