Into the Canyons

I've been fortunate this past year to travel more than I ever have in my life. I have visited four different countries and have witnessed some of the most breathtaking landscapes on the planet. In spite of that, the one place in the entire world that I love most is in my own backyard. I have had a longing to return home and hike into the canyons. 

This was an adventure for Dave and I. We drove thirty miles on a rough dirt road to get to the trailhead. From there we could see snow-capped mountains in the distance beyond a daunting maze of canyons. 

We heaved our packs over our shoulders and meandered down Navajo slickrock and over sand and sagebrush. Our shadows became longer with each step and the glow off the canyon rim radiated a golden hue. 

After an hour and a half we made it to the willow and tamarisk-choked bottom. It was difficult to find a good place to cross the river where the bank wasn't a sudden drop-off. We found a cattle trail that sloped toward the water. We removed our boots and replaced them with water shoes. We rolled our pant legs up to our thighs, then with steady caution and using a walking sticks as a brace, we walked into the flow. 

The river was ice-cold this time of year. It was indeed November. The brown silty water rose to our knee caps as we hurriedly aimed for the other side. By now the sun had disappeared behind the cold Wingate cliffs that towered over the river. 

We found a good spot to camp next to a cliff with Indian petroglyphs and cowboy writings. The petroglyphs seemed to be a slightly different style than what I usually see in this area. 

We built a fire, which gave us not only warmth, but company. It was lonely down here, and that's how we preferred it. We spent three or four hours next to the fire. 

If we listened beyond the flames we could hear the rushing of the river and the occasional croak of a frog. At one time I fancied I could hear a distant sound of someone humming a song. Was it the sound of nature disguised as a human voice, or was it the call of a phantom? The slightly spooky atmosphere made it an ideal evening for stories of skinwalkers, water babies and Bigfoot. 

Using the beam of my flashlight I walked to the river to rinse off my water shoes. The hoarfrost on the leaves sparkled from the newly freezing temperatures. As I swished my shoes in the current, my fingers touched the water. By the time I returned to the fire, the tips of my fingers from the knuckle forward were completely numb. 

Noises of the night made it a little eerie. People had camped in this very spot for at least a thousand years, so who knew if ghosts were lingering. We knew we were alone. Probably no one else within twenty miles. 

A near full moon rose an hour after dusk. The fire was welcoming, but beyond that the chill was piercing. I could hear the music again. It sounded muffled. Dave heard it also. It seemed to come from around the bend. The sound was so faint that I couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. 

The night was long, but at last morning came. I stirred the ashes of the fire and found warm coals beneath. I added a pile of broken twigs and larger cottonwood branches. Within minutes it resurrected and once again flames were fluttering like ribbons. I stretched out my hands and warmed them over the heat. 

We ate breakfast and packed up camp. The sun was out now, but temperatures were still well below freezing. 

Here there were no easy trails. Only cattle trails occasionally used by humans. Willows and tamarisk grew thickly along the banks. At one point we had to remove our packs and hold them before us as we crawled on hands and knees over the meager trail, pushing through the sapling branches like running the gauntlet. 

Then we came to the river. There was no way around. The current came directly against the red cliff. Once again we donned our water shoes. 

We waded into frigid waters, not just crossing the width, but walking down-stream for fifty yards. The current tugged at our legs and we concentrated to stay standing. Now and again we stepped into a patch of soft mud below the surface and I always worried it was quicksand. By the time we emerged from the river our feet were nearly numb except for the painful sting in our toes. 

We then entered a narrow canyon that was a tributary to the river. Here there was no running water, but occasional mud and pools from recent rain. 

Here the fall colors flourished and vibrant yellow leaves ruffled in the breeze. Canyon walls led straight up and there was a dankness in the air. 

Nearly a mile up the canyon we came to a pool of water at the bottom of a drop-off. Above were two circular arches that led to the next level of the canyon. No doubt that during a rainstorm water would pour from one of these arches as if coming from a spout. 

We admired the beauty of the location. Secluded. Quiet. Our voices echoed off the cliffs. Trees with bright yellow leaves reflected in the pool of water. 

We returned to the river and continued around the bend. Here we found another wall with Indian petroglyphs mixed with a sprinkle of cowboy writings. The writings had been here a long time and a closer look revealed a layered canvas. 

The oldest layer was mostly faded, with etchings in the rock reaching much higher than a man can reach. These included the typical bighorn sheep, elk and other indistinguishable squiggly lines that are commonly found in Native American rock art. It's difficult to know whether these were made by the Fremont or Anasazi or some other unknown group. And as far as the date, that was pure speculation. 

Pecked over this older group of writing was a new, more distinguishable set of marks. Much of it was indigenous, which included a two-headed bighorn sheep and trapezoidal men with bug heads. Mixed with these were the cowboy drawings of horses, men, names and dates. The oldest was 1881, which was only two years after the Hole-in-the-Rock party traveled this way on their epic journey. 

In an ideal world we would have traveled another mile upriver to visit one of the main slot canyons. On a short November afternoon such as today, however, this wasn't feasible. The tamarisk was thick and we had to cross the river seven times just to exit the main canyon. 

We crossed the river for the final time and set our packs down near the cement foundation of an old building that was destroyed by arson over thirty years ago. Nearby stood wooden posts of what I assume was a corral. Once again there were a few etchings in the rock, one from 1932 and another of a cowboy brand. Around the corner we found more petroglyphs, these of bighorn sheep with either a line or trapezoid for bodies. I don't recall having seen that before. 

We removed our water shoes and rinsed out the mud while we let our feet dry. It felt good to put on dry socks. We hefted our packs and followed a side-canyon with a small stream of running water. The trail climbed the canyon wall and soon we stood above the rim where we followed the cairns back to the trailhead. Our shadows grew longer as we walked over the sand and past sagebrush. What a delight this world can be! ♠

 

 

 

My Daughter, the Doodler

In our home we tend to have a lot of notebooks. Some are for school, others for personal use. They may be used as a diary, for class notes, shopping lists and so on. With our older notebooks, there is usually one common denominator: at one time or another Brittany “borrowed” them to doodle. 

Now that she's been gone for ten years, this has been a blessing. Every time I open a notebook and find a sketch of the Eiffel Tower or a poodle, it always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eye. 

Between writing stories and drawing random pictures, she left treasures behind everywhere in our home. Her bedroom, which has largely been left untouched since her passing, is a trove of artwork. School projects remain on the wall. Pieces of loose paper or 3x5 index cards sport fancy little drawings. Of course, she owned several notebooks of her own, each displaying her skills. And then there's her journals. She didn't just write her daily events, she drew them. 

Last year I conceived the idea that I would pore over all those notebooks, scour her room looking for those stray pieces of paper, and dig through her journal to collect her drawings. Then I would capture the images with a camera. It has taken me a while to get around to it, but the last two months have been a pure delight, coming across memories that I hadn't recalled in years, and discovering new snippets I had never known. 

One such discovery was a book she wrote and illustrated. It was a retelling of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The most touching part, however, were the words on the inside flap: “For my two little sisters, Jenna and Savanah. I hope you both love reading this book or having it read to you!” Jenna is now 19 and Savanah, 16. It was as if their sister in heaven had written them a book. 

As parents, it took a while to realize that Brittany's doodling was healthy. In the beginning, when she doodled at school or church, she would get in trouble because we felt she wasn't paying attention. But then we learned that she was paying attention and if she were allowed to draw while listening to a teacher give a lesson, then it would help her focus. 

One of the amazing things about her drawings was that she never needed a reference point. Jenelle recalls one evening when she needed to draw a picture of a Confederate soldier for school the next day. She went in her room and ten minutes later came out with a perfect picture. She didn't need to go on the internet or look in a book to know how to draw it. 

Most of her artwork reflected herself and her real world, as well as her fantasy world. Common themes included girls, fairies, poodles, friends, cousins and anything to do with France, especially the Eiffel Tower. 

A couple weeks ago I was fortunate to meet up with one of Brittany's best friends. Ame is now grown and married, but back in the day they had a playhouse in Ame's backyard. In the playhouse was a fridge and the rule was that anyone who came inside had to write something on the fridge with an erasable marker. Brittany scribbled some words, then drew a picture of a beautiful girl in a pearl-strap dress. Ame's family never erased the drawing. Ame shared that story with us and sent us a picture. What a delight to come across another little treasure! 

For the most part, Brittany's drawings were never official pieces of art, but just doodles. Exceptions usually came in the form of assignments or contests at school. One such project was a “Peace Poster Contest.” Brittany spent time on the computer studying different flags and peace symbols from around the world. She then proceeded to create a drawing that included the Eiffel Tower, a pyramid, the Taj Majal, Statue of Liberty, peace symbols and flags from around the globe. The crowning feature was two doves with their tail-feathers intertwined in such a fashion to form yin and yang. 

The contest was held on a city-wide basis and she won second place. It was only two months before she passed. Now the poster sits behind glass and is on display in Jenelle's room at the elementary school. Young kids come in all the time and are fascinated by the poster. 

Another drawing we are fond of is that of an angel. Brittany drew it for her friend, Lauren. The angel sits atop a cloud with a large crescent moon behind her. A four-point star hangs from the moon and a small bird stands atop one of the points. We didn't know that Brittany had drawn this picture until Lauren showed it to us after she died. She made us a copy and now it is embedded forever on the corner of her headstone at the cemetery. 

It's hard to know what would have become of Brittany had she lived a longer life. She passed away just nine days after her fourteenth birthday. Would she have honed her skills and become a great artist? I don't know. Her greater passion, I believe, was writing. A lot of times her drawings were an enhancement to her writing. In addition to all those doodles scattered around our house are page after page of mostly fantasy stories that she began to write . . . some of them ending abruptly in mid-sentence! As I combed through her room I found one such novella that was 109 pages long and unfinished. 

The legacy of Brittany lives on. Not only do we talk about her and reminisce on her life, but now others are benefiting in her name. Shortly after her death, my brother created a scholarship in her name at Southern Utah University. It is intended for freshman students in the college of Performing and Visual Arts and is called the Brittany Lacy Memorial Endowed Scholarship. It has been a pleasure for Jenelle and I to attend banquets with the recipient of this award. 

As you read this post and look at some of our favorite doodles, I hope you feel just a little bit closer to Brittany. Left behind are gems and jewels more valuable than a chest of gold. My advice to all of us is that we look around and recognize the value of our riches. Not the wealth of the world, but the worth of souls. ♥

 

 

The Vision of Samuel Orton

Samuel Taylor Orton was no stranger to divine manifestations. In 1856, as part of a handcart company crossing the plains, he became sick and fell behind. All at once a voice spoke to him and asked, “Samuel, are you here?” He answered,”Yes, I am here.” But when he turned around, he saw no one.

This experience got him thinking and he asked himself, Why am I here? He wanted to know if the cause he was walking for was a true cause. Just a year earlier he had been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Now was a time of reflection. Did God the Father and Jesus Christ really appear to Joseph Smith? Was Brigham Young his true successor? If these things were true, Samuel determined he wanted to see a halo of light around the head of Brigham Young when he arrived in Salt Lake. 

He regained strength and was able to catch up with the rest of the company. They soon met with a team from Salt Lake who brought them flour. This helped immensely as they were all on rations and very hungry. They successfully made the rest of the journey. 

They arrived October 5th. The following day was conference and they met in the old bowery. Samuel took his seat and watched the people coming in. Then he saw President Young. Rays of light surrounded his head, just like he had envisioned on the plains. Even the brethren next to him had a faint halo about them. Then he heard the same distinct voice he had heard on the plains: “Now Samuel, if you ever apostatize, here is your condemnation.” 

Samuel Taylor Orton.

This was a powerful witness that stayed with Samuel his entire life. 

During that same month Samuel made the trek to Southern Utah in company of Joel Hills Johnson, who would become his future father-in-law. He lived and worked with Brother Johnson for eighteen months.

In the spring of 1858 he moved just a few miles northwest to Summit Creek where he and other single men took up farming ten acres. They were the first men of European descent to settle in that place. 

It was here where Samuel had his marvelous vision. The account is stated in his own words: 

“One day while I was plowing in the field, my oxen stopped suddenly and refused to go any further. No amount of persuasion, coaxing, or whipping did any good. So I finally unhitched and went home. The next day I started again, and when I got to the same place, they again refused to go, so again I went home. The third day I went again, determined that nothing would stop me from doing my work, but when we got to that same place, again I was stopped and I was rather provoked, so I went up to see if I could persuade them to go by leading the leaders. When to my surprise I then beheld a great battlefield with men fighting hand to hand. I recognized at once the Nephites and their colored brethren the Lamanites that I had read about in the Book of Mormon. I was convinced that we were standing on the battleground where they had a great battle. After the vision passed, my oxen plodded along without any further trouble.” 

Final Nephite Battle by Jody Livingston.

The location of the vision took place near the Summit Cemetery in Iron County, obviously many years before it became a cemetery. Even before I heard this story, I was told that the cemetery stood atop an ancient Indian burial mound. 

The cemetery is small and now has grass. There are several burials from the 1800's, the oldest I could find was 1864. There is a distinct mound in the middle of the graveyard, upon which there are several headstones. I don't know if this is the burial mound referred to by early settlers. There is no doubt that this entire area is hallowed ground. 

That fall Samuel Orton built a dugout where he spent the winter. The following spring he built a modest cabin. During that same season three families came from nearby Johnson's Fort and settled along the creek. That was the beginning of the little town of Summit. 

In November of 1860, Samuel would marry Julia Johnson, the daughter of Joel Hills Johnson. Thus began another saga, one which would take a tragic twist. Of this story I will write later . . . ♠ 

 

Summit, Utah Cemetery.

 

 

 

Sources 

“Samuel Taylor Orton (autobiography),” Family Search, online. 

Samuel T. Orton, “The Testimony of Samuel Taylor Orton,” handwritten ms. in the possession of decedents of A. Hills Orton, youngest son of Samuel; transcript available online at Family Search.