Miserable

September 16, 1805

I sit here on a log soaking wet from vicious hail and unforgiving rain.  My feet are aching from days of travel.  I counted my tenth blister this morning, it popped and stained my moccasins rose bud red.  My belly is empty crying for any sort of edible substance.  We killed our second colt.  Our spirits are very low.  The steep mountainsides are taking a toll on the horses.  A couple had fallen at least twenty feet, ruining the supplies and leaving the rider with minor injuries.  We finally had to split up in search of game to feed our hungry bellies.