Hard Times

In the spring of 1933 or 34 when I was 11 or 12 years old, we lived in the old cotton mill in Washington, Utah. Homer Englestead told Dad that he could use me and my little black horse helping with their herd of sheep, which at that time was located near the junction of Hwy 91 and the road to Toquerville. It was about sundown when I arrived at the herd and they were bunched up on a sandy pass between a high knoll on the east and a long ridge on the west. The regular herder had put them there for the night and was going over to Hurricane to do some socializing. Mr. Englestead told me to hold them on the bed ground till they came over the next morning.

Not long after dark the moon came up big and bright. The tinkle of bells told me the sheep were leaving the bed ground on the far side of the herd in a southerly direction toward Toquerville. The sand was deep but I turned back what I could see and thought I had them all. Next morning when the boss came out he said that half the herd was already down by Toquerville and to let those I was holding on the bed ground go free to follow along in that direction.

The ewes were lambing and there were a lot of little baby lambs just born that night that could not keep up with a traveling herd. Englestead said to push them along and those which couldn't keep up, to leave behind, a strange thing for a sheep raising man to say. We trailed through Toquerville that day, then cut to the southeast up on top of the Hurricane Rim above LaVerkin to where some new stockade corrals had been built by Roosevelt's CCC boys.

All day we had abandoned newly born lambs along our route. We spent the night at the corrals. Next morning we loaded the sheep into old-timey trucks to haul them up through Zion Tunnel. They were unloaded on the east of the park boundary then trailed up through a narrow canyon northward. We were now up in the high part of the park, east of the North Fork Gorge where scrub oak, sage brush and groves of ponderosa pine trees cover the land. 15 or 20 years before, the old settlers were still logging and cutting lumber at a mill that stood on the very edge of the canyon. The young herder who was in charge told me about the saw mill and pointed out where it had been located. The cut lumber was lowered to the canyon floor on a revolving cable line. When the canyon became a National Park the sawmill operations had ceased. Those old timers had also blasted out a trail in the face of the canyon wall along which a man or horse could travel, that topped out at the site of the saw mill. Here, above the canyon, the ewes were able to finish lambing in peace and quiet as we did not move around much.

Our camp was a pack outfit and a small tent was our "Home on the Range" My job was to take care of the 3 head of horses, a sorrel and blue, both of which were geldings, gentle and well mannered, and my black horse, Cheeko. I also did most of the cooking under the herder's direction. When we moved camp I packed Sorrel by putting most of the stuff in the bags while they were hanging over the sawbucks on his back. I usually had the horse standing in a low place or up against a log or rock which made packing him much easier. On top of the loaded paniers went the bedding, tent and any other gear we had. At that time I didn't know how to tie the diamond hitch, nor did the young man who was the herder, so I lashed it on the best way I could figure out.

After the sheep got settled in that area the boss came up and brought some supplies and took the herder to town for 2 or 3 weeks, giving me instructions on how the country should be fed and where the water was located. We had been bedding the sheep out away from camp so this practice continued when I became responsible. The lambs were growing fast now and some were big enough to eat.

Upon arriving at the bed ground one morning there were dead lambs laying all around. A black lamb had the top of its head bit off and the brain cavity cleaned out. On the other lambs I could see no visible cause of death but after closer examination it was discernible that a big-mouthed, long fanged animal had bit each of them on top of the head just back of the ears, the fangs penetrating into the brain. Checking for tracks it was evident that a big mountain lion had enjoyed great sport by quickly springing from one lamb to the next as he inflicted death with a single bite. I counted 20 dead lambs in a small area but the lion had probably carried some away into the underbrush where he fed on their tender flesh and then covered them with leaves. No large fill grown sheep had been killed. After that experience I tried to bed them near camp.

One time I went out near the edge of the North Fork Canyon and looked down into it. It was so narrow and far down that the walls bent away, obstructing any view of the river below. Cheeko was left tied to some brush back away from the edge. After getting on my horse and heading him up through the pine trees I got a quick glimpse of a lion (might have been the one that killed the lambs). After the herd had pretty well covered the area they had told me to feed, the herder came out and we trailed northeast. In one place we made a big detour around a brush choked basin. After several days trailing, we arrived at the bottom of a deep canyon, might have been "Libbies". It lay west of what was called Cougar Bench. This was the summer range, where the herd was to stay till fall time.

In about 10 days Englestead drove up the bottom of the valley and gave me a $5 dollar bill and a check for twenty five dollars. He said that the bank would send a man out in about 3 weeks to take over the herd, then I could ride my horse home. The depression of the 30's was at its worst and lamb meat and wool were practically worthless, so the sheepmen who owed the bank money couldn't make payments and lost their herds and range land. The smart sheepmen toughed it out and made what payments they could by renegotiating with the bank. When times got better they were able to pay out. The banks couldn't convert the sheep to cash either so they were usually glad to have the sheepmen refinance.

The Englesteads figured to be foreclosed on and that's why they were negligent toward the young lambs, but that was dishonest, not living up to their agreement when they borrowed the money from the bank. He was also dishonest with me. He knew the $25.00 check he gave me was no good when he handed it to me.

He took his herder and they went back to town. The sheep fed the browse on the steep sides of the high ridges and came down to the little creek in the bottom to water. The only way to herd that range was to check the boundary line for tracks and if any crossed, turn them back into our range. I remember getting tired of climbing those steep ridges on foot and it was too brushy to use a horse.

Cougar Bench was a flat grassy area on top of a high ridge that abutted the south face of Cedar Mountain rimrock, known as the "Pinks" just below the headwaters of Swains Creek. I never learned why it had been named Cougar Bench but probably by someone who had seen one there or had found a kill made by a cougar. That whole area was good mule deer country which consequently supplied the lions meat, (and sheep mutton tasted all right to them too). On the bottom at the head of the valley where the water came out, the grass was pretty good and I tried to keep the sheep away from there to save the grass for horse feed. My tent was set up under a big birch tree with a couple trees just south a little bit that gave good shade most of the day. The big steep ridge on the west was covered with saw timber pine, many of them large enough to be cut for lumber. It was down through these trees that we had trailed into the valley.

One day a man came to camp and said he was hired by the bank to take charge of the sheep. He was a Basque and very nice to me, sort of like a father, very concerned to know how I was doing. The horses usually stayed near camp where the grass was better, but next morning when we got up I couldn't see them anywhere, so after we ate breakfast and he went up to check on the sheep, I went looking for the horses. I didn't think they'd go very far, probably just up in the trees somewhere out of sight. I usually kept Blue and Sorrel hobbled, so figured they couldn't have gone far.

At the head of the canyon I picked up their tracks climbing north toward the rimrock of Cedar Mountain. They continued to climb and finally topped out and went up over the edge. This was the first time they'd ever left camp this far in the weeks that we had been in the narrow meadow. As I reached the top, the sun was just coming up on a beautiful summer day. Grass grew green and plentiful with tall trees scattered about. As I followed their tracks a little way north and east my thoughts were: what a thrilling and enchanted place to be. Then I came to an opening that extended into a meadow. A little creek ran along with the water being clear and cold. There they grazed, in horse heaven, and I thought it was heaven, too. I sat down under a pine tree and let them eat while I enjoyed this little paradise. I had planned to head home this morning and the thoughts of seeing my family soon made me anxious to be on my way. So pretty quick we were heading back down the steep grade to camp.

Mr Basque was still out with the sheep and it didn't take long for me to roll a can of tomatoes up in my jacket and tie it onto my saddle, then hit out along the trail as it climbed up through those tall trees. I hadn't gone very far when I heard Mr Basque calling to me, but I was anxious to be drifting, so didn't answer or go back.

Wherever the trail allowed, Cheeko shifted into a trot that ate up the miles. When we came to that big detour around the brush basin, I decided to follow straight through along the course of the water flow. We went along pretty good for a mile or so, then there was a big section of the bank that had caved down, making crevices in the earth and the legs of my horse would break down through. There were no trails at all now, not even deer trails, so we clambered out on the southeast bank. Here the scrub oak grew very dense and I had much difficulty forcing my way through on foot, but Cheeko had to shut his eyes and push his head through them, following with his body. Finally after an hour or so we made it to the outshirts of the brushy basin and traveled along easier then. Within about three miles we were back on the regular stock drive. Lots of times a short cut requires more travel time and it sure did on this occasion. Cheeko could have made the regular detour in half or a third of the time it required to struggle across that "short-cut".

The sun was hanging low over Steam Boat Mountain by the time we arrived at the old saw mill. I was hungry and hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, so stopped by the pile of sawdust and cut the tomato can open with my pocket knife. I hadn't brought any bread or meat because I wasn't hungry when I'd left camp, but now I was wishing that I had. I thought the tomatoes would serve as food and drink and I didn't think many miles down the trail. I ate and drank about 3/4 of the can, which filled me up, so I threw the rest away as I couldn't carry it along with me. I got on Cheeko and headed him down off that narrow, spooky trail. It was about four feet wide in most places and was cut in the face of that vertical cliff that fell away to the canyon floor, an awfully long way down. My outside leg felt like it was hanging over the edge, which I suppose it was. I thought of walking and leading my horse, but the urgency to get to the bottom before dark kept me on top, moving him along. I would guess that it dropped about 2,000 feet from the top, and that zigzag trail probably measured 2 miles long. Twilight had about deepened into dark night when we got to the bottom.

The June Grass in this area was dry and unfit for horse feed so we traveled down canyon below the little town of Springdale, where a field of fresh cut alfalfa lay all cocked in piles, ready to be hauled to the barn the next morning. I borrowed a little pile and tossed it over the fence to Cheeko. I climbed back over the fence and lay down in the middle of the hay pile while my horse ate around me. The sound of his chewing lulled me to sleep and no cars came by during the night, which shows how slack car travel was to the park in those days.

Just before it came light next morning I saddled up and threw the extra hay back over the fence and headed down the road. As we went through Rockville, hunger pangs were sharp and I wished someone would invite me in to breakfast, Of course, nobody did and I was too bashful to ask and we continued on west along the road toward Virgin. Just east of town grew a nice patch of corn, but even though I was very hungry, I did not think I should eat any of it raw.

Finally, after passing though Hurricane, we arrived at the old Berry Spring Ranch, which is on the east bank of the Virgin River just a ways before the road crosses the bridge. I had traveled about 30 to 40 miles and the sun was about 4PM in the west. I was so very hungry that it over-powered my fear of people. I turned Cheeko down the road to the old farm house and asked the old woman if she could give me something to eat. A lazy looking guy asked me if I had some money and I showed him my $5 bill. He said they'd feed me and my horse for $2. but he didn't have any change. I told him where we lived in Washington and he said he would keep the $5. and was planning to come to Washington in a day or so and would bring me $3.

When I got home I was sure glad to see Mom and Dad and Marie and Grant and Keith. It seemed like I'd been gone a year. I turned of Cheeko to graze along the creek and gave Dad the $25. check and told him about the guy at Berry Spring that promised to bring me my $3.

The bank wouldn't cash the check and that lazy guy never did bring the $3. Times were hard then and cash was hard to come by. A few dollars in the hand was worth a lot more than a promise to a hungry kid. One thing I did learn that summer was that me and Cheeko could fend for ourselves, and I also found out that some men are not honest.