Highway 257

The route between Southwest Utah and the Wasatch Front is usually traveled via Interstate 15. It wasn't until I talked with Pete Dotson that I knew there was an alternative.

Pete was a burly man with a thick brown, but graying beard, who wore bibbed overalls and long sleeves everywhere he went. He swore he would travel to Salt Lake no other way. “Just too many people,” he would say.

The route that Pete spoke of takes the backroads through the West Desert of Utah. Depending on your point of view, it can be either drab and boring, or mysterious and intriguing.

Along this route is a 67-mile stretch between the rural towns of Milford and Deseret. Utah Highway 257, as it is officially known, offers an empty landscape to the casual observer. It is common to pass fewer then ten cars on a single drive—and the biggest hazard is hitting either an antelope or cow. But to those who dig deeper, Highway 257 offers a rich blend of history and geological wonders.

Over the years I have taken Pete's advice and have found many occasions to take this lonely backroad. Although I have only scratched the surface, each time comes with new discoveries.

Remains of Fort Deseret along Highway 257

Just 4.5 miles south of the northern terminus of Highway 257 lies the crumbled remains of Fort Deseret. Thick adobe walls made of mud and straw, and supported by wooden frames and posts, still stand just off the road. A collapsing bastion exists on the northeast corner, as well as “peep holes” in the walls. The east wall is the best preserved, and in the middle is a “gate” supported by a wooden frame that the visitor can pass through to explore inside the fort. Although the interior is filled with rabbit brush and lacks most of the back walls, it is enough to give you a feel of what it must have looked like when first erected.

The town of Deseret was created in 1859 by Mormon settlers on the lower reaches of the Sevier River. The growth of new settlements began to create a strain between the Mormons and Indians, as the natives began to see much of their wildlife habitat turned into farms, thus diminishing their food supply. They also suffered from smallpox and measles, which they blamed on the white man. After initially seeing the Mormons as friends, they now began to view them as intruders.

In 1865, a Ute leader by the name of Black Hawk led a group of discontented Indians on a series of raids to secure food for their people. The raids began in Sanpete Valley in Central Utah and spread throughout the state to Deseret where the Pahvant Indians stole cattle.

As a precautionary move, Brigham Young ordered that the men from Deseret form a militia and that a fort be erected. It took just 18 days for 98 men to build the fort. The structure was 550 feet square, with corner bastions ten feet high and walls three feet thick on the bottom, tapering to a foot and a half at the top.

Although Fort Deseret was never used to protect the people, it served as a deterrent. On several occasions it was used as a corral to protect the cattle from Indians.

Left: The Great Stone Face.  Right: Painting of Joseph Smith by David White Rogers.

Less than two miles south of Fort Deseret is a graveled road that leads toward the west for over five miles and then curls around an outcropping of black rock. This site must have had significance to Native Americans of olden times as there are many petroglyphs on the rocks, including what appears to be an eye at the top of the hill. But for Mormon settlers, this was the location of The Great Stone Face.

Atop the same rocky hill is a natural stone structure that looks very much in profile as Mormon founder and Prophet, Joseph Smith. By now it had been well over a decade since the Mormon leader had been murdered in Nauvoo, Illinois. The Saints had moved and settled in the west, and as they began to explore the region around Sevier Lake, they were excited to find a stack of lava rock in the likeness of the Prophet.

Of course, the rock may also have had significance with the Paiutes, as they may have seen the likeness of a chief of a god. With the abundance of petroglyphs, there is no doubt that this site held a level of importance.

It is also interesting to note that just a few years earlier, in 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne published a short story entitled “The Great Stone Face,” referring to a similar stone structure. In the story, a local Native American folklore states that this stone profile would resemble someone who is “the greatest and noblest personage of his time.” This is certainly how the Saints viewed Joseph Smith, and I wonder if Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story played a role in the naming of the rock.

North face of Pahvant Butte.

The pathway of Highway 257 is roughly paralleled by the old route used by the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition of 1776. As they searched for a course to Monterey, California, they pushed forward from Santa Fe, traveling northward through southwest Colorado and into present-day Utah. From the Wasatch Front they curled southward into what is now the desert of Millard County.

On October 2, the group camped south and a little ways east of Deseret near a prominent hill they would call El Cerrillo. Years later this knoll became known as Pahvant Butte, an iconic mound in the middle of a desolate valley, seen from miles away on all sides. The company had difficulty pushing directly southward as they ran into the shallow lakes and marshes of Clear Lake.

Upon arriving, they recorded in their journal:

“In the afternoon we pursued our journey to the south-southeast because the marshes and lakes were not letting us go south, which was the direct route to the pass through which we were to leave the plain. After going three leagues we halted near a small bluff which stands on it. Wherefore we named the stopping point, where there were marshes with much pasturage but with brackish water, El Cerrillo. Today three leagues.”

Shallow waters of Clear Lake.

The butte was named after the Pahvant Indians, a band of Southern Paiutes, with whom the company had an encounter earlier that day. The waters of Clear Lake are home to a wide variety of fowl. A good graveled road leaves the highway and travels on a causeway over the shallow waters.

At one time there was a town built nearby with the name of Clear Lake. Unlike most of the other communities, it was settled by non-Mormons, many of them from the Midwest. Ten families lived in the town and most farmed. A canal was built from the lake to the new settlement. Nowadays there are no vestiges of the former inhabitants other than some inconspicuous piles of concrete.

The Dominguez-Escalante group moved on the following day:

“On the 3rd we left El Cerrillo, made several detours because we were surrounded by marshes, and decided to cut across by going over the east river mentioned, which appears to sink into them and the plain's other lakes—and which abounds in fish. The ford was sticky and miry, and in it the mount which Andrés the interpreter was riding fell and pitched into the water, dealing him a hard blow on one cheek.”

Union Pacific Railroad.

Pronghorn are often seen along Highway 257.

Continuing further south, the highway parallels the Union Pacific Railroad. The track runs to Milford and eventually Lund, which used to be a major transportation depot. Today the carriages are filled entirely with freight rather than people.

Anyone traveling the lonely stretch of road must not only watch for wandering cattle, but also for skittish antelope. More than once I have come frightening close to striking a darting pronghorn.

Located to the east of the highway are the barren Cricket Mountains. There are many dirt roads that take off in that direction and skirt the hillsides.

Dried hardpan of Sevier Lake in distance.

West of this mountain range, constituting a large swath from north to south are the dried remains of Sevier Lake. From a distance the ivory-colored hard-pan is reminiscent of the Bonneville Salt Flats. At the extreme northern end the Sevier River flows into the lake. I don't know if the lake was full when the Mormon Pioneers arrived in 1847, but since that time the river has been used quite extensively for irrigation, sucking volume from this long meandering waterway.

Another much smaller riverbed follows a portion of the highway. The Beaver River comes from the south and southeast, a collection of melted snow and springs from the Tushar Mountains. At its largest it is a freshwater torrent as wide as a two-laned road. As far as I can tell, the farms near the towns of Beaver and Milford suck the river completely dry by the time it reaches Highway 257.

It appears that Mother Nature depleted a portion of the Beaver River in 1776. The D&E group still found a trickle of water: “. . . we came to an arroyo which seemed to have much water, but we found only some waterholes where the horse herd might be able to drink. Nevertheless, we stopped here because there was good pasturage. All over the arroyo there was a kind of white scum, dry and thin, which looked from afar like linen spread out, for which reason we named it Arroyo de Tejedor.”

As they traveled further south, the flow of the Beaver River picked up as they found beautiful meadows and good pasturage for their horses. I would dare say that those beautiful meadows no longer exist.

Ruined structure at Black Rock.

As Father Escalante and his party moved forward, they crossed a nearly inconspicuous boundary they called South Pass, entering into what is now the Escalante Desert. Nearby are a group of ruined structures belonging to the abandoned settlement of Black Rock.

Established as a ranch in 1876, Black Rock eventually acquired a store and Post Office. When it became a depot on the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad, thousands of pounds of wool were shipped from the small settlement. A small pumice quarry north of town employed many people. A schoolhouse was built and operated for 40 years.

The railroad began to consolidate operations during the 1930's, causing the town of Black Rock to wane. Only the foundations of the former buildings exist. There is, however, a modern ranch on the premise, and it appears that the local springs have been used to water fields and livestock.

I found faint petroglyphs on rocky ridge above the springs, indicating that people have used this place for hundreds of years. The tawny hills and barren valley are testimony to the isolated and dry terrain. In a land like this, any place that can sustain life is a gem.

Antelope Springs is a surprising oasis in the Escalante Desert.

Several miles west of Black Rock is another oasis in the desert. Antelope Springs was a stage stop in the 1860's. It is hard to believe now, but there was once a hotel, saloon, livery stable and barn on the premises. The springs are still there, although I was unable to find any signs of the old buildings. The springs have created a small pond, as well as a large marshy area, well suited for fowl.

From my readings, I can't find any evidence that the D&E expedition came across the springs at Black Rock or Antelope Springs. Instead, they camped near a hill called Red Rock Knoll, some two miles west of Black Rock. The company was in dire straits at this time. Their Indian guide had deserted them, leaving no one who knew the territory. They were tormented with an early winter storm that blanked the hills and valley, and stranded them for two days with no firewood.

The Beaver Bottoms.

When they finally continued, they trekked south and entered into what is called Beaver Bottoms, a point in the valley that tends to collect a lot of stagnating water. Their journal records the tribulation:

“We traveled only three leagues and a half with great difficulty, because it was so soft and miry everywhere that many pack animals and mounts, and even those that were loose, either fell down or became stuck altogether.”

The mire still flanks Highway 257 north of Milford. Just east of here, spreading across the valley like a forest of white giants, is a wind farm. Personally, I'm not a big fan (no pun intended) of new turbines sprouting up in divers places, but it sure grabs the attention of those driving by. In a way it beholds its own beauty. I guess I'm a little old fashioned and prefer to see the land as it was in 1776—or a thousand years earlier.

Another ten miles of driving will bring you to the southern terminus of Highway 257 and the small town of Milford. There's a lot of discoveries yet to be make along this 67-mile stretch of apparent barren highway. I think Pete Dotson knew what he was talking about. ♠

Wind farm near Milford.

Wes Oshley

[It has been almost two years since Wes passed to the other side. I miss randomly running into him on the streets of Cedar City. The following was written on February 24, 2013. Although blunt and harsh at times, it accurately represents the Wes Oshley I knew.]

The first time I ever met Wes was walking down Center Street in Cedar City when a tall, lanky Navajo came up to me and said, “You must be a Lacy.” I was stunned. How did he know? I had never met the guy in my life. So I asked him how he knew and he proceed to waddle down the sidewalk with his arms hanging down like a monkey. “By the way you walk,” he said.
 
I sure hope he was embellishing that strut, because I don't think that we Lacys look like that. But he had guessed who I was by my movements. He went on to praise my grandpa, whom he knew while living in Blanding. Ever since that day, he says the same thing: “Tell your Grandpa hi for me.” He always wants to know how old Claude is doing.
 
You never forget Wes. Not only is he tall and lanky, but his teeth are always just above my eye level and he must be wearing coffee-stained dentures, because I watch them shift around every time he speaks. His father was Navajo Oshley, a sheepherder that lived to be over a hundred years old and was an icon when I was growing up in San Juan County. Wes is an intriguing person, a person that I still have yet to scratch the surface.
 
When I walked out of Lins yesterday, Wes was there and immediately we walked across the parking lot together. He embraced me with his right arm, something he hadn't done before.
 
“I am just getting back on my feet, brother. I've been gone for eight months. I am just getting back. In the last eight months I buried my three sisters.” As he said this, you could feel the emotion well up within him. I hugged him tighter as we continued to walk. He continued to tell me the story of how he had spent that time in Blanding and he briefly mentioned how each had passed away. The third one caught my attention, as she had frozen to death in her trailer. Her name was Joan Bilsie, but the family preferred to bury her with her traditional name of Oshley. 

That brought up a question I always had. “Where was she buried? In the cemetery or somewhere else where the Navajo bury their dead?” I hadn't ever seen a lot of Native Americans buried in the white-man cemetery and I know that historically they find a crevice or some place in the ground and bury them with a saddle or some of their earthly possessions—or at least that is how I understood it. 

“No,” he responded, “she is buried in the cemetery.” Now the tone of his voice turned angry and passionate. “I don't want her buried where Dr. Redd can come back and get her. Hell no! I would have killed the guy if he didn't do it first. That man had three little babies in his house.” —Here he was referring to Anasazi mummies, I believe. “That is something that is very personal to me. You don't mess with my ancestors. You do not touch the dead!” This was a passionate subject that I had heard from him before. I completely agree with him, but it always makes me feel uneasy because I knew Dr. Redd and his family, and I like them very much.
 
Sometime after this point, I felt like I had to share with him the news that my own daughter had passed away just two months earlier. Once again, his heart was filled with emotion and tears came to his eyes. He hugged me with both arms this time and plead, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! No one should ever have to bury their child.” I assured him that when this happened that I had thought of him, because I knew that about a year and a half ago, he buried his own son.
 
“But they always come back,” he acknowledged, knowing the pain of death, but also knowing that there are divine crossings. He then told me a story about one cold evening when he was under a vehicle trying to fix the transmission, or some other problem, and he needed a certain tool that his grandson, who was helping him, could not find. “Go look in the the tool bag over there,” Wes suggested. When his grandson unzipped the bag, there on top, was the glove of his son Waylon, the one who had died. And in the palm of the glove was the exact tool they were looking for.
 
“They always come back,” he said again. ♠

Beaches and Islands of Southern Thailand

The beaches of Southern Thailand are some of the most beautiful in the world.  Lush limestone cliffs are surrounded by a turquoise sea.  Emerald bays are dotted with longtail boats.  Our visit brought us to the Province of Krabi where our explorations led us through the warm waters of the Andaman Sea.

From our base in Krabi town we usually hired a boatsman to take us to our destination of the day.  Many of the beaches on the mainland are only accessible by boat.

The Railay Peninsula is a 45-minute boat ride from Krabi town.  Even though it is connected to the mainland, it might as well be an island, as it is cut off from the rest of Thailand by a large limestone massif. There is no vehicular traffic on the peninsula.  Pedestrian paths connect the three major beaches. 

Ao Phra Nang is the prettiest beach we visited, but also the most crowded.  Longtail boats line up along the waterside waiting for customers.  Hundreds of sun-worshipers pad the sand.

A tall limestone outcrop overhangs a shallow cove.  The beach is perfect to swim in.  There are very few waves and the sea is comfortably warm.

It is interesting to walk along the beach and observe the variety of swimmers and sun-bathers, ranging from the near-naked European to the modestly-dressed (in long shirt, long pants, and hijab) Muslim.

Phranang Cave, named after the Goddess of Love, is a shrine located on the beach.  For generations, local people, fisherman, and navigators have left offerings to the Goddess (or Princess), that she might protect their livelihood and fulfill their wishes.  In addition to flowers and incense, votees often leave a lingam gift, which is a phallus carved in wood.  It is believed that this will bring fertility.

Long-tailed macaques thrive on the peninsula.  We found these cute scavengers on the pathway between Ao Phra Nang and East Railay. 

Just a ten minute walk from Ao Phra Nang, East Railay is less exotic than the other beaches.  It is often the docking point for boats coming from Krabi town.  When we passed through at low-tide, the shore was a muddy mess. 

Just a few minutes along a shady path of palms will bring you to West Railay, which some consider the most beautiful beach on the peninsula.

Although there are many resorts and bungalows surrounding this beach, most of them are not visible through the thick tropical forest.  There are a handful of small shops along a sandy boardwalk.

A line of longtail boats await the traveler, as it is the only way to leave the peninsula.

Ao Nang is just a ten minute boat ride from West Railay.  Although considered not as impressive as its neighbors to the south, Ao Nang Beach is very picturesque.

Of all the beaches heretofore mentioned, Ao Nang has the widest offering of restaurants and souvenir shops.  We even found a massage parlor that aims to get rid of your sunburn (which we desperately needed)!

Like all the other beaches, longtail boats line up to be used at a moments notice.

A common means to arrive or leave Ao Nang is by songthaew, a pickup truck with benches in the bed that will hold about eight or ten people. 

The waters beyond Ao Nang are dotted with islands.  Some have room for tiny beaches, while others are nothing but a limestone column protruding from the sea.

Finding a tour of the islands is easy.  Any hotel or travel office with have a plethora of choices. We shared a boat with several other tourists like ourselves. 

Our package included snorkeling, which was a first for me.  Jenelle got stung by a jelly fish.

Tup Island fascinated me as we circled around it.  It is two tiny knobs connected by a sliver of a beach.

Chicken Island, or Ko Po Da Nok, is probably the most recognizable of the land masses in this area.

No vessel would be complete without a little Thai pride.

The majestic Ko Ma Tang Ming.

Our tour brought us back to Ao Phra Nang, which was our favorite beach.  The sun moved quickly toward the horizon, creating a majestic sunset that transformed the limestone karsts into silhouettes. 

It was one of the most magical evenings of my entire life.  Most of the tourists on the beach sat down toward the sea and watched in awe.

This would be our last visit to the sea on this trip.  Jenelle and I reminisced on the day and relished our final evening.

At last, the sun went down and darkness moved in.  We got back on the boat and moved through the warm south Asian air, watching the distant lights on the shore.  Jenelle and I sat on the helm and felt the sea breeze through the dark of night.  

We disembarked one last time and all gathered around to watch an islander throw flames. ♠

Buddha Alley

Thanon Bamrung Muang, which is now in the heart of Bankok, was once an elephant trail in days of yore. A hundred years ago it became one of the city's first paved streets. Today it is lined with shops selling all the latest Buddhist paraphernalia, earning the moniker of Buddha Alley.
 

We are walking from Wat Pho to Wat Saket and decide to check out Buddha Alley along the way. Tuk-tuks and mopeds purr past as we come to the towering red structure of Sao Ching Cha, also known as the Giant Swing.

The Giant Swing stands in an oval roundabout across from a Buddhist temple. Two towering red posts are connected at the top by an ornate cross-beam. The swing was once used during a ceremony to honor the Hindu god Shiva's annual descent to Earth. Young men participated in a competition in which they would swing to great heights and attempt to snatch a suspended bag of gold with their teeth. Due to too many accidents, the practice was discontinued in the 1930's.
 

On the far side of the swing, draped across the side of a government building, is a large image of King Bhumibol Adulyadej, the current monarch of Thailand. The Royal Family is revered in Thailand and photos of the king are everywhere.

On the near side of the swing is one of Thailand's most important temples, Wat Suthat. A few tuk-tuks park along the road and monks dressed in orange robes enter the gate. Although it is a sanctuary of high significance, it doesn't appear to draw large crowds. Inside is an eight-meter statue of a meditating Buddha, which is said to date back to 1361. It was brought by river all the way from Sukhothai, one of the ancient capitals of Thailand. As we don't have time to see “everything,” we decide to continue our walk along Buddha Alley.
 

We now come across the shops that sell the paraphernalia. A variety of Buddhas are wrapped in plastic, as well as lotus stems bunched together in baskets. A monk is alongside a child and her mother. 

A peddler pushes an empty cart along the street, no doubt in preparation to selling a tasty Thai dish such as noodles or skewers of meat. He carries a collapsed parasol that he will eventually open to protect him from the scorching Bangkok sun.
 

Shop after shop sells tall Buddha figurines wrapped in plastic. Whether they are meant for a sanctuary or some other place I do not know.
 

This is an interesting juxtaposition of objects that catches our attention: a Buddha side by side with a seductive-looking lady. I don't know who the lady represents, but she wears a bracelet on her arm, and has long hair that twists like a snake.
 

We see several of these figurines of wise old monks; I'm not sure what they would be used for. Perhaps they are kept in the halls and chambers that are reserved only for those who are set apart to do the work. I'm sure the old sage represents someone who is venerated in Theravada Buddhism culture.
 
Eventually we cross a canal and come to Boripat Road, marking the end of our short visit to Buddha Alley. Bangkok is full of hidden treasures, most becoming lost within this urban jungle. Now we walk up the street at our left and make our way toward Wat Saket. ♠

Hail to the Prophet

My first experience of seeing President Monson in person is one that I'll never forget. He wasn't the Prophet back then, but a counselor in the First Presidency. I was attending the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah in preparation to serve a two-year mission for my church. In a large gymnasium with hundreds of folding chairs set on the hardwood, the room was filled with a couple thousand missionaries, such as myself, chatting away and creating quite a din.

We knew that President Monson would be our speaker, although no one had yet caught a glimpse of him. As a background to the cacophonous echo of voices, an organ played sweet prelude music.

Then at once, as if going from 60 to zero in less than a second, the room turned silent.

The arena was so large that I couldn't see what was happening. Then, from the far side of the gymnasium, I noticed that President Monson and his men had entered and were now making their way toward the front. Everyone by now had lifted from their seats and stood in reverence. You could have heard the proverbial drop of a pin.

There was also a feeling that had entered the room, a sentiment of respect and love. Within my soul I knew this was no ordinary man, but one called of God.

I don't recall the subject which President Monson spoke to us during that meeting in 1992, but the spirit I felt as he entered the room was so powerful that to this day I haven't forgotten.

Thomas Spencer Monson would eventually become the 16th Prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. During his service as President and Apostle he would become revered by millions of Mormons who looked to his example of service and Christ-like charity. This past week, President Monson passed away at the age of ninety. I have spent a lot of time reflecting on this amazing man.

President Monson is known for his attention to “the one.” There are countless personal stories of service to widows and those in need. If he felt a prompting to help someone, he would leave immediately and act upon that feeling. He visited hundreds of patients in hospitals and would be known to literally give a needy person the coat from his back. He lifted the downtrodden. One has to wonder how many untold stories are out there.

A few years after my mission I married into a family that had personal connections with President Monson. My grandfather-in-law, Howard Smith, was Vice-President of Beneficial Life, a company owned by the church. Consequently, he had monthly meetings with certain church leaders. They became personal acquaintances and he called them on a first-name basis. He told a story of pulling into a gas station at the same time as Gordon Hinkley and carrying on a conversation across the pump.

When my wife's parents got married, Howard told them they could choose anyone they'd like to perform the ceremony, and he would check availability.  They chose the young Apostle, Elder Monson. Howard had no problems asking his personal friend, Tom, to officiate their marriage in the Salt Lake Temple.

By the time I entered the family, Howard had long been retired, and those weekly communications with church leaders were a thing of the past. Many of the people he had once dealt with, such as Ezra Taft Benson, had now passed away. Although, he and his wife, Joe Ann, enjoyed telling us that every Christmas they still received a Christmas card from Tom Monson.

In June of 2010, Howard Smith passed away. The visitation and service were held at the mortuary in Bountiful, Utah. President Monson, who at that time was the Prophet and on a very tight schedule, had taken time to call Joe Ann (affectionately known to us as Grammy) a few days earlier to express sympathy and support. Now, the burning question for all of us was whether or not he would show up at the funeral. After all, it had been over two decades since their weekly correspondence, and being a man in his position, he had met thousands of people over the years.

The visitation portion of the funeral was winding down and the family sat and visited in the same room where friends stood in line to offer condolences to Howard's widow, and to pass the closed casket. At the moment when most of us had decided that President Monson wouldn't show up, or had forgotten about the possibility, I spotted the Prophet in the hallway near the entrance with a couple other men (probably his body guards).

Suddenly there was tapping on shoulders and whispering and all of us turned our attention to the tall man in a gray suit. He had no intentions of jumping to the front of the line, but all who were waiting insisted that he go right ahead. Of course, he stopped to shake their hands along the way.

As he made his way to Grammy, he gave her an embrace and for the next fifteen minutes the two visited, with a sprinkling of laughter thrown in. Toward the end the mood turned serious again and I watched the Prophet whisper words into Grammy's ear. (I later learned that he was reading a letter from the First Presidency.)

We were all in anticipation as to what he would do after the visit with Grammy, as he would be making his way toward us. As he approached Taylor, my 13-year old nephew, he pulled him in and told him that his red hair reminded him of the boy that sat on the front row of a conference and mimicked everything he did.

He broke out of that group, moving in our direction, and looked at my 4-year old daughter, Savanah. “I want to talk to this angel.” He lowered down and she ran straight into his arms. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Savanah!”

“Oh, that's Southern. Who is that girl right there?”

“That's my Aunt Teresa.”

He then turned to Brittany, who was 11 at the time. “What's your name?”

“Brittany.” He shook her hand, and then asked Kaitlyn the same thing and shook her's also.

Then he turned to Jenna. “I'll tell you a secret.” He leaned down and lowered his voice just a bit. “Yellow is my favorite color,” and gestured toward her yellow dress and hair-bow. Then he drew her in and hugged her, pulling her back toward his chest and wrapping his arm around the front of her body.

When he let her go President Monson asked, “Are all of these your sisters?” Kaitlyn responded that three were. Then he snapped back, “That guy over there is not your sister?”

That put a smile on their face and Savanah was quick to say, “No, he's my dad. His name is John.” That's when I stood and shook the Prophet's hand. It felt soft, slightly cold (in temperature) and loose-skinned.

As he finished with those of us immediately around him, his body guard grabbed his arm to hurry him along when Savanah ran toward him, seizing his attention once again. “Hey, do you know that song, Follow the Prophet?” she asked him.

Stooping down and looking her square in the face, he wiggled his ears and replied with a slow, “Yeees.”

Then, with her full body following her hand, she pointed right at the Prophet and said, “So, we're supposed to follow YOU, right?”

“That's right,” he answered with a smile.

President Monson continued moving around the room, and thinking quickly, Jenelle (my wife) and Jordan (my son) did also. They were seated with us, but on the far side of the room from where the Prophet stood. Strategically they positioned themselves near the door, and with a nudging push from his mother, Jordan was face to face with President Monson. “Hey, Pink Shirt,” he said. He grabbed Jordan's hand, then pulled him in and gave a one-armed embrace. “I like pink.”

Then he shook hands with Jenelle, completing our family. Five minutes later he was out the door and gone. He did not stay for the actual funeral, but his showing up displayed that he cared.

My overall impression was that President Monson was very Christ-like. He undoubtedly was “willing to mourn with those that mourn,” and was very attentive to the little children. He was very personable. It was certainly an experience that we would never forget.

The only other time I saw President Thomas S. Monson in person was at the 2015 General Conference held on Easter morning. By this time, the old man had grown feeble. As he stood at the pulpit he spoke with a pale complexion and sometimes slurred speech. From our seat on the balcony of the Conference Center we were at such a great distance that I had to watch the jumbo screen to see his facial features.

He spoke only eleven minutes, in which time he announced three new temples, including one in Bangkok, Thailand. He then taught of the blessings and peace that come from attending the temple. He then ended his short sermon doing that which he had done for over fifty years—testifying of Jesus Christ:

“May our Heavenly Father bless us that we may have the spirit of temple worship, that we may be obedient to His commandments, and that we may follow carefully the footsteps of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I testify that He is our Redeemer. He is the Son of God. He it is who came forth from the grave that first Easter morning, bringing with Him the gift of everlasting life for all of God's children. On this beautiful day, as we celebrate that momentous event, may we offer prayers of gratitude for His great and marvelous gift to us. That this may be so, I pray humbly in His holy name, amen.” ♥