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.

 

Road to Jacob City leads to discovery of old kilns

The following originally appeared in the May 7, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

The view from Soldier Creek Canyon shows a beehive kiln, one of the Waterman Coking Ovens, which produced charcoal and smelted ore for the Waterman Concentrator. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

“Is this the road to Jacob City?” I asked the man in the red jeep, who I later nicknamed Tallahassee. He tipped his straw cowboy hat and responded with an artful mix of slang and cusswords laced with the occasional proper noun, which I believe meant “I have no idea.”

“I’m from Florida,” he explained, courteously upping the ratio of real words to expletives to about 2 to 1. “Did you see those elk there? I took a picture on my phone and I’m just texting it to my buddy.”

I hadn’t seen the elk, but the texting explained his erratic driving. I had pulled up beside him partly to see if something was wrong, but also because I assumed he was a local who might know the lay of the land. My approach had taken the drifter somewhat aback, but he eased up quickly.

“I’ve been in every canyon in these mountains except for these couple,” he boasted. Then he glanced down at my little Toyota commuter car. “You goin’ up there in this?”

“Nope,” I replied, nodding toward my bike rack behind me. “I’m going up there on that.”

My rig is a high-end model Marin that a friend, the vice president of a scented candle company, paid a pretty penny for at the bike shop. When he hit the jackpot during the scented candle craze of the late nineties, he upgraded and sold the bike to me for $150.

But the years have taken their toll on the trusty cycle. This was its first outing after a cruel idle winter, and as I pedaled up the Jacob City road I could tell the bike was in need of some serious TLC. I followed Tallahassee’s Jeep up the canyon, keeping pace for a while but eventually falling back as the gravel road continued on a moderate but steady incline.

The old ghost town of Jacob City sits at an elevation of 8500 feet at the top of Dry Canyon, where spring has yet to announce its arrival. With a western horizon filled with malevolent clouds and only a few hours left of daylight, I didn’t intend to ride all the way to the top. Instead, I planned to ride until either the rain or dusk turned me back.

What I didn’t plan on were the chain-suck problems caused by hard cranking on a worn chainwheel. Only a mile or so up the road, an ill-timed gear shift snagged my chain and jammed it, stopping me dead in my tracks. This happened several more times until I reached the sign marking the Jacob City Loop Trail, where I finally decided to turn around. To add insult to injury, the first wave of rains hit as I began my ascent, soaking me by the time I reached my car.

Fortunately I had a backup plan. Curt Hall of ExpeditionUtah.com had sent me information about the remains of several old charcoal kilns in nearby Soldier Creek Canyon, which date back to at least the mid 1870’s. My overriding goal for this trip had been to experience some sign of Tooele County’s rich mining heritage, and I would have just enough daylight to visit the kilns.

The gravel road was iffy in a few spots, but my car handled it fine. I had mapped the location of the kilns using my GPS receiver and Google Maps on my cell phone. High resolution satellite imagery allowed me to formulate a near perfect vision off the scene as I drove into the canyon. Three of the kilns were visible from the satellite imagery. A fourth kiln and several other foundations were apparent once I arrived.

According to the Utah State Historical Society’s Utah History to Go project, the kilns were known as the Waterman Coking Ovens and were used to produce charcoal and to smelt ore for the Waterman concentrator. The kilns marked a central location nearly equidistant from their timber source at Bald Mountain and the Ophir and Rush Valley mines, which they served.

The most prominent among the ruins are those of a beehive-shaped kiln, with an interior diameter measuring 13.5 feet. When fully intact, the kiln was topped by a parabolic dome with an opening near the top for feeding wood. The walls of the kiln were still intact with 3 foot wide arched opening near the base for the removal of concentrates and ashes.

Also on the site are the ruins of several stone buildings. The operation was intensive, and the kilns needed frequent maintenance. The UHTG website notes that during operation, a community of 15 to 20 workers and their families lived near the kilns. The kilns were used until about 1899 and the site was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980.

The kilns are on private property, so I viewed and photographed it from the road. In the interest of their preservation, I’ll refrain from giving detailed directions to them here.

Another wave of rain closed in on me as I drove out of the canyon. I paused for a moment before leaving and pondered the curious combination of wilderness, raw history, and modern technology that had framed my little adventure. I turned off my GPS receiver and closed Google Maps. I was there– no need for satellite imagery any more.

I might have texted a picture or two of the kilns to Tallahassee, but I didn’t have his number. That’s all right– he probably would have driven off a cliff while viewing them anyway.

TRIP TIPS

To get to the areas described, follow Silver Avenue eastward from Stockton for 2.2 miles to a fork in the road. The south fork narrows considerably and leads about 8.2 miles to the Jacob City area. The north fork leads into Soldier Creek Canyon. Land on both sides of both roads is privately owned. The kilns, mines, and tailings piles are to be viewed only from the road. High clearance vehicle or 4WD is recommended for both roads.

 

Hangar is gateway to another Epoch

The following article originally appeared in the February 19, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

The south wall of the Enola Gay Hangar shows the decaying structure that housed the atomic mission that ended World War II. - photography / Clint Thomsen

by Clint Thomsen

The air inside the old maintenance hangar was musty and still — and much colder than I had expected. The sun shone through gaps in the roof and rows of broken windows, flooding the structure with a sort of inert light. I followed Jim Peterson across a sweeping concrete floor, past a hodgepodge of military and industrial relics, toward the hangar’s east end.

“Over here,” said the soft-spoken airport director, pointing toward the bare timbers of the north annex. “This was the prop shop.”

The old Wendover airbase has fascinated me since my grandpa took me there for an airshow in the ’80s. Since then, I’ve rarely passed through town without detouring through the decaying collection of World War II-era buildings. Finally seeing the interior of the famed “Enola Gay Hangar” was at once exciting and sad. As I gazed up at the rusty trusses, I wondered what this place looked like the better part of a century ago.

Tooele County’s vast open spaces set it apart from its metropolitan neighbor to the east. While Tooele Valley has seen exponential growth in recent years, most of the rest of the county remains blissfully undeveloped and underexplored. And even though time, weather and vandals have marred the region’s historical sites, the county is still a fusion of wilderness and visible history.

When snow chokes mountain trails and renders the canyons impassable, my mind focuses more on the desert floor and its vestiges of the past. Many of my road trips and camping adventures in Tooele County’s wilds have been paired with historical research. Defining this hobby is difficult, since the term that best describes it — “urban exploration” — has been tainted by the very culture that coined it.

Colloquial dictionaries define urban exploration, or “hacking,” as the examination of normally unseen places and other abandonments. But the term has become associated with secretive trespassing.

Many self-described “urbexers” do it less for historic curiosity and more for the thrill of “infiltrating” private property. They consider it a harmless activity, claiming to adhere to a strict destroy-nothing, take-nothing policy. Still, the moniker appropriately carries a negative connotation for property owners and those who explore history legally.

So since they’ve hijacked the term, I’ll take this opportunity to coin one of my own: “epoch hacking” — or the tapping into the essence of a historical era by legally visiting associated sites. That’s an overly technical definition, but fascination with the past and the appeal of visiting abandoned places is quite widespread. It’s why the ghost town articles on my Web site are the most highly trafficked pieces there. It’s also why so many visitors to the annual Wendover Air Show find themselves peering curiously at the row of vintage hangars lining the airfield’s apron.

Just under 100 of the 668 original buildings still stand at the old base — an impressive number given the time elapsed and the fact that many were built for temporary use. The base housed more than 20 bomber groups during World War II. At its apex, 17,000 soldiers and 2,500 civilians called it home. It’s personnel component was reduced to just a few thousand after Col. Paul Tibbets chose Wendover Airfield as the training point for “Project Silverplate,” the atomic mission that would end the war and change the course of history.

During the 509th Composite Group’s stay, the base housed up to 15 B-29 SuperFortresses, which were tweaked and modified for mission training. Construction on “Building 1841” began in late 1944 and was completed in early 1945. The hangar was large enough to park two B-29s inside at once. The two-story “side-buildings” housed various maintenance areas and office space.

In later years, the hangar became known locally as the “Enola Gay Hangar,” after the B-29 bomber commanded by Tibbets on the Hiroshima mission. The famed aircraft now resides at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center in Virginia.

In 1947, the U.S. Air Force took over the base and used it sparsely until 1976. Writer and photographer Richard Menzies visited the base in 1971 while it was maintained by a skeleton crew, whose presence deterred vandalism.

“The various buildings were in excellent shape,” Menzies told me. “Frozen in time since the ’40s. You could still smell the oil and carb cleaner from heavy bombers that had once occupied the hangars.”

The Enola Gay Hangar was next occupied by engineer Robert Golka, who used the space to experiment with ball lightning. Menzies visited Golka on several occasions, later profiling him in his 2005 book “Passing Through: An Existential Journey Across America’s Outback.”

“He filled the place up with esoteric electrical machinery,” Menzies recalled. “Including what he dubbed ‘the world’s largest Tesla coil.’”

The hangar remained largely intact until the base was deeded to the City of Wendover in 1977. It was subsequently abandoned and stripped by looters. I realized what Jim Peterson was showing me was but a ghost of its former self, a fact punctuated by the tattered sheets of white cloth, which shrouded both of the annexes. Still, the profundity of gazing into the offices where Tibbets and crew planned their mission is difficult to describe.

We paused near the dusty fuselage of an old T-33 to look up at the original light fixtures and some leftover wires from Golka’s experiments. Peterson’s lament at the building’s state of disrepair was obvious.

Fortunately, the Historic Wendover Airfield Foundation recently secured a $440,000 federal grant to begin an exterior restoration of the legendary hangar. Work on the roof and side walls will begin later this year.

What motivates Peterson’s work to preserve the airfield’s heritage?

“There’s no place like it,” he said. “Where else can you go that has six hangars right on the front line and so many original structures?”

Whatever your view on the atomic mission and its aftermath, the experience of exploring the base is poignant and arresting. “Hacking” this epoch is well worth the drive.

TRIP TIPS
Until restoration is complete, the Enola Gay Hangar will remain off-limits to the public.  Paid tours of the base area by local guides are authorized to give visitors a close look at the hangar’s exterior and several other interesting parts of the base.  A map and guide to  a self-guided driving tour of the base are available at its operations building.  For more information, call 435-665-2308.

Stay tuned for more pics of the old hangar and base this weekend…

 

Route to Lehi may look empty but is filled with scenery, history

The Stockton Jail stands on Clark Street where it was built 106 years ago. The jail is one of many attractions on a southward journey around the Oquirrh Mountains (photo by Clint Thomsen)

It’s midday in the Utah desert. The valley is drenched in sun, like it usually is, but a stiff southerly wind whipping across the valley floor reminds you it’s November. You quickly fasten the steel collar button of your canvas duster and gaze across the valley toward the snow-dusted peaks of the enigmatic Oquirrh Mountains.

Thin columns of smoke rise from mining camps nestled in the distant hills. Your horse snorts as a stagecoach pulled by a four-horse team passes by. You’re standing at the junction of two dirt roads near the north end of Rush Valley. The year is 1880, and you’re visiting the county at the height of its mining boom.

Click here to read the full story.

 

Spring Canyon Spooks: In search of the White Lady

The following is a truncated and slightly edited version of a ghost story that I posted a couple years ago.  A rocky switch to a new blog platform earlier this year sort of buried this little story, and it hasn’t been too prominent on this incarnation of the website.  One of the first pieces I’ve ever written, this is the tale of my search for the famed White Lady of Latuda.  Enjoy.

Liberty Fuel Coal mining office in Latuda
(used with permission from the Western Mining & Railroad Museum)

THEY SAY THAT FALL signifies summer’s day fading into winter’s wilted dusk. What makes sense is mankind’s association of autumn with the melancholy. What baffles me is mankind’s warped fascination with it. Once fall begins something wonderful happens. For one month- one beautiful month- nostalgia for summer softly subsides and gives way to eager thoughts of eerie woods and jack-o-lanterns.

And let’s not forget- ghost towns.

SPRING CANYON

It’s a gray October evening I find myself driving along Spring Canyon Road, the crumbling narrow byway that begins at the outskirts of Helper and winds its way through the mountains and back in time.

The sleepy town of Helper, Utah, is nestled at the mouth of Price Canyon and the gateway to Castle Country. A former mining hub, Helper was so named for the “helper” engines needed to assist westbound trains up the long, steep grade to Soldier Summit. It’s a classic Old Western town with a Main Street lined with century old buildings.

No sooner do I enter the canyon than I spot the ruins of old Peerless with its stone staircases leading to a collage of rocky foundations. The sun begins to set and shadows dance on the canyon walls. I’ve been listening to a local radio station but reception is cutting out, so I turn it off. I roll down my window despite the chilly air and listen to my tires roll along this all but forgotten road.

Spring Canyon is home to several small ghost towns and abandoned mining camps. The remains of these towns are readily visible on both sides of the canyon from the road. Wooden shanties still stand on eroding ledges and strange buildings built right into rock faces blend into the cliffs like optical illusions. Time has taken its toll on Ghost Town Row, but many buildings remain impressively intact. The overgrowth makes it difficult to trace the old street routes, but it’s still possible to map out the towns using stone foundations and heaps of wooden planks as landmarks. One could spend weeks on end exploring these towns and the history that lurks behind half-standing walls and beneath weathered grave markers.

It’s getting dark now, and that’s important. That’s when my naturally skeptical mind starts to wander, and I find my eyes cautiously avoiding the old roadside wash.

The town of Rains in its heyday.
(used with permission from the Western Mining & Railroad Museum)

THE WHITE LADY

Like most ghost towns, the Spring Canyon towns have their spooky lore. An old miner’s ghost here, a graveyard apparition there- people want a good story, and ghost towns are the perfect places to spark the imagination. The creepy cowgirl mentioned something about the “White Lady of Latuda,” a story well known in these parts. After that trip I read that the story has several variations, but all conclude that the ghost of a woman wearing a white dress haunts the canyon- specifically the canyon wash.

One version of the story- the best sourced version- was told by Claude Lambert, an old miner who lived in a rock house in the canyon. Mr. Lambert knew the woman in question and worked with her husband. In the early 50’s he laid out the facts as he knew them.

The couple lived next to a store in Peerless with their infant child. Like many wives of the day, the woman lost her husband in the mine. But her husband met his end from blood poisoning caused by an infected tooth, not a mining accident. Thus, the company had no obligation to pay her any compensation or benefits, and she was turned away at the mine office in Latuda. Desperate and without recourse, the woman took her baby down to the wash and drowned it, so as to spare it from starvation.

Entrance to the Liberty Fuel coal mine in Latuda
(photograph by Clint Thomsen)

She spent some time at a Provo Mental facility before escaping and returning to Peerless to look for her baby. Her restless search did not end when she died. Some miners claimed the White Lady would appear in front of the mine, luring miners inside. To follow her, they said, was suicide. Other sightings have her walking in the direction of the mining office. Most people see her near the wash.

The wash below the Latuda townsite (photograph by Clint Thomsen)

Time passed and the boom towns died out, leaving only tailings piles, vacant buildings, and the White Lady. To this day, the stories go, the woman wanders the canyon, dejected and vengeful. She wears a beautiful white dress. Her face is pale and empty and she floats several feet off the ground. The sightings increased as the legend grew, and the old ghost town of Latuda became a popular destination for teenagers looking for a few thrills. In 1969, one disturbed young man, Delmont Gentry of Price, acquired a blasting cap and blew up the old mining office in Latuda in an attempt to “kill the ghost of the White Lady.”

Though I believe they exist, I’ve never seen a ghost. I think most ghost stories are nonsense. That said, I’ve been in eerie places. Places where I’ve felt watched. Places I won’t go at night. This is my first time in Spring Canyon after sunset.

DRIFTING SPIRIT

The sun has set and dark begins to fall in Spring Canyon. It’s much cooler now and my first reaction is to roll up the window, but I don’t. I want to experience this place in the raw. As I drive toward Latuda something catches my eye in the distance. I think I should stop here, but my foot remains steady on the gas pedal, almost uncontrollably. It’s a figure- light in color but not illuminated. It doesn’t react to my approach, but it does seem to drift from side to side. As the road curves I lose sight of it in the trees. I’m a little spooked but I’m not scared. The figure seems to beckon me, and I comply. I slow down and turn the car so that the headlights shine into the woods just above the wash. Then I get out and walk toward where I saw it last.

As I walk, a slight breeze blows something into my view from behind a tree. It appears again and I notice that it is the skirt of a faded white dress hovering about 3 feet from the ground. I walk around the tree, and there she is…

Well, maybe not her. Maybe “it.”

A long, old fashioned white dress hangs by a rope from the tree, waving softly in the breeze. My caution turns to laughter and my laughter turns to amazement. Whoever hung this dress here placed it so expertly so that you see it from afar, but lose it in the trees as you get closer. The trees blocked the dress from the roadside, and I never would have found it had I not set into the woods on foot. Who knows how many wary travelers this ghostly frock has frightened?

I look up at the rope from which the White Lady hangs and notice that the knot is coming loose. One more stiff gust will tear her free; the effect will be ruined and the dress will blow away. I stand on the branch of a nearby tree and secure the knot.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “You’re staying put tonight.”

I decide to follow the road further up the canyon toward the ghost towns of Rains and Mutual. The bed and breakfast from hell looks abandoned. Has for about 2 years now. I’m amazed how fast the structure has deteriorated. The gate is open and I continue to Mutual. I turn around at the impressive remains of the old Mutual Store and drive back toward Helper. As I pass Standardville, a Jeep passes me heading up the canyon and I wave. I can’t help but smile as I think about how it’s passengers will react to the floating specter just around the bend. I’m glad I tightened that knot. –

My origninal version of this story (The White Lady: Ghostly Encounter in Spring Canyon) contains more info on Spring Canyon, additional thoughts, and related links.

 

Disney’s version of Old West doesn’t compare with real thing

Eureka City Hall is one of a handful of buildings still standing in the Tintic Mining District. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

It was high noon in the desert. I leaned against a log fence, looking toward a mountain draped with rickety railroad tracks. In the distance, the quaint facades of a small mining town lined the tracks and a harmonica tune echoed off the canyon walls.

My son Weston and I were alone — at least that’s how we were supposed to feel as we waited to board the mine train. Yet the scores of tourists surrounding us and audio warning spiels — in both English and Spanish — somehow detracted from the scene’s authenticity.

If you haven’t already guessed, we were standing at the foot of Big Thunder Mountain in the Frontierland section of Disneyland Park. Our wild ride was thrilling, to be sure. But with all due respect, Walt Disney’s thoughtful Old West replica doesn’t hold a candle to the real McCoy back home.

Click here to read the full story.

 

The ghosts of Wendover can haunt any adventurer for their lifetime

A dormitory for World War II-era airmen working at Wendover Airbase shows the ravages of time. The base, which was built quickly and for temporary use in the 1940s, is one of several historic and geographical attractions in the area. - photography / Clint Thomsen

Unintelligible words and distorted musical strains wisped across the airfield’s concrete ramp like ghostly transmissions from the past. As we approached, the sounds grew recognizable as air-traffic control over classic rock. Various aircraft sat perched on the ramp, their owners keeping a close watch as passersby snapped pictures.

Wendover itself is the quintessential desert town — a seemingly random mix of dilapidated buildings and glitzy casinos where the concept of time seems completely out of place. And as unremarkable as it looks, the Wendover area evokes a spirit of mystery and exploration like no other place in the county.

Click here to read the full story.

The "Enola Gay Hangar" at Wendover Airbase - photography / Clint Thomsen

 

Search for Hawaiian petroglyphs in Skull Valley ends in discovery

This article originally appeared in the July 31, 2008, edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

Poignant petroglyphs carved in stone at Story Rock by the Polynesian settlers of Iosepa include (clockwise) the sun, a sea turtle — a Hawaiian symbol of longevity, peace and humility — an island with palm trees and seabirds, and a family circle or ohana. -photography / Clint Thomsen - montage / Troy Boman

Search for Hawaiian petroglyphs in Skull Valley ends in discovery

by Clint Thomsen

Tyler parked his car near the old Iosepa cemetery. After the half-hour ride, the engine’s abrupt hush amplified a profound silence. A crescent moon hung over the Stansburys and the stars began to fade with the morning’s twilight. The range’s western slopes still hid from the half-light, stifling any attempt to visualize our unmarked route. Even by this early hour, a diffuse heat had rested upon the valley.

We stopped on a foothill and gazed down at the abandoned Hawaiian town site, where overgrown sidewalks fade to dust and a lone, tall tree marks the corner of a vanished town square. The buildings themselves are gone, but a certain inscrutable feeling lingers. It’s a feeling characteristic of historically rich places — but in this case it’s mixed with reverent undertones of aloha.

I fell in love with Iosepa a decade ago. Curious at an unexpected cluster of vehicles on the hillside, some friends and I investigated. We were greeted warmly by a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and lei who told us how his Mormon ancestors came from Hawaii and built a town there called Iosepa.

He talked about the town — the traditions, the hardships. And though the tidy community died out in 1917, its spirit lived on it its settlers’ family lines. We had stumbled upon their annual celebration, and they invited us to stay for dinner.

Attempting to grasp the irony of a tropical, sea-loving people settling an arid, landlocked desert, I queried our hosts long into the evening. One mentioned a rock high in the mountains, into which Iosepa’s settlers had carved images of boats, turtles and palm trees in memory of their homeland.

The paradise/desert contrast is literary gold, and most writers mine it liberally when addressing Iosepa. But our mountains and Great Salt Lake sunsets actually reminded at least one Hawaiian of his island home: “It’s the pseudo-ocean, the islands on the lake,” my friend Alan Serrao once told me. “The clouds that hang low and heavy on the mountains with peaks popping through them — it looks a lot like home. The Hawaiians that came here must have noticed this.”

Early Hawaiian Latter-day Saints weren’t unfamiliar with arid mountains and remote locales. Iosepa, Utah, is actually the second LDS Hawaiian settlement to bear the name. The original Iosepa, located on the Hawaiian island of Lanai, was the first gathering place for Hawaiian LDS in 1854. The isle is much more desert-like than its lush neighbors. It’s still only sparsely populated today.

Like Utah’s Iosepa, the Lanai settlement faced many hardships. Water scarcity and crop failures contributed to the eventual decision to abandon Lanai for Laie, Oahu. Some of Lanai’s settlers also ended up in Skull Valley.

But as similar as some aspects are, a pseudo ocean isn’t an ocean, and Skull Valley isn’t Hawaii. So wistful tales of ocean-scene petroglyphs didn’t surprise me. I had to find that rock.

“Unless you’ve been there before, it’s hard to find,” a man at Iosepa once told me. “But it’s there.”

I’ve recalled that first statement many times since that evening, as I’ve sometimes casually, sometimes seriously tried to locate what he called “Story Rock.” My quest to find the elusive rock art was the subject of my first column in this newspaper. I spent a day scouring the mountainside, but my search proved fruitless.

Eight months later, I sat in a hotel lobby with Dr. Benjamin Pykles, an archaeologist from the State University of New York at Potsdam, who was conducting a field study of the Iosepa town site. I had stopped in to help him wash some of the artifacts he had unearthed that day. Pykles handed me a toothbrush and a bag full of glass shards, then joined me at a water basin.

On the floor were several crates filled with artifacts. To Pykles and team, each glass fragment was a priceless clue into Iosepa’s past.

“Ah, the tedium of archaeology,” Pykles remarked, hoping that brushing clay off glass wasn’t boring me. It wasn’t.

Pykles and I had discussed Story Rock at the Iosepa celebration last May. He had heard the stories but hadn’t yet gone looking. I had all but given up. Then after a luau, a familiar face greeted me and scrawled a crude map on a scrap of paper.

It would be July before I would have time to test out that map. Tyler had been with me there 10 years ago and was eager to share the discovery. The sun was starting to peek over the Stansburys and our route was becoming clear. So far, my unpretentious little map had been dead-on.

A few ridges and a couple cheatgrass fields later, it stood before us. Walking toward the limestone slab, the petroglyphs seemed to jump right out at us. First an island scene complete with a palm tree and birds. Then a sun. Then a circle of figures holding hands. And those were just the obvious examples. Nearby was a figure in a boat, a jellyfish, and what looked like whales or sea lions. Even further were a deer, a lizard and a picture-perfect sea turtle.

The carvings had a definite turn-of-the-century look, and were carved several centimeters deep into some of the sharpest, hardest rock I’ve ever felt. The complicated locations of some of the petroglyphs had us puzzled over how the artists could have positioned themselves to make the etchings. We waited for the sun to fully rise, then I photographed each figure, hardly able to contain my elation.

Scanning our surroundings, it was easy to see why I hadn’t found this spot before. I thought of the Hawaiian pioneers who trekked to the top of this mountain to carve their island memories in this rock. Did they do it in memoriam? Or was it more like when I carve my wife’s name on a tree trunk? We may never know.

All I know is that unless you’ve been there before, Story Rock is hard to find.

But it’s there.

————–

Author’s note:  I receive several emails every week from geocachers and explorers who have read this article and want directions or waypoints to Story Rock.  For various reasons, including anthropologic and cultural concerns, I am not at liberty to disclose the location of the Iosepa petroglyphs.

I’m certain that at some point, word will trickle out to the public.  Sadly, once this happens, I give this site a year, tops, until it’s tagged, otherwise defaced,  or completely destroyed.

I know there are many respectful and responsible people who would love to see the petroglyphs.  But don’t ask me– I’m not going to tell you.  No offense intended.  If you do happen to locate the petroglyphs in your own travels, do me a favor:  keep the details to yourself.  Thanks for understanding.  –ct

 

Associated Press takes a peak into the world of “ghost towning”; UPDATE: USA Today link added

Little Mutual ghost town, Carbon County, UT (photo by Clint Thomsen)

A couple months ago I was contacted by Heather Clark, a reporter with the Associated Press who was working on an article about ghost towning and ghost towners as a subculture of the outdoors enthusiast.  Naturally, I was excited 1) that the AP would be interested in something I have to say, and 2) that our favorite pastime may finally get a little media love.

Anyway, I was one of several ghost towners interviewed for the article, which was published Monday.  It was a good interview and the article turned out very nice.  Check it out here.

The article has a multimedia companion piece on the ghost town of Lake Valley, NM.

Thanks for the interview, and nice job, Ms. Clark!

UPDATE 07/17, 10:31 AM: Somebody just sent me a link to the article in USA Today.  Same article, but website format/layout is tighter.  Here ya go.