The Bears Ears—Land Sacred to Me, Too

[The following was originally published on August 29, 2016, just as the debate over the proposed Bears Ears National Monument was heating up.  Since that time President Obama has declared it a National Monument and then President Trump reduced it.  This issue continues to make headlines.  I feel that my words remain relevant.]

My last request before leaving the country was to take the long drive over the Bears Ears. I was nineteen and just a couple weeks away from serving a two-year mission in Spain. Suddenly, those things that were most sentimental bubbled to the top of my priority list.

We camped out on Baullies, a long mesa between Fish and Mule Canyons. A wispy red fire became swallowed by the dark night as we told stories around the campfire.

The next morning we piled into my dad's red '72 Ford Ranger and made the long climb on a sinuous dirt road to the crest of the hill toward Bears Ears. The road drives between the two ears and it is there that it enters a world of ponderosa pine trees, high mountain meadows, and vistas that can stretch for a hundred miles.

We stopped and climbed to the top of the east ear, an elevation of almost 9,000 feet. It was something I had always wanted to do.

Continuing our excursion, we drove northward past Kigalia where we saw a herd of twelve elk, all cows and calves.

We crossed a stretch of road called “The Notch,” given such a name because it is precariously balanced between two huge canyons, creating a cleft on the landscape.

It was there that we felt the first clap of thunder, and the rain began to pelt down. I became white-knuckled as the the route became slick along the edge of this dangerously deep canyon. The intense downpour turned the road into a muddy mess and caused me to fear for my life. After sliding all over the road, we decided to stop and say a prayer.

At age nineteen, I had never had a prayer answered so quickly. Instantly, the downpour reduced to a trickle, and then it stopped completely.

With the help of strategically placed thoughts into my mind, I was able to navigate the still-slippery road until it became manageable. Twenty miles later we once again arrived on paved highway. Within seconds, the rain started back up, and in that instant, I knew that God was watching over us and that He had halted the rain.

An abundant variety of wildlife, including deer, elk, bear, and big-horned sheep, live within the proposed monument.

Fast-forward twenty-four years and the same land that we drove over is now being proposed as the new "Bears Ears National Monument." In fact, the proposed monument encompasses much more than the Bears Ears. It would extend from the San Juan River in the south, to Shafer Basin in the north, and east to west from Monticello to Glen Canyon. In short, it would be 1.9 million acres, making it the largest National Monument in the United States.

And it could happen with the stroke of a pen.

It is anticipated that President Obama will use his executive power to create the monument before his final term ends in December—even though local citizens are vastly opposed.

I am in favor of preserving the Bears Ears area in its current pristine state, but am opposed to a monument. I believe that the designation alone will bring more tourists and do more damage to sacred archaeological sites than anything else. Just as has happened with the Grand Staircase National Monument in 1996, it will put Bears Ears on the map for tourists from all over the world who otherwise wouldn't know the place even existed.

Anasazi ruins such as this one are numerous in San Juan County.  A new National Monument would increase

visitation to seldom seen ruins, and may accelerate their destruction.

The proposed designation would be managed by a coalition of Federal agencies, along with the Navajo, Hopi, Uintah and Ouray Ute, Ute Mountain Ute, and Zuni tribes. Of the five tribes, only two (Navajo and Ute) have representation in San Juan County. The local chapter of Navajo Nation, the Aneth Chapter, is opposed to the monument, although their opinion is trumped by the Navajo Nation leadership in Window Rock, Arizona, 165 miles away.

Most of the people in favor of the monument, I would dare say, have scarcely stepped foot on it. They are unfamiliar with locally known place names such as Sweet Alice, Davis Pocket, The Causeway, Chippean, Deer Flat, Mossback Butte, Zeke's Hole, Woodenshoe, and many others.

The reason environmental groups have latched to the native tribes has been to persuade the public that this land is sacred to them.

There is no doubt that the Anasazi built their homes along cliffs and canyons in almost every nook in the county. The Navajo used this place as a refuge and hideout during the “fearing time” when the U.S. Military used Ute raiders to round them up for Fort Sumner. The Utes lived in many areas around the Bears Ears, including Allen Canyon. Some of their people are buried in a cemetery there.

But in this whole equation, it is the Anglo that has been left out. Even though the Anglo has probably played a larger role in the proposed designated area than anyone else during the past 100 years, he is shut out and asked to take a back seat to any discussion of land management.

Although article after article speaks of the sacredness of this land to the Navajo or Ute, they rarely—if ever—mention the sacredness to the Anglo.

What is it that makes a place sacred? Do you have to worship there? Is it a place where you, or your ancestors have lived, hunted, gathered herbs, or wood? Does it have to be included in ancient legends or stories? What if your ancestors died there? What if they toiled and sweat out a living to feed their families by using the land? Where do you draw the line?

Chippean Rocks provide a beautiful landmark, and are nostalgic to me for camping nearby with my father when I was young. 

During the winter of 1879-80, a group of 230 hardy Mormon pioneers crossed the Colorado River and into what are now the boundaries of the proposed Bears Ears National Monument. They had already blasted a crevice from solid sandstone to take their wagons down a precarious “road” into the Colorado River Gorge. As difficult as this was, the roughest part of the route still lied ahead.

Elizabeth Decker from the expedition observed: “It's the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it's nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills and hollows. The mountains are just one solid rock as smooth as an apple.”

The group was part of the “San Juan Mission,” with the objective to “cultivate better relationships with the Indians and lay the foundations for future permanent Mormon settlements.”

During the next four months the party suffered cold, fatigue, and hunger. They blazed a trail that had never seen a wagon, and had scarcely been explored by the white man.

As they climbed the rocks and canyons, twenty-three year old Olivia Larson carried her two young children in her arms as she walked much of the way. She was nearly nine months pregnant. It was so cold that the children's feet were frostbitten and had turned purple.

At the top of Grey Mesa in a howling blizzard, Olivia gave birth to a baby boy. The mother delivered while sitting on the spring seat of a wagon while her husband, Mons, was out in the storm trying to pitch a tent so she could be more comfortable. Baby John Rio Larson was one of three babies born on the trek.

As the pioneers came down Clay Hills Pass, they encountered another raging blizzard. This one buried camps, ripped open wagon covers, and blew over tents. Platte D. Lyman wrote in his journal: “Last night was the coldest night I ever experienced. It was impossible to be comfortable in bed or anywhere else.”

As the travelers made their way toward the head of Grand Gulch (within a few miles of the Bears Ears), they found the terrain relatively flat, but had to send woodcutters ahead to clear a road through thick stands of juniper trees. Their teams were tired, and depending on conditions, they may have been passing through two feet of snow, or sinking to the hubs in mud.

At last, they were getting close, but had one last daunting barrier remaining—Comb Ridge. This sheer sandstone wall runs for one hundred miles, all the way to the San Juan River and beyond. The exploratory party was able to find an Indian trail to get them up and over the obstacle, but for a convoy of wagons, this would be unimaginable.

At the north end of the ridge—where it meets the river—these pioneers accomplished the impossible again, and built a wagon road into the rock. The climb up “San Juan Hill” proved to be the most difficult yet. Worn out teams and exhausted people barely had the strength to accomplish the feat.

Charles Redd gave a graphic description of that last climb: “. . . seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they. By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams.”

Soon they arrived at their destination, a location next to the San Juan River that they would call Bluff City. Here they would plant crops and build homes in a wild environment that proved very difficult to inhabit.

Old cabins such as this one, although few in number, attest to the human activity near the Bears Ears over the years.

My great-great grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth Stevens, were among the group to make this trek across primitive San Juan County. The newlywed couple left behind their comfortable homes and families to make their honeymoon journey.

Joshua came with his brother, Alma, and aging uncle, Roswell. Although we don't know many details about their personal experience on the journey, we do know that they encountered the same cold, blizzards, and physical rigor as everyone else. We also know that Joshua brought a herd of cattle that he bought in Scipio, and two good ox teams that were very useful in pulling wagons up many of the steep climbs.

A month after arriving in Bluff, Uncle Roswell passed away, being the first person buried at the new cemetery.

The green grass on Elk Ridge offers opulent pasture for cattle.

Joshua was a natural animal lover. He trained his horses and dogs, and he loved cattle and livestock. Even after the trek, Joshua continued to run cattle in what is today the proposed National Monument boundaries, from Mormon Pasture in the north, to Cow Tank and Rincon in the south. He was among the first cattleman in that area. His brand book shows where he branded eighty-three calves in one setting.

His daughter claims that there are more places named after him than anyone else in the county: Joshua Trail, Joshua Park, Stevens Pasture, and two Stevens Canyon's. (Some of these places are still used on maps today, while others, I'm afraid, are becoming lost with time.) He knew how to build a trail in a seemingly impossible place.

At Mormon Pasture he built a cabin with a fireplace and a little cheese room. He kept milk cows and made a cheese press. Using a pipe that he stuck into the hillside, he was able to work a spring to draw fresh water.

Descendants of Joshua Stevens have found relaxation on this land for many generations.  

The Stevens family eventually migrated out of the area and into Mexico. On August 26, 1912, Joshua was murdered on his own front porch by renegade Mexican soldiers. Along with other “Pachecoites” who were driven from their homes, Joshua's widow, Elizabeth, and their large family were forced to return to San Juan County—this time as refugees.

Their daughter, Vivian, married into the Shumway family, who began prospecting for uranium as early as 1931. Mining became a family affair, and many of the places they mined are within the proposed National Monument boundaries.

My Grandpa, Burdett, was one of those Shumways. Mining was his livelihood.

On December 14, 1964, the Shumways were working the Springwater mine in Cottonwood Canyon. Lying more than seventy feet below Cottonwood Wash, the Springwater is a very wet mine. Pumps ran nearly twenty-four hours to keep water out of the shaft.

That morning they had come across a beautiful face of high grade, “peacock blue” ore. Excited for their new find, they drilled into the face and prepared the fuses and powder. Burdett was working in the mine with his cousin and best friend, Cleon Shumway.

They stood in about two feet of water, loading the holes. Cleon lit his round first, and then Burdett his. Cleon later said, “Burdett finished and reached down in the corner, picked up his gloves, and laughed about it.”

At that same moment, the first round blew.

Cleon was thrown twenty feet from the face into a pool of muck and water. By the time he crawled out of the mine, twenty-three more shots had gone off. He looked down at his hand that resembled a blob of hamburger.

It was quickly realized that Burdett hadn't made it out of the mine.

The crew at the mine went into emergency mode. Neighboring mines were notified either in person or by radio that a man was injured and another was still in the mine. Soon, a small crowd had gathered at the mine, most of them close relatives to Burdett. Jerry Holiday, Burdett's brother-in-law, went into the mine and then informed the group that Burdett was covered in debris and would have to be dug out.

By the time Burdett's brother, Kenny, arrived at the scene, “the yellow smoke was still boiling out of the mine. A solemn crew was standing near the portal. Kenny ran on past them and into the mine. Half way down into the portal, where the fresh air stopped, Glen Shumway was standing by the blower trying to catch his wind. He had bad lungs anyway. The smoke was yellow and real dark, burning their lungs. Kenny ran on to the face and found muck nearly covering his brother. What was visible made him totally sick; it was an extremely sad situation. Kenny sat and cried for a while then covered Burdett's head with his jacket, hoping some of the others wouldn't have to look at what he had seen.”

They brought Burdett back to Blanding in the back of his own station wagon. His brother, Merwin (who was also at the mine), had the difficult job of breaking the news to Burdett's wife, Erva. Burdett's death was a huge loss to the community. Not only did he leave behind a widow, but also seven children, with one on the way.

I cannot drive past that area in lower Cottonwood without reflecting on the grandfather that I never knew, and becoming somewhat emotional. I think of my mother who lost her father when she was only ten years old. I think of my grandma who struggled for the next thirty years as a widow, trying to make ends meet while raising a large family on her own.

Clockwise: Grandpa, Burdett Shumway (top left), DeVar,
DeLoy, and Merwin Shumway (front) at South Stinking
Hole-1945. (DeVar Shumwy Photo)

The saga continues with every generation. I could go on and on with stories that display why this place is very special to me. This very large tract of land that is now being considered to become a National Monument is not only sacred to the Navajo and Ute, but also to the Anglo who has toiled here for nearly 140 years. My plea is that all those who consider these canyons and mesas as sacred terrain will have an equal voice in the destination of its future. ♠

Sources

Hawkins, Emma Stevens Palmer. Interview by Gary Shumway,  July 20, 1973.

Miller, David E. Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959.

Tate, LaVerne. "The Springwater Mine." Blue Mountain Shadows 25 (Winter 2001): 71-74.

Springville Museum of Art

There are the great art galleries of the world—The Louvre, The Prado, Hermitage Museum—and there is the Springville Museum of Art (SMA). Although just a morsel in size when compared with the others, the SMA has a very satisfying portion.
 
Located in Springville, Utah, this museum has become a jewel of what has become known as “Art City.” The main gallery fits on one level and it is easily visited in 1-2 hours. For me, this is refreshing when compared to the larger galleries of Europe, where a couple hours would only scratch the surface.
 
I recently visited with my three teenage daughters who enjoyed the wide selection. Jenna liked the sculpture of Sacajawea carrying a baby on her back and Savanah the oversized carton filled with stiffened dress ties instead of french fries.
 

"They are Writing about Us in Pravda" by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Vasilev.

For me, I loved the mixture of local paintings alongside a collection of Russian masterpieces. In one room you will find a dusty stampede of cowboys on canvas, while in the other a scene from the Bolshevik Revolution or an image from Stalin's funeral.
 

One particular work that stands out is an oil painting from artist Engels Vasilevich Kozlv entitled Russian Mother Baking Bread. It depicts a typical Russian woman with scarf wrapped over her head placing a fat loaf of khleb, or bread, into a traditional oven called a Russkaya Pech. A young blond-headed child with freckles on his cheeks is staring straight at the spectator. I like this scene because it captures a glimpse of a daily task that was carried out all along the countryside.
 

"Portrait of a Villager, Mikhailo Gulyaev" by Arkadi Aleksandrovich Plastov.

In the same room there is a painting by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Vasilev of a group of collective farm workers taking a break on a blanket, eating watermelon and reading a Soviet newspaper. They appear to be relaxed and enjoying themselves. The paper they read, the Pravda, is translated as “truth” and was the primary voice of the Bolshevik Party, used to unite the people and promote Soviet ideals. One can't help but to wonder if a painting like this was used as propaganda.
 
When I walk through the halls of this section of the museum, I find that I am craving to visit St. Petersburg, to read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, to listen to Tchaikovsky and Shostakovitch. The former Soviet Union, although marred by the black swath of Communism, is a country with a rich heritage of art.
 

"Riders of the Range" by Paul Salisbury.

In another wing of the museum the visitor is conveyed to the other side of the world. They are brought home to the West.
 
Entering the hall there is a large oil on canvas, a dusty scene entitled, Hereford Roundup, by Minerva Teichert. The spectacle is likely a recollection of her days growing up on a ranch in Cokeville, Wyoming.
 

There are also depictions of the Grand Canyon, a Navajo drinking Coke at the fair, two men gleaning potatoes from a field, an abandoned barn, a bronze statue of Kit Carson. Paul Salisbury from Richfield, Utah paints a simple oil on canvas entitled, Riders of the Range. Two cowboys wearing chaps are ready to mount their horses and continue the never-ending tasking of caring for their cattle. There are low-lying mountains in the background and a valley filled with sage brush. This could be anywhere in Utah.
 

One of the artists that caught my attention was Sophie Soprano, whom I later learned was a nom de plume for Lynn Farrar. She has several paintings in the gallery, and most seem to have a common theme of a simple life of days gone by—of horses and orchards and white picket fences, with houses and old trucks and dirt roads. Everything seems to be collapsing into each other, appearing abstract, yet evoking a desire to enter her world. Dogs, cats, children and sheep play in the yard or garden. It is a magical place that conjures nostalgia.
 
A common thread for most of the work at SMA is that it depicts something simple, whether it is baking a loaf of bread or the quiet portrait of a villager. I think that all of us yearn for a life much less complicated than the chaos the world provides. Viewing this art gives us a chance to reflect on our own lives and decide what our portrait would look like. ♠ 

My First Ever Cruise

Several years ago I talked with a sweet old lady who was anxious to embark on an Alaskan Cruise. I became excited for her to see the mountains, whales, glaciers and the tiny fishing hamlets along the "Inside Passage."  When Marge O'Connell returned from her adventure, there was only one thing she could talk about—the food!

That conversation has stuck with me and has influenced the way I view cruises. My travel philosophy is to get out and visit the culture and the people and the sites. Not to stay on a boat and eat food that you could buy anywhere.

I just returned from my first ever cruise. I am 44 years old and will admit that this would not have happened without a wife that was insistent that we go on a cruise. Always the type who sees a positive adventure in almost anything, I was happy to go.

We boarded a ship with Carnival Cruise Line in mid-March to Ensenada, Mexico. I was amazed at how many people they can cram into an ocean liner. I'll bet our boat had at least 2- to 3,0000 passengers, in addition to crew members. The fact that they can lodge, feed and entertain that many people is a miracle.

The ship had twelve levels, with our cabin being on the sixth. For five people, our cabin was pretty cramped. No windows, and two bunk-beds which took up most of the existing floor space. The tiny bathroom hadn't room for much else than a toilet, sink and shower. Needless to say, it was very claustrophobic.

Once the ship embarked, we immediately felt the sway of the ocean. Like cattle in the back of a truck, being tipped by the constant curves of the highway, we felt the undulations of a wavy sea. It didn't take long to feel the seed of sea sickness in the pit of my stomach. (BTW, I don't recommend watching the movie, Titanic, anytime close to when you leave for your trip!)

I will admit, however, that Marge O'Connell was right. It's all about the food. As is well known, almost all the food on a cruise, except for soda and alcoholic beverages, is free. Every meal—sometimes four a day—was a buffet. The best hamburger I've ever eaten was on that ship. I also ate leg of lamb, fish tacos, breakfast burritos, pannini, Japanese sea bass, sea scallops, prosciutto, sweet watermelon and cake. It was always fun to come off the deck after dark, and when passing through the buffet, grab a hot chocolate, slices of pineapple, or an ice cream cone.

That leads me to my next observation. Why do they make you walk through the buffet to get to the elevators that lead to your cabin? The entire layout of the ship was very confusing and we were barely getting a grasp on it by the final day. Once, my daughter left to go back to the room and couldn't find it. It doesn't help that the ship is huge—a swimming pool, several jacuzzi's, a miniature golf course, several restaurants, lounging areas, three water slides, a casino, art gallery, shops, show rooms etc. The route from one to the other was usually never straight. If you were on the tenth level in the “aft” of the boat, and wanted to get somewhere on the tenth level at the “forward” of the boat, you couldn't just walk through the tenth level in the “mid” of the boat, but would have to drop to the ninth level.

Which brings me to another point. We had to learn a few new vocabulary words. It took a while to learn that the stateroom was my cabin, and I'm still not sure where the starboard is. When we first checked in we were instructed several times that we would have to report to our muster station. We were all baffled. What was a “mustard” station?

I was surprised at how many Italians were on the boat, including some of the captains. I don't understand the concept of flying to the other side of the world to go on vacation, then to spend it out at sea. In addition to the many foreigners, I would say that most of the passengers were American. Many, I believe, came on the cruise to get drunk and act like idiots.

Of all the people we rubbed shoulders with, the one we saw the most was our room-cleaner, an older man from Vietnam. I could barely understand a word he said, but he was very polite and smiled every time we walked past. I don't believe that working on a cruise line is as glamorous as one might think. Our Vietnamese friend probably cleans over a hundred rooms a day in what feels like the dungeon of the boat, never seeing sunlight.

The preconceived image of sitting on a pool chair, sipping a drink, while feeling the warm breeze slide over your body wasn't exactly our experience. Of our two full days at sea, both were overcast with periods of rain. A sighting of the sun was rare. Once I dared myself to go down the water slide with my daughters and I could only stand to do it for about fifteen minutes. The climb to the top of the long serpentine slide (which happened to be almost the highest point of the ship) was excruciating miserable. Any hint of sun lay hidden behind thick gray clouds and a strong wind blustered hard against my wet flesh.

Some of our favorite moments were when we caught a glimpse of whales or dolphins. The whales were always further away and usually we could only see the spew of water high in the air from the blow hole. Once I caught sight of a large black fin that emerged briefly from the water. The dolphins came in pods and moved across quickly, their full body leaping in a low arc just above the surface of the water. It was usually Jenna, my daughter, who made the amazing finds.

I enjoyed going on the deck at night and looking across the ocean. Sometimes there would be a distant orange light on the sea-side of the ship, perhaps another ocean liner or oil rig. Once we saw another cruise ship passing in the opposite direction. Along the coast there was usually a thin line of faint lights, some in thicker clusters. Sometimes there was a soft suggestion of a mountain. At night the waters are deep and dark, with choppy white-water just below the stern of the boat. On our final night of the cruise there was a light mist that fell from the starless sky.

As for our day in Ensenada, I will admit that it was a little disappointing. We had a lot of fun, but I can't really say that I've experienced Ensenada. We went zip-lining and spent time at a flea market geared toward the tourists. I won't go into any further detail here since I have already posted on my Ensenada experience, but I will advise that if you want to become acquainted with another country, spending half a day there as a port of call is not the way to do it.

There was a time before our cruise when I became excited about going to Mexico and began looking into some of the longer cruises. A seven day trip with stops in Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta and Matzalan cost only $459 a person. Losing some of my common sense, I began to think that maybe this was a good option to “see” many different places in the country.

But then I came to my senses and remembered that a round-trip ticket to Mexico City costs less than $200, while food and lodging are next to nothing. Everything there would be the real-deal and I could spend at least two weeks there if I wanted! ♠

Ensenada, Mexico

Jenna and I woke early to watch as the ship pulled into the harbor of Ensenada. Thick rain clouds shrouded the bay and there was no spectacular sunrise. A container ship moved torpidly through the water. Below us on a buoy a sea lion barked. As we moved closer I could see traffic moving on the frontage road. Low green hills surrounded the city. In the middle of town I could see the towers of the cathedral.

I had never been to Mexico, so even though our excursion would be short, I was excited. Our Carnival Cruise from Southern Californian to Baja allowed for an eight-hour port of call in Ensenada. I knew my wife wanted to do a zip-line tour, but I figured we would have plenty of time to catch a glimpse of Ensenada. I did my homework on Google Maps before we left and got a general idea of where to spend our time, including a visit to Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

Our first priority was to buy a zip-line tour. We paid way too much for a bus ride to downtown, where we were herded to a building with a lady behind a window selling tours. A sheet of paper on the glass listed our possibilities. None of them listed zip-lining alone, but coupled with another tour, a visit to La Bufadora, the renowned blowhole. This was the option we chose, paying $61 U.S. Dollars for each person.

While waiting for the tour to fill, our guide moved us to an adjacent bar. The walls of the room were painted black and over the speakers blared insane music that was a combination of rap, mariachi, and sirens. We hadn't been seated for more than thirty seconds when the first vendor came to our table trying to sell homemade bracelets. We had just shrugged him off when another came, this time with “buy your name on a chain” written on his cardboard box. After him, still another.

Just after the last vendor, another man came to our table and gave us all water bottles and a bowl of chips and salsa while we waited. I thought this was very considerate of him until he said it would be $10 for the five of us. We said “no thanks” and gave the bottles back, but he let us keep the chips and salsa “on the house.”

Finally we were able to leave the bar and we sat in a small bus with a tour guide named Tango, driving through the streets of Ensenada. Tango told us stories the entire time, but I was more interested in looking out the window. Especially the further we got from the city center, the more fascinated I became with what I saw. We traveled on a battered paved road, but everything beyond was dirt. Small store shacks sat side-by-side along the highway, selling everything from tacos to hardware. Not a tourist in sight. I knew this was the real Ensenada. If the driver had dropped me off right there and let me walk back, I would have been content. But we continued on.

We left the city and drove through a verdant valley with fields and orchards on both sides. An overhead banner welcomed us to wine country. Written on the hillside using white rocks read the caption: “ORANDO SE CAMBIAN LAS COSAS          ROMANOS 10:9”

Not much further the bus pulled off the road, arriving at our destination. I won't go into much detail on our zip-lining adventure, other than to say it was fun. The seven zip-lines stretched long and took us over spectacular scenery. In addition, the course also included several wobbly bridges, most spanning over deep ravines. Even though our safety harnesses were clipped onto cables, it was very nerve-racking for me, especially watching my 12-year old daughter walk across. But we all made it safely to the end. Now it was back in the bus.

For another forty minutes we drove to La Bufadora. This time it had begun to rain and our breathing fogged the windows and I wasn't able to watch very well outside . Tango continued his humerus stories. Through the foggy glass I was able to see that we had come alongside the ocean and were now climbing a hillside above the rugged cliffs.

La Bufadora is a marine geyser located at the base of craggy cliff-side, 17 miles southwest of Ensenada. It is the result of air being trapped in a sea cave, and then exploding upwards toward the sky like the blowhole of a whale. To arrive it is necessary to walk a quarter mile along vendors of all kinds, aggressively selling their wares. It is likely that someone from every shop will approach you during your walk. Tango walked as far as the blowhole with us, then let us mosey back on our own.

Stone walls are built around the blowhole, allowing tourists to gawk at the water spewing up. I think, however, that the best view is probably down on the water. From our elevated angle it was difficult to see more than a portion of the blast.

My enjoyment came from walking through all the shops. We only had an hour until we had to be back on the bus. Every vendor approached and I ignored them all, unless I was interested. They sold backpacks, panchos, ball caps, Day of the Dead skulls, churros, tacos, t-shirts, jewelry, leather bags, marionettes etc.

Some spoke in Spanish, but most knew how to approach in English. I didn't see many price tags, and most purchases came about through haggling. The kids had fun picking out souvenirs. The prices were somewhat cheap, but nowhere near the deals I found in Southeast Asia.

I couldn't leave the area of Ensenada without having a fish taco. According to tradition, fish tacos originated in Ensenada. I found a taco stand amidst the stalls and the whole family ordered an assortment of tacos for $1.50 each. For myself I ordered 1 fish, 1 nopal and 1 alambre. The first taco came with two fat and battered chunks of fish, and nothing else. I used a condiment bar of onions, cilantro, cabbage and various salsas to decorate my fish taco. It tasted very fluffy and fresh, and yet simple. I ate the tacos at a little table behind the grill where they charred the corn tortilla. The nopal taco was a little bland, while the alambre was surprisingly delicious. It consisted of tender beef, peppers and cheese.

By now the rain had picked up and we were coming to our deadline with the tour guide. We piled into the bus with all our bags in-hand, and made the 40-minute drive back to Ensenada proper.

By the time we returned, we had less than thirty minutes before we had to catch another bus for the ship. The rain had stopped, but the ground and storefronts were all damp. By the time we got to Primera Street, one of the main tourist strips in Ensenada, the shops were still open with their merchandise hung outside. Mexican men in rough American accents approached: “Would you like to try a glass of Tequila,” or “We have the finest leather in Ensenada.” I didn't have the time or interest in either. All we had time for was a walk around the block. ♠

The Yurt

A High-mountain Trek

The mercury on the car signaled five degrees above zero when we shut off the engine. Through the snow-stacked douglas fir the sun peeked out just above the western horizon. We pulled on heavy coats, wrapped woven beanies over our ears and strapped snow shoes to our boots.

Our hike began at nearly 10,000 feet in elevation along a dirt road that was now covered in three feet of fresh powder. In a single-file line with heavy packs over our shoulders we passed the “road closed” sign, within the rut of a solitary snowmobile track. I led the migration with Dell directly behind me, followed by Quinn, Jordan, Eric, Colter, and the other adult in the group, Dave, at the tail.

Cumbersome sheaves of snow weighed down the branches of pine in a forest that spread far and wide on either side of us. To be sure, we trekked UP hill, and as we gazed through that spacious forest, we watched the sun disappear and the clouds change into hues of pink and orange, silhouetting the crooked branches of trees.

The mask I wore covered my ears and came down to cover my chin and mouth when strapped. By now the air had turned even colder and I worried that breathing it in would burn my lungs. But when I would cover my mouth, my breathing would fog my glasses and I couldn't see. It was a constant battle of deciding to stay strapped or unstrapped, to breathe or not breathe cold air, to have or have not foggy glasses.

Not long into the trek we learned that some of our boys were fighting to keep up with their heavy loads. We at the front would frequently have to stop and wait for the tail to catch up. Colter, in particular, struggled to take anything but the smallest of steps. At the one-mile mark, at a hair-pin turn in the path, it was decided to take Colter's pack from him and divide it up. Quinn took the sleeping bag, someone else a detachable fanny pack, and I was left to carry the rest of his pack, which proved to be very heavy and burdensome. This was in addition to my own heavy pack.

The shades of sunset had disappeared by now and the fog on my glasses had now frozen into a miniature sheet of ice. I was miserable. Not only did I struggle to see any portion of the path ahead, but the second pack was difficult to carry. I kept my glasses on the tip of my nose and peered over the rims to see.

Darkness nestled into the mountains and finally I was forced to strap on my head lamp, which cast a beam over the snow. For those with better vision, a half-moon shone overhead and cast eerie, but beautiful shadows over the white powder. But I focused my attention forward, putting one exhausted leg in front of the other. Once I tripped over my snow shoes the way someone would trip over shoe laces. I fell knees first into the snow.

After two and a half miles the boys spotted the yurt. It sat nearly camouflaged against the black forest with a small trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and dim light emanating from inside.

The Yurt

The man that drove the snowmobile and left the tracks for us to follow was the man inside the yurt. He had split small rounds of cedar and had piled them next to the wood-burning stove where a blaze now burned and glowed through the flume. He wore a yellow Patagonia parka and his breath reeked from cannabis. After giving instructions he hopped back on his snowmobile rode back down the mountain to his condo.

The yurt wasn't as big as I had imagined. Two sets of bunk-beds flanked adjacent sides, each with a single bed on top and a double on bottom. Counting out spaces, that meant that one kid would have to sleep on the floor.

Next to the stove was a small shelf with a couple pots, dish soap and spatulas. Four totes with sundry items such as frying pans, paper towels, toilet paper etc. stacked alongside the bed. Hot pads hung from a clip on the wall. A bucket next the the shelf held a hand-saw and ax.

The yurt was circular in shape with a wooden frame of 2x4's and a lattice frame work. A heavy plastic-like canvas pulled over the frame work with a hole for the chimney and a transparent “sun roof” over the middle. The floor was made of wood with a large rug covering much of the area. A shorter than normal door with a knob and latch faced south and just outside this door was another pile of wood. Not far from the yurt was a makeshift outhouse using tarps and plywood. We were instructed that the outhouse was only to be used for “#2.” Otherwise we were to use the space just beyond the toilet.

We left our snow shoes outside the entrance while we pulled off our packs inside the yurt, which created a clutter of space. Each kid was to bring his own hobo dinner, and soon we had tin foil packages on top and inside the small stove.

We were all worn and tired from the hike, and all were anxious to unroll their sleeping bags and hang out in their own territory. Colter pulled out a game out called “Fact or Crap,” and spent much time reading suspicious trivia from the cards.

Soon we could hear sizzling coming from within the foil and the aroma of potatoes, onions and bacon filled our tiny quarters. The boys ate their dinners on their laps, the foil unfolded and steam rising from their meal.

We said a prayer that night and before going to bed I shared with the boys the story of a Polish man who was sent to the Gulag camps of Siberia in 1940. He walked nearly 1,000 miles from Irkutsk to Camp 303, handcuffed to a thick chain pulled by a lorry. This was in the bleak month of January, during blizzards and sub-zero temperatures with nothing more than one pound of bread and two cups of coffee for his daily ration. I felt, perhaps, that this small gem of history would be more likely to be impressed upon their minds after having a brief, but similar situation themselves.

Nightfall

Our best estimate is that the temperature dropped to -10℉ that night.

The seven of us slept in tight quarters, close enough to hear every snore, cough, roll and shuffle. The mattress I slept on wasn't as soft as it appeared. It must have been an inch thick with a piece of plywood beneath it.

Our challenge that night was to keep the fire going. The wood stove was only large enough for a few wedges of lumber. The frigid air just outside our canvas covering prevented any cozy temperatures. Instead, we enjoyed comfortable warmth when the fire was going, yet chilly conditions when neglected. Dave woke up several times to stack the stove.

Every time someone got up to use the bathroom I could hear their footsteps on the plywood floor and the the door closing shut and the squeak of the hinges. Often when they returned I could hear them handling wood from the pile, opening the door of the cast-iron stove, and tossing the wedge into the flames. Then they returned to bed, creaking the board as they laid down. I didn't get much sleep that night.

At midnight it was my turn to go outside and urinate. I quietly attempted to slide my pants back on and tip-toed across the floor to where my boots sat by the shelf. When I stepped outside, all the night was silent. Quickly the hairs in my nose froze to a bristle. The half-moon shone down brightly, illuminating the snow-draped trees. I was happy to finally be able to see without my glasses fogging up. The only noise I heard came from a slow, but steady drip of melting snow near the chimney. A very soft glow issued from the yurt.

The rest of the night was much of the same. Pure exhaustion, but no sleep. That seems to be par for the course when I camp out. But I knew I would survive.

Daylight, at last

Shortly after rising I stepped out the door of the yurt with my first daylight look at our surroundings. The deep blue sky contrasted with the bright white snow that draped everything with a heavy blanket. As far as I knew, we were the only people for several miles. If it weren't for the boys chattering away inside the yurt, there would have been a grand feeling of solitude and isolation.

I always wonder how many animals are in the high forest during a bitter winter. I know the deer and elk migrate to lower elevations, but what about the squirrels and birds? Where do they go? Up to this point I hadn't seen any animal tracks, nor had I heard chirping.

Dave and I pulled out a pot and frying pan and began cooking sausage, ham and pancakes on a propane grill. We forgot to bring oil, so the pancakes became somewhat scrambled.

After cleaning up we attempted to melt two pots of snow to add to our water supply. I filled my water bottle and took a drink, hoping it would taste as fresh as a high mountain spring. To my disappointment it tasted bearable, but like dirty snow. At least, I told myself, I have a bottle of Powerade sitting on the passenger's seat when I get back to the vehicle.

Our stay in the yurt was short-lived. After cleaning up we strapped on our snow shoes and began the 2.5 mile walk back to our starting point. I will admit that I enjoyed the walk down much more than the walk up. For starters, I could see.

The bright sun melted the snow from the tips of the tall pine trees. As we walked, that melting line slowly worked its way down. Once I heard brave birds playing in the branches. I even saw a set of animal tracks in the distance, but couldn't tell from what they came. Four miles as the crow flies was a gigantic mountain peak, bald and round in appearance, thick in snow. I knew this peak to rise to an elevation just under 12,000 feet high.

We took a small detour to a small lake that I had found during the summer. During that time it is quite colorful, with moss and reeds growing in abundance. Now, however, one can hardly tell it is a lake. The entire body of water was frozen over and two feet of snow covered the surface. Had I not known better, I would have guessed it was another small valley or open meadow.

After two hours of trudging over deep powder, we finally arrived at the vehicle. Everyone was anxious to unlatch the snow shoes and once again walk on pavement. Dave unlocked the doors and with a rabid thirst I grabbed for my bottle of Powerade . . . only to learn it was frozen solid! ♠

Highway 257

The route between Southwest Utah and the Wasatch Front is usually traveled via Interstate 15. It wasn't until I talked with Pete Dotson that I knew there was an alternative.

Pete was a burly man with a thick brown, but graying beard, who wore bibbed overalls and long sleeves everywhere he went. He swore he would travel to Salt Lake no other way. “Just too many people,” he would say.

The route that Pete spoke of takes the backroads through the West Desert of Utah. Depending on your point of view, it can be either drab and boring, or mysterious and intriguing.

Along this route is a 67-mile stretch between the rural towns of Milford and Deseret. Utah Highway 257, as it is officially known, offers an empty landscape to the casual observer. It is common to pass fewer then ten cars on a single drive—and the biggest hazard is hitting either an antelope or cow. But to those who dig deeper, Highway 257 offers a rich blend of history and geological wonders.

Over the years I have taken Pete's advice and have found many occasions to take this lonely backroad. Although I have only scratched the surface, each time comes with new discoveries.

Remains of Fort Deseret along Highway 257

Just 4.5 miles south of the northern terminus of Highway 257 lies the crumbled remains of Fort Deseret. Thick adobe walls made of mud and straw, and supported by wooden frames and posts, still stand just off the road. A collapsing bastion exists on the northeast corner, as well as “peep holes” in the walls. The east wall is the best preserved, and in the middle is a “gate” supported by a wooden frame that the visitor can pass through to explore inside the fort. Although the interior is filled with rabbit brush and lacks most of the back walls, it is enough to give you a feel of what it must have looked like when first erected.

The town of Deseret was created in 1859 by Mormon settlers on the lower reaches of the Sevier River. The growth of new settlements began to create a strain between the Mormons and Indians, as the natives began to see much of their wildlife habitat turned into farms, thus diminishing their food supply. They also suffered from smallpox and measles, which they blamed on the white man. After initially seeing the Mormons as friends, they now began to view them as intruders.

In 1865, a Ute leader by the name of Black Hawk led a group of discontented Indians on a series of raids to secure food for their people. The raids began in Sanpete Valley in Central Utah and spread throughout the state to Deseret where the Pahvant Indians stole cattle.

As a precautionary move, Brigham Young ordered that the men from Deseret form a militia and that a fort be erected. It took just 18 days for 98 men to build the fort. The structure was 550 feet square, with corner bastions ten feet high and walls three feet thick on the bottom, tapering to a foot and a half at the top.

Although Fort Deseret was never used to protect the people, it served as a deterrent. On several occasions it was used as a corral to protect the cattle from Indians.

Left: The Great Stone Face.  Right: Painting of Joseph Smith by David White Rogers.

Less than two miles south of Fort Deseret is a graveled road that leads toward the west for over five miles and then curls around an outcropping of black rock. This site must have had significance to Native Americans of olden times as there are many petroglyphs on the rocks, including what appears to be an eye at the top of the hill. But for Mormon settlers, this was the location of The Great Stone Face.

Atop the same rocky hill is a natural stone structure that looks very much in profile as Mormon founder and Prophet, Joseph Smith. By now it had been well over a decade since the Mormon leader had been murdered in Nauvoo, Illinois. The Saints had moved and settled in the west, and as they began to explore the region around Sevier Lake, they were excited to find a stack of lava rock in the likeness of the Prophet.

Of course, the rock may also have had significance with the Paiutes, as they may have seen the likeness of a chief of a god. With the abundance of petroglyphs, there is no doubt that this site held a level of importance.

It is also interesting to note that just a few years earlier, in 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne published a short story entitled “The Great Stone Face,” referring to a similar stone structure. In the story, a local Native American folklore states that this stone profile would resemble someone who is “the greatest and noblest personage of his time.” This is certainly how the Saints viewed Joseph Smith, and I wonder if Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story played a role in the naming of the rock.

North face of Pahvant Butte.

The pathway of Highway 257 is roughly paralleled by the old route used by the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition of 1776. As they searched for a course to Monterey, California, they pushed forward from Santa Fe, traveling northward through southwest Colorado and into present-day Utah. From the Wasatch Front they curled southward into what is now the desert of Millard County.

On October 2, the group camped south and a little ways east of Deseret near a prominent hill they would call El Cerrillo. Years later this knoll became known as Pahvant Butte, an iconic mound in the middle of a desolate valley, seen from miles away on all sides. The company had difficulty pushing directly southward as they ran into the shallow lakes and marshes of Clear Lake.

Upon arriving, they recorded in their journal:

“In the afternoon we pursued our journey to the south-southeast because the marshes and lakes were not letting us go south, which was the direct route to the pass through which we were to leave the plain. After going three leagues we halted near a small bluff which stands on it. Wherefore we named the stopping point, where there were marshes with much pasturage but with brackish water, El Cerrillo. Today three leagues.”

Shallow waters of Clear Lake.

The butte was named after the Pahvant Indians, a band of Southern Paiutes, with whom the company had an encounter earlier that day. The waters of Clear Lake are home to a wide variety of fowl. A good graveled road leaves the highway and travels on a causeway over the shallow waters.

At one time there was a town built nearby with the name of Clear Lake. Unlike most of the other communities, it was settled by non-Mormons, many of them from the Midwest. Ten families lived in the town and most farmed. A canal was built from the lake to the new settlement. Nowadays there are no vestiges of the former inhabitants other than some inconspicuous piles of concrete.

The Dominguez-Escalante group moved on the following day:

“On the 3rd we left El Cerrillo, made several detours because we were surrounded by marshes, and decided to cut across by going over the east river mentioned, which appears to sink into them and the plain's other lakes—and which abounds in fish. The ford was sticky and miry, and in it the mount which Andrés the interpreter was riding fell and pitched into the water, dealing him a hard blow on one cheek.”

Union Pacific Railroad.

Pronghorn are often seen along Highway 257.

Continuing further south, the highway parallels the Union Pacific Railroad. The track runs to Milford and eventually Lund, which used to be a major transportation depot. Today the carriages are filled entirely with freight rather than people.

Anyone traveling the lonely stretch of road must not only watch for wandering cattle, but also for skittish antelope. More than once I have come frightening close to striking a darting pronghorn.

Located to the east of the highway are the barren Cricket Mountains. There are many dirt roads that take off in that direction and skirt the hillsides.

Dried hardpan of Sevier Lake in distance.

West of this mountain range, constituting a large swath from north to south are the dried remains of Sevier Lake. From a distance the ivory-colored hard-pan is reminiscent of the Bonneville Salt Flats. At the extreme northern end the Sevier River flows into the lake. I don't know if the lake was full when the Mormon Pioneers arrived in 1847, but since that time the river has been used quite extensively for irrigation, sucking volume from this long meandering waterway.

Another much smaller riverbed follows a portion of the highway. The Beaver River comes from the south and southeast, a collection of melted snow and springs from the Tushar Mountains. At its largest it is a freshwater torrent as wide as a two-laned road. As far as I can tell, the farms near the towns of Beaver and Milford suck the river completely dry by the time it reaches Highway 257.

It appears that Mother Nature depleted a portion of the Beaver River in 1776. The D&E group still found a trickle of water: “. . . we came to an arroyo which seemed to have much water, but we found only some waterholes where the horse herd might be able to drink. Nevertheless, we stopped here because there was good pasturage. All over the arroyo there was a kind of white scum, dry and thin, which looked from afar like linen spread out, for which reason we named it Arroyo de Tejedor.”

As they traveled further south, the flow of the Beaver River picked up as they found beautiful meadows and good pasturage for their horses. I would dare say that those beautiful meadows no longer exist.

Ruined structure at Black Rock.

As Father Escalante and his party moved forward, they crossed a nearly inconspicuous boundary they called South Pass, entering into what is now the Escalante Desert. Nearby are a group of ruined structures belonging to the abandoned settlement of Black Rock.

Established as a ranch in 1876, Black Rock eventually acquired a store and Post Office. When it became a depot on the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad, thousands of pounds of wool were shipped from the small settlement. A small pumice quarry north of town employed many people. A schoolhouse was built and operated for 40 years.

The railroad began to consolidate operations during the 1930's, causing the town of Black Rock to wane. Only the foundations of the former buildings exist. There is, however, a modern ranch on the premise, and it appears that the local springs have been used to water fields and livestock.

I found faint petroglyphs on rocky ridge above the springs, indicating that people have used this place for hundreds of years. The tawny hills and barren valley are testimony to the isolated and dry terrain. In a land like this, any place that can sustain life is a gem.

Antelope Springs is a surprising oasis in the Escalante Desert.

Several miles west of Black Rock is another oasis in the desert. Antelope Springs was a stage stop in the 1860's. It is hard to believe now, but there was once a hotel, saloon, livery stable and barn on the premises. The springs are still there, although I was unable to find any signs of the old buildings. The springs have created a small pond, as well as a large marshy area, well suited for fowl.

From my readings, I can't find any evidence that the D&E expedition came across the springs at Black Rock or Antelope Springs. Instead, they camped near a hill called Red Rock Knoll, some two miles west of Black Rock. The company was in dire straits at this time. Their Indian guide had deserted them, leaving no one who knew the territory. They were tormented with an early winter storm that blanked the hills and valley, and stranded them for two days with no firewood.

The Beaver Bottoms.

When they finally continued, they trekked south and entered into what is called Beaver Bottoms, a point in the valley that tends to collect a lot of stagnating water. Their journal records the tribulation:

“We traveled only three leagues and a half with great difficulty, because it was so soft and miry everywhere that many pack animals and mounts, and even those that were loose, either fell down or became stuck altogether.”

The mire still flanks Highway 257 north of Milford. Just east of here, spreading across the valley like a forest of white giants, is a wind farm. Personally, I'm not a big fan (no pun intended) of new turbines sprouting up in divers places, but it sure grabs the attention of those driving by. In a way it beholds its own beauty. I guess I'm a little old fashioned and prefer to see the land as it was in 1776—or a thousand years earlier.

Another ten miles of driving will bring you to the southern terminus of Highway 257 and the small town of Milford. There's a lot of discoveries yet to be make along this 67-mile stretch of apparent barren highway. I think Pete Dotson knew what he was talking about. ♠

Wind farm near Milford.