Seraphine Decker dropped to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and began to sob.
Over the next hour, the women and children on the ridge above the sand hill grew more and more numbed as they watched the men retrieve the fallen wagon and drag it back up onto the road. It continued as wagon after wagon crossed that treacherous stretch of roadway. Almost every trip across left them gasping, even though most made it safely. David, driving the second wagon, nearly lost it when the back end hit a rough spot beneath the sand and nearly jerked John and Patrick clear off their feet. But David whipped the mules and lunged forward, managing to keep the wagon moving.
Others were not so fortunate. The Barneys, whose son Al had been knocked into the river with David, had a second bout of bad luck. The Barneys had eight children with them, including a baby still in arms. Laura had decided to walk the children up the hill, but Bird Ella, her three-year-old daughter, had fallen asleep in the back of the wagon, and they had left her there rather than wake her. Laura and the other children were now up on the ridge with the McKennas and others, watching nervously as they saw their wagon coming up the dugway.
As Brother Barney reached a narrow part of the road, the outside lead horse began to balk. It didn’t like being on the edge of a steep hillside. Again there were shouts of warning, but it was too late. The other horses began turning away from the hill in response to the pressure from the first. That pulled the rear wheel off the road, tipping the wagon at a sharp angle. With a yell, Barney jumped clear, hitting and rolling several feet in the soft sand of the hillside. Laura screamed, thrust the baby at her oldest son, and went racing down the hill, hair flying. There was a tremendous crash as the wagon flipped and hit the ground, then slid down several feet. Shattered pottery, tin pans and kettles, and other debris came flying out. Then a long bundle fell out of the back, and Laura screamed again. “Bird Ella!” To everyone’s astonishment, when father and mother reached the little girl, they unwrapped the bedding and found her crying but perfectly unharmed.
Henry Holyoak’s wagon was doing fine until a chain broke. His wagon ended upside down with the wagon tongue pointing crazily at the sky and the teams bolting up the hill. The Holyoaks had a hive of bees in the back of their wagon. All operations came to a halt for over an hour while the bees were sacked and returned to their hive, the tongue was taken apart and hauled up the hill, and the wagon was repaired as best as it could be.2 Little Bird Ella played with her brothers and sisters happily through all of that, completely unconcerned about what had just happened.
Only when David brought the last wagon up and across safely did Sarah and the two girls fall in behind him and make their way up the hill.
Notes
^1. Amasa M. Lyman, brother to Platte Lyman, had been sent from Panguitch along with three other men to provide additional manpower for building a road up out of the gorge. When they arrived at Fifty Mile Camp, they found that another man from Panguitch had left half a ton of black powder there, and the four of them brought it across to the east side of the river (see Platte Lyman’s journal for January 31, 1880, in Miller, Hole, 166).
^2. Cottonwood Hill, and particularly the stretch where the sand was so deep and so fine, saw more accidents than any other part of the road between Escalante and San Juan. The accounts of the accidents given here all involve actual people and accurately represent their account of what happened (see ibid., 126), though they may not have all occurred right at the sand hill.
Much later, Platte Lyman returned to Escalante from San Juan to purchase supplies for the new settlement. His journal entry for May 20, 1880, reads: “Started on this morning, and on the big hill my wagon got loose from my team (which was hitched to the end of the tongue) and ran back and off the dugway and tipped over, breaking the reach [the long beam that connected the two axles and supported the wagon box], box, bows, flour sacks and some other things and scattered my load all over the side of the hill. Spent the balance of the day in mending up and getting things in shape to move on” (ibid., 172).
And yes, for those who are wondering, for about a year, wagons went both directions on the road between San Juan and Escalante, including pulling wagons up through the Hole.
Chapter 66
Saturday, Feb. 14, 1880: It has been a couple of days since I last wrote here. On Thursday, we packed up the wagons in preparation for leaving our wonderful Cottonwood Camp. We all shall miss its pleasant shade, its clean water, the ample firewood, and the spectacular view across the river to the Hole in the Rock, but it seemed especially hard on Molly.
Yesterday we climbed Cottonwood Hill, spending most of the day getting the wagons up a very precipitous and dangerous road. There were several accidents—tip-overs, mostly—but no one was injured, and wagons can be repaired. I did not drive, which was a tremendous relief. I have said nothing to Father about this, or to David and John, but the experience coming down the Hole has left me deeply shaken, and I do not know how long it will take me to get over it.
We are now camped at what everyone is starting to call Cheese Camp, which is a mile or two above the Little Hole in the Rock. This name requires an explanation. Several days ago, Platte Lyman’s brother, Amasa, and some other men came to camp with a wagonload of supplies from the Panguitch Tithing Office. In addition to the black powder which was so important to our road builders, they brought 200 lbs. of pork and a 40 lb. wheel of cheese.
The pork was divided up between the families, but there wasn’t enough cheese to share equally with all. So an auction was held. Daddy was able to buy a full pound. It was a treat savored by the family. Anyway, because the auction created such a stir, we all have taken to calling this place Cheese Camp.
The men from Panguitch also brought mail. To our great surprise, both Molly and I received valentines from Carl. They were simple, but sweet. He writes that he is making much progress on Daddy’s business affairs there, which gives Daddy some relief from his concerns. Two of the Decker children also received valentines and are pleased as punch. They have been parading around camp today, showing them to everyone. The other children are much envious.1
Strangely, Molly seems in high spirits today. I say strangely because David leaves again tomorrow for the San Juan. He and several others are taking supplies to the Davis and Harriman families there. Normally, his frequent departures and extended absences leave her feeling quite blue. When I said something to her about it, she shrugged it off. “That’s how it will always be with David,” she said.
David and I have studiously avoided anything but the most polite of interchanges since our conversation last Sunday. Everyone except Molly and Billy Joe seems to have noticed the tension between us. Mother gave me a long, inquiring glance as David’s name came up this morning, and I changed the subject. This afternoon, David’s father asked me if I knew what was wrong with David. We’ve all noticed it. He rarely laughs anymore, and only occasionally smiles—and those seem strained. He often doesn’t make it back for supper and is gone before breakfast. If I didn’t know how concerned he is about Mary Davis and the children, I would almost think he was going there to escape the awkwardness of our situation. I told his father that it was probably just the increased concern for the Davis family causing his change of mood, but I’m sure John doesn’t buy that. John likes to call himself a Yorkshire Tyke, but when it comes to shrewdness and tenacity, he’s more like a Yorkshire terrier. Why did he ask me what was wrong? How much does he know?
I have relived that conversation numerous times in my head. Though I regret how harshly I spoke—especially my comment about him and women—I still just boil when I think of what happened. Does he really think that he can play with both of our emotions and for—
Abby stopped to dip the pen in the ink bottle. As she prepared to finish the sentence, her eyes lifted and she slowly reread the last three paragraphs. She put the pen down. The paragraph that began with her talking about them avoiding each other took up two lines at the bottom of the previous page, then contin
ued at the top of a new page. She read her words again, thinking about Molly. Though Abby was being circumspect in how she stated it, if Molly were to ever read this, she’d be all over Abby in a minute, demanding to know what she meant.
Abby kept her journal in a small trunk with her other personal possessions. She didn’t think that Molly had ever gotten into it and read it, just as she had never read Molly’s journal. However . . .
She picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink bottle, and carefully lined out the two bottom lines on the previous page. She did it again so that there was no way anything was legible. Next, she tore out the new page, crumpled it, and put it in her apron pocket. Finally, she dipped the pen once again and began writing at the top of the new page.
I hear someone singing “Come let us anew, our journey pursue,” which is usually the signal that evening prayers are about to begin. So I shall close for today.2
Sunday, Feb. 15, 1880: Shortly after breakfast, David left for San Juan in company with George Hobbs. They are on foot, but leading a string of pack mules carrying food and other supplies from Escalante. It was a sad and yet moving sight, two men on foot, rifles in hand, and several mules connected by ropes tied from the tail of one to the head of another.
Dan Harris, whose family is at the San Juan, and who returned with the Montezuma scouts to get supplies for his family, is going too. But he refuses to go by way of Elk Ridge because of the snow. Hobbs refuses to take a southern route because he says it will take much longer. George and David have asked for other volunteers to accompany them, but Bishop George Sevy, who was with them last December, said the snow in the cedar forest would be too deep and they would never get through. Neither George nor David were deterred by all of this. As George so eloquently put it, “How could I live with myself knowing that women and children were starving and that I had not done all I could to prevent it?”
There was much gloom at their departure, as many fear they cannot make it alone. Molly’s high spirits from yesterday are gone and his departure leaves her in a dark mood. I slipped a short note into David’s pack when he wasn’t looking, wishing him Godspeed, for I knew I would have no chance to say anything before he left. I fear greatly for his safety, but he is resolute. Strange, that over these past few months—though he rarely ever speaks of it—his faith seems to have become stronger than our own. When Mother questioned the wisdom of his going, he smiled and said simply, “Mary’s faith will sustain us.”
Monday, Feb. 16, 1880: Left Cheese Camp today and started towards Grey Mesa. Not a pleasant day. Weather cold and threatening. Much rough country. But worst of all, much contention in camp. We have a family by the name of Box with us. They are not members and have expressed no interest in the Church. They joined us because they are taking a large herd of horses to trade with the Indians. Tom Box is a giant of a man from Texas, as are others in his family. He travels with his wife, two sons and their wives, and two daughters and their husbands. They are mild mannered and affable and have been much enjoyed by our company. But there have been some feelings over the grazing. Recently they have been taking their horses ahead of the company so they can feed before it is grazed over. This leaves little for our teams.
This has caused much contention among us, something that is rare for this camp. Today, had it not been for the wise intervention of Platte Lyman and Jens Nielson, it would have come to blows, and maybe even gunplay. Happily, a compromise was made. Box and his family left this morning. They will drive their stock across Grey Mesa and on up the trail as quickly as possible so as to leave sufficient feed for our stock. I was much relieved to see them gone without any violence erupting.3
Tuesday, Feb. 17, 1880: Passed through much of the area that Platte Lyman and some of the other scouts said was “impassable.” Now I understand why they were reluctant to come forward. This is the roughest country I have ever seen. There is nothing but a world of rocks and holes, hills and hollows, canyons, buttes, cliffs and gorges. The mountains are one solid rock as smooth as an apple. Yet, since leaving the Colorado River, our road crew has built a wagon road through it all.
All of this brought us to a place I have dreaded seeing for some time now. David and the other scouts spoke much of it on their return from San Juan. They called it simply “The Chute,” and now I understand why. Our builders took the road down into a steep canyon specifically because it leads to The Chute. The Chute is a U-shaped notch, or better, a water course. This is about a quarter of a mile long with a very steep pitch. In a way it is a gift from heaven, for there is no other access up and out of that canyon without spending another two weeks to cut a road through the rock cliffs. This notch, or flume, as David called it, has been shaped by the wind and water into a nearly perfect half pipe—another term the scouts used.
My fears proved to be unfounded. We had to double-team the wagons, but other than that it was rather uneventful. With David gone, I have little choice but to drive now, and Molly is driving all but the roughest stretches. To my surprise, though they still leave me light-headed and trembling, I am able to cope with these dangerous stretches more confidently. It helped that the curved bottom of this flume-like notch left nowhere for a wagon to tip over or fall off a cliff. A great relief to those with timid hearts.
I am grateful for my growing confidence because I am embarrassed to call on Kumen Jones or Joe Nielson to come drive for me every time the road looks a little challenging. And Father and John can’t keep stopping to come back and bring our wagons forward. I even came back down The Chute today and drove Molly’s wagon up for her, because Daddy and John were helping repair one of the wagons.4
Friday, Feb. 20, 1880: Camped on eastern rim of Grey Mesa. Mesa is flat tableland about 7 or 8 miles long and 2 to 3 wide. Good grass and easy going. However, it abruptly terminates into steep cliffs and deep ravines, all of solid sandstone. This is where the mountain sheep led G. Hobbs to the bottom. Also where he had his “toboggan ride” for half a mile. Mother is having a difficult time keeping Billy Joe off the rocks. Wants to see if he can find where George slid down on his bottom. Company will stop here, probably for at least a week, as road builders construct a road down, a distance of about half a mile. This is a barren campsite, but has plenty of feed for the animals. Beginning to snow as I write this by lamplight. Very cold.
Saturday, Feb. 21, 1880: Woke up to howling blizzard and four inches of snow. Will likely double that before day’s over. Some wagons still coming into camp. Using buckets, pans, and kettles to catch snow so as to conserve water in our barrels. If this writing looks shaky, it is because the wind buffets our wagon so badly.
Great joy in camp today in spite of snow. Received word that Olivia Larson (wife of Mons Larson) gave birth to a baby boy today. Named him John Rio Larson—Rio is Spanish for river—because near here is a magnificent view of the San Juan River far below the mesa. This is the third woman to give birth on our journey, and the second child to be added to our company, the first child being stillborn.5
Saturday, Feb. 28, 1880: Road down from Grey Mesa complete! Hooray for Ben and Hy Perkins and John Draper and all who helped. It is called Slickrock Hill, a name given by first scouts. (Maybe also by G. Hobbs after his exciting ride on his backside down to the bottom!) Company moved down from the mesa and camped at bottom, about one mile distance from top.
Said that my confidence as a teamster was back. Not so today. Because of short distance (1/2 mile), John and Daddy took two wagons down, then returned to take mine and Molly’s. As we walked down the hill, we were happy with that decision. The road has several of what the builders call “shoot-the-chutes”—steep dugways cut and blasted out of solid rock. These lead to shelves or small open areas which are more easily traversed, but then immediately become another dangerous stretch. Even in the easier places, the rock is so smooth and slippery that the men cut striations in the rock and filled them with sand to give the teams better grip.
Very, very glad to have all wagons down safely. VERY!!6
&n
bsp; Sunday, Feb. 29, 1880: Today is Leap Day! Tradition says on this day a woman can propose to a man, and if he refuses, he has to pay her a fine. So far, no known proposals in camp. Perhaps because Molly and I are among the very few single women traveling in the company, though there are many single young men. (So far, not tempted to take advantage of Leap Day.)
If David were here, I suppose Molly might use this day to commit him. However, when I started to tease her about it, she became quite sharp with me. Said that I shouldn’t joke about it. Said they have an agreement, and nothing will happen until our journey is over.
Not that David is in camp to receive such a proposal. He and G. Hobbs have been gone for two weeks now. No word of any kind and our worries deepen with each additional day.
This is a very lovely day. Drove about 7 miles from the bottom of Slickrock Hill and came to the lake the scouts told us about. They did not do it justice. Lake Pagahrit (we’re told it’s Navajo for “standing water”) is truly an oasis in the desert. The lake is formed by a natural dam across what would otherwise be a dry wash. Ben Perkins estimates the dam’s height at about 60 to 65 feet high, thus making the water about 50 feet deep. The lake is J-shaped and backs up about half a mile. It is about a quarter of a mile wide at one point. Below the dam is a beautiful canyon, shaded by high, deep vermillion cliffs. There is a spring here and many trees, rushes, willows, etc. Also many birds. It is wonderful to hear bird songs again.
Happiest of all, Capt. Lyman announced we shall stay here several days while the men extend the road eastward. Once again we shall have time to wash and bathe and rest the teams.
Who would have thought that such a simple thing as a bath could bring such wondrous pleasure. To find such a beautiful spot with a limitless supply of water in the middle of a vast and desolate desert is yet another reminder of the Lord’s tender mercies in our behalf.7
The Undaunted Page 75