It's hard now to imagine that kind of travel and the daily tasks

Hear, O child of the present age, the words of James Houston, who said: “It’s hard now to imagine that kind of travel and the daily tasks they simply took for granted. If a wagon axle broke, you had to stop and carve a new one. To cross a river, you sometimes had to build a raft.” In these words we hear both astonishment and reverence, a reminder of the endurance of those who came before us. For he speaks of a time when survival was bound to skill, when every journey was not convenience but conquest, when the ordinary traveler was also carpenter, builder, and warrior against the elements.

The essence of this saying lies in the recognition of forgotten resilience. In the modern world, we journey with ease—cars repaired by unseen hands, bridges built by others, rivers crossed in moments. But Houston reminds us that in ages past, the path was not smoothed. To travel meant to wrestle with the land itself. A broken axle was not a cause for complaint, but a call to craftsmanship. A river was not a scenic view, but a trial demanding invention. What they took for granted were not luxuries, but the unyielding necessity of self-reliance.

This truth echoes in the annals of history. Consider the pioneers of the American frontier, who set forth across plains and mountains, their wagons creaking with every mile. When a wheel splintered, they did not wait for aid—they felled trees, shaped wood, and repaired what was broken. When rivers rose, they lashed logs together, guiding their families across waters that could sweep them to death. These were not grand feats of heroism sung by poets, but daily tasks—ordinary to them, extraordinary to us. Their lives remind us that endurance is not found in moments of glory alone, but in the quiet, relentless labor of necessity.

Think, too, of the ancient migrations—the Norse who sailed into stormy seas, the Polynesians who crossed the vast Pacific guided only by stars, the Mongols who rode across steppes with little more than tents and herds. Each act of travel was a battle with the unknown, each day an act of courage. For them, hardship was not an interruption, but the very rhythm of life. Houston’s words call us to remember these forgotten ancestors of endurance, whose bones and stories built the world we inherit.

But there is also here a warning for the modern soul. To forget the strength of the past is to weaken the present. We live in an age of ease, where rivers are bridged, wagons replaced by engines, and the smallest delay becomes complaint. Yet Houston’s voice reminds us: the blood that carved axles and built rafts flows still in us. We are not as fragile as we believe. Within us remains the same resilience, waiting to be awakened not only in crisis, but in daily life.

The lesson, then, is this: do not take for granted the hidden labor that sustains your journey. Honor the resilience of your ancestors by cultivating resilience in yourself. Learn to mend what is broken, to adapt when faced with obstacles, to face the river not with despair but with invention. For to depend entirely on ease is to forget your inheritance; but to embrace challenge is to reclaim your strength.

And in practice: when confronted by hardship—whether in work, in family, or in the secret struggles of the heart—remember the wagon axle, remember the raft. Ask not, “Why has this happened to me?” but “What must I build to endure?” Let every challenge be your river, every setback your broken wheel, and every response your proof that you carry within you the spirit of those who carved survival from wilderness.

Thus, Houston’s words echo as both tribute and call: a tribute to those who came before, who endured with patience and skill, and a call to us, to remember that what they did as daily labor, we may also do in spirit. Carve your axle. Build your raft. Endure your journey. For this is the legacy of humankind, and it is yours to claim.