Utah's Most Haunted Cemetery on Halloween?

It is quite scary how everything came together! 

I didn't mean it this way, but my original plan fell through just three days before I left so I replaced it with a drive through Skull Valley, ending at the abandoned mining town of Mercur. Many consider the Mercur cemetery to be the most haunted in Utah. It wasn't until the day before that I realized I would be there on Halloween.

Now, as I make my little drive, more “coincidences” fall into place. The first happens as I scan the channels above 69 on my car's Sirius XM station. To my delight—or to my horror—I learn that channel 107 is Scream Radio and plays nonstop haunted music and stories. Everything on this channel sounds creepy—nails scraping on glass, laughter of a child doll, the scream of a woman. The music they play sounds like it came from A Nightmare on Elm Street or The Exorcist. 

And to top it all off, due to falling behind in my schedule, I arrive at the parking lot of the Mercur Cemetery right at dusk. I can't really say it's a parking lot, but rather a small half-circle space off the side of the road at the bottom of a hollow surrounded on all sides by sage and rabbit brush. The small cemetery is located on a small hilltop to the south. 

The town of Mercur not only had three lives, cycling from boom to bust, but was also burned to the ground twice. It all began in 1869 when a prospector stumbled on placer gold in the gravel of a creek bed. Claims were filed and by 1870 a village was growing with all the hustle and bustle of a typical mining town. It reached its peak in 1873 when over $80,000 worth of gold was shipped out. But soon the rich ore began to fade and by 1880 the buildings were dismantled and taken away, and the town was dead.

Within a decade it was revived after a lone European prospector discovered cinnabar, the chief ore mineral of mercury. Gold was also found in the cinnabar. In addition to the new finds there was now new technology—cyanide. This chemical compound was used to more thoroughly extract the gold. Mercur flourished, and even though it burned down in 1896, it was quickly rebuilt and grew to a population of 6,000.

The town burned again in 1902 after a grease fire from a kitchen spewed flames that spread and consumed the entire lower town, which included every business. Again it was rebuilt and grew to a population of 12,000 people. But by 1913 the mines stopped making a profit, and by 1917 the town was again deserted. 

Merucur had one more life, which began in the 1930's. This one wasn't as lively as by now transportation improved so that no one had to live there. Instead, most commuted from Stockton or Tooele. Then, during World War Two, the government temporarily banned all gold mining, putting the final nail in the coffin. Since that time there has been virtually no trace of the old mining town of Mercur. That is, except the old cemetery. 

As I walk up the short but steep trail that leads to the burial ground I feel sorry for the pallbearers who once had to haul a wooden box on their shoulders. As I get closer I can discern the distinct scent of smoke. Is it coming from somewhere else, or somewhere near the cemetery? There are no other cars down by the road and I am confident I am the only one here. 

Upon cresting the hill I observe the tiny cemetery. White picket fences surround most of the graves. Most are the same size and clustered together. I notice that none of them have headstones and several are adorned with dolls or stuffed animals. 

And then, on the far side of the graves, I find the remnants of a smoldering fire. A faint wisp of smoke slowly lifts to the sky. No one else is here. The sight of the smoke emits an eerie feeling. I remember that the Mercur fire of 1902 claimed the lives of several people. Perhaps the two smoldering heaps have a connection. 

Mercur Cemetery has had many claims of paranormal activity. Especially at night there have been claims of phantasmal apparitions. An Italian miner has been said to chat with investigators through an electromagnetic field meter. Others have heard voices say, “You don't belong here.” Many guests of the cemetery suddenly experience a drain on their electronic devices. And then there's the young girl who likes it when visitors place dolls upon her grave. (How people know this, I am not sure.) 

Death years of those buried range from 1895 to 1912. The vast majority are children, anywhere from newborn to a few years old. Although many of the graves are protected by wooden slats, others are marked only by a ring of rocks. Many, I'm sure, are not marked at all and are completely lost to time.

One of the graves in particular stands out from the others. The fence around it is smaller than the others and nearly the entire inside is covered with dolls, stuffed animals and other toys for children. I'm quite confident that this is the young girl who likes it when people put dolls on her grave. 

But the dolls don't seem to invoke the same kind of loving response that one might normally associate with a cute baby toy. These dolls seem to be more sinister. Imagine them more like Chucky in the movie Child's Play or Megan in the more recent horror flick of the same name. These playthings appear to be stirring the dead or conjuring evil spirits. 

But I'm not here to get sucked into any superstitious claims. 

In addition to becoming acquainted with this old burial ground, I also have in mind to find the one grave that is marked. Although we have records of at least forty-six burials in the Mercur Cemetery, it is unclear as to who is buried where. That is with the exception of five-month old Annie Jones. 

Annie died in the cold of January, probably under circumstances that were less than ideal. Her mother was an immigrant from Scotland who sang in the choir and her father was superintendent of the Sacramento Mine. Annie was the second child of a family that would eventually have eight kids, the rest of them growing to adulthood. From what I read, Annie was the only person in the cemetery to have a grave-marker. 

The sun has set and the rosy glow of dusk has disappeared. I brought no flashlight nor phone, but I can still see with the faint light that is left in the sky. I go from grave to grave searching for any that have a headstone. I find nothing. I search beyond the obvious cluster of graves and find several rings of rocks and other odd configurations, but no headstone. 

Finally I decide to give up and return to the car. My guess is that Annie is the “young girl who likes it when visitors place dolls on her grave.” I decide that when I get to the car I will get my phone and look up pictures of her grave on the internet (if I have service), then it would be confirmed whether or not I already saw it.

I stride down the hill to the car. To my surprise my phone has service and instantly I can pull up photos of the grave of Annie Calderwood Jones. And again to my surprise, the images on my phone do not match anything I saw. There is only one thing to do . . . and that is to return to the cemetery!

It is now becoming dark and cold. I don a jacket and bring a flashlight with a bright beam. I also bring my phone. 

As I return to the cemetery, I notice the dying fire with embers now glowing red in the dark. I squat and hold my hands over the small source of heat. 

Then I find the grave with all the dolls and systematically compare it with the picture from my phone. The fence is very similar, but the stone is definitely not the same. They are both square, but Annie's has a faint etching that reads: “Beloved Daughter.” I look at other rocks on the ground and they don't match either. The website includes a picture of the grave in context to the other graves with fences around them. That for sure doesn't match. 

Then I return to every grave in the cemetery, and one by one shine my beam inside, and one by one I conclude that this is not the grave of Annie Jones. In fact, I go to every grave at least three times. There isn't a single grave I can line up in a way that matches any of the pictures. 

It is now quite dark and becoming late. I am still very far from my final destination. But this little problem is driving me nuts! How can I not find a specific grave when there are only about twenty to choose from??!! 

Not only do I search the main section of the cemetery, but also on the periphery, or in other words, out in the darkness of juniper trees that cover the hill. Now, if there is going to be a ghost or something else to scare me, this would be the place. As I roam the thought crosses my mind that I might get lost. I occasionally come across more rings of rocks which would indicate possible outlying graves. Who knows how many restless spirits are lurking here in the nethermost depths of darkness! 

Luckily I do not get lost or killed and return to the main cluster of graves. Although now I notice another beam of light making its way toward me from the bottom of the hill. More than likely this is someone coming to visit on Halloween. But what if it isn't? What if it is a psycho-man coming up to murder me? What if they are coming to cause trouble? Or, what if it is a ghost? 

Knowing that it is likely a kindly living human, I confidently meet the beam of light as it reaches the top of the hill. “Hello,” I say as I accost the couple. It appears to be a teenage boy and girl, both dressed in ridiculously silly Halloween costumes. “Do you two come up here often,” I ask, hoping they might know the location of Annie Jones' grave. 

It turns out the boy has been here a couple of times, but isn't sure about the grave. (I suspect that he comes up once a year, and always after dark.) The two are very nice and for the next five minutes they help me search the cemetery one last time. 

With no luck it is time for me to go for good. I thank them for their help and let them continue without my presence. My evening would have to end with the bitter taste of not getting everything I had hoped for. But still, it was a good experience. 

Once again I return to my vehicle at the bottom of the now pitch-black hill. I start the engine and appreciate the invention of seat-warmers. Scream Radio once again surrounds the empty space inside my car and the thought crosses my mind that this is the perfect music to listen to after visiting the scariest cemetery in Utah. 

And then another thought crosses my mind. 

There is no doubt that Annie Jones was buried in the Mercur Cemetery. There is no doubt that her grave at one time had been documented to exist in the exact place I had just searched. Perhaps (and I know that I am inching closer to the crazy people who claim to see ghosts and hear voices) the grave has vanished and is gone forever, just like the old mining town of Mercur! ♠ 

 

 

Southeast Asian Monsoon

I once stood on the front porch of a gentleman during a downpour of rain. The shower was so intense that it reminded him of the monsoon season in Vietnam when he served in the war. “It was so reliable,” he said, “that you could set your watch by it.” 

For some reason that little conversation has always stayed with me. I knew that someday I wanted to go to Vietnam, but would I really want to go there during the monsoon? On one hand I wouldn't want inclement weather interfering with sightseeing. But on the other, a Southeast Asian monsoon would be an experience few on the other side of the globe would ever have. 

Several years later I finally got the opportunity to travel to the Mekong Delta area of Vietnam and Cambodia. Our visit would be during the first two weeks of October, which would not be at the peak of the monsoon season, but on the shoulders. Phnom Penh receives an average of 9.7 inches of rain during October, while Ho Chi Minh City receives 13.4 inches. For both places, September is the wettest month, followed by October. 

Storm clouds brewing near Sam Mountain in Vietnam.

I didn't want to be stuck indoors or beneath an umbrella for the entire two weeks, so I did my research and many people online assured me that when the monsoonal rains came, they hit hard and heavy, but after an hour or so Heaven would turn off her spigot and all would return to normal. No matter what the scenario, our journey would be an adventure. 

During our first day and a half in Saigon, it didn't rain at all. Then, while we sat at a table in Chinatown in a restaurant with a full open-air front, the sky began to release its water. With excitement I stood up and walked to the front of the restaurant where I met the sidewalk and watched the street, traffic and people turn wet. Some pedestrians and motorcyclists quickly donned plastic ponchos while others braved the storm. 

But as quickly as it came, it left. The skies gave no more. I waited for the rest of the evening and there was no more rain. I was surprised that after two days in Vietnam we only had one measly outburst. Certainly no setting our watches with that. 

Our first heavy rain came on days 3 and 4, both in Phnom Penh. They began in late afternoon and lasted several hours after dark. It made navigating the streets more difficult. Many streets had no sidewalk, which left us to dodging potholes of water, cars and mopeds, all while holding wide umbrellas above our heads. And all this in the dark. 

It also made it more difficult to find a place for dinner. Most street vendors and restaurants with outside seating closed shop once the rain began. 

Puddles of water on the street in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

The majority of locals wore ponchos rather than use umbrellas.

We observed the locals. Most preferred ponchos to umbrellas. A surprising amount used nothing at all and chose to get soaked. It was always cute to see a family on a moped, perhaps the father on front wearing a poncho, and his two school-aged daughters on back getting soaked! 

I recall our final night in Phnom Penh. We went to the night market to look around, then to the food court where we ate on red mats placed on the ground, kind of like a picnic. After our dinner the rain began to pour. It wasn't heavy, but constant. Jordan and I both walked a mile to our hotel. I used an umbrella and Jordan chose to go without. Needless to say, he was soaked by the time we got back (but he said it felt good). 

Another remarkable thing about this time of year is how much water there is . . . everywhere! The Mekong River swells in size and this is why those living near its banks dwell in floating homes or on stilts. The Tonlé Sap River connects Tonlé Sap Lake with the Mekong, merging near the city of Phnom Penh. During the dry season the river flows toward the Mekong, nearly draining Tonlé Sap Lake. But during the rainy season the river actually reverses course and brings water from the Mekong back into Tonlé Sap Lake. 

Houses built along the swollen Tonle Sap River in Cambodia.

Water is everywhere during the rainy season.

In addition to extra water in the river, many of the fields and other places are also flooded with water. As a tourist it was difficult to know which places always had water versus those that were flooded due to it being the rainy season. Once you got out of the city, much of the land, it seemed, was submerged under water. 

The seasonal floods are vital to rejuvenating the river's ecosystems. Floodwaters bring nutrient-rich silt which is necessary to nourish the vast amount of rice fields in the Mekong Delta. Additionally it also provides moisture needed to water crops. 

Storm clouds over the Mekong River near the Cambodia / Vietnam border.

One positive benefit for the tourist is that it brings temperatures down to bearable. I recall a trip to Thailand several years ago during the dry season. They say in Thailand there are only three seasons: hot, hotter and hottest. We were there between “hotter” and “hottest” and although beautiful, Thailand was scorching. Here in nearby Cambodia and Vietnam during the rainy season, other than a little mugginess and heat during the climax of the day, I felt comfortable most of the time. 

As far as the rain restricting and interfering with our trip, fortunately for us, I would say it didn't too much. Most of our downpours came in the final 2 or 3 hours of daylight, or even once the sun had already set. Our biggest daytime downpour came while we toured the infamous S-21 Prison in Phnom Penh, and we were inside for most of that. My advice is to come prepared with an umbrella or poncho, and a little flexibility. 

Downpour at S-21 Prison in Phnom Penh.

During our stay in Chau Doc, a Vietnamese city near the Cambodian border, I purposely booked a hotel on the edge of town that overlooked rice patty fields and the distant Sam Mountain. My favorite monsoon experience came here while sitting on the balcony. 

Rain came down in droves, starting just before dusk and lasting into the night. It was exhilarating to relax and observe the storm, listening to the flood of water descend from the sky. Wind blew the cold scent of storm across our skin. Suddenly a flash of lightening lit up the sky and for a moment the palm trees, rice fields and Sam Mountain flickered before us in silhouette, only to instantly disappear. Seconds later a low rumbling echo of thunder bellowed through the night air. 

After several hours the rain stopped. 

Now was the next movement of our symphony. Cicadas buzzed in the distance and frogs chirped a melodic song. Somewhere out of view, probably in the bar in the next building, we listened to the singing of karaoke. 

All was right in the world. We had nowhere to go and nothing to do but sit and listen to beautiful music in a foreign land. ♠

Storm moving over Sam Mountain in Chau Doc, Vietnam.

Little Creek Peak (#15)

Little Creek Peak as seen from Bear Valley.

Little Creek Peak view from near our starting point on the south side.

Little Creek Peak from further south on an unnamed peak. Sandy Peak behind it.

Little Creek Peak from an unnamed peak to the west.

We spent the night sleeping in the back of the truck in our own niche of a little valley, ten miles from pavement at the dead-end of a dirt road. There was no one else here, just the rustling of aspen leaves and the menacing threat of storm clouds. Luckily for us, everything was still dry. 

After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and a protein shake we set out on a trail that headed north. At times the path was distinct, but at other times it disappeared and we had to forge our own way. The walk wasn't too difficult because portions of the forest had been wiped clean in a fire several years ago and now there were just young saplings to contend with. There were also patches of beautiful flowers and berry bushes, whose purple grape-like fruit tasted bitter sweet. 

Little Creek Peak has been on my radar for years now. From Bear Valley it rises majestically, but is caged in by private property and steep, thickly vegetated slopes. I decided to attack it from the south side which appeared more benign, but required a long drive on a two-rut road. 

For some reason I assumed the path from our campsite was a four-wheeling road, which would have been easy to follow, but it wasn't. Instead it was a narrow trail that randomly took shape, then disappeared several times. With the pyramid-like face of Little Creek Peak getting closer, we trudged over hills, but mostly stayed near the ridge Although we saw no big game, this area appeared to be prime habitat for deer and elk. 

Jordan doing what he's always done . . .

. . . catching horny toads and other little reptiles!

The first two and a half miles weren't too bad, especially when we were on the trail. Once we arrived at the base, the climb would begin in earnest. Over the next mile we gained 1,100 feet in elevation. We began on the south face, the first part clear of trees. The second part we had to push our way through sapling aspens. 

Then we arrived at the southeast ridge which had fewer trees but was rockier. There were a couple outcrops where we had to perform simple class 3 maneuvers to cross. 

At the base of Little Creek Peak.

Further up on the ridge looking toward the summit.

As we ascended we quickly gained an elevated view. Sandy Peak was now prominently visible to the north. I had a fun experience climbing that last year. We could also see that monsoonal storm clouds were now in action. Several miles to the east hovered a slow-moving cloudburst. 

When we finally made it to the summit there was a sense of relief, but also a twinge of disappointment. First, our view to the west was partially blocked by trees. We could have walked out to a point that gave us a better view, but it was further than we wanted to walk at the moment. And second, a thick colony of gnats already occupied the summit! And they were awful! There was no enjoying the view from the summit for us. We quickly moved down to a shelf on the south side, not too far away. 

It felt good to be to the top. It's one of those peaks that doesn't get climbed too often. From our perch we had a view of Sandy Peak and the Dutton's. To the south were many mountain hills, most of them indiscernible unless you knew what you were looking at. I could see Horse Valley Peak, Brian Head Peak and Hancock Peak, the latter being on the skyline and probably the most prominent. 

Distant cloudburst.  If you look closely, there are gnats everywhere in this picture!

U.S. Geological Survey marker.

Sandy Peak from (near) the summit of Little Creek Peak.

It was near the summit where we heard our first thunder and felt drops of rain. Jordan and I had a traumatic experience with lightning last summer and had no desire to do that again. We quickly made our way down the summit, this time choosing to stay on the south face. 

Drops began to fall and I only brought one poncho. As the rain picked up we chose to take shelter beneath the wide bough of a pine tree. I got out my poncho and we spread it over the two of us. 

Hiding from the rain.

After fifteen minutes the shower turned off and we again picked our way down the slope, this time running the gauntlet through wet aspen leaves. From the summit we could see where we had lost the trail on the way up, so now that we were on our way down, we aimed toward the trail. 

Two hours after leaving the summit, we arrived back at the truck. This was a relief because we felt that a more powerful storm was imminent. We removed our packs and enjoyed a snack before driving away.

Storm clouds continue to grow and move.

Little Creek Peak
 

Miles from truck (one way): 3.0
 

Elevation gain (net): 1,194 feet
 

Elevation gain (gross): 1,658 feet
 

Final elevation: 10,127 feet



The real adventure, however, came as we began to drive away. The storm hit in earnest and water poured from the sky in droves. The two-rut road became a muddy mess and I did all I could to keep us going forward. 

Then the hail came. It pinged on the the hood, windshield and everywhere around. The marble-sized balls of ice temporarily turned the ground white. I was worried about putting dents in the truck.

Looking behind us where just fifteen minutes earlier we had been hiking, was one nebulous shroud. And then we saw the lightning, with thunder immediately following. The bolt was exactly where we had been! I was so glad we got out when we did. 

Eventually the hail stopped, and so did the rain. Somehow I was able to make it off the dirt road without having to put it into four-wheel drive. It was nice to at last be on pavement and driving home. ♠

 

Soggy roads from hailstorm.

What's left of the hail.

Dodger Stadium

Only two Major League ballparks⸺Fenway Park and Wrigley Field⸺are older than Dodger Stadium. To be sure, both of these ballparks have Dodger Stadium beat by nearly fifty years, but it is still the oldest park west of the Mississippi. It is the largest baseball stadium in the world by seat capacity. Not too shabby. 

When the Dodgers came from Brooklyn in 1958, they spent their first four seasons in the Los Angeles Coliseum while their new stadium was being built. During the construction phase several residents were pressured to relocate. Tops of ridges were trimmed down, ravines filled, millions of cubic yards of dirt moved, and an entire elementary school was simply buried rather than demolished. (It currently sits beneath the pavement of the parking lot on the third base side.) The first season of Dodger Stadium saw a MLB attendance record of 2,755,184 fans. 

As a teenager I was not a Dodger fan. But that was only because they weren't the Braves. I did, however, have respect for them. They always seemed to be good. Back then their superstars were Pedro Guerrero, Steve Sax, Orel Hershiser and Fernando Valenzuela. And, of course, who could forget manager, Tommy Lasorda? 

Decades have passed and my heart has softened. For years now I have wanted to watch a game at Dodger Stadium and today was my lucky day. We had seats directly behind home plate . . . and in the nose-bleed section! Yes, it was a long walk to the upper deck, but we had a wonderful view of the whole field and San Gabriel Mountains. 

Being an hour early we decided to get our food while the crowds were still filing in. For $7.99 I ordered the famous Dodger Dog. There was nothing special about it except that it was about ten inches long. It wasn't even thicker than normal. I decorated mine with the standard ketchup, mustard, relish and onions. The banger came when we tallied the total of food with drinks for five people: a whopping $88!!! —I've never spent near that much on concessions. 

The Dodger Dog.

Many decks of Dodger Stadium.

I don't believe the game was sold out, but it was close. The Dodgers are always a favorite and it helps that they seem to be perennially good. This was also the “Freeway Series” against cross-town rivals Los Angeles Angels. 

There was an excitement in the air. Not only could I feel it, but I believe most of the 50,000 people there could also. For me it was the opportunity to see someone who was becoming a legend. It was like going to the ballpark and watching Willie Mays or Micky Mantle. Today we would be able to see in-person, Shohei Ohtani. 

I will admit that over the last three decades, I have not followed baseball like I used to. But Shohei Ohtani might help change that. He started his career in Japan and later made his way to the United States and the Major Leagues. He both bats and pitches, and is very good at both—a rarity in professional baseball. Comparisons have been made between him and Babe Ruth. This evening at the game there were thousands of fans with Dodger jerseys and “Ohtani 17” on the back. He was by far the most popular player in the stadium. 

Shohei Ohtani on deck.

One of many who wore a Shohei Ohtani jersey.

Angels dugout.

As the game progressed, not only was I mindful of current players, but also of the legends who once played in this stadium. As I strolled the walkway between levels I saw murals on the walls of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. 

I remember my dad talking about Sandy Koufax when I was younger. Kofax played when the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. Even though he only competed twelve years in the Major Leagues, he is still considered one of the greatest pitchers of all time. He won the Cy Young Award three times and the National League Most Valuable Player once. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame on his first year of eligibility. 

Mural of Don Drysdale.

Beyond the outer doors of the upper deck gift shop is a beautiful view of the Los Angeles skyline. As the crow flies the stadium is just over a mile from downtown. (As I stepped into the plaza I didn't realize I had technically exited the stadium and it was a minor hassle to get back in.) 

Other than the view, the other thing that drew me to this plaza were the memorials for retired Dodger numbers. Each number bore a summery of that person's career. As far as I could tell, they all played in Los Angeles, and many also in Brooklyn. They included Gil Hodges, Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, and #42, Jackie Robinson. 

Memorial for Gil Hodges in the Retired Numbers Plaza.

View of Los Angeles from the Retired Numbers Plaza.  Memorial for Jackie Robinson partially visible.

A look from right field.

The evening was perfect, not a cloud in sight. After an hour the sun went down and lights came on. The crowd was enthusiastic, especially every time Ohtani came to bat. For the night he went 1 for 4, with a walk and a solid home run. In the end, the Dodgers won convincingly, 7-2. 

On our way out we were able to exit through the Retired Numbers Plaza. The view over Los Angeles was spectacular, now with all the skyscrapers lit up. 

The only negative of the night was that pesky L.A. traffic. It took us an hour to get out of the parking lot, and at least half of that we were at a complete stand-still! ♠

 

From Dodger Stadium looking toward Santa Monica.