Union Pacific Railroad Burro Crane BC-47 at Seven Mile Canyon - 2014

Union Pacific Railroad Burro Crane BC-47 at Seven Mile Canyon

In May 2013, I drove from Downtown Moab, via U.S. Highway 191 North. My destination was the turnoff to Utah State Route 313, which is the gateway to Canyonlands National Park and Dead Horse Point State Park. Although the distance was only eleven miles, the turnoff at Route 313 seemed like another world. Far from the shops and restaurants that make Moab so inviting to tourists, my destination was hot, dry and desolate. “Seven miles from nowhere”, I said to myself.

Almost as soon as I turned on to Route 313, I spied an interesting contraption parked on a nearby railroad siding. With my pickup truck, I had easy access to the location of this unusual mechanical beast. Nearby, a weathered railroad sign identified the place as “Seven Mile”. Union Pacific Burro Crane BC-47 became “The Burro at Seven Mile”. In six-inch letters on the rear of its turret, the words, “BURRO CRANE” stood out on its cast iron ballast. In the dry desert air, that cast iron emblem could last for millennia.

On first glance, the turret of the Burro Crane looked like an antiaircraft gun from a mid-twentieth century warship. Upon further inspection, the function of the Burro Crane as “maintenance of way” equipment became obvious. With its flatcar as a tender, the Burro Crane was a mobile track repair vehicle. The burro’s compact, rounded turret allowed it to swivel without its ballast overhanging an adjacent rail line.

Nearby, old and worn-out railroad ties lay in a pile. In addition, at trackside was a collection of bent and worn steel rails. Rather than utilizing welded steel rails, the old the Potash Branch line features 1960s railroad technology. In keeping with railroad construction throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, wooden ties were set into gravel. Using large wrenches, nuts and bolts secured one track to another. For stability, spikes held the rails to the ties. Replacing earlier manual labor, the Burro Crane and its tender helped to automate the track repair process.

Accompanied by a small crew, the operator could use the Burro Crane’s diesel engine to propel both burro and flatcar to a prospective repair site. If rails required moving, the repair gang would first remove the bolts between the affected rails. After removing the spikes on the affected rails, the burro would use a cable-strung electromagnet to lift each rail from the roadbed. If the repair required new railroad ties, the Burro Crane could lift out any damaged or derelict ones. A bucket could scoop up new gravel from the flat car or reconfigure existing ballast at the scene. Once the ties were in place, the gang could bolt the rails back together and then drive spikes into the new ties.

By today's standard for automated track-laying along mainline roadbeds, the Burro Crane and gang system seem archaic. Still if repairs are only occasional and are not extensive in nature the Burro Crane’s throwback design and relatively diminutive size can be more economical than the use of heavier equipment. With weather and monkey-wrench protection for its powertrain, this vintage piece of equipment could go on operating indefinitely in the dry climate of the high desert. In wetter climates, most similar units have disintegrated into piles of rusty scrap metal.

The geographic setting at Seven Mile is epic. The crane's block and tackle dangled only six feet from the ground. The angle of the lattice-boom appeared ready for business. In the background are the Klondike Bluffs of Arches National Park. From another angle, the view beneath the long boom is of the La Sal Range, far past Moab. Other than the power poles and their high-voltage lines that cross near Seven Mile, the Burro Crane was the most prominent human-made object in sight. In fact, it appears on Google Maps (2014 version) much as it did the day of my visit.

With a Union Pacific emblem on the side of its cab and its faded yellow paintjob, the Burro Crane appeared to be authentic Union Pacific rolling stock. Soon I determined that Burro Crane BC-47 more likely started life with the old Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad (DRGW), which is a precursor to the contemporary Union Pacific.

The giveaway is the flatcar tender, which appears to be even older than the venerable Burro Crane. The flatcar still bears DRGW markings. Spray-paint on the side of the flatcar indicates that the last date of inspection or repair was 4-‘84, almost thirty years prior. In the Old West, a prospector and his burro were mates for life. Since the arrival of this burro, more than half century ago, the old flatcar and the new burro mated and then stayed coupled for life.

As I began my research into Burro Crane BC-47, I found that it might be the last Model 40 Burro Crane operated by the Union Pacific Railroad. My Google searches yielded only two pictures of Union Pacific Model 40 Burro Cranes and both were of BC-47. In the past decade, BC-47 has apparently stayed close to home. Those two photos of the crane and tender were taken in nearby Green River, Utah and Grand Junction, Colorado. With its age and size, it is unlikely that BC-47 would stray beyond the Western Slope of the Colorado Plateau.

If indeed the Burro at Seven Mile were the last of its breed operated by the Union Pacific Railroad, it would be interesting to see it in action. I propose that rail buffs in Moab and fans of the Union Pacific Railroad request a public demonstration of Burro Crane BC-47. Since it already sits on a siding, that demonstration could include lifting old rails and ties on to transport vehicles for disposal at an appropriate location. If anyone out there can help to arrange such an event, please contact me at my email address below. I shall be happy to attend.

This is Chapter 1 of a two-part article on railroad Burro Cranes. To read Chapter 2, please click HERE.

Email James McGillis

 

By James McGillis at 05:15 PM | | Comments (0) | Link 

 

A Visit to Seven Mile Canyon, Moab, Utah with Author Craig Childs in October 2008

Recently, I received a message from Dr. Terry Swanson regarding Seven Mile Canyon near Moab, Utah. In part, it said, “Hello: I was trying to find info on the “Snake in the Mouth Pictograph” and came across your blog regarding Seven Mile Canyon and your trip there with Craig Childs.

I am a retired Boeing engineer and spend a few days each year in the Moab area and even more time in the San Rafael Swell, Cedar Mesa areas. I have been to more than 400 rock art sites, belong to the Utah Rock Art Research Association (URARA) (meeting in Moab, October 2013) and the Arizona Archaeological Society, so I respect sites and never touch anything.

Reading your description and seeing you were on the North side of Highway 313 in one of your photos I looked around Google Earth and thought the location might be as depicted on the enclosed image. Best Regards! Dr. Terry Swanson

It has been over four years since I last visited Seven Mile Canyon. I did make one attempted to visit there in April 2012, but the access points had changed and barriers prevented easy access. That day, I had insufficient time to park and hike Seven Mile Canyon on my own. With the new questions raised here by Terry Swanson, I hope to visit Seven Mile Canyon again in 2013.

To answer Terry’s questions about our 2008 Seven Mile Canyon hike, I searched Google Maps for the Utah Highway 313 turnout where we had parked that day. I located it about two miles southeast of the U.S. Highway 191 junction, heading toward Canyonlands and Dead Horse Point.

Prior to 2008, I knew of Utah Highway 313, but not about Seven-Mile Canyon. Not knowing where our driver was heading that morning, I was surprised when he stopped the van at a stub road on the east side of Highway 313. At that point, we were not more than twelve miles from Downtown Moab.

Where we stopped, there were no signs or other markings. In order to find the place again, I photographed the Canyonlands Field Institute Van and our leader Craig Childs, with distinctive natural features in the background. If you search "Craig Childs" on Google, my close-up photo of Craig from that spot appears on the first row of the images results.

That day, we visited two major sets of petroglyphs. The first set was just across the highway, in a small, boulder-strewn canyon. Around the lower edge of the canyon wall, we saw many casual markings on the rocks. It looked like ancient graffiti in a picnic area. Near the end of that brief sojourn, I hiked up on the rock pile and took a photograph looking down on our whole group.

After crossing back over the highway, we followed a path through some tall, reedy plants. Growing as they did on the outside bend of the arroyo, even in October there was sufficient water beneath to leave mud on our boots. It was a tangled mess, with only a limited passageway back and forth between canyon and road.

Later, much to our surprise, a couple of sales reps, out for a joyride in a Chevy drove past us in the arroyo. Somehow, they had driven through the wet and reedy area, not caring about the finish on their company SUV. From there, the two men drove up the sandy wash that comprises much of Seven Mile Canyon. As I learned in 2012, vehicular access from Highway 313 to Seven Mile Canyon is now blocked.

On one side of the watercourse, we found a wooden-rail fence that resembled a long hitching rail for horses. With the lonely fence standing at the base of a small escarpment, its original purpose was no longer obvious to me. In this ancient place, the rail fence became a mysterious, yet recent archeological feature.

In October 2008, the area appeared wracked by drought. We found no flowing or standing water at all. The only surface moisture was in the muddy area at our entrance to the canyon. In the upper reaches of the arroyo, only thorns and tumbleweeds grew. Around the area, large cottonwood trees had died, while others looked stressed, dying-back almost before our eyes. Although the drought around Moab continued since 2008, that one section of cottonwood trees and brush has thrived. The 2012 Google Earth photo of that place shows thick brush and mature trees.

That cottonwood stand is the place where upstream thunderstorms go to die. When flash-floods in the stream-bed are large enough to bring water to the thicket, much of it is absorbed in the alluvium. If you zoom-out on Google Maps, our hiking spot is the largest green space for miles around.

In ancient days that was true, as well. Prior to the Great Disappearance, we know from tree-ring data that the Colorado Plateau enjoyed a wetter environment. Over millennia, this one patch of greenery could have housed and fed people from many cultures. A mix of ancient and newer styles of rock art in Seven Mile Canyon bears out this thesis.

Upstream from the green space, a small side canyon juts away from the arroyo. Next, we visited that dry grotto. In the rainy season, or during a thunderstorm, water pours over the edge of the mesa above, creating a Garden of Eden in the protected alcove below. When we were there, the pool at the bottom was dry and only one stressed out plant of any size was alive in the immediate area. Imagine that space in ancient times. Was it a bathing spot for early residents and visitors? With the profusion of the ancient rock art on the walls of the grotto, I could see that it was once a well-populated place.

That day, we spent our time looking, listening and writing, all in the lower reaches of Seven Mile Canyon. At one point, Craig Childs asked us take off our shoes and walk barefoot in the bottom of the sandy wash. “Just feel the Earth beneath your feet”, he said. My field notes from that day read as follows. “As I walk up canyon, I feel hard sand beneath my bare feet. Rather than enjoying my journey, I think about my destination. Will I know it when I find it, or should I just walk on? Now I look up from my writing place and realize that it is here, in this canyon, among these shimmering cottonwood trees that I do belong”.

Soon it will be time for me to look again upon Seven Mile Canyon. I plan to do so in May 2013. If you go, be prepared to spend three or four hours in the canyon. Even if you hike no farther up canyon than we did in 2008, your encounter with the Spirit of the Ancients will be well worth the effort.

Email James McGillis

By James McGillis at 06:20 PM | | Comments (0) | Link

Experiencing Seven Mile Canyon Petroglyphs with Author and Naturalist Craig Childs - 2008

Experiencing Seven Mile Canyon Petroglyphs with Author and Naturalist Craig Childs

On October 15, 2008, I was up early enough in the morning to see the full moon, as it descended behind the Moab Rim.  In anticipation of my first day at "Confluence – A Celebration of Reading and Writing in Moab", I drove to the Moab Arts and Recreation Center.  Unlike the many public activities at Confluence, the intensive writing seminar was limited to only twenty-four individuals.

 

Moments after finding my group of seven fellow writers, we loaded ourselves into a passenger van provided by the Canyonlands Field Institute.  None of us knew our destination for a day of hiking and writing.  Having renowned author and expert on the desert southwest, Craig Childs as our personal guide for the day made those prospects even more exciting.

 

Heading north on U.S. Highway 191, we crossed the Colorado River, then drove through the notch of the Moab Fault, a deep gorge that features the main entrance to Arches National Park.  Five more miles up the road, we turned west on State Highway 313, which leads to Canyonlands National Park and Dead Horse Point, a Utah State Park.

 

Only a mile or two from that junction, our van slowed and then our driver turned on to an unmarked road-stub.  We all piled out of the van, and then surveyed the surrounding area.  Knowing that Craig Childs had spent many months of his life hiking in and around the Moab area, we were curious why he would choose what appeared to be such an undistinguished spot to start our day.

 

Not knowing what to expect, we crossed the highway and walked west toward a canyon wall, where the sunshine had begun to warm the morning air.  Once we reached a suitable place for our group to sit and listen, we quieted down and Craig Childs, the master of the canyons, spoke.

 

In talking about the area surrounding the spot where we sat, Craig did not mention the sporadic traffic along the highway, only fifty yards away.  Instead, he began a lesson in perception, inviting us to see these canyons as he sees them.  Juxtaposing Craig’s intimate description of that landscape with the impersonality of what I saw as an unremarkable roadside made me feel uneasy.  I felt like he could see things that I could not.

 

After cautiously placing myself into Craig’s perceptual landscape, it became easier to see the uniqueness of that place, which was one of an infinite number of potential stops along that road.  Having driven Highway 313 many times before, I knew that the landscape along that road was itself a paradox.  On one hand, the highway meets our human needs to get somewhere.  After passing photo spots of drama and beauty, the road ends at the equally dramatic Dead Horse Point.  No one would dispute the beauty of the famous visual attractions near the end of the road.  Yet, if one stops along the lower portion of the road, he or she will also find an abundance of unique and beautiful micro-environments.

 

After completing our first small writing exercise, Craig stood and invited us to follow him around the far side of a large boulder.  There, only a few yards away, were many examples of Native American rock art incised into the desert varnish of the canyon walls.  Unlike many of the pictographs and petroglyphs that are visible from local roads, this great art had remained untouched since its creation.  According to the style of that rock art, members of the Fremont Culture created it sometime between 600 and 1250 CE.  If one needed a better example of Craig Child’s contention that there is unimaginable beauty available throughout the Canyonlands area, this art gallery, created by grand and ancient masters humbled me into recognition and belief.

 

Soon, it was time to start our trek up the broad, flat wash of Seven Mile Canyon.  Again crossing the road, we gathered beneath a cottonwood tree.  Although Seven Mile Canyon is open to both hikers and motorized vehicles, that morning we saw no one other than our group for the first two hours of our hike.  With non-native bulrushes partially overgrowing the entrance to the canyon, the driver of a full-sized vehicle would scrape off a lot of paint in order to run that gauntlet and pass through into the canyon itself.

 

While walking up-canyon, we began to feel the warmth and dryness of the desert environment.  Frequent breaks for water helped facilitate our passage along the soft sands of the canyon bottom.  Stopping in the shade of a cottonwood grove, Craig asked us to take off our shoes and feel the canyon sands beneath our feet.  Once barefoot, each of us took off in our own direction.  Our assignment was to find a place to sit and write about the feeling of being in touch with the canyon on that bright October morning.

 

After a trailside lunch, Craig directed us towards a nearby, but partially hidden canyon wall.  After a scramble over some boulders, we arrived at an intimate alcove, hidden from the sun by a massive overhang of Navajo Sandstone.  In such places, one intuitively accesses a faith in geologic time.  If, in eons of time, this stone overhang had not crashed down in a pile of rubble, why should let go as we walked into this stone sanctuary?

 

When seasonal rains visit, the spot where we stood becomes a waterfall and receiving pool of a size and power that would drive any human back to a safe distance.  On this day, there was no water pitching over the precipice and the receiving pool was dry.

 

As with our previous stop, we found one wall of our secret canyon alcove covered with both Fremont Culture and Archaic Era rock art.  Once again, we found no sign that anyone had visited this sacred spot since the last of the pre-Puebloan Indians chipped and painted their artwork into these walls.

 

If you were to take the stone-age tools available to the ancients and attempt to make your own mark upon these walls, it is likely that you would quit before you created anything of note.  Scientists estimate that each incised figure might take several weeks to complete.  For that reason, the defacement of more accessible rock art is often in the form of bullet holes or surface scratches across the face of the artwork.  How and why did members of these ancient cultures take the time and put forth the incredible effort necessary to decorate their home canyons?

 

Our theory is that before European contact, there were times of lush abundance in the Canyonlands.  Being efficient hunters and gatherers, good years allowed the ancients to fill their granaries with enough food to take them through the harshest of winters.  In the best of years, their larders might be full by summer’s end, leaving leisure time sufficient for the ancients to pursue an activity that motivates almost every human culture.  That is a desire to tell their story to other humans and other cultures who might later visit these canyons. 

 

On a beautiful fall day, not unlike the one we spent among their galleries, the ancients may have carved and painted the story of their lives, their hunts and their spirit guides into these sacred canyon walls.  To me, it felt like they had just been there, suspending their chipping and carving as we approached.  Hearing our voices, had they retreated to be with their ancestors, waiting patiently for us to leave before returning to their timeless work?

 

Thank you to Craig Childs and the Confluence Organization for transporting our group to a special place, where our contemporary world and the Canyonlands of our pre-Puebloan Indian ancestors converge.  As with so many lessons in human life, we found that the similarities between them and us are far greater than the differences we so easily perceive.

Email James McGillis