In the deserts beyond Fort Hall, wagons disintegrated by the heat.

Wheels would fall apart, couplings break under the straining teams.

Still more here was the trail lined with boxes, vehicles, furniture, all the flotsam and jetsam of the long, long Oregon Trail.
The grass was burned to its roots, the streams were reduced to ribbons, the mirages of the desert mocked us desperately.

Rain came seldom now, and the sage-brush of the desert was white with bitter dust, which in vast clouds rose sometimes in the wind to make our journey the harder.
In autumn, as we approached the second range of mountains, we could see the taller peaks whitened with snow.

Our leaders looked anxiously ahead, dreading the storms which must ere long overtake us.