Stories of Jerusha Smith Peirce and Call's Fort

In 1855, Call's Fort was located on the frontier of Mormon settlement six miles north of Brigham City. Travel from Salt Lake City required a slow two-day trip on the seat of a wagon. On many evenings, William and Jerusha Peirce could see the glow of Shoshone campfires from their home.
 
Jerusha was no ordinary person. She was the daughter of Hyrum Smith, brother to the Prophet, Joseph. She had a front-row seat to many events in early church history, including the settlement of Nauvoo, the martyrdom of her father and uncle, the arduous trek to the Rocky Mountains, and the founding of Salt Lake.
 

Jerusha Smith Peirce.

She was born in 1836 in Kirtland, Ohio, but her mother, Jerusha Barden Smith, died when when she was just twenty-one months old. Her father then married Mary Fielding, who subsequently raised her.
 
In her old age, Jerusha would call her family together into the main room of their log home and tell stories of her youth. The first years of Nauvoo were relatively peaceful, but these were followed by years of events that would traumatize her the rest of her life, even giving her nightmares.
 
She told a story about the evening when the bodies of Hyrum and Joseph were brought back from Carthage. The mob had vowed that they were coming to get the head of the Prophet and burn Nauvoo. Naturally, the whole town was on watch and they had lookout points from where they were to beat on drums if they saw the mob.
 
Sure enough, the drums began to beat. Terror filled the town. Lightning filled the air, dogs began to bark, and everything seemed to be in chaos. The family was afraid, not knowing what to do. As Jerusha told the story she said, “We saw a cloud forming over our heads. It was just a small one, but it started to grow and grow until it filled the sky. It moved over the river, seeming to take water out as it did. When it was over the heads of the mob, down poured a torrent of rain, soaking them to the bone and destroying their ammunition. Despite their best efforts, they were forced to turn back.”
 
Of all the experiences in Jerusha's life, this was the most powerful and humbling. She had, “seen the power of the hand of the Lord in that cloud that day, doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.”
 

Monument to Call's Fort along Utah State Route 38.

The fort was named after Anson Call who built it in 1855.

As with most of the other Saints, Jerusha moved to the western frontier of Utah. The trip was arduous and she did a lot of walking, especially near South Pass, Wyoming, which seemed to go on forever.
 
She was 12-years old when they arrived in Salt Lake in 1848. They lived in a small adobe home. Mary Fielding died four years later. At age eighteen Jerusha married the neighbor's son, William Peirce. The two made their home in Call's Fort.
 
Anson Call built the fort in 1855 to serve as protection against the Indians. The fortress was 120 feet square, with walls eight-feet high and three-feet thick. I'm not sure if the Peirce family lived inside the fort. Many other similar forts were built across the Mormon settlements during this same period, although most were short-lived and some only served to stockade cattle. The name, however, stuck, and the settlement was called Call's Fort for the next fifty years until it was changed to Harper Ward.
 
I try to imagine what it was like to live in a log cabin in such a remote location. Much of the interaction with the Shoshone must have been good because it is reported that they traded with settlers in Brigham City. But on the other hand, there still had to be conflict. Two completely different cultures were clashing. The Indians now witnessed as Mormons were using their water, and cattle eating their grass. From the Mormon point of view, they probably feared attacks or loss of property from the Natives. Either way, it was a delicate situation. The standing order for the settlers was to leave the Indians alone.
 
One evening when William Peirce was out of town, his son, Hyrum Robert, decided to try out his new sling shot. He chose one of the Shoshone men as his target! With his new contraption in-hand, he whirled it in the air, and when he let loose, the rock flew and smacked the Indian's face. He must have been pretty close because blood gushed from the man's eye. Rightly terrified, the boy ran for home and confessed to his mother.
 
He hadn't been home long when two Indian men appeared at the front door of the cabin. They asked to take the boy so they could deal with him. Somehow Jerusha convinced them to let her deal with him to their satisfaction.
 
One of the men made a switch from a willow branch. Hyrum was tied face-down on the bed with no shirt. Jerusha then began to whip her son's bare back. She continued to do so until the two Indians were satisfied. When they left she untied her son and collapsed in tears. Hyrum wore those scars all the days of his life.
 

Old stone home a couple miles south of Call's Fort.

It is still relatively simple to image what Call's Fort may have looked like. The area still has a rural flavor to it with a lot of farm land, although there is almost nothing left of the old settlement. Along the highway to Honeyville there is a monument on the roadside made from rocks from the fort. It gives a brief history of the settlement and states that it is erected on the southeast corner of the fort. Behind the monument is a vast field.
 
Just half a mile from the monument is Call's Fort Cemetery. It is a peaceful place upon the foothills of the mountain. The grounds are spacious with several old headstones. One reason I love cemeteries is because they are often the only surviving relic in a world where the old is continually being replaced with the new.
 
On June 26, 1912, Jerusha passed through the veil and joined her father and husband. Her half-brother, President Joseph F. Smith spoke at her funeral and commented that she never had an unkind word for anyone at anytime. Other speakers included Apostle Joseph Fielding Smith, Patriarch Hyrum G. Smith, and Bishop David A. Smith. Her grandson, Eli Thomas Peirce, drove the team of horses that pulled the funeral wagon to Call's Fort Cemetery where she was buried. ♠ 

Gravesite of Jerusha Peirce at Call's Fort Cemetery.

Call's Fort Cemetery in Box Elder County, Utah.

Sources Used

Alligood, Pamela Peirce. “Jerusha Smith Peirce.” Hyrum Smith Family Association, hyrumsmith.org/wp-content/uploads/2000/02/jerusha.pdf.

Jeppsen, Dennis. “Jerusha Smith Peirce.” Pioneer, 2014, pp. 24–26.

Hidden Canyon

We search for a route over the rim of the canyon, but find nothing more than steep slickrock. The white face of the stone rounds at the rim, but quickly precipitates downward, sure to kill any man or beast that ventures over its edge.
 
To get here we pushed through wild manzanita and jumped over prickly pear cactus. I almost stepped on a blow snake. We can see our intended destination, an alcove up the narrow gorge, but a short and stubby chasm blocks our passage. We work our way down-canyon, always looking for a chute to the bottom.
 
At length we find an opening and slide down a channel of tangled scree and rock. Standing firm on the floor of the canyon we encounter a rivulet of water slowly meandering through the willows.
 

It feels remote down here. Tall wild grass grows along the floor and up the steep sides of the narrow canyon. Now and then a cottonwood tree takes shape along the bank and stretches upward, searching for sky. Bulrushes flourish along the swampy bottom. Light-footed skeeters float atop small puddles of water.
 
Coming around an elbow in the canyon we find an old Indian ruin perched high upon the cliff. Many of the walls of this ancient fortress are still intact, while others have tumbled. The location seems to be well hidden. I realize that as we were on top looking for a way down, we had stood directly over the ruin, never knowing it was there.
 
We continue up-canyon through many of the same obstacles: thick vegetation and rocky terrain. On our left the short and stubby chasm, on whose rim we had stood earlier, merges with our canyon. We climb up and over a bank to avoid a captured pool of water inside a stone pothole.
 
As we inch closer to our objective, the climb grows steeper and we fall to all fours, walking like bears up a dry stream bed of slickrock. Light rain begins to fall and we quicken our step. We push through another thicket of scrub oak and suddenly arrive at our destination.
 

Inside this hidden alcove sits a nearly perfect 800-year old Anasazi dwelling. It is rectangular in shape, with three rooms. Enduring on the east face is one door and one window. Other than two sections of walls that have collapsed, this ancient home appears much the same as when it was abandoned.
 
A close examination of the walls shows that the rocks were not cut as precisely as other ruins I have seen. But the mud-mortar that was used to fill the chinks and gaps has been well crafted to create relatively smooth edges. Small rocks have also been mixed in to fortify the paste.
 

My favorite part is the roof. Larger branches, probably two inches in diameter, serve as cross-beams, firmly planted within the adobe walls, and on top of those, positioned perpendicularly are a series of smaller branches, thatched together tightly with no gaps, and topped with mud. By looking at the condition of the lumber you would never guess it was eight centuries old.
 
I wonder the exact purpose of the rooms. Did they use them to sleep? Being a short person myself, I'm not sure that I could lay down and sleep comfortably inside one of these rooms. What did they sleep on—hard ground or perhaps a bed of twigs or leaves? And what about the mice that ran freely and burrowed in the dirt? Or the bats that nested on the eaves of the cliffs above?
 

Nearby are several metates and a mano, the grinding stones used to make corn meal. I also find a portion of a corn cob. I try to imagine where they grew their corn. Did they plant their crops on the flat plains above the canyons where soil was better, or perhaps down by the stream where water was more accessible? I know that when harvest season came, their dried corn became a precious commodity. Often I have seen granaries built within the hollow of a rock, high on a cliff and inaccessible without rope or ladder.
 
On the ground next to the structure is a broken piece of pottery. It is slightly curved and painted the color of ochre, with six dark diagonal lines. The fact that the sherd is colored, rather than black and white, shows that it was created during an advanced period. Judging from the slight curvature, I am guessing that this piece belonged to a larger olla, perhaps used to carry water or cook food.
 

We retrieve our lunch from my camouflaged day-pack and begin to build sandwiches, eating them while sitting on a log. It begins to rain lightly as we eat, but the overhang of the alcove keeps us dry. I can't help but to think of those who used to live here and how this large recess in the rock was their little haven. Not only did it provide a place for them to sleep and cook, but also protection from those who might want to harm them, or steal precious commodities.
 
We finish our sandwiches and load everything back into the pack. By now a few tiny drizzles of water tumble down the overhang. I am anxious to get back to the vehicle before the storm becomes too big and washes out the dirt roads. We push up a steep slope through wet leaves that slap across our clothing. The alcove behind us disappears and as we crest the hill we fast-forward 800 years to the present time. ♠

Brian Head Fourth of July

One of my favorite spots to watch fireworks is at Brian Head. The feel of the crisp mountain air and the reverberation through the pine-clad valley make for a memorable event.
 
We don't make it up every year. Some years we choose to keep it simple and stay at home. Other times the show is canceled due to drought. But we've been coming off and on for about fifteen years now, long enough I would dare call it a tradition. This year we decided to go again.
 

We watch the parade in town, then after lunch load up the vehicle and head for the mountain. We find a few patches of snow at higher elevations and a late crop of wildflowers. We spend the afternoon hiking through a grove of aspen.
 
Our family is getting smaller and it's kind of sad. This year Kaitlyn is away serving the country and Brittany is still gone serving on the other side of the veil. Both are on my mind.
 

Red Valley appears nothing like its name. On this July 4th it is a lush green with yellow dandelions sprinkled throughout. A small stream flows through the large meadow. Mosquitoes swarm in hordes around the flowing water, creating a miserable contrast to the otherwise beautiful surroundings of the forest. The stream flows from the meadow and through a culvert beneath the dirt road into a tangled mess of pine trees. Here grows a thriving community of white yarrow along the stream bed.
 
We set up camp chairs in a circle, away from the mosquitoes, and begin to grill a couple dozen hotdogs over a portable propane grill. On our paper plates we pile chips, potato salad and slices of watermelon that I haphazardly slice up using a hunting knife. It is a peaceful dinner away from anyone else.
 

As the sun approaches the horizon, we pack up our food and gear and begin the bumpy ride back to the highway. Along the way Jordan spots a tiny fawn with fresh white spots, small enough to be our dog. It hides behind a small sapling while we stop to steal a peak.
 
Just as the evening hues of sunset are glowing in the sky, we come into the mountain valley of Brian Head. Perhaps we should have come sooner. Hundreds of vehicles are parked in every nook and cranny and along every inch of highway. There are definitely more people here than the last time we came. We find what appears to be the last tract of park-able ground and squeeze in using my poorly-honed parallel parking skills.
 

We set up chairs and blankets along the slope near where we usually sit. There is music in the air and several private parties lighting off their own pyrotechnics. Side by sides filter in with antenna-like florescent lights poking above their machines. The atmosphere is chaotic and lively.
 
Jenelle is anxious to try her new inflatable banana seat, which she successfully inflates and plops down upon for a comfy front-row seat. Savanah is anxious to light some old sparklers that she found in the basement. I am anxious to sit down and watch the crowd and take in the atmosphere.
 

The elevation of Brian Head is just under 10,000 feet. During the winter it is a ski-lovers paradise and transforms into a haven for mountain bikers during the summer. Deer and elk roam the back-country and at night the mountain lions sometimes come out. There are patches of snow on the higher slopes, and even though it is July fourth, everyone is bundled up.
 
As soon as it is dark, the show begins. The bright blasts light up the basin and turn the slopes into shades of orange and red. Each boom bounces off the hills and echoes through the valley. As the show continues, the smoke builds and billows. Our view on the hillside is a grand view. Being Independence Day, I can't help but to think of the words penned by Francis Scott Key, “And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air . . .”
 

And once again my mind goes back to my shrinking family. Ever since Kaitlyn joined the military, I have looked at many things differently, including the Fourth of July. I can't help but to have a greater appreciation for those people and events in the past that have shaped our country and have given us—as well as the world—a greater measure of freedom.
 
And then I think of Brittany. Perhaps she is watching over us this very minute, or perhaps she is attending to other activities. I don't know. But I do know she is close to my thoughts, as I can vividly remember the day when she, too, sat with us in her camp-chair, bundled up in a coat and blanket, watching the lights in the sky. ♠