This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2005, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Picture this, because it is here that one of the largest Jewish agrarian colonies west of the Appalachian Mountains stood ground and failed, but not for lack of trying. It is marginal land: sparse trees, low-hugging sagebrush; grass, thin, more lean than green and earth more dirt than soil, much of it unyielding.
Imagine, on a straightaway from Gunnison, what once was Clarion, an early Utah farming colony composed of immigrant Russian Jews instilled with the belief that "agriculture will make laborers instead of paupers, bread producers instead of bread beggars."
Between 1880 and 1920, 2 million Eastern European Jews immigrated to America's urban cities. Poor and overwhelmed by crowded streets, sweatshops and slums, some yearned for greener pastures. They would listen intently as activists such as Benjamin Brown praised the virtues of farming and back-to-the-land efforts sweeping across the country.
They learned that by working together as self-sufficient farmers they would also further the Jewish economic future of America, help combat anti-Semitism and create good will among Christian neighbors. As Brown traveled the circuit soliciting money from prosperous East Coast and Salt Lake City investors, the colonists borrowed "down payments" from family members and purchased 6,000 acres of land; $10 an acre, 10 percent down, 10-year balance due. In 1911, 12 émigrés led by Brown entered Sanpete County eager to clear land, plow, plant, harvest and cultivate a new life, eventually, for nearly 300 Jews.
These would-be farmers from myriad backgrounds greeted each sunrise with "song and labor" and every sunset with "restfulness and spiritual happiness." By fall, they cleared 1,500 acres for spring planting and were ecstatic at the first sign of greening.
The way I see it, if cities are schools of hard knocks, farms are lessons in harder rocks. Strong winds, dust storms and lack of water wiped out Clarion's first crop. When the state finished its long-promised canal, its poorly constructed banks breached and water leached into other people's soil. Repairs left the colony without a drop of water for 33 days. Later, lockless canal gates made it easy for neighbors to pilfer the water.
Yet life went on. The second year saw the colony divide into individual farms, each with four acres and a house. Trees were planted, wells dug, a school/synagogue built and 2,400 acres planted. This time, they faced not drought but deluge. Overnight, heavy rain coursed down hills carrying rocks, branches and debris. By daylight, the growing fields were gone. Frost wiped out a later crop. Their cistern broke; they patched it. And still tragedy. Crops withered, tempers rose and resilient hearts sank.
An infant died and was buried in Clarion. Then Aaron Binder, a most respected farmer, died when a fully loaded wagon toppled over and crushed him. By 1915, 50 members departed; three families remained up until the 1920s, then they too left.
Japanese would find their way to Clarion, then Mormons, neither for long.
Clarion is a ghost town, hard to locate but important to find in order to understand the courage of these farmers and their impact on American Jewish history and Utah life. I walk a small knoll toward the middle of nowhere and stumble upon white pipe fencing, small bouquets of plastic flowers and Hebrew inscriptions on two tombstones: Clarion's Jewish cemetery.
Cracked hardpan stretches as far as the eye can see, and I'm alone with a newborn and immigrant farmer. Suddenly, dust clouds billow. Cattle stampede? Where to run? Tense, I stand my ground. Motorcycle. Man. Cowboy hat, jeans. Gotta be a movie.
Bruce Sorensen, a local farmer sensitive to the past - "we share the same history" - explores Clarion with me. Piecing together broken walls, school foundations, paths, sites and artifacts, we unearth reality. "Even today, we fight for water," he says.
Following family tradition, on Memorial Day Bruce places flowers on the graves. I nod my head to history and find a dusty agate that buffs to a sheen.