Writing ain’t easy.  When writers say they love writing, most of them are talking about a very specific stage of the process—that magical moment of clarity that I call “The Zone”—when everything starts to gel and thoughts begin to flow smoothly from cerebrum to keyboard.   It’s the writing equivalent of a runner’s high.

Legendary nonfiction writer John McPhee put it well in a 2010 radio interview with NPR:

“What I do is go through the miserable business of a first draft, which is just, you know, masochism, and when I get it done, there’s a bit of a change comes over me, as I get a little calmer about what I’m doing.”

For a lucky few writers, The Zone comes quickly.  For the rest of us, it lies near the end of the ordeal, often just shy of deadline, when the 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper is just about gone and the kids are ready to trade their old Dad in for a less frazzled, non-deranged model.

When it finally comes, The Zone is heaven.  Most everything leading up to it—second guessing on sentence arrangement, the trial and error of cadence, the simple point that should take minutes to articulate on paper but inevitably takes hours—is hell (hence all the procrastination, rationalization, and distraction beforehand).

A typical writing project for me goes something like this:

1. Conduct interviews early on and research like mad, making awesome lists and notes, which I’ll read through repeatedly.  (I’m quite pleased with my performance at this stage.)
2. Wait until the last moment possible to begin writing, then justify the procrastination by rationalizing that my extra effort in research will make the writing process painless.
3. Grab a Diet Dr. Pepper.  Sit in my writing spot and stare at the blank Word doc.
4. Plink out a couple draft sentences.  Check my email.  Think about the movie I saw last night, wondering what other movies the lead actress has starred in because she seems so familiar.  Check IMDB.com and discover that, oh yeah, she was the voice of such and such character in that one cartoon, which is why I recognized the voice but not the face.  Makes sense now.
5. Back to the Word doc.  Decide the couple draft sentences I plinked out 30 minutes ago are garbage and delete them.  Plink out a couple more.  Wonder if there’s a better adjective for the second sentence.  Decide on an alternative adjective, only to remember I just used that one in a piece last week.  Am I using that adjective is a crutch?  Search past published articles and find that yes, I did use that last week.  Dang, it is a crutch.  What would Thesaurus.com suggest?  Is that the new HTC phone being advertised on Thesaurus.com?  That’s the phone my friend Tyler has, I think.  Check HTC.com to make sure.  Yep.  And it has a 12 megapixel camera, too.  I think I read a review of that phone somewhere…
6. Back to the Word doc.  Compose my lead paragraph, then agonize over it.  This calls for another Diet Dr. Pepper.  And a Pop Tart.  Better check email again, just in case my source had some last minute thoughts.  Nope, but it looks like Tyler wants to go to that German place downtown for lunch tomorrow.  Should be cold and snowy tomorrow—perfect weather for German food!  I’ll probably order the spätzle.  Good stuff.  I wonder how they make it?
7. Back to the draft because even my most optimistic analysis of my remaining time says I’ll be cutting it close.  Bribe my brain to focus by promising a break after I finish the next 3 outline points.
8. Realize after finishing the 5^th outline point that my break’s overdue.  But that’s okay, because I’ve now entered The Zone.  It’s all downhill from here.  I love this writing thing!

If there’s a shortcut to The Zone, I have yet to discover it.  I’m writing a piece for the Transcript Bulletin today and tomorrow (or maybe tonight and tomorrow—or just tomorrow) and I’m formulating my strategy.  Perhaps writing this post about the Dreadful Trinity will help to inoculate me against it.  And I might try disabling the WiFi before getting started.  Right after I grab a Diet Dr. Pepper, check my email, and watch that hilarious SpongeBob episode one last time.

WDARC was established in 1995 as a local arm of the Utah Amateur Radio Club. Its mission is to provide education and foster a mentoring atmosphere for ham radio. The club boasts nearly 50 members — and each has their own story.

This article originally appeared in the November 10, 2011 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

Amateur radio operator Ray Riding twists the tuning dial of the Tooele County Emergency Operations Center’s high frequency radio, catching sporadic strings of human voice as he scans the 20 meter band. The voices phase in and out of the white noise like mini movements in an ethereal symphony. It’s music to the radio lover’s ears.

Sitting next to Riding, fellow amateur operator Richard Shaw keys a repeater code into another radio while another ham, Doug Higley, translates their radio lingo into plain English. The three men are members of the West Desert Amateur Radio Club (WDARC), which promotes amateur — or “ham” — radio in Tooele County.

“CQ, CQ, KC7GMN,” calls Shaw over the air via a repeater on Farnsworth Peak. (KC7GMN is Shaw’s call sign. ‘CQ’ is a general call for contact.) It’s time, as hams say, to “chew the rag.”

Amateur radio traces its roots back to the early 20th century when private citizens began experimenting with radio transmission and wireless messaging using Morse code. The pastime continues today as both a hobby and a bastion of volunteer and emergency communication. According to Shaw, WDARC’s current president, there are more than 260 licensed amateur radio operators in Tooele County.

Exactly how the craft became known as “ham radio” is uncertain. “Ham” could be an abbreviation of “amateur,” but most hams agree that the moniker originated as a taunt from military professionals.

“Back when radio was just starting out,” explained Shaw, “the military were the ones that used it. When private individuals started transmitting with crude equipment, the military made fun of them, saying snidely, ‘They’re just a bunch of hams.’ But everybody who was private took that as a badge of honor.”

Beginning with the Radio Act of 1912, ham radio operation was licensed by the Federal Communications Commission. Currently there are three license classes: general, technician, and amateur extra. Ham radio is strictly non-commercial. Aside from emergency communications, ham transmissions consist mostly of short contacts and “rag chewing,” the ham term for casual conversation. Many hams also volunteer to provide communication infrastructure to races and other public events.

WDARC was established in 1995 as a local arm of the Utah Amateur Radio Club. Its mission is to provide education and foster a mentoring atmosphere for ham radio. The club boasts nearly 50 members — and each has their own story.

Shaw fell in love with radio at age 10 when he and his older brother received crystal radio kits for Christmas. A crystal receiver is a simple radio built primarily of wire and a crystalline mineral, powered only by radio waves in the air. Transmissions are heard through a single earbud. Shaw and his brother built their kits that very day and spent many hours listening to KDYL and KSL — the only stations they could pick up reliably from their home in Murray.

“On Sundays we’d kick it on before church and listen to the [Mormon] Tabernacle Choir,” Shaw recalled. “Mother would be listening to it upstairs on an AM radio, but we were downstairs listening to it through our little earbuds. It was a very pure form of radio.”

Riding (call sign AC7RR) has always been fascinated by radio, but his interest in emergency communications stems from a 1978 incident when he was the first responder to an auto-pedestrian accident on SR-89 in Weber County. Radio was the only form of mobile communication back then, and Riding used his Citizens’ Band radio to call for help.

“That’s why I always want to have a radio with me,” he said.

Riding is vice president of WDARC and currently serves as the Amateur Radio Emergency Service (ARES) Emergency Coordinator for Tooele County. In the event that established government emergency communications fail, Riding will spearhead backup amateur network to temporarily bridge the gap.

Ham operators also form the backbone of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints’ emergency communications network. Volunteer ham operators representing each ward and stake are on constant standby to facilitate communications and welfare supply delivery during disasters. During a major 1994 wildfire in Skull Valley, Shaw participated in an LDS Church-led operation to establish a communication network and full-service shelter. Though the shelter was ultimately not used, Shaw considers it a testament to the effectiveness of ham radio.

Beyond emergency communications, ham radio is the model of technical experimentation and do-it-yourself electronics. Hams have made considerable contributions to the fields of science, engineering and aerospace. Numerous innovators in the technology and media industries got their start in ham radio, and most astronauts are licensed. Hams were using satellites to boost their communication as early as 1961. In the 1970s they pioneered packet radio, a precursor to modern computer networks and the Internet. In turn, ham radio incorporates modern Internet technology to extend its range and capabilities. The Internet Radio Linking Project (IRLP) enables the linking of stations worldwide via Voice over IP. Higley (KD7FXS) believes that IRLP is a key to sustained enthusiasm for ham radio.

“Basically that gives you worldwide communication — and you have access to that at entry level,” he said.

Back at the EOC, a ham in Bountiful with call sign KF7MTE responds to Shaw’s CQ call and spends several minutes chatting about equipment and getting started with ham radio. This kind of talk is typical, as are conversations about weather, traffic, news relevant to ham radio and other pleasantries.

Shaw said getting licensed can be quick and relatively inexpensive. WDARC meets monthly at the EOC and sponsors two training courses per year for newcomers. The club encourages anybody interested to contact them about training. Potential amateur radio operators must pass a multiple choice exam to prove their knowledge of radio operation and FCC regulations. There is no age limit. According to Shaw, the youngest ham operator in Tooele County is 14 years old. Equipment costs vary according to need and interest.

Listening to the WDARC guys, it’s difficult to identify a single source of their passion. Many are attracted to the emergency service aspects of ham radio. Others are drawn by a sense of community. Some crave long-distance contact and competition. Riding described ham radio as a hobby with many sub-hobbies, offering the example of building “homebrewed” radios.

“You’ll have extremely low power operations where they’ll build a transmitter out of an Altoids can or a tuna can,” he said.

Underlying all of these interests seems to be a wide-eyed fascination with the radio phenomenon and a desire to harness its potential.

“RF [Radio Frequency] is out there, and radio is a way to capture it,” Shaw explained. “Amateur radio lets you control it.”

Image courtesy NASA

KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, Friday, July 8, 2011—

It’s 10:30 AM.  Or so– I’m not sure because not one of my thousand glances at my cell phone’s clock has actually registered in my head.  I blame the dizzying potpourri of emotions that overwhelm me at the moment—anxiety, guarded elation, sweeping nostalgia, sorrow—and a few more I can’t exactly pin down.  I play it cool, but my mind is racing.  I wish I had paid better attention to those high school lessons on weather radar echo.  I wish I would have brought my tripod.  I wish I hadn’t forgotten to eat the sausage McMuffin I picked up on the way here.  Mainly, though, like the million other people who have converged on Florida’s Space Coast this morning, I wish the sky would clear up.  At least for another hour or so.

Dad, Mom, and my young sons Boo and West sit with me along the narrow causeway that connects the Kennedy Space Center to Cape Canaveral across the Banana River.  Northward across the water, the Space Shuttle Atlantis launch stack towers over the installation’s legendary Launch Complex 39.  Atlantis is scheduled to launch at 11:26 AM, weather permitting.  This will be her final mission and the last of the shuttle program altogether.

“This is a big deal, guys,” I tell Boo, 10, and West, 8, confident that they’ll someday come to realize the magnitude of the event.

Communications between the shuttle and Launch Control echo from tall speaker posts that line the causeway.  I have no idea what they’re saying, but hearing it makes me feel informed.  A commentator chimes in occasionally to repeat the weather forecast, which hasn’t budged in three days: a 70% chance of unfavorable conditions at launch time.  The tragic irony of making a multi-day pilgrimage to the world’s space launch epicenter, only to watch it on TV in our living room later this weekend, does not escape me.  Were the launch scheduled for this moment, the commentator now adds, we’d be “no go” for launch.

Yet Atlantis stands dutifully, eagerly, in the distance as her four member crew finalizes launch preparations.  I can hear it in their voices; they’re pumped, assured, and ready for whatever the countdown brings.  As the minutes pass the boys and I take turns watching the launch stack through Dad’s binoculars.  I’m proud of Atlantis.  32 flights over 26 years of service—that’s a pretty good run.  I’m proud of her crerw, proud of the voices echoing from the speaker posts, proud of America.

Thirty minutes to go (suddenly I’m keenly aware of time).

Were I to classify my interest in space, I’d call it casual, yet enduring.  I’m no expert on the cosmos, but I’ve looked to them in awe for as long as I can remember.  As a kid, my favorite TV shows were invariably space-centric.  When I wasn’t sketching space ships, I was playing Asteroids on my Atari 2600 or scanning the night skies for satellites.  I watched space shuttle mission coverage whenever I had a chance.  And like many of my generation, I’ll never forget the horror of watching Space Shuttle Challenger explode on our elementary classroom TV.

Space was a dangerous place.  A dangerous, mind-boggling, wonderful place.

Though I haven’t fanatically followed the space shuttle program, its imminent end is jarring to me.  It’s not like the program’s retirement snuck up on me (it was mandated back in 2004).  But the announcement of its planned successor, the Constellation Program, made the shuttle’s retirement palatable.  Not only would Constellation continue to service the International Space Station, it would send astronauts back to the moon, then Mars and beyond.  For fans of manned spaceflight (and the contractors who would make it happen), the future looked exceptionally bright.

But President Obama’s abrupt cancellation of the program last year left little time for the space community and the American public to come to terms with what will amount to, at the very least, an extended hiatus from homegrown manned spaceflight.  We’ve abandoned an expensive, yet proven spacecraft without a viable replacement.  Once Atlantis returns to Earth on July 21, America’s manned space program will amount to little more than a bunch of abstract plans and concept art.

NASA insists that its future is still bright, and they’ve got a valid point.  There were the three successful Mars rover missions.  The IIS is bustling and several private companies are racing to develop spacecraft to service it.  Even as the clock ticks down to this morning’s launch, NASA’s Dawn probe is approaching the asteroid Vesta.  A week from now it will become the first spacecraft to enter orbit around an object in the main asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter.  Exciting stuff, to be sure.

Still, there’s something to be said for human space exploration.  Space is the “final frontier” only because mankind has dared to explore it in person.   Any study of the cosmos—no matter how rote or scientific—says more about us than it does about our universe.  Take man out of space and you eliminate the most interesting aspect of space.  Robotic missions will never carry the symbolic force that manned missions have.  Hopefully somebody somewhere understands this.

These are the thoughts that filter through my mind as we wait for the next weather update.  Before it comes, the small slivers of blue in the sky suddenly widen and the outside temperature jumps emphatically.  The commentator is now “cautiously optimistic.”  Even he seems amazed at the turnaround.  The collective mood at the causeway is lifted.  By 11:00 Atlantis is unofficially “GO” for launch.  The crowd cheers.  The official call will be made at T minus 9 minutes.  All eyes are trained on the launch stack.  The excitement is as intense as the humidity.

T minus 9 minutes: Atlantis is officially “GO” for launch.  I’m starting to understand the audio from the speakers.  Boo and West are mesmerized.  The last minutes pass quickly.

T minus 10 seconds: The familiar voice begins final countdown.  The crowd counts along with him.  Atlantis ignites her main engines and the two solid boosters follow.  Atlantis lifts off, seemingly in slow motion, clearing the tower with a bright orange glare and a billowing wake.  She disappears into the upper layer of clouds before the thundering sounds of its launch finally reach the causeway.

From the loudspeakers: “The space shuttle spreads its wings one final time for the start of a sentimental journey into history.”

Within an hour the sky is again dark with pregnant clouds.  For all I know, this happens with every launch down here.  I’d like to think this morning is unique, that we’ve hit a fortuitous window of opportunity that closed almost as quickly as it opened.  There’s a metaphor somewhere in all of this, but I’m too stoked to flesh it out.  The boys sketch pictures of the launch on the bus ride back to Merritt Island.  I listen to the audio transmissions on my scanner until we’re out of range.  I close my cell phone’s weather app—it’ll be a while before I need it again.

Atlantis is scheduled to land at Kennedy Space Center tomorrow, 7/21/2011, at 5:56:58 a.m. EDT.  Weather permitting, of course.

It’s so wonderfully charming when it first shows up and it turns the whole world into a magical wonderland. But by the end of March/early April it simply will not go away. It won’t listen to reason or acknowledge the obvious- that the Equinox is past, Spring has begun, and your relationship is over.

Winter, we are done. What we had was truly wonderful. But it’s over; we’ve grown apart, and it’s time for both of us to move on. I need to bike and camp and sit out on the deck, and you need to go see the penguins down in Antarctica or do whatever the hell it is you do the rest of the year.

Watcher’s analogies are unmatched. You really must click over and read the whole post in all of it’s fed up glory:

How A Utah Winter Is Like A Crazy-Stalker-Ex-Girlfriend

This opportunity is a dream come true, and I’m amazed at how things fell into place.  I’ve been enamored– nay, obsessed– with ghost towns for well over a decade.  I’m excited to share this passion in book form.

I’ll post more about this in the coming weeks, but I wanted to take an opportunity to crowd-source a little.

For various reasons, I’ve narrowed the focus of this book to ghost towns from the Old West era.  The goal– to explore the concept in an Old West context: What are ghost towns?  How did they rise and why did they fall?  What’s the secret of their appeal?

To that end, the book profiles several key western ghost towns in detail and many others in partial detail.  It will include lists and as many photos as I can pack in.  The detailed profiles are done, but I have room for a few more mentions and thought I’d ask your opinion before finishing up.

So here are my questions to you:  If you were to list your favorite ghost towns, which would you include?  Why?  Is there a town you’ve been fascinated with but is virtually unknown or underrated?  What’s the most photogenic ghost town?  The most bizarre?  The most intact?

Feel free to comment here or email me at bonnevillemariner@gmail.com.

I look forward to your replies!

I say this because although I consider myself an avid outdoorsman, navigation has never been a strong point for me. Give me my GPS and I’m a regular Ferdinand Magellan, but I can hardly find my own car in the Wal-Mart parking lot without satellite assistance. Airdrop me into the West Desert without my smartphone and I’m doomed.

So what’s a navigationally-challenged outdoorsman to do? Is my dependence on modern gadgets short circuiting my intrinsic connection with nature? Is it really possible for me to find my way around this world using little more than my own senses?

English adventurer and author Tristan Gooley has the answers, and he explains everything in “The Natural Navigator: A Watchful Explorer’s Guide to a Nearly Forgotten Skill.”

“Natural navigation is one of the rarest arts on the planet,” writes Gooley in his introduction, lamenting the fact that modern culture has reduced the concept to a bag of tricks relegated to survival situations.

Though the veteran adventurer concedes that the ability to find one’s way using nature is not essential to everyday life, its practice is the key to communing with our surroundings and the philosophy behind it is as relevant as ever.

Thus, “The Natural Navigator” seeks foremost to prove that relevance. Though replete with information, tips and diagrams, this is not an exhaustive handbook. There are no bulleted lists or organized instructions. In fact, the book reads more like an informative yarn. Gooley forgoes a technical treatment of natural navigation skills, choosing instead to weave them almost lyrically—along with metaphors and historical factoids—into a larger philosophical framework.

It isn’t enough for Gooley to explain how to read the sun using a stick in the ground. To truly appreciate the method, one needs to know why it works, how it works, who used it for what, and when.

Gooley’s passion for the natural navigation is contagious. Frequent historical references are concise and relevant. His visually-oriented, layman’s approach to complex scientific processes of the earth and cosmos allows for seamless transitions to and from the various topics. Though some parts of the book seem overly philosophical, the narrative is an overall delight—a fitting ode to this all but forsaken art.

Has Gooley convinced me to leave the GPS at home the next time I head for the hills? Not quite yet—changing one’s navigational paradigm doesn’t happen overnight. But armed with the philosophical basics of natural navigation, my next outing will be extra rewarding.

For more information on the book and author Tristan Gooley, visit his website at www.naturalnavigator.com.

To read about my hapless attempt at orienteering, check out Orienteering provides old-school test of speed and smarts.

Mention Iosepa and most people think of the modern steel pavilion that dominates the site. For others, the tidy cemetery comes to mind. Few, if any, consider of the large, pear-shaped pond across the highway. That’s too bad, because it’s one part of Iosepa that remains almost perfectly intact—physically and maybe biologically.

Yep, it's there: Kanaka Lake at sunrise (photo by Clint Thomsen)

The following originally appeared, without tangents and nested tangents, in the November 11, 2010 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

It was still dark when Tyler and I rolled onto the banks of Skull Valley’s Rock Bottom Spring.  From here the rutted double track we had been following veered sharply eastward.  Our destination, an unassuming pool called Kanaka Lake, was another half mile due south.  We’d have to park and hike the last leg, but that was fine by us.  What better way to arrive at our favorite Hawaiian ghost town?

“Hmm, coats would have been nice,” Tyler quipped when we were met by the frigid, pre-dawn air.

Ah yes, coats.  Of all the things to forget.  I blamed this year’s extra long autumn for the lapse.  Note to self: the desert gets very cold at night.  The flannel shirt won’t cut it anymore.  Tyler, whose light jacket was also not cutting it, made a similar note.  At least there was no wind.

We hopped a wide ditch and trudged into the darkness, our limbs warmed by movement, our hearts by the prospect of adventure.  Tyler and I have spent a lot of time exploring desert places, but we had never seen this outlying corner of Iosepa up close.  As far as we were concerned, this was uncharted territory.

Though it existed for a brief 28 years, Iosepa occupies a revered spot in Tooele County’s history.  Its story of faith and resolve has captured hearts worldwide.  The town was settled in 1889 by Hawaiian converts to the LDS Church who had moved from the islands to Utah.  Built on a working 1,280 acre ranch purchased by the church, the new colony would become a cultural and economic sanctuary for the Polynesian pioneers.  At its peak, 228 people called Iosepa home.

The town was abandoned in 1917 when all but one family returned to Hawaii to support a newly announced temple there.  The ranch was sold and the buildings were dismantled.  The entire town site was later plowed.  Today, virtually nothing remains of the town that in 1911 held the designation of “best kept and most progressive city” in Utah.

Despite the interest Iosepa generates today, not much is known about day-to-day life there.  Not even the remarkably preserved cemetery can tell us much about how these extreme pioneers lived.  In 2008, archaeologist Benjamin Pykles and a team of New York anthropology students began an ongoing study of the town site.

Regular readers of this column know of my own efforts to help connect the dots of Iosepa’s past.  In 2008, Tyler and I located and documented what the old timers called Story Rock, a limestone slab carved with images of palm trees, sea turtles and sharks.  I often reflect on those petroglyphs and the Hawaiians that carved them.  Who were these people who traded their island home for an unforgiving desert?  What were their dreams?  How did they spend their spare time?

Mention Iosepa and most people think of the modern steel pavilion that dominates the site.  For others, the tidy cemetery comes to mind.  Few, if any, consider of the large, pear-shaped pond across the highway.  That’s too bad, because it’s one part of Iosepa that remains almost perfectly intact—physically and maybe biologically.

The “lake” is a pooling of one or more geothermal springs and part of the extensive wetland system that spans the length of Skull Valley.  Kanaka’s warm, brackish water never freezes and is suitable for livestock drinking.  Carp planted by the Hawaiians thrived in its shallows.  Modern critics who question the Hawaiians’ choice to settle in such a seemingly inhospitable clime need look no further than Kanaka Lake.

The lake was also a recreation hub for the Iosepans.  If Salt Mountain was their island, Kanaka Lake was their Pacific.  Summer days were spent swimming and basking on its shores.  In his 1958 BYU Master’s thesis, Dennis Atkin noted that the Hawaiians caught carp by sneaking up behind the fish, gently stroking them along their sides, then grabbing them by their gills.

SIDE NOTE/TANGENT: The notion that the Iosepans ice skated on Kanaka has been perpetuated in several articles through the years. Atkin mentions ice skating in the same section of his thesis that he writes about Kanaka Lake.  It’s likely that some lazy writer falsely connected the two and everybody else ran with it.  Kanaka Lake is a warm spring.  It does not freeze.  This is just one more example of myth perpetuated by lazy writers.

NESTED TANGENT: There is no documented evidence of the Iosepans ever referring to the lake as “Kanaka Lake.”  The term “Kanaka” is Hawaiian for ‘people’ or ‘person.’  Outsiders often referred to the Iosepans as “the Kanakas” and Iosepa was known to most people as “Kanaka Ranch.”  It’s likely only the surrounding white settlers called the spring “Kanaka Lake.”  If the Hawaiians had an official name for it, it is not known to history.

Last July, Professor Pykles and I stood at his dig site and gazed down at Kanaka Lake.  Are there still carp in there, we wondered.  If so, are they of the same stock planted by the Iosepans?  Pykles wouldn’t have time to investigate the lake before he left.  Neither would I until fall, but if I could catch a carp, somehow deflesh it, and send its bones to New York, Pykles would see if they match the bones he unearthed during his dig.

I secured access from the Ensign Group who now owns the land.  The pressure was on.  I’m a decent angler until an article depends on it, and then I can’t catch anything.  My bad fishing luck has become a running chuckle in the newsroom.  The fishing part of this trip, I assured Tyler, was secondary to the actual experience of being where the Iosepans fished and played.

“But how hard could it be?” I asked as we approached the misty lake.  The atmosphere was surreal.

After almost a century without human encounter, surely these fish were up for a glittery ball of Power Bait.  We cast in as the sun peeked over Salt Mountain, but Kanaka’s surface was as still as glass.  Three hours passed without so much as a nibble.  The sun was up; it was t-shirt weather now.

Tyler decided to consult Google.  “When angling for carp, develop a patient approach,” he read from his phone, then shook his head.  “That’s bogus!  Haven’t you ever spit in the pond at Lagoon?”

“Maybe the Lagoon carp are tame,” I postured.  “Iosepa carp are wild.”

Wild and very picky.  We moved to the lake’s outlet where massive two-foot carp taunted us by zipping back and forth in water more shallow than they were tall.  Our varied baits and techniques were useless here too.  But we had answered our first question:  there were carp in Kanaka Lake.  The second would have to wait.  Like other Iosepa-related quests, success rarely comes on the first try.  It’s ok.  We’re persistent.  Those carp can’t run forever.

Many of this year’s episodes marked first-time experiences.  Some were as frustrating as they were enjoyable.  Others combined outdoor sport with investigative journalism in attempt to unravel forgotten histories.

King of the urban jungle: Me and my Heelys (photo by Meagan Burr)

The following originally appeared in the December 31, 2010 edition of the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

ON THE FLANKS of the Stansbury Mountains west of Grantsville stands a common U.S. Forest Service signboard.   Wooden and weathered, it marks the end of the 5 mile dirt road from town and the beginning of the 4 mile hiking trail that winds deep into West Canyon. A placard at the top reads “Travel Information.”  But ironically, save for a few staple-trapped shreds of bulletins long torn away, the signboard’s face is completely empty.

First-timers on West Canyon Trail no doubt bristle at the least informative information board in western Utah.  I chuckle, because it illustrates a certain recreational ambiguity in our neck of the desert.  Opportunities for outdoor fun here are countless, but despite commendable efforts by the Forest Service and other local agencies, most are poorly documented.  The purpose of this column is to highlight the unique experiences our vast back country has to offer.  I’m satisfied that 2010 saw a good number of tips, back-stories, and ideas tacked to the proverbial signboard.

Thanks for the info!

Many of this year’s episodes marked first-time experiences—like hunting for meteorites and handling live rattlesnakes.  Some– like getting skunked by carp in Kanaka Lake or by crawdads in Grantsville Reservoir—were as frustrating as they were enjoyable.  Others combined outdoor sport with investigative journalism in attempt to unravel forgotten histories.

Of the latter type, my favorite was an investigation of an old airmail beacon in the Oquirrh foothills above Lake Point.  The idea for the story was posed to be by a reader from Stansbury Park.  A pilot with a thing for historical recon, Brian Staheli often flew over the structure and wondered what it was.  Over the years I’ve come to realize that everything has a story, and this collection of concrete slabs shaped like a double-tailed arrow was no exception.

With a little research we identified the structure as Airway Beacon 61A, one of the last surviving remnants of the legendary U.S. Air Mail era.  The beacon, we discovered, was constructed circa 1923 and was a key point along two Contract Airmail Routes.  With the back-story mostly assembled, it was time for the real fun to begin.

A hike to the arrow gave us a close up look, but that wouldn’t cut it for either of us.  61A was built to be viewed from the air, and we’d do the old thing a grave disservice if we didn’t oblige.  So Brian borrowed a plane and I grabbed a camera.  We took off early and flew low and slow over the Great Salt Lake while we waited for the sun to hit the beacon.  After two passes, we realized we would need to fly even closer to get a decent photo.  This all-encompassing adventure reached its apex when Brian executed a brain-juggling maneuver called a “slip,” rapidly dropping us to 50 feet above ground level and giving me a square-on view of the arrow.

The money shot. Not the best photo in the world, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances.

Oh that I could take this full-on approach to every exploit!  Alas, exploring a concept from every possible angle is rarely feasible.  Fortunately, the simple, impromptu outings are often just as rewarding—especially when they involve the kids.  Each of my children has seen their fair share of back country, but my oldest sons Bridger, 9, and Weston, 7, have been my trustiest companions.

Of our adventures together in Tooele County this year, 13 made the column.  Aside from the comic relief, the boys bring a wide-eyed perspective to every excursion, allowing me to see the rocks and ridges the way I did when I was their age.  Nothing brings a smile to my face quite like a fireside conversation with them about space and dinosaurs and the icky girls at school.

Nothing breaks the ice like a campfire.  The boys and I build them whenever and wherever we can.  I like to think I’m planting seeds in them—nourishing, perhaps, that innate and symbiotic relationship between boy and wilderness.  I think they appreciate my efforts.  Both boys have sworn to be my buds forever—“even when we’re teenagers and we think you’re a dork.”

The boys

I may have already earned my dork badge last spring when I set out to master the art of skating in Heelys.  As it turns out, those hip shoes with removable wheels aren’t just for the youngins.  In fact, any parent willing to risk a little embarrassment can order a pair of adult-sized Heelys and join their kids on a glide through the urban jungle.  I wrote about my journey from crash course to semi-success in a March article and have steadily improved since.  I have yet to complete my outfit with a skull print hoody, but my wheeled wonder shoes are never too far from reach.

The Heelys saga highlights the varied nature of this year’s activities.  Looking back on this topical hodgepodge, no distinct patterns emerge, but several themes are woven prominently—though not deliberately—throughout.  For example, I’m apparently obsessed with the concept of technology in the outdoors.  This isn’t surprising, considering my devotion to both.  2011 will seriously test my ability to balance the convenience of tech against the exhilaration that comes from roughing it.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

Until then, I’ll close this retrospective by sharing a few handy tips I’ve picked up while afield this year:

15 minutes spent gazing at the stars does more for the mind and soul than four hours of yoga.  Take weather reports and online trail guides with a few grains of salt, but always trust your gut.  Dad was right—that ridge is steeper than it looks from the trail.  When old people tell you stories, pay attention.  And carry a tape recorder; they might not be around the next time you come calling.  Never back away from a rattlesnake that’s close enough to strike.  Despite your body’s relentless attempts to convince you otherwise, early morning is the best time to hike.  Always pack enough water—and don’t forget the bratwurst.

Thanks for reading, and have an adventurous 2011!

If you’re a regular reader, you may have noticed that It’s been quite some time since I re-posted any content from my newspaper column.  A few people have asked why, and I suppose a brief explanation is in order.

For just over three years I’ve written a (mostly) weekly outdoors column for my local newspaper, the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.  This has been an exhausting, but unbelievably rewarding undertaking.  It’s become a passion, and I think I’ve published some  insightful and worthwhile pieces through it’s course.

So it was with mixed emotion that I made the decision last fall to put the column on indefinite hiatus.

There are several reasons for this, one of which is a reassessment of sorts.  I found my literary muse a little late in the career game.  So far it’s been strictly a side gig, limited to ever-decreasing amounts of spare time.  But the column has given me a foot in the door, and I need to pause in order to explore opportunities to grow and expand.  Can a side career be made in campfire philosophy?  I don’t know, but I need to find out.

In that vein, I’ve begun one new venture– a history-related project with a focus on Old West ghost towns– and am laying the groundwork for another, which will take a hybrid/New Media approach to  Utah’s outdoors.

I’ll explain both of these projects in more detail as time goes on, and of course keep you updated on the column’s status.  In the meantime, I’ll continue to write regular features in the newspaper’s Hometown section, and  I’ve got a few more Outdoor Adventure articles to re-post here, including a 2010 retrospective from last week.