Crossroads of Tuba City

During the winter of 1776, the fatigued and famished Dominguez-Escalante Expedition passed nearby the present site of Tuba City, Arizona. Of course, the Navajo hadn't settled there yet. This was Hopi territory. 

On November 14, they recorded the following: “[We] arrived at a small farm and camp of the Cosinas [Hopi], all of it pretty and well arranged—the farmland is irrigated by means of the four springs mentioned and by two other copious ones which rise next to it; here this year the Cosinas planted maize, squash, watermelon, and muskmelon. By the time we arrived they had gathered their harvest and, judging from the refuse or scraps of everything we found, it had been an abundant one, and especially that of beans. For if we had made camp here, we could have gleaned half a bushel of it. The farmland is surrounded by peach trees. Besides the several huts made of boughs, there was a very well constructed little house of stone and mud. In it were the baskets, jars, and other utensils of these Indians.” 

At the time the Hopi used this area during the summer to grow crops, using water from several nearby springs. After the harvest they returned to their villages on the mesa, which included the village of Oraibi. 

This is one of the earliest surviving accounts of Hopi civilization by European explorers. No doubt that these Native peoples came in contact with the Spanish prior to this, including Coronado in 1540 and Spanish missionaries in 1629. But other records are difficult to come by. 

Tuba City, Arizona.

The first time I came to Tuba City I had no idea of the rich history that existed here. I came as part of a Junior High wrestling team. We spent the night at Tuba City Boarding School, sleeping in dorms and eating breakfast in the cafeteria. Most of the teams at the tournament were from the surrounding reservations, schools like Shonto, Chinle, and Rocky Ridge. We were the only white guys. We wrestled all day long and didn't leave the school until after dark. 

Thirty years later I decided to revisit the area with two of my kids. I learned that there was much more to Tuba City than I had known. 

Highway 160 is the dividing line that separates the Navajo Reservation on the north from an enclave of the Hopi Reservation on the south. On the Hopi side we drove through Moenkopi, a continuation of the same settlement visited by Father Escalante over two hundred years ago. I was blown away by the adobe houses, dirt roads, roaming dogs, and terraced fields that made me feel as if I had traveled back in time. 

On the other side of the highway was the Tuba City side. Of course, we had to drive by the boarding school. But what caught my attention were all the abandoned houses that seemed out of place with your typical reservation project homes. They almost looked like pioneer homes. Considering that Tuba City was settled by Mormon pioneers, I wondered if these abandoned homes were built by them. 

That last visit piqued my curiosity even more. 

Sign at the Tuba City Boarding School.

The first contact between Hopis and members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or Mormons, came in 1858 when Apostle Jacob Hamblin led a group of missionaries to the village of Oraibi, with the purpose to learn their language and culture. During that visit an unidentified Hopi told of a prophecy that prophets would come to the Hopis from the west and bring them back to the blessings they had lost. They believed the Mormons were the fulfillment of that prophecy. 

During the winter of 1859, two Mormon missionaries stayed to live with the Hopis. One of them was Thales Haskell, a rugged young man who had a gift of learning languages. He also kept a diary during his visit. 

On December 16 he provides the first account of Teuve, the Hopi man after whom Tuba City would be named. “Tewbi,” as he called him, heroically chased down a Navajo who had stolen a piece of cloth from a squaw. He quickly mounted a horse and “soon overtook the thief, and twisted the cloth from his hands.” Haskell describes Tewbi as “a tall and noble looking Oriba.” 

Nearly three months later Haskell again mentions his Hopi compadre: “My friend Tuby traded a robe and Buckskin for a pony with one of them and made me a present of it. I prevailed on him to accept my gun, rather against his will however. He said when he made his friend a present he did not wish anything in return.” 

Three days later on March 5, 1860, he records an important entry: “Traveled 18 miles and arrived at the Movincapy. This is a small stream where the Oribes raise cotton and they recommended it to us as a good place to build a mill and for the Mormons to make a small settlement.” 

Thales Haskell.

Moenkopi is located about 35 miles northwest of Oraibi Village. It is roughly the same location where Father Escalante had passed by 84 years earlier. This “gift,” which would be the seedling of a future Mormon settlement, would also create additional conflict between the two peoples. Apparently not all the Hopis were in agreement that the Mormons should settle there. Also, there is almost always conflict when sharing a limited supply of water. 

Settlement did not happen immediately. It wasn't until over a decade later that a few Mormon settlers began trickling in. Once again, Teuve invited the Mormons to live next to them at Moenkopi. According to local tradition, this was to help protect against raids from the Navajo and Paiute. 

The first colonizers arrived in 1873. While some chose to leave because of the arid conditions, a few hearty souls stayed and began planting orchards and building stone homes. Some lived near Moenkopi while others chose to plant their farms at Moenave, about six miles to the west. 

Typical home in Tuba City, Arizona.

In 1875 the Mormons began to settle at Musher Springs, just west of Moenkopi. It served as a way station for those traveling from Salt Lake to Arizona. In 1878, Apostle Erastus Snow announced that Musher Springs would become an official Mormon Colony. A town was laid out and named “Tuba City” after their friend, Teuve. 

Several families came to live and build their home in this harsh area. One of those families was that of Alfred B. Randall and his wife, Susan Temperance Allen. According to records they had two adobe homes, both covered with pine and earth for a roof. They had a ditch dug for irrigation, grew six acres of alfalfa, and had 112 apple trees, 16 plum trees, 1 pear tree, 2 cherry trees, 1 apricot tree, and 16 peach trees. 

Alfred and Temperance were married in 1891 and spent twelve years in Tuba City, where they gave birth to three girls and two boys. All three girls died and were buried at Tuba City. 

Alfred and Temperance Randall.

During this time there was also considerable Navajo expansion. Conflict between Navajos and Mormons erupted from time to time, which included the killing of Lot Smith, who was gunned down by the Navajo Headman, Atsidí in 1892. 

In 1902 the U.S. Government decided to expand the Navajo Reservation to include the town of Tuba City. By 1903, the government bought out the Mormon settlers and Tuba City was abandoned. 

Navajo Mother and Child at Tuba City Trading Post, 1928. (Marjorie Stiles Collection)

In 2019 I returned to Tuba City again, this time knowing a little more of the history. One fascinating place I wanted to visit was the old Mormon cemetery at Moenkopi. I wasn't sure if I would be able to find it, or if I would even be allowed to go there. In addition, I didn't know if I was allowed to take photos since technically you're not supposed to take any pictures on the Hopi Reservation. 

Like I stated earlier, Moenkopi is located on the south side of highway 160 and is an enclave of the Hopi Reservation. For twenty minutes we drove around the upper village, past the earth-colored brick houses, looking for a small fenced area. We had no luck. Determined to find it I knocked on someone's door. No answer. I asked a guy on the street and he directed me to a nearby trailer. The first trailer I tried had no answer, but there were two dogs and a cat outside. The dog was friendly and let me pet him. I then found the next trailer and a nice lady was outside who showed me how to get in. The cemetery was right behind her trailer and access was through her back yard. I asked if I could take pictures and she said it would be no problem. 

The cemetery has very few original headstones. Most of the graves are unmarked and a handful have modern headstones. A tall monument made of black stone gives a short history. On the north side are a few modern burials that appear to be Natives. 

One of the headstones in the cemetery belongs to two-year old Della Randall, infant daughter of Alfred and Temperance. The young girl was buried here five years before her family was forced to leave, at which time they relocated nearly 100 miles southeast in St. Joseph, Arizona. 

Grave of Della Randall at Old Mormon Cemetery, Moenkopi.

After visiting the cemetery we drove through the lower half of Moenkopi Village. I will say that it is a fascinating place that will give you the impression you have traveled back in time a few centuries. But like the photography, I believe it is not allowed to write physical descriptions of the area, so I will not elaborate any more on our drive through the village. 

By this time we were getting hungry so we drove back to the Diné side of the highway to Tuba City and arrived at the Hogan Family Restaurant. This was a recommendation from a Navajo neighbor of mine. We already knew what we wanted to eat when we walked in: Navajo burgers! 

If you've never experienced a Navajo burger, you should try one. They are the same as a normal hamburger, except much bigger. And they use fry bread instead of buns. I will admit that when we got our order I was a little disappointed because the beef patties were a little charred. But it was still very tasty and well worth the visit. 

Navajo burger at Hogan Family Restaurant.

Next to the restaurant is the Tuba Trading Post, a historic building built in 1891. Part of the building is octagonal in shape, being built with limestone rocks from Moenkopi Wash. Outside is a traditional Navajo hogan. The trading post is on the National Register of Historic Places. 

Inside they sell all sorts of Pendleton blankets, Navajo jewelry and other hand-crafted items. Most of the items were out of my price-range, but I still admired the beauty of them. I did, however, buy a few issues of a monthly publication called “The Leading Way.” It is described as “The wisdom of the Navajo People.” I've bought several issues in the past and can only find it on the Rez. It is very informative on a variety of cultural subjects from the perspective of the Navajo people. 

Historic Trading Post at Tuba City, with hogan at left.

Inside Tuba City Trading Post.

We moved on and drove the streets of Tuba City. I was completely amazed at how many abandoned homes there were. Other than the section with the businesses, it looked like a ghost town. Many of the windows were boarded up and a couple of the homes had been burned. I've seen this a lot on the reservation and have often wondered what was the exact cause of it. I usually conclude that it has to do with the socialistic nature of the reservation, where many of these homes are owned by the tribe, without true ownership, giving no incentive to take care of the property. 

Some of the abandoned homes were very old, almost looking like pioneer houses, but I didn't quite think they were 130 years old. They were large brick structures that I felt were unlikely to have belonged to the Navajoes. I went back to the restaurant and asked for their insight and they said the homes belonged to teachers and doctors during the 1950's. 

We didn't have as much time as I had hoped for, but we drove around as much as we could and surveyed the town. I took note of an insurance company in a trailer, and also a radio station in a trailer. We also passed by the old boarding school where I wrestled and it appeared to be closed up. 

Old "pioneer-looking" homes in Tuba City.

Our final stop was the cemetery. I had never been to a Navajo cemetery. It lied on the outskirts of town on a sandy road off the pavement. There was no organization to the graves except for a few fenced family plots. Burials were spread far through the brush, with Mother Nature having her way with most of the grounds. Fences and headstones had blown down, weeds grew everywhere, and dozens of varmint holes had been dug in the sand. 

I was impressed with the high number American flags. It was the most I had ever seen in a single cemetery of that size except on Memorial Day. You could tell that family members of veterans were proud. Sadly, some flags flew in tatters while others sat on the ground. 

Most of the mounds were piled several feet high. Some were covered in a type of flag-stone. Most were decorated with trinkets belonging to the deceased. Some of the headstones were homemade, perhaps just a painting on a rock. 

Cemetery at Tuba City.

Across the road was the old cemetery. I looked at it, but didn't dare walk through. It looked like it was rarely visited. No paths and a lot of sage brush. I wondered if any of the graves were visited by family members, or if they had long since been forgotten. I know that with many of the Native tribes there is a taboo about being near the dead. I am sure that their customs and ours are very different. 

We left Tuba City much too soon that day. I still had many questions left unanswered. But I am learning. I certainly have a bigger picture of this area that Navajo, Hopi and Mormon have all called home. ♠

This is the "old" cemetery at Tuba City.

 

Sources 

Escalante, Silvestre Velez, and Ted J. Warner. “The Dominguez-Escalante Journal.” University of Utah Press, 1995. 

Haskell, Thales. “Journal of Thales H. Haskell.” Utah Historical Quarterly, Vol. 12, Nos. 1-2 (January-April, 1944) : 68-102. 

Reilly, P.T. “A Brief History of the Tuba City Area.” Northern Arizona University, Chinle Library.

Smallcanyon, Corey, "Contested Space: Mormons, Navajos, and Hopis in the Colonization of Tuba City" (2010). All Theses and Dissertations. 2557.

Snake & Slot

We began our hike down the creek just an hour after sunrise. A small stream flowed down the middle and fall colors were reaching their apex. The walls of the canyon slowly began to rise and we found ourselves in an idyllic autumn location. 

Near the confluence of another creek we found two different ancient glyphs. One of them was etched on a high rock wall behind a growth of trees. The other was a snake, painted with a blue pigment. It is the first blue petroglyph I have ever seen. 

 

The walls of the canyon became sheer and wide, giving few opportunities for exit. The little stream that once flowed along the bottom had now dried up. We hiked for two hours along a meandering route. Although we walked alone today, there was no doubt that in days past, many a cowboy rode this same corridor.

 

At noon we arrived at the confluence of the creek and the gorge. The entrance to the gorge was narrow and inconspicuous. One would never guess how long and impressive it was. 

The gorge was a beautiful canyon. It was narrower than the creek and the colors of the trees were more vibrant. The walls of the canyon now became a white slickrock. We walked along the bottom of a dry stream bed, stopping occasionally to snack. The canyon sat silent. The only noise being that of our feet crunching over sticks and leaves, and a small rustling of wind through the trees along the bed.

 

The canyon eventually narrows into a slot. Some places are so close you can touch both sides. Some sections are much darker, while in others the light reflects softly on the sandstone. Fallen logs have washed over the cliffs, getting lodged across the span of the slot. Sometimes the canyon floor steps up a level, forcing us to pull our way over the fall. At the narrowest part of the canyon, one can barely see the sky. The tall cliffs seem to curve inward at the top. 

 

It is in one of these narrow sections that include the wreckage of an old truck that rolled off the edge in the 1950's. The wreckage is best seen from the bottom. The truck is wedged in the narrow walls of the slot canyon. It creates a solemn feeling. Three men lost their lives here. 

 

We finally climbed out of the canyon at 3:45, arriving at the parking area. We had a 4-mile walk back to our vehicle, but luckily we were quickly offered a ride in the back of a truck. I sat on a small pile of split logs. The ride was dusty and bumpy, but all the more adventuresome! ♠

 

 

Bushwhacking Through a Draw

Our intended goal was to drop into R— Canyon and hike a mile and a half to a unique white-colored ruin. When we walked to the rim of the canyon we looked to the north and then to the south. Nothing but sheer drop-offs for as far as we could see. I now had no other option but to act on Plan B.

Next to us was a short, but deep side-canyon that led into R—. It is known as L— Draw. I had studied it before and knew it would be thick with vegetation. But how thick I wasn't sure. I calculated that L— Draw was our best entrance into the canyon. 

Along the west side of the draw is a corral and beyond that an old road that leads to the bottom. I don't know what purpose the road served because it ended at the bottom.  But we were glad to follow it down. 

Immediately as we came to the corral, Jenna spotted a large ruin on the other side of the draw. It was built inside a narrow alcove, being rectangular in shape with perfectly squared corners. One side was adorned with intact windows, while on the other the walls had collapsed. Already we were happy we chose this new approach. 

As we descended into the side-canyon we spotted several other ruins, including a nice grainery with a window. The sun now disappeared behind the canyon walls and the November air became brisk. 

Jenna noticed a cave that begged to be explored. To get there we walked over a fence that laid flat on the ground, stepping atop sticks and reeds that grew along the bottom. By the time we got there we had cockleburs all over our clothing. 

Inside the cave it was high enough we could stand up; but it was devoid of anything. No ruins at all. Just a fence post near the front. I wonder if at one time it served as a holding pin for cattle? It's the type of cave that would have been fun to camp in as a kid. Judging from the sudden growth of vegetation just outside the cave, I'm sure there is water springing from the ground during wetter years. 

Now we began making our way to the mouth of this little-known side canyon. If we were to have no obstacles, our journey would be no more than a third of a mile. But to have no obstacles would be a luxury we would not enjoy on this day. 

There was no path, no wild game trail, no easy way to go down-canyon. Nothing but a wall of willows and thorns. I took off my jacket so it wouldn't snag. This was the kind of jungle where you needed a machete. 

We began to push through. Sometimes it was a matter of forcing yourself through the tangle of brambles. But at times the tangle was so thick and so woven together that passage was impossible. 

Sometimes it was a forest of thickets with hundreds of needle-like spines all up and down the slender branches. The tiny stickers pierced into our clothing and dug into our flesh, leaving several smears of blood on my hands. 

Sometimes I would step onto the supple vegetation, bending it to a horizontal position, then walk on top of it, a foot above the ground. Occasionally we found a short path free from obstruction, but without fail, it quickly became choked off. 

Jordan scrambled to the canyon wall where he discovered a somewhat unobstructed path. We followed suit and found it much easier than our previous route. Now all we had to do was duck under branches, crawl under a couple boulders, and push through occasional, but less frequent webs of branches. At last we were making progress! 

Jordan noted that a clearer path led to the bottom of the draw, but then I spotted an alcove above us that I wanted to explore. We climbed up the slope and over a boulder. Behind a huge cluster of thickets, completely obstructed from view, stood several well-protected Anasazi ruins. 

I admired the stone masons that built these structures over 800 years ago. The walls curved to fit the contour of the ledge with a wood-framed window. 

Past the graneries, in a low, but deep alcove was another chamber. Here sat another structure, not as well preserved as the first, but still mostly intact. The little cave felt dark and damp. The growth of thickets blocked the few rays of sunlight that had a chance of shining in. The entire ceiling of the alcove was black, possibly from ancient fires.  On the other side of the alcove sat the fallen bricks of a structure that had collapsed. 

We were quickly running out of our allotted time. We exited the alcove, back into the sunlight and trampled through the snarl of branches to the bottom of the draw. Knowing that we still had an arduous journey ahead, I quickly contrived a Plan C. 

I noticed the opposite side of the draw was now showing less vegetation, and was also less steep. I decided it was time for us to climb up the other side of the draw and exit the canyon. 

Unfortunately for us, we had time restrictions this day. My goal of hiking to the white-colored ruins would have to come at another time. 

We hiked over the hill where we finally arrived at the rim of R— Canyon. It was wide and long, with a few ruins dotting the opposite cliff . . . if you were keen enough to spot them. 

Jordan and Jenna took turns throwing rocks into the canyon, aiming for a pond at the bottom. I spend my time glassing the canyon for more ruins and picking out stickers from my clothing. ♠

 

 

Running With An Angel

I've always enjoyed sharing my passions with my kids. Deep down I secretly hope that they also will gain an interest in them so that perhaps we could spend a lifetime doing them together. 

The most prevalent example is hiking. All my kids have spent quality time with me on high mountain peaks, in rugged canyons, or just out poking around looking for petroglyphs. And yes, they've all been on runs with me. 

With that in mind, I convinced Brittany to run a 5k race with me when she was eleven years old. 

With her lanky legs and pent-up energy, I always felt Brittany had the potential to be a great runner. I did well at half-marathons and her mother came from a family of successful cross-country runners. It made sense in my mind that Brittany had all the genes to succeed. 

She was a little hesitant, but I knew she could do it. I envisioned us training several times a week, gradually improving our speed each time. It would be a piece of cake! 

But reality hit on our first run. 

We started from our house for a jog around the neighborhood. Like any inexperienced runner, she didn't know how to pace herself. I struggled to keep up with her as she sprinted ahead, but after one block she couldn't go any further. Not only was she tired, but she was wheezing and gasping for air. 

We walked for the next five minutes while I explained that she needed to pace herself. I let her catch her breath and we tried it again. 

This time she didn't sprint, but once again she ran out of steam after one block. I remember being genuinely concerned because of her labored breathing, wondering if she had asthma. Perhaps my daughter didn't have the lung capacity I thought she had. 

That first day we ran only one mile. 

From that point forward she steadily improved, albeit rather slowly. She frequently complained of side-aches, nausea, not being able to breath, sore ankles etc. Little by little we increased the distance. It wasn't until the week before the race that she was able to run the full three miles without stopping, which she repeated one more time. We had come a long way from that first run!  

 

I was stoked when race day came. It was the 5k for the Enoch City Fourth of July celebration. We woke up early and drove to the city park where we would gather at the starting line. I remember Brittany with that nervous look on her face. (Who isn't a little tense before beginning a race?)

The last time Brittany did a race was a kid's run at Blanding's Fourth of July. Within seconds after starting she somehow tripped and got trampled. She finished the 1-mile sprint, but with a scraped knee and lots of tears. 

But I wouldn't let that happen here. I told her to watch her step and give herself plenty of room. And beside that, I would be at her side the entire race. 

 

The starting gun fired and we were off! 

It was pure adrenaline. She didn't look back and didn't stop. For three miles she kept a steady pace, passing several adults in the process. I was surprised at how well she was doing. 

Although the super fast runners had left us in the dust, we kept up with the crowd and Brittany seemed to be ahead of most kids her age. “You're doing great, Brittany,” I would encourage her. “Keep it up!” 

The final stretch turned slightly uphill toward the park along Jones Lane. “You're almost there, Britt. Pick it up! Push it!” 

The crowd was there to cheer her on. They were yelling and clapping. The fighter in her clicked on and a determined demeanor fell over her face. She sprinted to the end with all the strength she could muster. Together we crossed the finish line. Jenelle was there to greet us. Brittany had done it! 

She was so tired and tuckered out, but excited to be done. And I was one proud Daddy! 

That race is one of the most cherished memories I have of Brittany. Now that she is gone, I am so grateful that I decided to run with her. 

 

Brittany passed away two and a half years later in 2012. The following summer we decided to make some shirts to honor her for the Cedar City Half Marathon. Some of my family came over and they, with several of our friends, wore the shirt during the race. Jenelle designed the back of the shirt, a drawing of an angel with wings, which said: “Running in Memory of Brittany Lacy.” 

Although it is difficult to think about anything during a half-marathon, I was mindful of her during much of the race, and it gave me an extra boost. 

Over the years I have worn that same shirt to several races. During a marathon in Moab, a shirtless man passed me and said, “You're running with wings!” As he flew by I noticed his own angel tattooed on his back. 

I've thought about Brittany a lot in the last six months. Due to a new health condition, I have been unable to run. Fatigue has plagued me and there is no doubt that if I were to run, I wouldn't make it a block before I would have to stop and gasp for air. Of course, every time I envision that scenario, I can't help but to fondly recall that first run with Brittany. ♥

 

 

The Killing of Elijah Averett

Imagine it is 1866 and you are riding a rugged and remote trail in Utah Territory. 

There are no permanent settlements nearby. Cannonville, Tropic and Henriville don't exist, nor does Bryce Canyon National Park for that matter. Kanab once had people, but now it has been abandoned due to hostilities with the Indians. There are some ranches in the area, but they are very few and far between. 

The region is erupting in conflict with the Indians and recently a family was killed by an elusive band.

You are traveling in a train of five other men and fourteen animals. The landscape is long and undulating. Dusty hills and deep canyons regularly bisect the trail, if you can call it a trail at all. Stands of juniper grow everywhere, offering much opportunity for concealment. And to top it off, you're feeling ill. 

Thus were the circumstances of Elijah Averett Jr. just before he was killed. 

Averett Canyon.

 

I recently traveled to the site where Elijah was slain. The area is still remote, although there is a dirt road that runs just a couple hundred yards away. As part of the Grand Staircase National Monument, the road gets a fair amount of traffic, but most passerby's, I don't think, have any idea that the grave is there. 

Visiting the site piqued my curiosity. I wanted to learn more about Elijah Averett and the incident that took his life.  I wanted to put myself in his boots and capture a glimpse of what it may have been like for him 154 years ago. 

Elijah Averett Jr. was born on July 23, 1845 in Nauvoo, Illinois, about a year after the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith. His parents, Elijah Averett Sr. and Cherrizade Bernice Grimes joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in 1835 after hearing the teaching of missionaries Elisha Groves and Isaac Higbee in Hamilton County, Illinois. 

Elijah Averett Sr. and Cherrizade Grimes Averett.

Over the next decade, the Averett family suffered much persecution from mobs who sought to destroy the church. They were driven to Missouri, then back to Illinois before they finally settled in the newly founded city of Nauvoo. Although Elijah Jr. had not yet been born, surely he would have been familiar with the stories from this era. 

While in Nauvoo, Elijah Sr. helped quarry rock that would be used for the foundation of the temple. He would later become a guard for the temple. After the death of the Prophet and Hyrum, the mob once again drove the Saints from their homes. This time they turned toward the West 

Elijah Jr. was just five years old when his family arrived in the Salt Lake Valley. The family was then called by Brigham Young to help colonize the Manti area in Sanpete Valley. We don't know much about the life of Elijah Jr., but it is here where he would have grown into manhood. 

Nauvoo Temple.

The relationship between Mormons and Indians in the Utah Territory was a precarious one. 

Generally speaking, colonizers from the church sought friendly relations with the native tribes. Brigham Young taught them to feed, not fight the Indians. But as church members continued to pour in, it was obvious to the Indians that their lands were being overtaken. Although the Mormons only sought a place where they could live and worship in peace, their settlements were now being built on the hunting grounds of the native tribes. Water once used for fishing was now diverted for irrigation. Cattle now grazed on grass that was once prime habitat for wild game. Needless to say, a feud was inevitable.

Between 1865 and 1872 there were over 100 separate attacks, raids, murders and massacres between settlers and Indians. This conflict was known as the Black Hawk War. It began in Manti when Chief Black Hawk led sixteen Utes to drive off Mormon cattle. Several young men rode off to see what had happened and one of them, Peter Ludvingson, was shot and killed. 

In southern Utah the war began in that same year when Navajoes stole some horses near Kanab. Early in 1866, a couple of men were killed by Indians near Pipe Springs, then a few months later the Berry family was killed in Long Valley. As a result, many of the outlying settlements were abandoned and units of the Utah Territorial Militia were sent against the perpetrators. 

Ute Indians.

One of the more significant of these campaigns was led by Captain James Andrus and consisted of 62 men in five platoons. They were to travel from the Kaibab Plateau to the mouth of the Green River. They were given orders to chastise hostile Indians and conciliate the friendly ones. In addition, this was an exploratory mission to learn all they could of the “facilities and resources” of the country. Until now, there were very few white men who had ever set foot on the land they would travel. 

Twenty-one year old Elijah Averett was a private in the third platoon. He had recently married Rebecca Nelson. 

Monument at the site of Elijah Averett's death.

The company gathered at Gould's Ranch, located on the plateau east of present-day Hurricane on August 16, 1866. 

On the 18th they left Gould's Ranch and continued up an old wagon trail, arriving at Pipe Springs on the 19th. There they butchered and dried four cows. It is recorded that each man had a good saddle horse, and for every two men there was one pack animal. They carried forty day's worth of rations. Each soldier was equipped with a long-range rifle and two revolvers. 

From Pipe Springs they made their way to Kanab, which had been deserted due to hostilities with the Indians. A report of the expedition, written by Franklin B. Woolley, stated: “The fort and houses remain in the same condition as when abandoned by the settlers last March.” 

After Kanab, the company rode east for a few miles and then turned north up Johnson Canyon. (Of course, that was not the name in 1866, as the Johnson family had yet to settle there.) Then they turned northeast on what is called “Skutumpah,” a word derived from the Paiute language and roughly translated as “water where the rabbit brush grows.” 

On August 24, the company camped near the Paria River, probably not too far south of present-day Cannonville. There they sent men in a couple different directions to scout the area. They were also joined with a detachment that came from Parowan. 

Looking over Averett Canyon.

It was now August 26, 1866. 

On the day that Elijah Averett was killed, six men were “sent back” with fourteen pack animals. According to one account the six men became sick with chills and fever because of the persistent rain that plagued the trip. Another account states that they sent them back because a number of the animals were unfit and they sought to disencumber themselves as much as possible. It is likely that both accounts are true. Elijah Averett was one of the six men. 

What happened next is best related in the account of Franklin B. Woolley: 

“At about 4:30 pm and 5 miles S.W. from Camp No. 7 the returning party were waylaid by Indians while crossing a deep gorge and passing up a Steep ledge of rocks. The foremost man Elijah Averett being dismounted, and leading two animals, was killed at the first fire and before he could make any resistance. The party were all dismounted and leading their animals up the steep acclivity at the time the attack was made. George Isom received an arrow wound in the left shoulder. Supposing there was a large party of the Indians, they retreated to the opposite side of the gorge and took shelter in the cedars, three of them continuing their retreat to our camp where they arrived about 8 pm. One from exhaustion was left secreted in the timber. The other one Hiram Pollack, after discharging his pistol at the Indians became separated from his comrades and remained concealed near the place until he saw the Indians depart with the horses and the direction they had taken. On learning of this disaster we at once detailed 25 men to give pursuit and if possible punish the Indians. About 1 1/2 miles from Camp we met H. Pollack returning from, whom we learned the course the Indians had gone and as we deemed it useless to search for the missing man in the night, we changed our course and instead of following out on the trail taken by the party we went down the Paria with the design of intercepting the Indians in or near the Paria Canyon. At 12 o'clock we came upon their trail at the crossing of the stream and 15 minutes later overtook them as they were ascending a point of the Mountain. We surrounded the place as quickly as possible but in the darkness the Indians escaped to the mountain. We remained on the ground until daylight supposing we had some of them driven into a small cave near where we overtook them but in the morning found we had been mistaken and that there were but two Indians engaged in the matter and that they had escaped and were beyond successful pursuit as the country was rough and impracticable for cavalry into which they had retreated. We recovered 12 of the animals and equipage, 2 of them having escaped from the Indians at the time of their attack in the afternoon. About 10 o'clock am. of the 27 we recovered and buried the body of Averett and also recovered the other man, much exhausted from fatigue and exposure.” 

The company returned to Coal Point, several miles north of where the attack took place. They continued on their expedition. While passing through the site of present-day Escalante, they found wild potatoes growing, hence the name “Potato Valley” was given to the area. They were some of the first white men to ever pass through that area. They continued to the top of Boulder Mountain where they mistakenly thought they could see the head of the Green River. From there they turned west toward Grass Valley, Circleville, Parowan and back down to St. George, where they reported on their trip. The only Indians they encountered were those involved in the attack. 

Grave of Elijah Averett.

For years, cowboys from the Kanab area kept a pile of rocks to mark the spot of Elijah Averett's grave. In 1936, church leaders from the Panguitch Stake erected a monument on the site. The canyon in which he was killed was given the name of Averett Canyon. 

Less than a year after Elijah's death, his wife Rebecca passed away at the age of seventeen. They had no posterity. 

Night sky near the site where the six men were ambushed by Indians.

When I visited the area we camped not too far from the grave of Elijah Averett. A short walk took us to a look-off point where we could see the grave below. The canyon is not necessarily deep at that point, but the walls are tall enough to make passage difficult, especially on the south side. I would imagine that they felt trapped as the Indians attacked them. Our camp was probably located very close to the place where they “took shelter in the cedars” after being attacked. 

I still have other questions: Were the Indians Utes, Paiutes, Navajo? Were they on horses? Where did they attack from? Did Elijah move after he was shot, or did he die on the spot? 

It is kind of spooky to put yourself in his situation. It is such a remote location, with so many rocks, trees, and hills for the Indians to lurk. And to know that even though there are friendly Indians out there, there are also some who would be happy to kill you. ♠

 

Grave marker of Elijah Averett.

 

Blessing in Disguise

The day before we left, Jenelle got in the car to go to work and quickly learned she had a flat left-front tire. It's a good thing she only made it just past our driveway. She pulled it back in and took another vehicle while I used our air-compressor to pump it back up. I took it to the tire shop and together we decided to get four new tires since the tread on all of them was getting low. 

The next day we packed and left. Although we didn't get out as soon as I would have liked, we were still on track to make it to the beach by sunset. 

We geared up for a long drive—almost eight hours. We brought snacks, music, conversation, as well as the license plate game. We watched the scenery change from snow-packed mountains to creosote bushes in an arid desert landscape. 

But while driving, something else began to happen. We began receiving clues that our daughter might unexpectedly be flying home from El Salvador that evening. First it was a missed call from her early in the morning. Then it was news from others like her in Central America who were being ordered to come home. Then it was an email from her asking us to call a foreign phone number—which call we were unable to make work. Jenelle made several phone calls, but any attempt to contact my daughter was futile. To say the least, we were very preoccupied. 

During these circumstances, we drove south on I-15 between the Cima Road and Baker, California. Traffic seemed to be busy as usual, especially with large semi trucks hauling freight. 

Moving at 80 mph, I checked my left mirror and then began to switch to the left lane. That's when Jenelle yelled, “Watch out!!!” A small car moved up from my blind spot and I about ran into him. Quickly I corrected back to my lane, but when I did our car began to fishtail. Like driving on an icy road, my rear tires began to slide to the right—and once I corrected the wheel they slid to the left. For a split second I thought I had regained control, but our backside still hadn't gained traction. At any moment now I anticipated we would flip. Going at this speed, who knows how many times we would roll! 

The entire sequence felt eternal, but in reality may have lasted only ten seconds. Finally we regained full control and all I could do was heave a sigh of relief. We had survived! 

For the next couple hours I drove at least 5 mph slower than I had before. I did not change lanes unless I was sure I had a BIG gap. I will admit that my confidence had shrunk to that of a 15-year old driver. 

I couldn't help but to feel grateful to still be driving along the freeway. I envisioned the scene had we rolled, with luggage and cooler strewn across the side of the road. If that had happened perhaps we would be in an ambulance now, or maybe dead. Whichever the case, it wouldn't be good.

And then I thought about the tires. 

With the fishtailing we did on that road at 80 mph—if we still had the same old worn tires—then there's no doubt they would have blown, and undoubtedly we would have rolled. Without question, getting that flat tire the day before was a blessing in disguise and may have saved our lives. 

Our guardian angel was watching over us that day. I'm grateful for that because sometimes I'm not sure if I deserve it. I made the comment to Jenelle that maybe Brittany was the one who flattened our tire. She agreed. ♠

The Rescue of John Johnson

While hunting with Jordan, we took a dirt road off Highway 14 on Cedar Mountain that goes toward Red Desert. Along the way we noticed an aged man next to the road with a chainsaw cutting wood. He had an older truck and trailer, heaped with several rounds of logs. 

We continued down the road which eventually became so rocky that I decided to turn around. On our way back we spent ten minutes exploring a lava flow. While there I noticed the old man with his trailer full of logs now driving toward the highway. 

As we finished looking at the lava rocks, we continued on the dirt road. We came to a hill and toward the top I noticed the gray-haired woodcutter stopped in the middle of the road. 

He stepped out of the truck and walked toward the back. I rolled down my window and asked if he was checking his load or wanting to talk to me. 

“I'm wanting to talk to you,” he said. “I've got myself in a bind. My transmission just went out and I can't go forward.” 

What an awful predicament to be in, I thought. Broke down on the mountain, pulling a heavy load of wood. 

“How can I help?” I asked. 

At first he wondered if I could pull his truck and trailer to the highway—a mile away. I had my doubts. That would be a heavy pull and I wasn't sure my truck could do it. As it was, we were already stuck on an incline on a dirt road with little traction. 

We decided that I would try pulling him just to the side of the road to get out of the way. He backed his truck and trailer and strapped a chain from the front of his truck to the rear of mine. 

I shifted into four-wheel drive and began inching forward until the chain was tight. Then I gave it more gas. My rear tires spun, digging a half-foot gash in the road while my front tires struggled to move at all. Needless to say, his truck and trailer didn't budge an inch. 

I backed up a couple feet to release the tension, then shifted into four-low instead of four-high. I had to wait a minute for it to engage, then tried it again. This time both tires turned and I was able to pull the heavy load, but just a couple feet until I once again began digging a hole. 

We tweaked our strategy and he positioned me on the hardest, most compact section of road. He reconnected the chain on his truck to the closest corner. I was to move forward while he angled his wheels toward the side. 

With the chain connected we inched forward again until it was taut, then gave more gas. Once again I began to tug him along. We crept slowly, but didn't have far to go. The more he moved to the side of the road, it pulled at my rear and turned me sideways, but we kept moving until I got the thumbs-up. We had done it! 

Over and over the man was grateful and offered to pay us, but I always declined. 

He needed a way in to town, but didn't want to ruin our hunt. (It was now 4:15 and soon to be entering “prime time” for the evening.) His proposal was that we finish our hunt, then come and pick him up when we were done. I didn't like that idea because it would leave him waiting until after dark for us and there were too many variables. I proposed that I take him to town right then. 

I told him we would have to clear some space in the back seat of our truck, but he insisted that he would just ride in the bed. He was very adamant, so I let him do it. 

He retrieved his chainsaw and can of gasoline, then locked the cab of his truck. He climbed into the back and made himself comfortable in the corner, resting his arm on the wall of the bed as smooth as a teenager. 

The grizzled old man was John Johnson. Perhaps “old” is not the best adjective used to describe him, but he had at least twenty years on me. For his age he was strong. A worn, leathered face told me he had a long life of hard work. 

He had only lived here for four months, having moved from Yuma, Arizona. He moved here to raise his 15-year old daughter. There was more to him. Much more. There were stories and experiences that had sculpted his character, and I knew that for now, and probably forever, I would never know those stories. 

We drove twenty miles down the mountain with John Johnson in the back of my truck, the wind blowing across his body. It reminded me of older times when people gave rides to strangers much more often, and when riding in the back of a truck wasn't frowned upon. 

We pulled up to the duplex where John lived and I helped him get the chainsaw and gas can from the bed. He pulled out his wallet and said, “Let me at least pay you for the gas.” 

I obliged, knowing I only burned five to ten dollars worth. 

Then he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. I acted as if I didn't notice the denomination. I knew that for him it was important that he somehow returned the favor. 

We wished him luck and parted ways. ♠