Range Creek

The flyer stated in bold letters: 

“Please understand, the road to Range Creek is dirt and unimproved over difficult terrain. Even the threat of inclement weather will result in the tour being canceled.” 

They weren't kidding! 

We traveled up the steep sinuous road to the top of the Tavaputs Plateau in two white vans. We left the pavement near the abandoned buildings of the Horse Canyon Mine. Almost immediately the road began to climb, leaving one side exposed to a long drop-off. 

And yes, it did rain hard the day before and the dirt road was still damp with moisture. As we got higher in elevation we came across large puddles in the road. The path was narrow, offering no room for oncoming traffic. It was a good thing that we saw no other vehicles this day. 

Our destination was difficult and remote. The Tavaputs Plateau is rugged, with much of it being inaccessible. To have a road cut to the top and then continue on the back side is—in my mind—an engineering miracle. 

I couldn't imagine getting caught here during a downpour. It would be fatal. It was now late June and the monsoon season was knocking at the door. To say the least, the drive up was a little nerve-racking.

View from the summit on the Tavaputs Plateau. If you look closely, you can see the road we drove up.

We arrived at the summit and the vans pulled to the side to allow us to get out and enjoy the view. We had grand views on both the north and south sides. Toward the north we saw the road we had just traveled come up and out of Horse Canyon. On the south we saw Little Horse Canyon and where it flowed into Range Creek. 

Mary, a sweet old lady in her seventies, began sobbing on her husband's shoulder. She had sat in the passenger seat and the front-row view scared her to death. Her panic attack left her in tears. 

Now it was time to drive down Little Horse Canyon to the confluence of Range Creek. This was our destination, or at least the beginning of our destination. 

Near the gate to Range Creek.

Access to Range Creek is by permit only. There are only a few permits allowed each day; and unless you do a driving tour like us, you have to park at the entry gate and walk in on foot. Certainly we were the privileged few to see the canyon. 

I had two purposes for coming to Range Creek. First was to catch a glimpse of an untouched archeological paradise. As I will reveal later, a vast amount of Indian artifacts and structures in this area have been left undisturbed. Before coming here I imagined walking into stone structures and finding intact pots, matates, manos, arrowheads, sandals and other artifacts. Everything, I imagined, would be left in situ. 

My second reason for coming was a little deeper. It was an opportunity to become reacquainted with my brother-in-law, Kirt. You see, we had the idea of doing this trip ten years ago. Unfortunately, he and my wife's sister got a divorce and our plans fizzled away. We remained friends of Facebook, but our in-person contact became nonexistent. 

Then, when I became diagnosed with cancer eight months ago, I made a commitment that I would rekindle some of the friendships I had let die. Kirt was always someone whose friendship I appreciated. We contacted each other and resurrected our trip to Range Creek. 

Locomotive Rock in Range Creek Canyon.

To enter Range Creek Canyon we had to pass through a locked gate. From this point forward there are only a limited amount of people allowed each day. Aside from our small group, we saw no other guests.

We drove an easy dirt road along the canyon floor, passing oak brush, chokecherry, and a flock of turkeys. We pulled to the side of the road and all got out. Our guide pointed to a spot high on a cliff where a patch of rock was of a slightly different color than the rest of the rocks. The out-of-place stone structure was difficult to find, and almost impossible to see with the naked eye. We used binoculars to discern the exact location. This stone structure was a Fremont granary. The Fremont used this small, inaccessible building to store their corn, protecting it from invading enemies, including mice and other thieving tribes. 

Can you spot the granary?

A distant pictograph at Range Creek.

Then we directed our gaze to a small alcove to the left of the granary. Once again indiscernible to the naked eye, we found a red-painted pictograph inside the alcove. Further to the left of that, behind a tree, stood another pictograph, this one large and white. 

We repeated this process two more times: a distant granary and petroglyphs or pictographs. As someone who is accustomed to walking and climbing in rough terrain, it was difficult for me to stay with the group and look through binoculars. All of them, however, were in difficult terrain and would take significant time to reach. But that was part of the intrigue. 

Muddy road at the bottom of Range Creek Canyon.

Who were these mysterious people that built these structures? 

The answer to that is largely unknown. We don't know where they came from or where they went. But they lived in the area of Central Utah and eastern Nevada over 1,000 years ago. We have given them the name of Fremont, not designating them as a people, but as a culture. 

The Fremont Culture had many similarities and lived contemporaneously with the Anasazi, but archeologists consider them a distinct group. While the Fremont grew corn and made pottery like the Anasazi, they lived in pithouses rather than cliff dwellings. 

A partially collapsed Fremont granary.

At one point on our tour we stopped at a large meadow in the canyon. Big rocks lay strewn across the ground, many in noticeable rings. These, our guide told us, were once pithouses that have since collapsed and decayed away. This was once a village. When archeologists first came across this field they found arrowheads, beads, pottery, and archaic tool remnants strewn all over. They allowed us to walk through the field, but if we were to find anything, not to pick it up. —Guess what? I didn't find a thing. 

I wasn't going to pick anything up anyway, but it was a little disappointing to not see anything—especially knowing that not many people are allowed access into the canyon. Where I grew up, I used to walk out in the hills and sometimes find pottery all over the place, especially if there were dwellings nearby. I can see why the archeologists would need to collect several artifacts for study, but I don't understand why they should “vacuum” clean the entire area. If I did that, I'd get arrested! 

We continued down the road in our big white vans. Our guide was extremely nice and everyone on the tour friendly and personable. In our van there was an elderly couple from Colorado, as well as a mother/daughter combination from Evanston, Wyoming. 

Range Creek runs northwest to southeast, and empties into the Green River. When I say that it is remote and rugged, I'm not kidding. When considering how the Fremont got there, I asked if they traveled via the river. Our guide didn't think so, stating that the river is very rugged in that area, with some areas where the water runs cliff to cliff, such as Desolation Canyon. 

Instead, she theorized that they traveled the same way as the early settlers. From modern-day Woodside, the early settlers traveled a trail that meandered along the Price River, then up Trail Canyon where they went up and over the Mesa before dropping into Turtle Canyon. From there they entered Range Creek. 

Natural arch on skyline as seen through a dirty van window.

The first known person of European descent to enter Range Creek was Augustus Ferron. He came around 1885 as a government surveyor. He was the one for whom the town of Ferron is named. 

It is said that when he first came to Range Creek the grass was hip-high. He knew it would be ideal for cattle. He found some partners and formed the Range Valley Cattle Company and they ran cattle all through the canyon and across the plateau into Nine Mile Canyon. 

During these early days a cabin was built, as well as a blacksmith shop, corral, and chicken coop. They planted alfalfa and built irrigation ditches using water from Range Creek. They grew a garden of potatoes, corn, watermelon, string beans, squash, lettuce and pumpkins. They also planted fruit trees that included apple, plum, pear, peach and mulberry. 

Preston Nutter and friend. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

In 1902, the ranch was sold to a cattle baron named Preston Nutter. He had come from Colorado (and originally from back east) and also ran cattle on the Arizona Strip. Of Preston Nutter it was said that he always rode a mule and was a “cantankerous old fart.” Although he never lived in Range Creek, he had a cabin built for his cowboys. 

We drove down the road and came to an old stone house. All four walls, about six feet high, remained intact, except for a section that had collapsed. The roof was gone except for a couple beams that had fallen against the walls. A corrugated sheet of metal sat on the ground. A hollow doorway allowed easy entrance to the empty structure. No wooden floor, just dirt and wild grass. Within the rock walls I counted three open apertures for windows. Still intact on the north side was a stone fireplace and chimney. On the south side an inscription on the outside wall read: “J. Dario[li]—1939.” 

Stone house of John Darioli, an Italian immigrant.

Inscription on the outside wall of the house from 1939.

John Darioli arrived fresh off a boat from Italy. And just when Preston Nutter thought he had clear title to the entire Range Creek area, John Darioli filed on two of his properties, one of them being where he eventually built this stone house around 1927. Nutter took Darioli to court where the cattle baron lost to the Italian homesteader. 

Shortly afterward, one of the large houses on the homestead burned to the ground. According to legend, mule tracks were found leading away from the scene of the crime. Darioli was convinced that Nutter was out to kill him. In an effort to preserve his life, John Darioli began sleeping in rock overhangs.

Several years later, after having changed hands several times, the Darioli property was sold to Henning Olsen and his son, Lloyd. In 1947 Lloyd shot himself in the stone house where Darioli once lived.

Range Creek petroglyph.

Old mining cart with the name "Jenny" spray-painted on the side.

Range Creek Canyon slowly meanders south or south-east. We stopped at another set of petroglyphs. Finally we were allowed to walk up close. On the skyline, high up on the rim of the canyon, we passed an interesting arch. I had to wonder how many people had ever walked to the arch. We also passed an old mining cart that was near the road with the word “Jenny” painted on the front side. I don't remember the full story, but I believe it was painted by Waldo Wilcox and it was him drawing sarcastic attention to a lady named Jenny who was forcing him to remove a bunch of mining carts they had at the ranch. 

After a couple hours of riding on dirt roads in a caravan of two white vans, we finally arrived at Range Creek Ranch. Here, the canyon walls seemed to open up. The soil had been plowed, cabins built, a house constructed and a garden grown. A half-dozen cars were parked in front. It almost felt like we were in civilization, but we were still roughly six miles from the Green River.

Old structures at the ranch in Range Creek.

Farming tool hung for decoration.

My mind couldn't help but to imagine what it would be like to live here, especially a hundred years ago. If we were to run out of food, or if there were an emergency, or if a deep snow blocked us in—there would be nothing we could do. Out here, everything you used would have to either be self-produced, or hauled in on mule or burro. As I mentioned, the old trail came in from Woodside. The road that we came in on wasn't built until 1947. 

We unloaded at the ranch where we set bread, mayo, meat, avocados, tomatoes and other condiments on a table to build our own sandwiches. There were bathrooms inside an old building that was designed as a bunkhouse to board guests that would come to visit or hunt. An old cabin now served as a small museum with photos of some of the former occupants. Next to that was a house. I don't know who lives there now, but there are several people on site who make archeological surveys. 

Joe Wing, an avid chronicler of Range Creek's history. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

As we sat down to eat, we were fed the history of Range Creek, from Augustus Ferron to Preston Nutter to John Darioli and Budge Wilcox. The lady (I can't remember her name) spoke fondly of Joe Wing, the nephew of one of the original owners. Joe Wing came from Ohio and was extremely enthusiastic to take on his new role as cowboy. He wrote descriptive letters back to his family about his wild adventure in the West. Thanks to his writings we know a lot about the early days of Range Creek. 

The history of Range Creek is much more complex than what I describe here. I am sure I have made a mistake or two. Put succinctly, property ownership changed hands several times and many battles were fought in court. 

This old cabin is now used as a small museum.

In the early 1950's, the majority of Range Creek was sold by the Nutter Corporation to the Wilcox family, which included the father, Budge, and his two sons, Don and Waldo. They originally ran a ranch on the east side of the Green River in a place called Florence Creek. But when the government decided to expand the Ute Reservation, the Wilcox's had to find a new place to run their cattle. 

After buying the property at Range Creek, they made several improvements, including a log cabin and bunkhouse. In 1959 through '62 they built a “pink house” to live in. They planted corn, potatoes, alfalfa and more fruit trees. 

Waldo Wilcox. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

When Budge died in 1981, the property was split between his two sons, Don taking the portion on the Tavaputs Plateau, and Waldo taking the lower section with the ranch. 

In 2000, Waldo Wilcox sold the property to the State of Utah. Originally it was intended as a hunting area, but as it was surveyed, it soon became apparent that the richer heritage of Range Creek was the archeological record. In 2009 the state transferred title to the University of Utah. The university's archeological investigation continues this day. 

Why were archeological sites at Range Creek so remarkably preserved? 

The current road was built in 1947. In 1951 when the Wilcox's bought the property from the Nutter Corporation, it was decided to keep the road private. The main corridor of the canyon was locked with gates at both ends, inadvertently protecting it from the outside world. Some of the Fremont archeological sites, I am sure, were explored by Waldo Wilcox, but the majority of the property was way too vast for him to make much headway. And, I believe, he had more interest in ranching. Therefore, only one family had access to the canyon. Fewer people meant less destruction. 

There are over 500 sites recorded from the top of the pass to the river, including some sites “in some absolute crazy places.” Only 10% of the canyon has been surveyed. Most of the sites tend to be concentrated in the middle rather than near the river. 

Fremont granary.

After a filling lunch and good instruction, it was time to pack up and go. We still had a long haul out. We stopped at a meadow strewn with the remains of pithouses. We were also shown another hard-to-find granary and petroglyph on a distant cliff wall. 

There's a lot more to Range Creek than I will probably ever know. My dad said he remembers hunting there as a young boy. My grandpa went to school with Waldo Wilcox and may have gotten permission that way. My uncle tells me that Butch Cassidy rode through Range Creek, but never used it as a hiding place. I would imagine that the Utes used this canyon quite extensively. Much of the canyon's past is shrouded in mystery. 

Foundation of a Fremont pithouse.

A Fremont village once stood in this meadow in Range Creek.

We finally made it back to the paved road leading into Horse Canyon without a single rainstorm washing out the road. My mind lingered with impressions of Range Creek. I arrived at two distinct and distant conclusions: 

First, I wouldn't have traded this experience for anything. To be able to spend the day with my brother-in-law was priceless. And to be able to be in the canyon and have tangible dirt, rocks and trees that I could now associate with this formidable place is something I have always desired. I also learned a lot of history. 

But, second, I was a little disappointed. I expected to see ruin after ruin filled with artifacts. I saw none of that. Does everything really need to be packed up and stored in a box in a warehouse? And the petroglyphs and granaries we saw were at a distance, through binoculars. That's just not my style.

I am definitely glad I did it. The guides on the tour were excellent and very friendly.  But I wouldn't do it again unless I had free-reign to explore some places on my own. ♠

 

 

Scofield Mine Disaster of 1900

John Lloyd came from Pembrokeshire, Wales. A biographer described him as “Tall, with dark eyes and dark hair. He carried himself erect.” Around 1882 he married Harriet Price of South Brecon, Wales. They migrated to America where they first settled in Colorado, but the climate and altitude was not suitable for Harriet. They heard of a booming mining town in Utah from Harriet's brother, who was living there. With this information, John moved his family to Scofield, not knowing it would bring his own demise. 

John came to Scofield first and moved into a log cabin while his wife stayed in Colorado. Once she arrived, he built her a comfortable home with all the amenities of the day. He was employed at the Winter Quarters mine, just a mile and half west of town. He bought grazing land, probably intending to go into the livestock business. He was involved in civic affairs and was affiliated with the Methodist Church. He read from the Bible extensively. 

Remains of the old Wasatch Store in Scofield Utah.

On May 1, 1900, shortly after 10 A.M., a loud boom rolled across the valley at Scofield. At first some thought it was a salute for Dewey Day, which commemorated the defeat of the Spanish at Manila in 1898. But when they saw the dark billowing clouds pouring from the hills in the west, they knew the situation was much more dire. 

Nobody could say for sure exactly what happened, but it was suspected that a flame from a miner's carbide lamp sparked the explosion by setting fire to the coal dust in the air. A chain reaction ensued, igniting a powder keg and sending a fireball through the tunnels at Winter Quarters Number Four mine. 

The mine's owners, the Pleasant Valley Coal Company, contracted with the Navy to produce two thousand tons of coal a day. The mine had just been inspected and deemed safe, which may have given the men a false sense of security. It was now the first of the month and several hundred miners worked hard to make the order. Each had carried a twenty five pound bag of black powder on their shoulder into the mine. 

Now inside the mine rescue workers found debris, smoke and dead horses. They worked on getting air inside the tunnels, then put the mangled bodies inside coal cars to haul them out. The clerk at the Wasatch Store had the responsibility of identifying and tagging each body that came through. 

Wasatch Store as it appeared in 1900.

The official number of fatalities on that dreadful day was set at 200 souls, but the true number was much higher. On a single day there were 107 new widows and 268 orphans. Among the widows was Harriet Price Lloyd. John was only forty-two. His five children suddenly became fatherless. 

Scofield has long been on my list of places to visit. Although I have lived in Utah almost all my life, the small town of Scofield was hidden in the mountains and not really on the way to any other destination. Consequently, I have never been there. This year, however, I made an effort to visit. 

I didn't know how things would go, but one of my primary goals was to see the ruins of Winter Quarters. Plans did not go as expected. Everything, it seemed, was gated off as Private Property. To make matters worse, I had no cell reception in the entire town. This prevented me from using Google Maps to find the correct road. My entire plan was becoming foiled! 

I had to find a place to sleep so I drove several miles south of town, past Clear Creek and onto a dirt road where I finally found a location to park and sleep in the back of my vehicle. The full moon silhouetted pine trees that grew on the steep slopes of the canyon. I pondered the mine disaster of 1900 and wondered what it was like to live back then. 

One of the many abandoned houses in Scofield.

By morning I had regrouped and was determined again to find the Winter Quarters Mine. On the south end of town I found a road that looked like it could be the one, but it was gated off. The sign on the gate did not say, “No Trespassing,” but asked only to close the gate. Perhaps it was just a gate to manage cattle. I decided to give it a try. As I opened the gate, I was met by a lady on a four-wheeler who said it was private property and she owned it. I quickly learned that luck was on my side. She explained that yes, Winter Quarters was on her property. But, no, they usually didn't let anyone on with the exception of the historical society once a year. She was kind enough to let me past, as long as I didn't leave the main road. She would be my shadow, keeping about fifty yards behind on her four-wheeler. I couldn't complain. 

This is all that remains of the Wasatch Store.

Wasatch Store.  Walls about to fall down.

The most prominent building on the premises were the ruins of the old Wasatch Store. I don't even know how this structure is still standing. It appeared to be four stories tall, with only two walls remaining. It seemed to me that it would just take one strong wind storm to topple these walls to the ground. 

This is the same store that employed the clerk who had to identify the bodies after the mine explosion. From what the lady told me, the miners got paid in tokens, which were redeemable at the store. Therefore, every employee had to come to the store frequently. The clerk knew everyone. 

She also told me that the building was used for multiple purposes in addition to a store. If I'm not mistaken, the third level was used as a library. 

I ambled around the building, amazed at how it hadn't already toppled. The bottom floor was mostly underground as a basement, while the top story would be like an attic with a sloped ceiling. A handful of windows were still intact. 

Foundation of the old school house.

This equipment building was built after the mine disaster.

Across the road from the store were the foundations of several houses. The lady told me that they go all the way up the canyon. At the time of the disaster, several people lived at Winter Quarters. I explored around the foundations, but didn't dare take too much time or wander too far off the road. She was still watching. 

Further down the road were the ruins of the school house. Beyond that was an old equipment building, which was built after the disaster. [After returning home, I looked on Google Maps and found that old foundations lie along the road much further than I was able to explore.] 

Winter Quarters Mine Number Four was located somewhere on this steep slope to the left.

A healthy stream ran down the valley, but I could barely see it due to the overgrowth of thickets. Next to the stream was a steep slope forested with trees. The Number Four Mine was located somewhere up there. I wasn't allowed to go there. She said it had about 120 years of growth and was a steep half-mile hike up the hillside. 

The foundations of the old school building were as far as I was allowed to go. She watched me like a hawk. She said there were liability issues. I suppose there could be plenty of dangerous surprises in an old mining town. But I was very grateful that she let me on the property at all. My brief visit was one not accomplished by many. I waved goodbye and drove off the premises. 

As for the rest of Scofield, it was a busy town for being so small. It seemed everyone rode a side by side or four-wheeler. I was hesitant to get pictures because so many people were out and about. They sat on their lawn chairs, just passing time. 

Almost everything on the sides of the road was blocked off as private property. North of town is a large reservoir that didn't exist in 1900. It was buzzing with life that day. I suppose that nowadays it is likely the life-blood of the town. 

Scofield, Utah Cemetery. Many of the miners killed in the disaster are marked with wooden headstones.

On the east side of town on a hill is the cemetery. I looked forward to finding something tangible to bring this tragedy to life. The graveyard overlooks the small town. Far to the north you can see Scofield Reservoir. 

I found a newspaper clipping written shortly after the mine disaster: “Out in the cemetery, which is as bleak and barren a spot in which human beings were ever interred, an army of men are digging. Progress is slow, on account of the hard and rocky earth. One grave has been dug large enough to hold two—father and son. Those who have relatives in the cemetery, or who own lots there are to be given a burial on their own ground; but the large majority will find resting places in rows in the southwest portion of the cemetery.” 

The clipping also mentioned that “. . . out in front of almost every home or inside the door usually left ajar, there might be seen a coffin, watched by members of the family, awaiting the time tomorrow when the dead bodies shall be given back to the earth.” 

At the Wasatch Store there were 170 suits for the deceased. Scofield was not the only place preparing for funerals. Many of the men came from other towns. It was said that one train carried those that were north of Springville, while another carried those that were south and east. Among the towns receiving deceased were Elsinore, Vermillion, Spanish Fork, Springville, Provo, American Fork, Salt Lake, Grand Junction, Ogden, Coalville, Helper and Price. 

Grave of Thomas Henry Riley.

One of the notable funerals was that of the Thomas family. They lost four, which included two brothers, and the two sons of one of the brothers. The two elder siblings were placed in one grave, while the two younger ones were placed in another. Apostle George Teasdale offered a short prayer and dedicated the ground. In his prayer he referred to the disaster, stating that it taught them all of the uncertainty of life, and the necessity of always being prepared for death. 

As I walked around the cemetery, I certainly felt that I walked on holy ground. Even though I had anticipated this, I couldn't get out of my mind how many markers there were with the same death date: May 1, 1900. 

A. Bintala was one of many miners from Finland.

Most of those killed in the disaster had a wooden marker, surely made in more recent times. I suppose that many had little or no family, and their graves were marked with crude crosses that have since deteriorated away. 

One of those with a wooden marker was A. Bintala, born in Finland. From my research, almost nothing is known about this man, but he belongs to an ethnic group that had a large representation in the mine disaster. At least sixty one Fins lost their lives at Scofield. As the newspaper clipping puts it, “The Fins are a peculiar people in more ways than one.” A minister from “their country” came from Rock Springs, Wyoming to assist in the matter. 

Robert and Llewellyn Williams, father and son.

I came across the graves of Robert Williams and his son, Llewellyn. They both died on May 1, 1900. Robert was born in Wales, but beyond that, almost nothing is known about them. Research shows that Robert was married and had seven children, but no one seems to know where his family went after he died. 

I couldn't help but to think of the families that were torn apart on this catastrophic day. Countless women became widows and children became fatherless. All had to move on without the breadwinner to support them. Most, I'm sure, moved away from Scofield, never to return to the tiny mountain town. 

So, what happened to the family of John Lloyd, the man from Pembrokeshire, Wales? 

I also came across his headstone. It was not wooden, but a modern marker made of stone. That tells me that his decedents have not forgotten him. An inscription reads: “Dear wife and children do not weep, I am not dead, but gone to sleep. I have only gone one short step before, to welcome you on Zion's shore.” 

Oftentimes I wonder what happened to the widows of the Scofield Mine Disaster. When her husband was killed, Harriet Price Lloyd was left with five children to raise on her own. Other than her brother, the rest of her family was in Wales. It must have been a difficult and lonely time. 

Grave of John X. Lloyd.

About a year later Harriet married a man by the name of Asa Wilson, a father of nine children whose wife had died. Asa was a member of the L.D.S. Church, which brought a new element to the life to Harriet, who was a non-Mormon. 

Harriet and Asa had four kids together. Unfortunately, this marriage didn't work out. After the divorce, the L.D.S. Relief Society was very kind and helpful to Harriet, making a big impression with her. After much study she decided to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She was 50 years old when she was baptized. From then on she was a faithful member of the church. 

Her biography states the following about Harriet: “In Scofield she was known for her unselfishness and willingness to help others. She was always doing something for someone else—helping the sick, the needy, helping with burials, even helping the doctor deliver babies. She assisted the doctor in delivering many, many new babies—and many times the doctor wasn't there—so Grandma Lloyd would deliver the babies herself. When people became ill or there was a death, “Grandma Lloyd” would always be summoned. She also took in borders, mostly school teachers.” 

In her old age she moved to Salt Lake to live with her daughter, Margaret. The very last part of her life she moved into a nursing home. It was there that she passed away, forty five years after her husband. They brought her body back to Scofield to the cemetery on the hill where she was buried in a plot near her husband. ♠

 

John and Harriet Lloyd.

 

Old Pete's Cabin and Moose

I was worried before we left for the hike. A thick blanket of smoke seeped into the valley and the temperature soared to ninety-seven degrees, which was incredibly hot for here. Alex told us that the smoke blew in from a fire in Idaho. 

That didn't deter us. We pushed forward with our plans and the four of us drove up the mountain road from Mantua. I was hiking today with my daughter, Jenna, and two nephews, Benjamin and Nathan. They were both from Texas and hadn't experienced much of this mountain stuff. 

We parked on the side of a graveled road and began hiking a trail I had found a year earlier. No signs. Nothing marked. That was how I liked it! 

The trail climbed steeply through scrub oak. Now shaded in thick vegetation, the smoke seemed to dissipate and the summer heat nearly disappeared. We gained elevation quickly. The graveled road where we parked became smaller with each switchback. 

Soon we entered a steep mountain canyon. Pine trees now grew around us and a quick flowing stream lay hidden at the bottom of the ravine which we could only hear. 

We came to a fork in the trail where we met another hiker wearing a Safari hat and using trekking poles. He told us to watch for moose. I was excited to hear that. I saw a couple of moose here twenty years ago, but nothing since. Moose are gigantic animals with palmate antlers who prefer dense, swampy areas. I've only seen a handful in my life. 

From here the trail really got steep and rocky. We moved away from the canyon and water, and toward the upper slopes. In all we climbed roughly 1500 feet. That's not bad for only an hour of hiking. 

By now we were high above almost everything else, standing on the shoulders of the mountains. Nestled on a small saddle are the remnants of an old structure. According to maps, this is known as Old Pete's Cabin. 

It is estimated that this old sheepherder's cabin was built in the early 1900's. Who was Old Pete? Well, that's a mystery (to me, at least). But he lived in a beautiful place, far from anyone else and high enough in elevation to make summers comfortable and winters brutal. 

At one time the roof was still standing, but heavy snows have since caused it to collapse. Four walls are still intact, with the door on the east side and one window on the west. Inside are the remnants of a wood-burning stove. 

We walked up a knoll and Jenna spotted on another hillside what looked like a moose. We had no binoculars and it was a couple hundred yards away, so we weren't sure. It was big and it was black, but it wasn't moving! After watching it for a couple minutes without it moving a foot, we decided it must be a bush. 

The rest of us gave up, but Jenna was determined to investigate further. We decided to walk closer and sneak up on it, coming around a hill just below. 

We zipped our mouths and snuck along the trail like four Indians tip-toeing in moccasins. But by the time we rounded the hill, there was nothing to be seen. I guess we were right. There were no moose after all. 

—But . . . there was no big black bush, either. Jennna was still determined that something was out there. She retraced her steps back to the knoll and sure enough, the big black spot we had seen earlier had now disappeared! 

The rest of us, once again in our defeated spirit, acknowledged that there must have been a moose, but it somehow slipped away. Jenna, however, kept her eyes pealed. 

We returned to Old Pete's Cabin and took some final photos. The remaining walls stood about four feet high, but the door frame was much higher. I could still see one rusty hinge on the window frame.

Then, Jenna spotted them. 

High on the slope above us—silhouetted perfectly on the crest of the summit—walked out two massive bull moose from the pine trees! We watched them for several minutes, barely discerning antlers on one of them. The sun was beginning to set, causing their black bodies to appear like shadows on the hilltop. This was the first time Nathan or Benjamin had ever seen a moose. They were pretty excited. 

By the time the two distant animals had disappeared over the side of the mountain, it was time for us to head back down. We all wore a smile on our face. We had found a beautiful place with a couple of moose to boot. What else could we ask for! ♠