--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Bennion, Kenneth S. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 31 number: 12 published: 1928-10 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Kenneth S. Bennion, “October in Southern Utah,” *Improvement Era* 31, no. 12 (October 1928): 1015–1024." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera31012unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera31012unse start_page: 1015 end_page: 1024 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1928-10) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera31012unse publication_year: 1928 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1928, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # October in Southern Utah October in Southern Utah By Kenneth S. Bennion NE would think, to watch cars along the highway, that just about everybody spends the summer touring. Of course, some of us have to stay home and work to sup- port the vacationists, burglarize their houses, haul away the watermelon rinds on Monday morning, keep the home fires burning under the copper kettles, and the wheels of industry moving generally. But we all admit that sitting under a steering wheel and watching the road unwind is just about the ideal life — for awhile, at least. None of us would think of turning down an opportunity to "take a trip," any time, anywhere, for any reason whatsoever. If the road is fair, the weather dry enough so that one can change tires without getting wet, and if the car "percolates" all right, the trip is the best ever, and the scenery just grand. But of all the trips a person may take, one of the most inviting is that leading down the Arrowhead Trail from Salt Lake City to Utah's Dixie, in the sunny, hazy days of October. There is some- thing unusually charming in this mid-autumn season. The valleys are brimming with rich harvests of the year, the trees are still in full foliage, and the mountains are gloriously decorated in the gayest of colors. At this transition point between summer and winter, the weather is most delightful, and the out-of-doors most appealing. Recently a neighbor of mine decided to celebrate his ninth wedding anniversary (he called it his paper plate wedding) by taking a belated honeymoon. I was invited to go along as official tire changer, and, after looking over the big, comfortable sedan with its five good balloons, I accepted. His wife sat in the back seat where she could take full and complete charge of the youngsters, — two small boys, — offer bits of advice as to how the driving should not have been done, and where she could prepare and pass forward sand- Watching the road unwind. 1016 IMPROVEMENT ERA wiches, cake, chocolates, etc., from time to time as the occasion, or one of us, demanded. A most happy arrangement, indeed! As the town slid away behind us and we neared the south end of the valley, the mountains on our left drew toward us, their rugged slopes clothed in brilliant autumn colors, and their summits lipped with snow. The bare, jagged walls of Lone Peak were softened somewhat by the Indian summer haze. In Utah valley we passed by the base of Timpanogos. The whole mountain was white to the foothills, its summit shining in the sunlight above a thin cloud mantle. Along the highway here, we met bands of sheep, coming down from the higher summer ranges, headed for the desert. The old ewes in lead remembered the salt sages of the winter range, and were leading the herds at a half trot. In Provo, a boy on a bicycle suddenly swung across directly in front of the car. Thanks to four-wheel brakes he passed on, unhurt. He flung us a scared smile over his shoulder and hurried away. The fine, paved highway winds through miles of productive farms and gardens; then it climbs a low divide and drops down into Juab valley, to the little town of Mona, at the foot of Mt. Nebo. This mountain is one of the highest in the Wasatch range. Its triple peaks rise abruptly out of the valley to a height of about 12,000 feet above sea level. On this day its western face presented a wilder- ness of slide rock above the timber-line, and a riot of autumn colors below. A few weeks later I passed it again. It was white as marble from top to bottom, with occasional crags jutting through the snow- mantle, like the tusks of ancient monsters. A wild wind swept across its peaks, and plumes of drifting snow streamed far out from its knife-like ridges. Just south of Nebo, in Salt Creek canyon, the Wasatch Range really comes to an end. From there on is a new formation, with reddish-colored rocks. These rocks have colored a bright red the fertile farming lands of the valley. At the mouth of the canyon lies the beautiful town of Nephi, surrounded by some of the richest dry-farming lands of Utah. At Nephi we secured a road map and a sandwich, and then turned southwestward, across the valley, following very closely the plainly visible road of the pioneer settlers of southern Utah. A few miles out we had our first flat tire. While we were putting on the spare, one of the small boys got the tire pump and began vigorously pumping up a dust in the road. "Hey there, Tony!" called the other, "quit wasting all that good air!" OCTOBER IN SOUTHERN UTAH 1017 At the Uba dam on the Sevier river we rested the car and stretched our legs. The water in the reservoir, which earlier in the season is backed up for twenty miles, was very low, and the river was unusually small. Scipio, the next point of interest, is a farming and stockraising town, lying in a peculiar, circular valley that has no drainage outlet. The town was settled early in Utah's history, and many of the fine old pioneer homes, two-story brick and adobe structures, are still in use, picturesque monuments to the skill and industry of those early settlers. Beyond the town, the old road is very plainly marked, as it winds over a steep pass out of the valley. Now a wonderful high- way carries the car easily up an even grade, over the summit, and down the long road to Holden, in the Pahvant valley. This is one of the largest valleys in Utah. The mountains on the farther side almost fade from sight in the blue haze of the desert. The Indian name signifies "vanished waters," and refers to the shore lines and sand bars of Lake Bonneville, and to the dried- up bed of the Sevier river, which once flowed through the valley into Salt Lake. The great farming district of Delta, including half a dozen towns, occupies but a small fraction of the valley. Holden, Fillmore, Meadow, and Kanosh lie along the foot of the eastern mountains. From these towns on the country somehow begins to have the "feel" of southern Utah. It becomes a little more picturesque, a little more romantic. After a half-hour's drive along a splendid highway through the cedar-covered hills at the south end of the valley, we rounded a point and came into view of Cove Fort. This interesting landmark was built by the early settlers as the half-way camping place between the Pahvant settlements and Beaver. Oxen could not make the whole trip in one day, and in that country there were then a great many rather unfriendly Indians. The high stone walls of the fort are very thick. A row of narrow loop-holes ex- tends around the four sides, up near the top. There is a wide en- trance in the east side, through which wagons could be driven into the enclosed courtyard. A small, narrow exit was provided in the west wall, in case the Indians should break through the great wooden doors of the main entrance. Rooms were built along the north, south, and part of the west sides. A well was dug in the center of the court. The whole arrangement reminded me of an old fort of Napoleon's at Brest. The latter was an improvised delousing plant when I was an inmate. Cove Fort has recently been purchased by some Eastern people, and converted into a "dude ranch" for tourists. Perhaps, some day 1018 IMPROVEMENT ERA the state will take steps to preserve it as a monument to the early settlers. We left the fort and hurried on southward, through the cedars. The sun was hanging low above Mineral range and we had a long way yet to go. At the south end of this valley, the road was lined with clumps of brilliantly colored maples, with dark-green oaks and cedars between. On a little knoll by the side of the road, a band of sheep was bedding down for the night. A thin thread of gray smoke rose from the camp wagon, and horses tied to the wheels of the commissary munched in their feed-bags. The whole scene called up poignant memories of canned tomatoes, mutton chops, red-hot sourdough biscuits and syrup. We pulled into Beaver just at dusk and stopped at a restaurant for supper. As we ate, we listened to the clever banter of a party of tourists at the next table. There had been tire trouble on the Granite rock carved out by the drifting desert sand from Pahvant Valley way, and they had had to get a new tire. A sympathetic fellow- traveler contributed a dollar toward the cause, and offered to take up a collection from everyone in the room. At this critical point a party of Mexicans came in and became the focus of attention. One of them looked like Villa himself, and we wondered whether that famous bandit had really been killed, or whether the job had yet to be done. At eight o'clock we were on the road again, and after a few miles of winding over cedar-lined curves and dugways, we rolled OCTOBER IN SOUTHERN UTAH 1019 down a long hollow, around a point, and into a wide valley. The lights of Paragoonah and of Parowan flickered in the distance. Parowan has installed a new street-lighting system, and has reason to feel proud of herself. We drove through the town, passing with reluctance the road leading to beautiful Parowan canyon and Cedar Breaks. At ten o'clock we pulled into Cedar City, everybody, in- cluding the driver, about ninety per cent asleep. "El Escalante" surely looked like home. At 7:30 the next morning we breakfasted on hot cakes and casawbas. A young fellow across the room unconsciously created quite a flutter among the waitresses. He looked like a college foot- ball player, a movie star, and a bashful country boy, all rolled into one. He possessed thick, black hair, a shirt of many colors, and a cool, quiet manner. We saw him later, leaving for parts unknown in a big, new roadster. We tanked up with gas, oil, water, and pine nuts, and left the main-traveled roads, heading westward, toward the Escalante desert. The road led for many miles through rolling hills, heavily timbered with cedars and pinion pines. Then we reached a more arid country. The timber gave way to brush and grass, and the hills fell away to open valleys and low, desert ranges. Along the way, the driver told us the story of a lost gold mine that had really never been found. The story runs somewhat like this: A few winters ago, one of the prominent sheepmen of Cedar City hired a young fellow to herd one of his bands of sheep out among these very desert hills through which we were passing. The boy was gone all winter, and when he returned in the spring and received his wages, went north to work in Wyoming. Just before leaving, he pulled a few pieces of rock from his pocket and gave them to his employer, saying that he had found them out on one of the mountains during the winter. He said they probably weren't any good, but that they looked rather interesting. The sheepman shoved them out of his way and out of his mind. Some months later he happened to come across them again and gave them a careful examination. Immediately he sent them to an assayer, and in a few days received the returns, showing that the samples carried gold worth some $65,000 a ton! At once he began a frantic search for the young sheepherder, and for the ledge from which the samples were taken. To date, neither has been found. We resolved to bring a camp outfit here and comb the country from end to end in an attempt to find the gold — "some day." We crossed a low divide, passed through the little town of New- castle, and skirted the southeastern edge of Escalante valley to 1020 IMPROVEMENT ERA Hamblin creek. There we wandered over the alfalfa and potato fields of a large ranch that was for sale and then drove into Enter- prise. This town was a pleasant surprise in such a great, dry coun- try. It is situated among fertile fields, and boasts electric lights, telephone, waterworks, modern homes, and a fine new school house. From here we turned south, climbing through rolling hills to the divide, a few miles from the town. This divide marks the southern rim of the Great Basin, in Utah. Water falling on the north side of the rim runs into the desert, where it evaporates or sinks, but that on the south side finds its way into the Colorado. We met a picturesque old-timer in the dugway here. His buck- board, mules, and whole make-up suggested the "early days." His outfit would have looked far more appropriate on the old road of the emigrants, still deeply carved in the canyon below us, than on the smooth, graded highway that connects southwestern Utah with the railroad. The road crosses a little valley, climbs another divide, and drops down to the little, scattered farming community of Central. The hills are heavily wooded with cedars, pines, quaking aspens, cottonwoods, and willows. Off to the eastward rises the massive bulk of Pine Valley Mountain, recently dedicated as a national monument. Pine valley, in the heart of the mountain, is one of the State's most attractive summer resorts. Beyond Central the road drops down to a narrow, wilder part of the valley and crosses the Santa Clara. A fine steel bridge spans the gorge that is cut deep down through the black lava. A great pine tree growing in the edge of the plunging, boiling torrent below reaches just under the level of the bridge. From here the road climbs a narrow dugway, cut out of solid lava, and then rounds the shoulder of a hill and comes out onto a plateau — the top of the world! No wonder the early settlers remember always the "forbidding aspects of the country!" As far as the eye can see, east, south and west, the whole region is a wild jumble of mountains and canyons. Black lava is everywhere. Volcanic cones rise above the plateau so black and perfect that one looks expectantly for smoke and ashes to burst forth from them. The plateau drops away abruptly to the southward, down to the valley of the Virgin river, far below. Beyond this river rise great colored mesas, and toward the southwest the river passes through still wilder country on its way to join the Colorado. How the pioneers ever traveled through this region be- fore the days of steel and dynamite is a mystery. But they did make their way, and down in the fertile, semi-tropical valleys, below OCTOBER IN SOUTHERN UTAH 1021 <*f S^i^&M One of the Blue Pyramids, no man's land, south of Bryce Canyon. the barren lava beds with their all-but-impassable gorges, they founded a paradise of farms and gardens, cities and towns. Now a beautiful highway winds over the mountains, spans the gorges, and elbows down the plateau. Over this road we rolled along, down over a bluff and into St. George, sleeping under the warm, after- noon sun. We had left a land of snowy mountains and falling leaves, but here it was still mid-summer. St. George is a garden spot in the heart of a terrible land. It seems that here nature tries to atone for the great stretches of waste land, dry plateaus, barren mesas, and rock-walled canyons of the surrounding region, and every foot of ground yields abundantly. The great, snow-white temple rises impressively from among dark- green, semi-tropical trees. The wide, shady streets are lined with comfortable, well-kept houses. Pioneer homes of rock and adobe stand side by side with modern bungalows. Lawns are bordered with pomegranate trees, giant tamaracks, and other trees, vines, and shrubbery, most of which do not grow on the north side of the "Rim of the Basin," a few miles distant. Incidentally, the people there, who are nearly all pioneers or their immediate descendants, are as interesting as the city itself. At dusk, just as the lights were beginning to gleam among the trees, we left St. George, once more on the Arrowhead Trail, but 1022 IMPROVEMENT ERA this time headed northeast. Almost immediately we left the river valley and began climbing innumerable dugways. The lights of the car showed a white roadway with a wall on one side and a black void on the other. As we raced along, the driver recounted a wild shooting tale of the days when Silver Reef was one of the West's most famous mining camps. The tale concerned the sudden, com- plete, and well-merited demise of the town's most notorious citizen. Leaving the mountains and the "ghost town," we passed through some small valleys, each with its scattered ranches and communities. Then presently we took to dugways again. These wound around so much that all sense of direction was lost. The driver, who had been silent for a long time, very sleepily informed us that over the edge of the road and somewhere down below was the Virgin river. Comforting thought, with a sleepy driver! He became a little alarmed at one point, when the car showed a tendency to dive off into space, and he began to sing to keep awake. He sang all the songs he knew, and some he didn't. He made a speech, told jokes, and then burst into song again. He said it was quite a strain to drive when he was so sleepy, but it was as much of a strain for me to sit mile after mile in tense anticipation of the moment when I would have to grab the wheel and jerk the car back from the edge of the dugway. Meanwhile the skyline began to rise on both sides of us, until only a narrow band of stars shone overhead, and then the road dropped down from the dugway to the canyon floor. Finally, just after midnight, we rolled up to the Zion Park Lodge, at the foot of an immense cloud of rock, "El Sentinel," and called it a day. The next morning we were up in time to see the sunlight strike the tops of the canyon wall, and we drove up to the end of the road at the Narrows. I tried to write something descriptive of the canyon, but gave it up. We took a few snapshots, but even this seemed rather futile. For immensity, grandeur, and majesty of workmanship, the mighty-walled canyon is beyond anything that has yet been said of it, or any picture that has attempted to portray it. Reluctantly we turned back down the highway over which we had traveled so nervously the night before. Our road led down the Virgin river, then over the hills to the main highway, and north- ward to Cedar City. At Cedar we replenished the commissary, gave the car a fresh supply of oil, and started up the canyon toward Cedar Breaks. Cedar canyon itself is very picturesque. Great rocks rise hundreds of feet above the stream bed, and in some cases they completely overhang the highway. The road is good, but steep, rising from 5000 feet above sea level in the valley to 10,400 feet at the rim of the Breaks, twenty OCTOBER IN SOUTHERN UTAH 1023 miles away. The canyon was gorgeously colored with autumn leaves, and as we approached the summit we saw occasional patches of fresh snow. A blue haze rested over the hills and softened down the rugged outlines of the peaks. The road climbs out of Cedar canyon and circles the south side of a high mountain. For a few miles here it crosses the headwaters of the Virgin. Far down through the haze, some thirty miles away, we could see where the river cuts through the rocks in Zion Park, and could even make out the Narrows and the Great White Throne. Far away in the southwest Pine Valley Mountain stood out boldly on the horizon. We took a last look and then drove on through endless groves of white-boled quaking aspen the leaves of which had nearly all fallen. The mountain seemed deserted. There was practic- ally no traffic on the road, we saw no animals, and everything was still. Snow patches increased as we climbed, though the highway was still quite dry and hard. The road swings around to the northward through beautiful park-like meadows and groves, enters a thick clump of pine trees and then without warning emerges on the very rim of the Breaks. The thrill of that first breath-taking view seems to increase with each visit there. Cedar Breaks is a mighty amphitheatre of brilliant colors and grotesque forms set in one of the most beautiful forests of Utah. It is a region of mystery and romance utterly beyond description. The sun was sinking low in the west, casting weird shadows among the castles, caves, and images of the canyon. We still had far to go so we turned eastward over the "Angels' Highway," where forests, meadows, lakes, streams, and canyons provide a paradise of scenery. At ten o'clock we reached Bryce Canyon Lodge, hungry, tired, and sleepy. It was the last night of the season there and nearly everything was closed. Therefore we had to turn in without supper. The next morning we took a most chilly visit to the rim of the canyon to watch the "Silent City" at sunrise. The sight was worth the chill. I climbed down the Navajo Trail and got plenty of thrills prowling among the red gorges, gloomy passageways and grotesque monuments. I found a registry book down in the canyon and signed my name next that of T. Watson of Belfast, Ireland. While I was getting a picture of a great, cathedral-like aisle, my feet went out from under me and I ripped an eighth-inch hole in one trouser leg before I brought up against a jutting rock down the slope. The canyon appears to be carved out of soft, red clay; but it isn't. By nine o'clock we remembered that we had had no supper the night before, so we left the canyon and headed for Panguitch and breakfast, twenty-six miles away. At ten-thirty, feeling much better, we pulled out for Salt Lake City, two hundred and seventy-five 1024 IMPROVEMENT ERA miles to the northward. At the Piute Dam we picked up a tack. At Richfield we could get no ice cream, so we drove hurriedly on to Salina. Here we saw a small group of people seated in chairs on the sidewalk listening to a radio sermon. On the other side of the street a much larger crowd was following the progress of a World's Series game. We patronized each place for a few minutes. An inventory of our combined financial resources showed a credit balance of fifty cents. We debated as to whether we should buy gasoline or ice cream. The affirmative, upheld by two small boys, won unanimously. From there on the trip was without incident, except that just a hundred yards south of the first service station in Salt Lake valley the car ran out of gas. An obliging station attendant came running and helped push us in. He filled the tank, recklessly accepted a check, and our four-day trip in the golden days of autumn was over. My Homeland Oh, take me back to Utah Where I can in peace abide, Away from strife, and quakes, and storms, And angry rushing tides. Let me see again the canyons grand Where the "purest streamlets" flow, And taste the waters, clear and sweet, Just off the glistening snow. Let me see again my mountain home And camp beside the streams, And live again the olden times. As were pictured in my dreams. I want to stroll on hillsides there Where the purest breezes blow, And gather again the mountain flowers Where the sego lillies grow. And with the splendor of setting sun. Will my eyes again be blest, *\s it sinks beneath the inland sea In a halo of perfect rest. Then, when I take my last, long stroll, To my final place of rest, Let it be upon the hillside there, To be numbered with the blest. R. C. SAVAGE