Kirby's Adventures

Council Bluffs, Winter Quarters and My Decision to Rest for a Season

2011-06-14T15:00:00.001-07:00

Brigham Young thought it would take merely a few weeks to cross Iowa. But he miscalculated the elements and the weather. In 1846 it took his advance party four grueling months! Bitter cold, deep mud, and lack of significant preparation slowed progress at almost every mile. Additionally, the lead party took time at every stop to make trail improvements and plant crops. Upon reaching the Missouri river and the end of Iowa, Brigham decided to let the Saints rest for a season.

Brigham would be impressed with my modern day progress along the Trail. Walking around 20 miles a day and getting rides for an additional 10, I've been able to average 30 miles a day. After ten days of traveling I've transversed Iowa in just 10 days! Despite my swift progress, I too am deciding to stop here at Winter Quarters, Nebraska and rest for a season.

The decision to halt my journey has been difficult to make, and one which I have been considering since I crossed the Nishnabotna river a few days ago. At that crossing the Saints originally used a ferry. Below is the ferry house.

Although this trip has been amazing, one part of it that I admit I planned wrong was trying to do it alone. Despite the scores of wonderful people I have met to punctuate the journey thus far, still the bulk of my time has been spent alone. I have seen and felt amazing amazing things, but have had no one with me to divide the story. I thought it would be enough to record my experiences and share them later, but I have rediscovered how immediate companionship is not only valuable but also essential. It can lighten what's occasionally heavy, deepen what may otherwise be trivial, and sear into your heart what sometimes might be fleeting. Realizing this, I have decided that if I am ever to continue the Trail someday, I won't do it alone. I can't do it alone. (Yes, this trip has also taught me some much needed humility).

With that said, what a journey I have had! It has been amazing. In these last 300 miles through Iowa I have done what I always dreamed about doing. I have walked in the footsteps of my heroes: Parley, Brigham, Orson, Heber and so many others. And in a little, tiny way I felt some of what they felt--both the sorrow and the joy. The sorrow of leaving what I loved on the banks of the Mississippi. And the joy of catching Parley P. Pratt's vision of Zion at Mt. Pisgah. And so many more experiences...

Even though this has turned out to be a relatively short trip, much shorter than I anticipated, I'm so happy I went. And so grateful to God for what I have seen and felt and learned. I'm on my way home and will be returning shortly. Thank you everyone for your thoughts and prayers and support. I couldn't have made it this far without you.

Council Bluffs :

Here was a major outfitting point for Latter-day Saints and countless others heading west during most of the overland emigration period. Across the Missouri River from Winter Quarters, Council Bluffs was one of the most significant Latter-day Saint settlements during the late 1840s and early 1850s.

The Latter-day Saints named this outfitting point in honor of Thomas L. Kane, an influential ally during their darkest years in Nauvoo. Following the departure of the Saints, it was renamed Council Bluffs in 1853. Up to 90 Latter-day Saint settlements were scattered throughout Pottawattamie County, Iowa, of which Kanesville was the most significant.

One of the most important events to take place here was in December 1847 when Brigham Young was sustained as the second president of the Church, and the First Presidency was reorganized with Heber C. Kimball and Willard Richards as counselors to President Young.

Since the death of Joseph Smith in June 1844, Brigham Young had led the Church in the capacity of president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. On December 5, 1847, nine of the Twelve met at the home of Orson Hyde and effected the reorganization, an action that was ratified December 27 at a general conference of the Church at Kanesville.

Here, during October 1848, Oliver Cowdery, one of the Three Witnesses, returned to the Church and was rebaptized.

It was also from this location that the members Mormon Battalion began their long march to San Diego in July 1846.

Mormon Battalion

Never in American history has there been an equivalent military march: 600 men, women, and children, recruited by the U.S. Army from a mass exodus of Latter-day Saints then struggling across the plains of Iowa fleeing religious persecution in Illinois. They never engaged in armed conflict, yet they played a key role in securing from Mexico much of the present American Southwest in their 2,000-mile march across half a continent.

Zadok Judd
"This was quite a hard pill to swallow—to leave wives and children on the wild praries, destitute and almost helpless, having nothing to rely on only the kindness of neighbors, and go to fight the battles of a government that had allowed some of its citizens to drive us from our homes..." (Autobiography of Zadok Knapp Judd).

Winter Quarters :

An instant city on the plains, Winter Quarters served as the headquarters of the Church for less than a year, until the leadership moved west in 1847. By Christmas 1846, Church members had constructed a large stockade and about 700 homes ranging from solid two-story structures to simple dugouts in the bluffs.

At the end of 1846 there were along the trail about 3,500 Mormons divided into twenty-two wards at Winter Quarters, over 200 across the Missouri River in Iowa, remnants at Nauvoo and in the Montrose area, and wards at Mt. Pisgah and Garden Grove. Other thousands were scattered in the United States and Canada, and England. Altogether there were perhaps 50,000 Latter-day Saints by the end of 1846.

Winter Quarters was a sad place for many of the Mormon Pioneers. The rigors of the Iowa crossing, exposure to the cold, and poor nutrition and sanitation proved too much, and several hundred saints died during the winter of 1846–1847.

Iowa: Bitter Beginning

Of the entire trek to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, it was the first 300 miles across Iowa that most tried the stamina, courage and equipment of the Latter-day Saint pioneers. Mere weeks into the journey—through sleet, blizzard, and mud—it became apparent to Brigham Young that his people would never reach the Rocky Mountains in the time or in the manner that most had hoped for.

So throughout the spring of 1846, thousands of refugees trudged across the windswept Iowa prairies, preparing the way for those yet to come: building bridges, erecting cabins, planting and fencing crops. By mid-June, nearly 12,000 Saints were still scattered across Iowa. The Rocky Mountain entry would be postponed.

The Vanguard Pioneer Company:

Brigham Young, as the presiding Elder of the Church following Joseph Smith's death, set out for the West from Winter Quarters with an advance company of 143 men, 3 women, and 2 children on 5 April 1847. Traveling in pleasant, if not too warm, summer weather, their journey of 1,050 miles was a relatively easy one, considering the trails they had already traveled. Crossing the Wasatch mountain range, however, Brigham became sick with mountain fever and entered the Salt Lake Valley on 24 July, three days behind the advance party. From his supine position in the back of a wagon, he surveyed the valley for only moments before announcing, "This is the right place. Drive on." By October of that year, another 2,000 pioneers had reached their new mountain refuge.

Trail a Two-Way Road:

Brigham Young had been in the Great Salt Lake Valley only 32 days when he and a number of companions turned and headed back to aid the Saints in Winter Quarters. Thus was inaugurated the most prominent two-way road in nineteenth century western America. Within weeks of the valley arrival, missionaries were on their way back to the Eastern states and Europe, and a constant stream of wagons was moving both directions on the trail. Following two handcart tragedies in 1856, Brigham Young sought to revive interest in that option by sending a group of 70 missionaries back to the East pulling the carts.

Norton Jacob:
"The whole Camp of Winter Quarters was divided into two Bishoprics under the direction of the High Council for the purpose of taking care of the poor, which included the wives of those men who volunteered and went into the army last July—about 500 men. This was a measure that seemed to be necessary in order to turn away the jealousy of the general government and secure its protection in some degree to the Saints" (The Record of Norton Jacob, ed. C. Edward Jacob and Ruth S. Jacob, Family and Church History Department Library, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, [n.d.], 29).
6 April 1847:
"The anniversary of the rise and organization of the Church. A special conference was held in Winter Quarters, Brother John Smith presiding. Brother Brigham addressed the congregation a short time, said that on the morrow he intended to start on his journey west, then proposed that [the] conference proceed to do its business."
7 April 1847:
"About noon I left my family and started on the great expedition with the pioneers to the West. President Young and his teams started at the same time. We also had the cannon along, a 6-pounder. We traveled about 10 miles on the divide up the river and camped about sunset near a small grove in a hollow, where we were somewhat shielded from the north wind which was very cold" (The Record of Norton Jacob).

Thomas Bullock
"[I] went through the City—where, nine weeks ago there was not a foot path, or a Cow track, now may be seen hundreds of houses, and hundreds in different stages of completion—impossible to distinguish the rich from the poor. The Streets are wide and regular and every prospect of a large City being raised up here" (Thomas Bullock, as quoted in Richard E. Bennett, Mormons at the Missouri).

Margaret Phelps:
"Winter [1846–1847] found me bed-ridden, destitute, in a wretched hovel which was built upon a hillside; the season was one of constant rain; the situation of the hovel and its openness, gave free access to piercing winds and water flowed over the dirt floor, converting it into mud two or three inches deep; no wood but what my little ones picked up around the fences, so green it filled the room with smoke; the rain dropping and wetting the bed which I was powerless to leave" (Margaret Phelps, as quoted in Richard E. Bennett, Mormons at the Missouri).

Creston, Iowa: Parley Sees the Promised Land and I Get My First Trail Companion

2011-06-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

The camp at Garden Grove--a previous site on the Mormon Trail--was meant to be a stopping place for the Pioneers to rest and refuel. However, that site was too small to accomodate the growing number of Mormon Pioneers now swelling the path west. Brigham Young directed scouts to look for a larger location where good water was plentiful, good soil might grow crops, and temporary shelters might be easily constructed. Here at Mt. Pisgah, a more expansive and semi-permanent settlement was established. Parley P. Pratt, who named the site, said it reminded him of the biblical Pisgah where Moses viewed the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 3:27). Gazing out upon the same country, I caught a similar vision and longed for my beautiful mountain valley home.
While at Mt. Pisgah, Brigham Young celebrated his forty-fifth birthday. The site was located on Potawatomi Indian lands, on the east bank of the middle fork of the Grand River. The Potawatomi Indians were also refugees, booted from their lands by land hungry settlers. This was only temporarily their territory. Within a few years they were once again forced to relocate further west to a more permanent (and much less fruitful) reservation.
It was here at Mt. Pisgah that part of the Mormon Battalion was mustered during July. Here also Heber C. Kimball was informed that his barely finished mansion in Nauvoo had been sold for only thirty-five yoke of oxen, most of which were distributed among the needy exiles. Many of those who left Nauvoo after Brigham Young caught up with the camp at Mt. Pisgah.
Today there is little left of this camp but a cemetery, a monument to the hundreds who died there between 1846 and 1852, and a nine-acre park and picnic area.
Journal Entires from the Pioneers:

Parley P. Pratt
"Being pleased and excited at the varied beauty before me, I cried out, 'this is Mount Pisgah... It was now late in May, and we halted here to await the arrival of the President and council. In a few days they arrived and formed a general encampment here, and finally formed a settlement, and surveyed and enclosed another farm of several thousand acres. This became a town and resting place for the Saints for years" (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 308).
The Hancock Eagle (a newspaper in Illinois):
"The second company had encamped temporarily at station No. 2, which has been christened Mount Pisgah. They mustered about three thousand strong, and were recruiting [resting and feeding] their cattle preparatory to a fresh start. A third company had halted for a similar purpose at Garden Grove, on the head waters of Grand River, where they have put in about 2000 acres of corn for the benefit of the people in general. Between Garden Grove and the Mississippi river, Mr. Chamberlain counted over one thousand wagons en route to join the main bodies in advance.
"The whole number of teams attached to the Mormon expedition, is about three thousand seven hundred, and it is estimated that each team will average at least three persons, and perhaps four. The whole number of souls now on the road may be set down in round numbers at twelve thousand. From two to three thousand have disappeared from Nauvoo in various directions. Many have left for Council Bluffs by the way of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers—others have dispersed to parts unknown; and about eight hundred or less still remain in Illinois. This comprises the entire Mormon population that once flourished in Hancock [County]. In their palmy days they probably numbered between fifteen and sixteen thousand souls, most of whom are now scattered upon the prairies, bound for the Pacific slope of the American continent" ("Late from the Mormon Camp," Hancock Eagle, as reprinted in the Sangamo Journal, 23 July 1846, 3).

Pictures from the Trail:

Morgan recently joined me for a couple days on the trail. Morgan is a twelve year old fellow adventurer who loves Anime, candy without nuts, and a good story. When I lived in Des Moines a few years ago--working for Pioneer the seed company--Morgan's mother Angie and I became great friends. Through Angie, Morgan and I got to hang out and get to know each other. We went on his first campout together with the Boy Scouts of the Waukee Ward, where I was the Assistant Scout Master. I still remember how excited Morgan was to play with the fire, and how we stayed up all night in our tent telling ghost stories and tall tales. We've been buddies since then, keeping in touch through letters in the mail.
Morgan and I didn't take any rides while on the trail together--to be safe. Except for one family which offered to help get us to the next site before it closed (some of the sites along the trail are in parks that have a closing time). Morgan loved the change of pace.While one the road we encountered a dying snapping turtle, who from all appearances had been tragically struck by car quite not too long before our arrival. From head to tail his turtle measured over 2 feet in length.
Feeling sad for this reptile, and without any encouragement from me, Morgan wanted to pray for it. In his prayer he asked God to free this turtle from pain, so it might die in peace. I felt impressed with Morgan's sympathy for this creature. Where other boys might grab a stick and poke it in fascinated disgust (that was what I started doing before Morgan stopped me), Morgan thought of its suffering. What a great boy!
Seeing us together, Officer Johnson of the local police force pulled us over for questioning. I suppose I don't blame him. We did look a little out of place in rural Iowa.
After it started raining, Morgan and I found shelter in the almost finished, newly remodeled Fontanelle library. They allowed us to step in and use their resources, not the least of which was a roof.
Frantically trying to restock the shelves with old and new books, the librarians and volunteers gladly accepted our help. Curses, the Dewey Decimal System! These were great ladies. They were excited to hear my story and one of them rushed to call the local reporter. I was interviewed shortly thereafter for my fourth local newspaper story.
Morgan and I saw some weird sights while travelling together. They may still use out houses in some places here in southern Iowa, but at least they're cutting edge.
Its been a rainy a few days, but it does make for some beautifully lush, green vistas.
Being with Morgan has made me really miss home. And after he left I realized how difficult this has been--and will be--to walk alone. I'm considering that I might stop in Winter Quarters, Nebraska, just as the Mormon Pioneers did, and rest for a season. Perhaps until someday when I can find companions (or sons) to walk it like the Saints did--in company and in unity. I'll call Annie to help me figure it out. She's great at giving me advice. Yours is welcome, too. Please leave a comment and share your thoughts.

Thanks to everyone so far for your support. This has been an amazing journey. I can't believe its only been a week or two. Onward to Zion!

Location:S 1st St,Fontanelle,United States

Garden Grove, Iowa: 128 Miles From Nauvoo

2011-06-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

Church leaders decided to create a substantial camp at this site, a sort of temporary settlement to serve the thousands of weary and destitute pilgrims who would yet come this way.

Cabins were erected, grounds were fenced and plowed, crops were planted and individuals were chosen to remain and oversee the place. There also, in a windswept lot known as "the cow yard," the bodies of several Saints were laid to final rest. The site was vacated in the spring of 1848.

Parley P. Pratt:
"All things being harmonized and put in order, the camps moved on. Arriving at a place on a branch of Grand River we encamped for a while, having travelled much in the midst of great and continued rains, mud and mire.

Here we enclosed and planted a public farm of many hundred acres and commenced settlement, for the good of some who were to tarry and of those who should follow us from Nauvoo. We called the place 'Garden Grove'" (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 307).

Allen Joseph Stout:
"So we kept rolling on from place to place through the mud until the 27th [of April] when we pitched our tents in a beautiful grove of timber where we began to make a farm. This place was called Garden Grove. Here it was determined by the council that those who were out of provisions should stop and raise a crop.

"About these times the rattle snakes bit a good many of our animals, and there was a great exposure the Saints were forced to under go. There one of Hoseas boys died. There was great want of bread in camp, so that we were oppressed on every hand; but we cried to the Lord, who heard our prayers, and we were fed by his all bountiful hands; but some showed out their evil hearts by their mean mutterings and selfishness" (Autobiography of Allen Joseph Stout, 1846, Miscellaneous Mormon Diaries, vol. 17, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, 24-25).

People I've met:

Willa Clark:
Willa works for the Corydon Times Republican. While I was visiting the Corydon Historical Museum, some of the staff called her and alerted her of my intention to walk across the Mormon Trail. Willa drove across the small town inmmediately to meet me. She thought the story would make a great story for the local paper.

While Willa and I visited I had the chance to ask her some questions as well. Willa's first semester at college was as an art major. However the program where she studied was fairly liberal; rather different than her upbringing. She didn't feel she fit in with all the other artists. With that experience she left the program to pursue other interests. In her late 40's she went back to school. This time to pursue a degree in English. Her initial goal was to become trained as a technical writer. However, when graduation came and she was pursuing a job, she saw an ad in newspaper for a journalist position. She applied and got the job in 1999. She's worked in journalism ever since.

I asked her what its like being small town journalist. She said its suprisingly fun and varied. With a smaller staff, you get to cover everything. Accidents. City council meetings. The county fair. Graduations. And human interest stories; like mine. Her favorite part about journalism was "not the pay" she joked, "but definitely the people." Her job is all about people. She loves finding the really dazzling parts of what might otherwise be a "normal" story. "Everyone has a unique story," she said in a matter-of-fact way, "it just depends if you're listening enough to hear it." You have to be open to it, she says. You have to really pay attention. You can't be thinking about your next question, she explains. I told her I was often guilty of that in my conversations with girls. Sometimes when I'm talking to a really beautiful girl like Annie, I'm racking my brain to think of questions that make it sound like I'm really paying attention. But Willa makes a better point, I should just actually pay attention. Sorry, Annie. I'll be better a better listener when I get home.

I asked Willa about her most memorable stories. She told me about how she's been covering the school closings in the area for several years. Just recently it was the last day of school for Lineville Clio Jr-Sr High School. She wrote an article all about it. The school has had about 40 students from all grades for just over a 100 years, but due to new standards from the State legislature, the school is finally closing its doors. Many other schools in the area are following suit. Schools and school districts are being consolidated and many Iowans feel like they are losing a local element to their educational system. Willa explains how she tried to put real faces to this story. Decisions like these are affecting lives in a real way, and she tried to capture that.

Before Willa and I parted she gave me a great tour of a few neighboring towns, including Garden Grove itself. Willa is passionately involved in an effort to revitalize this area. Here are a few pictures and captions of what we saw.

The Grass Roots Cafe in nearby Humeston, Iowa. Just like grass surprisingly has a vast network of roots to sustain it, so too does this cafe and the effort to revitalize the local area. Willa is one of the many passionately involved is the work--fighting to protect the small towns they love.

Downtown Snyders, a women's clothing shop attracts much regional business and has helped to buoy the town up.

This was fascinating for me to see: a community supported grocery store. When the town's last grocery close down, the citizens got together and organized their own, selling shares and running it like a co-op.

One of the grocery store attendants who happily and kindly sliced me some delicious meat and cheese for my dinner.

One of the fresh items for sale. Is this what we call this back home? For some reason this sounds wired to me.

Garden Grove's local high school gets it namesake from our ancestors. Willa said visitors always ask if this is a religious school. School mascot: The Saints.

The Mormon Trail swimming pool. I bet the Saints wish this was open in 1846.

Corydon, Iowa: "Come, Come Ye Saints"

2011-06-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Locust Creek Camp is located just outside of Corydon, Iowa. It was here on April 15 that William Clayton reportedly penned the words to the song "All is Well," after receiving word that his wife, Diantha, still in Nauvoo, had given birth to a healthy baby boy. Since renamed "Come, Come, Ye Saints," this stirring hymn—an anthem of faith, full of praise amidst privation—has come to signify the Mormon migration to the West perhaps more than any other piece of writing.

At the present time it is impossible to pinpoint exactly where this hymn was composed, because the border of Iowa and Missouri was changed and disputed from 1816 to 1895. Much evidence, however, suggests it was probably composed about five miles southeast of Sewell, very near Corydon.

Also at Locust Creek, Brigham Young redirected the Camp of Israel to a northwest heading in order to leave behind the trail-wise and unscrupulous traders who he felt were taking advantage of the company.

Journal Entries of the Pioneers:

William Clayton:
"This morning Ellen Kimball came to me and wishes me much joy. She said Diantha has a son. I told her I was afraid it was not so, but she said Brother Pond had received a letter. I went over to Pond's and he read that she had a fine fat boy on the 30th ult., but she was very sick with ague and mumps. Truly I feel to rejoice at this intelligence but feel sorry to hear of her sickness... In the evening... [several] persons retired to my tent to have a social christening... We named him William Adriel Benoni Clayton... This morning I composed a new song—'All is well.' I feel to thank my heavenly father for my boy and pray that he will spare and preserve his life and that of his mother and so order it so that we may soon meet again" (William Clayton's Journal [1921], 19).

"Come, Come, Ye Saints"

Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear; But with joy wend your way. Though hard to you this journey may appear, Grace shall be as your day. 'Tis better far for us to strive Our useless cares from us to drive; Do this, and joy your hearts will swell— All is well! All is well!

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard? 'Tis not so; all is right. Why should we think to earn a great reward If we now shun the fight? Gird up your loins; fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake; And soon we'll have this tale to tell— All is well! All is well!

We'll find the place which God for us prepared, Far away in the West, Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid; There the Saints will be blessed. We'll make the air with music ring, Shout praises to our God and King; Above the rest these words we'll tell— All is well! All is well!

And should we die before our journey's through, Happy day! All is well! We then are free from toil and sorrow, too; With the just we shall dwell! But if our lives are spared again To see the Saints their rest obtain, Oh, how we'll make this chorus swell— All is well! All is well!

["Come, Come, Ye Saints," Hymn, no. 30]

Moulton, Iowa: Chariton River Crossing

2011-06-08T04:29:00.000-07:00

The remains of the old Chariton River Camp are safely tucked away about one-half mile west of the Chariton River and a little southwest of present-day Moulton, Iowa.

This site is about 100 miles from Nauvoo. After leaving Sugar Creek the Camp of Israel--as Brigham newly named them-- battled bad weather and sickness. Thus they had only averaged between three and four miles a day. It was here that the reorganization of the Mormon Pioneers took place. They fled Nauvoo in haste and only now felt safely far enough away to make better plans. Also, the pause allowed Saints scattered along the length of the trail to, in effect, catch up.

Journal Entries of the Pioneers:

Orson Pratt:
"The heavy rains had rendered the prairies impassable; and our several camps were very much separated from each other. We were compelled to remain as we were for some two or three weeks, during which time our animals were fed upon the limbs and bark of trees, for the grass had not yet started, and we were a number of miles from any inhabited country, and therefore, it was very inconvenient to send for grain. The heavy rains and snows, together with frosty nights, rendered our situation very uncomfortable. Our camps were now more perfectly organized, and captains were appointed over hundreds, over fifties, and over tens, and over these all, a presidency and counsellors, together with other necessary officers" (Orson Pratt, journal, 22 Mar. 1846, as reprinted in the Millennial Star, 15 Dec. 1849, 370).

Huntington Young:
"On the banks of the Chariton an incident occurred ever eventful in the life of woman. I had been told in the temple that I should acknowledge God even in a miracle in my deliverance in woman's hour of trouble, which hour had now come. We had traveled one morning about five miles, when I called for a halt in our march. There was but one person with me—Mother Lyman, the aunt of George A. Smith; and there on the bank of the Chariton I was delivered of a fine son. . . . Occasionally the wagon had to be stopped, that I might take breath. Thus I journeyed on. But I did not mind the hardship of my situation, for my life had been preserved, and my babe seemed so beautiful" (Zina Huntington Young, as quoted in Edward W. Tullidge, The Women of Mormondom [1877], 328).

Sarah Rich
"We left the Chariton on our march towards the Rocky Mountains, leaving all the settlements behind, so from there on we had to pick our way without any road, only as we made it" (Journal of Sarah De Ammon Pea Rich, [typescript, n.d.] Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, 57).

People I've met:

Taco Tuesday gang:
I walked into the only restaurant in Moulton, wet with sweat and eager for a break. I bought a large glass of orange juice and promptly drained it--juice spilling down my chin. In spite of my rugged exterior, the local citizens of Moulton couldn't help but inquire about my journey. I pulled a chair up around the group and began a great conversation.

I sat next to Grandpa Gene and Grandma Janice and their grandson Mathew. Across from them was Richard and Darlene. Joyce Daniels rounded off the group on the right. They all joined in and told me about the days when Moulton was a big stop on railroad. In their lifetime is has slowly lost its umph. Everyone agreed this was a tragedy. But though the town has faded, I found everyone had lived a vibrant life.

When I asked about their life stories, Gene jumped in to tell me about the love of his life, his wife Janice. He explained jokingly how the selling point for Janice to marry him was that she didn't have to wear shoes or make-up because they lived only 15 miles from the Missouri border. Janice winked at Gene and smiled. When asked how they made it through 62 years of not just marriage but love the answer came: "a couple that fishes together stays together. "

After lunch the boys wouldn't let me leave alone. Gene, Richard and Matt drove me in their truck to find the Chariton River Crossing. They explained how that site was nearly impossible to discover alone. Besides, they said they liked me.

Richard:
After we found the site, Richard gave me a ride back to the main road. We took the time to talk and 87 year old Rick--as he said I could call him--had plenty to share.

Only a few days earlier on June 6, Rick had celebrated the anniversary for D-day. Rick was there for the first wave on Omaha Beach. He told the story about he loaded up in England on a troop carrier and then transferred to an LCA (land craft assault) for the battle. The LCA held only 32 soldiers and 1 sailor with standing room only. It was early morning when they left. It was quiet and dark. Finally the moment came and they disembarked into waist deep water with tons of bullets screaming by. It took hours for the front line to make it only a stone's throw. At Noon the Allied Forces were only halfway up the beach. But the Germans couldn't kill us fast enough, Rick said. Wave after wave of boys kept coming. By nightfall they had taken the hills that overlooked the beach. They dug in for the night. Rick said he's never been so tired in his life. He slept through many rounds of German artillery fire that night. Rick said he loved his WWII experience. He said he wouldn't sell it for a million dollars. Though he wouldn't take a million to do or again, either.

The local doctor recently gave Rick an exam and told him he was good for another ten years. Rick said he disagrees. But he said he wouldn't mind living to 94. That was the age his mother was when she died. I asked him if there was anything he'd like to do before he died. He said he'd like to Germany again, now that it's been rebuilt.

I asked Rick what his biggest challenge has been in all his years on Earth. He shared how after he and his wife got married and paid preacher, they had two dollars left. They lived poor for a couple years. Real poor, he said. He explained how he wanted to badly to give his family more. But things finally worked out. And he assured me, with his old, wrinkled hand on my shoulder, "they always do."

Bloomfield, Iowa: Meeting the President

2011-06-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

For all those who are praying for my safety and that kind people will cross my path--thank you so much. Not only do I feel your support, but little miracles are indeed happening.

As it turns out, losing my handcart has been a great blessing. It would've allowed me to travel in greater comfort, with more provisions--but it would've also kept me self-sufficient and on my own. On the other hand, backpacking with a light bag I've had to depend on the kindness of others, and have been required to take rides in order to reach refueling sites more often for food and water. But more than the necessities, I now have company. And I am finding out just how important a provision that is. No matter what your doing in life, a friend can make it better.

Just a word on my occasional hitchhiking; I know some of y'all are a little worried about me and so I want to share with you my general rules:
1. I only ask for rides to supplement my journey, I'm still trying to walk much of the Trail with my feet.
2. I never ask for rides at night, only during the day.
3. I only take rides from people with whom I feel safe.
4. I only ask for rides on back country roads, not freeways or highways. Thus, all of my rides so far have been local residents.
5. I continue to pray for the Lord's guidance and protection.

With that said, I want to let y'all know how many wonderful people I've met by accepting a little help from the folks around me. Its made all the difference in this journey so far. I feel like I'm not alone out here but am making so many friends along the way. So don't worry about me. This is a great world we live in, so full of good-hearted, kind individuals. Anyone who says this world is entirely mean or all dangerous is someone who's only exposure to it is television. I'm out here on foot and I can tell you--its a beautiful place. Sure there are real threats out there, and I would always encourage everyone to be smart and safe. But I would also let everyone know this: don't let the threat of harm poison your heart to the world. Don't let fear stop you from helping a stranger or being helped by a stranger. Worse than the threat of being hurt is the chance that we might become callous to kindness and abandon charity in the name of safety. As Christ said: "...fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell."

Speaking of friends, here are two new ones I've recently made near Bloomfield, Iowa.

Shelly:
Bloomfield is the county seat for Davis County. Its a beautiful town with a glorious county building, one in fact that almost looks out of place for rural south central Iowa. It speaks of another day when railroads and manufacturing prevailed. A hundred years ago this town was headed for a boom. But fate decided on a quieter, quainter path. In town a few Mormon Trail sites exist, and after documenting these I made my exit, still left with several hours of daylight to make more progress on the Trail.

Not more than three steps beyond the "You are now leaving Bloomfield" sign, a lady in a minivan pulled off the road in front of me. Shelly Gradwell-Brenneman popped out in enthusiasm and after introducing herself exclaimed: "I have to take you back into Bloomfield, there's someone there you just have to meet!" She described her job as one of the scenic byway coordinators for Iowa and explained how excited she was when she saw my backpack sign announcing my intent to walk the Mormon Trail. Her current job involves a lot of research for the Trail and has required Shelly be in contact with Leon Wilkinson, the president of Iowa Mormon Trial Association. "He would love to meet you" she said, and after making a few calls she cleared out a spot in her minivan so she, Ansel (her son), and I could track down Leon together.

Leon was purportedly volunteering at one of the many ball games taking place that evening, and it wasn't until three baseball fields later--having traversed the entire town--that we located him. Getting lost with a stranger affords you plenty of time to make a friend. Shelly and I had the chance to talk and as it turned out she has quite a fascinating story. She's originally from Iowa but left home to pursue an undergraduate degree at Colorado State. There she worked on environmental education. Later she received an advanced degree from Iowa State in sustainable agriculture. She has long been passionate about the natural environment and has a real desire to conserve the beauty around us for generations to come. Shelly spends part of the year in Alaska where her husband's family owns fishing rights for Sockeye salmon. They own the right to set nets at specific locations during specific days of the year.

We talked about her current work on the Mormon Trail and I was intrigued by the amount of studying she's done. I inquired about her interest in the Trail and she explained how--though she is not a Latter-Day Saint--she's always had a special respect for Mormons. That respect started not with a study of the history but with meeting everyday Mormons around her. She explained how one of her first interactions with a Latter-Day Saint occurred when the Post Office messed up a package delivery. The box that was scheduled to come to her from a distant friend had been badly damaged in transit, but re-taped and finally delivered. Upon opening the box Shelly discovered that not all the contents were hers. Several boxes must have been damaged together and some of the contents mixed when they were repaired. Inside Shelly's box was a small binder with many hand written pages.

Shelly read through these pages in an attempt to decipher the owner. Her reading revealed many touching stories of a young woman, far away from home in a distant land trying to serve and love and uplift the people there. After reading on Shelly discovered that this young lady was a Sister Missionary serving in South America. Shelly explained how she felt a special bond with this Sister even though they had never met. With enough information she was able to track down the owner of that journal and forward it to Salt Lake City where the author lived. I explained to Shelly how I too have lost my missionary journal through all the moving I have done. I hope someday it finds its way back to me--via some strangers heart.

After walking around several baseball diamonds we finally located Leon, and Shelly excitedly introduced us. Before She left I thanked her and her son Ansel for taking the time to stop and talk with me. And for taking a chance with a stranger. "No problem," she said "I felt good about it."

Leon:
Leon Wilkinson is one of those men you have to meet to really appreciate. He is 78 years old but he grabs your hand and will shake it wildly like he's still 21. He currently serves in many civic and volunteer positions, one of his favorite of which is President of the Iowa Mormon Trail Association. He was not only excited to meet and talk with me but within a few minutes of our introduction he had already invited me to stay with him for the night. Leon is not a man you can say no to; despite his age, his charm is youthfully intact.

He finished his business at the ball park and we then commenced an evening of laughing, story telling, and Trail planning. With his close-to-Missouri country twang he related tale after tale. I felt so elated and excited to meet Leon that I just had to call Annie and let her know. On the phone I excitedly explained to Annie that if there was only one person in Iowa I could meet in connection with this trek, it would've been him--the President of Iowa Mormon Trail Association. But I didn't plan this. It just happened. Or did it? I thanked Annie and I thank all of y'all back home for your prayers. The Lord--in a little but meaningful way to me--is guiding this journey. I feel so grateful to Him and to everyone.

A little more on Leon: He was part of the 1996 and 1997 re-enactment. That even took place over two years just like the original, initial trip of Brigham Young. In 1846 Brigham led the main body of the Saints from Nauvoo, Illinois to Winter Quarters, Nebraska. In 1847 He led a group from Winter Quarters to the Great Basin. The re-enactment was planned to follow that schedule. Leon played a large part. Although not a member of the LDS Church, Leon had grown up as a boy near a section of the Trail. He played in the ruts without knowing what they were. Years later he met a Utahan in Iowa who was looking for similar ruts. It was then that Leon started taking a real interest in researching and preserving the Mormon trail. He has been regularly involved in the Association since the late 80's and began his leadership role in the mid-90's. Since then he has been the go-to man for the trail in Iowa.

Of the re-enactment, Leon had many, many stories to tell. Before I went to sleep in Leon's basement he came downstairs with a few photo albums and we both sat on that bed till late in the night; he telling stories, me listening and laughing. Leon told me about Joe Vogul, another non-Mormon who went on that Trek in 96-97. He explained how just before the 97 part of the journey Joe got very sick. He was, as Leon explained it, a "died in the wool" Catholic. Some of the Brethren asked Joe if he would like a blessing. Joe said he would do anything to be on that trip. His Latter-Day Saint friends laid their hands on his head and gave him a blessing. As told by Leon, "it was a miracle!" Joe was rejuvenated without delay and was able to join the modern Pioneers.

Of Leon's life in Iowa, he spent 40 years working as a teacher and administrator in the school system in Bloomfield. He's had thousands of students and says he can't go anywhere without knowing someone. He taught math. Originally he started out in college as a business student. He planned on pursuing a career in accounting, but he said those accountants rubbed him the wrong way. He did said they were all mixed up about the definitions of a debit and a credit. He didn't say this, but I think the real reason is that Leon has too big a heart to be in business. In talking with him it was clear to see that his real passion is people, and stories, making a difference in lives. When I asked Leon if he had any regrets about his life, he defiantly struck back with "No sir!" He says he feels lucky with his life. He admits he doesn't have a lot of money. But he proudly brags that he has a lot of friends. And friends, he says, are the real gold mine.

Just before we parted early the next morning Leon said one more thing that I'm still thinking about miles later. He said "People are very competitive. We're always competing to 'one-up' the next guy. If you're negative, people around you will be more negative. If you tell other people how bad your life is going, well they'll come back with something more rotten that's happening to them. But if you're positive, then they'll try to out-shine you. That's what I do," he continued, "if someone asks me how I am I look 'em straight in the eye and shout: 'FANTASTIC!' I never give them the chance to be negative."

We soon split paths and I continued my journey down the Mormon Trail. Walking away from Bloomfield the second time, I felt very grateful in my heart. What a wonderful world it is, when we share it with others.

Richardson's Point: 35 Miles from Nauvoo

2011-06-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

Suffering through ten days of downpour, the Camp of Israel stalled here while awaiting improved weather. Some of the first deaths on the trail occurred here. The effect of the rain on immediate travel led to the decision to cache some artillery ordnance and also allowed many who wished to return to Nauvoo for family members to do so. At least 30 men took advantage of the opportunity.

All that's left today of the site is a cemetery called Oak Point. Although many Gentile settlers and early residents of the area are interred here, this originally was a Mormon graveyard, with some of the first causalities of the exodus buried here. This was a beautiful site. I rested from the hot sun under the shade of an old oak tree and read some of the journal entries of the now long passed pioneers.

Journal Entries by Pioneers:

Erastus Snow:
"The company, crossing the Des Moines river at Bonaparte succeeded in reaching a point of timber 20 miles above called Richardson's Point. . . . Here they were compelled to remain until the 16th. During this time it rained almost incessantly and the roads were rendered impassable, and our encampment being trod into a perfect Mortar bed by ourselves & stock was far from being a pleasant one" (Journal of Erastus Snow, 1835–1857, 6 vols., Family and church History Department Archives, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints [n.d.], microfilm, 3:62).

Horace K. Whitney:
"The weather continued showery through the day till evening when it cleared off pleasant. The corpse of Bro. Edwin Little was brought into camp and interred to-day. He was taken sick here a few days ago and conveyed into the country in order to have the advantage of skillful treatment and to be shielded from the inclemency of the weather; but notwithstanding all was done for his relief that human aid could afford he died today while in the wagon on the way to the camp. His disease was quick consumption. He appeared to be reconciled to his death, and died in the full faith of the Gospel" (Journal of Horace K. Whitney, vol. 1, 18 March 1846, Family and Church History Department Archives, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, microfilm, 15–16).

Eliza R. Snow:
"My good friend Sister Miller brought me a slice of beautiful white light bread and butter, that would have done honor to a more convenient bakery than and out-of-door fire in the wilderness" (Extracts from Eliza R. Snow's private journal, 4 March 1846, Family and Church History Department Archives, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, typescript [n.d.], microfilm, 6).

Brigham Young:
"With some 200 teams then scattered over the wet flat Pararies for three milds the rain increased the roads soon became impassable teams ware stauled in every direction men Doubling and thribling teams but to no effect with many wagons left stalled in the mud in every direction many families remained on the pararie over the night with out fire with their clothing wet and cold. . . . Spent one of the most uncomfortable nights that so many of the church ever suffered in one night rained steady all night verry cold and a high wind the ground filled with water the mud ne deep around our tents and Little or no feed one cow through fatique Laid down by the waggon on the paraie chilled and died A general sene of suffering for man and beast" (Brigham Young as quoted in Wallace Stegner, The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail [1964], 61-62).

People I've Met:

Don:
Don and I had a long talk outside of Richardson's Point near Lacey, Iowa. As a Missourian, he had had a slow, southern slurred accent with a heavy drawl. Although he was raised only a few miles away, he sounds markedly different than his fellow Iowans. Don explains that this is because he grew up in Missouri, across the border. He readily admits that there's something magical about that line that turns people into hillbillies.

He had two great lines: "You never really travel till you travel slow." I like that. And I think he's right. On this trip I've learned so much just by walking and seeing the sights ooze by instead of zoom by. Maybe I should learn to take other things slow in life, as well. ;) That wink is for a girl I know. Oh, and Don's other quote is, "y'are what ya eat, and y'are what ya think."' Don said it makes him very happy to see someone stepping outside the box. To see someone trying something a little different. As I'm out here, I must admit that I don't feel like I'm doing anything remarkable. In fact, I feel a little boyish and irresponsible. But it really feels good to talk to people like Don who are inspired by what I hope this journey will mean--for others and for myself.

The Yoders:
Walking on the Trail I came across Eli Yoder and his two sons. They at first mistook me for a fellow Amish traveler and stopped to give me a lift. I suppose the blue linen shirt, dark linen pants and straw hat is a little confusing.

Upon recognizing me as an English, the Yoders did not give me a ride, but did however offer me much encouragement. In turn I shared with them how the Latter Day Saints have a long history of agriculture just like the Amish. Both of our churches (although the Amish are much more accurately described as a collection of communities) own millions of acres of prime farmland throughout the country. Though where the Amish embrace traditional practices of production the Latter Saint agricultural companies are typically on the cutting edge.

All of the largest agricultural companies like John Deere, Pioneer, Monsanto, Cargill, and others, not only know about the LDS church's farming and ranching activities but are always eager to do business with them. The Church buys in bulk and regularly pays in cash, avoiding the use of a credit line--a service many ag companies offer but hate to use. Eli was amazed to learn all about this. He was familiar with the history of the Mormons in the area but had no idea we were fellow brothers in the care of the land.

The Yoders had to get going, and so did I. But before they took off I was left with some Amish cheese and bread for lunch. Mmmm... it was delicious. I know what Eliza R. Snow was talking about (see quote above).

Keosauqua, Iowa: Van Buren County Courthouse

2011-06-05T08:04:00.000-07:00

The Camp of Israel's brass band played here and in the vicinity several times for goods and money. In Keosauqua the best venue for such a concert was the upstairs courtroom of the Van Buren County Building, erected in 1843, three years before the Mormon Pioneers came fleeing by.

Interestingly enough, the saints not only provided musical talents but also brought many of their skills as artisans and craftsman to barter for goods. While most engaged in short term employment to add supplementary funds to their provisions, some saints were left so destitute from the exodus of Nauvoo that they were required stay several years at sites along the trail to work and save. Once they had enough, most would continue onward--though some stayed and lost the faith. Below is an example of the level of skill Mormon laborers provided. This building and others like it are located in a town called downriver from Bonaparte.

We often think of the Saints as fleeing quickly, but I have learned on this trek that many made slow progress. I wonder how safe those lagging Mormon Pioneers felt, being compelled to leave Nauvoo under the threat of death only to take up residence just a few miles away in Iowa. My guess is that once the Saints started their exodus they were more or less left alone by the Missouri and Illinois mob. It was clear that the mob had won and I suppose they were satisfied with seeing the main body of the Saints exit in shab and shame. But little did they know how mighty a people we would become on the Rocky Mountains.

I can't help but contrast in my mind the difference--in terms of economic success--of Utah from the lands the mob kept (and in some cases stole). That part of Illinois and Missouri is struggling with net out-migration, decaying towns, and little work. Whereas Utah, although not half as fertile and resourced, is booming with growth and progress and promise. The Mormon Pioneers were kicked out of Missouri and Illinois and went to the desert with a determination and hope. In doing so they proved that the real treasure wasn't the land you settled, but the dreams you planted in your heart! And that's a treasure no one can rob you of. Then or now. A rich person is a person with dreams and a vision!

People I've Met:

John Finney:
Jon is the Van Buren County Auditor. He works in the county building adjacent to the old county courthouse. I walked up to building as John was pulling his car in for work. We immediately exchanged morning salutations and quickly thereafter commenced a conversation in pioneer history.

John doubles as the local historian. The young lady working inside the old courthouse--which is still in use, making the oldest so in Iowa--described John as "the best man to talk to" in relation to this Mormon Trail site. Without any prodding, John kindly told the story of how musical members of Brigham Young's Camp played for the early citizens of Keosauqua. John took me upstairs to the courtroom where not much has changed since it's completion in 1843. He shared other stories here too, like how this was the site of Iowa's first capital murder charge. We examined the original benches where visitors to the court would sit. We identified scratchings in woodwork where witnesses and suspects used their Bowie knives to carve little doodlings. Isn't it interesting to think how what would've been considered defacing public property then is now protected as a valuable historic artifact. I wonder if enough time will turn my mistakes into treasure?

Rusty Ebert:
While John and I were talking Rusty came inside the courthouse and asked if I could spare the time for an interview. Rusty is editor in chief of the Van Buren County Paper. He's been working for the paper for twenty five years.

In our interview he asked me about my motivation for this trek. I explained how as a boy I've always dreamed of walking the trail with Brigham, Parley, Wilford, and all the other heroes my father introduced me to through stories. I believed it to be quite an impossible dream until one day I heard about a young man who was walking the Appalachian Trail. I looked it up in the encyclopedia assuming it to be a small trail somewhere close and was surprised to discover how it transverses almost the entire Northeast. Right then I had an excited epiphany: it's possible! One day I could actually walk where Parley P. Pratt walked. I could share in his legacy.

Before we finished Rusty shared his dream. One day he and his brother are going to attend the Masters Golf Tournament together. I would've guessed this to be an easy accomplishment until Rusty explained how expensive and exclusive an event this tournament is. Good luck, Rusty! Oh, and just as a side note. The story that Rusty is working on as well as all others that hit the press will be mailed to Annie Henrie. (So Annie please let your roommates know as my name will appear on the letter). When Annie gets these stories She'll scan them in and post them to this site.

Mike:
I met Mike near a site on the Des Moines river. He gave me a lift to Richardson's Point. He's from Centerville, Iowa. He works for the rural water association as the construction foreman in this area. When the Iowa portion of the Sesquicentennial took place, he helped lay down water lines for reenactors. I'm finding many of the folks along the trail have a story to share related to the 1996-97 walk.

I asked Mike why he picked me up. He said he used to hitchhike as a kid and knows what it feels like to be zoomed by. And, he added, he had a good feeling about me. Thanks to all who have been praying that I would be safe and meet great people like Mike, and all the others I've met. I really feel so grateful! Thanks y'all!

Location:1st St,Keosauqua,United States

Bonaparte, Iowa

2011-06-04T19:59:00.000-07:00

Friends, family, countrymen, lend me your eyes. I have only a few moments to write this entry, so I must be quick. Please excuse the coarseness of my language. It may be a bumpy literary ride. Speed is of the essence since Caleb and Rhea Huddleston of Bonaparte, Iowa, will be back soon to give me a ride to another site along the trail.

The Huddlestons, visit them for the best fudge in Iowa

The Huddleston's own the Addie May Fudge Factory and Antique Shop, located on the Banks of the Des Moines river not more than a stone's throw from where Brigham's advance party forded the rapids and trekked forward. Caleb is Rhea's son. He looks about my age. He just returned from L.A. where he was a video game tester. Yes, Robert, this guy got paid to play Call of Duty! But he said it wasn't that great. He missed being here in Iowa with his family. He missed birthdays and holidays and realized that his family needed him. Rhea and her husband just bought the old woolen mill four years ago and have turned it into a great antique shop. They're still in the process of converting the other half into a bed and breakfast. But the antique part is amazing. Annie, Sauni, Debbie, Nancy, Marie, Susan, Sally--and all other women I know--y'all would love this place. If I had any room I would've bought this beautiful 1880's dress for Annie that was at a crazy price. It's unbelievable the kinds of treasure you can find in forgotten corners where few feet tread.

Downtown Bonaparte. The Huddlestons occupy the old woolen mill.

Inside the Addie May Fudge Factory and Antique Shop

Well, the Huddlestons are the first really kind Gentiles to open their hearts to this Mormon pioneer. I've had a few people stop and say hello but Caleb and Rhea have offered dinner, fudge, an after hours tour of their shop, and a ride to the Mormon site--a campgrounds where I'll rest my head for the night. I feel so grateful to have met these kind folks. They've given me the hope and encouragement I need to continue. For all y'all who have prayed that I would cross paths with kind souls who would lift me up--I believe this is your answer. And mine, too.

The first few days of this journey have been very trying. Not unlike the original pioneers I have had unexpected setbacks and disappointments. My cart broke and I was forced to surrender most of my supplies and Parley my dog to Annie and Sauni to bring back home. I took a pack but carried way too much weight. After two days and 40 miles my feet were sore and bloody and my back, aching. I felt discouraged and feared that I might have to quit. Fortunately, Onur--my good friend--came down from Des Moines to rescue me. We went to church today and then gathered new supplies--leaving the heavy stuff with him. Onur, you saved me. You are a loyal friend. Instead of 70 lbs, my pack now ways 30 lbs. My brother Warren is right. Walking on foot is a whole new ball game that requires specialized equipment. I have what I need now to continue; including a lightweight tent that Annie pleaded with me to take. In my stubbornness I refused. But you were as right as you are beautiful. I should never doubt a woman's intuition. (I probably should not make the admission in print--I'm liable to be held to that standard now.

The result of almost 50 miles in two days with 70 lbs of weight on my back.

The first few days have been rough on the Mormon Trail.

Before we parted today, Onur convinced me that the best way to proceed on foot would be to do so with the aid of others. Hitch-hiking from site to site. I hoisted a banner over my pack for the cause.

My banner reads: "Walking to Zion on the Mormon Trail." This Banner is an attempt to garner public support.

Not only will this take the risk out of carrying such few provisions--since I will hit refueling stops more often--but this will also make my trip more interesting. I'll be meeting more people and recording more stories. Although this trek may be shorter in length under this new scheme, it will be more full. Onur made a convincing argument, for the dearth of conversation over the last few days of solitary walking has left me empty. The point Onur made was that the Saints had each other in their western exodus. And even though their journey was rough, nothing is rougher than loneliness. I agree. And so I'm going forward with hope and excitement--refitted by my friend and re-encouraged by the Huddlestons.

Walking through downtown Farmington, Iowa.

Well here's a few sites I've seen over last few days and last several miles:

Montrose Landing:

Here the first Saints fleeing Nauvoo crossed on ice over the frozen Mississippi. Thousands of Mormons wore such a path into the ground that the Gentile settlers who moved in afterwards used this path as their main street. For many years after the temple was destroyed this main street seemed to align with nothing. Today however, as the Nauvoo Temple stands proud, the main street in Montrose looks like it was built to lead to this holy edifice.

Main Street in Montrose aligns perfectly with the Nauvoo Temple, barely visible in the distance.

It is near this site in Montrose--in October of 1847 when the remnants of the Mormons were leaving Nauvoo and resting on the Iowa shore of the Mississippi River--that flocks of exhausted quail began falling to the ground and were gathered for food by the destitute as manna from heaven.

Where the miracle of the quail might have occured. Note the Nauvoo Temple in the distance.

Sugar Creek Camp:

This was the staging ground for the Camp of Israel. Brigham Young arrived here February 15, and others continued to arrive until the camp moved March 1. By that time there were about 500 wagons and approximately 5,000 Saints. The area was used as a first camp until at least the following October. Before the year was out, between nine and ten thousand emigrants left this camp for the West.

In February the weather was extremely harsh. The temperature went as low as twelve degrees below zero and usually hovered around twenty or thirty degrees above zero, causing much suffering as people huddled around great log fires. Nine children were born on one particular night in this camp. On February 25 the advance company of pioneers was dispatched to go ahead to prepare the roads.

Part of this extensive camp site may be viewed today north of where county road J72 crosses Sugar Creek, about five miles west of Montrose, in sections 2 and 11 of Des Moines Township.

The Sugar Creek Camp. A beautiful open field. Imagine it full of 10,000 destitute Mormon Pioneers.

Reed’s Creek Camp:

This fourth camp was three miles above Farmington in a ten-acre field near Reed’s Creek, three quarters of a mile north of the Des Moines River, in section 15 of Bonaparte Township. Captain William Pitt’s brass band gave a concert in Farmington that evening.

There is a local tradition that some Mormons remained in the area, and some are buried two and one-half miles east of Bonaparte.

A Trail Crossing near Reed's Creek Camp.

Indian Creek Camp:

On March 5 the camp forded the Des Moines River just below Bonaparte and made camp on the north bank of Indian Creek, just west of Lacey-Keosauqua State Park, near section 8 of Des Moines Township. Some time ago the Daughters of the American Revolution commemorated this crossing by erecting a marker one-quarter of a mile west of the Bonaparte bridge.

A sign marking the advance of "Brigham Young and Band of Mormons..."

What apparently was the first example of the blessing of sick animals took place near this camp site on February 14 when William Hall’s horse sickened with bloating and colic. Citing the prophet Joel, who said that in the last days the Lord would pour out his spirit upon all flesh (Joel 2:28), some of the brethren laid hands on the animal and blessed it. Later it recovered. (This event took place more than two years earlier than the more famous similar incident regarding the ox of Mary Fielding Smith, which was blessed somewhere between the Platte and Sweetwater rivers in present-day Wyoming.)

Well, that's all for tonight. For all those following this blog and praying for me--thanks so much for yall's support. I couldn't be doing this without you. I'll write again soon.

Location:Main St,Bonaparte,United States

Second Day of Walking

2011-06-03T05:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I began my journey. Annie and Saunie Henrie dropped me off. We left Nauvoo and crossed the Mississippi river over to Montrose, Iowa. Starting at about 2pm I was able to average 3 miles per hour. Finishing the night in Donnellson, Iowa, where I slept underneath the deck of a university student athletic center. It wasn't a bad nights sleep considering the circumstances. I left Donnellson this morning at 5:30am and am walking towards Mount Pleasant. I mailed my first letter home this morning and it should arrive at Annie's next week. She has kindly agreed to transcribe these letters to this blog, where pen and paper will afford many more details of life on the trail.

I am planning a short detour to Des Moines, the Capitol of Iowa, where I will stay with my good friend Onur Hancer. There I will resupply and reevaluate. I had a minor setback yesterday and was forced to abandon my handcart and let Annie and Sauni take Parley (my dog) back home to Utah. I'm all alone on the trail but my spirits are high. Still I'm not sure how far I will make it under the current circumstances. I'm taking the trail one step at a time. Tonight I'll be in Mount Pleasant and from there i'll route a trip to Mt. Pisgah, the famous Mormon Trail landmark in south central Iowa named by Parley P. Pratt.

Thanks for all the support. I will keep y'all posted with short, frequent updates. But look forward to longer letters to be posted by my friend Annie.

Hurrah for Israel!

Walking the Mormon Trail: Nauvoo, Ilinois

2011-06-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

I'm twenty nine years old. Almost 30. Soon you won't be able to call me a young man anymore. Just a man.

This year, as I say goodbye to the straggling remnants of my boyhood, I made room for one more youthful emprise--one more junior dream: I'm attempting to walk the Mormon Trail. Its been an aspiration since I was twelve. My father filled me with a love for the Mormon Pioneers; I grew up with heros like Orson Hyde, Brigham Young and Parley P. Pratt. I read their stories and wished I could've filled their ranks as they marched west--leaving lush, green midwest ground for the harsh, dusty mountain lands of Utah.

In 1993, on my first home teaching visit ever (with my father as my companion), we visited the Larson family in Atascocita, Texas. Home teaching is a unique Latter Day Saint custom where families visit other families once a month; visiting, teaching, and seeing if there is any help that might be needed. We had a great time chatting with Brother Larson. He was always very welcoming. On that first visit and many subsequent visits he related stories of his son who was currently walking the Appalachian Trail. It was then that I realized that one day I might be able to actually do it. I could walk the Mormon trail with Brigham and Orson and Parley.

I've held on to that dream for a long time, and finally, everything has come together to let me give it a try. I took off time from work, cleared my summer of graduate work, research, and responsibility, and began making the necessary preparations earlier this year. Part of those preparations included building a handcart (pictured below). Taking a cart will not only allow me to conveniently carry Parley (my dog) if he gets hurt, but it will also allow me to take plenty of water when I attempt the most dangerous part of the trip: the dry plains of Wyoming.

My hand made handcart. Built from PVC pipe, old bicycle parts and spare lumber.

The Mormon Trail. Click on the map for a larger image.

I'll be the first to admit, this is an ambitious adventure. The trail spans the Great Plains, climbs over the Rocky Mountains and spills into the Great Basin. It starts in Nauvoo, Illinois and ends in Salt Lake City, Utah. And though much of the trail is dotted with towns, many miles are lonely and dry and barren. Honestly, I'm a little scared. Not only of what might happen to me or my canine companion, but mostly that I might not finish. The difficulties may defeat me. But I still have to try.

Its the night before I begin my journey. I'm writing from a hotel room in old Nauvoo. Just as the early Latter Day Saints did, I attended the Nauvoo Temple in anticipation of my departure. Sitting in the celestial room earlier this evening I pondered all the steps I have in front of me. According to my calculations it will take me over two and a half million to bring me home. Can I make it? I don't know. But I am determined to give it my best try, dedicating my effort to those Saints who have gone before me and laid the foundation for Zion. And, to all my family and my many friends whom I have met and loved along the way--this is also for you. Maybe through reading my account, you will remember that with God's help, nothing is impossible--that your dreams can come true!

Me just outside of the Navuoo Temple

Please return often to this site to review my account of the journey. I will be writing letters back home to a friend who will be transcribing them to this site. Thanks for reading. Look forward to more...

Back in the Mountains of Ephraim

2008-08-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

Parley and Me

I will be spending a year in Utah. I am here now... and it feels good to be back. I have returned to these mountains for a Master's program at the University of Utah. But that's not all; I have come back to be closer to my family, one more time. I realize my career path may not allow me to stay in this arid country, but being young and mobile, I can at least spend one more year with them as I invest in my education and plan for the future.

What will this next year hold? Where will I be next summer? I don't know. But I trust in God and have a feeling that all will work out. So with Parley tagging along, I start off on another adventure. I will no doubt make many new friends and may even find a girl. For certain I will spend many days and nights with the family that I love, with my sisters and brothers and their children. I also am certain that I will learn a great deal. I have faith that I have been led here, as this move has been the subject of much prayer. So although I am unsure, I am still very happy and excited for what may come. I've learned a valuable lesson in Iowa, and I carry it with me here to Utah, and wherever I may end up after this: life is what you make it--and if you are grateful, it will always be beautiful!

Parley at the Point of the Mountain between Utah County and Salt Lake County

The Illinois Reports: Explanation

2008-08-13T11:24:00.003-07:00

The following reports were written last month while I was on assignment for work. They are posted in reverse order so if you want to start from the beginning find Report 1 and read up. I tried to send this to most of the family and many friends but just in case I missed anyone--here it is again.

It was an interesting and rewarding experience. I hope you enjoy the read.

Illinois Report IV: 4th Week of July 2008

2008-08-13T11:23:00.001-07:00

To my supervisor and a few other interested parties,

This is my fourth and final report from rural Illinois. Yesterday was my last day in the fields and with my work here concluded I eagerly anticipate my return home. This has been thirty days of hard work—but labor much enjoyed. With plenty of hot days spent traversing colossal landscapes, a collection of cuts from corn leaves, and lacrimal-fluid-inducing humor shared over rowdy lunches with untamed farmers--this business has gotten it all from me: BLOOD, SWEAT, and TEARS. Thursday morning I'll be back in the office, but before I part I wish to leave y'all with one final thought: my appreciation for the way Pioneer does business.

I have always been fascinated with the development of an organization. It excites me to discover where certain behaviors--now well established and almost fully habitual--have their origin. For Pioneer Hi-Bred International it has become standard to strive for excellence in quality as well as fairness in all transactions. But where did this culture of good behavior come from?

While working in the fields this last month I have had the opportunity to explore the answer to that question. No where is this culture more evident than in the actual production of our product--on the soil where we grow our seed. Being able to see us in action right alongside our competitors I can more fully appreciate the extra effort Pioneer makes to insure quality. We have the highest standards regarding isolation--requiring more land to raise a bushel of hybrid corn than most anyone. We hire the most hands to keep a watchful eye on the mating of our inbred lines. We use the best equipment and technology to insure everything is done as correctly as possible. In addition, the company goes to great pains to maintain a relationship of trust with its employees, its contracted farmers, and its customers. As one example, our hiring of seasonal laborers illustrates this point profoundly.

Remember how I mentioned the process of "neutering" female inbreds to insure a near perfect mixture with male inbreds. This means that each female tassel must be cut and then pulled upon reaching maturity. This is first done mechanically with large, huge-wheeled devices. These machines are never perfect and subsequently a field is required to be cleaned by hand. Every row of corn must be individually eyed and any remaining female tassels must be removed by hourly laborers. It is often discussed among management how crews of migrant workers are more effective at this job. They work longer hours, work faster and usually do a better job. Thus, the detasseling work can get done within a shorter period of time--ultimately saving money by decreasing the window of opportunity for quality concerns. However, despite the apparent advantages of migrant labor, a concerted effort is made hire labor from local pools--a significant portion of which tend to be high school age individuals. "Why," I asked, "do we do this?" The reply: "Not only do many of the locals depend on this extra summer income, but for many it has become a rite of passage, a tradition among family members. We have out in these fields third generation detasselers. If we decided to no longer higher these kids, many would be disappointed and upset--and that's a cost savings we can't afford."

All of this means that we spend more dough than most of our competitors to grow an equal amount of seed. Resultingly, the price tag for our product reflects the added investment and a premium is charged for each bag of seed. Some would argue that this is simply part of our marketing strategy--a ploy to be recognized as the quality leaders within the industry and thus capture market share. While I admit our marketing department wastes no time in capitalizing on our position I am unabashedly confident that the way we do business has less to do with stratagem and more to do with a cultivated culture of ethics. Many reasons explain why this is so but I point to one I feel is paramount: the intentions of our founder. I shy at giving one man so much credit but I also love the idea that one man can make such a difference.

Henry Agard Wallace was the founder of Pioneer Hi-bred and also the thirty-third Vice President of the United States. For the sake of brevity I'll only introduce him as a man of vision--but implore you to read a little more about him when you get the chance. He did much to advance the productivity of agriculture during this last century, as a scientist and breeder but also as a statesman. He cared immensely for the plight of the common man and made their cause his cause. He adamantly believed that if men were to become free throughout the world then they must first be free from hunger and malnutrition. He started and ran Pioneer with that mission in mind. Though operating as competitively and efficiently as any other business, Pioneer was different in its culture from the very beginning--placing profits second to service. Indeed, for years during the great depression Pioneer operated at a loss to continue offering its much needed seed to struggling farmers.

Fast forward to today--a time when corporate corruption on the scale of Enron is dismissed as commonplace--and you wonder if any of Wallace's legacy has survived. Well--honestly--the very nature of corporations (which Pioneer has since become) requires that the final direction come from shareholders whose ultimate goal is profit. So open altruism has become obsolete. But I can say that Pioneer has definitely retained a culture that truly does give more than lip service to quality and trust. In my short experience with the company it seems evident that the bottom line is not punctuated with dollar signs but annotated with an awareness of our role and responsibility within the larger community. That brings me pride to belong to such an organization.

And that concludes my fourth and final report. To the dedicated few who've endured these seemingly sempiternal logs--know that I am grateful for your readership. To be in the mud with a friend--even one in company by correspondence--turns the rainiest days into a sunny Sunday morning. Thanks again and stay in touch. Farewell from the farms.

Illinois Report III: 3rd Week of July 2008

2008-08-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Hello again from rural Illinois. The dog days of summer are upon us and--in spite of the extra chores that long days bring--I hope everyone's been finding time to have some fun. Amidst the hustle and bustle of soccer games and pool trips, BBQ's and crawfish boils—I hope y'all find a few minutes to enjoy my third report from the fields. For those that braved the verbosity of my previous entries, our reward: yet another long recount--though hopefully worth the read.

Last time I wrote I gave an in-depth look into the science of hybrid seed production. This time I wish to elaborate on a few details involving the physiology of corn which will help to further elucidate my current duties. Also, I hope to share some insight I've gleaned while spectating on the job our managers do with the copious amounts of additional labor hired for this critical period.

If you remember from my last report I mentioned how a mature corn plant contained both male and female organs. The male organ is called the tassel. It sits at the top of the corn plant and disperses pollen. The female organ is the ear. This is the part we are most familiar with. Before your shuck an ear of corn you find it wrapped in several modified leaves and with lots of hairs pouring out of the top. Those hairs are known as "silks." Follow those silks down and you will find each one connected to an individual kernel. What does the silk do? It serves as a canal for the pollen to reach the kernel. You see, each kernel is in reality an unfertilized egg and must be carefully protected. That is why the ear is wrapped up so tightly. But being so encased, the corn plant has to find a way for the pollen--or sperm—to reach the kernel--or egg. Millions of years of evolution has provided the solution: the kernels can stay safely wrapped up while silks grow out of each one--waiting en masse at the top of the ear like a thousand impatient recepticles. Once a grain of pollen lands on a silk it grows down and fertilizes a kernel. Repeated enough, the result will be an ear of corn jam-packed with fertilized kernels.

For the successful cultivation of hybrid corn, this process of fertilization must be closely managed. This requires several "managers" and generous numbers of temporary workers. As part of my duties I am encouraged to meet with the managers of my area daily. We typically sit down around lunch time and exchange vital information concerning the de-tasseling of female inbreds, silk dates and shed counts--as well as any special concerns.

Despite the sometimes intense conditions the mood is usually blithe and always jocular. Being the new guy I'm often at the center of the jest. For those familiar with my daily regimen, it should come as no surprise that lunch time for me consists of a mountain of steamed vegetables: potatoes, carrots, broccoli and green beans. Though I pride myself on the health of this habit the old farm boys that daily surround me are not impressed. I often feel like I wore a Speedo to the church picnic. "Where's the meat?!" I regularly hear. Shamefully I reply--amidst hisses and jeers--"Just veggies today." Well, to appease the assembly I put my lunch aside one day last week and joined the gentlemen in town for a "proper" meal at the local eatery. Going for the safe bet I selected the grilled chicken sandwich. Encouraged to be more manly by my fellow Pioneer peers, I decided to live wild and make it a grilled chicken "melt." And live wild I did! Not only was the grilled chicken FRIED (I'm guessing as a way to re-heat it) but the bread was fried as well. Topped with a Valdez spill of processed cheese and oily mayonnaise, this meal literally contained more fat that I consume in an entire week. But all in a valiant effort for fraternity.

Watching these men up close I've had the opportunity to examine several different styles of leadership. The subject has been on my mind since visiting a local homeless shelter and having a very interesting conversation. Eager to be involved in some of the same activities that occupy my time in Des Moines, after I arrived in Peoria I walked downtown and inquired about any open shelters. I found one in service and offered what little free time I could as a volunteer. I'm not sure that I've made much of a difference with my visits but I have been able to lend a little encouragement to a few new friends. One such is a mother about my age. She isn't currently homeless but being at risk she stops by regularly and maintains her connection with the counselors who work there. She had her boy when she was fifteen. Now he's eleven and according to her "a little devil." She of course loves her son but complains about how difficult it is becoming to get him to do anything. Her orders are often ignored until voices are raised and threats are issued. After visiting with her on several occasions I felt impressed to share a little advice. I humbly admitted my naivety as a parent but offered my experience as a boy.

The greatest control you can have over a young man is not the kind of control that derives its power from caveats of retribution. Though certainly necessary at some stages of youth, threats of punishment only work as long as a parent is feared. All too often single parents are unable to maintain that fear and children--boys especially—are lost to a world of unbridled pursuits. But, I explained, there is hope. There is a kind of power which so permeates a boy's being that it can rein him well into manhood. What is that power? Admiration. Respect. Love! All fill a boy with an immense desire to please. And that desire can keep a boy in line better and longer than the meanest commination. I told her about my father who for a stretch raised ten children on his own! It was his lightest touch that concretely steered me. I admitted to my new friend that this isn't easy. Not yelling and never punishing in anger while continually offering encouragement and support is no easy task. It takes a lot of patience and conscientious action. But it really is worth it.

The next day at work I reflected on that conversation and took special notice of the way my fellow Pioneer employees managed those around them. It seemed very clear to me that what applies to parents and children equally applies to managers and the managed. I observed how when things got tense the most effective managers were those who had the admiration of their subordinates. It was a valuable lesson to learn.

And that concludes my third report. My fourth and final report will be delivered in a week or less--as my work here is winding down. Until then, continue to enjoy the summer and thanks for all the replies.

Illinois Report II: 2nd Week of July 2008

2008-08-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Greetings again from Obama-land. This is the second report of my current assignment in NW Illinois and I hope it finds y'all healthy and happy. I must confess that this report is lengthier than the last, but I promise it to be educational and entertaining.

I left off last time explaining the rationale behind isolation and my work in reviewing the outlay of our fields. Currently, my time is consumed with the additional task of taking "counts." All this work plays an essential part in the main objective of Pioneer's business--producing hybrid seed. Before I continue I think it would be prudent to explain more about the process of creating a hybrid.

Simply put, to produce a hybrid, two inbreds must be crossed. What's an inbred? Well, we're not talking about my Texas cousins from Waxahatchie--although you got the right idea. This may be more intuitive to understand if we use an example from dog breeding. Where canines are concerned, an inbred is usually referred to as a "purebred." A purebred (inbred) is a breed so fixed in the display of its physical characteristics that if you mate two purebreds from the same breed the offspring will be identical to the parents. For instance, if you take a purebred chihuahua and mate it with a purebred chihuahua, then you will get... a chihuahua. How do you create a purebred? It requires some natural or artificial barrier which separates a portion of the species' population. For chihuahuas, that barrier was their human owners who isolated certain dogs that were small (and annoying!) and selectively mated them over successive generations until the offspring were identical (in the way the breeder wanted) to their parents.

Unfortunately--when inbreeding--you also crowd a breed with a disproportionate amount of genetic disorders. This happens not only in dogs but also with humans. The plight of several Amish communities have recently received much attention for this very reason; after centuries of intermarriage their populations are experiencing a noticeably high rate of genetic disorders.

The same is true for corn. Farmers in this country use to save a portion of their harvest and replant the same crop the following year. Repeated for several generations this practice naturally selected for corn plants which were best adapted to the famers' land--but also depressed yields by shrinking the gene pool of the population and displaying recessive genetic disorders. However, it was discovered that if two inbred varieties of corn could be mixed with each other, then the usual result was a HYBRID with a substantial increase in yield! This phenomenon is known as heterosis--or hybrid vigor. The hypothesis generally used to explain this effect argues that when two inbreds are mixed the genetic disorders are covered up and the result is an offspring with superior adaptive ability.

Interestingly enough, hybrid vigor can also be demonstrated in canines--as well as most other sexually reproducing organisms. With dogs it is widely understood that most mixed-breed pups tend to be stronger, healthier and live as much as 50% longer than their purebred (inbred) parents! And what about humans? Well, although we sometimes like to think of ourselves as different we are all really too mixed to find any purebreds. Cat Stevens was right.

Now, the challenge of creating hybrid corn is that, unlike dogs, corn plants contain both the male and the female organs. To mix dogs is rather simple: put a stud with a bitch, blare some Barry Manelow over the boom box and presto--pregnancy. Unfortunately, because corn has both male and female organs, if you plant two different inbreds right next to each other they will not only pollinate each other but they will also pollinate themselves. The result, each ear of corn will contain some kernels that are a hybrid and some kernels that are an inbred. While this is progress, it is certainly not a product for which farmers would pay good money. The solution, designate one inbred to be the female and another to be the male. The female inbred will be neutered (removing its male organ) and the male inbred will only be used for its pollen (or sperm) and then soon thereafter destroyed. Thus, self-pollination will have been inhibited and the resulting seed crop will be 100% hybrid corn. Now that's marketable. In fact, it’s a multi-billion dollar industry in the U.S. alone!

Of course, managing this process sounds much simpler via email. In reality it requires intense physical labor and scrutinious supervision to ensure the correct mix of inbreds. As one of the Goldhats, I am currently being used to take numerical surveys--or "counts." I sample a thousand plants in each field over a representative area and tally four main observations: female shed, female silk, male shed and pull. The data I collect not only helps in the current management of the crop but will also be utilized by regulatory organizations and our production team at headquarters to review the resultant harvest. With an introduction to seed production out of the way, I hope in my next report to elaborate on these observations.

Before I go, a short story from the country. The other day while driving home after a long day's work, I was winding down to an NPR broadcast on conserving energy. Feeling rather green by driving my 40 MPG Honda Civic, I decided to go one step further and choose windows over the AC. I rolled down the glass and invited nature's breath to lick my skin cool. Being a little overzealous with my new "power" controls I discovered that with slight manipulations I could adjust the wind's vector and maximize its cooling potential. Down in back, the wind moves to the right. Up in front, it moves to left. Down in the back just a little more and... WHZZZZZZZZZZ, A HUMONGOUS BEE FLEW IN AND SLID RIGHT DOWN MY SHIRT! I screamed like a school girl on fire, lost control and donutted off that country road like Lindsay Lohan on her way to rehab. Alive but still under attack I jumped out of my vehicle and loudly flung myself about like... well, like someone with a bee down their shirt. I tore off my clothes in a wild frenzy of yelps. It wasn't until I was half-naked and several hundred feet from my vehicle that I noticed the old local sheriff had pulled up right next to my car and was standing watch--with one hand on his door and the other on his holster. I walked back slowly, my heart racing, trying not to look like the crack fiend I just impostered. Extremely nervous and still breathless from the bee bout, I called out to the sheriff in broken English, "I... (gulp) swerved... bee down... (gulp) shirt... I, uh... (gulp)." Immediately realizing how ridiculous I sounded, and having arrived at my car, I stopped talking and just panted heavily--shirt in hand and sweat on face. Those couple seconds of awkward silence had me prepared for the worse. The sheriff finally responded in full country twang, "Son, that's jest 'bout the funniest thang I've ever seen." He full-heartily laughed and I cautiously joined in, still not sure if I would be required to "spread 'em." He made a friendly approach over my car and asked me if I was alright. "Yes," I said, "except for this big bite on my..." and I desperately began to explain myself. His laughter caught me mid-excuse, and I was soon relieved as he admitted I didn't do anything wrong. He said he saw me lose control and then run out of my car, and just wanted to make sure I was alright. We looked my car over and luckily found no damage. Then under the shade of a nearby tree we had one of those intimate conversations you can only have with a stranger. He leaned against a signpost and I against the trunk and we exchanged biographies. His was naturally much longer and filled with some great advice. Except for his service in Vietnam he has always lived in rural Illinois. I asked him how he could do it--live a life some would say was so simple. He smiled at my ill-phrased query but responded without guile: "A lot of folks are always reaching up--but I've always tried to reach out. Life, son, ain't about who y'are or what y'are or even where y'are. It's about the people around you. Remember that, boy." I did. We talked a bit longer and then he received a call and had to leave. We shook hands and then parted. As I got back into my car and continued my drive home (with my windows up) I thought about all the people I've met here in the mid-west... and thought about how right the sheriff was.

Well, as the library is fixin' to close--so must I. From the crossroads of the heartland and the cornbelt, I send my regards. Until next report…

Illinois Report I:1st week of July 2008

2008-08-12T13:42:00.000-07:00

To my Supervisor and a few other interested parties,

Salutations from the "Land of Lincoln." It's been a week since my arrival in Illinois and at the behest of my supervisor I make the first of what will be four weekly reports. I've included a few other individuals in this mailing whom I thought would also appreciate the update. No reply in necessary, just enjoy the sneak peak into my current assignment. But if it looks too long, don't feel pressured to read it all--my boss has to... but you don't. Last week I joined the ranks of Pioneer's "Goldhat" army--a sizable band of seasonal, temporary employees who are so named because of the yellow caps they've traditionally donned. The Goldhats have been an elemental force in Pioneer's quality check for many decades, hired year after year to physically inspect almost every acre of the company's seed crop--a yearly product totaling billions of dollars in sales. Old timer's talk of a time when this group was at odds with the local production team--being hired by HQ to find errors and problems and subsequently create more work for the plants. However, today's Goldhat gang seems to be sincerely appreciated by our local production team--assisting the production plants in meeting Pioneer's ever increasing quality standards.

I've been assigned to the Good Hope production operation, located in Northwest Illinois about an hour and a half east of the Mississippi river. Although stationed out of this plant, I've only been to the actual facility once. The growing area I have been charged to inspect is called Green Valley--a very fertile, mostly irrigated flatland almost two hours east of Good Hope. The considerable distance from the production plant to the Green Valley growing area prohibits frequent visits to the plant, but daily meetings with production leaders take place not far from my assigned fields. Those fields are situated amidst miles of gently rolling plains--once partially flooded and bare but now drained and put to work. But for the crops and an occasional tree or house the land is still mostly empty--though towering clouds and ever changing weather break the monotony and paint a canvass that often makes me drop everything I'm doing and just look.
Upon arrival, the first duty of the Goldhats is to double check the isolation of all assigned fields. Corn is an open-pollinated crop, allowing outside forces to operate as the mechanism for fertilization--the union of male pollen to female gametes. For corn, wind is the predominate actor. This can present a problem if the desired crop is planted too close to contaminants. These contaminants--as we refer to them--are nothing more than other corn crops planted by nearby farmers. These contaminants introduce foriegn pollen which have the potential to adversely affect the fertilization of our crop. To minimize this scenario, Pioneer requires specific standards for the amount of distance--or isolation--which our crop must maintain from contaminants.

Though certainly not brain surgery, the process of isolation can be much more complicated than it sounds. A myriad of field shapes and sizes colliding in numberless combinations can create some interesting topographical possibilities. Add to this sometimes abstruse geography the additional complication of planting errors (when our planters make a mistake in the layout of our fields), and you can occasionally get some some rather challenging isolation issues. However, the bulk of this review process simply requires the stamina to walk several miles daily and visibly check the entire perimeter of every field. With a modest assignment of two thousand acres I've been kept busy this last week--and can only imagine the plight of fellow inspectors who have more acreage and less time.

Additionally, after having witnessed the layout first hand I have developed a much better understanding of the challenge of obtaining desired genetic purity for our product. Many markets where we would like to ship American seed prohibit our exports if they contain even a hint of GMO (genetically modified organisms) DNA. Europe, in particular, is especially picky. But with so many American farmers planting GMO corn it is virtually impossible to grow seed in the United States without some contamination. Looking towards the future I can see that if those markets continue to demand GMO free seed, our company may be forced to find somewhere else to supply their demand.

On a lighter note, having walked multiple marathons in the last eight days I've seen some interesting things--despite the sometimes prosaic landscape of rural Illinois. At the top of that list would have to be the three-legged mutt that followed me for three miles around field 7487. I've seen canines a lot prettier but not half so loyal and entertaining. His front right leg seemed to be amputated flush with his chest so that that it appeared as if no leg was intended to be there at all. Every time I stopped to make field notes he would sit up on his hind legs like an alerted ground hog and wave his one free appendage in the air. The sandwich in my shoulder bag did not have a prayer--this mongrel earned his reward and received a feast of roast beef and muenster. The show was worth my extended hunger.

After a hard day's work of walking several miles past fields of corn, soybeans, wheat, and other crops, I make my way to my temporary home in Peoria. The city is a regional hub with just over 100,000 inhabitants, with a long history as a depot--being strategically located on the always navigable Illinois river. Although it is Pioneer's policy to house relocated Goldhat inspectors in hotels I was graciously allowed to make other arrangements--no doubt because of my unique status as a full-time employee. With some intense searching while still in Iowa I was able to find a respectable accommodation with everything I needed. Though living in a hotel for a month would've had its advantages, it also would've excluded me from cooking and the companionship of my dog. The thought of subsisting thirty days on fast food while Parley (my dog) was contracting some unpronounceable, communicable disease in a kennel in Des Moines seemed a little less than appealing. I thank my superiors for allowing this exception. For their reward I will save Pioneer over two thousand dollars in expenses related to the cost of renting a private room versus of a hotel. But I deserve no praise--I will always choose the practical over the opulent without any external incentive.

Well, I hope all is well in Iowa or wherever this correspondence finds you. This concludes my first report. Tune in next time to read more about the following step in this inspection process--"Counts." Additionally, if space permits I hope to include more details about the science of seed production and life in Illinois farm country.

Papa George

2008-06-16T07:39:00.000-07:00

Father,

Do you know you've always been a hero of mine. And you might ask, why? What did I do that was so special? Well, nothing too extraordinary, I guess. You were just there for me. Some of my favorite memories of you were after church while you were cooking in the kitchen, I would come in and watch and ask you questions. I felt like your sidekick then, as a little boy. That's a great feeling.

I remember lying to you once about something I did. After asking a few more questions you figured me out, and it was obvious to both of us that I had been caught. I felt very ashamed. You could have capitalized on that guilt and made me pay for trying to fool you. But you didn't. Instead you told me something that I've never forgotten:

"James, lot's of men make excuses, but great men make mistakes."

You lived that creed, Father. And I love you for it. You have your failings, as we all do, but for sure you have humility, and you are a man of your word. Although I have not always followed you--I have always wanted to. You have given me a model for my life and with God's help I believe I am becoming the the man you want me to be. In that act I believe we both give each other the best gift a father and son could ask for.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Des Moines Deluge

2008-06-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

The State of Iowa is currently battling flood waters of biblical proportions. The Des Moines river, which I run along with Parley (my dog) almost every day, is due to crest at 31.8 feet, more than 10 feet higher than the most recent records set in 1993. During that year spring rains swelled to unprecedented levels, affecting several Midwest cities and resulting in damages totalling over fifteen billion dollars. This time around the water is higher but the rivers are being managed by a series of strengthened levees which officials are hopeful will hold. Still, much activity around the city has been disrupted by isolated flooding, including the homeless camps I've visited as an outreach volunteer with IHYC. All of the homeless have been forced to relocate and many are setting up camp right on top of the levees. Perilous, indeed.

Well, in case the levees don't hold a co-worker and I registered with United Way this morning--joining a network of on-call volunteers ready to start sand-bagging, evacuating, and doing whatever else might be helpful. Over lunch this co-worker and I got our tetanus shots as a precautionary measure against the possible contaminants of the flood water.

At this point we are all just waiting and watching... and hoping to stay dry.

Iowa

2008-05-08T13:09:00.001-07:00

Its just been since the new year that Iowa has really begun to blossom for me. As it has, my journey to this place has been repeatedly retraced in my mind. I often think not just about where I am but how I got here--hoping always to identify the principles that yield more substantive happiness. I hope this conscious effort will help me develop into a the kind of man that is worthy of his family's love.

I recall a warm spring day in Manti early last year. I had taken a Sunday drive down to Sanpete county with a friend. The sky was clear and all around the winter mountains were wearing the beginnings of green. My friend and I spent the afternoon talking about our greatest college moments--sharing stories that brought laughter and a few tears. We both anticipated our upcoming graduation with youthful enthusiasm as well as a little sorrow for what we were leaving behind. As we drove home--watching the sun fall over the Sanpitch Mountains--I remember wondering where I might be in a year.

Around that same time, after a spring and early summer of ardent job searching I had secured six different offers in four states; California, Idaho, Iowa and Utah. After discussing my options with my Father he asked me if I was planning to make prayer a part of the decision. I answered that I was not--explaining that I believed God cared more about who we are instead of where we are. He concurred but still insisted that I consult a higher source, not to find a path but to seek approval for the route I chose. He encouraged me to make it a matter of humility. I promised him I would.

Out of honor for my father I did make a real and sincere effort to seek inspiration from above. Although, no orison was offered until after I had weighed out all the factors myself; comparing benefits, opportunities, salaries and even dating pools. As a side note, I was leaving a college town where I had been taking one or two girls out a week and love (as it always has been) was also on my mind. Considering these details I made what I felt was a very wise decision: I selected the offer in California--in the Oakland/San Fransisco Bay Area. It had the most of what I wanted. The job would be exciting and challenging and the area would be beautiful and socially conducive. After arriving upon this decision I knelt down and asked God for help to know that I was right. I felt nothing extraordinary--good or bad--and so I arose and went ahead with my plans.

Upon arriving in what I was sure was going to be my new home in the Bay Area I quickly found a room to rent and familiarized myself with the surrounding neighborhood. The air was easy to breathe as I strolled down new streets; with weather that was beautiful and a setting, dynamic. There were market stands and ocean views around every corner. The city was flooded with life. My excitement for the possibilities ahead were peaked. And yet, at that very moment I started to feel somewhat uneasy. Initially I tried to toss those feelings aside. What, I thought, could possibly be wrong with such a perfect setting? Despite my efforts to ignore anything contrary to what I thought I wanted, within a week those feelings of trepidation had become more intense.

It didn't make sense to me. Everything seemed to be so right about my new home and job. Why the doubts? Why the fears? The situation became critical as I knew if anything were to change it had to change soon. In desperation I felt the need for input from an outside source. I returned to prayer; this time needing an answer for myself. Again I knelt down and asked God for help.

Following that supplication I reconsidered my options. I drew up plans and measured out all the possible maneuverings. I tried to get a sense for where I really wanted to be--not just for the next few years but for life. That focus led me down uncharted paths. For the first time I felt inspired to seriously consider coming to Iowa. It had previously been my least likely option, an almost laughable one, for Iowa was so far away from family and friends (and dense populations of girls) that I never fully weighed it. Until then. After giving it a thoughtful consideration I felt something which is difficult to explain. Perhaps comfort is the best description. Yes, I felt comfort... and peace. Still, it didn't make total sense to my mind but it just felt... right.

Before going ahead with this new decision I spent the next several hours wrestling with my own heart. Was what I felt real or was it a product of my imagination? Wasn't I being extremely irrational?!

I decided I was in fact being irrational!... but it was OK. Ultimately I concluded that if I really did believe in God, if I really believe that He is there and that there is a purpose and plan for life--why then could I not believe that He can and would want to help shape my own path.

Still doubting, I finally concluded that even if it were not true yet this is how I wanted to live my life. I desire to be led by my heart. I desire to be a man of faith. I desire to believe in something more than only what makes sense to the mind. I desire to have dreams and hopes, to find true love and to follow God. Tell me those are the stuff of fiction--prove to me their nihility--and yet I would still roam the earth in search of them.

With that conclusion I repacked my belongings, paid my roommates handsomely for my brief stay, explained my situation to my would-be employers in Oakland (who consequently were very understanding and invited me to come back if I reconsidered) and contacted my future employer in Iowa to accept their offer. Before night fall I was back on Interstate 80, recrossing the Rocky Mountains and headed to the Great Plains--wondering in my mind if I had just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Nevertheless, in my heart I still felt peace. While driving through the star-filled deserts of Nevada that night I thought about how that feeling of comfort--which I believe comes to your heart from God--trumps all others.

Well, this story could end there but that would only be half the tale.

A couple days after departing California I arrived in the State of Iowa. The humidity and heat were oppressive and the land was flat and vacuous; a vivid contrast from the Bay Area. However my heart was still hopeful. I started my new job with enthusiasm and found all the new nomenclature and processes stirring. Additionally, though hardly comparable to the cultural urban centers of the coasts, I was finding Iowa had a beauty of its own. Its Capitol and the surrounding towns had a quaintness and simplicity that reminded me of Texas, my old home. With everything so new and yet somewhat familiar it was easy to be happy and excited.

Unfortunately that initial titillation wore. And with it, many of the good feelings. Despite all the benefits of a secure well paid position, the corporate environment was not fulfilling. I began to find myself unchallenged and un-invigorated. I do not wish to deride this lifestyle. It certainly has its benefits. And for those who can wait patiently in a low gear (perhaps condoling themselves with inflating bank accounts) the right promotion will probably shift their talents into use. But I am not that patient--fearing my personal capitulation to mammon over dreams. Within a few months after taking this job in Iowa I was seriously considering leaving.

It wasn't the job alone. I found myself really missing my family. They might doubt that claim since I probably took them for granted while in college but with that part of my life behind me I was discovering a real desire to be close to my kin again. I missed being a part of all that was going on and dreaded the thought of voting with an absentee ballot for years to come.

To top it off my social life was all but dead, barely limping along with buzzards circling above. I thought I had prepared myself adequately for this, knowing Iowa would be different than many places I had lived before. However the reality of the situation hit harder than I anticipated. The wind was knocked out of me. I was about as confused as a cow on AstroTurf. That's an apt metaphor because girls were present but the places and situations I met them in--and the type of girls I seemed to meet--were the antithesis of what I had been familiar with.

For the reasons above I felt generally displeased with my state of existence in Iowa. I started to doubt the decision I had made to come here and regretted that I had not been more cognitive in arriving at my conclusion. My low point was just before the new year. I felt down and lost, distanced from God, my family and friends. I recognized even then that I had so much to be grateful for, but my zeal for those blessings was absent. I felt directionless. I think for the first time in my life I was really facing the reality of what I was becoming. And I wasn't sure I was heading in the right direction.

Instead of returning home for Christmas I stayed in Iowa--retreating in her grayness. I spent several days alone, pondering and pining; trying to find myself. It was on Christmas day that I did.

It was a bright day in what had been a difficult winter; an unusually sunny day, spared from the relentless snow and ice that had marred the previous weeks. I woke up that morning with various invitations to spend the holiday in company, but preferred my own silence. About mid-day after a simple meal, I drove my truck downtown. I found the streets as empty as I felt inside. I parked near the Capitol building and embarked on a small journey, traversing the city center and pondering life. After several miles of deep reflection, a verse I had once committed to memory returned to my mind:

"For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it. For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

I had an epiphany right then! For a long time I have known that truth in my mind but especially recently I had forgotten it in my heart. In the middle of Downtown Des Moines I dropped to my knees and promised God that I would lose my life for others. All that I begged for in return was to not feel lost anymore.

From that day to this, as I have re-applied that principle in my life I have again become a witness to the beauty of living for others. When you define your life so narrowly by the outcome of a few selfish plans you trade peace for the gamble of momentary pleasure. When those events don't transpire the way you figured it can leave you purposeless. In that vacuum of meaning you can easily become complacent and resign yourself to wastefully wait for the next big possible achievement or event. However I have learned that life is what is happening while you are planning your next move; while you are waiting. I have realized that the man I want to be will not be constructed tomorrow, but is being built today! What will really define who I am will not be my greatest hours but instead my everyday, ordinary minutes. And finally, I have come to understand that a man can fill all his time and still be empty if he doesn't learn that meaning comes from other people.

I am grateful to God for leading me here. While in Iowa He has put people in my path that have inspired me with a vision of my personal possibilities. They have shown me what I really want to be. Although our paths will soon seperate--which is for the best--I am grateful for what I have learned. With their help I now know that the biggest difference I can make in life will not be by doing something important, but by being important--in the lives of those who surround me. And being so surrounded I will always know who I am and never be lost again.

Life's Journey will bring you home,
When in your heart
No more you roam.

I suppose I could've learned all this anywhere in the world... but maybe not. Perhaps Iowa was the only place... although I have a feeling I have a lot to learn in many more places. Regardless, I have learned a great lesson here and my life has been changed. For this I will always believe it wasn't just chance, but that I was led to Iowa.

Spring Break

2008-04-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago an old roommate and I embarked on a Spring break. I flew out to Albuquerque, New Mexico where he lives and then we drove down to Padre Island in South Texas.

The trip took several hours. It was a long drive. However, I can honestly say this vehicular journey was my favorite part of the trip. Steve, my roommate, and I are both philosphers of an old order. We see so much beauty in life and are constantly knocking on the doors of understanding. For us, the glory of God is intelligence, indeed. We humbly acknowledge our failings but eagerly consider the possibilities ahead.

Beyond the ride we had a great week in South Texas and in New Mexico. Beaches is Texas are notoriously un-governed, and although we didn't seek out any mischief, we couldn't help but make a little. I ran around the whole time in my underwear, and the sun had no mercy on me. Two weeks later and I am still peeling.

We met many people and saw many sights along the way. One of the most vivid in my mind is the image of a very distraught Mexican cat. I offered a little food, but in fright he fled (though not before I captured his photograph). He must have been on his last life--a symbol not only of his own mistreatment but of the mistreatment of the part of town we found him on. That we let some of our cities--and even our cats--suffer this way is disheartening. Every long road trip I take always gives me similar thoughts. Traveling so many miles in so few days always reminds me of the great disparity between rich and poor. We passed mansions and ranches worth millions, and shanty homes barely worth the land they lay on. For some, its easy to ignore the poverty and save some guilt. For me, I hope I never lose any of my sight--and always remain an advocate for the underpriveleged--feline and all.

We finished out our trip with an entertaining tour of dancing. We found a collection of honkey tonks and latin clubs and busted out a few grooves. I have to say, there were more than a few "dang perty" rednecks and "muy caliente" latina girls who danced extremely well! But funny enough, I found myself not very impressed. These days, the girl I am looking for is more than just beautiful and good at moving. She loves the Lord, loves children, treats others with kindness, and sees the beauty in the world around her. I haven't met this girl yet--the one that's right for me. But I have faith that one day I will.

It was a great trip, and now I'm back... home.

Wreckless Consumption or Intelligent Investment

2008-03-20T12:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I see someone with a totally non-essential luxury item--like a 70 inch plasma TV or a pair of juiced up jet-ski's, I am prone to judge. "What a high-rollin' snob," I think to myself. Well, rollin' down the street in my shiny Kawasaki Vulcan I feel a bit like a hypocrite. But don't judge the judger just yet... its really an investment (at least that's what I'm telling myself).

For the last three summers I have followed the same pattern. I bought a motorcycle early in the season when the demand was low, then towards the middle of the summer--right when demand peaked--I sold. Buy low, sale high. Its economics 101. Motorcycle purchases are strongly correlated with the weather and most motorcyclists know this--and understand that an early sale will require a significant decrease in the listed price. Buyers just aren't out yet. It creates a buyers market. A flooded supply creates downward price pressures.

Though this is common knowledge there are still those who are desperate--for what ever reason--to find a buyer. Such was the case with my latest transaction. The bike is a 2003 but only has 3000 miles on it (about the amount the average rider puts on in a season). The previous owner was the sole owner and kept the vehicle garaged. The bike is in an immaculate shape. Additionally, it has some add-ons that would put it a few hundred dollars over blue book. Despite this perceived value it was obvious that there had been little interest in the bike from potential purchasers. Knowing this put me at an advantage. Upon negotiation a price was reached which was several hundred dollars below blue book. I felt I could have brought the price lower, but I'm not out to gouge. All parties left the table happy, and one of them a little cooler... at least I think I look it.

A Man's Best Friend?

2008-03-17T08:10:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to put up a shot of Parley. He's a loyal bum-sniffing friend. This last weekend we had some good masculine fun. I volunteer with a Boy Scout troop here in Iowa and Friday evening I took him with me on a campout we had planned. He loved running around without a collar and hanging out with all the boys--chasing raccoons and staying warm by the fire. In an attempt at further training I whistled loudly every 10 minutes and dispensed a treat when he returned and sat at attention.

Having a dog is no mild venture. It takes a lot of work and love. I wondered if I had it in me. This picture of Grandpa reminded me that the Snidemans are dog people... and was an inspiration to the procurement of my canine companion. I, like Herman, really do love dogs. They're great friends.

Parley is now about nine months old and still very much a puppy. He's a Brittany Spaniel, a type of dog that has been bred to assist on bird hunts. Eventually I would like him to be a fully trained gun dog. Starting soon I'll be taking him target shooting out on the acreage I'm renting--to get him exposed to the noise of gunfire.

He has a docile nature and is very eager to please. At home he follows me around like a bad smell. And then, when I find a seat, he lays down at my feet. That is sometimes a little annoying, but when I think about how he simply wants to demonstrate his loyalty and submission, I appreciate the behavior.

I try to keep Parley active and encourage his canine exuberance. He runs with me regularly and I take him around in my truck whenever its appropriate. Soon I'll start bringing him on Thursday evenings to the homeless youth shelter where I volunteer. I'm there from about 5:30pm to 10:30pm. The counselors said it would be good "animal therapy" for some of the young patrons. I'm not sure if I believe that... but I know Parley will benefit extremely from the regular exposure to crowds.

Also this summer I'll be farming a few acres on the weekends to sale at the farmers' market. I plan on bringing Parley with me to both the farm and the markets. Maybe he can scare off any rabbits who are planning on destroying my carrot crop. And one day, when I finally get up the gumption to walk the Mormon Trail--as has always been a dream of mine--Parley will be with me... the second Parley P. Pratt to make the trip.

Winter in The Monks

2008-03-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

A few verses I recently scribbled:

A look, a smile--like a balefire--
Calls home the sailor lost.
The gallant gob needs not Pharos,
But faint the beam on tempest tossed.

Commands the Captain:
"Right the rudder,
And for the heart make aim;
Believe the berth in our beholding
Is worth the Siren's shame."

"Ahoy!" bellows the Boatswain--
Off the starboard doth he cry.
. . .
Alas, no reply.
Commands the Captain:
"Trim the sails! Once more to sea we fly!"

But Mutiny murmers: "Halt the dream,
And let us join with Davey Jones, failed."
--No.
One squally winter loved and lost,
More, than a thousand sunlit summers un-sailed.

And so the open billows meet the keel again
In search of harbor's bliss;
With hope still--
Though hope a little less.

.

Winter Quarters

2008-02-26T16:46:00.000-08:00

This last weekend my roommate and I traveled to the Omaha Temple. This temple has been built adjacent to the Winter Quarter's cemetery. Most of the dead were too poor to be buried with headstones, and consequently the majority of the ground is bare grass.

Winter Quarters was the staging ground for many of the Mormon pioneers who were fleeing the persecution of Missouri and Illinois--headed on their way to the Great Salt Lake Valley. During the 1840's and 1850's they left the hostility in the east and were permitted to walk peacefully through Iowa--but barred from stopping. The only refuge they were permitted to make was this settlement in the Nebraska territory--Winter Quarters. Today, all that's left of that once bustling town is a quiet stretch of green and a few old stones with faded inscriptions. The rest has been all but forgotten under the pavement of modern residential sprawl.

I took a few minutes to stop and remember--how great many sacrifices were made, not for fortune or fame, but for hope and faith. These pioneers lived and died for a great cause. I hope I can say the same, someday.

The weather here has been almost unbearable. We have received several feet of snow throughout the season and on multiple occasions the mercury has failed to rise positive. On those days my truck starts on a prayer. However, despite the frigid conditions, my heart has kept me warm. I will always be amazed by how a good time with a girl can bring sunshine to the cloudiest day! I would like to not believe this--being of the persuasion that one's own determination is the the most important factor to finding joy. But, I must admit that a whole day spent trying to convince myself of happiness is not a tenth as potent as just hearing the voice of a... friend.

The painting below is an acrylic on canvas of William Gould Shaw. He was a Colonel in the Civil War. Based on all reports he died while leading--in the front of the column--his men on a charge. Those men were the all-black 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. They were composed of both free men from the North and freed slaves from the South. All were fighting for a cause they believed in, including Colonel Shaw. He is a hero of mine. And, I would like to hope that--had I lived during this struggle--I would have been a volunteer at his side, fighting for liberty, equality, and the fraternity of all men.

I find it much easier to paint a subject that inspires me. I feel like this is my best work yet. Let me know what you think.

Snideman Family Photo

2008-02-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

I know most all y'all have this photo, I just thought it would be nice to put it up for any one who didn't. I love and miss y'all.

How long?

2008-01-09T14:03:00.000-08:00

I know Robert's birthday was a while ago, but he's still in my system... I miss my brother Robert.

Anyone know how long Robert's been doing this pose?

By the way... nice undies Rob!

Strongest Man... IN THE WORLD!

2008-01-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

Its my brother Robert's birthday today!

Does anyone know why we often refer to Robert by the title, "The Strongest Man in The World" ? I'll tell you how it all got started. When I was about Zach's age (8 or 9) Robert, who was then in his teens, took a sudden interest in physically tormenting me. A few of the most effective methods included wrapping me up in a white sheet and swinging me around like a wrecking ball, tickling me 'till I couldn't breath, spraying mace in the bathroom and waiting for me to walk in, and sitting on my chest and head while ejecting hot volumes of hydrogen sulfide and varying amounts of methane (flatus). While these sessions of dolor were meted out by Robert, he always made it very clear that it could all end with my submission. And how was I to submit? Simple, just let the world know that Robert was either the smartest, the best looking, or (his personal favorite) the strongest man alive... depending on the day. If I shouted the prefered phrase at the top of my lungs I was usually released and permitted to continue reading my choose-your-adventure books, playing the nintendo, or what ever it was I was doing before being ambushed.

Now all this might sound harsh, but you must know that from the perspective of a little brother there are few things more excruciatingly pleasant as being picked on. In fact, I felt kind of special that Robert seemed to take this special interest in me.

And since that time I have always loved and looked up to my brother Robert. But trust me, there's a lot more to admire about Robert than his Guantanamo Bay skills. As we've both grown up I've seen his rough edges come off. He was always a big softie inside... now its just easier to tell. He's kind and forgiving and he loves to make people laugh. He has all the qualities that really mean anything in this world. I have always looked up to my older brother Robert and I will 'till the day I die.

Our Next President

2007-12-29T11:00:00.000-08:00

The citizens of Iowa have the opportunity (some say the burden) of being on the front lines of American politics. Since 1972 this State has been among the first to cast primary votes for presidential candidates. For me it has been exciting to watch the candidates come through Des Moines and the surrounding areas giving speeches, making promises and sharing their visions of the future. Some play on the fears of Americans and try to divide the crowds into red and blue. Most infamous among these has been Mitt Romney and his pocketful of dirty adds.

Others have made it their stated purpose to run a clean campaign and want to unite America with an optimistic hope for the future. The candidate who best demonstrates this is Barrack Obama. If I didn't know otherwise and someone told me there was a Mormon running for President I would have guessed it was him.

He has real character. He didn't come from a background of prominence and wealthy family status, but he still has class. He's mixed with people from all walks of life. He worked hard and opened doors with sweat and not sway. He achieved high aims and graduated with a law degree from Harvard, but instead of cashing in on it he traveled to Chicago and made a difference with non-profit community organizations.

I support Obama because he says what he believes. He doesn't take money from big interest groups. He doesn't tell people only what they want to hear. He has Democrat supporters, he has Independent supporters and he has Republican supporters; or--as he would say it--he just has American supporters. He doesn't believe in giving handouts to anyone, but he he believes we all should be given a hand when we really need it.

When the time comes--wherever I am--I will cast my vote for the man I believe has the strength, vision and faith needed to lead this country!

Turkey Thanksgiving in the Jello State

2007-11-27T16:15:00.000-08:00

Onur and I drove out to Utah for Thanksgiving. It's about a 1200 mile trip one way. It took about 18 hours each time. En route to Utah we stopped in York, Nebraska for dinner. We found a chinese buffet and thought... why the heck not. All you could eat crab was on the menu. It was good going down but Ladies and Gentlemen, I defintely don't recommend it as a good road trip muckamuck. I think the Billboard says it all.

Onur and I have been friends since we were missionaries in London, and now we work at the same company in Des Moines. As we get older each year I think our interests and paths are diverging wider--but our love for God and for life lived deliberately always seems to bring us back to the same park bench. I look forward to the day when we sit down there as old men and share great stories about all our adventures.

I spent most of the week with family. And I want to make mention of one member in particular. I'm not usually a jealous person. There's very little in the world that I want--and guess what... Nancy has it all. I hope I can have a home as full and warm as hers.

She invited me over for Family Home Evening last Monday. I could tell she was a little embarrassed that her home wasn't in perfect condition--but I want her to know how little that mattered. I've seen homes a little cleaner but a lot less loving. I thought later about what makes Nancy is such an amazing mother... and later that night--when Zach woke me up in the middle, and I couldn't get back to sleep--I thought about why. I first thought about all the things that make her extra special or extra talented. But, while I don't doubt her amazing abilities, I realized it wasn't because she was "better" than anyone else. What really makes her a super-mom has nothing to do with the comparison game. No, what makes her great is that she has love. Real love. And lots of it! All the honors the world can offer fade away when compared to a mother that welcomes you home, hugs you, and tells you she loves you. Its been a while for me, but I'll never forget that feeling.

And that's what I'm thankful for... friendship and a mother's love. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

p.s. I kicked Doug's trash on the Wii

Missin' Utah...

2007-10-07T11:12:00.000-07:00

Watching General Conference has reminded me of how much I love Utah. I miss those majestic mountains! Often, just looking at them gave me a sense of peace. Despite all that may be quirky about Deseret, I treasure that land above all others I have seen. When I think that those mountains were seen in vision and realize that what first brought people to that place was a dedication to God and to the cause of Zion... I can't think of a more special place.

I do miss Utah, indeed. I'm pretty sure I'll be back to visit often. To walk in old paths and remember the days when I became a man.

My Sisters' Hair

2007-10-04T16:35:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about my sister Julie lately. She died 12 years ago. She was at the prime of her teenage life! It get's harder every year to remember the details about who she was.

I found this email Susan sent me and felt inspired:

Susan:

"I died my hair to go with my new haircut, but it looks red in one picture..."

"DON'T HATE ME BECAUSE I'M BEAUTIFUL"

"WOW, SO this is what Julie felt like, whatcha think pappa..."

Well, I thought I'd give my receding hair a little touch of red, too. I think its a fun way to remember that sister of mine who could laugh like no other... and loved to color her hair!

I remember once I stole five dollars from her. When she told everyone she was missing that money, I felt guilty and returned it to her--telling her I had "found it in the front yard." She knew I wasn't telling the truth... but she had compassion on me. She didn't get mad, in fact, she gave me the five dollars back and told me I could keep it. She wanted me to spend the money on something fun.

I love Julie. And, I miss her.

If you remember any stories about our sister, post them on your blog or write them in the comment box. Thanks.

Picturama

2007-09-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

Here are some old photos and new photos I thought everyone would enjoy seeing.

Not far from the old Smith homestead in Palmyra, lies this Temple. A walk through the nearby forest is still in the front of my memories. On that cool summer day, finding myself alone, I sat down on an old log and wondered what those woods had seen.

As some readers were slighty offended at my words, I have changed them to reflect a more accurate statement. I apologise for any offense:

Several of us BYU Democrats and many professors respectfully protested Dick Cheney's recent visit--with approval from the University leadership, of course. I was interviewed by a few reporters, including one from NPR. They were curious. What would cause the ultra-conservative, Mormon campus to be a stage to such a scence? I shared my opinion: Times are changing. For a long time the Republican party has had a supposed monopoly on the religious. But not any more. A growing minority of Latter-Day Saints have less and less in common with the evangelical, religious right--a group who are generally very jugdemental of anyone who does not share their same beliefs (especially Mormons). Latter-Day Saints, I told the reporter, were becoming more aware and interested in international causes--a change directly related to the growing world membership. This is no longer and American church, I said, and a growing number of its members are realizing that American interests are not supreme. Dick Cheney--whether accurate or not--has come to represent just the opposite of that, not only in our eyes but especially the eyes of our international membership. I explained how I had talked to a friend in England, whom I had met as a missionary, and he wondered how the campus could ever invite a figure like Cheney to BYU. I told the reporter I didn't have the anwer... but that I would certainly join my fellow students in offering a respectful dissenting opinion. I always welcome any speaker--whatever their views--to come and share their viewpoint. However, I--along with many fellow BYU students (a few hundred of which stood and protested during the three hour, approved event)--felt commencement was an innapropriate venue for such a cleary divisive figure. As my sign said, we should have respect but not endorsement of such figures.

See where you stand.

On the left: Me and the Old Man at BYU's April Graduation. Thanks for coming Dad; it meant a lot to have you there! And on the right: Me and Dr. Jolley, one of my plant science professors and a personal mentor. He employed me as a research assistant and was a great friend throughout my college career.

This degree wasn't just for me, but for all those who have helped me get there. I guess its not really that much of an achievement these days--since almost a quarter of the population receives a degree--but I'm still very grateful for my education! There were many people who have inspired me a long the way, and I'll ever be thankful.

Proud BYU Alumni; Nick, Onur and myself. We are the three most recent recruits to the company I work for. We were all in the same program at BYU and felt very prepared coming into the field. Our co-workers and supervisors agree, so much so that they may continually look to BYU for future recruits. GO COUGARS!

I'm currently working in the management training program at one of the largest agribusiness companies in the U.S. and in the world. The company specializes in seed production--with literally thousands of crop varieties available from locations in dozens of countries... from corn and soybean to alfalfa, sunflower, sorghum, canola and wheat. There are lots of opportunities to learn, travel, tour production sites, and network. It really is the job I was looking for—since it has allowed me to start applying exactly what I've been studying the last few years at BYU—both plant science and business. So far I've had the opportunity to travel through Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Minnesota--touring production sites and laboratories to learn more about the business.

Most recently I've been stationed in our main lab just north of the city. We receive samples that are shipped in from production sites all over North America. We run quality tests on those samples and insure that standards are kept high. This year's harvest is expected to be record breaking. With all the increased planting due to demand for Ethanol production, the harvest brings a lot of hard work. The last few weeks have found me away from my cubicle in headquarters and out sweating at the Lab. Its tough, but its helpling me to learn from the ground up. And on a personal note, I've developed a considerable amount of benignancy for those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow, literally. I view upper management with less and less awe and reserve my respect for the people "below" me--the ones who really make this world turn. I hope I always greet the proletariat with that same amount of obeisance.

One of my current supervisors is pictured with me above, on the right. He reminds me a lot of Uncle Richard. He works hard and leads by example. He's been in the company for 30 years, working mostly in this same position. I marvel at that. How could he stay in one place that long. He said that after serving a couple years in Vietnam he was happy to return home to Iowa--feeling content that he's seen enough of the world. He's a great guy.

My First Blog

2007-09-12T17:49:00.001-07:00

For a while I wasn't sure what exactly a Blog was. It sounded like a descriptive name for throw up... kind of like "Barf." Well, now that my sisters are Blogging (no they're not sick) I decided it was time to figure this whole thing out... and join the cyber-party.

I've recently moved to Des Moines. The picture to the right is me floating on the Des Moines river. I've pretty much settled down here for the time being, although I'm still kind of in transition. Maybe it'll always feel that way--maybe that's what being a big kid is all about.

When I was a boy the only world I new was about the world I could ride to... on my bike. That was pretty much all over Kingwood and Humble, Texas, on the San Jacinto River. My world felt pretty solid back then, like it was never going to change. Now, all I know is change. The other day I counted it up--I've moved 23 times in the last seven years. I'll have to write more about those places some time... like Ketchikan, Alaska-----Elmira, New York-----Lowestoft, England-----and many more.

Sometimes I forget how many places I've seen. It all makes me wonder where I will end up... which nowadays is the preoccupation of my thoughts.

More to come...