Stargazing starts by seeking the dark

Ursa Major, the Big Dipper, was the first constellation in focus.  Then there were Sirius, Ursa Minor and the North Star, and a few planets I couldn’t identify.  Blinking earth-orbiting satellites zoomed across the celestial sphere.  As the minutes passed, the visible star field multiplied until the sky was filled with points of light.

La Luna (photo by Scott Crosby, Salt Lake Astronomical Society)

The following is a blog-friendly adaptation of my piece that appeared in the November 5, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

“You can’t study the darkness by flooding it with light,” wrote naturalist Edward Abbey on the folly of using a flashlight while exploring the wilderness at night.  It’s one of my favorite outdoor quotes.  Unfortunately, the concept’s profundity sometimes outweighs its practicality.  Take, for instance, my bumbling pre-dawn trek at Timpie Point last weekend.

I could chalk it up to the darkness or the abnormal terrain or the fact that I didn’t bother looking for a trail up to the large limestone outcropping.  Yes, I should have brought a light– or at least waited until my eyes adjusted.  Then I might have noticed that huge mud puddle just outside my car door.  I also might have caught on sooner that those two out-of-place looking boulders I was heading over to check out were really two nervous cows.

But there I was—my ankle twisted, my ears frozen, and my agitated bovine companions looking on—under an extraordinarily clear sky.  “Well, whaddya know,” I told told myself, “those Internet sky charts were right.”  Now to find a rock flat enough to lie on.

I’ve been thinking a lot about space lately.  It started with a visit to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. last summer.  I love aviation history, but whenever I visit that museum I tend to spend most of my time in the space wings.  Nothing’s quite as exciting as seeing Buzz Aldrin’s space suit or studying the exterior of the actual Apollo 11 Command Module.  And my inner nerd doesn’t miss a chance to gawk at the original Star Trek production model of the USS Enterprise.

I tend to look up at the night sky with a little more contemplation after visiting that museum.  The fascination sparked by last summer’s trip has yet to wear off.  Perhaps it’s sheer curiosity about what’s beyond our world or the mysterious appeal of that cold, dark void.  Somehow in its mind-blowing infinity, the view of space from Earth always puts things into perspective.  Nothing’s quite as peaceful as looking up at the stars for a good, long time.

USS Enterprise original production model at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum (photo by Clint Thomsen)

“You’re a little late for stargazing season,” local pros told me a few days prior when I contacted them to ask for tips.  An entire astronomical viewing community is centered on the Stansbury Park Observatory Complex (affectionately referred to as “SPOC”) where scores of pros and amateurs spend the warmer months examining the heavens through a collection of high powered telescopes.

My sons and I attended the last star party of the season there in October.  The boys thrilled at the opportunity to view nebulae and planets through the telescopes.  Equally captivating to me was watching the hushed crowd of stargazers politely line up to peek into deep space.

The area surrounding the complex is intentionally kept as dark as possible.  “Things that are interesting in the sky are very faint,” Salt Lake Astronomical Society (SLAS) member Scott Crosby told me.  “In order to see any detail [in an astronomical object], you have to intensify it using a telescope.  But the problem is when you do that, you also intensify sky glow.”

“Sky glow” is a type of light pollution.  Usually seen as a dome of light over population centers, it’s the brightening of the sky caused by excess artificial lighting.  Crosby chairs SLAS’s Dark Site Committee, a group that seeks out locations with low light pollution for optimal astronomical viewing.

The term “dark site” is more of a description than an official designation, though the International Dark Sky Association has established several International Dark Sky Parks throughout the world.  The first place to receive the designation was Utah’s Natural Bridges National Monument in the Four Corners area.  Light pollution prevents most places in our part of the state from competing for the label, but Crosby said there are several decent dark sky locations in Tooele County.  They include the mountain ranges and spots along the Pony Express Trail and in the Great Salt Lake Desert.

When online clear sky charts predicted excellent viewing conditions on Halloween Night, I couldn’t miss the opportunity for stargazing.  Since five kids plus five costumes plus five plastic pumpkins full of candy made for a rather exhausting Halloween night, early the next morning was the best I could do.

The goal was to isolate myself from Tooele Valley’s sky glow behind the Stansbury Mountains, so I drove to Big Springs at the north end of Skull Valley during what the kids call “early dark time.”  Eager to test out the night vision maximization tips I had read, I parked next to the spring and immediately started hiking, sans flashlight, toward the large rock outcroppings at Timpie Point.

Clear sky chart for the Stansbury Park Observatory Complex (SPOC) (screen cap from cleardarksky.com)

Dark vision adaptation involves a complex anatomical process wherein the rod and cone cells in the retina become more and more light sensitive.  It takes between 20 and 30 minutes for the eyes to completely adapt to dark surroundings.  With practice, dark acuity can become quite developed.

In hindsight, I would have been wise to stay by my car until my vision had fully adapted.  Instead, I adapted while boulder hopping (I’ve always been a multitasker).  I didn’t see the cows for what they were until I was almost face-to-face with them.  If I wasn’t fully awake before, I was now, and I perched on a cold slab nearby.

Ursa Major, the Big Dipper, was the first constellation in focus.  Then there were Sirius, Ursa Minor and the North Star, and a few planets I couldn’t identify.  Blinking earth-orbiting satellites zoomed across the celestial sphere.  As the minutes passed, the visible star field multiplied until the sky was filled with points of light.

I watched the sky until the sunrise upstaged the stars and cast a soft glow across the Great Salt Lake.  I hiked around for a while before driving back home, my space fix satisfied.  Satisfied enough to stop collecting Cheez-It proofs of purchase for that free Captain Kirk t-shirt?  I’m not making any promises.

 

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?

 

While some have a real love for the mountains, others really need them

The following article was inspired by my earlier post on this topic, and originally appeared in the October 22, 2009 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

My Coulter in his element - the Uinta Mountains

When my 4 year old son, Coulter, says he’ll be right back, it usually means two things: first, he’s decided to act on an impulse that’s been brewing in his head for hours.  Second, he’ll be anything but “right back.”

As impractical and futile as this ploy may be, I give him an ‘A+’ for the effort.  One of his more amusing uses of it occurred when he was 2 years old.  Having set his mind on walking to the Oquirrh Mountains from our house, he donned his yellow SpongeBob sandals and marched toward the front door.  ”I goin’ for a walk in my mountains,” he announced.

Never mind that even the most direct route would be at least three miles and would have required the toddler to navigate a neighborhood and cross a major highway.  But logistics weren’t important.  “Gotta get in those mountains,” he affirmed.  And that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t turn him around immediately.  Instead I let him walk to the end of the driveway and gaze up at the range’s western slopes.  “How about we both go?” I asked.  It was a compromise he could live with.

Coulter’s affinity for mountains isn’t unique in our family.  His two older brothers live to explore canyon trails and claw their way up rock faces.  They love the sights, the smells, the spirit of adventure.  But Coulter’s connection with the mountains is more intrinsic.  Bridger and Weston love the mountains—Coulter needs them.

Last spring, my wife, Meadow, and I were able to understand Coulter’s passion for mountains in greater context.  He was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, a disorder on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum.

Asperger’s syndrome (AS) is characterized by marked deficiency in social skills and significant difficulty with both verbal and non-verbal communication.  Other symptoms include enhanced auditory and visual perception, atypical use of language, and intense specialized interests.  All of these can range from mild to severe, depending on the person.

Persons with AS often compare living with the disorder to feeling like a perpetual fish out of water—especially when it comes to social situations, where things like speech inflection and body language are lost in translation.  The resulting confusion and anxiety, combined with overstimulation, underpin much of the eccentric behavior.  Coulter’s heart races when he gets overwhelmed.  Or as he says, his heart “wiggles.”

Asperger’s syndrome distinguishes itself from other autistic disorders in that cognitive development is fairly normal.  Children with AS often command a rich vocabulary at very early ages—even if social interactions hinder its use.  This explains why Coulter sang the Happy Birthday song to himself, word for word, a week before his first birthday, yet can’t give a straight answer when somebody asks how old he is today.

We knew Coulter was a unique child when, by age 3, he had memorized verbatim the entire scripts of every episode of the first three seasons of SpongeBob SquarePants.  SpongeBob was just one of a short list of eclectic “preoccupations,” which also includes anything related to pirates, Star Wars, or musical structure.  The other day he asked Meadow, “Why does music live in my head?”

"Gotta get in those mountains."

The primary challenge for Meadow and me is helping others to understand Coulter’s disorder.  After all, he seems like every other kid—until you interact with him.  Then it becomes a mixed bag of confusion, amazement, mild animosity, and sometimes even hilarity.

Woven throughout Coulter’s neurobiological tapestry is his fascination with being in the mountains.  It’s amazing how even a short canyon drive can visibly calm his nerves.  He doesn’t need to hike or boulder-hop.   He just needs to be there.

Coulter’s connection to the mountains makes perfect sense to Salt Lake City based blogger Forrest Gladding, who also has Asperger’s.  “He feels he can be himself,” he said.  “There is a sense of calm being outdoors.”  Forrest, 35, discovered he had the disorder only 5 years ago and is coming to terms with the diagnosis.  We became acquainted after I wrote about Coulter’s AS on my blog.  His perspective on Coulter has become invaluable.

“The stimulation [of being in the mountains] makes more sense than being in a classroom or in a grocery store,” he said.  “Being outside is pretty predictable for our brains.  We know what we are in for most of the time.”

Forrest leads an essentially normal life as a husband and father.  He considers himself a success story, crediting his mother with building a foundation of love and guidance.  The outdoors expanded that foundation and provided a balance for him.

A native of Baltimore, Forrest moved to Utah as a teenager and was instantly hooked on our wilds.   He became obsessed with snowboarding and mountain biking, and now considers the activities elemental needs.  He’s drawn to them because they are solitary sports—sports that don’t necessitate social interaction.  He admits that motor skill deficiency—an almost universal symptom of AS—makes learning snowboarding tricks more difficult.  They take longer for him to master than they would for somebody without AS.  But master them he does.

“We just don’t give up as easily,” he said.

Coulter showed similar resolve on a recent hike in the Vernon Hills.  While his older brothers scampered toward a 6,300 foot summit with a natural grace, Coulter labored along the trail.  It was his first unassisted hike, and he was exhausted by the time we reached the top.  But couldn’t have been prouder—or more at peace.

Forrest expresses his feelings for the outdoors in the photos he takes and posts on his blog.   Coulter conveys his with a simple smile.  He hasn’t latched onto any specific facet of mountaineering, but when and if he does I’ll be there to nurture it.  For now, he’s content just to be there, finally comfortable in his own skin and free from the clutter of everyday life.  No confusion, no anxiety, no heart wiggles.

While Coulter’s preoccupation with mountains may be more clinical than mine, it’s one I’m glad we share.

———-

RELATED LINKS
Forrest Gladding

 

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.

 

Staying connected in the outdoors may require uplugging yourself

The following originally appeared in the September 17 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

by Clint Thomsen

From the top of Deseret Peak in the Stansbury Mountains, the communities in Tooele Valley look like tiny collections of etched traces and capacitors on a vast computer circuit board.  That was one of my first impressions of the view when I crested the 11,030 foot peak last summer.

There’s a reason why topographically prominent peaks—called “ultras” in peak bagging circles—are the most sought after summits.    In addition to elevation, ultras have high independent stature.  So they offer the best views and the most tangible sense of isolation.  Deseret Peak is one of just 57 ultras in the lower 48 states.

I had driven 8 miles up a canyon and hiked 3.25 miles, climbing 3,613 feet via switchback and rubble fields to reach this jagged quartzite platform.  If I wasn’t on top of the world, I was sure close.  Exhausted and satisfied, I threw down my pack and sat at the edge of the summit to ponder my feat.

After chugging a bottle of water, I reached for my cell phone, which doubled as my watch.  As I turned it on, I was surprised to see that I had full service—both voice and data.  Instinctively I checked my email.  Then I called my wife, Googled some information about the return trail, checked my work email, and read the latest news.

By this time, my hiking companions had also discovered this miracle of connectivity and were calling spouses and dialing up info too.  Others were busily checking pedometers, shooting video, and programming GPS receivers.  For a little while, Deseret Peak was a regular cyber café.

While the knowledge that I had this technological lifeline in one of the most remote and dangerous places in the county was truly a comfort, I felt like the whole internet part of it was somehow wrong.  Not morally wrong, but out-of-place wrong– like listening to Christmas music in July or drinking milk from a Coke can.  I couldn’t help but feel like I had violated some unwritten outdoor code.

Part of me wished I would have left the phone on my belt.  The other part spent a good chunk of the return hike wondering what other cool gadgets I could employ in the wilderness.

Aside from my wife, Meadow, I have two other loves: the outdoors and technology.  Regular readers of this column are no doubt aware of the first.  And when I’m not outside (or at work or changing diapers), I spend what little free time remains in front of a laptop—shopping online, reading news, and drooling over electronic gadgets I’ll never be able to afford.

Meadow says I’m addicted to computers, to the internet, to my phone.  I assure her I can stop at any time, that I’m in complete control.  She remains unconvinced.

Despite what some may think, technology and the outdoors often complement each other nicely.  I blog, Facebook, and tweet—mostly about the outdoors.   I do most of my research online and I get many outdoors ideas from online forums.

In the field, who can argue against the benefits of GPS and the ability to call for help in emergency situations?  And if you can check email and stream YouTube– all the better, right?

Some outdoor purists consider these assets as cheating.  They argue that wilderness should be experienced solely on its own terms.  The tougher the mental and physical challenge, the greater the reward.

I get the idea,  but I wonder if experiencing nature in full is always practical or even desirable.  The great explorers and pioneers were more in tune with nature than I’ll ever be, yet they probably would have given anything to enjoy modern technological conveniences.

We casual adventurers sometimes forget that while our predecessors enjoyed the wild, more often than not they were there out of necessity, not hobby.  They aimed more to survive nature than to fawn over it.

Still– if only at the subconscious level– their connection with the mountains, trees, and trails must have given them a certain fulfillment that the modern outdoorsman can only attain in fleeting bits and pieces.

I’m not an ideologue when it comes to these matters.  If my goal is to experience nature in the raw, I ditch the gadgetry.  If the kids are along, it’s got a dedicated pocket for it in my pack, with extra batteries.  The point isn’t to abandon technology altogether.  It’s to prevent the entertainment aspects of it from overshadowing the greater outdoor experience.

I’ll admit that balancing the organic experience with the digital isn’t always easy.  It’s difficult for me to check my tech tendencies at the trailhead.  If I’ve got a connection and I start using it, I tend to focus on it until my head is completely in cyberspace (though I of course remain in complete control).

I faced such a temptation last month on a hike in the Deseret Peak Wilderness area.  I was delighted when, after a 3.4 mile hike to South Willow Lake, I pulled out the smartphone and noticed I had full data coverage.

I had made the hike with the Transcript Bulletin’s editor, Jeff Barrus and our sons.  When we reached the lake, the boys happily waded into its shallows.  The view of the 10,685 foot glacial cirque surrounding it was amazing.  I sat down on a large boulder on the lake’s shore.  My first thought: How cool would it be to post a Twitter update from up here!

I fired up my web browser and feverishly navigated to the Twitter home page before finally catching myself, remembering Deseret Peak.  I assured myself that I would thoroughly document the hike online, but later.  Right now it would be, well, just wrong!  I put the phone away and didn’t get it back out that night.  And I didn’t even open my laptop until the next day.  Funny how that worked.

 

It’s fall, so bring on the desert!

Temperatures here in Utah have been nice so far, but they’ll be dropping soon.  Summer’s officially over, and with snow soon to fall in the higher elevations (could happen as soon as Wednesday), my outdoors focus shifts from the mountains to the deserts.

Floating Island-- photograph's don't do the mirage justice. (photo by Clint Thomsen)

I took this picture on Saturday.  It’s a mountain appropriately called Floating Island, and it’s one of the coolest optical illusions I’ve ever seen.  Floating Island is part of the Silver Island Range.  While driving either direction on I-80 near mile marker 20, the range appears to part like Moses’ Red Sea, with Floating Island drifting eastward until it seems to hover a good distance from the rest of the solid range.

The “floating” effect is created by a combination of empty distance and flat land nearly perfectly aligned with the curvature of the planet. From the vantage point of highway, Floating Island’s base is behind the curve and thus is not visible.

I visited this island once a couple years ago and wrote about it here.

The desert is a strange, wonderful place.  Here’s to a new season of exploring it!

 

A quick Sunday visit to Clover Spring

This afternoon the kids and I took a drive over Johnson’s Pass in the Stansbury’s.  We stopped at the Clover Spring Campground to do some exploring.  I’ve passed by this place many times but never stopped.  The campground is situated in a drab pinyon/juniper forest at 6,000 feet on the Rush Valley side of the pass.  You wouldn’t expect to see a crisp mountain stream here.  You’ve got to look for it, but it’s there.  I snapped this picture of Miss Ella.

 

Jewel of the Stansbury’s: Late-summer hike to South Willow Lake, while grueling, is worth the trek (part 2 of 2)

The following is the second in a 2-part series about my recent hike to South Willow Lake in the Stansbury Mountains.  It appeared in the September 8, 2009 edition of the newspaper as a single feature, but due to its length I’ve decided to post it here in two parts.

Bridger, Weston, and Real take it easy in Jeff's hammock, which he got in Bali 10 years ago, and which ripped apart shortly after this picture was taken (photo by Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

Mining Fork Road ends as the canyon opens into a bowl.  The cirque, which is informally referred to as South Willow Peak, is constantly visible from this point.  The trail continues toward it as a single track, passing through hilly meadows trod by grazing cattle (grazing is permitted in wilderness areas).

“See those cliffs up there?”  Jeff pointed our trail-weary boys toward the rocky summit.  “That’s where we’re going.”

Large geographical features make lousy mental gauges because they never appear to get closer or farther away.  The steepening slope and air that seemed noticeably thinner with each step helped bring the “physical and mental challenge” aspect of the wilderness to the forefront.  The rocks and sticks Bridger and Weston kept adding to my
pockets and tethering to my pack probably helped with that too.

The boys did better on this final leg than we had anticipated. Whether their minds had finally synced with the terrain or their conversations about cartoons distracted them sufficiently from the trail, we couldn’t tell.

When we finally reached the lake’s southern shore, the boys immediately waded in.  Intent on building a raft, they began gathering driftwood while Jeff and I located his favorite camping spot. Bridger, Weston, and I would be hiking back down that evening.  Jeff and Real would be spending the night.

“This place looks the same as it did thirty years ago,” Jeff remarked.

The lake was modest, but beautiful in its surroundings.  Its waters were chameleon, taking on different colors at different angles.  At surface level it reflected the forest green of the limber pines along its shores.  Walking around the lake and over a hill, it ranged from olive to camouflage gray to deep blue.

A large snowfield remained tucked in a deep recess of the cirque’s 1,500 foot escarpment.  Long black streaks marked the paths of small seasonal waterfalls.  The lake’s simple beauty had made the hike more than worthwhile.

The boys forsook their raft building effort to build a fire in camp. Despite the grueling hike, they never sat down, choosing instead to scavenge for tinder and various other items to burn.  When evening fell, they bristled at the thought of leaving the lake.

The descent offered continuous views of Tooele Valley below with the Oquirrh and Wasatch ranges in the distance.  Dozens of grazing cattle watched us from the meadows.  Though the forest was draped in shadow, the bright daytime sky above its canopy made created a strange, almost eerie contrast.

Back at the trailhead, the boys seemed none worse for the wear, their enthusiasm for the lake completely overshadowing thoughts of the difficult hike.  Darkness fell as we packed up the car.  A certain crispness in the air reminded me that autumn was on its way.  We probably won’t make it up to the lake again this year, but it’s ok.
The giant cirque and its chameleon pool have existed for millennia. It will still be there next year.

For detailed information about the Deseret Peak Wilderness and
destinations within, call (801) 466-6411 or visit
www.fs.fed.us/r4/uwc/.

——

Click here for part 1 of this story, or here to read the whole thing in the paper.

 

Jewel of the Stansbury’s: Late-summer hike to South Willow Lake, while grueling, is worth the trek (part 1 of 2)

How’s that for a long title, huh?  The following is part 1 of a 2-part series about my recent hike to South Willow Lake in the Stansbury Mountains.  It appeared in the September 8, 2009 edition of the newspaper as a single feature, but due to its length I’ve decided to post it here in two parts.

At 9,160 feet, South Willow Lake lies at the foot of this unnamed glacial cirque (photo by Clint Thomsen)

by Clint Thomsen

It’s evening in the quiet canyon.   A squirrel darts across the narrow dirt road, taking watchful refuge in the rocks of the dry streambed beside it.  Tall pines sway slightly in a breeze undetectable at trail level.  The sun has fallen behind the broad glacial cirque that towers at the canyon’s head, its rays vacated, supplanted now by shadow.

From the meadows at the end of the Mining Fork Road, the view of the unnamed 10,685 foot monolith is arresting.  It’s also downright deceiving.  Because having both climbed and descended its approach today, your legs and feet know it’s much further away than your eyes perceive it to be.

Nestled at the foot of the cirque is a small alpine lake visible only from its shores.  Unlike the massif that cradles it, this glassy pool has an official name—South Willow Lake.  If Deseret Peak and its neighboring summits are the crown of the Stansbury Mountains, South Willow Lake is its jewel.

The peaks and lake are part of the 25,212 acre Deseret Peak Wilderness, created in 1984 by the Utah Wilderness Act.  Among the primary goals of its establishment were the preservation of the land’s wilderness character, protection of watersheds and wildlife habitat, encouragement primitive recreation, and the promotion of physical and mental challenge.

“Basically,” explained National Forest Service Environmental Coordinator Steve Scheid, “The designation allows you to go out and experience nature on its own terms.”

Camping, hunting, backpacking, and horseback riding are allowed within wilderness boundaries, but some restrictions apply.  Commercial guiding and outfitting are prohibited.  Mechanical transport of any kind is also prohibited.  This includes everything from bicycles to motorized vehicles of any type.

Two major routes lead to South Willow Lake.  The more publicized of the two reaches the lake via the Mill Fork Trail and Pockets Fork in South Willow Canyon.  This hike is 7 miles round trip with 1,630 feet of elevation gain.

The second, more direct route is slightly shorter and considerably steeper.  It begins at the Medina Flat Trailhead in South Willow Canyon and cuts over a ridge into Mining Fork, where it follows Mining Fork Road and trail to the lake.  This hike is roughly 6.8 miles round trip with 2,540 feet of elevation gain.

Last weekend the Transcript Bulletin’s editor, Jeff Barrus, and I hiked to the lake with our sons along the latter route.  For Bridger (8), Weston (6), me, and Jeff’s son, Real (8), this trek would be a first.  Jeff had been hiking to the lake since he was in his teens. He relished memories of care-free days and nights on the lake’s shores and was excited for Real to experience this rite of passage.

We got a mid-morning start from the Medina Flat trailhead.  Jeff and I knew the hike would probably take longer than normal because the boys are so young.  They began to prove us correct when they stopped about 100 feet—again at about 150 feet—then again at about 200 feet past the trailhead—trying to catch lizards and grasshoppers.

After about 1/3 mile, the Medina Flat trail met Mining Fork Road, a slender double track that Forest Service employees speculate was blazed during World War II, since most of the ore taken from the mines went toward the war effort.

The road traces the canyon bottom through stands of fir, spruce, and aspen, passing the tin roof sheets and deteriorating planks of collapsed mining cabins along the way.  Steep canyon walls and dense vegetation gave this stretch of the hike a certain tight, though not claustrophobic feel.

Because the road climbed steadily on a moderately steep grade, we stopped often to rest.  Early on, the boys spent these pit stops chasing each other down and back up the trail and lobbing boulders—the bigger the better—into the stream bed.  Only after the first couple miles did they begin to comprehend the concept of conserving energy.

—–

Stay tuned for part 2 tomorrow, or check out the full article and Meagan Burr’s excellent photos of the lake at the Transcript Bulletin’s website.

 

A little clip I like to call “South Willow Lake”

The trek to South Willow lake is anything but boring.  From the overgrown mining road running through an old-growth pine forest to the hidden lake at the foot of the massive glacial cirque, it’s a long and rewarding hike.  The lake sits at 9,110 feet above sea level.  The boys and I hiked there yesterday.  Below is a short video clip I took of the area:

I apologize for the quality of this video. If anybody’s got any good tips on creating a decent-looking YouTube vid from mid-sized .avi’s, let me know…