The Guest Book

The old mining town of Shoup has always called to me, though life has a way of intervening. Even before I knew the stories, something about that place felt like home.

When I first camped through Idaho in 1972, I hadn’t yet understood how deep my family’s roots there really ran. That early journey is told in the Afterword of Down the Salmon River,

Years passed. I married, had two children, and life moved along, as it does.

Then, about eight years after that wandering summer of ’72, we went back to Idaho to retrace my earlier trip. My mother came with us, and we visited relatives in Hailey, where my cousin Don Nisson complained that us “Callahans” always showed up when the wheat was ripe or the hayfield needed baling.

Still, most of my grandmother’s sisters were alive. We had a good visit in spite of my cousin Don Nisson and his sons having to work. If I hadn’t had two young ones to look after, I’d have been out on the combine myself.

After Hailey, we camped near the Sunbeam Dam, stuffed ourselves with trout, and finally made our way to Shoup.

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We got downriver late. The store was closed for the evening, so we drove on and set up camp beside the roar of Panther Creek. After a few days of fishing and exploring, and with our vacation coming to an end, we stopped at the Shoup Store before heading home.

The man who owned it wasn’t the same fellow I’d met in 1972. When I asked if he knew anything about the Callahans on Boulder Creek, he didn’t have much to go on—but he did say one thing that made me stop and listen.

“The house next door belonged to Mrs. Barton,” he said. “She had a brother who lived up Boulder Creek.”

“Well,” I told him, “Alta Barton was my great-aunt, and her brother was my grandfather.”

My mother corrected me, as she always did. “Alta was your great-great-aunt.”

Alta Callahan Barton's house in Shoup, Idaho. Alta's home is one of three or four buildings left standing in Shoup today. 1980. S.E. Crie collection.

That seemed to interest the store keeper. He reached under a stack of magazines and pulled out a guest book, then asked me to sign it. I found my 1972 entry, and signed it again and had the presence of mind to use my maiden name.

Not long after we left, another man came into the store. He mentioned his wife had lived up Boulder Creek.

“Callahan?” the storekeeper asked him.

Then he handed him the guest book.

The man took one look at the name, ran out the door, jumped into his truck, and tore off down the road trying to catch a van. He never did. By the time he reached North Fork, he turned around, went back to the store, and copied down my address.

That man was Harvey Huffaker—my Aunt Eleanor’s first husband.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Just a few hours after Harvey had come through, four couples walked into the store—four of Alta Barton’s children and their spouses. They saw my name in the guest book, too, and wrote down my contact information.

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A week after we got home, a long letter arrived in the mail. In it, Harvey Huffaker told me stories about my grandparents and his time in Shoup with the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression.

A few weeks later, the Barton cousins all gathered at my Aunt Eleanor’s house for a Callahan–Barton family reunion.

Some of Alta Callahan Barton's children. Circa 1980.

The Callahan and Barton cousins had lost track of one another after the Second World War.

And just like that, a single signature in a guest book brought us back together again.

So if you ever find yourself traveling through your family’s old hometowns—sign the guest book.

You never know who might be looking for you.