Chapter 23: The Ascent

The mountains rose before us like a wall built by God to test our resolve. Not the gentle slopes of the Appalachians I'd known in Tennessee, but true mountains—sharp peaks clawing at the sky, valleys cut so deep the sun barely reached their floors, rock faces that looked like they'd been carved by some angry hand.

Captain Young called a halt at the base of the first serious climb. We'd been ascending gradually for days, but this was different. This was the real test.

"Check every wheel, every axle, every chain," he ordered. "Lighten your loads if you can. We're going to climb tomorrow, and what breaks up there stays broken until we reach the valley. No smiths, no wheelwrights, just you and what you brought."

I spent that evening going over our wagon with William, checking every joint, every bolt, every piece of metal that held the whole thing together. The work was familiar now, my hands knowing what to look for, what to tighten, what to replace before it failed.

Tiny worked beside us, silent as he'd been since Martha's death. He'd help when asked, lift what needed lifting, but the easy conversation that had always flowed between us was gone. He moved through the world like a ghost, present but not really there.

"We'll make it," William said quietly, watching Tiny work. "All of us. Through the mountains, into the valley. He'll come back to himself eventually."

"Will he?" I asked.

"He has to. The alternative is—" William stopped, shook his head. "He has to."

We started the climb at dawn. The wagons groaned up the narrow track, wheels finding purchase on rock and loose stone. The oxen strained, their breath coming in great clouds in the thin mountain air. We walked beside the wagons, ready to help push when the grade got too steep, ready to grab wheels if something started to slip.

The world changed as we climbed. The prairie grass gave way to scrub pine, then to forests of aspen that shivered silver in the wind. The air grew thin and cold, even in summer. Water ran in streams so clear you could count the stones on the bottom, tasting of snow and stone and something wild that had never known human touch.

At night, we made camp in clearings barely large enough for our wagon circle. The temperature dropped fast after sunset, cold enough that frost formed on the canvas by morning. We huddled close to fires, burning wood we gathered during the day's travel, rationing our supplies as Captain Young had warned.

The second night in the mountains, I sat at the fire writing to Emma. The paper was getting scarce—I'd bought what I could at Winter Quarters, but it wouldn't last forever. I folded my words small, cramped my handwriting to fit more on each precious page.

Dear Emma,

We're in the mountains now, climbing toward the final pass. The world up here is different—colder, harder, more beautiful than anything I've seen. But also more dangerous. Every step requires attention. Every choice matters.

Tiny is still grieving Martha. He barely speaks, barely eats. Just goes through the motions of living without really living. I understand it more than I wish I did. The guilt of not being there when someone needs you—it's a weight that doesn't lift easy.

I think about Samuel every day. Wonder if I'm doing right by him, by Pa, by you. This journey has taken so long, cost so much. But I'm learning things I needed to learn. About work, about grief, about the long road toward becoming someone capable of building a life instead of just surviving one.

The smithing skills William taught me—they're solid now. I can repair most anything, can shape metal to purpose, can earn a living with these hands. When I come home, I'll have something to offer beyond just showing up. That has to count for something.

We should reach Salt Lake in a few weeks. Then I'll work there, save money, and come home. It might be autumn before I see Tennessee again. Maybe winter. But I will come home, Emma. That's not a question. It's only a matter of when.

Wait for me.

Yours, Virgil

I folded the letter and tucked it into Samuel's pouch with the others. The pouch was getting full—letters I'd written but couldn't mail from the trail, letters I'd send once we reached civilization again. If we reached civilization again.

The mountains had a way of making you doubt. Making you wonder if maybe this was it, if maybe you'd climbed so high there was no way back down, if maybe the valley everyone spoke of was just a story people told themselves to keep moving.

But then morning would come, and Captain Young would call out to start the wagons, and we'd keep climbing because there was no other choice.

On the fourth day, we lost a wagon. Not one of ours—a family from Missouri we'd been traveling with since Winter Quarters. Their axle snapped on a steep grade, and the wagon rolled backward before anyone could stop it. It tumbled down the slope, breaking apart as it fell, scattering their possessions across the mountainside like seeds thrown by a careless farmer.

The family survived—they'd been walking, not riding. But everything they owned was gone. Clothes, tools, food, the furniture they'd brought to start their new life. All of it scattered and broken across rock and pine.

Captain Young called a halt. We spent two hours salvaging what we could, but there wasn't much. A few pots, some clothes caught in tree branches, a Bible that had somehow landed intact on a flat rock fifty feet down.

"You'll ride with other families," Captain Young told them. "We'll make room. Share what we have. That's how we survive."

So they divided up. The husband rode with us, quiet and shell-shocked. The wife and children went to other wagons. Their possessions—what little remained—got parceled out among those who had space.

That night, the husband sat at our fire, staring into the flames.

"Eighteen years of work," he said. "Everything we built, everything we saved. Gone in thirty seconds."

"You're alive," William said. "Your family's alive. That's what matters."

"Is it?" The man looked up. "What do I tell my children? That we came all this way to arrive with nothing? That their mother's wedding quilt is scattered across a mountain? That the table their grandfather made is splinters?"

Nobody had an answer. What answer was there? The mountains took what they wanted. You could be careful, could check every bolt and chain, could pray and plan and prepare. And still the mountains took what they wanted.

But you kept climbing anyway. Because turning back was worse than going forward, and stopping was dying.

Tiny helped the man find space in our wagon for a few salvaged items. I watched him work—still silent, still withdrawn, but present in a way he hadn't been since Martha's death. Maybe seeing someone else's loss reminded him that grief wasn't unique. That everyone on this trail was carrying something broken, was climbing despite what they'd lost.

The higher we climbed, the more the world opened up. We'd crest a ridge and see valleys spreading below us, forests stretching to distant horizons, other mountain ranges marching away in every direction. The scale of it was humbling—made you feel small in a way that wasn't frightening, just honest. You were small. Your grief was small. Your guilt was small. Not unimportant, but not the whole world either.

On the sixth day, we reached a high meadow where Captain Young called for a rest. The stock needed grazing, the wagons needed checking, and we all needed to catch our breath before the final push over the pass.

I spent the afternoon at a makeshift forge, repairing broken parts for families who'd pushed their equipment too hard on the climb. The work was steady—a cracked wheel rim here, a broken chain there, a bent wagon tongue that needed straightening. Each repair was a small victory, a problem solved, a way of saying we're still going, still building, still capable of fixing what breaks.

Tiny came to watch me work. It was the first time since Martha's death that he'd voluntarily approached anyone. He stood for a long time, saying nothing, just watching the metal glow and shape under the hammer.

"You're good at this now," he said finally. "Not just competent. Actually good."

"William's a good teacher."

"He is. But you're a good student." Tiny was quiet for a moment. "I keep thinking about what you're building. Skills, knowledge, the ability to make something from raw metal. While I've just been—" He stopped.

"You've been grieving," I said. "That's not nothing."

"Feels like nothing. Feels like I've been useless since—" He couldn't say her name. "Since then."

"You helped that family yesterday. The one that lost their wagon. You made space, carried things, helped them find their feet. That's not useless."

He shook his head. "Small things. Anyone could do them."

"But you did them. You showed up. Even when it hurt, even when you wanted to disappear, you showed up." I set down my hammer, looked at him directly. "That's not small, Tiny. That's everything."

He was quiet for a long time. Then: "My father told me once that courage isn't about never being afraid. It's about being terrified and doing what needs doing anyway. I think maybe grief is the same. Not about never hurting, but about hurting and still showing up."

"Your father was wise."

"He was. And I wasn't there when he needed me." Tiny's voice was steady, but the pain underneath was infinite. "Just like I wasn't there for Martha. Just like I won't be there for the next person who needs me because I'll be busy with something that doesn't matter."

"Or," I said carefully, "maybe you'll be there. Maybe what happened taught you something about what's important. About choosing presence over productivity. About saying yes when someone asks for your time."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. But at least he was talking. At least he was here.

That evening, Captain Young gathered us to explain the final push. We'd rest another day in the meadow, then make for the pass. One long day of climbing, camping at the top, then the descent into the valley beyond.

"Some say it's the hardest part," he told us. "Others say it's the most beautiful. I say it's both. You'll see things tomorrow that'll take your breath away. But you'll also wonder if you can make it. Trust your animals. Trust each other. And remember—everyone who's ever reached the valley went through what you're about to go through. You're not special. You're not different. You're just the next ones in line to prove it can be done."

We checked our equipment one more time that night. William and I went over every critical part, replacing anything that looked questionable, tightening everything that could be tightened. Joseph checked the harnesses, the traces, the yokes. Tiny loaded our wagon, distributing weight carefully, making sure nothing could shift on steep grades.

"This is it," William said as we worked. "After tomorrow, we'll be able to see the valley. Our journey's almost over."

"Feels strange," I said. "All these months of traveling, and suddenly we're almost there."

"What will you do? In Salt Lake?"

"Work as a smith. Save money. Go home." I paused. "What about you and Joseph? Will you stay in Salt Lake, or settle somewhere else?"

"We'll go where the Church needs us," William said. "Wherever there's work to be done, building to be done. That's what we came for—to build Zion, wherever that means."

We worked in comfortable silence after that, the kind that comes from months of traveling together, of shared hardship and shared victory. Whatever happened in the valley, whatever paths we took from there, these months had forged something between us that wouldn't break. We were brothers now, in a way that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with choice.

The climb to the pass took all day. We started before dawn and didn't stop except when the grade got too steep and we had to help the oxen. The air grew thinner with each hour, making every breath feel insufficient. The temperature dropped despite the summer sun. Snow lingered in shaded places, and ice glazed the rocks where water seeped from the mountain's bones.

But the beauty—God, the beauty of it. The world spread out below us in waves of forest and valley, rivers cutting silver lines through the green, lakes reflecting the sky like pieces of fallen heaven. Hawks rode the thermals, spiraling up from depths we couldn't fathom. The wind smelled of pine and stone and distance.

Tiny stood at one of the rest stops, looking back at where we'd come from. The trail stretched behind us, wagon tracks and footprints marking our passage. Somewhere back there, weeks ago, we'd buried Martha. Somewhere farther back, I'd left Samuel's grave in North Carolina. Somewhere beyond that, Emma waited in Tennessee.

"It's a long way," Tiny said.

"It is."

"And we're not done yet."

"No. But we're closer."

He turned to look forward, toward where the pass would take us. "You think we'll be different? In the valley? You think we'll be able to leave behind what we're carrying?"

"I think we'll always carry it," I said. "But maybe we can learn to carry it differently. Not as weight that crushes us, but as—" I searched for words. "As proof that we loved people. That we cared enough for their loss to hurt."

Tiny was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, just once, and turned back to the wagon.

We reached the pass at sunset. Captain Young called a halt, and we made camp right there on the spine of the mountain, the world falling away on both sides. To the east, the way we'd come—prairies and rivers and all the miles we'd traveled. To the west—

To the west, we couldn't see yet. The valley was hidden by the descending terrain, by the shadows of evening, by the final ridge that stood between us and our destination. But we knew it was there. The Salt Lake Valley. The end of this particular journey. The beginning of whatever came next.

That night, the stars came out so thick they looked like snow scattered across black silk. The cold was fierce, but our fires burned bright, and we huddled close, knowing that tomorrow we'd see what we'd been traveling toward for so many months.

"Tomorrow," William said, his breath frosting in the air, "we'll stand on the ridge and look down at the valley. And this whole journey—New York to here, all these miles, all these hardships—it'll suddenly make sense. We'll see what we were traveling toward."

"Or," Joseph added with a smile, "we'll see that it's just another valley, and the real journey is what happens after we arrive."

"Probably that," I agreed. "Probably the arrival isn't the end at all. Just another beginning."

Tiny sat slightly apart from us, but not as far as he'd been. Not completely withdrawn. He was coming back, slowly, finding his way out of the darkness Martha's death had plunged him into. He wasn't healed—wouldn't be healed for a long time, maybe never. But he was present. He was here.

"My father used to say," Tiny spoke into the darkness, "that you don't heal by forgetting. You heal by remembering well. By letting the people you lost live on in how you treat the people who remain."

"He was right," William said.

"I hope so." Tiny looked up at the stars. "Because I can't forget her. Can't forget him. Can't forget any of them. So if healing means forgetting, I'll never heal. But if it means remembering well—" He paused. "Maybe I can learn to do that. Maybe that's enough."

We sat in silence, each with our own thoughts, our own grief, our own hopes for what waited in the valley below. The fire burned down to coals, and one by one we sought our bedrolls. Tomorrow would be a long day—the descent, the arrival, the end of this phase of our journey.

But tonight, we rested on top of the world, four men who'd traveled further than we'd ever imagined, who'd lost more than we'd thought we could bear, who'd become something more than we'd been when we started.

Tomorrow we'd descend into the valley.

Tonight, we were still in between—not where we'd been, not yet where we were going. Just here, in this thin air, under these brilliant stars, holding space for everything we'd lost and everything we hoped to find.

I pulled out Samuel's pouch, felt its familiar weight. Inside—Pa's watch, the photograph, the unfinished letter, Emma's lavender. Tomorrow I'd carry it down the mountain. In a few weeks or months, I'd carry it home to Tennessee. The promise I'd made would be kept, just not in the way I'd originally planned.

Maybe that was all right. Maybe the long road had been necessary. Maybe I'd needed these months, this distance, this journey to become someone capable of going home ready instead of just broken.

Tiny caught me holding the pouch. "You thinking about your brother?"

"Always."

"Tell me about him. Not about his death. About his life. What was he like?"

So I told him. About Samuel's laugh, his dreams, his habit of reading everything he could get his hands on. About how he believed in things—believed the war was about something noble, believed people were fundamentally good, believed that love and courage could change the world.

"He sounds like he was too good for this world," Tiny said when I finished.

"Maybe. Or maybe the world needs people like that. People who believe anyway, despite everything."

"Like Martha," Tiny said quietly. "She believed Tiny would always keep her safe. Believed the world was good. Believed she'd have her farm with horses someday." His voice cracked. "She was wrong. But I'm glad she believed it anyway. Glad she didn't know how it would end."

"Maybe that's what innocence is," I said. "Not ignorance, but hope that persists despite evidence. And maybe losing people like that—Samuel, Martha—maybe it's our job to carry forward what they believed. To live like the world they imagined might actually exist."

Tiny nodded slowly. "I'd like to think that. I'd like to think her death meant something more than just another grave on the trail."

"It does," I said. "It means you'll never again put off being present. You'll never again choose productivity over people. You'll remember that every time someone calls your name, it might matter more than whatever else you're doing."

"Heavy burden," Tiny said.

"Yes. But you're strong enough to carry it."

We settled into sleep, the cold pressing down, the stars wheeling overhead. Tomorrow we'd see the valley. Tomorrow we'd begin the descent. Tomorrow we'd find out what waited for us in this promised land we'd traveled so far to reach.

But tonight, we were still climbing. Still in between. Still carrying everything that had brought us this far—the grief, the hope, the skills, the brotherhood, the memories of everyone who'd fallen along the way.

Still moving forward, because that's what you did.

You kept climbing until there was nowhere left to climb.

Then you looked down at what waited below, and you began the descent.