Barceloneta

We passed La Gamba de Mariscal and came to the walk next to the port that leads to Barceloneta. Sub-Saharan men, as dark as sable, sold merchandise on both sides of the walk, stretching all the way to the beach. In neat arrangements laid on shawls were t-shirts, sweats, sunglasses, shoes, bags, and anything else that might lure an innocent tourist on his way to the playa. We moved on.
 
The port leads to a point where it meets the beach. There we saw the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. A boardwalk lined with palms follows along the water, with a fine stretch of sand between the two. Kaitlyn and I staked a spot about half way down where we unrolled our towels and laid them on the sand.
 
I grabbed my bag and waited in line for a small bathroom where I changed into my swimming trunks.
 
I returned to Kaitlyn where I sat on my towel and looked around. The beach was crowded today. Not many people dared the water, but most laid on their towels like us, with bags and sandals nearby. Some women laid on their belly with their strap undone to brown their back, while others wore no top at all.
 
More dark-skinned men from Africa advertized their goods. They waved around shawls and pushed cans of beer. Holding a tray of cold green drinks they'd broadcast, “Fresh mojito!”
 

I pulled off my shirt and stood from my towel. I slid off my glasses and placed them inside a shoe. The hot sun baked my shoulders. I walked across the beach and down a short slope to the water. The sand gave way to small pebbles at the fringe of the sea where miniature waves lapped the surface. I smelled a strong scent of fish. I waded to my knees, then hips. The water was green, but clear, and I could see at least ten feet down. Two long fish with silver scales swam in opposite directions. Then I dove in, head first.
 
Cold, but welcoming water enveloped my body. I kept my eyes closed and stroked forward with my arms until I slanted upward and emerged from the sea.
 
I wiped the water from my eyes with one hand and licked a strong salt from my lips. For a minute I tread water and bobbed lightly up and down with the waves. Sail boats slowly glided in the distance and nearby a figure maneuvered a stand-up paddle board. Beyond the shore I could see the twin towers of Olympic Village and the Golden Fish. I dove into the water again, holding my breath for longer, and wishing I could open my eyes to look for silver fish.
 
When I came back up I lazily swam to the shore and walked up the sand with salty sea water dripping from my hair and trunks. I walked past clusters of sun-worshipers, past a group of men playing volleyball, and entered the boardwalk. Beneath my feet I felt the gaps in the sandy wooden planks and almost instantly I felt the wetness evaporate from my back and shoulders. Cyclists, rollerbladers, and pedestrians used the boardwalk and I had to dodge them all.
 

Two more times I returned to the water, repeating the same scenario each time. After the final time I walked to the outdoor shower and rinsed myself with frigid fresh water.
 
When I dried off, Kaitlyn and I dusted our towels, folded them in half, and rolled them up. We returned to the boardwalk and bought ice cream on a stick at a kiosk—hazelnut chocolate! Much refreshed, we began walking again toward La Gamba de Mariscal. ♠

La Gamba de Mariscal

10 Pleasant Surprises in Barcelona

1. Frederic Marès Museum.  While wandering through the Gothic Quarter (and keeping our eyes peeled for a bathroom) we stumbled across the Frederic Marès Museum. I noticed it had free entry, so I thought we could take a look and use the restrooms on our way out. We ended up spending nearly an hour in the building, which used to house the kings of Aragon and Castile. Christopher Columbus was received here upon returning from the new world. But the museum is dedicated to sculpture, particularly really old sculptures. Some date back to Iberian, Greek, and Punic culture. The largest and most impressive display comes from the large collection of crucifixes from the medieval era. Room after room exhibits carvings of the crucified Christ, often with arms broken off. 

2. Street Festival.  Probably our funnest surprise came one evening around dusk when we heard explosions from somewhere on the street. I told Kaitlyn that we had to immediately leave our hotel and investigate. Near the San Antoni Market we found the street blocked off and a party like none other. Dozens of people dressed in orange jackets held torches with sparks shooting from the top. They would run up and down the street and onto the sidewalk and scare anyone they could by brushing the torch near their feet. Others lit off fireworks that would boom and scream. The entire street was one large pyrotechnic display, with no order, but chaos. Another group of people formed a band and played music, which included steady drum beats. Then they attached twirling sparklers to a giant pig on wheels and sent it racing down the street. In the end they lit a firework display right in front of us that echoed off buildings and was so loud I had to plug my ears.

The group responsible for the din was the Diables, or Devils, de Sant Antoni. I don't know much more about the occasion other than it was a local affair, a fiesta put on by people in the neighborhood. It was quite the serendipitous moment.

3. Cathedral Rooftop.  Tucked away in a nook in the Cathedral of Santa Eulalia is a door that gives access to a small elevator. Coming across this nook had eluded me during my other visits to the cathedral. The lift takes the visitor to the roof of the church, but it might as well be another world. Not only does it bring you up-close to the gargoyles and red tiles of the roof, but gives you an expansive view of a sea of other rooftops and steeples and bell-towers that one would otherwise never see. One can also see Montjuïc, the sea, Tibidabo. We spent at least half an hour up there, pleased to gaze upon a peaceful view that I had never seen before.

4. Camp Nou.  After church on Sunday we caught the metro and had traveled two stops on the blue line when Kaitlyn remembered she had left her watch on one of the pews. We got off the train at the Collblanc stop. Knowing where we were, I told Kaitlyn we had two choices: we could immediately get on the first returning train, or we could exit the station and see Camp Nou. We chose the second option.

Camp Nou is the home stadium for the world renowned soccer team, Barcelona, or known locally as Barça. The stadium is gigantic, holding 99,354 people. We had to walk ten minutes to get there, but it was totally worth it. We walked through the store and got our pictures taken in front of a couple icons outside. We didn't go inside, or pay for the “Camp Nou Experience,” but we still got to feel a bit of the atmosphere that comes with Barcelona football.

5. The Champions.  After eating lunch in a bar one day we heard echoes of excitement coming from up the street. Immediately we sought to investigate. We found a local soccer venue and a rowdy crowd on their feet, cheering the team who had just won the championship. It was a youth team, and I don't know what championship they just won. But the team was excited, throwing their arms into the air, jumping up and down, and putting on the winner's jersey. The crowd yelled, “Olé, olé,” and chanted a victory song. I wish we had shown up a bit sooner, but we were lucky to show up at all.

6. Santa Maria del Mar.  In Barcelona, as well as about any other city in Europe, you will have the opportunity to visit many old churches. I enjoy all of them, but will admit that after a while, they all tend to blend together. One church that stands out is Santa Maria del Mar. This church began construction in the 1300's outside the city walls, as a worshiping spot for the fisherman. For me, the thing I enjoy most is the openness of the church. Doors on three sides and a plethora of stained-glass windows let in a lot of light, thus Santa Maria is much more well-lit than many of the other churches and cathedrals. The design is open, allowing for an unobstructed view of the interior. On different inscriptions are memorials to those who helped build it, as well as to the mariners to whom it was built.

7. Hotel Balcony.  When getting a hotel in Europe, especially the cheaper ones in my price range, you never know what kind of window view you will get. It may be a wall, parking lot, or empty space in the middle of the complex. Our first hotel in Barcelona was nothing to brag about on the inside, but our view out the balcony was pleasant. Our fourth-story room looked over Carrer de Josep Anselm Clave, a narrow street just a block from the harbor. Far to our right we could see the mouth of the Rambla, almost to the Columbus statue. On our left we could see the dome and angelic statue atop the Basílica de Mercè. We could hear voices of people roaming the streets, mopeds zooming, and the occasional church bell.

8. El Raval at Night.  Our final hotel was in the Raval District of Barcelona, an area once known for drug problems and prostitution. Although the city has done a good job cleaning up, it is still a little on the seedy side. Each night as we returned to our room, I chose to wander a different route through the Raval. The streets, all narrow alleyways, were well lit. Some were full of bars and nightlife, while others were devoid of people. But it was always a pleasure to walk through these streets at night and take in the sites and smells of whatever we passed. Often I would have to pull out my map to figure out where we were. I watched old ladies at midnight going on a stroll. Shop-keepers sat outside their doors chatting. Independence flags hung from balconies and occasionally I heard television coming from an open window.

9. Castellers.  I was pleasantly surprised when I learned that, following our church services we would attend on Sunday, there would be a competition of Castellers. This is a sport unique to Catalunya where teams build human towers, standing on each others shoulders, often seven levels high. It had been many years since I had watched in person. We weren't disappointed. In the municipality of Esplugues (a suburb of Barcelona) we observed three teams take turns and build some amazing “castles” as they are referred to in Catalán. There was even an upper-level terrace that led to a park where we had a birds-eye view.

10. The Magic Fountain.  On our final night in Barcelona we climbed the stairs of Montjuïc to the famed Magic Fountain. I wasn't sure what to expect. The first time I went there (during the 1992 Olympics) I as thoroughly impressed. We had been exploring some of the Olympic venues when we happened upon the fountain. I didn't know it had a name back then. Thousands of people gathered around, so we thought something exciting was about to happen. When the show began it was a booming exhibition of light and dancing water, choreographed to the song Barcelona, sung by Freddy Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The experience has stayed with me for 26 years.

In 2001 I visited the fountain with my wife, but found it not even running. I was disappointed.

So I tried again on this last trip with my daughter. We were not disappointed. As in 1992, there were thousands gathered around the fountain. At 9:30 promptly the display began and the song Barcelona blared into the air! I turned to Kaitlyn and explained that this is exactly what I had experienced 26 years ago! ♠

One Final Adventure

Ribbon Falls, Grand Canyon.

Some deaths are harder to take than others. This was a hard one for me. Dave was someone I saw nearly every day and heard his voice. I can still hear it in my head. It is as clear as if he were with me right now.

Dave and I have many of the same interests. We are both avid hikers, although he has far out-paced me in that category. He once told me that he may not have enough money to travel to exotic places around the world, but he certainly has enough till fill up a tank of gas. We are blessed to have some of the best hiking scenery in our backyard: Buckskin Gulch, The Subway, The Narrows, The Wave.

He loved to take his family. On his desk is a picture of he, his wife, Vickie, and five kids posing at the edge of a red-rock canyon somewhere near Moab. His son, Josh, tells the story of hiking the 12-mile long Narrows when he was ten years old, and the Virgin River being so high that his dad had to carry his pack so it didn't get too wet. This was the hike when he got the birds-and-the-bees talk.

Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon, 2010.  Dave Bolton on right.  This was our rim-to-rim hike.

Havasu Creek, 2010.  Dave is on the left. (Russ Eyre photo)

On the trail to Havasu Falls.  (Russ Eyre photo)

David Bolton was my boss, but I also considered him my friend. Over the years we have done a handful of hikes together, including Havasu Falls and the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim.  We have slept under the stars in the middle of nowhere, stayed in a simple lodge in Supai Village, ate breakfast at five in the morning at a cafe in Vegas, searched for Aron Ralston's choke-stone, and have had several spiritual discussions together.

As we traveled, most of our discussions centered around past adventures. He was always fond of his backpacking trip with his son and a friend through the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming. The hike was 85 miles long and took about a week. He was so worried about his son's pack being too heavy that he emptied his own food and carried his son's. When he returned to work he was twenty pounds lighter and still looked exhausted, but swore that it was the greatest adventure he ever had.

Lots of stray dogs near Supai Village.  Dave is in the green shirt.

Early-morning breakfast at the Havasupai Tribal Cafe.

Dave raises his arms in triumph at Navajo Falls.

Just last summer he was at it again, but this time on the Colorado River. He was anxious to pull out his phone and show a video of he and his son on separate inflatable kayaks called duckies. An eddie pulled them both under and Dave was underwater for nearly a minute. He said it was black and quiet. He thought it was the end, that he would die. He prayed fervently that his son would resurface. In spite of the situation, he said there was a peaceful feeling. Then, at once, he felt as if an arm had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him above water. His son had resurfaced shortly before him. He was so grateful to be alive.

That was typical Dave. He seemed invincible.

Dave, at left, relaxing in Havasu Creek in 2010.  Robbie Armbruster, seated; Russ Eyre, standing.

Little Wild Horse Canyon, 2017.

The last time I spoke to Dave was on Friday. It is interesting that neither of us were supposed to be at work that day. I was supposed to be on vacation, but came back a day early because I couldn't get Saturday off. Dave was supposed to be on vacation also, but the Postmaster forced him to come to work. He wasn't happy about coming in because he had a lot of packing that had to be done.

As I passed by his desk his face lit up and he asked, “John, have I told you what I'm doing next week?” He then went on to explain that he and the scouts were hiking Coyote Gulch, and possibly a couple other slot canyons. Then they would hike down Hole-in-the-Rock where Todd Boyer would meet them with his boat on Lake Powell. Then they would travel south on the lake where they would spend a night or two near Rainbow Bridge, then come out at Wahweap, where they would drive to St. George and cap off the week with a trip to the temple. He was so excited. He had been planning this trip for a long time. I was excited for him. I was anxious to hear every detail when he got back.

Five days later, on Wednesday morning, I knew it was no ordinary morning when I came to work. Everyone was gathered around the time clock weeping. I came a few seconds late and Carol turned to me and whispered that Dave had died from a heart attack while hiking. Not many details were known at the time. All of us were in disbelief. A hike couldn't kill Dave Bolton.

I later learned a few additional details. Dave had successfully led the scout group out of Coyote Gulch on a very hot day. They crouched under the shade of a juniper tree while they waited for the rest to catch up. He started getting a little delirious and talking to himself, and then collapsed just 100 yards from the vehicles. He passed away with his fifteen year old son, Jacob, holding his hand.

* * *

Dave is buried in the nethermost part of the Cedar City Cemetery. In fact, he is so far west that no one is buried beyond him. Past his grave are sticks, bushes, dirt and a little stream with trees growing along it. A very fitting resting place. ♠

Dave relaxing at Colorado River in 2010.

Nightmare in London

This has been one of the craziest days of my life!

As if a 10-hour flight from Las Vegas to London wasn't enough. Cramped seats. No sleep. Hot. Claustrophobic. Tiny trays of food. Miniature bathrooms. Turbulence, lots of turbulence. No window. Night flight.—You get the idea.

And knowing that when we got there we would have only 70 minutes to make our connecting flight to Barcelona, the minimum allowed at Heathrow for an international connection.

I watched the screen on the back of the seat in front of me and followed our tracker across the globe. Over Greenland. Now flying above Scotland. Passing Liverpool. At 37,000 feet in elevation. Now dropping. Below 16,000. Getting lower. Now I could see green fields through the foggy clouds. The red rooftops and cars. Now touching the runway at 200 mph and in a lurch the reverse thrust is turned on and a minute later we come to a rest.

We had the unfortunate luck of having a man on our flight whose health became very serious during the final four hours of passage. An announcement was made asking for a doctor who could lend expertise to the situation. Once we landed the Captain told us that paramedics were attending the man and we could not leave until they were finished. After 40 minutes they decided to drape blankets around the man to keep his privacy. We filed out on the opposite side.

By now I was very worried that Kaitlyn and I would miss our flight. We walked with haste through the long halls of Terminal 3, following the purple signs that said “flight connections.” We were whisked to the front of a checkpoint where Kaitlyn was frisked and asked to empty a portion of her bag.

When we continued, I was dumbfounded when I checked the departure board. British Airways Flight 486 to Barcelona had been canceled! What would we do now? I had never experienced this before. I thought there was another flight in two hours. Maybe we could catch that.

₤20 worth of  goodies at the airport store.

To sum up the next four hours, it was pure chaos. We learned that all flights that night to Barcelona were canceled. Reason: inclement weather. British Airways would put us up in a hotel, shuttle us there, and give us a voucher for dinner. Wow! What a change of plans!

Luckily we met up with a group of four who were destined for the same flight. They had circled the terminal for an hour, getting the “run around” from several employees. They were from Vancouver and planning to begin a Mediterranean cruise from Barcelona. We decided to stay together.

We spent 1½ hours going through customs. The line snaked back and forth a half a dozen times. Every corner of the world seemed to be represented in this long queue: Asian, deep African, Muslim, Indian, American.

By the time we left the airport we had vouchers not only for the hotel, but for ₤20 worth of goods at the airport store. We loaded a bag with strawberry scones, British Pork & hogroast crisps, lentil curls, and Belgian wafers. They gave us two tickets for a 6:40 am flight to Amsterdam, with a connecting flight to Barcelona.

Waiting in line for the bus to our hotel.

We would spend an hour waiting in another line to catch a 15-minute bus ride to the Sheraton Hotel. At least we were outside in the cloudy, damp London world.

The hotel is nice. British Airways has treated us well. They gave us a voucher for dinner. We ate with our new friends from Vancouver: Jeff, Bill, Maureen, and Sue. We talked about the impossible price of housing in British Columbia, occupations, and health care (they have to wait a very, very long time if they go to the emergency room, but if it is bleeding, they can jump to the front of the line).

It is now past midnight, London time. My body has slept little in the last 36 hours, if at all. I am in a comfortable bed, happy that I was able to walk for half an hour with my daughter on an obscure road in London. We did it after dinner. Now I can finally sleep in a real bed before I have to wake up—and that's at 3:30 am! ♠

Heathrow Airport.  This was the plane we took to Amsterdam.

The Bears Ears—Land Sacred to Me, Too

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it could happen with the stroke of a pen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that same moment, the first round blew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sources

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

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

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

Springville Museum of Art

There are the great art galleries of the world—The Louvre, The Prado, Hermitage Museum—and there is the Springville Museum of Art (SMA). Although just a morsel in size when compared with the others, the SMA has a very satisfying portion.
 
Located in Springville, Utah, this museum has become a jewel of what has become known as “Art City.” The main gallery fits on one level and it is easily visited in 1-2 hours. For me, this is refreshing when compared to the larger galleries of Europe, where a couple hours would only scratch the surface.
 
I recently visited with my three teenage daughters who enjoyed the wide selection. Jenna liked the sculpture of Sacajawea carrying a baby on her back and Savanah the oversized carton filled with stiffened dress ties instead of french fries.
 

"They are Writing about Us in Pravda" by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Vasilev.

For me, I loved the mixture of local paintings alongside a collection of Russian masterpieces. In one room you will find a dusty stampede of cowboys on canvas, while in the other a scene from the Bolshevik Revolution or an image from Stalin's funeral.
 

One particular work that stands out is an oil painting from artist Engels Vasilevich Kozlv entitled Russian Mother Baking Bread. It depicts a typical Russian woman with scarf wrapped over her head placing a fat loaf of khleb, or bread, into a traditional oven called a Russkaya Pech. A young blond-headed child with freckles on his cheeks is staring straight at the spectator. I like this scene because it captures a glimpse of a daily task that was carried out all along the countryside.
 

"Portrait of a Villager, Mikhailo Gulyaev" by Arkadi Aleksandrovich Plastov.

In the same room there is a painting by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Vasilev of a group of collective farm workers taking a break on a blanket, eating watermelon and reading a Soviet newspaper. They appear to be relaxed and enjoying themselves. The paper they read, the Pravda, is translated as “truth” and was the primary voice of the Bolshevik Party, used to unite the people and promote Soviet ideals. One can't help but to wonder if a painting like this was used as propaganda.
 
When I walk through the halls of this section of the museum, I find that I am craving to visit St. Petersburg, to read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, to listen to Tchaikovsky and Shostakovitch. The former Soviet Union, although marred by the black swath of Communism, is a country with a rich heritage of art.
 

"Riders of the Range" by Paul Salisbury.

In another wing of the museum the visitor is conveyed to the other side of the world. They are brought home to the West.
 
Entering the hall there is a large oil on canvas, a dusty scene entitled, Hereford Roundup, by Minerva Teichert. The spectacle is likely a recollection of her days growing up on a ranch in Cokeville, Wyoming.
 

There are also depictions of the Grand Canyon, a Navajo drinking Coke at the fair, two men gleaning potatoes from a field, an abandoned barn, a bronze statue of Kit Carson. Paul Salisbury from Richfield, Utah paints a simple oil on canvas entitled, Riders of the Range. Two cowboys wearing chaps are ready to mount their horses and continue the never-ending tasking of caring for their cattle. There are low-lying mountains in the background and a valley filled with sage brush. This could be anywhere in Utah.
 

One of the artists that caught my attention was Sophie Soprano, whom I later learned was a nom de plume for Lynn Farrar. She has several paintings in the gallery, and most seem to have a common theme of a simple life of days gone by—of horses and orchards and white picket fences, with houses and old trucks and dirt roads. Everything seems to be collapsing into each other, appearing abstract, yet evoking a desire to enter her world. Dogs, cats, children and sheep play in the yard or garden. It is a magical place that conjures nostalgia.
 
A common thread for most of the work at SMA is that it depicts something simple, whether it is baking a loaf of bread or the quiet portrait of a villager. I think that all of us yearn for a life much less complicated than the chaos the world provides. Viewing this art gives us a chance to reflect on our own lives and decide what our portrait would look like. ♠ 

My First Ever Cruise

Several years ago I talked with a sweet old lady who was anxious to embark on an Alaskan Cruise. I became excited for her to see the mountains, whales, glaciers and the tiny fishing hamlets along the "Inside Passage."  When Marge O'Connell returned from her adventure, there was only one thing she could talk about—the food!

That conversation has stuck with me and has influenced the way I view cruises. My travel philosophy is to get out and visit the culture and the people and the sites. Not to stay on a boat and eat food that you could buy anywhere.

I just returned from my first ever cruise. I am 44 years old and will admit that this would not have happened without a wife that was insistent that we go on a cruise. Always the type who sees a positive adventure in almost anything, I was happy to go.

We boarded a ship with Carnival Cruise Line in mid-March to Ensenada, Mexico. I was amazed at how many people they can cram into an ocean liner. I'll bet our boat had at least 2- to 3,0000 passengers, in addition to crew members. The fact that they can lodge, feed and entertain that many people is a miracle.

The ship had twelve levels, with our cabin being on the sixth. For five people, our cabin was pretty cramped. No windows, and two bunk-beds which took up most of the existing floor space. The tiny bathroom hadn't room for much else than a toilet, sink and shower. Needless to say, it was very claustrophobic.

Once the ship embarked, we immediately felt the sway of the ocean. Like cattle in the back of a truck, being tipped by the constant curves of the highway, we felt the undulations of a wavy sea. It didn't take long to feel the seed of sea sickness in the pit of my stomach. (BTW, I don't recommend watching the movie, Titanic, anytime close to when you leave for your trip!)

I will admit, however, that Marge O'Connell was right. It's all about the food. As is well known, almost all the food on a cruise, except for soda and alcoholic beverages, is free. Every meal—sometimes four a day—was a buffet. The best hamburger I've ever eaten was on that ship. I also ate leg of lamb, fish tacos, breakfast burritos, pannini, Japanese sea bass, sea scallops, prosciutto, sweet watermelon and cake. It was always fun to come off the deck after dark, and when passing through the buffet, grab a hot chocolate, slices of pineapple, or an ice cream cone.

That leads me to my next observation. Why do they make you walk through the buffet to get to the elevators that lead to your cabin? The entire layout of the ship was very confusing and we were barely getting a grasp on it by the final day. Once, my daughter left to go back to the room and couldn't find it. It doesn't help that the ship is huge—a swimming pool, several jacuzzi's, a miniature golf course, several restaurants, lounging areas, three water slides, a casino, art gallery, shops, show rooms etc. The route from one to the other was usually never straight. If you were on the tenth level in the “aft” of the boat, and wanted to get somewhere on the tenth level at the “forward” of the boat, you couldn't just walk through the tenth level in the “mid” of the boat, but would have to drop to the ninth level.

Which brings me to another point. We had to learn a few new vocabulary words. It took a while to learn that the stateroom was my cabin, and I'm still not sure where the starboard is. When we first checked in we were instructed several times that we would have to report to our muster station. We were all baffled. What was a “mustard” station?

I was surprised at how many Italians were on the boat, including some of the captains. I don't understand the concept of flying to the other side of the world to go on vacation, then to spend it out at sea. In addition to the many foreigners, I would say that most of the passengers were American. Many, I believe, came on the cruise to get drunk and act like idiots.

Of all the people we rubbed shoulders with, the one we saw the most was our room-cleaner, an older man from Vietnam. I could barely understand a word he said, but he was very polite and smiled every time we walked past. I don't believe that working on a cruise line is as glamorous as one might think. Our Vietnamese friend probably cleans over a hundred rooms a day in what feels like the dungeon of the boat, never seeing sunlight.

The preconceived image of sitting on a pool chair, sipping a drink, while feeling the warm breeze slide over your body wasn't exactly our experience. Of our two full days at sea, both were overcast with periods of rain. A sighting of the sun was rare. Once I dared myself to go down the water slide with my daughters and I could only stand to do it for about fifteen minutes. The climb to the top of the long serpentine slide (which happened to be almost the highest point of the ship) was excruciating miserable. Any hint of sun lay hidden behind thick gray clouds and a strong wind blustered hard against my wet flesh.

Some of our favorite moments were when we caught a glimpse of whales or dolphins. The whales were always further away and usually we could only see the spew of water high in the air from the blow hole. Once I caught sight of a large black fin that emerged briefly from the water. The dolphins came in pods and moved across quickly, their full body leaping in a low arc just above the surface of the water. It was usually Jenna, my daughter, who made the amazing finds.

I enjoyed going on the deck at night and looking across the ocean. Sometimes there would be a distant orange light on the sea-side of the ship, perhaps another ocean liner or oil rig. Once we saw another cruise ship passing in the opposite direction. Along the coast there was usually a thin line of faint lights, some in thicker clusters. Sometimes there was a soft suggestion of a mountain. At night the waters are deep and dark, with choppy white-water just below the stern of the boat. On our final night of the cruise there was a light mist that fell from the starless sky.

As for our day in Ensenada, I will admit that it was a little disappointing. We had a lot of fun, but I can't really say that I've experienced Ensenada. We went zip-lining and spent time at a flea market geared toward the tourists. I won't go into any further detail here since I have already posted on my Ensenada experience, but I will advise that if you want to become acquainted with another country, spending half a day there as a port of call is not the way to do it.

There was a time before our cruise when I became excited about going to Mexico and began looking into some of the longer cruises. A seven day trip with stops in Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta and Matzalan cost only $459 a person. Losing some of my common sense, I began to think that maybe this was a good option to “see” many different places in the country.

But then I came to my senses and remembered that a round-trip ticket to Mexico City costs less than $200, while food and lodging are next to nothing. Everything there would be the real-deal and I could spend at least two weeks there if I wanted! ♠