By Steve Orton
Ten years ago, in the summer of 1997, Margaret Clark straddled two worlds. She was one of many who were reenacting the 150th anniversary of the Mormon trek westward by walking all the way from Winter Quarters, Nebraska, to the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
As she trod that path she was part of the world of her ancestors who had passed that way so many years before, but unlike them she hiked along in the accouterments of the modern world – Nikes and a cell phone. And with that cell phone she established a legacy all her own.
I spent way too much time in the spring and summer of 1997 glued to my computer. As fortune and the wonders of the Internet allowed, I was able to follow the events of this reenactment through the diligence of Margaret Clark, who posted daily summaries on a website. It was not an easy task. After each day’s hike of between 10 to 20 miles, she then had to record it on her laptop and upload the file to the website via her cell phone.
And there I was on the other end, waiting each day to log on and live vicariously the preceding day’s events. Actually I relived two experiences at one time – the 1997 reenactment that had occurred the day before, and the 1847 original event 150 years before.
As I read each day’s accounts of the 1997 reenactment, my mind often made the leap over the decades to imagine the saints as they walked the trail in 1847. As I read about the modern wagon train approaching Chimney Rock, in my mind’s eye I saw the first saints as they marveled at this same wonder of nature. I saw both companies as they crossed the Sweetwater, passed over the continental divide and eventually descended into the valley.
What I felt in my heart, Margaret captured beautifully in this poem, written along the trail:
They Are Here
I feel their presence.
I hear their laughing voices in the rustling leaves,
as the South breeze swirls the Nebraska sands.
The slow, lazied Platte River drifts by and
Memories of long ago footsteps remind me that
They are here.
The warm afternoon sun filters through the trees, as
Whispers of long ago travelers proclaim,
“We are here.”They are here.
I am not alone in my claim.
Others speak softly to me,
“Can you feel they are here?”
“They are watching us and walking beside us and
impressing us with their thoughts:
‘Yes, my foot stepped where your foot steps.’
‘You rest your weary legs near where I stopped
to rest…many years ago.'”
My friends and I look at each other and we know.
They are here. They are here.Margaret Clark – May 20,1997
Juxtaposition
The juxtaposition of the two treks was thought-provoking. Old and new, then and now. One great difference was the reception afforded the modern company. In 1847 the saints were on the run – unwanted, despised, downtrodden.
It could hardly have been more different in 1997. The re-enactors were feted in town after town. Arrangements had been made for the wagon train to camp in picnic grounds near town, but as it turned out, these modern pioneers were often invited to bed down in local gymnasiums complete with hot showers and meals. Townspeople came out to meet them with flags flying. There were even parades down Main Street and programs in the evening, some presented by the re-enactors and some by the community.
A Boy Scout troop commemorated those who had died along the trail over its history by implanting 6,000 markers along the trail as part of an Eagle Scout project.
In this regard, this experience in the heartland of American seemed to validate the acceptance the Mormons have now been afforded in American life. Camera crews trailed the hikers and fed their reports back to the national news networks that broadcast similar warm and favorable reports across the nation. There was nothing like that back in 1847.
Courtship on the Trail
One enchanting story from the summer of 1997 was the courtship along the trail of Brent Moore and Amy Freestone. She had joined the wagon train in Nebraska, only a few days after Brent, and had intended to hike for only a few days, but then decided to stay for the duration.
They met at lunch, and she recorded that “he seemed like a nice enough guy.” Over the miles love blossomed. Their courtship might have come out of a Hallmark TV show – walking across the prairie hand in hand, picking flowers, talking about their dreams around the campfire at night.
Brent Moore and Amy Freestone
But there were modern elements as well: ice cream at the local Dairy Queen in small towns they passed by, visits to the laundromat, and so on. The proposal was also a mixture of old and new. Here are his words from his Internet diary:
21 May 2002A side note: I hitched a ride into North Platte and made a few phone calls from the pay phone outside the gas station. One was to my folks, to let them know that I’m OK and to update them on what’s going on with me and Amy. The second was to Amy’s father. I knew that Wednesdays are his days off and I knew their phone number. Amy didn’t know that I was going to call. She stayed in camp. My biggest fear was that I was going to interrupt him in the middle of the Jazz game, but I couldn’t wait until it was over to call. He said he approved of our plans to get married. That was a big relief.
The next step was the ring, and here Brent elected to go with the old. It was a “prairie diamond” supplied by the wagon train’s blacksmith – a horseshoe nail shaped in a circle with the large head sticking up like a diamond. And it was delivered in the old fashioned way:
22 May 1997We were walking together back to the church from the wagon circle when we had to cross a few fields. In the middle of one of the fields, I knew it was the right place. There was tall grass, the meadowlarks were singing, the sky was still on the light end of twilight, and we were holding hands. Nobody was around to disturb the moment. I put down my bag, took off my hat, and got down on one knee. She looked a little surprised, but nevertheless happy. After I asked her to marry me and she said yes, we sat there in the middle of this large field and just talked. Talking is something we have had a lot of time to do on this trek. Every day as we pull our handcart we have hours to do nothing but talk and laugh and dream. It is incredible that we have had so much time to talk and get to know each other in such a setting, away from the distractions of city and student life. We both feel that we are making the right decision, and are excited about what lies ahead for us. We will probably be married sometime in September or October.
“It can’t get any more romantic than that,” I thought as I read the account a few days later on my computer a thousand miles away. As an indication of how this modern reenactment had captured the heart of America, the prairie diamond was later replaced gratis by a local jeweler in one of the towns they were passing through. I wonder if – like me – the jeweler was had followed the account of the trek on his computer.
Incident with a Wagon Train
Another story that tugged on my heartstrings was Margaret’s account of a particularly difficult day for the wagon train. It was the journey from Torrington to Ft. Laramie, Wyoming, a distance of 25 miles, a longer than usual distance for the trekkers. On most days, the wagon train had made it to that day’s camp by mid afternoon. But this day was different.
Near the end of the day, the wagon train had still not reached its destination. Margaret Clark had gone ahead to await their arrival; later she recorded her impressions:
5 Jun 1997I stand on a hill, the Wyoming wind is gently gusting about, playing tag games with my hair. The sun is warm – but not too warm. The fragrance is grasses, prairie grasses and a slight dusty odor. In the distance a meadowlark does her constant little chirp. The crickets chirp even in the daylight. It is late afternoon. The heat of the day has passed and a slight feel of a cooler evening is approaching. We wait for their arrival, this wagon train … The skies are a hazy blue, the trees that frame the field and follow the distant river are early summer green. It is a calm and peaceful scene.As they approach, you hear the sound of leather and metal and wheels and horses. People’s laughter and voices fill the air. Horses whinny, riders call out and encourage their four-legged friends to finish the length and children jump from the wagons and begin their play. It is a scene from long ago. It is a scene from today.Someone comments, “Well the wagons made it. Now the handcarts.” He crossed his fingers for luck. I have strange feelings today about the walkers. I strain my eyes to see their arrival. Nothing. I can’t wait. I have to know where they are. Are they OK? My inner voice says, ‘Go find them.’ I inch my way through the barbed wire fence … I start trotting down the same road the wagons had come into camp on.
At my computer the drama was palpable. Someone interrupted me. A business matter. I gave him a short answer, enough to satisfy him but not enough to prolong the conversation. I returned to the screen. Fearing that the hikers were near the edge of their physical endurance, Margaret sought out sustenance for them. She talked someone into driving her to a nearby mini-market and plunked down enough money for candy for 60 people. Returning to the trail, she headed out to find the handcarts.
We went almost a mile before the road ended. In the distance, in the trees, were the hand-carts – moving steadily ahead ? followed by the sag wagon. In the lead was Bob Lowe, on his horse, carrying the American flag … I handed some M&Ms to the lead group and hurried to the first handcart and did the same. They appeared to be OK. The group of over 150 walkers was diminished to about 60. Many had taken the last bus back to camp miles ago. Only the full-time walkers and a few hearty souls remained.
As I continued passing out candy, I could see the looks of extreme fatigue, depression, and near panic in their faces. They had been walking for ten and a half hours and had eaten lunch five hours ago. Some reached out and took the candy. Some I had to physically lift their hands and put the candy in them, telling them to eat. As I moved further down the line of walkers, I could feel myself losing my control as I stuffed candy in their hands. In my entire life I had never seen such horrible exhaustion and despair as I saw in their faces. I was appalled that this could have happened in such a short time. I was crying.
And so was I. I shut my office door, both to avoid embarrassment and to have a private moment of communion, not only with the 1997 group but the 1847 band as well. In my heart I honored them both.
Magical Summer
But times change. In the summer of 1997 we as a people were the darlings of the American press. Today, in the heated environment of a political campaign and a controversial PBS special, the press seems more enamored with polygamy and the Mountain Meadow massacre.
Yet nothing can take away from the magic of that summer in 1997. Over the past ten years, thousands of Mormon youth from stakes throughout Zion have staged their own reenactments. It has become a staple of LDS youth programs, and fittingly so.
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