He started to step back, then stopped. “In summary, I must say that the country on that side of the river is nothing but hills and mountains made up almost entirely of solid rock, cut through by gulches that are altogether precipitous and impassable. It is certainly the worst country I ever saw.”
He looked down at his captain. “I must also say, however, that a few of our party are of a different mind, and I would suggest we hear their opinions, too. But the majority of us are perfectly satisfied that there is no way for this company to get through that country.”1
Silas let the burst of noise that followed that announcement play itself out as he conferred quickly with his two counselors. Finally he turned and held up his hand. “Brother Lyman suggests that we hear now from our two brethren from Escalante. “Bishop Schow, Brother Collett, you have the floor.”
The two scouts were off to one side from the presidency. They conferred briefly, and then Reuben Collett stepped forward. “Bishop Schow asks me to speak for both of us.”
When they had spoken at the stake meeting in Parowan, David had been impressed with both Andrew Schow and Reuben Collett. After spending almost a week with them, he found that impression had only deepened. Collett especially, with his one arm, was remarkable.
Now he began, getting right to it. “I would in no way disparage or downplay the concerns that have been so plainly expressed by our leader, Brother Lyman. As he has already noted, his feelings are shared by the majority of our group. However, he has asked that we share our feelings so that when a decision is made, our leaders will have as much information as possible on which to base it. Therefore, I shall speak frankly.”
“I cannot disagree with Brother Lyman’s assessment—” he hesitated for a fraction of a second as the shock of that hit the group, then went on smoothly—“based on the experience we have just completed. However, because of the urgency of our situation, these explorations of the east side of the Colorado were necessarily limited both in scope and time. This is important to remember. We had only two days of actual exploration on the east side. And we penetrated inland no more than a few miles at most. What we saw in that limited time was enough to discourage anyone. It is a daunting thing to build a road and take a company as large as yours through such country.”
“But—” he stabbed the air with his finger—“may I remind you that earlier this summer and fall, Bishop Schow and I also took a boat across the river, and we spent a considerable time scouting the area over there. We went much farther inland. We explored several possible routes. And we marked a track that we were not able to see this time because we had to turn back.”
He waited as a soft buzz of whispering moved from man to man. “There are some tremendous challenges. Everyone agrees on that. The two biggest challenges that our party saw in the last few days are the steep bluffs and side hills at the top of Cottonwood Canyon. Unquestionably, we shall have to cut a road into the mountainside there. But—” again he jabbed the air emphatically—“it will not be as difficult as cutting the road down through the Hole. If that is possible, so will the other be.
“The other place is what Bishop Schow and I call ‘The Chute.’ This is a few miles farther in. It too is steep and narrow. It is like the bottom half of a huge pipe, made of solid rock. We shall undoubtedly have to double-team the wagons, but the footing is good, and with a little work at the top, we are confident we can make our way through it.”
He stopped. No one spoke. Every eye was on him. “In our previous explorations, Bishop Schow and I went beyond The Chute. What we found there was great, mostly level, mesa. It is tableland thickly covered with sagebrush and grass and would provide much-needed forage for our stock. It is easily traversed by wagons.”
He went to say more, then changed his mind. There was no sound in the tent now. The earlier rain had become a light drizzle that was barely a whisper on the canvas. As Collett moved back, Bishop Schow stood.
“I shall say just dis much. Vee—Brodder Collett an’ me—vill not be goink wit you. So vee cannot be da vuns to say vaht you do. Dat be up to da presidency. But I say, as does Brodder Collett, vee strongly belief it is possible to go troo. Vee strongly believe it be the only goot option you haf. But vee vill soostain vahtever President Smit decide to do.”
Silas Smith sat there for a moment, deep in thought. Then he looked up. “Brother Lyman tells me that Brother George Hobbs is another who has feelings contrary to the majority. George, we should like to hear from you. After that, I would invite Brother David Draper to speak as well.”
David’s head jerked up, and he stared at Silas.
Silas smiled. “Brother Lyman tells me that you and he had several long discussions on the way home. So we wish to hear your feelings.”
George Hobbs and David had now shared three separate exploring/scouting experiences together—the six-month Arizona expedition, the ten-day trip across the river a couple of weeks previous, and now this experience with Platte Lyman. David liked George. They were about the same age, and both were single. George was sometimes a little more brash than David would have liked, and he sometimes was influenced by the opinions of others, especially others whom he respected, but he was solid in his judgment, quick to throw his full weight into whatever needed doing, and a good man to have along on any expedition.
George stood and went to the front and, like Collett, started without preamble. “Brethren, I too am very reluctant to place myself in arbitrary opposition to my brethren, especially to our leaders, but since I have been invited to do so, I feel obligated to be honest. I must admit that at first, I was of the same opinion as my fellow scouts. I saw no way that we could go through. But as I listened to Brother Collett and Bishop Schow, both on the trip and here again tonight, I became persuaded to take an opposite position. I have seen the country for myself. It is no more difficult than some of the stretches we crossed this summer. Therefore, I firmly believe that under the conditions we now face, our company should endeavor to make a way through to Montezuma Creek on to the San Juan.”
Suddenly his voice trembled with emotion. “We must not forget that we have people over there who are anxiously awaiting our arrival. One of them is my sister, Elizabeth Harriman. They have four young children with them. Jim Davis and his wife have five, including a new baby. What happens to them if we do not go through? What shall they do if we turn back now and do not start again until spring?” He searched their faces. “As we decide what we should do now, let us not forget them. Please!”
As he returned to his seat, Bishop Schow stood and put an arm around his shoulder. “Brodders,” he said softly, “I fully endorse vaht Brodder Hobbs just say. If your company haf de same backbone as George Hobbs, vee belief dat you vill get troo dis safely.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” Silas said. “And thank you for your candor, Brother Hobbs.” Then he looked at David and motioned him forward.
David’s mind had been racing from the moment he had been startled out of his own thoughts by Silas’s invitation. He stood and moved forth slowly. As he stopped and looked around at the faces, a rush of great admiration and respect washed over him. There was deep disagreement here, but no animosity. As near as he could tell, there was no selfish purpose being put forward. There were over two hundred men, women, and children waiting outside right now, anxious to find out what they were to do, and these brethren had only one concern, and that was to do what was right for them. That gave him the courage to speak his heart.
“My brethren and friends,” he began. “Like George, I too am reluctant to put myself forward, pitting my opinions and judgment against the men I so admire. But as I have been invited by them to do so, I shall.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and launched in. “I don’t know what we should do. I am deeply torn within myself. After seeing that country across the river twice now, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Will we go on only to reach a point, in another month or two, when we truly can go no farther? How then shall we answer the pain in the
eyes of our wives and children? How then shall we fill their bellies when there is no more food and we are even farther from help than we are now?”
Another breath. Another sigh. “The consequences of us turning around are of equal gravity. We may return to Escalante, but we will go no farther. The snows lie deep on Escalante Mountain. And what shall Escalante do with us? Shall we look to them for our salvation and only end up putting them in jeopardy as well? I wish I knew. Oh, how I wish that I had answers.” He glanced back at the presidency. “I know our leaders feel that burden even more heavily than we do.”
He paused, trying to decide how to express what he was feeling. “Though I am not sure what to do, I have come to two conclusions. First, I think we must decide what to do based on what is right, not what is easy or safe. Second, I am glad that those who will make this decision for us are men like Bishop Jens Nielson, Brother Platte Lyman, and Brother Silas Smith. I have come to know these men under the most challenging and trying of conditions, and I stand ready to accept whatever they decide is the right thing to do.”
“Hear, hear,” someone murmured. “Amen,” a couple of other voices said.
He turned to Silas, nodded briefly, and started back to his seat. Then he stopped. “If I may, I should like to say one other thing.”
“Of course,” Silas said.
“As some of you know, I have not been what you would call a strong Latter-day Saint. I’ve been in the Church for some years, but it has been kind of an uneasy partnership between me and the kingdom, between me and the Lord.” He glanced at Bishop Nielson, then away quickly. “When I learned that Bishop Nielson had been called to go with us on this mission, and especially that he was to be one of our leaders—” He turned and looked at the old Dane squarely. “I am ashamed to say that I vigorously questioned the wisdom of that decision. ‘He is too old,’ I said. ‘He has a handicap,’ I cried.” He shook his head. “Now, here we are, two months later, and I have come to know something else of this man. He is large in stature, large in personality, large in enthusiasm, and enormous in his faith. One of his close friends calls him the ‘old comic boy’2 because of his delightful and wry sense of humor. He has also been called a man of indomitable courage and as stubborn as an oak stump.”
“Dat vas probably said by my Elsie,” Jens called out. “Or perhaps by my boys.”
David laughed, as did everyone else, then quickly sobered again. “Since leaving Cedar City, I have come to know that Jens Nielson was exactly what this company needed. How foolish I was to think only of his age or of his crippled feet.” He turned and looked directly at the bishop. “I was a fool, Bishop, and I publicly apologize to you now.”
“Vee all be fools at sum time or another,” came the quiet reply.
“Last December,” David went on, his voice soft now, “Elder Snow issued a call to us. At that time he used three words or phrases to describe what was needed in San Juan. He said this new settlement would be a buffer between good and evil. He said it would be like the shock absorbers on a wagon, cushioning the jolts so that others may have a smooth ride. He said that it would be like a lightning rod to draw down the shafts upon ourselves. Well, brethren, not one of those phrases describes a people who simply cave in just because the way ahead is difficult.”
To his surprise, he had to stop because his throat had suddenly constricted. He cleared it, then finished with soft conviction. “And not one of those phrases describes the people in this company that I have come to know. Brethren, if we turn back now, who will step up to take our place? Where will the Church find others so eminently qualified for the task that has been placed upon our shoulders? Let us think of that as we decide.”
He dropped his head and returned to sit down between Joe Nielson and Kumen Jones. To his utter astonishment, Joe’s eyes were glistening. “Thank you, David,” he said. “Thank you for coming to know my father.”
Silas Smith got slowly to his feet. “Brethren,” he said, “I think a recess would be in order. Rather than have you inundated with questions, I would recommend you stay here, and my counselors and I shall slip out and find a quiet place to confer.” He looked around at the nodding heads. “Let us reconvene in half an hour.”
The rain had completely stopped, and there were a few patches of clear sky and stars as the three leaders filed back into the tent half an hour later. Immediately the others took their seats.
“Brethren,” Silas began, “I wish I could tell you that we have arrived at a decision, but we have not. I personally am still much perplexed. I have asked my two counselors to express their feelings as a beginning to this meeting, Brother Lyman first, and Brother Nielson second.”
Platte Lyman stepped forward. He looked even more tired than he had in the first meeting. His voice was low, and David had to lean forward a little to hear better. “My dear brethren,” he said, “you have heard my concerns and my feelings about going forward. I do not feel to reiterate them further. I would like to say two things, however. First, I am keenly aware of the challenges that face us if we determine to turn back. I did not address those earlier because I was asked to speak to the question of whether taking a road across the Colorado to San Juan was feasible. Those concerns, so eloquently expressed by both Brother Hobbs and Brother Draper, weigh heavily on my mind too, and must, of necessity, weigh heavily in our deliberations.
“Second, I have full confidence in our president. He has been called by our Church leaders and set apart under the hands of the priesthood. Whatever he determines to be our best course will have my full, unreserved, and indeed enthusiastic support. Thank you.”
He stepped back. After a moment, Bishop Nielson stood and came forward. “My goot brodders, it is wit a troubled heart I stand before you. Vee have not come to a decision, even though our president has asked for one. Vee are, like it says in de scriptures about de children of Israel, like a bird hoppink back and forth betveen two branches on a tree. Vee do so because, as our good Brother Draper has pointed out so vell, da choice vee must make has da most grave consequences eeder vay vee go.”
He reached up and scratched at his beard, a habit exhibited, David had learned, when he was deep in thought. “But I vud say dis. Vee must go troo, even if vee cannot.”
The startling contradiction of that sentence brought a few smiles, but David sensed it had not been a slip of the tongue. Bishop Nielson had meant it exactly as he had stated it.
He confirmed that when he smiled. “Vaht vee need now is vaht I call stickity tootie.”
David heard Joe Nielson, who was right beside him, chuckle. “Dad,” he called, “it’s called stick-to-a-tive-ness.” He pronounced each syllable clearly and distinctively.
“Yah,” came the reply. There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes. “Is not dat vaht I say? Stickity tootie?”
Joe just shook his head as the men chuckled. This was Bishop Nielson all the way. His melodious accent was delightful, and sometimes David suspected he used it to his full advantage.
Bishop Nielson paused, and his eyes grew thoughtful. “I also feel to say, that I do belief dat if vee decide to move forvard across de river, we shall be able to succeed in makink road dere. I say dat again. If vee decide to go forward, vee shall succeed. Brodder Draper said I be stubborn like old mule. And he be right. But I tink dat be exactly vaht the Lord vants right now. I tink vee must go troo vether vee can or not.”
Now he turned and looked at Silas Smith. “I vood derefore make a proposink. I proposink that vee all agree to give our full support to President Smit in vahtever he decides vee shud do. As Brodder Lyman has said so vell, he is our called and appointed leader, and he is entitled to revelation on dis qvestion. And dat be all I haf to say on dis matter.”
And with that, he was done. He stepped back beside the other two.
Silas Smith stood there for a moment, deep in thought. Finally, his head lifted. “Brethren, I find myself leaning more and more toward a decision to move forward. As you know, when we returned from our
exploration through northern Arizona, I had strong feelings that we should seek a central route that passed through Escalante. I was the one who asked two old and trusted friends to do some exploring to see if such a route was possible.” He looked to Schow and Collett. “And I do most profoundly thank them for their diligent efforts to do so.
“In addition, since I consider it all but impossible to withdraw through the heavy snows that now lie behind us, I am inclined to declare that we move forward, even if it takes us another three months to build a road through.”
That started a low buzz, and he quickly held up his hand for silence. “However, I am not completely settled in that. I deeply appreciate the sustaining voice of my counselors and the expressions of support you have made. So I would like to ask that we retire to our tents now. I have fasted all this day and spent much time on my knees seeking the Lord’s will in the matter. I should now like to put our recommendation to Him to see if it is acceptable. I would appreciate your united prayers in my behalf, and I would encourage you to ask your families and all of the company to join us so that I may clearly come to see the Lord’s will. We shall then call the company together first thing in the morning and give them our decision.”
David was surprised to find himself nodding along with all the others—surprised, not just because he completely agreed with the request, but surprised to find himself planning to fully comply with it. This night, he too would ask the Lord to bless Silas Smith.
Thursday, December 4, 1879
To no one’s surprise, the camp was up early. The day was dawning bright and clear, though the temperature was still barely forty degrees. Breakfast was kept simple and quickly put away. Children were not sent out for their usual chores but kept close by their parents. Families congregated together rather than in larger groups and spoke quietly. There was an air of subdued but hopeful expectation.