South Fork (Day 3)

The trail along South Fork is obscure to say the least. I once hiked this eight-mile stretch and crossed the river sixty times in one direction due to constantly losing the trail.
 
With heavy packs we made our first crossing within minutes of leaving our campsite. I took half a dozen steps into the cold stream that rose to my shins. Cold water filled my boots and I sloshed a path of mud as I came out on the opposite bank.
 

At first we easily stayed with the trail on a wide path through the quaking aspen. But then it disappeared and we chose to take a less obvious route that slanted upward. As it climbed higher and away from the river, we decided we must be on a game trail, but by now it was too late to turn around. Instead we chose to angle back down toward the river. The footing proved difficult on the steep slant with loose dirt and rock. I used my pole to steady my weight, but even then it would often slip and I would slide a few feet. It was also a challenge to keep the heavy pack balanced so as to not throw the weight down the hill, taking me with it.
 
After much travail and many scrapes we once again reached the creek and found the trail. Ben and I had a good conversation. He showed me what a mullein plant looked like and explained that it can be used for medicinal tea, as well as toilet paper.
 

Even when on the trail, we were compelled to cross the stream. With each step I would lead with my pole and then place my foot, feeling for steady ground with no slick rocks. Then I would adjust my weight for the flow of the current. I would repeat the process until I had crossed the river.
 

Again we lost the trail.  This time we walked in the river for fifty yards. My feet began to turn numb.
 
The conversation turned to rattlesnakes and Ben explained that the serpents have holes above their nose that can sense temperature and can help them aim for a blood vessel if they decide to strike. Just off the path we found a skin shed, but couldn't decipher the type of snake.
 
The route along South Fork is long and monotonous. It constantly demands route-finding skills. Every bend looks like the next. Shoes never dry off because there is always another crossing to be made.
 

On the lookout for snakes I would always jump when a lizard scampered through the leaves. Then Ben found a rattler coiled on a rock next to the path. He tugged on it with his walking stick, but the snake shook his rattle and slithered into the crevice of a rock.
 
By the time we came to the end, we had crossed the stream forty-eight times. We unloaded the cumbersome packs from our shoulders and felt a lightness as we loaded up the vehicle.
 
Before we left I had one matter of business to take care of. I returned to the stream and dissembled a mound of rocks that lay beneath the frigid flowing water. Then I pulled out an ice-cold can of Pepsi that I had cached three days earlier. ♠

Blue Lake (Day 2)

The water didn't freeze last night, but the wind was brisk once it picked up.
 
After eating breakfast and downing a steaming cup of hot chocolate we climbed a ridge to get a higher vantage of the mountains around us. I pointed out Baldy and Belknap, two massive upheavals of shale rock over 12,000 feet high. “They are steep,” I said, “but not as steep as they appear.”
 

We returned to camp and took down our tents and loaded our packs. An old road that is no longer usable leads down the steep western slope. Ben and I followed this route and talked along the way.  The wind picked up from time to time, still frigid in early morning.
 
Two young streams tumble down the steep declivity and merge at the bottom. We stopped and filled our water bottles. Here the water enters a deep canyon that runs fifteen miles to the valley. Tall peaks surrounded the young stream on three sides, so tall that the summits cannot be seen.
 

The stream flows over golden rocks in the shadows of a pine forest. Then it completely disappears underground. When it emerges, it is a beautiful turquoise lake.
 
With spring runoff the lake is nearly full. Pine trees come to the edge and some grow within the blue waters. The lake is wide enough that it literally fills one side of the canyon to the other.
 
We ate lunch on its shores and then walked to the other side on a precariously slanted edge.
 

The waters of Blue Lake spill out into the rugged canyon. We picked our way with heavy packs on our shoulders, often losing the trail. Our route took us through brush and groves of aspen. We crossed other streams that would soon join the main creek. We were always within the sound of tumbling water.
 
We came to a section of canyon where the walls weren't so narrow. There we found a flat, grassy space to pitch our tents.
 
I walked down to the river and sat on a flat rock and removed my shoes. I rolled my pant-legs to my knees and lowered my feet into the water, deep enough to cover half way up my calves. The smooth rushing fluid felt good on my tired feet, but it was colder than I expected. I pulled them out on the rock, let them breathe for a few seconds, then dipped them once again into the water, this time letting them become numb and leaving them longer.
 
I repeated the process several times, then I took off my glasses, knelt on the flat rock, and immersed my entire head beneath the water. I held my breath for five seconds, then came back up. This felt better than dipping my feet. I felt elated. I dipped my head again and swished my hair in the flowing stream. I repeated the process once more, then dried my face on a towel and let my wet skin warm in the sun before replacing my socks and shoes.
 

The rest of the evening went by without much fanfare. I climbed the hill above to gain a vantage point. Once I came back down I hung around the stream and took pictures. By the time I ate dinner the sun had set and the cold shadow of night was covering the slopes of our canyon.
 
We are miles from the nearest person tonight. When the sun first set, I thought I heard howls, bugles, and whistling. But I think they were just phantom noises coming from my imagination. I sat and watched the openings on the slopes, hoping to catch a deer or elk coming out to graze. Even the animals seem to be distant tonight.
 
But one thing is for sure. I can hear the powerful rush of water coming from the stream. I can hear it from my tent and it will stay with me all night long. It will perhaps become part of my dreams.

Elk and Waterfalls (Day 1)

We are now camped at 11,000 feet. Inside my tent the edge is taken off the cold, but while I was outside cooking my dinner over a small propane stove, the air was bitter. We have seen deer and elk today, but I hope not to get any bears scratching at our tents. I have left my water bottles outside to see if they form ice by morning.
 

We got a late start today, not beginning until 1 pm. The trail climbed quickly. We passed waterfalls, old mining structures, and tall pine trees. Many wildflowers were in bloom, including the columbine.
 

As we climbed higher, majestic peaks came into view and alpine meadows unfolded. Cold water tumbled down the mountain. Small rivulets fed into the main stream. I stopped and dipped my water bottle into the water and filled it to the narrow neck. My fingers became numb as they felt the water. I drank from the bottle, then topped it off again.
 

On the hillside we saw a small herd of elk file up the side. They stopped to look at us. Their bodies were big with brownish-yellow fur. Soon more elk walked out from behind a hill. In a long line they made their way to ridge where they stood on the skyline. I counted thirty-five. A few were bulls with partially-grown velvet antlers. Some of the cows chirped back and forth.
 

The signs told us we had only hiked four-and-a-half miles, but it felt like ten. We climbed 3,000 feet in elevation with heavy backpacks. We could now see the highest peaks all around us. The wind picked up and was bitter on the skin. I reached into my pack and pulled out a long-sleeve shirt.
 
We found a level place to pitch our tents. We cooked our dinner over small propane stoves and then talked over a cold fire pit. We are now going to bed and I hope the bears don't come.

Johnson Cemetery Comes Alive

The old house was abandoned and we were able to walk on our own to the burial ground.
 
We walked along a small two-track road that was surrounded on both sides by tall purple thistles and an old alfalfa field. All was green including the weeds that grew in the field. Two different flocks of wild turkeys crossed in front of us. The sky was covered in rain clouds, but no rain fell. Unconnected irrigation pipes flanked the sides of our path.
 

Johnson was settled in the 1870's by the four Johnson Brothers: Joel, Joseph, Benjamin, and William. Both Joel and Joseph happen to be my direct ancestors.
 
On January 2, 1871, Joel recorded in his journal: “I was ordained a Patriarch in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints under the hand of President Brigham Young, George A. Smith being the mouth. About this time President Young suggested to us that the Johnson family have what was called Spring Canyon twelve miles north of Kanab for a stock race and for all the family who wished to settle there, and requested us to go and look at it which we agreed to do as soon as we conveniently could.”
 
Sometime later he recorded: “. . . I started for home [from St. George] and arrived late in the evening, having previously made arrangements to meet my brother and some others at Virgin City on our way out to look at Spring Canyon Ranch near Kanab, agreeable to the request of President Young. We . . . found a beautiful canyon from half a mile wide [to] several miles long covered with grass, with small springs coming out at the bluffs on each side, and a small beautiful stream running from the mouth of the Canyon, plenty of excelled grass for meadow and stock range extending for many miles around. We were highly pleased with the place and concluded to accept the President's offer. Therefore we made arrangements for some of us to move there in the Spring and start a cooperative Stock Association for herding stock raising and dairy purposes, after which we all returned home. In the latter part of March I moved my wife Susan and her two boys Joel and Lamon out to Johnson and my brother William, who was stopping at Washington moved out his family also and my brother Joseph sent three young men.
 
“We took tolls, grain and seeds of many kinds for farming and gardening, and also trees and vines for orchards and vineyards. My two oldest sons Sixtus and Nephi also moved part of their families out and all went to work. Some to planting out fruit trees and vines, some to building cabins, others to plowing, planting, garden making etc. I then started for home and met my brother Benjamin at Virgin City on his way out to Johnson with farming tools or implements, grains, seeds, etc.”
 

Joel Hills Johnson (right) is buried in the Johnson Cemetery (left).

Detail on headstone of Joel Hills Johnson.

Another family that found their way to Johnson was that of Henrietta Bird Shumway, the third wife of Charles Shumway. They came from Mendon, Utah in Cache Valley. Her biography recounts her experience upon arriving at the canyon: “The farm, unfenced and uncleared had never known a plough. The only shelter was a deserted trapper's cabin, so small that when all the beds were made, Henrietta could scarcely walk between them to cook the meals.
 
“It was dangerously late in the year to be putting in crops, but they must if they were to survive the winter unaided. Even the halflings toiled like men, digging out the rocks and lugging them away to make fences; while each of the older boys were giants uprooting trees, and scrub and sage. Someone was always at the plough. It never ceased turning the soil from dawn to dark. They were lucky in their neighbors. Seeing their plight, the Johnson men came in a body and dug them an irrigation ditch to the creek, and their young ones helped with the planting.”
 

Headstone for Margaret and Richard Shumway, infant children of  Richard Franklin Shumway and Margaret Hannah Johnson Shumway.

During the next decade, more families moved to Johnson and the small community soon enjoyed an adobe brick school-church, a general store, and a post office. None of these continue to exist, as Johnson has become a ghost town. Only a handful of farms are sprinkled along the canyon.
 
The Johnson cemetery, which is about the only relic left of the former town, is very secluded in its own side-canyon. A very quiet and peaceful feeling is felt there. Inside the fence there is hardly a weed to be found. Every burial is from the 1800's. Most of the headstones are of the old type, hewn from stone. As we walked around we found the surnames of Johnson, Laws, Glover, and even a Shumway. However, a large portion of the burials, I believe, are unmarked. It is interesting that a lot of old-style nails are scattered across the ground. In the middle is a giant ant-pile. Some headstones were tipped over, while others had completely disappeared, yet we could tell there was a headstone there at one time.
 

Headstone for Conradine Albertine Sorenson Mariager Johnson, wife of Nephi Johnson, who is the son of Joel.  Conradine was born in Denmark and while in Johnson was very good friends with Henrietta Bird Shumway.

I don't know the history of the cemetery, but I believe that it has been cleaned up extensively from a neglected state. Elsinore Nelson, daughter of Sixtus Ellis Johnson, reported a visit to the cemetery in 1961 in search of her grandfather's grave: “It was in a beautiful spot at the foot of a hill. It was difficult to find among the tall grass and weeds [that] had grown around the graves, but we finally located it. There was a beautiful headstone with his name Joel Hills Johnson and this inscription on it 'Prepare to meet me in heaven.'”
 
Two of my family lines come together in this canyon—the Johnsons and Shumways. Peter Minnerly Shumway and Mary Elizabeth Johnson became acquainted when both their families lived in Johnson. They were married on December 17, 1879 in the St. George Temple. They didn't stay in Johnson long. In a couple months they made their way to Arizona with Peter's family, crossing Lee's Ferry and encountering blizzards and cold weather. They lived in several places in Arizona before settling down in Blanding, Utah.
 
Mary's mother, Editha Melissa Merrill Johnson, died four years before their leaving. I can find very little about her other than the usual dates and places. Elsinore Nelson wrote: “I have often heard Father speak of Aunt Editha as being a very kind, sweet mother to her children and a wonderful helpmate.” She had been sick for sometime and passed away on February 7, 1876. One source states that she died during child birth. She left behind seven children. As was the custom during days of polygamy, one of the other wives stepped in and raised the children as her own.
 
We searched and searched for Editha's grave, but was unable to locate it. As the cemetery is small, it is not difficult to check every headstone. We concluded that she is buried in an unmarked grave. Perhaps it was marked at one time, but over the years it had been knocked over, withered away, or crumbled.
 

After Jenelle and the younger girls left to go back to the vehicle, Kaitlyn and I were left alone to linger in the cemetery. She made the comment: “Wouldn't it be neat if the resurrection were to happen right now and all these people were to resurrect and we could talk to them?”—Yes, I would love that! To be able to hear their stories, listen to their voices, and see what they looked like—that would be absolutely amazing! ♠