Trekking Like the Pioneers, Part I: What We Did

I'm already off to a bad start because, even though the intention of going on a trek is to simulate - to some degree - the experience of the early pioneers, what we did and how we did it was vastly different than their experience, so it wasn't really like them at all.

Originally we weren't planning to do a trek (more on that later), but Jordan was. As I looked over the packing lists and saw a full page of "shoe and sock guidelines," I thought about the difference. When the saints left Nauvoo back in 1847, I know they had many considerations, which may have included shoes and socks, but they certainly didn't have the advantages of Coolmax liners with padded Thorlo outer socks. Nor did they have Body Glide (I'd never heard of such a thing until this trek either, but it was on the "must pack" list) or Gatorade, which was heavily promoted so as to keep our levels of electrolytes in balance throughout our 33 mile journey which, by the way, is less than 1% the distance the pioneers covered.

We were told that we were limited to 17 pounds of stuff per person, just like the pioneers, and we were given a standard-issue duffle to put everything in - including our sleeping bags, pads and pillows (more luxuries, really), but no one weighed the bags and we also had the major advantage of garbage bags, to help keep things clean, and oodles of Zip Loc bags, which were surprisingly helpful for this type of packing method. In addition to the duffle, we were also allowed to carry a day pack of some sort, which for many people was a Camelbak (imagine if the pioneers knew about such things!) or some other kind of backpack. I called it a carry-on and filled mine with a few necessities like Chapstick, wet wipes, Kleenex and snacks. Spoiled, we were!

Still, I left home without a few things that I rarely (as in, pretty much NEVER) travel without: my laptop, my contact lenses and glasses, and my wallet. I had no ID and no form of money with me at all. At the last minute, I decided to bring my phone only to use as a camera. It was on airplane mode the entire time and kept it's battery life, so it ended up working out exactly like a camera.

We'd been told in a fireside for the youth and parents a few weeks before that wearing pioneer-type clothing was an important part of the experience because it would help us all be more uniform, in a way, and serve as a reminder of what we were there for. They were right about that. There was something really moving about seeing all those kids, and the leaders, dressed in a similar way and also being humble in that we set aside our personal preferences and drew one tiny step closer to understanding how things were back then.

The journey started at 4:30 am on Tuesday morning at the Stake Center. Everyone in their pioneer gear gathered in the chapel while a couple of violinists played some prelude music. That really set the tone. We had a prayer and some brief instruction before being given a breakfast for the road and loading ourselves onto the school buses. Breakfast, which was a sign of things to come, was a huge cinnamon-sugar bagel, yogurt, a cluster of fresh grapes, orange juice and a water bottle. Did I mention that we were spoiled?

The bus ride started out dark, cold and pretty quiet. We made a stop at Little America in Wyoming, where I wondered whether or not the sight of a plethora of pioneers pouring out of four school buses was a common thing or an oddity to the people who worked there and other onlookers. The line to the women's bathroom snaked back into the shop while the men's room was like a steady revolving door. After that stop the bus ride perked up a bit, but not without complaints, and the bus driver's relief driver reminded us that our uncomfortable five hour ride was hardly anything to complain about since the pioneers had traveled six times that distance on foot. Another reminder.

When we got to Martin's Cove it was a little windy and there was a sprinkling of rain, but after flooding into the bathrooms once again, our first stop was for lunch. Lunch! Served to us by the food committee. Turkey and ham sandwiches on perfectly crusty rolls with pretzels, fruit, soft home-baked chocolate chip cookies and, of course, cold water and lemonade.

The focus of our trek was very much on the experience of the Willie and Martin Handcart companies, and we were very lucky to be at that very place - on their trail. I'd read a book - years ago - about their experience (a historical novel by Gerald Lund), which has always stuck with me. We were reminded many times that the cove itself was sacred ground, and we felt it. We hiked up the trail to a small amphitheater where Peter Breinholt and our official trek band had set up their portable sound system and a few youth delivered some narratives about the pioneers in the Martin Company who had been at that spot. We were right in front of Devil's Gate, where they'd paused for shelter from the early, but brutal, winter storm. Many of them had perished in that spot, so it's considered sacred ground. The men were asked to remove their hats and we were all quiet as we passed through, guided by one of the missionaries stationed there.

It was about a five mile hike up and around and it ended at the Sweetwater River. It was called the last crossing, and we approached it going in the opposite direction than they would have. Again, I thought about the stark contrast of our experience and theirs. We were there in July with amazingly nice weather. While warm, the cloud cover had made it not-too-hot and there had been some rain and a slight breeze. We gathered on the riverbank for more music and narratives and to recall the significance of this spot. When the Martin Company had been there the water was deeper than it was for us - about two feet deep - and full of ice. For us, it was a refreshing relief to take our shoes off and cross through on the soft sand. For them, it'd had been a major feat to cross with their carts and their children and their feet, which were already freezing, on frozen ground and icy water. Still, even as I type this, I feel a twinge of the emotion I felt as we crossed. So completely different, but there we were, doing a small thing to honor what they did in all their focus and determination and faith.

As we walked up the hill on the other side of the river, the food committee was there handing out cold bottles of water and popsicles. While it was a nice relief, it was also yet another reminder of our much more modern experience.

The buses took us on another hour-long journey to a campsite, which was quite literally just a spot in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. Sagebrush and dust for as far as the eye could see. We piled our packs on the handcarts and pitched our tents in random spots. Ours happened to be near the water pump, which Emily and I tried to use, didn't get any water out of, and then at 3 am the following morning, discovered it worked just fine with the right amount of effort as the food committee was up and at it and pumping our water supply for the day.

After dinner everyone seemed too tired for games and even the planned devotionals were called off as a storm rolled in. The rain, thunder and lightening shook our tents, collapsed one that our young women were in, and made our experience a little more authentic.

Chris and Jordan bunked in the Fish Belly tent and the tent I was in quickly became a gigglefest with the other ladies.

Maybe not everyone's feet had been burning (after just five miles!) and throbbing when they went to sleep Tuesday night, but I was amazed and thankful to wake up Wednesday morning feeling completely fresh and fine. Well, relatively fresh, considering we were going on our second day with no running water. We had 13 miles of walking ahead of us.

We loaded the handcarts and got into our groups as "families." Jordan's family led the way, so an American flag was placed on his cart. For some reason, when I looked up at him leading the charge with his little group, I welled up with emotion. And off we went, along the dusty trail. No destination or end that we could see, but we did what we were there to do. We walked and talked and the missionaries guided us on horses.

A mile or two before we paused for lunch, we stopped at the bottom of a steep hill where the choir and band played some music and a few of the girls recounted stories of some of the women pioneers. Then the men and boys were asked to walk to the top of the hill. We women and girls were left with the handcarts. I grabbed the back of ours, and pushed along with Ariana, while Holly, Kate and Alysee pulled up the hill. It was hard. It was hot and heavy and my heart was beating fast and I was out of breath. But mostly, I was again filled with emotion. When I lifted my head and took a glance out from under my hat I saw all those boys and men standing there with their hats on their hearts. Many of them had tears in their eyes and on their cheeks. I spotted Jordan standing next to Chris and that's when I felt my own tears. Something so touching about that display of strength from the women, and respect from the men. At the top, Jordan put his arm around me from one side and Chris from the other. We all sang together a blended arrangement of "We'll bring the World His Truth" and "As Sisters in Zion," which was very difficult to sing for all the emotion. But the feelings extended far beyond our own limited experience, it was also generated by the many feet that had passed by that very spot and the thought of our predecessors knowing that we, with our very different set of lives and circumstances and challenges, were joining with them in devotion and faith and valiance. I looked around at this group of kids we were with and marveled at their sweetness and their strength.

At around 4 pm that day, we came to the top of a hill and saw a small city of tents in the valley below. They were our tents and they were all set up for us. A very welcome sight! Our duffles had also been delivered, like five star VIP baggage delivery service, to the entrance to our tents. Dinner was cooking and we took our shoes off and put our feet up for some relief. I can imagine that the pioneers must have also had moments of relief when they stopped for the day, and probably many acts of service for one another.

Our dinner conversation somehow turned to Lucky and much laughter and story-telling ensued. Then the band set up and played while there were games like hatch-throwing at targets and our ward played some crazy form of charades, which included having a partner and being in very close proximity to each other, even though we were all filthy. Fun times.

Ariana and Richard, our Ma and Pa (Chris and I acted as the Uncle and Aunt to their family) gave a devotional and it must have still been relatively early when we turned in for the night, even though it was dark enough to have caught another spectacular sunset. I said a prayer of thanks that night for feeling so well and for the entire spirit of the experience. The youth were good and happy.

Thursday morning the breakfast bell seemed to ring far too early, but everyone quickly jumped up and started packing things up for another day of trekking. In our tent, we were slowly pulling ourselves together when Chris came by and delivered a plate of breakfast to me (an unbelievable plate piled with pancakes, ham, scrambled eggs, fruit, hashbrowns), which started a frenzy of husbands trying to follow his lead and deliver breakfast to their wives in bed. It was a really nice gesture from him, but then I finished getting dressed and had to put on my second pioneer outfit (the rule was - wear one, pack one). It was a red checked jumper with two big patch pockets on the front. It was practical and not in any way uncomfortable, besides the fact that I felt so awkward wearing it. I made the mistake of asking Chris how weird it was on a scale from 1-10. He confirmed that it was an 11, but better than what I'd been wearing for the two previous days. What the what?! I know these elastic-waisted long cotton print skirts with layers of pantaloons underneath and aprons on top aren't the most flattering, but after that I felt especially self-conscious. Luckily, vanity doesn't have much of a hold on anyone when you're out on the high plains and anticipating another 14 mile day of walking and commemorating.

We set off on the trail again and after four miles found ourselves at the base of Rocky Ridge. There were stories about members of the Willie Company because we were at the site where they were rescued. It had taken them 27 hours to continue on, through the snow, to the point where we arrived - on foot - about 5 or 6 hours later that day.

Chris, me (in the red jumper) and Jordan at the base of Rocky Ridge

As we hauled the carts up Rocky Ridge we were asked to be quiet, which made the experience more poignant. A few of us were tapped along the way to "die" and we fell away from the carts as the others continued to push and pull up and over the uneven ground. I couldn't even imagine trying to do that in icy conditions with fresh snow. When we got further up ahead, we "angels" were allowed to help push again.

“I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it. … I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there." - William R. Palmer, a member of the Martin Handcart Company

At the top of one of the hills, and before a particularly rocky portion of the trail, some of our band members were standing there playing "Come, Come Ye Saints" on their violins.

When we stopped for lunch, the Brown family from our ward met us there - incredibly, seemingly out in the middle of nowhere on the trail - to recount their family story of the red shawl. They also had the original shawl with them, in a box where it had been preserved ever since it had arrived in Salt Lake City over 150 years ago. The story of the shawl is told in this conference talk by Boyd K. Packer.

Just a couple miles after lunch we stopped at an outhouse for a break that lasted for a very long time. At this point, the six remaining miles were starting to seem impossible. It was getting hot and the wind was picking up and blowing dust everywhere. If there was a point when I felt like complaining, this was it. My feet hurt, my head hurt and no one seemed to know why we were held up in this spot for so long. Thankfully April unsuspectingly came to the rescue. For some crazy reason she'd packed along a remote controlled fart machine (seriously). The speaker was in her pack, which was on a handcart and the remote was in her pocket. We were sitting on a ledge of dirt and Corwin settled himself on the cart, right on top of her bag, while Bishop Jones and Michelle snagged a bit of shade under the cart.

Corwin had just put his hat over his face when April pushed the button that set off the machine. We couldn't hear it from where we were, but we could see his reaction. He threw his hat off, sat up and looked around, trying to find the culprit, then he settled back in. April waited a minute and did it again. After a few rounds of this, Corwin finally jumped off the wagon and looked under it at the bishop and shouted, "Stop making that sound!" The bishop had no idea what he was talking about, so he just smiled and nodded. In a mild act of revenge, Corwin gave the thermos a couple squirts, spilling water on the bishop and then went back to his spot on the cart, exasperated. It was a cheap form of humor, but we got a kick out of it at that moment. There were other times, as well, during the trek, that she strategically placed it in groups of boys and set it off. The most amusing thing about this was how the boys, not knowing the source of the noise, would gladly own it and claim to be guilty.

One more note about April's prank: while it probably sounds quite irreverent, given the situation, I also couldn't help but think that the original pioneers must have also had some comic relief in one way or another. Even though they all look so stern in photos, a sense of humor isn't limited to our modern days (I mainly know this from Jane Austen books). It's hard to document things that strike us funny at the time because they rarely seem very funny to others and usually end up with a, "I guess you had to be there," disclaimer.

If it weren't for April and our conversations about Real Housewives and Prancercise, the last stretch of trail would have been much more dull. And if it weren't for Chris keeping everyone cool by spraying water on us and keeping our water bottles full, we may have overheated. Later on, a lot of people mentioned that the last three miles were the hardest. In some muted way, I think this may have been the part where we started questioning the sanity of what we were doing. We had to push on, keep walking, and for us, we knew this was the end. Thinking of the pioneers and our contrasting circumstances at this point didn't help. I suppose this was the effect of the physical self overtaking the spiritual self. It's a tough battle, and not just during a trek. It's something we often experience in life. There are many times when our hope and faith and good intentions get challenged and at those points we must just press on for no other reason than we know we have to.

When we arrived at Rock Hollow that evening the food committee and missionaries were waving white flags to greet us. Our tents were, once again, all set up and bags delivered. There were fresh water melon wedges and a cold stream where a lot of us went to wade in because the cold water felt good on our hot feet.

Michelle had thought ahead to bring some peppermint foot scrub and the young women lined up pans of cold water and scrubbed each other's feet. An amazing act of service and a heavenly luxury! Emily was extraordinarily pleased with the idea of soaking her feet in a bucket of cold water.

That night there was a feast for dinner, complete with brownies and homemade fudge sauce for dessert. We all walked over to the amphitheater area where the choir sang and the Stake Presidency did a fireside. While they talked and recounted our experiences and what impact they hoped it had on us, including a series of questions from President Boyer (not unlike Alma 5), it rained and the sky lit up with lightning five seconds after every clap of thunder.

There's a monument there at Rock Hollow, which commemorates the many people who died there and the good people of the Riverton, WY stake who have done their temple work. It's a sobering spot.

After the stake meeting, every ward gathered around their own fires for testimonies. It was a wet, cold and smoky meeting, but also very touching. Jordan made reference to the council he'd received earlier that day from President Parkinson to attend everything. He said that when you skip the activity or the fireside or the campout, you miss out and those experiences can never be recreated. That was exactly how I felt about having the opportunity to go on the trek. An experience that was deep and meaningful, not only for what we did, but for the relationships and the feeling of the Spirit that accompanied us.

It was cold that night and we got up early on Friday morning to pack everything and head home. Before getting back on the buses we all gathered in the hollow again for a prayer and one more song. I'm convinced that everyone who was there was touched, in at least some way, by the experience. It was, in a word, amazing.