The TREK - Willie Martin Handcart Pioneers

COME FOLLOW ME on a commemorative trek with the Willie and Martin hand cart companies; we will dine with the pioneers in the comfort of your own home. – This trek will take us only seven days but will cover the time period of the Willie Company’s handcart trek from Oct 4, to Oct 25, 1856. For details see http://travlinmanblog.blogspot.com/


Between 1847 and 1869, some 70,000 members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day saints came to Utah by the overland trail. Most of them traveled in wagon companies, but approximately 3,000 – 4 percent of the total – came by handcart.

The last two handcart companies of 1856 departed late from England. The ship Thornton, carrying the emigrants who became the Willie Company, did not leave England until May 4. The leader of the Latter-day Saints on the Thornton was James G. Willie. Another three weeks passed before the Horizon, carrying the emigrants who formed the Martin Company, departed. The late departures may have been the result of difficulties in procuring ships in response to the unexpected demand, but the results would be tragic.



In 1856, two groups of pioneers, the Willie group and the Martin group traveled from Liverpool, England to the Salt Lake Valley in Utah. They traveled by sailing vessels from England to America; the next 1,200 miles was made by rail, steamboat and ferry from New York City, New York to Iowa City, Iowa. The final 1,300 miles of the journey was to be made by foot, pulling a handcart loaded with 250 pounds of supplies and luggage; a trip which was to take about three and one-half months.

We will follow the Willie handcart company for a 21 day period from October 4 to October 25, 1856. This was the most trying portion of the trek. More than 42 members of the Willie Company perished from exhaustion, exposure and starvation during this period of time. Their dwindling food supply was reduced from 12 ounces of flour per adult on Oct 4 to 10 ounces on Oct 15, until they ran out of food on Oct 21.

Our commemorative trek will begin on Monday, February 7, and end on Sunday, February 13.

Our rations will be:

Monday – Tuesday: 12 ounces of flour products per day. One large onion.
Wednesday – Thursday: 10 ounces of flour products per day.
Friday – Saturday: 6 ounces of flour products per day.
Sunday - No food on this day.

A daily log will be kept on my Facebook page with more detailed descriptions taken from actual journal pages of the handcart pioneers to be posted at http://travlinmanblog.blogspot.com/

To sign up for this event send NAME, AGE, EMAIL, and any CONNECTION you may have with any of the handcart pioneers to garyhyde5@gmail.com

In one night, thirteen of [the Willie] company died and were buried in a common grave, and two others died the next morning. We remember them with appreciation and gratitude. . . We feel in our hearts the great redeeming power of Thy son, who saved them as He has saved all men through His atoning sacrifice. . . We know that they came to know Thee in a particular way in the dire circumstances in which they found themselves those early winter days in 1856. . .

O god, our Eternal Father, we thank Thee for the great inheritance that is ours, that we come of the strain of noble people who valued faith more than life itself, who were willing to work and sacrifice – even to give their lives in death –for the cause in which they believed. Help us to be true to the faith, and help all the generations who shall follow to remain true to the faith, that they may keep the trust which became so much a part of the lives of those who died here and elsewhere along this trail of tears.

PRESIDENT GORDON B HINCKLEY
DEDICATORY PRAYER AT ROCK CREEK HOLLOW, WYOMING, 23 JULY 1994

Dinner with Grandpa

When Bob and I were small, less than ten years of age, we would occasionally go to our grandpa Hyde’s for Sunday dinner. Mom would load us in the car and drive us the 1 ½ miles from our house at 79 R St. in Salt Lake City, downtown to their little apartment at 320 East 1st South. We entered the apartment building through two large front doors which took us into a small lobby with a large bank of mailboxes mounted on the side wall. We then took the several stairs down which would lead us to the lower level where grandma and grandpa lived. The long hallway was dimly lit and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Grandpa was a pipe smoker, so I guess he contributed his share of smoke to the place, although the pipe smoke is a sweeter smell and much more pleasing than the stale cigarette smoke.

We would walk down the hall to the third door on the right and knock; as soon as the door opened we were swept into the open arms of our Grandma Ruby and Grandpa Frank, not to be released until an ample supply of warm hugs and kiss were bestowed upon us. After our greetings and hellos, Mom would start helping grandma set the table or disappear into the kitchen to help with the meal preparation, while grandpa would sit back in his well worn, overstuffed, brown leather chair and start fiddling with his pipe. The chair had big round arms on it; the kind that would invite two young boys to climb up and snuggle back into grandpa’s arms. This was our favorite time of the visit, and it was here, in that overstuffed leather chair, that I formed the very best memories that I have of my grandfather. Grandpa would settle back, wrap his arms around both of us and look at us through half closed eyes to ask us if we had ever heard the story about ……...; he would then start to spin us a tale. Grandpa was a master story teller. He told the kind of stories that would keep us motionless, glued to the arms of that wonderful big overstuffed chair, and wrapped up in his great big arms, with our eyes and attention sharply focused on his every word.

First thing that had to happen, before any serious kind of story telling could begin, was to light up his pipe. I guess it made him think better; for when he told a story he would blow those perfectly round smoke rings and trick our imaginations into believing that we were right there participating in the story. Often he would tell us stories about where he worked; down in the boiler rooms of the old Judge Building in Salt Lake City. He was a self employed mechanic and had worked maintenance on the boilers in that building for years. Some of his favorite stories he had to tell were about that boiler room and his dog Boots.

Our grandpa Hyde had a dog named Boots. This dog was about the most intelligent dog known to man. He would fetch grandpa’s slippers, the newspapers, he would feed himself, pick up after himself, and even light grandpa’s pipe for him. We could listen to those stories that grandpa would tell of his dog Boots for hours.

Boots would go to work with grandpa down in those boiler rooms every day; they were inseparable. Grandpa told us that he had even taught Boots how to take over the boilers for him in case he ever got sick. One of grandpa’s friends was a metal worker and had made grandpa a small metal casting of Boots, which to this day I still proudly display as a doorstop to my office.

A few mild stories about his work, his dog Boots, or anything else that would enter his mind, and then
grandpa would settle back and get down to the serious business of telling the real stories; the scary ghost stories. The kind of tales where witches would eat the little children and trolls would hide under their beds. As he talked, his voice would get low and very intense. His eyes would narrow and before we knew it we were sucked right into the story as an active participant. As the suspense of the story increased, so would the size of our eyes. Our mouths would hang open and our fingers would dig deep into grandpa‘s arms out of sheer terror.

Just as the punch line was about to be delivered, grandpa would talk ever so softly, lean his head slightly forward, and then he would let out a blood curdling scream; he would pop his false teeth out and grab the both of us in his big arms and draw us in close to him; then we would all laugh and scream with delight.

My grandpa Frank died at 76 years of age, when I was just 17 years old. I still remember the funeral; the family was all seated together in the front row of the chapel with the casket right in front of us. I can still see the sorrow on my dad’s face as they wheeled the casket out from the room. In one last bid of farewell and affection he lurched forward from his chair to hold on to the casket, longing for just one last time to be wrapped in those great big loving arms of my grandpa Frank.

There's a Tear in My Beer

First of all, let me say that today it is 71 degrees without a cloud in the sky. Life in the desert is good.

This weekend is Apacheland Days, honoring the film studio Apacheland. Back in the ‘60s Apacheland was a hub for western movies. Television series such as The Rifleman with Chuck Connors, Wyatt Earp with Hugh O’Brien, Wanted Dead or Alive with Steve McQueen, Have Gun, Will Travel with Richard Boone, The Virginian, Rawhide, and several episodes of Little House on the Prairie produced television heroes for many us. Audie Murphy, Ronald Reagan, Kenny Rogers, Elvis Presley and Jason Robards were just some of the silver screen feature length stars who performed for the cameras at Apacheland.

Then, one dark and stormy night, the whole place burned down and the cameras stopped rolling; Apacheland burned to the ground for the second time in its forty-three year history on Saturday, Valentine’s Day, February 14, 2004.

Most all of the buildings were destroyed beyond repair, with one exception; the Elvis Chapel, a prop for the 1968 movie CHARRO, staring Elvis Presley. That building was saved and moved to its present location on the grounds of the Superstition Mountain Museum just three miles out of Apache Junction on Highway 88.

Today they are going to relive just a portion of the wild heydays of Apacheland. There are stage coach rides, gunfights, hangings (mock), along with various arts and crafts, food booths and entertainment.

Venturing into the Elvis Chapel, I found that I was just in time to get myself photographed with the King himself, the highlight of my whole day I am sure. Inside, the chapel the walls are tastefully decorated with posters of some of the bygone movies which had been filmed on location. The chapel is now open to the public for tours and weddings.



Wandering over to the art exhibits I stopped to look at some of the works of Apache basket weaver Evalena Henry. Evalena is a master basket weaver who has received awards from the National Endowment for the Arts. Her baskets are fantastic, as well as just a bit out of my price range.

More to my tastes is flute artist John Bear. He had several flutes on display as well as audio CD’s and instructional CD’s. My musical side came bubbling to the top and I just had to purchase one of the pocket flutes, plus an instructional CD; concerts will be available late summer of 2011.

After wandering through the smithy’s blacksmith shop, and the Apacheland memorabilia barn, I was beginning to work up a powerful hunger. What better way to nip a feeling like that in the bud, but to sample piece of authentic Indian fry-bread. Given the choice of Indian Taco or Fry Bread, I opted for the fry-bread, with honey and cinnamon; hard to beat.

After absorbing just about the culture I could take at Apacheland I headed back towards home. Not far from the Superstition Museum, on Highway 88, Apache Trail Highway, is an eatery called Filly’s Restaurant and Lounge; “If You Are Lost You Are In The Right Place!” Now since I have been lost in more places than most people have been, I was right home here. They have an outdoor patio, serve up some great chicken, BBQ ribs and sandwiches; I chose the BBQ brisket sandwich with beans and potato salad. I picked up my order and plopped myself down at one of the tables. A fellow sitting next to me was wearing a Cabela’s sporting goods cap; of course I had to tell him my famous Cabela’s cap story, but…..that is a tale for another time.

On Saturdays Filly’s has outdoor music and dancing on their giant patio; too bad Sharon was not with me or we could have spun a wild spur dancing to tune “There’s a Tear in My Beer” as played by the local band. Filly’s is a great place; you can drive in, walk in, ride your horse in, or arrive by any other means of transportation that suits you. There is always good conversation, lively activity and of course good food.

Where else but in Arizona can you turn another hum-drum day into an excursion of real joy?