Fourth of July―Blanding

Last night when we drove up the hill from Westwater and past Shirttail Junction, we found the first cell-reception in nearly four hours. I read my only text as I drove the dimly lit highway into town: “As many of you may have heard, the softball fields have been flooded. We are currently working on draining the fields so they are playable for tomorrow.”

My heart immediately sank. This was the biggest reason why I made the six-hour drive to Blanding.

Last year we were in Blanding, my beloved hometown, for the Fourth of July. We sat at the ball fields at a softball tournament called Midnight Madness. Flood lights engulfed the two ball fields with illumination. Half the town seemed to be there, sitting on blankets or in bleachers, chatting with old friends or cheering on the games. The place was alive. It was a quarter to midnight and the games would continue through the night and into the morning, hoping to finish before the parade at 10:30.

My daughter, Kaitlyn, leaned toward me and begged, “Dad, can we please do this next year? It would be sooooo fun!”

I knew it would be, so I set off during the next year to twist my work schedule in such a way that we could make the trip.

I spent the weeks preceding the tournament making phone calls to garner a team and then hours on the field honing softball skills that I hadn't used in nearly a decade. I was pumped to finally play in Midnight Madness.

That's why my heart sank when I read the text. A flooded field had never crossed my mind. I guess it made sense. On our drive here, as we drove past Salvation Knoll, we watched a lightning show dancing like a fairy beyond the rim of Comb Ridge.

This morning I woke up with eagerness and drove to the fields. The high school baseball team had been working on them all night and were now waiting for a load of sand to come. One of the coaches assured us that―barring another storm―the fields would be ready tonight.

So, here I am. Our first game draws near and I am in my hallowed hometown about to play in my very first Midnight Madness.

At a meeting with team captains, I run into a girl from high school named Brittany. She is my first cousin, once removed, but we haven't talked to each in over twenty years. She is married to another classmate who is a chiropractor in Cortez.

I ask her if her husband, Adam, is playing in the tournament. “No,” she says with a sigh. “He would prefer to sleep and then wake up early in the morning and go up on the mountain and find a bull elk. Then he's usually back in time for the parade.”

When discussing kids, she says that her son plans on spending the next school year in Blanding. “That way,” she says, “he can get the Blanding experience.”

Soon after my discussion with Brittany, it is time to play ball.

Midnight Madness is fast-paced. It has to be. There is no other way to whittle down twenty-four teams during a nighttime tournament.

Games last thirty minutes long. Each batter gets one pitch. That's it. His own teammate gets to pitch it. If he swings and misses or hits it foul, then he's out.

I will not bore you with details from our horrendous attempt to play softball. Suffice to say, we are man-handled by both teams that we play, our final game ending at 11:30 pm.

I stay and watch a few more games while Kaitlyn hangs around the fields with her cousin, Nizhoni. When we leave at 2 am, the crowds are thinning out, but still alive with people.

But this post is not about softball, but about a small town and their Independence Day celebration.

In my humble opinion, the Fourth of July celebrations in Blanding should be experienced by everyone. It is a time for families to reunite, bringing thousands of people from out-of-town. I'm sure that the size of Blanding―population just over three thousand―at least triples during the Fourth of July.

The next morning we find a shady spot on Main Street, just across the street from the old High School. We are about to watch the parade. My kids are ready with bags in hand for lots of candy. I hold my camera and a bottled water.

You never know what you're going to get at a parade in Blanding.

I remember back in the late eighties when the Federal Government was having one of its usual skirmishes with some of the townsfolk. The dispute was over cabins on the mountain. Many years earlier, the government said that some of the families could build cabins on the mountain, as long as they were actively mining. The families continued to mine and to build and use the cabins. When there became a lull in the mining industry and the mines were no longer operating, the families still continued to use the cabins. By now, these old wooden structures nestled amidst the pine and aspen were almost like family. They had been in use for nearly three generations.

But the Federal Government didn't like that. After a lengthy dispute, the Forest Service took dynamite on the mountain and blew up the cabins. That didn't sit well with local citizens.

When the Fourth of July Parade rolled around, payback was in store. A backhoe drove down Main Street. Swinging from the scooper, a dummy dressed in official Forest Service uniform, hanging from a noose.

Now, in 2015, I doubt that will happen. Our current county commissioner is in deep water with the Feds, but I'm not sure if you'll see a noose again in our local parade.

Soon the procession begins and a long stream of motorcycles scream down Main Street. There must be at least fifty of them, if not more. This ride has become tradition to honor a local hero. Jason Workman, a Navy Seal, died in 2011 from a helicopter crash in Afghanistan when his Chinook Helicopter was shot down, killing all thirty-eight soldiers on board.

The parade is is filled with the usual small-town items: tractors, horses, cheerleaders, drill team, and lots of candy. One thing that I have always admired about Blanding's parade, is that they still make floats. I mean real floats with crepe paper, fringe, arches, paint, all sorts of festooned decorations, and a theme. In the town where I live now, there are few homemade floats. Instead, most of the entries in the parade appear to be little more than business advertisements.

One of the floats that catches my attention is dedicated to “Some of our heroes.” Right away, I recognize a picture of Jason Workman and another of Nathan Winder. Nate lost his life in Iraq just a year or two before Jason. I smile and snap a couple pictures of the float. Nate was a close friend.

As it passes by, I suddenly notice a picture of my grandpa, Burdette Shumway. He is dressed in his Navy uniform with Rex Neilson. Although he didn't die at war, he truly is one of my heroes. A sudden chill enters my body and I glance over to my mom to see if she notices the picture also.

The parade lasts for nearly an hour. Not bad for a small town.

After the parade, we drive to Centennial Park at the south end of town where booths selling food sprawl across the grass. This is one of my favorite parts of the Fourth of July holiday here in Blanding.

Located just half an hour north of the Navajo Reservation, Blanding is a good mix of Anglo and Native American culture. One of the big draws of the booths comes from that culture. This year I see Navajo tacos, Navajo burgers, fry bread, roasted mutton, and even mutton stew for sale. There is also plenty of non-native food such as kebab's, roasted corn on the cob, hot dogs, and lemonade.

I find a booth selling steak sandwiches. Immediately I recognize the man behind the apron. He is Spencer Willie, a Navajo classmate of mine, whom I haven't seen in seventeen years. The best way to describe Spencer: as nice as a Teddy Bear. He recognizes me also and we shake hands. I can tell he is busy and I see the sweat percolating on his forehead. He is a little preoccupied tending flat-bread on the grill.

“You came all the way from Window Rock to cook?” I ask, hoping that I remember correctly from Facebook where he is living now.

“Yeah, we advertised all over on KTNN that we were in Blanding cooking for the Fourth of July. I think we'll get a lot of people.” (KTNN is the radio station of the Navajo Nation and the only place where you will find Merle Haggard, Pow wow music, and Navajo language all in one bundle.)

A Navajo lady working with Spencer takes over my attention and explains what the steak sandwich.

“It is steak with grilled onions and a green chili on a flat-bread called náneeskaadí. It's really good!”

It doesn't take long to sell me and soon I am handing her eight bucks and she is giving me a steak sandwich wrapped in foil and slid inside a paper bag. I walk to a grassy hill near the fence and pull my lunch out of the bag.

Two slabs of seasoned steak with a long green chili sit atop a thick tortilla. The flat-bread is at least half an inch thick and appears much healthier than the fry bread that I am used to. I take a bite and can taste the fluffiness of the bread, the tenderness of the steak, the small kick from the chili, and the sweetness of the onions. Very good!

I meander through the different booths and exchange friendly glances with old familiar faces. I don't know if they see me the way I see them. To them, I am probably one of several thousand kids who were raised in Blanding and have since moved away. They probably can't keep us all straight.

Many people I don't know, but recognize their face as a Blanding face. Some I can pinpoint as a Pugh, a Knight, a Shumway, or a Black. That may not be their last name, but they certainly have some kin blood in their veins.

The horseshoe tournament is held in the pits near the booths. This is my first year not competing in the tournament on a year that I have been in town for the holiday.

“There's still a slot open,” Troy Palmer says to me with a big smile on his face. Not only does he run the horseshoe tournament, but he umped last night for Midnight Madness. He probably hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.

“I didn't even bring my shoes,” I remark. Troy is a nice guy and was a year older than me in high school. Those close to my age are the ones I recognize most easily.

At one o'clock is the “diving for dollars” competition with the kids. I round up my two youngest daughters and we walk to the public swimming pool which is next door to the park. Along the way, we pass my niece, Nizhoni, who is playing in the four-on-four volleyball tournament on the grass of the baseball fields.

The swimming pool is packed with a couple hundred anxious munchkins lined around the edge of a pool, with dots of silver-colored coins shimmering at the bottom. Usually my wife brings the kids to this while I am playing horseshoes. But since she isn't here this year, I am gladly seeing what the fuss is all about.

The day is hot and I can feel the sun scorching the back of my neck and calves. A jump in the pool would feel really good right now. I dip my hand into the transparent water and spatter a couple handfuls on my face.

A lady with a megaphone rounds the toddlers to the shallow end of the pool―enough water to reach the middle of my shin bone―and at her call, they jump and splash into the water in search of quarters.

Then, with each succeeding group, the coins are placed in deeper water, and the challenge of scouring them from the bottom of the pool becomes more intense.

Savanah, my nine-year old, struggles to find any coins at the bottom. I don't think that she likes getting her face wet. But Jenna, who is eleven, has no problem diving to the floor of the pool and meticulously searching. With each coin she finds, she returns to the surface and hands the quarter to Savanah, who is anxiously waiting on the edge. She finds a total of $1.25.

The “free swim” immediately follows, and I decide that there is no need for me to stick around and watch my kids among a swarm young enthusiasts. Impromptu, I decide to walk next door to the air-conditioned quilt show.

I'll admit that I have never been to a quilt show before. In my youth, I helped tie a quilt at my grandma's house and again with my future wife on a date.

In this large room, several dozen quilts hang delicately for display, as if it were an art museum. Knowing that a quilt is not an easy thing to make, I admire the many hours that were spent to create the patchwork in this room.

As one who appreciates local culture, I also ponder on the art of making a quilt and how this skill was highly necessary when people didn't have the convenience of running to Wal-mart and buying a blanket. I am also saddened to think that the skill of quilting is probably in decline, and “hanging from a thread” like many of the other skills that our ancestors possessed.

The one quilt that catches my attention the most is a collage of San Juan County. I see depictions of hot air balloons in Monument Valley, the Bears Ears, South Chapel, and pioneer wagons traveling up a steep hill (probably San Juan Hill).

With a little time on my hands, I decide to drive to the football field for the seven-on-seven football tournament. My brother, Adam, is playing, and I quickly see that the field is young―very few players over the age of thirty. They all look like they were starters on the high school football team during their glory days, and are now back to prove themselves again. I get the impression that this is a version of San Juan High School all-stars from the last fifteen years. There is a lot of talent on the field, as San Juan has been a perennial powerhouse in class 2A football for the past twenty-five years.

I sit down on the grass next to the sideline and immediately begin to decipher the unique rules of the game. Only one end-zone is used. Play begins on the forty yard line and if you make it to the twenty, then you get a first down. After scoring a touch down, there are no extra-points. A one-point conversion can be scored from the five-yard line, or a two-point conversion can be scored form the ten. They play touch football, not tackle.

With less than one minute in the game, Adam's team pulls the victory and wins the tournament.

At six-thirty, I am back at the park with my three girls. We bought tickets for a BBQ pork sandwich dinner from my nephews, Gavin and Ashton, who are trying to earn money to go back east to the Scout Jamboree.

After eating at a park table, we sit on the grass for the free concert in the park. The weather is perfect right now. A cool south wind is blowing and storm clouds are brewing. Hundreds of people, just like us, are sitting on the grass, or on a blanket, or in lawn chairs.

The band does a good job, playing covers from the 50's, 60's, and 70's. Right now they are playing a couple of Santana songs. But just as they do, the wind picks up even stronger, sending gusts onto the stage that sway the speakers and threaten to topple the backdrop.

The band takes a small break, and they remove the backdrop and speakers and put up their instruments, hoping the storm will just blow by. But it doesn't. Soon, there are large bolts of lightning in the southwest, close enough that we can see the length of the bolts, as if we were on the front row of a drive-in movie.

Small patters of rain fly in from the southwest and we decide we had better pack up. I let my sister-in-law take the kids so they can play with their cousins.

I return to my mom's house. On the drive there, the storm transforms from David to Goliath. Rivulets of rainwater gurgle down the gutters while my windshield wipers turn to full-blast.

I wonder about the firework show that is scheduled for tonight at the park. It is only a few hours away and is supposed to be the culmination of Independence Day events in Blanding. Since arriving yesterday, I hear that it will be the largest in town history. A local businessman donated $25,000 to the cause. They say the show will be choreographed to music.

A good firework display is a tough thing for a small town. I remember as a kid, most of the firework shows in Blanding were lackluster, with what felt like a minute gap between each blast-off. I remember one year, when the firework show was held at Recapture Reservoir, and some sagebrush and juniper trees caught fire and burned the side of the hill.

That won't happen this year. Not with all the rain we're getting right now.

I park on the hill at my mom's house, a vantage point that is lofty enough to see into four states on a clear day. From here I watch the lightning show. It isn't as grand as it was twenty minutes earlier at the park, the rain having supplanted much of the lightning. The strikes seem more distant, still moving south to north, now moving across Brushy Basin.

The rain is constant now, dampening the juniper trees and clay that adorn the hill, and creating small puddles on the blacktop. Having faith that the firework show will go forward, I drive back to the park after a small rest at the house.

It is obvious that the rest of the town has faith also. For half a mile along both sides of the street and in the parking lot and any available space imaginable, there are cars park bumper to bumper. Other Blandingites quickly pace toward the park with umbrellas perched overhead.

The rain isn't too heavy now, just enough to mist the hair.

I walk for ten minutes, passing hundreds of people hunkered down in lawn chairs and braving the elements. I find a secluded spot away from the grass and beyond the pavilion on a mound of dirt and weeds. I settle down and set up my tripod and hold the umbrella at an angle to arrest the rain from the northern sky.

Soon, the first ball of red light is launched high into the sky and explodes into a dozen burning streaks. A boom echoes across the air and instantly, the crowd hollers and gives an approving applause.

The show begins.

Purple Peaks

Heavy Thunderstorms in PM on Saturday. This was the weather forecast that I read in the paper. That probably won't effect me, I thought, but I should keep an eye on it.

Friday morning I parked my vehicle at the summit of a road at nearly 11,000 feet in elevation. I inhaled the high mountain air as I strapped an over-loaded backpack onto my body. Soon I was stepping along a faint trail on the side of the slope that led to the east, toward some less conspicuous peaks with a purple hue. I guess that's where they got their name.

I walked roughly at the level of the treeline. To my right and slanting steeply upward, the slope lay barren with nothing but copper-colored rock, strewn about in the shape of wood chips. To my left, trees and shrubs began to grow in abundance, and quickly dug a deep ravine into the earth. I negotiated this precarious trail, knowing that it kept me balanced while walking through the slant of the slope.

Below me, a thick carpet of white and yellow flowers grew.  Mountain springs freshly gushed from the hillside and I watched two bucks mosey through the knee-high growth, their heads down, cropping the plants. When one lifted his head, I saw that he had a wide rack of antlers, still in the velvet and rounded at the tips. I counted four points on each side.

As I walked, I listened for flowing water from the slopes below me. The distinction between boisterous wind, which blew across the treetops, and a gurgling rivulet of water can be faint. I heard something, but could not tell which it was.

I brought two water bottles and a canteen, but would need to refill them before my expedition was over.  I knew that a fresh stream formed at the bottom of the gully where the deer fed, but I hoped to find a spring much higher on the slopes where it would be easier to access.

After only a mile and a half of walking with the heavy pack, I found what I considered to be my home sweet home. The ground became flat in some spots and a perfect layer of grass and small white flowers grew over it, as if grown to be a cushion for my bed. A small ridge heaped up and helped block my little hamlet from the wind.  I unloaded the cumbersome pack from my shoulders, removed my camera bag, then my binoculars, and then sat down on the grass with my back resting on the flat of a large rock. It felt really good to do nothing for a minute.

I spent the next five hours exploring every peak, and vista that I could. I left my heavy backpack near the rock and exchanged it for a smaller pack where I carried my water, an apple, and Snickers bar.

There are few places on Earth that display the greatness of God more than majestic mountains. A blanket of emerald grass and wildflowers of red and lavender and amber covered the slopes, along with rock that ranged in color from gray to ocher.

Elusive little pikas raced from rock to rock, squealing loud their high-pitched warning cries. I could see them scamper across a field of boulders, only to disappear inside a crevice, deep enough and dark enough to completely evade my vision.

On the rocky slope of a minor peak, I found the skeleton of a mountain goat. The curved spine lay detached from the leg bones. The skull and horns were nowhere to be seen.

One reason I came here was to search for mountain goats. At every new vantage point I came, I would sit down and glass the expansive area before me with my binoculars. Distant patches of snow, as well as ivory-colored boulders were checked very carefully. Here and there I found clumps of their cotton-like fur and also dropping of feces. But I didn't find any goats.

I had better luck finding a herd of elk, lazily feeding on a slope far away. I counted twenty cows and calves. A much smaller herd hung out just uphill from them. I could watch both herds at the same time.

I took note of a series of purple-colored rocks that formed a spur ridge-line from the line of hills where I now walked. These were large slabs of stone, smooth on the surface with the exception of some etched lines. That looks like a fun place to explore tomorrow, I thought.

An old road of some sort had been furrowed into the hillside. I had seen it earlier, zigzagging up one of the slopes. It appeared out of use now, and certainly would only accommodate smaller vehicles such as a four-wheeler. It may have been a logging road at one time, or perhaps led to a mine somewhere on top. Whatever it was, it is nothing now but an interruption in the slope of the mountain.

I was in harsh territory. Some of these peaks lifted higher than 11,300 feet in elevation. During the winter, these ridges would be covered in several feet of snow, perhaps only melting away in July. The growing season is very short, leaving most plants small and stubby. Wind is constant, and whatever survives is stout and worn. I saw a tree on a barren slope that had grown almost perpendicular to the ground, slanting at an acute angle.

I followed a ridge-line that led north-east in direction. At the terminus, I ate a Snickers bar and enjoyed the view on another copper-colored slope, with strewn fragments of rock. I couldn't help but notice the determined wildflowers that managed to germinate and flourish, despite the rugged ground.  Small white and purple columbines grew in clusters near the summit of the peak.

The shadows cast from the pine trees below me became long, dark lines on the ground. The sun traveled closer to the prominent peaks in the west, and I knew it was time to begin my return journey to my home sweet home. My legs felt tired.

On the way back I took note of a small stream of water near the purple slabs of rock that I would explore the next day. That would be a perfect place to refill my water bottles.

As I returned back to my camp site, I revisited every vista I could, checking to see if any goats had come into the open. None had. I saw a two-point buck, feeding below and completely unaware of my watching him.

At last I arrived at my camping spot where I rolled out my foam pad and sleeping bag while I still had light. I enjoyed eating a cold military MRE while watching the sun set behind Mount Belknap. In the twilight of the sky, I watched Venus, Jupiter, and a sliver of a crescent moon, all clustered together, and all sinking into the western horizon at the same crawling pace.

Once darkness had completely settled in, the grandeur of the nighttime sky fully unrolled. Not a cloud loomed in the sky. The Milky Way bellowed like a smoky belt and I could see Sagittarius.

I wiggled into my sleeping bag and folded a tarp over my bag to break the gusts of wind that continued to blow. The last thing I looked at before removing my glasses was the Big Dipper. I saw how it was tipped at a forty-five degree angle, as if just about to pour out its contents. I knew that by morning, it would probably be upside down. That is how I would tell time. I was anxious for another day of exploration.

I awoke at approximately 4:45 AM. I lifted my head from inside my bag and gazed outside to the position of the Big Dipper. I couldn't see it. Seeking clarity, I snatched my glasses from the inside of my shoe and slid them onto my face. Once again I looked to the sky and saw no stars. I blinked and concentrated my eyes into focus. I didn't see a single star. Instead, from north to south, the sky was covered in clouds.

Wow, I thought. I wasn't expecting this so soon. For a few seconds I stayed calm, hoping that it was just a light, overcast night. Then I saw the flash of lightning from the north. These were storm clouds.

I shimmied out of my bag and grabbed my phone from my backpack. I turned it on and learned the true time: 4:52 AM.

Anywhere on a mountain at 11,000 feet and a mile and half from my vehicle was no where to be during a violent storm. And yes, on a mountain such as this, they can become violent. I quickly recalled the forecast from the newspaper about heavy PM thunderstorms. I still had another seven hours until the PM!

Not only could a high-elevation thunderstorm drench me, but it could make for a treacherous drive down the mountain on a muddy road.

For several minutes, I sat on my bag and evaluated the situation around me. The wind still blew, but it smelled wetter now, and it blew from a different direction than it had the night before. Another flash of lightning burst in the north, and this time a delayed rumble of thunder followed.

Somewhere in the east, lightning was sparking the sky, enough to silhouette a nearby hill when it burst.

Then I turned and gave my attention to the south. The storm was supposed to be coming from this direction, which is also where the road was that I would have to travel on down the mountain. Lightning flashed there also, and instead of a nebulous flash, I saw distinct tentacles of electricity emerge from the clouds. This wasn't good.

A quick decision had to be made. The storm was apparently arriving several hours ahead of schedule. Either I could wait it out and hope that it was a fluke that would pass over, or I could pack up and hike out in the dark, hoping to beat the storm before the roads become treacherously muddy.

Another boom of thunder sounded and I immediately chose to pack up. I quickly said a little prayer and asked for clarity with my decision. From that point forward, I never doubted my choice to pack up and leave.

Light drops of rain began to fall from the air. All the sky was still dark, except for a sliver of twilight on the western horizon. That was interesting that the morning light shone in the west and not in the east, revealing that the storm was darkest and thickest in the east.

I folded the tarp and then rolled up the sleeping bag and stuffed it into its tiny bag while holding my flashlight from my mouth. Within ten minutes I was all the way packed and heaving the pack onto my shoulders.

Just then, the rain intensified its pace and for a moment I considered hunkering down beneath the boughs of a pine tree. But I didn't. I pressed forward.

My first obstacle was a small craggy hill that I chose to walk around, instead of hiking over. The rain made everything slick. I put my flashlight back into my mouth and grabbed the rocks with both hands for balance. The shrubs, now soaked, rubbed across my pant legs up to the knee. I thought that if my flashlight were to slip from my mouth and break inside the jumble of rocks at my feet, I would be in deep trouble.

I managed to make it over or across three rocky hills just like the first one. That put me on a ridge. Now, it started to hail. White pellets, the size of BB's, pelted across my left shoulder and face. At this same time, I felt that my right shoelace was untied and my boot was coming loose.

A ridge was nowhere to be during a thunderstorm. Within a second of having that exact thought, a bolt of lightning lit from somewhere behind and almost instantaneously, a boom barked loud. My speed instantly picked up. I must have stepped on a slick rock, because my left foot lost its hold and I fell to the ground, scraping my right hand.

I got back up and started walking down the north slope of the ridge where I hoped to find the trail. I found a small tree and bent down to tie my shoe.

The hail tapered off by now, but the ground was still slick as I maneuvered the steep downhill walk. Soon, I found the trail, a small dirt track between the green forest flora. I was relieved to find it and was able to relax a bit.

I looked down as I walked and noticed the violet and scarlet-colored flowers on the mountain floor. The trail crossed from the vegetated area to the rocky slope with copper-colored rocks the size of wood chips and I knew that I only had about a quarter of a mile left. I turned off the flashlight, as now there was enough morning light, and I enjoyed the mountain air with the smell of lingering rain.

The rain had stopped, but I could see some of the other peaks had turned white from the hail. There was surely more to come.

Eureka! . . . Utah

Across the street from the abandoned storefronts, we come across a man in a flannel jacket and ball cap. “Can I help you find anything?” he asks in a gentleman's tone. Beneath the ball cap it appears he has a shaved head and above his lip he wears a gray bushy mustache.

“We're just wandering around the town,” I reply.

Of the eight hundred people left in this town, I had just come in contact with the mayor, Nick Castleton. He is very friendly and begins to give me an introduction to the town.

He points to three buildings across the street and explains that a developer wants to restore them to former glory. Not necessarily for the same purpose, as the middle of the three was a whorehouse. He explains that the building on the right would become a restaurant, the middle a dining area along with hotel rooms, and the building on the left they weren't sure what to do with yet. It used to be a bank.

We talk with Nick Castleton on the barren streets of Eureka, Utah, a once lively little mining town nestled in the East Tintic Mountains, west of Santaquin. At one time, there were nearly a dozen saloons in town, and a handful of brothels, countered by a sprinkling of churches.

We stand next to a brick building with a wooden façade, windows boarded up, and iron bars covering the door. Silver Club is painted in large letters on a side wall. According to local records, the building was constructed in 1918. The original function is listed as “unknown.” In the 1920's it served as U.S. Candy Kitchen, a confectionery owned by Peter Bampal and Peter Demos. In 1977, it was a bar. Mayor Castleton tells us that it used to be a brothel.

Built in 1898, The Gatley Building served primarily as a saloon and billiards hall.

He explains that it was the saloons and brothels, not the banks, that were the key institutions for many of the miners. They would come into town with little money. If they promised to buy so much food from the saloons, they would get what was called a “grubstake,” which meant that they were able to stake a mining claim somewhere, as long as the saloon owner received a portion of the profits. After they would mine their claim, they would pay off the saloon owner, and use the rest of the money for more food and then for the brothels.

The Mayor then goes on to tell me about President Herbert Hoover's 1930 Model A Ford wagon. After his second term defeat, President Hoover returned to his original occupation as a mining engineer. He had an interest in several mining operations in Utah, including the Gemini Mine in Eureka. The Mayor points to a nearby hill covered in gray rock. “That is the Gemini Mine,” he says. “It used to be one of the 'Big Four' mines around here.” He then explains that when President Hoover came to Utah, he would drive to Eureka in his Model A Ford that he kept in Provo. He says that the car is now owned by a couple in California and was brought to Eureka last summer for the Silver Days parade.

Porter Rockwell's cabin.

After our visit with the mayor, we wander up Main Street and find an old log cowboy cabin with a metal awning over it. Even though every building on the street is nearly a century old, the cabin appears very out of place. Strips of juniper bark drape the roof. A door at the front of the one-room structure is bolted with a padlock. I peek through the restored glass window and see a table and chair inside that appear consistent with the late 1800's.

This cabin belonged to Porter Rockwell, the infamous bodyguard to the prophet Joseph Smith. Apparently, it was originally located some twenty miles away on Rockwell's Cherry Creek ranch. It was later relocated to Eureka.

Across the street from the Rockwell cabin is the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, which is now a museum. We walk inside the building. I am with my son, Jordan, and his friend, Xavier. It appears we have the place to ourselves. No other tourists, nor anyone running the place for that matter. Several rooms connect together and showcase about anything you can imagine: old mining tools, mineral samples, household furniture, and even a slot machine and poker table. If I didn't know better, I would be mistaken that I had just entered someones shed of artifacts from the 1930's. There is no rhyme or reason to the displays. I suppose some of it is grouped together by some generality: the rocks tend to be together, the kitchen appliances are in the same area etc. But put frankly, it looks like a house full of junk. And if you are into old junk, then it's just the place for you!

Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of time, or else I would love to stay and browse longer.

At last, an elderly couple enter and look surprised that there are visitors. We exchange small talk and then they suggest we take a look out back at some other displays. “Then be sure you check out the jail,” he says, smiling beneath his gray mustache. Of course, we follow his suggestion and aren't disappointed.

I don't think I've mentioned the beginnings of Eureka. Before it was Eureka, the area was known as Ruby Hollow. Chief Tintic traveled through the area frequently and used it as a hunting and camping spot. In 1869, Mormon cowboys searching for stray cattle found an outcropping of ore on the hill, and almost overnight, the area became a booming town where gold and silver was mined. Eureka became the financial center of the Tintic Mining District. By 1910, Eureka was the ninth largest town in Utah with a population of 3,400. After J.C. Penney established its first store in Wyoming, it placed the second one in Eureka.

Now, Eureka is considered a ghost town. Although some 800 people still live here, that number is down significantly from what it once was. Abandoned buildings throughout Main Street and the entire town testify to that decline.

We are here in January and the hills are still covered in snow. We drive up Beck Street, a narrow road that meanders up the hill and past a few old houses, including a bed and breakfast. Next to the treeline, but beyond the point where we are allowed to walk, there is an abandoned mining structure, perhaps a tipple. It is dilapidated and hasn't been in use in decades.

Nearby is what appears to be an abandoned barracks, or perhaps company buildings. The structures have metal roofs and walls, and there are also a couple of Quonset huts. I really wish that I had someone with me who could explain what all these structures are.

All the ground in this area is covered in gray stone. I notice that this same stone is common in many different locations around town, including the Gemini Mine that the Mayor pointed out to us earlier. I believe that it is used as part of the process when the mine is reclaimed.

We wend our way down the hill and to the other side of Main Street. As I drive on a narrow street on the west side of town, I spy a white church with a tall bell tower that is peeking through the trees. It is the old Methodist church on Main Street. I get out of the vehicle and look for a good angle to take some pictures. A small dirt path leads down the hillside and I follow it and maneuver through the weeds to find my picture.

Methodist Church, constructed in 1891.

This unique LDS church was begun in 1902.  The Gothic-style structure was dedicated in 1904 by Apostle Reed Smoot, then a U.S. Senator.  As of 1977, it was listed as a "two-family dwelling."

St. Patrick's Catholic Church is the oldest standing Catholic Church in Utah.  Although St. Mary's Church in Park City was built first, it burned to the ground, leaving St. Patrick's as the oldest standing.  It was constructed in 1885.

Just as I am about to return to the vehicle, I hear a lady yell out, “You can take pictures in my back yard. There's a good view there!”

I look over and she is standing in the shadow of a tree with her arms folded and looking my way.

“Is this your house right here?” I ask, pointing to a small white house with an even smaller square of grass behind it.

“Yes, it is. It has a great view, especially from the corner there.”

I appreciate the gesture and courteously take some pictures near the corner where the old Gothic-looking Mormon church is visible on Main Street.

“So, what is your name,” I ask when I am finished. She has long gray hair and is wearing a cotton nightgown. A hint of alcohol sits on her breath.

“I am Thelma, and this is my friend, Diane.” She points to a lady in a lawn-chair sipping a beer.

She has lived in Eureka for sixteen years. She asks if I am a professional photographer or a writer for a newspaper. I assure her that neither are true.

I point to the mine on the other side of the valley where I just came from and ask her what the structure is. She explains that a railroad spur used to run there and they would load the ore directly into the car. “There used to be a railroad line that ran right where Main Street is now,” she explains. I've got a picture of it somewhere.”

Amid our conversation, Thelma looks at me and says, “There's a lot of people that come here for ghosting.” Maybe she doesn't say ghosting, but maybe ghost-hunting, or maybe even something else not even related to ghosts. I sometimes don't hear very well. Maybe I am hearing wrong.

But then she says, “We even have one in our house. But it's a good ghost.”

I look at her to she if she is kidding, but she's serious. Diane could sense my incredulity and chimed in, “Oh, yeah. I even have one in my house in West Jordan.”

“It even saved my life,” Thelma says. She then tells the story about how her ex-husband's psychiatrist called her and said her ex- wanted to kill her.

“One day when I walked into the house, I was wearing a cotton sweatshirt, and when I was about to enter the room, I felt this ̶” she grabs the back of my shirt near the shoulder blade and pulls it tight. “I looked back and no one was there. I turned right around and walked out. I know it was a ghost. He saved my life. My ex-husband was waiting and was going to kill me.”

I acknowledge her story and certainly believe in the possibility of intervention from the other side. I guess that a ghost story is very appropriate for a ghost town.

The Bullion Beck headframe, constructed in 1890, served to transport men, mules, supplies, and ore in and out of the underground workings. 

On that note, it is a perfect transition to my next destination. We are running low on time and there is one last place I wish to visit. We return to Main Street and drive southwest of town about a mile. On a dirt road just off the highway is the Eureka Cemetery.

Many of the plots are well maintained, despite the lawns being only wild grass and dirt. The old is mingled with the new, although I find the older graves lie mostly at the far western end of the cemetery.

The unpaved lanes that crisscross the grounds are still muddy from recent snows and an occasional puddle lies in the way. Beyond the vast emptiness of a sage brush desert, I see the snow-capped West Tintic Mountains.

Some of the headstones are very fascinating. One in particular that stands out belongs to Sophia Eastman. To me it appears to be in the shape of a tree-trunk with all the branches sawed off into short stubs. On one of the stubs hangs a scroll from a rope, and on the scroll is engraved Sophia's birth and death dates, and states that it was “erected by the women of woodcraft.”

Some of the burials are unmarked, while others are marked only with a piece of wood, of which any possible inscription has long since deteriorated. Many of the graves are marked with crosses, which probably indicates Catholicism as their religion. Others have names that I recognize from Mormon history.

There are even a few with foreign inscriptions. One belongs to Anders A. Sandstrom and from what I can guess, the writing below his name is of Scandinavian origin.

There are many stories here in Eureka. Like the headstones that lie on the surface, I know that many stories exist. But their true depth and character, like the bodies that lie underground, may never see the light of day again. Many stories of these hardy people may be buried forever.

[This post was a blend of two trips to Eureka: one in January and the other in June.]

Sources


Capsule Histories of Commercial and Institutional Structures in the Eureka Historic District. (1977).  From http://pdfhost.focus.nps.gov/docs/NRHP/Text/79002514.pdf

Carr, S. (1972).  The Historical Guide to Utah Ghost Towns.  Salt Lake City, Utah: Western Epics.

Eureka City Historic Walking Tour.  Print.

Eureka City Website.  (2009).  History of Eureka.  Retrieved June 2015,   from http://www.eurekautah.org/index.cfm

High on a Mountain Top

I left our camp at the side of the lake and walked toward the steep forest hill. I could see tall walls of the hillside through the small openings of quaking aspen and pine trees. It gave the feigned appearance of being just ahead, but I knew that wasn't so.

I stepped through an open space of felled trees, tossed across the tall mountain grass like toothpicks poured from a cup. I stretched my leg over the high ones, sat my bottom on the girth of the tree like riding a horse, then swooped my other leg over and crossed to the other side, just to find another felled tree. Some of the timber I simply stepped across. Gnarled branches, still green with pine needles, blocked certain passage-ways and I pushed the limp branches to the side and pushed my way through.

Beyond the short crest of a hill, the mountain fell away into a ravine of large white igneous boulders. I stepped onto the first rock and felt my footing for balance. Then I leaped to the next, and like a person using stepping stones to stride across a stream, I successfully moved across the field.

At the other side now, the hill now rose steeply. I angled obliquely up the hillside, grasping sapling branches and sturdy rocks to pull me up. My hiking boots dug deeply into the rich, black mountain soil, cutting through decomposing layers of coniferous needles.

The thin mountain air now caused my lungs to heave for breath. Being my first venture at this elevation for the year, they had yet become accustomed to such exertion. I halted for a moment and wiped the wetness from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt and tasted the salty residue on my lips.

I looked behind and below me and could see the whole of Lower Kents Lake and youth canoeing across the surface and could hear a laughing scream of a teenage girl. White branches of aspen trees blocked much of the view of the lake and I knew that I still had more distance to climb.

Before I left, I had asked the Bishop what time he needed me back to help cook dinner for the girls. He gave me a time frame of an hour and a half, but quickly added that he could handle it himself if he needed to. If I were there, he would use my help stirring the barbeque pork in the dutch oven and flipping tortillas. I assured him that I would return in time to help. Now that I was nearly a mile away from camp and separated by an obstacle course of thick forest wilderness, I wondered about my promise to return.

After a short respite of relatively easy climbing, the route to the top turned steep again. A prickly brier with cactus-like spines grabbed onto the sleeve of my shirt and pulled it taut. I carefully unsnagged the fabric.

I wasn't climbing to the tallest summit on the hillside, but rather a a rocky promontory that I assumed would have a view of its own. As I climbed, slabs of granite bulged out from the hillside and I found myself bouldering up and over these chunks of rock.

At one time, I thought that I was making my final ascent, but as I neared the top I learned that I had yet another steep incline to go. I slung my tripod crossways over my neck and shoulder as I needed two hands for the final climb. I squeezed inside the crevice of the granite boulder and placed my boot inside the natural niches and pulled myself up with both hands. Short clusters of white daisies grew all around the rocky pinnacle that constituted the summit of my climb. At last I was at the top!

The view opened up and below me and in every direction I could see miles and miles. A solitary lake became the prominent object of my curiosity. It sat serenely amidst pine trees in a northerly direction from where I sat. I didn't see people, nor canoes, nor trucks around this body of water. Although I could make out a faint road that led to the lake, I felt as if it were hidden deeply in the mountains and only I knew the secret of its location. It's distance was probably a mile away, but I gazed at its miniature outline and dark blue hue and fancied what it would be like to be there now.

Not only could I see this lake, of which I did not know the name, but I counted four others! All nestled deep in the forest.

Behind Lower Kent's Lake rose the snow-capped peaks of Baldy, Belknap, Delano, and Holly. To the west, lightning flashed and a dark rainstorm passed across the valley. A gust of wind hurled itself across the slope of the mountain and the wet smell of rain blew all around me. This was heaven!

A grove of aspens grew on the west slope below me. The green leaves at the tops of their branches created a perfect carpet on the hillside. This must look amazing during the fall when the colors have changed, I thought. I also imagined the dense canopy of leaves creating great habitat for elk.

A clap of thunder bellowed through the air, followed by another gust of wind. I quickly set up my tripod to capture a few photographs before the storm moved too close.

I think that if I could choose only one place to spend my life, I would not choose the desert, nor the city. I would choose the mountains. There is something about being high in elevation and walking among the pines and trodding the same soil as deer and elk. This is about as close to celestial habitation as one can get on earth.

I thought back to the Bishop and the meal that he would be cooking and how I only had twenty more minutes until I told him I would be back down. Unrealistic? Maybe. He said that he didn't need my help. That's good. Although I wanted to help, the impulse to linger on the mountain was stronger than that to help. I may not find this combination again of storm, smell, wind, the snow-capped peaks, and the lakes. And thus continued the monologue inside my mind and I rationalized staying on the mountain top a little bit longer than I should have.

The storm on the valley was still moving south and occasionally I saw a strike of lightning through the dark mist of rain below the clouds. All the other clouds that hovered the mountain ranged from white to gray, but none of them had produced lightning yet that I had seen.

In the center of this large swath of forest, some five miles away, I could see the cut from the gorge where the paved road twisted up the steep slopes above the Beaver River. There is so much left to explore, I thought, feeling that anxious bug of wanderlust brooding inside of me.

But now it was time to hurry back to camp.

I folded up my tripod and slid it into its case and returned my lens cap back to the camera. Slinging them both over my shoulders, I used agile movements to ease back down the granite boulders and past the clusters of daisies.

Thick drops of rain fell from the sky at a very slow pace. The scent of the forest lifted from the ground and the pungent pine and the musky smell of tree bark danced in the wind.   

Glitter Mountain

It has almost been two and a half years since my daughter, Brittany, passed away. Today was Memorial Day and we brought flowers to her grave and released balloons.

She would have been sixteen now.  Her passion to dream led her to love fairies, distant lands with waterfalls, magical places, and wild flowers. She loved the beauty in life. Perhaps she would have out-grown some of her childhood fantasies by now, but I think she still would have loved Glitter Mountain.

We went with her in mind.

Glitter Mountain is located on the Arizona Strip, surrounded by rugged cliffs and colorful rocks. We only got lost once while driving there.

Rather than a mountain, it is really a gouge in the earth that apparently has been mined in the past. At first glance, it looks as if shattered glass is everywhere. At the correct angle, all the mineral shards glitter in the sunlight.

A walk into the “pit” reveals bare walls of crystal-looking rock that kids can chip away at with a hammer and chisel.

This has sometimes been mistaken to be a mica mine. Instead, it is selenite, a variety of the mineral gypsum. The word “selenite” comes from the Greek word “selēnitēs” which literally means moonstone, or stone of the moon. I would say that it is appropriately named, because, although somewhat transparent, they carry the color of the moon.

We spent well over an hour at the pit, the girls chipping away at the selenite and I wandering around exploring. I found a collard lizard scampering through the rocks. By the time we left, we had a small bag full of crystalline treasures.

I think that Brittany would have enjoyed herself.

Getting there isn't too difficult. It is directly south of the Old Spanish Trail and just southeast of Little Black Mountain. Don't follow the quail. It will probably be running the wrong direction.