Angelic Faces

Sketch of Mary Ann Harrison

Tender mercies come when you least expect them.
 
Today marks twelve years since the passing of my daughter, Brittany. I miss her dearly. Especially in the months succeeding her death, small, but pleasant instances of “good luck” would fall upon us; however, they happened frequently enough that I didn't consider them to be “luck” at all. Perhaps divine intervention.
 
A month and a half after her burial I was browsing through a small local museum when I stumbled across a story that captured my heart.
 

Solomon Nunes Carvalho

A man by the name of Solomon Nunes Carvalho, a Jewish artist, was traveling with the John C. Fremont expedition in 1854 across a valley that would later become part of southern Utah. He became ill and chose to depart the group and travel to Salt Lake where he could recuperate. A few months later he returned to Southern Utah, this time with Brigham Young. During his stay in the young settlement of Cedar City he recorded the following experience in his journal:
 
“The morning after my arrival . . . I arose very early, and taking my sketchbook along, I sauntered around the city; in the course of my peregrinations, I saw a man walking up and down before an adobe shanty, apparently much distressed; I approached him, and inquired the cause of his dejection; he told me that his only daughter, (four) years of age, had died suddenly in the night; he pointed to the door and I entered the dwelling.
 
“Laid out upon a straw mattress, scrupulously clean, was one of the most angelic children I ever saw. On its face was a placid smile, and it looked more like the gentle repose of healthful sleep than the everlasting slumber of death. Beautiful curls clustered around a brow of snowy whiteness. It was easy to perceive that it was a child lately from England, from its peculiar conformation. I entered very softly, and did not disturb the afflicted mother, who reclined on the bed, face buried in the pillow, sobbing as if her heart would break.
 
“Without a second's reflection, I commenced making a sketch of the inanimate being before me, and in the course of half-an-hour I had procured an excellent likeness.
 
“A slight movement in the room caused the mother to look around her. She perceived me, and I apologized for my intrusion; and telling her that I was one of the Governor's party who arrived last night. I tore the leaf out of my book and presented it to her, and it is impossible to describe the delight and joy she expressed at its possession. She said I was an angel sent from heaven to comfort her. She had no likeness of the child.
 
“I bid her to place her trust in Him 'who giveth and taketh away,' and left her indulging in the excitement of joy and sorrow. I went out unperceived by the bereaved father, who was still walking up and down, buried in grief. I continued my walk, contemplating the strange combination of events, which gave this poor woman a slight ray of peace for her sorrowing heart.
 
“When I was about starting next day, I discovered in the wagon a basket filled with eggs, butter, and several loaves of bread, and a note to my address containing these words, 'From a grateful heart.'”

* * *
 
The child in the account was Mary Ann Harrison, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Harrison.  Their story touched me deeply. My heart tugged with sympathy for the bereaving parents. I could relate with them.
 
But something else stood out—how lucky I was to have dozens of photos and videos of Brittany. We are truly blessed to be able to capture an image or sound so easily. How many generations have passed that have had no opportunity to recreate the “likeness” of their loved ones?
 
Now, twelve years later, I can watch a video of her giggling voice, or see a photo of her brown silky hair and it brings me so close that in my mind's eye I can picture her as if she had never left. ♥

My Angel.

Paiute Powwow (from an outside perspective)

For me it is the rhythmic pounding of the drums that draws allure. Pa-POOM, pa-POOM, pa-POOM. Over and over. Pa-POOM, pa-POOM, pa-POOM! And then the shrill scream of the singers, like a pack of wild coyotes screaming in the night.
 
I believe tonight was my fourth powwow. I arrived at the Paiute tribal grounds just ten minutes before the grand entry. It didn't go as planned.
 
Participants and onlookers gathered in a large circle on the grass, beneath shade huts and on chairs and feet. Beyond all of us, a beautiful backdrop of red hills that are iconic of Cedar City.
 

A tall man with two long dark braids stood and addressed the crowd. He had bad news. He announced that his uncle, Bryant Jake, had died just 45 minutes ago and they were postponing the grand entry until 7:30 so family members could go to his house and pay their respects before they took the body away.
 
This took me off-guard. I met and talked with Bryant just a few months earlier. He was dying from cancer, but looked fairly healthy the day I saw him. I asked him about an old burial site west of town, and he—rightfully so—was reluctant to tell me much about it. There are very few people left who know the location of that site.
 
During the time of powwow, the beating of drums and high-pitched chanting reverberates over the hills and can be heard through all the neighborhood. It can be a surreal experience. Bryant Jake lived just a couple blocks away. No doubt that as he lay dying at his home, it was as if the spirits were calling him to his eternal home.
 

A powwow is a gathering of many Indian tribes. Here there were Shoshone, Ute, Navajo, different bands of Paiute. In the past I have seen Aztec from Southern California and a tribe from Canada. A drummer near us this evening came from Kansas. I have a pretty good feel of how the local Paiute look, as well as some of the Ute and Navajo around the state, but as I walked around the grounds, it was obvious that there were many from distant places, whose facial features and skin tone were different.
 
It is also interesting to note the difference between Natives and Anglos. We, the Anglos, are curious. We come with our big cameras and phones to record the event. The Natives just participate.
 
I talked with a white guy from Dallas, Texas who had a camera and was filming a documentary on the local Paiutes. For the last three years he has interviewed members and attended other tribal events. Of particular interest he has followed the recent controversy where our local school board voted (to the ire of much of the community) to change the “Redmen” mascot at the local high school.—I will note that I saw a local Paiute lady wearing a Redmen sweater at the powwow.
 

When the grand entry began, the drums began to beat and a long line of men, women and children from all the different tribes made their way into the inner circle of the grounds, some walking, and others stomping their feet in dance. They wore regalia of feathers, bells, tall moccasins and costumes of color. Some painted their face. One of the men wore a headdress. A woman wore a leather shawl and twirled like a flamenco dancer. All in all, it was a beautiful sight.
 
At the lead of the long procession marched the veterans holding three different flags, including that of the Paiute Tribe, state of Utah, and United States. I am always impressed at how the Natives are so patriotic. And to be a veteran is held in high regard among the community.
 
As the the evening continued, more dancing, singing and drumming ensued. I believe there is a competition for each of these, as there are tags with numbers attached to the regalia. I will admit that I don't understand everything that goes on at a powwow, but I am trying to learn more each year.
 

I did notice, however, that they pay high respect to their elders. At one point they brought an elderly lady in a wheelchair and her family into the circle and honored her by talking of her and singing to her. (When I say “sing” I mean they beat on the drums and the drummers made their high-pitched shrill that is typical powwow music.) Sometimes the singing just sounds like beautiful noise, but sometimes I can tell there are words in there, most likely of native tongue.
 
Upon observing the elderly lady's family, I noticed that several were Anglo, meaning some of the kids probably inter-married. This is a microcosm of their culture as they have had to adopt many of the white-man ways over the past 170 years. Say what you'd like about inter-racial marriages, but within two or three generations, usually one of the two races is usually wiped away from the family culture. I couldn't help but to feel a twinge of sorrow for the old lady, knowing that more than likely, it will be the Paiute culture that disappears from her descendants.
 

As a person who is curious of history and culture, I have always been fascinated with the powwow and how it relates to the native people, which in this case is the Paiute. There seems to be powwows spread across the western United States, yet I don't believe the celebration is indigenous with each of the tribes that do it. From my understanding, the powwow originates with the Plains Indians, who are very far away from Cedar City.
 
So, if the powwow is a transplant to the Paiutes, then when did it come and what sort of dances did they do before it arrived? And furthermore, does the powwow do justice in carrying on local traditions, or does it aid an environment where local traditions and customs are inadvertently lost?
 

I asked around a bit and got a few answers. The first powwow held in Cedar City was in 1980 in commemoration for the tribe being restored its Federal recognition. I believe they have had powwows every year since then.
 
A tribal friend told me that in the past they held Bear, Round, and Sun Dances. She has seen pictures of them dating to around the 1940's. She said they used to wear buckskin, made of deer, and that she recalls her grandmother sewing gauntlets, which are a type of glove made of leather.
 

I think it is very difficult to know which dances and traditions are indigenous to the local Paiutes here in Cedar City. From what I understand, even before the white man came, they were very poor and nomadic. Does that mean they had few customs of their own? I don't know. Perhaps they met with bordering bands, such as the Shivwits or the Pahvant, during times such as harvest and held celebrations. What interactions did they have with their distant cousins, the Utes? I believe the Bear Dance is of Ute origin.
 
The more and more I observe Native people, I realize that they tend to cling to each other. Their tribe affiliation becomes less important. There are so few of them that they strive for strength in numbers. This makes sense to me. So, therefore, even though a powwow may have originated on the Plains, this is irrelevant. A powwow is an excuse to get together and celebrate their similar heritage.
 
I found a quote that substantiates this idea: “A powwow is a gathering, it's a celebration. A powwow used to be to welcome the spring or you'd have a powwow after a good harvest, or you'd have a powwow for a celebration, or if someone was having a significant birthday. Now-a-days powwows are year round, any weekend, any calendar you can find powwows somewhere in the U.S. Or Canada. For me, a powwow is a gathering to see old friends and to make new friends.” (Tina Calamity, The Spanish Trail Suite Interviews)
 

As the evening moved forward, the shadows on the dancers grew longer before they completely faded away into the darkness of twilight. But now the big field lights came on the dancers continued to dance and the drums continued their beat.
 
There are still a lot of questions that remain unanswered for me, but that's alright. I go with the flow. But one thing I am sure of is that it is no coincidence that Bryant Jake died on this day at this time, with all his family members here. I'm sure the spirits were on the other side, being summoned by the rhythm of the drums, the shrill of the scream, and the jingling of the bells to bring him into the next world. ♠

One Final Adventure

Ribbon Falls, Grand Canyon.

Some deaths are harder to take than others. This was a hard one for me. Dave was someone I saw nearly every day and heard his voice. I can still hear it in my head. It is as clear as if he were with me right now.

Dave and I have many of the same interests. We are both avid hikers, although he has far out-paced me in that category. He once told me that he may not have enough money to travel to exotic places around the world, but he certainly has enough till fill up a tank of gas. We are blessed to have some of the best hiking scenery in our backyard: Buckskin Gulch, The Subway, The Narrows, The Wave.

He loved to take his family. On his desk is a picture of he, his wife, Vickie, and five kids posing at the edge of a red-rock canyon somewhere near Moab. His son, Josh, tells the story of hiking the 12-mile long Narrows when he was ten years old, and the Virgin River being so high that his dad had to carry his pack so it didn't get too wet. This was the hike when he got the birds-and-the-bees talk.

Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon, 2010.  Dave Bolton on right.  This was our rim-to-rim hike.

Havasu Creek, 2010.  Dave is on the left. (Russ Eyre photo)

On the trail to Havasu Falls.  (Russ Eyre photo)

David Bolton was my boss, but I also considered him my friend. Over the years we have done a handful of hikes together, including Havasu Falls and the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim.  We have slept under the stars in the middle of nowhere, stayed in a simple lodge in Supai Village, ate breakfast at five in the morning at a cafe in Vegas, searched for Aron Ralston's choke-stone, and have had several spiritual discussions together.

As we traveled, most of our discussions centered around past adventures. He was always fond of his backpacking trip with his son and a friend through the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming. The hike was 85 miles long and took about a week. He was so worried about his son's pack being too heavy that he emptied his own food and carried his son's. When he returned to work he was twenty pounds lighter and still looked exhausted, but swore that it was the greatest adventure he ever had.

Lots of stray dogs near Supai Village.  Dave is in the green shirt.

Early-morning breakfast at the Havasupai Tribal Cafe.

Dave raises his arms in triumph at Navajo Falls.

Just last summer he was at it again, but this time on the Colorado River. He was anxious to pull out his phone and show a video of he and his son on separate inflatable kayaks called duckies. An eddie pulled them both under and Dave was underwater for nearly a minute. He said it was black and quiet. He thought it was the end, that he would die. He prayed fervently that his son would resurface. In spite of the situation, he said there was a peaceful feeling. Then, at once, he felt as if an arm had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him above water. His son had resurfaced shortly before him. He was so grateful to be alive.

That was typical Dave. He seemed invincible.

Dave, at left, relaxing in Havasu Creek in 2010.  Robbie Armbruster, seated; Russ Eyre, standing.

Little Wild Horse Canyon, 2017.

The last time I spoke to Dave was on Friday. It is interesting that neither of us were supposed to be at work that day. I was supposed to be on vacation, but came back a day early because I couldn't get Saturday off. Dave was supposed to be on vacation also, but the Postmaster forced him to come to work. He wasn't happy about coming in because he had a lot of packing that had to be done.

As I passed by his desk his face lit up and he asked, “John, have I told you what I'm doing next week?” He then went on to explain that he and the scouts were hiking Coyote Gulch, and possibly a couple other slot canyons. Then they would hike down Hole-in-the-Rock where Todd Boyer would meet them with his boat on Lake Powell. Then they would travel south on the lake where they would spend a night or two near Rainbow Bridge, then come out at Wahweap, where they would drive to St. George and cap off the week with a trip to the temple. He was so excited. He had been planning this trip for a long time. I was excited for him. I was anxious to hear every detail when he got back.

Five days later, on Wednesday morning, I knew it was no ordinary morning when I came to work. Everyone was gathered around the time clock weeping. I came a few seconds late and Carol turned to me and whispered that Dave had died from a heart attack while hiking. Not many details were known at the time. All of us were in disbelief. A hike couldn't kill Dave Bolton.

I later learned a few additional details. Dave had successfully led the scout group out of Coyote Gulch on a very hot day. They crouched under the shade of a juniper tree while they waited for the rest to catch up. He started getting a little delirious and talking to himself, and then collapsed just 100 yards from the vehicles. He passed away with his fifteen year old son, Jacob, holding his hand.

* * *

Dave is buried in the nethermost part of the Cedar City Cemetery. In fact, he is so far west that no one is buried beyond him. Past his grave are sticks, bushes, dirt and a little stream with trees growing along it. A very fitting resting place. ♠

Dave relaxing at Colorado River in 2010.