– Numbers 14:16
On July 24th of 1847, Brother Brigham
Young awoke from a daze of nausea brought on by
Colorado tick fever; the Mormon expedition had
finally arrived at the Great Salt Lake Valley. In
a state of sick and ailing confusion—or, perhaps,
divine inspiration—Brigham announced, “This is
the place,” as he lifted his head from a makeshift cot.
Though Brigham’s historical résumé includes titles
ranging from founder of Salt Lake City to President
of the Church of Jesus Christ Latter-Day Saints,
his role as a settler is often glossed over. To feverish
Brigham—on that historic date—the valley looked
like a God-given paradise. Bountiful fruits and nuts
offered themselves from the lush greenery, cool rivers
cut through grassy knolls, abundant elk and deer ran
across inviting plains, and not a single anti-Mormon
mob was in sight. However, to blunt Clara Decker,
wife number six of fifty-five, the desolate area contained
nothing more than a few scant juniper, cottonwood,
and scrub oak. Thickets of withered sagebrush,
yellowing grasslands, and ominous mountains
stood looming on all sides. There was absolutely no
discernible animate life. While Brigham’s faith-filled
first words have inspired plaques, historic memorials,
bumper stickers, and tourist mugs, Clara simply cried,
“I would rather walk another thousand miles than
remain.”
One week earlier, and 158 years later, I also
arrived in the Promised Land, and my less than
enthusiastic impression of the Great Salt Lake Valley
was quite similar to Clara’s. While the Mormon relocation
was due in large part to religious persecution,
my family’s motives were entirely economic. Utah offered
Dad a job at Media Port Entertainment Systems
and good skiing, but nothing more. At first, the plan
was to commute. Dad would come home every other
weekend, perhaps spend a couple days or more in
Seattle, and then return to Salt Lake. Unfortunately,
this plan was conceived without considering the 701
miles which separate the two cities. So he came home
every month. Thus, the purpose of my trip situated
itself somewhere ambiguously between a summer
vacation and a test, to see if I—we—could make the
migration to Utah and live there permanently. Unfortunately,
as soon as I stepped off the plane, I knew
the answer.
His apartment was eerily similar to a college
dorm room. I kept expecting to find the minifridge
at any moment, but apparently it hadn’t been
delivered yet. Though he had already lived there
for six months, Dad hadn’t really invested in the
space or in any Utah belongings just yet. The beige
walls of Apartment #304 were void of any attempt
at decoration. His dishes were the ‘microwave safe’
plastic, rainbow-colored kind. And, sadly, I actually
found several boxes of instant mashed potatoes in
the pantry cupboard. Over the phone, I had heard
the place described as “cute.” And, yes, it was sort
of cute that Dad didn’t actually fit in #304’s petite
shower, but mostly it was just awkward. Obviously
Dad treated the apartment as a temporary existence.
His travel-sized toothpaste and insect-repellent in the
dingy bathroom almost made it appear as if he was
simply on an extended camping trip. In the words of
Hebrews 11:9, Dad “made his home in the Promised
Land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived
in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with
him of the same promise.” In scripture, God is clear:
the pledge made to Isaac and Jacob is a promise also
made to future generations of men. In a business
agreement, God’s word gets a little hazy. This Canaan—
in disguise as Salt Lake City—was there for
the taking, yet Dad was hesitant to take God—also
known as the C.E.O. of Media Port—up on His offer.
Before deciding upon the Great Salt Lake
Valley, Brigham Young carefully considered Texas,
California, Vancouver Island, and Oregon as potential
homelands for the Mormon people. Yet all had
obvious flaws, or attributes, depending on how you
looked at it. Texas was too close to Mexico, California
was already overpopulated even by 1845 standards,
and Vancouver Island and Oregon were under careful
surveillance by Great Britain. It was important
to Brigham that he choose a land which no one else
would ever want to claim. Eventually, he decided
upon the vast area known as the Great Basin. Even
though this region was still technically Mexico’s land,
Brigham was confidently armed with America’s most
powerful weapon: manifest destiny. And, luckily,
the area was far too dry, isolated, unpopulated, and
generally ignored for any controversy to arise.
The weeks leading up to Brigham’s expedition
from Nauvoo, Illinois, to a mystery location
somewhere vaguely in the middle of North America
were incredibly hectic. Quite simply, Brigham had
a lot on his plate. First, several warrants were out
for his arrest. Thus, the usually composed man was
forced to start carrying a small Bowie knife around,
proclaiming he “wasn’t afraid to use it” in front
of the bemused, local law enforcement. Second,
Brigham had just married nineteen new wives and
paid for nineteen weddings in less than four weeks.
Thus, the great Mormon relocation not only served
as a mass exodus from religious persecution but a
low-budget honeymoon for the twenty newlyweds.
Embarrassingly, Brigham accidentally forgot one
of the newest additions to his family. Wife Emily
Partridge—who would have come along on the epic
journey to Utah if she hadn’t been so busy birthing
one of his children—was left behind. But these things
happen. Brigham trudged onward.
Besides Emily, problems with the Mormon
relocation were only further complicated once the
adventure actually began. Annoyances included—but
were not limited to—the 1846 Mexican-American
War; an anti-Mormon mob totaling about eight
hundred pitchfork-carrying men; and the less than
hospitable Pawnees of Nebraska. Morale was seriously
low. Brigham received more than a few stern warnings;
many cautioned him against the Great Salt Lake
Valley as a final destination. Travelers described the
place as actually quite comparable to a living hell, not
the idyllic paradise the Mormon expedition sought.
This advice came from experienced mountain men
and scouts such as Moses Harris, Jim Bridger, Samuel
Brannan and what was left of the Donner Party. In
1846, the Donner Party had been whittled down to
only a handful of carnivorous survivors who considered
the Great Salt Lake Valley a less than delightful
stop on their excruciating journey. In Utah, their
expedition had quickly turned into a nightmare of
poor terrain, terrible weather conditions, plain unpreparedness
and, eventually, cannibalism. Despite
protests and serious doubts, Brigham kept moving
westward. Though many tried to persuade him that
California would be a much more agreeable option,
Brigham was not convinced by the promise of the
golden land.
From 1846 to 2006, Salt Lake City has
steadily maintained quite a large population of
citizens with one incredibly dark secret: they would
trade Utah for California any day of the week (except
the Sabbath). In fact, if Brigham Young had not been
so determined to settle the Mormon homeland on
Great Basin soil, Hollywood as we currently know it
could be drastically different. Today, this unhealthy,
closeted Latter-Day Saint obsession with the Sunshine
State is manifested in less than subtle ways.
Lagoon-a-Beach is Utah’s six-acre premiere
water park that includes such attractions as the
Tidal Wave, Rattlesnake Rapids, Puff the Little Fire
Dragon, the Boomerang and the Bat. Needless to say,
I was ecstatic to visit. Furthermore, I can now attest
to the fact that Lagoon-a-Beach completely lives up to
the park’s creative slogan, “It’s what fun is.” The best
part of the experience is undoubtedly the fact that
visitors do not purchase mere “tickets” to enter this
aquatic playground. No, “tickets” at Lagoon-a-Beach
are referred to as “passports” because it is such an
international adventure.
Dad and I bought passports, Subway sandwiches,
mint ice cream and upper-class, special
admission to the Rattlesnake Rapids for two. He remembered
the three bottles of SPF 70 and we applied
it liberally every two hours to ensure that the best day
ever was not followed by the worst sunburn ever. I
almost believed I was in California. Afterwards, we
walked to the car exhausted after a day of climbing
iron waterslide structures, waiting in lines comparable
to Disneyland’s, and walking without shoes on
white sand “beaches.” Though I despised Utah, I
decided I would not have to include Lagoon-a-Beach
in this category. It was logical. The fact that I had to
purchase a passport to visit the park meant it existed
in a space which was not located upon Utah’s soil. In
fact, I probably hadn’t touched a single toe to Utah’s
soil all day. The waterpark was made up primarily of
imported sand, chlorinated water and large slabs of
concrete.
For dinner we decided upon a classic rockthemed
pizza parlor, and – unlike Lagoon-a-Beach
– there was no denying its location in the heart of
Salt Lake City. The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin,
Aerosmith and ZZ Top album covers served as
thickly plastered wallpaper. Underneath the glasscovered
table tops there were scattered guitar picks
and ticket stubs. In order to stay with the theme of
the day I ordered the “Hotel California” with no
bacon. Four hours later, “Hotel California” decided
to reemerge on a dark, desert highway. To this day,
I can’t eat bleu cheese without thinking of puke.
However, I admit the greasy pizza may not have been
the only factor; my stomach had been upset for about
a week. Perhaps I needed time to “acclimate” to Salt
Lake City; maybe I never would.
A couple days later, Dad and I attended a
Mormon wedding reception which could have easily
been mistaken for a funeral. At the ancient age of
thirty-five, Trevor – Dad’s kind cubicle-mate – had
finally decided to tie the knot. We escaped early from
the quiet reception hall; I knew alcohol was forbidden
but I was unsure if that commandment also included
music. In lieu of listening to the painful wedding eulogies,
we opted to drive along the outer rim of the city,
along orchards filled with Sweet and Queen Anne
cherries. Though it had taken more than a century,
Utah was slowly moving away from Clara Decker’s
assessment that it was nothing more than brown, dry
land towards Brigham’s romantic vision of an earthly
paradise. God’s promise was slowly being fulfilled.
And, whether barren or flourishing, the land was
truly striking. Yet—through no fault of its own—it
was also quite hollow.
“Modern Moses” is one of Brigham’s catchier
nicknames in a long list which starts with “Ladies’
Man” and ends with “the Lion of the Lords.” He not
only led a religious exodus to Utah, the Promised
Land, but helped the chosen people battle a fullblown
plague. In the summer of 1848—two years
after Brigham first set eyes upon the Great Salt Lake
Valley—the harvest season was fast approaching
and a crisis along with it. Legend, history books and
Wikipedia all agree: it was as if a black cloud suddenly
descended upon the Mormons out of nowhere.
In the blink of an eye thousands of gigantic crickets
flooded into the fields. The biblically-inspired insects
began to devour the Latter-Day Saints’ wheat, barley
and dreams for the future. Usually peaceable and
soft-spoken, the Mormon settlers decided to take up
arms in the form of shovels and brooms; they attempted
to beat the evil intruders to death. Their
efforts were unsuccessful. Resigned to defeat, the
settlers began to contemplate an end eerily similar
to their geographical predecessors, the Donner Party.
Yet, suddenly, a white light filled the sky and—instead
of the booming voice of God as played by Morgan
Freeman—the flapping of wings filled the air. Thousands
of seagulls emerged from all directions! Crickets
were devoured by these avian friends and the Mormons
were left to devour their hard-earned crops.
This event lives on in Salt Lake City history, known
lovingly as the “Miracle of the Gulls.” With their first
plague conquered, the Mormons were officially there
to stay.
Brigham Young and his followers gave Utah
two years. I gave it two weeks. On the last day of my
stay, Dad and I were driving down the grid of Salt
Lake City’s perfectly straight streets headed towards
Temple Square. He explained that the roads were so
wide because Brigham had wanted to make sure his
team of oxen and covered wagons could parade down
them, make U-turns, and use both sides of the road
with ease. I stayed silent, concentrating all of my energy
upon these unusually wide streets. Dad changed
subjects, told me some of his best Mormon-themed
jokes, and boasted of Utah’s surprisingly good Cajun
cuisine. I looked out of the passenger’s window and
tried to imagine how many oxen could possibly fit
into the lanes. Probably five or six. A couple miles
later we turned into a McDonald’s parking lot; it
was the only place where God’s divine word couldn’t
reach our blasphemous ears. Dad climbed out, explaining
he suddenly had to call his boss. To this day
I’m unsure if he called Brother Peterson or Mom. It
didn’t much matter. Fifteen long minutes later Dad
explained that he was coming back home and leaving
Salt Lake City and Media Port Entertainment
behind.
Dad and I had been figuratively “slaughtered
in the desert” known as Salt Lake City and
“the Lord was not able to bring [us] into the land he
promised.” Truthfully, it wasn’t the Lord’s fault at
all. It was ours. The Promised Land is not a gift, it
is a covenant, and we simply were unable to uphold
our side of the bargain. The journey to a homeland
is often coupled with tales of persecution, oppression
or cruelty. Mormon history includes them all. Yet all
homes are not easily left behind nor are they easily
created. Migrating to a Canaan—no matter how
fertile—depends more upon the traveler than the soil.
For Dad and me, the land flowing with metaphorical
milk and honey was nowhere to be seen in Salt Lake
City. Though, in Genesis 24:7, “the God of heaven
brought me out of my father’s household and my native
land and spoke to me and promised…this land,”
I opted to reject it. It was a significant leap of faith
to move one family member to Utah, but all five? To
embrace Salt Lake City as the Promised Land would
have necessitated a miracle involving something much
more ferocious than a few dozen seagulls. Salt Lake
City may have fit in with God’s plan but it failed to
match up with ours. The land was there but the faith
certainly wasn’t. Dad and I were unable to conceive
of Utah as a Canaan because we already inhabited a
home where everything had its proper place.
Three years ago, after coming to my house
for the first time, a friend named Clare told me she
finally understood why my parents considered me
the messy, sloppy child of the family. By the average
American’s standards I would be classified as neurotically
clean and excessively organized. The average
American hasn’t seen my parents’ kitchen. Once, I
witnessed Dad walk towards the sink and suddenly
freeze. He placed his hand tentatively on the marbled
granite countertop and mumbled, “Something isn’t
right.” Then he proceeded to relocate the rainbowtinted,
ceramic tray containing salt, pepper, olive oil
and balsamic vinegar to a place approximately five
centimeters from where it was. Relocation, as I have
come to understand it, is an art of precision.