Peter McBride: His Father Made 25 Crossings of an Icy River, Then Died — and Peter Asked for His Fish Hooks

Peter Howard McBride was 6 years old when he crossed the plains with the Martin Handcart Company in 1856. His family had emigrated from Scotland, and his father Robert McBride had been baptized in the River Ribble at Preston by Orson Hyde on August 1, 1837 — just two days after the baptism of George D. Watts, the first person in the British Isles to be baptized into the Church.

Robert had carefully stashed a mason's trowel in his handcart — kept there as a symbol of his hope to help build the Temple in Zion. He was a good singer and had charge of the singing in the company. The night he died, he sang a hymn, the first verse of which began: 'O Zion, when I think of you, I long for pinions like a dove, and mourn to think I should be so distant from the land I love.'

On October 19, 1856, as the Martin Company crossed the North Platte River for the last time, it began to snow. Even in his weakened and ill condition, Robert McBride spent the entire day helping to get the entire company across the icy, freezing water. He made an estimated 25 crossings of the river, helping to pull, push, and carry people and carts.

By the next morning, there were 6 inches of snow on the ground and Robert could barely sit up. His son Heber got him into one of the wagons. That was the last the family saw of him alive. That night, in a blinding snowstorm, Heber and his sister Janetta searched for their father. They could not find him in the dark.

The next morning, Heber found his father under a wagon, covered in snow. He was stiff and dead. Heber wrote: 'It felt as though my heart would burst.' Robert McBride was buried in a common grave with 14 others who had died that day. He was still carrying in his pocket the fish hooks that belonged to young Peter.

When Peter saw them bury his father, he ran out crying. Someone tried to console him about his father's death. He cried more. He walked to the grave and said: 'My father had my fish hooks in his pocket and I want them.'

A 6-year-old boy, at the burial of his father, grieved in a 6-year-old's way.

Peter's family had almost nothing to eat. He was given a bone of a dead ox, roasted it, and then older boys ran away with it. He boiled the skin, drank the broth, and 'it was a good supper.' Another night the tent blew down in a blizzard. Everyone crawled out except Peter. Snow buried the tent. Peter fell asleep inside. In the morning, someone said: 'How many are dead in this tent?' His sister Janetta replied: 'Well, my little brother must be frozen to death.' They yanked the tent loose. Peter's hair was frozen to the canvas. He stood up, alive.

The rescue party reached them. Peter wrote: 'Men, women, and children knelt down and thanked the Almighty God for our delivery from certain death.'

Peter grew up and became the father of 22 children. He wrote: 'All my life I have worried for fear my children might get as hungry as I was, but thank goodness they have never wanted for food.'