Mantua, Utah

West of Brigham City, the highway quickly gains elevation along the narrow, but short, Box Elder Canyon. Quickly, it arrives at a lush basin in the mountains that the early settlers called “Little Valley.”

I remember this valley when passing through as a youngster, beholding the large lake and the picturesque little town that resides along its shores―a sight not too common in Utah. This would be just before the highway curled back over another mountain hill and into Sardine Canyon, a corridor notorious for its treacherous wintertime conditions.

We never stopped in this little town. The road-sign read “Mantua,” but I never knew how to pronounce it. I even remember seeing a couple of moose feeding down by a stream one day as we passed through.

Little did I know that a couple of decades later, my in-laws would buy a house there and I would come to know the place a little more intimately.

The first thing I learned was how to pronounce it: Man-a-way.

In the beginning, I didn't get to know the town very well―just the backyard and fields around my in-laws' home. Bugs were everywhere: mosquitoes, gnats, dragonflies, May bugs, and snowy aphids. Notably the snowy aphids. Sometimes, especially in the evening when the glow of the sun is just right, swarms of these tiny white bugs billow over the air like wafting smoke. They don't seem to bite much, but if you leave a door to the house ajar, they will invite themselves inside and linger around the light bulbs.

The bugs are there because of the lake. My in-laws' home is half a mile from the southern shore.

I soon discovered that a four and a half mile walking path circumvents the lake. One morning I woke up and ran the length of it. I enjoyed the long daybreak shadows from the trees and the smell of wheat fields that grow along the side. I saw a couple does feeding in the field.

The edge of the lake is very swampy. Knarled trees grow from the water and in some spots it can feel like you're on the bayou. A metal dock at the southern edge of the lake floats in the water and provides a place for locals to launch canoes and other small vessels.

One day I decided to walk half-way around the lake and then climb a large knoll on the eastern edge of the water. I hiked at an angle straight up, over small rocks and through cheat grass. It was all worth it because at the top there is a view like none other.

The entire lake comes into view and the tiny village on the other side, with the small store and a yellow church and steeple. But they are so far away. I could finally find my in-laws' house, surrounded by fields in all directions, and could distinguish our little matchbox Trailblazer parked in front.

Little did I know that I had climbed the same hill that Lorenzo Snow, Apostle of the Mormon Church, had climbed in late spring of 1864 with many of the early settlers. Elder Snow named the little knoll “Mount Hope” and dedicated the land and the water that it might be a blessing to the people. The little town was given the name “Mantua” in honor of Elder Snow's birthplace in Mantua, Ohio.

Mantua truly lies in a basin surrounded by mountains. In a way, it is in a world by itself. That, I think, is part of the appeal. Although Brigham City, the Wasatch Front, and the smoggy I-15 corridor are only miles away, they are completely out of view. Mantua might as well be a village in Switzerland.

Finally, after my in-laws had lived there a few years, I began to research the history of Mantua.

Before the settlers, the Shoshone passed through the valley during their annual migrations from Bear Lake. Mantua was also well known to fur trappers, who traversed the Wasatch Mountains.

The Mormons came into the picture in 1851 when Brigham City was settled. The valley, or Little Valley, as it became known, was a popular place to run cattle.

Around 1859, one of the two mail routes that led from Brigham City to Logan traveled through Little Valley. The story is told of one of the carriers, Samuel Alonzo Whitney, who had only one arm. Although there were some conflicts with the Indians, Samuel was on a friendly basis with them. The Shoshone called him “Burrowit,” meaning “one arm gone,” and would often escort him through the valley. He spoke the Shoshone tongue fluently.

The trail that he rode is the Indian Trail, and was a major route used by early mountain men and Natives that traveled over the mountains from the Paradise-Avon area into Mantua Valley.

In 1863, Elder Lorenzo Snow called five Danish families to create a settlement in Little Valley. The settlers were to grow flax, which church leaders thought would grow well in the valley due to the cool nights and short growing season. The crop grew well enough that the nickname “Flaxville” was given to the town. The idea was soon abandoned due to the coarseness of the fiber.

These Danish settlers persisted and built up a lovely little community. Several generations raised their families in Mantua.

Now, in the year 2015, I am stepping outside my in-laws' home on Reservoir Drive, a short graveled road that reaches the southern dock of the lake. Immediately I am welcomed by a nasty swarm of snowy aphids, just beyond the door and hovering over some shrubs in the front yard. I hurry to the road and begin my walk up the street.

I walk past a field of freshly cut alfalfa and a soft breeze catches the scent and gently blows it my direction. The piles lay in even rows and wait to be raked and baled.

Soon, I am on Main Street, a lightly visited road with no painted white or yellow lines. On my right is the Mount Haven R.V. Park and Country Store, the only “supermarket” in town. It looks a lot like a barn and isn't much bigger than a house. I wouldn't be surprised if somebody lives upstairs. No cars are parked in front.

During my journey, I notice that all the lawns are very well manicured. Grass has been freshly mowed, hedges perfectly trimmed, vegetable gardens growing in exact rows, and no weeds between plants. It's not just one lawn, but plot after plot.

While passing one house, I spot a Plymouth Rock chicken strolling along the shady side of a tree in the front yard. As I pass the large base of the tree, I see a rooster in the crook of a branch, clucking back and forth in a panic when he sees me.

Farther up the road is a large building with yellow vinyl siding and black steeple on top. On the front porch are two arm chairs and a mailbox. Apparently, this is the “old church,” as opposed to the “new church,” which is across town. Many years ago, someone bought and converted it into a home. The view here is ideal as it sits on the west shore of the lake.

I turn around at this point and return the way I came. I walk along the sidewalk on the west side of Main Street, leaving me mostly in afternoon shadows.

Although I am across the street from the reservoir, I can only see a horizontal slice of water. Fisherman wait on casted poles and a paddler pilots his canoe beyond the shore.

A stream of water emerges from a conduit beneath the road. This would be Big Creek, the drainage point of Mantua Reservoir, and it will quickly coalesce with Box Elder Creek.

Instead of returning to the house, I make a right-hand turn and walk up Center Street toward the cemetery. There are no businesses on this street. All are residential homes with the same perfectly manicured lawns. Two thoughts cross my mind: first, these people must take great pride in living here to keep their homes looking so nice; and second, why does my lawn at home look like such a dump?

At last, the road comes to an end and I arrive at the cemetery. The cemetery lies on a hill and just below, but out of sight, is the main highway that runs between Logan and Brigham City. Here it feels secluded. There is a peaceful feeling that should exist in every cemetery.

I don't know what to expect as I begin to meander through the headstones. Right away, I notice the abundance of Scandinavian names: Peterson, Ekelsen, Andersen, Olsen. Generation after generation of the sames names tells me that families have stayed in the valley for over a century.

The earliest death date I can find is that of Caroline Jeppesen, who died in 1879. I'm sure there are others that are older, but I can't find them.

I see a small flat headstone for Elder Joseph L. Moffitt, missionary. The only other inscription is a drawing of the state of Idaho, and the Boise Temple. In the top-right corner is a small outline of the state of Massachusetts. He died at the age of nineteen. It is obvious that there is a story here that I may never know. In my mind I ask where he served his mission and why is he buried in Mantua.

As I am about to leave the cemetery, I come across the most touching headstone of all. Atop the base of the large black-marbled monument are two bottles of Pepsi. The labels are a bit faded from the sun. It is a double headstone, with both the husband and wife's name etched in, although the wife hasn't died yet.

I read the name of the deceased: Cade Fenton Wyatt. He died at the youthful age of twenty-six, having been married to his wife for only four years. Across the front is an engraving of the Salt Lake Temple, and below it the inscription, “Eternally Yours, Forever Mine.” I'm sure that one bottle of Pepsi was placed there by his wife, and the other by his son.

As I walk back to the house, through the shadows and scents of pre-dusk, I contemplate the fragility of life and the beauty of the world. The two often merge in exactly the same place and are so poignant that they seem paradoxical.

Back at the house, just for kicks, I pull out a local cookbook that was put together by the ladies of the local LDS ward. I flip through the pages to see if there is anything unique.

I notice many of the same Scandinavian names that I found in the cemetery. I also come across a few recipes that may have been handed down through the generations: Danish Tea, Danish Dumplings, Swedish Bread Dumplings, Swedish Pancakes, Norwegian Pancakes, Swedish Roll-up Hotcakes, Swedish Meatballs, Danish Dessert Cake.

Perhaps I'll never know the origin of these recipes, but these are the kind of things I think about.