Eureka! . . . Utah

Across the street from the abandoned storefronts, we come across a man in a flannel jacket and ball cap. “Can I help you find anything?” he asks in a gentleman's tone. Beneath the ball cap it appears he has a shaved head and above his lip he wears a gray bushy mustache.

“We're just wandering around the town,” I reply.

Of the eight hundred people left in this town, I had just come in contact with the mayor, Nick Castleton. He is very friendly and begins to give me an introduction to the town.

He points to three buildings across the street and explains that a developer wants to restore them to former glory. Not necessarily for the same purpose, as the middle of the three was a whorehouse. He explains that the building on the right would become a restaurant, the middle a dining area along with hotel rooms, and the building on the left they weren't sure what to do with yet. It used to be a bank.

We talk with Nick Castleton on the barren streets of Eureka, Utah, a once lively little mining town nestled in the East Tintic Mountains, west of Santaquin. At one time, there were nearly a dozen saloons in town, and a handful of brothels, countered by a sprinkling of churches.

We stand next to a brick building with a wooden façade, windows boarded up, and iron bars covering the door. Silver Club is painted in large letters on a side wall. According to local records, the building was constructed in 1918. The original function is listed as “unknown.” In the 1920's it served as U.S. Candy Kitchen, a confectionery owned by Peter Bampal and Peter Demos. In 1977, it was a bar. Mayor Castleton tells us that it used to be a brothel.

Built in 1898, The Gatley Building served primarily as a saloon and billiards hall.

He explains that it was the saloons and brothels, not the banks, that were the key institutions for many of the miners. They would come into town with little money. If they promised to buy so much food from the saloons, they would get what was called a “grubstake,” which meant that they were able to stake a mining claim somewhere, as long as the saloon owner received a portion of the profits. After they would mine their claim, they would pay off the saloon owner, and use the rest of the money for more food and then for the brothels.

The Mayor then goes on to tell me about President Herbert Hoover's 1930 Model A Ford wagon. After his second term defeat, President Hoover returned to his original occupation as a mining engineer. He had an interest in several mining operations in Utah, including the Gemini Mine in Eureka. The Mayor points to a nearby hill covered in gray rock. “That is the Gemini Mine,” he says. “It used to be one of the 'Big Four' mines around here.” He then explains that when President Hoover came to Utah, he would drive to Eureka in his Model A Ford that he kept in Provo. He says that the car is now owned by a couple in California and was brought to Eureka last summer for the Silver Days parade.

Porter Rockwell's cabin.

After our visit with the mayor, we wander up Main Street and find an old log cowboy cabin with a metal awning over it. Even though every building on the street is nearly a century old, the cabin appears very out of place. Strips of juniper bark drape the roof. A door at the front of the one-room structure is bolted with a padlock. I peek through the restored glass window and see a table and chair inside that appear consistent with the late 1800's.

This cabin belonged to Porter Rockwell, the infamous bodyguard to the prophet Joseph Smith. Apparently, it was originally located some twenty miles away on Rockwell's Cherry Creek ranch. It was later relocated to Eureka.

Across the street from the Rockwell cabin is the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, which is now a museum. We walk inside the building. I am with my son, Jordan, and his friend, Xavier. It appears we have the place to ourselves. No other tourists, nor anyone running the place for that matter. Several rooms connect together and showcase about anything you can imagine: old mining tools, mineral samples, household furniture, and even a slot machine and poker table. If I didn't know better, I would be mistaken that I had just entered someones shed of artifacts from the 1930's. There is no rhyme or reason to the displays. I suppose some of it is grouped together by some generality: the rocks tend to be together, the kitchen appliances are in the same area etc. But put frankly, it looks like a house full of junk. And if you are into old junk, then it's just the place for you!

Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of time, or else I would love to stay and browse longer.

At last, an elderly couple enter and look surprised that there are visitors. We exchange small talk and then they suggest we take a look out back at some other displays. “Then be sure you check out the jail,” he says, smiling beneath his gray mustache. Of course, we follow his suggestion and aren't disappointed.

I don't think I've mentioned the beginnings of Eureka. Before it was Eureka, the area was known as Ruby Hollow. Chief Tintic traveled through the area frequently and used it as a hunting and camping spot. In 1869, Mormon cowboys searching for stray cattle found an outcropping of ore on the hill, and almost overnight, the area became a booming town where gold and silver was mined. Eureka became the financial center of the Tintic Mining District. By 1910, Eureka was the ninth largest town in Utah with a population of 3,400. After J.C. Penney established its first store in Wyoming, it placed the second one in Eureka.

Now, Eureka is considered a ghost town. Although some 800 people still live here, that number is down significantly from what it once was. Abandoned buildings throughout Main Street and the entire town testify to that decline.

We are here in January and the hills are still covered in snow. We drive up Beck Street, a narrow road that meanders up the hill and past a few old houses, including a bed and breakfast. Next to the treeline, but beyond the point where we are allowed to walk, there is an abandoned mining structure, perhaps a tipple. It is dilapidated and hasn't been in use in decades.

Nearby is what appears to be an abandoned barracks, or perhaps company buildings. The structures have metal roofs and walls, and there are also a couple of Quonset huts. I really wish that I had someone with me who could explain what all these structures are.

All the ground in this area is covered in gray stone. I notice that this same stone is common in many different locations around town, including the Gemini Mine that the Mayor pointed out to us earlier. I believe that it is used as part of the process when the mine is reclaimed.

We wend our way down the hill and to the other side of Main Street. As I drive on a narrow street on the west side of town, I spy a white church with a tall bell tower that is peeking through the trees. It is the old Methodist church on Main Street. I get out of the vehicle and look for a good angle to take some pictures. A small dirt path leads down the hillside and I follow it and maneuver through the weeds to find my picture.

Methodist Church, constructed in 1891.

This unique LDS church was begun in 1902.  The Gothic-style structure was dedicated in 1904 by Apostle Reed Smoot, then a U.S. Senator.  As of 1977, it was listed as a "two-family dwelling."

St. Patrick's Catholic Church is the oldest standing Catholic Church in Utah.  Although St. Mary's Church in Park City was built first, it burned to the ground, leaving St. Patrick's as the oldest standing.  It was constructed in 1885.

Just as I am about to return to the vehicle, I hear a lady yell out, “You can take pictures in my back yard. There's a good view there!”

I look over and she is standing in the shadow of a tree with her arms folded and looking my way.

“Is this your house right here?” I ask, pointing to a small white house with an even smaller square of grass behind it.

“Yes, it is. It has a great view, especially from the corner there.”

I appreciate the gesture and courteously take some pictures near the corner where the old Gothic-looking Mormon church is visible on Main Street.

“So, what is your name,” I ask when I am finished. She has long gray hair and is wearing a cotton nightgown. A hint of alcohol sits on her breath.

“I am Thelma, and this is my friend, Diane.” She points to a lady in a lawn-chair sipping a beer.

She has lived in Eureka for sixteen years. She asks if I am a professional photographer or a writer for a newspaper. I assure her that neither are true.

I point to the mine on the other side of the valley where I just came from and ask her what the structure is. She explains that a railroad spur used to run there and they would load the ore directly into the car. “There used to be a railroad line that ran right where Main Street is now,” she explains. I've got a picture of it somewhere.”

Amid our conversation, Thelma looks at me and says, “There's a lot of people that come here for ghosting.” Maybe she doesn't say ghosting, but maybe ghost-hunting, or maybe even something else not even related to ghosts. I sometimes don't hear very well. Maybe I am hearing wrong.

But then she says, “We even have one in our house. But it's a good ghost.”

I look at her to she if she is kidding, but she's serious. Diane could sense my incredulity and chimed in, “Oh, yeah. I even have one in my house in West Jordan.”

“It even saved my life,” Thelma says. She then tells the story about how her ex-husband's psychiatrist called her and said her ex- wanted to kill her.

“One day when I walked into the house, I was wearing a cotton sweatshirt, and when I was about to enter the room, I felt this ̶” she grabs the back of my shirt near the shoulder blade and pulls it tight. “I looked back and no one was there. I turned right around and walked out. I know it was a ghost. He saved my life. My ex-husband was waiting and was going to kill me.”

I acknowledge her story and certainly believe in the possibility of intervention from the other side. I guess that a ghost story is very appropriate for a ghost town.

The Bullion Beck headframe, constructed in 1890, served to transport men, mules, supplies, and ore in and out of the underground workings. 

On that note, it is a perfect transition to my next destination. We are running low on time and there is one last place I wish to visit. We return to Main Street and drive southwest of town about a mile. On a dirt road just off the highway is the Eureka Cemetery.

Many of the plots are well maintained, despite the lawns being only wild grass and dirt. The old is mingled with the new, although I find the older graves lie mostly at the far western end of the cemetery.

The unpaved lanes that crisscross the grounds are still muddy from recent snows and an occasional puddle lies in the way. Beyond the vast emptiness of a sage brush desert, I see the snow-capped West Tintic Mountains.

Some of the headstones are very fascinating. One in particular that stands out belongs to Sophia Eastman. To me it appears to be in the shape of a tree-trunk with all the branches sawed off into short stubs. On one of the stubs hangs a scroll from a rope, and on the scroll is engraved Sophia's birth and death dates, and states that it was “erected by the women of woodcraft.”

Some of the burials are unmarked, while others are marked only with a piece of wood, of which any possible inscription has long since deteriorated. Many of the graves are marked with crosses, which probably indicates Catholicism as their religion. Others have names that I recognize from Mormon history.

There are even a few with foreign inscriptions. One belongs to Anders A. Sandstrom and from what I can guess, the writing below his name is of Scandinavian origin.

There are many stories here in Eureka. Like the headstones that lie on the surface, I know that many stories exist. But their true depth and character, like the bodies that lie underground, may never see the light of day again. Many stories of these hardy people may be buried forever.

[This post was a blend of two trips to Eureka: one in January and the other in June.]

Sources


Capsule Histories of Commercial and Institutional Structures in the Eureka Historic District. (1977).  From http://pdfhost.focus.nps.gov/docs/NRHP/Text/79002514.pdf

Carr, S. (1972).  The Historical Guide to Utah Ghost Towns.  Salt Lake City, Utah: Western Epics.

Eureka City Historic Walking Tour.  Print.

Eureka City Website.  (2009).  History of Eureka.  Retrieved June 2015,   from http://www.eurekautah.org/index.cfm

High on a Mountain Top

I left our camp at the side of the lake and walked toward the steep forest hill. I could see tall walls of the hillside through the small openings of quaking aspen and pine trees. It gave the feigned appearance of being just ahead, but I knew that wasn't so.

I stepped through an open space of felled trees, tossed across the tall mountain grass like toothpicks poured from a cup. I stretched my leg over the high ones, sat my bottom on the girth of the tree like riding a horse, then swooped my other leg over and crossed to the other side, just to find another felled tree. Some of the timber I simply stepped across. Gnarled branches, still green with pine needles, blocked certain passage-ways and I pushed the limp branches to the side and pushed my way through.

Beyond the short crest of a hill, the mountain fell away into a ravine of large white igneous boulders. I stepped onto the first rock and felt my footing for balance. Then I leaped to the next, and like a person using stepping stones to stride across a stream, I successfully moved across the field.

At the other side now, the hill now rose steeply. I angled obliquely up the hillside, grasping sapling branches and sturdy rocks to pull me up. My hiking boots dug deeply into the rich, black mountain soil, cutting through decomposing layers of coniferous needles.

The thin mountain air now caused my lungs to heave for breath. Being my first venture at this elevation for the year, they had yet become accustomed to such exertion. I halted for a moment and wiped the wetness from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt and tasted the salty residue on my lips.

I looked behind and below me and could see the whole of Lower Kents Lake and youth canoeing across the surface and could hear a laughing scream of a teenage girl. White branches of aspen trees blocked much of the view of the lake and I knew that I still had more distance to climb.

Before I left, I had asked the Bishop what time he needed me back to help cook dinner for the girls. He gave me a time frame of an hour and a half, but quickly added that he could handle it himself if he needed to. If I were there, he would use my help stirring the barbeque pork in the dutch oven and flipping tortillas. I assured him that I would return in time to help. Now that I was nearly a mile away from camp and separated by an obstacle course of thick forest wilderness, I wondered about my promise to return.

After a short respite of relatively easy climbing, the route to the top turned steep again. A prickly brier with cactus-like spines grabbed onto the sleeve of my shirt and pulled it taut. I carefully unsnagged the fabric.

I wasn't climbing to the tallest summit on the hillside, but rather a a rocky promontory that I assumed would have a view of its own. As I climbed, slabs of granite bulged out from the hillside and I found myself bouldering up and over these chunks of rock.

At one time, I thought that I was making my final ascent, but as I neared the top I learned that I had yet another steep incline to go. I slung my tripod crossways over my neck and shoulder as I needed two hands for the final climb. I squeezed inside the crevice of the granite boulder and placed my boot inside the natural niches and pulled myself up with both hands. Short clusters of white daisies grew all around the rocky pinnacle that constituted the summit of my climb. At last I was at the top!

The view opened up and below me and in every direction I could see miles and miles. A solitary lake became the prominent object of my curiosity. It sat serenely amidst pine trees in a northerly direction from where I sat. I didn't see people, nor canoes, nor trucks around this body of water. Although I could make out a faint road that led to the lake, I felt as if it were hidden deeply in the mountains and only I knew the secret of its location. It's distance was probably a mile away, but I gazed at its miniature outline and dark blue hue and fancied what it would be like to be there now.

Not only could I see this lake, of which I did not know the name, but I counted four others! All nestled deep in the forest.

Behind Lower Kent's Lake rose the snow-capped peaks of Baldy, Belknap, Delano, and Holly. To the west, lightning flashed and a dark rainstorm passed across the valley. A gust of wind hurled itself across the slope of the mountain and the wet smell of rain blew all around me. This was heaven!

A grove of aspens grew on the west slope below me. The green leaves at the tops of their branches created a perfect carpet on the hillside. This must look amazing during the fall when the colors have changed, I thought. I also imagined the dense canopy of leaves creating great habitat for elk.

A clap of thunder bellowed through the air, followed by another gust of wind. I quickly set up my tripod to capture a few photographs before the storm moved too close.

I think that if I could choose only one place to spend my life, I would not choose the desert, nor the city. I would choose the mountains. There is something about being high in elevation and walking among the pines and trodding the same soil as deer and elk. This is about as close to celestial habitation as one can get on earth.

I thought back to the Bishop and the meal that he would be cooking and how I only had twenty more minutes until I told him I would be back down. Unrealistic? Maybe. He said that he didn't need my help. That's good. Although I wanted to help, the impulse to linger on the mountain was stronger than that to help. I may not find this combination again of storm, smell, wind, the snow-capped peaks, and the lakes. And thus continued the monologue inside my mind and I rationalized staying on the mountain top a little bit longer than I should have.

The storm on the valley was still moving south and occasionally I saw a strike of lightning through the dark mist of rain below the clouds. All the other clouds that hovered the mountain ranged from white to gray, but none of them had produced lightning yet that I had seen.

In the center of this large swath of forest, some five miles away, I could see the cut from the gorge where the paved road twisted up the steep slopes above the Beaver River. There is so much left to explore, I thought, feeling that anxious bug of wanderlust brooding inside of me.

But now it was time to hurry back to camp.

I folded up my tripod and slid it into its case and returned my lens cap back to the camera. Slinging them both over my shoulders, I used agile movements to ease back down the granite boulders and past the clusters of daisies.

Thick drops of rain fell from the sky at a very slow pace. The scent of the forest lifted from the ground and the pungent pine and the musky smell of tree bark danced in the wind.   

Glitter Mountain

It has almost been two and a half years since my daughter, Brittany, passed away. Today was Memorial Day and we brought flowers to her grave and released balloons.

She would have been sixteen now.  Her passion to dream led her to love fairies, distant lands with waterfalls, magical places, and wild flowers. She loved the beauty in life. Perhaps she would have out-grown some of her childhood fantasies by now, but I think she still would have loved Glitter Mountain.

We went with her in mind.

Glitter Mountain is located on the Arizona Strip, surrounded by rugged cliffs and colorful rocks. We only got lost once while driving there.

Rather than a mountain, it is really a gouge in the earth that apparently has been mined in the past. At first glance, it looks as if shattered glass is everywhere. At the correct angle, all the mineral shards glitter in the sunlight.

A walk into the “pit” reveals bare walls of crystal-looking rock that kids can chip away at with a hammer and chisel.

This has sometimes been mistaken to be a mica mine. Instead, it is selenite, a variety of the mineral gypsum. The word “selenite” comes from the Greek word “selēnitēs” which literally means moonstone, or stone of the moon. I would say that it is appropriately named, because, although somewhat transparent, they carry the color of the moon.

We spent well over an hour at the pit, the girls chipping away at the selenite and I wandering around exploring. I found a collard lizard scampering through the rocks. By the time we left, we had a small bag full of crystalline treasures.

I think that Brittany would have enjoyed herself.

Getting there isn't too difficult. It is directly south of the Old Spanish Trail and just southeast of Little Black Mountain. Don't follow the quail. It will probably be running the wrong direction.