Rodeo at the Iron County Fair

These pictures are from the rodeo at the Iron County Fair in Parowan, Utah eight months ago. They were all taken from a single location, which was from my seat in the bleachers on the east side of the arena. The pictures are listed chronologically, which means the first ones I am shooting directly into the sun, and the latter I am using stadium lights with a high ISO and low shutter speed. 

I am nowhere near a professional photographer, but it is a passionate hobby.  Whenever I get a chance, the rodeo is one of my favorite subjects. The horses, the cowboys, the dust, the action---all make for a fun event. 

The one regret I had this evening was that I didn't get a good bull-riding picture. Unfortunately, the bull-riding event is always last when lighting is at its worst. Usually the bulls tend to stay close to the gate and nowadays the riders are obliged to wear helmets. It's difficult to get a good, clear image. And on this night, there was only one bull. My final picture is of the bull and rider in the chute, waiting for the ride. ♠

 

Salt Lake City Cemetery (Part 2)

The Salt Lake City Cemetery is by far the most historic graveyard in Utah. Anyone familiar with the history of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints will recognize numerous Apostles, Prophets, and other prominent figures. Additionally, there are hundreds of lay pioneers buried alongside their ecclesiastical leaders. Catholics and Jews also have their own sections near the Mormons. 

The cemetery covers over 150 acres and has 9 ½ miles of roads. It is one of the largest city-operated cemeteries in the United States. It lies in the Avenues of Salt Lake City, up in the foothills. The first burial was of a child, Mary Wallace, in 1849. 

The last time I visited the Salt Lake City Cemetery was in search of my own ancestor, John Workman. As far as I knew, he was my only relative buried here. But once I got home, I quickly learned I was wrong—I had four more. Now it was my turn to find the graves of Samuel and Phoebe Merrill, and John and Mary Snider. 

And there was more to explore. Last time I had barely scratched the surface of what there was to see. Jenna and I set out in early November after a doctor's appointment at the Huntsman Cancer Center. As fate would have it, we were hit with an early winter snowstorm, covering headstones and fall leaves in a blanket of wet powder. 

Samuel and Phoebe Merrill.

Grave marker for the Merrill family.

It didn't take long to find the graves of my fifth-great-grandparents, Samuel and Phoebe Merrill. A large stone monument marks the plots of several family members. Phoebe died in 1862 and Samuel sixteen years later. A son-in-law, Thomas Williams, constructed the memorial. He included two of his own children that died in 1850 and 1853, as well as a brother. 

Samuel and Phoebe were of hardy pioneer stock, having joined the church in its infancy in 1838. They were baptized by another ancestor of mine, Joel Hills Johnson. They lived in Nauvoo, Illinois and were acquainted with the prophet, Joseph Smith, with whom Samuel traded horses. After the prophet's martyr, they migrated westward with the Saints, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. Samuel was in his late sixties at the time. Of Phoebe it was said she “had a reputation for discovering sick or discouraged people and nursing them back to good health. Her talent made her a great asset to the Church in its early years." 

Salt Lake City Cemetery.

Gravestone of Temperance Bond Mack.

One of the many headstones that caught my attention was that of Temperance Mack Bond, who had died in 1850 at the age of 79. There was something that stood out to me, but I didn't know what it was. After returning home I did some research and leaned that she was the sister-in-law of Lucy Mack Smith, mother of the prophet, Joseph. 

As far as I can tell, Temperance was the only sibling in the Mack family to make the trip west with Brigham Young and the Saints. She didn't convert to the church until in her seventies. According to her own words: “I had full confidence in Lucy Mack Smith when she told me that her son had a vision and talked to God.” 

Temperance traveled to Utah with her daughter Almira and husband, Benjamin Covey. Temperance would pass away just two years after arriving in the Salt Lake Valley, never again seeing her other children. Through her daughter, Almira, there would be many faithful members of the church brought into this world. One of her direct descendants is Stephen Covey, a famous author, businessman and motivational speaker. 

Family plot for the Hunter family.

Further up on the slopes of the cemetery, I found another memorial that caught my attention. The name “Hunter” was etched along a vertical slab of stone and it sat inside of a family plot with other markers covered in snow. Hunter is a common name in Utah, and I wondered if by chance this man was the patriarch of them all. I stepped closer to the stone to catch the full name. It was Edward Hunter, who died in 1883. 

As with most buried in this cemetery, I knew this man had numerous untold stories and descendants as the sands of the sea. A succinct biography of Edward Hunter from the website, Find a Grave, reads: “Presiding Bishop of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Baptized by Orson Hyde, he sold all his land and possessions, moved to Nauvoo, and gave all to the Prophet Joseph. He also served for some time as one of Joseph's many bodyguards. At the time of the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, he helped hide the bodies for fear of desecration by enemies of the Church. At the death of his dear friend Bishop Newel K. Whitney, Bishop Hunter was ordained Presiding Bishop by President Brigham Young and Apostle Heber C. Kimball. He then selected these two men as his counselors in the Bishopric. He also helped lay the cornerstone of the Salt Lake Temple.” 

Headstone of Caleb Baldwin.

I had an experience several years ago with an older gentleman on my mail route. His name was Ben Baldwin and when I asked him about his roots, he began to speak fondly of his great-grandfather, Caleb Baldwin. As he spoke, a tear came to his eye. It wasn't a tear of sadness, but of love. He spoke of his great-grandfather being a valiant and faithful man. Then he added that Caleb spent four months in Liberty Jail with Joseph Smith in 1838. During that time Joseph used him as a scribe to pen several letters to the Saints. 

As I roamed the Salt Lake Cemetery that day, I came across Caleb Baldwin's grave. A smile came to my face and I thought of Ben and the admiration he had for his grandfather. 

I also recognized the name of Caleb Haight. He died in 1851, shortly after he arrived in the valley. He was the father of Hector Haight, one of the original settlers of Farmington, Utah, as well as Isaac Haight, one of the primary culprits in the Mountain Meadows Massacre.

Grave of Caleb Haight.

Reynolds Cahoon.

The name “Reynolds Cahoon” rang familiar to me, and I knew that I had read it in the Doctrine and Covenants, a sacred book of scripture for members of the Mormon faith. In D&C 61:35 it reads: “And let them journey together, or two by two, as seemeth them good, only let my servant Reynolds Cahoon, and my servant Samuel H. Smith, with whom I am well pleased, be not separated until they return to their homes, and this for a wise purpose.” 

There's another interesting story about Reynolds Cahoon. In 1834 while living in Kirtland, Ohio, Reynolds' wife bore him a son. One day, as Joseph Smith was passing by, Reynolds called him and asked if he would bless and name his baby. The Prophet then did so and gave the name “Mahonri Moriancumer” to the child. When the blessing was over, he turned to Reynolds and told him that the name he gave his son was that of the Brother of Jared. Up until this time, the name of the Brother of Jared had been revealed to no one in the church. 

James E. Talmage.

Headstone of Apostle James E. Talmage.

The snow began to drop at a faster pace and our shoes were now becoming saturated in cold wetness as we meandered through the memorials. There, in a large stone of marble, now becoming difficult to read because of large white flakes, sat the headstone for James E. Talmage. The inscription reads: “1862 – 1933; EDUCATOR, SCIENTIST, APOSTLE; 'Within the gospel of Jesus Christ there is room and place for every truth thus far learned by man, or yet to be made known.' - J.E.T.” 

In the church, Talmage is known for authoring the influential book, Jesus the Christ. During the year of 1914 he was given a room in the Salt Lake Temple where he studied and wrote the book. It took him seven months to complete the writing and he wrote it all in longhand, using a pencil. 

Archibald Gardner, patriarch of a large family.

The headstone of Archibald Gardner caught my attention. It is well known that in the early days of the LDS Church that some members practiced plural marriage. It wasn't uncommon for a man to have two or three wives. But Archibald Gardner, judging from his headstone, had eleven! Six are buried next to him in Salt Lake while the others are buried elsewhere. 

He was born in Scotland in 1814, and died in Salt Lake in 1902. The bottom of the marker quotes a portion of his Patriarchal Blessing: “A posterity shall keep thy name in remembrance forever.” 

View of Salt Lake City Cemetery, looking north.

Burial plot of Hosea Stout.

One common theme I saw as I roamed the lawns of the cemetery was the sheer amount of pioneers who were with the Saints in the early days of the church. Another such person was Hosea Stout. He is an important person in the history of the church because of his diligent effort in keeping a daily journal. He was an eyewitness to many early events. 

Having joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints just a few years after the publication of the Book of Mormon, Hosea Stout was a fiercely faithful member of the church. He had many personal assignments which gave him close contact with high-up leaders. He was one of many body guards to Joseph Smith. In 1851 he served a mission to Hong Kong, in which he dedicated the land of China to missionary work. 

Orrin Porter Rockwell.

Perhaps the most infamous burial in the cemetery is that of Orrin Porter Rockwell, also known as “The Destroying Angel.” Rockwell, who was also one of the earliest members of the church, never learned to read or write, yet he was one of the most loyal defenders of Joseph Smith. There are many stories and legends of him protecting the prophet from those who would do him harm.

He was large and powerful with long flowing hair. On Christmas of 1843, he was given a blessing by Joseph Smith that if he never cut his hair then “no bullet nor blade can harm thee.” This colorful figure in Mormon history has been the subject of numerous books and movies. It took us a while to find his grave, but it ended up being not too far from my grandparents, Samuel and Phoebe Merrill.

Porter Rockwell, one of the most notorious people buried in the cemetery.

Occasionally a headstone will literally tell a story. Such is the case of Joseph Standing, a missionary for the church who was murdered in 1879. A five-foot monument reads: “Martyred for the testimony of Jesus Christ, while with Elder Rudger Clawson, through whose heroism the body was afterward rescued, July 21st 1879, Varnell Station, Whitfield County, Georgia, by an armed mob of twelve men . . . His murderers were indicted and two of them tried, the first on a charge of murder and the other for riot. Through bigotry and prejudice, both were acquitted. Evidence of guilt was not lacking, but the assassins boasted, 'There is no law in Georgia for the Mormons.'” 

Telling headstone of Joseph Standing.

Further up on the hill, next to a narrow cemetery road, stands a very tall obelisk commemorating John Taylor and his family. He became the third President of the Church in 1880. 

A notable story of John Taylor came in 1844 at Carthage Jail. A mob of some 200 men with painted faces broke into the second floor of the jail where Joseph Smith, Hyrum Smith, Willard Richards and John Taylor were being held. Amidst a storm of gunfire, the Prophet and his brother were killed. Taylor received several bullets in his arms and legs, but there was one potentially fatal ball that struck and was stopped by the watch in his breast pocket. Although seriously wounded, John Taylor would live another forty three years to the old age of 78. 

Distant view of John Taylor's grave and family plot.

Close-up of John Taylor's headstone.

John Snider.

If you recall, I had one last grave I had to locate: that of my fifth-great-grandparents, John and Mary Snider. Being a flat stone and probably covered in snow, it was a little more difficult to find. We knew it was in section five. With a little perseverance, we finally stumbled across it. 

It is fascinating to learn how much the early pioneers were intertwined. As I studied the life of John and Mary Snider, I became aware that their entrance into the Mormon faith came alongside future prophet, John Taylor. 

In 1833, Taylor served as a Methodist minister in Toronto, Canada. He led a group called “Students of the Scriptures,” which sought an increased understanding of the truth. The Sniders were a part of this group. They were searching for a true church that had signs of the primitive church, namely prophets, apostles, evangelists and gifts of wisdom, faith, tongues, healings and other manifestations. 

About this time, Heber C. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, delivered a prophecy to Parley P. Pratt that there were people in upper Canada who would receive the gospel and would be baptized. Many miracles occurred as he made his way to Toronto. Here he taught many people, including those in this small group. Eventually, John Taylor and the Sniders were baptized, which would change the course of their lives. 

Wet gravestone of John and Mary Snider.

Having now found the final resting place of John and Mary Snider, I was satisfied with our sojourn in the Salt Lake City Cemetery. Besides, our toes were becoming numb in the wet snow and we had a long drive home. 

It's always a humbling experience to walk among the graves of those who gave everything for a cause in which they strongly believed. Their lives were filled with acts of faith.  They were impoverished by worldly standards, but found deep joy in the gospel. This land I walked on was hallowed ground. ♠ 

 

Link: Salt Lake City Cemetery (Part 1)
 

Phnom Penh

We arrived on a bus from Saigon after a seven-hour journey. The border-crossing into Cambodia was quite tedious, but once safely through we noticed a distinct difference from Vietnam. There were now tuk-tuks and Buddhist temples. Motorbikes were less prevalent. More rubbish littered the roadways and the roads themselves were less maintained. Everything seemed dustier. Khmer script had replaced Vietnamese writing on the store-fronts. The atmosphere became more rural and suddenly there were water buffalo loitering in the fields. 

About an hour and a half later we crossed the mighty Mekong River, and soon after that we began arriving in the capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh. 

Phnom Penh is a beautiful city. Buddhist temples dot the cityscape, mingled with skyscrapers scattered in random fashion. Tuk-tuks on the street give an older vibe. Wide boulevards are a reminder of the French colonial period. We came during the cool air of the rainy season. 

On our first full day in Phnom Penh we hired a tuk-tuk driver to take us around town. (This was the best decision we made our entire trip. He ended up being our guide for the next three days.) We sat in the back of the tuk-tuk, moving at a leisurely pace with a fresh breeze at our face while enjoying the sights and sounds of the city. 

Thai, our tuk-tuk driver.

The colors of Phnom Penh are amazing: the Buddhist temples with their red and yellow walls, and golden spires; the orange robes of the monks; the dirty brown of the Mekong; the maroon, silver and blue corrugated roofs of the shacks at the water's edge; the white and navy blue uniforms of the school kids; the cerulean sky; the gray of the clouds. These were sights never to forget!

We crossed the Tonle Sap River onto a narrow peninsula that also straddled the Mekong. We stopped at a Buddhist temple with an elaborate staircase consisting two mythological golden snakes along the sides. Beneath the balustrade at the center of the stairs were four Dharma wheels, each representing the eight righteous practices taught by Buddha. This golden staircase led to the main worshiping hall. We were almost the only visitors there. Frescoes on the walls and ceiling told numerous stories. A lady knelt and worshiped near the Buddha while a monk entered to offer prayers. 

My favorite place, however, was across the road at the old Royal Palace. According to our driver, the kings lived there 200 years ago. The building was now locked and abandoned, but what fascinated me most was the nearby cemetery. This was the first burial ground I had seen in Asia. Most of the graves were in the form of large conical monuments called stupas. I didn't know if these were burials of the royal family, or monks and nuns. 

Old Royal burial ground.

Frescoes on the walls of the temple.

Stone sculpture in the National Museum of Cambodia.

Buddhist grave and temple on outskirts of Phnom Penh.

Another thing that struck me about Phnom Penh was the friendliness and openness of the people. Thai, our driver, was extremely friendly and always carried a big smile. 

On our way to another temple, while in the back of the tuk-tuk, we were accosted by a couple school boys who hopped in to hitch a ride. They weren't shy at all. Jordan put his arm around one and they stayed with us until the driver shooed them out. 

When we arrived at the temple there was a boy and girl who quickly became our buddies. The girl jumped onto Jordan's back and demanded a piggy-back ride around the grounds. She would get restless and jump off, but a minute later was climbing back on. Then she would grab onto my arm and I would swing her around. The boy demanded that we buy peanuts from his father so we could feed the resident monkeys. We paid 2,000 riels for a small package and the monkeys came right down from the trees. We stretched out our arms and they ate directly from our hands.—But when it was time to go, the two young kids rubbed their bellies and held out their palms. They wanted a hand-out. 

This scenario played out another time as we sat at an outdoor restaurant, waiting for our food to come. Three kids, who appeared to have just gotten out of school because they still had their backpacks, came begging for money. They stood at our table for five minutes straight in silence with their hands pressed together in prayer position. They stayed until the owner shooed them away. 

A schoolboy hitches a ride on our tuk-tuk.

These kids aren't shy at all.

The resident monkey eats peanuts from my hand.

This friendly girl wanted a piggy-back ride.

Smiling monks outside the National Museum of Cambodia.

We passed this cute boy on a street in Phnom Penh.

A visit to Phnom Penh would not be complete without an understanding of the Cambodian Genocide and its impact on the local population. It was 1975 when Pol Pot, the communist leader of the Khmer Rouge, led his troops and seized the capital city. They proceeded to evacuate the citizens by force to the countryside where they would live as farmers. The goal was to create a pure and self-sufficient peasant society by eradicating the urban and educated classes. 

During the next four years over 1.7 million citizens—a fourth of the population of Cambodia—would die from starvation, forced labor, torture or execution. Many were brought to Tuol Sleng Prison in Phnom Penh, a former schoolhouse transformed to interrogate and house prisoners. After being kept in squalid conditions, they were shipped a few miles away to the Killing Fields where they were executed and buried in shallow graves. 

The prison, also known as S-21, is now the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. Walking through the rooms is a humbling experience. The small brick cells where prisoners slept are still intact. Thousands of black and white booking photos are on display—men, women and children who would eventually be killed. Tools used for torture are laid out. The final room exhibits skulls of some of the deceased. 

Nineteen seventy-five wasn't that long ago. Most of the people here have direct connections with someone who was killed. Thai, our tuk-tuk driver, had his parents and at least one sibling who were killed. He was raised an orphan and has no memory of his family. 

Interrogation room at Tuol Sleng Prison in Phnom Penh. The prison now serves as a museum.

Mug shots of those sent to Tuol Sleng Prison.

Shanty dwellings extend to the river's edge.

Anywhere in the world where I travel, I always make sure to visit as many markets as possible. This includes small family-owned stores, neighborhood grocery stores, and major city markets. In Phnom Penh, Central Market is the major hub where vendors of all kinds come to sell their wares. 

Nearly everything is sold there, from appliances to apparel. We found t-shirts for two American dollars each. Jordan found pants for his girlfriend and I bought a couple hard-to-find postcards. 

For me, the heart of a market is where the food is, and this one didn't disappoint: fish, herbs, fresh fruit, strange desserts. Want food on a stick? Try squid or prawns or . . . frogs! 

We wanted to be sure to visit the night market also, which opened only after 5 pm, and was located in a different venue from Central Market. The market sat in open-air, but was protected from the elements by individual awnings. At first, nothing appeared special about this market. Booth after booth of clothing was typical of any market in the world. But then we came to the food court. 

Instead of tables and chairs to sit on, there were colorful mats laid on the ground. The customer removed his shoes and ate comfortably with his plate on the floor. We ordered Lort Cha, a stir-fry with rice pin noodles and beef. 

By the time we were done with the market, the rain was coming down at a slow, but constant drizzle. We walked a mile in the dark to the hotel, I with an umbrella and Jordan with damp hair. 

Fatigued worker at Central Market.

People eat on mats at the Night Market in Phnom Penh.

Phnom Penh is a river city. It is bordered by the Tonle Sap, Mekong, and Bassac Rivers. It is considered the beginning of the Mekong Delta, meaning that instead of tributary branches that flow into the river, there are distributary branches which run out. The river system is an important source for fishing, which contributes immensely to local cuisine. 

In front of the Royal Palace, along the edge of the Mekong, is a riverside pedestrian walk, and at this point the river is nearly a mile in width. It is a lovely place to sit down and enjoy the breeze and view, watching people in their own environment. In the river there are fishing boats and patches of water hyacinth floating slowing with the current. 

When we were there we watched a group of boys fishing with a stick and piece of string. Even a monk, dressed in orange robes, found time to enjoy the spectacle. 

It wasn't surprising to see the monks because across the street was Wat Ounalom, a Buddhist monastery that is over 500 years old. We walked into the courtyard and found a lady feeding pigeons by tossing bird-feed onto the plaza. Shortly afterward a young boy raced through with his toy car into the flock of feeding pigeons and a couple mooching roosters. 

As we moseyed through the courtyard we came to an adjacent building where a dance class was being held among the youth. The face of the building was open so we could watch from outside. The music was a gentle traditional melody and the boys and girls walked slowly, but deliberately, in a circle while contorting their hands and feet in a specific manner. The instructor was strict, often slapping the hands of the dancers if their movements were not exact. The dancers wore sampots around their waist and moved with bare feet. 

It was interesting to watch. They practiced with strictness and exactness, displaying that Asian discipline that is often frowned upon back home. I admired their devotion to learning a traditional dance. I don't know if this was compulsory or voluntary, but either way, their culture was being handed down. 

Locals use a stick to fish in the river.

A lady feeds the pigeons at Ounalom Temple.

Youth learn a traditional dance.  They are wrapped in sampots.

We arrived in Phnom Penh on bus, but we would leave by boat. We had spent four days in the Pearl of Asia and it was now time to bid adieu. A four-hour journey would bring us back into Vietnam.

In all my days of traveling, perhaps my favorite city I've ever visited has been Phnom Penh. It was an unexpected surprise. There was a blend of old and new, Buddhist temples, monkeys, tuk-tuks, perfect temperatures, harrowing history and exotic markets. As someone who wants to waste no time seeing the world, there are very few places I would prefer to see a second time. But Phnom Penh is one of those places. ♠