Is there a more futile quest than striving for historical authenticity?
I’m following in the footsteps of so many pioneers and settlers now. Different footsteps, different routes, depending on the day. On the morning out of Central City, I’m tailing the Mormon Trail, as those bedraggled believers, fleeing westward, deliberately distanced themselves from the more populous trails passing south of the Platte River. I joined the latter the next morning, for a much longer leg linking Grand Island and Kearney.
Marching westward, I was excited for this stretch, feeling almost like I was back on pilgrimage, immersed in the historical narrative of fellow travelers, experiencing the world as they did. If we could superimpose those two worlds–what they saw, smelled, savored–and that of the present, what would look the same? The broad contours of the Platte River, even as depleted as it now is? The bur oak and cottonwood trees, or would I be distracted by the invasive Siberian elm? Certainly, I would have seen some corn, but not the monocrop dominance that is only gradually yielding its hold on the landscape.
Here’s another question: if the historical fiction offered in the present carries sufficient verisimilitude, do I even care if the authenticity is more vibes than substance?
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Roadway Sign: For thousands of Mormons, the great pioneer trail along the north bank of the Platte which paralleled the river about a mile south of here was an avenue of escape from persecution and a roadway to a new life.
Brigham Young led the first mass migration over the Mormon Trail to the Great Salt Lake in 1847. The north bank of the Platte was chosen to avoid contact with the travelers on the heavily-used Oregon Trail that follows the south bank of the river from near Kearney westward. Among the expeditions which followed, were several so poor that pioneers walked and pulled handcarts.
The trail became one of the great roadways to the west, used by Mormons, military expeditions, gold seekers and settlers.
The completion of the Union Pacific Railroad in 1869 ended extensive use of the trail as the railroad tracks followed essentially this same route. Today, the Lincoln Highway (Highway 30) follows this great roadway to the west.
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On this Sunday morning, Highway 30 is largely empty. It’s a funny thing–if I tell people I’m following a major highway instead of minor roads, they’re immediately more concerned about my wellbeing. And yet, something like Highway 30 has a substantial shoulder, the full width of a car, making it markedly safer for a walker than so many of these Nebraska backroads with 65mph speed limits and nothing beyond overgrown ditches to dive into. Regardless of the road, I’ve really had no safety concerns; drivers are overwhelmingly considerate and attentive. Again, though, big highways have some advantages–including gas stations every couple walking hours.
Like the pioneers, my solitude was disrupted more on this walk by the Union Pacific, still chugging determinedly down the tracks every 15 minutes or so, though with fewer risks of bandits these days. On one hand, the parallel highway and railroad have demolished the historic trail; cars and trains rule the roost around here today. On the other, though, they have preserved the skeleton, the bones of the original route, faithfully shadowing the Platte all the way westward.
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Roadway sign: Lone Tree, a giant, solitary cottonwood, was a noted Platte River landmark as early as 1833. Standing on the north side of the river some three miles southwest of present Central City, the tree was visible at great distance. Several travelers estimated they could see it twenty miles away. The tree was especially prominent since timber was rare on the Nebraska prairies except in stream valleys, where it received protection from prairie fires.
The Mormon Trail passed by Lone Tree, as did the Omaha-Fort Kearny stage route. The tree also gave its name to a stage station and a town, later renamed Central City. Ten to twelve feet in circumference, the tree’s total height was about fifty feet; its lowest branches were about twenty feet above the ground.
Passing travelers often camped beneath Lone Tree and carved their initials on its trunk. This probably hastened its end, for the tree was dead by 1863. A severe storm in 186 5 brought it to the earth. In 1911 residents of Merrick County erected a stone in the shape of a tree trunk on the site once occupied by Lone Tree.
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When I walked the Via Francigena in Italy the first time, waymarks were almost non-existent, and the lone guide read more like scavenger hunt clues than a reliable route finder. I’ll never forget one section in particular, where the main landmark was a triangle of trees. We spent the whole day craning our necks and engaging in creative feats of arboreal geometry, trying to turn any trio of trees into a sign of our arrival.
Needless to say, we got terribly lost. Again. I never saw those trees. And, of course, I was more than a little late to see Lone Tree.
As I churn the miles southwest from Central City, though, I realize that water towers and grain silos are the new landmarks, shouting forth the imminence of civilization from miles away–first Chapman on this morning and then the outskirts of Grand Island. There are other signs that I’ve learned to read. A perpendicular string of power lines marks the next road, which also signals that I’ve completed another mile. A small cluster of trees is almost certain to circle a house; a larger one may mark a village. A dark patch on the asphalt warns me to hold my breath for the next ten seconds.
Of course, I need none of that, really. I have gps. If I want to–and most of the time, I really don’t want to–I can calculate the exact distance covered to that point, the miles standing between me and coffee, the time to my final destination. If I’m curious, I can figure out the name of the place five miles north, or the creek I just crossed, or when I’ll be moving into the next county. There’s an order to everything.
The pioneers, after the very first couple waves, weren’t without intel. They knew the broad contours of the journey; there were resupply points to aim for, some forts offering the veneer of protection, and some fellow travelers with whom they could exchange best practices and expand their knowledge base. And yet, at the end of the day, they often operated with plans consisting of “aim for the lone tree and hope for the best.” With their lives, livelihood, and children all hanging in the balance.
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Roadway sign: Driven from Nauvoo, Illinois, Mormon leader Brigham Young led the first migration up this valley in 1847 to found the proposed state of Deseret, now Utah.
During the following two decades, thousands more gathered at Winter Quarters on the west bank of the Missouri River near present Florence, Nebraska, before beginning the trek across the plains and mountains to their land of Milk and Honey. The journey called for strength and courage, as well as faith, for tragedy often stalked their wagons and handcarts, turning this valley into a Mormon “trail of tears.” Hundreds of pioneers lie buried along this trail, most in unmarked graves.
After 1860 the overland trail along the south bank of the river was lined with road ranches and stage stations, but the Mormon Trail had few such conveniences, and the pioneer settlements here in Hall County were almost the last vestiges of civilization until the travelers reached Utah.
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The tables have turned. Today, the conveniences line the historic Mormon Trail, and Grand Island offers them in abundance–including a giant casino and the state fair. Ultimately, though, what sold me on following the highway today was my desire to see the Stuhr Museum. Admittedly, a 200-acre living history museum with more than one hundred buildings isn’t the easiest sell on a long day, but the wonderful woman at the entrance admitted me for free and let me leave my pack up front, and that made all the difference.
This was an opportunity to subsidize my imagination with some legitimate historical artifacts. The centerpiece of the Stuhr is their replica of an 1890s Railroad Town, composed of actual rail-town buildings that have been relocated and preserved here. The on-site blacksmith, who mercifully wasn’t expected to operate “in character,” explained to me that the blacksmith shop has been in constant operation for six decades, and was moved wholesale from another town 30 or 40 miles away when the proprietor died.
The town ticked all the boxes–the general store, the newspaper, the schoolhouse, the church, the train station, the veterinary shop, the sheriff, and so on. I caught myself, though, enjoying the idyllic quality of the “town,” with the acres of gently-waving prairie grass encircling the old buildings, and no one to be seen outside but me. There were no harsh smells; no abrasive noises; no unpleasantness offered by a hard-scrabble, tough-living crew. What bigger misnomer is there than “living history;” this place has been stripped of everything that made it lived-in, leaving it as nothing more than a melatonin-laced theme park. That reads like a harsh indictment, but I really like the place, and I’m glad I structured my itinerary around it. But here we are again–authentic history is a hard thing to grab onto.
The mill brought me the biggest surprise. Henry Glade, a German immigrant, established the Glade Mill in Grand Island in 1884, and his sons took over following his death in 1915. A few years later, they joined with several other mills to form Nebraska Consolidated Mills. They kept growing over the years. And then, in 1971, they changed their name. To ConAgra.
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Roadway sign: On July 14, 1867 Mrs. Thurston Warren was murdered by Sioux Indians as she stood in the doorway of her log cabin home located one half-mile north of this spot.
When found, her baby, Thomas, was still clasped in his mother’s arms. Another son was severely wounded but he recovered.
Roadway sign: Nathaniel Martin, age 15, and Robert D. Martin, age 12, while fleeing from a war party of Sioux Indians, were struck by two Indian arrows, one of which pinned the two boys together. They fell from their horse and were left for dead, but survived.
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Descending southward from I80 and the Platte River, I hustled through the darkness to Doniphan. Just three miles away, it offered the lone town I would encounter today. The lone mini-mart. I wouldn’t see another shop until Kearney, some 51 miles from my starting point–whenever I happened to get there.
The grid system has conquered the land south of the Platte, forcing today’s pioneers to “descend the steps,” walking west, then south, then west again, in order to parallel the Platte’s southwestwardly flow. Corn and soybeans fill many of the mile-by-mile quadrants, but prairie grass is gaining prominence. As the sun rises behind me, there are stretches–on dirt roads, waist-high grasses waving all around, packs of cattle racing in fields parallel to me, when my imagination asserts itself with undue confidence, declaring that this, this, smacks of the authentic.
My vigilance is minimal. I turn back every so often, just to make sure that a truck or UTV isn’t sneaking up behind me. More often than not, though, I release myself into a flow state, and the miles fly by with little consideration. There is no urgency. There’s nowhere to go. No schedules to hit. At some point, I’ll need to find some water, but I’m going to trust that this will take care of itself.
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Roadway sign: Sandhill cranes are one of the oldest avian species still in existence. Their fossil record dates to at least 2.5 million years ago in North America. However, their ancestors inhabited these lands for even longer. In fact, a ten million year old fossil believed to be the remains of a closely related crane species, due to structural similarities, was discovered in a region of northwest Nebraska known as Agate Fossil Beds.
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I’m here at the wrong time. Crowds still flock to this part of Nebraska today, but not for walking. It’s for birding. This is crane country, and in March these roads are filled with folks who come to watch the Whooping and Sandhill Cranes make their annual migration. It’s hard to imagine what that’s like, walking through here in August, when the viewing platforms look like abandoned settlements, gradually being overtaken by prairie grass.
If the people on the land and the land itself have been transformed, perhaps the birds flying overhead offer historical continuity? Ten million years in Nebraska! That’s a hell of a track record. Even here, though, we can see the modern transformation at work. Another placard notes that Nebraska once contained three million acres of wetlands, but 35% of those wetlands have been lost, with most of the rivers and streams flows being modified in service to farming and towns. The loss of those traditional prairie ecosystems have also contributed to the decreasing supply of groundwater, and thus the Crane Trust frames its preservation efforts as an attempt to protect the interests of wildlife and people alike.
The cranes, too, have suffered. Where there were once 10,000-15,000 whooping cranes flying over North America, that number had plummeted to ~1000 by the mid-1800s, as a consequence of over-hunting along with declining habitat. And then it got much worse; at its nadir, there were only 15 whooping cranes remaining. We’re back over 500 now, but the population remains vulnerable.
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Roadway sign: The growth of overland emigration to Oregon after 1842 resulted in the establishment of military posts across the West to protect travelers. The first post, Fort Kearny, was established in the spring of 1848 “near the head of the Grand Island” along the Platte River by Lieutenant Daniel P. Woodbury. It was first called Fort Childs, but in 1848 the post was renamed Fort Kearny in honor of General Stephen Watts Kearny.
Despite its lack of fortifications, Fort Kearny served as way station, sentinel post, supply depot, and message center for 49’ers bound for California and homeseekers traveling to Oregon and the Pacific Northwest. By the 1860s the fort had become a significant state and freighting station and home station of the Pony Express. During the Indian Wars of 1864-1865 a small stockade was apparently built upon the earth embankment still visible. Although never under attack, the post did serve as an outfitting depot for several Indian campaigns.
One of the fort’s final duties was the protection of workers building the Union Pacific. In 1871, two years after the completion of the transcontinental railroad, the fort was discontinued as a military post. This site has been entered on the National Register of Historic Places.
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My excitement is building. Look, we don’t have castles in America, but we do have forts, and if they’re a very pale imitation at least they share the same species. And Fort Kearny is ahead, pulling me forward through the late afternoon, as the sun finally tips over my hat bill and hits me squarely in the face.
My excitement is dashed. For every kid who ever built a beach fort by jabbing sticks of driftwood into the sand, congratulations! You have the same design skills as the creators of Fort Kearny! In the midst of a big grassy field is a large square of posts. That’s it. This offered all the defensive qualities of hiding under a sheet. A relief, I suppose, that this was never attacked.
Even this skeletal structure, though, is a mere reconstruction. All the original buildings were torn down after the military fort was discontinued in 1871. Appropriate archaeological studies were conducted to inform reconstruction efforts, but all that exists here today is a modern reproduction.
I plop down on a bench in the shade to scarf down the remainder of my supplies–half a cheddar-jalapeño focaccia and an avocado–and make a decision. Should I call it a day and camp in the back corner, or push on the remaining seven miles to Kearney? It’s nearing 8pm, but I’m feeling good, and there are thunderstorms in the forecast overnight. What’s a little more?
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What authenticity did I experience over these two days? The trails are long gone, as is the lone tree; the Stuhr’s railroad town is an idyllic husk; the cranes are four months’ past; the wetlands have dried up and corn dominates many miles; the most important landmark of all, the fort, is a fiction.
Perhaps the authenticity rests in the dream itself–of moving westward, of facing uncertainty with ample measures of preparation, self-confidence, and trust, of belief in the fact that the destination down the unknown road will be a good one. And even if Kearney is a sprawling behemoth of a freeway town, it’s good enough for a couple days.
