Exploring the Old Family Mines at Cottonwood

From the other side of the wash we spot a portal to an old mine shaft. It is sealed shut with bricks. Disappointed, we continue to walk along the wash and within a minute we find another opening. This portal is smaller in size and a low mound of earth lies below it.
 
I leave the girls on the bank and slosh through the stream to the other side. With water dripping from my shoes I climb up the bank and stop in front of the opening. A cold draft issues from within. I poke my head through the orifice and peer inside. This is definitely a shaft!
 
With a little coercion, I persuade my two girls (ages 13 and 15) to come explore the mine with me. They don't want to get their feet wet so I carry them, one at a time, on my back over the water. On our bellies we slide into the shaft and once inside we are all able to stand up.
 

Sealed portal near Cottonwood Creek.

We found this entrance to the mine.

The mine is dry and the rock all around appears to be solid. I place my finger over my lips, telling the girls to only whisper. I would hate to trigger any sort of collapse. (As it is, I feel a little guilty for taking my daughters into a potentially dangerous place.)
 
With flashlight in-hand we walk through a tunnel that runs perpendicular to the portal we just entered. Within a minute it comes to a "T" with the main body going to the right. On our left we can now see the back end of the bricked-up adit we had spotted earlier.
 
We follow the main shaft that now runs deeper into the hillside. Lying on the ground is a gallon-sized oil can that looks like it came from the 1960's, but within this cavern it has been preserved as if it were purchased yesterday.
 
Above us on the ceiling of the tunnel is the yellow outline of uranium. This is what the miners were looking for. They called them trees and I believe at one time they were real trees that lived on the outside. The miners here also excavated carnotite and vanadium.
 
Continuing deeper into the mine we come to another fork. The right-hand passage is a dead end. We turn left and come into a larger chamber. Several thick pillars of juniper look as if they are placed to support the tunnel. The shaft continues in deeper, but Jenna is becoming a little spooked, so we decide this is far enough. But before we leave, I decide it is necessary to turn off the flashlight and for a moment experience true darkness. I snuff our light and as expected it is pitch black.
 

Cottonwood Creek.

The mines in Cottonwood run deep in my family. In 1931, my great-grandfather, Seth Shumway, and his brothers Arah, Harris and Lee were the first to haul ore from this area. But they did not discover the minerals.
 
As the story goes, the minerals were discovered that same year by a sheepherder named Benitio Sanchez. Near one of the springs he found an outcropping with some interesting rocks. He took a sample to his employer, Tom Jones, hoping it contained gold or silver. Tom, in turn, took it to his neighbor, Arah Shumway, who had an interest in minerals and had worked in the mines with his brother. Arah determined it was carnotite, a combination of uranium, radium and vanadium.
 
Since it contained no gold or silver, neither Tom Jones nor Benito Sanchez had interest in it. But they gave a description to Arah of where it was found. The next day Arah and Harris walked from Blanding to Cottonwood (about seven miles) to search for the exact location. When they couldn't find it they returned to Blanding and consulted with Tom to refine their search. They returned again and this time found Benito's campsite and ten outcroppings of carnotite. That day they staked ten claims. The rest is history.
 
For the next several decades, at least three generations of Shumways, which included son-in-laws, friends and cousins, worked the mines at Cottonwood. The surrounding area became a second home to their families. Some became rich and others broke. It was a place of pleasant memories as well as tragedy.
 

Anasazi ruins on a ledge in Cottonwood.

Outside the mine we begin to explore the proximity. The creek is a good nine inches deep, which is higher than normal. The flow is not perennial and usually dries up by fall. But we've had a wet winter and are now reaping the benefits. Cottonwood trees grow from the banks, concealing any evidence of a mine from the main road.
 
Through a thicket of willows, out of reach on a clifftop, we find a stone dwelling. Built by the Anasazi over 800 years ago, it is much more ancient than the mines. Although it is still well intact, I'm sure it has been picked clean of artifacts considering that the Shumways worked next door. The Shumways have a notorious reputation in the field of antiquities collection, and I'm sure much of it was procured during their spare time while working the mines.
 
Nearby is a quaint little pond. It is hidden from view by a small hill and a thick growth of vegetation. Upon closer examination, Jenna discovers a sealed mine shaft at the far end of the pond. It is sealed off with brickwork, just like the other portal we found. It is partially submerged in water. More than likely, this shaft was a “wet mine,” one which continually seeps water and which often needs a pump to drain the seepage. If left unattended it can create a body of water.
 
On our way back to the vehicle we find an old wooden structure and a few other mining relics scattered about. We find a reclaimed shaft that goes directly into the ground at a diagonal slant. We don't have a lot of time to wander, but I wonder what we'd find if we had all day to look around?
 

Mining debris near Cottonwood Mill.

We are fortunate to have been able to drive to the mines on a good graveled road. That wasn't always the case. As stated earlier, Arah and Harris had to walk to get here. My great-uncle, Merwin Shumway, described how the first road was built into Cottonwood: “. . . we had no way to haul ore except a little old pickup. To get the pickup into the mines we had to build a road from above Cottonwood, down through the sagebrush flats and into the Cottonwood area where the mill was. We grubbed the brush and piled it aside just wide enough that our pickup could haul in the parts to build the mill. That was the first super highway in Cottonwood.”
 
This road later became maintained by the county and has been used by countless people to access the mines. When the weather was good my grandma Shumway would drive the family to Cottonwood and have a picnic lunch with my grandpa, Burdett. My mom recalls that Cottonwood was always her favorite destination. As a girl she and her sisters could stay entertained for hours playing in the sand and water. They caught polliwogs and collected rocks. Even I remember as a child going to Cottonwood for family outings and playing games up on the bench and watching what seemed like a raging river when I look over the bank toward the wash. Of course, by that time Grandpa was gone and the mining days of Cottonwood were long over.
 

Ruins of Cottonwood Mill #3.

We drive a short distance up the road and come to the ruins of the old mill. The girls and I get out and wander around. I've driven past here dozens of times, but this might be the first time I've stopped to explore.
 
Mostly what is left are the foundations of several buildings and scraps of debris. To my untrained eye I have no clue how to piece things together, nor do I know what they used to be. Many of the foundations appear to have had a greater function, with workings at the base that may be concrete conduits of some sort. There are also piles of ocher-colored brick and rusty wires and cables.
 

Scattered bricks at Cottonwood Mill.

The first mill on this site was built in 1937. Frank Garbutt, a movie producer from Los Angeles, financed the mill, and Howard Kimmerle, who had experimented with vanadium recovery methods, managed the project. “[The mill] was built on a slope above the creek to allow gravity-feed for the milling process. Ore was hauled up the ramp at the top of the building and dumped into the roaster. Leach and precipitation tanks were on the lower levels, and at the bottom was the fuser for creating the vanadium oxide product.”—Nearly a year after the mill was built, it burned to the ground as a result of the high temperatures used to roast the ore.
 
The mill was rebuilt in 1938. Kimmerle added a few frame houses, a blacksmith shop and a boarding house. Again, the mill burned down.
 
In 1943, Cottonwood Mill #3 was built on the same site. The ruins we walk through today are from this mill. The venture was short-lived as the owners had a large debt and the ore contained high contents of lime, which made the mill unprofitable.
 
As the mill was dismantled, my grandma and grandpa Shumway purchased one of the buildings to use as a home. They went out to Cottonwood and chose from several of the structures a long and narrow building. They had to cut it in half to haul it back to town where they reassembled it in an “L” shape. Friends and family helped put up wall paper and finish off the inside. It was an exciting new home for my grandparents and their new baby, Sandy.
 

L to R in back: Burdett, DeVar, Deloy Shumway.  Merwin Shumway, sitting. (DeVar Shumway photo)

On the other side of the hill from the old Cottonwood Mill site is the supposed location of the Springwater Mine. This is located on the east bank of Cottonwood and near the confluence with Brushy Basin Wash, which is almost always dry. A light amount of mining debris is scattered about the hillside.  
 
This area is hallowed to our family because it was here on December 14, 1964 that my grandpa, Burdett Shumway, was killed inside the mine.
 
The Springwater Mine is a very, very wet mine. On that day Burdett and his cousin, Cleon Shumway, were standing in two feet of water drilling holes and loading them with fuses and powder that had been prepared. One of the fuses must have been faulty, because the first round blew shortly after lighting it. Cleon was thrown twenty feet away and managed to crawl out of the mine badly injured. Burdett didn't make it and was trapped inside while twenty-three more rounds fired off. To put it mildly, it was a very sad day for everyone.
 
As to the exact location of the portal for the Springwater Mine, it depends on who you ask. I have heard that it has been reclaimed and also that it is still open. With my dad I have walked all over in that area and have not found a single portal. We did, however, find what appears to be the remnants of a reclaimed shaft that fits the description given by one of the old-timers who helped carry the body of my grandpa out of the mine.
 
As an interesting side-note, I found an article by LaVerne Tate, whose family has worked extensively in the Springwater Mine. She concludes with an intriguing comment: “The Springwater Mine has become a quiet pond in its natural environment, fed by the natural springs within the mine itself, disguising its real 'glory hole nature.'”
 
Now I'm wondering if the sealed off mine on the edge of a pond that we saw earlier is really that of the Springwater Mine? It is definitely a possibility to consider. ♠ 

Could this be a portal to the Springwater Mine?

Sources

Bennett, Lee A. “Uranium Mining in San Juan County, Utah: South Cottonwood Creek and Elk Ridge.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 26, Feb. 2002, pp. 14–43.

Lacy, Toni. “Mining and Families: A Dynamite Mix.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 25, Nov. 2001, pp. 41–49.

Tate, LaVerne. “The Springwater Mine.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 25, Nov. 2001, pp. 71–74.

Wilcox, Janet. “Mining with the Shumways: A Closer Look at Cottonwood.” Blue Mountain Shadows, vol. 16, Nov. 1995, pp. 47–54.

Navajo Dumpling Stew

I don't get the opportunity to travel across the reservation as often as I'd like. But when the situation arises, I try to find a taste of Navajo culture. I've eaten a mutton sandwich at a roadside shack and sheepherder sandwiches inside a cafe. This time I was looking for something new.
 
A friend gave me a tip of a wonderful food stall south of Cameron, Arizona. This is a busy section of Highway 89, a popular conduit for people traveling between Flagstaff, the Grand Canyon and further north into Utah and Colorado. At first we have trouble finding the stand because of the many booths selling jewelry and other trinkets, but at last we succeed.
 
The small trailer sits just off the west side of the highway. San Francisco Peaks, one of the Navajo's four sacred mountains, stands majestically snow-capped in the background. Next to the trailer sits a picnic table beneath the shade of a canopy.
 
Inside the trailer are three Navajo women. From what I can tell they are a grandmother, daughter and granddaughter, the youngest about twelve years old. The grandmother has a sweet disposition and a puffy, wrinkled face. She remains in the background flattening a ball of dough. I think she's the boss.
 
I am here with my two daughters and we scroll over the short list of menu options written on a white board on the face of the trailer. I am looking for something I have never tried before. The girls order Navajo burgers and I decide on dumpling stew.
 
Before we are finish paying, the grandmother has dropped two discs of dough into a pot of boiling oil. We sit down at the picnic table to wait for our order. A very friendly lady is already at the table and raving over her food. She offers us a bite, but we politely decline. She is Anglo and a school teacher at one of the towns that border the reservation. She is on her way to Colorado to visit her daughter and passes by here all the time, but has never stopped.
 
Finally our meal arrives. The dumpling stew is served in a white plastic bowl. The broth is creamier than I expected, but with a very smooth meaty flavor. There are chunks of lamb that practically melt in my mouth. The dumplings, I'm quite certain, are strips of fry bread dough, cooked into the stew. After one bite I realize that it needs salt. Two shakers are on the table and I generously add flavor to the stew. From what I understand adding salt is quite typical in Navajo cuisine, especially when eating traditional mutton stew. Along with my order comes a large piece of dry bread. This comes from the same discs of dough used to make fry bread, but they are cooked over a griddle instead of fried.
 
Three more people join our tiny table. A couple from Boise, Idaho are on the tail-end of a two-week vacation and have decided to stop here while passing through. A Navajo from Chinle, but who is working in Kayenta, is on his way to Phoenix to visit his mother. I am learning that half the fun of eating here is visiting the people.
 
The stew is excellent. I take a bite with my spoon, then follow it with a chunk of dry bread. The wind has picked up considerably and as our bowls and plates become lighter we are having to hold them down. 

I am also curious to know the history of dumpling stew. I will admit I've never heard of it before. Traditionally, corn stew or mutton stew are Navajo staples. I wonder if it is a recent innovation to cater to the tastes of tourists, especially since it has lamb instead of the tougher meat of mutton.
 
We finish our food, having been very satisfied. As we leave, more are arriving. Judging from the constant flow of traffic, this little stand probably sees a good amount of people. I'm sure their one little picnic bench will not be enough. ♠

Notch Peak

From the Snake Range, over fifty miles away, Notch Peak can be seen prominently on the horizon. It rises like a blade. The sheer face of the cliff appears as if the summit was sliced in half. The sight not only demands attention, but investigation.
 
But the journey begins in Sawtooth Canyon. We travel ten miles on a graveled and sometimes rough road. Near the mouth of the canyon is an old cabin. I notice some tailings on the hillside and wonder if the structure was used by miners.
 

Old cabin in Sawtooth Canyon.

Sawtooth Canyon.

It is hot outside. They say the temperature is supposed to rise to ninety-six degrees. It is ten o'clock already and we are in the West Desert in July. Not too far away is the hardpan of a huge dried lake. Everything here seems to be dry. It is quite a contrast from the patches of snow we found yesterday.
 
The trail follows a dry stream bed. Some of the canyon walls are tall and sheer, and one of them even resembles a sawtooth. There are three of us and we stop from time to time under the shade of a tree to drink from our water and munch a bite or two of trail mix.
 
They say there are various trails to Notch Peak, but being unfamiliar with the area, we remain on the prominent path. As we walk along I think of the Indians who lived here hundreds of years ago and wonder how many of them ascended the summit. The old-timers found a lot of artifacts in this general area, so I would assume that a landmark as distinguished as Notch Peak would hold a level of sacredness with the Natives.
 

Juniper tree growing from solid rock.

An arch in the canyon.

Bark of a white fir.

I am pleasantly surprised that the canyon narrows and a wider variety of vegetation begins to grow. We find cliffrose, mountain mahogany, pinyon pine and juniper. It is amazing how many trees seem to grow directly out of solid rock from the canyon slopes. Dave teaches us how to tell the difference between white fir and Douglas fir by the direction the needles are growing.
 
As we advance, some parts of the wash become steeper and we have to climb up layers of rock to reach the upper level. Dead trees and boulders clog portions of the canyon, having been washed down during flash floods.
 

During this section we meet a man from Pleasant Grove who has just ran a sprint-triathlon in Delta this morning. He is catching a “quick hike” before he goes home. He is in much better shape than we are, but appears to be exhausted. We let him pass, as he seems to be anxious to complete his hike. Other than him and two other hikers, we encounter no one else.
 
Eventually the trail leaves the wash and we follow a couple cairns that lead to nowhere. We walk up the hill, hoping to cross the path, but find nothing. At this point, I will admit, we have lost the trail. I will also admit that I didn't prepare as well as I should have. One internet site that stated that the trail to Notch Peak was well marked. In hindsight, I should have spend four bucks and bought a BLM map and researched the path on my own. Now we stand half way up a ridge, not sure which direction to head. We know we can see the back side of Notch Peak, but aren't quite sure which hill that would be. Our strategy is to walk to the top of the ridge and follow it all the way around. By doing that we are sure to find the right place.
 

Back side of Notch Peak.

As we hike up the slope, we can see the man from Pleasant Grove way ahead of us at the base of a pointed hill. He stands in one place for several minutes, then walks back and forth. He appears disoriented and perhaps lost. We worry about him becoming dehydrated and exhausted after having ran a race. As we continue, we keep an eye on his location.
 
We walk toward the pointed hill and on the backside find a grove of bristlecone pine trees. I am very surprised to find these, as they usually grow at higher elevations (we are probably at 8,000 feet now). Bristlecone pines are among the oldest trees in the world, some dating back before the time of Christ. They are shorter than most pines and have gnarly trunks and branches. The needles grow in bunches and resemble fox tails.
 

Bristlecone pine trees are thousands of years old.

Needles of a bristlecone pine tree.

Even though we are tired, we climb to the top of the pointed hill. From here a new world opens up and we realize that Notch Peak is on the next hill over. It is much higher. But from here we can see the sheer cliff face, having a much better view than if we were on the summit itself.
 

Notch Peak as seen from the east side.

The man from Pleasant Grove makes his way toward us, finally having found the peak himself. He admits that he didn't know where he was going either. We take a picture for him and then he heads back, telling us that he's running out of water.
 
We move on, down the pointed hill and then up an even steeper mountain side toward the peak. It looks pretty rough from a distance, but once climbing up, we find it very manageable.
 

At the peak.

This is about as far as we dared peer over the edge.

At last we arrive at the top, and what a view it is! Looking west we can see the Snake Range as well as several other mountain ranges. All around us are chains of hills with dry valleys between. To the southeast is the massive dry lake bed of Sevier Lake.
 
Notch Peak has the second tallest sheer cliff in the United States next to El Capitan in Yosemite. The cliff face is 2,200 feet high! To look over the rim we get down on our bellies and scoot our heads over the ledge. Needless to say, the view downward creates a feeling of vertigo. There is absolutely nothing to stop an accidental fall. After just a few seconds, each of us back up and retreat to terra firma.
 
By now the hot July heat has retreated also. Monsoon clouds cover the sun and a cool breeze begins to pick up. We spot a couple patches of isolated rain on the valley before us. Every few minutes a rumble of thunder fills the air.
 
There are no trees at the top. Just short, stubby bushes. One small plant catches my attention as there are hundreds of lady bugs swarming all over. I consider pulling out my camera and snapping a picture, but as that thought crosses my mind, the rain drops begin to fall.
 

Sevier Lake as seen from Notch Peak.

Looking directly north from Notch Peak.

We pack up in a hurry. One of the storm cells with lightning is headed our way. At the top of a peak is nowhere to be during an electrical storm.
 
The rain comes down, but not in torrential fashion. Just enough to dampen our clothes and packs. The rocks are a little slippery on the steep slope down to the bottom. Once we arrive at the dry wash bed the rain stops. But the thunder continues to roll, and with each peal the rumbles echo off the canyon walls. ♠

Notch Peak as seen from Highway 50 & 6 near the Utah / Nevada border.

Wheeler Peak

Most people are surprised to learn there is a summit that rises above the Great Basin to over 13,000 feet—complete with a glacier and 2,000 year old pine trees. But then again, most people have never heard of Wheeler Peak.
 
We begin our journey just above the 10k line. The trail slants upward through a grove of aspen. There are three of us and we enjoy conversation as we walk. Occasionally a trickle of water will cut across the the path, but other than that it is dry. We've had an extremely heavy snow year, so at some point we expect to find snow, even though it's mid-July.
 

Wheeler Peak on right; Jeff Davis peak, left.

The first couple miles are beautiful, but nothing out of the ordinary for a mountain setting. The trail cuts back and works its way up into an expansive meadow. From here Wheeler Peak comes into full view, along with its companion, Jeff Davis Peak. (Personally, I feel that in our P.C. sensitive world we need to work on getting that peak renamed!)
 
The trail then climbs onto a ridge where we get our first views of Stella Lake, one of a few alpine lakes in this area. It is here that we cross our first patch of snow and also where we begin to encounter other hikers.
 

Stella Lake, with Jeff Davis Peak in background.

I was curious before this hike as to how many people we would encounter. Great Basin National Park is relatively remote and one of the least visited national parks in the country. The first man we pass is resting next to a tree and admittedly out of breath. He is a bit overweight and after we pass him we quietly agree with each other that there is no way he'll make it to the top.
 
The second man we pass appears to be more ambitious, but is insistent that he doesn't want to stop for long, or his legs will shut down. He is from Florida. For us, that's all we need to know. We bet against him, too. The air is too thin and cold for a flat-lander Florida man to make it to the top.
 

Deep patches of snow on higher slopes.

Next we pass two older intellectual types who are on their way down. They look miserable. Jackets are zipped to their chin and their cheeks and ears are red. “Did you make it to the top?” we ask. Their answer is an emphatic, “No!” They say that once they began climbing the ridge that the wind blew gusts around forty to sixty miles per hour. They don't seem to anxious to talk, but continue on down.
 
From this point the hike begins to change. We gradually leave the sheltering comfort of pine trees and enter a steeper climb of shale rock. The bare nature of the mountain leaves us exposed to the brute force of the wind. I add another layer of clothing, including a beanie to cover my ears.
 
Large swaths of snow cover portions of the trail. We can either walk over the top, or choose to walk around. Some of the drifts are over three feet deep. 

By now we are well above the tree line and can see for miles in every direction, except south. On the west a wind farm spreads across the valley like rows of white toothpicks. North of us rises another massive mountain range, with a bald hill crowning the summit. This is Mount Moriah. Far to the east I can see Notch Peak, a massive fissure in the skyline. That is our destination tomorrow.
 

Wheeler Peak getting closer.

About half way up someone has built several wind-breaks using shale rock. They are in U-shapes and could prove beneficial on such an exposed ridge. This is certainly not the place to wear a ball cap. It's kind of funny how the wind will blow at near hurricane speeds, then stop on a dime.
 
We pass more people coming down. These are in a group from Vanderbilt University in Tennessee. They have come for a one-week field trip to visit the national park and nothing else. They flew into Vegas and are flying out tomorrow. There's about a dozen all together. We give cordial gestures as we pass each of them. We talk to the lady who organized the trip. Apparently they are part of an outdoor rec class. They seem nice enough, but I just can't imagine why you would need outdoor rec classes in a university! And yes, they all made it to the top.
 
The last person we pass on our way to the peak is a solo hiker. He appears to be limping, but only slightly. Each step is placed carefully. We greet each other in passing. It is then that I notice his footwear. He is only wearing open-toed sandals! This guy is crazy! No wonder he is limping. His right big toe is swollen and white as a ghost. This is certainly no environment to be wearing footwear like that. This whole mountain is nothing but rocks. He is going to have a long, miserable hike down.
 

The final ascent.

The final portion of our ascent leads us over large boulders, sometimes having to use all-fours to complete the task. At last we reach the top. I would like to say that we have a grand 360 degree view, but that's not the case. Yes, we can now see the rugged mountain valley to our south, but there is an east-west running ridge on which we stand that blocks part of our view. And our view to the east is now blocked by the aforementioned Confederate peak.
 

Panorama view from the top.

But what a beauty it is to be 13,065 feet high, having the entire peak to ourselves. There is a very deep ridge of snow along the summit, and I find how truly deep it is as I try to walk on top and fall through, my right leg being completely submerged in the snow.
 
On the east side of the peak is the most precipitous side of the summit. To get to this ledge I have to jump over a steep chute that likely would kill me if slip. There is a chasm between here and Jeff Davis Peak, with the glacier being out of sight and directly below us. We humbly spend time admiring the ruggedness of this location. Here footsteps are placed carefully and we are mindful of ourselves at all times. I am a bit nervous about recrossing the chute, but luckily Devon finds a safer crossing over the ridge across a snow bank. It is a majestic location, but I am relieved to leave.
 

Relaxing at summit with Jeff Davis peak in background.

Debris at the summit.

Surprisingly the wind is not too strong here at the top. A couple of wind shelters have been built and we use one to sit down and eat our lunch. After eating half an avocado, I toss my peel over the edge, only to watch it rise up like a helicopter and and then boomerang back in the opposite direction! Obviously there are still pockets of strong wind.
 

Now it is time to work our way down the mountain. Of course, the descent is much easier. The only eventful moment comes when we decide to take a shortcut by sledding down a snow field. I am skeptical at first, fearing that it only takes one sharp rock poking through the melting snow to do some serious hind-end damage. But Dave goes first down the slope, probably a sixty-yard run, and safely reaches the bottom. When it's my turn I sit down on the one-rut track and begin to slide down. The ride is a bit bumpy, but by the time I come to the bottom there is a big smile on my face.  The back of my pants are sopping wet!
 

Sledding down the mountain!

Instead of returning the exact way we came, we opt to take the Alpine Lakes Loop Trail, which passes by the two major lakes we could see from the peak. At the junction to the loop I find my biggest surprise of the hike. A huge four-point buck is loitering about the meadow with a doe. They take their time cropping the green grass. The doe seems more concerned than the buck about our presence. He is still in the velvet and his antlers are thick. I'm guessing he's about thirty inches wide.
 

Nice four-point buck still in the velvet.

Stella Lake is our first stop on the loop, and then about a mile later, Teresa Lake. Both are beautiful and maintain a reflection of pine trees when the wind isn't blowing. We even spot another smaller lake that is hidden beneath a copse of forest.
 

Stella Lake.

The other pleasant surprise comes when icy-cold streams begin to crop up everywhere—and I mean everywhere! At one point it seems like they are all around us. Some from melting snow and others shoot forth from underground fountains. They crisscross the trail, creating a mud-mess. And they are bitter cold. I stoop down and fill my water bottle, submerging the neck into the rushing water. By the time it is full, my hand and fingers are numb.
 
There are more hikers here, which is an indication that we are getting closer to the main road. It is still a far cry, however, from the busy national parks. At last we cross the bridge at Lehman Creek and walk upon the pavement. It is just another half mile to our vehicle. We hope a nice person will drive by and we can hitch a ride, but that doesn't happen. ♠ 

A slew of running water coming down the mountain.

Wheeler Peak in black and white.

Stories of Jerusha Smith Peirce and Call's Fort

In 1855, Call's Fort was located on the frontier of Mormon settlement six miles north of Brigham City. Travel from Salt Lake City required a slow two-day trip on the seat of a wagon. On many evenings, William and Jerusha Peirce could see the glow of Shoshone campfires from their home.
 
Jerusha was no ordinary person. She was the daughter of Hyrum Smith, brother to the Prophet, Joseph. She had a front-row seat to many events in early church history, including the settlement of Nauvoo, the martyrdom of her father and uncle, the arduous trek to the Rocky Mountains, and the founding of Salt Lake.
 

Jerusha Smith Peirce.

She was born in 1836 in Kirtland, Ohio, but her mother, Jerusha Barden Smith, died when when she was just twenty-one months old. Her father then married Mary Fielding, who subsequently raised her.
 
In her old age, Jerusha would call her family together into the main room of their log home and tell stories of her youth. The first years of Nauvoo were relatively peaceful, but these were followed by years of events that would traumatize her the rest of her life, even giving her nightmares.
 
She told a story about the evening when the bodies of Hyrum and Joseph were brought back from Carthage. The mob had vowed that they were coming to get the head of the Prophet and burn Nauvoo. Naturally, the whole town was on watch and they had lookout points from where they were to beat on drums if they saw the mob.
 
Sure enough, the drums began to beat. Terror filled the town. Lightning filled the air, dogs began to bark, and everything seemed to be in chaos. The family was afraid, not knowing what to do. As Jerusha told the story she said, “We saw a cloud forming over our heads. It was just a small one, but it started to grow and grow until it filled the sky. It moved over the river, seeming to take water out as it did. When it was over the heads of the mob, down poured a torrent of rain, soaking them to the bone and destroying their ammunition. Despite their best efforts, they were forced to turn back.”
 
Of all the experiences in Jerusha's life, this was the most powerful and humbling. She had, “seen the power of the hand of the Lord in that cloud that day, doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.”
 

Monument to Call's Fort along Utah State Route 38.

The fort was named after Anson Call who built it in 1855.

As with most of the other Saints, Jerusha moved to the western frontier of Utah. The trip was arduous and she did a lot of walking, especially near South Pass, Wyoming, which seemed to go on forever.
 
She was 12-years old when they arrived in Salt Lake in 1848. They lived in a small adobe home. Mary Fielding died four years later. At age eighteen Jerusha married the neighbor's son, William Peirce. The two made their home in Call's Fort.
 
Anson Call built the fort in 1855 to serve as protection against the Indians. The fortress was 120 feet square, with walls eight-feet high and three-feet thick. I'm not sure if the Peirce family lived inside the fort. Many other similar forts were built across the Mormon settlements during this same period, although most were short-lived and some only served to stockade cattle. The name, however, stuck, and the settlement was called Call's Fort for the next fifty years until it was changed to Harper Ward.
 
I try to imagine what it was like to live in a log cabin in such a remote location. Much of the interaction with the Shoshone must have been good because it is reported that they traded with settlers in Brigham City. But on the other hand, there still had to be conflict. Two completely different cultures were clashing. The Indians now witnessed as Mormons were using their water, and cattle eating their grass. From the Mormon point of view, they probably feared attacks or loss of property from the Natives. Either way, it was a delicate situation. The standing order for the settlers was to leave the Indians alone.
 
One evening when William Peirce was out of town, his son, Hyrum Robert, decided to try out his new sling shot. He chose one of the Shoshone men as his target! With his new contraption in-hand, he whirled it in the air, and when he let loose, the rock flew and smacked the Indian's face. He must have been pretty close because blood gushed from the man's eye. Rightly terrified, the boy ran for home and confessed to his mother.
 
He hadn't been home long when two Indian men appeared at the front door of the cabin. They asked to take the boy so they could deal with him. Somehow Jerusha convinced them to let her deal with him to their satisfaction.
 
One of the men made a switch from a willow branch. Hyrum was tied face-down on the bed with no shirt. Jerusha then began to whip her son's bare back. She continued to do so until the two Indians were satisfied. When they left she untied her son and collapsed in tears. Hyrum wore those scars all the days of his life.
 

Old stone home a couple miles south of Call's Fort.

It is still relatively simple to image what Call's Fort may have looked like. The area still has a rural flavor to it with a lot of farm land, although there is almost nothing left of the old settlement. Along the highway to Honeyville there is a monument on the roadside made from rocks from the fort. It gives a brief history of the settlement and states that it is erected on the southeast corner of the fort. Behind the monument is a vast field.
 
Just half a mile from the monument is Call's Fort Cemetery. It is a peaceful place upon the foothills of the mountain. The grounds are spacious with several old headstones. One reason I love cemeteries is because they are often the only surviving relic in a world where the old is continually being replaced with the new.
 
On June 26, 1912, Jerusha passed through the veil and joined her father and husband. Her half-brother, President Joseph F. Smith spoke at her funeral and commented that she never had an unkind word for anyone at anytime. Other speakers included Apostle Joseph Fielding Smith, Patriarch Hyrum G. Smith, and Bishop David A. Smith. Her grandson, Eli Thomas Peirce, drove the team of horses that pulled the funeral wagon to Call's Fort Cemetery where she was buried. ♠ 

Gravesite of Jerusha Peirce at Call's Fort Cemetery.

Call's Fort Cemetery in Box Elder County, Utah.

Sources Used

Alligood, Pamela Peirce. “Jerusha Smith Peirce.” Hyrum Smith Family Association, hyrumsmith.org/wp-content/uploads/2000/02/jerusha.pdf.

Jeppsen, Dennis. “Jerusha Smith Peirce.” Pioneer, 2014, pp. 24–26.