Sunset at Ragged Point

Rolling green hills dazzled our view on the east side, larger mountains behind them, with a mist of fog at the summit. The last rays of sunlight cast slanted beams and long shadows onto the landscape. 

To the west we had spattered views of the coast. I drove around a curve in the road when I spotted an area just large enough to pull over. Amidst the trees and scrub, I discovered a slit in the growth. I sent Jenna to investigate. Two minutes later she returned with a thumbs-up. It was doable. 

We entered the growth of trees and hiked on what could only be considered half a trail. In many places it was wide enough only for one foot with growth from either side covering the path. 

But the smells were incredible! A sweet flowery fragrance prevailed, but also the pungent scent of bark and pine needles. The breeze that blew off from the ocean and up and over the cliffs added to the bouquet. 

The trail felt as if it was solely ours, as if it were once used as a secret hideout years ago, but then abandoned and now rediscovered by us. 

We found an old fire pit, built of stones beneath a canopy of trees. It reminded me of a wooden cave⸺a perfect place to roll out sleeping bags, build a fire and listen to the crashing waves. 

We continued on our newly-found trail, which now opened up into scrubland atop a seaside bluff. Purple and yellow flowers grew on bushes that came to my chest. I walked with haste, knowing exactly what was coming. 

Then we arrived. 

Nature's beauty unfolded before us. We stood atop a blustery cliff and below us the Pacific Ocean stretched eternally toward the horizon. 

Waves systematically crashed into the rocks below. Distant sea-stacks and cliffs appeared as silhouettes. The sun now sat perfectly on the horizon as if she were waiting for us before dipping down. 

Rugged mountains stood in the north, their steep slopes impressive, even at this distance. Every hillside was a different shade of blue. 

All around was beauty and all I wanted to do was gather it up and put it in a bottle. Gales of wind came up from off the ocean, bringing an uncomfortable chill. Within minutes the sun was gone and that uncomfortable chill became more poignant. 

We enjoyed a few more minutes, breathing in the fresh air and taking in a sight that was seldom seen. We returned the way we came, but left our hearts at the bluff-top. ♠ 

 

Jenelle's picture with her phone.

 

The Dog

Author's note: In an attempt to preserve some of the stories and culture of the United States Postal Service, I will occasionally share a post such as this. I wrote this on April 13, 2010 and it took place at 168 E. College Avenue in Cedar City, Utah. As mail carriers, we face dogs all the time and sometimes things don't end so well. 

 

I stepped outside my mail vehicle with a watermelon-sized parcel in my hand with the words “Fragile” written all over. The mail slot was inserted through a lattice wall that separated the sidewalk from the three apartments inside the fence. This package I would have to deliver to the door.

I turned off my truck, slid the door shut, locked it, and slid the key ring onto my middle finger. Having had to deliver a certified letter here a few weeks ago, I was somewhat familiar with the premises inside this mini-compound. There was a large fence that surrounded the perimeter of all three apartments. But to get to these apartments, another gate and fence had to be traversed. None of the apartments showed a number, so I had no idea which door I was looking for. 

I entered through the second gate and slid shut the latch behind me. I saw a door in front of me and another to my right and debated which one I should knock on. I walked over to the door on the right and glanced through the adjacent window which gave the appearance of vacant lodging. No furniture, no shelves. Just carpet and empty walls. 

As I turned to my left, I noticed the stir of a white animal in front of the far apartment. Suddenly, a crazy mongrel swept towards me, barking violently with every step until he was right in front of my body. I didn't know what else to do so I kicked him hard on the side of the face. This knocked him back and sidewards, but I was hoping he would whimper and run away. He didn't. He was mad. The roaring from his throat became more intense and he turned back towards me. I about lost the package as I kicked him, as well as the keys that were around my finger. I readjusted the parcel and slipped the keys off of my finger and into the chest pocket of my shirt. The package I held out, my arms mostly extended, and at the level of the dog's face. 

He was a stocky mutt, a body builder if there was such among dogs. His white fur was short and clean, but about all I took notice of was his mouth and teeth. His bark echoed in the little breeze-way where we stood, he and I face to face. He didn't stop. His jaw and teeth incessantly moved up and down like one of those little toys you saw as a kid, a skull that you could wind up and watch the mouth chatter. I didn't know if his mouth was vibrating or if it was the pulsating inside my head. 

I didn't know what to do. No one seemed to be home because surely they would have heard the din and rushed out. I searched around for anything to grab, something that I could throw at him or jab him with: a chair, weights from a dumbbell set, a rock. Maybe the package. But every time that I would lean towards the rock or the weights, the dog stepped forward. He was looking for his opportunity to lunge and wrap his sharp fangs around my leg. 

By this time, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. Perhaps we would stand off all day long until somebody came to my rescue. The gate that held the route for my escape was probably fifteen feet away. 

I took a step towards him and was pleased to see him step back. His intensity didn't quit, however, as his high-pitched cries shrilled from his mouth. The corners of his lips pulled back and his white teeth, all as sharp as knives, looked ready to bite me. 

Once again I stepped towards him, and again he stepped back with his rear leg, and again I did it and this time he almost fell to his haunches. I didn't take my eyes off him though, because I knew that once I did, he would be on my leg quicker than a bear on a salmon. 

At last I was at the gate and with my left hand I felt behind me and unlatched the lock and slid my left leg and then my body through the opening and into safety. Quickly I fumbled around shutting the gate and latching the lock and still the hound was within the walls yapping and growling and mad. But I was out and safe. Now all I would need was time to let my heartbeat return to normal. ♠

Angel Moroni in the Manti Temple

Recently I attended an open-house for the Manti Temple. I was extremely excited because this was one of the original pioneer temples of the church and it was only the second time in its 135-year history that it had been open to the public for tours. 

I drove three hours to get there and when I did there was a long line that stretched to the north of this regal structure. As I waited for over an hour, I met several people from all over the state who had also traveled great distances. 

For those who have never seen it, the Manti Temple is arguably one of the most spectacular structures in all of Utah. Whether you're driving from the north or south, the temple stands as majestically as a medieval castle, perched atop a hill overlooking the small town of Manti. It took eleven years to build, constructed in a day with no modern tools. Instead, it was built by pioneer grit, bolstered by the strength of their faith. Built by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, it was the second temple completed in Utah 

Imposing sight of the Manti Temple as seen from the south side of town.

On a personal note, I have a familial connection with the Sanpete Valley. My great-great-great- grandfather, Charles Shumway, was among the very first settlers who entered the valley in 1849. The virgin land had yet to be tilled. As one might expect, there were conflicts with local Utes that lead to deaths on both sides. Even though Charles moved on by the time construction began on the temple, he played a vital role in the beginnings of that community. 

But as I waited in the long line, my mind was drawn to another story of the Manti Temple. 

Several years ago I had a man whom I'd never met get a hold of me. His name was Bernie Johnson and we were distant cousins. He had a binder full of stories that he wanted to share, most of his ancestors. One of them that was of particular interest was that of his great-great-grandfather, Jons Peter Ahlstrom.

Jons Peter Ahlstrom.

Peter, as he was known, was born in 1835 in Malmö, Sweden to Ole Nilsson Ahlström and Ingeborg Månsdotter. Around the year 1854 the family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. By 1855 they began their journey to America to join the Saints in Zion. 

Their treacherous journey to the Salt Lake Valley took nearly four years. In that time they traveled by boat, train and foot. During their crossing of the Atlantic Ocean, they experienced “heavy seas and hurricane weather,” their boat catching fire and a collision with another vessel. 

In Burlington, Iowa they paused their trip because they were out of money. Father Ole Ahlstrom obtained a job felling trees, but was killed when one rolled on top of him, fracturing his skull. This left Peter, at the age of 21, in charge helping his widowed mother. 

While in Burlington, Peter married a young woman named Mary Larsen. Their first baby died after ten days. When their second baby was nine weeks old they had enough money to finish the trip west. Mary walked the entire way to Utah holding the baby in her arms except when crossing rivers. They reached the Salt Lake Valley in August of 1859. 

Brigham Young advised them to move to the Sanpete Valley. They arrived a couple weeks later at Fort Ephraim where that winter they lived in a cellar Peter had dug. He built a fireplace and chimney and covered the cellar with willows, straw and dirt. The following summer they were able to build themselves a one-room adobe house, of which they were very pleased. 

This is not intended to be a detailed biography of Peter Ahlstrom's life. Suffice it to say, they lived a very hard life on the frontier, although throughout the years they gradually increased their level of comfort. One thing that enabled this was when Peter was able to procure his own tools, allowing him to take up once again his trade of carpenter and cabinetmaker which he had learned before leaving Sweden. He eventually built the family a larger home which included an orchard and livestock. 

Black and white of Manti Temple.

This brings us to the point in Peter's life that is relevant to our topic. By 1877 construction was beginning on the Manti Temple. Peter was employed as a carpenter and thus he built a little shed where he could keep his tools and sleep. During the eleven years of construction, Peter would work at the temple for six days. Each day one of his daughters would walk from Ephraim to give him food for lunch and supper. Then on Saturday evening he would walk the seven miles home so he could be with his family on Sunday. This would cause him great pain and fatigue because several years earlier he had an accident which left him lame. On Monday morning he would return to Manti where he would repeat the process. 

I will now quote the story Bernie gave me: 

“Peter was assigned as 'overseer' of the temple complex. After the roof was on the temple, Peter slept each night in a room in the basement. The night following the private dedication, Peter remembered he had left the window of a room on an upper floor open. He lit his one-candle powered lantern and hobbled up the stairs to close the window. Returning to go back to his room, he paused at the hallway to the sealing rooms. He starred in awe and amazement. His little candle could cause a few shadows to flicker on the walls for a few feet. A beam of light shimmered from the narrow gap under the closed door of the sealing room at the end of the hall. It was far brighter than any artificial light Peter had ever seen. The only thing Peter could compare it to was a beam of sunlight—a single beam of brilliant sunlight penetrating the darkness. 

“With fear and trepidation Peter approached the door, unlocked it, and slowly opened it. Standing above the alter he saw a personage clothed in white robes. A brilliant light surrounded him and filled the whole room. Shutting the door behind him, he hastily hurried back down the hallway, down more stairs, and into the doorway of President Daniel H. Wells' office. It was well after midnight; President Wells was probably the only other mortal still in the temple. 

“Trembling and quite frightened, Peter stammered: 'President Wells, there's an angel . . ., there is an angel . . .' Peter was unable to say more. President Wells calmly replied: 'Peter, no one needs to fear to see an angel of the Lord. It is not given to everyone to see them. But this is Moroni's temple and he has been here all day.'” 

For anyone unfamiliar with the history of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, Moroni was a central figure in the Book of Mormon and lived approximately 400 A.D. Later, as a resurrected being, he appeared several times to Joseph Smith, not only instructing him, but also leading him to the golden plates, from which Joseph would translate the Book of Mormon. 

Depiction of the angel Moroni visiting the boy Joseph Smith. (photo courtesy of Church Newsroom)

There are several stories in the Manti area of the angel Moroni. Some have been passed down as family stories while others have been nearly lost. Some are nowadays probably considered as folklore or myths. But the truth is that there are many accounts and many are first-hand. There is no doubt in my mind that most of them are largely true. 

After waiting an hour in the long line I was finally able to go inside the temple. It had been closed for two years to make renovations on the structure. They made their best effort to retain the pioneer spirit. Most of murals on the walls and furniture dated back to the late 1800's or early 1900's. Although several stories high, there was still no elevator in the building. 

Back side of Manti Temple.

As I walked through the temple I marveled at the craftsmanship. Great detail was given to things such as doorknobs and woodwork. Leading from one level to another were spiral staircases that seemed to twist perpetually upward. My mind wondered if perhaps Peter Ahlstrom could have worked on the fine wooden railing of these stairs. 

Several of the walls were covered in murals, some of which were painted by pioneers such as C.C. Christensen. The most famous mural, painted by Minerva Teichert, depicts several scenes in the world, including at the front an Indian chief standing above a valley with a temple in the background. 

Mural painted by Minerva Teichert.  (photo courtesy of Church Newsroom)

Spiral staircase at Manti Temple. (photo courtesy of Church Newsroom)

The largest room was an assembly hall with several pews and pulpits. In this room were several windows, all made with the old-time wavy glass, letting in the outside light. 

On the higher levels were several sealing rooms with an alter in the middle. One of them in particular was very ornate with a chandelier hanging above. As I walked by and observed I couldn't help but to wonder which of these rooms was used by the angel Moroni. 

The open-house for the Manti Temple only lasted three weeks. After this it would be rededicated and then only available to members of the church who are in good standing. 

At this point I was determined to make it back after the dedication. I got the idea that I would love to come back in a year or so with my daughter, Jenna. ♥ 

 

Peter Ahlstrom is buried in the historic Manti Cemetery, just below the temple.

 

Edge of the Mojave—Peak #10

Just before you enter the Virgin River Gorge from the west, on the right-hand side, there is a prominent peak that captures the eye. Now, to be sure, it's not highest summit around, but it appears to be the most regal. And for years now it has been begging me to climb it. 

There are other reasons it has appealed to me. First, there are no apparent trees. From a distance the mount appears to be made of only of dirt and rock. Second, it stands at the edge of the Mojave Desert, a location low enough in elevation to be hiked in winter or early spring when most of the higher peaks are covered in snow. 

Peak #10 is the slope on the left.

I was excited to get going. It was the third week of April and this would be my first summit of the year. I could not find a name for the peak, so I dubbed it Peak #10. It would be the tenth peak I've climbed since I turned 50 nearly one year ago. 

I doubt this summit gets many visitors. Without a name and without being the highest peak in the area, I don't think it's on too many people's bucket list.

I took the Desert Springs exit and found a dirt road that would take me somewhat close to the mountain. There were a few dwellings out here, but even they were pretty sparse. Those who lived out here probably bought a few acres of land for dirt-cheap and planted a single-wide trailer on it. I kept my distance so I didn't get shot. 😃

Initial ascent up Peak #10.

Utah century plant.

The first mile was on relatively flat ground and through an occasional dry wash that issued from the hillside. The desert landscape, surprisingly, was a symphony of color! The cactus blossomed and wildflowers grew everywhere. 

Once the climb began in earnest, my pace slowed down. The hike was a continual set of stairs, of which at times I had to use all fours to climb the rock. I kept an eye out for rattlesnakes and spiny ears of cactus. Although it was only April, I could feel the arid heat and worried about exhaustion. 

This mountain that I climbed had flat desert on one side and rugged cliffs of the Virgin River Gorge on the other. This area is a transition point between the Colorado Plateau and Mojave Desert. The Paiute Indians roamed this area hundreds of years ago, but with their day-to-day necessity for survival, I wondered if they ever bothered to climb a hill such as this. 

At the summit.

The trek to the summit took me 2 hours and 37 minutes. I traveled 2.9 miles and gained 2,491 feet of elevation. 

What I enjoyed the most from the summit was the view. It was spectacular in every direction! To the west unfolded the Mojave Desert, the towns of Littlefield and Beaver Dam, the jagged formation of Moapa Peak, and the forever stretching corridor of I-15. To the east, north and south stood the rugged mountains and cliffs of the Virgin River Gorge and Beaver Dam Mountains. From my perch I could see certain stretches of the Virgin River and I-15 inside the gorge, including the bridge at Cedar Pockets. I felt like a king on my royal throne. 

I took time to enjoy the view and eat a few snacks. It was interesting that on my hike up I encountered no other living soul, but upon reaching the summit I spotted a lone yellow finch and a swarm of gnats that liked my face. 

More mountains, looking south.

A monochromatic picture, looking east. If you look closely you can see a sliver of I-15 and the Virgin River.

Looking west toward Littlefield, Beaver Dam and Moapa Peak.

My plan for the trip down was to take another route. Whereas I came up on the southwest ridge, I hoped to descend on the northwest. Unless I got stuck on an unforeseen ledge, the new route would give me some different scenery. 

But as I prepared to leave the summit, I had one last surprise. 

A large bird with a wide span and white markings beneath his wings circled the sky above me. Then I saw another . . . and then another. I counted six. For ten minutes they glided on the wind, sometimes low and sometimes high. There was a different look to them, something peculiar. 

At first I thought they were California Condors. They were certainly larger than the average fowl, with a very long wing-span. And from what I could see, their faces appeared to be red. But as I studied them more I learned they were not California Condors at all, but turkey vultures. 

Yes, this was a bit disappointing, but still they were amazing birds. To watch them glide with the wind while on a mountain peak well over 2,000 feet above the nearest person was a feeling to be remembered. 

Turkey vultures with 2,000 feet beneath their wings.

Turkey vulture.

Finally the vultures moved on and so did I. The trip down was equally unique and beautiful, with its own crop of flowers and blossoms. The way down was rockier, with some of the edges being razor-sharp. 

All in all, a very satisfying hike. ♠
 

Interesting geology on the way down.

Cactus and gooseberryleaf globemallow.  Peak #10 in background.

Peak #10 

Miles from car (one way): 2.9 

Elevation gain: 2,491 feet 

Final elevation: 4,584 feet

 

Peak #10 as seen from Cedar Pockets exit.

Hiking the Entire Length of the Virgin River Gorge: Part 2

12 December 2023—Virgin River Gorge: Cedar Pockets to Littlefield, Arizona

We finally found a day that we all had free, and with no storm. After meeting at Hank's house we drove to McDonald's and ate breakfast, then into the gorge to Cedar Pockets. We parked at the trailhead and waited for the sun to rise.

A month had passed since we hiked the first half and temperatures had dropped since then⸺not considerably, but enough to be noticeable. We waited in the warm truck until we saw the first ray of light on the clifftop.

We weren't sure what to expect during this second half. Although it would be shorter mileage, we were told by someone that it was more difficult because the gorge in this section was narrower, thus creating deeper water.

Our first river-crossing came five minutes into the hike. It was a wide crossing, and as we stepped into the current the shock of ice-cold water jolted through our bodies. The water came to my knees. By the time I crossed my feet were numb. The silver-lining was that we didn't have to cross the river for another two miles.

First crossing of the river. Very frigid!

A look back at I-15, which we would parallel most of the way.

From this point we stayed on the Sullivan Canyon Trail, the only path of its sort we would see in the gorge. It took us along a horseshoe bend of the Virgin River and then up and over a hill where we had a good view of the freeway. After dropping into Sullivan Canyon it was just a 5-minute walk until we reunited with the river.

We were able to walk along the left bank for a while, but inevitably it was back into the water. It was just as frigid as the first time, only now it soaked up to my thighs. We still hadn't felt the sun and temperatures were only slightly above freezing.

Looking down-river from the mouth of Sullivan Canyon.

Second crossing of the day. (still cold)

This first section of the hike was miserable. We were in and out of the river several times and although everything from my thighs down were cold, it was my feet that were turning numb.There was little enjoyment of the scenery. I was in more of a survival mode, putting one foot in front of the other.

At least we weren't fighting tamarisk and willows like we had during the first half of the hike. There were exceptions, but for the most part thick vegetation was a thing of the past. Our challenge now was to find crossings where rapids were minimal and water wasn't too deep.

 

South side of bridge #1.

Taking a break on north side of bridge #1.  Finally in the sun!

Beneath this bridge we passed from the south side of the freeway to the north; although our foray to the north side would be short-lived because after a small horseshoe bend, it would return to the south side.—But while on the north side we took our first real break. We enjoyed our first touch of sunlight. I took some ibuprofen, which seemed to help with the pain.

This small break was a turning point for me. It now felt as if the misery had melted away and I was able to enjoy the beauty of the gorge. It even felt as if the temperature of the river went up a few degrees. The touch of the water no longer stung like it once did.

Looking back at bridge #1, from north side.

As an aside, I should interject some words on the majesty of I-15 through the Virgin River Gorge.

Until the project was completed in1973, there was absolutely no motorized traffic through the gorge. Instead, vehicles traveling between Las Vegas and Salt Lake would have to circumvent the rugged chasm by traveling on Highway 91 and over Utah Hill.

Construction of the project began in the early 1960's and lasted nine years. They say it was the most expensive rural freeway project to date. The undertaking included seven bridges and diverted the river twelve times.

A story is told about a 50-foot pile that workers thought they had planted into bedrock, only to have it sink into the ground, leaving no trace the next morning! In some places workers had to rappel 400 feet down a sheer ledge to plant charges of dynamite. One worker, Jimmie Hughes, died while on the project.

Nowadays thousands of drivers cruise at seventy miles an hour without a thought of what it took to build this road. There are two lanes of traffic in each direction. Even with that in mind, it is still a white-knuckle experience to venture through here. Walls are sheer on both sides and the route is anything but straight. Oftentimes when I drive through there will be a concrete guardrail with no shoulder on one side and a semi-truck with eighteen wheels barreling on the other!

Bridge #2, looking from south side.

Straight section with freeway just above us.

We continued around the bend and under the second bridge to the south side. For some distance the river ran relatively straight with the freeway only a stone's throw away on the right. (This is the only hike I've ever done where I could hear traffic the entire time!) The river bank consisted of a concrete / road base / hard sludge that ran from the freeway above to the river below. I don't know exactly what it was, but it created some tricky diagonal walking and it was sharp on the hands.

It was along this stretch that we passed by another gauging station. Like the gauging station we saw on the first half, this was a concrete weir that stretched from one side of the river to the other, creating a small dam behind it. Water spilled over the weir. On that day the river measured 17.11 feet deep and flowed at 158 cubit feet per second.

Gauging station, just a stones throw from the freeway.

Scarring on rock wall where dynamite was used to blast rock.

At mile five the river passed beneath the freeway, again to the north side. Along this stretch was the first section where cars on the freeway could actually see us. The banks of the river were wider now, and sandy. Fewer strands of willow and tamarisk grew, making the walk much easier.

It was in this section where we first noticed the warm springs. I dipped my hand into a rivulet of water that issued from the cliff. It was not hot, but luke-warm. There was a distinct scent of sulfur. As we walked we found other springs.

South side of bridge #3.

Grafitti on pier below bridge #3.

First warm spring.

The further into the gorge we got, the narrower it became. The walls moved in so close that it became necessary to build the freeway on top of the river. As we hiked this section there were giant piers that came down into the river and we could hear the rumbling of the traffic directly overhead. Near this point we found two more warm springs, one of them fairly large in size.

I don't know if this counts as a bridge, but nevertheless, the freeway is built above the river.

Freeway still elevated above the river.

Another of many warm springs.

The freeway runs directly over the river.

In an unexpected move, primarily to relocate to the warm sun, we stopped and ate lunch by the side of the pavement. We actually walked alongside the road for a few minutes. At this point there is a pullout alongside the freeway where thrill-seekers can park and walk to a rock climbing area. We opted to go on the opposite side of a low hill that separated us from traffic. It was here that we ate our lunch.

From this location we were nearly out of the gorge, although we still had a few more miles to our final destination. From our lunch spot we could walk to the rim of the hill and see “the narrows.” It didn't look too much worse than anything we had already done.

After lunch we descended the steep embankment from the freeway down to the water. Immediately we had to cross the river and this time it was deeper than at any other place this day, coming up to my belly button. At least by now the air and water had warmed considerably.

Before we knew it we were out of the gorge, although still down in a ravine cut by the river. Even at this point we found more warm springs, one of them with sand bags around it where someone tried creating a little pool.

This section of the river is referred to as "The Narrows."

Hank and Rob at the end of a sheep tunnel.

We stayed down at the river for another mile before we found a dirt road that took us up onto dry ground. We stayed on this road, which paralleled the freeway for over two miles until we arrived at the gas station in Littlefield, Arizona where Hank's wife would meet us. We were grateful to be done, and especially with a little daylight left in the sky.

I kept track of how many times we crossed the river that day: twenty-four. The total length was just over 10 miles and it took us roughly 9 hours. We didn't get as battered on this last half. There was no crawling under tamarisk and no bleeding hands. We were happy. It was a satisfying accomplishment that most people cannot say they've done.

Looking at our overall hike, which includes the first half, the total distance was 27 miles, which we covered in 22 hours. We split it into two days, a month apart, primarily because after the first day we were just too beat!

We hiked from the southern part of St. George, Utah (Bloomington) to the Eagles Landing Travel Plaza, just outside the city limits of Littlefield, Arizona. We walked through very remote country with no road access as well as several miles directly under a major freeway.

Although I doubt that I will ever repeat this feat in my lifetime, I am confident that I will explore much more of the gorge, as well as the Beaver Dam Mountains. ♠

 

(L to R) Rob, Hank and John.

Finally out of the gorge.  Looking back at I-15 and the Beaver Dam Mountains.

Virgin River Gorge hike, Part 1