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FORD!

Ford.

Ford it, it's only two feet deep!

3ft and under its Ford time, 3-4 feet is dicey, 4 ft or more is caulk or ferry. So anyway FORD.

FERRY!

I mean, FORD! Prefect.

Ford. This is probably gonna be the easiest river on the journey.

The Fording was uneventful, as usual. Mike Wong was seriously wondering what all the fuss was about crossing the river. If the whole trail was like this, well, he was beginning to regret buying a life insurance policy for his family back in Boston, but that was neither here nor there. The trail was ahead of him, and at this rate he would be in Oregon by Christmas.



Fort Kearney was the next stop on the road to Oregon, and there was no was that anything could go wrong now. Mike looked at the food supplies, We're already a third of the way through our food. I'm going to have to hunt for some more or buy more pretty soon.



Removing his hat, Mike Wong knelt down off the wagon and inspected the hastily made grave in front of him. A grim reminder of the harshness of trail life.



Too puzzled for words at what the epitaph could possibly mean, Mike Wong quickly paid his respects, stumbled back to the wagon and started moving.



With everybody so quiet and somber, the entire party just continued on autopilot, nobody really paying attention to where they were going. Everybody was just going forward. After 3 days, Wayne Poe, noticed that something was wrong. the flagpole that held the colors of Fort Kearney was nowhere to be seen, when they should have been less that twenty miles away. It had happened again, with everybody pondering Andy's fate, the wagon had followed the wrong trail. Losing another five days.

However, they had made it to Fort Kearney, and it was time for a well deserved good night's sleep. The trail would await them in the morning.



Okay, while we are at the Fort, should we buy more supplies, or trade with the locals? Or change our pace and rations for the rest of the the journey.

Glorious!

Top off the ammo, buy a bit of food, replace anything lost.

Increase the pace. While Oregon is the land of Milk and Honey, we'll need to build housing once we get there. And Mike is no carpenter.

Don't buy anything or trade.

Buy some food and start booking it to Oregon. I'm tired of this bullshit pace, hurry the fuck up!

Phantasee wrote:Buy some food and start booking it to Oregon. I'm tired of this bullshit pace, hurry the fuck up!

You buy Food?
Ahahah
Seriously that's what the guns and bullets are for, you don't ever need to buy food, go hunting once a week to top off food supplies. This is the Oregen Trail gods'darn it. There's 400 hundred pound meaty buffalo and beers everywhere!

Except in the desert, where all you have to hunt are rabbits.

Indeed, there's 235 pounds of food in reserve. Start hunting!

Hawkwings wrote:Except in the desert, where all you have to hunt are rabbits.

Buffalo are in the desert to, they just don't come to far from the edge of the screen so you have to use the patented "Death Blossom" hunting style to catch one.

Refreshed after a good nights sleep at For Kearney, Our intrepid party set out for Chimney Rock. It was some distance away, but that ground would be covered in no time! They were determined to get to Oregon.



With food supplies reaching a new low, and most everybody sick of Wild Fruit, The decision was made to hunt for more food. After several unsuccessful attempts at hunting for food, Mike Wong, a banker who had never touched a firearm in his life before managed to down a buffalo, a deer and a rabbit.



Totalling over 900 pounds of fresh meat. However, the rest of the party was far to squeamish to handle moving dead animal corpses to the wagon, and only 100 pounds of meat was brought back.



It was June now, summer, the hot sun had withered the grass to nothing. Without the grass, the oxen couldn't eat, and they too began to whither under the warm weather.



The water was drying up and not a drop could be spared. Still everybody pressed on and soon they had arrived at Chimney Rock.



The hot sun had caused the meager amounts of rabbit meat that nobody wanted to touch to go rancid. However, nobody was aware that the rabbit's meat had spoiled. On a dare, Dalton had eaten the rabbit meat in a single sitting.

That night, while everybody was asleep in the wagon, Dalton was shot awake with an odd feeling in his gut. Recognizing what was wrong, he raced out of the wagon, clenching his asshole shut with all the force in the world. Not 10 feet away from the wagon, the pressure was too much and he dropped his trousers and evacuated his bowels within 10 seconds.



In Dalton's frantic rush out of the wagon, he had pushed Uraniun out of his was. Unfortunately, Uraniun was balanced on the rear edge of the wagon, repairing the canvas covering. Dalton's mad dash cause Uraniun to lose his balance and fall, face-first toward the ground. Guided by instinct, Uraniun put out his hands to brace the fall. However, he fell with enough force that his arm broke instantly upon impact.



As if to add insult to injury, the commotion had caused Mike Wong to lose the trail and start forging a new one. The only problem was, it was in the exact opposite direction of Fort Laramie. Many harsh words were had at the expense of the oxen-driver over that. They were only five miles from Fort Laramie what they got lost.



After a short 4 days to get back on the trail, they had arrived at Fort Laramie in one piece.



After consulting the map and taking an inventory of the supplies, the food situation was worse than ever.

Here's how you hunt: kill a couple buffalo, or enough other stuff to get to the max weight carryable, then you go back, then you immediately hunt again, and repeat until full.

Son of a bitch!

Dalton wrote:Son of a bitch!

It's cool man, it happens.

Let's do what Hawkwings said. Tomorrow we hunt and hunt, until we can't hunt no more. We have lots of bullets.

Heal and press on!

Hawkwings wrote:Here's how you hunt: kill a couple buffalo, or enough other stuff to get to the max weight carryable, then you go back, then you immediately hunt again, and repeat until full.

I haven't played The Oregon Trail in a long time, particularly the original Apple ][ version like here, but wouldn't one buffalo be enough each time?

And for the record, if you shoot over 800 pounds, Indians will not show up and help you carry the rest back to the wagon, no matter what all your backseat-driving friends in typing class said.

Dalton wrote:Son of a bitch!

I think the proper expletive for you would be "shit".

Spanky The Dolphin wrote:And for the record, if you shoot over 800 pounds, Indians will not show up and help you carry the rest back to the wagon, no matter what all your backseat-driving friends in typing class said.

Well shit, there goes that plan.

Sell the clothes, and use the money to buy food. Then kill every single animal between there and the Snake River.

Unless the intrepid adventurers particularly want to stay warm via man-love once the winter arrives, selling clothing is likely contraindicated.