Ghosts in the desert? Past and paranormal meet in Old River Bed

The Old River Bed haunted?  Not likely.  But what were those strange rumbling sounds that seemed to echo through the prehistoric corridor?  Why were the hairs on my neck suddenly rising?  And who was behind the wheel of that truck that was slowly rolling through the brush toward me?

The Pony Express Trail snakes up the eastern lip of the Old River Bed (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The following originally appeared in the October 29, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

They said the Old River Bed was haunted.  They said that’s why stagecoach passengers were uneasy about stopping at the station there—especially overnight—and why Riverbed Station could never keep a manager for more than a few months at a time.  They were adamant.

I was skeptical.  Is the place mildly eerie?  Of course.  You’d be hard pressed to find a remote desert spot that isn’t.  But haunted?  No way.  “They” were delusional.  And I had driven 70 miles at dusk on the weekend before Halloween to prove it.  The mind has a tendency, when stifled by darkness, to tap imagination to fill the visual voids.  This must have been the case at the Old River Bed.  Yes, that was it.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how unnervingly lonesome it was out there in the dark, with no cell phone reception, far from my car, at the bottom of a massive ancient river bed.  Haunted?  Not likely.  But what were those strange rumbling sounds that seemed to echo through the prehistoric corridor?  Why were the hairs on my neck suddenly rising?  And who was behind the wheel of that truck that was slowly rolling through the brush toward me?

Dropping abruptly below the desert plain eight miles west of Simpson Springs in southern Tooele County, the Old River Bed is a naturally vulnerable place.  It’s a naturally strange place, too: a clear-cut channel as broad as the Mississippi at its greatest width, in the middle of this dry no-man’s-land.  The ancient watercourse owes its existence to Lake Bonneville.

As Bonneville shrank, water in the Sevier Basin drained northward via a low channel into the Great Salt Lake Desert, carving a mile-wide, 100 foot deep gorge as it went.  This river flowed for roughly 3,000 years.  Evidence of early human activity has been discovered in its delta.

The Central Overland trail crossed the river bed in the 1850’s and served as a major transportation artery until 1869.  The famed but short-lived Pony Express used the road from 1860 to 1861.  Riverbed Station was almost certainly built in 1862—too late to serve the Pony Express.

Drivers and riders hated the Old River Bed because although it’s wide and deep, it’s completely hidden from view until you’re right on its lip.  Bandits or hostile Indians could easily ambush a rider as he popped into or out of the channel.

The constant fear of ambush aside, there was always the chance of flash flooding.  Major Howard Egan recorded one nail-biting event in his diary about a Pony Express rider who heard a heavy rushing sound upon entering the channel.  Realizing something was horribly wrong, the rider “put spurs to the pony” and narrowly escaped a fifteen foot wall of water that surged through the river bed and washed out the road.

This concrete post marks the old Riverbed stagecoach station site. Note that while the words "Pony Express" are etched into the concrete, Riverbed Station never served the Pony Express-- it wasn't built until 1962 (photo by Clint Thomsen).

One rightly questions the rationale of building a stagecoach station in the dead center of the Old River Bed.   Perhaps it eased the fear of ambush or made ground water more accessible.  The station is gone now; flash floods eventually washed its ruins away.  All that’s left are a concrete post marking the station site and a few scattered rocks that may have been part of a foundation.  A Civilian Conservation Corps monument stands nearby.

Station keepers could deal with the natural and human threats.  It was the paranormal that kept them awake at night.  They– the managers, stock tenders, the stage drivers and their passengers– swore the place was haunted, specifically by “desert fairies.”

Former station operators claimed the fairies were the ghosts of two young girls who fell from a wagon in the area and died.  No records of the deaths have ever been found.  There are no individual accounts, no well-documented haunting.  University of Utah professor David Jabusch spent the night there while researching the site in the early 1990’s.  Of the desert fairies he wrote, “During our overnight sojourn, while mapping the site, we were not visited.”

Yet the story still lives on in journals and lore.  And though I’m a skeptic, there’s something about being in the Old River Bed at night.  Is it haunted? It’s hard to say.  As I walked along the river bed I wondered about those deep rumbling sounds.  I was convincing myself they were thunder or aircraft from Dugway, when the pair of dim headlights on the road that I had been carefully watching paused beside my car.

Then they turned and started out toward me.  I knew they weren’t there for the monument.  The old Chevy passed it and pulled off the double track toward me.  A chill went up my spine.  What could I do but introduce myself?

Two men sat in the truck.  They reminded me of a hermit version of illusionist duo Penn and Teller.  The thin driver remained silent, letting his larger passenger do the talking.  “We saw your car, then we saw your light out there,” said Penn.  “We wondered what was up.”

It turns out the two live in the area—Penn in an old trailer and Teller on a nearby ranch.  Sometimes they drive around helping people change flat tires (the Old River Bed is a notorious flat-maker).  “You’re tires looked fine,” Penn assured me.

“I’m Clint, and I’m hunting ghosts,” I declared, a bit surprised at my own whimsy.  “Do you believe this place is haunted?”

“Of course it’s haunted,” Penn said.  “When I first moved out here I was scared to death.  I thought maybe monsters would come up on me at night and tear me apart.”

We chatted for a while before they turned and left me alone again in the Old River Bed.  I was relieved that my new friends weren’t madmen, but my enthusiasm about this place had given way to discordant unease.   I glanced once more down the blackened corridor, just to give the desert fairies one last chance to show.  Then I was more than ready to leave.

They said the Old River Bed is haunted.  Who am I to argue?

 

The Benmore Experiment, Part 2 of 2

Some dreams die, but they need not be forgotten.

The Skidmore-Jorgensen homestead as it looked in the early 1900's. This photo must have been taken from the vantage point of the barn loft. A photo of the same house today led part 1 of this story.(photo courtesy USDA Forest Service)

The following is part 2 of a more blog-friendly adaptation of a piece I wrote for the Tooele Transcript Bulletin last week on the ghost town of Benmore, UT.  It originally appeared in the October 13, 2009 edition.  Click here to read part 1.

Israel Bennion’s dream was materializing, but it wouldn’t last long.

Annual precipitation proved too low for successful dry-farming in Benmore.  Homesteaders got discouraged and began to sell out.  To make matters worse, the wheat market collapsed, rendering an already impractical operation impossible.  By 1918, most of Benmore’s residents had moved away or were commuting to city or mining jobs.

The Benmore Ward was dissolved in 1920.  As the ward went, predicted Bennion at the outset, so would the town.  Most homesteaders eventually sold their claims to the Agricultural Resettlement Administration in what Thompson describes as a 1900s-style bailout.

Only the Bennion ranch remained.  Israel Bennion’s great granddaughter, Elizibeth Mitchell, still operates it today with her husband, Alan.  The rest of the land that purchased by the Federal government eventually came under the jurisdiction of the Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest.

Some dreams die, but they need not be forgotten.

Compared to many other Utah ghost towns, Benmore is well documented.  Most of the information on the town was gleaned from land and church records.  Israel Bennion’s journal was preserved and oral histories fill in some of the gaps.

Beginning in 1999, Passport in Time (PIT), a Forest Service volunteer program, began recording and mapping the site and documenting the artifacts still there.

“Sometimes the only way we can learn about some of these families is to looking at the objects that are left out here,” explained Thompson.  “So these little objects are connections back to real people’s lives.”

Across the road from the schoolhouse is a historical jackpot: the partially intact remains of the Skidmore-Jorgensen homestead.   The house was a large one for its day, once boasting a second story and a large kitchen addition.  The skeletons of a fruit tree orchard lay amongst the brush along the approach to the old house.  The entrance to the yard was marked by the massive trunks of fallen poplar and Box Elder trees.

This photo shows the surface of the walls inside the Skidmore-Jorgensen house. These thin planks would have been covered with plaster. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The house’s upper story and back kitchen have collapsed, but the main four walls still stand.  Its floor is littered with broken planks.  Non-native vines snake up the walls and through their timbers.  The scene is iconic.

Nearby are the remains of a workshop, a barn, a water cistern, and an earthen dam.  According to Thompson, some living Skidmore descendents grew up in this house.  Some of them even remember their mother dying during childbirth in the house.

“There is a very personal connection with this house.” She said.

The Benmore sites have fallen victim to vandalism and looting over the years, despite the best efforts of the Forest Service and the Mitchell Family.   Recently, a log barrier was erected across the drive to the Skidmore-Jorgensen house, but that hasn’t stopped shooters from targeting the remains.  Nor have the laws against stealing artifacts stopped scavengers from digging on the sites.

Despite the ongoing problem with vandalism, the Forest Service hopes Benmore’s remains will serve as self-discovery place where people can come and live the history in a very personal way.

Thompson recalled how during a PIT project, one of the volunteers found a little roller skate and thought of the cobbly roads.

“She started to cry.”  Thompson recalled.  “She was suddenly struck with this impression of a little boy or girl wanting to own a pair of roller skates and not having a place to use them.  She could visualize this little kid out there still trying.  That roller skate in a museum is just a roller skate.  Out here it’s in context, a testament to the desires of these families out here to make good lives out here.”

The Benmore experiment may have ultimately failed, but its crumbling foundations continue to tell a unique story of grit and resolve.

———-

Special thanks to Elizabeth Mitchell and USDA Forest Service archaeologists Charmaine Thompson and Jennifer Beard.

 

The Benmore Experiment, Part 1 of 2

Forest Service preserves remains of short-lived town in southern Rush Valley as ‘outside museum’

The semi-intact remains of the Skidmore-Jorgensen home in the ghost town of Benmore, UT (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The following is part 1 of a more blog-friendly adaptation of a piece I wrote for the Tooele Transcript Bulletin last week on the ghost town of Benmore, UT.  It originally appeared in the October 13, 2009 edition.

“Welcome to downtown Benmore!” exclaimed USDA Forest Service archaeologist Charmaine Thompson after parking her truck along a random-looking stretch of Forest Service Road 005, six miles south of Vernon.  An autumn breeze swept across a vast, seemingly empty field of brush.  Thompson smiled as she pointed to an area on the north side of the dirt road.  “Right over here is the old schoolhouse.”

The building’s foundation became visible after a few steps into the sagebrush.  Its footing was the size of a large shed.  Scattered about were fragments of ceramic and rusted metal—some unidentifiable, some clearly embossed with the decorative markings of early twentieth century school desks.

The structure’s brick edifice was dismantled in 1932—a mere 18 years after it was constructed.  Its materials were salvaged and reused somewhere else in the valley, leaving only the floor and strewn metal as a testament to the determined people who once called this place home.

It’s difficult to imagine now, but this schoolhouse was once the centerpiece of an organized and bustling community.  Tucked at the southern end of Rush Valley in the shadow of the jagged Sheeprock Mountains, Benmore was an experiment in human tenacity.

Most of the town’s land is now managed by the Forest Service.  Thompson is part of a team dedicated to preserving its remains as an outside museum.

“They came here to establish life,” Thompson said.  “But if I’m responsible for these remains, something went horribly wrong, because they’ve reverted to public ownership.”

“But at the same time,” she qualified, “Since this is now public land, their stories become part of all of our history, and we can come and visit them.”

Benmore was the brainchild of Israel Bennion, whose family had settled the area in the 1860’s.  Originally from Taylorsville, Utah, the Bennions were drawn to this clime by the prospect of free land under the Homestead Act, and the opportunity to escape what they considered an overcrowded Salt Lake Valley.  Israel’s father, Samuel Bennion established a successful livestock ranch in 1863.  He befriended the Goshute Indians, some of whom would winter next to his ranch.

A metal relic of an old school desk lies near the foundation of the old Benmore School (photo by Clint Thomsen)

To say that making a life in this harsh environment was tough is an understatement.  Rainfall averaged about ten inches per year.  Extreme weather only allowed a brief 130 day growing season.  Water from the narrow Sheeprocks was scant, and was eventually threatened by overgrazing.

Yet the Bennions persisted, driven by dreams of a thriving, close-knit community.  In 1905, Israel Bennion successfully lobbied to include the Sheeprock Range in the National Forest system.  Later he convinced the county to adopt and maintain the road that would become the town’s main street.  Bennion was serious enough about Benmore’s success that he would often give land, or sell it at reduced cost, to impoverished families.

“I want this waste place of Zion redeemed,” He wrote in his journal.  “I want the poor Saints provided with homes.  I want living here made tolerable now.” (emphasis Bennion’s)

The Bennions’ community-building effort was joined in 1905 by Charles H. Skidmore and family, who purchased 10,000 acres for a dry farming operation.  The town’s name was created by combining the two surnames.  The schoolhouse opened in 1914 and served 20 students from eight families.  The Benmore Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints became a ward the following year.  During its brief existence, its records boasted 187 members, 20 births, three marriages, and four deaths.  Benmore’s boon was hard work, resourcefulness, and a surge in wheat prices spurred by World War I.

———-

Click here to read part 2.

 

Saltair’s spooky side shines in “Carnival of Souls”

I’ve written a lot about Saltair’s charm and history, but since it’s a crisp October Thursday I thought I’d tap the old resort’s spookier side.

Some of the best (and possibly only) extant video footage of Saltair before it was destroyed by fire in 1970 comes from the 1962 horror flick Carnival of Souls, starring the alarmingly buggy-eyed Candace Hilligoss.  The movie features a young organist who takes a job in Salt Lake City.  While there, she’s inexplicably drawn to the abandoned remains of Saltair II.  Saltair makes several appearances throughout the movie, but the old place really shines at the movie’s climax.

I found the following clip on YouTube (hat tip: Brian Butko/Lincoln Highway News). It starts with Hilligoss’ character saying spooky things in her psychiatrist’s office before getting scared and driving out to Saltair.  The Saltair footage starts at about 1:56 with Hilligoss driving the Saltair approach.  If you’re into Saltair, you’ll love this.  If you’re not, this low budget B-movie scene will at least amuse you and spark the spirit of Halloween.  Enjoy

You can watch the entire movie on Hulu for free.

See previous Saltair blogging here.

 

Saltair in flames: Video documents the ruin of famous Utah resort

I’ve written about Saltair enough now that it merits its own category in my sidebar. If you’re new to the subject, check this out before watching the video below. I’ve read various accounts of the “Lady of the Lake’s” 1970 demise. The best comes from my cyber-pal Gregory Navarro:

I was doing homework with my girlfriend one November night in 1970 when Channel Four TV anchorman Roy Gibson came on and reported that Saltair was burning. I lived on the East Bench at that time, as did my girlfriend, and I ran outside to see the big candle burning near the horizon. I drove that 26 miles in about half an hour. By the time I pulled up to the turnoff on I-80 West, I could only see flames and plumes of smoke. Nothing else. On the news the next night, only the smoldering steel skeleton, melted asphalt and the pilings, like cemetery markers in neat rows, remained.

While researching my recent articles on Saltair, I came across some archival video of that 1970 fire.  I realize this may only be of interest to Utah history junkies, but it’s interesting to actually see the end of such a prominent landmark- a place that meant so much to so many of my older friends and relatives.

 

Old Saltair: Ruins are all that remain of “Coney Island of the West”

The following originally appeared in the August 13, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

The approach to Saltair I (left) near the turn of the century (source unknown), and the same view today (Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

It’s early morning at the Lake Point railway station.  The sun has yet to fully emerge from behind the Oquirrhs, but the dry August heat has already announced its arrival.  You sit with your siblings in the cramped seat on an eastbound rail car.  Scores of your neighbors and townspeople pack the aisles and platforms.

It’s August 15, 1903: Official Tooele County Day at Saltair Pavilion.  The county’s entire population, it seems, has boarded the train’s ten passenger cars to visit the most thrilling resort in the west.  Try as it might, the blistering heat can’t spoil the excited spirit aboard the crowded coaches this morning.  The train lurches forward.  You’re finally on your way.

You watch out your window as the train rounds the mountain and approaches the legendary edifice.  Rising from the lake at the end of a mile-long trestle, Saltair seems fascinatingly out of place.  The sight of its onion domes and ornate archways against the lake’s bare backdrop startles your senses.

You’ll spend the day swimming in the lake’s salty waters, trying—but failing—to sink. You’ll watch the sunset from the narrow bathhouse arcs.   By the time you board the train again, the pavilion will be ablaze in lights and awash with the scents of corn dogs and popcorn.

Happy swimmers pose at Saltair (date, source unknown)

It’s not difficult for me to imagine this scenario.  I felt that same excitement as a kid every time our family drove the current version of Saltair.  Known in historical circles as “Saltair III” (since it’s the third incarnation), the pavilion sits roughly 2 miles southwest of the original site.  While an outing to Saltair III in the 80’s may not has been as grand as a trip to the famed original, there was something enchanting about the lakeside resort and the notion of the lake as a getaway spot.

A traffic incident during my commute last week closed I-80 at the Saltair exit, giving me several hours to kill in the area.   Many of my fellow sidelined commuters parked at the Saltair III pavilion to grab a Coke and some salt water taffy from the gift shop.  I turned south on the frontage road and drove to the entrance to the original site.

Saltair I was built in 1893 under the direction of the LDS Church.  Intended as a wholesome alternative to the rowdier resorts springing up along the lakeshore, it was the most ambitious lakeside project to date.

For the edifice’s design, Saltair planners tapped architect Richard Kletting, who had already designed the Lake Park resort and who would later design the State Capitol.  Saltair was built over the water on a platform supported by 2500 pine pilings, nearly a mile offshore and accessed via railroad trestle.

The multilevel pavilion had a bizarre Moorish-Victorian appearance.  Crescent “arms” lined with bathhouses extended from each side.   Kletting’s goal was to overwhelm visitors and transport them to a world of “escape and pleasure.”

The resort boasted various rides, shows, and dining options.  Its signature attraction was the Giant Racer, a massive roller coaster that sent riders screaming through drops and turns over the water.

On one occasion, Orville and Wilbur Wright demonstrated their “heavier than air machine” at Saltair, making short, low flights above the pavilion.   Often billed as “The Coney Island of the West,” Saltair enjoyed considerable success until a fire destroyed the pavilion in 1925.

A larger, more colorful version was built in its place a year later.  “Saltair II” added even more attractions, focusing less on swimming and more on entertainment offerings as water levels receded.  High maintenance costs combined and nation-wide economic woes strained the resort, but another lucky generation of Utahns grew up dancing in its massive ballroom and relaxing on its potted palm walkways.

Saltair II was abandoned in the 60’s and was destroyed by fire 1970.  Saltair III was built in 1982 at I-80 exit 104 for more convenient access.  Knowledge of the original site and its legacy faded from collective memory as the years passed.  Few prominent sources adequately address its history.

A charred pile-on lies on the site of the old Saltair II pavilion. A 1970 arson fire destroyed the structure (Clint Thomsen)

Old Saltair’s most visible remnants today are the cinderblock exterior of the power substation that served it, and the old rail car, which was an original Saltair coach.  Around these are strewn various parts and pieces of Saltair III attractions that were destroyed in the 1983 flood.

This property is privately owned, but the train car has recently found wide popularity with bridal photographers.  Trespassing photographers stage almost daily shoots there during the warm months.   The actual pavilion site is on public land, but should only be accessed via the Lee Creek Area directly to the east.

Significant remains still lie along the overgrown trestle that leads to the pavilion site.  I followed it, stopping periodically to examine the original salt-crusted pilings that supported the boardwalk.  Pilings marking the Giant Racer’s route also remain along with half-buried strips of metal that the bulldozers missed.  The site of the old Ship Café is littered with ceramic fragments of plates, cups, and saucers.  Anything completely intact was scavenged long ago.

As I traced the outline of the pavilion, I pondered the strange dichotomy this site presents.  Here, two mindsets have always coexisted at odds with each other:  the easy-going beach groove that Saltair attempted to harness, and the harsh desert environment that eventually did it in.

This dichotomy is best illustrated by album art from a 1967 Beach Boy’s record.  Photos show the band hanging out at a decaying Saltair II.  My favorite shot is of the boys balancing atop a tall collection of pilings that once served as a dock.  Those pilings still stand, and given their isolation, they probably will forever.

I returned to my car thirsty and exhausted.  On these flat beaches, one can easily lose track of distance.  The freeway had reopened, and it was time to make my way home.  Were I around in 1903, I wouldn’t have missed that first Tooele County Day for anything.   At least I made it in time for the outing’s 106 year anniversary.   Old Saltair’s remains may be scant, but out there on those flats, it’s spirit is as vibrant as ever.

 

Ghost towns? How about a ghost resort?

Saltair resort circa 1920 (source unknown)

Many visitors to Utah wonder about the large, Moorish building that looms on the south shore of the Great Salt Lake.  Marinas and various industrial structures aside, it may well be the only commercial building on the lake.

The building is Saltair– Saltair III, to be exact.  It’s the third incarnation of the historic lakeside resort that was first built in 1893.  You can read a beautifully written history of the “Lady of the Lake”on my friend, Gregory Navarro’s old geocities page.

Fires dealt fatal blows to both of its predecessors, and Saltair III rose in 1982.  For more convenient acess to Interstate 80, it was built off of exit 104 rather than on the original site.  The original site sits quietly, abandoned and disheveled a full two miles northeast.

Last week, a traffic emergency during my commute home stranded me in the Saltair area for about 4 hours.  While many of my fellow traffic refugees stopped into Saltair III to wait for the freeway to reopen, I drove down to the trestle that leads about a mile offshore to the original site.

That outing will be the subject of this week’s Transcript Bulletin article, but here are a few pictures of old Saltair.  Some of the older ones I don’t have credit info for, so I apologize to the various historical organizations they probably came from.  The rest I took myself.

Saltair I (1893-1925) (source unknown)

Saltair II (1926-1970) (source unknown)

Saltair III (1982-present) (courtesy Michael C. Berch via Wikipedia)

Photo of Saltair II taken during the fire of 1970. (courtesy Utah State Historical Society)

Wooden pilings line the old trestle that leads to the site (photo by Clint Thomsen)

Remains of a ceramic cup lie partially buried in the rubble of Saltair. I found this cup on the site of the Ship Cafe, a seafood restaurant at the pavilion.

Tall wooden posts that were used for docking boats at Saltair. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

My column about old Saltair will run in tomorrow’s newspaper.  I’ll post it here sometime next week.

 

Historical discoveries still await in old E.T. City area

The following article originally appeared in the July 9, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

Grantsville Woolen Mill, built in 1869, was abandoned when quicksand threatened the structure's stability. The remnants of stone structures from Stansbury Park to Lake Point showcase the historical markings of old E.T. City. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

Ever since I moved to Stansbury Park, I’ve joked that my neighborhood was built atop a ghost town. Last summer, a crew installing a water line in Stansbury Park accidentally lent some credibility to that claim.

On July 22, 2008, a sub-contractor for the Stansbury Park Improvement District was digging along Stansbury Parkway when their equipment chipped the corner of a reddish brick about four feet beneath the pavement.

SPID manager Brett Palmer contacted the staff of the historic Benson Grist Mill, who determined that the exposed brickwork was part of a building foundation. Preliminary analysis suggested the foundation belonged to the long disappeared miller’s residence, a significant structure to the histories of Richville and E.T. City.

“So is that why things sometimes move by themselves in our house?” asked my 7 year old son, Bridger, when I told him about the find. Not wanting to kill the Goosebumps-fueled fantasy that was rapidly formulating in his head, I refrained from telling him that if our house is haunted, it’s by the ghosts of the turkeys who were raised on the land it now sits on—not by specters of gun-slinging cowboys.

For me, the discovery of the foundation underscored the fact that the patchwork quilt that is Tooele County history is far from complete, and that the past—in many ways—is often closer to us than we realize.

Last spring I received an email from a recent transplant to Tooele County from out of state. He expressed a deep interest in the history of the region and asked me to give him ideas for history-related outdoor adventures. I suggested he start in the area of the grist mill.

Settlement of the north end of Tooele Valley radiated from the mill, which was built in 1854 by LDS apostle Ezra Taft Benson. Benson’s Mill produced wheat and corn by the ton, becoming a major contributor to the County’s economy. Its influence was so great that the mill and its immediate vicinity, dubbed “Richville,” served as the Tooele county seat for six years.

The large area between the mill and Black Rock was known as E.T. City. The sprawling collection of farms and settlements that would later become Lake Point is still home to some of the era’s most intact and interesting relics.

Richville dissolved and E.T. City evolved into Lake Point long ago, but an amazing number of vestiges of these pioneer communities remain intact and surprisingly visible to those who care to look. Taking a tour of these relics doesn’t involve any grand hikes or long treks, but it’s a rewarding endeavor nonetheless.

A journey westward into Tooele County in the mid to late 1870’s offered quite a different experience when compared to the present. Whereas cars speed past the northern point of the Oquirrhs today with nary a second thought, yesterday’s slow stagecoach ride along Utah’s second territorial road allowed the curious traveler ample time to take in his surroundings.

The Great Salt Lake was much higher then, and Utahns were drawn to its shores in droves. Lakeside bathing resorts were a promising enterprise then, and travelers to Tooele were greeted by bustling oases at Black Rock, Garfield, and Clinton Beaches. A long pier connected the latter to an elegant hotel in what would become Lake Point.

Anchored at its dock or cruising along the shore was the “City of Corinne,” a Mississippi River-type steamboat that boasted two stacks and three decks. Originally built to haul ore between Corinne and Lake Point, the stern-wheeler quickly found more practical use as an excursion vessel. The boat was a regular site along the shore. It was particularly striking at night, when it was vibrant with strings of lights and the sounds of its on-board orchestra.

E.T. City’s main drag was along present Sunset Road in Lake Point. Along this road are the old LDS Chapel and schoolhouse. The chapel was built in 1884 using stone gathered from the area. It was home, according to some accounts, to the oldest ward in the LDS Church, and was used for meetings until 1986. The intact building stands at 2000 E. Sunset Road. It’s currently owned by local telecom company Wireless Beehive. The nearby schoolhouse, owned by the same company, was built in 1894.

The Kennecott-owned ranch west of Adobe Rock on SR-36 is home to several historic structures. Most notable are the picturesque remains of the Grantsville Woolen Mill. The mill was dedicated in 1870, but was closed shortly thereafter due to dam failure and stability issues caused by quicksand. It later served as a fishery, and a dairy before being abandoned. The remains are easily viewed from SR-36.

More historic structures stand near and at the grist mill, including the Lee Tannery and Summerhays Wool Pullery next to the mill site. Several historic buildings have been restored and moved to the site as well. Two original houses near the site are still occupied, including one built by Joseph Young, brother to Brigham Young.

The most spectacular building is the grist mill itself, thanks to a committee of volunteers who began to restore it in 1983. Abandoned and in disrepair since the 1940’s, the committee restored the mill– plank by plank– to its current state. The mill is hailed as the most significant structural landmark between Salt Lake City and Reno. It’s open to the public from May through October, and free tours are offered on a regular basis.

Last summer’s encounter with the miller’s residence foundation came as more of a surprise to the team installing the water pipe than it did to grist mill staff, who already suspected it was near that spot. But this resurfacing of the past proves to modern-day explorers that there’s still plenty of history still out there to discover.

TRIP TIPS
For more information on the history of northern Tooele Valley, visit www.bensonmill.org. A pamphlet detailing a self-guided driving tour of E.T. City is available at the gift shop for $1. Please respect all private property.

——-

Many thanks to Colleen Garrard and the staff at the Benson Grist Mill for their input on this article.

 

Immersion in Iosepa’s past requires imagination, good shoes

The following originally appeared in the May 30, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

A branch of Spring Canyon Creek, one of five streams diverted and used to provide water for the Iosepa colony, flows nearly hidden in Skull Valley (photo by Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

It wasn’t my most embarrassing outdoor moment, but were I not alone, it might have been.  And it might have gone mostly unnoticed too, if it weren’t for those nosy kids, who just had to ask why I came staggering back to the van soaking wet and barefoot.

I suppose my Pavlovian conditioning to running water and my often quixotic zeal for symbolism were partly to blame for the mishap.  But in my defense, the little jaunt along Spring Canyon creek was impromptu.  And who could have known that the creek’s grassy bottom was actually a whole foot deeper than it looked?

I don’t usually embark on adventures wearing flip flops.  That is, unless I’m heading out to Skull Valley for the annual Memorial Day weekend celebration at Iosepa, where I spend most of the day in a lawn chair watching Polynesian dances and snacking on Spam musubi.

Correction:  Where I spend most of the day convincing my young sons not to try to catch the snakes they find on Salt Mountain and trying to keep their baby sister from stealing Tootsie Rolls from other kids’ candy leis.  Actual moments spent watching Polynesian dances and snacking on Spam musubi are few and far between.

Still, the day never calls for more than flip flops.  The festival’s tangible Aloha Spirit makes me feel like I’m actually in the islands.

Which is how I imagine it makes the festival’s attendees, many of whom are descendents of the Hawaiian colony’s original residents, feel too.  “A malama la Iosepa mea na keiki a mau loa,” read this year’s official festival t-shirt—“To preserve Iosepa and her children forever.”

There are many reasons these people feel so strongly about this place.  About 50 of those are the tidy, decorated graves a few feet to the west of the modern cement pavilion.  There lie the Mormon pioneers who left the islands to gather in Utah and eventually settle this seemingly inhospitable corner of the desert.

In 1889, a committee of returned missionaries from Hawaii and three Hawaiian converts began looking for a suitable place for Hawaiian immigrants to gather together and thrive economically.  After considering various properties, the committee decided on the 1,280 acre Rich Ranch in Skull Valley.  Despite the seemingly cruel desert environment, the more it was considered, the clearer the choice became.

According to the committee’s report, the deal included exclusive rights to five streams flowing from the Stansbury Mountains which, when collected and conveyed by a single ditch, equaled “one quarter or one third of the waters of City Creek.”  The property also included a number of large springs, one of which formed a large fish pond.

The streams and ponds already supported an established ranch, thus eliminating much of the guess work.  The new colony, called “Iosepa” after LDS missionary to Hawaii Joseph F. Smith, would expand on an existing and proven framework.

Some confusion exists as to the extensive irrigation system built to exploit the Stansbury streams.  The committee report suggests that at least a primitive system was extant before Iosepa’s settlement.  According to State University of New York at Potsdam archaeologist Benjamin Pykles, who began an archaeological study of Iosepa last year, dates inscribed in cement on some of the aqueduct ruins prove that some work was done on the system after the Hawaiians left Iosepa.

The real innovation, however, came during Iosepa’s boom.  Pykles says the pressurized irrigation system, complete with fire hydrants, was part of a project that culminated in 1908.

The area’s natural water sources also provided food and recreation.  According to a BYU Master’s thesis by Dennis Atkin, the Hawaiians enjoyed fishing and swimming in the larger pond, which they named “Kanaka Lake.”  They even grew proficient at catching carp by hand.  This was done by this was done by sneaking up behind the fish, gently stroking them along their sides, then grabbing them by their gills.

Historical accounts describe frequent celebrations at Iosepa honoring their cultural and religious legacy.  Carvings of sea turtles and palm trees in a large rock slab on Salt Mountain are wistful reminders of their island heritage.  Most of the Hawaiians left Iosepa to return to the islands after plans for a new temple on Oahu were announced in 1915.  By 1917, Iosepa was a very well-irrigated ghost town.

But the rows of tents and trailers at the festival last weekend were proof that Iosepa is still adored even a century later.  The sky was cloudy, the air humid and uncharacteristically still.  The setting couldn’t have been more perfect.

Members of the Iosepa Board helped children scrub and hollow gourds to make traditional instruments called ipu.  Bridger, 7, and Weston, 6, then headed for the hills with their friends.  3 year old Coulter nursed a cup of shave ice and 2 year old Ella climbed on the stage to dance.

As we drove away late that afternoon, I decided to search out the old aqueduct system that allowed Iosepa to thrive.  BLM archaeological papers detail each ruin site, and we began driving along one of the diverted streams.

When it became clear that reaching the aqueduct ruins would require 4WD, we followed the road until it met the stream.  At least I’d be able to dip my foot Iosepa’s life blood.  While the kids had lunch at the van, I walked over to the stream, whose bed was so densely vegetated that I was barely able to see it.

The only way to get close was to actually step into the rushing water.  That’s when I lost my right flip flop.  I stepped in with my left leg to stabilize myself.  That’s when I lost my left flip flop.  That’s also when I slipped and fell.

“So, you’re saying you just…lost them?” Bridger asked, annoyed and confused.  “Yep, they’re gone,” I replied.  Ella tapped her ipu and shot me a reassuring smile.   The symbolism quota for the trip had been met, albeit in clumsy fashion, and it was time to say goodbye to Iosepa for another year.

 

Weekly Run-Down: Zee Avi, Iosepa, and Selling Out

A Note on the new Zee Avi album
I know I promised a review, but these last few weeks couldn’t have been more hectic for me.  I still plan on writing one, but it defininitely won’t be until next week.  Suffice it to say that the new album is excellent.  Whoever called the shots on instrumentation is a genius.  Avi’s voice is sweet and distinct.  Favorite track so far– ‘Just You and Me.’

Iosepa or bust
My family and I attended the annual Iosepa festival last Saturday.  If you’re new to this blog, read more about this Hawaiian ghost town here.  Below are some pics from this year’s festival:

One of this town’s distinguishing characteristics was its pressurized irrigation system, which exploited 5 mountain streams by converging them into cement and wooden aqueducts.  Last year, archaeologist Benjamin Pykles was excavating one of the old lots, he showed me some BLM archaeological papers that mapped out remnants of that aqueduct system.  This year, I attempted to locate one of the ruins but turned back when I decided my family vehicle’s axles and tires were more important than a moment of archaeological elation.  Read all about it in this week’s Transcript Bulletin column, which I’ll post here this weekend.

Selling Out
Yeah, so I haven’t blogged much the last few days, nor have I had much time to read all of your blogs and leave comments.  That’s because the missus and I are frantically preparing to sell our house.

No, I didn’t lose any of my jobs.  It’s just that we looked at the number of children we have vs. the number of bedrooms and square feet in our little starter home and decided it might be wise to take advantage of the buyer’s market.

It was split-second decision, and as heart attack inducing as that is for me, most of our better decisions have happened that way (getting married to each other, having kids, and buying our current house all come to mind).

The down side is that gave us a week to re-landscape our yard, redo our bathroom floor, and try to make the place look like 5 kids really don’t live there.  All amidst family reunions, weddings, school activities, and work.

Of course if we don’t sell our house, we won’t buy the one we’ve made an offer on, which fortunately is just up the street.  Wish us luck.