South Fork (Day 3)

The trail along South Fork is obscure to say the least. I once hiked this eight-mile stretch and crossed the river sixty times in one direction due to constantly losing the trail.
 
With heavy packs we made our first crossing within minutes of leaving our campsite. I took half a dozen steps into the cold stream that rose to my shins. Cold water filled my boots and I sloshed a path of mud as I came out on the opposite bank.
 

At first we easily stayed with the trail on a wide path through the quaking aspen. But then it disappeared and we chose to take a less obvious route that slanted upward. As it climbed higher and away from the river, we decided we must be on a game trail, but by now it was too late to turn around. Instead we chose to angle back down toward the river. The footing proved difficult on the steep slant with loose dirt and rock. I used my pole to steady my weight, but even then it would often slip and I would slide a few feet. It was also a challenge to keep the heavy pack balanced so as to not throw the weight down the hill, taking me with it.
 
After much travail and many scrapes we once again reached the creek and found the trail. Ben and I had a good conversation. He showed me what a mullein plant looked like and explained that it can be used for medicinal tea, as well as toilet paper.
 

Even when on the trail, we were compelled to cross the stream. With each step I would lead with my pole and then place my foot, feeling for steady ground with no slick rocks. Then I would adjust my weight for the flow of the current. I would repeat the process until I had crossed the river.
 

Again we lost the trail.  This time we walked in the river for fifty yards. My feet began to turn numb.
 
The conversation turned to rattlesnakes and Ben explained that the serpents have holes above their nose that can sense temperature and can help them aim for a blood vessel if they decide to strike. Just off the path we found a skin shed, but couldn't decipher the type of snake.
 
The route along South Fork is long and monotonous. It constantly demands route-finding skills. Every bend looks like the next. Shoes never dry off because there is always another crossing to be made.
 

On the lookout for snakes I would always jump when a lizard scampered through the leaves. Then Ben found a rattler coiled on a rock next to the path. He tugged on it with his walking stick, but the snake shook his rattle and slithered into the crevice of a rock.
 
By the time we came to the end, we had crossed the stream forty-eight times. We unloaded the cumbersome packs from our shoulders and felt a lightness as we loaded up the vehicle.
 
Before we left I had one matter of business to take care of. I returned to the stream and dissembled a mound of rocks that lay beneath the frigid flowing water. Then I pulled out an ice-cold can of Pepsi that I had cached three days earlier. ♠

Blue Lake (Day 2)

The water didn't freeze last night, but the wind was brisk once it picked up.
 
After eating breakfast and downing a steaming cup of hot chocolate we climbed a ridge to get a higher vantage of the mountains around us. I pointed out Baldy and Belknap, two massive upheavals of shale rock over 12,000 feet high. “They are steep,” I said, “but not as steep as they appear.”
 

We returned to camp and took down our tents and loaded our packs. An old road that is no longer usable leads down the steep western slope. Ben and I followed this route and talked along the way.  The wind picked up from time to time, still frigid in early morning.
 
Two young streams tumble down the steep declivity and merge at the bottom. We stopped and filled our water bottles. Here the water enters a deep canyon that runs fifteen miles to the valley. Tall peaks surrounded the young stream on three sides, so tall that the summits cannot be seen.
 

The stream flows over golden rocks in the shadows of a pine forest. Then it completely disappears underground. When it emerges, it is a beautiful turquoise lake.
 
With spring runoff the lake is nearly full. Pine trees come to the edge and some grow within the blue waters. The lake is wide enough that it literally fills one side of the canyon to the other.
 
We ate lunch on its shores and then walked to the other side on a precariously slanted edge.
 

The waters of Blue Lake spill out into the rugged canyon. We picked our way with heavy packs on our shoulders, often losing the trail. Our route took us through brush and groves of aspen. We crossed other streams that would soon join the main creek. We were always within the sound of tumbling water.
 
We came to a section of canyon where the walls weren't so narrow. There we found a flat, grassy space to pitch our tents.
 
I walked down to the river and sat on a flat rock and removed my shoes. I rolled my pant-legs to my knees and lowered my feet into the water, deep enough to cover half way up my calves. The smooth rushing fluid felt good on my tired feet, but it was colder than I expected. I pulled them out on the rock, let them breathe for a few seconds, then dipped them once again into the water, this time letting them become numb and leaving them longer.
 
I repeated the process several times, then I took off my glasses, knelt on the flat rock, and immersed my entire head beneath the water. I held my breath for five seconds, then came back up. This felt better than dipping my feet. I felt elated. I dipped my head again and swished my hair in the flowing stream. I repeated the process once more, then dried my face on a towel and let my wet skin warm in the sun before replacing my socks and shoes.
 

The rest of the evening went by without much fanfare. I climbed the hill above to gain a vantage point. Once I came back down I hung around the stream and took pictures. By the time I ate dinner the sun had set and the cold shadow of night was covering the slopes of our canyon.
 
We are miles from the nearest person tonight. When the sun first set, I thought I heard howls, bugles, and whistling. But I think they were just phantom noises coming from my imagination. I sat and watched the openings on the slopes, hoping to catch a deer or elk coming out to graze. Even the animals seem to be distant tonight.
 
But one thing is for sure. I can hear the powerful rush of water coming from the stream. I can hear it from my tent and it will stay with me all night long. It will perhaps become part of my dreams.

Elk and Waterfalls (Day 1)

We are now camped at 11,000 feet. Inside my tent the edge is taken off the cold, but while I was outside cooking my dinner over a small propane stove, the air was bitter. We have seen deer and elk today, but I hope not to get any bears scratching at our tents. I have left my water bottles outside to see if they form ice by morning.
 

We got a late start today, not beginning until 1 pm. The trail climbed quickly. We passed waterfalls, old mining structures, and tall pine trees. Many wildflowers were in bloom, including the columbine.
 

As we climbed higher, majestic peaks came into view and alpine meadows unfolded. Cold water tumbled down the mountain. Small rivulets fed into the main stream. I stopped and dipped my water bottle into the water and filled it to the narrow neck. My fingers became numb as they felt the water. I drank from the bottle, then topped it off again.
 

On the hillside we saw a small herd of elk file up the side. They stopped to look at us. Their bodies were big with brownish-yellow fur. Soon more elk walked out from behind a hill. In a long line they made their way to ridge where they stood on the skyline. I counted thirty-five. A few were bulls with partially-grown velvet antlers. Some of the cows chirped back and forth.
 

The signs told us we had only hiked four-and-a-half miles, but it felt like ten. We climbed 3,000 feet in elevation with heavy backpacks. We could now see the highest peaks all around us. The wind picked up and was bitter on the skin. I reached into my pack and pulled out a long-sleeve shirt.
 
We found a level place to pitch our tents. We cooked our dinner over small propane stoves and then talked over a cold fire pit. We are now going to bed and I hope the bears don't come.

Johnson Cemetery Comes Alive

The old house was abandoned and we were able to walk on our own to the burial ground.
 
We walked along a small two-track road that was surrounded on both sides by tall purple thistles and an old alfalfa field. All was green including the weeds that grew in the field. Two different flocks of wild turkeys crossed in front of us. The sky was covered in rain clouds, but no rain fell. Unconnected irrigation pipes flanked the sides of our path.
 

Johnson was settled in the 1870's by the four Johnson Brothers: Joel, Joseph, Benjamin, and William. Both Joel and Joseph happen to be my direct ancestors.
 
On January 2, 1871, Joel recorded in his journal: “I was ordained a Patriarch in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints under the hand of President Brigham Young, George A. Smith being the mouth. About this time President Young suggested to us that the Johnson family have what was called Spring Canyon twelve miles north of Kanab for a stock race and for all the family who wished to settle there, and requested us to go and look at it which we agreed to do as soon as we conveniently could.”
 
Sometime later he recorded: “. . . I started for home [from St. George] and arrived late in the evening, having previously made arrangements to meet my brother and some others at Virgin City on our way out to look at Spring Canyon Ranch near Kanab, agreeable to the request of President Young. We . . . found a beautiful canyon from half a mile wide [to] several miles long covered with grass, with small springs coming out at the bluffs on each side, and a small beautiful stream running from the mouth of the Canyon, plenty of excelled grass for meadow and stock range extending for many miles around. We were highly pleased with the place and concluded to accept the President's offer. Therefore we made arrangements for some of us to move there in the Spring and start a cooperative Stock Association for herding stock raising and dairy purposes, after which we all returned home. In the latter part of March I moved my wife Susan and her two boys Joel and Lamon out to Johnson and my brother William, who was stopping at Washington moved out his family also and my brother Joseph sent three young men.
 
“We took tolls, grain and seeds of many kinds for farming and gardening, and also trees and vines for orchards and vineyards. My two oldest sons Sixtus and Nephi also moved part of their families out and all went to work. Some to planting out fruit trees and vines, some to building cabins, others to plowing, planting, garden making etc. I then started for home and met my brother Benjamin at Virgin City on his way out to Johnson with farming tools or implements, grains, seeds, etc.”
 

Joel Hills Johnson (right) is buried in the Johnson Cemetery (left).

Detail on headstone of Joel Hills Johnson.

Another family that found their way to Johnson was that of Henrietta Bird Shumway, the third wife of Charles Shumway. They came from Mendon, Utah in Cache Valley. Her biography recounts her experience upon arriving at the canyon: “The farm, unfenced and uncleared had never known a plough. The only shelter was a deserted trapper's cabin, so small that when all the beds were made, Henrietta could scarcely walk between them to cook the meals.
 
“It was dangerously late in the year to be putting in crops, but they must if they were to survive the winter unaided. Even the halflings toiled like men, digging out the rocks and lugging them away to make fences; while each of the older boys were giants uprooting trees, and scrub and sage. Someone was always at the plough. It never ceased turning the soil from dawn to dark. They were lucky in their neighbors. Seeing their plight, the Johnson men came in a body and dug them an irrigation ditch to the creek, and their young ones helped with the planting.”
 

Headstone for Margaret and Richard Shumway, infant children of  Richard Franklin Shumway and Margaret Hannah Johnson Shumway.

During the next decade, more families moved to Johnson and the small community soon enjoyed an adobe brick school-church, a general store, and a post office. None of these continue to exist, as Johnson has become a ghost town. Only a handful of farms are sprinkled along the canyon.
 
The Johnson cemetery, which is about the only relic left of the former town, is very secluded in its own side-canyon. A very quiet and peaceful feeling is felt there. Inside the fence there is hardly a weed to be found. Every burial is from the 1800's. Most of the headstones are of the old type, hewn from stone. As we walked around we found the surnames of Johnson, Laws, Glover, and even a Shumway. However, a large portion of the burials, I believe, are unmarked. It is interesting that a lot of old-style nails are scattered across the ground. In the middle is a giant ant-pile. Some headstones were tipped over, while others had completely disappeared, yet we could tell there was a headstone there at one time.
 

Headstone for Conradine Albertine Sorenson Mariager Johnson, wife of Nephi Johnson, who is the son of Joel.  Conradine was born in Denmark and while in Johnson was very good friends with Henrietta Bird Shumway.

I don't know the history of the cemetery, but I believe that it has been cleaned up extensively from a neglected state. Elsinore Nelson, daughter of Sixtus Ellis Johnson, reported a visit to the cemetery in 1961 in search of her grandfather's grave: “It was in a beautiful spot at the foot of a hill. It was difficult to find among the tall grass and weeds [that] had grown around the graves, but we finally located it. There was a beautiful headstone with his name Joel Hills Johnson and this inscription on it 'Prepare to meet me in heaven.'”
 
Two of my family lines come together in this canyon—the Johnsons and Shumways. Peter Minnerly Shumway and Mary Elizabeth Johnson became acquainted when both their families lived in Johnson. They were married on December 17, 1879 in the St. George Temple. They didn't stay in Johnson long. In a couple months they made their way to Arizona with Peter's family, crossing Lee's Ferry and encountering blizzards and cold weather. They lived in several places in Arizona before settling down in Blanding, Utah.
 
Mary's mother, Editha Melissa Merrill Johnson, died four years before their leaving. I can find very little about her other than the usual dates and places. Elsinore Nelson wrote: “I have often heard Father speak of Aunt Editha as being a very kind, sweet mother to her children and a wonderful helpmate.” She had been sick for sometime and passed away on February 7, 1876. One source states that she died during child birth. She left behind seven children. As was the custom during days of polygamy, one of the other wives stepped in and raised the children as her own.
 
We searched and searched for Editha's grave, but was unable to locate it. As the cemetery is small, it is not difficult to check every headstone. We concluded that she is buried in an unmarked grave. Perhaps it was marked at one time, but over the years it had been knocked over, withered away, or crumbled.
 

After Jenelle and the younger girls left to go back to the vehicle, Kaitlyn and I were left alone to linger in the cemetery. She made the comment: “Wouldn't it be neat if the resurrection were to happen right now and all these people were to resurrect and we could talk to them?”—Yes, I would love that! To be able to hear their stories, listen to their voices, and see what they looked like—that would be absolutely amazing! ♠

American Rodeo

One of the greatest benefits of world travel is that it helps you recognize and appreciate what you have at home.
 
I can distinctly remember the feeling I had 24 years ago when I returned to Utah after living in Spain for two years. We drove down State Street in Salt Lake City and I felt like I was in a ghost town. It wasn't for the lack of people that lived there, but because the streets were wide, the buildings low, and everything spread out. In Spain all the buildings were at least five-stories tall, streets narrow, and everything crammed together. For the first time I appreciated the space we had in our humble state of Utah.
 
Other things came to mind that suddenly felt unique to my corner of the world: dutch-oven potatoes, homemade root beer, bugling elk, the scent of sage brush, and the dusty competition of rodeo.
 
Rodeos can be found all across the state, from the Cache Valley to Dixie. I will admit that I wasn't raised going to rodeos. In fact, I didn't attend my first rodeo until after I was married. But it only took once to hook me.
 

Rodeo can be very dangerous.  This cowboy was dragged across the arena during the bareback competition when his hand became caught in the handle.

Last night my wife and I attended The Great American Stampede, a rodeo in my home town. There's a certain feeling that can be felt just walking into the arena. Horse trailers are scattered along the back side of the parking. Steers are being herded into stalls. Men and women wear tight jeans and cowboy hats. The scent of hamburgers and horse manure waft through the air.
 
We sat on the back row of the bleachers next to a woman from Jensen, Utah who was quilting a blanket. Jensen is a small town in the Uintah Basin and I've noticed that a lot of these young cowboys come from podunk farm towns. She asked if went go to the rodeo often. When we said that we try to go once a year, she responded that she goes once a week. Her daughter attends Colorado Northwestern Community College and was competing in Breakaway Roping.
 

The steers wait their turn.

We've never been personally involved in rodeo competition. The closest we got was one year when we entered our 8-year old daughter, Kaitlyn, into the mutton-busting event. To qualify you must weigh 65 pounds or less. They put a helmet on the poor little kids, then put them atop a fat, woolly sheep. The kid holds on for dear life while the sheep takes off like a bullet out of the chute. The longer you ride, the better your score. Kaitlyn didn't score too high.
 
From what I gather, very few mothers want their sons to go into rodeo. They pick up disgusting habits, the pay is low, and it is very dangerous. I've listened to enough Chris LeDoux songs to know this is true. They live out of their car, spend all their time on the road chasing a dream, and become so physically broken down that it takes a toll on family life (or so say the songs).
 

It's bulls and blood, it's dust and mud . . .

The very first rider last night proved that point. It was the bareback riding event. Horse and rider came out of the chute, the cowboy digging his spurs into the neck of the horse and the horse kicking high. When the rider succumbed to the jolting and tossing, he flew in the air, but his right hand became trapped in his handle and for the next five minutes he was dragged twice around the arena like a helpless rag doll. Two other men on horses were finally able to stop the wild bronc and get the hand untied. The poor cowboy limped across the dirt in a lot of pain, holding his arm like it was a piece of meat.
 
In addition to the cowboys and cowgirls, there are a lot a personalities during the evening. The announcer is the one who sets the tone and can get the crowd riled up. The clown pitches in with his antics. The clown also has additional skills with barrels and bulls. And of course, there is the rodeo queen and royalty. Later in the evening we saw the queen on the front row signing autographs for kids.
 

The many faces of rodeo.

Your typical rodeo includes bareback riding, breakaway roping, tie-down roping, saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling, goat tying for the women, team roping, barrel racing, and bull riding. But sometimes it's the stuff in between that gives it extra flavor. Last night we enjoyed a trick rider who twisted and twirled like a pole dancer, but on a speeding horse. And then there was the mutton-busting. I couldn't help but to think of Kaitlyn. I think I've figured out the secret to a long ride. If you straddle the sheep backwards, lay on your belly, grab the wool, and lock your feet around the sheep's neck, then you can stay on pretty well.
 

A young girl competes in the mutton-busting event.

And the winner is . . .

Saddle bronc is probably my favorite competition. It is similar to the bareback. Even though there is a saddle to sit upon and stirrups for the feet, there is no horn to grab. Instead, all the rider has is a loose rope. Therefore he must be an expert in the balance and rhythm of the horse. Last night we watched as one saddle bronc rider was bucked upside down into the air and landed straight on his head. Pretty bad. The injury put the cowboy writhing on the ground for several minutes. At last he got up and walked away.
 

A cowboy successfully binds a calf in the tie-down roping competition.

Perhaps the most iconic event in rodeo is bull riding. It is certainly the most dangerous. In some aspects, it is slightly disappointing. First of all, the riders are required to wear helmets, at least on the college level. This detracts from the cowboy image. Second, the bulls never make it far from the chute, unlike the horses, who seem to go bucking all across the arena. This makes the action more distant. Then, when you couple this with darkness, it makes photography quite difficult. 

Having said this, bull riding is nothing short of spectacular.  Anyone willing to ride a three-quarter-ton angry bull has a stroke of bravery that I will never have.  The goal of bull riding is to stay on the animal for eight seconds holding onto the flank strap with only one hand.  The bull is the most difficult mount of all rodeo animals.  He is the heaviest, and the only one with horns.  It is the only one that will try charging the cowboy after he has bucked him off.  Hats off to anyone who has the courage to attempt such a feat.  The bull riding event is the perfect finale to any rodeo.

During one of the breaks the announcer walked onto the dirt and drew raffle tickets from a jar. They handed out several twenty dollar bills and tickets to a John Michael Montgomery concert. He read the name and city of each winner. All were local except for one, a man from London, England. I don't know this guy from Adam, but my guess is that he was a tourist visiting the area and saw a poster advertising the rodeo. Good for him! I think far too many people come to our beautiful neck of the woods only to go to the National Parks and take in the beauty of Mother Nature. That's fine to a degree, but in my opinion, to obtain a deeper understanding of the culture, you must get off the far too-beaten tourist trail. ♠

Bull riding is the most dangerous event in rodeo.

Lone Rock

I laid down on the sand and let the waves break on my feet and run up my legs and to the pit of my arms. The sand slithered up the small of my back and down the curves of my shoulders. The sun blared across my chest, warming it quickly, but never able to conquer the splashes of water that constantly sprayed from the waves. These were not ocean waves, but lake waves that constantly rolled in as boats hurried past.
 
I closed my eyes and listened. The ripples of water broke on the shore. Jet skis and motor boats hummed past. My daughters splashed and played in the water. Next to us a group of sunbathers spoke French. Someone blasted hard rock, and “Turn up the Radio” rang across the beach. Suddenly a man spoke to me and I was brought from my reverie. “Would you like to move?” he asked.
 
“What was that?” I responded, opening my eyes.
 
“Would you like to move so we don't hit you with our boat?”
 
I looked up and saw a white motorboat with blue stripes faced in my direction. Of course, I moved.
 
They pulled the boat forward and fastened a rope from the nose to a peg that had been pounded into the ground. The boat joined a long line of jet skis, kayaks, paddle-boards, and swimmers that already lined the shore. This in addition to the tents, canopies, trucks, and R.V.'s a little bit further ashore. This is about what I expected on a hot summer's day at Lone Rock.
 

Earlier Savanah and I took the kayaks and paddled across the bay. We passed the buoys and left the din of the shore, but not the revving hum of the jet boats. When we saw them coming we would rest our paddles and let them pass and then bob up and down as the wake of the water passed beneath us. Then we continued our paddle across the blue waters until we reached the other side.
 
The sand there was softer and I sank to my ankles when I pulled the vessels ashore. We walked in our bare feet over hot rocks and up a solid hillock to a low promontory. From here we could see the long line of people and machines that stretched along the opposite side of the bay. We didn't stay long and paddled back across the bay.
 

We cooked hot dogs and corn on the cob over a propane grill while we watched the orange hues of dusk over the rocks of the lake. We sat in camp chairs and talked and enjoyed the warm breeze and talked about coming again next year.
 

Now night had fallen. Campfires dotted the shoreline. Generators buzzed. Country music blared over the speakers. A dozen different conversations mingled together. Lanterns illuminated card tables. Children played with glow sticks. One camp had Christmas lights. The stars fought hard to punch through the smoky sky, yet Mars shined like a beacon in the south.
 
Our family had laid out a tarp and tonight we slept under the stars. We laid on our bags and felt the warm air and listened to music.
 

About midnight the wind began to pick up. Fine grains of sand sprayed in my face and I covered my head with my bag. I could hear waves crushing on the shore and imagined the boats being tossed like toys.
 
Jenelle was the first to move to the tent, then Kaitlyn followed suit. Savanah joined them while Jenna and I hunkered down outside. Every time I peeked out my bag I was sprayed again with sand.
 
Outside I could hear busy campers fastening tents and securing items that might blow away.
 
At last we gave in also. Jenna and I looked at each other and decided it was time. We tossed our sleeping bags in the tent and in a whipping wind we folded the tarp and felt the sand as it blew with the wind. I looked above at the sky and found it full of stars.
 
I nestled down inside the tent and now enjoyed the howling of the wind outside. Our neighbors behind were still playing their music and I wished they would have turned it off. None of us slept much.
 

When morning came, Jenna poked her head inside the tent. She called me, but the rest of her words faded with the morning fog inside my head. But I knew what she wanted.
 
I climbed out of the tent and found Jenna sitting in a chair on the shore watching the skyline. The large orange disc of the sun had just crested the sandstone cliffs. A long coral streak reflected across the water. Everything was soft. No boats. Barely anyone awake. We watched in awe as the light bid morning to Lone Rock. ♠

Carcassonne Cemetery

Cité de Carcassonne is a fortified citadel that stands upon a hill in southern France. The intact walls and conical towers are reminiscent of Disney. Within the walls are a maze of medieval streets and shops and a castle. Just outside the walls there is a drawbridge, a river, vineyards, and one other thing that caught my attention—a cemetery.
 

Anyone who knows me knows that I love cemeteries. Lately, it seems, I can't pass one up—especially when I'm in France. There are other cemeteries in Carcassonne, particularly in the newer part of town, that are much bigger than this one. But being next to a medieval fortress makes this one unique.
 

Cimetière de la Cité is located on the southeast corner, nearly abutting the old walls. We exited the city through the Porte Narbonnaise and the cemetery was right there. Considering that Carcassonne receives thousands of visitors every day, the cemetery goes largely unvisited.
 

The cemetery is not very big, perhaps four-hundred by two-hundred feet. And the graves are not very old. I expected to find graves dating back hundreds of years, but the earliest burial I found dated to the early 1900's.
 

We wandered through the graveled lanes and slowly observed the rows of mausoleums and memorials. Each plot seemed to hold several family members, maybe four or five. Small trinkets and pictures and flowers were placed atop the stone tombs. The headstones were unique in design, featuring crosses and angels.
 

I don't know much about the history of this cemetery. For me it was a solemn experience to spend half an hour walking among the graves and reflecting upon those who passed on. ♠