Walking in their footsteps

That’s exactly what we did.  Two weeks ago my family got the opportunity to walk or Trek as we called it along the same trails that the Mormon pioneers took coming to Salt Lake City, Utah in the 1800’s. The planning for this huge undertaking began last January.  Six out of the eight members of my family joined a group of 500 that spent a week just outside of Rawlings, Wyoming.  We retraced the paths taken by the Martin and Willie Handcart Companies. 

The facts of their journeys were these: they left Iowa City too late in the season, had to take Handcarts that were made with green wood, encountered the worst winter storms in Wyoming’s history and suffered more than we will ever know to get their Zion, Salt Lake City.  The miracles, feelings, and experiences of those incredible people is quite a different story altogether. And I’m humbled to say so was my time out in the sage brush and vast nothingness of Wyoming.

My surroundings were not of blizzarding snow, freezing drifts or the ever present torment of starvation but instead scorching heat, dehydrated teenagers, latrines and the constant layers of sand covering every inch of me.  It would have been easy for me to hold tightly to this list of complaints, add more to it and conclude that my time there had been miserable but instead I followed the example of those early saints, saw beyond the physical irritations and embraced the spirit of that place.  I’m in no way saying that the conditions we dealt even began to scratch the surface of what those brave people endured only that we had a decision to make on how we viewed our experience. We chose to think on that time as incredibly spiritual and feel pride that we earned the right to feel it.  It was definitely one of the hardest things I’ve ever accomplished.  Pulling a real handcart down dusty roads in  above 90 degree heat while trying to keep eight teenagers (that were not mine but assigned to my husband and I as our ‘Trek kids’) hydrated and on task was a bit daunting at times to say the least. But I’m still marveling over the fact that after four days these kids are wrapped up in my heart.  Four days.   I know they are mine because we worked, pushed, pulled, sweat, gasped, laughed, cried, loved, ate, worried, talked, hugged, all of us together.

I woke up the morning after we got home early, which was crazy because I was tired enough I thought I’d sleep for a week.  Phrases and words pulled me from my coma-like sleep 6:30 am.  They whispered thoughts and feeling about our incredible experience.  The writer in me had been inspired with a ferocity that would not let my tired body rest.  I grabbed my journal and took it out to the cool morning air of my front steps.  Words and tears flowed freely for the next three hours.  I couldn’t get it all down fast enough.

 

 

I’d like to share a part of it with you.

 “The sun never neglected its duty on our trip.  Not once.  It shown down on our heads with the determination of creating human jerky. This fact coupled with our own resolve to drink water as though our life depended on it (it did) created the women’s bathroom line phenomenon.  The scourge of Trek.   The women in these lines had four layers of clothing between them and the foul smelling, although better than sage brush, latrine.  Add to the fact that we were sweating everywhere made the wait for each girl impossibly long.   I fell victim to it all.  Someone must always be last in line.   It is the nature of lines.  Someone will be first, lucky girl and someone will be last, me.  I was last out of the latrine in Martin’s Cove.  Trent (my husband) was told to go on and I’d catch up.   I came out and everyone was gone.  We had already been walking at our ‘let’s get there first’ pace and the thought of going even faster to catch up made me more than a little upset.

Combine mad thoughts with the opportunity to stomp quickly in the dirt and you’ve got one very dangerous Beckie (me) at the end of the trail.  Poor Trent took the brunt of it with both barrels.  I not only had to cover the distance between us quickly but I had to maneuver around other carts and their families.  And to top everything off I was half way back to my group when I realized I’d left my water bottle back in the bathroom.  Just great!  Once I’d caught up, everyone had enjoyed their rest, filled their water bottles and were quite ready to walk through the sacred Martin’s Cove.   I however was not.  Trent being the sweet husband that he is told one of the coordinators about my missing water bottle’s location and carefully came back over to me.  That man deserves a metal more often than not.

There was a path that wound through the rocky hills. (The picture above is from Martin's Cove) Sage brush popped up through the dirt and huge bouldering rocks created a secluded ravine. This was Martin’s Cove. Leaving our handcars at the bottom, we walked silently through the hills because our LDS Prophet had declared it sacred ground.  We were to respect it as though we were in one of our LDS temples. 

  I think with any normal winter storm those pioneers would have found a bit of shelter from hills but they did not endure a normal winter storm.  They suffered through the worst storm in Wyoming’s history.  Snow, hail, drifts and 70 mph winds tormented them.  All the while, they pushed hand carts with their loved ones.  Elderly, small children.  One thirteen old boy who survived went on to write in is journal, “No mouth nor pen could describe our sorrow”.  After my own time spent there, I know his eloquent but simple words had to be true.  The vast desolation and utter nothingness in the landscape would consume you.  Add to that the snow.   White blizzarding snow.   You wouldn’t at times even have the satisfaction of knowing you’d made progress down the trail, not being able to see anything in front or behind you.  The complete despair and discouragement at the hopeless of it all would have been overwhelming.  I can feel the spirit of that place now that I’m sitting here writing it down.  But I didn’t at the time.  No at that time I was mad, hot, and sick of walking so fast.  In hind sight, I missed out on something invaluable because I let my nasty temper get the best of me. 

After it all, I also wondered about the poor souls back then, who for one reason or another, got separated from the group as well.  The desperation and isolation they must have felt were beyond any little fit I had from being left behind. I struggle with perspective when I’m angry. Need to work on that I think.”

That was just one of many beautiful experiences I had on our Trek.  It is a time I will always treasure.

Yes, we walked were they walked and we’ll never be the same because of it.