The Bears Ears—Land Sacred to Me, Too

[The following was originally published on August 29, 2016, just as the debate over the proposed Bears Ears National Monument was heating up.  Since that time President Obama has declared it a National Monument and then President Trump reduced it.  This issue continues to make headlines.  I feel that my words remain relevant.]

My last request before leaving the country was to take the long drive over the Bears Ears. I was nineteen and just a couple weeks away from serving a two-year mission in Spain. Suddenly, those things that were most sentimental bubbled to the top of my priority list.

We camped out on Baullies, a long mesa between Fish and Mule Canyons. A wispy red fire became swallowed by the dark night as we told stories around the campfire.

The next morning we piled into my dad's red '72 Ford Ranger and made the long climb on a sinuous dirt road to the crest of the hill toward Bears Ears. The road drives between the two ears and it is there that it enters a world of ponderosa pine trees, high mountain meadows, and vistas that can stretch for a hundred miles.

We stopped and climbed to the top of the east ear, an elevation of almost 9,000 feet. It was something I had always wanted to do.

Continuing our excursion, we drove northward past Kigalia where we saw a herd of twelve elk, all cows and calves.

We crossed a stretch of road called “The Notch,” given such a name because it is precariously balanced between two huge canyons, creating a cleft on the landscape.

It was there that we felt the first clap of thunder, and the rain began to pelt down. I became white-knuckled as the the route became slick along the edge of this dangerously deep canyon. The intense downpour turned the road into a muddy mess and caused me to fear for my life. After sliding all over the road, we decided to stop and say a prayer.

At age nineteen, I had never had a prayer answered so quickly. Instantly, the downpour reduced to a trickle, and then it stopped completely.

With the help of strategically placed thoughts into my mind, I was able to navigate the still-slippery road until it became manageable. Twenty miles later we once again arrived on paved highway. Within seconds, the rain started back up, and in that instant, I knew that God was watching over us and that He had halted the rain.

An abundant variety of wildlife, including deer, elk, bear, and big-horned sheep, live within the proposed monument.

Fast-forward twenty-four years and the same land that we drove over is now being proposed as the new "Bears Ears National Monument." In fact, the proposed monument encompasses much more than the Bears Ears. It would extend from the San Juan River in the south, to Shafer Basin in the north, and east to west from Monticello to Glen Canyon. In short, it would be 1.9 million acres, making it the largest National Monument in the United States.

And it could happen with the stroke of a pen.

It is anticipated that President Obama will use his executive power to create the monument before his final term ends in December—even though local citizens are vastly opposed.

I am in favor of preserving the Bears Ears area in its current pristine state, but am opposed to a monument. I believe that the designation alone will bring more tourists and do more damage to sacred archaeological sites than anything else. Just as has happened with the Grand Staircase National Monument in 1996, it will put Bears Ears on the map for tourists from all over the world who otherwise wouldn't know the place even existed.

Anasazi ruins such as this one are numerous in San Juan County.  A new National Monument would increase

visitation to seldom seen ruins, and may accelerate their destruction.

The proposed designation would be managed by a coalition of Federal agencies, along with the Navajo, Hopi, Uintah and Ouray Ute, Ute Mountain Ute, and Zuni tribes. Of the five tribes, only two (Navajo and Ute) have representation in San Juan County. The local chapter of Navajo Nation, the Aneth Chapter, is opposed to the monument, although their opinion is trumped by the Navajo Nation leadership in Window Rock, Arizona, 165 miles away.

Most of the people in favor of the monument, I would dare say, have scarcely stepped foot on it. They are unfamiliar with locally known place names such as Sweet Alice, Davis Pocket, The Causeway, Chippean, Deer Flat, Mossback Butte, Zeke's Hole, Woodenshoe, and many others.

The reason environmental groups have latched to the native tribes has been to persuade the public that this land is sacred to them.

There is no doubt that the Anasazi built their homes along cliffs and canyons in almost every nook in the county. The Navajo used this place as a refuge and hideout during the “fearing time” when the U.S. Military used Ute raiders to round them up for Fort Sumner. The Utes lived in many areas around the Bears Ears, including Allen Canyon. Some of their people are buried in a cemetery there.

But in this whole equation, it is the Anglo that has been left out. Even though the Anglo has probably played a larger role in the proposed designated area than anyone else during the past 100 years, he is shut out and asked to take a back seat to any discussion of land management.

Although article after article speaks of the sacredness of this land to the Navajo or Ute, they rarely—if ever—mention the sacredness to the Anglo.

What is it that makes a place sacred? Do you have to worship there? Is it a place where you, or your ancestors have lived, hunted, gathered herbs, or wood? Does it have to be included in ancient legends or stories? What if your ancestors died there? What if they toiled and sweat out a living to feed their families by using the land? Where do you draw the line?

Chippean Rocks provide a beautiful landmark, and are nostalgic to me for camping nearby with my father when I was young. 

During the winter of 1879-80, a group of 230 hardy Mormon pioneers crossed the Colorado River and into what are now the boundaries of the proposed Bears Ears National Monument. They had already blasted a crevice from solid sandstone to take their wagons down a precarious “road” into the Colorado River Gorge. As difficult as this was, the roughest part of the route still lied ahead.

Elizabeth Decker from the expedition observed: “It's the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it's nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills and hollows. The mountains are just one solid rock as smooth as an apple.”

The group was part of the “San Juan Mission,” with the objective to “cultivate better relationships with the Indians and lay the foundations for future permanent Mormon settlements.”

During the next four months the party suffered cold, fatigue, and hunger. They blazed a trail that had never seen a wagon, and had scarcely been explored by the white man.

As they climbed the rocks and canyons, twenty-three year old Olivia Larson carried her two young children in her arms as she walked much of the way. She was nearly nine months pregnant. It was so cold that the children's feet were frostbitten and had turned purple.

At the top of Grey Mesa in a howling blizzard, Olivia gave birth to a baby boy. The mother delivered while sitting on the spring seat of a wagon while her husband, Mons, was out in the storm trying to pitch a tent so she could be more comfortable. Baby John Rio Larson was one of three babies born on the trek.

As the pioneers came down Clay Hills Pass, they encountered another raging blizzard. This one buried camps, ripped open wagon covers, and blew over tents. Platte D. Lyman wrote in his journal: “Last night was the coldest night I ever experienced. It was impossible to be comfortable in bed or anywhere else.”

As the travelers made their way toward the head of Grand Gulch (within a few miles of the Bears Ears), they found the terrain relatively flat, but had to send woodcutters ahead to clear a road through thick stands of juniper trees. Their teams were tired, and depending on conditions, they may have been passing through two feet of snow, or sinking to the hubs in mud.

At last, they were getting close, but had one last daunting barrier remaining—Comb Ridge. This sheer sandstone wall runs for one hundred miles, all the way to the San Juan River and beyond. The exploratory party was able to find an Indian trail to get them up and over the obstacle, but for a convoy of wagons, this would be unimaginable.

At the north end of the ridge—where it meets the river—these pioneers accomplished the impossible again, and built a wagon road into the rock. The climb up “San Juan Hill” proved to be the most difficult yet. Worn out teams and exhausted people barely had the strength to accomplish the feat.

Charles Redd gave a graphic description of that last climb: “. . . seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they. By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams.”

Soon they arrived at their destination, a location next to the San Juan River that they would call Bluff City. Here they would plant crops and build homes in a wild environment that proved very difficult to inhabit.

Old cabins such as this one, although few in number, attest to the human activity near the Bears Ears over the years.

My great-great grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth Stevens, were among the group to make this trek across primitive San Juan County. The newlywed couple left behind their comfortable homes and families to make their honeymoon journey.

Joshua came with his brother, Alma, and aging uncle, Roswell. Although we don't know many details about their personal experience on the journey, we do know that they encountered the same cold, blizzards, and physical rigor as everyone else. We also know that Joshua brought a herd of cattle that he bought in Scipio, and two good ox teams that were very useful in pulling wagons up many of the steep climbs.

A month after arriving in Bluff, Uncle Roswell passed away, being the first person buried at the new cemetery.

The green grass on Elk Ridge offers opulent pasture for cattle.

Joshua was a natural animal lover. He trained his horses and dogs, and he loved cattle and livestock. Even after the trek, Joshua continued to run cattle in what is today the proposed National Monument boundaries, from Mormon Pasture in the north, to Cow Tank and Rincon in the south. He was among the first cattleman in that area. His brand book shows where he branded eighty-three calves in one setting.

His daughter claims that there are more places named after him than anyone else in the county: Joshua Trail, Joshua Park, Stevens Pasture, and two Stevens Canyon's. (Some of these places are still used on maps today, while others, I'm afraid, are becoming lost with time.) He knew how to build a trail in a seemingly impossible place.

At Mormon Pasture he built a cabin with a fireplace and a little cheese room. He kept milk cows and made a cheese press. Using a pipe that he stuck into the hillside, he was able to work a spring to draw fresh water.

Descendants of Joshua Stevens have found relaxation on this land for many generations.  

The Stevens family eventually migrated out of the area and into Mexico. On August 26, 1912, Joshua was murdered on his own front porch by renegade Mexican soldiers. Along with other “Pachecoites” who were driven from their homes, Joshua's widow, Elizabeth, and their large family were forced to return to San Juan County—this time as refugees.

Their daughter, Vivian, married into the Shumway family, who began prospecting for uranium as early as 1931. Mining became a family affair, and many of the places they mined are within the proposed National Monument boundaries.

My Grandpa, Burdett, was one of those Shumways. Mining was his livelihood.

On December 14, 1964, the Shumways were working the Springwater mine in Cottonwood Canyon. Lying more than seventy feet below Cottonwood Wash, the Springwater is a very wet mine. Pumps ran nearly twenty-four hours to keep water out of the shaft.

That morning they had come across a beautiful face of high grade, “peacock blue” ore. Excited for their new find, they drilled into the face and prepared the fuses and powder. Burdett was working in the mine with his cousin and best friend, Cleon Shumway.

They stood in about two feet of water, loading the holes. Cleon lit his round first, and then Burdett his. Cleon later said, “Burdett finished and reached down in the corner, picked up his gloves, and laughed about it.”

At that same moment, the first round blew.

Cleon was thrown twenty feet from the face into a pool of muck and water. By the time he crawled out of the mine, twenty-three more shots had gone off. He looked down at his hand that resembled a blob of hamburger.

It was quickly realized that Burdett hadn't made it out of the mine.

The crew at the mine went into emergency mode. Neighboring mines were notified either in person or by radio that a man was injured and another was still in the mine. Soon, a small crowd had gathered at the mine, most of them close relatives to Burdett. Jerry Holiday, Burdett's brother-in-law, went into the mine and then informed the group that Burdett was covered in debris and would have to be dug out.

By the time Burdett's brother, Kenny, arrived at the scene, “the yellow smoke was still boiling out of the mine. A solemn crew was standing near the portal. Kenny ran on past them and into the mine. Half way down into the portal, where the fresh air stopped, Glen Shumway was standing by the blower trying to catch his wind. He had bad lungs anyway. The smoke was yellow and real dark, burning their lungs. Kenny ran on to the face and found muck nearly covering his brother. What was visible made him totally sick; it was an extremely sad situation. Kenny sat and cried for a while then covered Burdett's head with his jacket, hoping some of the others wouldn't have to look at what he had seen.”

They brought Burdett back to Blanding in the back of his own station wagon. His brother, Merwin (who was also at the mine), had the difficult job of breaking the news to Burdett's wife, Erva. Burdett's death was a huge loss to the community. Not only did he leave behind a widow, but also seven children, with one on the way.

I cannot drive past that area in lower Cottonwood without reflecting on the grandfather that I never knew, and becoming somewhat emotional. I think of my mother who lost her father when she was only ten years old. I think of my grandma who struggled for the next thirty years as a widow, trying to make ends meet while raising a large family on her own.

Clockwise: Grandpa, Burdett Shumway (top left), DeVar,
DeLoy, and Merwin Shumway (front) at South Stinking
Hole-1945. (DeVar Shumwy Photo)

The saga continues with every generation. I could go on and on with stories that display why this place is very special to me. This very large tract of land that is now being considered to become a National Monument is not only sacred to the Navajo and Ute, but also to the Anglo who has toiled here for nearly 140 years. My plea is that all those who consider these canyons and mesas as sacred terrain will have an equal voice in the destination of its future. ♠

Sources

Hawkins, Emma Stevens Palmer. Interview by Gary Shumway,  July 20, 1973.

Miller, David E. Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959.

Tate, LaVerne. "The Springwater Mine." Blue Mountain Shadows 25 (Winter 2001): 71-74.