Let me start by saying what we probably both already know. If I hadn't been spacing (hard) on opium, there's no way you would have convinced me to join you on this harebrained expedition. Give me a break! Find the Pacific Ocean?! You have a great deal of difficulty simply locating where you parked your horse after a routine trip to the cobbler.
As a refresher, that conveniently brings us to the trouble that began nearly from the outset. You hastily accepted a trade with the first Native tribe we encountered, a trade which will be remembered for the enormity of its lopsidedness: all of our horses for one Indian princess. Oh yes, that would be the same Indian princess that easily escaped on one of our horses directly after we handed them over.
(In hindsight, the irony is that there is, of course, no such thing as a full-grown Indian woman. I have to admit now that I'm sorry I didn't speak up. I just thought that was something everyone knew. Didn't you do any reading, or anything, in the weeks leading up to this trek?)
Now. I realize the importance of keeping our morale high. This journey will be very long, and very trying. But I can't help but show my anger in such circumstances as these - anger, by the way, which is by no means alleviated when you flippantly dismiss my concerns and casually suggest that I go to hell. My point is this: our explorers in Egypt and the Ottoman lands at least have camels. Here we are, scarcely out of sight of the Mississippi, and we are already reduced to manually pulling our own supply wagon.
Oh, and despite how tired I may seem from all that pulling - for the love of Thomas Jefferson, stop telling me that the ocean is "just over those hills." We've been gone for barely six hours. I'm willing to wager that we're not making that kind of time. Also, in news that will probably come back to bite us, your recent appointment of me - me, who can barely operate a pencil without drawing my own blood - as chief map-maker indicates that you probably forgot to bring the, um, REAL map for this trip.
Similarly, you've put me in charge of finding new horses.
What I'm getting at, Lewis, is this: Don't push me. I may just make good on my threat to gather up my whiskey, veer off into the wilderness, and die in peace.
Me, go to hell? Why don't you meet me there?
Yours truly,
William Clark
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