The Trek to Bluff

by Mildred Bayles Palmer 

Published in Utah Heritage Remembered by the Blanding Stakes Relief Societies

in 1996 for the State Centennial

The wagons move slowly across the wilderness.

Eyes are reddened from sun and wind.

How much further must we go?

Day after day go by, blurred and dimmed with weariness.

Thirst and hunger always present.

The children suffer most.

Go on, we must; one step and then another , mile after mile.

Are we almost there?

Days grow shorter -- nights are cooler.

We must hurry onward.  Prayers are offered in supplication for guidance and survival.

Down the impossible treacherous rock hill

the wagons are lowered slowly.

Then out across the hills of desert sand.

The way seems easier now.

What shall we find there?

Will we survive there?

How many souls will die there?

A valley lies ahead.

Walls of ancient sandstone guard it well.

A river slices snakelike through the valley;

Along the southern cliffs,

Prayers of thankfulness are offered.

Here we will build our homes.

Live out our lives and spread the word of God.

Song of Sorrow

By Mildred Bayles Palmer
Dedicated to the James Bean and Anna Maria Mickelsen Decker Family
Published 1980 in San Juan County Centennial Sampler

Decker story

Bluff December 15, 1901

My beloved husband died today.
The sickness is throughout the house.
My small young son lies pale and still.
He too is dead; he is only five.
Weariness and sorrow weigh me down.

Dec. 16, 1901

Today again a life is stilled.
My darling Mary, just approaching womanhood.
The sounds of carpentry fill the night.
Three coffins must be made for burials
In cold and frozen ground.

January 25, 1902
Did we have Christmas?
I remember not.
The cabin smells again of suffering and death.
My stalwart son of seventeen lies quiet now,
His song of life cut short.
The winter wind blows,
Echoing the sorrow in my heart.

January 26, 1902

My own dear son is gone.
The softness of his laughter stilled.
He was just past ten, awakened not,
After the long dark night.
Friends come to wash and dress my dead.
The sound of hammers once more fill the night.

The men must carry the coffins
Up the steep and twisting trail.
The open graves are waiting.
Here my loved ones shall lie side by side,
On this barren windswept hill.

Below me in the valley I can see
The tall white house newly finished,
Stark and lonely in the winter morn.
I shall never live there now.

A song of sorrow fills the air
As friends and family gather round.
A prayer of comfort quietly is said.
I turn, blinded by my tears and blowing snow.
Retrace my steps a second time
To the still empty cabin
at the foot of the hill.


Note: This poem is based upon the tragic events which befell the James Bean and Anna Maria Mickelsen Decker family during the winter of 1901-1902 when five members of the family died of diphtheria.

Dedication and Desire

Bluff Fort, October 24, 2009
By Janet Wilcox

     

 Standing on the shoulders of those who came before

A new San Juan Hill has been summitted.

 With Herculean effort

    families  have united to share

       legacies and lore,

          truths and treasures

             heritage and heroics.

Like parachutes of dandelion fluff

  scattered by the winds of change,

    Bluff’s legacy spread afar for 120 years,

         nurtured in descendant’s hearts,

           Until a dream began to grow.

Outdistancing the clouds of doubt

    And storms of failure

       Leaders called forth with hope and vision

            And new pioneers rallied to recreate the past.

  

    A modern gathering of clans and cabins converged,

       reminding us how undaunted courage

          and stick-it-atoo-ity can accomplish the impossible.

  

New generations

   Recognizing the value of history

     Have  reclaimed the mission of San Juan,

      Rebuild the fort

          and shown us with loving reminders

                   its new purpose under heaven.

   May we ever remember

        the trail, tears, and travails

             leading to this sacred ground in Bluff.

          

Coming Home

By Jean Nielson Bayles

Published in San Juan Centennial Sampler 1980

What is this, but rocks and earth and air?
This place where wind drinks dry the ground,
Where sand will swirl and settle and wait--
Silent--to be stirred up again?

Here sun beats down on rocks and sand
Too hot to touch or rough to rest;
Where feet are bare, and then --there is the quiet.
It shutters every door and window of this place.

How sweet the seldom green and cooling shade
That must be searched for here.
What is it then--but rocks and earth and air?
What?  This--a silent voice will tell.

"Tis bed and hearth and home for some
Whose time preceded mine,
Whose unknown faces fill my dreams,
Whose hands I see, have shaped my past.

It is the rocks which mark in grooves
The memory of wagon after wagon
Laden with life's substance.
For only heavy burdens etched their way.

Rocks, where hide the secret, shadowed caves
Where many came to rest, weary;
Or to dance with the dancing bonfires flames;
Or only to find, in solitude, the strength
to descent to the sand again.

This place is air--the early
Morning river scent from that
Temperamental river which
They fought--and which they loved.

And evening smells of dusk and tiny
Purple blossoms--south in cracks and corners
Of the cliffs-a precious, simple
Beauty they found to fill their homes.

And here is earth.  They walked its lonely paths
They plowed its empty fields,
Up from it they built their homes, their town
To mark their presence in this place.

They brushed its endless dust
From off their chairs and pantry shelf
They swept it hard and smooth outside their door--
To make it clean, this earth.

And here they came to lay at last
Among the rocks and earth and air.

What is this place?  It is the whispers
of their words, the echoes of their footsteps.
And listening, listening, I can hear my name.
The voice of what I was and why I am.

This is coming home.