Old Cemeteries of North Carolina

Goshen Cemetery.

As you probably already know, I am fascinated with cemeteries and try to visit them wherever I go. North Carolina was no exception. Being an eastern state, I knew that burials would be much older than what I am used to. In Utah (where I live), the earliest known European burials are from the year 1847 when pioneers for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints first arrived in Salt Lake City. In my town the first burial was in 1853. 

My goal in North Carolina was to find the oldest burial possible with a legible inscription. Until now, the oldest I had ever found in the United States was from 1821 in St. Augustine, Florida. I was sure I could do better. 

Our search was confined to the area just west of Charlotte. We only visited a handful of cemeteries, but these were carefully selected. I should add that North Carolina is rich in cemeteries, with each town having at least a couple dozen of their own. 

Lutheran Church in Gastonia, North Carolina.

Lutheran Chapel Cemetery.

Southern Cross to commemorate Confederate soldiers.

We (me and my brother-in-law, Allen) first stopped at a burial ground next to a red-brick Lutheran Church in Gastonia. It was one where he had passed all the time, but had never stopped. Everywhere there were cemeteries next to churches. I don't know the history as to why, but I assume the tradition has been carried down from their European mother countries. 

This cemetery was a good mixture of old and new. We found several names that seemed to repeat throughout the burial yard, probably prominent families in the community and parishioners of that church. Allen pointed out the Southern Cross, a metal placard placed near tombs of Confederate soldiers. 

We found several headstones from the mid-1800's, and finally, toward the end of our short visit, Allen found the oldest one of the day: Miles Lineberger, died in 1840. 

Miles Lineberger, died in 1840.

A couple days later we stopped at the Abee Cemetery, which was just a stone's throw from the Catawba River. At first I thought that “Abee” might be a corruption of the word “Abbey,” indicating that a church once stood there. But I learned that Abee was a surname of a family who is buried there. 

The cemetery was small, with a gray stone fence surrounding it. I couldn't get good pictures because of condensation on my camera lens from the humidity coming off the river. I would wipe it off and instantly it returned. 

We found the oldest grave: Wilmuth Well, a lady who died on January 31, 1818. With each new cemetery we were inching older and older with our dates. 

Wilmuth Well, died in 1818.  Oldest recorded burial in Abee Cemetery.

Just a few minutes away was the Goshen Cemetery. This one was much bigger than the previous two, and also had many more old graves. When headstones are as old as what we were looking for, it is a huge challenge to read them. Most of the writing is eroded and illegible. Luckily, some of them had been replaced in the first half of the last century with a legible stone. But sadly, the reality with most of these cemeteries is that many of the oldest burials are lost to time, some of them not marked at all. 

At Goshen, most of the oldest headstones were thin and made from a darker slate. From a distance they appeared to be wooden. 

Old headstones in the Goshen Cemetery.

It was here we found our first burials from the 18th century. The oldest we found (but surely not the oldest in the cemetery) was the infant son of Samuel and Margaret Lowrie, who died in December of 1790 at the age of seven days. After doing a little research, I learned that Samuel was a Judge of the Superior Court in Mecklenburg County, just east of the Catawba River. Samuel and Margaret had six children, including two more that died as infants who were also buried in the Goshen Cemetery. 

Buried near her infant grandson, the mother of Margaret is also buried at Goshen. On her headstone it reads: “Here lies the body of Mary Jack Alias Alexander who died Nov. 29, 1806 Aged 62 years. She was a loving wife tender & affectionate Mother. She left a tender Husband four Daughters & one Son to regret and lament her death. Their consolation is that she repined not but resigned herself to the will of her God with lively hopes of a saving interest in the merits of his BLOOD.” 

It is certainly a reminder that although the dates on these headstones are from a time in the distant past, they were real people with real families with convictions that still resonate with many today. 

Infant son of Samuel and Margaret Lowrie, died in 1790.

In Lincolnton we explored the Old White Church Cemetery. This cemetery was originally established next to a log church that was later covered with weatherboards and painted white. The old white church no longer exists, but instead, there is a red brick building built right to the edge of the tombstones. 

We knew, from my research on the internet, that there were a handful of graves from the 1700's. Although the cemetery wasn't that big, we had a hard time finding these old graves. 

We pulled out my phone and began comparing photos that were online with those that we saw in real time. It was still difficult to find. Time had taken it's toll. Trees had grown, headstones had toppled and ground had shifted. 

We finally found a few we were looking for. Only a couple were legible. One we would have never found if we didn't have another picture to compare it with. All the writing had eroded. It was the headstone for Henry Summerour, a German immigrant who died in 1792. He joined 29 other Saxon families and moved to Catawba County, North Carolina. Among these families were Christian and Cathorina Zimmerman, who are also buried in the cemetery. 

Old White Church Cemetery.  Henry Summerour's headstone on front, left.  Died in 1792.

Cathorina Zimmerman, a Saxon immigrant from Germany. Died in 1797.

Several miles away, passing farmland, small houses with no fences and quaint little Main Streets is the town of Statesville, North Carolina. In the center of town, surrounded by a rock wall and next to a church, is the Old Fourth Creek Cemetery. As we entered the graveyard we were lucky enough to meet a man named Scott Stevenson. 

Scott was coming from the church to his vehicle when he saw us and decided to see if we had any questions. Yes, we did! 

He was probably in his late 60's, wore a brimmed hat and gray beard. After talking to him, I think he might be the most knowledgeable person alive on the Fourth Creek Cemetery. 

Old Fourth Creek Cemetery in Statesville, North Carolina.

Gravestone of Samuel Steel who died in 1782. Old Fourth Creek Cemetery.

He taught us that all the headstones with an American flag next to them represent soldiers who fought in the Revolutionary War. It's hard for me to imagine such an old war being fought here, but several battles were indeed fought in both North and South Carolina. 

He also pointed out the Southern Cross that had been inscribed into some of the headstones of Confederate soldiers. The inscriptions were fading, but you could still see them. Many of these headstones had a unique shape to distinguish them from the others. He said that recently someone placed little Confederate flags next to each soldier's graves. Personally, he didn't have a problem with it, but he removed them all so they did draw attention of vandals. 

He told us the story of Tom Dooley, a Confederate soldier who murdered a lady. He was later tried and hanged. A ballad was later written about the story and made famous by The Kingston Trio. The doctor who pronounced Tom Dooley dead is buried in this cemetery. 

Dr. Wesley Campbell, the man who pronounced dead Tom Dooley.

Scott spends much of his time taking care of old graves. While we were there he broke off a twig from a nearby bush and used it's leaves to sweep off a flat headstone that was becoming covered with dirt. He said there are several old headstones he has found by prodding around in the grass. 

Then he took us to the opposite side of the cemetery. There, in a neat line was a row of headstones. The one on the far right was for William and Margaret Archibald. “She (refering to Margaret) died in 1759,” he said. “This is the oldest burial in the cemetery.” 

The legible headstone with her name and death dates was made in the early 1900's. Set in front was the original stone, just the top half, with all the writing completely eroded away. 

Scott explained to us that Mrs. Archibald was definitely buried in this area, but perhaps not exactly below the headstone. “Over the years,” he said, “people have come in and straightened up the headstones and made them a neat row, not caring if they moved it a bit.” 

Well, we had found our oldest grave! 

Neatly aligned headstones at the Old Fourth Creek Cemetery.

Margaret Archibald, died in 1759. Oldest burial in the cemetery.

On our way out, Scott asked me why I loved cemeteries so much. I told him because it represented history, and oftentimes it was the only physical reminder we had left. “Old structures such as buildings are knocked down and new ones built in their place, but headstones will always be there.” 

He said there's a word out there for someone who loves headstones and cemeteries. It is a “taphophile.” That's an odd word I had never heard before. But it would be an apt description of myself. ♠

 

Old Fourth Creek Cemetery in 1911. (photo courtesy of Scott Stevenson)

 

Eating Ethiopian

I've had a small fascination for Ethiopia that, until now, has never been explored. 

I remember back in the 80's watching infomercials on television trying to raise money for “starving kids in Ethiopia.” I still have images in my mind of a gaunt black boy, with flies buzzing around his large head. Those were my first impression of this African country. 

Later I recall seeing it mentioned in the Old Testament as early as the second chapter in Genesis. There are also some who claim the Queen of Sheba was a native of Ethiopia. In my mind I conjured images similar to Egypt, with mud buildings and palm trees. I didn't know if either one of those images were accurate, but my curiosity had been piqued. 

But I suppose my curiosity was overshadowed by more popular civilizations—namely those in Europe and Asia. Speaking from a traveling point of view, I knew that Ethiopia wasn't exactly a tourist paradise. As a result, my interest for Ethiopia was never pursued. 

Ethiopian Restaurant.

I was excited to learn of an Ethiopian Restaurant in Salt Lake City. Until know, I hadn't even considered that an Ethiopian Restaurant existed. But I was excited. It would give me a chance to experience a bit of their culture without having to go there. 

I entered the restaurant and was met by an enthusiastic man in dreadlocks, who spoke good English, but with a hint of foreign accent. His dark skin allowed me to reasonably assume his heritage came from Africa. 

Several murals covered the walls, including one of a village and a man herding cows. I saw mud huts and palm trees, which helped validate my earlier assumptions. There was also a poster with the Amharic alphabet, an Arabian-like script used in Ethiopia. 

The menu included many foods I had never heard of, and included Ethiopian beer, coffee, and a honey wine called Tej. I just stuck with water. 

Sambusa stuffed with lentils.

I was so excited to try this new cuisine that I ordered more than I could eat. As an appetizer, I ordered sambusa, which is a fried pastry stuffed with a lentil mixture. It was served with a spicy cilantro or jalapeño sauce. 

For my main course I ordered the Taste of Mahider, described on the menu as “a dazzling array of doro wot, siga wot, alicha, and vegetarian dishes arranged on a large serving tray.” To say it is served on a tray is a little misleading. More accurately, it is served on a large piece of injera. 

In Ethiopia, injera is served with everything. In texture it is like a thick croissant, being spongy and rubbery, but with a sour flavor. The meats and sauces are then piled on top. In all, I had eleven different samples on my injera.

I can't even begin to describe what most of them tasted like. One seemed like a simple concoction of peppers and onions. Another tasted like spinach. But most were curries, either of vegetables or meat.

The alicha is a curry made of yellow split peas, onions, garlic, ginger, tumeric and other spices. I remember this one as having a pleasant mild taste. The siga wot is a red-colored beef curry with a ton of flavor and very delicious. My favorite was the doro wot, which consisted of a single drumstick cooked in a hot sauce of butter, onion, chilli, cardamom and berbere. It was placed right in the middle of the dish. 

Mural on the wall at Ethiopian Restaurant.

I couldn't tell you the name of any of the other piles of food on that piece of bread. One was a cheese, possibly feta cheese. Another seemed like stewed or pickled cabbage. The rest, I would say, fell into the category of a curry. All were very flavorful and most I liked. 

In Ethiopia, they don't use utensils. Instead, they use the injera. Using only the right hand (using the left is considered disrespectful), they tear off a piece, then use it to grab the food. Trying to follow suit, I did likewise. They gave me an extra piece, so I started with that, breaking off a section, then scooping up or grabbing the piles of food. When I ran out of my extra piece, I began to tear off strips of the injera from my plate, first from the outside edges. The best part came when all that was left was the curry-soaked injera in the middle. That was a true delight. 

This meal was so big, I couldn't even finish. 

If I get another chance to come to this Ethiopian restaurant, I will do it in a heartbeat. Now that I've tasted this culinary curiosity, I am determined to pursue a greater understanding of this mysterious (to me) African country. Perhaps one day I will even go there. ♠

Sampling of Ethiopian foods served on injera.

 

Indian Peaks

There's always been something about the Indian Peak Range that has intrigued me. I can see it everyday as I drive home from work. It looms in the far distance—mysterious, enticing. The peak itself rises like a pyramid, and although it is 58 miles away, it is pronounced and prominent. I've been out there a couple times, but the area is so vast and so remote that I have barely scratched the surface. 

Rob and I drove out yesterday evening. It is a long drive—2 hours and 15 minutes to be exact, nearly all on dirt roads. By the time we reached our campsite we had seen wild horses in the distance, three antelope sprinting across the road, a group of deer disappear into the scrub oak, a lone coyote run up the hillside, and a small herd of cow elk disperse ahead of us. Every animal we saw seemed skittish. 

Wild horses.

Our drive was a lonely one. We didn't pass a single vehicle. There was the occasional cabin, and cattle all over the place. What a dry, dusty place to put a cow! Water would have to be hauled in. 

Indian Peaks is full of criss-crossing paths with interesting names like Rustlers Road, Jockey Road, Cougar Spar and Arrowhead Pass. We turned from one road to the next as we climbed in elevation. Juniper trees were replaced with scrub oak and the occasional pine. Here is where we saw the elk. 

Indian Peak.

I thought the knob on this hill had a SMALL resemblance to the Devil's Tower in Wyoming.

We chose to camp beneath the shadows of Indian Peak. The wind had been blowing all day and here was no exception. To the north-east ran a prominent butte that attracted the eye. The top of it reminded me of the Devil's Tower in Wyoming. To the east sat a wide valley with another mountain range on the other side. We still hadn't seen another soul. It was a lovely place to be. 

The sun was already setting by the time we set up camp. The wind was brisk. Rob had a big piece of plywood he fitted to the bed of his truck to cover the ribs. He placed a tarp over that, then a thick foam mattress. We slept on the pad in the bed of his truck that night, under the stars. We heard a couple of coyotes barking, but the wind was too swift to hear much. 

We slept in the back of Rob's truck.

As I slept that night I thought about the Paiutes who used to live out here. It seems like such a remote place to live when you're traveling on foot. Somewhere out here is a Paiute cemetery. I once asked an elder where it was and he wouldn't tell me. He said it was mostly over-grown with sage brush and would be hard to find. They plan on letting it be reclaimed by nature. 

The Paiutes roamed this area and considered many places sacred. Somewhere in this area is a rock called “po-ar-imp timp,” a stone believed to possess magical healing powers. The Indians would come to the place of the rock and camp several days. After putting a pebble from their home creek onto this magical rock, they would place their sick atop where they would miraculously be healed. 

Another such stone had the opposite effect. It was called Death Rock and was located in a different location in the Indian Peak Range. This was a flat rock about twenty feet across, and it is said that if you bedded down here at night, you'd not wake up alive. Not only did healthy men die here, but sometimes they would bring their elderly who couldn't keep up with the movements of the tribe. They would make a bed on the rock and by morning would be enjoying their “happy hunting grounds.” 

We slept in the back of Rob's truck. 

That night I had a dream that a bobcat jumped on top of my bag. I literally tried yelling for Rob to get it off, but my voice and body were paralyzed. The wind continued to howl and played all sorts of games with my mind. 

Morning came and I stayed in my bag long enough for the sun to warm the air. We ate a bowl of granola in the cab of the truck and then packed up. 

Beginning our hike to the top of Indian Peak.

Today would be the day I would climb to the top of Indian Peak. I had dreamt of it for a long time. I have asked a lot of people and have never met anyone else who has climbed it. Was it too remote? Too insignificant? Too hard? 

For me there was a fascination with the peak. I don't know why. It doesn't even top 10,000 feet. I don't know that it is on anyone else's bucket list. Usually if I ask anyone about Indian Peak they will ask, “Where's that at?” 

So we packed up camp and drove a couple more miles along the dirt road until we were on the north side of the peak. For some reason or a fence cuts the peak in half, running all the way from the north side to the south. Our hike would be easy if we just followed the fence . . . or so we thought. 

View looking east.

Mountain range running north.

There was never an easy moment on this hike. Although the line between the beginning and the peak was only one mile, the true path to get there was extremely steep, full of bush-whacking. 

Even before we began the ascent, Rob knew he had made a mistake wearing shorts. By the time we had covered a third of a mile, the skin below his knees was marked with bloody scrapes. 

We sat down on a rock and rested for a few minutes. The path to this point was intermittent, and probably nothing more than a game trail. It more or less followed the fence, but growth of mountain mahogany and thickets choked out much of the path. 

Trail getting steep.

We dropped into a small saddle and then the slope really got steep. Any semblance of a path disappeared. 

It was at this point that Rob decided to turn back. The decision was not made lightly. If a medical emergency were to happen with me, I would be difficult to find. The hike was proving to be too much for Rob. 

I continued on, determined not to stop until I reached the summit. At this elevation the wildflowers grew in abundance, their delicate petals being whipped in the wind. 

I made my way back to the fence-line and was pleasantly surprised to find a trail. By now the steep route passed through pine trees. It was a sign I was getting higher in elevation. I startled a lone pine hen and it flapped into the air. 

This stretch of the climb required all my effort. As you may recall, I have had several health issues this last year and intense sport has been something I have struggled to do. Climbing uphill has been difficult. In fact, this hill right now was undoubtedly the toughest hill I had climbed all year. 

I was determined there would be no medical emergency. At the same time, however, I could see little yellow dots floating in the air. At another time I felt light-headed. But I pushed ahead, hoping the summit was soon. 

. . . and at last I arrived! 

Indian Peak summit, elevation 9790 feet.

Geological survey marker.

From the summit looking south.

The summit of Indian Peak stands only at 9,790 feet above sea level. As expected, I was the only one up there. The wind blew furiously. From the top I could see a lot of mountains and valleys that I didn't know the name of . . . except Wheeler Peak in the Snake Range. That was in the northwest, covered in a haze of dust. 

I laid down and took a five-minute nap. It was a difficult, but satisfying one-mile climb. In that one mile I ascended nearly 2,000 feet. Nothing shabby about that. 

I took a final look at the territory below. Remote and isolated. How did the Indians live here without even a horse? But it seemed like a great place for a deer to live. Plenty of room to wander and plenty of time to let their antlers grow thick and wide. Maybe that's why the Indians stayed out here. ♠

 

 

Range Creek

The flyer stated in bold letters: 

“Please understand, the road to Range Creek is dirt and unimproved over difficult terrain. Even the threat of inclement weather will result in the tour being canceled.” 

They weren't kidding! 

We traveled up the steep sinuous road to the top of the Tavaputs Plateau in two white vans. We left the pavement near the abandoned buildings of the Horse Canyon Mine. Almost immediately the road began to climb, leaving one side exposed to a long drop-off. 

And yes, it did rain hard the day before and the dirt road was still damp with moisture. As we got higher in elevation we came across large puddles in the road. The path was narrow, offering no room for oncoming traffic. It was a good thing that we saw no other vehicles this day. 

Our destination was difficult and remote. The Tavaputs Plateau is rugged, with much of it being inaccessible. To have a road cut to the top and then continue on the back side is—in my mind—an engineering miracle. 

I couldn't imagine getting caught here during a downpour. It would be fatal. It was now late June and the monsoon season was knocking at the door. To say the least, the drive up was a little nerve-racking.

View from the summit on the Tavaputs Plateau. If you look closely, you can see the road we drove up.

We arrived at the summit and the vans pulled to the side to allow us to get out and enjoy the view. We had grand views on both the north and south sides. Toward the north we saw the road we had just traveled come up and out of Horse Canyon. On the south we saw Little Horse Canyon and where it flowed into Range Creek. 

Mary, a sweet old lady in her seventies, began sobbing on her husband's shoulder. She had sat in the passenger seat and the front-row view scared her to death. Her panic attack left her in tears. 

Now it was time to drive down Little Horse Canyon to the confluence of Range Creek. This was our destination, or at least the beginning of our destination. 

Near the gate to Range Creek.

Access to Range Creek is by permit only. There are only a few permits allowed each day; and unless you do a driving tour like us, you have to park at the entry gate and walk in on foot. Certainly we were the privileged few to see the canyon. 

I had two purposes for coming to Range Creek. First was to catch a glimpse of an untouched archeological paradise. As I will reveal later, a vast amount of Indian artifacts and structures in this area have been left undisturbed. Before coming here I imagined walking into stone structures and finding intact pots, matates, manos, arrowheads, sandals and other artifacts. Everything, I imagined, would be left in situ. 

My second reason for coming was a little deeper. It was an opportunity to become reacquainted with my brother-in-law, Kirt. You see, we had the idea of doing this trip ten years ago. Unfortunately, he and my wife's sister got a divorce and our plans fizzled away. We remained friends of Facebook, but our in-person contact became nonexistent. 

Then, when I became diagnosed with cancer eight months ago, I made a commitment that I would rekindle some of the friendships I had let die. Kirt was always someone whose friendship I appreciated. We contacted each other and resurrected our trip to Range Creek. 

Locomotive Rock in Range Creek Canyon.

To enter Range Creek Canyon we had to pass through a locked gate. From this point forward there are only a limited amount of people allowed each day. Aside from our small group, we saw no other guests.

We drove an easy dirt road along the canyon floor, passing oak brush, chokecherry, and a flock of turkeys. We pulled to the side of the road and all got out. Our guide pointed to a spot high on a cliff where a patch of rock was of a slightly different color than the rest of the rocks. The out-of-place stone structure was difficult to find, and almost impossible to see with the naked eye. We used binoculars to discern the exact location. This stone structure was a Fremont granary. The Fremont used this small, inaccessible building to store their corn, protecting it from invading enemies, including mice and other thieving tribes. 

Can you spot the granary?

A distant pictograph at Range Creek.

Then we directed our gaze to a small alcove to the left of the granary. Once again indiscernible to the naked eye, we found a red-painted pictograph inside the alcove. Further to the left of that, behind a tree, stood another pictograph, this one large and white. 

We repeated this process two more times: a distant granary and petroglyphs or pictographs. As someone who is accustomed to walking and climbing in rough terrain, it was difficult for me to stay with the group and look through binoculars. All of them, however, were in difficult terrain and would take significant time to reach. But that was part of the intrigue. 

Muddy road at the bottom of Range Creek Canyon.

Who were these mysterious people that built these structures? 

The answer to that is largely unknown. We don't know where they came from or where they went. But they lived in the area of Central Utah and eastern Nevada over 1,000 years ago. We have given them the name of Fremont, not designating them as a people, but as a culture. 

The Fremont Culture had many similarities and lived contemporaneously with the Anasazi, but archeologists consider them a distinct group. While the Fremont grew corn and made pottery like the Anasazi, they lived in pithouses rather than cliff dwellings. 

A partially collapsed Fremont granary.

At one point on our tour we stopped at a large meadow in the canyon. Big rocks lay strewn across the ground, many in noticeable rings. These, our guide told us, were once pithouses that have since collapsed and decayed away. This was once a village. When archeologists first came across this field they found arrowheads, beads, pottery, and archaic tool remnants strewn all over. They allowed us to walk through the field, but if we were to find anything, not to pick it up. —Guess what? I didn't find a thing. 

I wasn't going to pick anything up anyway, but it was a little disappointing to not see anything—especially knowing that not many people are allowed access into the canyon. Where I grew up, I used to walk out in the hills and sometimes find pottery all over the place, especially if there were dwellings nearby. I can see why the archeologists would need to collect several artifacts for study, but I don't understand why they should “vacuum” clean the entire area. If I did that, I'd get arrested! 

We continued down the road in our big white vans. Our guide was extremely nice and everyone on the tour friendly and personable. In our van there was an elderly couple from Colorado, as well as a mother/daughter combination from Evanston, Wyoming. 

Range Creek runs northwest to southeast, and empties into the Green River. When I say that it is remote and rugged, I'm not kidding. When considering how the Fremont got there, I asked if they traveled via the river. Our guide didn't think so, stating that the river is very rugged in that area, with some areas where the water runs cliff to cliff, such as Desolation Canyon. 

Instead, she theorized that they traveled the same way as the early settlers. From modern-day Woodside, the early settlers traveled a trail that meandered along the Price River, then up Trail Canyon where they went up and over the Mesa before dropping into Turtle Canyon. From there they entered Range Creek. 

Natural arch on skyline as seen through a dirty van window.

The first known person of European descent to enter Range Creek was Augustus Ferron. He came around 1885 as a government surveyor. He was the one for whom the town of Ferron is named. 

It is said that when he first came to Range Creek the grass was hip-high. He knew it would be ideal for cattle. He found some partners and formed the Range Valley Cattle Company and they ran cattle all through the canyon and across the plateau into Nine Mile Canyon. 

During these early days a cabin was built, as well as a blacksmith shop, corral, and chicken coop. They planted alfalfa and built irrigation ditches using water from Range Creek. They grew a garden of potatoes, corn, watermelon, string beans, squash, lettuce and pumpkins. They also planted fruit trees that included apple, plum, pear, peach and mulberry. 

Preston Nutter and friend. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

In 1902, the ranch was sold to a cattle baron named Preston Nutter. He had come from Colorado (and originally from back east) and also ran cattle on the Arizona Strip. Of Preston Nutter it was said that he always rode a mule and was a “cantankerous old fart.” Although he never lived in Range Creek, he had a cabin built for his cowboys. 

We drove down the road and came to an old stone house. All four walls, about six feet high, remained intact, except for a section that had collapsed. The roof was gone except for a couple beams that had fallen against the walls. A corrugated sheet of metal sat on the ground. A hollow doorway allowed easy entrance to the empty structure. No wooden floor, just dirt and wild grass. Within the rock walls I counted three open apertures for windows. Still intact on the north side was a stone fireplace and chimney. On the south side an inscription on the outside wall read: “J. Dario[li]—1939.” 

Stone house of John Darioli, an Italian immigrant.

Inscription on the outside wall of the house from 1939.

John Darioli arrived fresh off a boat from Italy. And just when Preston Nutter thought he had clear title to the entire Range Creek area, John Darioli filed on two of his properties, one of them being where he eventually built this stone house around 1927. Nutter took Darioli to court where the cattle baron lost to the Italian homesteader. 

Shortly afterward, one of the large houses on the homestead burned to the ground. According to legend, mule tracks were found leading away from the scene of the crime. Darioli was convinced that Nutter was out to kill him. In an effort to preserve his life, John Darioli began sleeping in rock overhangs.

Several years later, after having changed hands several times, the Darioli property was sold to Henning Olsen and his son, Lloyd. In 1947 Lloyd shot himself in the stone house where Darioli once lived.

Range Creek petroglyph.

Old mining cart with the name "Jenny" spray-painted on the side.

Range Creek Canyon slowly meanders south or south-east. We stopped at another set of petroglyphs. Finally we were allowed to walk up close. On the skyline, high up on the rim of the canyon, we passed an interesting arch. I had to wonder how many people had ever walked to the arch. We also passed an old mining cart that was near the road with the word “Jenny” painted on the front side. I don't remember the full story, but I believe it was painted by Waldo Wilcox and it was him drawing sarcastic attention to a lady named Jenny who was forcing him to remove a bunch of mining carts they had at the ranch. 

After a couple hours of riding on dirt roads in a caravan of two white vans, we finally arrived at Range Creek Ranch. Here, the canyon walls seemed to open up. The soil had been plowed, cabins built, a house constructed and a garden grown. A half-dozen cars were parked in front. It almost felt like we were in civilization, but we were still roughly six miles from the Green River.

Old structures at the ranch in Range Creek.

Farming tool hung for decoration.

My mind couldn't help but to imagine what it would be like to live here, especially a hundred years ago. If we were to run out of food, or if there were an emergency, or if a deep snow blocked us in—there would be nothing we could do. Out here, everything you used would have to either be self-produced, or hauled in on mule or burro. As I mentioned, the old trail came in from Woodside. The road that we came in on wasn't built until 1947. 

We unloaded at the ranch where we set bread, mayo, meat, avocados, tomatoes and other condiments on a table to build our own sandwiches. There were bathrooms inside an old building that was designed as a bunkhouse to board guests that would come to visit or hunt. An old cabin now served as a small museum with photos of some of the former occupants. Next to that was a house. I don't know who lives there now, but there are several people on site who make archeological surveys. 

Joe Wing, an avid chronicler of Range Creek's history. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

As we sat down to eat, we were fed the history of Range Creek, from Augustus Ferron to Preston Nutter to John Darioli and Budge Wilcox. The lady (I can't remember her name) spoke fondly of Joe Wing, the nephew of one of the original owners. Joe Wing came from Ohio and was extremely enthusiastic to take on his new role as cowboy. He wrote descriptive letters back to his family about his wild adventure in the West. Thanks to his writings we know a lot about the early days of Range Creek. 

The history of Range Creek is much more complex than what I describe here. I am sure I have made a mistake or two. Put succinctly, property ownership changed hands several times and many battles were fought in court. 

This old cabin is now used as a small museum.

In the early 1950's, the majority of Range Creek was sold by the Nutter Corporation to the Wilcox family, which included the father, Budge, and his two sons, Don and Waldo. They originally ran a ranch on the east side of the Green River in a place called Florence Creek. But when the government decided to expand the Ute Reservation, the Wilcox's had to find a new place to run their cattle. 

After buying the property at Range Creek, they made several improvements, including a log cabin and bunkhouse. In 1959 through '62 they built a “pink house” to live in. They planted corn, potatoes, alfalfa and more fruit trees. 

Waldo Wilcox. (photo by Kirt Nunley)

When Budge died in 1981, the property was split between his two sons, Don taking the portion on the Tavaputs Plateau, and Waldo taking the lower section with the ranch. 

In 2000, Waldo Wilcox sold the property to the State of Utah. Originally it was intended as a hunting area, but as it was surveyed, it soon became apparent that the richer heritage of Range Creek was the archeological record. In 2009 the state transferred title to the University of Utah. The university's archeological investigation continues this day. 

Why were archeological sites at Range Creek so remarkably preserved? 

The current road was built in 1947. In 1951 when the Wilcox's bought the property from the Nutter Corporation, it was decided to keep the road private. The main corridor of the canyon was locked with gates at both ends, inadvertently protecting it from the outside world. Some of the Fremont archeological sites, I am sure, were explored by Waldo Wilcox, but the majority of the property was way too vast for him to make much headway. And, I believe, he had more interest in ranching. Therefore, only one family had access to the canyon. Fewer people meant less destruction. 

There are over 500 sites recorded from the top of the pass to the river, including some sites “in some absolute crazy places.” Only 10% of the canyon has been surveyed. Most of the sites tend to be concentrated in the middle rather than near the river. 

Fremont granary.

After a filling lunch and good instruction, it was time to pack up and go. We still had a long haul out. We stopped at a meadow strewn with the remains of pithouses. We were also shown another hard-to-find granary and petroglyph on a distant cliff wall. 

There's a lot more to Range Creek than I will probably ever know. My dad said he remembers hunting there as a young boy. My grandpa went to school with Waldo Wilcox and may have gotten permission that way. My uncle tells me that Butch Cassidy rode through Range Creek, but never used it as a hiding place. I would imagine that the Utes used this canyon quite extensively. Much of the canyon's past is shrouded in mystery. 

Foundation of a Fremont pithouse.

A Fremont village once stood in this meadow in Range Creek.

We finally made it back to the paved road leading into Horse Canyon without a single rainstorm washing out the road. My mind lingered with impressions of Range Creek. I arrived at two distinct and distant conclusions: 

First, I wouldn't have traded this experience for anything. To be able to spend the day with my brother-in-law was priceless. And to be able to be in the canyon and have tangible dirt, rocks and trees that I could now associate with this formidable place is something I have always desired. I also learned a lot of history. 

But, second, I was a little disappointed. I expected to see ruin after ruin filled with artifacts. I saw none of that. Does everything really need to be packed up and stored in a box in a warehouse? And the petroglyphs and granaries we saw were at a distance, through binoculars. That's just not my style.

I am definitely glad I did it. The guides on the tour were excellent and very friendly.  But I wouldn't do it again unless I had free-reign to explore some places on my own. ♠