MOUNTAIN RESCUE

   Time was ticking down. I had received my mission call to the Southwest Indian Mission. My farewell was coming up Sunday and in a matter of days I’d be off to save the world – at least a small part of the world – a very small portion of the Navajo Nation. 

   But there was still enough time to make one last trek to the sheepherders’ cabin located high in the mountains above Rock Canyon. It wasn’t much of a cabin -- one small log room with a dirt floor, one window, a wood plank door, and a rock fireplace missing half its chimney. It most likely had been built by early settlers grazing their sheep in the mountain meadows nearby.

What remains of the sheepherders Cabin. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah

  The cabin was one of my favorite getaway places. I had stumbled onto it quite by accident while hiking the canyons behind Y Mountain. Nestled back in the tall pines and surrounded by scenic mountains, very few people knew of the cabin’s existence. 

Overlooking Provo and Utah Valley from Rock Canyon.

   I would be leaving home for two years with no girlfriend attachments, but I did invite a girl I had just met to tag along. It would be my last jaunt to the cabin before leaving on my mission. We would drive up the canyon, enjoy the scenery, hike to the cabin, barbecue some steaks, and be back home before dark. At least that was the plan. We loaded our supplies into Dad’s red VW Bug and headed up Provo Canyon to the Rock Canyon turn off. The sun was out and the trees were still showing some fall color. It was a beautiful November afternoon. What could possibly go wrong?

Rock Canyon. Provo, Utah

   After ten miles of climbing along the winding dirt road we began descending the steep curves into Upper Rock Canyon. Turning off the main road we bumped along the overgrown trail leading us closer and closer to the secluded cabin. We found a good clearing, parked the car, unloaded our gear and began our hike into the thick pines. Upon reaching the cabin my new friend exclaimed, “It’s definitely rustic! Not much to look at.” In no time at all the fire was crackling, the steaks were sizzling, and our mouths were watering.

Steak sizzling over the fire.

   Meanwhile, outside the sky had morphed from bright and sunny to dark and ominous. Strange how fast things could change! We had just started enjoying our perfectly grilled steaks when I noticed a few white snowflakes drifting past the open window. I thought, “We had better finish up quickly and get back to the car. This isn’t the place to get snowed in!”

Ominous sky before an impending show storm.

   By the time we packed up and hiked back to the VW Bug there were 2 or 3 inches of snow on the ground. I quickly assured my worried friend that this would be no problem. The rear engine of the VW would give us plenty of traction to climb out of the canyon.

   Things went fine making our way back over the trail to the main road. But as we edged our way upward along the steep climb out the back tires began to spin. This couldn’t be! We hadn’t even reached the steepest section yet. By now the valley was socked in and we found ourselves in blizzard conditions. The snow was piling up faster than ever. I got out of the car to check the rear tires. Surprise, surprise, the tires were bald! I convinced my skeptical friend to stand on the back bumper to give us more traction.  A few more futile attempts and it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere.          

   We mutually agreed to get back to the cabin and wait out the storm. Following our tire depressions in the snow we finally made it to the meadow and parked the car. By now the snow was almost 8 inches deep. And the blizzard wasn’t letting up. Trudging our way through the snow we finally stumbled back into the cabin, shut the door and shuttered the window. It was dark and very cold. Our wet clothes didn’t help. We weren’t prepared for a freak November storm. And the snow just kept on coming! 

Winter blizzard in the mountains.

   For now we needed to prepare for the worst, build a fire, wrap up in the picnic blanket we had brought along, and conserve as much heat as possible. If we were careful there was enough wood to keep a fire going until daylight. Then we could think seriously about forging through the deep snow, and making our way down the canyon to the valley many miles below. We settled in for a long cold night.

Tough hike in the snow.

   We took turns tending the fire and doing our best to dry things out. We talked about what might be going on at home. Maybe my friend's roommates would raise the alarm if she missed her dorm curfew. I couldn’t remember telling my family where we were going. It was supposed to be a short trip up and back. Between refueling the fire, we passed the time by telling scary stories. We soon had to stop when our imaginations kicked in and we started hearing creepy noises and seeing movement in the shadows. Who knew what creatures were lurking outside in the quiet darkness. Our conversation deteriorated to meaningless chit chat just to pass the time. About the time my friend started droning on about the virtues of her boyfriend in Idaho sleep overcame me and I dozed off. Hours passed. I woke several times to check on the fire. The relentless snow just kept piling up. By now it was well over 2 feet deep with no signs of stopping. I made myself as comfortable as possible and continued my fitful sleep. Slowly the hours passed.....

Glowing embers

   Suddenly I woke with a start. The fire was down to red embers. But that wasn’t what woke me. I checked my watch in the dim firelight. It was 3:15 a.m. Then I heard it. It was a soft sound, barely above a whisper, like someone was quietly calling my name through a hollow pipe. Was I dreaming, or maybe hallucinating? I stood up, opened the shuttered window and listened carefully. There, I heard the ghostly whisper again.  “Francis, are you up there?”  From far off I thought I heard my father’s voice. Was this for real? I woke up my sleepy-eyed friend and we both listened intently. “Francis, are you up there?” Yes. It wasn't loud but we both heard it this time!

   We quickly gathered our things, wrapped up in our picnic blanket, and pushed our way through the snow, following the sound of my Dad’s voice. “We’re coming!” I yelled as loud as I could, my voice muffled by the deep snow. Leaving the tall pines and moving into the clearing, a welcome sight greeted us.  There was Dad, standing next to the front bumper of a very large Search and Rescue vehicle. He was holding a megaphone in his hand and leading the charge. He was thrilled to see us, but no more than we were to see him!

Search and Rescue emblem.

   The rescue party soon had the Red VW securely chained behind their huge 4-Wheel Drive truck and we began the climb up and out of the canyon. What a relief to be warm and safe as we pushed through snow drifts three to four feet high. “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Dad. It turned out my sister, Kay, had overheard me talking about going to the sheepherder’s cabin, and my younger brother Joel knew where it was located. Joel and I had stayed in the cabin while camping in the mountains.

    As luck would have it we made the news, both on T.V. and in the newspaper along with several others who had been trapped in the mountains by the storm. I took quite a ribbing from all the locals seeing how my mission farewell was only days away. I would soon be on my way to the Navajo Reservation. But my unfortunate friend, being a BYU student, was left behind in Provo to face the music with the Honor Code Committee. I never saw that girl again, but I still remember the smirking men who rescued us at 3:00 in the morning.

Daily Herald Article. November 12, 1964.

FIFTY YEARS LATER:

   My brother Joel had been horseback riding through the high meadows of Rock Canyon, and ran across what was left of the sheepherders cabin. He took a photo and text messaged it to me. This inspired my hiking buddy, George Taylor, and I to go in search of it.

Picture of the Sheepherders Cabin taken by Francis and George on their hike. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah. 2014.

   It took us two separate trips behind the mountain before we located the cabin. A single window and some of the pine log walls were all that remained. My memories from fifty years earlier are far more vivid, but it was a good trip down memory lane and a great excuse for a beautiful fall hike with my friend George.

Francis Rogers. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

George Taylor. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

Two happy hikers: George Taylor and Francis Rogers.

     As we were leaving the canyon, George turned to me and quipped, "You're not going to write about this, are you?"

ERNIE AND ME

    I met Doug Wilkinson (the youngest son of Ernest L. Wilkinson, President of Brigham Young University) while playing my first year of Little League Baseball. We were both nine year olds and played for the team sponsored by the local Elks Club. We became good friends and he would invite me to his house to play. His house just happened to be the President’s Mansion on the BYU Campus. Before leaving home to pump my “no speed” Schwinn to the president’s home, Dad would pull me aside and implore, “Be on your best behavior and don’t get me fired!”

The President's Mansion, Brigham Young University

     In the mansion’s palatial surroundings, Doug’s mother always had cookies, cupcakes and other goodies in ample supply. His aged grandfather would sit on their outside veranda and rock away in his comfortable chair. He was always glad to see us. And we were glad to see him because he would dig deep in his pocket, extract a small leather pouch filled with money, give us a handful of coins, and send us happily on our way to the Cougar Eat located in the basement of the old Joseph Smith Building. It was there that Doug would order up carmel- or hot fudge sundays for the two of us. On a good day we went for the mother load – banana splits!

    Doug had inside knowledge of secret places all over campus. He could get us into the dome above the Eyring Science Center where the telescope was housed. But even better, he knew where to find the hidden door in the building’s basement that led to the underground “heat tunnels.” These tunnels below the sidewalks could stealthily lead us to almost any building on campus. I remember Doug and I popping out of the tunnels into Field House during a BYU basketball game. We watched the game, snagged some popcorn, and were soon back trucking through the tunnels again.

Eyring Science Center, BYU Campus.

    I met President Wilkinson on a few occasions when he walked through his front door, gestured a quick hello, and shuffled his short frame off to his den. Unlike his wife, he had no time for youngsters. Doug was a year ahead of me in school and attended BYU Elementary, a private school. So when baseball season finished we didn’t see each other, much to my father’s relief.

Ernest L. Wilkinson Center, BYU Campus

     My next involvement with the President was not with the man himself, but with a stack of his “Wilkinson for Congress” bumper stickers. You see, Ernie felt the US Senate was calling. They needed his help. Paul Evans, Dave Beck, Tom Schaerrer, and I had just loaded up on his free campaign stickers at the Wilkinson Student Union Center about closing time. We wanted to help him on his way. Sometime later after downing burgers, shakes and fries at Stan’s on Ninth East, we were cruising back across campus when suddenly red and blue lights flared on behind us and Paul’s Fiat was pulled over by a campus cop. He stopped us right in front of the Administration Building. “Why?” Paul politely asked. We hadn’t done anything wrong! “Just a routine stop at this late hour,” he replied. Noting the passengers’ jovial spirits he abruptly ordered us all out of the car. The officer suspected that we had been drinking and wanted to search the car for booze. The very idea! We never touched the stuff!

     Paul, being the driver, was rudely locked into the back of the squad car. The rest of us stood outside watching the officer with flashlight in hand search the glove box, under the seats, and even in the trunk. Meanwhile, my dear friends took it upon themselves to plaster the passenger side of the cop car with "Wilkinson for Congress” stickers. Finding us innocent of his suspicions, we were set free. “Stay off campus this late at night!” the officer barked his condescending dismissal.

Wilkinson for Congress bumper sticker

    Several days later a letter arrived at my house from, guess who, Brigham Young University Campus Security informing my parents of my late night trek through campus, and my possible involvement in the improper use of election stickers.

Francis Max Rogers, Student Body President of BY High School 1963

    My days at BY High were coming to an end. It had been a great four years with outstanding teachers, good friends, and a bundle of fun memories.

Francis with other student council judges during BY High Friendship Day.

Francis making his move during a BY High dance.

 Paul Van doing the forbidden Twist

   We may have been mischievous pranksters at times, but when it came to loyalty to the school, we went out of our way to bring honor and respect to BY High. In sports, music, Debate, Legislative Forum, and in all aspects of Forensics we excelled in regional and state competitions. My friend, George Taylor, and I won Superior ratings as debate partners.

    Preparations were being made for our long anticipated awards assembly. Every Student Body President since time began had received a Leadership Scholarship to BYU. I had applied and was assured by our school counselors that I was a “shoo-in” for the scholarship and didn't need to apply for any others. It was my job as student body president to meet with the administrators and counselors to help plan the awards program.

Mr. Nelson, BY High Principal

    The awards and scholarships were rolling in daily but still no word from BYU about mine. Then it finally happened. Principal Nelson, with a grin on his face, handed me the official envelope. It was sealed and stamped from the office of Ernest L. Wilkinson, President. “Well, go ahead and open it!” Mr. Nelson prodded. With anxious eyes and shaky fingers I peeled back the flap on the envelope and withdrew the contents. It contained a single sheet of official BYU stationary. On it was a short typewritten note:  “We would like to recognize your service as Student Body President of BY High School. But, unfortunately, we cannot offer you a scholarship. We cannot lower our standards.” Signed, Ernest L. Wilkinson, President.

    What? That was it? No explanation? I handed the note to Principal Nelson and walked away. I thought I heard him mumble, “Wilkinson. What a jerk!” My sentiments exactly! In In the back of my mind I questioned: “Was it the stickers? The Big Splash? Or maybe he remembered me from the days when his son, Doug, and I were roaming the campus!"

Ernest L. Wilkinson, President of Brigham Young University

George giving silent thanks for his scholarship. Francis faking sincere interest.

    Time moved on. It was winter and Provo had been pounded with a major snow storm. I was driving past the President’s mansion in Dad’s red VW Bug, when I noticed a short, well-dressed man trudging through the deep snow. He looked annoyed as if he were late for an important meeting. I pulled to the curb, rolled down my widow and asked if he would like a lift. When he turned I recognized him, President Ernest L. Wilkinson in the flesh! He nodded, took me up on my offer, slid into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door, thus dislodging an avalanche of wet snow from the open window sill onto his lap. He sat stoically, staring out the window, refusing to brush off the snow, apparently too proud to admit it even happened. I delivered him safely to his destination where he growled his first word, “Thanks.” And he was gone. I reached over, rolled up his window, and thought, “Maybe I should have introduced myself.” Nah, I don’t think so. I can’t lower my standards.

Francis Max and the famous red VW Bug