A Navajo Lake in Paiute Territory

When I first moved to Iron County twenty-seven years ago, I was baffled and somewhat amused that Navajo Lake should have such a name. My hometown—over 300 miles away—was just thirty minutes from the Navajo Reservation. There were no Navajos over here, I assumed. Therefore I concluded that Navajo Lake was so named only because it had a good ring. 

Carmen Clark, Chairwoman of the Shivwits Band of the Paiute Tribe had similar feelings. Commenting on a proposed bill that would rename many landmarks that indigenous people find offensive, she said, “Why is it called Navajo Lake when the Navajos weren't even in this area? It should have a Paiute name.” 

Navajo Lake sits in the northeast corner of Kane County, Utah.

For those unfamiliar, Navajo Lake is located in a picturesque setting on the Markagunt Plateau at an elevation of 9,200 feet. It is nestled in a little valley, surrounded on all sides by pine trees. The lake was formed by a lava flow on the eastern side of the valley. An interesting detail is that there is no stream running out of the lake. Instead, the water seeps into an underground drainage that emerges at Cascade Falls, over a mile away. 

Nowadays the lake is used primarily for recreation. Near the shores are a couple of campgrounds, a lodge and several private cabins. The waters are stocked with three varieties of trout. Last summer our family took kayaks on the lake. Despite the popularity, Navajo Lake retains a peaceful setting. 

Recreation is now popular, but not overwhelming, at Navajo Lake.

But it wasn't until a few years ago that I learned the story behind the naming of the lake. And, no, it wasn't named on a whim. And, yes, there were Navajos in the area at the time. 

The story was told by Joseph H. Pollock in 1930, one of two surviving men at the time who were part of a posse to round up a group of thieving Navajos. As the story goes, it was October of 1869 near the town of Kannara when a passing camper with his span of mules woke up to learn that during the night his animals had been shot full of arrows. A posse was quickly summoned, and as they pursued the tracks they learned that just two and a half miles north, the Indians had taken a large herd of horses.

Joseph Henry Pollock (right) poses with his brother, Samuel.

With two natives as their guides (presumably Paiutes) they headed east and climbed nearly 2,000 feet to the top of what is now Kanarra Mountain, passing through Blue Valley. Near a head of a fork of the Virgin River, they spotted an Indian who quickly disappeared into the gulch. Then they found a horse belonging to one of the townspeople, unfortunately full of arrows. Just before they got to Black Rock, they found a horse mortally wounded. Further on they found six more dead horses. 

They came to a big mountain north of the lake where they made a grisly discovery. This horse was not dead, but was full of arrows and hamstrings cut out. There, darkness overtook them and they paused to build a fire and decide their next move. It was decided they would continue the chase until the thieves were caught. 

Pine-covered hills on the north side of Navajo Lake.

They walked along the high ridge on the north side of the lake (but at this time they didn't even know the lake existed) and then stepped off their horses to lead them down the steep embankment. As they approached the east side of the lake, one of their Indian guides could smell the smoke of a campfire. As they came up and over a small knoll, they could see the fire and horses tied up. 

They hoped to surround the camp, but unbeknownst to them, they were being followed by a dog, and with a barking alarm the Navajos fled into the darkness. Shooting ensued, but no one was killed. The horses were quickly gathered and the posse, needing a break, led them to a nearby meadow where they had a quick bite to eat. This was their first meal since they left Kanarra and it was now one o'clock in the morning. 

They decided to camp there, someone always standing guard throughout the night. When daylight came they learned they were next to a large lake. The picturesque setting must have surely surprised them. The two friendly Indians with them gathered up moccasins, blankets, bows and arrows that were left behind. The Navajos were never caught. 

Rough road to Navajo Lake, probably around 1930. (photo courtesy of Sherratt Library, Special Collections Department.)

From this expedition, the lake would later be known as Navajo Lake. But what was it called before 1869? To the white man it wasn't known. It was the Southern Paiutes who were familiar with this territory and knew this mountain up and down. What was their name for it? 

William Palmer, a local historian who was very close to the Paiute people, gave this insight: “The Indian name for the lake was beautiful and it had a poetic connotation. The old Indian trail ran along the top of the ridge north of the lake and overlooking the body of water. Being situated between two high ridges and protected thus from stiff winds, the surface of the lake is not much ruffled. From the trail above, the sky is clearly reflected in the water and the lake appears to be filled with clouds. The Indian name was “Pah-cun-ab” which means cloud lake, or a lake of clouds.” 

Another name the Paiutes gave was “Pa-voo-weap,” which was the name of the valley or basin which holds the lake. There is also a third name, “Pang-ap-its,” which translates to “water babies.” 

The phenomenon of water babies is interesting because I have seen it documented in two other areas of the country that are far from Navajo Lake. Sometimes there may be a small variations in appearance, but most of the descriptions are the same. 

Photo from Paiute Restoration and Gathering Powwow in Cedar City.

According to Palmer, he had first-hand accounts from older members of the tribe who had seen the creatures in Navajo Lake. The Paiutes said they were near half human, half bird and half animal. Their skin was dark, like that of an Indian's, and their hair black, with long tresses that hung over the shoulders. Dark brown hair also covered their bodies. Their feet were webbed and they could fly, swim, or walk on the water like a man. 

One distinguishing feature that made them uniquely eerie was their cry. When they hurt, they cried like a baby. No matter what the Indians did, they could not kill them. If hit with an arrow, the Pang-apits would flutter around and cry like a baby, then fly away. 

Palmer states: “In the moonlight these creatures could be seen in large numbers walking around over the lake splashing and whipping the water with their wings like they were having a real sporting time. About the time the Mormons came these strange creatures disappeared and have never been seen in the country since.” 

It would be easy to dismiss water babies as a myth if it weren't for the first-hand accounts and also due to stories from other locations. It is a very fascinating feature associated with the history of Navajo Lake. 

Today the lake is a favorite spot for anglers and boaters. Very few of them know the history of how it got its name, nor do they know the older Paiute name. When they camp on its banks at night, I'm sure they don't listen for the crying shriek of a water baby. ♠ 

 

Depiction of water baby, by Savanah Lacy.

 



Sources  

Palmer, W. R. (1951). Forgotten Chapters of History (Vol. I & II). Merill Library and Learning Resources Program. 

Webber, Megan. “It should have a Paiute name: Shivwits chime in on state bill proposing name changes of landmarks.” Cedar City News, 29 December 2020. https://www.cedarcityutah.com/news/archive/2020/12/29/mrw-it-should-have-a-paiute-name-shivwits-chime-in-on-state-bill-proposing-name-changes-of-landmarks-offensive-to-native-americans/#.Y_-x7h_MKUk.

Funeral at Carmel-by-the-Sea

We entered the Carmel Mission and were told that all of it was open to the public, except the chapel, which was closed for another forty-five minutes due to a funeral. That immediately piqued my curiosity and as I entered the little courtyard I gravitated toward the heavy wooden doors of the chapel. 

One door was propped open, but there was a sign indicating a private service: Do not enter. I stood back and observed from a distance. My view inside was obscured at best, but I could sense a full congregation and could see all the way to the front at the altarpiece. 

I wondered for whom this funeral might be. Was it a priest, or a worker at the mission? Could anybody choose to have their final services here, or did you have to have a connection? 

As I watched I could hear hymns being played on a pipe organ, accompanied by singing. There were several hymns in a row, all familiar, but only one I knew for sure, "Ave Maria."

Just outside the chapel stood three Marines in dress blues, patiently waiting for the service to end. I decided to take a leisurely stroll around to the north side of the chapel into the old cemetery. Here there were many graves from the late 1700's. As I passed the graves, many of them decorated with abalone shells, I could still hear the vibrant music of the organ. What a beautiful setting! 

For a short time I wandered to other places in the mission. This included the museum and a larger courtyard. Relics from the past were put on view for all to see. Set at a table were ceramic bowls and jars and two wooden chairs, displayed to give the appearance of a humble Spanish home over 200 years ago. 

In a gallery next to the chapel sat a travertine marble sarcophagus with a life-size bronze sculpture of the deceased Father Junípero Serra resting atop. Father Serra is clothed in the Franciscan habit, with crucifix, cord and rosary, as he would have been upon preparation for burial. His bare feet rest upon a grizzly bear cub. Father Juan Crespí stands at the head of Serra, bending forward in an attitude of veneration. Father Crespí died two years before Father Serra, so this represents him ready to meet his friend in the spirit world. The sculpture is a cenotaph, meaning that it is just a memorial, and that the body is buried elsewhere. 

Junípero Serra was born in Mallorca, Spain in 1713 and came to the New World as a Franciscan Priest. He established nine of the 21 missions in California, including the one at Carmel. He presided over the mission from 1770 until his death in 1784. He was buried beneath the floor of an old adobe chapel.

Then I returned to the courtyard. It was lovely there, with beds of flowers and cactus flanking the plaza. I knew the funeral was about to end because now the military men were getting into position. One stood near the doors of the chapel with a trumpet while the other two at a strategic point in the courtyard. They held a tightly-folded flag. 

One by one the family and friends of the deceased filtered out of the chapel and into the courtyard. All were dressed in Sunday best with suits and ties for the men and dresses for the ladies. 

When all were out, they created a quarter circle around the Marines. As Taps began to play, the two servicemen unfolded the flag until it stood as one sheet, taking in the rays of sun and held firmly by the white gloves of the men. 

They held it taut, horizontal to the sky, then with ceremonious attention, they tilted it to a forty-five degree angle so the tiny crowd could see. Then they returned it to horizontal and proceeded to fold it again. They folded it precisely and with duty, their white gloves tucking it in and making sure all was snug. 

One of them took the folded flag and walked it to the widow. He handed it to her and with the utmost respect gave a slow salute. All was silent in the courtyard. 

And with that the funeral was over. Family and friends walked over to hug the widow. The servicemen walked to the gate and left the courtyard. I watched in awe, taking in the beautiful ceremony. 

Within five minutes, much of the crowd had cleared and all was returning to normal at the mission. For the first time I entered the chapel. It was long and narrow with two rows of pews and one aisle that ran toward the altar. The altarpiece was elaborate, with several sculptures, including one of the crucified Christ at center. 

At the front of the chapel on the left side of the altar, etched into the floor, were the grave markers of three burials. The middle one read: “Fr. Junípero Serra, Apóstol de California, 1713- 1784.” 

The little adobe chapel where Father Serra was originally interred was torn down and in 1797 a bigger, more magnificent basilica was placed in its stead. His body remained beneath the floor of the sanctuary, precisely below where I now stood. I wondered how many funerals over the years had been held in this very hallowed spot. ♠

 

Curse of the Gypsy

(Photo by Jenelle Lacy)

By Margarete Eichler

(Note: The following story is taken from the autobiography of Margarete Eichler, translated into English from her native German tongue. She writes of her Mother-in-law, who was born on Christmas Day of 1864 in a small village in the Kingdom of Prussia. The story of her encounter with the Gypsy lady likely took place near this village, which is now located in northern Poland near the city of Gdansk.)
 

Now I want to write something about my husband's family. Ernst's mother, Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland, was married to Johann Dombrowski. They had nine children - three boys and six girls; three died in infancy. Ernst's father became very ill and was confined to his sick bed for a long time. Life was very hard for Ernst's mother. She had to care for her sick husband and her six children. She herself had a sick leg which never healed. Once I asked her how long she had had that sore on her leg and she told me the following story: 

She lived in the country with her parents and her sister. One day gypsies came through the village. They stayed several days and tried to make a living begging for food. Little Klara, her sister, and a few other girls played on the village road. Suddenly they saw this gypsy woman walking by, going from door to door, begging for food. Well, as children are, especially when they have a big mouth and don't like somebody, they yelled after the gypsy woman and called her bad names. Klara, being a good little girl, did not participate in this name calling. The angry gypsy chased the children down the road, she shook her fist at them and threatened them. The children became quite fearful and ran for their lives. 

Only Klara did not run. She reasoned she did not call any of those bad words, so she had no reason to run away. As the gypsy came closer, though, Klara became very frightened, too. The gypsy looked very scary, and Klara looked at her with big, frightened eyes; the gypsy looked to her like a scary witch. She grabbed Klara by the arm, shook her fiercefully, and spoke some awful things to her; she even put a curse on her. Then she let go of her and walked on. Klara was terrified. She ran as fast as she could, crying all the while, tripping and falling. She hurt her leg as she fell. 

The next day the leg was very red and painful. Her mother tried to treat the leg with ointments and compresses - it would not heal. The parents never took the child to the doctor. An open, festering wound developed which never healed; she had the wound until the day she died as an old woman. Her mother told her: "Yes, the gypsy put a spell on you. She cursed you and your leg will never heal."

 

Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland.