Tuk-tuk

After leaving our hotel only ten minutes ago, we are once again lost. It is hot, sticky, and our feet are heavy and sore. Night has fallen and a whirl of cars purr around us. Bangkok's web of streets has baffled us again. I'm sure I could find a streetlamp, pull out a map, and retrace our steps, but we are just too exhausted.

We flag down a tuk-tuk and he careens to the side of the road with a large giddy smile on his face. “Hello, my friend! Where are you going?”

Like fools we climb into the small taxi, relieved to be off our feet, and fail to negotiate a price before taking off. “Chinatown,” I command.

I know we're close, and an honest tuk-tuk driver should only charge 50 Baht, but I'm sure this one will charge at least a hundred. “How much do you want to pay me?” he asks.

“What ever you'd like,” I respond, surprised at myself for talking more foolishness.

“200 Baht,” he quickly replies. That's crazy you blood-sucking scam artist!

“But, I have a proposal,” he rattles off in broken English. “I have a friend who owns a clothing store. I take you to his store and you go in and pretend like you're interested. You don't have to buy anything. After five or ten minutes you leave. He gives me free fuel. Then I take you to Chinatown for only 100 Baht. You help me and I help you.”

Oh, boy. What have we gotten ourselves into? Jenelle and I agree to the shady proposition, and in an instant the driver makes a right-hand turn and we are racing through unknown streets and might as well be traveling to Timbuktu.

Tuk-tuk in Ayutthaya

Five minutes later, we pull up to a tailor shop. Bangkok is famous for its cheap tailored suits. Although the idea has crossed my mind, a brand new suit just isn't in the budget for this trip.

We walk inside and are immediately ushered into a back room by a swarthy-skinned young man wearing a Rolex watch, à la mode gray slacks, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and glasses that make him look like Elvis.

He begins to pull out fabric and we play along and I choose a light black color that I think would look well on me. We lie to him and say we are from Canada. I try on a couple of suit jackets and he determines that the second one looks perfect on me. I look at myself in the mirror and admit that a new suit would be nice, but right now we are just trying to figure out how to get out.

“How much,” I ask, genuinely curious, but still playing along. He punches some numbers onto a calculator and hands it to me to examine: 11,000 Baht. Quickly, I divide it by thirty-three, then erase it so he won't catch that I am converting to U.S. Dollars.

“Not bad,” I say. “Are you guys open tomorrow?”

“Yes, but fifty percent off is only tonight.”

Jenelle quickly chimes in: “That looks really tempting, but we would have to go back to the hotel where his brother is. His brother is in charge of the expense account. We don't have any money right now.”

He gives an incredulous look and says, “But fifty percent off is only tonight.”

Soon, we are able to weasel our way out of the tailor shop, and to our delight, the tuk-tuk driver is there waiting for us. Once again, we whiz off into the night, going who-knows-where.

Have you ever played pin the tail on the donkey, where they blind-fold you and spin you round and round and round? That's how it feels as we ride in the back of this tuk-tuk, hot and humid air blowing on our face, trusting a stranger who could drop us off anywhere in Bangkok.

After some high-speed traveling, our driver makes a turn, and suddenly there is a cluster of neon signs in Chinese script and packs of street stalls all along the sidewalks. I know where we are. We are on Yaowarat Road.

Yaowarat Road

The tuk-tuk is the official tourist taxi of Bangkok, Thailand. They are everywhere. They line the streets vying for business, and any time a tourist walks by you can hear a chorus of: “Tuk-tuk? Tuk-tuk?”

A different "model" of tuk-tuk in Southern Thailand.

This three-wheeled motorized contraption is the Thai version of the rickshaw. The name is onomatopoeic, imitating the sound that an engine makes. They may be used for any purpose, but in Bangkok they are largely used as a taxi. 

There are a few things that the visitor should know about the tuk-tuks and their drivers. First of all, they are all businessmen and are ultimately looking after their own pocket book. It is wise to negotiate a price before you commit to ride. If they know you are going to a large tourist destination like the Grand Palace or a Muy Thai fight, they will likely charge you much more. Also, if you are American, they will automatically believe you have deep pockets. Beware!

Around some of the famous attractions such as Wat Pho and the Grand Palace, they will hang out and tell tourists that the place is closed for the day. They do this in hope to lure you into a ride to somewhere else.

In spite of the warnings, taking a tuk-tuk ride is a must while you are in Bangkok. They are convenient and still relatively cheap. And best of all, it is just like a ride at Disneyland! An open-aired spin through the city with someone who barely speaks English to an unsure destination, is truly an adventure that no one should miss.

A villager uses a tuk-tuk on the southern island of Ko Klang.

The tuk-tuk experience varies in other areas of the country. In Southern Thailand, we learned that they had a different “model” that was a motorcycle with a cart attached to the side. Although we saw it used to transport people from time to time, it was certainly not a major form of taxi. The people primarily used it to carry goods and to give friends a ride. Sometimes they would use it as a vending cart and either sell food as they drove, or would park it at a market and set up shop.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to ride a tuk-tuk? Below is a video that I put together combining two trips—one from Wat Saket to the Grand Palace, and then a second on to Chinatown (not the same trip described above).

If you pay attention, there are many points of interest that you will see while cruising through Bangkok. Look for Wat Rajnadda, a pink taxi, Democracy Square, a picture of the king, other tuk-tuks, Grand Palace, road construction, 7-eleven, Kentucky Fried Chicken, tourist with a cowboy hat, Chinese lanterns . . . 

Enjoy! ♠

Thai Food for the Tourist: From Bananas to Bugs

Typical meal in Thailand: We are walking near Pratunam Market in thick and balmy air. A small stand at the side of the street is selling fish and rice soup for 40 baht, so we point to the sign, hold up a finger, and articulate the word “one” in easy-to-understand English. They nod in comprehension and whisk us back inside the small, dark room behind their stoves and bowls and fresh ingredients that are set up along the street. Jenelle doesn't want hot soup in the middle of the day, so I am the only one eating.

We sit down on stools, next to a table. At the edge of the table, next to the wall is a selection of condiments, consisting of nam phrik pla (Thai peppers and fish sauce), roasted dried peppers, palm sugar, and another sauce I don't recognize. There is also a holder full of chopsticks.

A nice elderly woman brings me a bowl of steaming soup. It looks similar to congee, only not so thick. Among the chucks of fish are vegetable greens that look like scallions and cilantro. I use my spoon to scoop a bite of rice and broth. A thin layer of perspiration grows on my forehead.

Before my second mouthful, I decide to do as the locals, and sprinkle dry peppers into the soup. As I take another bite, the spicy flavor has now melded and my mouth is burning and sweat is drizzling down my face.

A blast of heat blows in from off the street. I use my spoon to drink some broth, hoping to cool my mouth from the pepper, but the broth is boiling hot and does nothing to stop the sweat.

After a third bite my nose begins to run and I reach for a napkin to blow it clean. But in Thailand the napkins are like a thin sheets of toilet paper, and one sheet doesn't do much for my runny nose. I grab another sheet and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Then I man down another bite of soup.

This rendition of a typical Thai meal doesn't sound as romantic as what you might read in a tourist brochure. But when you combine the heat, spice, and piping hot food, then this is a scenario you're likely to encounter. (My wife avoided much of this by skipping the peppers and hot soups.)

Aside from an occasional non-romantic lunch, the food in Thailand is wonderful! Walking the streets in Bangkok, or almost any other city, is like perusing an endless buffet of novel foods. 

I have selected a few dishes and snacks that we ate while on our trip. I know the name of some, but not all. Eating in Thailand is often a crap shoot: sometimes you are pleasantly surprised, and other times you are wondering what you just ate. But this is the part of the joy of world travel.   

Fried Basil and Pork (Pad Krapow Moo Saap).  This is a simple dish that tastes exquisite. The key ingredient is holy basil, which is difficult to find in the states. Often, it is topped with an egg.

Thai Style Fried Noodles (Pad Thai).  On our way back to the hotel, I ordered this dish from a lady in a small shop working by herself.  In the meager, ground-level room was one plastic table with two chairs.  We watched her pull the fresh ingredients from a miniature refrigerator and then cut them on a wooden board, first the tofu, and then the green onions.  

She fried the tofu with a scoop of seasonings, and then added an egg to the wok. Then she fried the noodles with a handful of bean sprouts, added some red sauce from the fridge, and eventually returned the egg mixture back to the wok.

I ate it sitting at the plastic table. Several flies swarmed the hot room. It appeared to me that she lived behind the storefront where she cooked. The dish cost 40 baht. 

Fried Rice (Khao Pad). We didn't eat fried rice as often as I thought we would, largely due to the fact that there were so many other foods to sample.  The fried rice pictured here is served in a fancy shape, with a circular egg on top.  Cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, and lettuce accompany the dish.

Fish.  Okay, so I don't know what kind of fish this is, but I ate the whole thing except bones, head, and tail. Especially in the south, we saw a lot of fresh fish for sale at the markets. You pick it out and they grill it right in front of you. This one is at a floating market near Bangkok.

Grilled Banana.  Although we found this in Chinatown, you can come across it anywhere in Bangkok. This simple snack is grilled right in the peel and is soft enough to use a spoon.

Tamarind.  When you crack open the woody outside shell, you find a jelly-like delight in the middle. Tamarind is found in many Thai dishes such as massaman curry, but it can also be enjoyed on its own as a snack. Just buy a small bag, crack the shell like a peanut and slide off the tangy fruit with your teeth.

Beef Noodle Soup (Kuay Teaw Nua).  If I were a starving traveler in Thailand, I would make beef noodle soup my staple. It is cheap, plentiful, and nutritious. Akin to Vietnamese Pho, this soup contains tender chunks of meat, leafy greens, and a flavorful broth. Spice it up with roasted chili flakes and you'll have a savory meal. Total cost usually around 40 baht ($1.15).

Purple Rice in Banana Leaf.  We found this item at a night market in Krabi Town, but didn't know what it was until we unwrapped it. The purple rice inside was steamy, kind of creamy, and slightly sweet. We still don't know the true name. Just a typical experience when strolling the streets in Thailand.

Ice Cream on a bun (Itim Khanom Pang).  This cold dessert is a wonderful snack in the sweltering heat of Thailand. It is literally translated “ice cream bread” and is served in a bun that resembles a hot dog bun. First, a layer of sticky rice is placed on the bread, then scoops of coconut ice cream. It is drizzled with chocolate, or sweet and condensed milk, and topped with peanuts. The bun soaks up the ice cream as it melts away.

It is interesting that a friend of mine, whose mother is from southeast Asia and now lives in the States, used to eat this snack all the time. Until she got older and learned better, she thought that ice cream was always served on a bun!

Coconut water.  Coconut water is the “juice” inside of young green coconuts. I honestly don't know how they supply enough coconuts for the demand, because it takes one coconut for each serving of water. A common way to serve the beverage is to have the vendor use a butcher knife and cut open the shell right in front of you, then serve it with a straw. Another common way to drink it is from a bag. A straw is inserted and the top tied off so nothing leaks out. Either way, it is a refreshing treat.

Green Kit Kats.  I'm pretty sure these were green tea flavor. We had to buy them just because they were green.

Breakfast.  I don't know exactly what the common Thai person eats for breakfast. But on the streets and in the hotels they tend to sell a small selection of morning food including fried eggs, toast, and pancakes with chocolate syrup. One of my favorites is a bowl with sliced mangoes on the bottom, topped with plain yogurt and a muesli oatmeal blend. When I saw a local come to the same place to eat, he ordered fried pork and holy basil with rice.

Fish Ball Soup.  I ate this dish late at night in Chinatown. The ingredients seemed very simple: fish broth, two kinds of fish balls, a small amount of noodles, and some greens.

Bugs.  I couldn't leave Thailand without trying the bugs, right?!  With a previous experience many years ago of consuming edible insects, I didn't think this would be a problem. The texture might be a little different, and they might leave a slightly different taste in the mouth. They would probably taste like potato chips, or anything fried.

It was Saturday evening and Chatuchak Market was my battleground (after dark is when the bug-selling carts come out). The cart came with seven varieties of insects. I hoped to sample only two or three, but to my dismay they were sold by the tiny bag—full of only one kind of bug.

So I spent 20 baht on the first bag, and 40 baht on the second. The first bug to be popped into my mouth appeared like a fried inch-worm. As I began to chew, it was the texture that didn't agree with me. It felt as if all one hundred of the little critter's legs were wedging between my teeth. Although crispy, it didn't taste at all like a french fry or potato chip.

Enough of that kind of bug. I went for bug number two, hoping it would be better. This one was shorter, but a bit fatter. It was in the shape of a tiny cocoon. My teeth sank into the creature and instantly I could feel the barky, larva-like texture on my tongue. I couldn't see it of course, but it felt like brown smashed guts . . . and it was inside my mouth!

I quickly spewed the whole thing out and swished my mouth with bottled water. I also decided there is nothing glorious about eating bugs while in Thailand. Needing to expunge the taste from my mouth, I bought an orange juice from the nearest vendor.

Dragon Fruit.  With a name like “dragon fruit” and a vibrantly red exterior, we had to give this edible a try. Having come from a non-tropical land, I had never eaten a pitaya fruit, as it is formally called. The inside texture and taste resemble that of a kiwifruit, especially because of its tiny black seeds. The dragon fruit is a bit more mild.

Vietnamese Fish Pho.  Since Thailand is a neighbor to Vietnam, I had to try the Pho. Although I've never had “fish” pho before, it didn't seem too different than what you might find at a Vietnamese restaurant in the United States. But what I found curious were the condiments. Usually, Pho is served with hoison and siracha sauce. Siracha even originates in Thailand. Neither of these were found at our table. Instead, a small tray with roasted pepper flakes, palm sugar, fish sauce, and nam phrik pla, all the typical Thai condiments.

Green Curry (Gaeng Kiaw Wan) and Spicy Green Papaya Salad (Som Tum). This was our last meal in Bangkok, and I will admit that it was more for the view than the food. Along with a plate of rice and a can of Schweppes, we sat on the rooftop restaurant of our hotel and watched the sunset over the Chao Phraya River. A slight breeze blew as the lights of the city slowly came on. We relished every bite of our meal, knowing it was our last night in Thailand. ♠

My Visit to Zion NP (and why it's relevant to Bears Ears)

I will admit that we got a late start, but since it is the middle of the week, I didn't think parking would be an issue. We are now entering Springdale, the border-town to Zion National Park, and signs are warning that parking within the park is full!

Our only option is to park alongside the road in Springdale and take a complimentary shuttle into the park. We find a place to leave our car and pull all our packs and water bottles and other gear out of the vehicle, then walk up the sidewalk to the shuttle stop.

Our wait isn't too long, and within five minutes we are stepping onto a long white bus with other tourists like ourselves. They carry all their gear also, and some speak a foreign language. Many wear t-shirts that announce to everyone the places they've been like Jackson Hole, Yellowstone, Mount Vernon and Las Vegas.

Our ride to the park entrance is short, passing the lodges, diners, galleries and coffee shops. We get off the shuttle, walk to a little booth to pay our entrance fee, and then walk a short distance to wait in another line to catch another shuttle.

Now I am blown away! This line is long and doesn't appear to be moving. A park ranger walks past and advises us that the wait will only be 45 minutes!

To enter Zion National Park during summer, one must ride a shuttle.

Beginning in 1997, Zion National Park went to a shuttle system to handle the mass amount of tourists visiting the park. The shuttle runs during the summer and is the only way for the common visitor to enter the main canyon of the park (unless they would rather walk or ride a bike).

No one else in line seems to be as agitated as I am. For the tourists coming from Germany or France, what is another 45 minute delay? It is probably par for the course where they come from.

Finally—after waiting one hour—we step onto another shuttle, this one with a second coach pulled behind. It feels like we are cattle inside a stock car being hauled to the slaughter house.

Our driver is a local man, probably in his sixties. I can tell by his accent.

The shuttle wends through the canyon, halting at other stops to pick up passengers. The situation quickly becomes standing-room-only, each person grasping to their gear while clenching the railing. 

Forty minutes later we arrive at our destination and step off the shuttle. A large crowd disembarks with us. Today I am hiking the Zion Narrows with my two daughters, Kaitlyn and Jenna. Although I knew it would be crowded, there are some things in life that need to be experienced.

Large crowds enjoy The Narrows at Zion National Park.

The Zion Narrows are world-famous. To hike the entire length, a permit is required and only about 50 of them are issued every day. But to hike the lower three miles of the canyon, anyone can do that. That is what we are choosing to do today.

After a mile-long paved trail, the path disappears and gives way to the Virgin River. For the next three miles we hike in the river most of the time, always up to our knees, and sometimes up to our waists in water. I hand my walking sticks over to my daughters and enjoy watching them maneuver through the gentle rapids.

This hike is shared by literally hundreds of other hikers. There is never a time while in the main canyon that I am not in view of at least a dozen other travelers. Just as I am doing, the Asians, the Europeans, the Americans, all have their phones out taking selfies of themselves “hiking the narrows.”

Despite the crowds, it is a pleasant hike—a nice respite from the sweltering July heat. The constant cool water on my legs and the towering sheer cliffs create an enjoyable atmosphere.

A group of kids jump from a rock into a dormant pool in the bend of the river. Others stop to watch them. Jenna and Kaitlyn take a few minutes to swim in the deep water.

We stop and take a five minute break to eat trail mix and drink from our water bottles. I can't help but to ask myself a few questions about the masses: Where are they all going to flee if there is a flash flood? What about the bits of trash that is bound to be left or forgotten along the way? And most important, where are all these people going to be using the bathroom? They can't all be holding it! (I think the obvious answer is that they are peeing it in the river.)

The canyon eventually narrows up and the sandstone walls are so close together that they create a sort of eerie gloom. A funnel of wind cuts through the canyon as the temperature seems to drop a few degrees. We take a detour into Orderville Canyon. Although the crowds have lessened in this side canyon, we are still not alone.

On the canyon wall, about the level of my eyes, I notice graffiti etched into the rock. It is recent, having a date of 2016.

Graffiti in Orderville Canyon. 

During this entire trip to Zion National Park, I can't help but to constantly think of the Bears Ears in my beloved San Juan County, Utah. The area around the Bears Ears is very isolated and largely undiscovered. There are no crowds, no paved trails, no shuttle buses, no entrance fees. But if President Obama decides to use his executive power to create the “Bears Ears National Monument” later this year, all that could change.

I will admit that a comparison between Zion and the Bears Ears is a little harsh, as there are many differences between the two. Although I do not rule out the possibility that some day down the road there will be little difference from the Zion of today and the Bears Ears of tomorrow. It is a slippery slope.

One thing that will be certain is that the Bears Ears will receive far more visitors than it does now. This will happen from the monument designation alone. I remember when Bill Clinton designated the Grand Staircase Escalante as a National Monument in 1996 (this is a much fairer comparison with the Bears Ears). All of a sudden, people came from all over the country to see this “new” place. They reacted as if it never existed before. Magazines highlighted many of the hiking trails in the area and many of them are now world-famous. In 2014, the monument received an estimated 878,000 visitors.¹

Now I ask the question: Is this how we preserve the land? I promise you that if it were never made a National Monument, beautiful places like Coyote Gulch, Calf Creek Falls, Grosvenor Arch, and the Toadstools would be in a much more pristine state than they are now—because few people would ever go there!

Where does it end? Last year, Zion Nation Park received 3.6 million visitors. In the month of July alone (the month that I went), there were 599,961 visitors. Yet the tourism bureaus throughout the state and nation continue to vie for more tourists. The state of Utah spent 12 million dollars during the last three years to promote the state's “Mighty Five” National Parks to people both nationally and internationally.² I understand that it is a boon to the local economy and state coffers, but where do we draw the line? When St. George is as big as Las Vegas? Will we sell our birth-right for a mess of pottage?

The trail to Delicate Arch in Arches National Park.

Blanding and Monticello (the two towns closest to the proposed monument), do not want to become another Moab. Moab, which has boomed due to the tourism industry and its proximity to Arches National Park, is no longer the small town it once was. It is over-run by tourists, souvenir shops, and restaurants. I don't care to stop in Moab. There is nothing authentic about it. The demographics have completely changed from what it used to be. It has been hijacked by out-of-state environmentalists who are more in-line with San Francisco than old-time local residents.

Another scenario is that the tourists will come, but business will not. I recently met an old-time rancher from Boulder, Utah (a border-town to the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument). You could tell he was the real thing from his button-up long-sleeved shirt and leathery face.

Without knowing his opinion on the subject, I asked him how the monument affected the community near Boulder. Instantly, his demeanor changed and a bitterness swept his face.

“It devastated the whole place,” he said. He went on to tell that he used to be a cattleman over in that area. He explained that there used to be fifteen of them, but now there are only three. “They didn't necessarily reduce the number of permits,” he went on to say, “but they put in so much red tape and regulations that you couldn't afford to stay in business.” Someone else bought him out.

“But they promised us that the jobs lost would be made up from tourism. That was a bunch of bull!” Now he became very sore. “Those hikers and mountain bikers come in and they don't spend anything. They might go in the store and buy a loaf of bread, or some hot water for their tea. Then they end up breaking the bathrooms because they try showering in the sink!”

The old man now lives in Cedar City, 150 miles from his hometown of Boulder.

[I fully understood what the man was saying when I recently went hiking in that same area (we camped out one night and therefore did not spend money on a hotel). On our way home we made only one stop and that was at a gas station in Escalante. We put only enough gas in the tank to make it to a cheaper town. I also spent 50¢ on a Pepsi, and we got a couple cups of free ice. We then went outside and made sandwiches from food we brought from home and ate on the tailgate.]

Delicate Arch has become iconic throughout the world.

With the proposed Bears Ears National Monument, much of the management lies with a coalition of Native American tribes, most of whom have no representation in the local area. I can't help but to notice the management of some of their own parks and wonder if the same thing will happen with ours.

Both Canyon de Chelly and Navajo National Monument lie within the Navajo Nation. Access to both is very limited. There are a few short trails that lead to view points of some of the key sites. In order to explore deeper into either canyon it is necessary to hire a Navajo Guide and pay for a half or full-day tour.

Havasupai Falls in the Grand Canyon is much more accommodating, but even they have allowed their plot of paradise to be over-run by hikers. The campsite eight miles down the canyon is the closest thing I've ever seen to Woodstock.  For almost a mile between Havasupai and Mooney Falls there are tents and hammocks and backpacks and laundry lines scattered throughout. 

Beautiful turquoise water runs between campsites at Havasupai Falls. (Russ Eyre photo)

The Hualapai have built a skywalk over their section of the Grand Canyon. To stroll over this glass walkway that juts over the rim, one must pay $76 for a Legacy Gold Package.  This deal also includes entrance into tribal lands, a meal, and free photos with Hualapai members. 

Monument Valley, world-famous from the days of John Wayne, is a circus of tourists. People come from all around the globe to witness the monolithic spires and wavy sand dunes. It costs $20 per vehicle (up to four people) to enter the park. At a view-point that overlooks the Navajo Mittens, one will find a visitor's center and restaurant. Try taking an unauthorized side-road and you will be immediately stopped. Monument Valley certainly is not preserved in it's former pristine state.  

A convoy of vehicles at Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park.

I don't intend to be derogatory toward the native cultures. I am very fascinated by them and am proud to be a neighbor to the Navajo. But what could their management mean to a Bears Ears National Monument? Will jeep tours into Arch Canyon be offered only by Navajo guides? Will access to the thousands of Anasazi ruins in the area be shut off, with a fine to anyone who violates this edict? Will a skywalk be built over the sheer walls of Mule Canyon? Will the Navajo and Ute have unlimited ability to hunt all the lands within the monument? Will the natives be allowed unlimited access to gather their herbs while the Anglo is forbidden to cut down a Christmas tree? Will there be booths along Highway 95 that sell turquoise necklaces and Navajo tacos?  The truth is, there is a lot about this monument we don' t know.

I mention all of this because the way to preserve something is NOT to designate it as a monument and put it on a map for all to see. We, the locals, want to preserve this land in a pristine state also. We don't want development on it (which is impossible since it is already all publicly owned). We aren't worried about any strip mines ravaging the landscape. That won't happen!  As far as other possible mining, let it be regulated in a responsible way that will insure the integrity of the land while also providing jobs.

A group of Japanese tourists visit with an American from Wyoming at the Grand Canyon.

Now it is three weeks later, and my family is making the loop over Elk Ridge via the Causeway, Round Mountain, Duck Lake, through the Bears Ears, and out on Highway 95. (If you're a local, you know exactly where I'm talking about. And for you non-local anglers, don't get too excited about Duck Lake. It's usually dry.)

Our entire drive is within the proposed National Monument boundaries. We take a detour and drive past the Glade Pit and toward Mormon Pasture where I tell my kids stories about their ancestors and some of the crazy things that happened here over the years.

At an unmarked place we pull the vehicle over and walk to a view point. Our feet crunch over pine cones and I can smell the pungent fragrance of ponderosa pine trees. We find a fallen log and sit down to eat a few sandwiches for lunch.

We drive for ninety miles before finally leaving the proposed boundary near the old Hite Marina. I have counted all the cars that we have seen, and there were only eight. I also counted all the oil rigs and uranium mines along the way, and there were none. I didn't see any off-road tracks made by four wheelers. Also, the looters must not be out today.

I am in full agreement that the Bears Ears area should be preserved for generations to come. The best way to do this is just to leave it alone. ♠

Notes

1. Bureau of Land Management. Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Manager's Annual Report. FY 2014, p. 9.

2. David Demille, “Zion, Bryce Canyon Mark Record Visitation,” The Spectrum & Daily News, August 25, 2016, 1.

Outlaws, Greeks and Bartenders in a Utah Cemetery

The Price City Cemetery is perhaps the most ethnically diverse burial ground in Utah. Along with early Mormon settlers are immigrants from Greece, Italy, Japan, Austria, and many other places. Sprinkle in some cowboys and a Masonic section, and you have a ripe combination for a fascinating graveyard.

The first settler, Caleb Rhoades, came to Price in 1877, where he built himself a cabin. He later brought his family and soon others followed, many from Utah County.

The railroad would be completed just a few years later, drastically changing the character of the town. Coal mines opened up and thousands of immigrants poured into the valley. Most of the new citizens were non-Mormon, making Price a unique town in Utah, one that is still noted today in its demographic and political makeup.

A walk through the cemetery clearly displays this cultural peculiarity. Large sections of headstones display writing in Greek, Japanese, or Italian. Many grave markers make use of the cross or the Virgin Mary (both which are not used in typical Mormon symbolism). Also, especially in the Greek section, there are several mausoleums, even one containing four different people. This is also a feature not common in Utah.

A quick perusal of the cemetery database shows men and women born in places from all around the world: Yugoslavia, Spain, Austria, New Zealand, Denmark, Scotland. Within the United States I found people from Oklahoma, Arkansas, South Dakota, Alabama, Oklahoma, Massachusetts, and probably about every state in the Union. Occasionally I found Nauvoo, Illinois, or Winter Quarters, Nebraska, which is a tale-tale sign of a Mormon pioneer. All of these people brought their religion and customs, creating quite the ingredient list for a hodge-podge soup.

Perhaps the most notorious person buried in the Price Cemetery is outlaw, Matt Warner, best know for his alliance with Butch Cassidy. Born in 1864 in Ephraim, Utah as Willard Erastus Christiansen, he was raised in a typical Mormon family. While living on a farm they ran cattle and had a neighboring existence with the Indians.

At age thirteen, while living further north in Levan, Willard got into a fight with the town bully over a girl. After beating the daylights out of the boy and thinking he was dead, Willard saddled up in the middle of the night, said goodbye to his parents, and fled in the veil of darkness through canyons, over a cattle trail, across the Indian inhabited Strawberry Valley, and into Wyoming.

Young Willard Christiansen then took on many aliases, one of them being Matt Warner. He began a career in cattle rustling, bank robbing, and train heisting, and eventually met up with the likes of Butch Cassidy, Elza Lay, and Tom McCarty.

Matt Warner first met Butch Cassidy (then known as Roy Parker) at a saloon in Telluride, Colorado. Of Butch he said: “. . . I noticed a neat-dressed cowboy hanging around the bar like he wanted to talk to me. I liked his looks and sidled over to him, and we began to buy drinks for each other.”

Matt had brought to town a race horse that he hoped to race against the fastest horse in Telluride. When Roy Parker told him he would lose, Matt bristled up and said, “The hell you say. How much you got to bet on that?” Roy didn't have much, but would bet everything he had.

When race day came and the victor proclaimed, Roy Parker handed over his chaps, gun, spurs, and saddle to Matt Warner.

The two men partnered up and went to horse races all over southwestern Colorado, winning lots of money, and spending nearly everything they won. Eventually, they couldn't get their horse paired up for another race, leaving them in need of cash. That's when they conjured up the idea of a little bank robbery in Telluride.

Seven years later in 1896, a gunfight left two men dead and Matt Warner in prison. After serving a four year sentence, Matt decided to turn his life around and begin a new life within the law. He moved to Carbon County where he lived a respectable life and was eventually voted in as Justice of the Peace. 

Matt Warner died in 1938 and was buried in Price.  His headstone is modest and says nothing of his notorious life as an outlaw.  Instead, their is a simple drawing of a horse, an animal that Matt loved his whole life.

The Castle Gate Mine disaster was one of the most tragic events in all of Utah. On March 8, 1924, three separate explosions burst through the quiet morning air, coming from mine no. 2. The blast was so big that it ripped the steel entrance door of the mine off its hinges and hurled it across the canyon and into the mountain side.

A total of 172 men died that day, including one rescuer.

Fifty of the miners were Greek and because there was not enough room in the (Greek Orthodox) Assumption Church, funeral services were held in a public hall. The Salt Lake Tribune reported on March 13, 1924: “The caskets were laid side by side across the center of the floor, and were completely covered with floral offerings evidencing the deep sympathy felt for the bereaved.”

The church bought burial plots for the deceased miners, but the responsibility of grave markers was put on the families, and not all could afford them. Twenty-nine of the miners never received a headstone.

In 2005—eighty-one years after the disaster—a memorial was finally erected for the fallen miners. Money was raised after a conscientious citizen, Andrew Hillas, discovered the social injustice and decided to take matters into his own hands. The memorial is located in the Greek section of the cemetery.

For me, the Price Cemetery is a special place because I have many family members buried there, including two sets of great grandparents. They, like many of the citizens of Carbon County, came from other parts of the country. Hailing from Kansas, Earl and Garnette Lacy spent a few years in Palisade, Colorado before moving to Wellington (just six miles south of Price) where Earl worked in the Columbia Coal Mine.

Earl was a former professional wrestler in the Mid-west, making the circuit at carnivals and once wrestling for the light heavyweight championship of the world. He had slickly combed blonde hair, and the physique of a body builder. Although very kind and lovable, he rightfully had the reputation of a tough man.

Garnette was the solid partner in the relationship. She was smart and knew how to manage money. Patience and hard work made her a good mother to their four children.

The family lived on a farm for a while, then moved into town in 1949 where they ran a tavern. The bar had tables and a dance floor. In a back room, their son, Claude, would deal poker at an oak table that they had cut in half. They also had a punch board where people could pay to push out a piece of paper from the back of the board and possibly win a prize. All the gambling was in the back room.

As could be expected at a place with lots of drinking, there were plenty of fights at Lacy's Tavern. My favorite story is one that shows the “charitable” side of my great grandpa Earl.

Orval Rich frequented the bar, never drinking a lot, but tending to nurse a drink for a long time. He liked to play the punch board and visit with people. Orval had no legs, having lost them both in a mining accident. One day, a large, husky man came into the bar on the fight and started harassing Orval. Earl was tending bar and told him to leave him alone. Then, the rabble-rousing man pushed Orval off the stool.

Earl was out from behind the bar like a bullet! Within seconds, a no-holds barred fist fight was in full swing.

Earl's young daughter, Alice, watched the fight in horror, knowing that her dad was in his fifties, and that this man was much younger and much bigger than her father. She ran to their adjacent apartment where she found her mother mending a pair of pants.

“Mom,” she yelled in a panic, “Dad's in a fight with a great big guy!”

Garnette seemed unconcerned and continued her task. “Your father can take care of himself.”

“He's going to get killed, Mom!”

“Your father can take care of himself.”

When Alice returned to the bar, she found her brothers, Claude and Earl Jr., watching the fight with arms folded. I think all these people knew a little more about Earl Lacy than did young Alice.

Earl was having to swing upward because the guy was so much taller than him. Somehow they tripped, and the guy ended up in Earl's lap, where Earl continued to pummel him. Claude and Earl Jr. eventually pulled Earl off because they were worried that their dad would really hurt the guy. When they did, the man who chose to pick on Orval Rich couldn't see out of his right eye.

When they pulled him off, he kept saying, “I need to talk to that guy (referring to Earl).”

Claude told him, “You don't want to talk to him. He's the wrong guy for you to talk to.”

The Lacy's had other ventures in the area, including a sawmill that they owned near Schofield. Earl was also the town Marshall in Hiawatha, and then in Wellington.

Hard times eventually drove them from Carbon County, first to Wendover, Nevada, and then to Dugway Proving Grounds, a military facility, where Garnette had found a small job. Earl was at the age when he could soon start drawing social security. After getting all the paper work squared away, he was excited about getting his first check.

After supper one evening, Earl said he was feeling bloated and was going on a walk. He never returned. Garnette went out to look for him, and after getting help from the landlord, they found Earl in the camp trailer, fallen back from the edge of the bed, dead of a heart attack.

His first social security check came within a week. They had to send it back.

Earl's body was returned to Carbon County, to the place they called their home. He was buried in the Price City Cemetery, where he would be joined nineteen years later by his beautiful wife. ♠

A private mausoleum in the Price City Cemetery.

A headstone in the Masonic Section.

The use of crosses and other Catholic symbolism is less common in Utah. 

Headstone with Greek letters.

Sources

Barker, Alice Lacy. Interview by John Lacy, March 30, 2009.

Gorrell, Mike. "Greek miners get their due 81 years after their deaths." The Salt Lake Tribune 6 March 2005.

Warner, Matt, updated by Joyce Warner, and Steve Lacy. Last of the Bandit Riders...Revisited. Salt Lake City, Utah: Big Moon Traders, 2000.