A lonely splendor. That’s how one Saint had described it.
When their leader Brigham Young entered, ill with fever, lying in the bed of one of the wagons, he supposedly rose up and proclaimed, This is the place.
Tens of thousands more settlers followed, avoiding orthodox routes, making the trip along trails blazed by pioneering Saints, replanting crops along the way so later caravans would also have food. On that day, though, in the first wave—143 men, three women, two children, 70 wagons, one cannon, one boat, 93 horses, 52 mules, 66 oxen, 19 cows, 17 dogs, and some chickens—found a home.
“It’s just up this ridge,” the superintendent said, pointing ahead.
Only the three men had ridden from the helicopter in the Land Rover. Each wore ankle boots, jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a hat. At seventy-one years old his body remained strong—his legs ready for the forbidding landscape that spread in all directions.
“What are we,” he said, “forty miles inside the park?”
The superintendent nodded. “Closer to fifty. This area is highly restricted. We don’t allow hiking or camping here. The slot canyons are too dangerous.”
He knew the numbers. Three million people a year visited Zion, making it one of Utah’s most popular attractions. Permits were required to do anything and everything, so many that off-roaders, hunters, and anti-conservationists had called for an easing. Privately he agreed, but he’d stayed out of that fight.
The superintendent led the way into a sheer-walled canyon crowded with bigtooth maples. Wild mustard and sturdy creosote bush mixed with tufts of wiry grass. High overhead in the clear sky a soaring condor drifted in and out of view.
“It was because of trespassers,” the superintendent said, “that all this came to light. Three people illegally came into this portion of the park last week. One slipped and broke his leg and we had to med-evac him out. That’s when we noticed that.”
The superintendent pointed at a dark slit in the rock wall. Rowan knew that caves in the sandstone were common, thousands littered southern Utah.
“Back in August,” the secretary explained, “there was a flash flood in this area. A good soaking for three days. We think the opening was exposed then. Before that, it had remained sealed.”
He gazed at the bureaucrat. “And what is your interest here?”
“To ensure the chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations is happy with the services of the Interior Department.”
He doubted that, since President Danny Daniels’ administration had, for the past seven years, cared little about what the senior senator from Utah thought. They were of different parties, his in control of Congress and Daniels’ holding the White House. Usually that kind of split encouraged cooperation and compromise. But lately any amicable spirit had ebbed. Gridlock was the popular term. Complicating matters was the fact that Daniels was entering the twilight of his two terms, and a successor was unclear.
Either party had a shot.
But elections did not interest him any longer. He had bigger plans.
They approached the opening and the superintendent dropped his backpack and found three flashlights.
“These’ll help.”
Rowan accepted the light. “Lead the way.”
They squeezed through, entering a spacious cavern, the ceiling twenty feet high. The beam of his light examined the entrance and he saw that it had formerly been much wider and taller.
“That was once a good-sized opening,” the superintendent said. “Like an oversized garage door. But it was deliberately covered over.”
“How do you know that?”
The man motioned ahead with his light. “I’ll show you. But be careful. This is a perfect place for snakes.”
That he’d already surmised. Sixty years of exploring rural Utah had taught him respect for both the land and its inhabitants.
Fifty feet farther inside forms rose from the shadows. He counted three wagons. Broad-wheeled. Maybe ten feet long, five wide. And tall, the bows and cylindrical canvas covers long gone. He stepped close and tested one. Solid wood, save for iron rims on the wheels, encrusted with corrosion. Teams of four to six horses would have drawn them, or sometimes mules and oxen.
“Vintage 19th century,” the superintendent said. “I know something about them. The desert air, and being sealed inside here, helped with their preservation. They’re intact, which is rare.”
He approached and saw the beds were empty.
“They would have come in through the opening,” the superintendent said. “So it had to be much larger.”
“There’s more,” the secretary said.
He followed a beam of light into the darkness and spotted rubble. Pieces of more wagons, piled high.