The One Eyed Mule Skinner of Dime Lake

Among the religious traditions of the world, the concept of Heaven has universal appeal. While many argue over the details, a common thread in each faith describes Heaven as a place of transcendent beauty. Within the framework of my own religious education, Heaven is an exalted place with eternal splendor and brilliance that neither mortal eyes nor mortal intellect could ever withstand. It is the place we aspire to be when we leave this sphere.

The High Uinta Wilderness isn't far behind. Every time I behold her other-worldly magnificence, I ask myself, "How could God possibly improve upon this place?" Our nearly-annual trip there is a pilgrimage worth the effort. The Uintas refresh the urban-burdened soul with terrestrial air, and celestial beauty. I always leave thankful that God created pockets of Heaven on Earth for our nourishment.

Brother Mike, Dr. David Jones, and I took some of our kids, mules and horses packing in to the Fox Lake basin over the 24th of July. For five days, we fished, explored, cooked, and enjoyed the company of our kids around the warmth of the evening campfire. No one wanted it to end.

Brother Mike was still recovering from an eye surgery that left him sore and red. "Are you sure you are up to this trip?" we asked. Are you kidding? I'm not missing this for anything!

*Photos and artistic eye courtesy of Dr. David Jones, evil eye courtesy of Brother Mike.

Nebo: When You See a Man on a Mountain...

Towering over the little town of Mona, Utah at 11,998 feet, stands one of the most unique mountains in all the world. From almost every angle, Mount Nebo's presidential profile stands symetrically perfect against the blue sky. Even from great distances, her shape is easily recognized, as if her triune peaks were meticulously carved for some great purpose. Named after the biblical Nebo in Jordan where Moses viewed the promised land, our Mount Nebo's beauty evokes poetic and artistic expression of a reverent sort with the locals who re-create her likeness in word and picture. And no wonder. I've seen grown men moved to tears under the spell of her long shadows and soft sunset lighting. Nebo has a unique talent among mountains. She freely offers her defined beauty to all comers: from the average valley traveler, to the sinewy hiker that is willing to pay the price of climbing her vertical slopes.

Clilmbing to Mount Nebo's summit is a parable with a likeness to ascending through lifes challenges--impossibly tough, but completely worth the struggle. Over the years, I have made the climb numerous times, and my children have all stood on her South peak by the time they were four to six years old. Making the summit takes more than physical strength--it takes mental toughness that few other activities require.

This year, it was Preston's turn. And for the first time, we took horses and mules part way to the top. I thought it would be much easier and faster, but found that it takes all the same physical strength and mental toughness as hiking--only me knees were saved. Preston, age 6, beamed with glee after handling his horse the whole trip by himself, over some tremendously rugged trail.

As I stood on top of Mount Nebo on the 4th of July, the great truism penetrated my mind, "If you see a man on a mountain, you can be sure he didn't fall there."

Bar 10, Cowboys Unlimited

Here is a great mule Story. 80 miles straight South of St. George, right near the edge of the Grand Canyon, lies Heaton's Bar 10 ranch. The Heaton family has ranched the Arizona Strip for 5 generations, but Tony and Ruby consolidated and expanded their ranch holdings to the edge of the canyon. As was common in these isolated expanses, access to the ranch house was simplified by adding an airstrip to the property. Coincidentally, about this same time tourists began running the Colorado River in rubber rafts. Soon, many hundreds of people were floating down the river through the Grand Canyon, just down-wash from the Bar 10. When cattle prices fell, and interest rates soared, Tony recognized a business opportunity in the Colorado River. By the time river rafters got to a point near his Bar 10 Ranch, they had already been on the river for seven days, the length of time most people budget for a vacation, and near a person’s maximum enjoyment of the cold water, hot sun, and camping conditions on a Colorado River raft trip. Tony offered rafting companies the option to end their trip a few days earlier – just below the climactic Lava Falls Rapid, and use his airstrip to catch flights back to Las Vegas. He quickly organized teams of mules, and he and his four young sons were soon bringing wet, sunburned, awestruck tourists up from the river to his ranch. (Italics from Bar 10 Website)

The Heaton's pulled people out of the river by mule for about 10 years. By 1985, they had built a lodge and traded mules for helicopter service which helped accomodate the ever growing numbers of rafters that visit their ranch each year.

Our boys hired on at the Bar 10 for summer work this year. I envy them. Their job is hard work, but in a vacation sort of way... We followed them around this last weekend--what a cool job! The photos show their typical day.

Flying into the Canyon (no flight on earth can compare!)

Assiting river runners and their gear onto the heli, after arranging weights for best balance

Flying back out... (I'd work for free all summer just for the heli trip)

Guiding horse and ATV tours

Telling tall tales...

Teaching guests about ranch education, "Out behind the Barn."

Washing the dinner dishes for guests and crew

Performing "Devil went down to Georgia" for after dinner show


Sharing the life with Mom

*Important note... one need not float the Colorado river to enjoy a Bar 10 experience. It's worth the drive!

Calf -n- Carry

In the bottom of a steep ravine, a small stand of cedars offered the only shade for a mile in any direction. Molly picked her way down the bouldery walls, slipping and sliding in the loose rocks. We were hunting cows in the lower benches of the Grand Canyon. With summer nearly here, it was time to gather the cows out of their winter range land and push them to the cooler, upper plateaus that are now part of the Parashaunt National Monument.

Sure enough, I could see cattle, camouflaged among the shadows of the rugged, boulder-strewn ravine floor. With an infinite number of hiding places in the vast reaches of this shelved, ledgy country, I felt relieved to find four heifers seeking coolness under the protective branches of this solitary cedar grove. Finding the whole herd on round up day ain't easy.

As I carefully made my way toward the cows to get them moving, I noticed a little black calf wedged between two boulders. From the looks of things, it had probably been born that morning, but was unable to get loose from its position among the rocks. I got off Molly and carefully freed the calf from its trap. It was full of life, but unable to stand on its own.

I tied the calf over the saddle and started pushing the cows out of the ravine toward our gathering spot a couple of canyons over. The cool of the morning was wearing off. My spurs jingled and the calf bawled its slobbery cry as we scrambled up the loose hillside. We made our way through yucca and sage to the assembling herd in a large flat at the mouth of two canyons. The other cowboys were converging there with the rest of the herd where they had to be sorted. One herd would go up the steep and ledgy Dan Sills Canyon. The other herd's trail to the upper plateau follows the long and rocky Andrew's Canyon.


The calf in my saddle would never survive the treacherous ride with the herd that was going up Dan Sills Canyon. So we left it with its mother near a watering hole where she began to encourage it to live. If it does, the mother will bring it up the trail on her own when it gets strong enough.


Men as tough as the rocks in the canyon own these ranches. They are Arizona Strip cowboys with generations of heritage and experience to guide their survival. The land they ranch on is as thirsty and unforgiving as it is beautiful. Many of these cowboys are my neighbors. They live in town (sometimes), and drive nearly 100 equipment-eating miles of nasty dirt road each direction to-and-from their ranches. No one lives permanently on the Strip any more.


Denice Hughs and his two sons, Dusty and Cody, pushed their herd up Andrews Canyon. I rode with Dan Snyder, pushing his cows up the Dan Sills trail. Pushing a string of animals up a steep, nearly single file trail is akin to pushing a rope. It took a full day to gather the herd, then make the slow climb to the top. After fire grilled steaks and a night of deep and sound sleep under the stars, we spent the next day working calves. They all had to be roped, branded, ear-notched, and the bull calves--castrated.

Dan is a gentle giant of a man. Even in the midst of the danger and aggravation of our weekend drive, I never saw him raise his voice in anger or heard him curse. I've known him for nearly 12 years and can say the same thing looking backwards in time. I've watched him return good to those who have done him ill, and I've seen him treat others fairly even when he thought no one noticed. We all should have, and be that type of neighbor.

I hope that little calf finds its feet and joins the rest of the herd in Pin Valley on the Snyder Ranch. T'was an honor to work next to such fine men.

Butch Cassidy's Shangri-la

The more I see of Bryce Canyon country, Escalante, the Grand Staircase, and the San Rafael Swell, the more I think I know what drove Butch Cassidy into a life of crime.

The Cenozoic aged rocks of the Paunsagunt Plateau eroded into colorful and fanciful hoodoos, surrounding the plateau in horseshoe fashion. The Eastern slope of the plateau formed Bryce Canyon, a natural amphitheater. Headward erosion created exquisite scenery from Bryce Canyon around to the South end of the plateau, and back to the North along the Western Slope towards Panguitch. You drive through Red Canyon which is part of this formation as you climb up onto the Paunsagunt traveling toward Bryce Canyon. Butch Cassidy is rumored to have used Red Canyon for one of his super-secret get away trails.


Chantra, Sunnie, Preston and I took the Cassidy trail 10 miles up onto the Sevier Plateau toward Mount Dutton just North of the Paunsagunt for an overnighter. Preston claims it was his favorite campout, bragging to all who will listen about how he handled that 3 year old mustang all by himself.

It is not difficult to imagine how hard it was to explore these beautiful places at the end of the 19th century. Even if your farm or vocation allowed the spare time for it, riding your mount for days or weeks just to get there had to kill the leisure side of it. Robbing banks, trains, and payroll stages was about the only career that afforded one the opportunity to chase all over this incredible land. Butch had it pretty much to himself back in those days, and he knew it better than anyone else--a true professional. The lawmen who had real jobs only scratched the surface of Butch's haunts. Even today, some of his trails are very difficult to find.

Honest work and modern technology make much of Utah's remote country accessible these days. Checking eyes 4 or 5 days a week lets us load up the trailer and be there in hours. Sure glad we don't have to rob banks, trains or payroll stages to experience the majesty of Southern Utah.

Escalante's impromptu Theatre

For an audience of just two, the Author of this critically acclaimed masterpiece spared no expense, every detail proving the transcendency of His production values. From the entrance to the theatre, to the pre- and post-show entertainment, each human sense was pleasantly invited to participate until the storied climax lifted our spirits to their feet in thunderous applause. It was choreography of universal magnitude that played just once--and that once, offered exlusively for us.

We entered the canyon by mule and mustang after a day of hard rain, with the promise of more to come. Broken clouds filtered the sunlight on the sandstone cliffs and the sweet smell of Russian Olive wafted through the canyon against the fresh smell of wet-desert. Dense foliage along the silt-laden river made passage difficult for mule and rider. We were in the foyer of the grand amphitheater and the decor consisted of an arch, a natural bridge, panels of ancient art, and a cliff house safely ensconced above our reach.


Crossing the river a couple more times, we found ourselves inside the main hall. Just in time for the grand entrance, we took our seating, box-style in an alcove under an overhang in the red rock. Camp had been struck, the mules cared for, and dinner prepared at our feet. As if on cue, the house lights dimmed as dark clouds gathered. In the pit, the orchestra rewarded our anticipation with a clap of thunder that reverberated up and down the canyon walls. It was Act I. The soft sound of the wind rustling through the cottonwood trees was soon replaced by the dissonant, white noise of rain beating against every instrumentality in the theatre. A sudden chill brushed our faces while the smell of ozone and rain mixed with the scent of Russian Olive and tamaracks. For about 20 minutes, we watched the plot unfold.

Act I faded as quickly as it started, and Act II entered above stage. The grand thrones across the canyon began to shed their water, ending the momentary silence. The high-pitched, percussive sound of impromptu water falls lifted our eyes upward while the dancing and splashing of pure, life-giving water followed ancient courses sculpted in the sandstone by rains past. For about 20 minutes, we watched and listened to Act II as it crescendoed to a fevered pitch, then softly faded back into the base silence of the Escalante river.

Act III, the grand finale, entered below stage. A flash flood of muddy water came charging down the canyon, boldly altering the topography with its abrasive force. The quiet background music of the Escalante built into a climactic roar as nature displayed her mighty power. BRAVO! For another hour, the domed river ran high and thick and our ovation lasted long after night's curtains were drawn and the stage emptied.

The post-show glow flickered against the alcove walls as our campfire held the darkness of night outside. Eventually, we retired to our sleeping bags, anxious for the morning so we could explore Sand Creek canyon--dreaming of what surprises lie around the next bend.


We were boyhood pals who grew up in Mona at the foot of Mt Nebo. David Jones and I spent our childhood brushing against the forces of wind, water, season, and storm. Our profession back then was that of explorer and we hunted, fished and scaled all the wild places on whatever conveyance we could find. Our profession changed to Optometrist as we came of age, and we battled chiggers and ticks while feverishly exploring Missouri where we went to school. Now blessed with businesses and families, it takes monumental effort to do what used to come so naturally.

Impromptu waterfalls

David hadn't been on horse since we were kids and he had never been on a mule. He's a smart kid and he quickly learned how to take advantage of Molly's sure footedness. Our journey was a complicated trail that wasn't fit for dudes, but Dave refused to be intimidated. The result was a chance to see the power of the Almighty on display and the time to enjoy the miracle of friendship.

Molly stuck in quicksand