Mount Graham Life of Peter Howard McBride
As Told ByClyde McBride, his son
Age 92 - 1988
I was asked to relate some of my father, Peter H. McBride’s mountain life and experiences - which are many and varied. It would take volumes to record them all. Now as to dates, names, etc: In my youth and before Dad passed away - if I had just asked, the information I could have received would be almost priceless today. But, regretfully, I didn’t ask. So, as I proceed, some stories will be just hearsay, but most will be dad’s own experiences as told to me and by me.
Now, as I might say, ‘In the Beginning,’ many years before my time Dad told: The Cluff brothers planned to build a saw mill at lower Columbine. But, before such a project could be started, there had to be a road built to transport all the necessary machinery and equipment up on the mountain.
So, there is where my father entered the scene. He told of working several summers on that road with only horse power, man power and dynamite. The equipment consisted of many horse drawn slip scrapers, shovels, picks, crowbars, axes, two man cross-cut saws, sledge hammers, steel drill bits and single jack-hammers for drilling holes in solid rock for placing dynamite sticks. I might just add, as a kid I remember seeing several unused drilled dynamite holes along that old road.
The road began at the foot of the mountain... then a long steep incline led up to the first mesa. Dad said that part of the road was finished on the first day of April. What year? I wish I knew. From then on that part of the road was called “April Fool Dugway.” I believe it was about the steepest part of the entire route.
Other points along the road were: Cluff’s Lower Goat Ranch, Cluff’s Upper Goat Ranch (later known as Horse Camp), Dead Man’s Turn, Dead Horse Curve, then on up over Bella’s Hill, up past Slick Rock, then on up to Lower Columbine - the future Mill sight.
All the necessary machinery was hauled on heavy freight wagons drawn by 6-8 and 10 horses. Just west of Bellas Hill the road went around a very sharp and rugged curve - with a deep cliff on the lower side. One time while 8 or 10 horses were-struggling and lunging as they dragged a large freight wagon loaded with a huge, heavy steam boiler, one team of horses was jerked clear over the cliff. They cut their tugs and they fell to their death - so I was told. Thus the name, “Dead Horse Curve.” I never learned the details of Dead Man’s Turn.
Dad told many stories about the Mill after it was completed and operating. He told of freighting lumber from the saw mill to the valley with two horse-powered lumber wagons with only two wheels having hand power-brakes. A load of lumber was too much for that non-hydraulic system, so at times they dragged logs behind the wagons to serve as a booster brake.
Now, what became of the logs at the end of -the trail? I am sure they didn’t drag them back to the Mill. Dad never mentioned pay or compensation but I am sure he took several loads in kind. He built homes, barns, corrals, pig pens, ‘chicken coops, head gates, etc. with lumber from the Mill. Again, that was many years before my time.
After many years of hard wear and tear, being washed away by storms, getting blocked by fallen trees and rocks and other natural causes - that old road was finally abandoned in favor of the flume. The Flume could only transport material one way - ‘down. So here is where Dad contracted hauling supplies to the Mill.
He hauled hay and grain for the logging horses and everything needed for the cook and the kitchen, plus anything ordered that could be carried in a saddle bag.
Dad’s Mule Train was usually 8 or 10 burros. He would load the wagon (with supplies the Mill had ordered) at the warehouse back of Webb’s store in Pima - where the REA is now located.
April Fool Dugway was the next stop. He built a corral by a high cliff with a spring that supplied water. When not in use the burros were kept there where they had shade and plenty of water. (low, from home to this corral the horses were work-horses, but from there to Chesley Hollow they were saddle-horses. Then at planting time they advanced to plow-horses = “Jack’s of all trades.”
Each summer between time spent on the farm, was a two-way deal. Mill supplies ‘up’ and potatoes ‘down’ - usually about three or four trips each month. I will report on just one of those many such trips.
From home to the warehouse in Pima, then to the foot of the mountain, took most of the first day. The next morning we saddled up and loaded the pack train. Then, on his horse, Dad led the lead burro and the others were supposed to follow. It was always my job to follow behind on foot with a prod pole or persuader and gee that they did just that.
It seemed Dad had it timed to arrive at the mill just after -mealtime. Grandmother Craig and her daughter were the official Mill cooks. We were usually served roast beef or roast venison end apple pie along with many other leftovers. After climbing the mountain for four or five hours those leftovers were almost like ‘Manna from Heaven.’ After we left the saw mill I had free transportation all the way to Chesley Hollow, with my choice of pack saddles.
The next day, while the animals rested, we dug potatoes from the pits and filled enough gunny sacks to load the 8 or 10 burros. Then the next day it was the same thing - only I walked ‘downhill’ instead of ‘up.’ We arrived at the corral at the foot of the mountain late in the evening and camped for the night. The next ,horning we loaded the potatoes on the wagon and headed for home.
Now this same thing went on in almost the same way for the ten years that I helped Dad raise potatoes in those old Graham (fountains. During that whole time I don’t remember Dad ever going ‘Lo the mountain that he didn’t take me along.
Just across the creek from the cabin - it wasn’t the ‘Mighty Oak’ but the ‘Mighty Maple.’ It could have been the largest and tallest maple tree in the mountain at that time. Dad tapped that tree and drained sap fo r Maple Syrup, but again he didn’t have too much luck. It seemed the bears craved Maple Syrup on their ‘acorn’ pancakes!
Dad raised only a few potatoes at Oak Flat - just enough for his own use. At that elevation, at times irrigation was necessary. When the Flume went thru, it sometimes dried up the creek. So Dad reserved the right to tap the flume when needed.
How Dad loved Oak Flat! It was always his favorite mountain retreat. Oak Flat was really Dad’s ‘Paradise on Earth.’ regardless of the birds and bears.
Dad’s Kitchen, etc. was: One big kettle with a baling wire handle, dutch oven and frying pan (all cast iron) - knives, forks, spoons (all of steel), plus butcher knives, paring knives, cups, plates, dish pan (all tin). His kitchen table was a four legged 4’x12" slab.
His Laundry was salvaged flour and sugar sacks - plus a bar of P & G soap (also used as hand soap). Grub Box was: flour, sugar, salt, pepper, baking powder, salt pork, small bucket of lard and plenty of jelly and strawberry jam. I can shut my eyes and still taste those hot Dutch Oven baked biscuits filled with strawberry jam that Dad served at least three times a day - along with potatoes and brown gravy... A meal fit for a queen - and her king. Dad was an A-I camp cook and he loved to cook.
Dad always brought a large bag of hard candy along. On rare occasions I was issued a lump or two!
Over by the East fence Dad built a small cellar to store seed potatoes for the next spring planting. We sometimes cut potato sets till 9 or 10 at night. Each set should have one or more eyes "to see its way up through that rich mountain soil" plus enough meat to sustain the plant till it took root.
Dad had a little 10-inch plow, powered by his two saddle horses - old ‘Si’ and ‘Shiner.’ At planting time my equipment was a nose-bag hung over my shoulder - filled with potato sets. As Dad and the plow went around the field, I followed and was supposed to drop a set every step - but only every other round. It didn’t seem to make any difference how deep or how shallow they were planted - they came right up. At potato harvest time it seemed most of them came up twice.
Once I lagged a long distance behind and suddenly I heard a lion roar. It sounded like it was just across the fence - and much too close for safety! The blood rushed to my head and it seemed my heart would jump right out of my mouth. I started running and dropped sets as I ran - at that rate I could’ve planted the whole field before breakfast! When I got to the plow I yelled "Hey, Dad! Did you hear that lion roar?" He said, "I sure did and so did old Si - I could hardly hold him from running with the plow, Shiner and Me." I stayed close to the plow the rest of the planting season. After that, Dad strapped his 30-30 to the plow handle.
At harvest time Dad, Claude and I and two other men (with shovels) dug potatoes all fall. Dad dug a long trench pit over by the west fence. We filled it and then had to dig the second one. We filled both pits to about 2’ above the ground - then covered each with everything Mother Nature had on hand: Such as grass, leaves, pine needles and at least a foot of dirt. Then we dug trenches around each pit for drainage. The next spring when Dad opened the pits, not one potato was lost. I believe the winter storage improved their quality.
At Chesley Hollow, Mother Nature furnished the necessary moisture along with the roofing material. Now this same program was repeated in almost the same way every summer that I helped Dad raise potatoes on the mountain. Dad raised potatoes at Riggs Flat many years before my time, so I was told.
Now, as I might say, ‘In the Beginning,’ many years before my time Dad told: The Cluff brothers planned to build a saw mill at lower Columbine. But, before such a project could be started, there had to be a road built to transport all the necessary machinery and equipment up on the mountain.
So, there is where my father entered the scene. He told of working several summers on that road with only horse power, man power and dynamite. The equipment consisted of many horse drawn slip scrapers, shovels, picks, crowbars, axes, two man cross-cut saws, sledge hammers, steel drill bits and single jack-hammers for drilling holes in solid rock for placing dynamite sticks. I might just add, as a kid I remember seeing several unused drilled dynamite holes along that old road.
The road began at the foot of the mountain... then a long steep incline led up to the first mesa. Dad said that part of the road was finished on the first day of April. What year? I wish I knew. From then on that part of the road was called “April Fool Dugway.” I believe it was about the steepest part of the entire route.
Other points along the road were: Cluff’s Lower Goat Ranch, Cluff’s Upper Goat Ranch (later known as Horse Camp), Dead Man’s Turn, Dead Horse Curve, then on up over Bella’s Hill, up past Slick Rock, then on up to Lower Columbine - the future Mill sight.
All the necessary machinery was hauled on heavy freight wagons drawn by 6-8 and 10 horses. Just west of Bellas Hill the road went around a very sharp and rugged curve - with a deep cliff on the lower side. One time while 8 or 10 horses were-struggling and lunging as they dragged a large freight wagon loaded with a huge, heavy steam boiler, one team of horses was jerked clear over the cliff. They cut their tugs and they fell to their death - so I was told. Thus the name, “Dead Horse Curve.” I never learned the details of Dead Man’s Turn.
Dad told many stories about the Mill after it was completed and operating. He told of freighting lumber from the saw mill to the valley with two horse-powered lumber wagons with only two wheels having hand power-brakes. A load of lumber was too much for that non-hydraulic system, so at times they dragged logs behind the wagons to serve as a booster brake.
Now, what became of the logs at the end of -the trail? I am sure they didn’t drag them back to the Mill. Dad never mentioned pay or compensation but I am sure he took several loads in kind. He built homes, barns, corrals, pig pens, ‘chicken coops, head gates, etc. with lumber from the Mill. Again, that was many years before my time.
After many years of hard wear and tear, being washed away by storms, getting blocked by fallen trees and rocks and other natural causes - that old road was finally abandoned in favor of the flume. The Flume could only transport material one way - ‘down. So here is where Dad contracted hauling supplies to the Mill.
He hauled hay and grain for the logging horses and everything needed for the cook and the kitchen, plus anything ordered that could be carried in a saddle bag.
Dad’s Mule Train was usually 8 or 10 burros. He would load the wagon (with supplies the Mill had ordered) at the warehouse back of Webb’s store in Pima - where the REA is now located.
April Fool Dugway was the next stop. He built a corral by a high cliff with a spring that supplied water. When not in use the burros were kept there where they had shade and plenty of water. (low, from home to this corral the horses were work-horses, but from there to Chesley Hollow they were saddle-horses. Then at planting time they advanced to plow-horses = “Jack’s of all trades.”
Each summer between time spent on the farm, was a two-way deal. Mill supplies ‘up’ and potatoes ‘down’ - usually about three or four trips each month. I will report on just one of those many such trips.
From home to the warehouse in Pima, then to the foot of the mountain, took most of the first day. The next morning we saddled up and loaded the pack train. Then, on his horse, Dad led the lead burro and the others were supposed to follow. It was always my job to follow behind on foot with a prod pole or persuader and gee that they did just that.
It seemed Dad had it timed to arrive at the mill just after -mealtime. Grandmother Craig and her daughter were the official Mill cooks. We were usually served roast beef or roast venison end apple pie along with many other leftovers. After climbing the mountain for four or five hours those leftovers were almost like ‘Manna from Heaven.’ After we left the saw mill I had free transportation all the way to Chesley Hollow, with my choice of pack saddles.
The next day, while the animals rested, we dug potatoes from the pits and filled enough gunny sacks to load the 8 or 10 burros. Then the next day it was the same thing - only I walked ‘downhill’ instead of ‘up.’ We arrived at the corral at the foot of the mountain late in the evening and camped for the night. The next ,horning we loaded the potatoes on the wagon and headed for home.
Now this same thing went on in almost the same way for the ten years that I helped Dad raise potatoes in those old Graham (fountains. During that whole time I don’t remember Dad ever going ‘Lo the mountain that he didn’t take me along.
OAK FLAT
At Oak Flat, Dad built a one-room log cabin. There he planted a small orchard - mainly apple, peach and plum; also a berry patch with blackberry, raspberry and lots of strawberries. But, usually by the time the birds and bears got their fill, there wasn’t much left for Dad.Just across the creek from the cabin - it wasn’t the ‘Mighty Oak’ but the ‘Mighty Maple.’ It could have been the largest and tallest maple tree in the mountain at that time. Dad tapped that tree and drained sap fo r Maple Syrup, but again he didn’t have too much luck. It seemed the bears craved Maple Syrup on their ‘acorn’ pancakes!
Dad raised only a few potatoes at Oak Flat - just enough for his own use. At that elevation, at times irrigation was necessary. When the Flume went thru, it sometimes dried up the creek. So Dad reserved the right to tap the flume when needed.
How Dad loved Oak Flat! It was always his favorite mountain retreat. Oak Flat was really Dad’s ‘Paradise on Earth.’ regardless of the birds and bears.
UPPER COLUMBINE
At Upper Columbine Dad built a two-room lumber cabin. He piped water from a spring to the kitchen sink: No faucet, continual flow, plus ‘no water bill.’ There he had a small garden but no potatoes. This cabin was located a little south and across the creek (east) from Dave Weech’s cabin somewhere in the area of Bertell Weech’s present cabin.PETER’S FLAT
Dad often mentioned the Joe Claridge Potato patch (presently Peter’s Flat). How he came into possession of it or how many crops he raised there was never mentioned - likely Joe just walked off and left it and Dad just took it over. Thinking back now - the first time I went to the mountain with Dad, we stopped there. He opened the trap-door to the larger pit and there was last year’s crop of potatoes; tons of them, floating in water. Again, how many crops he raised before that - I was never told. But, this I do know for sure and certain: That was the last crop of potatoes Dad ever raised there. That should have been about 1902.CHESLEY HOLLOW
Chesley Hollow was Dad’s only commercial producing potato field in my time. It was about one-half mile down the south slope from Chesley Flat. There Dad had eight acres with a pole fence around it, except for the places too rough for the pack animals to escape. Dad never built a cabin there. We always camped in a tent.Dad’s Kitchen, etc. was: One big kettle with a baling wire handle, dutch oven and frying pan (all cast iron) - knives, forks, spoons (all of steel), plus butcher knives, paring knives, cups, plates, dish pan (all tin). His kitchen table was a four legged 4’x12" slab.
His Laundry was salvaged flour and sugar sacks - plus a bar of P & G soap (also used as hand soap). Grub Box was: flour, sugar, salt, pepper, baking powder, salt pork, small bucket of lard and plenty of jelly and strawberry jam. I can shut my eyes and still taste those hot Dutch Oven baked biscuits filled with strawberry jam that Dad served at least three times a day - along with potatoes and brown gravy... A meal fit for a queen - and her king. Dad was an A-I camp cook and he loved to cook.
Dad always brought a large bag of hard candy along. On rare occasions I was issued a lump or two!
Over by the East fence Dad built a small cellar to store seed potatoes for the next spring planting. We sometimes cut potato sets till 9 or 10 at night. Each set should have one or more eyes "to see its way up through that rich mountain soil" plus enough meat to sustain the plant till it took root.
Dad had a little 10-inch plow, powered by his two saddle horses - old ‘Si’ and ‘Shiner.’ At planting time my equipment was a nose-bag hung over my shoulder - filled with potato sets. As Dad and the plow went around the field, I followed and was supposed to drop a set every step - but only every other round. It didn’t seem to make any difference how deep or how shallow they were planted - they came right up. At potato harvest time it seemed most of them came up twice.
Once I lagged a long distance behind and suddenly I heard a lion roar. It sounded like it was just across the fence - and much too close for safety! The blood rushed to my head and it seemed my heart would jump right out of my mouth. I started running and dropped sets as I ran - at that rate I could’ve planted the whole field before breakfast! When I got to the plow I yelled "Hey, Dad! Did you hear that lion roar?" He said, "I sure did and so did old Si - I could hardly hold him from running with the plow, Shiner and Me." I stayed close to the plow the rest of the planting season. After that, Dad strapped his 30-30 to the plow handle.
At harvest time Dad, Claude and I and two other men (with shovels) dug potatoes all fall. Dad dug a long trench pit over by the west fence. We filled it and then had to dig the second one. We filled both pits to about 2’ above the ground - then covered each with everything Mother Nature had on hand: Such as grass, leaves, pine needles and at least a foot of dirt. Then we dug trenches around each pit for drainage. The next spring when Dad opened the pits, not one potato was lost. I believe the winter storage improved their quality.
At Chesley Hollow, Mother Nature furnished the necessary moisture along with the roofing material. Now this same program was repeated in almost the same way every summer that I helped Dad raise potatoes on the mountain. Dad raised potatoes at Riggs Flat many years before my time, so I was told.
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When I was about ten or eleven years old, apparently Dad was getting discouraged making that long trip to the valley - almost 30 miles one way. He decided to check on a new route - Haul the potatoes by team and wagon around the west end of the mountain and then back to the valley. We loaded six or seven Donkeys with potatoes and headed for Fort Grant. There, Dad said he had arranged for a team and wagon to meet him at a pre-arranged time and date. We waited two or three days but the team and wagon never showed up.
Long before my time and before Dad’s time in the mountain, Fort Grant was built and maintained by the Army to protect the towns and ranches from Apache Indian raids. When we arrived at Fort Grant, Apparently, the soldiers had run out of Indians. The Army had been transferred and all that was left was a demolition crew of 10-12 men. Dad tried to interest them in potatoes. No Soap! He contacted several ranchers and settlers - then dumped the whole mess and headed for the hills. He told me later that he got $3.00 for that 7 or 8 hundred pounds of potatoes. So that was the end of that new and ‘hoped for’ potato shipping route.
It was only about 9 or 10 miles from Chesley Hollow to Fort Grant and I believe Dad intended to stockpile potatoes there at some convenient location—maybe a store or a ranch house. From there a wagon could be loaded according to capacity and horse- power (near to a ton). It could have been a success but maybe not. At least it was a very good idea. Beside the potato deal, it would have saved me many, many miles of ‘foot’ wear plus several pairs of shoes. Also the donkeys would have had more to ‘bray’ about.
Peter H. McBride was born in Scotland but his love for the Irish potato leads one to believe he must have had Irish ancestry somewhere along the line.
Believe it or not - at one time Dad built a modern ‘up-to-date’ Ice Plant just south across the creek from the saw mill at Lower Columbine. It was a water tank constructed with 2x12 planks. The first time I saw it, I estimated it to be about 8’ square and maybe 3 planks deep, and likely was water-proofed with Pine sap - ‘pine gum.’
Late in the fall or early winter, he filled it with water. By early spring, with the help of Mother Nature, it was a solid block of ice. By removing a few planks he could saw blocks of ice any size needed to place in pack-saddle bags. Then by packing the ice with sawdust, which was always plentiful at the saw mill, there was very little loss by the time he reached home. Ice packed in sawdust keeps well, even in warm weather. He usually shared ice with a few friends and had enough for ice water and ice cream. How he loved Ice Cream!
After the government trail from Fort Grant to Hospital Flat was abandoned, Dad took advantage of it and kept it in good repair from Chesley Flat to Columbine. The present Highway, and I mean 'High' way, follows that same old government trail from Hospital Junction to Riggs Lake with few variations.
Twice I remember Dad's stay at Chesley Hollow out lasted his Grub box. We headed for the cabin at Columbine. There, we found only a few dry beans. Dad boiled those beans til bedtime. We finally had to chew them like hard candy - no pressure cooker!
Another time while in search of food, Dad stopped at the Joe Foster cabin at Columbine. At present the Dave Weech cabin is on the same spot. The only door to the cabin was locked and chained. With Dad's help, I got through a small window on the west side. I checked all the cupboards and shelves. The, only thing I found that rats couldn't nibble on was a jar of raisins. So we had canteen water flavored with raisins the rest of the way home.
Late one evening dad decided to go to Columbine (I knew not why) but I went along. Just as we left Chesley Hollow it began to sprinkle. Before we reached the trail, it was a real cloudburst. It seemed the whole sky was falling on us. Dad usually had rain slickers strapped behind the saddles and this time was no exception. By the time we reached the trail it was absolute 'zero' visibility - and maybe a little below. We had only gone a short distance when Dad called me and said, "tie the reins to the saddle horn and give the horses their free rein and they will take us safely there." That was a hard thing to do but I did as I was told.
There was one very rough place along that old government trail where the soldiers had blasted a narrow trail around a cliff. Every time I rode over that part of the trail , I almost held my breath for fear the horse might stumble and we would fall almost straight down for at least 500 feet. The first landing looked to be half way to Fort Grant. After almost an hour of total darkness, the horses stopped. By that time the storm had cleared a little - and there we were right in front of Dad’s cabin at Columbine.
I never had the least impression of going around that rigid and dangerous part of the trail. I have often wondered if horses have eyes like cats or is it just ‘natural intuition?’ Either day, it was like a miracle to me.
LATER: Can you feature anyone for any reason going to the mountain in the dead of winter - other than just to see how deep “the snow was? In that case, it was “mission accomplished.” This time Dad took Claude and I along for the ride. From the saw mill on, the snow was 4 feet or more deep and frozen solid. Otherwise, the horses never could have made it. We wrapped our feet and legs with gunny sacks to keep them from freezing. At Columbine, Dad’s Cabin was covered with snow. We had to dig the snow away to get down under the porch - so we could get to the front door. Dad always left a good supply of wood and kindlings in his cabins in ease of emergency. This time it was a home-made emergency. We soon had a booming fire going in that old cast-iron cook stove.
Out back of the cabin was a ladder by a pine tree. Dad said it had 12 rungs. The snow was up to the top rung, of course, with a little drifting. Now, is there anyone living or otherwise, who has seen 9 - 10 feet of snow in the top of the old Graham mountain? I believe we got home safely the next day.
Dad seldom left the mountain empty-handed. This one time we left Oak Flat and arrived at Cluff’s ranch just about dark. Thinking it over later, he must have planned it that way for two reasons: First, it was a long way home ‘on horseback.’ Second, it just happened the fruit season was in full swing at the ranch. Now, it was too late to sit “in the shade of the old apple tree’ or have “peaches in the summertime.” But it was “apples in the fall” and we really did enjoy the fruits thereof.
Soon the word was spread that Uncle Peter was camped for the might. Then, it seemed every family at the ranch gathered around and insisted he entertain with song. Now you might say it was ‘Sing for your supper’...and he always sang his own compositions.
Dad had a fine baritone voice and he loved to use it. Throughout the valley he was dubbed ‘Mister Music.’ Besides his family, his second love could have been a toss-up between music and Irish potatoes.
This story came from Dad to Howard - to Herald - to me: Again, many years before my time, my Dad, Peter H. McBride, planned to build a tower at High Peak. There was no road from the mill to the top at that time. So Dad dragged timbers and lumber with a saddle horse - clear from the saw mill to the tap of the mountain. What a monstrous and wearing undertaking that must have been for both man and beast!
There, with only saw, hammer and nails and with the help of one other man, Dad built the first and only tower ever built at High Peak, and the first tower built on the mountain...so I was told.
The first time I saw that tower I estimated it was originally at least 30 feet high or more. There was a ladder from the ground to the platform on top - and from there (to the south) one could see all over Sulphur Springs Valley and to the Mexican border. To the north, one could see all over the Gila valley, Clifton, and Morenci and most of the higher parts of the White Mountains. Again, so I was told. The High Peak Tower was built just about 100 years.ago...“Believe it or not!”
******************
A FOLLOW-UP
In the late summer of 1926, Zeke and Herald McBride planned to take their girl friends on a little tour to the mountains. They invited my wife, Zela, and I to go along as chaperones. We left early one morning with six saddle horses and enough pack-horses to carry about a week’s supply of food and camping equipment. We went up Taylor Canyon, past Nuttle’s Mill - then topped out at Chesley’s Flat. From there we followed the old government trail to Riggs Flat. We arrived about ten o’clock that night - a mighty tired bunch. We bedded the girls down in what was left of the old Riggs cabin, and the boys slept out on the ground.After a day or two’s rest, Herald, Zeke and I rode up to High Peak. It took us most of the day to make the round trip. We arrived at High Peak and what was left of the old tower that Dad had built so many years previous was still standing...but the top platform and most of the ladder had fallen away. I climbed as high as I dared and from there I could still see all over the Gila Valley, Morenci, Clifton and the higher peaks up in the White Mountains. But at that time the south view was obliterated from view by a tall growth of pines.
ANOTHER TRIP TO HIGH PEAK
In 1977 or 1978, our daughter and son-in-law (Jake & Nina) took Zela and I to the mountain for a short vacation. We camped at both Riggs Lake and Soldier Creek for a few days, then they decided to take us up to High Peak. At that time, the road was not kept up, so only 4x4 vehicles could make it to the top. For the last half mile or so we creeped along at a snail’s pace in the lowest gear. At times we had to guess where the old road once was, but we finally made it.When we arrived it was a sad and rather awesome feeling. -The only thing left to identify the spot where the old tower once stood was a few, and very few, pieces of almost completely rotted timbers. Now, if those ‘rotted’ timbers could talk, the stories they could tell would be almost priceless today. Then again, before my father died, if I had just asked for a few dates, etc., they would also be priceless. But again, regretfully I didn’t.
AN ODE TO THE BUILDER
Praise to the man whom was called ‘Uncle Pete’.By such adverse conditions - performed such a fete.
With only saw, hammer, horse and saddle.
Now maybe the name, The Old High Peak Tower’
Should be changed to the biblical ‘Tower of Babel.’
Just throwing this in: At no time while I was at High Peak, Did I ever see a Red Squirrel!
The Dedication of Peter’s Flat and Monument
By Darvil B. McBride – GrandsonJuly 9, 1988
Good Morning, you dedicated McBride's! What a propitious and glorious moment this is for all of us! What a stirring sight it is to see you all assembled here! Engrave this hour upon your hearts -Write it in your diaries- Inscribe it boldly in your journals and your Books of Remembrance - because you are participating in a moment of history.
I feel that we stand on hallowed ground - hallowed by the memory of the one that we revere and honor, and the reason why we are assembled here in these beautiful surroundings today. What an honor it is for me to fill this assignment! My prayer is that I may be able to control the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me, at least long enough to present the words I have prepared. When I think them aver in my mind, they appear so insignificant compared to the significance of the occasions. I feel so inadequate, and like Lord Alfred Tennyson said in his classic poem, "I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me."
I have been touched, as well as highly entertained, by the words that have been spoken and by the songs that have been sung by some of the special spirits of the McBride posterity, all loving and wonderful tributes to our grandfather. That posterity runs into the thousands - from Clyde and Grace, there and Claude who is unable to attend - three of grandfather's own children still living, down through the generations to the babe there in the arms of its mother.
The cultivating of this meadow is typical of grandad. He was of that breed that conquered mountains; a pioneer, never satisfied with the ordinary - a Paul Bunyan of his time. His determination to pursue a goal was as broad as the blade of the axe that that fabled woodsman carried. As was depicted in the little fun song the ladies just sang, grandad loved the mountains and this wide open land. He loved the challenges it flaunted at his pioneer spirit. He loved the peace it brought to a searching soul. -- In thinking about him and Old Mount Graham1 I picture grandfather having the same feelings as the great American poet, Robert W. Service, who described in verse his feelings for the north country when he said:
I am sure grandfather experienced similar feelings, as you and I experience them when we stand in these serene and lofty heights.
Yes, indeed! Grandad was of that breed that conquered mountains. Not conquering as a titan of industry - not conquering with the construction of highways, the building of bridges - not by leveling peaks and filling valleys; but with the determination of spirit and curiosity of the pioneer - to dare to venture forth against great odds and challenge the strength and might of nature itself.
And so - without further ado or the multiplying of words...here in the grandeur of Old Mount Graham (one of God's glorious creations) that grandfather loved so dearly; and here in the presence of you who represent the thousands who make up Peter's posterity, and on this 9th day of July, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, with thanks to the ready cooperation of the United States Forest Service; especially its local officers - to the Graham County Historical Society and its leaders - to those dedicated and loving family members who have headed committees and worked so diligently to bring this about - to this entire meadow and area, to the remains of the old cabin just beyond the rise (which we pray can some day be restored) to the very furrow marks 'left by a hand-held plow, still discernible in the potato field - and imbued with a deep appreciation of the past, and a hopeful eye and the monument here erected in honor of its namesake - our Father, our Grandfather, our great Grandfather and our great-great Grandfather, Peter Howard McBride Sr. All this, with love and respect we dedicate to his industry, his determination, his faith and trust in God, to his deep religious convictions that brought him to the territory of Arizona, and to his honored memory.
May the Lord protect and preserve this monument, the very masonry; the stone and cement that binds it - the bronze of the plaque, the words of praise chiseled thereon, and the beauty of nature that surrounds it. May he who keeps eternal vigil over this lofty area temper the elements, anneal the ravages of time, even to the softening of the depredations of man.
So be it! - - AMEN!
I feel that we stand on hallowed ground - hallowed by the memory of the one that we revere and honor, and the reason why we are assembled here in these beautiful surroundings today. What an honor it is for me to fill this assignment! My prayer is that I may be able to control the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me, at least long enough to present the words I have prepared. When I think them aver in my mind, they appear so insignificant compared to the significance of the occasions. I feel so inadequate, and like Lord Alfred Tennyson said in his classic poem, "I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me."
I have been touched, as well as highly entertained, by the words that have been spoken and by the songs that have been sung by some of the special spirits of the McBride posterity, all loving and wonderful tributes to our grandfather. That posterity runs into the thousands - from Clyde and Grace, there and Claude who is unable to attend - three of grandfather's own children still living, down through the generations to the babe there in the arms of its mother.
The cultivating of this meadow is typical of grandad. He was of that breed that conquered mountains; a pioneer, never satisfied with the ordinary - a Paul Bunyan of his time. His determination to pursue a goal was as broad as the blade of the axe that that fabled woodsman carried. As was depicted in the little fun song the ladies just sang, grandad loved the mountains and this wide open land. He loved the challenges it flaunted at his pioneer spirit. He loved the peace it brought to a searching soul. -- In thinking about him and Old Mount Graham1 I picture grandfather having the same feelings as the great American poet, Robert W. Service, who described in verse his feelings for the north country when he said:
"It grips you like some kind of sinning –
It twists you from foe to a friend –
It seems it has been since the beginning,
And it seems it will be till the end."
Then a little further on the poet added:
"It's the forest where silence has lease.
It's the beauty that fills you with wonder.
It's the stillness that fills you with peace."
I am sure grandfather experienced similar feelings, as you and I experience them when we stand in these serene and lofty heights.
Yes, indeed! Grandad was of that breed that conquered mountains. Not conquering as a titan of industry - not conquering with the construction of highways, the building of bridges - not by leveling peaks and filling valleys; but with the determination of spirit and curiosity of the pioneer - to dare to venture forth against great odds and challenge the strength and might of nature itself.
And so - without further ado or the multiplying of words...here in the grandeur of Old Mount Graham (one of God's glorious creations) that grandfather loved so dearly; and here in the presence of you who represent the thousands who make up Peter's posterity, and on this 9th day of July, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, with thanks to the ready cooperation of the United States Forest Service; especially its local officers - to the Graham County Historical Society and its leaders - to those dedicated and loving family members who have headed committees and worked so diligently to bring this about - to this entire meadow and area, to the remains of the old cabin just beyond the rise (which we pray can some day be restored) to the very furrow marks 'left by a hand-held plow, still discernible in the potato field - and imbued with a deep appreciation of the past, and a hopeful eye and the monument here erected in honor of its namesake - our Father, our Grandfather, our great Grandfather and our great-great Grandfather, Peter Howard McBride Sr. All this, with love and respect we dedicate to his industry, his determination, his faith and trust in God, to his deep religious convictions that brought him to the territory of Arizona, and to his honored memory.
May the Lord protect and preserve this monument, the very masonry; the stone and cement that binds it - the bronze of the plaque, the words of praise chiseled thereon, and the beauty of nature that surrounds it. May he who keeps eternal vigil over this lofty area temper the elements, anneal the ravages of time, even to the softening of the depredations of man.
So be it! - - AMEN!
The Cutest Spot on Earth
Lyrics by Darvil B. McBride
Music by I. Perle McBride
Music by I. Perle McBride
Sung by grand-daughters and great grand-daughters at the dedication.
When our Uncle Peter harnessed up old 'Cy' and 'Crowder Boy' –
And loaded in the plow and family cat,
We knew that spring and summer heat had made him see pine trees
And grandpa soon would head again for the flat.
For bluer skies and greener hills that beckoned him come up,
Reminding of the land of his own birth.
Old Mr. Graham, where he had found a special spot and then found out –
He had bumped into the greatest place on earth.
We stand today with honor on the ground that grandpa loved.
Beside a monument in deep respect.
We stand in awe his work and deep determination
A pioneer chosen from the top Elect.
We are his sons, we are his girls - we're thousands in the world.
We are more than blessed and proud to bear his name.
We are sure that if our grandpa looked back on what he did start,
He would think for sure he's jumped a golden claim.
CHORUS:
Peter's Flat's the cutest place in all creation.
A cabin and a garden makes a world –
Where there's room for kids and dogs and close relations
And the freedom's like a flag of peace unfurled.
There the cabin and the garden were his treasure;
And the Forest Service too - soon learned their worth.
For the pumpkins and potatoes were their pleasure,
That grew on Peter's Flat from the good old earth.
For the music - contact Darvil McBride or Frankie McBride Farr
PETER'S FLAT MONUMENT PLAQUE
Mount Graham Arizona
The name was derived from Scottish born Peter H. McBride Sr., an early Gila Valley settler. McBride worked on the flume used to carry lumber down to the valley, and as a logger. While working here on the mountain, he discovered the productive potential of this area for growing potatoes. He cultivated three to five different patches in these meadows. Potatoes were stored in long trenches near here, then covered with ferns and soil until used or transported to the valley for sale.
Cooperative placement by McBride Family, Graham County Historical society, and Coronado National Forest. July 1988
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