EDITOR'S NOTE: Don has graciously shared this special article about coal hauling in former times. Since Don himself lived in those times, he was able to reach back and re-create for us, some colorful insights into the lives of our father and grandfather. We express our appreciation to him.
The year 1930 was a turning point for me. At age six I was learning how to read and write a little. I already knew how to feed calves and pigs and chickens. I knew how to feed cows and horses and help turn the handle on the cream separator while Grandpa was running the milk through. I didn't realize what a hindrance I was to him until, years later, when my little brothers wanted to help me. A little kid can be a real pain.
Now that I was going to school I would wake up in the morning about 5 o'clock and lay there in dread of having to ride the school bus the two miles from the farm to school in Fairview.
I kept telling my mother that I could learn to read and write without going to school, but for some reason, which I couldn't figure, she wouldn't listen to me. It was, "Get up, get your chores done, and get ready for school." If this was what growing up meant, I wasn't so sure I wanted any of it.
For the next couple of years I was still too little to harness a horse by myself so Grandpa would hand me the collar and I would stand on a stool and struggle to get the collar on the horse; then he would throw the harness on and while I was fastening the hame strap, under britching, belly band, etc., he would go on to the next horse and have it harnessed before I could get the first one finished. I don't know why he didn't just chase me out of the stable with a stick but he was a patient man.
Time passed and at about age eight I was getting big enough so I could harness the horses without any help although as yet it wasn't easy.
During these years while I was struggling to grow up I was listening to conversations around the dinner table, in the evenings after dinner and after the chores were done. There was much talk about the mountains, especially Valentine Canyon. Dad and Grandpa, together with another man, had a coal mine there. The talk was centered around getting a coal chute built and there was the ever present job of cutting timber for props in the mine. At that time the wagons were being loaded by hand at the entrance to the mine.
I was in Seventh Heaven when I could go with in the wagon to the mountain. At about age twelve in 1936 I was allowed to help drive (of course Dad or Grandpa was in the wagon with me). The road up Cottonwood Canyon (now called Fairview Canyon) was steep and narrow. There were wagons ahead of us and wagons behind us heading up the canyon after coal - or were hauling supplies to the mines, including hay for the mine horses. The loaded wagons coming down had a kind of an unwritten right-of-way. The empty (or lightly loaded) wagons going up would pull out onto a wide place in the road and stop while a loaded wagon passed going down. Sometimes we couldn't find a wide place - then we would pull out so that our outside wheels were on the very edge of the road and the wagons would squeeze carefully past each other. Grandpa seemed to know everybody and it amazed me how he could call all those people by their first name.
It was a long pull up the canyon and when we reached the top and started down toward Gooseberry the road went down the hill and headed toward the bridge at Gooseberry Creek. However, going up from Gooseberry Creek toward the head of Cottonwood Canyon there was a road which turned off to the right and went around the hill toward the head of Cottonwood Canyon on the Gooseberry side. This route was somewhat longer but not so steep and was used by the loaded wagons going toward Fairview.
Going down toward Gooseberry we usually trotted the horses. After crossing the bridge it was uphill again going toward the Beaver Dams and then Flat Canyon.
Flat Canyon was easy going for both loaded and empty wagons and sometimes we trotted across at least part of it with empty wagons. Then came the Olsen Dugway - a short dugway which led down into Huntington Canyon near where the dipping corrals used to be. We crossed the bridge at Huntington Creek and from there it was a gentle down hill run. Beautiful country - sage flats and slopes ringed by timber-covered mountains all around.
At the place where a road took off from the main road and went to Miller's Flat there were some mangers built beside the main road where people could stop, tie up their teams and feed them. This was handy at times.
As we went on we passed other roads which took off and went to other mines. Albert Christensen had three mines (but only two of them were working), Earl Christensen had three mines, one of them in Cox Canyon about a half-mile from the mouth of the canyon. Steve Christensen had one mine located near the head of Valentine Canyon way up above our mine. To get to it we had to go up through Cox Canyon, switch back and climb out the other side of Cox Canyon toward Valentine Ridge, cross over the ridge and go the rest of the way to the mine in the upper part of Valentine Canyon.
Roy Rigby had one mine across the creek from the mouth of Valentine Canyon. It was located high up on the hill above. A steep, winding road led up to it.
Sometimes, when I had some leisure time, I used to like to look across the canyon and watch the teams pulling empty wagons up the road to Roy Rigby's mine and then watch them coming down, brakes on, headed toward the road in the bottom of Huntington Canyon. Many of them had big, beautiful horses with a good harness on them. A few had new wagons which still had their factory paint on them.
During those years I used to sit and drool over the Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs looking at the new harness and wagons pictured in them.
Before the coal chute was built at our mine the teams had to pull the wagons up the backbone of a steep ridge for some distance until they were level with the mouth of the mine. Then a dugway went around the hill to the mine. The coal was loaded in the wagons by hand. To get back down the steep ridge with the loaded wagon two chain rough locks were put on. To do this a chain was fastened to the wagon box (usually to one of the crossbars which went underneath the box and was fastened with iron rods). The chain then led down to the hind wheel. It was passed around the felly of the wheel and knotted in such a place that when the slack was taken out of the chain the knot was directly under the wheel. The wheel ceased to turn and rode on top of the knot in the chain. The knot dug into the ground and acted as a brake. Both hind wheels were rough locked in this way. Even then, with two tons of coal in the wagon, it was all the horses could do to hold the outfit back.
This was no longer done after the chute was built but for many years afterward we could see deep gouges in the rocks made by the chain rough locks. (Incidentally, to this day one can see gouges on the rocks on North Horn Mountain where teams came down from the mine in Rock Canyon with rough locks on their wagons until they got down off the steep slope. I was talking once with Homer Duncan of Ferron and he said he used to haul coal from that mine and rough locked his wagon on the steep slope).
I don't remember a lot about the building of the chute except that there was a crew of men working on it. The mine was located above the bottom of the canyon far enough so that the coal chute was at least three or four hundred feet long. This was quite a long chute and being steep the coal really roared down through it. There was one slight turn in it about half way down in order to get down through a rock ledge. From there it went at an oblique angle to the bottom where the gate was so that coal could be loaded into the wagons. The gate was hinged in a horizontal direction and could be raised and lowered by a tackle to let the coal fall into the wagon which was positioned underneath.
In the bottom of the chute screens were placed so that the coal that was ground up and was too fine could drop through the screens and fall to the ground. This was waste and was referred to as the slack pile. People in those days wanted lump coal to burn in their stoves.
I remember one incident that took place before the chute was finished which made a lasting impression on me. Down at the bottom, where the loading gate was to be, there was a huge rock which had fallen from the ledge above. It was shaped somewhat like a disc. It was about six or eight feet in diameter and about two feet thick. It may have been larger than that but that's about the way I remember it. It weighed tons*. For several days the teamsters who were levelling the ground where the loading area was to be, kept going around it. Then one day Grandpa and the others unhitched their teams from the hand plows and Fresno Scrapers preparatory to moving the rock out of the way.
* Using the approximate measurements, as I remember them, and making calculations using the specific gravity of sandstone, the rock weighed between four and five tons. D.R.C. June 1994
It was decided that it would be moved over near the stream bank and would help serve as a foundation for building up a level place so the wagons could turn in a circle and pull up under the loading gate. It had to be dragged about ten feet. Chains were wrapped around the rock and four teams were hitched onto it. One man was designated to drive what was now an eight horse team. He was a well-known teamster from Sanpete Valley. When everything was ready and the driver stepped up onto the rock I watched, enthralled. The suspense was killing me. All these horses were well known pulling horses which included our two horses.
He gave the command to go and some of the horses hit the collars a fraction of a second before the others but they hung in there. When all the tugs were tightened up and horses pulling he gave a louder command; the rock began to move. I couldn't believe it. With his encouragement they kept it moving as they dug in and pulled all together. He held them all even by keeping the slack out of the lines and a certain amount of pressure on the bridle bits. They kept it going until the spot was reached where it was to stay; then, with a loud "Whoa" they all stopped at the same time. That was a feat of horsemanship I never forgot.
Now that the big flat rock was in place in its new location the plows and scrapers began to move again. The rock was covered up and the whole area was smoothed over ready for the coal chute to be brought down, and the loading gate installed.
A set of weighing scales was installed some distance from the loading area so that empty wagons could pull onto the scales and be weighed, then go and load up and come back to the scales and be weighed again. It was less than a quarter mile back down to the main road in Huntington Canyon. The drivers then headed for Fairview, Mt. Pleasant, Spring City - wherever they came from.
The road from the mines to Sanpete Valley were good during dry weather and the teams moved right along but, after several days of heavy rains the roads were bad. Deep mud holes would develop in the low places. Wagons got stuck. The horses couldn't pull them out. When another wagon pulled up behind, the driver would unhitch his team and double up on the stuck wagon. Then the man who was helped out of the mud hole would hitch his team onto the outfit who had just helped him out and so the people would help each other through the bad places.
One time when I was about twelve years old, or there about, John Christensen came to dinner at our house. He and Dad and Grandpa talked way into the evening about opening up a coal mine in some place near Clear Creek Canyon. They talked late into the evening and eventually I was sent to bed because it was getting late. I didn't want to go to bed because I liked listening to these men talking about the mountains etc. but I had to go anyway. From the upstairs bedroom I could hear their voices but I couldn't tell what they were saying.
A few days later I was told that I was to go with Grandpa, John Christensen and his son, A.D. Christensen, into the mountains to a place near Clear Creek Canyon. (A.D. Christensen was in my dad's generation so he was not a kid). We began loading the wagon with hay, a few sacks of oats, a tent, bedding, and several boxes of food. We also loaded a hand plow and a scraper along with a bunch of tools. We took a saddle horse along as well. We headed for the mountains east of Fairview. I was riding the saddle horse while Grandpa drove the wagon.
The wagon was loaded fairly heavily and it was a long, heavy pull up Fairview Canyon. The horses were sweating and Grandpa would stop and let them rest occasionally.
Fairview Canyon is quite deep and it is heavily timbered on both sides. The road was built on an eight percent grade.
Sometimes, when the road rounded a slope which jutted out into the canyon, we could see the road going on up ahead following about the same upward angle as the creek in the bottom. Frequently the road would disappear as it went around out-thrusting slopes, then reappear farther up. We could hear the creek as it rushed over rocks and fallen logs, etc., on its way down toward the valley below.
Eventually we came to the head of the canyon, crossed over and headed down Gooseberry Hill toward the creek where the road crossed over the bridge. From there it was uphill past the Beaver Dams and then nearly level through Flat Canyon, then down the Olsen Dugway near Boulger, and into Huntington Canyon.
Finally I got tired and tied the saddle horse behind the wagon and got in and rode. The mountains are beautiful here. They are covered with pine and aspen. The tops are rounded; some of the canyons are deep and have steep sides but there are few exposed ledges. In many places there are trees all the way down to the bottom of the canyons, in other places the tree line stops higher up and the slopes are covered with sage the rest of the way down to the bottom of the draw or canyon. Sometimes one can see a small valley nestled between two mountain masses, with a stream flowing through the bottom, meandering down toward other streams and finally ending up in Huntington Creek.
After a few more miles we turned into Cox Canyon, passed Earl Christensen's Mine which is located a short distance from the mouth of Cox Canyon, and continued on. A couple of miles into Cox Canyon the road switches back and angles up the east side of the canyon toward the Valentine Ridge, crosses the ridge near the head of Valentine Canyon where Steve Christensen's mine is.
John and A.D. Christensen were already there. They had a team and camp wagon which was heavily provisioned with food. That night they stayed in their camp wagon while we stayed in the cabin.
The next morning I woke up and no one was in the cabin but me. I got out of bed and looked outside and the horses were gone. So were the two wagons. I couldn't figure out what had happened. Then, as I stood on the doorstep of the cabin, I could hear teamsters talking to their horses some distance away. They had gotten up early and had left me sleeping. I hurriedly got something to eat and then set out on foot to find them. I knew about where to look because I could hear them faintly. I finally found where they were and they had the hand plow and scraper out of the wagon and were moving dirt.
Valentine Canyon turns off to the north from Huntington Canyon. It is not a very long canyon but the head is a whole lot higher than the mouth. It is very steep and narrows down at the bottom. The stream running down through is not very large but it runs swiftly, cascading over rocks and down a precipitous descent, gurgling and noisy as it goes. This is why no road has been built in the canyon beyond the end of the coal chute. It is much easier to go up through Cox Canyon, the next one to the west. It is a much more gentle canyon, being longer. About half way up Cox Canyon the road turns to the right. It heads back toward the south and ascends up toward the Valentine Ridge. When the road reaches the top of the ridge it makes a U turn across the ridge and heads back toward the north - on the west side of Valentine Canyon. The ridge is between Cox Canyon and Valentine Canyon. The head of Valentine Canyon goes up against a high mountain and ends. To the right of the head there is a high saddle; much higher than the Valentine ridge. On the other side of the saddle is the head of another steep canyon which goes down into Huntington Canyon.
My grandfather and the two Christensen men were building a narrow dugway across the head of Valentine and angling upward toward the high saddle. A little to the left of the saddle rests the Monument Peak - the highest peak in this area. They were not building a full size road but one which was only about four feet wide. This was too narrow for a wagon but it was intended that the two left-side wheels (front and rear wheels) would run on this road and keep the wagons from tipping over and rolling down the mountainside. A road like this could be built much faster and with a minimum of labor. But would it work?!! That was yet to be seen. This, apparently, was not to be a permanent road. They were not very willing to explain to me, a kid, their reasons why. It took a day (if I remember right - it was a long time ago) to build this road up to the saddle. Another day took it around the base of the Monument Peak; then a third day took it down into the tributary canyon which runs down into Clear Creek Canyon.
There were places beyond the saddle where the ground was near enough level that the wagons could run without the dugway so there were a few short spaces where the dugway didn't have to be built.
After the dugway was completed over the saddle and around the Monument Peak they decided to try and see if they could get the wagons that far. If the wagons couldn't make it, there was no use building the rest of it. I was very jittery about this. As they took the teams back down to the wagons I was afraid that the camp wagon would roll down the mountainside and take the team with it, killing them as they rolled over and over.
The camp wagon had the higher center of gravity and was lighter than ours. Ours was a heavier wagon and had wider-tired wheels. The camp wagon was hitched onto first. The driver, one of the Christensen men, drove from the ground. The other three of us took our positions hanging on the upper side of the camp wagon, leaning out as far as we could to act as a sort of balancing lever. We didn't weigh nearly as much as the wagon did but it must have helped. He started the horses. The wagon lurched to one side. The driver stopped the horses. We repositioned ourselves a little better and he started up again. I couldn't believe it. The wagon moved along when I thought it surely would tip over. We made our way along slowly. At one point the upper hind wheel moved an inch or so off the ground. It was hanging there - balanced. No one dared move. My arms were tired from hanging out so far. The driver pulled it so the upper wheels were against the inside bank of the dugway and the wheel touched the ground again. I don't think there were more than a few pounds of weight on the upper wheels.
The ground on the low side was not even. Sometimes the lower wheels would drop into low places and we could tell that the upper wheels were just barely touching the ground. At one place there was a little rill which ran down the hill. We stopped and the driver filled the low place with sticks and rocks so the lower wheels would go across and not drop into the depression. As small as it was, in our situation it made a big difference. He started the team again and it jolted a little as the wheels went across but we made it all right.
In this way we kept going until we got to the first flat area. Everything had gone well so far. We went back to get our wagon. It being a little heavier wagon with wider tires on the wheels, it didn't have as much trouble as the camp wagon did - in fact we made it without people having to hang onto the upper side. Even so it was still a little nerve-racking. We drove both wagons as far as we could until we had to build another section of dugway. We went around the Monument Peak on the west side and continued around the north side; so now we were heading east away from the north side of the Monument Peak. There was a very steep slope ahead of us which went down onto a long ridge. This ridge ran eastward for some distance and then dropped off steeply into Clear Creek Canyon. By going out nearly to the end of this ridge we could look northward and see the town of Clear Creek in the bottom some distance away.
Not far from the steep slope which went down onto the long ridge we had to make a turn to the south and build the dugway part way around the head of the aforementioned tributary canyon. This canyon went eastward and emptied into Clear Creek Canyon. This canyon, like Valentine Canyon, was short and steep. The way the dugway was built was first to sight downward along the slope from where we were at the beginning of the long ridge. This line of sight was the downward angle of descent into the bottom of the tributary canyon. Then one team, hitched onto the hand plow, made a furrow along this line of sight down into the canyon. The other team, hitched to the scraper, would load the scraper with the loose dirt and dump it over the edge of the furrow, down the hillside. Then the plow would bite further into the hillside and the inside bank kept getting higher and more cuts would have to be made to get down to the level of the outer edge of the road. Making the dugway just barely wide enough to keep the wagons from tipping over meant that we didn't have to move so much dirt. If we had made the road full width the inside bank would have been much higher and that would mean that we would have had to move a whole lot more dirt. So we made it just wide enough to get the wagons down. The inside bank now was on our right side - the outer edge of the road on our left when looking from the top of the ridge we started from. After passing the Monument Peak to our final destination at the bottom of this canyon near its head, we were now heading south on the east side of the Monument Peak. First we went north along the west side of the Monument Peak, then we went east around the north side of the Monument Peak and now we went south along the east side of the Monument Peak.
Before this last leg of the dugway was finished my grandfather sent me back to the cabin in Valentine Canyon to fetch a few things that were needed. I rode the saddle horse back over the route we had just come on and found the things that were wanted at or near the cabin. One of the items I was to take to the camp was a sack of flour. Then there were a few hand tools, and I don't remember what all. What I do remember is how difficult it was to carry these things on a saddle horse.
First I put the sack of flour on a stump, which was about four feet high, a short distance away from the cabin. Then I gathered up the other things and put them in a gunny sack (burlap sack). I led the horse over to the stump and hoped he would stand still. He was quite gentle and didn't give me any trouble. I boosted the sack of flour into the saddle. Then, after tying the burlap sack with a piece of binder twine, I boosted it up into the saddle in front of the sack of flour. After getting these two things balanced so they wouldn't slip off the side of the horse I climbed up onto the horse behind the saddle. I got the two sacks balanced in the saddle and started out, guiding the horse from my position behind the saddle. Things were going pretty good except for the fact that, as the horse moved, the sack of flour and the sack of tools would keep working off to the side in opposite directions. Quite often I had to stop the horse and pull things back into position. I didn't think to bring a rope with me to tie them in position in the saddle. That would, I believe, have been a lot easier and would have saved me some tired arms. As things were, it seemed like a long way back.
When I got back the dugway was finished and the two wagons were levelled up by digging depressions under the wheels on the high side. Grandpa was levelling a place to set up the tent. It was evening time and, after the tent was set up, I was glad to find a spot on the bed and lay down. The next morning Grandpa and the Christensen's were walking along the side hill a short distance above the creek on the other side, talking and gesturing, etc. After half a day of planning and deciding how they were going to approach the job of removing the overburden of dirt and debris from the vein of coal which cropped out at that location, they decided to have dinner and then get started.
I was quite young and it was a mystery to me how they could even know there was coal in the area, much less know where to start clearing the dirt away to expose it and plan the entrance to the mine.
The plow and scraper were unloaded from our wagon and pulled by the teams across the creek and up to the place where the work was to begin. Our team was working on the plow. The Christensen team was pulling the scraper. We didn't have a big Fresno scraper with us at that time. We had a smaller, two-handled scraper called a muck, or slush scraper, but it works with soft dirt as well. I have used them many times later in my life.
The work went on day after day. The dirt was moved and dumped down the side hill in such a way as to begin to form the entrance to where the tunnel would be. Coal began to show. In an attempt to make the face vertical Grandpa would sometimes hitch just one horse to the plow so it could get in closer to the face. With the single tree dragging against the near-vertical face the plow would get in close and in this way the dirt (and the coal, which was quite soft this near the surface) could be plowed out so the scraper could pick it up. After awhile the face began to get too hard for the plow to work so some hand work with picks and shovels was done to keep the face shaped as near vertical as possible. In time we could see the floor rock, and then the cap rock became visible.
When the work was done on the main entrance the work moved to a place fifty feet to the right, and started again, only this time on a much smaller scale. This was to be the "air course" as it was called in those days.
This country is beautiful. Even now it looks much the same as it did. The side of the canyon that the mine was on is covered with timber right down to the creek. The other side is more sparsely covered - mostly with aspen and different kinds of brush. Higher up, on the side opposite the mine, the vegetation is mostly sage and some other kinds of brush and grass. The work continued day after day. A few more times I was sent back to the cabin for various small things. Sometimes, too, I would just take the horse and ride around a little. I was told not to go very far because they didn't want to spend time hunting for me when I got lost. I knew how to get back and forth to the cabin but I didn't know any of the rest of the country near here.
After about two weeks, maybe a little longer, I'm not sure, the work suddenly ceased and we loaded up and pulled out. I didn't know why.
Every now and then down through the years of my life I have wondered what happened. It remained a mystery to me over most of my life. I don't know why I didn't ask my grandfather or someone else - I guess it just didn't occur to me. Now all of those people are gone, including my dad, who would have known the answer.
About three years ago, about 1991, one of my younger brothers was wanting to go on horses into the Valentine area. He lives in Salt Lake and once when he and I were talking about the Valentine mine he said he'd like to go up there. That started me to thinking again about the mystery of why we pulled out and left when that work was completed and the project was ready to begin mining. That happened sometime close 1935 or 1936 as near as I can remember (according to how old I would have been). So I said to my brother Carroll that I would take him to the Valentine mine (it's all caved in now and hasn't been worked for many years) but that we would continue on up over the Monument Peak and down into a place I have wondered about for a long time. He said he'd like to go.
We loaded some horses into the truck and went to Valentine Canyon. We looked around at the remains of the working of the mine. After awhile I said, "Let's go up past the Monument Peak and down into another canyon which I haven't been in since I was a boy." He agreed and so we started out by climbing up the Valentine Ridge until we got up to where the old coal road crossed over the ridge from Cox Canyon. From there we were able to see the remains of the road going toward Steve Christensen's mine. That mine too hasn't been worked for many years. The cabin has fallen down. The roof fell right down into the inside.
We headed up toward the high saddle east of the head of Valentine Canyon. I was able to find dim evidence of the narrow dugway in a few places. We went to the steep slope, east of the Monument Peak, and rode down onto the long ridge. We rode along the ridge to where we could see Clear Creek, now a dead town except for a few summer homes. We rode back to where the ridge meets the steep slope and then turned our horses down into the canyon. I could see evidence from the ridge of a slack pile. We rode on down to where my grandfather and the Christensen's had exposed the vein of coal. When we got there we could see much evidence of a well developed coal mine. The remains of a coal chute, now in a collapsed condition, was there. What could still be seen of the slack pile showed evidence of a lot of coal having been removed from the mine. The portal was caved in, but about thirty feet out from the portal the track for the coal cars was in sight. An empty coal car was (and still is) standing on the track. A dead tree has fallen across the track and just missed the coal car but it still stands there, apparently, as it was when the mine was abandoned. Down at the lower end of the chute where the tipple, or loading gate, had been there was a flat area, now covered with grass and brush, which was large enough for wagons to turn around and pull up under the tipple, load up and then pull out. There was evidence of a small bridge built across the creek, but which is now collapsed, that the loaded wagons crossed.
I was all fired up now and a solution to the question I have had all these years was beginning to resolve itself. There was no road in the area when we came in. Now I had to find how the wagons got in and were able to haul coal out. I got on my horse and began looking around. There was no way they could haul the coal out the way we came in. The only way was down the canyon and so I looked for a dugway in, or near, the bottom of the canyon. Sure enough there was a full sized wagon road a little above the creek on the north side of the canyon (the canyon runs in an easterly direction). The road followed the north side but it didn't go down as steep as the creek did. The road had been used a lot and it was easy to see even though it was now covered with grass. The further it went the higher up from the creek it got even though it had pretty much of a down grade itself.
My brother and I followed the road down toward Clear Creek Canyon. When the road reached Clear Creek Canyon it was quite high up on the hillside. It made a few switch-backs to get down into the bottom where it joined the road in the bottom of Clear Creek Canyon and from there the wagons apparently went on into the town of Clear Creek where they unloaded the coal. From here the coal could be shipped out of the mountains on trains.
We rode back up to the mine. While sitting there discussing all these things as we ate our lunch I could see something in a bush near the ridge. After finishing lunch I went to the bush and poked around a bit and found the front running gear of a wagon that had broken down; evidently from one of coal wagons hauling coal to Clear Creek. From the apparent age of things we saw here, the thought came to me that a mining company must have hired Grandpa and the Christensens to open up the mine and get it ready to start working. When that was finished their work was done and they moved out. The mining company had probably hired a construction company with teams to build the short road to Clear Creek Canyon. When the chute was built the mine could go into operation. At least that theory fits with what my brother and I found and why my grandfather and his companions left so suddenly when the vein was opened up so the mine could begin to be worked.
At fourteen years old I was considered old enough to take a wagon on the mountain by myself. I can't describe how glad I was for this. Several times I was sent with a load of feed and supplies and then Grandpa would come back with me with a load of coal.
Once my brother [Bud] and I were with Grandpa on a load of coal heading for home. My brother was a year younger than me and we decided we would get off the wagon and run ahead. When we saw how much faster we could run than the horses were going while they were pulling the loaded wagon we decided we would just go on ahead and wait for them at home, which was about fifteen miles away.
We ran ahead for some time and then looked back and found that we hadn't gained as much as we thought we had. We ran on but after a half mile we weren't running so fast. We walked for awhile and then we found that the horses had shortened the gap. We ran again but each burst of running wasn't as long as before. After a couple of miles of this we were getting tired and the horses were slowly gaining on us. After another quarter mile or so we got back onto the wagon just a bit wiser than we were before.
At times when both teams were freed up from farm work Dad would hitch a four-horse team to the wagon and go after a load of coal. Sometimes I went with him. I didn't drive at those times. He was an excellent horseman and things had to go just right. Kids didn't get in his way. But I watched closely and learned a lot from him even though it was in silence. I didn't ask many questions so as not to disturb his thinking. The horses went well and I'm sure they could tell who was driving them.
Four horses could pull the wagon up the canyon a little faster and it was less tiring for them. They could go steadily. There were times when we made a round trip in one day, a distance of thirty two miles. We put on a little heavier load when driving four horses. I marvelled at how Dad could keep the horses so well disciplined and pulling evenly at all times. No time was wasted. When noon time came we unhitched the horses quickly at a place where we could water them at the creek. They were fed some hay and grain, then at a certain time we hitched up again and were on our way. I watched carefully what I was doing so as to make no mistakes. Everything was to be done just right. There wasn't much conversation on those trips but I watched very carefully how he did things and patterned my driving habits and methods after his.
I can still see in my mind's eye how skillfully he handled that heavily loaded wagon and four horse team; handling the brakes along with everything else and kept everything going just right. We would stop for a few moments at Cold Spring about half way down Cottonwood Canyon and I would jump off the wagon quickly, grab a bucket or can, and pour water on the wagon tires on the hind wheels. With the heavy load and faster travel the tires got hot and would steam a little when I poured cold water on them. It only took a few minutes and we were on our way again. We would get home about dark and then quickly unhitch and unharness the horses, put them in the stable where usually Grandpa already had hay in the manger for them. We'd leave them there until after supper, then I would go out and turn them loose for the night. They would roll and then go out into the pasture and eat grass.
I don't know if Dad ever knew or thought how much influence he had on my driving as I got older and remembered how he handled his horses.
One time I was going with Grandpa after a load of coal. He had a four horse team hitched to the wagon. We started out and it took us about an hour to get from the farm to the canyon where we started up into the mountains. I had been driving two horse teams for some time and wanted to drive the larger outfit. Grandpa made it look easy - he had done it for many years. After we had gotten into the canyon a ways I asked him if I could drive. He thought a moment and then said, " No, I don't think so yet," I should have let it go at that. There would be a time soon when I would be able to drive two teams hitched in tandem on a wagon but being a kid I thought I wouldn't have any trouble. I kept asking and making a nuisance of myself. If Dad had been there he would have clobbered me but Grandpa didn't do that (I have thought many times since that he should have). I kept badgering him until, finally, a little angry, he handed me the lines and said, "All right. Drive them!" He had the horses going along quietly and all was well. I got along all right for a few minutes until the next sharp turn came up. I turned the lead team too sharp. They turned across the road headed to the bank. I tried to straighten them out again but I got the lines mixed up. When the lead team couldn't go any farther because of the bank of the dugway they simply turned clear around and headed back down the road past the wheel team. Then they started pulling the wheel team around and cramped the wagon, backing it in toward the bank.
By now I had lost all control. There was nothing I could do. Grandpa calmly stepped out of the wagon box onto the front wheel and dropped to the ground and caught the lead team by the bridle bits and turned them back around, straightened out the two teams and got back into the wagon. My eyes were as big as saucers and I tried to hand him the lines so he could drive but he wouldn't take them. He said, "You wanted to drive. Now drive!"
We started out again. I don't remember how I got them around the sharp curve but I do remember running the outside wagon wheels dangerously close to the edge of the road. Then I would be running in against the bank. It was fortunate that there weren't any other wagons on that part of the road at the time.
Slowly I began to get the feel of it but it was a nerve-wracking situation. We continued going up the canyon road but a look at the wheel tracks on the road made it look like the teamster was drunk.
I was one jittery, tired cookie when we reached the head of the canyon and Grandpa took over. I guess he didn't want me driving them downhill because I would run the wagon up onto them. He made it look so easy, handling the brake and the horses.
I didn't bother him anymore but after we got to the mine, loaded up and started back, he let me drive again. This was easier driving because it wasn't on a dugway. The road wasn't steep and so crooked.
After a few miles I was driving them pretty well. We stopped at noon and let the horses eat for a while, then started out again. It took more trips and a little more growth on me to be able to handle an outfit like that on the dugway coming down the canyon into Fairview.
Not long after that I was driving four-horse teams and was doing all right.
One morning I was at the mine, having arrived there the day before. The wagon had been loaded with coal the day before, right after I had gotten there so that this morning all I would have to do was harness up and leave right after breakfast. It had clouded up. The sky was leaden but it wasn't raining. The atmosphere was heavy - muggy - and it looked threatening.
I started out, heading up Huntington Canyon toward the Olsen Dugway, which was some miles away. I went along, very much enjoying what I was doing. The boxings in the wheel hubs were chuckling against the iron collars on the thimbles, which were mounted on the axle-trees. The foot falls of the horses, the squeak of the leather horse collars, the rattle of the tug chains, the horses' foot falls on the ground; all these things gave me a feeling of very much wanting to be here. The noises made by passing trucks which, in these years, were increasing in numbers were shattering by comparison. There came a time when there weren't very many wagons anymore. This was saddening.
The outfit moved along and I kept looking at the sky ahead. I could hear distant thunder. Huntington Creek was meandering down in the opposite direction than I was travelling; sometimes near the road, sometimes more distant from it and was out of sight. The narrow road which turned off to the right and went up the hill to Albert Christensen's mine came and went as the wagon passed by and left it in the distance.
The horses were sweating a little. The atmosphere was heavy but it felt cool and damp.
The Olsen Dugway came into view and, after pulling up the steep slope, which wasn't very long, Flat Canyon was just ahead. I always liked to drive through Flat Canyon. It was nearly level and was a relief to the horses. The load wasn't so hard to pull. The horses stopped sweating and dried off. After Flat Canyon the road sloped downward, past the Beaver Dams and toward the bridge at Gooseberry Creek. The outfit crossed the bridge and started up the long, steep slope toward the head of Cottonwood Canyon.
All at once the sky let loose and the rain came down in torrents. I put my rain coat on and then wondered if I would get stuck in one of the mud holes. If the rain hadn't waited this long to start I might have, but I got up out of the bad places before the ground really got soaked up. The road was wet but since I had passed the low places, the water was running down off the hill and was not pooling up.
It was a hard, slippery pull up the hill toward the divide. I was glad to get to the road which went around the hill and was not so steep. The horses were slipping in the mud and the wagon tires were balled up with mud. Still the team pulled steadily on.
The rain was coming down in torrents and now that we were nearing the head of the canyon lightning was striking all around. The thunder was deafening. I was hoping that the outfit wouldn't become a target for a lightning bolt.
After awhile I noticed that the lightning seemed to be further to the south in higher country. The rain didn't slack off. It was really coming down.
The horses pulled the wagon over the top and we started down into Cottonwood Canyon. There was fog and the rain was still coming down. I noticed that I didn't need the brakes. The ground was wet and soft and the wagon didn't have to be held back with the brakes. However, it was easy pulling down the hill.
In about a mile the road levelled out for a few hundred yards and then went into its eight per cent grade down the canyon.
Apparently there had been other vehicles going down because there were deep ruts in the road. There didn't seem to be any other traffic so I just let the wagon wheels stay in them. I wondered if I would be able to pull out of them if another vehicle came up the road.
Things were going peacefully except for being pelted with rain. It was hard to see the other side of the canyon because of the fog and clouds. I wasn't really very wet, with my slicker on, and it wasn't cold and so I just sat there driving and was kind of enjoying the situation. Except that my gloves and hands were soaked I was really quite dry everywhere else. I wasn't cold. The ruts were almost a foot deep. This was plenty of clearance for the wagon so I didn't worry about it. Not, that is, until I saw a Model A Ford coup waddling its way up the soaked road and in the same set of ruts the wagon was in. He tried to turn out of the ruts but the mud just caused his wheels to spin. He had his front wheels turned but they just kept sliding along the sides of the ruts. After a bit his hind wheels were spinning and he wasn't getting anywhere.
I turned the team toward the bank on the right. My front wheels were sliding against the sides of the ruts and the wagon wouldn't come up out of them. The team was walking sideways trying to pull the wagon toward the bank of the dugway. We got within ten feet of each other and I stopped the wagon. He stopped his car. There was no way I could back this outfit up the hill, loaded as it was, and the mud this deep. He could see that as well as I so he stared backing down the road but could not get out of the ruts. I pulled ahead and had the horses turned so that the off horse was almost climbing the bank. Once or twice I thought the wheels were coming out of the ruts but they didn't. Once more we closed the gap between us; once more he backed down the road. I pulled the team over to where the off horse's head was almost rubbing the bank. All at once one of the front wheels hit something solid on the side of the rut. The front wheels came out and the front end of the wagon went over to the bank of the dugway. I moved a little further ahead and then the hind wheels came out at the same place. The wagon slid over against the bank and I stopped the team.
The car backed down the road a little farther. He had to get out of the ruts too because the wagon was straddle of the rut that his left side wheels were in. If he could get straddle of the rut on his right side then we could pass. It would be close but we might could squeak by. I was just thinking about unhitching the horses and taking the chain and double-trees and hooking onto the front end of his car and pulling it out of the ruts. He had backed down the road a little further and was trying it again. All at once his car came out and straddled the rut on the other side. Now he came forward, his hind wheels spinning and he slowly edged past me. He went without even so much as a wave. He didn't even look up. I don't know where he was headed but I thought of the mud holes near the bottom of the hill at Gooseberry Creek.
I never did see nor hear of him again. I pulled the wagon back into the ruts, since that was about the only way I could go, and started down the road again.
When I was about half way down the canyon the rain stopped. No more cars came up the canyon while I was going down. The road was still wet and little rivulets of water were running down the side hills. The valley had gotten a good soaking and the storm had passed over the mountain as I was coming down. The road was wet and slippery until I got to the mouth of the canyon. Then the road was graveled from there into town. I headed north out of town toward the farm two miles away.
The lane from the county road (the county road was graveled), went down a gentle hill and then crossed two creeks. After the second creek the road went up a short but steep hill. From there the lane sloped gently upward to the house which was located at the top of a clay hill. Everything had been saturated by the storm which had gone through.
Grandpa, who was at the house, saw me just as I was turning off the county road into the lane. He started down toward the creeks and met me there. I crossed the first creek all right and then went up over a small hill which separated the two creeks, crossed the second creek and started up the short, steep, and now saturated, hill. The horses were pulling valiantly but they couldn't get any footing in the wet clay mud. I stopped them and about that time Grandpa got there. He got the shovel off the wagon and cut some footholds in the ground deep enough to get down through the soft mud where the ground was a little more solid. These were cut underneath the horses and on up ahead of them up the short hill.
When the horses found these footholds thy pulled with renewed effort and were able to keep from slipping as long as their feet were in the holes. Slowly the wagon started moving. They kept feeling for the footholds and were able to pull the loaded wagon up the small hill even though the wheels were sinking into the mud four to six inches. I stopped them at the top to let them get their breath and looked at Grandpa admiringly. Before I could say anything he said, "I learned it when I was driving oxen. They got so they looked for the footholds." I said, "We could never have pulled this up this hill without them." He said, "Nope."
The hill on up to the yard was more gentle and the horses were able to pull the outfit the rest of the way with an occasional short stop to catch their breath.
At supper time Grandpa asked me if I had had any trouble coming off the mountain. I told him of the encounter with the Model A Ford car. He smiled with satisfaction at how it had been handled.
I had been to Steve Christensen's mine at various times with both Dad and Grandpa. To get there we had to go up Cox Canyon, cross the creek, and then the road made a few switch-backs to get high enough to angle out onto the Valentine ridge. The road crossed over the ridge and then went the remaining mile or so to the mine near the head of Valentine Canyon. I loved this place. It had high ridges on three sides, heavily timbered, and grass up to the horses' bellies. The upper end, or head, of Valentine Canyon went up against one of these ridges. The heavy stand of pine mixed with aspen filled the whole area.
A large log cabin had been built in a grove of pine trees. It seemed like we were isolated from the world nestled in these mountains. The cabin had two rooms; one, the kitchen, had a stove, a table, and some cupboards in it along with some chairs. The other was the bedroom. Two bed frames were in it. Each person or group of people who camped there brought their own food and bedding. The bed was rolled out onto the bed springs and it was a comfortable place to spend the night. On the back of the cabin a good-sized room was built which served for food storage. Canned and bottled fruit, vegetables, and meat were usually found there. If someone brought food and didn't use it all they generally left some in the storage room for someone else to use.
Steve Christensen was the son of John Christensen who was in partnership with my grandfather and so we hauled coal out of his mine too at times but mostly out of the Valentine Mine lower in the canyon. It seems that I can remember hauling some coal from this mine to the coal yard in Fairview. Some of the townspeople bought their coal from there instead of having to go into the mountains for it. Not everyone had the teams and outfits to handle that kind of hauling.
One time during the summer after the hay was put up but the grain wasn't ready to cut yet I was sent up to Steve Christensen's mine with the team and wagon. Grandpa had gone up with someone else a day or two before. He was to meet me there. I got a kind of a late start that morning because of a delay of some kind and it was getting dark when I turned into Cox Canyon from the main road which is in Huntington Canyon. I went past Earl Christensen's mine near the mouth of Cox Canyon. From there the road followed the bottom of the canyon. It was a thick, lush meadow most of the way up to the switch-backs in the road. The timber was thick on both sides of the meadow - which formed the bottom of the canyon. The lush growth of grass provided good feed for the horses if one had to stay overnight.
The road meandered up through the meadow going over bridges where it crossed the stream. The heavily timbered sides of the canyon were steep but there were no ledges; just soil covered with pine needles, moss, and varied plant growth.
From the seat on the front of the wagon I watched as the horses pulled evenly on the double-trees. I always kept the lines tight while driving, thus keeping the horses even. It also helps the teamster to know if there is any change in the horses' movements; for instance, if a horse should spook at some movement, or object and jump ahead of the other horse, the teamster can feel it on the lines immediately and can correct the problem by pulling the horse back into place with pressure on the bridle bit. Horses seem to be more content being driven this way because they know they are where they are supposed to be. It is my theory and that of other teamsters I've known that horses respond better and more quickly to this kind of driving than if the lines are allowed to hang slack.
It was getting dark quickly, as it always does down in a canyon. I could hardly see the road when I realized we were at the foot of the switch backs.
I turned the horses and started up the switch-backs into the tall, dense timber. It was now so dark I couldn't see the horses except their hind legs moving back and forth as they walked. I couldn't see the road and there were some sharp turns. I was getting a little nervous about keeping the wagon on the road, but the horses had been here before and they can see better in the dark than people can.
Every now and then I could feel the wagon turning; I could see by the tree tops against the cloudy sky that we were turning; I held the horses even but didn't interfere with them. The wagon stayed on the road and we continued on up through the switch-backs.
When I got above the switch-backs and was on the long slope where the road angled up toward the Valentine Ridge I couldn't see anything. The sky was clouded over and I could see flashes of sheet lightning way off in the distance. Actually I couldn't see the lightning itself but a faint glow in the sky when it flashed. Other than that it was almost total darkness. Some of the small clearings were only slightly less dark than when the trees were right up against the road. One of the horses snorted lightly but made no effort to do anything but just walk along. I could feel what they were doing because of the lines in my hands which were fastened to the bridle bits. I was getting a little uneasy and then I reasoned that if there was anything close - such as a cougar or bear which were plentiful in these mountains - the horses would be having a fit. They can see better at night than people can and they also have a keen sense of smell and hearing.
The horses were walking placidly along and reason told me that they wouldn't be doing this if there was any danger near. I forced myself to relax as best I could. The horses would give the alarm if anything was near. They would know it before I did. It was really nice driving through there except for edginess. Nevertheless I was glad when, after what seemed like an eternity, we came out of the timber onto the Valentine Ridge. But it didn't last long. After crossing over the ridge we plunged right back into the timber again; however up here there were aspen trees and I could see, faintly, their white trunks.
There was only another half mile to go and after a few minutes I could see a glow from the window of the cabin. My only worry now was staying on the narrow bridge which crossed a stream that was running down the canyon near the head. The bridge was on a slight curve in the road and I hoped the horses wouldn't turn too short and run the hind wheel off the bridge. The horses had been on this road many times before and did everything right; including stopping at the right place.
It is not difficult to unhitch and unharness a team in the dark. It's about like taking off one's clothes in a dark bedroom and getting ready for bed. Everything is done by feel and it's almost like having eyes in one's hands.
I stripped the harness off the horses and hung them on the wagon wheels, then led them back the short distance along the road to the stream which we had just crossed (where the bridge is) and watered them. They found their way down to the stream without any trouble. After feeding them some hay which I had in the wagon, I went down to the cabin.
Grandpa had heard me coming; a wagon is easy enough to hear, and he began warming up some food on the stove. I ate supper and, after talking for a little while, went to bed. As I lay there just before going to sleep it seemed like I could still feel and hear the team and wagon moving along. Then I dozed off and the next thing I knew it was morning.
The next morning after breakfast I went out, harnessed the team and pulled the wagon to the loading area under the coal chute to load up. It doesn't take more than a few minutes to load a wagon from the chute - just lower the gate and let the coal fall into the wagon. After pulling away from the chute and out of the way I loaded the hay and a sack of grain back onto the wagon, on top of the coal. Then the grub box and bedding was thrown on and in a short time I was ready to move out.
The outfit began to move, much heavier now than the night before when it was empty. The wheel hubs didn't do so much chuckling on the axles as they did the day before, when going toward the mine. The tugs (called traces by some, in different parts of the country) were tight as the horses pulled against them. The whole outfit was quieter. The individual trees, as they were passed by seemed to move back and merge into the rest of the forest. Birds chirped and flew from one tree to another. The feeling in me was that there was no place I'd rather be than here driving a team on a loaded wagon. I thought of what my city cousins told me whenever the occasion arose (and they didn't pass up an opportunity) that I was crazy to want to live that kind of life. Well they could live in the city if they wanted to with all the noise and clatter and fume-belching cars - but I was glad to be here in these mountains behind a good team hauling coal down along the winding road through the timber, and in the more gentle, open valleys, the rolling hills covered with sage, choke cherries, thimble berries, service berries, wild flowers, and the clear air, and white, fleecy clouds moving across the sky. They could have their blasted city!
But these good things were to come to an end. Time passed and I reached the ripe old age of eighteen. The war was rumbling through everyone's mind. Dad went to work in an ammunition factory somewhere south of Salt Lake (I never did know just where it was). He moved the family to Taylorsville. Grandpa, my next younger brother, and I put up the hay on the farm that summer. Later one of the horses in the main team died and was never replaced. Dad took the other horse to Taylorsville and I went into the service. I never did know what happened to the other horses.
While at Catalina Island off the coast of California I got a letter from Mother saying that the farm had been sold. This, then, was the end of an era. I am glad that I got in on it even though I was not what you'd call an "old hand". Still I got in on the coal hauling and hauling of poles with horses and wagons. We did all our farm work with horses, as did our neighbors, and fortunately, we never did own a tractor.
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