Fort Bridger was beautifully situated near one of the tributaries of Black Fork, 124 miles northeast of Salt Lake, at an elevation of about seven thousand feet above the sea. Some incidents in the history of this Fort in its relation to the Mormons, as given to me personally, may be more properly mentioned in another chapter. At Fort Bridger we found many Snake and Bannock Indians, who were then at peace with all the world, except the Sioux. It was reported that three thousand Snakes had left this post the week preceding our arrival. The scenery between Fort Bridger and the entrance to Salt Lake valley, as observed from our pathway, is grand and interesting. Having passed over the divide and thence down to the swift waters of Bear River, we again ascended to another summit and thence into the upper entrance to Echo Canyon, a wild gorge hemmed in by sandstone cliffs. Toward the close of the day we overtook a Mormon farmer having a wagonload of garden truck and other produce. We had not tasted a fresh vegetable since leaving Nebraska City in May, and it was now the eighth of August. We were in a frame of mind similar to that of the Israelites in the wilderness of Sin, when they sighed for the good things back in Egypt. Paul was delegated to interview the farmer in a diplomatic manner and if possible negotiate for something to eat, but under no circumstances to divulge the fact that we were famishing for a change of diet, which if known might cause the farmer to establish high prices, for he certainly had an effective corner on the green goods market. Paul reported that the best prices he could obtain were six bits, or seventy-five cents, per pound for butter; eight cents per pound for potatoes; ten cents for onions. "Did he say six bits?" asked Uncle Simeon Cobb. "He did," replied Paul. "Then he is from Missouri," continued the deacon. The order finally was to buy potatoes and onions. "They are a good buy," said the deacon, whereupon we instantly went into camp. In fact, it was near the close of the day, and the clear, bright waters of Echo Creek rushing down the narrow gorge, and the little patches of grass on which our horses might revel, presented every inducement needed for pitching our tent, but the supreme reason was onions and potatoes. Soon the delicate fragrance of frying onions, as all pervasive as the aroma of an orange grove, was diffusing itself throughout that beautiful and magnificent valley. The party watched around the campfire, as if in fear that something might be wasted in the air. The potatoes, carefully counted, were placed beneath the ashes, where for one long hour they must lie unseen and untasted. How long and how many its sixty minutes!