The Panic of 1893 was the largest U.S. economic downturn until the Great Depression. Part one covered how the panic’s origins were related to silver. But what were its impacts on Utah and Park City? That’s the topic of part two.

In general, Utah businesses reduced output or ceased altogether. Jobs were scaled back or disappeared. Of roughly 3,500 businesses in the territory, 152 closed in the first nine months of 1893, at almost twice the pace of the prior year.

Railroad building diminished, and according to The Park Record, railroad traffic throughout the West fell off “at a frightful rate, with Utah being no exception to the rule.” In November 1893, the Utah Central Railroad, with service between Salt Lake City and Park City, fell into default. The Rio Grande & Western Railway bought it.

Throughout the West, finance was walloped when depositors sought their funds in runs on banks. Of 17 national banks in the Utah territory, three suspended operations for a time, and the rest were stressed.

The panic impelled Heber J. Grant, businessman and a Latter-day Saint leader, to travel to the East to meet financiers and secure backstop funding for Zion’s Savings Bank and Trust and the State Bank of Utah. Grant’s efforts were successful, for without this funding, the financial damage of the panic would have escalated.

In July, the cash-starved Provo Woolen Mills Co. put a proposition to employees: Accept wages in the form of produce, cloth or merchandise, or the mill would shut down. A fortuitous August order for $5,000 in California militia uniforms kept the mill operating on a limited basis.

In 1892, silver prices had plummeted and Utah mining was curtailed. In 1893, Salt Lake, Tooele, and Juab County mines and mills closed down. The manager of the Bullion-Beck Mine stated, “For several months, we have been running the mine without making a dollar, and rather than exhaust our resources without profit we decided to shut down, but offered our miners the alternative of continuing work at reduced wages.”

Besides its moves in finance, the Church of Latter-day Saints played a large role in responding to the panic. Despite a precipitous drop in tithing revenue, it supported its members in the form of direct aid and employment bureau services. To boost the number of jobs, the church also invested in sugar and salt refining, rail, and hydroelectric power businesses.

Remarkably, on a temporary basis at odds with its usual policies, the church discouraged emigration to Utah to reduce competition for scarce jobs. In light of laissez-faire non-action by the territorial and federal government, these moves were welcomed and beneficial.

In Park City, March 1893 saw the Glencoe Mine sell off several claims to satisfy outstanding debts, including wages owed.

In early April, the Ontario Mine had a layoff, ostensibly due to roads being snowed in and the mill having more than a month’s surplus of ore to process. A few weeks later, the Ontario mill furloughed workers under the pretense of repairs and maintenance. The Park Record spun it positively, stating, “All the boys, instead of being employed as common laborers as in the past, will be given a layoff, that they may secure much needed rest …”

In June, the Park City Bank shut its doors, unable to process payments. When it did reopen, there was “a quiet but steady run” on the bank, which subsequently failed.

Backed by John Daly and Simon Bamberger, the First National Bank survived — though its deposits dropped from $336,000 at the end of 1892 to $194,000 in 1894.

In July 1893:

• “Due to the great tumble in the price of silver,” the Daly West, Crescent, Silver King, and Anchor mines closed temporarily. The Anchor remained shut as late as November.
• Workers at the Ontario, Daly and other mines agreed to wage reductions.
• To make budget, the county reduced the wages of the sheriff, prosecuting attorney, clerk and probate judges.
• Professor E.J. Dailey closed his dancing hall. The Park Record, again with charitable spin, speculated that “the pace got too swift and he couldn’t keep up with the procession.”

In September, workers at the Wasatch Mine claimed they had not been paid for two months.

The panic induced individual tragedies as well. In 1894, Park City mine developer George Meears shot himself when unable to meet financial obligations.

Throughout the panic and despite being hard pressed for advertising, The Park Record vowed not to miss an issue. It remained solidly in the pro-silver camp. Deploying some free verse, it proclaimed:

[The paper] will keep on doing its share
to educate the unbelievers
in Silver as money.

The panic’s impact extended for several years before the economy righted itself, nationally and in Utah and Park City.

Michael O’Malley is a museum volunteer researcher and author of “Attitude at Altitude: The People’s Guide to Park City and Summit County.”

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When near the Ecker Hill Middle School, look for the flag flying on a nearby peak. That’s Ecker Hill itself, elevation 7,057 feet. The flag is an unofficial 9/11 memorial, and there’s a story on how it came to be there.

On Sept. 10, 2001, Drs. Scott Zuckerman and Julie Asch loaded their car to begin a move from New Jersey to Utah to start new jobs. After overnighting in a Pennsylvania hotel, they awoke to horrific images of the Twin Towers burning.

“A horrible event, frozen in time, happening just as we were about to start a new chapter in our lives,” Zuckerman said. “Sometime later I learned that Sal Gitto, a friend of mine and parent of one of my patients, was a 9/11 victim. It was really affecting. That personal connection intensified our grief.”

Zuckerman and Asch settled in Pinebrook but never had the opportunity to mourn the massive loss of life with friends and family.

“We could see the top of Ecker Hill from our house. On the first anniversary of 9/11, we were sad. We decided to hike the hill and hang a flag on a piece of rebar we knew to be there,” Zuckerman said.

They put the flag up in the cold rain after slogging through mud.

“That little gesture was comforting and helped us mourn. Somehow it eased our sadness,” he said.

Zuckerman has found other ways to process his grief from 9/11. He’s written two non-fiction books. The latest, “Nothing Left to Prove, Nothing Left to Hide,” has several key references to 9/11 and is dedicated to those who died that day.

Ayers moved to the neighborhood in 2003. When he first learned of the flag, he hiked the hill. Despite Zuckerman’s regular visits to the flag, that day Ayers found it in tatters and touching the ground from recent high winds.

“Well, this won’t do,” he thought.

Ayers owned a metal fabrication shop, and he fashioned ballast rings to weigh down and secure a metal flagpole he had obtained. The rings weighed more than 75 pounds each.

“In the fall, I hauled those rings up there. I would carry two at a time about 50 yards, put them down, walk back for another two, and hike them up to the first set, over and over. I ran out of light the first afternoon. The next day, I rounded up some buddies and we managed to get all the rings up there, raise the pole, and rehang the flag.”

The ballast rings and the base of the pole are covered by rocks for further stability. The flag is not attached to a halyard, so it takes carrying a ladder up to swap out a flag, Ayers said.

“I lived in Pinebrook until 2013, and I usually changed out the flag twice a year.”

It wasn’t until several years ago that Ayers learned the backstory of the flag.

“I met Scott Zuckerman for coffee and we shared stories. It was great to learn the origin, and from then on, I made a point of sharing the story with people I met on hikes to the summit,” Ayers said.

In 2018, Ayers’ son Jackson, a Marine Poolee (a Marine term for those waiting to report to boot camp), went with other poolees to the site for a flag-changing ceremony.  The event was repeated the following year with another group waiting to ship out to boot camp.

Ayers has since moved out of state, and now a small group of Pinebrook residents, some with military backgrounds, maintain the site on a volunteer basis. Solar lights have been installed for nighttime lighting in an effort to observe flag etiquette. The neighborhood group swaps out the flag around July 4 and Nov. 11.

Standing out against all the green foliage in the area, the flag serves as an aviation guide. The Hill Air Force Base squadron likes to use Ecker Hill to line up their annual July 4 fly-bys over Main Street. The flag also served as a vital visual way point for air tankers fighting the Parley’s Canyon fire in August 2021.

Several years ago, Zuckerman posted about the flag’s significance.

“We’ve been moved by the response. People have expressed their gratitude and appreciate having a deeper understanding of why the flag is there. We’re grateful that Jim Ayers erected a flagpole, and for all the people who have stepped in to maintain the flag,” he said. “Those efforts have turned it into a community landmark.”

The Park City Museum encourages community members to join the upcoming Veterans Day ceremony. Check with the Pinebrook Nextdoor.com site for details. If you are hiking there and observe a maintenance need, you can send word via that site as well.

Michael O’Malley is a Park City Museum researcher.

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The next time you ride the Jordanelle Gondola at Deer Valley Resort, take a quick look to the north as your cabin starts to ascend. You’ll see a large, rusted cylinder: the steam-power boiler of Boiler Point. Its story encompasses the Park City Consolidated and East Ontario mines, and the Deer Crest real estate development.

The workings of the Park City Consolidated underlie today’s Snow Park, the St. Regis hotel, and Little Baldy Peak. According to museum researcher David Nicholas, the mine “commenced full production in August of 1929. Silver, gold, and lead reserves proved abundant — along with copious amounts of water. … Unfortunately for the Park Con, it achieved the dubious honor as Utah’s ‘hard luck’ mine. From 1929 to 1939 the mine was one of the most prolific producers in the state. However, the Great Depression ensured that historically low prices would be paid for its ores.”

After a series of ups and downs, the Park City Consolidated purchased the St. Louis and East Ontario mines in May 1941, further expanding its reach to the south of the area. The acquisition did not particularly pan out, according to McKay Edwards, who was president of Park City Consolidated from 1980 to 1990. Edwards executed the master plan and entitlements which were the basis for the Deer Crest real estate project. In 1996 the land was sold to the developers of Deer Crest.

“The East Ontario shaft was about 700 feet deep. It was sunk in the days before drilling could either prove out an ore deposit or not, so it was an ‘exploratory shaft,'” Edwards writes.

It was at this site that the boiler was originally located, presumably to run the hoist of the East Ontario shaft.

“At about 7,400 feet in elevation, the site was very scenic and a favorite of former Park City Consolidated Mines President Gordon Stott, who named it ‘Boiler Point,'” Edwards continues. “On my real estate master plan I had designated the site as ‘Boiler Point Historic Site’ and hoped to leave the boiler in place, but the Deer Crest developers apparently had their own ideas.”

While the boiler was relocated, one can be grateful that the developers and homeowners were far-sighted enough to preserve the machinery. According to Don Taylor, past general manager of the Deer Crest Management Association, the boiler “was moved between 1998 and 2000 by Heil Construction. At the time Deer Crest was being built there was a plethora of large equipment on site that could have been used to move it.”

The boiler remnants have two main components. One is a large cylinder (about 150 inches in length and 56 inches in diameter) that is held several feet off the ground by metal footings. An ancillary cylinder (about 120 inches in length and 24 inches in diameter) lies nearby. A winter examination unveiled no manufacturer’s mark; a future visit in the summer for a snow-free look may disclose its provenance.

Maps from the U.S. Geological Survey tell the story of the Boiler Point transition in a simple way. Between 1956 and 1987, the maps display the East Ontario alone on the hillside. The 2001 map shows the mine just west and uphill of Deer Crest Estates Drive, north of its intersection with Jordanelle View Drive. By 2014 on, the mine disappears from the topographic maps and the Deer Crest road system prevails. On the Colliers mine claims map on the wall of the lower level at the Park City Museum, the shaft is on the northwest corner of the Dewet No. 2 mining claim.

By today’s landmarks, Boiler Point’s location is between towers 12 and 13 of the gondola route, and roughly halfway between the gondola and the Jordanelle ski run. In other words, just a stone’s throw from some hedge fund manager’s living room window.

If you want to approximate the view from Boiler Point this summer, pick up the Deer Crest trail near the St. Regis and follow it uphill to the Outlook trail. At the end of Outlook, on the Jordanelle ski run, you get a fine view of Jordanelle Reservoir and the Uintas.

The next free admission day at the Park City Museum is Saturday, April 20. Free Days are sponsored by the Summit County Restaurant Tax Grant Program!

Michael O’Malley is Park City Museum researcher.

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Twenty-three ski instructors — eight of them female — formed the inaugural department when Deer Valley Resort opened in December 1981. Letitia Lussier was one of them and she remains an active instructor, the only one left from that cohort. Her remembrances follow.

A native of Maine, Lussier learned to ski at Lost Valley in her hometown of Auburn. In contrast to Deer Valley’s expanses, the ski area had two chairlifts, 65 acres of skiable terrain, and 240 feet in vertical drop. But it was a busy place.

“Lost Valley had an active ski school and gave the highest number of lessons in the state,” she says. “It was a good place to learn.”

Her first ski industry job was as an instructor at Sunday River in Newry, Maine.

“It was not very organized, and there was not much training for instructors,” she says. “If you skied well enough, they figured you could handle it.”

After two years at Sunday River, the lure of bigger hills and better snow sent her west. She taught at Alpental in Washington state for two years.

“Alpental had a strong education program. I got my PSIA [Professional Ski Instructors of America] Level II certification there,” she says.

Wanderlust called again and Lussier moved to Utah.

“There may have been a boyfriend in the mix too,” she says wryly.

Her female peers at Deer Valley in that inaugural group included Mona English (wife of former VP of Mountain Operations Chuck English), Marion Wheaton (wife of former President and CEO Bob Wheaton), Kim Pratt, Dori Pratt, Donna Barnes, Karen McClain, and Linda Pierce.

Lussier remembers the first day Deer Valley opened: “The department had to stand in line, military style, at the start of the day. That lasted one morning.”

Nonetheless, at the time, she perceived what’s now called the Deer Valley difference.

“It was exciting to be part of something bigger,” she says. “I’d never seen anything like it. The Sterns’ and our management had high expectations and were very well organized.”

Edgar and Polly Stern in particular were able to convey their high standards with a gracious and welcoming style when interacting with staff, Lussier says.

Those early days were long.

“We were busier than expected,” she says. “Often, we worked lessons all day with no lunch breaks. Sal Raio [ski school director] and John Guay would hand us granola bars to eat on the lifts. The second season, we were able to get regular lunch breaks!”

At the time, more of the male instructors had higher PSIA certification than the female ones.  

“The resort tended to assign the female instructors with more of the kids lessons,” she says. “It was a lot of work.”

Children’s classes could have up to 14 students, she recalls, and in 1981, Deer Valley was comprised of Bald Eagle and Bald Mountains, roughly a third of the resort’s size today. “Success and Wide West didn’t give you a lot of terrain to work with.”

The attitudes in town were also a challenge. “The locals were a bit prejudiced against Deer Valley at the start. The resort was coming in with this high-end image. They called it Bambi Basin, and I’d get hoity toity, snide remarks when I said I worked there.”

Lussier does have fond memories of those early days. “We were a small crew, and very tight. We used to party a lot, and I don’t know how I survived! The skiing was fantastic. … A lot of snow all the time.”

Lussier holds a degree in fine arts from the University of Utah and in education from Prescott College in Arizona. “I put myself through college working at Deer Valley. A lot of my paintings are of Deer Valley scenery.”

Looking back over the decades, Lussier is glad she came aboard and for her continued work at Deer Valley. “I learned to ski powder and got my Level III certification there. As for the department these days, we’re up above 500 instructors, and training is excellent, as is morale. It’s been a wonderful experience.”

Beside her passions for art and instructing, Lussier has been instrumental in Utah Mountain Bluebird Trails, a local conservation project that she started in 1995 to help declining native mountain bluebird populations. Lussier has installed and trained volunteers to monitor some 70 nesting boxes located around the county.

“During the mining days, when our slopes were clear cut of timber, we lost a lot of habitat for ‘cavity nesters’ like bluebirds and tree swallows. The project is an attempt to help these birds come back in healthy numbers.”

The Park City Museum is hosting a lecture at their Education and Collections Center at 2079 Sidewinder Drive on Wednesday, Feb. 28, on Park City trains stuck in the snow and working through the snow from 5 to 6 p.m.

Michael O’Malley is a Park City Museum researcher.

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The Park City Museum is advertising its annual Glenwood Cemetery event Saturday, Oct. 7, as “Scandals and Tales of Woe.”

Think of this article as “Tallies of Woe.” It’s a numerical analysis of the data associated with the death records of those interred in Glenwood. The data set, also known as the “Book of the Dead,” was created by volunteers with the Glenwood Cemetery Association in the 1980s using old handwritten records and other research. It was a big effort and much appreciated by the historical community.

Given the inconsistencies of record keeping over a century, this analysis is not presented as a rock-solid statistical study. There are gaps throughout. Some records include age but not cause of death, and vice versa. The language used for cause of death can introduce ambiguities: Does “consumption” mean tuberculosis or “miner’s consumption,” a form of silicosis? Gender is inferred by traditionally masculine or feminine first names. Typos and outdated terminology abound.

Despite this fuzziness in the data and the interpretive leaps made for this article, the information gleaned from the death records provides a reasonable indication of the life expectancy that Park City residents experienced, as well as the top causes of death. Think of it as a core sample.

Before diving in, here’s an overview:

• 944 total records.
• 875 records with age of deceased noted (a range from stillborn to 97 years).
• 862 records with gender defined with reasonable certainty (328 female, 534 male).
• 748 records with cause of death listed.
• Dates of death range from 1880 to 2009 (median date of 1905).

Life expectancy: Overall, the average life expectancy in this cohort was consistent across genders. Males had a life expectancy of 34.6 years, while females had one of 34.2 years. How does that compare to today’s data? Men die younger than women in the United States, on average. As of 2021, American women have a life expectancy of 79 years, compared with men at 73 years, according to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data.

Leading causes of death: Far and away, the top killer in the Glenwood cohort is pneumonia, at 125 victims or 17 percent of all listed deaths. This parallels the data gleaned from Gary Kimball’s “Death and Dying in Old Park City” (See “Way We Were,” Aug. 3, 2021).

The No. 2 cause of death in the Glenwood cohort is heart disease (74 deaths), while the o. 3 spot is taken by stillborn births (64). The fourth-leading cause is tuberculosis (37), and the fifth is miner’s consumption (32). Tied for the sixth-leading cause at 28 deaths each are mining accidents and meningitis. Scarlett fever (25), general accidents (24), and strokes (24) round out the top 10. Cancers (15) as a cause of death are down the list at No. 15.

Comparing and contrasting: According to the CDC in a 2019 study, the current top causes of death nationwide are heart disease, cancers and accidents. The category of “pneumonia and influenza” ranks 10th on today’s list. So we share some but not all of the same dreads our forebearers did, and here in Park City, we should all wear helmets when recreating!

Given that Park City was a silver-and-lead camp, it is an interesting side note that only two out of the 944 Glenwood deaths were due to lead poisoning. Apparently, the galena ore mined here is not particularly bioactive and posed a far lower danger than the silicate dust kicked up by mining operations.

The scandals: In the spirit of the upcoming museum event, there are a few scandals tucked away in the data set — suicide by strychnine, smothered in bed, “executed by the law” among them.

To get a ticket for the annual Glenwood ghost stories event, go to parkcityhistory.org.

Michael O’Malley is a Park City Museum researcher.

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In May 1869, John Wesley Powell and his crew began a 13-week, approximately 1,000-mile exploration of the Green and Colorado rivers. They carried two sextants, four chronometers and a collection of barometers, thermometers and compasses. The gear enabled the party to survey the “Great Unknown,” as the river system was called.

On June 9, 1869 in the Lodore Canyon, the party lost one of their four boats, the No Name, in a violent rapid. The boat, which had waterproof compartments, broke in two. Unfortunately, all of the party’s barometers were in the No Name. Without barometers, Powell’s expedition would be unable to measure elevations of the Colorado Plateau terrain, one of the main goals of the exploration.

As luck had it, the next day Powell and his men were able to reach a stranded section of the boat, and retrieved several barometers and a small keg of whiskey, thus preserving some means and motivation to chart the territory.

The voyage grew increasingly arduous. The focus turned from scientific measurement to sheer survival as the party’s food supply and functioning gear were reduced rapid by rapid. In a way, the voyage was a series of barometric readings punctuated by boating accidents. By late August, they had lost or broken all the scientific instruments, but had made contact with local settlers, who provided them with food and shelter. Ultimately, Powell left the Colorado at the confluence of the Virgin River and returned to Salt Lake City.

The 1869 exploration gets the headlines due to its dramatic episodes, but Powell’s subsequent exploration actually accomplished many of the scientific aims he initially envisioned.

In April 1871, Powell embarked on a second float. Armed with foreknowledge and a new plan, the party reached the Paria River/Lee’s Ferry area, which was farther upstream than the previous expedition’s end point. There they left their boats. The party began to explore the region by horseback, with the goal of establishing a base line for topographic measurement. Reaching the Kanab area, Powell’s organizational abilities and demand for precision led to a major advancement in our country’s knowledge of the Southwest.

Powell’s party established a precise nine-mile base line south from Kanab into Arizona. The process involved a contraption of 14-foot poles, plummets, wires, and other impedimenta to measure a true line over uneven terrain. It took months to accomplish the survey with accuracy. Some days they only advanced several hundred yards.

In February 1872, they determined the north end of the base line was 14,863 feet from the 37th Parallel, the Utah-Arizona border. With the base line established, they sighted on nearby peaks and other geographic features. The proliferation of triangular sections began.

Ultimately the interlocking triangles ranged far and wide. According to the Utah Historical Quarterly:

At this point the expedition broke up the Kanab Gap camp, went to the west end of the Kaibab Plateau, then via Pipe Spring to the Mt. Trumbull area, and then to Berry Spring — ten miles above Washington, Utah, on the Virgin River…Toward the end of May they started in a northeast direction from Kanab toward the Dirty Devil River country and the Henry Mountains…On still another extended trip — down the Colorado from Lee’s Ferry to the mouth of Kanab Creek Gulch and back to Kanab — the men of the Powell Survey were extending the system of triangles from the base line at Kanab.

Powell’s topographers, F.S. Dellenbaugh and John Renshaw, filled in the details and a map was created and delivered to Washington, D.C. in a lead tube.

Two other technologic advancements helped the effort. First, the party used a telegraph line from Kanab to Salt Lake City to verify astronomical observations. The “time checks” they performed enabled Powell’s team to verify the exact longitude and latitude of the base line near Kanab. Second, Powell employed the emerging technology of photography to provide a view of the Southwestern landscape. These photos by E. O. Beaman, J. K. Hillers, and W. C. Powell (Powell’s cousin) did much to show the rest of the U.S. what a treasure they had in the Colorado Plateau.

Local pilot Dorian DeMaio will give a lecture on the course of Powell’s 1869 expedition from a pilot’s viewpoint on Wednesday, Sept. 8 at 5 p.m. Register for the lecture at parkcityhistory.org, and stay tuned for an article about an expedition that traveled through our region.

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Somewhere about the 35-foot level of the Flagstaff Mine, and moments after he called his friends above for light, the old ladder Paul Parmalee was descending gave way with a crash, and he plunged into the darkness to his death.

It was the afternoon of Sunday, August 18, 1963, and the 16-year-old had traveled up from Salt Lake City to explore the area near Bonanza Flat with three other Salt Lake City youths. The mishap triggered a dramatic emergency operation that concluded around 11 pm with the retrieval of Parmalee’s body from the 300-foot-level of the abandoned mine.

When the accident occurred, one of the friends, Judy Brown, 19, drove her car to Park City and alerted marshal William Ryan. Soon a team of law enforcement from Summit and Wasatch counties, highway patrol officers, United Park City Mines Co. and Hecla Mining Co. staff and even “old-time miners who had worked at the mine” gathered at the site.

The first phase of the recovery operation involved Stanley Fisher of Park City being lowered 50 feet, while attached to a heavy manila rope held by a team of men above. Fisher cleared enough broken lumber to probe the bottom of the shaft with a light but saw no evidence of life.

Next, John Bilbod of Park City and Joe McPhee of Heber were lowered to the bottom of the shaft. There they found Parmalee’s body. Additional men were staged at intervals in the shaft to facilitate communication with the team above ground. The mine was “pitch black,” the rescuers told reporters.

The body was raised, and delivered by ambulance to a mortuary in Heber.

The Summit County Bee and Park Record, which were jointly published at the time, covered the story on Aug. 19, 1963, as did the Provo Daily Herald. The Bee article’s author praised the operation as “one of the finest and most dangerous rescues ever performed in Park City’s mines.” The writer also complimented the “telephone operators for their splendid service” and the wives who provided hot coffee and sandwiches to the rescue team.

The Flagstaff Mine, located about a quarter mile to the south of Deer Valley’s Cushing’s Cabin, had not been operating for decades on that day in 1963, though there had been intermittent prospecting at the site over the years. The mine was the first producer in the district, with wagons of its ore delivered to the railroad facility in Echo in 1870.

The Utah Division of Oil, Gas and Mining capped the shaft in 1991, as part of its Abandoned Mine Reclamation Program. Over 30 years, the program has closed about 6,000 of the estimated 17,000 abandoned mines in Utah. “Stay out and stay alive” is the agency’s motto.

As this structure was in 1963, many of Park City’s old mines and mine-related buildings have been neglected. Help the Park City Museum to preserve these structures through direct donation or by joining one of its historic walking tours, hikes, or ski tours. The next hike will be to Snake Creek Canyon on September 19. Visit the museum’s website for more information.

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