Burnt Mill Spring

The summer sun was rising just south of St. Peters Dome, its’ bright, piercing rays sliced through the early morning mountain mist. The mountain meadow grass was glistening with the heavy morning dew. The early risers were fanning the smoldering remnants of the camp fire into life. Soon the old cook would start the morning meal, there are always a lot of hungry bellies to satisfy when you’re at mountain camp, and the days are filled from sunup until well after dark. It was always the same, but always different, up before the sun, a good hearty meal and then into the day.

He was just barely old enough to go work with the men, being the youngest, his mother wasn’t too sure that it was a very good idea for her darling little boy to spend the summer in the woods with the men. His brothers and cousins had started about his age and the effects of this early and often rough life in the log woods soon were popping up like the mushrooms and toad stools after the mountain rains began. The men all thought it was rather humorous when Cousin Willie let loose with a string of adjectives that were everyday language in the log woods. The last one had been a crude comment about not wanting to eat his beans because it would cause the flatulistic results on him as they did on a billy goat. These colorful, but crude comments were laughed at in the log woods, but usually were left in the woods because mom and the aunts didn’t approve of this type of crude language at home.

The men had always worked in the woods, they were sawmill people when they were in Nevada and Southern Utah, and they would still be there if the mines hadn’t played out. The lumber business in the North Eastern Arizona White Mountains was wonderful. The virgin growth of trees was as good could be found. The trees were so massive that they were hauled one tree at a time down the north slopes of Greens Peak, St Peters Dome, and the numerous volcanic cones that popped out of this portion of the White Mountains like gopher mounds in a manicured garden. These trees were placed on a pair of massive wagon wheels, and taken one at a time to the family sawmill on the Little Colorado, many miles to the north east at Richville.

There was only one problem with the lumber business, everyone was so poor, there just wasn’t any money to pay for the lumber. The barter system was alright to a point, but how many sacks of beans could you eat or how much was needed of any number of the every day items that were often all the poor farmer had to pay for the load of lumber. Lumber that would keep the freezing north wind from silently and swiftly wrenching away his beloved young, sweet, but vulnerable family before its’ life had hardly begun.

L.P. as he was known to friends and family, Lawrence Parker Sherwood to others, or his mother when she really wanted his attention as often mothers do, had on more than one occasion overheard his dad and mother talking in low tones by the fireplace, discussing the shortage of money and the tremendous amount of credit that they had extended to the struggling poor settlers in these frontier communities. It was a combination of pride and compassion that kept the Sherwood Mill supplying the area with lumber. Pride kept the family from announcing how poor their owned financial shape was, compassion kept them extending credit to those that they knew couldn’t pay and probably would never be able to pay.

This was that wonderful, warm, summer of life, when the cold struggles of winter were months away and the glow of youth and summer was present in everything. The grass, the beautiful white quakies with their shimmering green leaves that gently rippled with the slightest summer breeze, and often gave the appearance of ripples on a still pond. The blue spruce trees, so clean and fresh with the droplets of morning dew glistening from each needle. The doe with her fawn concealed in the lush vegetation close by, the three wild turkey hens with their combined brood of twenty plus chicks, the magical way that the whole flock could vanish into nowhere at the slightest hint of danger. To this young, handsome mommas’ pride, it was just one of the wonderful, intriguing mysteries of nature. He had a unsatisfiable quest to absorb every drop of this fascinating, and ever changing world.

The mornings were the best of the best, the freshness, the newness, the energy renewed in his strong young body. Mom fed them all well, fresh milk, butter, cheese, wonderful biscuits, good fattened beef, cornbread, crisp fresh vegetables from the garden. The fertile, rich, black mountain dirt of the Richville Valley grew the finest of crops. The Sherwood brothers had the good fortune of getting the early pick and this protected little valley on the Little Colorado River was a great spot to start over. There were good, flowing springs on every side of the protected valley. The Sherwood - Richey clan were not by any means the first to discover the virtues of this wonderful place. It was the site of a small outpost when the first government surveyors mapped out this land in the late 1870’s and early 1880’s. Before them, generations of Indians made this fertile valley home. The Sherwood homes and out buildings were literally built on the ruins of these prior cultures. Some of the same stones that reflected the warmth of the Indians' cooking fire were incorporated into the warming fireplaces of the sturdy Sherwood homes. If these stones could speak, they would probably tell stories of the good hunting in the mountains, the abundance of deer, turkey, big horn sheep, and antelope that supplemented their storehouses filled with corn, beans, and squash, that sustained these early dwellers of the Richville Valley.

The same crops and meats continued to sustain this next wave of humanity on this valley’s eternal seas of time. The Little Colorado River was a good provider and had unselfishly provided ample good water for the crops and orchards of many, but at heart the Sherwoods' were sawmill people, not farmers. The smell of fresh cut lumber was one of the many things that kept them coming back to this brutally hard way of life. It wasn’t ever all roses, in fact many times it was quite the opposite, like when the young hard working youth fell into the unforgiving Giant saw and it sliced through his young body. The family buried him on the mountain near Little Giant Spring. Little Giant Spring was named after their portable saw mill who was manufactured by Little Giant. Years later L.P., who was a young man when this tragic event occurred, located the lonely grave and had it reburied with the rest of the family in the St. Johns cemetery.

This was the some of the bitter that has, and always will, come with the sweet, but on this wonderful, energizing summer morning, life was a great thing to be experiencing, and L.P. could feel the energy and vitality that the cool, crisp, clean mountain air generated in his body.

After a hardy breakfast that would power the razor sharp, double bitted axes and the giant two-man saws, the work would begin. The ring of sharp axes striking their mark on the massive trees, would echo through the still morning air.

For hours, wood chips the size of a thick slice of Mom’s homemade whole wheat bread, would fly from the rhythmic swings of the woodsman’s ax. Then finally, that exciting moment came, when that last swing severed the remaining fibers which would pop like the crack of a rifle and the gigantic tree, who had withstood years of the forces of nature, would succumb to the steady, precise swing of that woodsman’s unrelenting ax.

Not many years down the road, another young man smelled the fresh morning mountain air of the meadows surrounding Green’s Peak, and watched the sun chase the morning dew from the fresh green mountain grass. This mountain grass was what his summer employment depended upon. The old Mexican sheep herder could be heard mumbling some unrepeatable Mexican phrases, as he labored to get the morning fire burning and make the usual breakfast of salt pork, potatoes, tortillas, and the ever present chili, onions, and lots of garlic. Strong sheep herder coffee, boiled in the blackened old coffee pot was an essential item of survival in sheep camp. Following the sheep all day wasn’t really that hard, except it meant long hours of constant alertness. There were wolves, coyotes, mountain lions, and the ever present black bears. All of these ferocious, furry mountain critters loved fresh mutton, and they all seemed to love the challenge of grabbing a stray sheep that an inattentive herder had let wander too far. Byron loved this mountain dearly, but the challenges of herding sheep he was somewhat less endeared too. These sheep watered at the same spring, now called Burnt Mill Spring, that had supplied the original Sherwood Saw Mill. The old Mexican herder was either a little loco or a sadistic old social misfit that got pleasure from the intimidation of young white boys. The night the old man waved his 45 pistol around and threatened to shoot him, Byron experienced a fear that stuck in his mind the rest of his life.

In spite of the hardships encountered by his young body and mind, William Byron Heap, Gramp to us grandkids, Barn Heaps to his Mexican workers, who had as hard a time with English as us gringos do with Spanish, didn’t let this one bad experience spoil the beautiful barrel of apples that lay ahead in Byron’s exciting and interesting life. Gramp lived and loved a lifetime of cattle and horses, ranches, farms, and the fine art of spoiling his grandkids and many “adopted” grandkids. One trait that Gramp had will always bring pleasant childhood memories to my mind. This trait was his love for food and especially providing abundant treats for all the kids that worked for him. Gramp didn’t spare any expense in keeping the cardboard box in the middle of his pickup seat well stocked with candy bars and other treats. His favorite ones were Planters Peanut bars and Big Hunk candy bars. In additional to candy, he always had crackers, bologna, cheese, bread, and a complete assortment of lunch fixin’s. He thoroughly enjoyed watching us candy starved kids dig through his wonderful box of goodies, like hungry pups at feeding time. Gramp took great pleasure in working kids from large, poor families that were struggling to just put food on the table. These kids weren’t limited to us white boys, many of my Mexican friends still speak fondly of the days spent working for “Barn Heaps” as they called him. They all remember the same things, he was always paid them well, treated them well, and fed them well. In my older years I have time to contemplate the lives and traits of the great people I have been privileged to know and learn from. I am beginning to discover which are the real and lasting traits we need to pass on to the generations to come.

Gramp, in the eyes of the world lived what may have been called a simple life, but he left a legacy of hard work , honesty, integrity and a love of the land. One of the great and lasting traits is and will always be his generosity and concern for the less fortunate. I believe that Gramps’ big kind heart developed and expanded because of his own humble beginnings. I know from the stories he told me that he entered the work force early and was putting a mans’ day of labor in at age 14. He was working a fine team of horses pulling, a fresno digging the Berry Cut, which is where the Lyman Canal cuts through a rise in the terrain between St. Johns and Salado.

Gramp spent a lifetime trying to assemble his life long dream of a good ranch, stocked with good cattle and horses. This dream was attained in his older years and he eventually sold it to his son Dan, who also had his fathers love for the land.

I awoke just as the sun was peeking through the trees east of St Peters Dome, anxiously awaiting another glorious day at the Heap‘s annual reunion located at Burnt Mill Springs. Nature was calling me and the calls were getting louder, but I sure didn’t want to leave my warm camp bed in the back of Gramps' old Chevy pickup with the make shift shelter. This shelter consisted of a heavy old army tarp thrown over a pipe frame, that was placed on top of the pickup stock racks. Stock racks are a pipe framework built to fit upon the pickup bed, the pipes are spaced close enough together and tall enough to haul cattle or horses in the back of the pickup. Most ranchers preferred stock racks to horse trailers because they always had them with them. Every good saddle horse was trained to jump into the back of a pickup, and seemed to enjoy riding there as much as our present day dogs do. It was a simple matter to add V shaped pipes (to shed the ever present summer rain) across the top of these stock racks, and to throw an old army tarp over them to create a nice little shelter. Looking into the ceiling of this shelter I felt life was as good as it gets for me. My old Gramp really knew how to camp, he had spent much of his life in one type of camp or another. He had walked much of this same mountain following a band of sheep in his youth. Byron was an avid hunter and trapper, he knew the White Mountains better than most. He had made a living trapping and building fence. One of the family treats was rabbit pot pie, and he always shot the cottontail through the eye so he didn’t ruin any meat. The pickup bed was a good warm, dry place of security and it was peaceful sleeping next to my old Gramp. The scary bear stories didn’t keep me up all night with Gramp snoring beside me. The smell of the army canvas, the wood smoke, the pine trees, the coffee, the sour dough biscuits, and frying bacon are things that are branded so deeply into the very core of my being, that after fifty years they are experienced once again as my mind re-lives these vivid and sweet memories.

Soon after a delicious camp breakfast, I would join my numerous Heap Reunion cousins for hours filled with exciting activities that were usually centered around the chasing of chipmunks and squirrels. Then after a hearty camp dinner, we spent several hours playing card games, with all the cousins crammed into someone’s tent, stinking feet and stinky farts and all.

My two grand fathers, who were really my fathers, with a whole lot of Grandness added, had many things in common and yet several interests that took them down separate forks in life’s road. L.P. being the baby boy had opportunities that older brothers often don’t get , Grandpappy as he was known to us grandkids, loved education of all types, but biology, botany, chemistry, and all subjects that explained the science of living things topped the list. Very seldom did he not know the name of any of our native plants. I say very seldom in an attempt to not appear to that I am canonizing him as “Saint Lawrence” of the world of botany. Byron, on the other hand grew up early, didn’t have the opportunity to get the formal education, but obtained as good an education in the important things of life as any scholar has ever obtained .

I have had the opportunity in my lifetime of law enforcement to deal with people from all walks of life, from the chains of poverty, to the abundance and excesses of the super rich. Without exception, those that have spent their lives (rich or poor) learning in the “school of life” are the ones that have gained a solid foundation in the true meaning of life.

It was only a few short years later that I was providing the shelter and helping my wife cook the meals at the Heap Reunion near Burnt Mill Spring, for my son and four daughters to experience the same exciting activities and beauties of this mountain heaven on earth. Their days were filled with many of the same activities and games. These very often took place at our camp, under a large canopy and lasted well into the night.

The summer sun was rising just south of St. Peters Dome, its’ bright, piercing rays slice through the early morning mountain mist. Now approximately fifty years later, my wife and I are once again camped in the shadows of Greens Peak with our son and four daughters and their children, and watch with great joy as our posterity experience the same soul expanding marvels of nature. I can once again live the thrill, through their eyes, as they spend enchanting hours experiencing the wonders of this special corner of God’s great handiwork. They watch the same beautiful sunrise, as that ball of energy again casts it’s life sustaining rays upon this earth and all of us. This all would cease to exist without that morning sunrise.