It's 1842, Utah. Even though the sun beats down, the chill autumn breeze blows the stray hairs in your face from under your bonnet. The sounds of oxen, horses, wood and metal creaking mix with the breeze and the dry grass.

Your father and mother sit at the front of the wagon, your baby sister in your mother's lap. Other families and wagons ride ahead and behind yours. You glance back as your sister starts to complain again, "When are we gonna stop? The wagon is starting to make me nauseous again."