Editor's note: John Hart, associate editor of the Deseret Morning News' weekly Church News, spent substantial time on assignment for the paper amid the tragedy, turmoil and wreckage of Hurricane Katrina. What follows are a few of his personal recollections.

Spending two weeks in the damage zone of one of the worst catastrophes in the nation's history has created a connection for me that climbing on an airplane and flying home didn't sever.

My coverage of Hurricane Katrina's aftermath continues, just by telephone. Now, surrounded by familiar scenery, I remember bumping over downed power lines, and in my mind I still see miles of rubble that was once a city's business district. I remember the glazed, Great Depression-look in the eyes of men who now can't provide for their families.

During that two weeks I slept in my car, in LDS meetinghouses, in an evacuee's tent and on a cot at a bishop's storehouse. When I returned home, I was surprised at how soft my bed was. I drove more than 3,100 miles. I bought gas and drove into the damage zone, then returned to transmit photos and stories by connecting my computer to the hall phone in the Baton Rouge LDS stake meetinghouse.

No one had clean clothing. Nobody ate real food. Apples, salty snacks and water bottles, consumed while driving, were my normal sustenance. When I did make it to a sandwich shop after a few days of that, I slurped up two bowls of hot soup like a crazy man.

And there was the issue of dealing personally with those who had lost so much. I met what seemed like a hundred people whose homes were flooded and they'd lost everything. After a while it seemed like the same story with new names. I tried to shut my heart for survival, but it doesn't stay shut very well.

My first forays took me to the hurricane's outer damage zone, and I reported on what I saw. Then I made the middle zone and reported on worse damage. Finally I made it to the beaches and the worst damage of all and found I'd used up all my superlatives.

In the beach communities there is a powerful odor. The stench of death in the rubble is a troubling, lingering perception. As days passed it became worse. It is hard to get past those experiences. In Waveland, Miss., for example, I watched Maurice Stebben, a former Marine, dig out flags from the now-gone American Legion Hall and posted them on its bare foundation. He showed me around what used to be his town, speaking as matter-of-factly as a radio announcer. He untangled trash and rubble for a long time to get to those flags. He'd been helping the fire department remove bodies. The flags helped him make sense of his relationship to what had happened.