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Pacific Springs June 27th 1850

Dearest Mother

The last opportunity of writing home till I reach California now presents itself. Col James Estelle of Missouri has fitted out a mail train at his own expense for the benefit of the emigrants, and is now encamped here waiting for the emigrants as they come up. He will start back on the first of July & expects to reach Western in 20 days,--so I hope you will get this soon after the first of August.

We have just passed the summit of the “South Pass” in the Rocky Mountains. It is according to Col Estelle, 900 miles from St Joseph and 850 from Sacramento City. We are therefore more than half way home and, confidently expect if we travel at the rate which we have been doing to be in the mines in 35 or 50 days more. We have been very successful thus far,--outstripping the greater portion of those who started with us. Our ponies have stood the trip admirably though since leaving the Ferry on Platte River, we have crossed a desert country which has cut down their flesh a little. The health of the men has been first rate with one exception. Mr. Bryant had a chill about 10 days ago which made him quite unwell for more than a week; but we were not delayed at all, and he is now as well, as brisk and cheerful as ever. My own health, (of which I speak because I fear you are too anxious) never was better in my life. The active exercise which I take and the pure mountain air which I breathe cannot but be highly beneficial to health. I would not exchange my present situation in Col Estell’s tent on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, for that which I occupied in Paris last summer for any reasonable amount of money. Not that I have any golden expectations of making a vast fortune in a short time, but that I have sufficient of pleasant duty to perform to keep me constantly employed.
            
But I have told you enough of myself. I must give you an idea of my present position. The latitude and longitude, I do not exactly know, but we are considerably north of West Springfield, and a little farther west than I ever have  



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before. A mile and a half back is the Summit of the backbone of the continent,--the dividing ridge that separates the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific. A guide book before me gives me the Lat and Lon. Latitude 42°, -27’-15’’. Longitude 109°-27’-32’’.  Altitude 7490 feet above the Gulf of Mexico. The ascent of the “Pass” is so gradual that you hardly notice it,--and the dividing point so indefined that you can scarcely ascertain where you begin to descend. On the north the ridge assumes a bolder form and at the distance of 10 or 15 miles are high, majestic peaks, whose heads are wrapped in ever-enduring turbans of snow which gleam beautifully in the beams of the Sun. They have been in sight for two or three days but we shall soon leave them behind us. They will however as long as they remain in sight serve to remind me hourly of the wide spreading and fertile valley of which they form the Western boundary, and in the bosom,--the garden spot of which is my home, my dearly cherished home with its circle of still more dearly cherished inmates. I know not why it should, but the thought that I have now looked for the last time, for an indefinite period, on the Mississippi Valley and that henceforward my path lies through a new and untried region, which has nothing connected with it in the way of association that interests me, has thrown more of a damper over my spirits within the last few hours, than I have felt since leaving home. But I know that such feelings produce no particular good and I shall soon shake then off.

We are now descending towards the Pacific, and shall probably be on the descent for a considerable length of time.

When I dispatched my last, which was by a Mormon mail train just from the “City of the Salt Lake”, I was in too much of a hurry to write a memorandum of where I was. We were within a day’s drive of Fort Laramie, 670 miles from St Joseph and had a few hours previous obtained for the first time a view of the pioneer peaks of the mountains. Since then we have passed some magnificent scenes, of which I should much like to give you a description. The famous rock Independence we passed on Saturday evening last. It is a huge oval boulder of solid granite, 600 yards long, 200 or 300 yards wide and 25 feet high. The “Sweetwater” River,--a beautiful mountain  



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stream, and a tributary of the Platte, runs within 10 or 12 feet of the Southern extremity, and across this narrow strip runs the road. At this point the rock is covered with names of travelers, painted in large letters with paint made of tar or gunpowder & water. They are a real curiosity to the visitor,-- there are so many, and from all parts of the U.S.
            
Eight or ten miles West of this rock it appears as though the Creator foresaw the emigration to California when the earth was framed, and cut out the mountains accordingly. A huge barrier of granite running from N. to S. crosses the road and at a distance seems impassible; but on a nearer approach a notch is seen through which the road runs as smoothly as on the verdant plain. But the surrounding desert would still be untracked by human beings were there no passage for the waters of the river which flows from the West, and again is displayed the power of the Supreme in a scene which at once fills the mind with admiration and awe. About a quarter of a mile to the right of the notch through which the road runs, the solid granite wall, 400 feet high is cleft asunder and a gap of 80 feet in width presents itself. The river enters over rough masses of rock, but nothing heeding, it seems to gather strength from opposition and rushes on with redoubled speed, foaming, dashing, and bounding, sometimes falling perpendicularly six or eight feet, till it emerges once more from its rocky prison, and glides out again into the beautiful as smoothly and peacefully as though nothing had ever ruffled its placid bosom, unfortunately it was at that time that Mr. Bryant was sick, or I would have had a sketch of it from him to send to you. I can’t describe it properly—it is sublime, awful, beautiful far supreme I would suppose to the “Natural 
Bridge” of Virginia and were the stream as large and the mountain as thick would rival the famed passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge. I climbed to the top of the cliff over the river, and plucked some twigs of cedar,-- one of which I enclose. The place is called the “Devil’s Gate”.
           
The waggon has passed on to seek a camping ground for the night, and I must hasten to join my comrads. I shall expect a peck of letters at Sacramento. Give my love to all. 



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I have not time to enumerate and specify, so I hope no one will consider himself or herself slighted or forgotten. I forget no one.

Remind Fanny of her promise to write. I got but one or two letters from her while in Paris, but they were worth their weight in gold. I expect to hear from you dear mother as often as your strength permits you to write.

Farwell! Believe me as ever
                                           
Your most affectionate son
                                                             
Elisha