GILES, BLUE VALLEY

Had I suspected that our old brown mare intended to die in the ghost town of Giles, I would not have gone on that long journey which led me into Blue Valley back in the spring of 1935. And had I not gone, I would not have experienced the mystic sadness of that long-deserted place -- an aura that has kept me coming back again and again to visit Blue Valley.

Blue Valley lies east of what is now known as Capitol Reef National Park. As a boy I lived in Torrey, on the west edge of the park.

When I was 14, my father, a school teacher, purchased a farm to supplement his meager Depression-days income. And I was to tend a flock of sheep on the high benchlands above the farm.

Well, as a shepherd I needed a pony. When my father announced he had been offered a 3-year-old bay mustang in trade for our old brown work mare, I was as delighted as any boy could be.

But there was only one problem: I'd have to ride the mare east to Hanksville to get that pony. It entailed a round trip of 120 miles. It would take a week.

By the third day out, I realized that all my prodding was futile and the trip could easily take more than a week. The old draft horse would not step up her wormlike pace. It was long past noon, on that windy dusty day, when she sauntered into Blue Valley. As she plodded, I had plenty of time to drift into the past:

I had never ridden through the Valley before, but I had heard of it from my father. I knew it was settled in 1883 and that about 1908 my father arrived to be the schoolmaster.

He came there to teach the Mormon boys and girls to read and write and figure. And, since he was fairly handsome, with warm brown eyes and hair to match, he was also sought after by the young ladies of courting age. The older people looked upon him with respect, for his kindness and sternness brought discipline and learning even to the "rowdy boys". (Those were the young boys who would rather rope and ride wild calves than go to either grammar school or Sunday school.)

From my father I had heard something about the people who had lived there, so as I rode I looked for landmarks. I tried to find the pole that spanned the Fremont River so people could walk from the north side of the village to the south to attend school and church. But the pole was not there.

In the years after Blue Valley was deserted, the river channel grew wide from flooding. By 1935 it would have taken many poles to span that crossing. On the day of my ride, the only standing evidence of a community was the old Abbott house on the north bank of the Fremont.

In 1935, before its destruction by vandals, the walls of the house still supported a roof. On stormy days, journeying cowpokes, sheepherders and freighters often sought shelter within.

But I had no desire to go inside; I was too afraid of ghosts. In fact my fear caused me to spur the old mare into a trot, which in turn caused me to realize how near to death she was. I let her resume her slow crawl.

As I rode I thought about the first young lady with whom my father was in love. She must have been pretty and charming. She might have even become my mother, for a wedding date had been established.

But when the young lady's father died, the wedding was postponed and never rescheduled. I wondered why. I wondered if her mother was concerned about this Mormon maiden marrying a "gentile," such as my father.

Although that maiden may have been charming I can remember being thankful that the wedding had not taken place, for I loved my mother -- the Mormon maiden my father later married in another town.

As the old brown mare and I poked on, I looked across the rabbit brush and greasewood flats. Beyond the hazy blue, I saw the Henry Mountains. And closer in, the blue hills above the cemetery. In that cemetery (which I didn't take time to visit until years later) lay the bodies of many pioneers and their children.

Bishop Henry Giles, for whom Blue Valley's main settlement was named, lies burried there. He died a horrible death in November, 1892.

Bishop Giles was only 35 when his horse fell and he was caught in the saddle. His leg was broken. Gangrene set in. The people tried to save his life by riding to fetch an old, self-trained doctor who lived over a hundred miles away. The bishop's condition was critical when the "doctor" arrived and, with a carpenter saw from the shed and a butcher knife from the kitchen, amputated Giles' leg. There were no anesthetics, only a newspaper rolled into a kind of a megaphone for the bishop to "holler" into as a means of alleviating the pain.

The stricken man died within a few days.

There are other graves, many unmarked, in that pitiful little stormbeaten cemtery. Some headstones have been broken or tipped over by range cattle, and human vandals have desecrated other graves -- hauling off markers as souvenirs.

Among the remaining markers are those of women who died from complications of childbirth. My aunt was one such mother. She left behind a large family, including the baby boy who was born a short time before her death.

Not all in Blue Valley has been tragic, although the original settlers and later residents did go through hard times. But they had happy times, too: at Sunday school, church meetings, and chruch sponsored parties. Their religion was their mainstay.

There must have been pleasure, too, in watching newly planted trees and fields grow in that favorable climate where ample irrigation water flowed. The wide valley produced an abundance of melons, corn, cane, alfalfa and other fruits and vegetables throughout its few decades of survival.

There was also fun in such sports as riding bucking horses and steers. In his brief history of Blue Valley for "Rainbow Views," compiled by Anne Snow, Andrew hunt quoted one such "bronc buster": "I once rode a big steer which bucked so hard and so long that by the time he got through everything was black and I was almost unconscious."

"We had an old burro that no one could stick. He was in the coral every Sunday, but was never conquered."

The death of Blue Valley came when over-grazed range lands cound no longer hold back summer rains. Then floods roared, with rolling boulders pounding, as the roily-red water surged through the fertile valley. The irrigation diversion dam washed out again and again and mud filled the canals and ditches.

Finally the river channel was a big open scar -- ragged, wide and deep; so deep the dam could not be replaced.

Without irrigation water the fields and orchards burned. Then followed the time of little food to eat and no money. In desperation the families one by one, packed belongings onto horse-drawn wagons and headed out over long dusty roads.

There must have been some tears as they departed, for behind them the people left the graves of their loved ones -- babies, children, spouses, parents and grandparents. They carried with them memories and the sadness of dreams not fulfilled.

Just as I reached this point in my thoughts, right in the middle of what used to be Giles, Utah, the old brown mare decided that her time had come. Down she flopped into the powdery blue dust. I leaped from the saddle just in time.

But the old mare did not die after all. I revived her by carrying my hat full of water, many times, from the Fremont River. I bathed her her face and quenched her thirst. I even offered a little prayer.

Then I got her onto her feet and led her many miles. As the sun slid behind the western hills, I mounted once again and rode into Hanksville. There I got my bay pony and the following day we set out, he bucking, toward home. But that is another story.

Clay Mulford Robinson