Take exit 77 off I-80 in Dugway, Utah, head south and you’re on Route 196, the main road that runs through Skull Valley. Even a half hour on 196 can drag hard as there’s little scenery other than sprawling clumps of rock, dirt, and sagebrush. As I-80 fades away you’re greeted by a bold splash of color—a whimsical hand-painted sign featuring a bright blue ocean enveloping a lone palm tree and orange letters that announce, “ALOHA IOSEPA.”
Iosepa (pronounced “yo-seep-uh”) was a small town established by predominantly Hawaiian-American religious pilgrims in 1889. At the foot of the Stansbury Mountains Iosepa’s remnants lay scattered across the eastern edge of Skull Valley, 75 miles west of Salt Lake City. The most noticeable trace of Iosepa is the town’s cemetery which sits at the end of an unpaved road. Though only about a mile long, a trip up the dusty driveway can take more than 10 minutes due to its relentless hills, hairpin turns, and serpentine slopes.
It’s not easy to understand why Pacific Islanders would settle in this lonesome place. Many historians believe that Iosepa’s isolation was a reaction to racial prejudice. Missionaries from The Jesus Christ Church Of Latter Day Saints traveled to Hawaii and converted a large group of native Hawaiians to Mormonism in the 1850s. Soon the conversion inspired these new Mormons—also called saints—to make the long perilous voyage to the mainland to join the Church’s main ward in Salt Lake City. Despite steady faith and patience, the Polynesian saints struggled to fit in with Utah society.
Joseph F. Smith (nephew of Mormon church founder Joseph Smith) was one of the missionaries who encouraged the Hawaiians to make the pilgrimage. Even with Smith as a dedicated ally, racist fears caused Salt Lake City’s white leaders to keep their Polynesian neighbors marginalized, unemployed, and homeless. Partially in response to this, in 1889 Joseph F. Smith and a joint council of Hawaiian and white Church authorities agreed to create America’s first Polynesian Mormon colony on land bought from The Quincy Ranch of Skull Valley. To honor Smith’s support the settlers dubbed their new home Iosepa, the Hawaiian language equivalent of “Joseph.”
The town was abandoned in 1915 after agricultural boom-and-bust, a bout of leprosy, and the growing rise of Mormonism back in Hawaii made preserving the community an unnecessary burden for both its residents and the Mormon church. Nonetheless, Iosepa has gone on to become an important nexus of Polynesian American culture. In 1989 a bust of a stern Hawaiian warrior was installed there among informative plaques recounting Iosepan history. Ten years later, just a few feet away from the town’s cemetery, The Iosepa Historical Association (often under the guidance of Charmagne Wixom) built a large community center with a pavilion, an outdoor concert venue, a basketball court, a kitchen, a playground and other amenities.
Every Memorial Day since 1980, Polynesians from all over North America have made pilgrimages to the remote enclave to pay tribute to the accomplishments of the Iosepan pioneers. The revelers (many of whom are direct descendants of original settlers) enjoy a luau with roast pig and other traditional delicacies, clean up the graveyard (which is often cluttered by weeds and natural destruction caused by wildlife), take part in traditional arts and crafts (mostly dance and music), and “talk story” catching up with friends and relatives.
For the rest of the year the landmark’s atmosphere is less animated. The stark juxtaposition of the gleaming community center, organic desolation, and an overwhelming quiet creates a place of dream-like moods and unearthly stillness.
Iosepa’s defining visual element is its colored signage and sepulchral decor. While most American gravesites are muted reminders of life’s end such grim monuments are nowhere to be found at Iosepa. Gravestones here are often draped in heavy layers of dayglo baubles and beads, sea shells, lei’s, aquatic toys, and larger-than-life sculptures of personal items that represent a hobby or occupation enjoyed by the deceased (i.e., currently a giant spray-painted metal guitar stands near the cemetery’s center). Photo collages and laminated obituaries are pasted and taped to stones. Several tombs feature photos of the deceased displayed via built-in/locket-like glass fixtures. Others are accessorized with beach chairs, benches, and similar items bearing festive nautical and tropical motifs.
The scene looks more like the aftermath of a joyous celebration than a solemn space for honoring the dead. Iosepan descendants wouldn’t have it any other way. Polynesia’s prime contribution to global culture is the adventurous spirit of its sea faring navigators. Even though Iosepa lasted just barely more than 25 years, this obscure corner of the world endures as a symbol of Polynesian culture’s spirit and the perseverance of pioneers. With such a powerful heritage, even thousands of miles from the Pacific Ocean in a dry gulch where sometimes the only sound is a breeze whispering through jagged sagebrush, celebration becomes the only appropriate honor.