Cementiri de Montjuïc

One of the most fascinating cemeteries I have ever seen lies on a hill called Montjuïc. This bulky mound rises from the edge of the sea and can be seen from all quarters of Barcelona. The word “Montjuïc” means “mount of the Jews,” named for the Jews who buried their dead on this hill before the Inquisition.

The new cemetery began in 1883 to accommodate the bustling population growth of Barcelona. There are over one million burials here. The lanes of the cemetery wind like a snake up the steep slopes of Montjuïc, overlooking the sea and the tombs below.
 

Some burials are in large mausoleums. If you peek inside you can see frescoes on the ceiling and walls. Others come with ornate statues of angels, Christ, and people in mourning. The headstones are carved with painstaking detail. Most of the graves for the “common folk” come in vaults, usually stacked six graves high. The death dates are spread over the last 135 years. I saw one from May 2018. Many had no death date at all, but only a family name.
 

In addition to the one road that goes from bottom to top, there are also multiple stone stairways for the pedestrian. Within the walls of many of the stairways are additional graves, showing that every possible space is being used. Fountains of potable water are easy to find.
 
We spent three hours at the cemetery and barely scratched the surface. We walked around and soaked up the new experience, seeing very few other people, especially at the upper levels.
 

As we walked down toward the memorial for Lluis Companys, we noticed a trio of speckled birds walking along the terrace below. Not thinking much of it we continued to the rock stairs where we would need to descend. We noticed two seagulls, one of them perched on a headstone. I didn't budge. Every five seconds it would make a loud call. We thought it was cute and took some pictures.
 
After we had our feel of watching the bird, we attempted to descend the stairs (we were sure they would fly away). Then suddenly the bird flew straight at us, pulling up to avert our head at the last moment! We took cover and were amazed at what had just happened. Then, as we had taken a couple more steps, another seagull from high in the air took a diving swoop that again almost skinned our skulls. By now we were frazzled. We quickly learned that the speckled birds were their babies they were attempting to protect.
 
After more failed attempts we retreated and attempted to descend by another set of stairs. These were better, but it was still a dicey situation. I crouched down and stayed close to the rock wall of the steps. A flock of seagulls circled above and cawed. At last we made it through!
 

Hidden in the northwest corner of the cemetery along a road that can be difficult to find is Fossar de la Pedrera, or Cemetery of the Quarry as it is translated from Catalán. During medieval days of Barcelona this site was used as a quarry for some of the major buildings under construction. For example, when Santa Maria del Mar was being built, the bastaixos would haul large stones secured with a sling that they would carry on their backs for several miles.
 
The stone cliffs that were once chiseled away are still visible, but now there is vegetation growing over the surface. The large niche in the hillside is isolated and peaceful. We were the only people there during our visit. A vast portion of ground is covered with grass and there are memorials and a statue.
 
During the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, Fossar de la Pedrera was used as a burial ground for those who were executed. It is estimated that between 1939 and 1952, nearly 1,717 people were killed, most of them by firing squad at Camp de la Bota on the northeast side of Barcelona.
 
Spending time here makes it easy to understand why the people of Catalunya have such resentment toward the rest of Spain and why they seek their own independence.
 

On the perimeter of the fossar is the grave of Lluís Companys. It's not your typical burial spot. It is covered by a low arch and surrounded by a pond with floating lilies.
 
Lluís Companys was the president of Catalunya and executed in 1940, not far away at Montjuïc Castle by the Franco regime. He is the only incumbent democratically elected official in European history to have been executed.

* * *
 
By now the sun angled high over our heads and we decided it was time to return to the city. We passed more stone graves and statues. In the distance we could still hear the caw of the gulls. We descended to the lower terrace, crossed under the motorway and waited for bus number 21. ♠

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.