Ghosts in the desert? Past and paranormal meet in Old River Bed

The Old River Bed haunted?  Not likely.  But what were those strange rumbling sounds that seemed to echo through the prehistoric corridor?  Why were the hairs on my neck suddenly rising?  And who was behind the wheel of that truck that was slowly rolling through the brush toward me?

The Pony Express Trail snakes up the eastern lip of the Old River Bed (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The following originally appeared in the October 29, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

They said the Old River Bed was haunted.  They said that’s why stagecoach passengers were uneasy about stopping at the station there—especially overnight—and why Riverbed Station could never keep a manager for more than a few months at a time.  They were adamant.

I was skeptical.  Is the place mildly eerie?  Of course.  You’d be hard pressed to find a remote desert spot that isn’t.  But haunted?  No way.  “They” were delusional.  And I had driven 70 miles at dusk on the weekend before Halloween to prove it.  The mind has a tendency, when stifled by darkness, to tap imagination to fill the visual voids.  This must have been the case at the Old River Bed.  Yes, that was it.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how unnervingly lonesome it was out there in the dark, with no cell phone reception, far from my car, at the bottom of a massive ancient river bed.  Haunted?  Not likely.  But what were those strange rumbling sounds that seemed to echo through the prehistoric corridor?  Why were the hairs on my neck suddenly rising?  And who was behind the wheel of that truck that was slowly rolling through the brush toward me?

Dropping abruptly below the desert plain eight miles west of Simpson Springs in southern Tooele County, the Old River Bed is a naturally vulnerable place.  It’s a naturally strange place, too: a clear-cut channel as broad as the Mississippi at its greatest width, in the middle of this dry no-man’s-land.  The ancient watercourse owes its existence to Lake Bonneville.

As Bonneville shrank, water in the Sevier Basin drained northward via a low channel into the Great Salt Lake Desert, carving a mile-wide, 100 foot deep gorge as it went.  This river flowed for roughly 3,000 years.  Evidence of early human activity has been discovered in its delta.

The Central Overland trail crossed the river bed in the 1850’s and served as a major transportation artery until 1869.  The famed but short-lived Pony Express used the road from 1860 to 1861.  Riverbed Station was almost certainly built in 1862—too late to serve the Pony Express.

Drivers and riders hated the Old River Bed because although it’s wide and deep, it’s completely hidden from view until you’re right on its lip.  Bandits or hostile Indians could easily ambush a rider as he popped into or out of the channel.

The constant fear of ambush aside, there was always the chance of flash flooding.  Major Howard Egan recorded one nail-biting event in his diary about a Pony Express rider who heard a heavy rushing sound upon entering the channel.  Realizing something was horribly wrong, the rider “put spurs to the pony” and narrowly escaped a fifteen foot wall of water that surged through the river bed and washed out the road.

This concrete post marks the old Riverbed stagecoach station site. Note that while the words "Pony Express" are etched into the concrete, Riverbed Station never served the Pony Express-- it wasn't built until 1962 (photo by Clint Thomsen).

One rightly questions the rationale of building a stagecoach station in the dead center of the Old River Bed.   Perhaps it eased the fear of ambush or made ground water more accessible.  The station is gone now; flash floods eventually washed its ruins away.  All that’s left are a concrete post marking the station site and a few scattered rocks that may have been part of a foundation.  A Civilian Conservation Corps monument stands nearby.

Station keepers could deal with the natural and human threats.  It was the paranormal that kept them awake at night.  They– the managers, stock tenders, the stage drivers and their passengers– swore the place was haunted, specifically by “desert fairies.”

Former station operators claimed the fairies were the ghosts of two young girls who fell from a wagon in the area and died.  No records of the deaths have ever been found.  There are no individual accounts, no well-documented haunting.  University of Utah professor David Jabusch spent the night there while researching the site in the early 1990’s.  Of the desert fairies he wrote, “During our overnight sojourn, while mapping the site, we were not visited.”

Yet the story still lives on in journals and lore.  And though I’m a skeptic, there’s something about being in the Old River Bed at night.  Is it haunted? It’s hard to say.  As I walked along the river bed I wondered about those deep rumbling sounds.  I was convincing myself they were thunder or aircraft from Dugway, when the pair of dim headlights on the road that I had been carefully watching paused beside my car.

Then they turned and started out toward me.  I knew they weren’t there for the monument.  The old Chevy passed it and pulled off the double track toward me.  A chill went up my spine.  What could I do but introduce myself?

Two men sat in the truck.  They reminded me of a hermit version of illusionist duo Penn and Teller.  The thin driver remained silent, letting his larger passenger do the talking.  “We saw your car, then we saw your light out there,” said Penn.  “We wondered what was up.”

It turns out the two live in the area—Penn in an old trailer and Teller on a nearby ranch.  Sometimes they drive around helping people change flat tires (the Old River Bed is a notorious flat-maker).  “You’re tires looked fine,” Penn assured me.

“I’m Clint, and I’m hunting ghosts,” I declared, a bit surprised at my own whimsy.  “Do you believe this place is haunted?”

“Of course it’s haunted,” Penn said.  “When I first moved out here I was scared to death.  I thought maybe monsters would come up on me at night and tear me apart.”

We chatted for a while before they turned and left me alone again in the Old River Bed.  I was relieved that my new friends weren’t madmen, but my enthusiasm about this place had given way to discordant unease.   I glanced once more down the blackened corridor, just to give the desert fairies one last chance to show.  Then I was more than ready to leave.

They said the Old River Bed is haunted.  Who am I to argue?

 

The Benmore Experiment, Part 2 of 2

Some dreams die, but they need not be forgotten.

The Skidmore-Jorgensen homestead as it looked in the early 1900's. This photo must have been taken from the vantage point of the barn loft. A photo of the same house today led part 1 of this story.(photo courtesy USDA Forest Service)

The following is part 2 of a more blog-friendly adaptation of a piece I wrote for the Tooele Transcript Bulletin last week on the ghost town of Benmore, UT.  It originally appeared in the October 13, 2009 edition.  Click here to read part 1.

Israel Bennion’s dream was materializing, but it wouldn’t last long.

Annual precipitation proved too low for successful dry-farming in Benmore.  Homesteaders got discouraged and began to sell out.  To make matters worse, the wheat market collapsed, rendering an already impractical operation impossible.  By 1918, most of Benmore’s residents had moved away or were commuting to city or mining jobs.

The Benmore Ward was dissolved in 1920.  As the ward went, predicted Bennion at the outset, so would the town.  Most homesteaders eventually sold their claims to the Agricultural Resettlement Administration in what Thompson describes as a 1900s-style bailout.

Only the Bennion ranch remained.  Israel Bennion’s great granddaughter, Elizibeth Mitchell, still operates it today with her husband, Alan.  The rest of the land that purchased by the Federal government eventually came under the jurisdiction of the Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest.

Some dreams die, but they need not be forgotten.

Compared to many other Utah ghost towns, Benmore is well documented.  Most of the information on the town was gleaned from land and church records.  Israel Bennion’s journal was preserved and oral histories fill in some of the gaps.

Beginning in 1999, Passport in Time (PIT), a Forest Service volunteer program, began recording and mapping the site and documenting the artifacts still there.

“Sometimes the only way we can learn about some of these families is to looking at the objects that are left out here,” explained Thompson.  “So these little objects are connections back to real people’s lives.”

Across the road from the schoolhouse is a historical jackpot: the partially intact remains of the Skidmore-Jorgensen homestead.   The house was a large one for its day, once boasting a second story and a large kitchen addition.  The skeletons of a fruit tree orchard lay amongst the brush along the approach to the old house.  The entrance to the yard was marked by the massive trunks of fallen poplar and Box Elder trees.

This photo shows the surface of the walls inside the Skidmore-Jorgensen house. These thin planks would have been covered with plaster. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The house’s upper story and back kitchen have collapsed, but the main four walls still stand.  Its floor is littered with broken planks.  Non-native vines snake up the walls and through their timbers.  The scene is iconic.

Nearby are the remains of a workshop, a barn, a water cistern, and an earthen dam.  According to Thompson, some living Skidmore descendents grew up in this house.  Some of them even remember their mother dying during childbirth in the house.

“There is a very personal connection with this house.” She said.

The Benmore sites have fallen victim to vandalism and looting over the years, despite the best efforts of the Forest Service and the Mitchell Family.   Recently, a log barrier was erected across the drive to the Skidmore-Jorgensen house, but that hasn’t stopped shooters from targeting the remains.  Nor have the laws against stealing artifacts stopped scavengers from digging on the sites.

Despite the ongoing problem with vandalism, the Forest Service hopes Benmore’s remains will serve as self-discovery place where people can come and live the history in a very personal way.

Thompson recalled how during a PIT project, one of the volunteers found a little roller skate and thought of the cobbly roads.

“She started to cry.”  Thompson recalled.  “She was suddenly struck with this impression of a little boy or girl wanting to own a pair of roller skates and not having a place to use them.  She could visualize this little kid out there still trying.  That roller skate in a museum is just a roller skate.  Out here it’s in context, a testament to the desires of these families out here to make good lives out here.”

The Benmore experiment may have ultimately failed, but its crumbling foundations continue to tell a unique story of grit and resolve.

———-

Special thanks to Elizabeth Mitchell and USDA Forest Service archaeologists Charmaine Thompson and Jennifer Beard.

 

The Benmore Experiment, Part 1 of 2

Forest Service preserves remains of short-lived town in southern Rush Valley as ‘outside museum’

The semi-intact remains of the Skidmore-Jorgensen home in the ghost town of Benmore, UT (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The following is part 1 of a more blog-friendly adaptation of a piece I wrote for the Tooele Transcript Bulletin last week on the ghost town of Benmore, UT.  It originally appeared in the October 13, 2009 edition.

“Welcome to downtown Benmore!” exclaimed USDA Forest Service archaeologist Charmaine Thompson after parking her truck along a random-looking stretch of Forest Service Road 005, six miles south of Vernon.  An autumn breeze swept across a vast, seemingly empty field of brush.  Thompson smiled as she pointed to an area on the north side of the dirt road.  “Right over here is the old schoolhouse.”

The building’s foundation became visible after a few steps into the sagebrush.  Its footing was the size of a large shed.  Scattered about were fragments of ceramic and rusted metal—some unidentifiable, some clearly embossed with the decorative markings of early twentieth century school desks.

The structure’s brick edifice was dismantled in 1932—a mere 18 years after it was constructed.  Its materials were salvaged and reused somewhere else in the valley, leaving only the floor and strewn metal as a testament to the determined people who once called this place home.

It’s difficult to imagine now, but this schoolhouse was once the centerpiece of an organized and bustling community.  Tucked at the southern end of Rush Valley in the shadow of the jagged Sheeprock Mountains, Benmore was an experiment in human tenacity.

Most of the town’s land is now managed by the Forest Service.  Thompson is part of a team dedicated to preserving its remains as an outside museum.

“They came here to establish life,” Thompson said.  “But if I’m responsible for these remains, something went horribly wrong, because they’ve reverted to public ownership.”

“But at the same time,” she qualified, “Since this is now public land, their stories become part of all of our history, and we can come and visit them.”

Benmore was the brainchild of Israel Bennion, whose family had settled the area in the 1860’s.  Originally from Taylorsville, Utah, the Bennions were drawn to this clime by the prospect of free land under the Homestead Act, and the opportunity to escape what they considered an overcrowded Salt Lake Valley.  Israel’s father, Samuel Bennion established a successful livestock ranch in 1863.  He befriended the Goshute Indians, some of whom would winter next to his ranch.

A metal relic of an old school desk lies near the foundation of the old Benmore School (photo by Clint Thomsen)

To say that making a life in this harsh environment was tough is an understatement.  Rainfall averaged about ten inches per year.  Extreme weather only allowed a brief 130 day growing season.  Water from the narrow Sheeprocks was scant, and was eventually threatened by overgrazing.

Yet the Bennions persisted, driven by dreams of a thriving, close-knit community.  In 1905, Israel Bennion successfully lobbied to include the Sheeprock Range in the National Forest system.  Later he convinced the county to adopt and maintain the road that would become the town’s main street.  Bennion was serious enough about Benmore’s success that he would often give land, or sell it at reduced cost, to impoverished families.

“I want this waste place of Zion redeemed,” He wrote in his journal.  “I want the poor Saints provided with homes.  I want living here made tolerable now.” (emphasis Bennion’s)

The Bennions’ community-building effort was joined in 1905 by Charles H. Skidmore and family, who purchased 10,000 acres for a dry farming operation.  The town’s name was created by combining the two surnames.  The schoolhouse opened in 1914 and served 20 students from eight families.  The Benmore Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints became a ward the following year.  During its brief existence, its records boasted 187 members, 20 births, three marriages, and four deaths.  Benmore’s boon was hard work, resourcefulness, and a surge in wheat prices spurred by World War I.

———-

Click here to read part 2.

 

Why I’m thinking about space–reason #2: A spaceport in Wendover?

MAN ON THE MOON? Think again. This photo was shot by my friend Richard Menzies on the salt flats. It appeared on the cover of a 1971 edition of The Salt Flat News. The issue addressed Wendover's bid for a NASA spaceport. Menzies' cohort, Richard Goldberger, is wearing the space suit. Said Menzies, "We were 'recreating' Alan Shepard's lunar golfing stunt, except that his was a chip shot and ours was a short putt. Funny thing is, many people thought it was an authentic NASA photo." (photo courtesy Richard Menzies)

Most anybody with a passing familiarity with Utah history is aware of Wendover’s role in Project Silverplate, the U.S. Army Air Force’s project to modify B-29 bombers to enable them to drop atomic weapons on Japan.

But few Utahns know that during the 60’s and early 70’s, the sleepy border town was poised to become a huge NASA hub.

Turns out NASA was seriously looking at basing at least part of its Space Shuttle program in the Wendover area.  I learned about this for the first time while conducting background research on the Silver Island Range for my latest TTB article.  Exactly which aspects of the shuttle program were to be based in Wendover are in question.  Some old newspaper articles claim that Wendover was to house the whole deal– engine production, launch, and landing/recovery.  Other sources (like the pictured pamphlet) mention simply a landing/recovery operation.

This 28-page color brochure promoted Utah's bid for the West Desert spaceport. Note the USAF quote: "The only site known to satisfy recovery of polar orbiting ballistic vehicles." (photo courtesy Richard Menzies)

Wendover was in contention with bases in New Mexico, California, and Florida.  Utah was serious enough about winning that it spent many millions of extra dollars to route I-80 through Wendover, something that wasn’t in UDOT’s original plan.

TANGENT: In fact, UDOT’s original plan was to route I-80 up and over the Silver Island Range and into the Pilot Valley.  Wendover was to be cut off completely.  The plan, according to its lead engineer, Roy Tea, would have saved travelers 6 miles and the state upwards of $50 million.

NESTED TANGENT: This same Roy Tea is the foremost authority on the Hastings Cutoff of the California Trail.  This guy is a fountain of knowledge about this piece of Utah history.

The new NASA base would have made Wendover a major Utah city.  Multiple other communities were also expected to be built in the area.  The Bonneville Salt Flats would have been utilized as a landing area or a closed buffer zone.

Needless to say, Wendover lost out to Cape Canaveral, which modified the existing Apollo infrastructure to house the project.  The salt flats went on to star in numerous movies and car commercials, and Wendover continued as an economically challenged border town.

But Utah didn’t give up on its space aspirations.   In 1998, several Utah counties bid to base the VentureStar reusable spaceship program.  The program failed and was canceled in 2001.

Simulated view of VentureStar in low Earth orbit (photo courtesy Lockheed Martin)

It’s hard to determine from the scant newspaper references I could dig up just how big a deal this was for Utahns at the time.  The best source of information on all of this was a 1971 issue of The Salt Flat News, a quirky little pub I’ve mentioned a few times on this blog.

I’m intrigued by all of this and I plan to put together a more conclusive piece for the Transcript Bulletin in the near future.  But, like my recent reacquaintance with Spock and Kirk, it got me to thinking about space.

 

Drive through Johnson Pass offers history lessons on multiple fronts

Far be it from me to turn down an adventure, especially when the kids are all set to go.  Preparing four small children—finding shoes, socks, gear, and gathering whatever trinkets they find absolutely necessary to bring—is often the most rigorous part of any outing.

The fact that they were “departure-ready” could mean only one thing: Mom needed a break.

A view of the Clover Creek runoff is surrounded by trees near Johnson Pass. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

I knew something was afoot when I arrived home after work one day last week.  The kids were outside, which is typical for a warm afternoon.  But they were all decked out in their hiking gear.  They eagerly converged as I pulled into the driveway and met me at my car door.  8 year old Bridger was their spokesperson.  “Mom says you’re taking us on an adventure,” he announced.

Far be it from me to turn down an adventure, especially when the kids are all set to go.  Preparing four small children—finding shoes, socks, gear, and gathering whatever trinkets they find absolutely necessary to bring—is often the most rigorous part of any outing.

The fact that they were “departure-ready” could mean only one thing: Mom needed a break.

“I’ll keep the baby,” my wife said as I grabbed some Gatorade for the trip.  “The rest are all yours.  Have fun!”

4 year old Coulter suggested we go to the mountains.  Since we had visited both the Oquirrh and Stansbury Ranges quite extensively this summer, I decided it might be nice to visit an area that’s often overlooked—the snaky crook that divides the Stansbury Mountains northward from the Onaqui Mountains southward.

Though it doesn’t look it, SR-199 through Johnson Pass is a significant traffic artery for travelers commuting between the Tooele and Dugway areas.  The route traces its origins to the great Lincoln Highway, the nearly 3,142 mile long “improved” dirt road that connected New York City and San Francisco.

The Lincoln Highway was the brain child of Entrepreneur Carl Fisher, the developer of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and the resort city of Miami Beach.   Fisher dreamed of building a continuous transcontinental highway—a “road with personality,” and an “economic and artistic triumph.”  The Lincoln Highway Association was formed and construction began in 1913.

The Tooele County stretch originally ran around the north end of the Stansbury Mountains to Timpie, then south to Orr’s ranch in Skull Valley.  No sooner were the first highway maps released than realignment efforts began to cut distance and smooth out the route.  In 1919, the highway was re-routed south through Tooele and Stockton, then into Skull Valley via Johnson pass.

I hadn’t had time to formulate a custom music playlist, as I do for most every trip, so we turned off the stereo while 6 year old Weston and his harmonica provided the soundtrack for our drive.  Jingle Bells and Mary Had a Little Lamb aren’t exactly mountain drive songs, but they did the job.

2 year old Ella, who is so far unimpressed with the outdoors and is terrified by curvy roads, was unexpectedly cheery, even cracking a smile on a few unnerving turns.

I aimed for a quick round-trip tour of the pass before stopping to explore the area around Clover Spring.  As we climbed through the pinyon/juniper forest, we passed a large zone of blackened earth and trees that was burnt in a recent forest fire.  The area is oddly beautiful, with bare juniper branches gnarling drearily upward and aside.

Those whose last trip over the pass was prior to July of this year may be surprised to learn that the large turnoff at the summit is now handsomely paved.  A sign identifies the spot as the future location of a monument to Carl Fisher.

Fisher supported the 1919 realignment and donated $2,500 of personal funds to the project.  The idea for the monument was born nearly a decade ago when then president of the LHA’s Utah Chapter, Rollin Southwell, studied the original construction contract.   Two conditions, it turns out, had never been met.  The LHA had stipulated that the pass would be renamed for Fisher and that a monument would be built in his honor.

Politics prevented the pass’s official name change, and the monument was never built due to lack of funds.  The revived venture is a collaboration between the LHA, UDOT, a private architect, and others.  It is slated for dedication on October 3.

We continued over the summit and down toward the town of Terra.  My favorite part of this drive is known as Devil’s Gateway or The Narrows.  This rocky gap was once so narrow that officials wondered if it was even passable on horseback.  It was dynamited in the realignment project to make way for the road.  Just beyond it is the late Willow Springs Lodge, which was also the location of the convict laborer camp.  We turned around there.

Our final stop before returning to Tooele was perhaps the prettiest spot in the entire Onaqui Range: Clover Spring Campground.  The campground was constructed around a natural Spring, which gushes from the arid slope and follows a cottonwood-choked wash down to the valley.

The spring has been a popular oasis throughout history.  The Goshutes called the area “Shambip,” meaning “Clover.”  Explorers and pioneers camped here.  Maps from the 1850’s show military encampments along the spring’s flow.  In 1935, the Civilian Conservation Corps built a camp here that operated until 1939.

The site is now the location of a quaint campground, which lies partially on private property but is managed by the BLM.  The campground offers 10 individual units and one group site.  The lower units sit on the banks of the creek and are a lovely place to set up camp.  The kids grabbed their walking sticks and began exploring the campsite.  I carried Ella across the creek to a grassy spot on the other side, where it seems she discovered the outdoors isn’t so boring after all.

“I walk, Daddy,” she said.  I put her down and she crouched down to feel the rushing water.  Weston sat down on the shore to play his harmonica.  Coulter was disappointed when I had to break it to him that we weren’t camping there that night.

The kids were quiet and content on the drive home.  I was too, because they were now “return-ready.”  It was a tough job, but I was glad to do it.

TRIP TIPS
For more information on Johnson Pass and the Clover Spring Campground, contact the BLM at 801-977-4300.  Please respect all private property postings.

This article originally appeared in the 9/24/2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

 

Saltair in flames: Video documents the ruin of famous Utah resort

I’ve written about Saltair enough now that it merits its own category in my sidebar. If you’re new to the subject, check this out before watching the video below. I’ve read various accounts of the “Lady of the Lake’s” 1970 demise. The best comes from my cyber-pal Gregory Navarro:

I was doing homework with my girlfriend one November night in 1970 when Channel Four TV anchorman Roy Gibson came on and reported that Saltair was burning. I lived on the East Bench at that time, as did my girlfriend, and I ran outside to see the big candle burning near the horizon. I drove that 26 miles in about half an hour. By the time I pulled up to the turnoff on I-80 West, I could only see flames and plumes of smoke. Nothing else. On the news the next night, only the smoldering steel skeleton, melted asphalt and the pilings, like cemetery markers in neat rows, remained.

While researching my recent articles on Saltair, I came across some archival video of that 1970 fire.  I realize this may only be of interest to Utah history junkies, but it’s interesting to actually see the end of such a prominent landmark- a place that meant so much to so many of my older friends and relatives.

 

Old Saltair: Ruins are all that remain of “Coney Island of the West”

The following originally appeared in the August 13, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

The approach to Saltair I (left) near the turn of the century (source unknown), and the same view today (Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

It’s early morning at the Lake Point railway station.  The sun has yet to fully emerge from behind the Oquirrhs, but the dry August heat has already announced its arrival.  You sit with your siblings in the cramped seat on an eastbound rail car.  Scores of your neighbors and townspeople pack the aisles and platforms.

It’s August 15, 1903: Official Tooele County Day at Saltair Pavilion.  The county’s entire population, it seems, has boarded the train’s ten passenger cars to visit the most thrilling resort in the west.  Try as it might, the blistering heat can’t spoil the excited spirit aboard the crowded coaches this morning.  The train lurches forward.  You’re finally on your way.

You watch out your window as the train rounds the mountain and approaches the legendary edifice.  Rising from the lake at the end of a mile-long trestle, Saltair seems fascinatingly out of place.  The sight of its onion domes and ornate archways against the lake’s bare backdrop startles your senses.

You’ll spend the day swimming in the lake’s salty waters, trying—but failing—to sink. You’ll watch the sunset from the narrow bathhouse arcs.   By the time you board the train again, the pavilion will be ablaze in lights and awash with the scents of corn dogs and popcorn.

Happy swimmers pose at Saltair (date, source unknown)

It’s not difficult for me to imagine this scenario.  I felt that same excitement as a kid every time our family drove the current version of Saltair.  Known in historical circles as “Saltair III” (since it’s the third incarnation), the pavilion sits roughly 2 miles southwest of the original site.  While an outing to Saltair III in the 80’s may not has been as grand as a trip to the famed original, there was something enchanting about the lakeside resort and the notion of the lake as a getaway spot.

A traffic incident during my commute last week closed I-80 at the Saltair exit, giving me several hours to kill in the area.   Many of my fellow sidelined commuters parked at the Saltair III pavilion to grab a Coke and some salt water taffy from the gift shop.  I turned south on the frontage road and drove to the entrance to the original site.

Saltair I was built in 1893 under the direction of the LDS Church.  Intended as a wholesome alternative to the rowdier resorts springing up along the lakeshore, it was the most ambitious lakeside project to date.

For the edifice’s design, Saltair planners tapped architect Richard Kletting, who had already designed the Lake Park resort and who would later design the State Capitol.  Saltair was built over the water on a platform supported by 2500 pine pilings, nearly a mile offshore and accessed via railroad trestle.

The multilevel pavilion had a bizarre Moorish-Victorian appearance.  Crescent “arms” lined with bathhouses extended from each side.   Kletting’s goal was to overwhelm visitors and transport them to a world of “escape and pleasure.”

The resort boasted various rides, shows, and dining options.  Its signature attraction was the Giant Racer, a massive roller coaster that sent riders screaming through drops and turns over the water.

On one occasion, Orville and Wilbur Wright demonstrated their “heavier than air machine” at Saltair, making short, low flights above the pavilion.   Often billed as “The Coney Island of the West,” Saltair enjoyed considerable success until a fire destroyed the pavilion in 1925.

A larger, more colorful version was built in its place a year later.  “Saltair II” added even more attractions, focusing less on swimming and more on entertainment offerings as water levels receded.  High maintenance costs combined and nation-wide economic woes strained the resort, but another lucky generation of Utahns grew up dancing in its massive ballroom and relaxing on its potted palm walkways.

Saltair II was abandoned in the 60’s and was destroyed by fire 1970.  Saltair III was built in 1982 at I-80 exit 104 for more convenient access.  Knowledge of the original site and its legacy faded from collective memory as the years passed.  Few prominent sources adequately address its history.

A charred pile-on lies on the site of the old Saltair II pavilion. A 1970 arson fire destroyed the structure (Clint Thomsen)

Old Saltair’s most visible remnants today are the cinderblock exterior of the power substation that served it, and the old rail car, which was an original Saltair coach.  Around these are strewn various parts and pieces of Saltair III attractions that were destroyed in the 1983 flood.

This property is privately owned, but the train car has recently found wide popularity with bridal photographers.  Trespassing photographers stage almost daily shoots there during the warm months.   The actual pavilion site is on public land, but should only be accessed via the Lee Creek Area directly to the east.

Significant remains still lie along the overgrown trestle that leads to the pavilion site.  I followed it, stopping periodically to examine the original salt-crusted pilings that supported the boardwalk.  Pilings marking the Giant Racer’s route also remain along with half-buried strips of metal that the bulldozers missed.  The site of the old Ship Café is littered with ceramic fragments of plates, cups, and saucers.  Anything completely intact was scavenged long ago.

As I traced the outline of the pavilion, I pondered the strange dichotomy this site presents.  Here, two mindsets have always coexisted at odds with each other:  the easy-going beach groove that Saltair attempted to harness, and the harsh desert environment that eventually did it in.

This dichotomy is best illustrated by album art from a 1967 Beach Boy’s record.  Photos show the band hanging out at a decaying Saltair II.  My favorite shot is of the boys balancing atop a tall collection of pilings that once served as a dock.  Those pilings still stand, and given their isolation, they probably will forever.

I returned to my car thirsty and exhausted.  On these flat beaches, one can easily lose track of distance.  The freeway had reopened, and it was time to make my way home.  Were I around in 1903, I wouldn’t have missed that first Tooele County Day for anything.   At least I made it in time for the outing’s 106 year anniversary.   Old Saltair’s remains may be scant, but out there on those flats, it’s spirit is as vibrant as ever.

 

Ghost towns? How about a ghost resort?

Saltair resort circa 1920 (source unknown)

Many visitors to Utah wonder about the large, Moorish building that looms on the south shore of the Great Salt Lake.  Marinas and various industrial structures aside, it may well be the only commercial building on the lake.

The building is Saltair– Saltair III, to be exact.  It’s the third incarnation of the historic lakeside resort that was first built in 1893.  You can read a beautifully written history of the “Lady of the Lake”on my friend, Gregory Navarro’s old geocities page.

Fires dealt fatal blows to both of its predecessors, and Saltair III rose in 1982.  For more convenient acess to Interstate 80, it was built off of exit 104 rather than on the original site.  The original site sits quietly, abandoned and disheveled a full two miles northeast.

Last week, a traffic emergency during my commute home stranded me in the Saltair area for about 4 hours.  While many of my fellow traffic refugees stopped into Saltair III to wait for the freeway to reopen, I drove down to the trestle that leads about a mile offshore to the original site.

That outing will be the subject of this week’s Transcript Bulletin article, but here are a few pictures of old Saltair.  Some of the older ones I don’t have credit info for, so I apologize to the various historical organizations they probably came from.  The rest I took myself.

Saltair I (1893-1925) (source unknown)

Saltair II (1926-1970) (source unknown)

Saltair III (1982-present) (courtesy Michael C. Berch via Wikipedia)

Photo of Saltair II taken during the fire of 1970. (courtesy Utah State Historical Society)

Wooden pilings line the old trestle that leads to the site (photo by Clint Thomsen)

Remains of a ceramic cup lie partially buried in the rubble of Saltair. I found this cup on the site of the Ship Cafe, a seafood restaurant at the pavilion.

Tall wooden posts that were used for docking boats at Saltair. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

My column about old Saltair will run in tomorrow’s newspaper.  I’ll post it here sometime next week.

 

Happy Pioneer Day!

For my Utah friends, happy Pioneer Day!

For those unfamiliar with this local holiday, it commemorates the entry of Brigham Young and the first group of Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley.  Big day here.  I’d write more, but the family and I are heading to Lagoon.  Grilled corn on the cob, here we come!

 

Fresh images from NASA’s moon orbiter offer peak into America’s great era of discovery

“Dad?”

Apollo 11 landing site, NASA LROC image

4 year old Bridger’s voice was quiet.  I could tell we were about to have a memorable discussion, so I turned down the car stereo.

“You know what’s funny about the moon?  It goes wherever we go.  It’s following us.”

“Why do you think that is, pal?” I asked.

“Because Jesus is driving the moon, I think,” he said.  “I’d like to go to the moon someday.”

When I mentioned that man had already walked on the moon, he was overwhelmed.  The boy is nearly 8 now, and we still love to lay on the grass at night and look up at the sky.

I wasn’t around when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin took those first historic steps on the lunar surface.  But growing up, we had an astronomy fanatic neighbor with a massive telescope.  Mike Eaton hauled that thing out onto the lawn, it seems, on every clear night of the year.

I did a lot of looking at the moon up close, hoping somehow to get a glimpse of one of the Apollo landing sites and that American Flag that Neil and Buzz planted there.  My obsession with space and the future waned somewhat as the years passed.  But as I became more curious about the past, my thoughts periodically returned to those lunar landing sites.

Well, on July 17, NASA’s Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter, or LRO, returned the first semi-clear photos of those sites.  They’re all amazing, but my favorite is the photo of the Apollo 14 landing site.  Visible are the Lunar Module (LM), a scientific instrument package, and most amazingly– the astronaut footpath between the two.  According to NASA, the lighting conditions for this shot were “particularly desirable.”

Apollo 14 landing site, NASA LROC image

The 40 year anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon walk kinda snuck up on me.  Sadly, media coverage– outside of the History and Discovery channels– was lacking, and frankly the American public at general didn’t seem too interested.  That’s sad.  There was some programming on the History Channel that we DVR-ed and will watch with the boys when we get a chance.  I’m particulary excited for Bridger to see it.

Almost nothing personifies the classic American hardiness and spirit of discovery like that first lunar landing.  I hope that spirit remains in us today.

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Check out NASA’s page dedicated to that first moon landing here.