Ghosts of Silver City

Like father, like daughter. 

My second-youngest child spends a lot of her time as I do—on Google Maps. For the last couple years she's been eying a location 173 miles from our home. She couldn't tell what it was exactly, but a spattering of rectangular foundations and solitary walls suggested a place that now sat in ruins. “Dad,” she asked, “some day can we go to Silver City?” 

I knew exactly where it was and had wanted to go there myself. I wanted to go for the historical aspect. Silver City was part of the Tintic Mining District and a satellite town of Eureka. Like so many mining towns in Utah, it was given birth, but eventually passed away, giving up the ghost.

We found a couple of days when we both could get away, combining our trip with another appointment. That morning as we left my brother's house in Springville a fresh blanket of snow covered the ground and treetops. We drove west on Highway 6 and over the Tintic Mounains through the still-living town of Eureka. 

Ruins of the old Tintic Smelter in Silver City, Utah.

The rise of the Tintic Mining District began near the future site of Silver City. In 1869 a cowboy found a chunk of silver while herding cattle. This caused a frenzy of interest and subsequently other ores were found, giving rise to several mines in the area. 

Coincidentally, it was also around this same time when the mining towns of Park City and Alta began to spring up. The two mining areas would become competitors. 

In Silver City a small town began to blossom. Although hard to imagine now, it consisted of restaurants, hotels, saloons, a gambling hall, blacksmith shops, livery stables and two railroad depots.

Jenna and I continued past Eureka, driving four miles south to a graveled road that joined to the east. Snow still covered the hills, but now the sun crept high enough in the sky that the tops of trees began to lose their white coat. 

This smelter was built in 1908 by "Uncle" Jesse Knight.

Not too far off the road stood the remains of Silver City. The most prominent structure was the old Tintic Smelter built by Jesse Knight in 1908. Just a few years earlier he came in to give a boost to the fledgling town. He bought up several mines and then decided to build the smelter to offset the high cost of freighting. 

On July 24, 1908 the town celebrated “Smelter Day,” along with their usual Pioneer Day activities. Thousands of people showed up and celebrated by eating lots of free food, watching a baseball game and enjoying excursion rides on the train. 

As it turned out, the cost of freight dropped and the smelter could not compete with the Salt Lake smelters. Knight would eventually dismantle and move it to Murray where it operated for several years.

Jenna and I braved the cold and walked around the many ruins. In addition to the smelter there were several foundations from other buildings, but we had no idea what they were. All that remained now were crumbled cement walls and a splashing of colorful graffiti. 

Old Tintic Smelter.

After exploring around the ruins of the smelter we returned to our warm vehicle and drove up the road into Dragon Canyon where we found more ruined foundations. These buildings could have been anything from stores to housing. At its peak in 1908, Silver City boasted a population of 1,500 residents. 

On the north side of the road was a wide hole in the ground with concrete siding that appeared to be a holding tank at one time. On the far side against the hillside were piles of yellow tailings. Further up the road stood an old wooden shack. Beyond here it is private property, I believe owned by a modern mining company. 

Remains of what appear to be a holding tank.  Talings in the background.

Old wooden building up Dragon Canyon.

Who knew what else there was to explore. I was sure that we were just scratching the surface. We turned around and headed back toward the highway. There was one last place I wanted to visit. 

Roughly a mile south of the main ruins sits the Silver City Cemetery. To get there you can either stay on a dirt road or return to the highway and then turn off onto a shorter dirt road. We chose the latter, but still almost got bogged down in a quagmire of mud. By now the snow was melting fast. 

The cemetery is about what you'd expect from a ghost town. A chain-link fence surrounds it, but there is no landscaping and certainly no grass. Some of the individual graves have small fences while a more expansive fence surrounds some of the family plots. I could tell that the cemetery had been maintained from time to time. 

Silver City Cemetery.

According to my research there are roughly 68 graves in the cemetery, most of them with headstones. Death dates range from 1881 to 1937, with a few outliers of modern-day burials. 

There is very little information on several of the burials. Henry J. Smith, for example, died in 1890 at the age of fifteen. There are no other Smith's in the cemetery and I cannot find any record of family. His headstone is broken in half, the top part now leaning against the bottom half. I wonder if there's any distant family member that knows he is buried here?

Headstone for Henry J. Smith. Detail of handclasp and veil suggest he was of the Mormon faith.

I saw many headstones for the Haws family. Most of them died in infancy⸺ six to be exact. All of them were children of Annie and George Haws. The 1900 census shows the family living in Silver City and George working in a quartz mine. By 1910 they were living in the nearby town of Mammoth and George Jr. had now joined his father working in gold and silver mines. A daughter, Luella, worked as an assistant cook at a boarding house. 

In addition to losing nine of their fifteen children during infancy, Annie and George were well acquainted with other tragedy. Their son, Gilbert, had his foot amputated after having it badly injured in a mining accident. Then in 1918 he died from influenza pneumonia. Another son, Leon, was killed that same year in France while deployed to fight in World War I. 

Infant son of George and Annie Haws.

Another person who caught my attention was Marion Elliot Tinder. He died at age 41 and left behind a wife and three kids. It appears his entire life was spent in small mining towns in Utah. He was born in Ophir, thirty miles to the north, a town named after the biblical Ophir where King Soloman brought gold back to Israel. But what really captivated me was the picture I found of him. He looks smooth-faced in the picture and very innocent, especially for someone growing up in a mining town. I thought it sad he died so young. 

Grave of Marion Elliot Tinder.

Marion Elliot Tinder.

On the west side of the cemetery there is a family plot surrounded by a picket fence with peeling white paint. This belongs to the Poynter family and as I researched who they were it became apparent that they revolved around the matriarch of the family, Alice Caunt Poynter. 

Alice was born in England, but immigrated to Utah when her parents joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. While still a teenager Alice chose to marry a “Gentile,” a name given to those outside the church. What makes this Gentile fascinating to me is that he was a member of Johnston's Army, the group that marched to Salt Lake to squash the “Mormon Rebellion.” Alice and Charles Green had two daughters, Elizabeth Ann and Sarah Jane. While the girls were still young, Charles deserted them, leaving Alice a single mother. 

Alice Caunt Poynter.

Shortly after that Alice married William Baxter. Records show that they operated a boarding house in Eureka. They had a son together, but unfortunately this marriage didn't last either. William was shot in a card game in a mining town northeast of Eureka. The man who shot him was charged for murder and killed by firing squad at the Provo jail. It was the first execution in Utah County. 

At last Alice would find a loving and lasting spouse when she married Charles Poynter, a fellow Brit who was trying to make ends meet in a mining town. There are no records of them living in Silver City, but rather in the “foothills of Eureka.” Together they had a daughter, Myrtle. 

Charles Poynter (driver) in the Eureka Hills.

Charles was a good provider for the family and owned a butcher shop. They belonged to the Episcopalian Church in Eureka. 

Alice worked hard to make a comfortable home. She would sing as she performed her household duties. Alice was an excellent cook and skilled seamstress. Myrtle remembers that she made her dresses by hand.

One of the stories told of Charles Poynter took place in the Gibbln's Saloon in Eureka. As the story goes, Josiah Williams walked in with his boy and ordered a whiskey. Subsequently his boy also ordered a whiskey, but the bartender refused it because . . . well, he was just a boy. Poynter, who was also sitting at the bar, made a remark that the bartender made the right decision. 

Williams didn't like that. He shot back that his boy had “just as much right as any son of a bitch in the saloon” if he paid for it. Then the boy joined in and called Poynter a “gray-haired son of a bitch.” At this, Poynter slapped the father in the face, and the father and son left the saloon. 

Sometime later, when Poynter left the saloon, Williams came toward him and gave him a blow to the left side. At first he thought it was just a fist, but then felt a trickle of blood and learned that Josiah Williams had stabbed him with a knife. Poynter survived the ordeal and the incident went to trial, and I'm sure that Williams went to jail. 

Communal plot of the Poynter family.

Funeral of Charles Poynter in 1909.

Alice Poynter died in 1893 at the young age of 52. Charles lived another sixteen years, but spent the last nine as an invalid. Although they lived in Eureka, they are buried in Silver City. Along with other family members they are buried in a family plot surrounded by a picket fence with white peeling paint. 

Next to the Poynter plot is a smaller plot with a chain-link fence. It belongs to Alice's daughter, Elizabeth, from her first marriage. Elizabeth's headstone was broken in half, but someone had carefully fastened it back into place. The inscription tells a brief, but sad story: 

In Memory of
Elizabeth A.,
wife of Wm W.
Mathews.
Born April 10, 1864.
Died July 10, 1889.

Aged 25 yrs 3 mo. 

Also

her infant daughter 

Died July 20, 1889. 

Aged 18 days. 

Headstone of Elizabeth Green Matthews.

It was time for Jenna and I to head out. Silver City was now more than just a pattern of rectangles and lines on Google Maps. It was a place that had come to life with real people who had real stories. 

As we returned to the highway I noted that we didn't pass too many vehicles. This corner of the state didn't get a lot of visitors. This pleased me. As we passed a field with irrigation sprinklers we spotted a coyote plodding through the snow, and then above him a hawk whizzed past. ♠ 

 

Coyote in a field just south of Silver City.

 

Sandy Peak (#9)

Sandy Peak looms in the distance.

They say that third time's a charm. 

I've already tried climbing this peak twice. The first time was by myself and I made the decision that it was taking too long and I turned around due to time. The second time was with my son. We actually thought we made it to the top, but when we got there we realized that the true peak was on the next knoll over. Once again, due to time, we turned around empty-handed. 

Now several years have passed and I am at it again. Earlier this year I made a goal to climb 35 peaks in 5 years. It has been a good goal for me. I am finding that I am becoming much more proactive in accomplishing my hiking goals than I would be otherwise. 

Although most people in Southwest Utah would not be able to name Sandy Peak, most of them have seen it rising in the distance. On the way to Bryce Canyon on the north side of Panguitch, Sandy Peak and Little Creek Peak are the two prominent knobs that are noticeable on the mountain. Sandy Peak rises above Bear Valley, which was a part of the Old Spanish Trail. 

I hiked this peak in mid-November and probably waited too long in the day before I started. I wasn't even sure if I was going to do it because the night before we were to get a storm with valley rain and mountain snow. It was just a matter of how much the mountains would get. I decided to make it a go. 

Sandy Peak as seen from the starting point in Bear Valley.

From my home I made the one-hour drive to Bear Valley where I was pretty much alone except for a few passing hunters. I hoped to take a side-road that would bring me closer to the peak, but part of that road was washed out, adding another mile onto my hike. The road was dry, but the peak was covered in snow. I parked my truck at 7,463 feet. 

There is no trail to the top. Most of the route is steep and covered with trees and brush. No matter how you slice it, the hike to Sandy Peak is a monster. 

I began on a ridge that appeared less covered in vegetation. As I worked my way up, the grade remained steep with minimal bushwhacking. Here I was among pine trees and scrub oak. 

Getting closer.

As always when I hike alone, my mind considered the worst-case scenario. What would I do if I got attacked by a mountain lion? Would I fight back or play dead? I had a monopod with which I could swing back. I once asked this question to a friend who was an avid hunter. His response: “It doesn't matter what you would do. That cat would sneak up behind you and with one swipe of his paw across the the back of your neck, you'd be done with!” That terrible thought has stayed with me for many years. 

I finally made it to the top of the ridge, but then was met on the other side by a deep canyon with steep slopes and pine trees on both sides. I knew it wouldn't be a straight-shot. I hoped to spot some deer or elk, but to no avail. 

Working my way up a ravine.

I slid down one side, then side-stepped up the other. I spooked some pine hens and they took flight, one by one. I didn't dare go up too high in elevation because I was sure I'd have to drop down again. 

I stayed at the bottom in a ravine. It was covered in a thin layer of snow, but luckily not much in the way of foliage. I followed the ravine until it wasn't a ravine anymore, and into a grove of aspen trees with tall mountain slopes on both sides. 

Finally out of the trees and nearing the summit.

By now I was getting near my goal. I paused to gulp down water and eat a package of Reese's Pieces. Little did I know it would be the last thing I ate on the hike. 

I should note that it was cold. Highs would be 40°F, tops. I dressed in layers, and at this point was able to go without a coat, but still wore gloves and a beanie. The mountain blocked the wind and my upward exertion kept me warm. 

From this point my goal was in sight and I could see the white-capped summit of Sandy Peak. There were trees near the top with snow still plastered on branches and leaves. It was obvious that the peak hadn't been above freezing since the storm last night. 

Final pitch to the frigid summit.

The final pitch became steeper and slightly slicker due to the snow, but at last I made it. 

The summit of Sandy Peak is 9,544 feet. From there you can see Bear Valley, the Duttons, Little Creek Peak and much more. It was a beautiful sight. 

Although there was one issue that preoccupied my mind as I stood and reveled at the scenery on the summit. It had taken me just over three hours to make the ascent. I could tell from the positioning of the sun and the time on my watch that I only had forty-five minutes until the sun went down. With the switch from Day Light Savings Time I didn't think through the calculations very clearly. I knew that tonight temperatures would plunge into the teens. Suddenly there was an urgency to get off the mountain. 

From the summit of Sandy Peak, looking east toward the Dutton's.

Looking north across Bear Valley and toward the Tushar Mountains.

From the summit looking southwest toward Little Creek Peak.

I will try not to drag the reader through my ordeal, but instead will summarize. Although suffering from fatigue, I hustled the best I could across and down the steep slopes so as to descend as much as I could before all light left. I took a slightly different route which I hoped would be quicker. By the time I exhausted all daylight and had to turn on my flashlight I was down inside a gully which I assumed would eventually wind its way back toward my truck. Temperatures were frigid and I followed this gully for what seemed to be way too long. There was no cell reception here and I began to doubt that I was headed in the right direction. (What if the gully I had dropped into happened to be on the other side of the divide and in reality I was getting further and further from my vehicle with every step? And then what if my flashlight suddenly burned out? Would I have the fortitude to spend the night out in the cold dark, lost?) I passed a flock of wild turkeys that made noises I had never heard in the dark. I didn't see them and at first I thought it was a pack of coyotes that were circling for the kill. I quickened my pace. From time to time I turned off my flashlight, let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and studied the stars in the sky, finding the north star. The Milky Way burst like a band across the heavens. After an hour and a half of wandering in the dark in and out of the gully and alongside a small stream, I finally emerged into the valley. To my left I could see the reflection of a barbed-wire fence. When I turned off the light I could see the silhouette of a familiar knoll to the north. Now I knew where I was at. 

Once at the truck I gave a sigh of relief, then turned on the ignition to start warming the air. Then I gave a short, but sincere prayer, thanking God that I made it back safely. ♠ 

Little Creek Peak at sunset (with still a long ways to go!).

Sandy Peak
 

Miles from car (one way): 4.5
 

Elevation gain: 2,081 feet
 

Final elevation: 9,544 feet

First Solo Deer

I put a primer on the nipple of the breech plug, strapped on my camouflaged backpack and shouldered my muzzleloader. About five minutes into the trees I remembered I had forgotten a headlamp. I hesitated and almost turned back toward the truck, but thought, “Naa, I doubt I'll need it.” And with that, I continued into the forest. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Aspen leaves blazed in hues of orange, red and yellow, some of them breaking from the tree and wistfully dropping to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze to be felt. I had traveled here several miles on a bumpy dirt road and hadn't seen another soul. I felt as if I had the whole valley to myself. 

I parked off the road beneath a canopy of trees. Then I walked due east toward a gently rising hill. The terrain was a mixture of aspen and pine, with a sprinkling of small meadows and fallen trees. I walked slowly, every step with intent and always scanning for deer or elk. I only had a license to hunt the former, but I never complain to see the latter. 

To my disappointment I spotted a loose band of cattle feeding in one of the meadows. They saw me right away and immediately began to stampede to the north side. “Wonderful,” I thought sarcastically, “that's all I need are a bunch of cows to scare all the deer.” Here in the West, stray livestock is always an issue and it is possible to find sheep or cows grazing on public land. 

On a whim I changed my trajectory to the northeast. The cattle froze and went the other way. Soon I found myself again away from the livestock and in my own solitude. 

I came to the edge of rocky hill, at the bottom of which was a wallow. I sat down, slipped a camouflaged mask over my head, propped my gun on a shooting stick and waited. I will admit that this was more likely to be a place for elk than deer, but I didn't mind that. I also had a camera and would love to watch close-up a giant bull elk rolling around in the wallow. 

As I waited I noticed carvings on the aspen, one from 1930 and the other 1918. The names associated with those dates had now deteriorated with time and appeared illegible, their once fine cursive now a swollen black mark against the white trunk of the aspen. Apparently this little spring had been visited by humans for over a century, and most likely longer. 

After twenty or so minutes I became inpatient and decided to move on. After all, I was hunting deer, not elk. I found a nice game trail and followed it into a grove of aspen. I couldn't believe the beauty of the season. All around me the trees glittered in fall colors. The sun neared the horizon causing occasional rays of sunlight to pierce the forest floor. I stopped to take a few pictures. This is an issue that often makes me a poor hunter. I tend to look for landscape rather than game, searching for deer in the most picturesque place rather than where they might practically live. 

I walked through another grove of aspen and in the distance I could see the open space of a meadow. There I saw a half dozen of the black cows I had seen earlier. My first instinct was to once again switch course, but then a white object caught my attention. 

It was difficult to discern the object at first sight because between me and the meadow stood and long stand of tree trunks. I observed from a distance through the slits of open space. I pulled out my binoculars and honed in on two white objects. As I anticipated, they were the snow-white rumps of two deer, both of them at first glance appearing to be does. They fed on the grass in the meadow along with the cattle.

Although I was not in the market to shoot a mother doe, I decided it best to stealthily move forward to gain a closer vantage. Still some distance away, I softly stepped toward the animals, always moving when their heads were down and concealing my movements as best I could behind the cover of trees. I would then find a larger aspen, stop my motion and peer from behind the trunk through my binoculars to assess the situation. Then I would repeat the process. 

At last I came to a location I deemed good enough for the time being. I knelt down behind a tree and glassed toward the meadow. Although I was still about 175 yards away, I could observe the situation much better. I now saw three deer, one of them a spike and another a small two-point. 

In my mind I debated whether I wanted to shoot. The hunt was still early, but I had a lot of things going on and it would be nice to get the hunt out of the way. It would also be nice to get “something” since the last few years I got nothing. But on the other hand, I had a few days off work and if I were seeing bucks now, the odds were I would see more as time went on. 

As I debated in my mind I had my gun propped up on the shooting stick and also leaned against the aspen. I followed the deer in my scope, keeping a close eye on the two-point. There was a stand of trees between me and the meadow, which often blocked my view of the grazing deer. I was also keenly aware of the half-dozen cattle mingling among them. I did not want to shoot someones cow. 

The two-point stood in the cross-hairs with ample time to take a shot. I decided I was going to do it. With my thumb I cocked the hammer and waited for the right moment. I exhaled, then squeezed the trigger.⸺Then a whimpering pop. 

What the heck!!!???

Only the primer had fired. The startled deer heard the tiny blast and scattered to the edge of the meadow. “Well, that's that,” I thought as I figured all the animals would now scatter. But to my surprise, after looking my way, they all resumed their evening meal. 

At first I was baffled as to why only the cap had went off. But then it dawned on me⸺I had forgot to load my gun! I felt so silly, but at least no one else was here in the forest to witness my folly. 

I pulled a speed reloader from my possible bag and emptied two 50-grain pellets of black powder into the barrel of my inline muzzleloader. Then I flipped the reloader over and nuzzled a .50 caliber bullet inside the barrel. With the ramrod I pushed it down until it was snug with the pellets. Then I replaced the cap. 

Now I resumed my watch of the meadow. The three deer resumed eating as if I wasn't there. But from the edge of the clearing I noticed new movement. Two new deer arrived on the scene. And they were bucks! The first was a taller two-point and the second a three-point, with a possible small fourth branch. 

I was determined I would shoot one of the two, I just had to decide which one. Neither was a trophy, but they were big enough for me. The two-point appeared as if he were a bit taller and thicker than the other, but the other wasn't too shabby himself and had a third point. After brief contemplation, I chose the three-point. 

I followed him in my scope as he too grazed on the grass. My biggest obstacle was the black cow that stood directly behind him. By now the sun had set and we were entering the hour of twilight. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. 

When I felt the cow was removed at a safe distance, I put the cross-hairs right on the deer's vitals. This would be roughly a 175-yard shot. Once again I cocked the hammer and when the moment was right, I pulled the trigger. 

Boooom!!! 

There was no doubt this time that the gun fired correctly. From the plume of smoke I saw what may have been the three-point take off to the right while the others scattered to the left. The cows backed off also. I assessed the situation, not sure whether I had hit him or not, then reloaded my gun.
 

I stood up and slowly walked toward the scene. The closer I got the deer took off, but the cows stayed to watch. I scanned the ground for any downed animal, but saw none. Then as I approached closer, I peered to my right and saw the three-point floundering beneath the trees. He was hit hard, but appeared unable to move anything besides his head. I waited five minutes, not wanting to spook him enough to get up and run. When it appeared that he was losing the fight, I approached him closer and put a final shot through the back of his head. He was dead. 

I have shot many deer in my life, but they have always been with family or another person. I am now fifty-years old and this would be the first deer I shot and took care of completely on my own. I was all by myself. The time was now 7:30 and I knew the sun had set ten minutes ago. I knew I had a long night ahead. 

I cut the jugular and kneeled at the foot of the deer to begin the process of gutting him out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I should have brought the headlamp. Darkness was now setting in and I attempted to set my flashlight down in a way that it would cast light onto my area of work. 

The knife slit into the deer's underbelly and I was careful to stay away from the gut sack. My left fingers stayed beneath the skin and held the innards down as my right hand sliced the skin upwards. At this moment I really wished I had another person to hold the legs open to ease the work. Instead, I had to use my left knee to spread his legs, and even that kept slipping. The flashlight kept falling out of place also, which was very frustrating. And I never could place it in such a manner that it illuminated my work in an appropriate manner. 

In the end, I had performed one of the worst gutting jobs of my life. Blood ran up to my elbows and all over my pants. I'm sure there was an organ or two that remained inside the cavity. And as for the bladder and intestines, I'm pretty sure I somehow nicked them and there's no doubt that some fecal matter ended up on the meat. But the job was done and now it was time to move to the next step. 

Using a water bottle from my pack I washed the majority of the blood from my hands and arms. Now I had to drag the deer back to the dirt road. As I figured, I was about 1,300 feet away as the crow flies. The problem was that in that distance I would have to walk through a myriad of trees and fallen logs, all in the dark while carrying a flashlight and gun. 

I devised a plan that I would set my gun and flashlight down the way about fifty yards. Then I would go back, find the deer and drag him to the light. Then I would repeat the process. This worked well the first several times and I became overly confident of my dragging-in-the-dark skills. 

On the next one, not only did I grab the deer by the antlers and drag him to the flashlight and gun, but I dragged him past that point by a couple dozen yards. 

But the problem began when I decided to carry the flashlight in my hand as I dragged the deer. This worked once, but the second time I did it, when I returned to get my gun, I couldn't find it! I searched all over the place, shining the beam into the wooded landscape, but finding nothing. So I decided to return to the deer to reorient myself. To my complete consternation, I couldn't find that either! What a mess. I couldn't find my gun or the deer and I was probably walking around in circles, getting further away from where I should have been. 

The truth is, I didn't know where I was. At this point, everything looked the same. Some patches had aspen, others had pine, and some had more fallen logs than usual. I searched the ground for any footprints or drops of blood, but could detect nothing. I did this for twenty minutes to no avail. At one time I knelt and gave an earnest prayer. The woods were a spooky place at night and the beam from the flashlight cast all sort of shadows. I also worried about mountain lions. I had never seen one, but knew they came out at night. No doubt they would be looking for an easy meal. 

Then I spotted the gun. Hallelujah! From there I reoriented myself and within a few minutes I found the deer. I gave an audible thanks to God and continued my chore of dragging the deer. 

I have to inject that this was no easy task. The body of the deer was of no small size. Happily for me the course was slightly downhill. The longer I dragged, the more the muscles in my arms, hands and back began to ache. I often had to stop, just to give them a breather. But adrenaline was a mighty factor and little did I ponder on the stressful state of my muscles. 

As I pulled the animal over logs and around bushes and trees, I knew that I was getting near my destination. I came to a point where I could make out a faint alley-way through the trees, and in my humble judgment, I sensed that the road sat at the end of the corridor. 

Anxious to rid myself of the gun, I dropped the deer and walked to the end of this corridor, feeling that the deer would be simple enough to find when I returned. To my pleasure, after a hundred or more yards of walking, I arrived at the dirt road where I sat the muzzleloader down against a log. Then I returned for the deer. 

I thought I returned exactly as I came, but when I arrived there was no deer in sight. Here we go again, I thought. Again I walked all around, shining the beam on every tree and bush. Twice I even returned to the gun and retraced my steps. Still nothing. I arrived at a point where I was confident it had to be. There I set up two logs against a tree so I couldn't lose the spot. Then I went out searching. 

I found a splotch of blood and attempted to gauge how close I was to the two logs leaned against the trees. Of course, I couldn't find them either. I couldn't believe how disoriented everything came after dark. The deer had to be somewhere close to here, but where?

After another fifteen minutes of maddening search, I spotted the dead animal next to some bushes. And to make matters more bizarre, it was only ten yards away from where I had leaned the two logs against the tree! How did I miss that??!! 

At last I finally arrived at the road with the deer. The truck was close by and I drove it to the deer, shining the headlights onto the bedraggled three-point. With all the remaining energy I had, I hefted the weighty animal into the bed of the truck and there I cut out the tag from my license and tied it to the antlers. 

It was now ten o'clock. I had expended two and a half hours since I had shot the deer. I now had a drive home and more work to do after that. The family would be sleeping and I didn't want to wake them. I arrived home, hung it in my garage and proceeded to skin the hide. 

By the time I showered and wound down, ready to crawl into bed, it was three in the morning. You would think I would be sleepy and I definitely was. But sleep didn't come quickly. As I lied in bed, my mind kept returning to the blackened forest, either dragging or searching for that damned elusive deer! ♠ 

 

The ubiquitous Paul Hunter aspen.

Boat Ride on the Mekong

We arrived at the office for the boat, a dusty backroom of a restaurant on the quay. A man who only spoke broken English with a Khmer accent sat behind a desk and took our names. We set our luggage against the wall and waited on a chair while other passengers filed in. 

A lady with a straw hat, stringed tank top and light flowing long skirt came into the room. She traveled alone and spoke in an Australian accent. One family came from India, another from Hong Kong. Several carried red German passports. Today there would be a medley of passengers. 

At last the boat came and we carried our luggage out to the loading dock and stepped onto the vessel, handing our bags to a crewman to stow beneath the boat. We sat next to the window, behind the Germans, overlooking the river. 

At the loading dock in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

It was monsoon season in Southeast Asia and I watched dark clouds billow in the sky. The river was brown, nothing clean about it. Occasional trash floated on the surface along with green stalks and leaves of water hyacinth. 

I watched as we departed the port. Familiar sites of the Royal Palace and Wat Ounalom passed by as we moved down-river and within fifteen minutes the skyscrapers of Phnom Penh faded behind us. 

Goodbye to Phnom Penh.

The Mekong River is the twelfth longest in the world, wending nearly 2,500 miles from the Tibetan Plateau to the South China Sea. Once it enters Vietnam it begins meandering and spreading out, creating the Mekong Delta. This area is critical to the livelihood and food security for millions of people. It is known as the breadbasket of Vietnam. Much of the area is covered by rice patties that are irrigated by delta water and fertilized by delta silt. 

I sat gazing at the distant shore while the wake of the boat spewed water up and across the window. I spotted a Buddhist temple nestled behind the trees and a larger than life reclining Buddha. 

We passed beneath the Tsubasa Bridge, a mammoth structure that spans the entire length of the river. This bridge carries traffic between Ho Chi Minh City and Phnom Penh, eliminating the need for a ferry when it was built in 2015. We were not to pass another bridge the entire trip. This was remote country. Access wasn't easy. 

Splashing water on the Mekong River.

A glimpse of village life.

Tsubasa Bridge.

A ferry carries locals across the river.

Passengers enjoy the breeze.

Further down the river we passed more Buddhist temples, small fishing villages, barges on the river, water buffalo, and men working in the fields. But everything was at a distance due to the wide span of the river. Swollen as it was, it had to be over a mile wide in many places. 

After three hours we finally came to the immigration office at Kaorm Samnor on the Cambodian side of the border. We docked the boat and walked to a small building where we handed our passports and visas to a man behind a window. Fingers were scanned and pictures taken. And just in case we needed it, a Buddhist shrine sat on the grounds. 

We returned to the boat, only to get out a few minutes later on the Vietnamese side of the frontier. We waited in another room for over an hour. This time we waited in a room with tables and chairs. Outside was a wooden patio overlooking the river. By now the sun was setting, casting a glow on those dark monsoonal clouds. They finally returned our passports and we filed back onto the boat. 

Reclining Buddha on the shore.

Buddhist temple with small reclining Buddha (still in Cambodia).

Dark monsoonal clouds.

On the grounds of the immigration office in Kaorm Samnor, Cambodia.

Again we sped across the darkening murky waters and I wondered what we would do if the boat were to capsize. Could we swim ashore, or would we be swept down-river? It would be a terrifying ordeal for sure. 

We came to a point where we left the Mekong River and cut through a canal to the Hau River. The canal was long and our passage lasted half an hour. We passed trees whose bases were covered in water. We passed floating houses that sat at the water's edge. What would it be like to live here? The place had the feel of the bayou. These people lived at the water's edge with no other nighttime noise except the occasional speedboat, lapping of water and croaking frogs. 

Finally in Vietnam, enjoying the sunset.

At last we arrived at the Hau River, a distributary of the Mekong. This general area was the beginning of the Mekong Delta.  Instead of tributary rivers that fed into the Mekong, there were now waterways such as the Hau (Bassac River in Cambodia) that flowed out. 

Once on the Hau River, it wasn't too much longer until we arrived at the dock in Chau Doc. I was excited to spend three nights here as it was a location not yet on the radar of most tourists in Vietnam. We unloaded our luggage, and as warned from the literature, cyclo drivers were outside waiting for us. ♠

 

Final destination, Chau Doc, Vietnam.

On a cyclo, headed to our hotel.

First Hours in Ho Chi Minh

We stepped outside our hotel and into the humidity and chaos of Ho Chi Minh City. Horns and mopeds blared all around. The amount of two-wheeled conveyances boggled the mind. Everyone, it seemed, was on a motorbike: ladies in dresses, fathers holding toddlers, buddies, singles⸺most wearing masks and helmets. The chaos on the roads spread like an ant colony, especially at intersections where no obvious rules could be observed. Ants just weaved in and out as they pleased. 

Vietnamese women sat along dilapidated sidewalks and set up shop for the day. Dogs sat with them, some wearing leashes and some roaming freely. 

We found a man selling Banh Mi from his cart. With excitement he came and translated the options for us. “This one is fish,” he said in a strange accent. He gave us a strip of fried fish from his cooler where he kept it warm. We wanted two of them. 

He took a baguette and sliced it in half lengthwise. He piled on greens and cucumbers, along with fried strips of fish, more toppings and two types of sauce. When I bit in I could taste the sweetness of the sauce alongside the burning of raw pepper. I began to sweat.⸺ I gave him 200,000 dong and he gave me change. It only came out to 30,000 dong and I think he short-changed me, but I didn't catch it until later.

Our morning stroll took us past a Chinese temple, with images and burning sticks of incense along the sidewalk. Around the corner was another house of worship, this one appearing Christian due to figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Built next to it was a tall pagoda, crowned with a cross. 

River near our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City.

Our journey took us on a bridge that crossed a river. From here there were many good views of Ho Chi Minh, including the pagoda of the church. The trees along the bank reflected in the water. On the far side of the bridge we crossed over a street that ran parallel to the river. We peered down over the railing and watched the mopeds buzz underneath, their four-cylinder engines revving in unison. We watched the fruit shops down below setting up for the day. Ladies in cone-shaped rice hats pushed out plastic tables and cut herbs to sell with swimming broth of pho.

The smell of asphalt and exhaust filled the air, along with an occasional whiff of anise and herbs. Everything was dingy, from sidewalks to stacked buildings that served as homes. Some of the flats that faced the noisy street had clothes hanging out to dry on the balcony. 

Morning in Saigon.

Clothes hanging out  to dry.

Setting up shop on the streets of Ho Chi Minh.

Every intersection was a new adventure. Wait, wait, wait, read . . . after that car⸺hold on, not yet. Now! We walked slow and methodically across every busy intersection, with cars and mopeds passing in front and behind, usually honking. They didn't stop or slow down. They just swerved around. 

In a park we were approached by Mr. Tung. He wore green pants and a shirt that resembled military attire. When he learned we were Americans he became very friendly. I could barely understand him because of his thick accent, but from what I gathered he admired Americans because they helped his cause. After the North Vietnamese won the war, his family fled to the Philippines. I finally learned he was offering tours. He was very nice, but I could hardly understand a word he spoke, so I decided to pass it up. 

In that same park we passed a group of ladies doing slow aerobics (maybe Tai Chi?) to music. They pointed their arms in the air and slowly spun to music like synchronized swimmers. 

One of many crazy intersections in Saigon.

On the sidewalk we passed a man carrying a long stick over his shoulder, a wooden tray of coconuts on one end and a box of tools on the other. He was very convivial and let Jordan carry the weighted stick on his shoulder. We didn't think anything of it.  Then he stopped, pulled out a butcher knife from the wooden box, and whacked off the top of a coconut and handed one to each of us with a straw.

Of course he is expecting money, I thought. I pulled out my wallet, expecting to pay perhaps 10,000 dong each. When I asked him how much, he replied with 150,000 dong! There was no way two coconuts were worth 150K in Vietnamese dong. Reluctantly I gave it to him, but was determined not to be hustled again. 

Jordan carrying a load for the "coconut man."

Around the block we came to the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica of Saigon. I highly anticipated this visit. I had seen many cathedrals in Europe, as well as South America. This would be my first in Asia. This architectural marvel dated back to the French colonial period. 

To our disappointment the building and grounds were covered in scaffolding and fencing. It was closed to the public. Even the two iconic bell towers were obscured. We watched from across the street as workers labored on the roof. 

Workers on the roof of Notre-Dame Basilica Cathedral of Saigon.

Not far away we came to an interesting sign on a lamppost. Depicted on the sign were four people, including a construction worker and college graduate. In the background on one side was a farm, and on the other, skyscrapers. But what caught my attention the most was the banner in the center. It looked like an old Soviet-style red flag with a hammer and sickle in the corner. I found this curious because I knew this wasn't the flag of Vietnam (a red flag with golden star), but I also knew that Vietnam was one of five communist countries in the world (the others being China, Cuba, Laos and North Korea). 

The hammer and sickle has become a standard symbol around the world for communism as a whole. The hammer represents the workers and the sickle the peasants, and put together they are unified. Jordan translated the words of the sign on his phone: “Vietnam journals: unity, creativity, building the country for a more sustained development.” I don't know if you would consider this “communist propaganda,” but that's certainly what came to mind. 

Just a few more blocks and we arrived at our destination. Several tanks, a Chinook helicopter, and a Huey sat in front. We paid 40,000 dong and entered the War Remnants Museum. ♠

 

A propaganda sign on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City?