Sonny and I were sentenced to hard labor on a rock pile last Saturday. Our crime — apparently not having enough to do.
We drove out to Topaz Mountain in Juab County, 70 miles west of Nephi. Sonny’s wife, Sue, came along to provide medical treatment and adult responsibility. Even so, things started with a big explosion.
At 10 a.m., Topaz Mountain Adventures set off charges intended to fracture the caldera of a volcano so ancient that its age can only be generally measured in church meeting time.
The person setting off the explosives was professional explosives handler Dave Stemmons of Topaz Mountain Adventures. His job was to fracture the rock, allowing access to the gemstone Utah Topaz.
As I understood it, topaz is formed in “vugs” or cavities in rhyolite rock. I don’t know where the word “vug” comes from, or why they don’t just be serious and use the more easily understood word “cavity.”
Indeed, a lot of the science behind how topaz is formed escapes me. But like other incomprehensible things, such as peace and love, it’s both beautiful and well worth the search.
Never mind all of that. Before the excavation could begin, the self-described “witch of the mountain,” Ronda Stemmons, delivered a safety lecture just short of a physical threat. I don’t remember all the rules she covered (a condition that I’ve suffered from all my life) but I do recall these:
• No running in the quarry. Not only is the rock loose and prone to slippage, but blood tends to obscure the sherry-colored topaz crystals.
• Leave the wildlife alone. Do not pull the tails off her lizards, bother her snakes or peg rocks at her squirrels.
• Stay hydrated. The last thing anyone wants to do is stop hunting topaz just to drag your inert body down the hill to some shade.
Once the dust had cleared, we were allowed to climb up into the quarry and begin battering rocks into further submission.
Our co-convicts were members of the Burton family from Davis County. I didn’t bother to get the names of the adults, but I did the kids. Mainly because I was fascinated by the sight of adolescents with hammers and chisels in their hands instead of iPhones. You just don’t see it that often anymore.
First, I worked with Elsie Burton, 11. I asked her if she was having fun. She said, “I guess.” That’s about all she said because she’s well-trained. Girls her age don’t warm up to strange, piratical-looking old men right away.
Then I chipped away with Chase, 11, and Austen, 9, both of whom seemed to take to breaking stuff like the adolescent boys they are. Smashing things is about as fun as something can get.
Finally, there was Addie, 9, who I worked with the most. She didn’t mind that I prattled on about the unfairness of The Salt Lake Tribune sending me out in the middle of nowhere to break rocks. We even found some crystals together.
After several hours, I stumbled over to Sonny and Sue. Breaking rocks with Sonny is more my style because while the possibility of injury goes up, I can scream and curse when it happens. And Sue can patch me up.
When we broke for lunch, we ate and examined our collection of crystals in the shade of a juniper while raiding squirrels ran under our chairs for scraps.
It’s fair to say that we found treasure in the desert, but watching the Burton family — especially the kids — I realized that they had found something greater. Memories.
When Chase, Austen, Elsie and Addie are as old as me, they’ll have forgotten most of the childhood games they played. Things easily taken for granted are also things easily forgotten.
But they’ll remember the internet-less day their parents hauled them out to a desolate place to look for bits of rare beauty among tons of nondigital rocks.
