Wrong Canyon

The next spring after my discharge from the navy I talked a couple of fellows into going with me on a horseback trip down the Virgin River Gorge to Sullivan Canyon. I'd never been there before but had heard about it when I was a kid, an old prospector friend of Dad's had told about his experiences there looking for gold and other minerals. These tales had sparked my curiosity concerning the canyon and I had wanted to go exploring in it ever since.

I didn't own a horse at this time so borrowed a bronc from Walter Shelly. It needed riding so he was glad to let me use it. He was one onery bugger and would run sideways from you when you were getting on. So I made a flying leap to get hold of the saddle horn, pulled his head to me by the bridle side piece and swung on while he was making distance in the opposite direction.

It was early morning as we headed out and by noon we were down to the river where Archie McCain and I camped when we chased them red roan mares years before. We passed along the trail where Archie roped the palomino stud and we follow on down over the country where much of that action took place. Way on down beyond where I had ever been, a big canyon comes in from the south and so we reasoned with each other that this was the mouth of Sullivan Canyon. We trailed up it a couple of miles where it narrowed down and climbed too fast to fit the description I had been given.

The sun's out of sight to the west and a cold March wind is coming down that canyon, feels like it's blowing right over the top of a high altitude snowfield. We looked for a place with wood and horse feed to make camp. No cedar trees grew down that low but we do find some pretty good bunch grass. The 3 horses are hobbled up the canyon above where we make our bed, which is in the easiest line of travel in case they try to head down the backtrail.

The bed is made up of saddle blankets and 3 bed blankets that we had tied on behind our saddles. Can't remember who got to sleep in the middle, but it wasn't me. The guy on the far side was a cover-puller and all I had was an edge. He'd have got that too if I hadn't held on tight. That was one cold night and morning took a long time coming.

The horses didn't try to head for home and seemed to find plenty to eat. When I saddled up my bronc next morning he was somewhat more docile, but still made mounting up difficult. I have an old lever action 30-30 that I'd borrowed from Uncle Lee. Aint shot it so don't know how well the sights are lined up. It's riding under my right leg in a scabbard. The west side of the canyon is a steep hard climb but when we top out we see we're on the east edge of Sullivan Canyon where we had been headed for. It's a long steep rocky descent to the bottom of Sullivan so we just ride along to the south parallel with it. Sullivan Canyon is big and broad and divides the Hancock Peak rang from Black Rock Mountain country. We can see it's head where the mountains blend together close to the base of Hancock Peak. We're up in pretty good bitter brush, mahogany and cedar trees now with sage brush in between. Here and there are patches of snow on the north slopes with lots of deer sign. We're riding through scattered mahogany when all of a sudden deer are running every direction. LaVon had told me awhile before that in the event we jumped some deer to shoot him one if I had the chance. Now they're running every which way and I know I can't get off this old horse and shoot from the ground, so I yank that old gun out and lever in a bullet. The Bronc knows something's up so we're moving fast in the direction the deer went.

There goes one and I take a quick shot. Bronc jumps sideways about 20 feet and when he lands I blast away at another, don't think I hit either one of them. That of horse don't know what to do: jump, run or buck, but when I get him calmed down a little and we look around through the brush be-durned if there ain't 2 pretty good venison laying there on the ground. I'd done better shooting than if I'd had that of gun on a dead rest. Come to find out later, the sights were off line bad, so what I really shot at I missed and accidently hit those 2 deer. Think they were both bucks but had lost their antlers. We ain't got any way to carry 2 venison so we cut off the hind quarters and tie them in back of the saddles and I tie the blankets on Bronc.

We climbed out on top of Black Rock where the snow was 6 or 7 inches deep and turned north by east toward St. George. Our line of travel took us down by Atkin Spring where Ben Blake and I had tried to trap mustangs years before. I remembered plain that night with my painful busted toe. It's a long hard ride down off that mountain and especially so packing that deer meat. (Sure don't know whether the meat is worth it.) After we cross Black Rock Gulch we water up at the old Indian Water Pockets. The next 20 odd miles across the low lands seem to go on forever.

Ol' Bronc has done lost his spook. He keeps stopping to stretch out to pee but no water comes. We finally get home long after dark and are glad to be there. This has been a hard trip on 3 soft out of shape riders and horses, but it satisfied my wanderlust to look over yonder ridge for awhile.