Abby frowned. “And you thought that was funny?”
“He didn’t fall off a cliff,” David quickly explained. “He just slipped and fell on his backside. But the hillside was so steep and icy, it was like he had fallen into a toboggan. We heard him yelling and looked up. All of a sudden, there he came, shooting around a corner, hands out to steady himself, spraying snow out on both sides of him, yelling like a banshee.
“As I think back on it, he was lucky. He probably slid close to a quarter of a mile.1 And I mean, he was moving. But at the time it seemed hilarious, and about then, we were looking for anything to cheer us up.”
“So he wasn’t hurt?” Patrick asked.
“Just his pride,” David grinned. “He didn’t appreciate us having a laugh at his expense.”
“So how did you get up the hill?” his father wondered.
“Well, George is so stubborn, he turned right around and started climbing back up. By that time, the sun had started to soften the snow enough that it could be shaped. So we made a dugway in the snow with our hands. By morning it had frozen solid enough to take the animals up without any serious problems.”
Billy Joe drank it all in. “I hope there’s snow when we get there. That would be so great.”
“Don’t even think it,” Sarah said, ruffling his hair.
David’s voice went soft as he told them about Christmas Day on Elk Ridge and how George had spotted the little knoll, and the view that awaited them when they climbed it.
“What a wonderful Christmas present,” Abby murmured when he finished. She was clearly very moved by his account.
“It makes me shudder to think how close you came to dying,” Molly said.
But it was Sarah’s words that startled David the most. She sniffed back the tears, then came to him and put her arms around him. “If your mother was here right now,” she whispered, “she would put her arms around you and weep for joy.”
David’s head came up with that, as did his father’s. It was an astonishing thing for her to say. John turned to his son, nodding. “She be reet, David. She be absolutely reet.”2
“Dad. Are you still awake?”
“Aye, Son.”
David turned on his side to face him. With the weather threatening rain again, and Carl Bradford gone, they were sleeping in one of the wagons now. David had waited until he could hear no further sounds from the rest of the family.
“I . . .” David drew in a quick breath. “I didn’t tell the family everything today.”
“Ah wundered,” came the soft answer. “Ya seemed ta be ’oldin’ back a little.”
“I prayed out there, Dad.”
There was a long silence, then a very soft, “That be gud, Son.”
“And in both cases the answer came almost within minutes.”
“Aye. That be ’ow the Lord works sumtimes.”
“I just wanted you to know that, Dad.”
“Tank ya, David.” There was another pause. “But ya dunna want the fam’ly ta know?”
“It’s not a secret,” David said. “It’s just that . . .” He sighed. “I’m afraid it will only complicate things with Molly.”
“Ah see.” That came out very slowly.
So David, speaking in a low voice so as not to awaken the others, told his father about his conversations with Sister Davis. When he finished, his father said nothing, and for a moment David wondered if he had fallen asleep during the narration. “Do you agree with her, Dad?”
“Aboot what? Ya not talkin’ ta Molly yet aboot yur little miracles, or that Molly maybe naw be the reet one fur ya?”
“The latter.”
“Aye.”
David came up on one elbow, peering at him in the dark. “That’s all? Just aye?”
“Aye.”
“You don’t think I should marry Molly?”
“That be naw yur question. Yur question was, do Ah think Molly naw be the one fur ya?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Ah think if ya were ta marry Miss Molly, it be a gud marriage. Better than most. But if’n yur askin’ if Ah think she be the best one fur ya, the answer is no.”
David was dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you ever say that before?”
“B’cuz ya never asked befur.” There was a soft chuckle. “An’ Ah dinna want ya boxin’ me lugholes fur buttin’ inta yur life.”
David lay back, marveling.
“The question be, are ya goin’ ta tell her yur thinkin’ of changin’ yur mind aboot the ’ole thing. And if so, when ya gonna do it?”
The familiar pain returned to David’s stomach. “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t want to hurt her. Heaven knows I’ve done that enough already. I still love her a great deal, but . . .”
“Ah unnerstand. Be ya askin’ fur an opinion?”
“Aye,” David said quietly.
“Ah think Sister Mary Davis be a very wise woman, an’ Ah wud tek her advice. Ah doon’t think it be a gud idee ta ’ave this great talk with Molly until the trek be over. As fur brekin’ ’er ’eart, Ah think that be worthy of another prayer to the Lord. She be ’Is daughter, an’ maybe ’E can ease the way fur ya sum.”
David reached out and laid his hand on his father’s arm. “Tank ya, Dahd,” he said softly. “Ah luv ya, ya ole Tyke.”
Notes
^1. The story of George Hobbs’s “toboggan ride” down Slickrock Hill comes from his account of the four-man scouting party, as do the other details of this narrative (see Miller, Hole, 89–95).
^2. Though Kumen Jones was not one of the four scouts, his summary of the significance of their experience for the entire expedition sums it up as well as any source I found:
“The exploring trip of those four men will always be remembered by all those who were acquainted with it, and more especially by those who took part in it, as one of the hardest and most trying in the way of perserverance [sic] and persistent endurance of any undertaking connected with the San Juan Mission. It was one, also, in which the participants must have had the assistance of our Heavenly Father. It has been a source of wonder to all those who since those early days have become acquainted with the country through which these explorers had traveled. How they ever found their way through deep snow and blinding snow storms in such a broken timbered country, all cut to pieces with deep gorges, for such a long distance, without compass, trail, and most of the time no sun, moon, or stars to help them in keeping their course is a mystery. The only answer is that a kind providence came to their assistance in answer to their humble fervent prayers” (as cited in ibid., 183).
Chapter 60
Sunday, January 11, 1880
The main camp at the Hole in the Rock had been set up in a large area about a hundred yards from the Hole where the ground was relatively flat and there were no rock escarpments. This helped keep the children away from the construction area, and everyone from the blasting site.
As David and John Draper left camp and started toward the great cleft in the cliff, they passed the place where the two blacksmiths had set up their forges, and then where the tools and other equipment were stored. David’s father talked nonstop. David had asked for a tour of the road project, and a tour he was going to get.
“Cap’n Lyman, he be dividin’ the work on the ’Ole inta three major projects. The biggest one be cuttin’ a road through that ridge ya see joost a’ead of us.”
“The one that ends in that sheer drop of about fifty or sixty feet?”
There was a boyish grin. “Naw anymore it doon’t. That be what we been tekin’ out now fur two weeks or more. Ya be seein’ that in a minute. The second task be tekin’ the road on doon through the rest of the ’Ole. The third be buildin’ a road from the bottom of the ’Ole where it spreads out into foothills on doon ta the riverbank.”
“What about the ferry?”
“Ah, that be a sep’rate project. Brother Charles Hall frum Escalante be in charge of that, not us road builders. ’E’s supposed ta be arrivin’ wit
the lumber fur it any time noow.”
As they came over a little rise in the ground, David suddenly stopped, staring. What had been a smooth expanse of white sandstone escarpment blocking the whole approach to the Hole now had a deep notch cut into it. “My word,” David said. “I had no idea you were going to have to do that.”
“Cahrn’t do anythin’ but,” John grunted, pleased that David appreciated what he was seeing. “If’n we joost blast away at that cliff face, still be too steep fur wagons ta negotiate. So, we ’ad ta start the road back ’ere a bit.” He squinted in the sunshine. “Still ain’t got it doon ta grade yet, but it be comin’. As ya can see, this be still too mooch pitch. Cap’n Lyman, ’e be wantin’ ta get the grade through ’ere ta whare it drops no more than eight feet per rod.”
David whistled. “That’s still pretty steep.”
“Yep. Farther doon, it be more like five and a half feet per rod.” He grinned. “But hey, that be the ’Ole. She be like a seam of coal. She ’as a mind of ’er own and she be a demandin’ mistress. We either mek peace wit ’er, or she be tossin’ us off the moontain.”
When they reached what had been the first cliff face, David could not believe his eyes. The fifty-foot drop was gone and a road just big enough to accommodate a wagon had replaced it. Like his father said, it was still steep enough to make any teamster draw in a quick breath, but the cliff was gone.
“This is incredible, Dad. You’ve done a tremendous amount of work.”
“Hy Perkins be the foreman on this crew. Ah started as a blaster ’ere, but noow Ah be workin’ with Ben on the second part doon below. We cudda done more, if we ’ad more powder. We’ve used all we brought wit us. A little keeps dribblin’ in frum Panguitch and Escalante, but naw nearly e’nuff.”
“No word from Silas, then?” David asked.
“Naw anythin’ official. Them pack trains comin’ over frum Panguitch, they keep tantalizin’ us wit news frum the ootside. Thare supposed ta be a keg of twenty-five poonds of powder on its way noow, but cahrn’t say we’ve seen it yet. The latest rumor be that Cap’n Smith got a five thousand dollar appropriation frum the Legislature.”
“Wonderful!” David exclaimed.
“Only if it be true,” he growled. Then he brightened a little. “But sum men frum Panguitch tole Bishop Schow in Escalante that the Church ’as shipped ’alf a ton of black powder, an’ that much again in steel—picks, crowbars, drill bits, and so on. The men said when they got back ta Panguitch, they be puttin’ t’gether anuther pack train ta bring it awl over the moontain. If’n that be true, ’twill be a blessin’ indeed.”
“I would think so,” David said. “A thousand pounds.”
“If’n that not be so,” his father said, turning to look down the steep slope below them, “then we naw be gittin’ that notch any wider. Cahrn’t do it with picks alone.”
David turned to look where he was pointing. What had once been a slot barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through was now three times wider. But it was still not quite enough to let a wagon through.
His father waved a hand and they started down toward the slot. “This be the second major project Ah tole ya aboot,” he said. He turned sideways and stepped through the notch. David followed, and once again found himself gaping in amazement at the vista below them. The grade was not as steep as what they had just come down, but it was still breath- taking. They were still at least a thousand feet above the river, but the boulders as big as a wagon or pits deep enough to swallow a team of horses were gone now. The fill from the cuts above now filled the gap and provided a smooth, though steep, roadway.
David turned and looked back at the narrow crack they had just slipped through. “But this is where you’re working now?”
His father nodded and tipped his head back. “Thare be me office.”
David looked up, not sure what he was looking at, then leaned back even farther. Then he gasped. “That barrel hanging up there?” About a hundred feet above them, what looked like half of a large cider barrel swayed gently back and forth in a light breeze. Four ropes were fastened through eyelets in the rim of the barrel, then came together about ten feet above the barrel to form a single braided line of the four ropes. That was hooked to a block and tackle, which was attached to the end of what looked like the boom of a hay derrick perched at the very top edge of the cliff.
“In a cut like this, ya cahrn’t be startin’ from the bottom, boy. We be blastin’ oot that notch frum the top doon.”
“Ya cahrn’t—you can’t be serious, Dad. You really work from that bucket?”
“Ah do. ’Ow else ya think we be gittin’ that cliff face off? They lower me doon an’ Ah use a six-poond hammer an’ steel drill bits ta punch a ’ole inta the rock. Got me aboot fifty of ’em awreddy done, just waitin’ till we git some more black powder.”
David stared upward, feeling his stomach twist as he pictured himself hanging there swinging a six-pound hammer.
“Ya think this is bad?” his father snorted. “When we first started, Ah be sittin’ on a short length of plank wit a rope tied ’roond me waist an’ legs. Noow that be e’nuff ta put ’air on yur chest. But we had ta quit that. Pullin’ those ropes up and down over this rough sandstone was like rubbing ’em back and forth across the blade of a knife. Got so nobuddy felt lek trustin’ their lives ta a frayed rope. So Platte an’ some brethren devised this ‘half barrel’ approach instead. Works lek a charm.”
“Ha!” David said. “I’ll gladly go another four days without food before I let you put me in one of those.”
His father clapped him on the shoulder. “That be awl reet,” he drawled. “This be work fur real men, not boys oot playin’ scoutin’ games.” Then, before David could retort, he turned and started down the steep slope, leaving deep gashes in the sand and dirt with his boots. “Cum on,” he called. “Wanna show ya what we be callin’ Uncle Ben’s Dugway.”
Going down that next five hundred feet or so took it out of David. Though he had now had four or five good meals, his body was still feeling the effects of prolonged starvation. And the angle was such that they had to stiff-leg it most of the way down. Farther down, the cleft still needed a lot of fill, and clambering over the large boulders and in and out of the pits didn’t help. By the time his father stopped, David was puffing pretty badly, and his legs felt like they were going to melt on him.
His father was standing at the edge of another sheer drop-off. But here, the great gash in the cliff face started to widen out, and the ground directly below the cliff was no longer solid rock but steep hillsides of dirt, rock, and shale that had eroded from the cliffs over the millennia. The drop-offs were very steep right beneath them, but began to smooth out farther down until they leveled out and met the river.
“As ya can see,” his father said, moving back to join him. “This ’ere drop be as bad as the one up top. In fact, one of the Decker boys coined a phrase fur it. He calls it ‘slantindicular.’1 Problem is, we dunna ’ave e’nuff powder ta tek this an’ the one above both doon. An’ we be needin’ powder fur the east side, too.”
“So?” David said. “How does Ben plan to get around this?”
His father grinned happily. “Thought ya’d never ask. Cum on. This be sumthin’ ta see.”
Turning hard to the left, his father set out. Now they were going laterally across one of those steep, rock-strewn hillsides that dropped off so sharply. For a moment, David thought his dad was pulling a joke on him because directly ahead of them the hill gave way to a solid expanse of sheer red rock. David could see that it was actually the base of the cliff that went straight up above their heads for nearly a thousand feet. But here, the rock was no longer completely vertical. It was still steep, slanting outward at perhaps a forty-five degree angle, but not completely sheer. The stretch of red rock was somewhere between fifty and seventy-five feet across and the drop-off below it close to fifty feet high.
As David looked at it, he could see no way across it—not f
or a wagon, not for a man on horseback. Even a man on foot would be at risk if he crossed that without an anchor rope.
He turned to look at his father. “Surely this can’t be where you’re thinking of taking the road.”
Then he saw something that brought him up short. Just ahead, where the rock face actually began, he saw a line of holes drilled vertically into the sandstone. They were maybe three or four inches in diameter, ten to twelve inches deep, and spaced about three feet apart. They formed a line that gradually sloped downward as they followed the drop of the cliff face. “Are those blasting holes, Dad?”
“Naw,” came the answer. “They be way too big fur blastin’ ’oles.”
“Then what are they for?”
John laughed softly. “These provide the base fur Uncle Ben’s Dugway.”
David moved forward some more, careful where he was placing his feet. He was still puzzled by the line of holes, but his eye had caught sight of something else. Just ahead of where they stood, someone had chiseled a narrow shelf, no more than a foot wide, that paralleled the line of holes, but several inches higher on the rock face.
“Okay, I see where he’s started the road.” His mind was working hard. “So this so-called dugway of Ben’s is going to have to be cut into the side of the cliff?”
His father shook his head slowly, his eyes dancing. “Nope. Cum on, boy, use yur ’ead. That cut ya be lookin’ at isn’t the beginnin’ of a road. In fact, it be awl done noow.”
“But . . .” David turned back, studying the cut more carefully. Then his eyes widened. “It’s just wide enough to hold the left set of wagon wheels,” he murmured, half to himself. He turned and looked at the holes again, squinting a bit as he peered at them. Then suddenly his eyes flew wide open. “Oh my word!” he exclaimed.
“So ya git it noow, do ya?”
David’s jaw had gone slack as his eyes darted back and forth between the holes and the narrow shelf. “He’s going to tack a road right onto the cliff.”
“Aye,” John said. “We be drivin’ large oak pegs in them ’oles to provide sumthin’ ta ’old ev’rythin’ in place. Then we be formin’ the road base by layin’ longer logs at right angles ta the pegs, lettin’ the pegs ’old them in place.”