Wanderings in Three Continents

by Sir Richard Francis Burton

On August 25th, the nineteenth day of our journey, we set out at 7 a.m. to breast the Wasach, the last and highest chain of the mountain mass before we reached Great Salt Lake Valley, and to arrive at our

destination—​the New Jerusalem, the future Zion on the tops of the mountains. The road up the big mountain was a very rough one, lined on either side with great trees—​hemlocks, firs, and balsam-pines. The varied hues of the quaking ash were there also; the beech, dwarf oak, and thickets of elders and wild roses; whilst over all the warm autumnal tints already mingled with the bright green of summer. The ascent became more and more rugged; this steep pitch, at the end of a thousand miles of hard work and semi-starvation, caused the death of many a wretched animal. Towards the summit it rises sharpest. Here we descended from the waggon, which the four mules had work enough to draw. The big mountain lies eighteen miles from the city; the top is a narrow crest. From that eyrie, eight thousand feet above sea-level, the weary pilgrim first sights his shrine, the object of his long wanderings, hardships, and perils—​the Happy Valley of the Great Salt Lake.

After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, we resumed the footpath way, whilst the mail-waggon, with wheels rough-locked, descended what appeared to be an impracticable slope. Falling into the gorge of Big Kanyon Creek, we reached about midday a station, half stifled by the thick dust and the sun. We slaked our thirst with the cool water that trickled down the hill by the house side. Presently the station-master arrived; he was introduced to us as Mr. Eph Hanks. I had often heard of him as a Mormon desperado, leader of the dreaded Danite band, and

a model ruffian. We found him very pleasant and sociable, though a facetious allusion to the dangers that awaited us under the roof of the Danite was made. We had dinner there, and, after a friendly leave, we entered the mail-waggon again, and prepared ourselves for the last climb over the western-most reach of the Wasach.

The road was now only a narrow shelf, and frequent fordings were rendered necessary by the capricious wanderings of the torrent. At one of the most ticklish turns our driver kindly pointed out a precipice where four of the mail passengers fell and broke their necks. He also entertained us with sundry other horrible tales. In due time, emerging from the gates and portals and deep serrations of the upper course, we descended into a lower level, and the valley presently lay full before our sight. At this place the pilgrim emigrants, like the hajis of Jerusalem and Meccah, were wont to give vent to the emotions pent up in their bosoms by sobs and tears, laughter and congratulations, psalms and hysterics. It is indeed no wonder that children danced, that strong men cheered and shouted, and that nervous women, broken with fatigue and hope deferred, screamed and fainted; that the ignorant fondly believed that the “Spirit of God” pervaded the very atmosphere, and that Zion on the tops of the mountains is nearer Heaven than the other parts of the earth. In good sooth, though uninfluenced by religious fervour—​beyond the natural satisfaction of seeing a brand new Holy City—​even

I could not, after nineteen days of the mail-waggon, gaze upon the scene without emotion.

The hour was about 6 p.m., the atmosphere was touched with a dreamy haze, and a little bank of rose-coloured clouds, edged with flames of purple and gold, floated in the upper air, whilst the mellow radiance of an American autumn diffused its mild, soft lustre over the face of the earth. The sun was setting in a flood of heavenly light behind the bold, jagged outline of Antelope Island. At its feet, and then bounding the far horizon, lay, like a band of burnished silver, the Great Salt Lake, that innocent Dead Sea. South-westwards, and the Oquirrh Range sharply silhouetted against the depths of an evening sky.

The undulating valley-plain between us and the Oquirrh Range, once a howling wilderness given over to a few miserable savages, was now the site of a populous city. Truly the Mormon prophecy had been fulfilled; the desert had blossomed like the rose.

As we descended the Wasach Mountains we could look and enjoy the view of the Happy Valley, and the bench-land then attracted our attention. The eastern valley-bench, upon whose western declivity the city lies, may be traced on a clear day along the base of the mountains for a distance of twenty miles. As we advanced over the bench-ground, the city by slow degrees broke upon our sight. It showed, one may readily believe, to special advantage after a succession of Indian lodges, Canadian ranchos, and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and the

mountains. About two miles north, and overlooking the settlements from a height of four hundred feet, a detached cone called Ensign Mount rose at the end of a chain, and overhung and sheltered the north-eastern corner of the valley. Upon this mount the spirit of the martyred Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, is said to have appeared to his successor, Mr. Brigham Young, and pointed out to him the position of the new temple, which, after Zion had “got up into the high mountain,” was to console the saints for the loss of Nauvoo the Beautiful.