“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” ~T. S. Eliot

                Though Mr. Eliot was speaking of death and the uncertainty of what comes after, I felt that same fear when my LDS ward started talking of our upcoming Stake Pioneer Trek last spring.  Joy was not what I was experiencing when I thought of facing that dusty trail; it was dread, pumping through my heart.

                It started out just as bad as I thought it would: pushing a handcart across a field in a skirt, bloomers, and bonnet that made me hotter than an Indian summer at the start of school.  The water grew warm, the bugs unbearable, and the cow pies innumerable.  The only upside were the clusters of Honey Bucket port-a-potties that allowed you to at least relieve yourself in some semblance of comfort.

                That first night we set up camp but after dinner found that we’d have to pack everything up and start moving again before we could get any real rest.  We pushed over hills and through mud in the coming dark.  A few of our family quarreled when we came to the last part of that night’s journey but all was well when we finally came to our actual campsite.

                Thankfully, we didn’t have to trek long the second day and the afternoon’s firesides gave us all time to rest before that night’s activity: square dancing- something I don’t particularly enjoy, but was pulled into none-the-less.

                The third day, however, is when the excitement (and the focus on my story) began.  It was finally time for the women’s pull.  Most girls were lamenting the fact that we would have to pull the carts all by ourselves, but I was almost looking forward to it.

                I had been going through a couple emotional days- my ma and pa said it was from all that walking in the sun, but I’m not so sure- and I was hoping and praying that this experience would give me peace.  That I could feel the strength of all the women who had come before me, who I knew wanted me to succeed in both this odious trip and life itself.  They pushed us along, all the way to the end; they picked us up when we were down

                While we watched the boys leave, that fear started creeping up on me again but I pushed it down: I knew we could do this.  We started over the small hill and saw a path of sand unfold in front of us.  My family had come to a consensus the night before- that sand was worse than mud or the loosely-packed dirt we had traveled before.

                I loved it.

                Feel the sand moving beneath your tennis-shoed feet. Imagine pushing the unmoving cart, stuck fast in the sand, until you have nothing left; your lungs are screaming but somehow you manage to pull in a breath to sing.  Your legs and arms hurt but the pain is a good sensation and you can work through it.  It’s an amazing feeling.

                We turned a corner and saw the boys waiting to take the carts from us; we walked to meet and then eventually pass them.  The meeting place had been mixed up and now the women had to pull farther than originally planned.  The boys had another idea though and started running for us: sons for their mothers and sisters, fathers for their wives and daughters.

                 I wanted to jump, to laugh, to cry at this expression of love and concern from the men.  To show that they cared enough to run to take the cart’s burden from our hands was an amazing act that took my remaining breath away.  They showed faith and diligence in their priesthood and that gave a push to my own belief and feelings and thoughts of the world in general.  It gave me hope.

                Our journey continued for another day and through a river, but nothing has stayed with me so much as the women’s pull.  I know that experience will stay with me for the rest of my life and it has changed the way I look at everything.  I’m so glad that I got past my fear of dust and was able to go out with my new family and share those four days of my life with them out on the trail.