That night I arrived at The Dalles, and drove nearly three quarters of a mile to a camping ground near the park. The streets were muddy, and the cattle were impatient and walked very fast, which made it necessary for me to tramp through the mud at their heads. We had no supper or even tea, as we did not build a fire. It was clear that night, but raining in the morning. Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the Landmark Committee at The Dalles. What should they do but provide a monument already inscribed and in place, and notify me that I had been selected to deliver the dedicatory address! The weather of the next day treated us to some hardships that I had missed on the first overland journey. Ice formed in the camp half an inch thick, and the high wind joined forces with the damper of our stove, which had got out of order, to fill the tent with smoke and make life miserable. The fierce, cold wind also made it necessary to postpone the dedication for a day and finally to carry it out with less ceremony than had been planned. Nevertheless, I felt that the expedition was now fairly started. We had reached the point where the real journey would begin, and the interest shown in the plan by the towns along the way had been most encouraging. [Illustration: The Dalles, on the Columbia River.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN IT was the fourteenth of March when I drove out of The Dalles to make the long overland journey. By rail, it is 1734 miles from The Dalles to Omaha, where our work of marking the old trail was to end. By wagon road the distance is greater, but not much greater--probably 1800 miles. The load was very heavy, and so were the roads. With a team untrained to the road and one of the oxen unbroken, with no experienced ox driver to assist me, and the grades heavy, small wonder if a feeling of depression crept over me. On some long hills we could move only a few rods at a time, and on level roads, with the least warm sun, the unbroken ox would poke out his tongue. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ An apple orchard in Washington.] We were passing now through the great farming district of eastern Oregon. The desert over which we had dragged ourselves in those long-ago days has been largely turned into great wheat fields. As we drew into camp one night a young man approached, driving eight harnessed horses. He told me that he had harrowed in thirty-five acres of wheat that day, and that it was just a common day's work to plow seven acres of land. [Illustration: _Brown Bros._ Where a wheat farm of today has taken the place of the unbroken prairie in eastern Oregon.]