Salt Lake City, USA - On these unforgiving high plains, where the sun beats down unobstructed by shade and the winds blow through bearing blankets of dust, the landscape for lessons is wide open. Here, tens of thousands of Latter-day Saints leave their iPods and cell phones behind to put on pioneer garb, load up wooden rickshaw-like handcarts and trudge back in time.
They do this to remember their ancestors, those who traveled and died along this trail so they could reach what is now Utah. The stories of sacrifice, of those whose eagerness to follow their prophet might have belied better timing and judgment and of the rescuers who braved the elements to save those they could, are called
jessica treks up to inspire faith - in God, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and self.
This three-day journey featuring re-enactments, tearful testimonies and plenty of hymns is, without doubt, "a Mormon thing." And yet here I am, in bonnet and all, surrounded by 200-plus members of Sandy's Canyon View Stake, an outsider invited to look in.
'We must have faith': Four packed buses pull into the lot at Martin's Cove trek center, about 45 miles north of Rawlins. The hordes, mostly teens, spilling out represent six different LDS Church wards, who've been divvied up into families. I'll be with a Sandy Hills family of 12 and one overstuffed 150-pound replica handcart. From a distance, given their getups, the participants seem the real deal. Only up close does one see the dangling Nalgene bottles, the untied skater shoes, the oversized Paris Hilton-like sunglasses.
We gather in a nearby building to go over rules, watch a video and get the pep-talk speeches and blessings before warming up our pioneering feet. "We must have faith as they [the original pioneers] did," says Dell Taylor, a missionary at the site. "Many of them died for their convictions."
A boombox, playing hymns, beckons us up a path to a small cove. We kneel for an opening prayer and stories of ice slamming into weary Platte-River-crossing bodies. A missionary trek assistant speaks of the wolves that feasted on the fallen and of the "wolves" that want to devour us today. Satan, pornography, alcohol, the Internet - they'd rip us to shreds if we let them, he says.
Martin's Cove, where we head next, is considered Wyoming's LDS temple. Fifty-three pioneers in the Martin Company died here, trapped by an early winter storm. To honor them we're told to walk these hot hills in hushed reverence. Two boys scramble by, one muttering to the other, "You can't pee here. It's sacred ground."
Miles later, we stand at the edge of Sweetwater River - harmless looking today but remembered for the hell it wreaked back then. Starving, frost-bitten, grieving for their dead, depleted pioneers collapsed on its banks. Meantime, back in Salt Lake City just before the October 1856 LDS Church General Conference, word came in about those stuck out on the plains. President Brigham Young called on Saints to set out to the rescue.
Enter the "Valley Boys," four strapping men who ferried the weak across these ice-cold waters. Four teenage boys in our trek play the part of these heroes, approaching girls - awkwardly, as if it's a school dance - before carrying them to the other side.
At camp thisnight, with less than seven miles of hiking behind them, they find energy to dance, swing their partners and do-si-do. This is before they know about the blisters that'll plague them, the ankles that'll turn, the burn they'll feel in their dust-filled eyes and the chafing that'll make them walk in new ways.
Sleeping bags are unfurled beneath the stars, as Dillon Clark,18, strums his guitar, playing a song he wrote for his dad who died not too long ago. Tim Jensen, 16, then joins him for a rendition of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water." On the other side of camp, a man on a penny whistle offers "Come, Come, Ye Saints."
First casualty: Though some girls put on new and matching outfits, most begin day two looking disheveled and dirty. This, thankfully, is not a "survival trek," the kind where food is withheld, walks go hours longer than promised and participants must kill their own dinner. We're fed big and plenty by a cooking crew that's boiling water before most bodies stir.
We board buses to visit and climb a trail landmark, Independence Rock. Trisha Deem, 18, plays conductor, leading our ward - now perched up high - in "The Spirit of God." They share devotionals, heads bowed, arms crossed.
Michael Spainhower, the Sandy Hills bishop, speaks of life's challenges and the pain Christ endured. "I can testify the Lord's always with us," he says, lips quivering. "We just have to do our part and reach out for his hand." We also have to reach out to one another, he adds. While some people question why these companies forged ahead - given the late start and weather warnings - he says, "Maybe it was for us to come here and remember the faith of our fathers? Maybe it's not a story of suffering but one of rescue?"
Back on the bus, Trisha throws out pig trivia - "You're 45 percent more likely to be attacked by a pig than a shark" - as Dillon buries himself in The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star, by Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue.
The mid-day sun is fierce before we begin the day's 14 miles. We gather in a staging area to load our handcarts with buckets - 17 pounds per person - and water coolers, hoist our family flag and wait as temperatures rise. Moved by some spirit, Michael "Mikey" Johnson, 14, attaches himself to one of our wheels as his friends drag the cart across the grounds, sending him topsy-turvy into two full rotations. Kids gather in what looks like a prayer circle. Their heads, however, are bowed to Raneal Christensen, 16, who bench presses his smaller friends.
When we finally do hit the trail, it's in a cloud of dust and exuberance. The songs begin almost immediately, as do debates, such as whether or not a parakeet can be flushed down a toilet. We bounce along - some pushing behind the cart's front rail, others putting their strength into the rear - heeding warnings from those ahead: "Poop on the left!" or "Hole in the middle!"
More than10 miles in, we suffer our first casualty. Nicole Henrichsen,14, slumps down with nausea, a headache and nosebleed. She's not alone. Just behind us, the bishop offers priesthood blessings to another girl whose nose won't stop bleeding. My "Ma," Brikaeli Colwell, 19, applies a cold compress to Nicole's neck, before putting drops in Mikey's bloodshot eyes. With Nicole hoisted into our cart, we plod on. The worst blisters reveal themselves later at camp, where Sarah Collett, 17, crumbles in sobs.
Ma and "Pa," Casey Broadhead, 23, gather us for family home evening, a meeting where they sing "I Am a Child of God" and share their testimonies. They discuss the power of prayer, their belief in the priesthood and Gospel, and their love of their living prophet, President Thomas S. Monson. One of the adults accompanying us is Mary Burrows, 41, whose recent health scares have included pancreatitis, septic shock and pulmonary embolisms.
"When I was so sick and so close to death, I begged Heavenly Father to please let me stay here longer," she says. "Sunsets make me cry now because I'm able to see them."
Poignant moments: Four ounces of flour per day, that's all adults got, we're reminded as sample-sized sacks are distributed the next morning. Men died in droves because they gave their rations away, and this oft-repeated story of sacrifice is treated as sacred. Later that night, Dillon will open his coveted little sack, rub flour under his nose and pose with his guitar, the picture of a coke-headed rocker.
But for all the teenage shenanigans, there are plenty of poignant moments, too.
This journey is about cultivating faith, but it's also about developing young people into the types of Saints stake leaders and organizers hope they'll be. Nowhere is this more apparent than during the women's pull, when men are sent off - having symbolically died or joined the Mormon batallion - leaving the women to face Rocky Ridge on their own.
A missionary, Laurie Kaiser, addresses the women, most of whom are well under age 20, reminding them to support, honor and make life easier for the men in their lives. They can do this by dressing modestly, for example, and by encouraging the boys in their lives to go on missions.
"When they come home, they'll be the kinds of men you want to marry," she says. "As we're pulling, remember those important men in your life and what they mean to you."
Navigating dips, hills and rocks large and small, Ma and I pant and push at the rear. They somehow find the wind to sing, "As sisters in Zion we'll all work together. The blessings of God on our labors we'll seek. We'll build up his kingdom with earnest endeavor. We'll comfort the weary and strengthen the weak." At the top of the ridge, the men stand silently along the path, their hats over their hearts, many of them wiping away tears as we trip and struggle along.
In treks past, they passed men death certificates, forcing them to walk away. They also used to give families fake babies to care for. Some tossed them around "like beachballs," says Lori Broadhead, whose husband is a stake counselor and son is my Pa. But others took the task seriously and cried when they were later forced to bury their babies.
When the women's pull ends, many begin to weep. Lena Johnson, 32, is so rattled I'm worried she's hurt. "Today I'm representing Janetta McBride," she says between sobs, before describing the struggles her great-great-grandmother endured.
Spainhower, the ward bishop, calls watching, without being able to help or even cheer on the women, "the hardest thing I've done in my life." Thelma Davis, the ward's young women's president, praises those she calls "my girls" for their strength, the inspiration they've given and then adds, "Lots of times as women we think we can do things alone. But we can't. We need the strength of the priesthood."
Celebrating victory: The cooking and support crew members, many of them parents of trekkers, stand at the Rock Creek Hollow campsite, looking out at the horizon. For days they have kept this group hydrated and fueled, met them at rest stops to offer hugs and bandages outside port-o-potties, and watched what they hope will be a transformative experience. And then, over a distant hill, the first flag appears.
"Here they come! Our little army," a woman screams, as she and others bang on pan tops and applaud. Slowly, slowly, as they cover their last of 35 miles, this band of weary, burned and blistered Saints wind their way toward this promised campgound.
It's not far from the gravesite where 13 members of the Willie Company were buried, after Rocky Ridge did them in. But as they pull into camp, these trekkers are celebrating their victory, busy giving high-fives and racing into to the cool river.
They've laughed, cried, worked and prayed together. They've nursed one another's wounds, carried the weight when others couldn't and shared pieces of faith from all points in their respective and differing journeys.
"I know the spirit has been with you this week," Pa tells us around the campfire that night. "The emotions - that's not your mind playing tricks on you. That's the spirit of God touching your hearts."