Indian Creek to Mount Baldy (Peak #4)

For years I've had my eye on Mount Baldy in the Tushar Mountains. From Beaver, and even from the south, it is the most prominent peak, piercing the sky like a tooth. Yet, out of the major peaks in the Tushar range, it is also the most difficult to reach. 

The easiest route is from the northeast. Although the hiker has the benefit of starting at around 11,000 feet, he must ascend Mount Belknap first, which is also over 12,000 feet, and then traverse a ridge and scale a very steep pitch to the summit of Baldy. One thing that makes this approach difficult is that the access road is closed over half the year due to snow. 

The southeast ridge provides a more gradual slope to the top, but access to this ridge is difficult due to the fact that there are no nearby roads. There are probably a few other ways to scale Mount Baldy if one gets creative, but the truth is, not many people ever step foot on this peak. 

But I've had my eye on yet another approach: from Indian Creek Reservoir on the northeast side. As the crow flies, the distance between the two is just under three miles. There is no trail, and elevation gain is over 4,000 feet. The terrain between the two is daunting, to say the least. I have only heard one person express the desire to hike this route. I have never heard of anyone who has actually done it. 

I arrived at Indian Creek Reservoir the night before with my son, Jordan. We drove ten miles on a dirt road from the Manderfield exit, directly east up the canyon. We enjoyed sunset on the lake and marveled at the stars when they came out in full force. 

Marveling at the stars.

I had spent hours on Google Maps trying to decipher which route would be the best to take. I concluded that by taking a ridge just half a mile west of the reservoir would connect us to another larger ridge, which would in turn take us all the way to Baldy. The first half of the hike was entirely below the treeline, so the big wild factor would be how thick the growth would be on the lower ridges. I didn't want bush-whacking to stop us from our goal. 

And no matter how you sliced it, the hike would be steep.  Using the geometry equation to find the slope (rise over run), I determined that a straight line from starting point to peak would have an inline of 26%.

We took our time that morning and didn't get started until 9 am. We started up the ridge from the road, which was super steep in the beginning, but then mellowed out, but always angled upward. There had been a burn here several years ago, so most of the vegetation was young. 

This is the first ridge we climbed to gain the main ridge.

About half an hour into our ascent we assessed our location on Google Maps and realized that we were on the wrong ridge! We should have been on the ridge just east of us. We decided to stay the course because by this point a deep ravine separated the two ridges. Anyway, they would both take us to the same place. 

We saw a few does scamper out of the trees ahead. Other than that, we didn't see a lot of wildlife. Soon we came into an aspen grove that stood on a steeper slope. We used the sapling branches to pull ourselves up. After two hours of strenuous bushwhacking, we finally arrived at the larger ridge which ran west to east. 

Now on the main ridge.  You can see Mount Baldy (false summit) in the background.

From here we finally had a view! On the opposite side of the ridge stood a very deep canyon. Looking toward the east we could follow the ridge with our eyes and see the point where the trees ended and rock began. We could also see the distant peak we believed to be Mount Baldy. We would later learn it was a false summit. 

So, upward we trudged! 

This was a pretty section with lots of wildflowers. Aspens grew, but there were also a lot of downed trees from the fire. A flock of pine hens startled us, flying out of their hiding spaces one at a time, just yards ahead. 

This was one of the most painful parts for me. The slope was excruciating and at one point I had to stop every few minutes to take a short break. It was in this area that we passed the 10,000 foot level and came across our first patches of snow. 

The climb was extremely steep the entire way.

Pine hen.

Many wildflowers along the way.

At last we cleared the treeline. This meant we no longer had to push through sapling trees and step over fallen logs. But now the terrain came with shale rock. Lots of it. Most of it was loose, and since the slope was still so steep, with every step we sent loose rock tumbling down the mountain. But the silver lining was that now the view was spectacular. We had uninhibited vistas all around. We felt on top of the world. 

With the rock so loose, I was worried that we'd create a rock-slide that would take us down, and from this point, the bottom was at least a thousand feet away. Instead of climbing straight up, I decided it would be safer to take this section at an angle. We did so and eventually came across a game trail in the rock, probably from mountain goats. The trail was an ever so slight indention in the shale, which felt a bit more stable. 

We then came across another type of rock. These were bigger in size and ran down the slope like a silver streak. This was sturdier than the shale so we used it to climb directly to the upper ridge. 

Lots of loose shale.

Looking down toward Indian Creek Reservoir.

We found this strip of sturdy rock to climb on.

The grade leveled out a bit, which was a relief to our aching muscles. Now on top I could see both north and south. To the north Mount Belknap reigned like a giant. A massively deep basin sat between Belknap and us, along with several thick patches of snow. From this basin are the headwaters of Fish Creek, which runs for over a dozen miles until it merges with Clear Creek near I-70. 

It was from here that we had our first up-close view of Mount Baldy. Now we were able to see the steep ridge that we'd have to climb. I had seen this ridge from a distance during my scouting phase and worried that it would make our climb more difficult. Also, at this point we heard the first rumbling of thunder and felt fat drops of rain fall from the sky. At the moment, my fatigued instinct told me that we would not be able to summit. I hoped I was wrong. 

Back on the ridge looking toward the top.

We scanned the ridge for possible places to hide if the lightning came too close. We found a small cave in the rocks that could possibly fit both of us. But as we waited, the lightning stayed to the east and eventually died out. The rain stopped also. With this we were encouraged. 

It was in this general area that we began to see several interesting rock formations. Imprinted on the shale, as if with black ink, were the shapes of leaves and other plant-like figures called dendrites. I remember coming across these several years ago when I climbed Mount Belknap. I have only seen them here, and only at very high altitudes. Dendrites form by minerals that grow on the rocks in a delicate branching pattern.

Colorado Columbine growing near 11,300 feet.

Every view from this point was spectacular.

Dendrite formation on the rock.

Purple cushion phlox near the summit.

A nub of rock on the ridge forced us to delicately walk around. We tried the north side first, but the ground for our feet became unreliable. I was worried the rocks below us would collapse, and if that happened, it would be a long slide down. So we tried to circumvent it from the south side, and although still precarious, we succeeded in going around the nub. 

Now we were face to face with the steep ledge that separated us from Baldy. Up close it didn't look as bad. Our hike now turned into a Class 3 climb as we used both hands and feet to move our way up. We had to be careful, but there was no time that we felt in danger. 

We made it to the top of the steep ledge, excited to now be within walking distance of the summit. But much to our dismay as we looked up, we learned that the peak we had thought was Mount Baldy all along, was only a false summit! Behind it, and further up, we could see what was the true summit, for we could see the wooden sign that marked the top. 

Luckily for us, the space between the two summits consisted only of a minor saddle, of which we traversed with no problem. 

Amazing view from the summit! Belknap on left, and Blue Lake.

Now we made it onto the true summit of Mount Baldy and the panoramic view was truly amazing! We could see the remaining view of the Tushars: Mount Holly, Mount Brigham, Delano Peak, Shelly Baldy, Gold Mountain, Signal Peak and a slew of others. And most important of all, I looked down into the deep ravine on the east of Baldy and saw the turquoise waters of Blue Lake. I had hiked there once many years ago and was excited to see this little gem again. 

There were two signs on the peak, each with a different elevation. Even the internet gives a third elevation. Who knows which is correct? 

Jordan found the log book that was stashed inside a mailbox. To our surprise, we were the first ones to summit Mount Baldy this year (this day being July 22). 

Fish Creek Basin and Mount Belknap.

One of the prettiest summits I've ever been on.

Happy to be on top.

Our trek to the top took us just over six hours. I was elated to be up there with such a grand view, especially after doubting that we'd even make it just an hour earlier. My legs told me to enjoy the view because they didn't want to ever come up here again. But I knew that they'd eventually change their mind! 

We spent forty minutes at the summit. As I took it all in, I contemplated on different routes I might take to the top, hopefully routes that weren't as difficult. But if I never made it up here again, I would be satisfied. 

One of two signs on the summit, each with a different elevation.

Storm clouds rolling by.

The trip down was easier and took less time, but was no walk in the park. Along the way we enjoyed wildflowers and a grove of manzanita. Surprisingly we didn't see any wildlife, other than small critters. 

By the time we had reached the vehicle we had been hiking for eleven hours and fifteen minutes. It had taken much longer than I had anticipated. At the car we pulled off our packs and let out a sigh of relief. Then we walked to the creek and pulled out the icy-cold pack of Mountain Dew! ♠ 

 

Now for the long hike down.

And you can't forget the Mountain Dew!

Mount Baldy

 

Miles from car (one way): 6 miles

Elevation gain: 4,282 feet

Final Elevation: 12,082 feet 

 

Looking back on the false summit of Mount Baldy.

 

Impressions of Cusco

Convent of Santo Domingo, built on the remains of the Inca temple of Coricancha.

The scene flying into Cusco was surreal. Mountains climbed closer to the airplane window with an occasional snow-packed peak and then a rugged valley with rushing water. But what impressed me most were the man-made terraces and villages perched high upon the slopes. People actually lived here! Farms were laid out in curious patchwork, each a different shade of green. Roads were sliced out along verdant inclines while little communities nestled in the crevice of giant slopes. 

As the plane began to descend, I got goosebumps knowing I was about to disembark at a destination I had longed to visit. Cusco, Peru is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the Americas and former capital of the Inca Empire. I knew that its architecture and culture were a blend between European and Inca, the latter still inhabiting the city. And to top it off, it has an elevation of 11,200 feet, much higher than the vast majority of cities around the world. 

We landed at the airport in the center of town. Tall hills stood all around with tiny houses stacked together along the slopes. 

View of the Plaza de Armas in Cusco.

Typical narrow street on a hill.

Ladies in traditional dress with baby alpacas pose for pictures.

They say that elevation sickness is a common ailment for newcomers arriving in Cusco. Locals recommend chewing on the coca leaf, the same plant that cocaine is made from, to alleviate the sickness. The leaf can be found in many stores. Luckily for us, elevation sickness was not an issue probably due to the fact that we already lived at a relatively high elevation. 

The first thing that struck me about Cusco were the steep and narrow cobblestone streets. They reminded me very much of Spain, but much steeper than anything I had experienced. There was a slightly rougher feel to the place. Some streets were dangerous to walk on as there was little to no sidewalk and barely enough room for a car to drive. 

Typical Cusco building with old stones as foundations.

San Cristobal Church stands on a hill overlooking Cusco.

Looking down Avendia de Santiago.

Most of the buildings were two stories, painted in pastel colors and many had a base made from stone. The city was built on top of the existing Inca settlement, and much of the stonework at the base level was the original Inca workmanship. I wondered what the city looked like before the arrival of the Spanish and also what it might look like now if it had never been conquered.

And speaking of Inca ruins, they were everywhere! The largest complex is at Sacsayhuamán, located northwest of town. This site contains gigantic rocks that were fitted together perfectly, making it one of the most amazing megalithic structures in the world. There is some debate as to whether the Inca actually fitted these stones together or if it was a more advanced civilization that preceded them. When the Spanish came they dismantled much of Sacsayhuamán and used the stones to build their own buildings in Cusco. 

Another archeological site called Q'enqo is just a mile to the east. There are still many other sites scattered about, including the foundations of Coricancha, one of the most important temples of the Inca Empire.

Megalithic structure at Sacsayhuaman.

Curious stonework with lintel, appearing to be a door that goes to nowhere.

A portion of sidewalk with old Inca stones exposed beneath modern masonry.

One of the things that surprised me about Cusco and the surrounding region was the traditional clothing of the Inca ladies. I'm sure you've seen the image of a lady in a bright-colored skirt, tall hat, and perhaps a robed satchel across her back. I used to think it was a show to display for tourists. But, no. They wear it all the time, and even when we were well out of the tourist areas, the women still wore the same thing. The men, on the other hand, seemed to be more assimilated into a western style of dress. 

In the city center, tourism was everywhere. In the Plaza de Armas near the cathedral, for example, a person can't go two steps without someone soliciting something: trinkets, paintings, dolls, scarfs, caps etc. In this section the ladies do dress up for show, sometimes holding baby alpacas. If you want to take their picture, it will cost. 

There are travel offices everywhere selling every possible tour package you might want while in Cusco. There are museums, fancy restaurants, souvenir stores and churches. San Pedro market is popular with tourists, but even more so with locals. It is an authentic market. When we came, the main building was closed, so the vendors were spread out onto the streets in every direction. 

Iglesia de la Compania de Jesus, in the main square of Cusco.

Statue of Pachacutec, an important ruler in ancient Peru.

Inca lady sells vegetables on the sidewalk.

Cusco was on the chilly side. Often we began the day wearing coats, then took them off in late-morning, but put them back on if the sun went behind a cloud. And, of course, we had them on in the evening and at night. Our hotel room was cold, with only an electric heater to warm it up. It was cold enough that I slept in pants and a long-sleeved shirt. 

But our hotel came with a view! Located partially up a hill, we could see across much of the valley, over a sea of terracotta-tiled roofs and multiple old churches that jutted above the rest. Without a doubt, Cusco was one of the most picturesque cities I had ever been in. 

View of bell tower of the Convent of Santo Domingo from our hotel.

Sweet lady standing guard to the bathrooms.

Backstreet of Cusco.

People walking the streets were a combination of local natives and tourists from around the world. It was quite a sight. It was not uncommon for a guide and tourist to be communicating in English—a second language to both. 

Dogs were everywhere. Most were friendly and many liked to bark. We only had one get aggressive and latch onto Jenna's shoelace. 

One of my favorite places in all of Cusco was San Blas Market. It wasn't large, but neither was it touristy like its larger cousin, San Pedro. The entire market was located under the roof of a single building. Venders sold bags of potatoes and fruit. In the food section we found several places to eat. Each sold something different and had white wooden benches where people could sit. 

The meals here cost half of what they did elsewhere. My first course was sopa de chuña, a thick potato soup with barley. For our second course, or “segundos,” I had ají de lizas, or papa liza, which is a type of tuber. It was yellow and had an earthy flavor that reminded me of beets. It also came with grilled chicken over rice. Two very hardy meals cost us 14 soles, or $3.74! 

Vegetable stand at San Blas Market.

One of many dogs in the city.

Ladies wait for the bus after shopping.

Pucara bulls, a symbol of protection and happiness, are found on rooftops of many buildings in Cusco.

Indoor clothing market.

Overall, we loved Cusco. There is so much to explore within the city and especially in the region roundabout in the form of day trips. It has a different feel to it than any other city I've been in. Part of it may be the high elevation and brisk air. It is also the Inca culture and the long history within the city. The layout of the town on steep hills with narrow cobblestoned streets adds to its uniqueness. 

But there was another question I couldn't get off my mind. For the vast majority of tourists that come to Peru, a trip to Cusco is a must. For one thing, there is no other way to get to Machu Picchu than through Cusco. My question, however, is how many other cities or small towns in Peru are similar to Cusco, but aren't filled or spoiled by the thousands of tourists? The thought definitely begs another trip to Peru! ♠ 

 

Large mural on Avenida del Sol.

A couple of gringos visit Cusco.

 

 

A Navajo Lake in Paiute Territory

When I first moved to Iron County twenty-seven years ago, I was baffled and somewhat amused that Navajo Lake should have such a name. My hometown—over 300 miles away—was just thirty minutes from the Navajo Reservation. There were no Navajos over here, I assumed. Therefore I concluded that Navajo Lake was so named only because it had a good ring. 

Carmen Clark, Chairwoman of the Shivwits Band of the Paiute Tribe had similar feelings. Commenting on a proposed bill that would rename many landmarks that indigenous people find offensive, she said, “Why is it called Navajo Lake when the Navajos weren't even in this area? It should have a Paiute name.” 

Navajo Lake sits in the northeast corner of Kane County, Utah.

For those unfamiliar, Navajo Lake is located in a picturesque setting on the Markagunt Plateau at an elevation of 9,200 feet. It is nestled in a little valley, surrounded on all sides by pine trees. The lake was formed by a lava flow on the eastern side of the valley. An interesting detail is that there is no stream running out of the lake. Instead, the water seeps into an underground drainage that emerges at Cascade Falls, over a mile away. 

Nowadays the lake is used primarily for recreation. Near the shores are a couple of campgrounds, a lodge and several private cabins. The waters are stocked with three varieties of trout. Last summer our family took kayaks on the lake. Despite the popularity, Navajo Lake retains a peaceful setting. 

Recreation is now popular, but not overwhelming, at Navajo Lake.

But it wasn't until a few years ago that I learned the story behind the naming of the lake. And, no, it wasn't named on a whim. And, yes, there were Navajos in the area at the time. 

The story was told by Joseph H. Pollock in 1930, one of two surviving men at the time who were part of a posse to round up a group of thieving Navajos. As the story goes, it was October of 1869 near the town of Kannara when a passing camper with his span of mules woke up to learn that during the night his animals had been shot full of arrows. A posse was quickly summoned, and as they pursued the tracks they learned that just two and a half miles north, the Indians had taken a large herd of horses.

Joseph Henry Pollock (right) poses with his brother, Samuel.

With two natives as their guides (presumably Paiutes) they headed east and climbed nearly 2,000 feet to the top of what is now Kanarra Mountain, passing through Blue Valley. Near a head of a fork of the Virgin River, they spotted an Indian who quickly disappeared into the gulch. Then they found a horse belonging to one of the townspeople, unfortunately full of arrows. Just before they got to Black Rock, they found a horse mortally wounded. Further on they found six more dead horses. 

They came to a big mountain north of the lake where they made a grisly discovery. This horse was not dead, but was full of arrows and hamstrings cut out. There, darkness overtook them and they paused to build a fire and decide their next move. It was decided they would continue the chase until the thieves were caught. 

Pine-covered hills on the north side of Navajo Lake.

They walked along the high ridge on the north side of the lake (but at this time they didn't even know the lake existed) and then stepped off their horses to lead them down the steep embankment. As they approached the east side of the lake, one of their Indian guides could smell the smoke of a campfire. As they came up and over a small knoll, they could see the fire and horses tied up. 

They hoped to surround the camp, but unbeknownst to them, they were being followed by a dog, and with a barking alarm the Navajos fled into the darkness. Shooting ensued, but no one was killed. The horses were quickly gathered and the posse, needing a break, led them to a nearby meadow where they had a quick bite to eat. This was their first meal since they left Kanarra and it was now one o'clock in the morning. 

They decided to camp there, someone always standing guard throughout the night. When daylight came they learned they were next to a large lake. The picturesque setting must have surely surprised them. The two friendly Indians with them gathered up moccasins, blankets, bows and arrows that were left behind. The Navajos were never caught. 

Rough road to Navajo Lake, probably around 1930. (photo courtesy of Sherratt Library, Special Collections Department.)

From this expedition, the lake would later be known as Navajo Lake. But what was it called before 1869? To the white man it wasn't known. It was the Southern Paiutes who were familiar with this territory and knew this mountain up and down. What was their name for it? 

William Palmer, a local historian who was very close to the Paiute people, gave this insight: “The Indian name for the lake was beautiful and it had a poetic connotation. The old Indian trail ran along the top of the ridge north of the lake and overlooking the body of water. Being situated between two high ridges and protected thus from stiff winds, the surface of the lake is not much ruffled. From the trail above, the sky is clearly reflected in the water and the lake appears to be filled with clouds. The Indian name was “Pah-cun-ab” which means cloud lake, or a lake of clouds.” 

Another name the Paiutes gave was “Pa-voo-weap,” which was the name of the valley or basin which holds the lake. There is also a third name, “Pang-ap-its,” which translates to “water babies.” 

The phenomenon of water babies is interesting because I have seen it documented in two other areas of the country that are far from Navajo Lake. Sometimes there may be a small variations in appearance, but most of the descriptions are the same. 

Photo from Paiute Restoration and Gathering Powwow in Cedar City.

According to Palmer, he had first-hand accounts from older members of the tribe who had seen the creatures in Navajo Lake. The Paiutes said they were near half human, half bird and half animal. Their skin was dark, like that of an Indian's, and their hair black, with long tresses that hung over the shoulders. Dark brown hair also covered their bodies. Their feet were webbed and they could fly, swim, or walk on the water like a man. 

One distinguishing feature that made them uniquely eerie was their cry. When they hurt, they cried like a baby. No matter what the Indians did, they could not kill them. If hit with an arrow, the Pang-apits would flutter around and cry like a baby, then fly away. 

Palmer states: “In the moonlight these creatures could be seen in large numbers walking around over the lake splashing and whipping the water with their wings like they were having a real sporting time. About the time the Mormons came these strange creatures disappeared and have never been seen in the country since.” 

It would be easy to dismiss water babies as a myth if it weren't for the first-hand accounts and also due to stories from other locations. It is a very fascinating feature associated with the history of Navajo Lake. 

Today the lake is a favorite spot for anglers and boaters. Very few of them know the history of how it got its name, nor do they know the older Paiute name. When they camp on its banks at night, I'm sure they don't listen for the crying shriek of a water baby. ♠ 

 

Depiction of water baby, by Savanah Lacy.

 



Sources  

Palmer, W. R. (1951). Forgotten Chapters of History (Vol. I & II). Merill Library and Learning Resources Program. 

Webber, Megan. “It should have a Paiute name: Shivwits chime in on state bill proposing name changes of landmarks.” Cedar City News, 29 December 2020. https://www.cedarcityutah.com/news/archive/2020/12/29/mrw-it-should-have-a-paiute-name-shivwits-chime-in-on-state-bill-proposing-name-changes-of-landmarks-offensive-to-native-americans/#.Y_-x7h_MKUk.

Funeral at Carmel-by-the-Sea

We entered the Carmel Mission and were told that all of it was open to the public, except the chapel, which was closed for another forty-five minutes due to a funeral. That immediately piqued my curiosity and as I entered the little courtyard I gravitated toward the heavy wooden doors of the chapel. 

One door was propped open, but there was a sign indicating a private service: Do not enter. I stood back and observed from a distance. My view inside was obscured at best, but I could sense a full congregation and could see all the way to the front at the altarpiece. 

I wondered for whom this funeral might be. Was it a priest, or a worker at the mission? Could anybody choose to have their final services here, or did you have to have a connection? 

As I watched I could hear hymns being played on a pipe organ, accompanied by singing. There were several hymns in a row, all familiar, but only one I knew for sure, "Ave Maria."

Just outside the chapel stood three Marines in dress blues, patiently waiting for the service to end. I decided to take a leisurely stroll around to the north side of the chapel into the old cemetery. Here there were many graves from the late 1700's. As I passed the graves, many of them decorated with abalone shells, I could still hear the vibrant music of the organ. What a beautiful setting! 

For a short time I wandered to other places in the mission. This included the museum and a larger courtyard. Relics from the past were put on view for all to see. Set at a table were ceramic bowls and jars and two wooden chairs, displayed to give the appearance of a humble Spanish home over 200 years ago. 

In a gallery next to the chapel sat a travertine marble sarcophagus with a life-size bronze sculpture of the deceased Father Junípero Serra resting atop. Father Serra is clothed in the Franciscan habit, with crucifix, cord and rosary, as he would have been upon preparation for burial. His bare feet rest upon a grizzly bear cub. Father Juan Crespí stands at the head of Serra, bending forward in an attitude of veneration. Father Crespí died two years before Father Serra, so this represents him ready to meet his friend in the spirit world. The sculpture is a cenotaph, meaning that it is just a memorial, and that the body is buried elsewhere. 

Junípero Serra was born in Mallorca, Spain in 1713 and came to the New World as a Franciscan Priest. He established nine of the 21 missions in California, including the one at Carmel. He presided over the mission from 1770 until his death in 1784. He was buried beneath the floor of an old adobe chapel.

Then I returned to the courtyard. It was lovely there, with beds of flowers and cactus flanking the plaza. I knew the funeral was about to end because now the military men were getting into position. One stood near the doors of the chapel with a trumpet while the other two at a strategic point in the courtyard. They held a tightly-folded flag. 

One by one the family and friends of the deceased filtered out of the chapel and into the courtyard. All were dressed in Sunday best with suits and ties for the men and dresses for the ladies. 

When all were out, they created a quarter circle around the Marines. As Taps began to play, the two servicemen unfolded the flag until it stood as one sheet, taking in the rays of sun and held firmly by the white gloves of the men. 

They held it taut, horizontal to the sky, then with ceremonious attention, they tilted it to a forty-five degree angle so the tiny crowd could see. Then they returned it to horizontal and proceeded to fold it again. They folded it precisely and with duty, their white gloves tucking it in and making sure all was snug. 

One of them took the folded flag and walked it to the widow. He handed it to her and with the utmost respect gave a slow salute. All was silent in the courtyard. 

And with that the funeral was over. Family and friends walked over to hug the widow. The servicemen walked to the gate and left the courtyard. I watched in awe, taking in the beautiful ceremony. 

Within five minutes, much of the crowd had cleared and all was returning to normal at the mission. For the first time I entered the chapel. It was long and narrow with two rows of pews and one aisle that ran toward the altar. The altarpiece was elaborate, with several sculptures, including one of the crucified Christ at center. 

At the front of the chapel on the left side of the altar, etched into the floor, were the grave markers of three burials. The middle one read: “Fr. Junípero Serra, Apóstol de California, 1713- 1784.” 

The little adobe chapel where Father Serra was originally interred was torn down and in 1797 a bigger, more magnificent basilica was placed in its stead. His body remained beneath the floor of the sanctuary, precisely below where I now stood. I wondered how many funerals over the years had been held in this very hallowed spot. ♠

 

Curse of the Gypsy

(Photo by Jenelle Lacy)

By Margarete Eichler

(Note: The following story is taken from the autobiography of Margarete Eichler, translated into English from her native German tongue. She writes of her Mother-in-law, who was born on Christmas Day of 1864 in a small village in the Kingdom of Prussia. The story of her encounter with the Gypsy lady likely took place near this village, which is now located in northern Poland near the city of Gdansk.)
 

Now I want to write something about my husband's family. Ernst's mother, Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland, was married to Johann Dombrowski. They had nine children - three boys and six girls; three died in infancy. Ernst's father became very ill and was confined to his sick bed for a long time. Life was very hard for Ernst's mother. She had to care for her sick husband and her six children. She herself had a sick leg which never healed. Once I asked her how long she had had that sore on her leg and she told me the following story: 

She lived in the country with her parents and her sister. One day gypsies came through the village. They stayed several days and tried to make a living begging for food. Little Klara, her sister, and a few other girls played on the village road. Suddenly they saw this gypsy woman walking by, going from door to door, begging for food. Well, as children are, especially when they have a big mouth and don't like somebody, they yelled after the gypsy woman and called her bad names. Klara, being a good little girl, did not participate in this name calling. The angry gypsy chased the children down the road, she shook her fist at them and threatened them. The children became quite fearful and ran for their lives. 

Only Klara did not run. She reasoned she did not call any of those bad words, so she had no reason to run away. As the gypsy came closer, though, Klara became very frightened, too. The gypsy looked very scary, and Klara looked at her with big, frightened eyes; the gypsy looked to her like a scary witch. She grabbed Klara by the arm, shook her fiercefully, and spoke some awful things to her; she even put a curse on her. Then she let go of her and walked on. Klara was terrified. She ran as fast as she could, crying all the while, tripping and falling. She hurt her leg as she fell. 

The next day the leg was very red and painful. Her mother tried to treat the leg with ointments and compresses - it would not heal. The parents never took the child to the doctor. An open, festering wound developed which never healed; she had the wound until the day she died as an old woman. Her mother told her: "Yes, the gypsy put a spell on you. She cursed you and your leg will never heal."

 

Klara Mathilde Eleonore Kohland.