That became the pattern for the next several days. They inched forward slowly, splitting up again and again to see which canyons boxed up into dead ends, which led off in the wrong direction, and which would take them onward. It was the only way to accomplish their purpose—that was what scouts did—but their progress was maddeningly slow.
They had moments of euphoria, such as when they discovered some magnificent stone ruins below one of the great overhanging cliffs, and then found an ancient cliff dwellers’ trail leading from there eastward. They followed it for miles, saving themselves the need to explore alternate routes. But then would come a major setback that dashed their hopes again. For example, four days beyond Slickrock Hill they ran straight into Grand Gulch. This massive canyon, running north and south for miles in both directions, was the deepest they had seen since leaving the Colorado River. A brief exploration in both directions convinced them that the only way around would be to go straight north until it petered out into the flanks of Elk Ridge. This not only cost them two extra days, it took them straight into the mouth of a major winter storm.
David rubbed at his neck, feeling the cold seeping through his blankets, but feeling a sense of hopelessness pressing down on him even more heavily than the snow. They were eight days out on what was supposed to be a fifteen-day round trip. They had no more than a few ounces of flour for the five of them. Their pack animals were exhausted, their riding horses spent. They were completely lost in a wilderness of baffling complexity, and now the storm blanked out any chance of them finding the landmarks they so desperately needed to find their way. Their situation had gone from challenging to critical, from critical to crisis.
Another thought came, only deepening the gloom. Oh yeah! Today was Christmas Eve.
He should have known better than to start thinking they had hit rock bottom. Any time you did that, fate seemed to delight in proving you wrong. And that was exactly what happened a short time later. As the five men dragged themselves out of their bedrolls and shook off the snow, they didn’t say much. They all knew the seriousness of their situation, and moaning about it didn’t help anything. They were camped in a thick stand of junipers on the southern slopes of Elk Ridge and the snow continued to fall heavily. From the looks of the sky, it would continue to do so for most of the day. Fortunately, the night before, they had gathered a pile of dead juniper branches. The snow was a light powder, and when they dug the wood out, it was still dry. David and George Hobbs set to work building a fire while the other three went to find the animals. David stirred the last of their flour into a pan of melted snow, then looked at George. “We’ve got enough mix here to make one large flapjack or five small ones. Any suggestions?”
“Make one, and we’ll cut it five ways,” he grunted.
“I get to cut it,” David quipped.
George actually laughed. “When I was a kid, my mom came up with the perfect solution to situations like this. She didn’t care who got to cut the cake, or whatever it happened to be, but the person cutting always got the last choice.”2
For a moment, David was puzzled, and then he saw it. “Ah,” he chuckled. “A wise mother.”
“I’ll say. I can remember agonizing to make sure every piece was exactly the same size so no one got a bigger piece than me.”
David’s smile faded. One-fifth of one flapjack. That would have to sustain them now until they reached their destination. Or starved.
Just then a noise off to their left turned their heads. “Uh-oh,” David murmured. Their three companions were plowing their way through the snow toward them, but they had no animals in tow. Things had just gotten considerably worse.
Because the snow had covered any tracks, it took them until eleven o’clock that morning to finally find the animals. That was half a day wasted that they could ill afford. The poor creatures were huddled together in a thick stand of junipers, and it was only when one of the horses whinnied that they found them. The snow was too deep for them to forage, and they got no more food than their human masters.
Hungry, cold, wet, and miserable, the little party trudged on, leading the animals now rather than risk having them slip and break a leg. That afternoon, the snow finally stopped, but it turned bitterly cold. Behind them, the sky was clearing, but ahead there was nothing but a solid wall of grey.
Since David and George Hobbs were the only ones in the party who had been to the San Juan River country, the group was counting on them to locate prominent landmarks as they drew closer to their destination. The most important of those were the Blue Mountains,3 which were about forty miles north of Montezuma Creek. With peaks topping 12,000 feet, they would be hard to miss. However, on a day like today, the Blue Mountains could have been half a mile away and the men couldn’t have seen them. So on they trudged, their despair deepening.
As they rolled out their bedrolls beneath the shelter of juniper trees, their discouragement was almost palpable. Not only had they not arrived at their destination by the time they had planned, but they were wandering blindly through a vast wilderness, and the specter of starvation now stalked them.
As they lay quietly in the bedrolls, each lost in his own thoughts, Bishop Sevy called out softly, “Tomorrow’s Christmas, brethren. Let’s hope and pray it is a merry one.”
“Yeah,” George Hobbs muttered. “I’d hang a stocking up for Santa Claus, but it’s so cold, I can’t bear to even take my boot off, let alone a stocking.”
“Knowing what your socks smell like,” Lem Redd drawled, “it’s just as well. You’d probably knock those poor reindeer right out of the sky.”
When Sarah McKenna backed out of the wagon, her husband was waiting for her with a blanket. Though she was bundled up in her winter coat, leggings, mittens, and earmuffs, she still snuggled gratefully into the extra wrap, then moved in close to press up against him. Above them the skies were clear and the stars seemed more brilliant than ever before. Two or three inches of snow still lay on the ground—at least where it hadn’t been trampled—and a light breeze out of the northwest made it terribly cold.
As Patrick held her, Molly and Abby moved up beside them. “Is he asleep?” Abby asked.
“Finally,” Sarah sighed. “He is so excited, I thought he would never give up.” She looked up at her husband. “Know why he insisted that we hang his stocking on the back wheel of the farthest wagon from the fire?”
“No, why?”
“Because the snow isn’t all trampled there. He wants to see if Santa Claus leaves footprints, or if there will be reindeer tracks. He’s still worried that Santa can’t find us out here.”
As Patrick shook his head in wonder at how his son’s mind worked, Molly fetched a poker from near the fire. She wiped the blackened end in the snow several times, then turned it around and held it by that end. “Billy Joe told me that, too,” she said. “So guess what?” She moved to where the wagon tongue protected the snow beneath it, bent over, and pushed the handle of the poker into the snow. Then she did it again, right next to the first. She stepped back, half bowed, and gestured triumphantly with her free hand. “Voilà!” she cried. “I give you: reindeer tracks.” They moved in for a closer look. The marks were a little strange, but they looked quite similar to the tracks of a deer.
“Wonderful!” Sarah cried. “He’ll be so delighted.”
“So who is Santa Claus?” Abby asked. “If Billy’s checking for footprints, it had better be Dad.”
“Actually,” Carl Bradford spoke up, “I have the biggest feet. Why don’t I do it?”
“Good.” Sarah turned to the others. “Abby, you check the Dutch ovens, see if the cookies are done yet. Molly, get that sack of molasses candy I hid in your wagon.”4
Molly immediately started for the wagon where she and Abby slept.
Sarah went to the box where they kept their food and brought out a small cloth bag. She came back and handed it to Carl. “I know parched corn isn’t much to put into a little boy’s Christmas stocking,” she said, “but it
will make him feel that he at least got something. We’ll grind it into cornmeal tomorrow and bake him some corn bread. He loves that.”
Carl nodded absently. He was looking at the last wagon where Billy Joe had so carefully hung his Christmas stocking earlier. He turned to Abby. “If I were to climb up the wagon tongue very carefully, then go through the wagon and climb down again while I fill the stocking, I’ll leave footprints by the stocking, but none coming or going. What do you think?”
She clapped her hands in delight. “Perfect. Take the poker and make a few reindeer tracks, too. That’s brilliant.”
He smiled. “You sound like David.”
“What about the sleigh?” Sarah asked. “It ought to leave tracks too.”
“I’ll use the poker to make some long marks.”
Patrick stood back, watching this interchange with deep satisfaction. How good it was to have a child as part of Christmas. It infused everyone with the Christmas spirit. When Sarah came back over to join him, and they watched Carl leave proof of Santa’s visit, Patrick put his arm around her and pulled her close. “This just might turn out to be the best Christmas ever.”
She stretched up and kissed him warmly. “Who would have thought it?”
Thursday, December 25, 1879
Christmas Day dawned perfectly clear, but the wind had picked up during the night and the air had a vicious bite to it. With fuel being as scarce as it was, roaring campfires were not to be found, but all around the Hole in the Rock camp the fires were larger than usual. The people had spent much of yesterday bringing in extra sagebrush and shadscale, and under the supervision of Bishop Jens Nielson, two wagons had been sent to the Straight Cliffs to load up with dead juniper logs and branches. Most of that would be saved for the festivities later in the day, but each family camp had been given an extra measure of fuel for their Christmas morning breakfast.
Because of the snowy, wet weather, work on widening the notch down the Hole and the road on the other side of the river had come to a virtual standstill for the last couple of days. That freed up the men to be in camp for the holiday.
The four adult McKennas stood together around the fire, hands outstretched, trying to keep warm, watching the line of children that snaked out from their last wagon and passed just to the right of them. Even as they watched, three more came running, chattering like squirrels.
“What is taking so long?” Molly asked. “Those poor children are freezing.”
Sarah just smiled. “Billy Joe won’t let more than two or three come back at a time, lest they tramp out the footprints and ruin the magic.”
When Billy Joe had awakened—earlier than anyone else in the family, of course—his mother had made him wait while the adults all dressed and stepped outside. Then they stood back and watched as he raced to the last wagon. He pulled up short when he saw the bulging stocking, then squealed in delight. He was staring at the ground around his stocking. “He came,” he whooped. “He came!”
Pausing only long enough to consume a sugar cookie, he was off on a dead run to find his buddies. Word of the magic spread like a desert wind through the camp, and soon virtually every child—and even a few adults—lined up to see Santa’s footprints, the reindeer tracks, and where the sleigh had rested.
Patrick watched his son affectionately for a time. Then, seeing that they wouldn’t be eating breakfast for another half hour at best, he wandered over to the Nielson camp to get an idea of the plans for the day. Cries of “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Christmas”—the second greeting coming from pioneers from the British Isles—echoed all around, and there was a general air of merriment and excitement.
When he returned, the others drew in. “When do the festivities begin?” Abby asked.
“Well,” Patrick said with a chuckle, “you know Bishop Nielson’s sense of humor. The first thing he asked me was if Billy Joe was charging admission to see Santa’s footprints.”
Sarah started, and turned to look at her son. “He’s not, is he?”
Patrick laughed. “No, but Bishop Nielson said—and I shall try to quote him, ‘Yah, and if dat boy be charging dem kids to see dem magic tracks, den be shure to tell Billy Joe to pay his tithing. Then vee haf enuff money to buy anudder tousand pounds of black powder.’”
“Did you hear about the shooting match?” Carl asked, coming over to join them. He had been over with Billy Joe, watching with satisfaction the fruits of his efforts of the night before.
“A shooting match?” Abby said in surprise.
“Dat’s right,” Patrick said. He caught himself, grinned sheepishly, then started again. “That’s right. One of the brethren has put up a nice two-year-old steer to be butchered later today. He’s selling chances to purchase the best cuts of the meat for one dollar per person.”
Molly was perplexed. “How do you sell a chance to buy meat?”
“Simple,” Patrick said. “There’s going to be a shooting contest. For a dollar, a person buys a chance to shoot three shots at a target. The best shooter gets first choice of the meat, and so on until the last. They’re going to limit it to twenty men, though.”
Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, that should be fun. Who’s going to be shooting?”
“I know one for sure,” her father said with a grin.
Sarah slapped him playfully on the arm. “You?”
“Me and Billy Joe,” he said. “Actually, I’ll let Billy Joe shoot twice. With all the shooting he’s done with David, he’s pretty darn good now.”
“What else is happening?” Abby asked.
“Well, the shooting match will take place just before lunch. Most of those at Fifty Mile Camp will be coming up to join us. After a break for the midday meal, we’ll all move up to the dance floor5 for an afternoon of games, riddles, and jokes. There will be wrestling, sack races, the singing of Christmas carols, and . . .” He left it hanging.
“And a dance?” Molly said eagerly.
“Yep. As soon as it’s dark. They say they’ve got enough wood and brush up there to light up half the desert, and we’re gonna dance until our shoes fall off.”6
Notes
^1.To find a lake in that desert country was really quite remarkable. The scouts did not take time to go over to it on the way out, but did stop there on the return trip. The main company arrived at Lake Canyon on February 29, 1880. Platte Lyman recorded the following in his journal entry for that day: “Drove 7 miles over a rough rocky and sandy road to the lake, a beautiful clear sheet of spring water 1/2 a mile long and nearly as wide, and apparently very deep. Cottonwood, willow, canes, flags, bulrushes and several kinds of grass grow luxuriantly, and it would make an excellent stock ranch” (in Miller, Hole, 167). The company spent two days there, resting and rejoicing in this restful, cool place.
The lake is no longer there. The dam washed out in November 1915 when a particularly wet year filled Lake Canyon to overflowing (see ibid., 97, 88–89; in the center photo section there is a picture of the lake as it was before 1915). Sadly, another flash flood in the fall of 2008 washed out the narrow road that leads into the canyon, so the canyon can no longer be accessed by vehicles.
^2. In the Hobbs narrative, we find this sobering but amusing entry: “That morning [December 24th] we had cooked the last food we had, consisting of a slap jack about one inch thick [also called flapjacks, or what today are frequently called scones]. The man who cut the cake had to take the last choice. This was about our eighth day out” (cited in ibid., 88).
^3. The Blue Mountains are a small range of mountains just west of Monticello, Utah. On many modern maps they are marked as the Abajo Mountains.
^4. According to Mary Jane Perkins Wilson, daughter of Ben and Mary Ann Perkins, molasses candy was made by boiling sorghum cane stocks in a big, flat vat. “When this boils, skum rises to the top, which must be repeatedly taken off. A barrel was reserved for these skimmings, used by the children to make candy” (“Life Sketch of Mary Jane Wilson,” 14–15).
^5. The dance
held on Christmas Day was not at Dance Hall Rock, which was about fifteen miles to the north of the Hole in the Rock. Fortunately, at the nearer campsite nature had left a large expanse of flat, smooth sandstone, about sixty feet by eighty feet. It lacked the overhanging rock and natural amphitheater shape of Dance Hall Rock, but it provided many a night of entertainment and enjoyment for the Saints (see Miller, Hole, 81, 184).
^6. Several histories and journals speak of Christmas Day celebrations at the Hole in the Rock camp (see ibid., 78–81; Reay, Incredible Passage, 36; “Life Sketch of Mary Jane Wilson,” 11; Carpenter, Jens Nielson, 46). We’re not told the name of the pioneer who came up with this raffle shoot, but it seems to have been a big hit with the Saints. Joseph Stanford Smith claimed to be the winner in an interview given to his biographer some time later (see Miller, Hole, 79). Finding Santa’s footprints was the creation of the author, based on the fact that parents did put out stockings from Santa.
Chapter 58
Thursday, December 25, 1879
The little camp on the flanks of Elk Ridge was not in much of a celebrating mood on this Christmas Day. It was piercing cold. The snow was close to a foot deep. There was no food for them and no forage for their rapidly weakening animals. And they were helplessly lost.
The storm of the day before had swept on eastward into Colorado, and the sky was now clear. The sun sparkled off the snow, bright enough to blind you if you looked directly into it. But they were in a forest of cedar or juniper trees that stretched for miles in either direction. If they looked to the north, they could see Elk Ridge rising above them. If they looked south and west, where the land dropped away, through the trees they got glimpses of Grand Gulch and the countryside they had traversed over the past eight days.