Abandoned Sugar Beet Factory, Weston near Franklin, ID Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, PhotographerWhen I started teaching at Preston High School, one of the first books my English class read was The Diary of Anne Frank. I remember asking the class if they had any family stories of their own to share about those war years. A young woman raised her hand and said her grandparents had a painting on their wall that had been given to them by a German Prisoner of War. This POW had worked on their Cache Valley sugar beet farm in 1945. He’d signed the painting, and had written a few words of thanks on the back for the kind treatment he had received
I was astounded. German POW’s in Cache Valley? This led me to ask more questions.
I found out in 1945 there were close to 400 German POWs living in tents in a work camp at the Cache Valley Fairgrounds. Local farmers contracted with the US Government to hire the POWs to work in the fields for 80 cents a day.
Each morning the prisoners would get loaded into trucks and driven to a sugar beet field. The work day didn’t end until 8 pm when the prisoners returned to the Fairgrounds, damp and chilled, from the ride in the open bed trucks.
Sugar Beet Knives Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, PhotographerIn 1945, sugar beets were a profitable crop, but labor intensive. In the Spring, the beets needed to be thinned and weeded. This work was done by a short handled hoe. In the Fall, the beets needed to be pulled out of the ground. This was done by a special beet knife with a big fish hook on the end. Once pulled out of the ground, the top leaves were sliced off and the beets tossed into a pile bound for the sugar factory.
At the peak of sugar beet farming in and around Cache Valley, there were 5 sugar factories operating. But by 1945 the factories were down to two – one located in Lewiston, and the other in Whitney, near Preston.
Native Americans came from Arizona to work the beets and set up their colorful teepees in downtown Lewiston. High school students were let out of school for 2-3 weeks in the Fall to work during what were called “Harvest Vacations.”
A friend of mine in Preston told me about a young man who went off the college in the Fall of 1945, but came home after a week. His father handed him a sugar beet knife and told him if he wasn’t going to go to college, he was going to work in the fields.
Everyone I met who once worked in the sugar beet fields told me all the work of thinning and harvesting needed to be done while bent over, and the resulting back pain was terrible.
Of all the stories I heard, my favorite was one of a Logan beet farmer who took his 3-year-old daughter with him to check on the work being done by the POWs he had hired. One day, he looked up and saw one of the German POWs holding his little girl in his arms. The farmer took his little girl by the hand, but the POW didn’t let go. A guard came running over. But both men stopped when they saw the tears running down the POW’s face. Somewhere, many miles away, they realized this German POW had a little girl of his own that he may or may not ever see again.
Today, all the POWs have long gone, as well as the local sugar beet farms. But if you drive north on Highway 89, just before you get to Preston, you can see the remains of the Whitney sugar beet factory. These huge crumbling buildings stand as a reminder that sugar beets were once king in Cache Valley.
Eric Jones (left) and the author, High on Borah Peak, Idaho Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, PhotographerThe Author’s Journal Entry From Borah Peak 2003 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Eric Jones closing in on the summit of Borah Peak Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Eric Jones leading the way to Dromendary Peak in Little Cottonwood Canyon 1995 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Little Cottonwood Canyon 1991, The Thumb, S-Direct Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Eric Jones on a ledge near the Gate Buttress Little Cottonwood Canyon 1991. Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
White Pine with Gary and Eric Jones circa 1988 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, PhotographerI lost a beloved friend and mentor two weeks ago in a fluke canyoneering accident in Zion National Park.
I first met Eric Jones when I was four years old. My family had just moved to Sugarhouse, in the Salt Lake Valley. I rode my red, yellow, and blue Big Wheel Speedster down the sidewalk and skidded to a stop three houses away to talk to two bothers standing in their front yard. The much taller one asked if I was the new kid who just moved in. I said I was. He asked my name. I said, “Eric.” He smiled and said, “Hey, that’s my name too!” His younger brother—my age—said, “And I am Gary Jacob Jones!”
Gary and I became fast friends and Eric, five years older, was someone I perpetually looked up to. He was always taller than I, charismatic, funny, and true to himself to the core. One Saturday, while playing under an apple tree in the big sandbox in the Jones’ backyard, Eric came out to coerce Gary and I into hiking with him. We declined his initial offer but agreed when he promised 7-Eleven Slurpees on our way back. And so, we went. This scene played out many times.
Eric took us to fantastical places in the Wasatch. While we hiked, he would tell stories about wild animals, old miners’ tales, ghost stories, places he had been, and places he wanted to go. Each story, each place name, added to the intrigue and the places he talked about became the places I dreamed about: Grizzly Gulch, Sundial Peak, the West Slabs of Mount Olympus, Maybird Gulch, Cardiac Pass, Thunder Mountain, and on and on. When he described the largest Wilderness Area in the lower 48 states, the River of No Return Wilderness in central Idaho, I knew I had to get there someday. It’s a place where I have spent much of my adult life, including a long backpacking trip with Eric.
One time, he told us about an invention called a mountain bike that was a cross between a BMX bike and a ten-speed, and then, on cue, a mountain biker appeared heading down the trail. Eric drew a map of the Wasatch from memory on a blank piece of paper once, naming all the
side canyons within Mill Creek, Big Cottonwood, and Little Cottonwood Canyons. He labeled each summit, with its precise elevation. As a kid, I was amazed that all this information was just in his head, literally at his fingertips.
One June, after luring Gary and I from the sandbox once again, we attempted to climb the 11,045 foot Mount Superior. Eventually we reached a place on the knife-edge ridge where there was too much snow to safely proceed—at least for Gary and I. Eric probably could have crossed it safely and headed on to the summit, but we were his companions, and he wasn’t going to put us in danger or abandon us. So, we turned around and headed for the 7-Eleven at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon.
Eric always wanted to see what there was to see around the next bend or over the next ridgeline. He planted seeds of mystery and awe in my core.
Before we were old enough to participate, Gary and I heard stories of Eric’ s feats in the mountains with the older scouts. The troop had planned a week-long 50-mile backing trip in the Uinta Mountains that included, at Eric’s instance, a layover day and extra mileage to climb Kings Peak, the tallest mountain in Utah.
When they arrived at the lake for the layover, the leaders—trail-weary from backpacking with a bunch of teenagers—announced that they wouldn’t be going to King’s Peak the next day. They would have a rest day instead. The other boys seemed happy enough to loaf around. Not Eric.
He got up before dawn, packed his day pack, and headed off to the summit on his own. I don’t recall if he woke up his tent-mate to tell him where he was going before he left or not. Either way, the leaders were not happy with him when they figured it out hours later. Gary thinks Eric was 14 years old at the time.
Eric told a funny tale from that trip. One of the other boys, Nathan Cornwall, had pre-made all his lunches for the week, which consisted of eight sardine and mayonnaise sandwiches on Wonder Bread, which he had carefully packed back in the bread sack. You shouldn’t need a food handler’s permit to know this is a horrible idea. Eric couldn’t stop laughing when he described Nathan pulling the smashed mass of soggy, stinky sardine sandwiches out of his pack the first day of the trip.
During his life Eric hiked, climbed, camped, canyoneered, skied, and rowed thousands of miles throughout west, from the Cascades to the Tetons to the red rock deserts of the southwest, and beyond. He was a keen writer and a profound thinker. He worked hard, loved deeply, and he stood for the things he believed in. He was fine friend to many.
When we were finally old enough backpack with Eric and his friends, Gary and I literally ran with our full packs on, to keep up with Eric’s long, easy strides. That’s the image I have of Eric Jones in my mind. I was just trying to keep up, chasing a legend into the wilds.
Author’s note: “Eric also edited my Salmon River Guidebook before I sent it off to the publisher years ago. He went through it with a fine-toothed comb and picked up on so many details others missed, including myself. He influenced me to be a better writer.” https://blackcanyonguides.com/
Pumpkin on Center Street – Daybreak UT Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, PhotographerThe Ginormous Pumpkin Regatta began in Daybreak, Utah on Oct 18 with eight 600 lb pumpkins lined up on the edge of the community’s lake. The action began at 8:30 am when a forklift driver picked up Pumpkin #1 and eased it into the water. The pumpkin slid off its pallet and floated away from the shore.
Lying in wait was a small motorboat. The woman in the front of the boat leaned way out over the bow and put her hands on the pumpkin.
“Got it!” she called. This was the cue for the man in the back of the boat to fire up the outboard motor. Together they pushed the giant pumpkin around the nearby pier and into a shallow holding area.
Here, three people in hip waders were waiting in the water. Two steadied the pumpkin while the third cut a big square hole out of the top of the pumpkin. The cut-out square was tossed aside and all three reached down into the pumpkin to pull out handfuls of seeds and stringy pulp.
This is how they turned the giant pumpkin into a boat.
By now Pumpkin #2 had been delivered, and the work continued.
It wasn’t long before the announcer called the youth racers to come forward. Three brave competitors under the age of seventeen stepped up. They each chose a pumpkin and climbed in. Someone handed each of them a kayak paddle and pointed to the start line. Just how unwieldy these boats were was immediately obvious as two veered off in opposite directions while the third turned round in circles. But with a little practice, the teens were able to get the “boats” going in a straight line –more or less.
By then some serious new competitors were beginning to gather on the pier in elaborate costumes – a long haired mermaid, an Indian with a feathered headdress, King Neptune with his trident.
The day’s Grand Finale would include all eight giant pumpkins in a hundred yard all out sprint for the golden pumpkin trophy and the title of Gourd’s Man of the Year. I didn’t get to see this race. I had to get back to Logan.
But I had gotten to see Logan’s Giant Pumpkin festival a few weeks earlier. Here, giant pumpkins lined both sides of Center Street. One by one they were brought to the stage and weighed on a giant scale. The last six all weighed over 1,000 pounds. The big winner that day weighed in at 1,917 pounds.
I went home that day with a packet of giant pumpkin seeds in my pocket. I was warned that they were hard to grow.
But why not give it a try?
This is Mary Heers and I’m Wild about all things bright and beautiful in Utah. Pumpkin Regatta – Daybreak UT Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer
Red-tailed Hawk, Courtesy & Copyright Joseph Kozlowski, Photographer“Look, up on that pole! There’s a huge bird! I think it’s a hawk!”
A storm of students put their half-eaten PB & Js down, grabbed binoculars, and raced to get a better view. One of my 2nd-grade students, while eating lunch under the King’s Nature Park gazebo, had spotted the special visitor.
Students bustled around with their binoculars trying to get a better look at the far-away hawk. Excited fragments of observations eventually started ringing out.
“Look at that sharp beak!”
“I can see a red tail!”
“It’s mostly brown with some lighter feathers on the chest!”
“It looks like it’s watching us!”
Jack Greene guided our students Courtesy & Copyright Joseph Kozlowski, PhotographerEventually students returned binoculars, wolfed down their remaining bits of food, and found their instructor for the afternoon learning centers. About 25 kids made their way to me and Jack Greene, an expert naturalist. My group strapped on their binocular harnesses, left the gazebo, and started off on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. We had one objective; to observe and wonder about nature.
We forged a 6-inch trickle of water – the endeavor being met with laughs, screams and giggles, proceeded higher onto the bench where the remnants of a recent fire still blackened the hillside, and made our way along the trail to a choke cherry bush which was to be the turning point. The students happily watched and listened to Black-Capped Chickadees and House Sparrows playing fall games in the crackly bramble. We all turned and started our journey back to the gazebo.
“Everyone, look up there! Soaring high above us! That looks like the huge hawk we saw at lunch! I think it’s following us!” came the shriek of an excited young girl.
Intrigued students looked up to see the large, soaring hawk far above, lazily drifting circles toward the gazebo. Naturally, the kids couldn’t let it get away. The unrestrainable naturalists raced down the gravel trail in the direction of the hawk.
The hawk did get too far away. We all rejoined and continued our walk back. No more than 5 minutes later, a shout echoed out: “It landed! That hawk that has been following us all day landed! I kept a close eye on it and it landed up there on a post!”
The hunt was afoot. We picked up our pace to get close to the big hawk that had landed on an electrical post a few hundred yards ahead of us. We crept up and it posed for the eager kid eyes and hasty teacher cameras. But little voices aren’t quiet, and the hawk launched from the post and took flight before many could get a good look.
We had to get back. After Jack gave a mini-lesson about the length of a Black-Billed Magpie tail indicating approximate age, we hustled to return to the gazebo.
Our group of hot, sweaty, and energized naturalists arrived back at the gazebo and gathered for a final closing discussion. We huddled close, and amidst my parting words, a boy loudly interrupted and pointed to a nearby telephone pole. “Everyone, look! The hawk came to say goodbye!”
We all turned, and perched on the pole was the same hawk that had followed us that day; our guide, our companion, our friend. It took off and slowly, methodically, made low circles above our head, as if to say “Now you can see me, I am your friend. Goodbye, little ones. We had a special journey together.”
I am Dr. Joseph Kozlowski, and I am wild about outdoor education in Utah!
