Death Near Davidson Peak (#22)

Davidson Peak has been on my radar for a while now. For one thing, when driving north on I-15, north of Vegas, it protrudes from the desert like a jagged pyramid. Although often overlooked by its more impressive cousin, Moapa Peak, Davidson Peak is still spectacular in its own regard. Every time I drive past I study it and ascertain which distant slanting slope might be the best to reach the summit.

But that's not the only reason why it's been on my radar.

Some time ago I learned the story of the Davidson family, a trio of hardy pioneers in the 1860's who all perished while crossing the desert on their way to Utah. It was a sad ordeal. I don't know when they named the peak after the deceased family, but most motorists on I-15 who see the formidable rocky bulk have no idea the name of the mountain, let alone the story behind the naming.

I spent the night sleeping in the back of my vehicle a few miles north of Mesquite, just off the freeway. I arrived right at dusk and was able to see the silhouette of Joshua trees against the sunset. In the distance, Moapa and Davidson peaks loomed on the horizon.

I sat in my camping chair, enjoying a Subway sandwich and watching the red and white lights stream along the freeway. A warm breeze blew across the arid ground. The evening felt perfect.

Sunset in the Mojave Desert.

Early night sky.  Moapa Peak in background.

But I knew this was far from how it gets during summer. Due to its location on the edge of the Mojave and Great Basin Deserts, the climate on Mormon Mesa during summer months can become brutally hot. When the Davidson's were traveling in June, the temperature likely neared 110º Fahrenheit. And beyond the Muddy and Virgin Rivers, there was little water to be had anywhere.

The next morning, as I began my eight-mile drive to my starting point, I was reminded of this brutal landscape. Although the road was graveled, it was a lot rockier than I would have preferred. I stayed at ten miles per hour along the serrated path. With each passing minute the craggy slopes of Davidson Peak came closer into view.

Approaching Davidson Peak.

At last I arrived at my destination and found a small turnout where I was able to park. The Davidson's would have passed right by this location. By this point it was unlikely they were admiring the majesty of the mountain or the beauty of the Joshua trees. They were likely in a panic, desperately searching for water. By this time, Death was already creeping in.

I parked and began my hike across a little valley that separated the main bulk of East Mormon Mountain with a smaller group of hills. Two sets of power lines stretched across the valley with accompanying service roads. In addition to these there were scattered Joshua trees, creosote bushes and a dry wash that emerged from the mountain. The weather was ideal, but I knew it would get hotter. The forecast predicted it would be 97º in Mesquite.

Beginning the hike.  Davidson Peak in background.

There are no trails that ascend to the summit. I determined my route by studying a topographical map and guessing which slopes were less likely to have insurmountable cliffs. I chose to enter a gulley on the east side that would gradually take me to a ridge that I could follow westward to the peak.

Let me give some background on the Davidson family.

The parents, James and Maria, were both born in the first decade of the nineteenth century near the east coast of Scotland, just twenty miles from each other. In 1828 they married in Glasgow.

While in Scotland they became converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, also known as the Mormons. As with most of the converts at that time, there was a desire to “come to Zion” and join the bulk of the Saints in Utah. James and Maria were able to come in 1866. Their daughter, Diana, previously immigrated in 1855.

When the Mormon pioneers first arrived in 1847, Brigham Young went to work sending them to various locations throughout modern-day Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada, Arizona and into California. It was a wild frontier. They had to build cities from the ground up using tools that would be considered primitive by today's standards. They had to become completely self-sustaining, which meant if a crop didn't do well, they wouldn't have enough to eat. They also relied on each other. There were stone masons, blacksmiths, cabinet makers, millers, cobblers, and many other occupations.

The Davidson's were weavers, a trade they learned in Scotland. When they arrived in the Salt Lake Valley they obtained employment at Woolen Mills. When the mill received a special order for fine work, Maria would supervise and inspect it.

At two miles into my hike, it was time make a turn to the west and head up the ridge. This is where it started to get steep. With the exception of one small cliff, the trek up this first steep slope wasn't difficult. I dodged cactus and strained my legs. The view improved with each step. Now I could see more rocky and dry mountains to the north, as well as the expanse of desert to the east. A hill just to our east had a road leading to a communications tower.

Beginning the climb, looking back south.

Utah century plant on the hill, looking north.

One reason I chose to hike this peak during April was because of a nearby hike I did last April when the desert wildflowers were all in full bloom. It was beautiful and I hoped for a repeat this year. That didn't happen. But the flora on this dry mountain was still impressive. Joshua trees continued to grow on these higher slopes, as well as California barrel cactus, a Utah century plant, an occasional cholla, as well as several other varieties of cactus.

The Joshua tree fits perfectly with this story because it was named by Mormon pioneers. There's a story that the tree was named by Elisha Hunt who led a caravan of Mormons to settle San Bernadino, California in 1851. The sight of these uniquely desert trees reminded these pioneers of Joshua in the bible, and how he stretched out the spear in his hand.

Joshua trees.

Once I arrived at the top of that first steep incline I gave myself reprieve. The slope was now relatively flat and my legs suspended their rebellion. It was here that I found a very steep cliff and ravine dropping off to the north. Embedded in this cliff, on the same side where I stood, was a large cave or alcove. It could be a fun place to explore, but getting down there from my location appeared either impossible or miserable. It wasn't in the cards today.

I could also feel the temperature creeping up, along with my exertion. Salty sweat began to form on my neck and forehead. I stopped from time to time to drink water. I brought three liters and would have to space them out to make them last. I was acutely aware that no water in this environment would be sure death. My mind constantly flashed back to the Davidson family situation with no water and temperatures 10 to 15 degrees warmer than today.

Looking toward summit of Davidson Peak.

Here's the rest of the story.

James, Maria and their twelve year old son, Joseph, went to St. Thomas, Nevada to visit their daughter, Maggie Davidson Paddock. There are different versions of the story, but one says that Maggie wanted her parents to live there, so they came to check it out. St. Thomas is now a ghost town, covered by Lake Mead.

On June 9, 1869 they began their return to Salt lake via St. George. They had only traveled a few miles when a tire came off their wagon. Their son-in-law helped them fix the tire. They were supposed to meet up with a group that included Lorenzo Snow and travel with them to St. George, but that group had already left. They waited another day before they decided to make the trip alone.

In those days there were two paths to travel across the desert. One followed the Virgin River, which had plenty of water, but involved many river crossings and possible quicksand. The other route led the traveler ten miles north of the river. Here there was no water, but at least the ground was solid.

The latter route was no problem for the experienced frontiersman, but these novice pioneers were just three years from living in Scotland, and the unforgiving Mojave Desert was like nothing they had ever experienced.

The exact movements of their travels are lost to time, but they must have traveled across Mormon Mesa and along the southern edge of the East Mormon Mountains, just as I did. It is unclear whether they ran out of water first or broke another tire. Whichever the case, their spring wagon made it no further than the eastern edge of the mountains, and before a great expanse of nothingness.

They sent twelve-year-old Joseph out on a horse to look for help and water. On the evening of June 12th the horse showed up at a camp near Beaver Dam, roughly fifteen miles away. The horse was fraught with thirst and near dead himself. Knowing this wasn't a good sign, one of the men from the camp rode up the road on his horse and found the boy Joseph dead with his face on the ground trying to drink water from a hole he had dug. There was an empty canteen and keg near him. He dug a grave for the boy and buried him.

Six days later Lorenzo Young was traveling to “The Muddy” when he came across the bodies of James and Maria. They sat beneath the meager shade of a Joshua tree with a blanket over them to block the sun. The parents were buried where they were found and later their son was exhumed and buried with them.

Cactus in bloom.

Thoughts of this poor family stayed with me during my entire trek up the mountain. I thought of those original pioneers who sacrificed everything to live in peace and practice their religion without disturbance.

I also knew I didn't want to perish from thirst either, so I continued to drink my water in a measured fashion. By now I had finished off one liter and had begun drinking the second.

I was also making good progress up the mountain. It was slow and tedious, but I stayed the course. Most of my route involved steep upward slopes with intermittent (relatively) flat sections.

One highlight came when I was over half way up the mountain. I heard a faint noise to the left on the rocks. I looked over and saw a bighorn sheep non-nonchalantly walking across the hillside. He paused to look at me, but didn't seem at all startled. His horns curled into a semicircle above his head. I looked toward the ravine from which he emerged to see if there were others to follow, but this ram appeared to be solo.

Bighorn sheep.

As we stared at each other I withdrew my camera to take a few pictures. He didn't seem to mind and continued his amble. In a calm tone I continued also, but angled toward his direction. Only once did he move with a small trot.

He worked his way over to the side of the hill, at the edge of a deep canyon. For a couple minutes he stood boldly silhouetted on the horizon before disappearing on the other side.

Bighorn sheep about to disappear. 

California barrel cactus.

I was near the top, but had two more steep sections left. All they required was a little grit. There were two nubs at the top, and I wasn't sure which was the true peak. It turned out that the first nub, which is labeled as the peak on Google Maps, isn't the true peak. The second nub is about 40 feet higher.

It took 3½ hours to reach the peak, climbing 2,622 feet in elevation.

From the summit of Davidson Peak it is truly a spectacular sight. The most obvious spectacle of all is Moapa Peak, which from this angle appears like a bottle-shaped monolith. The hike to the summit of Moapa Peak requires a class 3 climb with lots of exposure.

To the east and northeast are Virgin Peak and Mount Bangs with their accompanying mountain ranges. To the northwest of Davidson Peak the ground drops at a precipice that would kill human and animal alike. I kept my distance. Beyond the cliff on the other side of a valley are the Mormon Mountains, an isolated range that is rarely explored.

On the peak was an ammunition box tucked between the rocks. Inside the box was a Tupperware container, and inside that a notebook with a climber's log. I flipped through the leaves and learned that the last person to reach the peak was about a month ago. It was a Mihai Giurgiulesco from Romania.

From the summit looking at Moapa Peak and Rainbow Pass Road.

Mormon Mountains and Rainbow Pass Road.

Looking east from the peak.

As much as I loved the view from the top, I was anxious to get down. The heat was ramping up and I wanted to ensure I would have enough water. I also hoped to visit the Davidson family gravesite.

The hike down was much easier, although I only shaved half an hour off my time. I saw no bighorn sheep, but I did see a baby snake that was red and black. By the hair of my chin I was able to stretch out my third and final bottle of water.―I had an ice-cold Gatorade waiting for me in the vehicle.

Cave near the peak.

Finally in the comfort of my vehicle, I drove another mile down the road, then turned off onto a side-track, passing creosote bushes which seemed as tall as I was. Within a few minutes I was at my destination, a lone burial in the desert with a Scottish flag flapping from a pole.

There's just a little bit more to this story that I haven't told.

After James and Maria were buried in 1869, the location of their burial site was all but forgotten. Interestingly, none of the immediate family knew of the exact location. They had at least four living children.

Nearly 70 years later, around 1939, a prospector stumbled upon the grave. He reported it to the Sheriff, who came out to investigate. Initially he believed it to be a more recent death, but when the bodies were exhumed he learned they were much older. The locals in Bunkerville knew it was the Davidson's. The Sheriff removed a wedding ring from Maria so he could confirm it with the family. The bodies were then re-interred. According to one account they had been buried in their wagon box. A year later a grandson, George A. Reid, learned of the finding and came in possession of the ring. It is unclear whether he ever went to the grave.

Scottish flag and Davidson family grave.

In the early 1970's the Reid family decided they needed to find the location of the grave. One of them traveled to Bunkerville and was led by locals to the location of the grave. In November of 1973, one hundred and four years after their deaths, a proper monument was erected for the Davidson family.

So here I was in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert paying homage to a family I never knew. It was a humbling experience. We have it so much easier than they did. They paid the ultimate price trying to build the kingdom they so sincerely believed in.

As I stated earlier, a flagpole with a light-blue banner with a white “X” flapped with the wind. At the foot of the pole was a flat headstone adorned with coins and plastic flowers. Engraved in the stone were the names and dates of the Davidson family.

As I drove away from the burial site on that spring afternoon, I had a greater appreciation for the sacrifice the Davidson's made as well as other pioneers from that era. I also left with a greater understanding of the brutal harshness of such an arid, yet beautiful landscape. ♠

Davidson family grave.

Muddy Creek Burials, Wyoming

On July 9, 1859 a company of handcarts departed for the plains from Florence, Nebraska. The group consisted primarily of converts of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints from England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Their destination, Salt Lake City, was a gathering place for the Saints, a place they would call Zion.

Handcarts provided an economical way for the church to convey thousands of new members to the West. Most of them arrived in the New World impoverished and without the means to buy a team and wagon.

Fifty-seven handcarts among them carried 250 pounds of provisions each. Four people were assigned to each cart. In addition there were eight wagons to carry extra luggage. Seven “Captains of ten” took stewardship over a group. These men were usually more seasoned on the frontier than the newly arrived immigrants.  George Rowley was assigned captain over the entire company.

Handcart memorial at This is the Place Heritage Park in Salt Lake City.

Being a God-fearing group, every day began and ended with prayer. The distance they traveled, nearly all while pulling handcarts, varied from zero to seven to twenty miles a day. As you can imagine, this led to sore feet and sick people. One of the wagons was designated as the “provisions wagon,” which carried the “invalids.”

As they wandered in a strange land they witnessed things they had never before seen. Buffalo roamed the prairies. Indians came into their camps. Wolves howled at night and at times stirred up trouble. As one lady put it after a night of lightning and rain: they had witnessed “a real American thunderstorm.”

In addition to the mind-boggling number of miles they put in, the terrain on which they walked was not easy. The wheels of their handcarts spun over sandy hills, slogged through mud and forded rivers. At times when they stopped to camp for the night there was neither water nor wood for a fire. They quickly learned to use an American novelty for fuel: the buffalo chip.

Two-rut trail at Muddy Creek.

As they traveled from east to west, they mostly followed the Oregon-California Trail until they parted ways near South Pass, Wyoming. For much of this journey they followed the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers. They watched for notable landmarks like Devil's Gate and Chimney Rock.

Along with sickness came death. There were no doctors or hospitals for the weary travelers. When the angel of death came, he often claimed more than one in the same family. Burial was a sad affair. After the grieving family was long gone, the lifeless corpse entombed in parched or frozen ground was often disinterred by wolves. Travelers along the route reported to having found skulls lying around and limbs protruding from the earth.

Martin Handcart Company---Bitter Creek, Wyoming, 1856.  (Courtesy Church Newsroom)

As the company of handcart pioneers of whom we speak traveled across what is today Nebraska and Wyoming, they became low on provisions. This was difficult for the group, and like similar stories found in scripture, they began to murmur. By August 22 when they arrived at the Green River in Wyoming, their provisions were completely exhausted. They resorted to killing one of their own oxen. —Two days later horsemen from Salt Lake arrived with provisions and the famished Saints were overcome with joy and shed many tears.

After a well deserved rest the group continued their journey in a southwesterly direction, crossing the Hams and Smiths forks. On August 28 they arrived at Fort Bridger where all the soldiers turned out “to see 250 persons pulling handcarts over a wild country of a thousand miles and all for a religion in which they have implicit faith and confidence.”⸺They ate dinner at “The Springs” and descended a very steep and rocky hill and camped at the foot of it beside the “little Muddy.”

On August 29, Thomas McIntyre recorded the following in his diary:

“At 7 a.m. we have a death in our camp. Anna Henysen [Hansen] aged 49. She had been sickly since she left home. We bury her on near to a creek near the south of the road. The Danish Saints attend to the rites of burial. We travel over hilly ground but good roads. [We] ford Bear River which is very high and camp about ¼ of a mile from the crossing. Traveled today 21 miles.”

Peaceful waters at Muddy Creek.

Fenced memorial for Catherine Bennett.

Ann came to America from Denmark with her husband, Mads Jensen, and five living children. In Denmark she would have been known as Ann Hansdatter. They arrived earlier that year on the ship “William Tapscott.” We know very little else about them.

Like many other pioneers, she died from “mountain fever,” which tends to be a catch-all phrase for any fever or disease you get in the mountains. It is the same illness that plagued Brigham Young when he arrived in Salt Lake twelve years earlier. Apparently Ann's family had it also because just five days later—just one day before arriving in the valley—her 13 year-old daughter, Maren, also died. The next day they were joined in death by, Karen, the 7 year-old daughter. Indeed, a very sad situation.

Headstone for Ann Hansdatter Jensen.

The Muddy Creek Campground was one of the most used on the Mormon and California Trails. Brigham Young's group camped here on July 9, 1847. They reported the camp had good water and plenty of grass.

It was also used as a stage stop and Pony Express station. In 1858, over 2,000 men with the U.S. Army camped here. The original Transcontinental Railroad came near here in 1869. It is estimated that 70,000 Mormon pioneers either came through or camped at the Muddy Creek Campground.

Muddy Creek, Wyoming.

Less than two weeks after the death of Ann Hansdatter Jensen, there was another death at Muddy Creek. Peter Andersen Fjeldsted, another Danish convert, passed away on September 9th. There is very little we know about him, including exactly how he died. Luckily for us, he was in the process of writing his history down in a “diary.” It was only three pages long and still not complete as he crossed the plains.

Born near Copenhagen in 1821, Peter was raised in the Lutheran faith. His family was so poor that by the age of fourteen he had to leave home and work at a factory where he “saw all the drunkenness and wild life and those who didn't believe in God.” After several years he returned home to support his mother after his father died in a drowning accident. In 1844 he married and had a child who died the same day.

Peter learned of the restored gospel in 1850 from missionary Erastus Snow. He and his brother, Christian Daniel Fjeldsted, believed the words of Elder Snow and were a strength to each other. His wife, however, did not believe and this drew a wedge between them that eventually pulled them apart. As he recorded in his diary: “My heart felt as if it were crushed between two stones.”

After his baptism he spent several years serving as a missionary for the church in Denmark. He presided over congregations as well as baptized new converts. He returned to his wife several times, but she would not budge. She stood staunchly in her Lutheran faith. He wrote in his diary: “I can see now that she won't believe in the Gospel, but she's in God's hands and I'll pray for her, that's all I can do.”

On April 1, 1859 he left Denmark for the last time aboard a ship for Liverpool. From there he would board another ship bound for America with hundreds of Saints. His diary ends while aboard this ship. We know that five months later he would die near Muddy Creek.

Peter had no living descendants. His brother, Christian, however, successfully made it to Utah and was blessed with a bountiful progeny. He was ordained as a President of the Seventy in 1884 and is buried in Logan, Utah.

Christian Daniel Fjeldsted, brother of Peter.

Almost exactly a year later would come the third and final known burial at Muddy Creek. Catherine Jones Bennett, a convert from Wales, died on September 26, 1860. What makes this interesting to me is that it was recorded in the diary of my great-great-great-great-grandfather, Joel Hills Johnson.

The Bennett family lived in a village near the border with England. Catherine's father, John Jones, had a dream where he saw two men bringing a book and preaching a new gospel. He told his dream to Catherine's husband, Benjamin Bennett, and they decided that when these men came they would follow them.

Several years later, in 1840, several members of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles traveled to England as missionaries. Two of them, Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, made a short trip into Wales to the town of Hawarden to preach the gospel. It was here that John Jones saw and recognized them as the men in his dream.

(L-R) Catherine Bennett, Benjamin Bennett, daughter Elizabeth Bennett.

Benjamin and Catherine, along with several family members, were baptized in 1841. After several more years in Wales, they were finally given the opportunity to come to America and join the other Saints in the mountains of Utah.

They sailed from Liverpool, England aboard a ship with 730 converts of the church. After arriving in New York City they took a train eastward, likely then to take a steam boat on the Missouri River to Florence, Nebraska. This was where the real work would begin. Then they traveled in a wagon train with the William Budge Company.

Joel Hills Johnson started his journey across the plains on August 5,1860. He traveled with two wagons, one carrying belongings for himself and the other with provisions and goods from one of the handcart companies. It is unclear when he began traveling with the William Budge Company, or if he traveled with them the entire time. I believe there were multiple trains traveling within general proximity of each other.

The pioneers traveled most of the same route traveled a year earlier by Ann Jensen and Peter Fjeldsted. Johnson writes of many of the same landmarks and encounters as did Thomas McIntyre in his diary, although in less detail.

The first and only mention of Catherine Bennett comes on his September 27 entry:

“Started before breakfast. Traveled about 8 or 9 miles to the Station on the muddy near Iron Springs where we camped for the balance of the day and night. At this place we buried Sister Bennett, an aged Saint from England, who died the day before.”⸺The next day they had no choice but to move on.

There is one more connection that makes Catherine Bennett of interest to me. Her husband, Benjamin, completed the trip to Utah and eventually settled in what is now known as Holden, Utah. Catherine and Benjamin's daughter, Elizabeth, married John Kenney. John Kenney is my great-great-great-grandpa, I being related through John's second wife, Phebe Alden, these being the days of polygamy.

Memorial for Catherine Jones Bennett.

The Muddy Creek Burials are special in the sense that we know where they are. The vast majority of deaths along the Mormon Trail are lost to time. Often they were “buried on a hill.” But which hill that is, no one knows for sure.

But it should also be noted that, at least in the case of Catherine Bennett, and possibly with the other two, we only know of the general area. When Catherine's family finally learned of the general location where she was buried, they traveled there in the early 1990's and “found one grave that had been claimed last year, but not much else that looked like a grave.”

In 1862, Jens Weibye recorded in his journal “. . . there a short distance west on the north side of the road, was the grave of Peter A. Fjeldsted who died while crossing the plains in 1859.” This shows that his grave was marked at one time. Perhaps this is the grave the Bennett family found in the 1990's. There were no bodies exhumed, nor any Lidar scans. It is likely, in my opinion, that the grave marker for Peter Fjeldsted is in the correct spot, while the other two are just in the general area. All three markers are next to each other. 

Grave markers for Ann Jensen (left) and Peter Fjeldsted.

An expansive view of Muddy Creek, looking west.

The Muddy Creek Burials are half an hour drive from Evanston, Wyoming. From the exit off I-80 it is three miles on a well-maintained graveled road. Muddy Creek wasn't muddy at all when I visited the location. It's clear waters meandered lazily downstream.

The location still feels pretty isolated. I can picture snow on the ground and gusty wind with nothing to block it. I can imagine sore feet from walking hundreds of miles with no relief on the horizon.

Researching these burials has been a humbling experience. My ancestors traveled the exact same route as Catherine Bennett, Peter Fjeldsted and Ann Jensen. Although none of my ancestors died while crossing the plains, some perished at Winter Quarters while waiting to cross. These men and women sacrificed everything they had to find a place where they could worship in freedom without fear of violent mobs. They suffered far more than I will ever suffer so that I might have the liberty to worship. I will be eternally grateful for them. ♠

[Sources: Journal of Thomas McIntyre, Journal of Joel Hills Johnson, Find a Grave, numerous documents from Family Search, and historical marker at Muddy Creek.]

Bradshaw Mountain and Cave Mine (Peak #12)

One night John Bradshaw dreamed he saw a white mule standing on a ridge north of Minersville, Utah. He then dreamed that he went to that ridge and near it he discovered a cave. He entered the cave and found rat nests and nuggets of gold. 

The dream was so vivid that the next day he went in search of the cave. He had never been there before, but knew exactly how to get there because of his dream. The scrub and thickets became so thick that he tied string onto branches so he could find his way back. At last he found the cave just as it was in his dream, including rat nests and nuggets of gold. Further inside he discovered stalactites covered with gold and silver. 

Later he came back with a friend to explore further. This happened in 1859. Eventually this area would become the Bradshaw Mining District. Even though it would produce a great amount of gold, silver and lead over the years, very little came during the lifetime of John Bradshaw. He would die destitute. 

One of many mine portals on Bradshaw Mountain.

Who was John White Bradshaw? 

He was born on February 12, 1819 in Ilkeston, Derbyshire, England. His family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and in 1849 emigrated to Utah like thousands of others during the early days of the church. John married a widow, Harriet Burgess Moore, and together they had four children. Three of the children died and were buried at sea, while the other died two years later. They had no other children together. 

John and Harriet were called to settle what would become southern Utah, in the Parowan area. Minersville was settled in 1859, so this was likely when they moved there. John was a big believer in dreams, and I am sure that this is what gave him confidence to follow through and find the location. 

Unidentified building on Bradshaw Mountain.

In the beginning, not much ore was excavated from Cave Mine. It is said that a couple of men hauled ore from the mine and made gold and silver bars valuing $1,800 to $2,000. In 1879 the mine became property of the Fisco Mining & Smelting Company. 

With all this in mind I thought it would be a good idea to check out the place. The Bradshaw Mining District, which is no longer active, is only an hour from my house. It lies within the Mineral Mountains, a range I have never explored. And to boot, it lies at the feet of Bradshaw Mountain, another peak for me to climb. 

Many of the portals went nearly straight down into the ground.

It was another hot day in mid-June. Temperatures would be in the low to mid-nineties and I knew that soon I would need to start climbing the higher peaks. My plan was to hike up one ridge to the summit of Bradshaw Mountain and down another. Whatever I would find in the way of mining relics along the way, I would stop and explore. 

A cursory glance at the mountainside reveals a busy mining history with several colorful tailing slides. As I drove closer to my parking spot I found the faint foundations of buildings that once stood. I learned that at one time there was a little town within the mining district, but wasn't sure exactly where it was nor whether these foundations belonged to that town. 

I parked along the dirt road and within five minutes of walking through the trees I came across the portal of a mine at the bottom of a hillside. Interestingly, there was no framework or timbers to support the portal. Just a hole in the mountainside that resembled a little cave. I was quite confident that this was not the actual Cave Mine discovered by John Bradshaw, but it allowed me to more clearly imagine what the original cave may have looked like. 

I laid on my belly and peered inside with my flashlight. There was no way I was going inside this one. The tunnel reached beyond what my beam would allow. I was satisfied with that. 

It didn't take long before I was walking up the mountain slope. I noticed that my path was cleared of trees, wide enough for a road. Examining the ground below me it was obvious that there was no road now, but I suspected that at one time there was. 

This so-called path zigzagged up the mountain until it came to a tailings slide. Beyond that I found two good-sized portals, both of them supported by wooden framework. The thought came that there were probably miles and miles of tunnels all over beneath this mountain. I got as close to the portals as I dared. One of them went immediately downward and I was a little apprehensive because I didn't want my weight to cause a collapse. 

A hole in the cliff on the other side of the canyon.

I continued up the ridgeline. Although there was no trail, I was able to make the journey without any hardcore bush-whacking. After an hour and forty-five minutes of hiking I reached the summit. I had gained nearly 2,000 feet of elevation. 

The sight at the summit was pleasant. To the east I could see the snow-capped Tushar Mountains. There was a wildfire on the southern slopes of those mountains. To the west I could see Frisco Peak and faintly behind that the Snake Range. Below was Milford Valley and shades of green farms. 

View from top of Bradshaw Mountain.

View from Bradshaw Mountain looking toward the Tushars.

On my way down looking toward Frisco Peak.

After a forty-minute break on top, I started down a different ridge. I got more than half way down and again arrived at some mines. The first was the most interesting. At first I saw only a large hole in the ground. This hole dropped into a cavern and I knew at once that I didn't want to be anywhere near the edge. The drop inside the hole wasn't terribly deep because I dropped a rock and could hear the thud after only a couple of seconds. 

When I continued just a little further down the hill I discovered a portal with a wooden frame. Beyond this frame was the cavern that I had seen from above. 

With hesitation I entered the cavern, which had plenty of light due to the hole at the top. The cavern appeared to be a large room or grotto. I didn't know if the size of it was artificial or natural. I could see a couple of tunnels on the backside of the cavern where the mine continued. On the wall were painted names and dates, the oldest being 1965. A wooden bench sat at the center with an army ammo can sitting on top. The place felt cold and damp, a welcoming feeling from the heat outside. 

Inside an interesting cavern.

1965 date on cavern wall.

Framework inside the cavern, probably leading to another tunnel.

Once outside I saw other mines from a distance. Along the face of a limestone wall I spotted a cave-like opening with no tailings below it, but it was too far away for my weary legs to travel. 

From this point I was almost back to the bottom and due to the steep terrain I rock-surfed down a slide of tailings. There was much more here left to explore, which I will do another day. 

I was satisfied with my day of exploration. Not only did I bag a peak, but I was able to find a lot of old mining structures. I saw no one else the entire time. 

Tailings coming down the hillside.

The life of John Bradshaw was a sad one. He lost all four of his children with Harriet and thus has no descendants. (Some of Harriet's children from her first marriage survived and have progeny.) As far as I know, there are no pictures of John. His wife, Harriet, died in 1877. At the cemetery he has no headstone. On one hand you could say that John Bradshaw's legacy is all but gone. 

But on the other hand his legacy lives on because of Cave Mine. Named after him are Bradshaw Mountain, Bradshaw Springs and the Bradshaw Mining District. Today the mines are all closed. According to family legend a curse was placed on the mine stating that it will never again produce gold and silver until a Bradshaw family member owns the mine. ♠
 

 

Bradshaw Mountain.

Bradshaw Mountain
 

Distance from car (one way): 1.7 miles
 

Elevation gain: 1,992 feet
 

Final elevation: 7,998 feet

Grave of Thomas J. Chase, located somewhere near the Bradshaw Mining District.

“A highly respected miner, formerly of New England, but for the last twenty-five years or more had been mining on the Pacific slope, by the name of Thomas J. Chase, died at Betenson House, on Tuesday the 16th, of dropsy, occasioned by a diseased state of the liver and spleen. By permission of his friends, Drs. George Wenceslaw, J.W. Christian and George Fennemore, performed a post mortem examination on the 17th which revealed the foregoing facts. According to his own request while living, he was taken to the Bradshaw Mining District for burial yesterday morning.”—Thomas J. Chase Death Notice Published in the Southern Utonian, 19 Dec. 1884, Beaver, Beaver, Utah Territory, United States