The Old Harris Ranch

We made a little pilgrimage along long stretches of dirt road out past Clarkston, Utah to the old Harris ranch last week.

(Pausing first at the Clarkston cemetery to visit the grave of Martin Harris--Mike's 3rd great grandpa's brother.)

Mike had the day off and determined we should go.

He’d been out there once as a kid.

Then, several years ago (maybe a decade ago even?), he and Goldie went with his dad and a few of his aunts and uncles to visit the spot again.

Somehow, from their description (or maybe despite their description), I’d gotten it into my head that the ranch was a flat and hot, sagebrush wasteland. And I went, I admit, only to be supportive rather than from any true desire to go.

But my idea of the place was all wrong.

It was beautiful.

Rolling hills everywhere (so different a look from the usual full mountains I am used to here in Utah); long grasses as far as you could see; fields of unfamiliar, non-irrigated crops.

Mike’s great-grandparents Jesse and Sarah homesteaded the place. And his grandpa Frank (one of Sarah and Jesse’s youngest children) grew up spending much of his time living out there.

They planted two black willows during those early years. (One died about a decade ago, but the other is standing still, and, as there are no other willows around, that willow is the key landmark in identifying the ranch.)

(This first picture below was at the moment that Mike said, "There it is!" I realize I took a million photos of this willow. I was hoping to catch one we might want to frame though.)

Their tiny house—not much bigger than a shed—used to stand near those willows. Because there was no way to irrigate the land, they’d just get one spring crop of wheat. There’s a story of a huge hailstorm coming through one spring—destroying that year’s single crop and of Frank always remembering seeing his mom standing at the tiny kitchen window at the back of the shed—looking out over the ruined crop—with tears just streaming and streaming down her face.

I’m sure it was a hard life. But I wondered, as I looked from the willow back to the stretches of grassy hill, if Sarah ever had mornings of waking up and just feeling her soul full to the brim with the beauty out there. Did she ever find she couldn’t resist the pull of wandering into those hills with a blanket and a picnic for the kids?

I hope so.

In any case Mike’s grandpa Frank had happy memories of it from his youngest days. Sarah died when Frank was only 8, and Jesse just three years later (making Frank an orphan by age 11). His older brothers tried to keep the place going but lost it by the time Frank married. But Mike recalls him talking about it fondly. (At one point it came up for auction again. Frank went, hoping to get it back, but the bidding went too high.) It felt to us, while we were out there that day, like a place that, for Frank was tied to a time of life when everything was still a possibility and not yet touched with life’s sorrows.

Before we left, we gathered around the willow and said a prayer of thanks for our life and for those ancestors and their lives. And Mike and Mette took a cutting from the willow that we hope will grow here on the farm.

It was a good day. And the kids all felt it too. (Though I’m sure that was aided by us letting them take turns hopping out of the car to drive stretches of the dirt road on the 4-wheeler and the dirt bike.) And Jesse is named after these ancestors (Jesse Frank), so it seemed especially good for him to see this place tied to their story. We got back into town after 9:00 and loaded our dirt-covered and hungry crew into a McDonald's. We got home just as some 4th of July fireworks were going off (though it was technically the 3rd), and the kids all climbed out on our lower roof overhang to watch them. At last, we all went to bed--feeling satisfied and right about our day. Like somehow it mattered that we'd gone.