Zeke Johnson and the Raising of the Bones

Zeke Johnson.

Zeke Johnson was named after his paternal grandfather, Ezekiel. His father, Joel Hills Johnson, was a prominent pioneer and hymnist for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. His mother, Margaret Threlkeld Johnson, supported herself and her sister on the plains by selling buffalo chips to the railroad. At age twenty she finally made it to Utah, encountering Indian threats, losing oxen and dealing with broken wagons along the way. Needless to say, Zeke had adventuring blood in his veins.

Zeke was born in 1869 in Bellview, Utah (now Pintura). His life's journeys took him to Johnson Canyon and Kanab, Utah, then to Tuba City, Arizona. Eventually he returned to Utah, this time in Bluff, then in 1908 to the newly settled town of Grayson, which would later become Blanding. 

This new settlement was twenty miles north of Bluff on White Mesa. In addition to the Navajo and Ute Indians that lived in the area, the land was scattered with ruins and remains of the Anasazi, an ancient tribe that once flourished, but for reasons not entirely understood, decided to leave. 

Zeke had a working knowledge of both the Ute and Navajo languages and he was a friend to many. He gave the Indians produce from his garden and his wife, Annetta, would bake them bread. 

Over the years he spent considerable time on the land. In the area around Blanding he raised cattle and farmed, and had an orchard, vineyard and garden. Many places in the area are named after him including Zeke's Hole, Johnson Creek, Zeke's Bathtub, and Shirttail Corner. 

Ruins like these lay scattered all across San Juan County.

In 1908 or 1909, Zeke had an experience “on the mesa” that would stay with him the rest of his life. The land was covered in sage brush and pinyon trees and he worked hard to clear a few acres where he could plant some corn. He would plow a stretch of dirt, after-which his son, Roy, would plant the seeds in the furrow. He would then cover them up. As he worked he noticed remnants of ancient houses beneath the ground. 

What happened next I will leave in his own words: 

“As I was plowing around I noticed that my plow had turned out the skeleton of a small child. The skull and the backbone, most of the bones of course were decayed and gone. Part of the skeleton was there, so I stopped immediately as my plow had passed it a little and I turned and looked back against the bar of the plow between the handles and was looking at that little skeleton that I had plowed out and wondering. All of a sudden to my surprise I saw the bones begin to wiggle and they began to change position and to take on different color and within a minute there lay a beautiful little skeleton. It was a perfect little skeleton. 

“Then I saw the inner parts of the natural body coming in--the entrails, etc. I saw the flesh coming on and I saw the skin come on the body when the inner parts of the body was complete. A beautiful head of hair adorned the top of the head and in about a half a minute after the hair was on the head, it had a beautiful crystal decoration in the hair. It was combed beautifully and parted on one side. In about a half a minute after the hair was on the head, the child raised up on her feet. She was lying a little on her right side with her back toward me. Because of this I wasn't able to discern the sex of the child, but as she raised up, a beautiful robe came down over her left shoulder and I saw it must be a girl. She looked at me and I looked at her and for a quarter of a minute. We just looked at each other smiling. Then my ambition was to get hold of her, I said 'Oh you beautiful child,' and I reached as if I would embrace her and she disappeared. That was all I saw and I stood there and I wondered and I thought for a few minutes. My little boy was wondering why I was there because he was down at the other end of the row anxious to come and plant the corn.” 

Old homestead on the mesa east of Blanding.

This miraculous experience left Zeke speechless. For years he was unable to recount it to anyone because it was so mysterious to him. Why should he, an uneducated and common man, be allowed to witness a resurrection? 

One day on the streets of Blanding he ran into Wayne Redd, a dear friend and Stake Patriarch. Wayne stopped him and said, “Zeke, you have had an experience on this mesa you won't tell. I want you to tell me.” 

Well, he told him, and since that time Zeke has recounted his story to thousands of people in meeting houses, temples and socials. But the question that still weighed on his mind was why he was allowed to witness such a miraculous manifestation of God's power. 

Again in his own words, Zeke recalls how he received an answer to his question: “One day as I was walking alone with my hoe on my shoulder going to hoe some corn, something said, 'stop under the shade of that tree for a few minutes and rest.' This just came to me and I thought I would, so I stopped there and this was given to me. 

“It was in answer to my prayer. I prayed incessantly for an answer as to why I was privileged to see that resurrection. I was told why. When the child was buried there it was either in time of war with the different tribes or it was winter time when the ground was frozen and they had no tools to dig deep graves. If it were during time of war they couldn't possibly take time to dig a deep grave. They just planted that little body as deep as they could under the circumstances. When it was done the sorrowing mother knew that it was such a little shallow grave, that in her sorrow she cried out to the little group that was present, 'That little shallow grave, the first beast that comes along will smell her body and will dig her up and scatter her to the four winds. Her bones will be scattered all over these flats.' There just happened to be a man present holding the priesthood (a Nephite or a Jaredite, I don't know which because they had both been in this country.  I've been in their houses and know it.) This man said, 'Sister, calm your sorrows. Whenever that little body is disturbed or uncovered, the Lord will call her up and she will live.' Since that time, I have taken great comfort, great cheer and consolation and satisfaction with praise in my heart and soul, until I haven't the words to express it, that it was I that uncovered that little body. Thank you for listening to me. I just can't tell this without crying.” 

Looking toward Sleeping Ute Mountain from Mustang Mesa.

For me, another fascinating aspect of this story is the parallel it has with a more ancient narrative from the Bible. From time to time as I have read accounts of our faithful pioneers, I have come across stories that seem to closely resemble those that have been recorded in scripture. It is as if the Lord is duplicating the story to reaffirm the authenticity of the scriptures and also to manifest His power. 

The story I refer to is in the Old Testament in thirty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel⸺and I do not believe it was mere coincidence that the experience on White Mesa happened to a man named Ezekiel. I believe it was intended. 

I refer to Ezekiel's vision of the valley of bones: 

1 The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones, 

2 And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry. 

3 And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God, thou knowest.

4 Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. 

5 Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live: 

6 And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord. 

7 So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone. 

8 And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them. 

9 Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

10 So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army. (Ezekiel 37: 1-10)

This vision most likely has a dual interpretation, not only foreshadowing the physical resurrection that would come after the death of Jesus Christ, but also as a prophecy to the restoration of the House of Israel. But I can't help but to see the striking similarities between this vision and the miraculous experience of Zeke Johnson. ♠

 

Empty field with Blue Mountain in distance.

 

Ojo Verde

Dust billowed behind our truck on the road to the green spring. Evening primrose, sagebrush and June grass flourished in the desert, benefiting from a wetter-than-normal spring. We twisted through the valley over a bump-filled road and steep sandy hills.
 
Our journey brought us to a destination seldom visited by anyone. We parked on a slickrock flat and walked down a sandy wash, past cryptobiotic soil, purple flowers and red-blooming cactus.
 
At last we arrived at a shallow canyon nestled between slickrock hills on both sides. A deep and treacherous gully of sand has managed to cut its way through the middle, making passage to the other side nearly impossible. From the banks of the gulley to the base of the slickrock hills grow an abundance of sagebrush and other wild weeds.
 

Looking over Ojo Verde.

This is Ojo Verde, or the green spring as translated from Spanish. It has been a watering hole by many over the years. Just who were the first Europeans to discover it is a mystery that will probably be forever unknown, but the oldest well-documented visit of the site comes from the Macomb Expedition, who camped here in 1859. The Old Spanish Trail, just ten miles away, had been used for years by many people. The historic use of this trail is obscure at best.
 
Referring to the Old Spanish Trail, Macomb stated that it had not been accurately laid down upon any map. He then adds: “This trail is much talked of as have being the route of commerce between California and Mexico in the days of the old Spanish rule.”
 
I came with my dad and a couple of his friends. There are only a select few that even know that Ojo Verde exists, let alone the location. Paul, who's now walking on feeble legs and caring for a wife with Alzheimer's, was our trusty guide. He knows more about the history of San Juan County than almost anyone else.
 
I suppose there is also an element of speculation as to the exact location of Ojo Verde. Knowledge has been lost over the years, and there are no inscriptions that directly link this spot with the Macomb group. But if our location was off, it wasn't off by far. And there is absolutely no doubt that this spot has been used by cowboys for over a hundred years.
 

Inscription at Ojo Verde.

Old photo of inscriptions near Ojo Verde. Dates from 1902 and 1894.

Ojo Verde lies in a draw of slickrock, about 600 feet from one side to the other. Within the draw there is vegetation for livestock and at one time, supposedly, there was a small lake. Just where the lake was located I don't know. It has long since washed away. Along the west side is an alcove where the explorers and cowboys likely cooked meals and set up camp. Now it is littered with antique debris and a few growths of poison ivy. Along the cliff walls are a few inscriptions. The first time I came here I found one written in charcoal dated 1902 with a small sketch of a cowboy. Another more faint was dated July 27, 1894. For some reason I was unable to locate those same inscriptions this time.
 
The remnants of what appear to be the walls of a cabin are still standing. There are also the posts of what may have been a corral. As I mentioned before, a huge gulley has been carved through the middle of the draw, making it nearly impossible to cross to the other side. I believe the site has been greatly disfigured by Mother Nature from how it appeared two centuries ago.
 

John N. Macomb.

The Macomb Expedition, officially known as the San Juan Exploring Expedition, of 1859 came in the wake of the Utah War, a period of intense conflict and suspicion between the Federal Government and Mormons of the Utah Territory. During this period came the tragedy of the Mountain Meadows Massacre and also the march of Johnston's Army into the Salt Lake Valley where they established Camp Williams.
 
John N. Macomb led a group of men from Santa Fé, New Mexico with primarily a two-fold purpose: 1) To find a new supply route to the Salt Lake Valley via a pathway near the confluence of the Green and Colorado (then known as the Grand) Rivers, and 2) To conduct scientific studies and surveys along the way.
 
It is interesting that just two days before arriving at Ojo Verde, Dr. John S. Newberry, a scientist and physician in the group, discovered massive fossilized dinosaur bones high on a cliff-face near East Canyon. The discovery was the first of its kind. On their return trip they excavated the bones and hauled them to Santa Fé on the backs of mules. Today the partial skeleton is in the paleontology collection of the Smithsonian Institution.
 

Casa Colorado on the Old Spanish Trail. Sketch by Charles H. Dimmock.

A few miles down the trail the group came to a large sandstone butte with intricately carved alcoves on the southern side. It is called Casa Colorado, or Colored House, and was a landmark on the Old Spanish Trail. Some of the large stone basins in the expansive slickrock created good watering holes for those passing by. Macomb and his group appreciated the aesthetic appeal of the rock and halted to explore and sketch pictures of it.
 
Up to this point the group had followed the Old Spanish Trail, but it was now time to divert and head west toward the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers. A group of men were sent west to scout for a suitable location to set up camp. They found a location ten miles away—Ojo Verde.
 
At Ojo Verde Macomb set up a base camp from which they would set out to explore the region near the confluence. On August 20, 1859, Newberry wrote in his diary the following: “Scouts report good camp 10 miles west. Cross dry barren country to Ojo Verde, a beautiful green bottomed cañon with steep rocky banks—fine spring—good grass.—Encamp in heavy rain.”
 
Charles Dimmock, another member who kept a valuable journal, gives no description in his record. He only states, “Reached camp—El Ojo Verde—in the midst of one of the hardest rains in the region.” Ojo Verde also became known as Camp No. 28.
 
The next day was spent in camp waiting for the advance scouts who were sent ahead “to see the practicability of the trail to the junction of Grand [Colorado] & Green Rivers . . .” They returned on the 21st and declared “the trail as utterly impracticable for our packs.” They did not reach the confluence.
 

Remnants of what may have been an old cabin.

It was determined that a small group, which included Macomb, Dimmock, Newberry, two Mexican cooks and a few others would make the trek toward the confluence the following day. They made their preparations and retired to bed early “in view of the fatigues ahead.”
 
To summarize, the group spent the next two days riding into the area now known as Canyonlands National Park. They “passed between walls varying in height from 800 to 1200 ft. eroded into all imaginable curves, shapes & fancies.” They plodded along modern Indian Creek, crossing it 270 times. “The banks of the stream vary from ten to fifteen feet in height & are so perpendicular that when our mules slide down we cling by the cantle of the saddle to avoid going over their heads.”
 
When they could go no further they decided to climb a mesa to gain a better view. “Starting with our usual clothing the intolerable heat & difficulties of ascent soon forced us to shed by degrees article after article, until at last the summit was reached & exultingly stood upon, by three men stripped to shirts, draws & boots.”
 
Of the view from the top, Charles Dimmock recorded: “All our labor found its reward, when on looking around there met our eyes such a view as is not to be seen anywhere else on earth. But few, if any other whites, were ever the beholders of so magical a variety of towering sierra-like mesas, deep cut canyons, penetrating in all directions, into whose depths the rays of the sun at midday can only fall. In the distance—to the south—the mesas, broken into isolated pinnacles & clustered, castled, summits gave the effect of a grander city than dream land contains. The colors varying from the darkest brown of the old red sandstone pass through the changes of richest tone to chocolate light.”
 
In spite of the grand view, the trip to the top of the hill only confirmed that any possible route to the confluence would be impossible. The group assumed they were just two miles from the confluence, but modern historians now conclude they were just over eight. The worn-out group now retraced their steps back to Camp No. 28.
 

Alcove littered with antique debris.

They arrived again at Ojo Verde on August 24, “glad as possible to get safely back, having happily met with no Indians. All at camp greeted with cheerful smiles & congratulations whose influences tended very materially to aid digestion at supper.”
 
The San Juan Exploring Expedition spent the next two days camped at Ojo Verde. The first of the two days they were met with a group of Sheberetch Utes, also known as Elk Mountain Utes. This band of Indians lived in the area of the La Sal Mountains, near present-day Moab. There is a mystery that surrounds them because around the year 1872 they seemed to disappear. No one knows for sure what happened to them, but some speculate that a scourge killed many and the remainder migrated to the Uintah Reservation where they integrated with the Northern Utes.
 
On August 25, 1859, Charles Dimmock recorded the encounter in his diary: “At bed time, last night, the sentinel stopped, at the mouth of the cañon, a party of 18 Utes, headed by the father of the Indian who had acted as guide to the Grand River. It was thought advisable to make the Indians camp at the mouth of the cañon & allow them to come in the morning. . . Presents made the Utes which they think to be hardly their due.” Adding to the commentary, Newberry wrote the following on the same day: “Their insolence & importunity dissatisfaction with the presents given them.—The heaps of tobacco given them by other Americans.”
 

Macomb's group may have taken shelter from rain under this overhang.

Thursday, August 26 brought heavy rainfall at Ojo Verde. The crew likely took shelter in the overhang of the canyon. They had hoped to pack up and move to their next camp, but rain persisted until 1 pm, making it too late to leave.
 
Of the weather Dimmock wrote: “Rain nearly all night—ceasing before breakfast. We had our tables placed out doors, when just as our seats were taken the big drops began to rattle a roll-call on our tin plates & cups. Thanks, however, to India rubber coats we got quite comfortable through, though an infusion of rain water does not improve tea nor wetting add to the credibility of biscuit.”
 
By evening the sky cleared and they engaged in horse-racing, presumably with the Indians as it is a popular sport among the Northern Utes. I am curious to know where and how far they raced. There doesn't seem to be sufficient room within the walls of Ojo Verde and most of the terrain nearby is not flat.
 

Sketch of a sheep horn by Charles Dimmock.

Also on this day Charles Dimmock made a sketch of a “Horn of the Rocky Mountain Sheep” at “El Ojo Verde, Utah Territory.” He remarked that the horn's outer curve measured 30 inches.  

We spent a couple hours at Ojo Verde just poking around and seeing what we could find. There are remnants of a cabin, as well as an old corral. We found a lot of bullet casings, including a .44 Winchester, which was introduced in 1873. My dad found two horseshoes and Lloyd discovered the handle to a frying pan.—We also came across a rusty shovel and old square-cut nails.

Sometime—probably decades after the Macomb group camped there—Ojo Verde and it's vicinity became the site of the Hatch Ranch. I will admit that I know nothing of this history and have accepted the challenge to figure it out.
 

It was now time for us to go. Paul had to get back to his wife in Monticello, and Lloyd was about to run out of gas, so we had to follow him—just-in-case.
 
Now in sweltering heat we walked over dirt and slickrock out of the draw and up-hill toward the vehicles. Desert Primrose blossomed above the sand. In the distance, snow lingered on remote mountain peaks. ♠ 

 



Source for historical information, photo and sketches of Macomb Expedition:

Madsen, Steven K. Exploring Desert Stone. Utah State University, 2010.

Exploring the Old Family Mines at Cottonwood

From the other side of the wash we spot a portal to an old mine shaft. It is sealed shut with bricks. Disappointed, we continue to walk along the wash and within a minute we find another opening. This portal is smaller in size and a low mound of earth lies below it.
 
I leave the girls on the bank and slosh through the stream to the other side. With water dripping from my shoes I climb up the bank and stop in front of the opening. A cold draft issues from within. I poke my head through the orifice and peer inside. This is definitely a shaft!
 
With a little coercion, I persuade my two girls (ages 13 and 15) to come explore the mine with me. They don't want to get their feet wet so I carry them, one at a time, on my back over the water. On our bellies we slide into the shaft and once inside we are all able to stand up.
 

Sealed portal near Cottonwood Creek.

We found this entrance to the mine.

The mine is dry and the rock all around appears to be solid. I place my finger over my lips, telling the girls to only whisper. I would hate to trigger any sort of collapse. (As it is, I feel a little guilty for taking my daughters into a potentially dangerous place.)
 
With flashlight in-hand we walk through a tunnel that runs perpendicular to the portal we just entered. Within a minute it comes to a "T" with the main body going to the right. On our left we can now see the back end of the bricked-up adit we had spotted earlier.
 
We follow the main shaft that now runs deeper into the hillside. Lying on the ground is a gallon-sized oil can that looks like it came from the 1960's, but within this cavern it has been preserved as if it were purchased yesterday.
 
Above us on the ceiling of the tunnel is the yellow outline of uranium. This is what the miners were looking for. They called them trees and I believe at one time they were real trees that lived on the outside. The miners here also excavated carnotite and vanadium.
 
Continuing deeper into the mine we come to another fork. The right-hand passage is a dead end. We turn left and come into a larger chamber. Several thick pillars of juniper look as if they are placed to support the tunnel. The shaft continues in deeper, but Jenna is becoming a little spooked, so we decide this is far enough. But before we leave, I decide it is necessary to turn off the flashlight and for a moment experience true darkness. I snuff our light and as expected it is pitch black.
 

Cottonwood Creek.

The mines in Cottonwood run deep in my family. In 1931, my great-grandfather, Seth Shumway, and his brothers Arah, Harris and Lee were the first to haul ore from this area. But they did not discover the minerals.
 
As the story goes, the minerals were discovered that same year by a sheepherder named Benitio Sanchez. Near one of the springs he found an outcropping with some interesting rocks. He took a sample to his employer, Tom Jones, hoping it contained gold or silver. Tom, in turn, took it to his neighbor, Arah Shumway, who had an interest in minerals and had worked in the mines with his brother. Arah determined it was carnotite, a combination of uranium, radium and vanadium.
 
Since it contained no gold or silver, neither Tom Jones nor Benito Sanchez had interest in it. But they gave a description to Arah of where it was found. The next day Arah and Harris walked from Blanding to Cottonwood (about seven miles) to search for the exact location. When they couldn't find it they returned to Blanding and consulted with Tom to refine their search. They returned again and this time found Benito's campsite and ten outcroppings of carnotite. That day they staked ten claims. The rest is history.
 
For the next several decades, at least three generations of Shumways, which included son-in-laws, friends and cousins, worked the mines at Cottonwood. The surrounding area became a second home to their families. Some became rich and others broke. It was a place of pleasant memories as well as tragedy.
 

Anasazi ruins on a ledge in Cottonwood.

Outside the mine we begin to explore the proximity. The creek is a good nine inches deep, which is higher than normal. The flow is not perennial and usually dries up by fall. But we've had a wet winter and are now reaping the benefits. Cottonwood trees grow from the banks, concealing any evidence of a mine from the main road.
 
Through a thicket of willows, out of reach on a clifftop, we find a stone dwelling. Built by the Anasazi over 800 years ago, it is much more ancient than the mines. Although it is still well intact, I'm sure it has been picked clean of artifacts considering that the Shumways worked next door. The Shumways have a notorious reputation in the field of antiquities collection, and I'm sure much of it was procured during their spare time while working the mines.
 
Nearby is a quaint little pond. It is hidden from view by a small hill and a thick growth of vegetation. Upon closer examination, Jenna discovers a sealed mine shaft at the far end of the pond. It is sealed off with brickwork, just like the other portal we found. It is partially submerged in water. More than likely, this shaft was a “wet mine,” one which continually seeps water and which often needs a pump to drain the seepage. If left unattended it can create a body of water.
 
On our way back to the vehicle we find an old wooden structure and a few other mining relics scattered about. We find a reclaimed shaft that goes directly into the ground at a diagonal slant. We don't have a lot of time to wander, but I wonder what we'd find if we had all day to look around?
 

Mining debris near Cottonwood Mill.

We are fortunate to have been able to drive to the mines on a good graveled road. That wasn't always the case. As stated earlier, Arah and Harris had to walk to get here. My great-uncle, Merwin Shumway, described how the first road was built into Cottonwood: “. . . we had no way to haul ore except a little old pickup. To get the pickup into the mines we had to build a road from above Cottonwood, down through the sagebrush flats and into the Cottonwood area where the mill was. We grubbed the brush and piled it aside just wide enough that our pickup could haul in the parts to build the mill. That was the first super highway in Cottonwood.”
 
This road later became maintained by the county and has been used by countless people to access the mines. When the weather was good my grandma Shumway would drive the family to Cottonwood and have a picnic lunch with my grandpa, Burdett. My mom recalls that Cottonwood was always her favorite destination. As a girl she and her sisters could stay entertained for hours playing in the sand and water. They caught polliwogs and collected rocks. Even I remember as a child going to Cottonwood for family outings and playing games up on the bench and watching what seemed like a raging river when I look over the bank toward the wash. Of course, by that time Grandpa was gone and the mining days of Cottonwood were long over.
 

Ruins of Cottonwood Mill #3.

We drive a short distance up the road and come to the ruins of the old mill. The girls and I get out and wander around. I've driven past here dozens of times, but this might be the first time I've stopped to explore.
 
Mostly what is left are the foundations of several buildings and scraps of debris. To my untrained eye I have no clue how to piece things together, nor do I know what they used to be. Many of the foundations appear to have had a greater function, with workings at the base that may be concrete conduits of some sort. There are also piles of ocher-colored brick and rusty wires and cables.
 

Scattered bricks at Cottonwood Mill.

The first mill on this site was built in 1937. Frank Garbutt, a movie producer from Los Angeles, financed the mill, and Howard Kimmerle, who had experimented with vanadium recovery methods, managed the project. “[The mill] was built on a slope above the creek to allow gravity-feed for the milling process. Ore was hauled up the ramp at the top of the building and dumped into the roaster. Leach and precipitation tanks were on the lower levels, and at the bottom was the fuser for creating the vanadium oxide product.”—Nearly a year after the mill was built, it burned to the ground as a result of the high temperatures used to roast the ore.
 
The mill was rebuilt in 1938. Kimmerle added a few frame houses, a blacksmith shop and a boarding house. Again, the mill burned down.
 
In 1943, Cottonwood Mill #3 was built on the same site. The ruins we walk through today are from this mill. The venture was short-lived as the owners had a large debt and the ore contained high contents of lime, which made the mill unprofitable.
 
As the mill was dismantled, my grandma and grandpa Shumway purchased one of the buildings to use as a home. They went out to Cottonwood and chose from several of the structures a long and narrow building. They had to cut it in half to haul it back to town where they reassembled it in an “L” shape. Friends and family helped put up wall paper and finish off the inside. It was an exciting new home for my grandparents and their new baby, Sandy.
 

L to R in back: Burdett, DeVar, Deloy Shumway.  Merwin Shumway, sitting. (DeVar Shumway photo)

On the other side of the hill from the old Cottonwood Mill site is the supposed location of the Springwater Mine. This is located on the east bank of Cottonwood and near the confluence with Brushy Basin Wash, which is almost always dry. A light amount of mining debris is scattered about the hillside.  
 
This area is hallowed to our family because it was here on December 14, 1964 that my grandpa, Burdett Shumway, was killed inside the mine.
 
The Springwater Mine is a very, very wet mine. On that day Burdett and his cousin, Cleon Shumway, were standing in two feet of water drilling holes and loading them with fuses and powder that had been prepared. One of the fuses must have been faulty, because the first round blew shortly after lighting it. Cleon was thrown twenty feet away and managed to crawl out of the mine badly injured. Burdett didn't make it and was trapped inside while twenty-three more rounds fired off. To put it mildly, it was a very sad day for everyone.
 
As to the exact location of the portal for the Springwater Mine, it depends on who you ask. I have heard that it has been reclaimed and also that it is still open. With my dad I have walked all over in that area and have not found a single portal. We did, however, find what appears to be the remnants of a reclaimed shaft that fits the description given by one of the old-timers who helped carry the body of my grandpa out of the mine.
 
As an interesting side-note, I found an article by LaVerne Tate, whose family has worked extensively in the Springwater Mine. She concludes with an intriguing comment: “The Springwater Mine has become a quiet pond in its natural environment, fed by the natural springs within the mine itself, disguising its real 'glory hole nature.'”
 
Now I'm wondering if the sealed off mine on the edge of a pond that we saw earlier is really that of the Springwater Mine? It is definitely a possibility to consider. ♠ 

Could this be a portal to the Springwater Mine?

Sources

Bennett, Lee A. “Uranium Mining in San Juan County, Utah: South Cottonwood Creek and Elk Ridge.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 26, Feb. 2002, pp. 14–43.

Lacy, Toni. “Mining and Families: A Dynamite Mix.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 25, Nov. 2001, pp. 41–49.

Tate, LaVerne. “The Springwater Mine.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 25, Nov. 2001, pp. 71–74.

Wilcox, Janet. “Mining with the Shumways: A Closer Look at Cottonwood.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 16, Nov. 1995, pp. 47–54.

The Bears Ears—Land Sacred to Me, Too

[The following was originally published on August 29, 2016, just as the debate over the proposed Bears Ears National Monument was heating up.  Since that time President Obama has declared it a National Monument and then President Trump reduced it.  This issue continues to make headlines.  I feel that my words remain relevant.]

My last request before leaving the country was to take the long drive over the Bears Ears. I was nineteen and just a couple weeks away from serving a two-year mission in Spain. Suddenly, those things that were most sentimental bubbled to the top of my priority list.

We camped out on Baullies, a long mesa between Fish and Mule Canyons. A wispy red fire became swallowed by the dark night as we told stories around the campfire.

The next morning we piled into my dad's red '72 Ford Ranger and made the long climb on a sinuous dirt road to the crest of the hill toward Bears Ears. The road drives between the two ears and it is there that it enters a world of ponderosa pine trees, high mountain meadows, and vistas that can stretch for a hundred miles.

We stopped and climbed to the top of the east ear, an elevation of almost 9,000 feet. It was something I had always wanted to do.

Continuing our excursion, we drove northward past Kigalia where we saw a herd of twelve elk, all cows and calves.

We crossed a stretch of road called “The Notch,” given such a name because it is precariously balanced between two huge canyons, creating a cleft on the landscape.

It was there that we felt the first clap of thunder, and the rain began to pelt down. I became white-knuckled as the the route became slick along the edge of this dangerously deep canyon. The intense downpour turned the road into a muddy mess and caused me to fear for my life. After sliding all over the road, we decided to stop and say a prayer.

At age nineteen, I had never had a prayer answered so quickly. Instantly, the downpour reduced to a trickle, and then it stopped completely.

With the help of strategically placed thoughts into my mind, I was able to navigate the still-slippery road until it became manageable. Twenty miles later we once again arrived on paved highway. Within seconds, the rain started back up, and in that instant, I knew that God was watching over us and that He had halted the rain.

An abundant variety of wildlife, including deer, elk, bear, and big-horned sheep, live within the proposed monument.

Fast-forward twenty-four years and the same land that we drove over is now being proposed as the new "Bears Ears National Monument." In fact, the proposed monument encompasses much more than the Bears Ears. It would extend from the San Juan River in the south, to Shafer Basin in the north, and east to west from Monticello to Glen Canyon. In short, it would be 1.9 million acres, making it the largest National Monument in the United States.

And it could happen with the stroke of a pen.

It is anticipated that President Obama will use his executive power to create the monument before his final term ends in December—even though local citizens are vastly opposed.

I am in favor of preserving the Bears Ears area in its current pristine state, but am opposed to a monument. I believe that the designation alone will bring more tourists and do more damage to sacred archaeological sites than anything else. Just as has happened with the Grand Staircase National Monument in 1996, it will put Bears Ears on the map for tourists from all over the world who otherwise wouldn't know the place even existed.

Anasazi ruins such as this one are numerous in San Juan County.  A new National Monument would increase

visitation to seldom seen ruins, and may accelerate their destruction.

The proposed designation would be managed by a coalition of Federal agencies, along with the Navajo, Hopi, Uintah and Ouray Ute, Ute Mountain Ute, and Zuni tribes. Of the five tribes, only two (Navajo and Ute) have representation in San Juan County. The local chapter of Navajo Nation, the Aneth Chapter, is opposed to the monument, although their opinion is trumped by the Navajo Nation leadership in Window Rock, Arizona, 165 miles away.

Most of the people in favor of the monument, I would dare say, have scarcely stepped foot on it. They are unfamiliar with locally known place names such as Sweet Alice, Davis Pocket, The Causeway, Chippean, Deer Flat, Mossback Butte, Zeke's Hole, Woodenshoe, and many others.

The reason environmental groups have latched to the native tribes has been to persuade the public that this land is sacred to them.

There is no doubt that the Anasazi built their homes along cliffs and canyons in almost every nook in the county. The Navajo used this place as a refuge and hideout during the “fearing time” when the U.S. Military used Ute raiders to round them up for Fort Sumner. The Utes lived in many areas around the Bears Ears, including Allen Canyon. Some of their people are buried in a cemetery there.

But in this whole equation, it is the Anglo that has been left out. Even though the Anglo has probably played a larger role in the proposed designated area than anyone else during the past 100 years, he is shut out and asked to take a back seat to any discussion of land management.

Although article after article speaks of the sacredness of this land to the Navajo or Ute, they rarely—if ever—mention the sacredness to the Anglo.

What is it that makes a place sacred? Do you have to worship there? Is it a place where you, or your ancestors have lived, hunted, gathered herbs, or wood? Does it have to be included in ancient legends or stories? What if your ancestors died there? What if they toiled and sweat out a living to feed their families by using the land? Where do you draw the line?

Chippean Rocks provide a beautiful landmark, and are nostalgic to me for camping nearby with my father when I was young. 

During the winter of 1879-80, a group of 230 hardy Mormon pioneers crossed the Colorado River and into what are now the boundaries of the proposed Bears Ears National Monument. They had already blasted a crevice from solid sandstone to take their wagons down a precarious “road” into the Colorado River Gorge. As difficult as this was, the roughest part of the route still lied ahead.

Elizabeth Decker from the expedition observed: “It's the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it's nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills and hollows. The mountains are just one solid rock as smooth as an apple.”

The group was part of the “San Juan Mission,” with the objective to “cultivate better relationships with the Indians and lay the foundations for future permanent Mormon settlements.”

During the next four months the party suffered cold, fatigue, and hunger. They blazed a trail that had never seen a wagon, and had scarcely been explored by the white man.

As they climbed the rocks and canyons, twenty-three year old Olivia Larson carried her two young children in her arms as she walked much of the way. She was nearly nine months pregnant. It was so cold that the children's feet were frostbitten and had turned purple.

At the top of Grey Mesa in a howling blizzard, Olivia gave birth to a baby boy. The mother delivered while sitting on the spring seat of a wagon while her husband, Mons, was out in the storm trying to pitch a tent so she could be more comfortable. Baby John Rio Larson was one of three babies born on the trek.

As the pioneers came down Clay Hills Pass, they encountered another raging blizzard. This one buried camps, ripped open wagon covers, and blew over tents. Platte D. Lyman wrote in his journal: “Last night was the coldest night I ever experienced. It was impossible to be comfortable in bed or anywhere else.”

As the travelers made their way toward the head of Grand Gulch (within a few miles of the Bears Ears), they found the terrain relatively flat, but had to send woodcutters ahead to clear a road through thick stands of juniper trees. Their teams were tired, and depending on conditions, they may have been passing through two feet of snow, or sinking to the hubs in mud.

At last, they were getting close, but had one last daunting barrier remaining—Comb Ridge. This sheer sandstone wall runs for one hundred miles, all the way to the San Juan River and beyond. The exploratory party was able to find an Indian trail to get them up and over the obstacle, but for a convoy of wagons, this would be unimaginable.

At the north end of the ridge—where it meets the river—these pioneers accomplished the impossible again, and built a wagon road into the rock. The climb up “San Juan Hill” proved to be the most difficult yet. Worn out teams and exhausted people barely had the strength to accomplish the feat.

Charles Redd gave a graphic description of that last climb: “. . . seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they. By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams.”

Soon they arrived at their destination, a location next to the San Juan River that they would call Bluff City. Here they would plant crops and build homes in a wild environment that proved very difficult to inhabit.

Old cabins such as this one, although few in number, attest to the human activity near the Bears Ears over the years.

My great-great grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth Stevens, were among the group to make this trek across primitive San Juan County. The newlywed couple left behind their comfortable homes and families to make their honeymoon journey.

Joshua came with his brother, Alma, and aging uncle, Roswell. Although we don't know many details about their personal experience on the journey, we do know that they encountered the same cold, blizzards, and physical rigor as everyone else. We also know that Joshua brought a herd of cattle that he bought in Scipio, and two good ox teams that were very useful in pulling wagons up many of the steep climbs.

A month after arriving in Bluff, Uncle Roswell passed away, being the first person buried at the new cemetery.

The green grass on Elk Ridge offers opulent pasture for cattle.

Joshua was a natural animal lover. He trained his horses and dogs, and he loved cattle and livestock. Even after the trek, Joshua continued to run cattle in what is today the proposed National Monument boundaries, from Mormon Pasture in the north, to Cow Tank and Rincon in the south. He was among the first cattleman in that area. His brand book shows where he branded eighty-three calves in one setting.

His daughter claims that there are more places named after him than anyone else in the county: Joshua Trail, Joshua Park, Stevens Pasture, and two Stevens Canyon's. (Some of these places are still used on maps today, while others, I'm afraid, are becoming lost with time.) He knew how to build a trail in a seemingly impossible place.

At Mormon Pasture he built a cabin with a fireplace and a little cheese room. He kept milk cows and made a cheese press. Using a pipe that he stuck into the hillside, he was able to work a spring to draw fresh water.

Descendants of Joshua Stevens have found relaxation on this land for many generations.  

The Stevens family eventually migrated out of the area and into Mexico. On August 26, 1912, Joshua was murdered on his own front porch by renegade Mexican soldiers. Along with other “Pachecoites” who were driven from their homes, Joshua's widow, Elizabeth, and their large family were forced to return to San Juan County—this time as refugees.

Their daughter, Vivian, married into the Shumway family, who began prospecting for uranium as early as 1931. Mining became a family affair, and many of the places they mined are within the proposed National Monument boundaries.

My Grandpa, Burdett, was one of those Shumways. Mining was his livelihood.

On December 14, 1964, the Shumways were working the Springwater mine in Cottonwood Canyon. Lying more than seventy feet below Cottonwood Wash, the Springwater is a very wet mine. Pumps ran nearly twenty-four hours to keep water out of the shaft.

That morning they had come across a beautiful face of high grade, “peacock blue” ore. Excited for their new find, they drilled into the face and prepared the fuses and powder. Burdett was working in the mine with his cousin and best friend, Cleon Shumway.

They stood in about two feet of water, loading the holes. Cleon lit his round first, and then Burdett his. Cleon later said, “Burdett finished and reached down in the corner, picked up his gloves, and laughed about it.”

At that same moment, the first round blew.

Cleon was thrown twenty feet from the face into a pool of muck and water. By the time he crawled out of the mine, twenty-three more shots had gone off. He looked down at his hand that resembled a blob of hamburger.

It was quickly realized that Burdett hadn't made it out of the mine.

The crew at the mine went into emergency mode. Neighboring mines were notified either in person or by radio that a man was injured and another was still in the mine. Soon, a small crowd had gathered at the mine, most of them close relatives to Burdett. Jerry Holiday, Burdett's brother-in-law, went into the mine and then informed the group that Burdett was covered in debris and would have to be dug out.

By the time Burdett's brother, Kenny, arrived at the scene, “the yellow smoke was still boiling out of the mine. A solemn crew was standing near the portal. Kenny ran on past them and into the mine. Half way down into the portal, where the fresh air stopped, Glen Shumway was standing by the blower trying to catch his wind. He had bad lungs anyway. The smoke was yellow and real dark, burning their lungs. Kenny ran on to the face and found muck nearly covering his brother. What was visible made him totally sick; it was an extremely sad situation. Kenny sat and cried for a while then covered Burdett's head with his jacket, hoping some of the others wouldn't have to look at what he had seen.”

They brought Burdett back to Blanding in the back of his own station wagon. His brother, Merwin (who was also at the mine), had the difficult job of breaking the news to Burdett's wife, Erva. Burdett's death was a huge loss to the community. Not only did he leave behind a widow, but also seven children, with one on the way.

I cannot drive past that area in lower Cottonwood without reflecting on the grandfather that I never knew, and becoming somewhat emotional. I think of my mother who lost her father when she was only ten years old. I think of my grandma who struggled for the next thirty years as a widow, trying to make ends meet while raising a large family on her own.

Clockwise: Grandpa, Burdett Shumway (top left), DeVar,
DeLoy, and Merwin Shumway (front) at South Stinking
Hole-1945. (DeVar Shumwy Photo)

The saga continues with every generation. I could go on and on with stories that display why this place is very special to me. This very large tract of land that is now being considered to become a National Monument is not only sacred to the Navajo and Ute, but also to the Anglo who has toiled here for nearly 140 years. My plea is that all those who consider these canyons and mesas as sacred terrain will have an equal voice in the destination of its future. ♠

Sources

Hawkins, Emma Stevens Palmer. Interview by Gary Shumway,  July 20, 1973.

Miller, David E. Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959.

Tate, LaVerne. "The Springwater Mine." Blue Mountain Shadows 25 (Winter 2001): 71-74.

Wes Oshley

[It has been almost two years since Wes passed to the other side. I miss randomly running into him on the streets of Cedar City. The following was written on February 24, 2013. Although blunt and harsh at times, it accurately represents the Wes Oshley I knew.]

The first time I ever met Wes was walking down Center Street in Cedar City when a tall, lanky Navajo came up to me and said, “You must be a Lacy.” I was stunned. How did he know? I had never met the guy in my life. So I asked him how he knew and he proceed to waddle down the sidewalk with his arms hanging down like a monkey. “By the way you walk,” he said.
 
I sure hope he was embellishing that strut, because I don't think that we Lacys look like that. But he had guessed who I was by my movements. He went on to praise my grandpa, whom he knew while living in Blanding. Ever since that day, he says the same thing: “Tell your Grandpa hi for me.” He always wants to know how old Claude is doing.
 
You never forget Wes. Not only is he tall and lanky, but his teeth are always just above my eye level and he must be wearing coffee-stained dentures, because I watch them shift around every time he speaks. His father was Navajo Oshley, a sheepherder that lived to be over a hundred years old and was an icon when I was growing up in San Juan County. Wes is an intriguing person, a person that I still have yet to scratch the surface.
 
When I walked out of Lins yesterday, Wes was there and immediately we walked across the parking lot together. He embraced me with his right arm, something he hadn't done before.
 
“I am just getting back on my feet, brother. I've been gone for eight months. I am just getting back. In the last eight months I buried my three sisters.” As he said this, you could feel the emotion well up within him. I hugged him tighter as we continued to walk. He continued to tell me the story of how he had spent that time in Blanding and he briefly mentioned how each had passed away. The third one caught my attention, as she had frozen to death in her trailer. Her name was Joan Bilsie, but the family preferred to bury her with her traditional name of Oshley. 

That brought up a question I always had. “Where was she buried? In the cemetery or somewhere else where the Navajo bury their dead?” I hadn't ever seen a lot of Native Americans buried in the white-man cemetery and I know that historically they find a crevice or some place in the ground and bury them with a saddle or some of their earthly possessions—or at least that is how I understood it. 

“No,” he responded, “she is buried in the cemetery.” Now the tone of his voice turned angry and passionate. “I don't want her buried where Dr. Redd can come back and get her. Hell no! I would have killed the guy if he didn't do it first. That man had three little babies in his house.” —Here he was referring to Anasazi mummies, I believe. “That is something that is very personal to me. You don't mess with my ancestors. You do not touch the dead!” This was a passionate subject that I had heard from him before. I completely agree with him, but it always makes me feel uneasy because I knew Dr. Redd and his family, and I like them very much.
 
Sometime after this point, I felt like I had to share with him the news that my own daughter had passed away just two months earlier. Once again, his heart was filled with emotion and tears came to his eyes. He hugged me with both arms this time and plead, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! No one should ever have to bury their child.” I assured him that when this happened that I had thought of him, because I knew that about a year and a half ago, he buried his own son.
 
“But they always come back,” he acknowledged, knowing the pain of death, but also knowing that there are divine crossings. He then told me a story about one cold evening when he was under a vehicle trying to fix the transmission, or some other problem, and he needed a certain tool that his grandson, who was helping him, could not find. “Go look in the the tool bag over there,” Wes suggested. When his grandson unzipped the bag, there on top, was the glove of his son Waylon, the one who had died. And in the palm of the glove was the exact tool they were looking for.
 
“They always come back,” he said again. ♠

Elk Ridge and the Glade Pit

The Glade Pit.

Five years ago on this day, my wonderful daughter, Brittany, passed away from this world. Reminiscing on memories of her can sometimes be difficult. All too often the mind becomes dim and large gaps begin to take over the timeline. Often, memories of her are not specific, but come in the form of a place or event—and knowing she was there brings me joy. One such time and place was our family campout on Elk Ridge.
 
We went the summer before she died. It would be our only trip to Elk Ridge as an entire family. I was anxious to show the kids a piece of my past, not only of myself, but also of my ancestors.
 
I decided to take the road that goes over The Causeway and comes out through the Bears Ears. It is a journey with forests of ponderosa pine, mule deer and deep canyons.
 

Shortly after passing The Causeway, the road winds down a hill toward an open meadow with tall grass. This was our first break on “the tour.” I stopped the Trailblazer and twisted around from my seat to face the kids. “This place,” I said, “is called Chippean. This is where we used to have Fathers and Sons.” Being blessed with four daughters and only one son, Jordan was the only one who knew what I was talking about. I further explained: “It's a campout the church does, and all the fathers and their sons go camping together. I came here with my dad. We would play horseshoes, cook dutch-oven potatoes, and sing songs around the fire.”
 
I don't recall any of the kids being very impressed. But then again, Fathers and Sons was my experience, not theirs. Their experience was happening now. We found a grassy flat where we pulled over and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.
 
Further down there is a fork in the road with a path leading northward toward Maverick Point. If one looks on the left side through the branches of pinyon he will observe that the land slopes steeply into a deep valley.
 
This deep valley is called Mormon Pasture and holds a curious place of family history. My great-great grandfather, Walter Joshua Stevens, ran cattle here and also had a cabin and cheese press. He was neighbors with Brigham Young Jr., who had married his sister, Abigail. Brigham Young was using this remote, boxed-up valley to hide from the law. It was the late 1880's and the government was after many leaders of the Mormon Church for practicing polygamy.
 
I pointed out to the kids a cabin and corral, but from our vantage on a high perch, little was distinguishable. Mormon Pasture is one of the few places of private property on Elk Ridge. Thus, I've never been able to view the structures close up.
 
Just fifteen minutes later, we came near the base of Round Mountain where we sat up camp. We kept it simple, and if I recall correctly, we couldn't even build a fire because of fire restrictions. Although there was barely another soul on North Elk at the time, we unloaded a few of our accessories to mark our spot. We also let the kids get out and run around.
 

Just a few miles north of our campsite is a deep green-water lake called the Glade Pit. During the uranium boom of the 70's, it was an open pit with an underground mine going from the bottom of it. Some of the Shumways, as well as others, mined it for several years. Back then, of course, it wasn't filled with water, but was a wet mine, making it very dangerous. The texture in some places was like cottage cheese. Often they used a sump pump to remove water.
 
Back in the day there was a cabin where the miners would stay. At one time there were still relics such as wood and cable scattered around the site. The cabin is no longer here.
 
Dan Shumway tells of the first winter that he and his dad, Devar, spent at the Glade Pit. They got snowed in and had to be flown out by helicopter on Valentines Day. The following winter it snowed even more: 22 feet, 8 inches. It was so high that it completely covered the cabin. They had burrowed a tunnel from the cabin to the outhouse!
 
Eventually the mining was discontinued and the Glade Pit filled with water. We probably spent an hour there as a family, just wandering around the lake and skipping rocks over the water. Yellow and purple wildflowers grew along the bank, and I remember Brittany gathering a handful.
 

Back at camp, we ate a very unconventional dinner. I opened six cans of Progresso soup and poured them into a ten-inch dutch oven, which we warmed over a small propane stove and ate with tortillas.
 
And who spends an evening on Elk Ridge without taking a drive to look for deer? There seemed to be more trophy deer on the mountain when I was younger. It wasn't uncommon to see over 40 bucks in an evening, many of them with wide antlers.
 

With the family now back in the vehicle we drove the dirt roads, all the way North Long Point just before it drops into Sweet Alice. We stopped once to look into Dark Canyon, and then again to drink water from a spring. On this evening we only spotted eight bucks, but several of them good-sized. Being July, they were still in the velvet.
 
It was dark by the time we arrived back at camp. We sat up chairs around the fire pit and ate cookies. (It sure would have been better if we could have built a fire in it!) It was then that I told stories to the kids. I had planned this moment for quite a while, having recalled fond memories from my youth when someone had shared true-life stories of the great outdoors.
 
Before I was able to utter a word, however, our ears pricked to the yell of a wild banshee screaming and yelping while wandering through the pitch-black forest which surrounded us. The cry was loud and spooky, shrilling through the night air and soon joined with a choir of other coyotes, all howling in their high-pitched tone, audibly moving from one hilltop to the next.
 
Once the pack of coyotes finished their nightly yelps, I began sharing with the kids. I told a couple skinwalker stories, as well as one from my youth when I drove over these same roads in a dangerously muddy rainstorm.
 
Then I recounted a story told by Dan Shumway that took place at the Glade Pit during that snowy second winter. It was a bitterly cold January evening and they had already finished supper. The dishes were done and some of the crew passed the time playing checkers. That's when Dan thought he heard a noise from out in front of the cabin. He opened the front door and peered out. A light snow fluttered through the air like feathers, but he didn't see anything unusual. He returned inside.
 
He sat down, but the noise outside still bothered him. He peered again out the door, but this time looked over by the porch. There, maybe ten feet away down the road, he saw a lump in the snow that wasn't there earlier. Then he saw it move! He ran outside and discovered it was a man who had been crawling toward their cabin, but had now dropped unconscious.
 
The men quickly moved to help the mysterious guy, dragging him inside the cabin. He moaned in pain and incoherent speech. His lips were blue and boots frozen stiff. Dan used a knife to cut the shoelaces and pull off the boots. His socks had ice in them. Worried that perhaps he had a wife and kids with him, some of the crew ran down the road, but found nothing.
 
For two or three days the man convalesced in the cabin of the miners. They learned that he was out of Wyoming and was working for an oil company. His vehicle got stuck in Lower Cottonwood and he decided to follow some fresh tire tracks through the snow. He hiked all day long and into the night before he saw the glow of the cabin from about a mile away. As I told this story to my kids, I made sure to point out that he walked right past where we were camped. A few hundred yards away from camp he collapsed, and from there he began to crawl. He was very lucky to have survived.
 
After the stories, it was time to go to bed. Jenelle slept in the Trailblazer, while the three youngest girls in a tent. Jordan and Brittany slept with me on the tarp, beneath that wild canopy of the Milky Way and the lush, creamy band of galaxies that thrive within it. I watched Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper and trillions of stars that I knew no name of which to call them. But the obvious reality was that there were far more stars that I had seen in the sky in a long time. There was no moon that night, yet the sky seemed almost bright enough as if there were. There was no city glow, only the powerful shower of dazzling lights in the sky.
 
Just then, the coyotes again picked up their howling. It sounded as if a younger one lagged behind them. The choir didn't last long. Soon they were up and over the hill and into another arena.
 

After a long night on hard ground, morning finally came. We ate cereal for breakfast, and as we were packing up a stray dog wandered into camp. This was odd, as we had seen virtually no one else on the mountain. The hound wore a radio collar, so I guessed that he was used to track bear or mountain lion. The dog appeared tired and hungry, and was quickly adopted as a family pet. Jenelle poured him a can a soup, which he devoured in about ten seconds. We also gave him water to drink, which he lapped right up. The kids spoiled him with affection, petting and playing with him.
 
Of all the kids, Brittany loved the dog the most. She wanted to take him home. She was already a dirty mess from camping out and now she had a friendly animal jumping all over her and licking her face. It is interesting that of all our experiences on that campout, it was the experience with the dog that stood out most to the kids.
 
We let the hound run freely back to the road where he eventually met with his owner and other dogs of his own breed. It turns out that he was a bear-hunting dog.
 

Brittany and the hound.

 

On our way back to Blanding, we drove south, driving through The Notch and past Preston Nielson's corrals at the turnoff to Woodenshoe. At South Long Point we stopped and took a break, eating cantaloupe, Pringles, and juice. By now it was warming up and the kids were anxious to get back to Grandma's house. As for me, I was sad to leave Elk Ridge. It has always had a special place in my heart, one that I could never get enough of when I was a kid.
 
I loaded the family back up and we continued on the dusty road. We drove through the Bears Ears and down the steep switchbacks that lead to Highway 95.  Little did we know that our journey with Brittany was coming to an end. ♠