Ensign Peak

Before the Saints had left Nauvoo, the martyred prophet, Joseph Smith, appeared to Brigham Young in a vision and showed him the place where the banner of liberty should be flown. As Brigham entered the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847, still suffering from mountain fever, he reportedly said, “This is the place.” And pointing to a knoll on the northern end of the valley he indicated that he wanted to go there, it being the same place shown to him in the vision.

Two days later, Brigham Young and a party of seven other men climbed the small summit. From there they used field glasses to make a careful survey of the mountains, canyons, and streams, and discussed plans for their new city.

The knoll of 1847 was probably more prominent than the knoll of 2016—perhaps because it is now abutted on one side by sprawling homes of Salt Lake City, where it is not too far north of the State Capitol Building. I am here with my family as we find a parking spot along Ensign Vista Drive.

Sundown is approaching, and I was worried that we wouldn't make it here in time. Next to the road are concrete stairs leading to three flag poles and a small memorial park. I wish I had time to read the plaques, but time is of the essence, and we must march on.

As you might be able to tell, we are hiking to Ensign Peak, which is above us to the northwest. The path quickly turns to dirt and gravel as we ascend the hill and arrive at our first viewpoint, which offers a fine view of downtown Salt Lake, and the peak directly behind us.

The trail, which of course didn't exist in 1847, runs along the east flank of the knoll, and then switches back and forth up the backside of the hill. The kids don't seem to mind the climb, and neither do our two schnauzers, who don't get out like this too often. Within ten minutes, we are at the top.

Although not as high as the taller slopes, Ensign Peak displays an excellent panorama of the Salt Lake Valley, from the Great Salt Lake and airport in the west to the Wasatch range in the east, with its striking summits. We catch the view just before sunset and watch silhouetted jets take off over the lake. The dome of the Capitol Building poses prominently below us, and just beyond are the skyscrapers of downtown. Among the buildings are the iconic spires of the Salt Lake Temple, as well as the round roof of the Tabernacle. In typical Utah fashion, all the streets are in straight grids, the most pronounced one being State Street, which stretches south as far as we can see.

It is difficult to imagine what the view looked like when Brigham Young and party stood here 169 years ago. City Creek would have ran below them on their left into a barren valley. On that day they may have tied a yellow bandanna onto a cane and waved it as a symbolic gesture. Within a few weeks, the American flag was hoisted on the summit.

For the Mormons, the idea of an ensign waving for all to see was not only literal, but also symbolic—they believed they were fulfilling prophecy. The scripture in Isaiah 11:12 reads: “And he shall set up an ensign for the nations, and shall assemble the outcasts of Israel, and gather together the dispersed of Judah from the four corners of the earth.” And hence the name of this little hummock became known as Ensign Peak.

The first flagpole was erected on the summit in 1897, and that year it was designated by the Utah leaders as an official place to display American and state flags. It is also possible that the “flag of the kingdom” was flown on Ensign Peak. Although never with a formalized pattern, it had twelve blue and white stripes, and one or more blue stars.

For me, our hike to the top of Ensign Peak has an additional meaning.

One of the great anthems of the Mormon church is the hymn, “High on the Mountain Top.” The words to this hymn were inspired by the view and symbolism of Ensign Peak, and will forever be associated with this flag-bearing knoll. The song was written by my fourth great-grandfather, Joel Hills Johnson.

A few years after the Saints had settled in the Salt Lake Valley, Joel established a sawmill in Mill Creek Canyon, some ten miles from the center of town. Sawing lumber was Joel's “calling” in the church, and he would bring his load to the tithing office to assist with the building of the church. In lieu of wages, he was allowed to collect food for his family from the storehouse.

Joel Hills Johnson

As he made his trip down from the sawmill, he often thought of the flag on Ensign Peak. As he drew closer, the sight of the flag on the knoll reminded him that he was almost home. Joel's grandson, Bernard A. Johnson, was told the story by his grandmother:

“In the early spring of 1850, Joel loaded up a load of prime lumber and headed for the tithing office. As he headed into the lot that housed this office, he noticed that there were several other wagon loads of tithing offerings ahead of him. He stopped his team, unhitched the horses and turned them into Brother Brigham's pasture, and sat down to wait his turn to unload.

“Being a warm spring day, Joel sought the shady side of his wagon, leaned back against the wheel and waited. As was his habit, he pulled out a piece of paper and prepared to write. He found himself thinking about the breeze and how it must be making 'Old Glory' ripple. In his mind he pictured how it must look there on the top of the peak under the clear blue sky as it waved and fluttered in the breeze. His mind painted such a wonderful picture.

“Almost as if written by unseen hands, words began to appear on the paper.”

The song that Johnson penned, “High on the Mountain Top,” was originally titled “Deseret.” It is interesting that Joel's most popular and revered poetry is not mentioned in his journal. Although his diary is meshed with many small poems and accounts from his life, the origin of this song is omitted.

After writing the poem, Joel folded the paper and placed it in his pocket before delivering his load to the tithing office. He later showed the poem to John Taylor, who was then an Apostle in the church. Elder Taylor liked it so much that he asked to keep it. The poem was later put to music written by Ebenezer Beesley, and quickly became a favorite hymn among members of the church. Only four of the six verses are used in the present-day hymn book.

At the top of the peak there is a plaque commemorating Joel Hills Johnson. I motion over my kids and together we read the words that honor our ancestor.

By now, the lights of Salt Lake City are emerging, including the dome on the Capitol Building, and the illuminated spires of the temple. State Street lights up like a snake that stretches nearly to the south end of the valley at Point of the Mountain. There are a few lingering souls with us, watching the same sweeping panorama, and breathing in the same summer air. I have to wonder if they, too, are making the same pilgrimage, and perhaps they are my distant cousins. ♠

High on the Mountain Top

“High on the mountain top,

A banner is unfurled.

Ye nations now look up;

It waves to all the world.”

In Deseret's sweet, peaceful land-

On Zion's mount behold it stand!

For God remembers still

His promise made of old

That He on Zion's hill

Truth's standard would unfold!

Her light should there attract the gaze

Of all the world in latter days.

His house shall there be reared

His glory to display

And people shall be heard

In distant lands to say

We'll now go up and serve the Lord,

Obey His truth, and learn His word.

For there we shall be taught

The law that will go forth,

With truth and wisdom fraught

To govern all the earth;

Forever there His ways we'll tread

And save ourselves and all our dead.

Then hail to Deseret!

A refuge for the good,

And safety for the great,

If they but understood.

That God with plagues will shake the world

Till all its thrones shall down be hurled.

In Deseret doth truth

Rear up its royal head;

Though nations may oppose,

Still wider it shall spread;

Yes, truth and justice, love and grace,

In Deseret find ample place.

Profile of Salt Lake City and Ensign Peak, looking toward the west,

After the Holocaust: The Brian Head Fire Aftermath

Last summer a wildfire tore through the mountains above our town. From our valley home we watched plumes of smoke billow like those of an atomic bomb. From day to day it shifted from one location to another and we always made our best guess as to “where the fire is now.”

The inferno lasted over a month, destroying nearly 72,000 acres. It was the largest fire ever recorded in southern Utah, costing $34 million to fight. The blaze forced 1,500 people from their homes, and endangered dozens of cabins and other structures.

Now, a few months later, I have been able to go on the mountain and witness first-hand the aftermath of the fire. I had a few surprises:

1. The fire didn't burn everything. I assumed that from Highway 14 to Bear Valley would be one blanket of black trees. Not so. The fire seemed to move in fingers, leaving the dead and living side-by-side. There were even varying grades of destruction, from singed needles of a pine tree to toasty burnt and fallen over.

2. Not many cabins were destroyed, at least not that I found. I only discovered one cabin that had been burnt, although there were many that had been burned all around. I commend the fire crews for making this happen.

3. The beauty. I saw patterns in the skeletons of the trees and in the contour of the now naked hillsides. The green or blazing orange contrasted the burnt black. White frost covered charred logs.

4. The animals are alive and doing well. There is just enough unburned patches that the wildlife didn't seem to mind the destruction. I saw deer and elk and birds walk across the gray ash.

From my house in the valley, it was interesting to watch the billows of smoke move from day to day.  One day the fire would appear to be near Brian Head, the next day it would move south near Mammoth Creek, then a couple days later it would shift far north toward Bear Valley.  One day it traveled eight miles overnight and jumped Highway 14 (as shown above).  

 

Another aspect that I enjoyed is that the fire revealed the true nature of the mountain. There had been places that I simply didn't go in the past because it was too choked with pine trees, dead-fall etc. Now it was as if the blanket of forest was lifted to give me a peak beneath. I saw the ground, gullies, adjacent meadows and changes in slope. It was like having x-ray vision!

I spent time driving around to look for any cabins that had burnt down.  I was impressed with the fire-fighters because I found several cabins that were left unharmed, yet surrounded by charred pine trees.  The cabin above is the only one I found that was destroyed by fire.

On a nearby stump someone has salvaged ceramic cups, plates and charred utensils. 

This picture was taken at night in a section of forest that was completely ravished.  The yellow over the road is straw that was dropped by helicopter at a later date. The straw covers and protects a grass seed that was also dropped by aircraft.  The new grass will help prevent erosion.

The fire swept through this entire valley, leaving only a few pines and some stands of quaking aspen at the far north.  All I had with me at the time was my phone, so the quality of the picture isn't so great.

The remaining pictures were taken at Yankee Meadow Reservoir.  I was drawn to this particular area because the devastation was so extensive, except for a strip of colorful trees near the shoreline that managed to stay alive.  

This plaque reads: "In memory of Karissa    11-16-83     10-16-07    RIP"

I was surprised to find the identity of Karissa.  She is Karissa Nailen of Henderson, Nevada.  Along with her parents, she was survived by two brothers and two children.  One can't help but to wonder about the significance of Yankee Meadows to this young lady. ♠

Elk Ridge and the Glade Pit

The Glade Pit.

Five years ago on this day, my wonderful daughter, Brittany, passed away from this world. Reminiscing on memories of her can sometimes be difficult. All too often the mind becomes dim and large gaps begin to take over the timeline. Often, memories of her are not specific, but come in the form of a place or event—and knowing she was there brings me joy. One such time and place was our family campout on Elk Ridge.
 
We went the summer before she died. It would be our only trip to Elk Ridge as an entire family. I was anxious to show the kids a piece of my past, not only of myself, but also of my ancestors.
 
I decided to take the road that goes over The Causeway and comes out through the Bears Ears. It is a journey with forests of ponderosa pine, mule deer and deep canyons.
 

Shortly after passing The Causeway, the road winds down a hill toward an open meadow with tall grass. This was our first break on “the tour.” I stopped the Trailblazer and twisted around from my seat to face the kids. “This place,” I said, “is called Chippean. This is where we used to have Fathers and Sons.” Being blessed with four daughters and only one son, Jordan was the only one who knew what I was talking about. I further explained: “It's a campout the church does, and all the fathers and their sons go camping together. I came here with my dad. We would play horseshoes, cook dutch-oven potatoes, and sing songs around the fire.”
 
I don't recall any of the kids being very impressed. But then again, Fathers and Sons was my experience, not theirs. Their experience was happening now. We found a grassy flat where we pulled over and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.
 
Further down there is a fork in the road with a path leading northward toward Maverick Point. If one looks on the left side through the branches of pinyon he will observe that the land slopes steeply into a deep valley.
 
This deep valley is called Mormon Pasture and holds a curious place of family history. My great-great grandfather, Walter Joshua Stevens, ran cattle here and also had a cabin and cheese press. He was neighbors with Brigham Young Jr., who had married his sister, Abigail. Brigham Young was using this remote, boxed-up valley to hide from the law. It was the late 1880's and the government was after many leaders of the Mormon Church for practicing polygamy.
 
I pointed out to the kids a cabin and corral, but from our vantage on a high perch, little was distinguishable. Mormon Pasture is one of the few places of private property on Elk Ridge. Thus, I've never been able to view the structures close up.
 
Just fifteen minutes later, we came near the base of Round Mountain where we sat up camp. We kept it simple, and if I recall correctly, we couldn't even build a fire because of fire restrictions. Although there was barely another soul on North Elk at the time, we unloaded a few of our accessories to mark our spot. We also let the kids get out and run around.
 

Just a few miles north of our campsite is a deep green-water lake called the Glade Pit. During the uranium boom of the 70's, it was an open pit with an underground mine going from the bottom of it. Some of the Shumways, as well as others, mined it for several years. Back then, of course, it wasn't filled with water, but was a wet mine, making it very dangerous. The texture in some places was like cottage cheese. Often they used a sump pump to remove water.
 
Back in the day there was a cabin where the miners would stay. At one time there were still relics such as wood and cable scattered around the site. The cabin is no longer here.
 
Dan Shumway tells of the first winter that he and his dad, Devar, spent at the Glade Pit. They got snowed in and had to be flown out by helicopter on Valentines Day. The following winter it snowed even more: 22 feet, 8 inches. It was so high that it completely covered the cabin. They had burrowed a tunnel from the cabin to the outhouse!
 
Eventually the mining was discontinued and the Glade Pit filled with water. We probably spent an hour there as a family, just wandering around the lake and skipping rocks over the water. Yellow and purple wildflowers grew along the bank, and I remember Brittany gathering a handful.
 

Back at camp, we ate a very unconventional dinner. I opened six cans of Progresso soup and poured them into a ten-inch dutch oven, which we warmed over a small propane stove and ate with tortillas.
 
And who spends an evening on Elk Ridge without taking a drive to look for deer? There seemed to be more trophy deer on the mountain when I was younger. It wasn't uncommon to see over 40 bucks in an evening, many of them with wide antlers.
 

With the family now back in the vehicle we drove the dirt roads, all the way North Long Point just before it drops into Sweet Alice. We stopped once to look into Dark Canyon, and then again to drink water from a spring. On this evening we only spotted eight bucks, but several of them good-sized. Being July, they were still in the velvet.
 
It was dark by the time we arrived back at camp. We sat up chairs around the fire pit and ate cookies. (It sure would have been better if we could have built a fire in it!) It was then that I told stories to the kids. I had planned this moment for quite a while, having recalled fond memories from my youth when someone had shared true-life stories of the great outdoors.
 
Before I was able to utter a word, however, our ears pricked to the yell of a wild banshee screaming and yelping while wandering through the pitch-black forest which surrounded us. The cry was loud and spooky, shrilling through the night air and soon joined with a choir of other coyotes, all howling in their high-pitched tone, audibly moving from one hilltop to the next.
 
Once the pack of coyotes finished their nightly yelps, I began sharing with the kids. I told a couple skinwalker stories, as well as one from my youth when I drove over these same roads in a dangerously muddy rainstorm.
 
Then I recounted a story told by Dan Shumway that took place at the Glade Pit during that snowy second winter. It was a bitterly cold January evening and they had already finished supper. The dishes were done and some of the crew passed the time playing checkers. That's when Dan thought he heard a noise from out in front of the cabin. He opened the front door and peered out. A light snow fluttered through the air like feathers, but he didn't see anything unusual. He returned inside.
 
He sat down, but the noise outside still bothered him. He peered again out the door, but this time looked over by the porch. There, maybe ten feet away down the road, he saw a lump in the snow that wasn't there earlier. Then he saw it move! He ran outside and discovered it was a man who had been crawling toward their cabin, but had now dropped unconscious.
 
The men quickly moved to help the mysterious guy, dragging him inside the cabin. He moaned in pain and incoherent speech. His lips were blue and boots frozen stiff. Dan used a knife to cut the shoelaces and pull off the boots. His socks had ice in them. Worried that perhaps he had a wife and kids with him, some of the crew ran down the road, but found nothing.
 
For two or three days the man convalesced in the cabin of the miners. They learned that he was out of Wyoming and was working for an oil company. His vehicle got stuck in Lower Cottonwood and he decided to follow some fresh tire tracks through the snow. He hiked all day long and into the night before he saw the glow of the cabin from about a mile away. As I told this story to my kids, I made sure to point out that he walked right past where we were camped. A few hundred yards away from camp he collapsed, and from there he began to crawl. He was very lucky to have survived.
 
After the stories, it was time to go to bed. Jenelle slept in the Trailblazer, while the three youngest girls in a tent. Jordan and Brittany slept with me on the tarp, beneath that wild canopy of the Milky Way and the lush, creamy band of galaxies that thrive within it. I watched Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper and trillions of stars that I knew no name of which to call them. But the obvious reality was that there were far more stars that I had seen in the sky in a long time. There was no moon that night, yet the sky seemed almost bright enough as if there were. There was no city glow, only the powerful shower of dazzling lights in the sky.
 
Just then, the coyotes again picked up their howling. It sounded as if a younger one lagged behind them. The choir didn't last long. Soon they were up and over the hill and into another arena.
 

After a long night on hard ground, morning finally came. We ate cereal for breakfast, and as we were packing up a stray dog wandered into camp. This was odd, as we had seen virtually no one else on the mountain. The hound wore a radio collar, so I guessed that he was used to track bear or mountain lion. The dog appeared tired and hungry, and was quickly adopted as a family pet. Jenelle poured him a can a soup, which he devoured in about ten seconds. We also gave him water to drink, which he lapped right up. The kids spoiled him with affection, petting and playing with him.
 
Of all the kids, Brittany loved the dog the most. She wanted to take him home. She was already a dirty mess from camping out and now she had a friendly animal jumping all over her and licking her face. It is interesting that of all our experiences on that campout, it was the experience with the dog that stood out most to the kids.
 
We let the hound run freely back to the road where he eventually met with his owner and other dogs of his own breed. It turns out that he was a bear-hunting dog.
 

Brittany and the hound.

 

On our way back to Blanding, we drove south, driving through The Notch and past Preston Nielson's corrals at the turnoff to Woodenshoe. At South Long Point we stopped and took a break, eating cantaloupe, Pringles, and juice. By now it was warming up and the kids were anxious to get back to Grandma's house. As for me, I was sad to leave Elk Ridge. It has always had a special place in my heart, one that I could never get enough of when I was a kid.
 
I loaded the family back up and we continued on the dusty road. We drove through the Bears Ears and down the steep switchbacks that lead to Highway 95.  Little did we know that our journey with Brittany was coming to an end. ♠

In Defense of Slavomir Rawicz

Few stories have ever gripped me like that of The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz. This real-life saga describes Rawicz's capture by the Russians during the 1939 invasion of Poland, and follows through to imprisonment, conveyance to a gulag camp in Siberia, and his subsequent escape. Along with other men, the group walked all the way to Calcutta, India, a distance of 4,000 miles. What an amazing story! That is, until I did a little digging and learned that many believe Rawicz's story to be a hoax.
 
Oh, how I wanted to believe the story. I am a trusting person. I am convinced that we as humans can accomplish feats far beyond our imagined capacity. Although I doubt that I could execute such an endeavor, Mr. Rawicz's story inspired me to do much better.
 
The book was actually written by a ghost writer, Ronald Downing, a British journalist who was researching the abominable snowman, or Yeti. Someone told him of a Pole living in England who had seen a similar creature while walking through the Himalayas. Upon meeting Slavomir Rawicz, the journalist quickly became fascinated with the story as a whole. The two agreed that it was time for the account to be told.
 
The book is very well written, with an intriguing emphasis on detail. Whether it is being handcuffed to a heavy steel chain during a forced march through Siberia, or the sight of a Pavel Bure silver watch carried by a Mongolian nomad, Rawicz seems to have an amazing memory.
 
While crossing the Gobi Desert, two members of their party die and are buried. To survive, the remaining men catch snakes for food and suck water from a scarce section of mud. At one point, they go thirteen days with no water.—And this is where the skeptics come in.
 
They will point out that it is impossible to survive that long without quenching your thirst. And a sighting of an abominable snowman . . . . nonsense! Furthermore, they will point out that the Soviet Union listed his name as being released in 1942 and sent to Persia. And, where are the remaining four survivors who fled with him? Why haven't they stepped forward and told their story? Why hasn't he kept in contact with them?
 
These are valid concerns. A quick Google search will uncover a small “Long Walk controversy.” Both sides seem to be equally represented. People would like to know: Did Slavomir Rawicz really travel thousands of miles to escape the Soviet Gulag, or is it an epic tale that is well crafted, but a fabricated lie?
 
My first question in rebuttal is obvious: What would Mr. Rawicz have to gain by making up such a story? Some might suggest praise. But it was Ronald Downing who approached Slavomir with the proposal. Even after that he was hesitant because when the book was published (in 1956), the Soviet Union was still enthralled in Communism and he still had family that lived there.
 
Some might discredit him because of the vivid details in the account, claiming that no one could recall such facts accurately. If that charge were being made against me, they would be correct. Although, from my life experience, there are those who can, with accuracy, recall vast details from events that happened seventy years in the past. It is as if the incident happened yesterday. I believe Slavomir Rawicz is one of those people. He accused his ghost writer, Mr. Downing, of embellishing some parts. So, if you combine a vivid memory with a very good writer, you are apt to get a novel with lots of intricate details.
 
Concerning the thirteen days without water, maybe it did, or did not happen. I don't know. Perhaps this was a detail that was blurred with time, and what was “many” days morphed in “13 days.” Or, maybe the account is accurate and these men accomplished a feat which most would consider humanly impossible. I have read many accounts of people who did extraordinary things in extraordinary circumstances. Such a story is easy to dismiss when we are such a soft society. We life a life of luxury and comfort and can't fathom such a hardship, let alone surviving it.
 
The sighting of the abominable snowman, or yeti, might lead some to believe this is a work of fiction. Sightings like this are not unheard of: Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster and mermaids to name a few. I have a friend who once claimed he saw a herd of mountain goats in the Virgin River Gorge. “Impossible,” I told him. “That's at least 150 miles from their closest habitat!” But he held firmly to his claim and gave an accurate description of the goats.
 
In his book, Slavomir Rawicz describes the experience of seeing the yeti: “They were enormous and walked on their hind legs. . . . Their faces I could not see in detail, but the heads were squarish and the ears must lie close to the skull because there was no projection from the silhouette against the snow. The shoulders sloped sharply down to a powerful chest. The arms were long and the wrists reached the level of the knees. . . . It would have been easy to have seen them waddle off at a distance and dismissed them as bear or big ape of the orangutan species. . . . There was something of both the bear and the ape about their general shape but they could not be mistaken for either. The color was a rusty kind of brown. They appeared to be covered by two distinct kinds of hair—the reddish hair which gave them their characteristic color forming a tight, close fur against the body, mingling with which were long, loose, straight hairs, hanging downwards, which had a slight grayish tinge as the light caught them.”
 
You may choose to believe or not, but just because you may disbelieve doesn't mean the incident didn't happen or that the observer didn't see something that was unexplainable. And, I might add, if Slavomir Rawicz was intent on selling a fabricated story to the world, why would he throw in such an unbelievable encounter with the abominable snowman?
 
According to a BBC report in 2006, Russian documents have come forth “proving” that Rawicz had been freed from the Soviet Gulag Camp in 1942, which would have been during the same time he would have been making The Long Walk. ——I guess the debate is over. The Russians, whom everyone knows wouldn't lie, have produced evidence from their meticulous records, during a time when the masses were being rounded up in cattle cars. —— I don't think so.
 
Another allegation, apparently made soon after the initial book release, was made by a few people familiar with the Himalayas, including a Mount Everest leader, Eric Shipton. He cites inconsistencies, which make it in his eyes a hoax. Again, I will state as I have previously that time or weakness may have blurred some of the details reported by Rawicz. I also can't help but to remember a project I did in High School in which we had to analyze a map and include the general direction of a geological feature. I chose Grand Gulch and used a detailed map that my dad had. I stated that the primary canyon ran southeast to northwest. When I got my corrected paper back, my arrogant teacher (whom lived in another town because the class was broadcast over a television) wrote “unlikely” on my paper because “Grand Gulch ran northeast to southwest.” It turns out we were both right, but because my map focused in on a tighter geographical region, it only showed a portion of the canyon that ran opposite to the rest. —My point in all this is that even though a so-called expert may think he knows all about the Himalayas, no one will know it perfectly, and Slavomir Rawicz's trek may have been different than most others.
 
Lastly, I would like to mention a book written by Linda Willis, entitled Looking For Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was an American and a member of Rawicz's group. Her research led her to believe that Slavomir Rawicz did not make The Long Walk, but perhaps another person did, and Slavomir just stole his story.
 
Enter into the mix Witold Glinski, a Pole whose story is nearly identical to that of Rawicz, minus a few embellishments. She suggests that Mr. Rawicz found his story among official papers in the Polish Embassy and used it to concoct his own story. Glinski didn't even tell his wife about the escape until 2003, just a year before Rawicz died. I find it possible that Glinski was a member of Rawicz's group, but that Rawicz changed his name to protect him. I also find it ironic that Ms. Willis finds Glinski's account believable and Rawicz's unbelievable, when the two stories are nearly identical, including the trek through the Himalayas.
 
The story of Slavomir Rawicz ends happily. After the trek he moved to England where in 1946 he married his wife, Marjorie, and had five children together. In spite of his ill-health, he was able to find employment, first as a woodworking instructor, then as a cabinet maker. He and his wife also ran a guest house in Castle Donington. After the publication of his book, he was able to buy a house that was big enough for their children and farm animals. Later he worked as a technician at Nottingham College in the arts and ceramics department. He retired from there in 1975 after suffering a heart attack. During his retirement he spent time restoring furniture and looking after their large garden.
 
Slavomir Rawicz passed away peacefully on April 5, 2004 at the age of eighty-eight. ♠ 

Slavomir Rawicz.

The Humble Potato

Many years ago, before a trip to Ireland, I asked a friend who had lived there about the cuisine. “What are some of the authentic foods?” I asked. Without hesitation, and with a smile in his voice, he replied, “The Potato.”
 
He wasn't kidding. After a long bus ride to Galway from Dublin, our first meal on the island was at a quaint gray-bricked building on Market Street called Finnegans. I ordered the Irish Stew, or simply referred to as “stew” by the locals. When my plate arrived, not only did my stew contain chunks of spud, but it came with a side of two boiled red potatoes and and a pile of mashed! This pattern continued throughout our stay on the Emerald Isle.
 
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, it was Ireland that depended on the tuber so heavily that when the crop failed in the mid-1800's it created a famine that killed over a million people. Leading up to the “Great Hunger” was a period when Irish peasants were forced onto smaller tracts of land to allow room for grazing cattle of the British. The potato became the staple of their diet, growing well in less favorable soil. It is said that roughly 40 percent of the Irish ate no other solid food other than potatoes. When the blight first hit in 1845, it is estimated that over three million Irish were totally dependent on the potato. The result was death by starvation and disease, as well as a mass migration to other countries, including the United States.

The potato, or Solanum tuberosum, originates from the Andes Mountains in South America. The natives grew them on terraced slopes where it wasn't uncommon for each village to have a dozen different varieties. Some of the tubers contained toxic compounds which were neutralized with clay or dirt that was made into a paste and eaten with the potato. Much as we do, the Andean people ate their potatoes roasted, mashed or boiled, but also dried, fermented or frozen.
 
The first known Europeans to come across the potato was a group led by Francisco Pizarro, who landed in Ecuador in 1532 among the Incas. Within a few decades, farmers in the Canary Islands were growing them in great enough quantities to ship to mainland Europe. During the next century, the Solanum tuberosum would find its way around the world as part of the Columbian Exchange.
 
In our modern world, the potato is the fifth most important crop, surpassed in harvest volume only by rice, sugarcane, wheat and maize. According to Charles Mann's book, 1493, “The potato can better sustain life than any other food when eaten as the sole item of diet. It has all essential nutrients except vitamins A and D, which can be supplied by milk.” This is how the Irish, whose meager diet consisted of potatoes and milk, could survive remarkably well.

Patatas a lo pobre from Granada, Spain.

Nowadays you can find tortilla de patata in Spain, borsch in Poland, and massaman curry in Thailand, all using a descendant of the South American potato. In my own culture in the American Southwest, a very revered dish is "dutch-oven 'taters." When the Mormon pioneers moved westward across the plains, they brought cast iron pots which they used to cook their food. That tradition has carried on, and now, no serious meal while camping would be complete without frying up bacon and onions, and baking slices of potato in a dutch oven over coals.
 
About fifteen years ago I visited my friend, Billy, and we were in his back yard admiring his garden. I noticed the wide furrows and plants growing from the banks of earth. “What are these?” I asked, not recognizing the leaves. “They're potato plants,” he responded. “We can dig some up and you can take 'em home.”
 
The idea of growing potatoes in a garden had never occurred to me. The following spring I bought some Red Pontiac potatoes from a catalog and cut each tuber so that each section contained at least one eye. We planted two rows that first year, and I was surprised at how easily and green the plants grew.
 
I have planted potatoes every year since then, occasionally experimenting with different varieties. It has easily become my favorite crop. It grows easily, not only the ones you plant, but also the volunteer plants that germinate from leftover spuds. When harvest time arrives, I love that there is no rush to dig them up before the first frost, but that you can leave them in the ground, protected from the cold. Storage is simple. All I do is keep them in a tote with no lid in our storage room in the basement. They stay good until spring. The quality of my own potatoes exceeds that of what is available in the store, and lasts much longer.
 
And most of all I like to cook with them. I know that potatoes are basic and cheap to buy, but when we have a whole container in the basement, we tend to use them more, and it brings down the price of our groceries. We eat them in soups, stews, or mashed, fried, baked etc.
 
Now it is harvest time again and tomorrow I have to go out with shovel-in-hand to dig up tubers. I will admit that it is a little difficult when you haven't kept up on the weeding to distinguish the potato plants from the pig weed. But I will continue digging down the line, on each side of the furrow until I reach the end. Sometimes I am disappointed when I dig and uncover just a handful of small spuds. But when luck would have it that I dig and lever the shovel and overturn a plethora of fat Red Pontiac, then I feel as if I've just won the jackpot! ♠ 

Dutch-oven potatoes.

Feeding the Enemy

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I hate hiking where there's people—especially the crowds. Sometimes it's unavoidable. I had hoped that this place also would be thin with human visitation. Even though images of it are iconic, many people are simply unaware of its remote location.

After thirty-two miles on a dirt road we finally arrived at the parking area, and to my disappointment, there were already a dozen vehicles. With no other choice but to concede, we began setting up camp.

I came with a couple buddies from work and a brother to one. Our intent was to explore a rugged land carved with canyons, once inhabited by an ancient people and later used as a hideout for outlaws.

We set up our cots, then Rob warmed up supper in a dutch oven with a small propane stove. We ate “chilighetti” under the remaining light of day.

A crisp breeze picked up and we worried about staying warm during the night. But as the stars began to fill the sky, another thing picked up also—a guitar.

The camp just behind us set up in a semicircle of tents and trailers, with the open end facing us. A large fire in the center threw flames into the air while those around drank and talked loudly. All the while, a lone player strummed his guitar and sang boisterously into the night air.

We all rolled our eyes as we sat quietly in our camp chairs. “This better not last all night,” I was quick to voice my opinion. We were all running on fumes and needed a good night's rest in order to tackle a full day of hiking.

This is one reason why I don't like hiking or camping where there are people. Many of them tend to be the party type and have no consideration for others. When I'm outside, I just want it to be myself, the breeze and stars.

On the other side of camp was another group, less rambunctious, but still making a racket as they set up their tents. I remember their license plates being from Colorado and Massachusetts. I wish that such places as this (referring to the place we were about to hike) were not marketed to vast amounts of people via the internet and guidebooks. I'd like to have it all to myself!

When it came time for bed, I nestled into my sleeping bag, which I rolled out over my cot and under the wide dark sky. I folded one blanket beneath me and the other over. I wore a camouflaged head-cover that I had used hunting, that wrapped around my ears and chin. With a head-lamp, I rested on my pillow and wound down with a Louis L'Amour book.

Meanwhile, when I took the opportunity to look upward, the stars in the sky seemed to glisten a hundredfold. With no moon in sight, the creamy Milky Way spanned directly above us. I found the Big Dipper and Polaris, and realized I had been slightly off in my orientation. Small blinking lights moved far in the sky, probably either airplanes or satellites.

As I turned the pages of my book, I had hoped the group with the fire would have mellowed out. Not so. The same guy strumming the guitar hadn't stopped singing since dinnertime. They laughed and spoke loudly, as if they were the only campers here.

As for our neighbors on the other side, they weren't quite as flagrant as the others, but still made lots of noise. Two more cars joined them, and for a long time, a set of headlights shined directly on us. Sometime later, a couple of them came trudging near our camp with flashlights wagging ahead. We had to listen to them set up tents and converse until very late in the evening.

At last it was time to put down the book and make an attempt at sleep. The wind was picking up and I worried that my blanket would blow off. The temperature was supposed to get down to 40⁰F that night. The guy with the guitar continued to sing, but I did my best to let my mind relax.

After a long night mingled with sleep and wakefulness, the pre-morning sun began to light the sky in the east. When all of us finally awoke, the first topic of comment was that of our noisy neighbors. “Two of them came walking right through our camp with their flashlights!” Dave complained. 

We seemed to be the first ones awake, and I didn't hesitate to display my irritation. I didn't yell, but when I spoke, I didn't whisper either. I hoped to wake them up. If I spoke bad of them (meaning our neighbors) and they were to hear me, I wouldn't care. In fact, I wanted them to know how perturbed I was at them. What I really wanted to do was get a stick and frying pan and walk through their camp while banging the two together, yelling out, “Wakie, wakie!”

Little by little, they did wake up, although I'm sure it had nothing to do with us. Before our hike, Rob cooked us breakfast. In the same dutch oven he fried sausage and scrambled eggs. We spooned them into tortillas and drizzled hot sauce over the top. We ate to our stomach's content.

When we were done, Rob asked each of us if we had had enough. When we assured him we had, he then made a declaration: “I might go ask those guys if they want to eat the rest.” Then he pointed toward our neighbors on the side.

What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? He couldn't do that. I was still mad at them! But he did it anyway.

Using the handle of the dutch oven, he carried it in his right hand while packing the tortillas and a spatula in his left. I watched him walk over to a small log where they sat. From a distance, I could see their eyes light up and I watched Robbie hand each of them a tortilla and then he scraped a healthy spoonful from the oven.

When he returned he wore a big smile. “They all had some except the vegetarians.” Then he saw the carton on the tailgate and said, “I better go see if they want orange juice.”

The deed he did felt right. We later passed some of them on the hike and they enthusiastically thanked him again for the breakfast burritos. I learned a lesson that morning, a lesson that many have already learned. Negative feelings toward anyone is never a good thing. Sometimes all it takes to wash those feelings away and to see them as real people is an act of kindness. ♠

Rocky Mountain High

There are places in the world that I long to explore, yet one continues to climb to the summit of my mind. The Rocky Mountains of Colorado are rugged and breathtaking. To camp at the base of a lonely peak or to ascend a mighty fourteener is an experience not to be forgotten. 

 

In August I was able to bring my two daughters on a hike to a high-mountain lake that is 12,270 feet above sea level. The 7-mile jaunt took us past waterfalls, wildflowers and old mining structures. Although the hike brought awe to their eyes, it also brought fatigue to their feet. My 13 year-old struggled to breath at the highest elevations.

 

I include a photographic chronicle of our adventure, but deliberately omit a specific location. I'm sure the determined person can figure out where we went; however, there is no reason to advertise the location further. As it was, we passed too many people (124 to be exact) on the way down. ♠