The plucky little ATV growled along the trail chewing through the crusted snow. We had left the shelter of the ranch house and went deeper into the Wyoming sage. It was cold, somewhere below freezing.

We traveled over the trail for a couple of miles. Then we parked the vehicle and walked the remaining yards to the top of the hill. We stood looking out over a beautiful cove sheltered on three sides. A feeling of reverence and peace swept over us. We were standing in the quiet of Martin’s Cove, Wyoming. It was here that the pioneers of the Martin Handcart Company took shelter in November 1856.

A gentle snow fell in the muted light as we walked around this hallowed place absorbing the tranquility, and savoring the feeling. I was shown the old fallen log on which President Gordon B. Hinckley sat and wept as he looked out over the cove and contemplated its history.

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It was here in 1856 that Isaac Wardle sat down to die. He was too tired and too weak to go any further. Perceiving his dangerous plight, men in the company urged him to get up and go chop some wood. He protested, but they continued until finally he got up and chopped the wood. That effort saved Isaac’s life. I saw stumps there in the cove that had been chopped with an ax that dated back to 1856. There are trees all around on the hillsides and in the cove.

In 1856 George Padley and Sarah Ann Franks were there in Martin’s Cove. They had been betrothed since England, and according to the accounts had postponed their marriage in order to be sealed by priesthood authority in Utah. They were known as the sweethearts of the Martin Company. But by the time they reached this place, the journey and the weather had so sapped their strength that both were failing. Sarah was taken into one of the sick wagons to ride. George had over-exerted himself in trying to help other members of the handcart company. He had gotten wet and chilled from the winter wind. Suffering from hypothermia, and pneumonia, George passed away there in the cove.

Knowing what the wolves would do to George’s body, Sarah asked that he be wrapped in the shawl that her mother had given her when she left England, and that his body be placed high up in a tree. As she departed the cove to finish the journey west, she would have looked over her shoulder and seen his body suspended in the gnarled trees. Her hopes and dreams of a life with George seemingly ended subdued.

We walked out of that grove made sacred by sacrifice. As we did, I turned and looked back over my shoulder, and up into those trees. There are not words to describe the hallowed feeling I felt. It is a place made holy by its history.