Knab Creek

The latter part of October, 1992, Mr. Bluth made a deal with me to take him by pack outfit down Hack Canyon to Kanab Creek and on down to the Colorado River. He said he knew the route as those canyons were new territory to me. We took Randal's pickup and a 2-horse trailer. The road to Hack Canyon went south from the oiled highway a few miles east of Pipe Springs. Mr. Bluth was not sure where the Hack Canyon road forked off, so consequently we missed the fork and traveled almost to Nixon Mountain, into country I was familiar with, before we turned to our back trail about 30 miles to Hack Reservoir. Here an old road turns down a canyon then proceeds several miles to an abandoned uranium mine.

We left the horse trailer at a point about 1 mile from the reservoir down canyon, the road being too rough to proceed farther. A pack mule and horse were unloaded from the trailer and a buckskin mare from the truck bed. Mr. Bluth then drove the truck while I rode the buckskin mare, leading Speck, an appie gelding, and Rosy, a little sorrel mule, followed. Beyond the mine the canyon walls recede back creating a broad valley a mile or two wide. The grade being no more than 2 %, a gravel water course made a passable road. Five miles or so down the stream bed was an old fence crossing the valley on which hung a "No Trespassing" sign that declared the land beyond to be primitive area. No gas powered vehicles allowed. Mr. Bluth said a small spring kept a water trough full about 1/2 mile beyond the fence.

The time now being after sundown, I took the horses to water then returned to hobble them just below the fence so they could not return up the back-trail like horses are prone to do. Mr Bluth had agreed to furnish the food on this trip, which he said we could make in 3 or 4 days easy. He had a little backpack type bag from which he brought forth an orange or two and some crackers for supper. Our breakfast was about the same so we were on our way before sun up. I let him ride buckskin for the first 5 or 6 miles, but he complained of her being rough gaited and hard to steer. Speck hadn't been used very much but did go willingly and was easy gaited so we traded horses. I changed my saddle to Buckskin and his to Speck and after that Mr. Bluth was well satisfied with his mount. I spurred Buckskin and got her woke up. The farther down the canyon we went the more reluctant she became to travel willing along, so my spurs dug her sides a good deal of the time. Finally, in her stubborn rebellion she started to crow-hop which caused me to spur all the harder. I also got me a hefty 3 foot piece of tamarack limb to use on her butt and her attitude toward life brightened up considerable.

Puddles of water began to appear in pockets along the stream-bed. We passed many good places where I would have liked to make camp but we were pushing for distance. Where the going was easy our gait went into a trot. The pack balanced well with no trouble from it as Rosy followed close to Speck. The weather had been stormy in the high mountains before we left home and I was concerned about flash floods. Mr. Bluth hadn't tied his coat securely to the back of his saddle so it had dropped off. He wanted to go back and look for it, but I told him it might be 10 miles back and he could use mine as it was big enough for him.

The sky was cloudy with sprinkles a couple of times. Now lots of spreading big leafed cactus grew along our way, sometimes obstructing our progress. In places they were so thick I got off my horse to stamp them flat on the ground so they wouldn't stick into our horses ankles. Now the canyon walls stood above us about 2,000 feet or more to a secondary level that receded back to other towering walls. The bottom was about 400 feet wide along this a graveled stream bed switched back and forth, leaving benches of sandy soil upon which brush and other vegetation grew.

As our horses trotted around a bend, a big trophy sized mountain sheep stood for a moment looking at us, then bounded up a steep brushy projection that rose up several hundred feet to blend into the vertical ledge above. We sat still on our horses admiring him. When he had climbed about 3/4 of the way to the top he stopped to look at us for awhile. What a magnificent picture he made. I had never seen a mountain sheep in his natural habitat before. He was a big one in the prime of life and stature with big horns making a complete circle, ending up parallel with his eye level or above. Presently he decided we were harmless so came jumping down the same way he had gone up. At the bottom he turned up canyon to run 150 feet in front of our horses. It was a once in a lifetime event. As we went on down the canyon there were signs of more mountain sheep. Here the canyon was deep with cliffs towering 3,000 feet or more. The canyon twisted back and forth every quarter mile or less. Water had risen out of the channel so that a nice sized creek flowed along. The main channel occupied only a portion of the canyon bottom. The rest was a bank on which brush and grass grew, here providing feed for the sheep.

The shadows of the canyon deepened and we could not see sunlight on the upper ledges so figured it was about sundown. I kept a lookout for a place where grass was good and where we would be safe from a big flood. There was a stretch of bank about 400 yards long piled up the side of the ledge a hundred feet high, more or less. About then a ewe mountain sheep ran along in our view for a ways then disappeared into a thicket of catclaw. The grass was pretty good here and Mr. Bluth said he was tired so we unpacked, took off the saddles and hobbled the horses. Mr. Bluth didn't feel well enough to eat but he fished around in his knapsack and came out with a can of corn, which tasted real good since that light breakfast way back at the truck. We had been riding for about 12 hours. The ground sloped where I lay out my sleeping bag so I propped the lower edge with sticks and limbs to make sure I wouldn't roll down the slope.

Next morning it didn't take long to saddle and pack up. Mr. Bluth still didn't feel well and what sky we could see was covered with clouds. We passed an overhead spring that came out of the rock about 15 feet off the canyon bottom. A living growth of a strange type of moss or lichen had developed through time and created a large spongelike growth 20 feet or more across from which a constant rain or shower descended. The shower was in such a location that sunlight never touched it. In the hot summertime this would be a delightfully refreshing spot to find. Perhaps the deep canyon chasm stayed cool in the summertime. I would like to be down there sometime in June or July just to find out.

As we proceeded, the water course in places would spread the entire width of the canyon, leaving no bank above flood level. These places gave me cause for concern for sometimes they extended from one canyon bend to the next, which in the event of a large flash flood would require a horse to travel at a hard run over the boulder-covered stream bed. But I did analyze every one of those situations to determine what should be done in the event of an actual flood.

The travel became more difficult as the bottom became rougher with large boulders, where in places I had to spend time filling in holes with rock or clearing away rocks to make a way for our horses to cross. One time we had to climb a steep bank for about 50 feet because the bottom was choked with huge boulders. Our saddle horses made it all right but when Rosy tried, a couple of boulders side by side were too close to allow the pack to go through. So, I unpacked and led her to the top where I tied her to a catclaw then carried the alphoges and bedding up and replaced them on her back. The required about a half hours time. Mr. Bluth wasn't much good for help as about all he could do was hold the tire rope and sometimes that not very well if the animal wanted to move.

Finally we arrived at a place in the canyon where great huge boulders filled the bottom from wall to wall with no bank on which to climb around. Only with a charge of dynamite could we have cleared a passage, and then only at the risk of bringing more rocks down from a cave, under from whence those in the canyon floor had fallen, so we returned up the canyon about 300 yards to the nearest place where grass and brush grew. Here we unpacked and Mr. Bluth fished out a can of peas and some crackers. He didn't feel well so ate only an orange or apple. Those peas tasted might good to me for I was a gaunt as a 3 legged coyote chasing jackrabbits. The time now being about 1 PM on the 3rd day out we needed to know just how far down the canyon it was to the river.

A light drizzle began to fall, so I covered the camp gear and saddles with a tarp and headed down canyon on foot. I worked my way through the right hand side of the boulder slide along the side of the canyon from which they had caved away. It was tough going for a couple hundred yards. Most of the small rocks were on this side. The ones as big as a two story house had rolled to the far side. Still the rocks along my path of travel were as big as a sheep wagon. When I reached the down side of the slide the going was pretty good and I walked rapidly because of the time and also the rain.

The Colorado River should have been just around the next bend but when I reached the 12th bend below the slid I decided to turn back. I was soaked to the hide and my boots sloshed with water. My travel was as fast as I could make my old legs go. I watched up canyon anxiously for a flash flood fringe. Twilight was moving in when I reached the slide. It took about a half hour to get over that and when I got to camp darkness made visibility difficult. The steady drizzle was still coming down. Mr. Bluth had taken the pack tarp from off the pack gear and saddles and put it over his sleeping bag in which he lay. He said he was sick and I knew he would soon be wet, too. Within 50 feet of where he lay was an overhang of the canyon wall. I cleared out some rock, laid some half-wet saddle blankets on the ground and got him out of his sleeping bag and moved it over on the pads. After he got back in I tucked the camp tarp around him, not to protect him from the rain but to keep him a little warmer. My sleeping bag was rolled in a new plastic tarp but he had unrolled it and rain had run down an exposed lower edge to wet it some.

When I checked the horses Buckskin was down along the creek where flood water would run, so I tied her to a good sized catclaw up on the bank to keep her safe and also so she wouldn't go back up the canyon during the night. Then I took off my clothes, except for my wet underwear, and crawled into bed. I figured my garments would soon dry from my body heat. During the night I awoke and there was no patter of rain on the tarp, only the sound of the creek as it rushed along. The sound was considerable where sounds reverberate from canyon wall to canyon wall. After flipping the tarp back I could see stars framed by the top of the towering ledges above. The storm had passed and as yet there was no roar of flood water. I was warm and my underwear was dry. Within an hour I put on my wet pants, shirt, and boots and went about the somewhat difficult task of building a fire. All the pack gear was wet except for that in water tight containers. Thankfully the matches were in such a place. When the fire was burning good and I was out rustling more wood, Mr. Bluth came to the fire to dry out some of his wet clothes. I asked him how he had slept and he indicated he had done well after I tucked him in bed. He said he felt some better. We discussed my walk down the canyon and that from here we would have to go on foot. After I located the horses to better feed he fished out another can of something and some more crackers, so again we broke our fast. I had taken a little bag of ground nuts and jujubees, which helped keep me alive.

Mr. Bluth said that under the circumstances he figured we better turn around and go back. I told him I was willing and able to go on the river but it would take at least 3 days longer than he had said it would. I told him I did not think he was physically able to make the trip on down and he agreed. We gathered our wet outfit up and put saddles and blankets on the horses and headed out. On the way down the hill where I had carried the packs by the rock, Rosy got by without trouble. Buckskin traveled willing up the canyon and wherever the trail permitted we trotted. It was a good thing that Speck's trot was easy or Mr. Bluth's teeth would have rattled loose. Buckskin was rough to ride, but now she traveled well.

Mr. Bluth wanted to rest for awhile about noon so we stopped 20 or 30 minutes. The truck was a long way up the canyon so I was pushing for distance. He was usually in the rear 100 yards or so and I knew he was holding Speck back. Speck becomes nervous when very far behind. Rosy traveled somewhere in between to two of us. I found his coat where it had fallen off his saddle so when he came up along side I tied it on good so it would stay. I told him that if he wanted to camp at the pickup that night he'd better let Speck stay up with me. So from then on we made good time but I could tell it was hard on him. He was a retired army colonel and figured he was a rough, tough army man but that trip with this retired sheepherder was about more than he could stand. Just after sundown we watered the horses at the trough near the wilderness fence. After taking off the pack and saddles and checking to see that the truck would start I turned the horses loose above the fence so that during the night they would drift toward the trailer. After another light meal we went to bed. The stars were big and bright and the night was colder. November was near at hand and now we lay near the 4,000 feet elevation.

The next day was Sunday, the first Sabbath of November. A day of fast for all Mormons and a natural for this sheepherder turned wrangler, since Mr. Bluth's knapsack was out of grub. We took a drink of water, fired up the truck and headed up that gravel wash. I kept watch for the horses and after we passed the old uranium mine I saw their tracks going up the road. A little way farther on there they were, feeding along side the road. I was driving the truck so asked Mr. Bluth to step out of the truck and reach into the truck bed for a tie rope. Speck came over and put his nose against Mr. Bluth's arm. He swung his arm at him to shoo him away. Instead of getting a rope he was looking for something else. Buckskin came back by the truck and Speck was standing by Mr. Bluth, but Mr. Bluth was doing nothing to hold him. I hollered at Mr. Bluth to catch Speck but by the time he got around to do it all 3 animals were headed back down the old road with Buckskin in the lead. One of her many negative attributes was that of being difficult to catch.

I got a bridle and tried to circle out around them, but when that mare saw what I was up to she took off on a big trot. The canyon at this point had narrowed down and there was no way for me to head them off, so I followed them quite a way back and out of sight, hoping she would stop to eat, but she didn't. She kept up a steady gait as if she meant to go back down to the primitive area. After about 3 miles, where the canyon was quite wide, I slipped unseen by them along a side-wash lined with brush, and came out over in front of them. Speck was down in the wash alone, so he let me catch him. The mare and Rosy-mule were running on down the country but I jumped on Speck and soon had them all headed back toward the truck. He sure felt good to ride. His short back and easy gait made him a pleasure to sit on, especially after that long frustrating walk. My thoughts were not kindly disposed toward Mr. Bluth. When we got back to where I'd left the truck it was gone, so I drove them on another 4 or 5 miles. He had driven up to the horse trailer and was burning up gas trying to hitch them up by himself.

About the time we got the trailer hooked on, Frank Peterson came driving down the rocky canyon road. Was I ever surprised, and glad too. He owned Buckskin and I was using her so she would gentle down for him. She was gentle all right, but ornery and needed a rider that knew how to knock some sense into her dumb head. Frank had come looking for us because it had rained a lot up in the high mountains and he thought we had been flooded away. He even had a BLM man out looking for us. We took the trucks and trailer and horses up by Hack Reservoir where the ground was flat. I unhitched the horse trailer and backed the hind wheels of the truck down into a little ditch or wash that put the tail gate on the ground. Another of Buckskin's endearing traits was that of being hard to load up. She resolutely refused to enter the truck bed even though we tempted her with hay and grain. Finally we gave up, with the idea we would lead her on the run for 5 or 10 miles till she got tired, then give her another chance to get in the trailer. The thought occurred to me at this time that I should take her to the pond for a drink of water. She drank quite a lot and as I led her back I was impressed to give her another chance to load, which I did and she followed me right in. Well, what do you know? All the time we were trying to lead her, that poor gal, in her own quiet way, was saying she was thirsty. How stupid of us! I had watered the other 2 animals and forgotten her. When Frank saw her standing there in the truck he almost suffered an apoplexy. He thought I had bewitched her.

Frank had a plush new pickup so I sent Mr. Bluth, who looked like a cadaver, with him. They were neighbors from Santa Clara and it was Frank who had arranged the trip anyway. We all went to Fredonia for gas for Randal's truck as we had wasted so much fuel by bypassing the Hack Canyon turnoff in the first place and Mr. Bluth wasting more with his hitch-up attempts. We finally arrived home to LaVerkin about 3PM, Sunday afternoon.