There are times in our lives when God gives us exactly what
we didn’t know we were looking for.
My 4th of July weekend was much that way. I
debated back and forth all week whether I should go down to my grandparent’s
ranch near Orderville, UT or go with a bunch of friends to a friend’s cabin. It
was a hard decision. I decided to go to my friend’s cabin, slept on it, and
promptly changed my mind.
I headed south…to Orderville.
Most of you have never been to Barrack’s Ranch, the
homestead in southern Utah where my grandfather (Leonard Foote) was raised. His
mother, Elizabeth Heaton Bowers Foote, was married to an exceptional man named
William Bowers. He passed away leaving her with two small children. This was
devastating to her. She described the experience later in her journal,
explaining that she wanted to crawl right into the coffin alongside her
husband.
Now who can’t love the ranch with a story that starts with
such an emotional beginning? Long story short, Elizabeth met David Leonard
Foote (an inactive member of the LDS Church and a bit rough around the edges). Theirs
was a hard life living in a hard country. They married. My grandfather was the
first of four boys born through their union.
Let me describe what it is like driving down to the Ranch
(capitalized for emphasis because in my heart and mind there is no other).
One leaves the sprawling suburbia of SLC and/or Provo and
the desolation of central Utah is almost instantaneous. Rolling hills and
sagebrush are the traveler's only companions. This remote landscape is quite
conducive to reflective thinking and deep conversations.
After Beaver, you head East and cross the mountains. This
windy road dumps you on the outskirts of Panguitch. Panguitch was best
described by my cousin’s girlfriend: “That place is straight from a horror
movie.” If you are lucky enough to drive through in the nighttime, you will
notice several rundown hotels with blinking neon lights and old and decrepit
stores and houses.
This is when it starts to get interesting. You continue
south. You drive through Hatch (don’t blink or you’ll miss it). Then you get to
Glendale, UT. My great great great grandfather, Warren Foote, helped to settle
Glendale. He and his wife are buried there side by side. You begin to gain an appreciation
for the contrast of the land in Glendale. There is a wild and rugged beauty in
these dusty little Utah towns.
Side note: as you enter Glendale, there will be a police
vehicle parked on the side of the road. If you look closely, the policeman in
the driver’s seat is a dummy (not the unintelligent-type, but the actual
mannequin-type). This police vehicle has not moved in the 29 years that I have
been traveling to the Ranch. I still slow down every time I see the policeman.
Fooled…again!
Drive four more miles and you will happen upon Orderville.
Yes, there will be another fake policeman and notice the number of antique
stores. Why is it named Orderville? In 1875, Brigham Young organized Orderville
as a settlement to live the united order. The participants: a group of
destitute pioneers coming off of an incredibly disheartening failure in a
previous community called “The Muddy” on the border of Nevada.
The united order is a communal way of living in which
everyone shares everything and there is no distinction between persons. Many
Utah towns at this time attempted to live the united order. All of them were
unsuccessful. What is interesting about Orderville is that they succeeded. For
ten years they were extremely successful as a community.
One can’t help but feel the power of good, kind, and
unassuming people in Orderville, UT. It is in their blood. They still readily
give to strangers, regardless of their own needs.
Now…continue through Orderville (I know it is difficult).
There is this strong natural desire to stay in Orderville, to order a burger at
the one diner in town. But for me, I feel myself emotional pulled year after
year to the cemetery. There, nestled under the spruce trees lie David Leonard
Foote and Elizabeth Heaton Bowers. A couple feet away, their son, Robert.
It is here that I usually find myself on my knees. No words
come; just my beating heart.
It is time to move on. The best is yet to be. Four miles
from Orderville is Mount Carmel Junction. If you take the junction West, it
will lead you to Zion National Park, granola-loving teenagers, and camera-happy
Asians. Don’t give in; pull in to the Thunderbird resort instead. You see, this
junction consists of a trailer park, two antique stores, two diners, the
Thunderbird resort, and a golf course. Yes, I said a golf course. It is here I
play my nine holes of golf a year.
The Thunderbird Resort, a Best Western Hotel, is as much a
part of my childhood as the Ranch is. It is here that my mother found refuge. You
see, the outdoors isn’t for everyone. It is here my mother found a second home,
not to mention she kept the place in business. I also witnessed her giving
generously to the hotel staff, who generally smell of smoke and don’t have
teeth. But my mother doesn’t notice those things. Did I mention she is a Foote,
as in, a Foote from Orderville? Did I mention that this country’s blood runs in
her veins as well?
Another side note: it pays dividends to be “a Foote”. Simply
stating you are “a Foote” will get you discounts at the local auto body, a free
cart at the golf course, and always a warm smile.
Continue on. You can always come back and sleep at the
Thunderbird Resort tonight if you are tired and don’t want to brave the
nighttime wilderness of the Ranch.
Continue south a couple hundred yards and turn on the only
dirt road on your right. As soon as you hear the “wompf” of the tires in the
sand, you will know what home sounds like. You are instantly in a different
world. Notice the cave on your left. Notice the squirrels and rabbits that dash
across the dirt road in front of your vehicle. Drive slowly or you will kick up
dust. Have the children ride in the bed of the truck (it is truly the only way
to experience this four-mile drive).
There is a dried-up reservoir on your left. A crippled,
wooden dock still juts feet above the ground, a sign that water was once
abundant in this barren landscape. You can hear the echoes of children’s
laughter and the splash of water from years past.
As you round the final bend in the road, take a glance up
Twin Hollow. This is a very short and family-friendly slot canyon. Check to see
if your name is carved into the sandstone at the end of the canyon. Don’t tell
grandma you graffiti-ed your name in the stone.
You are now pulling up to the Ranch. You will pass the old
ranch house on your right. This is the place of your childhood. This is the
place you caught toads and avoided cactus at all costs. It is here you sat in
the shade and listened to your Uncle Warren speak of faith, work, and love. It
is here the breeze whispers of pain, promise, and hope. It is here Elizabeth Heaton
Bowers Foote buried her grief with her husband and lived another day.
So, this year when the majority of my relatives had left in
the beds of trucks (Didn’t I tell you it is the only way to travel?) and made
their way several miles down the Virgin river, I decided to follow them. But I
followed on foot.
I struck out from the front porch of the ranch house a midst
sheer red rock cliffs. I climbed a fence and made my way down to the river. No
one will know why I decided to go it alone that day. Not even I understood. But
I walked along the river, searching for the drier sections to cross. I took
pictures of the mountains and the creek (said, "crick").
As I walked I began to sing to myself. I found myself smiling
and soaking in the heat of the morning sun. Then I allowed my brisk walk to
slow until I stopped. I listened carefully: SILENCE. I listened more carefully:
the babble of the creek and the singing of a bird.
I found my Salt Lake City-riddled mind being unwound. The whoosh
of Trax, political rhetoric, and the blaring of music was completely swallowed up
in the silence of this place. It all faded away. Gingerly, I reach out with my
hand and plucked the silence from the air and placed it gently in my heart. My
heart seemed to thank me by returning the gesture with peace.
Then I hear the happy cries of small children. I can hear my
nieces, my nephews, my cousins. They are catching tadpoles. Their voices carry
down the creek to me.
Here is the fruit of the years. Here is the fruit of the faith. Here is the fruit of the tears, the harvest, the droughts, the deaths, the joys, the pains. Here is the fruit of the Elizabeths, the Davids, the Warrens.
It is here that one sees beyond himself. It is here that
life begets life.
And it is only fitting that it should be the Maker, the very Giver of Life, who allows me a view of it.
