Call of the Wild

             I have a dark secret that I’m finally ready to share with all of you. I’m only telling you now because I think you deserve to know who has been writing all of the articles that you’ve been reading. This information will certainly shock even my parents, but I can’t keep it inside any longer. I was raised by wolves. “But you lived in a house with a family! I saw you interacting with your human siblings all the time!” some may say. Indeed, I had to keep up appearances…during the day anyway. When night fell, though, I would carefully creep out my window and reunite with my canine brethren. I learned how to prowl and hunt and blend in with my surroundings like a furry ninja. After moving away from the Oquirrh Mountain foothills ten years ago, I had to give up my wolfish ways and conform to civilized human society, which has been a long and hard struggle.

Lately, however, each successive time I hear a dog bark or look up at the waxing moon, the urge within me to race into the forest and disappear gains in intensity. I’ve decided to give in to my wilder side and stop denying my primal wolf instincts. It may take a while to readjust to a more survivalistic and physically demanding lifestyle, but I cannot ignore who I am any longer. I am a wolf trapped in a man’s body.

With that said, it stands to reason that I will become an unreliable human being and that I will not be able to continue writing my column about the great Utah outdoors. Given, I will probably have much better material to write about in the coming months than I have ever offered in any of my previous articles, but I will have spotty Internet access at best, plus wolves are slow to accept technology and any use of computers would warrant frowns and disapproving shakes of the head from the pack.

Thus, I bid you all adieu. It has been fun and oftentimes enlightening as I have explored my memories and made new ones in order to provide an entertaining and/or thought-provoking perspective of Utah’s expansive, natural playgrounds. As my last gift to you, I give you the rare opportunity to spot the elusive “Wolf-man,” who may be appearing at a well-stocked sheep ranch near you. May Utah’s vast landscapes always indulge your sense of wonder and continue to grant you priceless memories.

Though I choose to embrace a wolf’s way of life, I desire to keep a small shred of my humanity intact in the form of intermittent communications via blogging. As Internet access is limited and, as explained earlier, looked down upon by every wolf I know, I’m not sure how often I will be able to transmit my thoughts and experiences to you. Rest assured, though, that I will strive to do so. For access to my prose (and some poetry), past and future, feel free to visit www.gabeswritingworld.blogspot.com. In the case that you just want to ask a question or leave a comment for me, or if you need me to intercede for you concerning wolfish matters, write me at gabe.eberhard@gmail.com. Thank you all for being such great sports and for reading my random outdoors thoughts each week. Farewell!

Halloween in July

            It may not be Halloween yet, but it’s almost Pioneer Day, which in Utah is sort of like Halloween, except for adults and children in the Days of ’47 parade dress up like Mormon pioneers and throw candy at the crowd. Well, they used to throw candy. Apparently the Days of ’47 council has decided to ban candy for safety reasons. Anyway, the only reason I brought up Halloween is so I could tell a pioneer ghost story. A modern one.

            I participated in a “Pioneer Trek” about 15 years ago. All together there were about 20 adults and 70 teenagers involved in the trek. We were separated into groups of seven or eight teens with an adult “Ma” and “Pa” to lead us. Everyone dressed up in their best pioneer garb and each group had a handcart to simulate the traveling conditions of the pioneers. Over the course of four days we traversed a small section that the Mormon pioneers had trudged along somewhere in the vicinity of Fort Bridger, Wyoming.

            The second night of the trek we made camp near a small stream. As our campfire died down, my group decided to build a simple shelter out of a tarp for us to sleep under, just in case it rained that night. I placed my sleeping bag at the far end of the tarp, which also happened to make me the farthest from the fire. I took off my glasses and gladly snuggled into my sleeping bag. A full day of pulling a handcart had exhausted my body, but learning about the hardships of the early Mormons got me thinking about life in general and I stayed awake well after the others in my group had begun lightly snoring.

            About an hour went by and still I couldn’t sleep. At one point I rolled over onto my side to look at the glowing coals in the fire pit and, to my surprise, there was an adult sitting at the fire. I couldn’t make out much detail, because I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but I could tell that the person was wearing a white cowboy hat, a white jacket and white pants. And he seemed to be looking at me. I was afraid that it was another group’s “Pa,” and that I would get in trouble for being awake, so I rolled back over and pretended to be asleep.

            Ten minutes later I checked to see if the man was still there. As I slowly rolled onto my side I stopped short when I saw the man standing two sleeping bags down from me. My heart almost stopped when I saw that he was staring in my general direction. Once again I tried to act unconscious. I was sure I was in trouble now. I should have been asleep two hours ago.

            Sleep finally overcame me, but when I woke in the morning I was bound and determined to find out who had been hanging out in my camp the night before. I inspected each adult in the whole group, but nobody was wearing anything white. No white hats, jackets, shirts, pants, belts, shoes or bandanas. Needless to say, I was slightly confused and disturbed.

            We had to cross the small stream to continue on our journey that morning. About 40 feet past the muddy flow there was a grave marker, and one of the adults explained how the pioneers buried a man there who had succumbed to an illness.

            I’ll never truly know who was visiting my camp site that night so long ago. It could have been someone in the trek group. Maybe it was the ghost of the man that had died along the trail. I like to think the latter, because it makes a better story, but either way, a man staring at you while you’re sleeping is creepy in general. Happy Pioneer Day and make sure to take your own candy to the Days of ’47 parade!

Respect the River

             My Scouting troop decided to kayak the Colorado River one year. My friend, Nate, and I were the third kayak of the group floating down the river. Neither Nate nor I had any experience kayaking, but my troop leader had wisely selected a section of the river that was relatively easy to maneuver and we picked up the basics quickly. For most of the adventure Nate sat inside the kayak like one is supposed to, whereas I sat on top of the kayak with my feet in the seat opening. It freaked me out to think that if the kayak turned over, I might have difficulty getting out.

The only part of the trip I even remember was the most dangerous: a hairpin turn against a cliff wall. There wasn’t any gradual curve to the water at all; the water on the north side of the hairpin ran straight into the rock wall, and the water on the south side flowed away from it. The first kayak neatly entered the south side before ever approaching the wall, effectively turning the kayak using the water instead of paddles. The second kayak was too far north to be able to use the south side’s current, and the two Scouts inside it were clearly headed for disaster as the kayak shot directly toward the unforgiving stone face of the cliff. At the last second the Scout in the front seat of the kayak jumped out of the opening onto the front of the kayak and stuck his arms out in front of him as a sort of bumper. There was a smacking sound as his hands met the cliff, and then he sort of just fell back into the water. I was certain that his arms were broken after the impact, but the kayak was saved. The Scout miraculously popped out of the water unscathed, climbed back in the kayak, and continued down the river.

Now it was Nate’s and my turn. We were so fascinated by the spectacle of the previous kayak that we hadn’t steered toward the south current. Paddling like mad we somehow managed to turn the boat diagonally and entered the opposite current. With our boat caught halfway between both currents and me sitting on top of the kayak, which threw off our weight and balance, it didn’t take much for the kayak to flip. The watercraft easily dumped me into the river, and when I surfaced Nate was nowhere to be seen. The kayak’s bottom was clearly visible, but Nate was obviously still buttoned into his kayak seat, because seconds passed without any sign of him. I swam as hard as I could and reached the kayak, attempting to turn it back over, but it was too unwieldy. I was about to dive under to help Nate out of the harrowing situation when his face finally appeared, gasping for air. I’m sure his heart was pounding just as hard as mine in that moment.

I may be wary of murky lake water, but I’m afraid of river water for completely different reasons. The shallowness of many rivers doesn’t allow giant water monsters to hide very well, but the lack of depth is precisely what makes the rivers frightening. Rocks and logs could be hiding mere inches under the roiling surface of a swiftly moving river and present a much more realistic menace than any 20-foot sea serpent. Dangerous currents also contribute to my overall fear of fast-flowing water. Rivers are full of unpredictable current systems, some of which can literally suck you down to the river bottom and hold you there. I’ve learned over the years that a river should be revered and respected, especially if I want to live to enjoy another tubing or rafting trip. Always take a life jacket and be physically prepared when taking on one of nature’s most merciless embodiments: the raging river.

There's Your Sign

             Have you ever counted the signs on the side of the road as you travel from your home to work? There are speed limit signs, crosswalk signs, signs warning about upcoming signs, signs letting you know that a deer might jump out in front of your car at any given moment, stop signs, and many, many more. There are so many signs from my home to work that I ignore most of them. They have become part of the background. Road signs are, for me, the epitome of our society and culture to constantly warn each other of rules or possible danger. However, there are many rules and dangers that are not preceded by a warning sign and that is when most of us have to rely on common sense to steer away from potential harm or accident.

            Last week I drove past a group of cars on the side of a mountain pass road. The area where the cars were parked was odd, because I knew there wasn’t a trailhead nearby, but I figured a bunch of friends had maybe decided to explore uncharted territory. As I neared them, though, I noticed that some of the cars still had people in them and they were all fixated on the same point across the road. I slowed down and looked toward where they were staring and I saw another group of people out of their cars in the brush and forest with cameras. And that’s when I saw the humongous bull moose. The people snapping pictures were a mere 30 feet away from the monstrosity. At first I was awe-struck, since I have only seen three of the magnificent creatures with my own eyes. But as I continued to crawl past the cars and people, I was suddenly very aware of the danger that the moose presented, and I wondered why those people were getting so close.

            I don’t know if the moose tried to charge, because I didn’t stop to watch. I’m sure the news would have reported the story if the moose had injured anybody (and yes, I checked various news sources because sometimes I suffer from a severe case of “Schadenfreude”). The thing is, I’m pretty sure people would have gotten close to snap pictures of the highly dangerous beast even if it had bright pink lettering on its flanks reading: MAY CHARGE AT ANY TIME. CAN BE LETHAL. ALSO, LIKES APPLES.

            Without signs and warning labels to constantly caution us about potential hazards, we humans can be downright silly sometimes. How many forest and wild fires have started because someone didn’t stop to think about the ramifications of shooting a gun in an area full of dry weeds and brush? Why are there so many vehicles at the bottoms of canyons and cliffs? Couldn’t someone have put up a sign (reading: DO NOT POKE WITH A STICK. MAY TRY TO CONSUME YOU.) near the tar pit that almost claimed the life of my good friend Martin as he poked it with a stick?

            Most of us, except teenagers, possess brains that are capable of contemplating future possibilities concerning a multitude of situations. Yes, there are freak accidents that no one could have predicted, but a few of those are caused by someone who didn’t exercise any mental power before making a crazy decision. Warning signs and helpful information can only have so much influence over our actions. Be smart wherever you go and avoid being the subject of the headline: TWELVE DEAD IN OVERLOADED JETSKI ACCIDENT.

Mountain People

             Have you ever asked yourself, “Why I am following this dirt pathway into a heavily wooded area full of hidden dangers replete with claws, fangs, and antlers?” Have you ever thought, “Why am I sleeping on the ground when I’ve got a perfectly good bed at home?” Perhaps you’ve truly questioned why you continue to sit there smiling as smoke from a campfire assaults your lungs and stings your eyes. The answer to all of these questions and more is that you’re part of a highly-specialized group of humans known as “mountain people.” It’s in your blood. Actually your genes. You possess the mountain people gene.

            I have been on numerous hikes when I suddenly find myself at the back of a long line of people hiking the same trail. Instead of wishing I had chosen the path less traveled by, I feel validated that I picked a good trail, otherwise there wouldn’t be so many people clamoring to hike it. Of course I enjoy a nice, quiet, unpopulated trail, but when I’m in the company of fellow mountain people there is never a dull moment. Mountain people are notorious for telling stories that sound like lies, but are almost always true. Sharing a trail with someone who has come face-to-face with a bear or was caught in an avalache and lived to tell about it is an exciting experience.

            Mountain people pride themselves on their ability to go without modern comforts, like chairs with cushions, soft beds and personal bathrooms with clean, running water. When I was a teenager I had a friend who frequently went camping with nothing but a knife and the clothes on his back. He would often go alone and for two days at a time. Even when he was home he was constantly sleeping just outside his house in a tree. His self-taught survivalism sometimes bordered on masochism. Every challenge nature presented he accepted with gusto. He rarely wore shoes, unless it was cold. He refused to eat anything that he didn’t kill or gather himself. He sought out the most difficult routes up a mountain; trails were for sissies. He was the incarnation of the axiom “what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.” I’m pretty sure he has since become feral and roams the Oquirrh Mountains in search of the next challenge nature has in store.

            For the longest time I wished that someone would find a way to bottle the smell of campfire in the form of a cologne. I would have worn it all the time as a boy. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I discovered most people find a campfire’s aroma slightly offensive. Since the discovery of the mountain people gene, I now understand why I am so attracted to the smell. A fire attracts mountain people like a fluorescent light attracts bugs. We can’t help ourselves. Camping is incomplete without a firepit and plenty of thin sticks to burn.

The mountain people gene is nothing to be ashamed of if you possess it. The sudden urges to shoot animals and lick your fingers that haven’t been washed in anything except stream water for three days are perfectly natural. Now get out there, explore the canyons, take on nature and start a marshmallow-roasting fire. Let that mountain people pride show!

Water, Water Everywhere

             Last week I took my little guy, Eli, fishing at Silver Lake near Brighton. Even though the fishing wasn’t the greatest there, I knew it would be a nice place to enjoy the sights while teaching my boy the art of relaxation that involves casting a line out and waiting for a fish to bite. He was pretty excited when I grabbed the poles out of the car. Not because he knew we were going fishing, rather he expected an epic sword fight was imminent. As a fellow childish male, I couldn’t help but oblige his expectations, and an epic sword fight actually did take place right there in the parking lot. I’m not sure who won, but based on the size of the smiles on our faces, we both did.

His excitement over the poles, though, was nothing compared to the joy he expressed as we walked toward the mirrored surface of Silver Lake. He laughed, clapped his hands, and began bouncing on my shoulders, where he was perched. You see, my 20-month-old boy loves water, or as he calls it, “wawa.” He’s fairly indiscriminate about the type of water he tries to play in, whether it’s coming from a sprinkler, in a pool or lake, or flowing down the gutter. Most of the time it’s not a problem, but on the few hikes we’ve taken together I’ve had to really watch him around rivers, ponds and lakes. He has a nasty habit of running toward water when he sees it. I haven’t had a chance to properly fill his head full of horror stories so that he’ll automatically be wary of entering any body of water, but give me time. There are plenty of nights to tell him these stories right before he goes to sleep.

Anyway, after enduring ten minutes of bouncing and the constant chant of, “Wawa! Wawa! Wawa!” I chose a fishing spot where the bottom of the lake was visible for at least a few feet before disappearing into the black void where a sea serpent undoubtedly resides. That way, if Eli decided to give in to his hydrophilic urges and happened to jump into the water, I could easily retrieve him. I’m happy to say that I never had to worry about him during our fishing trip. It appears that my son is developing a healthy sense of danger and he stayed a couple of feet away from the edge of the lake the whole time. He was content smacking the water and trees and rocks with his fishing pole. As a reward for being so well-behaved around the water’s edge, I held Eli’s sippy cup full of water over his head and shook it while he squealed with delight over the sudden “rainstorm.”

With a hot summer well on its way this year, I’m sure Eli and I will be spending a little bit of time around water. Even though he seems to understand that not all water is safe to just jump into, I’ll still be on my guard. Toddlers are about as unpredictable as a flash flood in Southern Utah. It’s like small children are constantly playing a game of “red light, green light” with their parents: turn your back and they try to get in as much trouble as possible. No matter where I am, I listen well for a splash every time I turn my back, because Eli is somehow able to find water anywhere. Enjoy your own watery adventures this summer and keep those feet wet!

My Search for Happiness

             There I stood last Friday, surveying the commercial campground of Palisade State Park. It was already past noon and campsites were going fast. The woman at the entrance of the park was nice enough to allow me to check out the three remaining available camp spots before I committed to staying for two nights. While I weighed my options, four children on scooters and bikes rode past laughing and screaming. I had a tough decision to make: take the cramped, groomed square of grass with a barbeque stand next to the reservoir, or continue searching, possibly unfruitfully.

            Earlier in the week I had planned on visiting the Little Lyman Lake area in the Uintas for a nice fishing trip, but bad weather forced me to look for warmer options a bit south of Northern Utah. After some online searching, I found some places of interest in the Manti-La Sal Mountains, namely Joe’s Valley Reservoir and Pete’s Hole. Both appeared to have good fishing conditions and the surrounding area looked beautiful.

            Well, the area was beautiful. Especially the miniature glaciers that blocked the access road to my destinations. Despite my disappointment at the impossibility of reaching a suitable campground, I still managed to cast my fishing line out a few times into a tiny lake near Skyline Drive called John August Lake. I didn’t catch anything, but it helped ease my frustration and allowed me to build up enough motivation to start a new search for a camping/fishing spot in a region that I was completely unfamiliar with.

            By the time I reached Gunnison, the landscape had become too desert-like and I ended up heading north again. So there I was at my next stop: Palisade State Park. It seemed futile to continue searching, and there were only three spots left at the state park. And it was afternoon. On the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend. The situation was looking bleak. After about fifteen minutes of deliberation, I decided against staying at Palisade State Park. I could tell that the campground would be full of noise all weekend and that privacy in such a place would be nonexistent. I would rather set up my tent next to the roadside than deal with the “cozy” quarters I was currently faced with.

            Boy, am I glad I moved on. The very next site I came across was pure heaven. I would tell you where it was, but it was too much of a happy surprise for me to just give out the information. The campground was secluded and only had nine sites, only three of which even became occupied during my visit. The site I chose was tucked back behind some trees and was completely hidden from the view of any of the other sites. Plus, there was a trail behind my picnic table that led directly down to the reservoir that my campsite overlooked.

            Between Friday and Sunday I thought multiple times about how fortunate I had been in finding what I would call “the perfectly groomed campsite, which still retained the look and feel of ‘roughing it.’” I also thought about how miserable I would have been surrounded by the roar of watercraft and screaming children at Palisade State Park. What really surprises me, though, is that despite all of my research and planning, I ended up staying at a place that was a last-minute discovery and relatively undocumented on the Internet. I suppose some things in life must be kept secret in order to preserve their beauty and appeal. Needless to say, I will be returning to that campsite, and I’m sure it will make me just as happy as the first time I discovered it.

Human Repellent

             In the event that you are going camping this weekend, remember the mosquito repellent. If you are like me, though, you will also need to take along a few other items in order to fend off a much more annoying threat: other campers. No, I’m not asocial. Well, not completely anyway, but the magic of the Uinta Mountains is hard to properly experience without copious amounts of silence. I’ve written this series of steps to help you keep away from other humans and hopefully find your own slice of solitude this weekend.

The first and most important step in seeking silence is straying from the beaten path. Since this is Memorial Day weekend, the realist in me knows that the Uintas will be crawling with other outdoor enthusiasts who are just as excited as I am to explore the cool, quiet mountains for the first time this year. I have nothing against them. That just means I’ll have to avoid the popular areas and find an extremely secluded spot somewhere. Now that I don’t own a Jeep anymore, it will be a bit more difficult to stray from the beaten path, but I think I can still find a nice, quiet place of my own in the woods. I simply have to find a dirt road smooth enough for my little Nissan to traverse.

The second step in the quest for quiet is related to the first: be willing to hike a little. The popular camping areas are popular because a person can easily park their car right in front of the tent and fire pit areas. If you’re up for a bit of a physical challenge and really want to experience the pure peace that nature affords, plan on packing your gear and hiking into the woods a mile or so. This may mean leaving a few not-so-necessary items behind, but trust me, when you lie down at night (on the hard ground because the air mattress was too heavy) and hear the sounds of flowing creeks and chirping crickets instead of screaming children, you’ll be glad you did.

The third and final step in tracking down tranquility is to decorate accordingly. This is where the actual human repellent comes in. When you set up your camping area, be sure to place items around that will deter other people from coming anywhere near you. These items can be as simple as a sharpened stick with a fake skull on top of it or playing a sound track loudly with wild animal noises on it, like angry bears and howling wolves. When attempting to induce fear in other campers, it’s so easy to do, especially if you’ve got a healthy imagination. Just don’t overdo it and end up frightening yourself.

I hope you find plenty of peace and quiet this Memorial Day weekend. Make sure to get a good head start in order to claim a great camp site away from everybody else. If you do have to resort to spending your camping trip in a populated area, take solace in the fact that I will be comfortable surrounded by my moat with alligators, listening to the songbirds and wishing I had six more ears to take in the silence all around me.

Ticked Off

            “Oh my! You have Lyme disease! You might die!” the Austrian doctor shouted at me. Well, maybe it wasn’t shouting, but spoken German, for some reason, almost always gives the impression of shouting. Anyway, I was stunned when I heard those words. The only thing I knew about Lyme’s disease was that you could get it from ticks, and, at that moment in a small clinic in the hills of Vienna, I learned that it was supposedly fatal. Three weeks previously, I had noticed a small, angry red dot on my back that hurt, but thought that it was just an insignificant bug bite. That day I visited the doctor the dot had expanded out into a pinkish, two-foot-wide ring that had me slightly concerned. And apparently for good reason.

            Now, for the record, Lyme disease is not as lethal as my Austrian doctor would have me believe. Also, if you are a doctor, take it from a guy who has been improperly informed of his imminent death: don’t tell your patients that they might die, unless you really know what you’re talking about. After getting a second opinion from a team of noticeably less panicked doctors at the Vienna General Hospital, I found out that my Lyme disease was still treatable and that death was actually the least of my worries. More often than not, untreated Lyme disease affects the body in a number of undesirable ways, such as paralysis, palsy, and cognitive issues, among others.

            It has been almost ten years since that day in the park when a small tick found its way down my shirt and plunged its disease-ridden mouth into my soft, vulnerable skin, injecting bacteria into my body. The microscopic organisms quickly multiplied, amassing a small, yet potent army in order to launch an all-out attack on my central nervous system. Well, they never made it, thanks to the help some antibiotics, and my stubborn will to live.

            Ticks freak me out. The idea of a small animal that likes to try and burrow into a person’s skin is completely horrific. I only tell you this so you’ll be extra careful and watchful during tick season, which happens to be right now until the end of June. Ticks love any place with lots of brush and vegetation, but what they love even more are warm, dark places, like armpits or skin folds. The best way to prevent a tick from making you its personal blood bank and potential disease host is by dressing in a long-sleeved shirt and pants that adequately cover your legs while walking in dense vegetation.

            Here in Utah, the chances of contracting Lyme disease are not as high as in other parts of the world, but there are plenty of other frightening maladies that ticks can carry. Should you find a tick on your person, don’t panic and try pulling it off with your bare fingers. You should pull the head and body out with a pair of tweezers, and carefully, because if the head or any mouthparts are left behind, it’s possible that any bacteria the tick was carrying could enter the small wound from the tick’s bite. Make sure to wash and disinfect the bite area thoroughly, and, just in case any unusual symptoms occur, keep the tick to give to a doctor. Good luck dodging those little blood-sucking fiends this year and remember to check yourself well after traveling through brush and thick vegetation.

Good Clean Fun

WARNING! If you are neither a consumer of fish flesh nor a fan of the fish-gutting process, or if you are a fish, read no further! What you are about to read is full of potentially upsetting material (especially for the fish-folk)!

The worst part about fishing is cleaning the fish. Oh, I’ll do it, but I really don’t like it. The whole process of fishing is slightly disturbing, from the moment the fish discovers a sharp pointed object lodged in its lip to the moment you peel the skin off the meat after it has been thoroughly cooked. But fresh fish tastes so good! The short time it takes to consume a recently grilled fish is worth every second of horror involved in preparing the fish for consumption.

I am always game for a fishing trip. Not because I like pulling fish out of their comfortable habitats, bashing them on the head, pulling out their insides, and then eating them (actually, I do like the eating part). I like fishing because for every ten minutes of reeling and “fish-catching,” there are sometimes two or three hours of pure relaxation. Unless you’re a fly-fisher. Fly-fishers are the businessmen and artisans of the fishing realm. Someday when I’ve got a little more time on my hands, I’d like to learn the finer points of the sport, but for now I’m content sitting on the shore of a lake waiting for the next little tug on my fishing line.

A few years ago, my dad, two brothers, some neighbors and I decided to visit Mirror Lake together and fish. I was excited because there were five other people who would be shouldering the fish cleaning experience. Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, my older brother had never really learned how to properly gut a fish, my younger brother was too squeamish, my dad had done his share of fish cleaning when he was a teenager, and my neighbors were under the impression that I was going to take care of all of their gutting needs.

So there I sat for an hour and a half, on the shore of Mirror Lake, slitting fish open, ripping out vital organs, cutting off heads and tails, and looking extremely sad so the others would take pity on me. Well, they didn’t, and after I had cleaned the last fish (there were six of us, and each of us had caught about three fish) I was hopeful that I could simply enjoy the afternoon and the beautiful scenery surrounding me. As I looked up, there it was, in all of its glory: a pink pile of fish guts bathing in the gently lapping shallows. No amount of sunshine, pine smell, and pristine silence could cover up the offending view before me. I vowed then and there to never gut another fish. Oh, I’d go fishing, but someone else would do the cleaning. Or I’d take up catch-and-release.

It’s amazing what a little campfire, an iron skillet, a pat of butter, some lemon pepper and freshly-caught fish can do to a person’s resolve. Within twenty minutes of committing to my impulsive oath, I was telling myself that I’d gut another fish if it meant I would experience the heavenly taste of cooked trout again. Fishing for me is a roller coaster of emotions: trouble-free while waiting for a bite; elation at having caught something (even if it is just a weed); disappointment if I catch just a weed; sadness for taking the life of an animal that never did me any harm; disgust while disemboweling, beheading and de-tailing; and satisfaction while devouring the fish. Like most roller coasters, the initial fear and trepidation are worth the excitement and fun in the end. And if you also struggle with the fish cleaning process, just remember, fish don’t have feelings (this statement is probably not true, but if it helps you sleep at night, so be it!).

Ready to Go!

            I’ve mentioned a few times that I enjoy running. Sometimes before I start running, though, I have to give myself little pep talks, exclaiming things like, “Alright, let’s kill tonight! Let’s do three miles in less than 20 minutes! You’re an animal!” One day I hope to compete in a marathon, but before that I’ll have to train for it, mentally and physically. I can’t imagine trying to pace myself over 26 miles without preparing for the task. At least a month’s worth of preparation would be necessary in order for me to feel ready. The whole process may sound grueling to some, but a marathon is something that a person can take pride in having completed and the feat is certainly hard to beat.

            You may not be a running enthusiast, but you should be able to relate to the concept of preparing for something. If you’re a storm chaser, you’ve got to have the proper gear and information before tracking down the next hurricane. Are you determined to find inner peace through meditation? You might have to turn off the lights and turn on some relaxing New Age music. Should you wish to express your appreciation of da Vinci’s artwork through music, you will want to research a few things before writing “The Ballad of Mona Lisa.” The point is, depending on what you are working on, you will always be making preparations of some sort throughout your life.

            I’m planning a backpacking trip this summer. Unfortunately, as fun as it may sound, I can’t just say, “I wanna be free! I’ll let Mother Nature look after me!” and take off without any food or tent or maps. I’ve consulted the calendar so I can pick out the best week to be absent from work as well as research trends in weather in order to predict the best time of the summer to go. I’d like to avoid wet weather. Backpacking in the rain is no fun. The rain actually ruins a lot of things for a lot of people, especially those that are nearly witches or full-on witches, because it causes anything between a slight rash to death. A backpacker will simply be bogged down with soggy gear.

            When it comes to plans and preparations I’ve got my own vices and virtues. I like to wing it most of the time, but bad experiences have helped me change my ways. The time-old adage, “Haste makes waste,” is a mantra I constantly have to repeat to myself before embarking on a hiking, camping, or even road trip. I would love to trade mistakes I’ve made while rushing to do an outdoor activity for better memories. Not planning properly has led to arguments, discomfort, unhappiness, and other unpleasant results. There have been multiple instances when a friend has had to stall me from jumping into a potentially disastrous situation, such as stepping out onto a frozen lake that wasn’t all that frozen or cannonballing off a bridge into a river that turned out to be only five feet deep and full of jagged rocks. (Thanks, Mark!)

            Oh, glory abounds when you spend time planning ahead. Well-made plans are guaranteed to create some good memories. It really is worth it when your friend Sarah smiles (supposing you have a friend named Sarah; if not, replace “Sarah” with your friend’s actual name) because you brought graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars on your campout. Remember, planning in advance has often saved the day, including the time I avoided causing a panic at the disco by practicing all my cool dance moves before trying them out on the dance floor, so do yourself and your family and friends a favor and invest a little more time to make your plans this summer less stressful and extra special.

Shake It!

            This past Tuesday marked a planned, statewide earthquake drill called the Great Utah ShakeOut. You may have participated in an exercise in your community in order to raise awareness about the big earthquake that’s supposed to be hitting Utah on December 21, 2012. Oh, wait. That’s when the aliens invade. Anyway, Utah could be host to a doozy of a tremor one of these days, and it’s always best to have some sort of plan just in case it happens anytime during your life.
            I always like to think that the “Big One” will hit right after I reach the peak of Mount Olympus. I’ll be surveying the valleys below, when BAM!, everything starts to violently shake. The earth will open up between the base of the mountains and the foothills. Land, roads, homes, and ants will start pouring into the void. And then I’ll watch as the foothills quickly disappear into the gaping abyss, and then the mountainside. By the time the earth begins to erode beneath my feet, though, the hole in the valley floor will have been filled to capacity and I will be triumphantly poised on top of a 50-foot pile of rocks that minutes before stood just over 9,000 feet.
            Sure, we’d all like to choose where we’re going to be when an earthquake hits, but earthquakes are sneaky things and no one gets to choose their location during such a disaster. The only thing we can choose is to be somewhat ready with emergency plans. First aid kits are always great to have, as well as spare food in your car and home.

And don’t forget the meeting place. Choose an area that is well away from any potential dangers, like power lines or large buildings. Of course, if there is a chasm between you and your meeting place, chances are you’re going to have to find some other way of notifying your friends or family that you made it. But knowing that others will be trying to reach the same place as you can give you hope. And hope goes a long way in a situation involving a natural disaster.

The worst-case scenario for an earthquake is death, but the step up from that is finding yourself in a building that could collapse on top of you at any moment. Earthquakes can be so sudden and violent that it is impossible to reach the relative safety outside the building. I remember learning in school earthquake drills that you should find shelter under a table or desk or doorway. Turns out that tables or desks are still a good option, but a doorway leaves you very open to falling objects. When an earthquake happens, you should drop to the ground or floor, and then crawl to the nearest safe place. Sometimes the corner of a room is the safest place. When ceilings cave in, you’ve got a better chance in a corner of not being crushed.

Let’s all hope that we are at the top of whatever mountain we’re climbing when an earthquake hits, but if not, let’s have a plan in the case that the earthquake takes us by surprise (which it most definitely will). I’d wish you “Good luck,” but it doesn’t quite feel right for a natural disaster, so I’ll simply say, “Be prepared!”

Moab

            I was sitting at the counter of the Love Muffin Café in Moab when I overheard another customer say to the cashier, “Ugh, I can’t stand the tourists. And it’s only going to get worse as we get closer to summer.” Instantly bristling, I wanted to shoot back with, “We tourists are the reason this town even exists,” but I held my tongue and avoided starting a local-vs.-tourist war. The café was undoubtedly full of both sides and it would have been a bloody mess. Plus, it was a café, not a saloon.

I get the resident’s frustration, though. I understand how annoying confused, oblivious, wide-eyed visitors can be. But seriously, don’t live near two National Parks and countless other natural marvels full of bike trails and waterways and expect people to stay away. That mentality is so French: build a whole bunch of cool buildings and then complain when they attract people who want to see them (by the way, deep down I love ze French).

Moab is like one big, huge, 3.6-square-mile hostel. As each day winds down, all the bikers, RVs, hikers, kayakers, tour buses, and horseback riders reconvene within the city’s limits and everyone has dinner and drinks together. Then they all go to sleep, wake up the next day and spread back out across the open landscape in search of more adventure and discovery. Moab offers a fragment of what an old Western town was: a meeting place for anyone who happened to be passing by.

Despite its subtle creepiness and backwater status, I like Moab. More so in the winter than the summer, but either way it’s an exciting place. I love that you only have to drive a few miles away from the town and have plenty of things to see and do, in any direction. My favorite thing in the world is to hike and the area surrounding Moab is full of cool hikes, like the Fisher Towers or the Corona Arch trails. It’s nice to be able to find a secluded area and observe the striking colors and supernatural rock formations of the desert.

If I could I would move to Moab and go on adventures every day. I actually envy the customer in the Love Muffin who was lamenting tourist season. How would it be to wake up every morning and think, “Should I embark on a three-day backpacking trip or kayak the Colorado?” I would never get tired of finding new areas to explore. Perhaps I would take up amateur photography or sketching in addition to keeping a field book full of all of my thoughts and notes about the places I visit.

Unfortunately, we can’t all live in Moab; mainly because there aren’t enough houses. But we can visit it as tourists and enjoy it for a few days at a time. I’m planning a couple of hikes into Canyonlands for my next visit to Moab. I’ll probably pick up some pre-made sandwiches from one of the restaurants in town, go on my hike, return to Moab, eat dinner at a steakhouse, walk the busy main street as the desert night cools everything off, and then fall asleep to thoughts of the next day’s hike. It will be hard to wait.

Escape

            When I was a teenager, I had three secret areas on my parents’ property that I would escape to in order to think. The first area wasn’t all that secret, but it was secluded and I could sit on a log and no one could see me behind the trees. It was perfect for daydreaming. The second area was a little more secret; I had used branches to hide it from prying eyes, making the area look like a super thick copse. It was perfect for planning. The third area was hard to get to, making it extremely secret, but with a set of observant eyes, anybody could find me. The hiding spot was at the top of a tree. It was perfect for disappearing.

            We all have a place we can go where the world ceases to exist and time is irrelevant; a place where we can reevaluate our thoughts and figure out the puzzles in our lives. Nature and the outdoors have always afforded a sanctuary for my busy mind. A quiet room in my house is not enough sometimes. Just knowing that my cell phone could ring at any given time can be nerve-wracking. Every now and again I like to know that I am completely alone with my self. Perspectives and emotions can change when given enough time to consider them. I like giving myself time to think out my personal convictions and desires.

            My cousin recently remarked that he is going to “go off the grid” this summer, which means he is going to take his family on a camping trip and make sure that any electronic devices are left where they belong: with the civilized world. This is something I try to do every day, but work always gets in the way. It has always been a dream of mine to take a backcountry backpacking trip for a week or so and forget about all of the complicated problems of my normal life. I want to worry about one thing: survival. And perhaps when the next s’more break will be.

            I love the simplifying effect that nature seems to have on me. For example, I normally check the Internet twenty times a day for any new national or local news. When I’m on a hike or camping or just hiding in a grove of trees, I really don’t care to know up-to-the-minute details about anything, and instead I start thinking about how wonderful life is. I can let all of my built-up stress into the open blue sky like a bunch of balloons. Unfortunately, the balloons always pop as they’re flying over my house, and when I get home, there they are, waiting for me again. But at least I was free of them for a little while.

            I look forward to revisiting many of my favorite trails and hidden valleys this summer. Each one is waiting for me with a specific thought or reflection, and though I won’t be able to return to every location, I’ll most likely choose the ones that give me the most to ponder and enjoy. The best therapist out there is often the one that always listens but never responds: Mother Nature.

Allergy Attack!

            I’m sick. My nose is runny, my sinuses are congested, my throat hurts from coughing and sneezing, my eyes water every now and again for no apparent reason, and I’ve got a slight headache. Over the last three years I’ve noticed that these same symptoms pop up right around spring time. Could just be a common cold, but it could also be that I’m suffering from some nasty seasonal allergies.

            When someone first suggested to me a few years ago that I might be prone to reacting to the pollen in the air, I merely scoffed and blew my nose again. I had never had allergies before, and it seemed impossible for a person to acquire allergies if he or she had never had them before. Even now, I really don’t know whether I’ve got allergies or a cold, but the fact is that a person can indeed get allergies as he or she ages. It’s just the body’s way of reminding us of how we’re not as invincible as we’d like to think we are.

            Right now my symptoms don’t warrant a visit to an allergist. At least I don’t think so (I’m sure an allergist would highly recommend it). I can handle a little stuffiness and a small headache. The irritation in my throat and my red, raw nose are annoying, but I’d rather buy a $2 box of Kleenex and a $4 bottle of Chloraseptic than spend a $25 co-pay at the allergy clinic. Perhaps if the symptoms become worse in the coming years, I’ll break down and seek professional medical help. Until then, though, my voice and nose will just have to sound like a 7^th grade brass band once a year.

            The worst thing about seasonal allergies it that the air outside has become a major irritant. It’s a little ironic, considering most people associate “outside” with “fresh air.” I’d probably feel a lot better if I shut myself indoors with an air filter and some stinging nettle tea (despite its terrible origins, it’s quite effective against allergic reactions), but I love to hike and enjoy the mountains on a cool, spring morning. One compromise I’ve found is wearing a nose and mouth mask. At the risk of looking like a paranoid hypochondriac, I can considerably cut down the amount of pollen and other irritants that enter my lungs. Another option that doesn’t include a mask is to hike around in the barren desert, but that sounds like no fun.

            If you’re prone to seasonal allergies, there’s virtually nothing you can do this time of year to completely prevent the onslaught of pollen. Male trees will not stop trying to reproduce just because you keep sneezing. There are a few things you can try in order to reduce the effects of the nastiness in the air, such as increasing the vitamin C and essential fatty acids in your diet, washing your bedding often, and avoiding yard work. I know, Iknow. You were really looking forward to ripping up all the weeds in your garden, raking all the leftover leaves and sticks from last fall, and mowing the lawn. Guess your 13-year-old son or daughter will have to take one for the team and do it all for you. The best thing you can do for yourself is allow your body to rest and prevent the invasive pollen granules from entering your dojo. Good luck with your allergies this year and here’s to hoping you don’t sneeze your brain out!

Bus Touring

            What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see a great big charter bus cruising down the freeway? I don’t know about you, but I always assume it’s full of Germans or Japanese. It’s very rare to see a bus full of Americans, because we prefer to travel in our own vehicles. Have you ever toured on a bus, though? It definitely has its advantages and disadvantages; for example, you don’t have to deal with the stresses of driving, but you can’t stop at every single historical marker. It’s a great way to travel if you’re not in a hurry and you can sleep curled up in a ball on your assigned cushion.

This past weekend I was on one of two charter buses full of middle school students and a handful of adults. We were headed down to a music festival in California. The buses departed around midnight, and we were supposed to arrive at our destination twelve hours later. Because the bus drivers needed breaks every so often, after about three hours of driving we would pull into a gas station and everyone on the bus would unload. I always felt bad for the attendant on duty, but all of them that I spoke to said they were used to large groups of people flooding their stores in the middle of the night. Each time we returned to the bus, we would have to count off to ensure that everybody made it back. And then we were off into the dark desert night again. Imagine trying to sleep after a bunch of excited teenagers have returned from a convenience store with Red Bulls and sour gummy candies at 3:00 am.

We finally arrived in California, but our rooms at the hotel weren’t quite ready for us to check into, so we bounced over to Disneyland for a day of sluggish fun, since none of us had really gotten any sleep. The best thing about arriving in a bus at Disneyland was that we didn’t have to remember where we parked the car; the buses dropped us off and picked us up right next to the trams. Plus, it’s only $25 per bus as opposed to $15 per car. One car typically has four to six people in it, but the bus I was on had about thirty. Talk about getting the most for your money! Anyway, it really was nice to have a couple of buses shuttle us between the park and our hotel, even though the hotel was only about 20 minutes away by foot.

I’m not really sure if the bus company we had chartered for our trip specialized in long road trips to California. At one time, we exited the freeway in California, drove through the small town of Barstow, got back on the freeway, and continued on our journey, without stopping anywhere. The drivers were apparently confused about a meeting point where they were switching out drivers.

Another time we were leaving a gas station that we had stopped at for a break in Fillmore on our way home. Instead of heading towards the freeway on-ramp, the drivers took a frontage road. Now, the freeway exits in Southern and Central Utah are extremely far apart, and I couldn’t figure out why they were taking a frontage road to get to the next exit when there was an on-ramp right by the gas station. And then I realized that the sun was setting to my right, which meant that we were heading south, which was not the direction of Salt Lake City and home. After driving ten miles out of our way, because the drivers couldn’t just turn around on the narrow road we were on, we finally got back on the freeway. Ten minutes later we passed the same gas station that we had already stopped at. It was a bit disconcerting, but at least we made it home.

Even though you are at the mercy of your driver while on a bus tour, it is nice to cut out some common travel woes, such as not being able to stand up and stretch from time to time. Also, traveling with a bunch of school kids was fun, even if it was noisy all the time. There was always someone to talk to or play a game with to make the time pass much more quickly. And when you’re traveling twelve hours in one go, that’s a wonderful thing.

Community of Photographers

            There you are, alone or with family or some friends, and you’re holding your camera out as far as you can, attempting to capture a picture that includes your face/faces and a fantastic background. Luckily you have some type of photo-shopping program that allows you to straighten the horizon. With each successive picture you snap, you look at the preview, unsatisfied with the angle or proportions (too much face, too little Grand Canyon), or the arm holding the camera takes up half of the frame. So you try again. And again. Finally, you give up and accept the pictures you’ve already taken for what they are: Amateur photos taken blindly. And it shows.

            But then, out of nowhere, a man in a bicycle helmet, tight Spandex pants, and face-clenching sunglasses approaches you and says, “Hey, I’ll take your picture if you take ours,” pointing to a group of ten other cyclists enjoying the scenery. Of course you agree, because you’re frustrated with the results you’ve been getting, plus it’s a really nice thing for someone to offer. You hand the cyclist your camera and he snaps a couple of shots. As he hands the camera back to you, he suggests, “Check the pics out and make sure you like ‘em.” You respond, “Oh, I’m sure they’re great! Thank you! Now let’s take your group’s picture.”

            If you’re anything like me, you take pride in being an amateur photographer. You take all the knowledge you’ve amassed in your life and apply it to the photo you are taking for complete strangers: the group is centered (or slightly off to the side if you are trying to take in some cool landscape in the background), the background is clearly visible, everyone is lit by the sunlight, feet or tops of heads are not cut off by the frame, etc. You snap two or three pictures and hand the cyclist’s camera back to him as he begins to view them and comment, “Wow, these are awesome! Looks like we’ve got a professional photographer in our midst!”

            And that’s when you realize the photos the cyclist took were probably about as good as the pictures you had been taking. After thanking each other, you walk away and begin reviewing the pictures he took, and sure enough, you may as well have taken them yourself. But before you get angry or frustrated, you realize that something more than amateur photography just took place. Basic kindness and friendliness was more than likely the well-meaning cyclist/photographer’s motive, and nothing else. Instead of feelings of disappointment, you feel a little happier and more prone to committing random acts of kindness yourself. On top of it all, you provided a bunch of cyclists with some killer, albeit amateur, photos for their memories.

            Whether you’re enjoying a beautiful vista overlooking a surreal landscape or checking out some cliff dwellings, you’re bound to find plenty of people who are willing to take your picture or could use a hand for a photo of their own. And if you’re lucky like me, you get a bonus photo of the person who was taking your photographs, without them knowing he or she took the picture! Join the community of photographers and commit random acts of photographic kindness wherever you go!

Upheaval Dome

            The movie Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi features a creature called the “sarlacc,” which resides in the middle of a desert on some far off planet. The sarlacc is a worm-like beast that buries itself in the desert sand, exposing only its horrifying, gaping mouth. The mouth sits at the bottom of a steep pit, which comes in handy in the event that some unknowing person or animal stumbles over the pit’s edge, rolling into the needle-like teeth at the bottom, which seem to know when food is near and begin gnashing away. Lucky for us earthlings, we don’t have to worry about the sarlacc, because it is supposedly light years away…or is it?

I think I may have stumbled upon a sarlacc lair in the Canyonlands over the weekend. The National Park Service likes to call it “Upheaval Dome,” but I’m guessing that’s to keep the Canyonlands’ visitors uninterested and calm around such a dreadful terror. The National Parks have got to make money, and if an average of ten visitors per day were disappearing over the side of an attraction called “Sarlacc Pit,” I would assume the money brought in by fees would drop considerably. Despite the fact that I did not witness an actual creature living in the middle of the crater, I really didn’t care to test my theory by climbing down and approaching an area that could have quickly transformed into a churning mouth of death and consumed me. Would you have?

To their credit, geologists have helped out the National Parks Service by coming up with three of their own mundane theories about how the Dome came to exist, which are openly displayed on placards at the top of a vista overlooking the natural wonder. The most plausible theory explained that a saltwater lake (probably part of Lake Bonneville) dried up leaving behind a thick layer of salt across the landscape. Over the years, other sediments covered up the salt, but the salt was apparently much lighter and viscous than the rock above it, so over time it slowly worked its way up through the weakest layers of sediments, creating a sort of salt bubble. When the bubble reached the surface of the land, it “popped” and crumbled in on itself, leaving a dome-like structure within a large crater. Boring, I say.

Another theory, the least plausible one (in my book), involves something geologists use, I think, much too often to explain geological phenomena: volcanoes. As far as I’m concerned, they may as well come out and say, “Aliens.” I have never physically seen a volcano in my life, and yet these “learned” geologists are constantly blaming them for things like creating mountain ranges or islands. Seems too easy to me. Reminds me of the Greeks and Romans always explaining away science with godly antics. I’m actually surprised the geologists don’t use the name Pele all the time when they try to justify their claims. Anyway, feel free to believe that a volcano created a dome within a crater in the middle of a canyon-riddled landscape, should you be so inclined.

The third, and most interesting, theory poses the idea that a meteorite came down at a relatively straight trajectory and blasted its way down quite a ways before stopping, creating a deep hole, which, much like the salt bubble, crumbled and created the dome inside the crater. Perfect place for a sarlacc to make its home, I say. Moreover, I would like to suggest that it probably was a sarlacc falling from space, and not a meteorite at all.

We may never discover what created the Upheaval Dome in the Canyonlands, but at least there are some reasonable explanations. I would love to lobby to have the sarlacc theory included somewhere on the placards overlooking the crater, preferably along with the meteorite theory, but I don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm and panic among the visitors to the National Park. I suppose for now I’ll keep it to myself, but once people start becoming really inquisitive and disappearing into the crater while scouting it out, I’ll come forward with my claim and people will stop looking at me like I’m crazy. Until then, though, I’ll allow everyone to enjoy and believe the other theories posed by the delusional geologists.

Spring Planting

            Within the next few weeks it will be time for spring planting. Which probably also means time for spring cleaning so that there is even room to plant anything. I currently have weeds and random vegetation occupying the spot where I would like to plant herbs. They moved in about September last year and began sprawling across my yard, taking up any open space. Well, the time has come to reclaim the dirt and prepare to plant something of value, like mint and parsley.

            I have tried for two years to grow vegetables rather unsuccessfully. My house is surrounded by trees and the most sunlight my “garden patch” receives is maybe a couple hours a day. Most vegetables and other plants need lots and lots of sunlight, and my yard’s just not cut out to provide that. In fact, there are virtually zero vegetables that will do well in only two hours of sunlight per day. Two years ago my tomato plant produced five tomatoes by the end of September, and I planted it in April. That same year I tried green beans, and after a promising start of growing two inches out of the ground, they pretty much stopped. There just wasn’t enough energy for them to soak up, no matter how much fertilizer and water I gave them.

So, needless to say, I’m learning about shade-loving plants. There are a number of flowers that grow easily in shade, but I don’t care to grow flowers. I want a plant that is useful, and herbs are certainly useful. I mentioned mint and parsley earlier, and both of them do quite well in the shade. They also do quite well in a dish known as “tabbouleh,” which is a very healthy and delicious salad made mainly with parsley with a dash of mint. When I first started making the salad, instead of fresh mint, I would simply spray the salad with a couple of shots from my breath freshener tube. I must admit, fresh mint is the much better choice, but in a bind the freshener will do.

Now, just because I don’t want to plant flowers doesn’t mean I don’t find them useful or want my yard to look nice. Flowers are useful because they add an element of beauty to their environment. To add some dashes of color in my yard, though, I’ll probably plant some anise hyssop or chives, because they flower. There are plenty of herbs that flower, giving them added value in my book. For the most part, I like decorative items to be functional as well as easy on the eye, whether it’s inside my house or outside. Herbs are fun to grow, beautiful to look at, and make food taste a bit better. You really can’t go wrong when you decide to start an herb garden.

If you have a yard that is conducive to growing sun-loving vegetables or fruit, I’ll strike a deal with you this year: you provide the potatoes, and I’ll bring the fresh rosemary and thyme to season them with. Should my herb experiment prove successful this year, I’m sure I’ll continue to try and find the perfect blend of vegetation in the coming years to create a beautiful, flavorful, and especially shady garden. Happy planting!

The Island

            After writing my last article about lake monsters, I got the itch to go out to Antelope Island and re-explore the buffalo-infested locale. So, I grabbed my little boy, a diaper bag, and some snacks and headed out there late Sunday morning.Even though the weather wasn't perfect for an island getaway, we needed a day tripand there were promising patches of blue sky visible in the midst of the cloudysky.

As my son and I crossed the Great Salt Lake via the causeway, he began to cry. He had just woken up from a nap and I knew he was hungry. In order to entertain him and help stop the flow of tears, I began making North Shore Monster noises. I doubt any of my attempts truly captured the monster’s terrifying nature, mostly because my son smiled at each different bellow or grunt I tried. By the time we reached the island, neither one of us was scared of the monster because of how silly I was making him sound.

A wintry Sunday afternoon is the best time of year to visit Antelope Island, given the fact that there seemed to be only five other vehicles on the island besides ours. If you want to do more than simply drive around the state park, though, you may want to wait for spring or summer to visit. The sun, when it appeared, couldn’t do much against the chilly lake winds, so we stayed in the car and searched the landscape for buffalo.

There are somewhere between 550 and 700 buffalo on Antelope Island. I’m not sure how that number fluctuates, but for such a small island, that’s a lot of buffalo. I don’t know where they were all hiding, because we merely caught a glimpse of maybe eight or nine of them. And they were all a good distance from the roadway. The one animal that decided to make an appropriate appearance was a pronghorn antelope. While all six vehicles on the island convened to check out the antelope, it posed and slowly walked about, clearly enjoying the attention. I think most of us visitors were relieved to have at least one story to share about the wildlife on our trip to Antelope Island, since the buffalo weren’t cooperating.

Luckily buffalo aren’t the only attraction on the island. There are short and long hikes, a visitor center, picnic areas (with restaurants that serve buffalo burgers), and an old ranch. It’s interesting to walk around the ranch and try to imagine what it would have been like before the causeway existed. On clear days, you’d be able to look out over the lake and see Salt Lake City, knowing full well that there were probably a few dances or horse carriage races going on there, but you were stuck out there on that island, tending the livestock and watching out for the North Shore Monster. Ranch life is difficult in general, but ranch life on an isolated island is hard to beat.

Snow began to fall as my boy and I left the ranch and traveled back toward the entrance to the island. It was like the sky was trying to put Antelope Island to sleep with a cold blanket. The snow helped create a quiet ending to a long day. My little guy and I were both tired and ready to go home. Antelope Island was the perfect day trip destination and I look forward to coming back soon to take my son on one of the numerous hikes that affords beautiful panoramic views of the Wasatch Front and the Great Salt Lake. Oh, and search for a monster, too.

Lake Monsters

                Supposedly every lake has its monster. Loch Ness in Scotland contains a prehistoric plesiosaur. Lake Tahoe boasts a giant serpent. There is a white shark in Lac Simon in Quebec. Thunder Bay in Ontario is home to the Ugly Merman. Several lakes in the Congo are plagued by the fearsome Mokele-mbembe. Minnesota’s Red Lake has a fish-like monster that consumes the dead. And there are crocodilian horrors haunting Utah’s Bear and Great Salt Lakes. If you ever needed a reason not to enter the water, besides the movie Jaws, you have plenty now. And remember, I’m only referencing lakes. I’ve not accounted for the oceans and rivers of the world.

                There are two things that freak me out: deep, dark water and deep, dark caves. I like being able to see clearly for miles and miles, or at least more than fifteen feet, and neither murky water nor mysterious caves allow me to do that. Combine the two and you’ve got my worst nightmare. Actually, add a monster and you’ve got the worst possible scenario I can imagine. I can’t even handle the submarine ride at Disneyland.

                Anyway, the reason I bring up caves along with lake monsters is because there are allegations that most lakes of the world are connected by a network of caves that reach far beneath the ocean floor. The monster that people are seeing in Scotland could be the same monster popping up in a lake in China or California or Brazil.

                For many people, water monster sightings are just as ridiculous as alien sightings. One point I would like to pose, though, is that water monsters are a lot more plausible than aliens. They typically resemble something that actually exists in nature and they can easily hide out in their underwater caves. Also, it makes sense that monster sightings are not very common, considering the fact that the monster may be constantly in transit between multiple lakes in order to make appearances. And, since humans really are a rarity on and in the water, we are not a main food source, and therefore sightings may be few anyway.

                I, for one, do not care to disbelieve the rumors, mainly because so many movie characters’ famous last words echo the following sentiment: “There’s no (insert pretty much any animal, real or mythical, here) round these parts!” Plus, my fear of water monsters is an extremely deep-seated fear, and I don’t particularly care to test the validity of the stories. There’s no way I’m going down into water over ten feet deep to try and find a serpent or its lair.

                The next time you visit the Great Salt Lake or Bear Lake, be on the lookout for humongous crocodilian beasts. In the case of the Great Salt Lake, you may only see the creature’s giant horse head or hear its blood-curdling bellow before the monster consumes you. Trust me, the last thing you want to be known for saying in this life is: “There’s no North Shore Monster round these parts!”

Choosing a Bike

            My last bicycle was stolen last summer right from my fenced-in front yard. Luckily for me, I had only spent $20 on it. The thief certainly didn’t get anything worth more than that – the chain would skip a link from time to time; the brakes were rusted and close to snapping; the headlight constantly moved; the seat was cracked and hard to sit on for more than ten minutes. I could go on and on about the bike’s problems, but it was sometimes convenient to take for short distances, like to the library and back, and I miss that. I don’t mind walking, but a bike makes more sense in certain situations.

            Tonight I am on a mission to find myself a new bike. I am visiting the Salt Lake City Bicycle Collective, where I hope to choose a bike that suits me well. I am a man of simple needs when it comes to my bike: it has to be bright blue in the front which fades to black as it nears the back, and it needs a horn. The kind of horn that reminds me of what a clown’s nose would sound like if I were to squeeze it. Other than that I’m pretty easy. As long as it has two wheels, brakes, and a comfy seat, I’m set.

            I wasn’t always so laid back about the specifications of my bicycle. When I was younger, I had saved up enough money to buy my first “real” bike. I say real because I was looking at bikes with more than one gear and pedals that weren’t constantly moving with the wheels. Back then, grip shifters were relatively new and I had to have them. The normal push button method was too old-fashioned. Soon after purchasing my bike, I found out why grip shifters weren’t necessarily the best. Every time I hit a bump, my hands would accidentally rotate the shifters and the gears would freak out.

            Another new innovation back then was goop inside the tire tube, intended to prevent flats. Any time something punctured the tire, the goop would fill in the hole. It didn’t always work and after a couple years, it simply became hard and threw off the balance of the tires. I think I originally paid something like an extra $50 for my tires to contain goop. It’s hard to tell whether it was worth it or not.

            I used to put a lot of stock in bike brands and names. Since then, I’ve learned that for all intents and purposes, a bike is a bike. If you are a hardcore cyclist, you probably don’t agree with me, but then again, our purposes for riding a bicycle are more than likely very different. As a casual rider, I will be on the lookout tonight for a bike with a big comfy seat, blue-to-black coloring, and a horn. And maybe a basket on the back. In the event that I don’t find that exact bike, I’m sure I’ll be fine with anything that gets me from point A to point B, unless it has pink streamers, of course. 

Shoes?

            Shoes are interesting. When I go to work, I wear some heavy dress shoes with plenty of space inside; when I get home at night, I switch to my loafers, with padding inside; if it were summer, I’d walk to the park with sandals on my feet; on a hike, I wear sturdy hiking boots; whenever I’m doing odd jobs around the house and yard, I wear my sneakers; and when I run, I wear tight, thin running shoes. From the following list you could deduce that I have six pairs of shoes, which would be correct. Each pair affords its own comfort and functionality depending on the activity it was designed for.

A couple days ago I came across a young man walking about the University of Utah campus with bare feet. He was wearing pants, a coat, a big backpack and a beanie, but no shoes. He looked at everyone as if daring them to comment on his shoelessness. At first I thought that he was starving for attention, but after mulling it over, I thought, “Maybe he just hasn’t found a comfortable pair of shoes.” Now, winter is a funny time to discover such a thing, but who am I to judge? Some people’s feet may truly be better off bare, regardless of temperature.

            I have a couple of friends who run barefoot from time to time. One of them has run marathons barefoot. I think they’re crazy for doing so. Every time I’ve tried to run barefoot, I end up with blood coming from the bottom of my feet. My friends say it’s more natural, but one of the dangers of running barefoot is flat feet. A good athletic shoe will offer arch support, because fallen arches are sometimes painful. It’s funny to think that we need foam bumps inside our shoes to keep our arches up, but they sure are helpful.

The other evening I was advising a friend on how to choose the best pair of athletic shoes. The shoes my friend had picked out were the right size, according to the number on the outside of the box, and they felt okay when she walked around, but she was worried because there wasn’t any extra space between any part of her foot and the shoe. I told her that a shoe designed for sports isn’t going to have any extra space, otherwise blisters form. Whenever a foot slides around inside a shoe for a prolonged period of time, blisters are sure to appear. For all athletic activity, the tighter the shoe, the better. When I go running, I make sure to lace my shoes up as tight as possible. At first it doesn’t feel comfortable, but after moving around a bit, my feet settle in and the shoes feel like a part of me, like another layer of skin.

            You undoubtedly have your own personalized collection of shoes and boots. Some are old and should be thrown away, but they hold sentimental value so they remain at the back of your closet. A few may be new and hard to wear because your feet have not broken them in. Whatever your shoe situation is, just remember that if the shoe fits, wear it. If not, don’t. The comfort level of a shoe can easily influence your mood. Another thing to remember: if shoes in general are uncomfortable, go barefoot, but watch out for sharp sticks!

Utah's White Sands

            At a time of year when many people in Utah dream of white, sandy beaches, there are others who travel from afar to experience Utah’s claim to fame: beautiful, powdery snow. They seem like polar opposites (mostly because one is associated with warm weather and the other with freezing temperatures), but snow is a lot like sand in some respects. While playing in them, they tend to find their way into every opening of your clothing. You can easily bury your friends up to their heads in either substance. My most favorite aspect of the two, though, is that you can make sculptures out of them. Sand is relatively hard to shape into anything other than a one-foot high “castle.” Snow is a little bit easier to work with, especially if the snow is somewhere between powder and slush.

            Snowmen are the most common snow sculptures. Despite their ordinary nature, they are highly customizable. If ten children made ten snowmen at the same time, no two would be alike. Sure, most of them would have rocks for eyes and stick arms, but one would probably have a larger head than its torso, another would have half a back end and one would appear to have just survived a squirrel attack. Not only do snowmen come in all shapes and sizes, they’re extremely fun to destroy, but only if you created them. I can’t tell you how many snowmen I’ve lost to the mean kid down the street who walks around searching solely for victims made out of snow. There should be a law limiting the destructor of a snowman to its creator (the last thing every snowman hears before the destruction begins: “I brought you into this world…”).

            One year my elementary school had a snow sculpture contest. Snowmen were unacceptable offerings, so all the schoolchildren had to reach deep inside and pull out their imaginations. All of us kids were on teams of four or more, which was supposed to multiply the power of our imaginations (since so many of them had been dulled by the colorful world of television). The sculptures ranged from cars to castles to dogs. When it was all said and done, though, the grand prize went to me and my five friends for our amazing rendition of a shark attack. In the middle of our scene was a rowboat with one oar missing and two chunks taken out of its sides. Four sharks moved toward the boat, two with opening mouths. There was one kid in my group, Danny, who had orchestrated the whole thing. His passion for sharks and snow sculptures led us to create the extremely fun scene, and I’ve never forgotten how much I enjoyed that day. I imagine Danny is probably out there sculpting snow sharks right now.

            When you find yourself dreaming of little umbrellas in pina coladas and the sound of the ocean lapping the soft sands of some beach in Tahiti or Barbados, snow may not be the best alternative to your dream, but at least you can have fun with it. I hope you can enjoy giving a snowman life only to turn him into the target of your snowball barrage, and if snowmen are too commonplace for you, I wish you the best in creating a masterpiece worthy of the snow sculpture hall of fame. Have a blast and take care not to let snow find its way down your pants!

The Collector

            From a book about collecting things I read a snippet that went something like this: “Collections give a person purpose. Whether a person collects expensive antiques or cheap buttons, that person is forever searching for something and often finds more than he or she was looking for.” Unfortunately, at the time, I was paying little attention to the title of the book, and now I may never know what it was called, but that one excerpt made such an impression on me that I’ve thought a lot about it in the last three days.

            I’ve always wanted a “field book” – a book in which I can compile my collected sketches and notate my observations about nature as well as paste any interesting specimens of flora or fauna. When I was young, I had a notebook that served as a sort of field book, though some animals I drew ended up with a banner over their heads reading, “Party Time!” If I could only revisit my 9-year-old brain and discover why I decided to portray jellyfish and cougars as party animals, but not buffalo or dinosaurs, I would probably understand more about myself. I still have the book and plan on turning it over to the Natural History Museum of Utah someday when I really need money. Surely my collected drawings (especially the festive animal ones) will fetch a pretty penny.

            I once had a rock collection that I kept in an old metal lunch box. My collection was rather extensive – I had iron pyrite and tiger’s eye and amethyst and rose quartz. Then one day my mom gave me a book about the rocks native to Utah, and I realized that my collection didn’t even cover a fraction of all the rocks in Utah, let along the world. My original plan as I began collecting rocks was to amass all the rocks in the world. I knew from the beginning that I may need to upgrade to two lunch boxes to house them all, but that was a price I had been willing to pay. Well, my new book extinguished any hope I had had of completing that goal, so I gave up and I think my little brother inherited the lunch box and its contents. In the end I probably saved a lot of money from not purchasing another lunch box every time my collection outgrew the old ones.

            Sometimes we collect things because we have an emotional attachment to them, and other times we may just have OCD. No matter the reason, collecting gives us some sense of accomplishment with every new item that we add to our collection. Gathering stuff from nature is especially rewarding, because we can learn from observing whatever it is we’ve collected, and usually it’s free. This year I’m going to start collecting old cars that I find in riverbeds and at the bottom of cliffs. Could be fun. I expect that I will not only assume an extremely satisfying hobby, but I will also learn a great deal about each car’s history and how it wound up in such a sad state.

To all you fellow collectors of things out there, good luck finding more treasures in the future. May your collection bring you joy and many more learning experiences!