I can still recall pieces of memories of the tragedy that occurred four days ago. The weather was pleasant. There were no signs of a tornado, and sunlight sprinkled on my eyelashes like golden teardrops. It was such a nice day that I did not expect anything as unfortunate to happen.
Four days ago, I was living the normal, simple life, herding farm animals and traveling along the Oregon Trail with my family. Our final destination was the Salt Lake Valley, and following the path of Brigham Young, we were already miles away from our home in St. Louis. My wife Kailyn and I believed that a better future awaits us in the West, which was why we chose to bring our children with us on this long, long journey.
August 17 was like any other day. My family, as well as many other Mormon families, woke up in the early morning to continue our trek. Packing and setting up a tent were no longer difficult for me, since I had been repeating these processes numerous times along the way. Everything seemed repetitive, but at least everything went well—until the afternoon, when I noticed something different than usual.
At first I thought it was just me fighting against my ordinary life and wishing for a change in daily routines. You’re faking a dilemma just to satisfy your thirst for adventure. I told myself. However, I soon realized that that was a lie. Something was different; something was not right. The next minute I almost shouted my panic out loud: A cow is missing!