Lambing Season

I witnessed something today that I hadn't ever seen before—the birth of a lamb.
 
A friend of ours obliged to take us on a tour of the local university farm. It was a family ordeal, and I was there with my wife and three daughters.
 
We were shown where and how the cows are artificially inseminated. We learned that some bulls don't have horns. We were shown the indoor arena where students can ride horses, and the tack barn where the saddles, bridles and other equine equipment are stored.
 
Then came the sheep.
 

Expecting ewe with sagging water bag and swollen udder.

Inside a large pen we noticed an ewe with what appeared to be a sagging red balloon coming from her hind-side. It was clearly full of liquid and about ready to pop. Another smaller sack protruded just above it. Chad (our guide) noted that this mother was about to give birth.
 
“How soon?” we asked.
 
“It could be anytime soon, or as late as this evening.”
 
As for us, we were hoping it was “anytime soon” and the sooner, the better!
 
Instantly we were all excited. For once in our lives we were at the right place at the right time!
 
For the next twenty minutes we watched the ewe fidget back and forth and paw the ground. Chad told us that when the time comes she will lay down, which will help her to push out the baby.
 
We continued to watch the mother sheep, but she never laid down. Once she bent to her knees and we were excited that “this was it,” but it was a false alarm and she soon returned to her feet.

“Maybe she can't perform when she's being watched,” I suggested.
 
“Maybe she has stage fright,” Jenelle added.
 

Another cute lamb.

We decided to leave her alone for a while. We walked to another pen nearby and spent a quarter of an hour there, watching other sheep which were of a different fold. Chad was still busy filling us with all sorts of information on sheep, but most of my focus was on taking pictures.
 
When we returned to the pen with the expecting dam, I will admit that I wasn't expecting much. I knew the kind of luck I had, and with my luck there would be no new baby lamb for another four hours—long after we were gone.
 
We found the ewe in the same spot and still with a sack of water sagging from her bright pink vulva. But now, upon closer examination, we spotted a newly-born baby lamb at her feet. We had just missed it!
 

Mother with newly-born lamb.  Lamb #2 will be born in about 20 minutes.

The animal appeared like a black blob, lying limp on the manure-littered dirt. The weakling propped up his head and the mother meticulously licked off the blood and slime.
 
Usually lambs are born in two's. But often the gap between births can last a couple hours. That would be too long for us. We were a little disappointed.
 
We watched as the mother continued to lick clean her lamb. It was like getting a sponge bath. From the slime and blood emerged a clean white face.
 
Other sheep looked on in curiosity. One came over and nosed the yeanling. Soon the lamb was making his first attempts to stand, but was still too weak.
 

Licking clean lamb #1.  If you look closely you can see a black foot starting to come out.

Still licking lamb #1 while lamb #2 is being born.

Ready or not, here he comes!

Then we saw something exciting. Something black was now emerging from the vulva of the ewe. That must be a leg! We watched in curiosity as the black object grew and soon it became obvious that it was two hind legs and a set of hips.
 
It is interesting that the ewe never laid down to birth her second lamb. Not only did she remain standing, but she continued to lick the first one clean during the whole process.
 
Not long after the exit of the legs and hips (kicking as he came), the entire baby lamb plopped to the ground. Encased in amniotic fluid the newly born sheep laid there helpless, but Mother came to the rescue, licking him clean also.
 

Baby lamb plops to the ground encased in amniotic fluid.

Mother takes the first look at her baby.

Immediately she begins licking him clean, too.

The spectacle attracts onlookers.

Lamb #1 stands on all-fours for the first time, in less than 30 minutes after his birth.

Onlooker offers his nose for a friendly nudge.

It is fascinating how fast animals adopt to their new environment. Not long after his twin brother was born, lamb #1 was standing on his own four feet, a bit wobbly, but as clean as a whistle.
 
After having witnessed such an incredible event, we all felt satisfied. I had always wanted to witness the birth of an animal. I remember watching the movie Black Beauty several years ago and recalling the scene in the barn when the horse is born. Whether it is a farm animal or a human being, there is something divine about watching a new creature come into the world.
 
As for the twins, they are in good company. They share birthdays with Warren Spahn, Shirley Temple, and of course . . . William Shakespeare! ♠

Lambs are not the only young ones at the farm: a mare with her foal.

Ojo Verde

Dust billowed behind our truck on the road to the green spring. Evening primrose, sagebrush and June grass flourished in the desert, benefiting from a wetter-than-normal spring. We twisted through the valley over a bump-filled road and steep sandy hills.
 
Our journey brought us to a destination seldom visited by anyone. We parked on a slickrock flat and walked down a sandy wash, past cryptobiotic soil, purple flowers and red-blooming cactus.
 
At last we arrived at a shallow canyon nestled between slickrock hills on both sides. A deep and treacherous gully of sand has managed to cut its way through the middle, making passage to the other side nearly impossible. From the banks of the gulley to the base of the slickrock hills grow an abundance of sagebrush and other wild weeds.
 

Looking over Ojo Verde.

This is Ojo Verde, or the green spring as translated from Spanish. It has been a watering hole by many over the years. Just who were the first Europeans to discover it is a mystery that will probably be forever unknown, but the oldest well-documented visit of the site comes from the Macomb Expedition, who camped here in 1859. The Old Spanish Trail, just ten miles away, had been used for years by many people. The historic use of this trail is obscure at best.
 
Referring to the Old Spanish Trail, Macomb stated that it had not been accurately laid down upon any map. He then adds: “This trail is much talked of as have being the route of commerce between California and Mexico in the days of the old Spanish rule.”
 
I came with my dad and a couple of his friends. There are only a select few that even know that Ojo Verde exists, let alone the location. Paul, who's now walking on feeble legs and caring for a wife with Alzheimer's, was our trusty guide. He knows more about the history of San Juan County than almost anyone else.
 
I suppose there is also an element of speculation as to the exact location of Ojo Verde. Knowledge has been lost over the years, and there are no inscriptions that directly link this spot with the Macomb group. But if our location was off, it wasn't off by far. And there is absolutely no doubt that this spot has been used by cowboys for over a hundred years.
 

Inscription at Ojo Verde.

Old photo of inscriptions near Ojo Verde. Dates from 1902 and 1894.

Ojo Verde lies in a draw of slickrock, about 600 feet from one side to the other. Within the draw there is vegetation for livestock and at one time, supposedly, there was a small lake. Just where the lake was located I don't know. It has long since washed away. Along the west side is an alcove where the explorers and cowboys likely cooked meals and set up camp. Now it is littered with antique debris and a few growths of poison ivy. Along the cliff walls are a few inscriptions. The first time I came here I found one written in charcoal dated 1902 with a small sketch of a cowboy. Another more faint was dated July 27, 1894. For some reason I was unable to locate those same inscriptions this time.
 
The remnants of what appear to be the walls of a cabin are still standing. There are also the posts of what may have been a corral. As I mentioned before, a huge gulley has been carved through the middle of the draw, making it nearly impossible to cross to the other side. I believe the site has been greatly disfigured by Mother Nature from how it appeared two centuries ago.
 

John N. Macomb.

The Macomb Expedition, officially known as the San Juan Exploring Expedition, of 1859 came in the wake of the Utah War, a period of intense conflict and suspicion between the Federal Government and Mormons of the Utah Territory. During this period came the tragedy of the Mountain Meadows Massacre and also the march of Johnston's Army into the Salt Lake Valley where they established Camp Williams.
 
John N. Macomb led a group of men from Santa Fé, New Mexico with primarily a two-fold purpose: 1) To find a new supply route to the Salt Lake Valley via a pathway near the confluence of the Green and Colorado (then known as the Grand) Rivers, and 2) To conduct scientific studies and surveys along the way.
 
It is interesting that just two days before arriving at Ojo Verde, Dr. John S. Newberry, a scientist and physician in the group, discovered massive fossilized dinosaur bones high on a cliff-face near East Canyon. The discovery was the first of its kind. On their return trip they excavated the bones and hauled them to Santa Fé on the backs of mules. Today the partial skeleton is in the paleontology collection of the Smithsonian Institution.
 

Casa Colorado on the Old Spanish Trail. Sketch by Charles H. Dimmock.

A few miles down the trail the group came to a large sandstone butte with intricately carved alcoves on the southern side. It is called Casa Colorado, or Colored House, and was a landmark on the Old Spanish Trail. Some of the large stone basins in the expansive slickrock created good watering holes for those passing by. Macomb and his group appreciated the aesthetic appeal of the rock and halted to explore and sketch pictures of it.
 
Up to this point the group had followed the Old Spanish Trail, but it was now time to divert and head west toward the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers. A group of men were sent west to scout for a suitable location to set up camp. They found a location ten miles away—Ojo Verde.
 
At Ojo Verde Macomb set up a base camp from which they would set out to explore the region near the confluence. On August 20, 1859, Newberry wrote in his diary the following: “Scouts report good camp 10 miles west. Cross dry barren country to Ojo Verde, a beautiful green bottomed cañon with steep rocky banks—fine spring—good grass.—Encamp in heavy rain.”
 
Charles Dimmock, another member who kept a valuable journal, gives no description in his record. He only states, “Reached camp—El Ojo Verde—in the midst of one of the hardest rains in the region.” Ojo Verde also became known as Camp No. 28.
 
The next day was spent in camp waiting for the advance scouts who were sent ahead “to see the practicability of the trail to the junction of Grand [Colorado] & Green Rivers . . .” They returned on the 21st and declared “the trail as utterly impracticable for our packs.” They did not reach the confluence.
 

Remnants of what may have been an old cabin.

It was determined that a small group, which included Macomb, Dimmock, Newberry, two Mexican cooks and a few others would make the trek toward the confluence the following day. They made their preparations and retired to bed early “in view of the fatigues ahead.”
 
To summarize, the group spent the next two days riding into the area now known as Canyonlands National Park. They “passed between walls varying in height from 800 to 1200 ft. eroded into all imaginable curves, shapes & fancies.” They plodded along modern Indian Creek, crossing it 270 times. “The banks of the stream vary from ten to fifteen feet in height & are so perpendicular that when our mules slide down we cling by the cantle of the saddle to avoid going over their heads.”
 
When they could go no further they decided to climb a mesa to gain a better view. “Starting with our usual clothing the intolerable heat & difficulties of ascent soon forced us to shed by degrees article after article, until at last the summit was reached & exultingly stood upon, by three men stripped to shirts, draws & boots.”
 
Of the view from the top, Charles Dimmock recorded: “All our labor found its reward, when on looking around there met our eyes such a view as is not to be seen anywhere else on earth. But few, if any other whites, were ever the beholders of so magical a variety of towering sierra-like mesas, deep cut canyons, penetrating in all directions, into whose depths the rays of the sun at midday can only fall. In the distance—to the south—the mesas, broken into isolated pinnacles & clustered, castled, summits gave the effect of a grander city than dream land contains. The colors varying from the darkest brown of the old red sandstone pass through the changes of richest tone to chocolate light.”
 
In spite of the grand view, the trip to the top of the hill only confirmed that any possible route to the confluence would be impossible. The group assumed they were just two miles from the confluence, but modern historians now conclude they were just over eight. The worn-out group now retraced their steps back to Camp No. 28.
 

Alcove littered with antique debris.

They arrived again at Ojo Verde on August 24, “glad as possible to get safely back, having happily met with no Indians. All at camp greeted with cheerful smiles & congratulations whose influences tended very materially to aid digestion at supper.”
 
The San Juan Exploring Expedition spent the next two days camped at Ojo Verde. The first of the two days they were met with a group of Sheberetch Utes, also known as Elk Mountain Utes. This band of Indians lived in the area of the La Sal Mountains, near present-day Moab. There is a mystery that surrounds them because around the year 1872 they seemed to disappear. No one knows for sure what happened to them, but some speculate that a scourge killed many and the remainder migrated to the Uintah Reservation where they integrated with the Northern Utes.
 
On August 25, 1859, Charles Dimmock recorded the encounter in his diary: “At bed time, last night, the sentinel stopped, at the mouth of the cañon, a party of 18 Utes, headed by the father of the Indian who had acted as guide to the Grand River. It was thought advisable to make the Indians camp at the mouth of the cañon & allow them to come in the morning. . . Presents made the Utes which they think to be hardly their due.” Adding to the commentary, Newberry wrote the following on the same day: “Their insolence & importunity dissatisfaction with the presents given them.—The heaps of tobacco given them by other Americans.”
 

Macomb's group may have taken shelter from rain under this overhang.

Thursday, August 26 brought heavy rainfall at Ojo Verde. The crew likely took shelter in the overhang of the canyon. They had hoped to pack up and move to their next camp, but rain persisted until 1 pm, making it too late to leave.
 
Of the weather Dimmock wrote: “Rain nearly all night—ceasing before breakfast. We had our tables placed out doors, when just as our seats were taken the big drops began to rattle a roll-call on our tin plates & cups. Thanks, however, to India rubber coats we got quite comfortable through, though an infusion of rain water does not improve tea nor wetting add to the credibility of biscuit.”
 
By evening the sky cleared and they engaged in horse-racing, presumably with the Indians as it is a popular sport among the Northern Utes. I am curious to know where and how far they raced. There doesn't seem to be sufficient room within the walls of Ojo Verde and most of the terrain nearby is not flat.
 

Sketch of a sheep horn by Charles Dimmock.

Also on this day Charles Dimmock made a sketch of a “Horn of the Rocky Mountain Sheep” at “El Ojo Verde, Utah Territory.” He remarked that the horn's outer curve measured 30 inches.  

We spent a couple hours at Ojo Verde just poking around and seeing what we could find. There are remnants of a cabin, as well as an old corral. We found a lot of bullet casings, including a .44 Winchester, which was introduced in 1873. My dad found two horseshoes and Lloyd discovered the handle to a frying pan.—We also came across a rusty shovel and old square-cut nails.

Sometime—probably decades after the Macomb group camped there—Ojo Verde and it's vicinity became the site of the Hatch Ranch. I will admit that I know nothing of this history and have accepted the challenge to figure it out.
 

It was now time for us to go. Paul had to get back to his wife in Monticello, and Lloyd was about to run out of gas, so we had to follow him—just-in-case.
 
Now in sweltering heat we walked over dirt and slickrock out of the draw and up-hill toward the vehicles. Desert Primrose blossomed above the sand. In the distance, snow lingered on remote mountain peaks. ♠ 

 



Source for historical information, photo and sketches of Macomb Expedition:

Madsen, Steven K. Exploring Desert Stone. Utah State University, 2010.

My Secret LIttle Spot

We left our little cottage and slipped out the backyard gate and into the alleyway. I was excited to show Jenelle my secret little spot. I had discovered it the day before and was sure that no one else in the entire world except for me knew it existed.
 
We walked down the alleyway, past garbage cans and garage doors, and down the hill that slopes toward Vista del Mar Avenue. Then I took this road to the left—not toward the beach—but to the left. Remember, this is my secret little spot. If it were near the main beach then everyone would know about it.
 
We crossed the road and climbed the hill at Ruta de las Tumbas (I have changed the name of the street to protect the identity of the location). Halfway up the hill on the right side of the sidewalk, nearly unrecognizable and somewhat camouflaged is a passageway. I had been on this road several times already and had never discovered the secret passageway. I suspect that most others never do either and if they do, perhaps they believe it to be a stairwell to a private residence.
 
The passageway is narrow, with tall walls on both sides. It slants steeply downward. At the bottom of the passageway it merely drops onto the sand.
 
Now we were on the nethermost corner of the beach. It is a short trot to an outcropping of rocks. We climbed up its edge and shimmied around the corner into a miniature alcove, blocked from sight to the rest of the land-based world. We sat down on a low stone shelf and watched the ocean before us. This was my secret little spot.
 
Jenelle loved it too. The brisk coastal wind was blocked within our lee-side haven. The sun neared the horizon, gently warming us. A small pool of water rested in a shallow cavity at our feet.
 
The sea toiled dark blue except for the white rolling waves. It is interesting that the waves in this nook of the ocean came toward the shore from two directions, both perpendicular to each other. They collided to create a turbulent stir.
 
In the distance we caught sight of two surfers paddling from shore. When they caught a roller they became black silhouettes, cruising smoothly on a glistening wave, the golden sun directly behind them.
 
Willets and gulls would occasionally glide above the water. They were silhouetted, too. On the horizon roved a sailboat. As the sun neared the line between earth and sky, the waves built up intensity.
 
Right now the rest of the world didn't exist. We watched in reverent awe at the mighty ocean, deep and powerful, with the ability to invoke a scene of beauty and also the capacity to kill. It was indeed a sacred site. ♠

First Time on Skis!

This is Dave, who has been on skis MANY times.

There's not a place on my body that's not bruised, battered or stretched!
 
It was time to get out and have another adventure with Dave and this time we chose cross-country skiing at 10,000 feet. The only problem was that I had never skied in my life.
 
We pulled to the end of the pavement, or at least to the end of where the county had pushed the snow, and from there we slid on our coats, backpacks, gloves and beanies, then clipped on our skis. I wasn't sure if this would be easy or hard, but I figured the only way to find out was to just do it.
 
With poles in-hand I maneuvered over the mound of snow pushed by the plows and moved onto a lightly used path. Dave had briefly returned to the vehicle and while he did I fell flat on my butt. Wipe-out #1. And the funny thing about it was that I couldn't get up! I looked like little Randy Parker rolling in the snow. I couldn't help but to lie there and laugh at myself.
 
Eventually I regained my footing, yet remained wobbly. It didn't take long before I biffed it again. This would be a long, long, day!
 

Vast meadows, once filled with wildflowers, now held three feet of snow.

Really, it was a shame that I had to spend my entire focus and energy looking at my feet to maintain my balance. We were in such a beautiful place. Pine trees grew all around. Vast meadows, once filled with wildflowers, now held three feet of snow. Crimson cliffs beckoned like a city skyline in the distance. We were in heaven, but all I could do was look down at my skis.
 
The distance traveled between wipe-outs gradually began to increase. I learned how to balance my weight over the skis and gained more confidence. Sometimes the point of the skis would come together like a pigeon-toed walker and naturally I would fall over. Other times the point of the skis would drift apart and I would involuntarily do the splits. That would hurt.
 
I fell in every conceivable manner: on my butt, on my face, on my hip, on my elbow. My hands and wrists took the brunt of many falls and I worried that I would twist a knee or ankle.
 
The easiest terrain was either flat, or slightly uphill. During these stretches I eventually did well, but as soon as we came to a downhill stretch I would lose control of my weight distribution and fall directly on my back.
 

Clay-colored cliffs were covered in a veneer of white.

We traveled about two miles to our turn-around destination. I estimate that I biffed it twenty to twenty-five times. I was happy to take the skis off for a moment and replenish my body with food and liquid.
 
We spent time at the overlook. This was an opportunity that not many people get to do. Although I had been at the overlook several times before, it was never during winter. This stretch of road is always closed during the the colder months.
 
Much of the clay-colored cliffs were covered in a veneer of white, with green coniferous trees poking through the layer. Most of the northern slopes sat covered in snow, while those facing the opposite direction had melted off into Ashdown Creek. In the distance we could see the globular radar tower on Blowhard.
 

Dave takes a break from gliding across the snow.

By now the breeze had picked up and it was becoming bitter cold. The sun inched toward the horizon. We certainly wouldn't want to be trapped out here at night.
 
My return trip ran much smoother. The skis glided across the snow and I felt I had a rhythm. Even though it was becoming easier, it still required a great deal of concentration.
 
At one point we stopped and for a moment just listened. A soft breeze blew through the trees and other than that there was nothing. Silence. Then two ravens lifted off from a tall pine tree and we saw the spread and flapping of their wings and the dusting of powder as it floated to the ground. Again it was silent.
 

Then it was silent.

Pink and orange hues of sunset began to gather on the clouds. We smelt the musky smell of pine needles. We were far from anywhere.
 
On our return trip I only biffed it five times. Dave biffed it once. As I gripped my poles I thought that this must be similar to how tight a jockey grips the reins of his horse. Although I wasn't falling down, it was still a challenge to stay standing.
 
At last we arrived at our starting point. I was very glad to unclip the skis and relax in a warm car on a soft seat where I had no fear of falling over. ♠

Pink and orange hues of sunset began to gather on the clouds.

Spanish Flu From a Hurricane Perspective

Old Bridge at Hurricane crossing Virgin River. (photo courtesy of Washington County Historical Society)

Spanish Flu killed nearly 50 million people between the years 1918 and 1920. It erupted during the turmoil of World War I which no doubt facilitated the spread of the virus. It did not discriminate, quashing large swaths of population all around the world, from New Zealand to Europe to the United States. It was one of the worst pandemics the world has ever seen.
 
The little town of Hurricane in Southern Utah was young during the pandemic, having only been settled twelve years earlier. My great-great grandfather, Charles Adelbert Workman, and his family were among the first settlers on the Hurricane Bench. He faithfully kept a journal, recording the town's reaction to the pandemic.
 

Family of Charles and Josephine Workman.

The year began like any other. In spring they began planting a large garden that included peas, watermelons, strawberries and currant bushes. Charles bought a new Ford car and they also saw his brother-in-law Henry off to war. They also experienced tragedy when their son, Eldon, was electrocuted to death. But in October, a pall of a different sort fell upon the town. On October 14, 1918 Charles records in his journal:
 
“The town has been quarantined for Spanish Influenza and I have been employed by the Town Board to notify travelers as they come into town to not put up at hotels. They are permitted to get supplies of gasoline, etc. but not to stop in town. There are no cases of influenza here yet but it is spreading through the country rapidly. The State Board of Health has ordered all public schools closed, and prohibited public gatherings in towns where the disease exists.”
 
The next day he writes: “Have been watching the road all day for travelers to notify them of the quarantine. Stayed in my car at the north east corner of town where the state road crosses the bridge over the north ditch this afternoon.” The next day he is at it again: “Have been enforcing the quarantine again today. Stationed in my car at our lucerne field gate. Made some repairs on the gate.” The next several days he writes that he is still on guard. Sometimes he goes on guard in the morning until early afternoon, and at other times his shift is from late afternoon until midnight.
 
The public order also affected their Sabbath worship service. Charles was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and as a devotee he attended church every week. On Sunday, October 20th he writes: “There have been no public meetings today on account of the order of the State Board of Health that no assemblies be allowed. The object is to prevent the spread of the Spanish Influenza. Thousands are dying with it all over the United States. I have been on guard again today to enforce the quarantine.”
 
On the 28th Charles explains the scope of the pandemic throughout the state of Utah and also in Washington County, of which Hurricane belongs: “I am still guarding the town to keep out influenza. There are thousands of cases of it in Utah and hundreds are dying. It is in every county in the state except Washington County. There are no cases in this county yet that we know of. It has spread all over the United States and to some extent in Europe and other parts of the world. Whole families die of it, and sometimes two or more of a family will die in one day. It begins like a cold, a high fever followed by a chill and coughing and sneezing. In the fatal cases it is followed by pneumonia of some other complication.”
 
As November comes a cold wind blows from the north. The quarantine guards set up a tent with a stove inside. Word comes that the first local residents are infected with Spanish Influenza. These families include those of E. N. Stanworth, William Ruesch and Albert Russell. By November 13th it is reported “about a dozen cases of the Spanish Influenza in town, but they are all getting along well.”
 

Home of Emanuel Nutter Stanworth in Hurricane, Utah.  Several members of his family were infected with Spanish Flu in 1918.  (photo courtesy of Washington County Historical Society)

On December 4th, Charles Workman is appointed as Justice of the Peace for the town of Hurricane. I find his first case interesting: “Fined S. B. Chipman $5.00 for breaking the order of the Health Board that requires everybody to wear gauze masks on the streets and in public places.” He also fined half a dozen men, including two relatives, for “breaking health regulations.” On another occasion he fined two people from Cedar City $5 each for going into town without permission.
 
The first death from Spanish Flu in Charles' account is recorded on December 21, 1918: “Horatio Pickett, my wife's father died this afternoon of influenza followed by pneumonia.” Horatio was 70 years old and living in St. George at the time. The diary mentions no funeral so perhaps they tried to keep it small to prevent spread of the virus.
 
The following day—a Sunday—Charles wrote the following: “Pres. Heber J. Grant [President of the Mormon Church] has designated today as a special day for fasting and prayer for the relief of the people from the scourge of influenza that is sweeping over the earth. It is one of the most dreadful diseases that the world has ever known. Hundreds of thousands of deaths from it have occurred and almost all parts of the civilized world have suffered from its ravages. There were no public gatherings [a.k.a. church meetings] today.”
 
From this point forward, life on the Hurricane Bench appears to have gradually returned to normal. On Sunday, December 28 the first church services were held since October.  Four days later on January 2 the schools reopened. There are only a handful of brief mentions of guard duty or someone breaking quarantine rules.
 
It appears that one of the last restrictions was that of allowing outsiders to stay in town. On April 15, 1919 Charles records one of his last entries relating to the Spanish Flu: “A number of [sheep] shearers came in today but I did not let them stay in town on account of the quarantine. They expect to begin shearing at Gould's in a few days.” ♠

President Heber J. Grant.

St. Augustine, Florida

My first experience with St. Augustine could have killed me.
 
We were driving across the bridge over the Matanzas river when suddenly I saw a traffic light—which I thought was a ridiculous place to have it. I almost didn't stop. There wasn't even an intersection. Then it dawned on me. This could be a drawbridge!
 
We don't have drawbridges where I come from. I've never seen one in person, and frankly, I wasn't even sure they really existed. But within seconds, the road before us began to rise until it came to a ninety-degree angle. Within just a couple minutes a gap had been created in the bridge and soon a sail boat with a tall mast came gliding through the aperture. Boy, was I glad we had stopped!
 

Drawbridge at the Bridge of Lions in St. Augustine.

Little did I know that the river we had just crossed played a crucial role in the founding of St. Augustine. In the year 1564 the land that is now the United States was wild and unexplored by Europeans. This was also a period engulfed in the passions and conflicts of the Protestant Reformation. Would these new conquered lands become Catholic or Protestant nations?
 
In this year Fort Caroline, in the northern extremes of Florida along the Atlantic Coast, was established by Huguenots (French Protestants). This resulted in the ire of the Spanish who had already claimed the land. Fort Caroline also provided a strategic base where it could attack Spanish treasure fleets sailing along the coast back to Europe.
 

View of the Matanzas River from Fort Matanzas.

To counter this move, King Phillip II sent Admiral Pedro Menéndez de Avilés with over 800 people to remove the French. After a brief skirmish between the two armies, the Spanish retired to the newly founded post of St. Augustine, some 35 miles south of Fort Caroline. On September 10, 1565 Jean Ribault, the leader of the French, sailed to attack St. Augustine. Unfortunately for them, they encountered a hurricane that sent them further south and wrecked their boat. Menéndez took full advantage of the largely unoccupied settlement and easily captured Fort Caroline.
 
Upon his return to St. Augustine he learned from the Timucuan Indians of a group of white men on a beach a few miles to the south. He marched with 50 soldiers and found about 130 shipwrecked Frenchmen trying to make their way back to Fort Caroline, but who had been blocked in their journey by an inlet of the Matanzas River. They were hungry and worn, and Menéndez informed them that he had already captured the fort. He urged the men to surrender, with no promise of clemency. They did surrender, and upon bringing them across the river he slaughtered all of them but sixteen. Two weeks later a similar scene unfolded. In all nearly 250 were killed. Hence the name of the Matanzas River, which comes from the Spanish word for “slaughters.”
 

Streets of St. Augustine, Florida.

We continued onto Anastasia Island where we checked into our Airbnb and then connected with our friends, Wendy and Dirk, who live in St. Augustine. Originally we hadn't planned on coming this far north into Florida, but we were made a deal that if we spent a couple nights in St. Augustine, then Dirk and Wendy's grandson, Gavin, would come all the way from North Carolina to meet us . . . AND they would teach us to surf! Not a bad proposition. Of course, Gavin's mother, Vanessa, would have to drive him, and I believe the journey would be eight hours each way, so we appreciated their sacrifice. Gavin had been close friends with my daughter, Savanah, so they were anxious to meet up.
 
After meeting with them we all headed toward town. On the way there we stopped at a lighthouse, crossed another drawbridge at the Bridge of Lions, and rode a carousel for one dollar a person. Now we were parked and ready to explore the Colonial Quarter on foot.
 

Governor's House in the Colonial Quarter of St. Augustine.

St. Augustine is the longest continually inhabited city of European origin in the continuous forty-eight states. It is now 455 years old. Walking through the streets does not have the same feel as walking through the ancient Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, for example. No. Walking through the streets of St. Augustine is akin to walking through Disneyland. Everything is commercialized. Nothing looks old. All the buildings have a fresh coat of bright paint. And prices are sky-high.
 
But, having said that, it was pleasant to walk along these pedestrian roadways. We began on Spanish Street and ended on St. George Street. There are clothing stores, restaurants, gelato shops, souvenir stores and the occasional historical landmark. We also saw a street performer and horse-drawn carriage rides.
 
On Spanish Street we came across a beige-colored two-story home built in 1807, known as one of the original Minorcan homes. Minorca is part of the Balearic Islands in the Mediterranean Sea, and in 1767 a Scottish man named Andrew Turnbull led a group of 1,000 Minorcans to Florida as indentured servants to work on his indigo plantation. After a few years of disease and toil, many in the weary group fled their master and sought refuge in St. Augustine. At the time St. Augustine had come under British Rule, but in 1783 with the second Treaty of Paris, the territory was given back to Spain. Ironically, the island of Minorca was also given to Spain as part of that same treaty, as were the Bahama Islands. The Minorcans have since played a key role in the growth and culture of St. Augustine.
 

Triay-Hall House built in 1807 is an original Minorcal home.

We walked along St. George Street as far as the cathedral, but didn't go inside. We ate at a restaurant on the corner of King Street and Avenida Menéndez. A man in the lobby played Love Shack on his guitar as we climbed the stairs to eat upstairs. I deliberated between jambalaya and the lobster and shrimp tacos, but decided on shrimp and grits. On our way back through town I bought a watermelon and hibiscus popsicle.
 

Monument on the grounds of the Cathedral Basilica of St. Augustine.

We also stopped at the Huguenot Cemetery. It's interesting how each historical landmark helps fit together another piece of the puzzle. Following the second Spanish period mentioned above, Florida was ceded to the United States under the Adams-Onís Treaty of 1819, ratified in 1821. Now that the controlling culture had shifted once again from Catholic to Protestant, there was a new need for a Protestant cemetery. The nearby Tolomato Cemetery was barred to all non-Catholic residents.
 
The cemetery operated between 1821 and 1884. Despite the name, there are no known Huguenots buried in the cemetery. The burial ground came just in time for an epidemic of yellow fever.
 
I had about ten minutes to peruse the Huguenot Cemetery and found it very interesting with many old grave markers. Some of the burials were marked with rectangular cuboid stone markers the length of the grave. I found one from 1821 and two from 1823. In total, the graveyard is fairly small. I'm sure many of the burials are not marked.
 

Huguenot Cemetery of St. Augustine, founded in 1821.

Grave of Charles W. Bulow, a plantation owner from St. Augustine. Died in 1823 and buried in the Huguenot Cemetery.

We began our second day in St. Augustine on Butler Beach. Everyone in our family agreed that this was the funnest day of our vacation. As luck would have it we were in Florida for the final launch of the Delta IV Medium rocket. The only problem was that we were 94 miles away from the Kennedy Space Center. We woke up early enough to be on the beach at 8:45. Jordan watched the live stream on his phone and we all looked toward the south. Billowing clouds hung low in the horizon, but beyond that the skies were clear. We had heard you could see the rocket from this distance, but no one in our group had actually done it. The countdown came, the rocket lifted, and within seconds we could see an arching plume in the southern sky. A couple minutes later came a sonic boom.
 

Watching the launch of the Delta IV medium rocket from Butler Beach.

Now, it was time to get surfing. Dirk and Wendy remind me of the stereotypical beach bums—but in a good way! If they could, I think they would spend 365 days of the year at the beach. That's probably why they moved to St. Augustine. Dirk is the type that wears Bermuda shorts and a light Hawaiian shirt, but most often, no shirt at all. I believe they attend a Christian church for surfers.
 

Coming from the desert, no one in our family had ever surfed. Dirk taught us to lay belly-down on the board, paddle when the swell came in, and then at just the right moment stand up and ride the wave. It was much more difficult than it appeared. I don't know how many times I wiped out and got washing machined below the waves. I ended the session with bruised muscles, sand rashes on my skin and salt water up my nose. Jordan and Kaitlyn did relatively well.
 
In the end I used the surf board as a boogie board and just rode the waves while lying on my belly. It was enjoyable and I received far fewer bruises.
 

A few miles south of Butler Beach is Fort Matanzas National Monument. We pulled into the parking lot just in time to catch the ferry to Rattlesnake Island. Unlike the impressive Castle of San Marcos which is within the city limits of St. Augustine, the outpost of Fort Matanzas is a lesser-known fortress from the Spanish occupation.
 
The Spanish had good reason to fear an attack because they suffered many throughout the years including one in 1740 by the Governor of the British colony of Georgia, James Oglethorpe, who besieged the city for thirty-nine days. The major weakness for St. Augustine was the Matanzas inlet because it was out of range for the cannons at San Marcos Castle. For this reason it was decided to build a fort near the inlet of the river.
 
The building began in 1740 with the help of slaves, convicts and additional troops from Cuba. The fort is 50 feet on each side with a 30-foot tower. Although the fort fell into decay after the British acquired St. Augustine, it has since been restored and includes one of the original canons. The only way to get there is via a ferry run by the park service. Visitors are allowed to peruse the soldier's quarters, as well as enjoy the view from the observation deck.
 

Fort Matanzas.

From the observation deck at Fort Matanzas.

On the ferry to Rattlesnake Island.

Our trip to St. Augustine would not have been what it was without the hospitality of our friends. After visiting the fort we spent a couple hours at the house of Dirk and Wendy in Butler Beach. From what I understand they bought the house for a good price after the entire neighborhood had been devastated by a hurricane. They fixed it up and decorated it with surf boards and other memorabilia to always remind one that they are next to the ocean.
 
In their back yard is a canal that winds through the neighborhood and eventually connects with the Matanzas River. They have a boat that they sometimes use, but on this day we paddled a canoe. We lowered the vessel into the water and took turns stroking oars to explore the waterway through the area. [As an interesting side-note, Dirk and Wendy have recently posted pictures on Facebook of dolphins swimming through their canal, right in their backyard!]
 

Dirk and Wendy's backyard!

As dusk approached, we felt an itch to return to the beach one last time. We first stopped at the Sunset Grille to eat dinner, then we drove to a another beach. We didn't have a lot of time, but I could have stayed there for hours. The sky was now filled with pink and orange hues and the sun was about to disappear over the trees. The waves rolled in rhythmical motion, leaving a white foam as it returned to the sea.
 
The beach where we walked had a short, but photogenic pier. We walked beneath the deck boards and let the warm water run up and over our sandals while we admired the evening and took a few pictures.
 

St. Johns County Ocean Pier.

Like I stated, our time at the beach was far too short. We returned to the home of our friends and said our goodbyes. Living across the country we didn't know when we'd see them again. For Savanah and Gavin it was particularly hard and they shed many tears.
 
But there was one more item of business before we left. There is one item that uniquely belongs to St. Augustine. In fact, you could easily say that St. Augustine is the “capital of the world” in regard to this item. No one is exactly sure of it's origins, but some speculate it was brought by indentured servants from Minorca. Wendy had a plant in her home where she was lovingly growing this item. Then she graciously picked and gave me . . . a datil pepper. ♠