After the Holocaust: The Brian Head Fire Aftermath

Last summer a wildfire tore through the mountains above our town. From our valley home we watched plumes of smoke billow like those of an atomic bomb. From day to day it shifted from one location to another and we always made our best guess as to “where the fire is now.”

The inferno lasted over a month, destroying nearly 72,000 acres. It was the largest fire ever recorded in southern Utah, costing $34 million to fight. The blaze forced 1,500 people from their homes, and endangered dozens of cabins and other structures.

Now, a few months later, I have been able to go on the mountain and witness first-hand the aftermath of the fire. I had a few surprises:

1. The fire didn't burn everything. I assumed that from Highway 14 to Bear Valley would be one blanket of black trees. Not so. The fire seemed to move in fingers, leaving the dead and living side-by-side. There were even varying grades of destruction, from singed needles of a pine tree to toasty burnt and fallen over.

2. Not many cabins were destroyed, at least not that I found. I only discovered one cabin that had been burnt, although there were many that had been burned all around. I commend the fire crews for making this happen.

3. The beauty. I saw patterns in the skeletons of the trees and in the contour of the now naked hillsides. The green or blazing orange contrasted the burnt black. White frost covered charred logs.

4. The animals are alive and doing well. There is just enough unburned patches that the wildlife didn't seem to mind the destruction. I saw deer and elk and birds walk across the gray ash.

From my house in the valley, it was interesting to watch the billows of smoke move from day to day.  One day the fire would appear to be near Brian Head, the next day it would move south near Mammoth Creek, then a couple days later it would shift far north toward Bear Valley.  One day it traveled eight miles overnight and jumped Highway 14 (as shown above).  

 

Another aspect that I enjoyed is that the fire revealed the true nature of the mountain. There had been places that I simply didn't go in the past because it was too choked with pine trees, dead-fall etc. Now it was as if the blanket of forest was lifted to give me a peak beneath. I saw the ground, gullies, adjacent meadows and changes in slope. It was like having x-ray vision!

I spent time driving around to look for any cabins that had burnt down.  I was impressed with the fire-fighters because I found several cabins that were left unharmed, yet surrounded by charred pine trees.  The cabin above is the only one I found that was destroyed by fire.

On a nearby stump someone has salvaged ceramic cups, plates and charred utensils. 

This picture was taken at night in a section of forest that was completely ravished.  The yellow over the road is straw that was dropped by helicopter at a later date. The straw covers and protects a grass seed that was also dropped by aircraft.  The new grass will help prevent erosion.

The fire swept through this entire valley, leaving only a few pines and some stands of quaking aspen at the far north.  All I had with me at the time was my phone, so the quality of the picture isn't so great.

The remaining pictures were taken at Yankee Meadow Reservoir.  I was drawn to this particular area because the devastation was so extensive, except for a strip of colorful trees near the shoreline that managed to stay alive.  

This plaque reads: "In memory of Karissa    11-16-83     10-16-07    RIP"

I was surprised to find the identity of Karissa.  She is Karissa Nailen of Henderson, Nevada.  Along with her parents, she was survived by two brothers and two children.  One can't help but to wonder about the significance of Yankee Meadows to this young lady. ♠

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. ♠

In Defense of Slavomir Rawicz

Few stories have ever gripped me like that of The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz. This real-life saga describes Rawicz's capture by the Russians during the 1939 invasion of Poland, and follows through to imprisonment, conveyance to a gulag camp in Siberia, and his subsequent escape. Along with other men, the group walked all the way to Calcutta, India, a distance of 4,000 miles. What an amazing story! That is, until I did a little digging and learned that many believe Rawicz's story to be a hoax.
 
Oh, how I wanted to believe the story. I am a trusting person. I am convinced that we as humans can accomplish feats far beyond our imagined capacity. Although I doubt that I could execute such an endeavor, Mr. Rawicz's story inspired me to do much better.
 
The book was actually written by a ghost writer, Ronald Downing, a British journalist who was researching the abominable snowman, or Yeti. Someone told him of a Pole living in England who had seen a similar creature while walking through the Himalayas. Upon meeting Slavomir Rawicz, the journalist quickly became fascinated with the story as a whole. The two agreed that it was time for the account to be told.
 
The book is very well written, with an intriguing emphasis on detail. Whether it is being handcuffed to a heavy steel chain during a forced march through Siberia, or the sight of a Pavel Bure silver watch carried by a Mongolian nomad, Rawicz seems to have an amazing memory.
 
While crossing the Gobi Desert, two members of their party die and are buried. To survive, the remaining men catch snakes for food and suck water from a scarce section of mud. At one point, they go thirteen days with no water.—And this is where the skeptics come in.
 
They will point out that it is impossible to survive that long without quenching your thirst. And a sighting of an abominable snowman . . . . nonsense! Furthermore, they will point out that the Soviet Union listed his name as being released in 1942 and sent to Persia. And, where are the remaining four survivors who fled with him? Why haven't they stepped forward and told their story? Why hasn't he kept in contact with them?
 
These are valid concerns. A quick Google search will uncover a small “Long Walk controversy.” Both sides seem to be equally represented. People would like to know: Did Slavomir Rawicz really travel thousands of miles to escape the Soviet Gulag, or is it an epic tale that is well crafted, but a fabricated lie?
 
My first question in rebuttal is obvious: What would Mr. Rawicz have to gain by making up such a story? Some might suggest praise. But it was Ronald Downing who approached Slavomir with the proposal. Even after that he was hesitant because when the book was published (in 1956), the Soviet Union was still enthralled in Communism and he still had family that lived there.
 
Some might discredit him because of the vivid details in the account, claiming that no one could recall such facts accurately. If that charge were being made against me, they would be correct. Although, from my life experience, there are those who can, with accuracy, recall vast details from events that happened seventy years in the past. It is as if the incident happened yesterday. I believe Slavomir Rawicz is one of those people. He accused his ghost writer, Mr. Downing, of embellishing some parts. So, if you combine a vivid memory with a very good writer, you are apt to get a novel with lots of intricate details.
 
Concerning the thirteen days without water, maybe it did, or did not happen. I don't know. Perhaps this was a detail that was blurred with time, and what was “many” days morphed in “13 days.” Or, maybe the account is accurate and these men accomplished a feat which most would consider humanly impossible. I have read many accounts of people who did extraordinary things in extraordinary circumstances. Such a story is easy to dismiss when we are such a soft society. We life a life of luxury and comfort and can't fathom such a hardship, let alone surviving it.
 
The sighting of the abominable snowman, or yeti, might lead some to believe this is a work of fiction. Sightings like this are not unheard of: Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster and mermaids to name a few. I have a friend who once claimed he saw a herd of mountain goats in the Virgin River Gorge. “Impossible,” I told him. “That's at least 150 miles from their closest habitat!” But he held firmly to his claim and gave an accurate description of the goats.
 
In his book, Slavomir Rawicz describes the experience of seeing the yeti: “They were enormous and walked on their hind legs. . . . Their faces I could not see in detail, but the heads were squarish and the ears must lie close to the skull because there was no projection from the silhouette against the snow. The shoulders sloped sharply down to a powerful chest. The arms were long and the wrists reached the level of the knees. . . . It would have been easy to have seen them waddle off at a distance and dismissed them as bear or big ape of the orangutan species. . . . There was something of both the bear and the ape about their general shape but they could not be mistaken for either. The color was a rusty kind of brown. They appeared to be covered by two distinct kinds of hair—the reddish hair which gave them their characteristic color forming a tight, close fur against the body, mingling with which were long, loose, straight hairs, hanging downwards, which had a slight grayish tinge as the light caught them.”
 
You may choose to believe or not, but just because you may disbelieve doesn't mean the incident didn't happen or that the observer didn't see something that was unexplainable. And, I might add, if Slavomir Rawicz was intent on selling a fabricated story to the world, why would he throw in such an unbelievable encounter with the abominable snowman?
 
According to a BBC report in 2006, Russian documents have come forth “proving” that Rawicz had been freed from the Soviet Gulag Camp in 1942, which would have been during the same time he would have been making The Long Walk. ——I guess the debate is over. The Russians, whom everyone knows wouldn't lie, have produced evidence from their meticulous records, during a time when the masses were being rounded up in cattle cars. —— I don't think so.
 
Another allegation, apparently made soon after the initial book release, was made by a few people familiar with the Himalayas, including a Mount Everest leader, Eric Shipton. He cites inconsistencies, which make it in his eyes a hoax. Again, I will state as I have previously that time or weakness may have blurred some of the details reported by Rawicz. I also can't help but to remember a project I did in High School in which we had to analyze a map and include the general direction of a geological feature. I chose Grand Gulch and used a detailed map that my dad had. I stated that the primary canyon ran southeast to northwest. When I got my corrected paper back, my arrogant teacher (whom lived in another town because the class was broadcast over a television) wrote “unlikely” on my paper because “Grand Gulch ran northeast to southwest.” It turns out we were both right, but because my map focused in on a tighter geographical region, it only showed a portion of the canyon that ran opposite to the rest. —My point in all this is that even though a so-called expert may think he knows all about the Himalayas, no one will know it perfectly, and Slavomir Rawicz's trek may have been different than most others.
 
Lastly, I would like to mention a book written by Linda Willis, entitled Looking For Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was an American and a member of Rawicz's group. Her research led her to believe that Slavomir Rawicz did not make The Long Walk, but perhaps another person did, and Slavomir just stole his story.
 
Enter into the mix Witold Glinski, a Pole whose story is nearly identical to that of Rawicz, minus a few embellishments. She suggests that Mr. Rawicz found his story among official papers in the Polish Embassy and used it to concoct his own story. Glinski didn't even tell his wife about the escape until 2003, just a year before Rawicz died. I find it possible that Glinski was a member of Rawicz's group, but that Rawicz changed his name to protect him. I also find it ironic that Ms. Willis finds Glinski's account believable and Rawicz's unbelievable, when the two stories are nearly identical, including the trek through the Himalayas.
 
The story of Slavomir Rawicz ends happily. After the trek he moved to England where in 1946 he married his wife, Marjorie, and had five children together. In spite of his ill-health, he was able to find employment, first as a woodworking instructor, then as a cabinet maker. He and his wife also ran a guest house in Castle Donington. After the publication of his book, he was able to buy a house that was big enough for their children and farm animals. Later he worked as a technician at Nottingham College in the arts and ceramics department. He retired from there in 1975 after suffering a heart attack. During his retirement he spent time restoring furniture and looking after their large garden.
 
Slavomir Rawicz passed away peacefully on April 5, 2004 at the age of eighty-eight. ♠ 

Slavomir Rawicz.

The Humble Potato

Many years ago, before a trip to Ireland, I asked a friend who had lived there about the cuisine. “What are some of the authentic foods?” I asked. Without hesitation, and with a smile in his voice, he replied, “The Potato.”
 
He wasn't kidding. After a long bus ride to Galway from Dublin, our first meal on the island was at a quaint gray-bricked building on Market Street called Finnegans. I ordered the Irish Stew, or simply referred to as “stew” by the locals. When my plate arrived, not only did my stew contain chunks of spud, but it came with a side of two boiled red potatoes and and a pile of mashed! This pattern continued throughout our stay on the Emerald Isle.
 
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, it was Ireland that depended on the tuber so heavily that when the crop failed in the mid-1800's it created a famine that killed over a million people. Leading up to the “Great Hunger” was a period when Irish peasants were forced onto smaller tracts of land to allow room for grazing cattle of the British. The potato became the staple of their diet, growing well in less favorable soil. It is said that roughly 40 percent of the Irish ate no other solid food other than potatoes. When the blight first hit in 1845, it is estimated that over three million Irish were totally dependent on the potato. The result was death by starvation and disease, as well as a mass migration to other countries, including the United States.

The potato, or Solanum tuberosum, originates from the Andes Mountains in South America. The natives grew them on terraced slopes where it wasn't uncommon for each village to have a dozen different varieties. Some of the tubers contained toxic compounds which were neutralized with clay or dirt that was made into a paste and eaten with the potato. Much as we do, the Andean people ate their potatoes roasted, mashed or boiled, but also dried, fermented or frozen.
 
The first known Europeans to come across the potato was a group led by Francisco Pizarro, who landed in Ecuador in 1532 among the Incas. Within a few decades, farmers in the Canary Islands were growing them in great enough quantities to ship to mainland Europe. During the next century, the Solanum tuberosum would find its way around the world as part of the Columbian Exchange.
 
In our modern world, the potato is the fifth most important crop, surpassed in harvest volume only by rice, sugarcane, wheat and maize. According to Charles Mann's book, 1493, “The potato can better sustain life than any other food when eaten as the sole item of diet. It has all essential nutrients except vitamins A and D, which can be supplied by milk.” This is how the Irish, whose meager diet consisted of potatoes and milk, could survive remarkably well.

Patatas a lo pobre from Granada, Spain.

Nowadays you can find tortilla de patata in Spain, borsch in Poland, and massaman curry in Thailand, all using a descendant of the South American potato. In my own culture in the American Southwest, a very revered dish is "dutch-oven 'taters." When the Mormon pioneers moved westward across the plains, they brought cast iron pots which they used to cook their food. That tradition has carried on, and now, no serious meal while camping would be complete without frying up bacon and onions, and baking slices of potato in a dutch oven over coals.
 
About fifteen years ago I visited my friend, Billy, and we were in his back yard admiring his garden. I noticed the wide furrows and plants growing from the banks of earth. “What are these?” I asked, not recognizing the leaves. “They're potato plants,” he responded. “We can dig some up and you can take 'em home.”
 
The idea of growing potatoes in a garden had never occurred to me. The following spring I bought some Red Pontiac potatoes from a catalog and cut each tuber so that each section contained at least one eye. We planted two rows that first year, and I was surprised at how easily and green the plants grew.
 
I have planted potatoes every year since then, occasionally experimenting with different varieties. It has easily become my favorite crop. It grows easily, not only the ones you plant, but also the volunteer plants that germinate from leftover spuds. When harvest time arrives, I love that there is no rush to dig them up before the first frost, but that you can leave them in the ground, protected from the cold. Storage is simple. All I do is keep them in a tote with no lid in our storage room in the basement. They stay good until spring. The quality of my own potatoes exceeds that of what is available in the store, and lasts much longer.
 
And most of all I like to cook with them. I know that potatoes are basic and cheap to buy, but when we have a whole container in the basement, we tend to use them more, and it brings down the price of our groceries. We eat them in soups, stews, or mashed, fried, baked etc.
 
Now it is harvest time again and tomorrow I have to go out with shovel-in-hand to dig up tubers. I will admit that it is a little difficult when you haven't kept up on the weeding to distinguish the potato plants from the pig weed. But I will continue digging down the line, on each side of the furrow until I reach the end. Sometimes I am disappointed when I dig and uncover just a handful of small spuds. But when luck would have it that I dig and lever the shovel and overturn a plethora of fat Red Pontiac, then I feel as if I've just won the jackpot! ♠ 

Dutch-oven potatoes.

Feeding the Enemy

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I hate hiking where there's people—especially the crowds. Sometimes it's unavoidable. I had hoped that this place also would be thin with human visitation. Even though images of it are iconic, many people are simply unaware of its remote location.

After thirty-two miles on a dirt road we finally arrived at the parking area, and to my disappointment, there were already a dozen vehicles. With no other choice but to concede, we began setting up camp.

I came with a couple buddies from work and a brother to one. Our intent was to explore a rugged land carved with canyons, once inhabited by an ancient people and later used as a hideout for outlaws.

We set up our cots, then Rob warmed up supper in a dutch oven with a small propane stove. We ate “chilighetti” under the remaining light of day.

A crisp breeze picked up and we worried about staying warm during the night. But as the stars began to fill the sky, another thing picked up also—a guitar.

The camp just behind us set up in a semicircle of tents and trailers, with the open end facing us. A large fire in the center threw flames into the air while those around drank and talked loudly. All the while, a lone player strummed his guitar and sang boisterously into the night air.

We all rolled our eyes as we sat quietly in our camp chairs. “This better not last all night,” I was quick to voice my opinion. We were all running on fumes and needed a good night's rest in order to tackle a full day of hiking.

This is one reason why I don't like hiking or camping where there are people. Many of them tend to be the party type and have no consideration for others. When I'm outside, I just want it to be myself, the breeze and stars.

On the other side of camp was another group, less rambunctious, but still making a racket as they set up their tents. I remember their license plates being from Colorado and Massachusetts. I wish that such places as this (referring to the place we were about to hike) were not marketed to vast amounts of people via the internet and guidebooks. I'd like to have it all to myself!

When it came time for bed, I nestled into my sleeping bag, which I rolled out over my cot and under the wide dark sky. I folded one blanket beneath me and the other over. I wore a camouflaged head-cover that I had used hunting, that wrapped around my ears and chin. With a head-lamp, I rested on my pillow and wound down with a Louis L'Amour book.

Meanwhile, when I took the opportunity to look upward, the stars in the sky seemed to glisten a hundredfold. With no moon in sight, the creamy Milky Way spanned directly above us. I found the Big Dipper and Polaris, and realized I had been slightly off in my orientation. Small blinking lights moved far in the sky, probably either airplanes or satellites.

As I turned the pages of my book, I had hoped the group with the fire would have mellowed out. Not so. The same guy strumming the guitar hadn't stopped singing since dinnertime. They laughed and spoke loudly, as if they were the only campers here.

As for our neighbors on the other side, they weren't quite as flagrant as the others, but still made lots of noise. Two more cars joined them, and for a long time, a set of headlights shined directly on us. Sometime later, a couple of them came trudging near our camp with flashlights wagging ahead. We had to listen to them set up tents and converse until very late in the evening.

At last it was time to put down the book and make an attempt at sleep. The wind was picking up and I worried that my blanket would blow off. The temperature was supposed to get down to 40⁰F that night. The guy with the guitar continued to sing, but I did my best to let my mind relax.

After a long night mingled with sleep and wakefulness, the pre-morning sun began to light the sky in the east. When all of us finally awoke, the first topic of comment was that of our noisy neighbors. “Two of them came walking right through our camp with their flashlights!” Dave complained. 

We seemed to be the first ones awake, and I didn't hesitate to display my irritation. I didn't yell, but when I spoke, I didn't whisper either. I hoped to wake them up. If I spoke bad of them (meaning our neighbors) and they were to hear me, I wouldn't care. In fact, I wanted them to know how perturbed I was at them. What I really wanted to do was get a stick and frying pan and walk through their camp while banging the two together, yelling out, “Wakie, wakie!”

Little by little, they did wake up, although I'm sure it had nothing to do with us. Before our hike, Rob cooked us breakfast. In the same dutch oven he fried sausage and scrambled eggs. We spooned them into tortillas and drizzled hot sauce over the top. We ate to our stomach's content.

When we were done, Rob asked each of us if we had had enough. When we assured him we had, he then made a declaration: “I might go ask those guys if they want to eat the rest.” Then he pointed toward our neighbors on the side.

What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? He couldn't do that. I was still mad at them! But he did it anyway.

Using the handle of the dutch oven, he carried it in his right hand while packing the tortillas and a spatula in his left. I watched him walk over to a small log where they sat. From a distance, I could see their eyes light up and I watched Robbie hand each of them a tortilla and then he scraped a healthy spoonful from the oven.

When he returned he wore a big smile. “They all had some except the vegetarians.” Then he saw the carton on the tailgate and said, “I better go see if they want orange juice.”

The deed he did felt right. We later passed some of them on the hike and they enthusiastically thanked him again for the breakfast burritos. I learned a lesson that morning, a lesson that many have already learned. Negative feelings toward anyone is never a good thing. Sometimes all it takes to wash those feelings away and to see them as real people is an act of kindness. ♠

Rocky Mountain High

There are places in the world that I long to explore, yet one continues to climb to the summit of my mind. The Rocky Mountains of Colorado are rugged and breathtaking. To camp at the base of a lonely peak or to ascend a mighty fourteener is an experience not to be forgotten. 

 

In August I was able to bring my two daughters on a hike to a high-mountain lake that is 12,270 feet above sea level. The 7-mile jaunt took us past waterfalls, wildflowers and old mining structures. Although the hike brought awe to their eyes, it also brought fatigue to their feet. My 13 year-old struggled to breath at the highest elevations.

 

I include a photographic chronicle of our adventure, but deliberately omit a specific location. I'm sure the determined person can figure out where we went; however, there is no reason to advertise the location further. As it was, we passed too many people (124 to be exact) on the way down. ♠

 

The Death of Harry Hopkins

If a person had to die, this would be the place to do it. The young cowboy was probably admiring the view of South Peak, for he still had his field glasses around his neck. Perhaps he looked for deer and wild turkey below the towering ponderosa pine or amidst the scrub oak. But to be shot in the back . . .

The death of Harry Hopkins brings a sense of intrigue and mystery. Very little is known about his past, including his family or place of birth. As far as who pulled the trigger, that has never been solved either, although there are some pretty good theories.

Harry was a cook and ranch-hand for the L.C. Cattle Company in 1887. This was an interesting time on the wild frontier of what would become southeastern Utah. The Mormons, who a few years earlier had arrived in Bluff, now pushed northward to Verdure Creek, where they established a small community they called South Montezuma. The cowboys had their range spread across much of the eastern slopes of the Abajo Mountains, the Carlisles in the north and the L.C. Cattle Company in the south. As for the Utes, they had been here longer than anyone.

Cowboy story singer, Stan Bronson, put it accurately when he penned: “Cowboys and Indians and Mormons, most of those people were fine. But some of those people were up to no good, making trouble all the time.”

One such example occurred just a few years earlier when a Ute Indian fell into a quarrel with a cowboy over a horse. The cowboy shot the Indian through the mouth, but miraculously he survived. This didn't settle well with the other Utes and they started causing havoc with the cattleman, so much that they soon picked up camp and began to move out. That's when the Utes rode in with bullets whistling, stealing several of their horses, killing four mules and burning a wagon.

The L.C. Cattle Company arrived in San Juan during 1880. In 1881, the owner, Issac Lacy, was shot by one of his own employees, a former gunfighter from Tombstone. His wife took over the business and hired a foreman to handle operations. The company located their headquarters near Recapture Canyon and had a summer camp near Verdure. It was here that the young Harry Hopkins cooked for the cowboys while they were out on the range.

The cowboys camped a couple miles west of South Montezuma. Harry came from time to time for supplies. Mary Jones, a resident of the young settlement, recalled the events leading up to the murder:

“The L.C. Ranch had a summer camp on the Blue Mountain, not far from the Verdure [South Montezuma] settlement. A teenage boy by the name of Hawkins [Hopkins] took care of the camp and the horses while the men were out on the range. He came down to buy eggs, milk and butter from the Mormon women and would stay and visit until late afternoon. On one such trip the boy seemed reluctant to go back to camp. The women sensed his uneasiness and urged him to stay overnight. But he must feed the horses. The cowboys depended upon him.”

Harry returned to camp where he prepared the afternoon meal. While waiting for the riders to come back he climbed a hill and sat on a drift fence with his binoculars. No doubt he enjoyed the solitude and pungent smell of pine. Before him, beyond the forested gulf of Verdure Canyon, rose the ominous summit of South Peak.

Unknown to the young camp-hand, someone was creeping through the brush behind him. Without any apparent warning, Harry Hopkins was shot in the back, dropping him dead.

When the cowboys returned, they found dutch ovens full of food at the edge of the fire, but their cook was no where to be found. That night, a violent thunder storm rolled across the mountain.

The next day, Harry failed to make his usual appearance at South Montezuma. Mary Jones remembered: “Soon Old Wash, a Ute Indian, came by and said the boy was dead. Wash claimed that [Hopkins] had been standing on a log looking for horses through his field glasses and was struck by a bolt of lightning.”

A group of men hurried to the site, where Hickory Dennis and another cowboy, possibly Parley Butt, found the boy face-down in the mud with two bullet holes in his back. His body was too decomposed to move, so they dug a hole at the spot and rolled him in.

The incident elevated tension between the three groups. Everyone was wary of the Indians. For days on the Blue and LaSal Mountains, Indian signal fires burned, sending plumes of smoke in the air, a sure sign that they were on the warpath. The white man worried there was an Indian behind every tree.

Some of the cowboys also wished to drive away the settlers of South Montezuma. In a rage they declared: “You Mormons clear out of here in ten days or we will annihilate you!” This threat caused the Mormons to seek protection from U.S. Soldiers, who came from Fort Lewis near Durango.

As for a motive for the murder, only theories will suffice. Harry was a cook for stockman on the Disappointment Range near the Lone Cone in Colorado, where several Indians were killed by cowboys. Perhaps his killing was an act of retaliation. Another theory is that Harry was an outlaw and had been discovered by an old enemy. Or, as Albert R. Lyman theorized, the Utes were always looking for excitement and Harry was the victim of a potshot.

The cowboy cook is buried where he died, at the head of Devils Canyon. An old fence made of poles surrounds the burial plot. Inside is a head and foot stone, with the simple inscription of “H H Hopkins.”

The story of Harry Hopkins is intriguing. It is best told around the campfire, at night when the cicadas are serenading and a gentle breeze is subtly bending the tall grass. ♠

Sources 

Lacy, Steve, and Pearl Biddlecome Baker. Posey, the Last Indian War. Gibbs Smith, 2007.

Lyman, Albert R. Indians and Outlaws: Settling of the San Juan Frontier. K.R. Lyman, 1980.

Palmer, Cameron. “Eagle Project.” 2001.

Young, Norma Perkins. Anchored Lariats on the San Juan Frontier. Community Press, 1985.