Sequel to Wrong Canyon

The year of 1996 finds me 74 years old and that Sullivan Canyon of my youthful imagination has not been explored. A four lane road has been cut through the Virgin River Gorge neigh onto twenty years now, where Granpa Waite with a pack mule carried the mail a hundred years before, and 65 years has past since the red roan mustang band ranged this country. I'm thinking it better be soon now or I'll never know about that canyon first hand.

My friend, David DeCow and me have not been on a pack trip all summer. Flossy and Thumper are stir crazy from being in the corral. Dipwad is fresh shod so we load up Dave's four horse trailer and head down the Freeway. The canyon mouth is there coming into the river on the south side. We cross over to the east bound lane and pretty quick park the outfit down under the roadway bank out of sight.

The bigger pack goes on Flossy and light one on David's two year old colt. It's about 9 AM now as we cross the river and head up the canyon which runs south between Blackrock Mountain on the east and the Hancock Range to the west. The bottom is wide, rough, rocky and dry. No grass grows and very little browse that a critter could eat. No birds, rabbits or coyotes are seen. About ten miles up the Canyon three mountain sheep bounded across our line of travel. I wondered what they could eat that would sustain life. The canyon walls rise up high on either side to vertical ledge rock of drab gray color, cut here and there by incoming side canyons from which spilled banks of boulders put there by a torrential flood water in ages past. Our horses can scarce find footing except on top of boulders.

We pass by a prospect hole on the east side of the canyon where some old timer found a copper stain. These gray rocks don't look to be ore bearing in my opinion. Ahead of us, high on the mountain side, we can see a patch or two of quakin asp and what appears to be oak brush covered slopes. Cecil Blake has the grazing rights in this region but from what I've seen of it I wouldn't put my cows down here for $100. per head, much less pay grazing fees. The canyon now bends to the west and we presently find a trickle of water, just cedar and pinion pine trees with some brush but nothing that a horse can eat. The rocks are not so thick here. We find a place to make camp and tie the horses to some trees. David had brought a small quantity of oats so we gave them each about four pounds. Clouds are heavy on the mountain tops with some lightning flashes and thunder, looks like rain to me. We don't have a tent but we do have plastic bed tarps and prepare them for wet weather. David fixes a good supper of beans and toast, with cedar berry tea. When the storm flashes and roaring thunder intensifies I cover the alphoges and saddles and crawl into bed. Awhile later I'm aware that wet stuff is dropping onto the bed tarp. It's good to be warm, cozy and dry. My bladder doesn't give me any trouble through the night but when daylight comes and I push the tarp off my head there is about two inches of white stuff on everything.

We get a fire going pretty quick and David mixes up a big batch of whole wheat flour pancake dough. Eggs, bacon and pancakes fill us up good and there's plenty left over so he cooks the rest for the horses. Being hungry, they chonk them right down, except for the Colt, he nibbles a little so Flossy grabs his and eats it for him. I ask David which way he thinks we ought to ride this morning, up or down the canyon? He glances at the stormy sky and says, Down! So we back track our previous route and by 4 PM that afternoon our horses are once again drinking water from the Virgin River. It's been a long rough ride and my hankering to see that canyon is plumb satisfied.