Mother, my sister Alta, four years old, and I started. Uncle Whitney borrowed a team and democrat wagon and drove us to Waterloo where we took the train. It was freezing day in the latter part of November 1881. We left Auntie Whitney crying and wringing her hands, saying we that we'd freeze to death, be murdered by the Indians, and a lot more that the noise of the wagon drowned out.
The road had become very muddy and froze. The deep ruts threw the wagon around till we were seasick. It was so rough that a heavy trunk was thrown repeatedly up on the edge of the eight inch wagon box.