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.

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. ♠

Hole-in-the-Rock

The morning sun has not yet crested the eastern horizon as I sit atop a low-lying hill overlooking the alpenglow on the Kaiparowits Plateau and a thin dusty road that twists like a ribbon over the desert. Somewhere behind me there is the distant howl of a coyote, and seconds later it is followed by a loud, deep bark just below. I scour the undulating hills with my eyes, but can't find a thing. The two coyotes exchange howls before giving up and going their separate ways.

Fifty-mile Mountain, which is part of the plateau, stretches as far as the eye can see toward the northwest. The white band along its sheer cliff appears impenetrable. It reminds me of how long we have driven to arrive at this point—forty miles on a very bumpy graveled road. The pioneers didn't have it so easy.

The sound here is silence. Beside the howling coyotes, the only noise comes from faint wisps of wind stirred up from the rising sun. Other than that, there is nothing. We are in a remote section of the world. In the distant north and east are the rugged canyons of the Escalante and Glen Canyon. A few short hills of Navajo sandstone heave from the desert floor. Miles of shadscale and rabbit brush dot the sandy earth.

The road to Hole-in-the-Rock is sixty miles on dirt roads.

One hundred and thirty-seven years ago, a group of two hundred and fifty hardy pioneers made a trek over this exact same land. They were called on a mission by the Mormon church to lay the foundation for future settlements, and to cultivate better relationships with the Indians. The men and women were called from young settlements in southwest Utah, primarily Cedar City, Parowan, New Harmony, Kanarraville, Paragonah, Oak City, and Holden.

Preparations for such an ordeal were immense. Each family had to carry enough provisions for six months, along with clothing, cooking gear, food, tents, and supplies. Wagons had to be sturdy, and horses young and strong. Some brought herds of cattle.

Most of these people left behind parents and siblings and comfortable homes to settle a rough and nearly inhospitable land. Their ultimate destination was the region near the San Juan River, on the border of Navajo territory. Until now, there were no permanent Anglo settlements, and much of the area was largely unknown.

The previous year, in 1878, an exploratory party was sent to find a route to the San Juan region via the south, crossing a vast area through Arizona inhabited by the Navajo. It was decided that this route was too sandy and too dangerous to bring such a large contingent of wagons and stock.

On their way back to Cedar City, they took a northerly route, crossing the Colorado River at Moab, and then through Green River and Salina before cutting back south. This route was determined to be too long.

It is ironic that they chose to take a route that had never been tested before. Riding on the advise of men who were “pretty sure” a middle route could be taken, it was decided to take a “short-cut” to San Juan. This alternate course would wend through some very rough and unmapped canyon country; but supposedly it would shave off enough time that it would only take them six weeks and allow time to reach their destination before winter.

The pioneers left their various towns during the fall of 1879, and rendezvoused at Forty-mile Spring during November. From my perch where I am watching the sunrise and listening to the howl of coyotes, Forty-mile Spring is about two miles to the southeast. I can imagine the isolation they must have felt. Even now, in the year 2016, this area remains extremely detached from civilization. The nearest town is Escalante (population 797), and it is an hour away on dirt road, impassable after major rainstorms.

Walter Joshua Stevens

For me, this trek along the “Hole-in-the-Rock Trail" is something of a pilgrimage. I have never been to this exact location before, yet I have heard the stories and know the importance of the history. The trek of 1879-80 was one that forever changed the destination of my own family.

Walter Joshua Stevens, my great-great grandfather, and his brother, Alma, were among those called to the San Juan Mission. Still a bachelor, young Joshua was advised to bring a wife, so he decided to marry his sweetheart, Elizabeth Kenney. The Hole-in-the-Rock trek was their honeymoon.

The couple left from Holden, Utah in the early fall of 1879 in company of his brother, David Alma, and uncle, Roswell Stevens. They rode in a new Bain Wagon that was a gift from Joshua's father.

Along the way, they stopped in Scipio to buy cattle, which they brought with them along the way. They likely rode south and continued along the Sevier River, passing Monroe, Marysvale, and Junction. Here they would have turned east along the east fork of the Sevier River, then through present-day Antimony, Widtsoe, over Escalante Mountain, and into Escalante town.

Elizabeth Kenney Stevens

On November 20, 1979, the journal of Platte D. Lyman reads: “Started on in company with two sons of Walter Stevens and his uncle of Holden. Drove 7 miles beyond Escalante onto the desert and made a dry camp, found some snow and good feed, have had good roads today.”

They drove three more miles to Ten-mile Spring where it was decided that the herd take an alternate route because of the scarcity of water. Eddy Lyman and Alma Stevens took the herd about seven miles toward the Escalante River, near the ranch of Llewelyn Harris. They continued in a southeasterly direction for five days, apart from the rest of the group.

[It is interesting to note that one of the great arches of the Escalante Canyons is Stevens Arch, located at the mouth of Stevens Canyon. It is a majestic arch which is very prominent on the skyline when you are near the Escalante River. According to Steve Allen's book, “Name Places in Utah,” it was named after a “local” rancher named Al Stevens. I can't find any information to clarify who this “Al Stevens” is, but logic would tell me that it could very well be Alma Stevens. He would have passed close enough to see it during this detour with the livestock.]

On November 25, Lyman records: “Joshua Stevens and I walked 4 miles to the main camp at 40 mile spring, spent most of the day there and walked back in the evening, found Eddy had come in from the herd.” (Of course, this may suggest that Alma Stevens stayed back toward the Escalante Canyons with the herd.)

Dance Hall Rock

Our arrival at Forty Mile Spring is at a much more opportune time than that of the pioneers. We are here in September, as compared to November when the first snow had already fallen. I am camping with a small youth group—just two leaders and three boys—and we are now rolling up our sleeping bags and moving down the road.

Dance Hall Rock is just a mile away and our first stop of the morning. This huge sandstone formation is located a mile or so up the wash from Forty-mile Spring, where the expedition spent three weeks. The rock has a naturally formed amphitheater that proved to be a perfect place for dances, and had great acoustics. It was a great way to lighten the load of a daunting trip.

We take our time exploring Dance Hall Rock. The sandstone floor isn't quite an smooth as I had imagined. Names are carved here and there on the walls, many modern and some old, but none that I can find date back to the 1800's. No doubt that this has been visited by numerous church groups and boy scouts.

If one peruses the back-side of the amphitheater, he can climb to the top of the dance hall. There are interesting geological formations in the rock, including large pits that appear as if they have been spooned from the sandstone. Most of them are so deep, that if you fall in, you're not getting out without a long rope.

Memorial to fallen Boy Scouts.

As we continue our journey, the road naturally becomes rockier and we find ourselves crossing more and more canyons. I have to remember, however, that when the pioneers passed through, they enjoyed little or no pathway.

At the bottom of a wash, before a steep grade in the road, there has been erected a monument. We pull over to read the plaque. On June 10, 1963, a group of scouts from Provo, Utah traveled this same road to run a stretch of the Colorado River just prior to its being filled by Lake Powell. As one of the trucks ascended this steep grade, its brakes failed and rolled backward, overturned, and rolled down the embankment, killing thirteen scouts and their leaders.

Being scouts and leaders ourselves, this hits very close to home, and to a small degree we are able to relate to them. It is also a sober reminder of this treacherous and rugged land. The pioneers didn't even have a road, but had to use their teams of horses or oxen to pull their wagons up the grade.

Moqui steps, corral, and name-etching near Fifty-mile Spring.

Down the road, we come to another sandstone mound that is similar to Dance Hall Rock. There is a spring nearby and it is obvious that it has been used by many people over several centuries. An old fence with cedar posts at one time enclosed a horseshoe-shaped formation in the rock that was used as a corral. Fragments of wire and a metal gate remain, as well as several names carved into the wall. I found one that dated back to 1930.

Moqui steps run up the slanted slope of rock, probably chiseled out by the Anasazi a thousand years ago. I test them out for about ten feet and they work really well, matching the movements of my hands and feet perfectly, as if I were climbing a ladder.

Our drive so far has kept us near the base of the Kaiparowits Plateau, but now the road takes a sharp turn toward Glen Canyon. For six miles we travel over slickrock and sandy pathways. It's not as bad as what I thought it would be—we don't need four-wheel drive, and we don't scrape bottom. (I think they've improved the road considerably in the last few years.)

Navajo Mountain.

Looming prominently on our right is Navajo Mountain. I can tell we are close now because Navajo Mountain is actually on the other side of Lake Powell. We take a closer look and can see the chasm of the Colorado River Gorge.

At last, our sixty-mile dirt road comes to an end. The terminus loops around like a lolly-pop, allowing enough room for a dozen or so cars to park. Just 100 feet in front of us is a long sandstone ridge, with a prominent gap cleaved through the center. We have finally arrived at the “hole.”

Hole-in-the-Rock.

The “Hole-in-the-Rock” was the only nearby location for the pioneers to descend into the Colorado River Gorge. When they encountered it for the first time in 1879, the hole was merely a crevice in the sandstone, barely wide enough—if that—for man or beast to walk through. With picks, shovels, sledge hammers, chisels, and a small amount of blasting power, the gap was widened so a wagon could make it through. One glance over the edge at the steepness of the grade, and one will be surprised that any wheeled vehicle could make it down.

Platte D. Lyman was the man who surveyed the crevice before work began on the road. According to Emma Hawkins, Joshua Stevens' daughter, Joshua “walked over to it with Platte Lyman, to measure the depth of the crevice and to decide just what would have to be done.” Even if the gap were widened for passage, it would be extremely steep and dangerous for a wagon to pass through. The pioneers were determined, however, and during December the work began.

Throughout the early stages of the road-building, people were either lowered down the cliff in a half-barrel, or else they accessed the bottom via a trail to the river some two miles upriver. Hawkins explains how her father lowered Charlie Walton: “He picked him up in this half barrel so he could stand and drill the holes. He put the powder in so they could shoot the cliff off there. . . . It was actually a barrel cut in two so that they had a tub to stand in for footing. . . . [My father] took the hide off of his beef with the feet on it for cinching. He fixed this barrel so it was safe for the boy to get in. [The hide was] tied around the barrel so there could be no accident with the boy working there. Charlie Walton was just a slip of a kid at that time. He was in his early manhood, anyway. He must have been just the right size to do the job for him. I have heard my father tell that so many times of how they drilled that down and made that road up wider.”

Much of the blasting through the hole was directed by Jens Nielson, Benjamin Perkins, and Hyrum Perkins. The Perkins brothers had migrated to Utah from Wales, where they had experience in the coal mines. Their proficiency in using blasting powder made them a logical choice to lead the work.

Joshua Stevens was also valuable from his past experience. He hauled rock for the building of the St. George Temple. The road (when building the temple) was so bad and so hard to get wagons through that they learned to build an overlay road so the wagons could make the turn without tipping over.

Two different camps were established, one near the Hole itself, and the other a few miles back at Fifty-mile camp. Those men at Fifty-mile camp would walk six or so miles to the river where they would be ferried across and work all week on a road that the wagons could use to exit the eastern side of the Colorado River Gorge.

Both camps suffered from fatigue and lack of food. Water was often obtained from natural rock tanks that collected rain water. In the absence of trees, fuel was procured by burning shadscale, a quick burning brush abundant in the area.

While many of the women camped further away to avoid the sound of blasting, Elizabeth chose to stay with her husband at the Hole on account that this was their honeymoon. Emma states that her mother was a great help in providing meals to the working men. Of the food and work Emma said:

“[My father] told me that they put barley and wheat in the beef soup for something hot so the men could have something to revive them. They would work a few hours, then they would come and get something to eat and then they would work again. My father was always up at four o'clock in the morning at work. I don't think the sun ever caught him in bed. This job was one that was urgent. He had to get through on account of the weather and there was no turning back. My father was a working man. He was the one that could see that the thing had to be done and knew how to get it done.”

For nearly two months, the workers labored at the hole, using hand-drills, chisels, and whatever blasting material they had to widen the crevice. They toiled from above and below the hole, all the way to the river, creating a road wide enough for a wagon. Much of the slot was strewn with large boulders and very uneven terrain that had to be filled with rocks, gravel, and sand. The labor was difficult, but these men were hard workers. Cornelius Decker, a member of the expedition, said later in life, “I don't think I ever seen a lot of men go to work with more of a will to do something than that crowd did. We were all young men; the way we did make dirt and rock fly was a caution.”

During their time at the hole, the expedition spent Christmas. Before the children went to bed on Christmas Eve, they sang carols and hung their stockings on wagon wheels. They were not disappointed when they woke up and found parched corn, and cookies in their stockings.

I assume that these hard-working pioneers worked every day except Christmas and Sundays. Being a devoted religious group, they held services on the Sabbath, which gave them an opportunity to rest, pray, sing, and worship together. Sermons were given and the group left edified and rejuvenated.

Illustration of pioneers coming down the Hole.

On January 26, 1880, the road through the hole was ready, and teams were poised to go down the treacherous track. Even though it was built to accommodate a wagon, the road through the hole was still dangerously steep.

In order to prevent the wagons from dashing to the bottom of the hill, or over a cliff, two of the wheels were rough-locked. This means that a heavy chain wrapped several times around the wheel and the felloe of the tire, and then the loose end attached to the box of the wagon. In addition to this, long ropes or chains connected to some part of the wagon ran behind, where a dozen or so men pulled in the opposite direction, playing tug-o-war with the forward momentum of the wagon. Some men tied large cedar trees to the rear.

In David Miller's authoritative book on the Hole-in-the-Rock expedition, he states that there is a little controversy as to who led the first wagon down the hole. He says that no fewer than six different people have been claimed to be the one, but concludes that it was probably Kuman Jones who rode down in Benjamin Perkins' outfit.

But according to Emma Hawkins, it was her father, Joshua Stevens, who drove the first team down the hole: “When I came to this country in 1914, Kuman Jones told me, 'Your father was the daredevil that took down the first wagon.' He wanted to be sure that this road was safe. There have been others claim the same thing, but this came to me from Kuman Jones and from my father too.” (It is interesting that Joshua Stevens is not included as one of Miller's six men.)

We descend the Hole.

Standing at the top of the hole, we are now planning to make our own descent. The crevice wedged out by the Mormon pioneers is an obvious break to an otherwise solid lip of sandstone at the brink of Glen Canyon. The chute runs steeply downward, perhaps wide enough for two men to stand side by side with arms spread. Below us about a mile are the beautiful blue waters of Lake Powell.

With no further fanfare, two leaders and three scouts begin the trek down the hole. The old road is non-existent, and it takes quite a bit of imagination to envision what it must have looked like. The pathway is now strewn with boulders and sparse growths of brush. We pick our way down the hill, climbing down rocks and balancing over boulders. There have been a few rock slides over the last 136 years, but most of the debris in the chute was here when the pioneers came through. They filled the gaps with sand and gravel, which has since eroded to its original level.

Name engraved is nearly twenty feet above the current floor.

"G.W." could be either George Westwood, or George Westover, both members of the expedition.

With a careful eye and a little imagination, you can guess where the level of the road once was. As we climb down, we notice some names etched on the wall, much higher than could be done now days without a ladder, thus showing the elevated level of the road. There are also scratch marks where the hubs of the wagons scraped along the wall.

But for the most part, it is difficult to find evidence of the original 1880 journey. There are names carved into the wall the entire way down, but they are of later origin, most probably making pilgrimages like ourselves. Even though I warn my scouts not to carve their names, I don't consider all of the writing as graffiti. Many of these people are descendants and the wall stands as a continuing saga of the same story.

Possible scratch marks from the hubs of the wagons.

Chisel marks in the rock.

A sample of  "modern graffiti" etched inside the Hole.

These stairs were carved about twenty years later to accommodate people of Escalante. 

Etched lines in the sandstone that look like claw marks or finger nail scrapes show evidence of chisel marks. These marks are fairly abundant—if you look—and are a testament of the immense amount of labor and sweat that was put into the making of the road.

About 1,000 feet down, the slot opens up, giving more room, but continuing on a very steep grade. Here, the pioneers chose to continue the road along the left wall. Along this section there are several steps chiseled into the stone. These were carved out some twenty years later by citizens of Escalante who ran a Trading Post at the bottom of the hole, near the river. They used the stairs to transport goods up and down to the store.

Looking up the Hole from the point where it fans out.

Uncle Ben's Dugway.

Drill holes at Uncle Ben's Dugway, compared with a hand.

Just below the staircase are a row of holes bored into the stone. I had been keeping an eye out for these, as they are a famous engineering feat. Uncle Ben's Dugway, as it later became known, is named after the brains behind the project, Benjamin Perkins.

Along a section of about twenty-five feet, the workers were instructed to chisel out a shelf just wide enough to accommodate the inside wheel of a wagon. From this shelf, the rock slopes downward, and five feet below is where these holes are drilled into the rock. They are about two and a half inches wide and ten inches deep, and drilled squarely into the rock so that directionally they are at a slant. After scouring near the river and even back towards the Kaiparowits Plateau, workers found enough solid oak branches to make stakes two feet long, which were inserted into the holes. From here, they found branches, rocks, and gravel, enough to built the road up five feet to become level with the shelf that had been chiseled out. The result was a road wide and sturdy enough, over which a wagon and team of horses could travel.

It is interesting that I had never heard of an alternate story for Uncle Ben's Dugway until I began looking into my own family history. Emma Hawkins gives the credit to her father, whose story she heard from his own lips:

“They could see that they didn't have room enough to get a wagon and they would have to take the cliff off and make an overlay on the other side so they could make it. He is the one that instigated that building and the driving of those pegs. He told us in the cave about how they drove those pegs in rocks to hold the brush they put on top. He told us about it before we had ever heard anything about San Juan of the Hole-in-the-Rock and before all this writing was done about it. . . Brother Lyman has got it in his book as the Ben Perkins Road. I think he called it that because he married two of the Perkins girls. How can forty men work on a road and have it be one man's road? It wasn't Ben Perkins' idea. It was my father's. . . I don't care if Ben Perkins gets credit for it or not. I know that I have got my dad's story and his impressions. I know my dad well enough to know that if there was any kind of work that had to be done, he could figure out a way to do it.”

[In fairness to the Perkins family, it should be noted that Joshua Stevens told these stories to his family while hiding in a cave in Mexico, just before his murder in 1912. Emma was only seventeen years old, and it is possible that some of the story may be misremembered, embellished, misunderstood etc. But on the other hand, you never know. She may be spot on!]

Looking toward Lake Powell from just above the point where the slot opens up.

Looking toward the Hole from above the lake.

From the point of Uncle Ben's Dugway, any remnants of the original road disappear (from what I can discern), and it is now just a scramble down a rocky hillside, past an informative sign, to the shoreline of Lake Powell. Before the damming of the lake, the pioneers rode their wagons down for another mile to the Colorado River, where they were ferried across.

Our new-found friends arrived at the Hole via Bullfrog Marina on Lake Powell.

The lake is lower this year, as it has been for quite a while due to drought. But, there is still plenty of water, and this oasis in the desert is the part looked forward to the most by our scouts. They quickly change into bathing suits, using large boulders as shields, and dive into the water.

I'll go swimming, but not now. It is interesting that there are a couple of boats docked along the shore, probably having made the long ride from either Halls Crossing, or Bullfrog Marina. It turns out that access to Hole-in-the-Rock is more popular from the lake, than overland.

We meet the family that is on the boat nearest to us. It is a husband and wife with their kids, a sister to the wife, and also her parents, who are probably in their eighties. (They brought both boats.) At first I think they are just your average tourist boaters, but then the old lady speaks up: “Are you fellows descended from anyone who came down the hole?”

I am the only one able to answer affirmatively. Quickly I learn that her great-grandfather was Henry Holyoak, who was a member of the Hole-in-the-Rock expedition. As the pioneers had brought animals such as cattle and chickens, the Holyoaks brought a hive of honey bees. The lady—Janelle Hicks I believe is her name—tells us the story that at some point during the trek, their wagon overturned and all the bees escaped. Not only did they have to reassemble the wagon, but they also had to wait until nightfall to sack the bees. “It has stayed in our family,” she continues to say, “and every generation since then has kept bees.”

We continue to talk with the adults in their family, including her husband who is a UFO specialist living near Roosevelt, Utah. It makes for an interesting conversation. Eventually I take a dip in the water, bobbing up and down from the slow, but steady sway, and watching the reflection of the rock cliffs atop the surface. Always on my mind, however, is the immensity of the feat which my ancestors and several others performed many, many years ago. They did it not only because they were hard-working and determined to make the trek work, but because they were devoted to their God and religion.

After crossing the Colorado River, the pioneers had another three months of arduous travel before them, arriving in Bluff on April 5, 1880. Some of the settlers eventually returned to their former homes in western Utah, while others migrated to other areas. A good segment of them, however, stayed in the area, and laid the foundation of what is now San Juan County, Utah.

Joshua Stevens and his wife, Elizabeth, were among those that migrated elsewhere, this because there wasn't enough room for everyone in the small valley near Bluff. After Joshua's murder in Pacheco, Mexico, his family returned to San Juan County. But that's another story. ♠

Sources

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

Hawkins, Emma Stevens Palmer. Interview by Gary Shumway.  September 2, 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.