January 2019 - Utah Explorer's Guide

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JANUARY 2019

SPECIAL EDITION FOR SUBSCRIBERS OF DESERET NEWS AND THE SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

we do winter right!

Rent snowmobiles and all your gear at Beaver Creek Lodge in Logan Canyon

Two awesome resorts • Ski or board at Beaver Mountain • Ski, board or go tubing at Cherry Peak

Take a sleigh ride through a herd of 600 elk at Hardware Ranch

1-800-882-4433 | explorelogan.com/winter

A Year of Transformative Travel These are stories about transformations — of place, people and perceptions. We open at Sundance Mountain Resort in winter but head for the river instead of the slopes. At Golden Spike National Historic Site we encounter the place and moment that united a nation. There’s an exploration on foot through the “wild places” of Canyonlands National Park. And the magazine wraps up chasing questions of identity and trust on an unplugged, multi-day journey down the Green River (in turn, part of the very force that helped carve Canyonlands).

Transformation can happen when we travel deliberately, even slowly, giving more time and attention to the present moment. How to start?

Take the plunge into the icy January water of Bear Lake, explore this land’s heritage, challenge your worldview to create a closer bond with a place or pull off the highway to walk the Helper Hope Labyrinth or taste the terroir of a truly local cheese. Transformation can happen whenever you step out into a place — whether familiar or new — open to experiencing it fully.

Contents

02 Snowfield and Stream

By Brett Prettyman A winter fly-fishing trip to Sundance Mountain Resort

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16 Arrive by Train

By Tim Sullivan Northern Utah’s Golden Spike Country and railroad history are much bigger than the golden spike.

Bear Lake Monster Winterfest

By Ben Whisenant Come for the Cisco Disco, stay for the party and learn about the lake's monster lore

30 Artisan Cheese in Red Rock Country

By Darby Doyle Mesa Farm Market and the hardscrabble adventure in terroir and tenacity

32 Turning Carbon Into Culture

By Andrew Dash Gillman Art, Amtrak and a riverwalk anchor Helper, Utah's new identity

24 12 The Freedom of Wild Places

By Kristen Pope Exploring The Needles District of Canyonlands National Park on foot

Women in the Wild: Transformation and the Outdoors

By Paula Colman Build your tribe, connect with your authentic self, transform body, mind and spirit

38 Lost and Found in Desolation Canyon

By Ben Dodds A rafting pilgrimage through the remote rapids and canyons of the Green River

Snowfield & Stream

A Winter Fly-Fishing Trip to Sundance Mountain Resort Words: Brett Prettyman | Photos: Hage Photo

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here she is. The Sleeping Princess. Mount Timpanogos.

Sundance Mountain Resort is nestled among legends like this — stories said to be drawn from indigenous people, this land’s first nations, and modern stories captured on film and projected around the world. Timpanogos is the backdrop to these legends, a shapely ridgeline approaching 12,000 feet. Shimmering white snow graces its summit for several months out of the year. Below, chilly mountain streams rush down the canyon.

I have been fishing the Provo River and skiing at Sundance since my high school days. Through the years I’ve attended plays at the outdoor amphitheater and enjoyed bluegrass festivals. I joined a guided night hike to look for owls in the winter and hiked on, and around, the resort. Not too long ago, I attended a screening of the 25th anniversary of the movie “A River Runs Through It,” hosted by Robert Redford, director and producer of the flick that changed fly fishing forever — and owner of Sundance Mountain Resort.

Sundance Mountain Resort is, after all, an Orvis-Endorsed FlyFishing Lodge.

Quick Access to the River Skiers and snowboarders, of course, flock to the mountains of Utah for the frozen form of H2O. Anglers set out in Utah with intentions of experiencing a different kind of winter thrill by hooking into trophy trout.

Visitors to Sundance in Utah County can experience the rush provided by the liquid and frozen forms of water in the same day, centrally located on the Wasatch Front and, for visitors to the state, under an hour from Salt Lake City International Airport. Kind of amazing when you take a minute to consider Utah is the second driest state in the nation.

I had never stayed at Sundance because my home in Salt Lake City is only an hour from the resort. I decided it was time to give the legendary resort a try and take advantage of the quick access to the Provo River from Sundance.

“People come walking into the fly shop still wearing their ski boots and ask us to take them fishing,” said Brian Wimmer. “Other people stop when they see us in the shop and ask if you can fly fish in the winter. I tell them they probably have the right clothes to stay warm because they came ready to ski and the fish need to eat to survive."

I invited my fishiest fly-fishing friends, Heidi Lewis (founder of Utah Women Flyfishers) and Lani Murakami, to come along for the adventure. We tapped Brian Wimmer, fly fishing and activities ambassador at Sundance Mountain Resort, to serve as guide to the river and the resort.

The ski lift may be closer, but the Provo River, one of the best fisheries in Utah and the country, is mere minutes down the road from Sundance. And the fish, as it turns out, are more than willing to take a fly even as some of The Greatest Snow on Earth® is stacking up along the banks of the Provo.

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“We had walked mere yards from the highway ... but the sounds of the traffic faded away with our first casts.”

Heidi Lewis

Utah Explorer’s Guide | Snowfield & Stream

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“Some people have been wanting to try fly fishing for a while and are excited they can do it while on a ski vacation,” Wimmer said. “Some of have even extended their trips so they could spend more time on the river.”

short drive up the canyon to the room, but opted to go on foot. An inch of snow already on the ground and large, fluffy, drifting snowflakes made my walk a peaceful transition for the night. My footsteps were the only ones on the trail to the cabins. I wondered how long until they were filled in with fresh snow.

A Glass With Butch Cassidy After checking into our rooms, we headed to the Owl Bar for food and drink and to plan our time on the river the next day — the typical way many fly-fishing trips get started. In our fishing lifestyle clothing we stood out among the people who had been skiing at Sundance all day.

Rumor has it the Owl Bar, originally built in the 1890s, was moved from the town of Thermopolis, Wyoming, and had been visited by Butch Cassidy’s Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Sundance owner Robert Redford played the Sundance Kid in the 1969 movie “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” We certainly felt like outlaws enjoying the amazing food at the Owl while our families were doing homework and preparing for work the next day back in Salt Lake.

We planned an early breakfast at the Foundry Grill, so we headed for our rooms. I could have called a Sundance driver to deliver me the

With a mind clear from the crisp mountain air and senses full of the scent of pines, I entered the cabin. Cozy and welcoming. My head barely made it to the pillow before I was dreaming of big, eager trout.

A quiet night with pillows holding just the right amount of fluff left me refreshed and ready for the day.

Blue Ribbon and White Powder The morning was a little colder than we anticipated so we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the Foundry. We eventually met at the fly shop at the base of the ski mountain with our waders and boots already on.

Those fish we dreamed of last night were waiting. Skiers sent more than a few eyebrow-raising looks as we took pictures in our fly-fishing gear next to the ski racks with the lift in the background. Ten minutes later we were standing on the bank of the Provo River in Provo Canyon rigging up our fly rods.

Several inches of snow had fallen and our tracks were the first along the river — with the exception of numerous deer hoof imprints and the lone trail of a muskrat that had ventured out of the river.

We had walked mere yards from U.S. Highway 189 — the road running through Provo Canyon connecting the cities of Orem and Heber — but the sounds of the traffic faded away with our first casts. In between casts I watched an American dipper searching for breakfast underwater and attempted to identify songbirds by their calls as I tried to focus on the fishing. Heidi and Lani had decided, like the dipper, that the food was under the surface and were fishing accordingly.

I decided to go big and was throwing a streamer hoping to catch the attention of large brown trout looking for a more substantial meal.

Brian covered a lot of ground looking for fish feeding on the surface — not as unlikely as many would think in the winter.

Lani Murakami

Brian Wimmer

We didn’t get any sniffs at our first spot despite the fact state fisheries biologists had estimated 3,350 fish per mile in this stretch of the lower Provo River during a river sampling the previous fall. Numbers like these — two other locations on the lower Provo estimated 2,396 and 3,713 fish per mile — show a healthy population of brown trout, rainbow trout and mountain whitefish despite being one of the most popular fisheries in Utah.

The numbers also helped when members of the Utah Blue Ribbon Fishery Advisory Council were considering the lower Provo River for designation as a Blue Ribbon Fishery. Few argue with the designation. The Blue Ribbon portion of the lower Provo River includes six miles from the Olmstead Diversion Dam in the lower portion of the river to Deer Creek Dam. Part of the success of the fishery is a regulation allowing anglers to only fish with artificial flies and lures — no bait is allowed.

Why it’s Called Fishing We have a valiant effort on the lower Provo, but with nary a rise, nor a nibble for a couple of hours, Brian asked if we wanted to explore another part of the river. We climbed in the vehicle and headed upstream. We eyed the water while driving up the canyon but agreed to head to another stretch of the Provo located in the Heber Valley above Deer Creek Reservoir. We drove to an access point along railroad tracks and pulled into a parking area, but with wind rocking the Suburban we elected to go for an early lunch and wait out the wind.

On Brian’s suggestion we returned to the reservoir to enjoy lunch from a pavilion at Deer Creek State Park. The state park provides an idyllic setting of Mount Timpanogos across the water. Poor Heidi never saw the majestic mountain — all she could see was the water.

While others took time to savor box lunches ordered from the Sundance Deli — banh mi pork, Italian dip, turkey-bacon-avocado and the Sundance veggie sandwiches — Heidi hurried through the meal and gnawed on her cookie while rigging up her rod.

“I just need to fish when I’m this close to water,” she mumbled from behind the cookie.

We all watched as Heidi started casting a streamer from shore into the reservoir. It was a stunning sight with the snow-covered Timpanogos set behind the determined angler. Not five minutes into her casting — about the time the others had finally made it to their cookies — Heidi let out a whoop and yelled for a net.

We scrambled and managed to reach her just as a lengthy rainbow trout became visible for the first time. Another whoop from Heidi and the fish was in the net, once again illustrating just how fishy she is.

Inspired by Heidi’s catch, we packed up and returned to the parking lot next to the railroad tracks.

Brian Wimmer, Brett Prettyman and Lani Murakami When You Go Everything you need for a winter fishing, or ski, trip is available at Sundance Mountain Resort. World-class lodging accommodations and fine dining options mean you only need to leave the resort between ski runs or a spa visit to go pursue the morning or afternoon hatch.

Local guides know the river well and know secret ways to keep you warm should the weather turns foul: sundanceresort.com Purchase fishing licenses online at wildlife.utah.gov. A version of your license can be carried on your phone through an app.

The ski season at Sundance typically opens in early to midDecember and ends in early April. Lodging and other resort amenities are open year-round. Fishing is also open throughout the year.

Mount Timpanogos dominates the scenery at Sundance. If you look carefully, you may be able to make out the figure of a woman formed by Timpanogos, as seen from the neighboring valley.

One basic legend is a Ute princess, upset about the loss of a lover, laid down to die and created the mountain. To read more about the legends visit the website of nearby Timpanogos Cave National Monument.

story continued on next page Utah Explorer’s Guide | Snowfield & Stream

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When the Heber Valley Railroad train ran by, we waved as the cars passed and convinced a few folks to return the gesture.

unravel. Others were confident with their work and promised to try it on their next trip.

The fish finally decided to cut us some slack and started to show interest in our flies. Heidi, of course, was the first to hook up. Then Lani pulled one in and Brian had a turn before I finally managed to fool a few while fishing a dry as a soft hackle and pulling it slowly through the water. We joked how four of my mini brown trout equaled one of Lani’s.

Despite two solid Sundance meals already that day, we all found ourselves hungry and kept our reservation at the Foundry. We joked about heading to the spa, at least a hot tub, but it was late, and those perfect pillows were waiting to do their job. It is also safe to say the filet mignon, halibut and pork tenderloin plates at dinner made us even more sleepy.

Refuge by the Fire

Our dreams this night were of the ones that got away — or at least refused our flies.

The wind had worn us out a bit — or maybe it was Sundance calling with promises of fine food and good company that brought an end to our time on the water. Back at the resort we once again found ourselves at the Owl. This time we sat in front of a fire pit outside and watched as skiers boarded the lift for the final time that day.

With our legs elevated and a fire to enthrall our attention, the setting proved to be the perfect place to privately relive the wonders of the river and mourn the ones that got away. Soon, the stories were shared in the group accompanied by laughter. We kept wanting to get up and go order more drinks through the window to the bar, but we were lazy and cozy around the fire so we let the waitress handle things.

We eventually ended up back at the fly shop and sat down to tie flies.

It was fun to hear the different preferences each of us had for materials for the same fly pattern. Some of us were nervous about others seeing our final result. Or they would test the tie and watch it

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We took in a light breakfast at the Sundance deli the next morning and talked about our experience. Heidi summed it up well for all of us.

“I really felt like I was on vacation only 45 minutes from home,” she said. “I really appreciated the size of the resort. It never felt crowded.

The lodging was spread and very quaint. I felt like I was very far from the city.”

Our only complaint was we didn’t plan more time to take in all the resort offered.

ONLINE ONLY: Meet Utah Women Flyfishers founder Heidi Lewis at visitutah.com/lewis

Words: Ben Whisenant | Photos: Jim Urquhart

The best part of the annual January morning cookout at Bear Lake State Park? “The Cisco!” says 8-year-old Annie Ballingham, without hesitation.

The Bonneville Cisco makes its home in this solitary, Northern Utah body of water. Not only is the fish unique to the “Caribbean of the Rockies” — so called for its color, not its temperature — its peak season is a short, frozen, 10-day stretch in late January. Fishermen from across Utah and Idaho then gather to secure their 30-fish limit from the millions of Cisco populating this 109 square-mile treasure in the border valley of the Wasatch and Bear River Mountains.

There is a history to the Cisco run.

The story goes something like this: Once upon a time, a few adventurous souls from the Division of Wildlife Resources and Utah State Parks gathered on a cold winter morning in waders to dip their

fishing nets, catch and fry a handful of these Bear Lake edibles. The next year there were a few more, and others after that, until the Cisco Disco was born.

Named by the late KSL Outdoors TV host, Doug Miller, “Cisco Disco” describes the scene of the event — dozens of people, standing next to a frozen lake on a mid-winter morning, trying to stave off hypothermia as they await their fried food. Today, I am one of 200 or so “dancing” on the shore of Cisco Beach, dressed in my ill-fitting waders and felt-soled boots. I’m traveling with photographer Jim Urquhart, who is interested in capturing a few shots of netted Cisco emerging from the water, so he heads toward the lake.

Utah Explorer’s Guide | Bear Lake Monster Winterfest

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Unfortunately, in an odd bit of irony, the Cisco are avoiding Cisco Beach this morning. My toes already a bit numb, I resolve to remain on dry land, in part because I had not packed other boots and hoped to use these for snowmobiling later in the day.

Fortunately, organizers caught plenty of Cisco in advance of the Disco to ensure plenty of food for the Saturday morning event. Scott Tolentino, DWR fisheries biologist at Bear Lake, has carried the baton in recent years. He’s also added some of his own recipes. For the fish, “equal parts cornmeal, pancake mix and flour. And whatever seasoning you like, I use lemon pepper, seasoning salt, and black pepper.” The tartar sauce? “One-half quart of mayo, one-half quart of Miracle Whip, pickle relish, onions, and a couple squirts of mustard.”

Attendees had raved to me about the tartar sauce, and I have to admit, it was the perfect sauce for a crispy Cisco. Tolentino had deboned the fish ahead of the event, although I’m told the bones are frequently eaten and hardly noticeable amidst the deep-fried batter.

No longer is it just fried fish at the Cisco Disco, however. Ralph Blotter, a retired DWR conservation officer, added scones several years back — his own secret recipe. Lee Gyllenskog, former park manager at Hyrum State Park, makes the honey butter for the scones, and together — well, let’s just say I ate too many.

In the early 90s, Blotter’s close friend, Andy Bolos, added “chips” to the “fish.” Andy was the owner of Andy’s Greek Restaurant in Ogden, which he sold a few years back to George Kolivias with one caveat, that the sale include a pledge to supply the Disco in perpetuity. Bolos passed away this past year. Still, just as he has done for a half dozen years or so now, on this Saturday in late January, Kolivias arrives early, with two five gallon buckets of thick cut french fries. It is a fried-food feast, and doesn’t disappoint.

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Of Bear Lake Monsters and Men Bear Lake is more known as a summer hotspot. “The whole population of the county is about 2,000. In the summertime, however, it becomes 30-40,000,” says Bobbie Coray, editor of the Rich County Civic Times and a former president of the Cache Chamber of Commerce. Coray moved from Logan to the Bear Lake Valley after her husband retired from the Utah State University Mathematics Department. “I was spending more time here than I was in Logan. So, so we moved over here in 2006,” she says. Coray, whose husband passed away last year, has sought to enhance the Bear Lake area, like helping to get the local library built. “I’m one of those people that get involved with the community,” she says.

Once summer ends, visits to Bear Lake begin to tail off. “I think the tourist bureaus have [an opportunity] because we have absolutely fantastic falls,” says Bryce Nielsen, a former mayor of Garden City and retired DWR fisheries biologist. “The month with the least amount of wind at Bear Lake is September.”

Holiday rentals can really fill up, and there are the die-hards who attend the Disco year-in and year-out, but winter at Bear Lake is comparatively slow.

Catyse Easton, who has a place in Garden City, drove up from Logan with her 15-year-old son, Kolton, to catch Cisco for bait. Most fishermen catch the small fish as bait for larger Bear Lake fish, which

show a preference to the native swimmer. Aside from the Cisco Disco, few people catch them primarily to eat. Easton says she visits more in the winter months than in the summer. “Winter is the best time for Bear Lake,” she insists.

It is not an uncommon sentiment, and such was the thinking of the Bear Lake Convention and Visitors Bureau when they hatched the idea for the Bear Lake Monster Winterfest.

The Bear Lake Monster has over a century-long legacy, which seems an obvious allusion to the Loch Ness Monster. The tale originated in the 19th century and was reportedly based on Native American legend. In the late 1800s, John C. Rich wrote several articles about the “monster,” which he later maintained were in jest. Years later, one intrepid man built a “monster” boat and would occasionally drive

"Many of my own memories at Bear Lake include tales of the Monster, which we would occasionally see, always for a fleeting moment. " around the lake, perpetuating the Bear Lake Monster myth with children who might catch a glimpse of the vessel. Today, Utah State University maintains a digital collection of art and writings about the Bear Lake Monster.

Many of my own memories at Bear Lake include tales of the Monster, which we would occasionally see, always for a fleeting moment.

Invariably a parent, mine or that of a friend, was happy to devise a new story about the creature. Those memories have taken on a “Lake

Creed and Samantha Stephens

Wobegon” quality for me: learning to waterski on the glassy, clear water of an early summer morning; swimming to wood rafts anchored 20 yards offshore then lying under the sun, waiting for a boat to return; catching crawdads in the rocks at the marina, or flies in a jar at the cabin; attending community plays at Pickleville Playhouse; sleeping on a cot under the stars and picking raspberries.

Bear Lake has a fairytale kind of way about it.

Taking the Plunge But Winter in Bear Lake has a similar capacity to create memorymaking experiences. For years, the Cisco Disco had been drawing crowds to the lake in the winter. The Bear Lake Convention and Visitors Bureau reasoned that they could build on this — add a social, a chili cookoff, perhaps a polar plunge-type event and some vendors.

In 2018, the Bear Lake Monster Winterfest marked its ninth year, and it continues to grow.

Back at the Garden City Marina, the Winterfest festivities are in full swing.

Near the dock, a group of individuals is standing over their portable stoves and large pots. A Bear Lake chili cookoff means several varieties of meat that aren’t beef. “I’ve got a pound of deer steak,

Nathan Wahlberg dishes out samples at the chili cookoff

ONLINE ONLY: From snowmobiling to skiing, snowshoeing to sledding and fishing, Bear Lake in the winter is everything you’ll want from your next winter vacation. Read ”Beyond the Lake” at visitutah.com/beyond

three pounds of hamburger, course ground deer burger, his is moose, and he’s got elk,” says Talentino, the defending champion.

The Conks are using the moose. “Brian is the heater, and I’m the sweeter,” says Emily, who entered the chili cookoff together with her husband. There’s a trick to the sweeter, says Brian. “You let it cook almost all the way down, and then,” he pauses, “you put peaches in it.” The heater, he says, has habanero garlic, pickled by a friend’s grandmother in Colorado.

Each participant has cups for sampling, and a tip jar for the public to choose their favorites. The tips and other proceeds from the Winterfest the year I visited went to Common Ground Outdoor Adventures, a Logan-based charity. Lindsey and Brittney Wahlberg, sisters from Garden City, are the winners of the 2018 chili cookoff and take home a gift certificate to Sportsman’s Warehouse.

"Most are in costume, some in swimsuits, some fully-clothed, and while most entered the water with smiles on their faces, with the chill of the winter water, it was a bit more difficult to emerge the same way."

Meanwhile, prep for the Monster Plunge is underway.

“It’s probably 30 degrees warmer outside than it was a year ago,” says Glen Gillies, a sort of “do everything’” rodeo announcer/host/ auctioneer. Gillies is the undeniable king of Movember: He wears a Yosemite Sam mustache that reaches his chest — an accessory to his

rugged persona. Gillies, who hails from Malad, Idaho, has come to MC the Bear Lake Monster Winterfest, which includes announcing contest winners and color commentary for the Monster Plunge.

“Jay the cowboy, you’re gonna start us off,” he says, as Jay makes his way toward the water. Through throngs of spectators, 95 brave souls queue up at the edge of the dock. Group by group, dressed in full regalia, they gladly add their names to prior rolls of poor-decision makers.

Most are in costume, some in swimsuits, some fully-clothed, and while most entered the water with smiles on their faces, with the chill of the winter water, it was a bit more difficult to emerge the same way.

Fortunately, a nearby warming hut kept the mood high.

With hundreds of happy attendees, Winterfest is an indisputable success. After visiting, it is hard not to miss the peacefulness of Bear Lake in the winter. It feels private, but remains inviting. The atmosphere is relaxed, and for the adventurous, the options are endless. Plenty of lodging, snowmobiling, skiing, fishing, snowshoeing and a host of other activities are all just a couple of hours north of Salt Lake City, at Bear Lake.

Words: Kristen Pope | Photos: National Park Service

CLUTCHING my hat with both hands, the wind roared and whipped by as I stood atop a rugged red rock formation, gazing out into the vastness of The Needles district of Canyonlands National Park. It was a wild, windy day in the park, and I was doing my best not to be blown away. I looked out, amazed by the scenic panorama in front of me.

“It’s a labyrinth of topography,” my hiking companion, Hannah Russell, explained. Russell is the assistant director of the Friends of Arches and Canyonlands Parks, and she knows The Needles district and its topography intimately. Before her current position, she spent several seasons as a backcountry archaeologist there.

even earlier that morning, before I met up with Hannah, I saw a double rainbow over the park.

Now, as I perched on the red rock, I watched distant clouds move along the horizon, shifting and transforming the colors and shadows across the landscape. Reaching that spot had been a bit of a challenge.

Our route had us traversing slick sandstone and red rock, following a trail marked by stacked rock cairns as we moved across the vast landscape. We scrambled up rocks, using our hands to guide us at times, and encountered a few vertigo-inducing spots along the way.

Prickly pear and fishhook cacti lined our route in sections, along with She explained how the landscape of Needles includes a wide variety plenty of other plants. We also saw the cryptobiotic soil that the of features such as riparian areas, sandstone fins, pools of water, “Don’t bust the crust” and “Don’t tiptoe on the crypto” messages cottonwood trees, willows, sand dunes and, of course, plenty of red focus on preserving. Down on a knee and bent over for a close look, rock.

Hannah pointed out a few tiny tendrils of color on the cryptobiotic soil, just a few of the living organisms within.

When we set out on our hike from the Squaw Flat Trailhead an hour earlier, I was astonished to look up and see a soft red glow in the As we walked across the expansive landscape, we could see heavy dancing clouds above — a reflection of the landscape below. And rains falling miles away, but aside from a stray drop or two, we stayed

“I was astonished to look up and see a soft red glow in the dancing clouds above — a reflection of the landscape below."

dry. Thankfully, the terrain along our route didn’t have too much flash flood danger since rain miles away can cause deadly flash floods.

she said the best way to explore was on our own two feet, so we planned a hike.

Every time the trail curved, we were treated to a brand new landscape.

We stopped for a snack break and, as Hannah ate some quinoa salad and I popped a few dried cranberries in my mouth, we looked up and noticed something new. A tiny arch, formed by countless years of erosion, was nestled in the sandstone just above us. It would have been very easy to overlook it, and we likely would have if we hadn’t taken the time to stop and look around. Yet another wonder of the desert was unveiled.

While the paved Indian Creek Corridor Scenic Byway (in the Indian Creek unit of Bears Ears National Monument) leads right to The Needles, it isn’t an area where you can sit back in an air-conditioned car and drive around to see all the sights. While you will surely get good views from the road, the best way to see it is to get out and explore. Hannah mentioned that Elephant Hill is a popular spot with four-wheel-drive enthusiasts, but the park’s main draw is exploring by foot.

Canyonlands National Park is divided up into four districts, “Needles is not a driving park,” she said. “The experience of including three named land districts — The Needles, The Maze The Needles district to me is hiking and backpacking, and and Island in the Sky — and the rivers that carve up those districts. it’s extraordinary.”

Island in the Sky is the most accessible district, located near Moab, while The Maze is very rugged and remote. The Needles, accessed The Needles also contains a few things I was surprised to learn I might from Monticello in San Juan County, offers a rugged yet accessible encounter. Before our hike, I stopped by The Needles Visitor Center backcountry experience, and that’s what brought me there. to learn a bit more about the area. When I was there, I learned about When I had asked Hannah to show me around The Needles district, two surprising hazards: bears and quicksand. Some of the nearby

four-wheel-drive roads are difficult to traverse due to quicksand, which was a hazard I had not considered. I also hadn’t realized bears came down from the nearby mountains to some areas in The Needles District.

Apparently, a number of hikers and backpackers had encountered them recently.

While novice backpackers may not be ready for the challenges The Needles has to offer, experienced backpackers can enjoy their time as long as they take a few necessary precautions.

“While novice backpackers may not be ready for the challenges The Needles has to offer, experienced backpackers can enjoy their time as long as they take a few necessary precautions."

Generally, wildlife is tricky to see in the park.

While lizards are plentiful and easy to see darting around, and encountering a sunning snake is always a possibility, many of the park’s other wildlife are a bit harder to spot. Hannah mentioned she’d seen fox, snakes, birds of prey and plenty of other birds during her time there.

Before venturing into The Needles, I asked Dave Nimkin and Erika Pollard from the National Parks Conservation Association a few questions about the area. According to Nimkin, the senior southwest regional director, animals can often be tricky to see in the desert.

“The nature of being in the desert is that most of the wildlife are nocturnal,” Nimkin says. “So snakes and hares and bats … they’re not necessarily creatures that you’re going to experience during the day.”

While wildlife might be elusive, it’s much easier to find gorgeous plants, flowers and cacti to admire.

“The wildflowers and the cacti in bloom are an extraordinary counterpoint to the red rock and red soils,” Nimkin says. “Yellows and whites and reds on the barrel cacti and others.”

Canyonlands's dark skies are accredited by the International Dark-Sky Association

During our hike, we saw plenty of vegetation and a variety of cacti and other plants. Nimkin notes these plants are very important, and ancestral inhabitants had vast ecological knowledge about how to utilize them.

For example, ancestral Puebloans used juniper trees to create everything from beaded necklaces with dried seeds to ceremonial structures using the tree’s wood. They even used some parts of the plant as medicine.

“Folks have an understanding of how hostile this landscape might appear, but it actually provided sustenance for ancestral inhabitants,” he says. “I think we recognize how adaptive the ancient ones have been in making use of the flora of the area in weaving shoes and rope and other kinds of things.”

With its unique flora, fauna and topography, The Needles district is a very special place. It’s also a place where people can experience a touch of wildness.

As the wind whipped by, the sun beat down and a few storm clouds loomed in the distance, it was easy to find the wildness I came here to experience. I find freedom in wild places. And this land of red rock, open expanses and wild weather served up just what I was seeking.

One has to be attentive to the environment and aware of its dangers, taking precautions and making good decisions to stay safe. That sense of self-sufficiency, along with the freedom and wildness, is part of the allure.

“What’s really very special about Canyonlands as a whole is its wildness and remoteness,” Nimkin says. “Canyonlands is particularly unique in how vast it is and how sort of recklessly wild it is.”

This sense of wildness was also on full display at night. Canyonlands is an accredited International Dark Sky Park and the night sky is truly mesmerizing.

The evening before I met up with Hannah, I stood outside in the desert and looked up.

The Milky Way lit up the sky, stretching from horizon to horizon in a spectacular display. I was enthralled.

“One of the key resources at Canyonlands and many of Southern Utah’s national parks are the incredibly dark night skies,” says Pollard, the Utah senior program manager.

“A lot of people come just to experience the night skies.”

This photo and opening spread: Chesler Park, Needles District

Whether visiting under a shining sun or a starlight night, there’s something particularly enthralling about The Needles. And it’s not something that is fully captured with words or images — a visit is the best way to understand.

the park) and nearby BLM campgrounds. The Needles is easily combined with sites in Bears Ears National Monument, which includes additional lodging in Blanding and Bluff and camping throughout San Juan County.

“The Needles area is special,” Russell says. “Visually, it’s really interesting, and it’s really dynamic. It’s just one of those things you have to see and experience. It’s incredible.”

Weather: Weather can vary dramatically; summer temperatures top 100 degrees Fahrenheit while winter can bring 0-degree Fahrenheit weather. Spring and fall typically have more moderate temperatures.

Be aware of monsoon season (typically late summer and early fall) when thunderstorms, heavy rain and flash floods are a danger.

WHEN YOU GO Gateways: Monticello is located about 50 miles away from The Needles district of Canyonlands National Park and is the primary gateway. Moab is the largest nearby city, around 75 miles away.

Where to Stay: A variety of hotel and motel options are available in Monticello and Moab. Campers will find options at The Needles (Squaw Flat) campground in the park, Needles Outpost (just outside

Cautions: Be prepared for changing conditions and always protect yourself from heat, sun and the cold. Flash floods are dangerous and ice and snow can make footing very slippery.

ONLINE ONLY: Read "Be Prepared for the Backcountry" at visitutah.com/backcountry-prep

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ARRIVE BY TRAIN

N o rther n U tah’s G o lden Spik e Cou n try

an d ra i lro a d histo ry a re m uc h

bi g g er th a n t he go lden spik e.

WORDS: TIM SULLIVAN | PHOTOS: ANDREW DASH GILLMAN, MARC PISCOTTY & SANDRA SALVAS In the spring of 1869, Utah thought it had founded its future metropolis. The site along the Bear River northwest of Ogden had everything. It had fertile land hugged by the top of Bear River Bay. It lay near an established wagon road to Montana and its mines. It was the last townsite on the line of the Union Pacific as it moved west toward a meeting with the Central Pacific to make the first Transcontinental Railroad.

Although the telegraph company favored names like Last Ditch, Bar Town or Forlorn Hope, the name of the new town was proudly announced by the Salt Lake Daily Reporter: “Her name is Corinne.” By January 1869, there was a saloon in Corinne where one could get “sagebrush whisky,” and the U.P. pulled its first engine through in early April. The future for this corner of the Utah territory — not then a state — looked as bright as the Great Salt Lake playa.

But the city of the future was not destiny. Corinne today is not a place most Utahns have heard of, let alone visited. I stood there 149 years later, on a May afternoon. At the center of town was the popular Golden Spike Burgers, where my daughter Juliet and I had just finished off a meal; she had a burger and I had a chile verde burrito. From what I could gather, the town’s most prominent landmark was the giant golden spike in the roof of the restaurant, which, along with the restaurant’s name, was a nod to the much better-known attraction to the west, the Golden Spike National Historic Site, where the Transcontinental Railroad was linked a few weeks after the Hell on Wheels burned through Corinne.

Indeed, we were on our way to that meeting place in the desert. We had packed bikes and taken a train and bus from our house in Salt Lake to the northern reaches of the Wasatch Front, riding through the Bear River Valley, our ultimate destination the annual reenactment of the driving of the last spike at Promontory Summit.

This was a pilgrimage of sorts. Juliet and I had family history here — beginning as a small child, I was told that one of my direct ancestors was part of the last spike ceremony. An old photograph of him had hung in the hallway outside my bedroom. It showed a thoughtful-looking, white-goateed man sitting behind two bald Asian men, who, my mom said, were Chinese rail workers. But I didn’t know who this was, or what his job was. I had never even been to Promontory.

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ONLINE ONLY: Read "Discovering Box Elder” to follow a scenic and compelling journey through Northern Utah's Bear River Valley at visitutah.com/discover-box-elder

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It was also a trip into the past and future of Utah. A remote spot had sent the Wasatch Front on a growth trajectory 150 years ago. Now Promontory was within shouting distance of the expanding edge of a metro region predicted to grow to 5 million people by 2050. Then, as now, our population occupies a thin strip of fertile land, with the growing question of how we can sustain it — to suspend the disbelief of a thriving civilization here.

As we found, the clang of the Golden Spike resounds far throughout this corner of Utah, in a region still feeling the effects of the meeting of the rails. Confronted by the expanses of the Great Basin, Golden Spike reminds us that we have the same challenges today that were there at the beginning. As Corinne knows too well, the Golden Spike country of today straddles land both urban and empty, fertile and ruthlessly rugged.

GO NORTH It made sense to begin our journey on a train platform, albeit a modern one. On a bright morning a few days before the Golden Spike celebration, we left our house and rode a few miles to Salt Lake City’s North Temple Station. FrontRunner, the Utah Transit Authority’s commuter rail service, runs through here on its way south to Provo and north to Ogden.

The Transcontinental Railroad did create cities of the future in Utah — but they were 25 and 65 miles to the south in Ogden and, in particular, Salt Lake City. The scene in Salt Lake was likely what the founders of Corinne had in mind: It was a rush of commuters pouring off the double-decker train in hurried walks to offices in the skyscrapers surrounding the station. Three new residential buildings — hundreds of new apartments and condos — were under construction next to it.

Our bikes parked, our tickets purchased, Juliet and I walked to the edge of the platform and looked at the tracks. There was steel and concrete instead of iron and wood, but it was still rails, spikes, ties and ballast. A noise grew down the line; it was an old U.P. train shrieking by — Union Pacific: Building America, the engine’s battered paint read.

After the Ogden-bound FrontRunner train arrived, we moved north smoothly in the upper floor of the double-decker car. Our booth was outfitted with a table, an electrical outlet and Wi-Fi. Juliet drew while I watched out the window, looking east. The morning shone on alternating patches of green countryside and suburb, the freeway a parallel rush of mobility. In contrast to the fast food and gas stations of the Interstate corridor, along the train line rose three, four, fivestory residential and office buildings with names like “City Centre.”

Now, the railroad was the new antidote for our freeway-driven growth pattern, a second chance at getting it right.

Weber Canyon came into view, a giant “V” cleaved into the Wasatch wall. I felt us coming into Utah’s train heartland. We crossed the Weber River and curved into the huge rail yard.

UNITING THE STATES AT THE CROSSROADS OF THE WEST The Transcontinental Railroad came at a critical time for the United States. At the railroad’s inception, the nation was fighting to keep the union together from north to south. By the time the railroad was on its way to being finished, the Civil War was over, and the union was preserved — and now it was time to link the nation east to west.

Congress authorized two railroads to start at either end of the American West and build as fast as possible to an undetermined meeting point in the middle. The Union Pacific would start from

“Rolling into Ogden on the train seemed like how you are supposed to arrive here.”

Omaha, Nebraska, and build west along the Platte River through Nebraska and Wyoming Territory. The Central Pacific would begin in Sacramento and run over the Sierra Nevada mountains through the Great Basin eastward. But in the middle part of Utah, the Great Salt Lake and its surrounding mountain ranges posed a major obstacle, and no clear best route presented itself.

Salt Lake City was the only place on the entire route from Omaha to Sacramento with a significant pre-existing white settlement, and as the two railroads raced into Utah territory, Brigham Young was only too happy to help the U.P. and the C.P. work through these last challenging stretches of the road. Young’s Mormon labor forces joined the U.P. and C.P. crews of surveyors, graders, and track layers to overcome Echo Canyon, the gorge of the Weber River, the Great Salt Lake desert and, finally, the grades of the place that was, at nearly the last minute, chosen as the meeting place — the pass in the Promontory Mountains.

And so Utah — and specifically present-day Weber and Box Elder counties — emerged as the theater for the final drama of the national road. It wasn’t just that the golden spike itself was driven in Utah, it was that the whole landscape was overtaken in those final weeks by the two rail companies’ drive to succeed. The country’s ears were fastened to the telegraph, which pounded out every advance and conflict on the lines as they came closer together, the current of American audacity and hubris. This most American of landscapes became the last critical link in the nation.

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WELCOME TO RAILROAD COUNTRY Rolling into Ogden on the train seemed like how you are supposed to arrive here. After crossing the green, cottonwood-covered sweep of the Weber, we turned into the enormous rail yard and could see downtown Ogden presenting itself. The yard was a museum of all different railroad cars — Southern Pacific, Central Utah, Union Pacific.

While Promontory was the place where the lines fused, Ogden became the transfer point between the Union Pacific and Central Pacific, and one can understand how the bustle and grand commercial promenade of the city’s iconic 25th Street came to be.

We got off the train at the FrontRunner station, but our first destination was the old Union Station next door. This iteration of the station is a massive Italianate terminal built in 1924 to replace the previous station destroyed by fire. (And today anchors 25th Street, which collects a number of local restaurants and shops, coffee, brewing, venues and distinctive old-town character within walking distance of the train.)

We parked our bikes in front and headed into the Railroad Museum, one of four museums the station now houses. What pulled my attention was the museum’s model railroad, which snaked around a network of hallways and depicted in miniature the key Utah Transcontinental scenes — Promontory, Weber Canyon, Corinne, and what became known as the Lucin cutoff, the shortening of the route by bridging across the Great Salt Lake. One of the model scenes

showed what may have been the most remote Utah town ever — the small community of Midway, which existed for decades on a manmade island in the Great Salt Lake to house workers maintaining the trestle bridge. The original Lucin bridge had been scrapped in favor of the present-day causeway, but some of the salvaged timbers framed the museum entryway.

After a walk and lunch on Roosters Brewing’s sunny patio looking onto 25th Street, we pushed further north. Our next leg was on a bus to Brigham City, which left mid-afternoon from Ogden Station.

“It’s a long ride,” said the driver, helping us load our bikes onto the rack on the front of the bus. “But it’s a nice ride.”

We were now in Golden Spike country. As the bus ran north, we could see its different facets: the frame of I-15, of bedroom communities and jobs. The orchards and farms along U.S. Highway 89, leading into the plane trees and iconic arch on Brigham City’s Main Street. And the desert, lake and, I imagined, the remnants of the obscure Midway Island beyond. Could you still make a good living farming here? I wondered. Were these towns destined to be swallowed by the linear city of the Wasatch Front?

The end of the line was at the north end of Brigham City, a worthy destination in its own right as well as an excellent regional base camp given its proximity to Golden Spike and the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge. It was the furthest north UTA will take you on a bus — perhaps a good way to define the edge of the Wasatch Front. Beyond was a small, two-lane country road ambling into the countryside along the base of the Wellsville Mountains. From here we’d be cycling.

The sun was low when we rolled into Honeyville, 10 miles to the north, stopping at a motel at the town’s lone crossroads for the night. The name alone had made me want to visit here. One story had it coming from the wild beehives in the mountains to the east, raided by the town’s first white settlers. Another was that the area reminded the town’s Mormon bishop of the biblical Canaan, a land of milk and honey.

of ancestors who lived in and helped build up Rock Springs, your basic Hell on Wheels U.P. town on the Wyoming plains.

O.C. Smith was a railroad man from the beginning. Born in Massachusetts in 1825, he took charge of the construction of a railroad in Uxbridge in 1855. This was the first in a string of jobs in railroads, construction and real estate that took him from Pennsylvania to Michigan and back to Massachusetts.

He didn’t get out west until 1868 when he took the job of paymaster for the Union Pacific. The paymaster is responsible for paying the workers, which was funny because U.P. President Dr. Thomas Durant was famous for not paying the workers. In fact, the last spike ceremony was delayed two days because Durant’s train en route to Promontory was hijacked by an angry mob of workers demanding their pay (one story has this as a plot cooked up by Durant himself). Nevertheless, O.C. Smith was said to have distributed $5.3 million in payments over the building of the U.P. road from Omaha to Promontory.

He must have known Durant and Grenville Dodge, the former Union army general who was the U.P. chief engineer. And maybe even Leland Stanford, Charles Crocker and the other Central Pacific honchos.

There is still enormous community pride about the Transcontinental Railroad in Bear River Valley towns like Tremonton, where a two-story, sepia-colored mural of the champagne photo lies on the side of a commercial building on Main Street, one of a series of murals downtown depicting important events. At The Pie Dump, where we stopped for breakfast the next day, the chef told us about how bright the colors of the steam train locomotives were, that you’d never know from the black and white photographs.

We arrived in Corinne midday, after a nice ride through the Bear River Valley’s rolling agricultural land. Corinne was clearly a different kind of town from the Mormon farming hamlets like Honeyville; Corinne’s

THE PHOTOS DON’T DO THEM JUSTICE Before I left on the trip, I had done a little family research. Who was my ancestor at the golden spike ceremony, the man with the white goatee? Was he in the famous “champagne photo," of men on the nose of each engine raising bottles to toast the meeting? Was he in the bleachers? Was he even really there that day?

My mom had a name — Oliver C. Smith, a.k.a. O.C. Smith. When I found his obituary online, my mom put it together that he was my great-great-great-great grandfather, the originator of a long line

Tim and daughter Juliet examine the "champagne photo" mural in Tremonton

blocks and buildings gave a wide berth to the railroad. It was one of the few Utah towns with a “Front Street,” where mayhem had reigned at places like the Montana House. Now Front Street, with well-kept homes and lawns, looked like any other street in a small town. The tracks still ran through Corinne but faded out after a spur to the Utah Onion Company, the adjacent Walmart distribution center asserting what now counted as freight. The town had a bar, Mim’s, next to Golden Spike Burgers, but it likely did not serve sagebrush whisky.

We were now on the U.P. grade as it headed west.

A PLACE THAT MAKES SENSE Past Corinne, the blooming desert gave way to the raw desert. We skimmed the northern edge of the Great Salt Lake shorelands and saw a heron and several red-winged blackbirds in the marsh. The road rounded the tips of bare mountains and around the bend of one of them, the most enormous vehicle I have ever seen was delivering a rocket motor to the nearby Northrop Grumman Innovation Systems (formerly Orbital/ATK Aerospace) complex.

I could also see the summit. It was a depression in the Promontory Range, visible from far across the basin. Eventually, I could see what I thought were the railroad grades twisting up the hill. I could tell we were nearing the site where the nation first came together by rail.

As the Union Pacific and Central Pacific approached a meeting point, chaos ensued. Congress had not yet determined the exact joining point, and so the railroads, each hustling for every foot of the line it could claim, eventually began grading in parallel to one another. The crews were often working within a few feet of one another. The Irish crews of the U.P. harassed the Chinese crews of the C.P. — throwing frozen dirt clods, hurling pickaxes and setting off explosions near them. The railroads’ leadership bet each other in how much track could be laid in one day. In the final days of the race to Promontory, the C.P. crews put down 10 miles in one day — laying track at the pace of a person walking. As Stephen E. Ambrose writes, “The end of track…was the only place that mattered.”

The parallel grades are no more spectacular than on the climb up to Promontory, where they snake around each other on their way up the

dramatic 600-foot climb to the summit. The crux of this climb was the crossing of a large ravine, which each of the railroads handled differently. The U.P. built a giant trestle bridge, “hastily,” adds the interpretive sign. The C.P., meanwhile, filled the ravine with earth dug out of the hill. In the end, the fill won out over the rickety trestle, which was dismantled soon after.

Today, you can drive, walk, or ride on these grades and see this “Big Fill” and the remnants of the “Big Trestle.” I could see the ramparts of the Big Trestle and the grade clinging to the mountainside. Up the hill, there were huge cuts through the mountain, with the excavated boulders stacked nearly on the edge of the troughs.

It was quite a climb for us, too. Juliet admirably attacked the road, much steeper than the railroad grades, but then succumbed to the support vehicle. She was waiting for me at the crest of the hill, where we looked down below us. Promontory was one of the desolate, remote, hidden engines of the West, like South Pass and Glen Canyon Dam. We could see the whole region in that line of the railroad grade in the dry valley, down to the bustling North Temple Station surrounded by construction cranes.

We rode the last few miles through the valley. We crested the last small hill, and there it was. We could see the two locomotives nose to nose, the two little engines in the huge valley. We were at the top and felt the connection to the east and to the west. The place made sense.

PARTICIPATING IN HISTORY In advance of the anniversary ceremony the next morning, we camped at Kosmo, an early 20th-century potash mining camp on the north shore of the Great Salt Lake and the C.P. railroad grade. Like

“We could see the two locomotives nose to nose, the two little engines in the huge valley. We were at the top and felt the connection to the east and to the west. The place made sense.”

Midway, this was a place that I could scarcely believe had been a community, but 200 people once called it home. The remnants of a pier ran out into the playa, and Juliet and I rode our bikes through the rotted posts like a slalom course. The bright sun of the day had turned to storms visible across the lake. Overnight, fine, white sand whipped under our rainfly and through the mesh of our tent.

In the morning, after pancakes and bacon from Earland’s Meats in Tremonton, we made our way back to Promontory. A small town’s worth of people had filled up the parking lot of the Golden Spike Visitor Center. Never having met a gift shop she didn’t like, Juliet navigated the swarms of people and selected one replica golden spike for herself and one for her little brother.

When I saw the locomotives set out on the tracks, I understood what the man at The Pie Dump had meant about their colors — the Jupiter and No. 119 shone in handsome black, red, blue and gold. The Bear River High School band played on one side of the stage. I thought I could pick out the men set to play Durant, Dodge and Stanford.

My great-great-great-great grandfather had been there too. As the book Brother Brigham Holds the Whip recounts, the Union Pacific paymaster, O.C. Smith, noted that on this “clear, cool, beautiful day,” he and his wife rode up to Promontory Summit to “see the last rail laid that connects the Union Pacific and Central Pacific RRds. A large

crowd was there.” They stayed until 2 p.m., returning on the first train back to Echo. So — probably not in the champagne photo, but with a good seat in the bleachers.

Walking up to the locomotives, hissing with steam, Juliet approached a man with a white beard alighting the engine in period costume and informed him that her great-great-great-great-great grandfather had been the paymaster for the Union Pacific.

“Well,” he said, chuckling. “That must have been an easy job. Old Doc Durant never paid anyone.”

The re-enactment proceeded. True to this deeply parsed history, Stanford missed the spike. The last spike was actually an iron one wrapped in telegraph wire, heard around the nation.

“Bulletin! From Promontory to the country,” the man playing the telegraph operator announced. The fire alarms in San Francisco and the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia had been ready. And then the final word signifying the completion of this, and the crowd chanted with him — “D! O! N! E! Done!

See event calendars for the 150th anniversary and beyond at spike150.org and nps.gov/gosp

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Women in the Wild Transformation and the Outdoors Words and Photos: Paula Colman “It’s a weekend camping retreat in Moab for women,” I told my editor, “... like the Utah version of a girls’ spa trip.” Utah is home to some amazing luxury getaways (like those Park City spas just up the canyon from me), but the tiny town of Moab in central-eastern Utah is world renowned for its adrenaline-filled adventures, iconic parks and landmarks. Yes, iconic! Delicate Arch is featured on the Utah license plate, and Dead Horse Point is where Thelma and Louise drove their Thunderbird convertible off a cliff ... OK, maybe that’s not the best image to lead with. Moab is a place where you’re more likely to find spiny creatures than scented candles, and premium lodging means secure indoor parking for your mountain bike, not your automobile.

So, maybe the spa analogy was a stretch, but it proved to be one incredible and memorable girls’ trip.

I had no idea what this meant much less how to write eloquently about it. I don’t speak New Age, I think I once triggered a yogi and I like to pair french fries with Champagne. So, when they pulled out the tarot cards, I felt less like Wallace Stegner offering his immortal prose about love, life and the land of Utah and more like Sandra Bullock in “Miss Congeniality,” an undercover FBI agent posing awkwardly and somewhat dismissively as a beauty pageant contestant. I had a lot to learn.

Spoiler Alert: Lentils should always be sprouted; morning yoga is great, but jumping into the Colorado River at sunrise is transformative; my spirit animal is the whale; and like Bullock’s Miss New Jersey, I left with insights, memories and, in an astonishingly short time, amazing women friends who blazed different trails but seemed to share a common spark which, as if Stegner composed it, ignited my flame.

Building a Tribe Requires a Great Chief “Through friendships, we spark and inspire one another’s ambitions.”

where the Colorado River carves its way through a narrow canyon and turns sharply before it enters Moab. It is a place where you don’t stand beside the towering sienna walls but are surrounded by them.

Renee wanted to recreate these feelings of strength and support “to build a network of entrepreneurial female spirits” who draw physical and emotional nourishment from the outdoors.

If you’ve spent any time in Utah or anywhere outside, you know what such experiences can do. Anyone who has climbed a mountain, hiked a trail or fished in a pond gets it. Fresh air is the most intoxicating elixir in the world. It makes you feel that you can summit anything.

Conversely, the outdoors, particularly when you’re unplugged, can make you feel not only unmoored but minute. The scale of mountains, the power of rivers, the opacity of forests, the vastness of star-filled skies reveals our vulnerability and irrelevance. For millions of years, these natural forces were largely undiscovered, unknown and untouchable and, even with knowledge now digitally in the palm of our hands, they remain mysterious. They invite us to wander — to journey without a map — to query, stray and discover.

When venturing out with other women, Renee realized that discoveries occurred internally and externally, from beginning to end and that they inspired changes long after the trips concluded. Renee’s refrain is common, “It’s the journey, not the destination,” but it inspired another idea for me, one penned by Henry Miller, “One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.”

But, first, you had to get them outside.

“It takes someone — a chief — to remind us that to benefit our tribe, we must let go of expectations and pressures — to become our authentic self — and discover what is meaningful to us.”

— Wallace Stegner

Wild Women Tribe is the “passion project” of Renee Huang of Park City. A public relations professional by day, she conceived of the Tribe after having a transformative outdoor experience with several friends at Big Bend, a section of Bureau of Land Management land

“Thank you for saying ‘yes’,” repeated Renee throughout the 48-hour retreat. I understood what she meant and why she acknowledged it.

For many women, stopping to take time for ourselves seems harder than reaching a summit. Work, family, community ... they are all

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calling to us. We don’t feel we can tune them out or let them down. So, getting away from home was the initial challenge, but emotionally leaving the comforts (or habits) of daily life was the bigger step. It takes someone — a chief — to remind us that to benefit our tribe, we must let go of expectations and pressures — to become our authentic self — and discover what is meaningful to us — our flame — in order to find balance and happiness in our relationships and lives. Yes, my fries-eating, analytical self was a bit skeptical and a bit nervous, and when I started imagining Joan Baez singing verses of Kumbaya with my chorus of never-ending lists, I wondered whether I should stick to the physical tests on slickrock trails down the road, because traveling this path would require more than a strong body but a new way of looking at things.

Looking around the circle, other than Mara and Renee, I didn’t recognize anyone. We then bound ourselves together literally with an Intention Bracelet, a single piece of jute that, as we wrapped it around our wrists, cinched us together before introducing ourselves and announcing what brought us to this place. Over two days, I would learn that this group of 11 women ranged in ages from 24 to 57. Some were from Utah, others moved here recently or long ago, and one drove in from Washington State. They were single, married, divorced and of different races, religions, ethnic and educational backgrounds. They had kids, no kids, cats and dogs. We even found out that our chef, Anne, had two Easter Egg Hens (because they lay colored eggs, of course) named Violet and Peanut Butter. I discovered and shared more with these women in 48 hours than some of my blood relatives in 50 years!

Energy and Positive Intentions

Many of the women learned about Wild Women Tribe through descriptions, photos and reviews of Renee’s earlier “wanders,” half-day hike and snowshoe trips to hot springs and yurts with a yoga session or tea ceremony thrown in. No, they weren’t your typical massage, mani-pedi, fruity-drinkspoolside-kind-of-trips. They weren’t even your typical hike or snowshoe trips! Even when I first heard about it, Wild Women Tribe sounded unique — and fun — and didn’t require great sums of preparation, time, gear or wealth. It was accessible to anyone. You just had to say, “Yes.”

Pulling up to the pavilion at Big Bend Campground along the sandy south bank of the Colorado River, my companion Mara and I felt we were in the right place and simultaneously agreed that we were staying regardless because, whoever they were, these folks were obviously enjoying themselves. There were almost a dozen women gathered like fireflies under glass.

There was laughter, music (although I can’t recall if it was a particular tune or the clanging of pots and pans and tent poles) and an unidentified offer to help unload and set up. (I, actually, secretly practiced setting up my tent in my garage a few days earlier “Learning to say “yes” frees you not only to go farther to prove I could do it without my husband.) and see new things but to “No, I’m good. Thanks,” I replied and hear new voices guiding (or followed Mara to a flat site under some oak cheering) you along the way.” trees. There, we pitched our tent, grabbed our camp chairs and completed the circle of co-venturers back under the pavilion where we made introductions and, That became one of the most powerful with the excitement of kids at Christmas, intentions and discoveries during the opened swag bags full of certificates, weekend. It often feels safer to stay on the coupons, samples, books and t-shirts. same path, but doing so eventually creates a “Presents are important,” said Renee. rut or takes you somewhere you, frankly, Camaradarie and generosity were the tinder don’t want to go making you stationary at for the entire weekend. best … or just lost. “No,” “I’ll think about it”

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or, some form of “I need to do something for someone else,” doesn’t move you forward.

Learning to say “yes” frees you not only to go farther and see new things but to hear new voices guiding (or cheering) you along the way. Let go, find a different way of looking at things.

Putting Intentions Into Practice ... or on a Plate Although there was a full schedule, either by design or intuition, Renee allowed the weekend to flow like the river beside us. The Colorado River was just steps from the campsite allowing us to see, hear and feel its presence the entire time, and after a half-day drive for most, it was calling us to its shore.

However, despite 90-degree temps in early June, the water was not much more than snowmelt causing even louder hoots and hollers from those, including me, who barely waded in.

As with the prime riverfront location, when it came to food and drink, this camping retreat could hold its own against a five-star resort.

Meat and cheese charcuterie, homemade granola and pickled vegetables, nuts, figs, dried apricots, hummus, baba ganoush … and those were just the appetizers. Anne Dorsey of Milk and Honey Wellness treated us not only to copious amounts and varieties of foods all weekend but, while preparing each meal, explained their source (thank you, Violet and Peanut Butter) and nutritional purpose (very important) and how different foods affected different people (most important).

It’s not about vegetarian or vegan or paleo or fries and Champagne diets; it is about your relationship with your food and your life, Anne explained. If you feel well, you’ll eat well, and if you eat well, you will feel well.

The trick was discovering what those mean to you, evaluating your expectations and pressures and exploring what foods, in fact, work. No, we didn’t live on tofu, but we did eat a delicious lentil salad and learned why sprouted is better-tasting and better for you (Mara tested and confirmed this back at home on her family the following week) and,

Clockwise from top: the group at Delicate Arch, the evening's campfire program, Andrea Latimer of Bitters Lab

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man, Anne can make some mouth-watering and tender baby back ribs! So, no, not your typical spa food. Better.

“It was … as if her mind were a flask into which had been poured a measure of longing, a measure of discontent, a measure of fatigue, a dash of bitterness, and pouf ... ” — Wallace Stegner

In one of the more inspired Tribe activities, Renee invited Andrea Latimer, the founder of Bitters Lab, to foster creativity and collaboration in a hands-on approach — mixing drinks. Bitters are a type of flavored extracts, and although grain alcohol is used as a solvent to release the aromatic or gustative flavors, you wouldn’t consume them alone anymore than you would a bottle of vanilla extract. They were historically used as a medicine or digestive or cocktail mixer. Today, as palettes have become more adventurous, bitters are showing up in foods and non-alcohol concoctions, as well.

In fact, Andrea started making bitters as a wedding cake baker trying to infuse her confections with unique all-natural flavors.

Each evening after dinner, the Tribe watched Andrea set up her workbench. Like a scientist or chef — both relying upon combinations and chemical reactions to produce something new — she demonstrated how to use her flavors in new and varied ways. Charred Cedar and Current bitters in an Old Fashioned, Blueberry Cardamom in coffee, Apricot Vanilla in frosting. It was, again, a different way of looking at things. Then, the fun part, we made our own. We channeled Tom Cruise and the Hippy Hippy Shake (telling the Millennials with an eye-roll to just YouTube it) and enjoyed the physical act of creating something and the communal act of sharing it together.

Anne Dorsey of Milk and Honey Wellness

Sparks, S’mores and Shavasana “Wisdom ... is knowing what you have to accept.”

— Wallace Stegner

Illumination and temperature rose and fell along the sides of the canyon walls each day visibly reminding the Tribe that, like sunrise and sunset, changes occur all around us and, as we age and mature, they (for better or worse) happen within us.

How we respond and feel about those responses are on us. “Accept where you are at this moment ... It gives you choices,” proposed Casey Aksoy, entrepreneur and female embodiment coach of Wild Sexy Free, who led each evening’s campfire program.

After having us elicit aloud what we felt good about in life, Casey asked everyone to write down privately what was not working. She then guided us through acceptance, forgiveness, patience and compassion — the steps necessary to reach the next stage, the next sunrise, in our lives.

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Mara and author Paula Colman (at right)

That mental and, for some, emotional exercise was conjoined with the physical practice of morning yoga led by Nicole DeBloois and Sarah Woodward of Tadasana Yoga in Park City. For several years, I have found yoga … impossible. Although I can position and balance and breathe, I cannot quiet my mind. Clogged with lists and todos and details, “mindfulness” escapes me outside a turbulent airplane.

Watching my Tribe hold graceful poses and, one, sitting like a priestess with her chin tilted toward the mesa, I suddenly felt that maybe I would never see things differently, that change was as likely as sedimentary movement on this Colorado Plateau.

The rest of the day, we enjoyed amazing meals, gorgeous hikes and dipping our toes in the still-freezing-cold river, where I convinced my new friends to pose before my ubiquitous camera, the most terrifying creature out there, I learned. This was not a pageant, after all, and we had ditched our lip gloss and concealer five minutes after arrival.

Some were more willing than others and, realizing the trust being offered, I took greater care and tried to capture the strength and beauty of these women in this incredible setting. After another meal and mixology lesson, we gathered around the campfire a final time.

From the moment we committed words to paper the previous night, we foresaw tonight would end with their ashes. We knew what was holding each of us back in our lives; it was now time to look at it differently so we could move forward. Asking us to use our five senses, Casey directed the Tribe to silently confess what we wanted or where we wanted to be: what did it look like, how did it sound, taste, smell, feel? The campfire then crackled, snapping me to attention as if to say, Let go, look at things differently, this is it.

And, then, there it was, the spark and the flame.

You’re Stronger with a Tribe

Than

You

Think,

and

You’re

Strongest

On the final morning, the sun was already warming the tent when a robin forced me awake. I am not kidding! The doggone bird would not shut up! Singing a rather persistent melody supported by the bass notes of the river rushing nearby, I listened for the rumblings of my Tribe. Nothing. So, I threw on my swimsuit thinking I would rinse off a bit of my authentic, non-showered self and take a few photographs of the sunrise over Big Bend before hunting for the others and coffee.

The bird was still singing in a bush beside the river. As I approached, it did not startle; it faced the water and just continued its tune. I looked at the bird, and then I looked at the water and, without taking time to talk myself out of it, I jumped in. Cold! So cold, it burned from my toes to my scalp. I was freezing but electrified, alone but connected. When I emerged, the bird was gone, but I saw, heard, smelled, tasted and felt more. I was a part of this wilderness, this world, and not just a visitor.

As I walked up the sand beach, the birdsong was replaced with a chorus of pans, coffee pots and musings about our final hike before heading home. Back under the pavilion, Tribe members shuffled and drew cards that revealed their spirit animal, a visual representation of one’s energies and strengths for some and a horoscope of sorts for others. It didn’t really matter, because while divining whether we were an otter, a panther or dragonfly, our Tribe — newly formed but strongly built with jute and juniper and vinyasa and Violet — collectively possessed an energy that could be seen and felt for miles, one that would nourish us and connect us now and until the next girls’ trip with these amazing Wild Women.

Find Your Tribe When planning a trip in Utah sometimes it’s nice to let someone else manage the details and direct the adventure in ways you never imagined. For example, this adventure was my third trip to Moab in eight weeks (yes, lucky me), but it was completely different — different lodging, foods, areas, activities — from the other two. So, for a real adventure, let someone else guide you.

Several organizations and companies offer women-only camping experiences in Utah like Wild Women Tribe. They vary in focus, group size, length, intensity and price. Find one that works best for you or, better yet, moves you out of your comfort zone. Such trips are intended to provide support but to transport you, as well.

• Spark Women’s Retreat was founded by Leadership Excursion Co, “an organization dedicated to the betterment of women.” It hosts a large weekend camping event for women in Zion National Park in the fall with a wide selection of workshops. Accommodations include tent sites, glamping tents and cabins.

• AndShesDopeToo may have the best group name! This Ogdenbased lifestyle organization hosts numerous one-day events throughout Utah and weekend Rendezvous camping retreats in the Spring and Fall for 200 women of any background and experience looking to connect with the outdoors.

• REI, the outdoor retailer, also runs a popular travel company that offers women-only hiking and mountain biking trips (4-12 participants) to Bryce Canyon and Zion national parks in Utah throughout the year.

REI provides tents, meals and all logistical support.

Find links and see ideas for planning your own trip in the sidebar at visitutah.com/women-tribe

ONLINE ONLY: Read "Bitters Make Adventures, Oh, So Sweet” at visitutah.com/bitters

Randy Ramsley

But they’re having trouble getting us to leave the goat barn.

We’re absolutely smitten. Watching dozens of Nubian, Alpine and LaMancha baby goats adorably head-butting, jumping in circles and generally wooing the socks off of anyone who will give them the slightest bit of attention. It’s pretty dang cute.

Artisan Cheese in Red Rock Country

Even after two decades working the farm, Ramsley agrees the kids can be delightfully distracting. “Watching goats just makes people happy,” he told me with a grin. “They’re really wonderful and adaptable animals.”

Words: Darby Doyle | Photos: Larry Price The baby goats are stealing the show.

We’re at Torrey’s Mesa Farm Market on a crisp morning and supposed to be learning about small-batch artisan goat cheese production with farm proprietor and legendary cheesemaker Randy Ramsley.

Known affectionately as “the little purple store on Highway 24,” Mesa Farm is a 50-acre slice of bucolic wonder nestled in Utah’s red rock country at milepost number 102, heading east from Capitol Reef National Park. Led by Matt Caputo, Certified Cheese Professional (that’d be the equivalent of a cheese sommelier), our motley group of about twenty Utah chefs and artisan food lovers visited the farm to learn more about Ramsley’s unique farmstead and his variety of goat milk alpine-style cheeses.

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But there’s not much time spent goat-gazing for Ramsley. To say that the season is a busy time at Mesa Farm pushes the boundaries of understatement to the extreme. Even with two interns (he’ll have up to seven during peak summer production) who recently joined him to help with birthing and milking the goats, tending the inevitable handful of orphan kids who need round-the-clock care, assisting with cheese making and taking care of vegetable and fruit production for the farm’s seasonal roadside market and counter service restaurant, Ramsley’s days are full to the brim with activity.

Until the kids are weaned, the thirty-five does are milked once a day, producing 12–15 gallons of goat milk in total. Unlike larger commercial operations that milk goats year-round, Ramsley elects for a more natural growth and milk production cycle for his animals. “We prefer to share our milk with the kids,” says Ramsley. “In a couple of weeks

they’ll be completely weaned and we’ll be milking twice a day through the fall,” when most of the does become pregnant and the farm stops milking over the winter while the females gestate. (Note to visitors: the Mesa farmstead market is open seasonally, from the end of March through the end of October).

“It’s good for the goats. But also it makes for really delicious cheese.”

Accompanied by the fresh bread Ramsley bakes daily in an outdoor brick oven, we try samples from the Mesa Farm Market’s seasonally changing offerings of yogurt, fresh chèvre and that green-bright zingy feta.

Wandering Goats, Rabbitbrush and You And then, the pièce de résistance.

Ramsley spends his days directing the herd through different pasture on the farm with his trusty companion, Zeke, a nimble canine of superior herding ability and a gregarious nature captured on social media feeds via visitors from all over the globe. Along with supplementing the goats’ diet with only non-soy, GMO-free feed, it’s a labor-intensive process. But one that Ramsley is passionate about protecting: “Corporate goats stand in a lot and eat the same thing every day. There’s no complexity in the milk.”

And that flavor complexity is the distinction resulting in the unique and intangible qualities of Ramsley’s hand-crafted farmstead cheese.

Much like wine is inextricably linked to the terroir of a specific place, Mesa Farms’ cheeses echo the hardscrabble landscape of the Fremont River valley. Says Ramsley of his feta, “The goats have gotten down to the fresh greens in the river bottom, which translates into this green taste from the rabbitbrush.” The cheese is bright, grassy and fresh with a slightly lemony zippiness. He’s a fan of grazing his goats on rabbitbrush for its natural anti-parasitic qualities, saying,

Ramsley cuts into a wheel of aged Mesa Tomme, its light-gray rind cracking slightly with the pressure of the knife, yielding a pale smooth texture in the French semi-hard alpine-style cheese. There aren’t enough knives to go around, so we start breaking off chunks of tomme and feta with the pressure of our fingertips, nodding to each other with blissful smiles at the complex flavor. Eyes rolled back in our heads with delight, chefs are audibly humming their approval through pursed lips after every bite.

“It’s inspiring,” says Matt Caputo. “This is the way cheese tasted 100 years ago.”

ONLINE ONLY: To find Mesa in the city and read “Six Utah Artisan Cheeses to Try Now,” continue reading at visitutah.com/mesa-farm

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TURNING

CARBON Words: Andrew Dash Gillman | Photos: Austen Diamond

A

long the rolling river parkway, sunlight strobes through breaks in the canopy. I’m on a rented electric bike so pedaling feels barely more strenuous than sitting in a chair tapping my foot. A family of four has gathered by the Price River.

The kids, Evey and Paul Rodriguez, ages 4 and 6, are playing in the pooling, rushing water at the pilot beach. The water is chilly — it has traveled from high-elevation Scofield Reservoir — but the sun is bright and warm on the late August morning. Paul is eager to discuss the beach; he observes how it is their favorite place to go and that they come here three times a week. Their parents, Paul and Desiree, keep an eye on their kids. They, too, were born and raised near Helper, in Central Utah’s Carbon County.

unearthed. That same year, Helper was settled. In a matter of years, the rugged mountains and canyons of the aptly named Carbon County yielded countless veins of coal that became the foundation of an industry that has seen fortunes built and catastrophic disaster.

The scene is quite a turnaround given that just a couple of years earlier, this beach was obscured by piles of scrap metal and tires, the river forgotten. Now, the river is reemerging. A friendly, tree-lined parkway marks its path. And barely one block away, the historic, rural town of Helper is building something that feels unique in America today.

The rugged backdrop of the seemingly impermeable wall of the Book Cliffs mountains sweep across the north side of town, a fixture in this town’s physical landscape. Looking at a map, the topography of the cliffs seem to swallow the town up in the river valley between the Western Tavaputs and Wasatch plateaus. The railroad passes through here, as it always has. There is no wrong side of the tracks and the tracks are integral in the town’s identity.

SAME TOWN, DIFFERENT OUTLOOK In 1881, surveyors for the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad anticipated coal would be

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I get the feeling that Helper’s residents have not been this energized about its future since coal was discovered. A new economy is emerging from the bedrock of the old mining town, and only a portion of it has to do with removing rock from the earth. The community-built Western Mining and Railroad Museum remains an anchor of historic Main Street, but the buildings around it are no longer vacant. There are Utah artists occupying multiple studios — a decades-old original J.C. Penney facade and minimally changed interior displays fine art and down the street a distinctively modern space has taken over the former corner grocery store, yet somehow blended in. Other renovations are in progress. Meanwhile, across the street, sits an old-timey bar with a pay phone that can only receive calls, not make them.

For everything that has stayed the same, a lot has changed. A little luck and timing preserved this town’s architectural heritage — and that same character will lead it into the coming decades thanks to an effort to blend tradition with fresh thinking.

And, appropriately, women are leading the charge.

INTO

CULTURE

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Mallory Dunn

Evey and Paul Rodriguez

When visitors stroll Helper, chances are they’ll be greeted by locals.

One more recent transplant who might welcome you? That’s Mayor Lenise Peterman. Mayor Peterman initially got involved in the Helper Arts Festival, but soon got the idea to run for office to support the town’s revitalization efforts. She is matter-of-fact in conversation and while she knows her values and talking points, she is not scripted.

Though they had moved away for a time, Matsuda and her family are now firmly entrenched in Helper. They’ve even acquired their own building that will eventually house a natural foods market and delicatessen, complete with a patio overlooking the Price River.

A mural on the side depicts the city’s heritage and includes a likeness of her husband’s grandmother and great-great-grandfather — ancestors who arrived with the railroad and worked at the Japanese fish market.

In 2017, Peterman became the town’s first female mayor. Factor in the predominantly young, female city council, and Helper feels ahead of the times and in control of its destiny — maybe for the first time since coal was king and lured a diverse and international populace to the Central Utah town.

These restoration efforts recapture the town’s historic identity.

Meanwhile, every building on Main Street has been purchased and twelve renovation projects are in process. It doesn’t sound like a lot until you see the size of the town. And, like Mayor Peterman, many owners came initially as visitors and were lured to stay by the town’s promise and authenticity.

RESTORATION AND THE LABYRINTH In recent years, many cities and towns have stepped up to reclaim previously diverted and broken rivers to reintegrate them back into the community.

Helper’s river restoration has been several years in the making and has phases yet ahead. The several miles of river walk we ride today reveal only progress: easy access points to the water, clean river banks cleared of invasive species, charming bridges. On my previous visits to Helper I had no idea this river existed. Now, it’s a showpiece.

At the end of our ride, Councilwoman Malarie Matsuda shares the product of her first foray into public life: the seven-circuit Helper Hope Labyrinth built with rocks repurposed from the water infrastructure project.

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Leaving Happiness Within, the town’s spacious and welcoming coffee shop, I swivel when I hear a car honking and I immediately see a cyclist. Being a city dweller, I’m ready to roll my eyes at a perceived aggression, but the motorist is only waving at the guy on the bike, who waves back.

I’m heading to Clear Creek Adventures to pick up the electric bike.

Owners Mallory and Johnny Dunn are only in their second season.

Ms. Dunn tells me what started as a plan to offer road biking tours throughout the community quickly expanded when they jumped on the opportunity to occupy a storefront on Main Street. They added outdoor gear rentals and expanded their tour offerings, quickly filling a need given the small town’s growing visitation and its proximity to a wide array of outdoor recreation — the river, the canyons and the trails for hiking, mountain biking and ATVing.

While visiting with Mallory, an impromptu town meeting to discuss the First Friday gallery stroll crops up among Dunn, Councilwoman Matsuda and Mark Montoya, the community’s mailman for 20 years, as he pauses along his usual route.

Everyone has their hands in everything. It's as if the community creates a wholeness from a circuitous yet intentional pathway, at the center of which is enlightenment.

Administration style of working-class people within the rugged setting of the town. They split time in the studio by mornings and afternoons, leaving alternating time to draw inspiration from the world around them. Johnson wears a neat beard, is warm and zen-like and lines bunch around his eyes when he smiles. He shows us the back patio of their gallery. It’s the east-facing side of the row of buildings with the iconic view of the Book Cliffs along the West Tavaputs Plateau in the near background, and the railroad lines in the immediate foreground.

Or is that the Labyrinth?

I’m in town the day after they’ve wrapped their quarter-century-old Helper Arts, Music and Film Festival and am told 30 minutes of intense bursts of wind that hit the area after midnight on Saturday tore apart and flattened 47 tents, canopies and booths lining Main Street. But the town rallied and volunteers had everything back in order by opening the next day.

The community stepped up in a moment of need. This is small-town America at its finest, and it’s a spirit worth preserving. Like so many Utah towns with so much to offer visitors, Helper is rightfully preoccupied with preserving and protecting the tight weave of that community.

Something about this place draws and catches the eye. Johnson, Williams and co-arts-pioneers David Dornan and Marilou Kundmueller bought buildings here and launched an arts festival when no one else was looking at Helper.

Now, people are looking and more artists are joining the community.

Steven Lee Adams had been driving 60 miles into Helper from Mapleton to work at his studio for about six months before realizing his heart was in Helper and he permanently relocated. In his gallery’s basement Adams runs an intricate 22- and 12-karat custom framing operation, representative of just how elevated the art here is. And it’s one of two custom frame operations in the small town because of the extremely high value and quality of the art being produced.

RISE OF THE ARTS David Johnson always knew that growth would happen. He, along with Tom Williams, work out of the Boxcar Gallery painting an array of realist and social scenes, Johnson lately with the palette knife in rich textures and colors and Williams capturing the Works Progress

Adams smiles easily when he enters descriptions of his paintings, and I get the feeling that nostalgia and sentiment breathe through the plein air vitality of his work, even where the palette is muted. With deep greens and dark woods, the gallery space is moody. But if Adams is a tormented artist, he hides it well.

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Adams shows us the mismatch collection of original light fixtures that a previous tenant had removed, only to be returned by the person hired for the job who felt they’d someday serve out their original purpose. It’s how things work here. Adams says people in the community pick things up as they see them — serendipity has a lot to do with how things come together. He says that it’s really hard to force these things well and still be authentic. Matsuda says that happens a lot around here and points to the recently restored vintage gas stations.

As if to accentuate the point, while touring restoration expert Gary DeVincent’s storefront north of Clear Creek Adventures — where his personal collection of vintage Harley-Davidsons are now displayed — Carolyn Kendall from Elmo, Utah, stopped by with a flat of empty vintage glass Coke bottles, just in case he might be able to use them.

Visitors to Helper can see his work on either side of the main drag in the form of those retro service stations. They’re non-operational but meticulous, authentic recreations of their former lives. DeVincent reconstructed these sites from his personal passion and extensive collection of relics that, once he discovered Helper, all just seemed to fit better there than anywhere else.

In Helper, these things found their purpose and fit in. DeVincent points out a small structure outside his workshop that he intends to house a classic soda shack, ice cream or hot dog stand — something family friendly and an extension of the era and quality of his work.

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DeVincent remarks that there’s a community in Helper unlike anywhere else he’s been. He says it’s a camaraderie you can feel.

At the Adams gallery, we had stepped out back to see the very view that Adams had captured for the Anne Jespersen Fine Arts Gallery’s recent “Helper and the Landscape” exhibition. Gallery owners Anne and Roy Jespersen bring a wealth of world-class design and international humanitarian leadership to their gallery, which is also their home.

"IT’S A STRANGE SENSATION TO FEEL INSTANTLY TRANSPORTED FROM THE OLD RAILROAD TOWN INTO THESE MODERN ENVIRONS, YET THROUGH THE EXHIBITION, STAY FIRMLY ROOTED IN AN AESTHETIC DEFINITIVELY CENTRAL UTAH." When I enter the gallery, I am instantly struck by the decor. There’s exposed brick, metal fixtures, and light spills in from the mostly glass facade, itself set-in flush with the historic red-orange and burgundy brick of the historic building. There’s a drum set inside, and a living area set deeper in the structure. Lou Monte’s quasi-Italian “Belle

Notte” elegantly fills the gallery. While the space itself feels thoughtfully designed and curated, it’s all in support of the main attraction: The artists on display are truly outstanding, curated from 109 potential contributors who capture the Helper vibe. It’s a strange sensation to feel instantly transported from the old railroad town into these modern environs, yet through the exhibition, stay firmly rooted in an aesthetic definitively Central Utah.

With a white silky mane of hair and round, black spectacles, Roy Jespersen is perfectly at ease welcoming us into their gallery and home as he explains the objective of The Helper Project to support the revitalization, beautification and cultural enhancement of its namesake town. In just the year or so it’s been active, the nonprofit already has nearly two dozen projects under its belt. It points to a promising present and future for the town and its visitors, and all thanks to a love for Helper and the vision of its pioneer artists.

RETURN TO RAIL They say the railroad built this town. That, I’m told, is literally true.

Helper’s historic Main Street came to life as a company town, created by the railroad for its employees. No story about Helper is told without calling out the “helper” engines to assist heavy loads up Soldier Summit. Railroad could yet again be a key to Helper’s future.

The small town is a stop along the Amtrak route from Chicago to San Francisco known as the California Zephyr. Locals such as David

WHEN TO VISIT While Helper is a terrific stop at any time along U.S. 6 halfway between Salt Lake City and Moab, plan ahead for these annual events: • First Fridays: a gallery stroll on Main Street the first Friday of every month 6–9 p.m.

• The Butch Cassidy Film Festival in February • The Outlaw Car Show & Cruise in June • Helper Arts, Music and Film Festival, annually in August • The Catholic Carnival in November • Utah’s Christmas Town Festival, annually in November and early December • Electric Light Parade + Fireworks December

Johnson have long utilized Amtrak for quick day trips into Colorado, but these days the city is imagining elevating the profile of the stop both for visitors setting a base camp in Helper and as a stop along the route.

Helper is in early planning stages for a potential Helper depot pedestrian corridor, development that would create a clear interface between the train station and backside of Main Street. Anne Jespersen is at the forefront of the conversation, looking for the path forward.

Helper is one of those very few Utah towns not founded by members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Historical numbers like “27 native languages” and “17 bars” suggest that the town has always been a little different. Today, it prides itself on its inclusiveness and progressiveness, making it attractive to artists and welcoming to visitors. And Helper residents are just stubborn enough to protect their heritage without depending on it.

When I visit, there’s a lot on the horizon, but it’s no longer just dreams. By the time I return, I anticipate new restaurants and a bakery, expanded gallery hours, more shopping, additional rooms and maybe even an overhauled passenger station to ground Helper firmly back into its identity as a railroad town — but a living, breathing railroad town tied to an enchanting history and nurtured by leadership without a personal agenda. This town has a future, and it is one built by the community, through hard work, love for place and a touch of serendipity.

Check out itshappeninginhelper.com for an up to date calendar of events.

ONLINE ONLY: To learn more about Helper's past, read "A Walking Tour of Helper" at visitutah.com/helper-history

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L O S T & i n

d e s o l a t i o n

c a n y o n

Words: Ben Dodds | Photos: Whit Richardson and Ben Dodds

Imagine how long it took this river to methodically tear through these cliff walls. The highest point exceeds 10,000 feet but I’m sitting in a rubber boat at somewhere around 5,000 feet. This tells me something: By following the path of least resistance, it feels as if pure magnificence can be achieved — as if I can be at peace with myself. Like the river, it feels as if can achieve something profound. I recall a quote I heard somewhere stating nature is the greatest teacher. That must be why I return to this remote place year after year. Desolation Canyon. The Green River. Utah. Letting go of worries gives space for life to flourish. Worries are obstacles, like a dense forest in which any forward progress requires a well-sharpened machete. But this is the desert and there’s plenty of space to move freely in whichever direction you choose.

After a few days in Desolation Canyon (aka “Deso”) the passing river’s current fights off insomnia and takes my thoughts and concerns straight to la la land. I sleep through the night in my little tent beneath cottonwood trees, towering cliffs and my own private swath of sky full of stars.

A year earlier, I connected with some people who seemed to share my desire for exploration and adventure. Scott, Tiffin, Dan, Rachel

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F O U N D

and Rachael. I’d tantalized their senses with stories of this place and seasoned their willingness to push off onto the river for an extended, multi-day journey where serpentine canyons unveil new views and sensory experiences around every bend.

My stories took hold and were enough to create the trust they needed to know that I could successfully and safely take them downstream for nearly 100 miles and through more than 60 rapids.

I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Should they trust you?”

I had run this same stretch of river four times before and they all knew I wasn’t a licensed river guide, but they trusted me. They were all willing adventurers. We were ready for whatever lay ahead. If only nature herself could be trusted to cooperate.

V O L AT I L E N AT U R E At the put-in at Sand Wash, the river ranger, Mick, made sure we had all the necessary supplies and gauged our boating experience. He recognized me from previous years and we laughed about being seduced by the river enough for an annual visit. He commented how

everyone he meets is in a good mood on launch day. We were all in a great mood, even with Mick’s precautions: be careful about where we ate, as several black bears had been sighted in recent weeks; clean up our camps so it would be a pristine experience for the next boaters; and be ready for a possible thunderstorm sometime around noon — weather reports indicated a 30 percent chance.

And with that we pushed off. The morning couldn’t have been more beautiful. The moment we started down the river, we began to disconnect from the world of convenience, things, schedules and obligations. It created a rare sense of freedom. That is why we were here.

For all the rafting newbies, the first day is 20 miles of flatwater before the entrance to Desolation Canyon proper, where the rapids begin.

This stretch is their chance to take the oars and see what it feels like to maneuver an 18-foot boat fully weighted with five days worth of food, drink and gear for six people. The group took their turns rotating between taking the oars, being blissful passengers and manning the ducky (inflatable kayak).

We noticed the clear, blue sky gradually fill with white, puffy clouds, which turned to gray clouds and then in the distance an ominous,

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dark sky appeared. I hoped whatever lay beneath that gloom would pass before we were beneath it.

In a matter of seconds, the stillness turned to windy. We floated by a beach where there were several rafts and a large group of people.

Their towels flapped in the gusts and someone shouted a warning to us about being blown into a rapid.

Windy turned to hurricane-like; I could barely sit upright. Lightning flashed and deafening bangs sounded in the same moment. I wanted to get our boat anchored to something and I noticed a boulder rising out of a lazy bend on the left bank. With all of my strength, I oared toward it. It seemed a safe enough place to lodge the raft until the weather passed. Daniel jumped in and pulled the boat further toward the shallows while I continued oaring.

Then came the hail. I put my life jacket over my head to protect it from the onslaught of lemon-sized chunks of ice. Someone wailed in tears.

I looked down at my sandal-exposed toes and saw they were encased in several inches of ice. Rachael laughed sadistically, and I appreciated it. There was something thrilling about how suddenly the day had transformed. I could see Scott and Tiffin crouched beneath the ducky, crammed into the shoreline vegetation of tamarisk. Their shouting was indiscernible due to the storm’s cacophony.

And just as quickly as it all began, it was over. We compared our bruised bodies. Everyone was OK. The sun returned. Our collective blood pressure receded but we moved downstream only as far as the next beach large enough to camp on.

On solid ground, Dan and Rachel had first turn at dinner. We made peace with the events of the day over their chicken enchiladas.

D E S O L AT I O N C A N YO N W H I T E WAT E R Each morning on the river, when the sun just peaks over the canyon and begins to bathe it with its light, I like to take 30 minutes to sit and absorb the sights and sounds of my new surroundings. It’s magical. I reflect on yesterday, think about the day to come and lose myself in the beauty, stillness and solitude of desert wilderness.

I consulted my river map and considered that we’d floated about 15 miles the previous day. Our last day concludes a few miles north of the town of Green River at Swasey’s Boat Ramp, which meant we had 68 miles to finish our journey. So, we’d need to float at least 17 miles per day to stay on schedule. Considering that the current is much swifter after entering Desolation Canyon, it wouldn’t be a problem to accomplish that. Most importantly, we’d soon be hitting at least one rapid per mile for the rest of the trip. The fun was just about to begin.

With that in mind, we broke down camp, rigged our boat and pushed off for whatever the day had in store for us.

We were near the mouth of Desolation Canyon, which is marked by soaring cliff walls, considerably taller and narrower than yesterday’s.

It conjured the Southern Oracle from “The Neverending Story,” which, as the story goes, may only be passed by those confident of their self-worth (or who can simply outrun their lasers like Atreyu).

Within a few minutes, the distant churning of whitewater sounded.

We entered the Rock House Rapid. It’s a fun, splashy wave train that goes on for a quarter of a mile or so. Scott and Tiffin hit their first wave, the nose of the ducky rose up and they disappeared over it. I kept my eye on them and scanned the river for any upcoming objects to avoid.

Scott, Tiffin, author Ben Dodds and a rafter from New Mexico

"My friends had confidence that I would guide them down the river, just as I had confidence in this wild place."

Spirits were high. Blue skies and sunshine defined the rest of the trip.

By that point, the current was swift enough that, aside from steering, paddling was unnecessary, which allowed me to just sit back and take in the grandeur surrounding us. I spied an arch on the top left side of the canyon and pointed it out to the group. On the current, everyone had their cameras ready to document the fleeting landscapes of a world passing by.

We saw desert bighorn sheep, wild horses, colorful birds and an elk bounding through a meadow. On our hike to a petroglyph panel, I saw a large rattlesnake. It wanted nothing to do with us and quickly slithered away. I was on the lookout for a bear, though personally I have only ever seen bear prints in Utah.

By day’s end, we’d tackled Jack Creek, Big Canyon, Firewater Canyon and Cedar Ridge rapids, and found a good place to camp. It was a sandy island full of cottonwood trees just before Flat Canyon Rapid.

After a long day of whitewater rafting, putting on dry socks and standing on solid ground is a treat. Here, we can appreciate the quiet and solitude of one of the most remote places in the continental United States.

As the sun set, distant clouds thrust horizontal lightning flashes over the silhouettes of the towering Book Cliffs. Moments later, thunder rumbled through the canyon, echoing off the cliff walls. The stars overhead began to fill the sky, starting out as dim pinpoints and with the increasing darkness, to a cosmic, blazing sea of light, traversed by satellites, the Milky Way clearly visible. All of these sights were accompanied by the music of endlessly flowing water. With the cooling temperatures, I put on my jacket and enjoyed the display for

a little while longer until my eyes grew heavy. Then I retreated to my tent and closed them while the gentle caress of nature’s lullaby sung me to sleep.

SCOUTING THE RAPIDS On a previous visit through this stretch of Deso, I experienced one of the most surreal views of my life. When I awoke, I unzipped my tent, looked out over the canyon and saw the clouds filling the sky in a mystical pattern that brought Salvador Dali’s paintings to mind. They appeared to mimic the serpentine shape of the canyon itself in four separate bands that vanished behind the canyon walls, as if the canyon itself possesses power to affect the shape of the clouds.

Maybe it does. For several minutes, I gazed at them and then decided to wake the group and suggest they take a look.

This was going to be a big couple of days. The first would present us with an average of two rapids per mile for 19 miles. One of them flipped John Wesley Powell’s boat in July 1869, during his historic river journey when he mapped the Green River to the Colorado River and all the way through the Grand Canyon. In addition, we’d pass by places that marked stories involving the notorious cowboy associate of Butch Cassidy, Joe Walker, who was murdered here by a posse in May 1898. We’d see a ranch that was homesteaded at Rock Creek.

We’d even visit Native American pictograph and petroglyph panels that whisper life’s story here from a thousand years before.

Utah Explorer’s Guide | Lost & Found

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Joe Hutch Canyon Rapid makes a fierce display, visually and sonically, and many people there looked understandably worried. My adrenaline was flowing high, but as in previous years, I could see the tongue flowing over a steep drop and straight into a series of tall, purely lateral waves, the biggest of this rapid. It can be intimidating to think that’s the best way through, but with careful observation, you can see that the smaller waves to the left and right are a disorganized mess of chaotic waves crashing into each other from the front, left, right and filled with big swirling eddies, or “holes,” that could easily trap and flip a raft.

As I discussed this with my group and some of the other boaters, we watched a blue raft piloted by a man and a woman approaching the rapid. They seemed to be coming down the tongue toward the wave train, but then drifted right, and directly into the intersection of two large waves pounding each other from opposite directions and it flipped their boat over like a plaything. People gasped and we watched as the couple floated through the violence trying to stay with their upside-down boat. They floated through to the end of the rapids and pushed their boat toward the beach on river right, where folks on the shore assisted them.

It was not reassuring.

Photo: Scott Jones

I was filled with anticipation the next day because I knew we would soon be upon the biggest rapids of our trip. Moonwater Rapid, a class II, was visible just downstream from our camp. But beyond the “frown” in the water ahead, it wouldn’t present a challenge. (The frown indicates water is streaming around something just beneath the surface, and you always want to avoid them. True in life and on the river.)

Within the next mile and a half, two rapids followed. The first, Joe Hutch Creek Rapid, was a class II+ to III-. It’s usually a fairly easy “read and run” rapid. At lower flows, however, it can involve some boulder dodging.

The next rapid, Joe Hutch Canyon Rapid (formerly Cow Swim), was the most serious rapid of the trip. I’m pretty familiar with it and I consider it a truly exhilarating ride. It has a cauldron of irregular waves on either side of a big wave train that can be accessed from river left down the “tongue,” which is where the main current forms a V-shape. I insisted that we pull off on river right several hundred yards before the rapid and scout it to determine our best route through it.

We landed our boats, tied them down and followed a path downstream for a quarter-mile to an open area adjacent the rapid.

There were lots of other boaters there, perhaps a dozen or more.

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But I mentioned to the group that I’d run this rapid several times before without a problem. I decided it was time to go. A couple from New Mexico asked me if I would mind if they followed me through. It turned out to be two other boats following. I wondered if I really deserved all these people’s trust. It wasn’t the time for doubts.

We pushed off the bank and I started rowing against the current to the left bank with all of my strength. Immediately before the rapid, the river banks left and the tongue follows its bend. You can only access the correct position from that side. As I oared, the two other rafts followed behind. Everyone seemed to be lining up perfectly behind me. I made it to the left bank, now surging with adrenalineinfused focus, and turned downstream.

I rounded the corner, the tongue was straight ahead, and I oared directly toward its center. We floated over the drop and everyone shouted exactly the same way people do dropping into a roller coaster.

We had the perfect line into the six-to-eight foot tall wave and right over it, and then a series of five or six more waves worthy of hooting and hollering for. The two other rafts followed without incident and we all gathered after the rapid to congratulate each other.

After a break to explore the abandoned McPherson Ranch, we continued downstream through Florence Creek Rapid and, after scouting, Wire Fence Rapid.

We were soon entering Gray Canyon. The scenery changed very suddenly from towering red cliffs reaching pine covered, pyramidshaped summits to much more sparsely vegetated, lower cliff walls of gray, yellow and white. The view of the sky opened up greatly.

LEARNING TO TRUST In Gray Canyon, we left Coal Creek Rapid soaked and stoked. We got flipped around backward, and then straightened her out. Now it was Dan’s turn to take the oars for a stretch.

Rattlesnake Rapid was next, and from previous experience, I decided that I would need to return to the oars. The river makes a hard left, almost 90 degrees, and the current pushes fiercely toward the right riverbank where there’s a boulder that could easily flip a boat. I’ve found that the best approach is to start just left of center. Then, as the river bends, begin oaring hard toward the left. Even when you’re trying hard, the river typically still pushes you closer to the big boulder on the right than you’d like. (The river offers up many metaphors for life.)

That day was no exception. The rear of our raft actually grazed the boulder as we went by. The biggest concern there is that the river’s current pushes directly into the boulder causing large, powerful waves making it very easy to imagine how things could go terribly wrong. Our line was a little too close for comfort but we passed it by.

I released another breath of relief and we continued through the rest of the wave train. My friends had confidence that I would guide them down the river, just as I had confidence in this wild place. I trusted nature would challenge me. I trusted that it wouldn’t be easy. But I came prepared. I had experience. I trusted myself.

absolute blast, but they’re more than just for fun. They are a little reminder that there are places like the Green River, and just knowing that the healing power of Utah’s hidden gems are here to be explored is reassuring.

As it was our last night on the river — tomorrow’s eight miles and six rapids would go by all too quickly — we made a fire and enjoyed an especially late night. Some people who were camped close by introduced themselves and we welcomed them to join us. The group were long-time friends from Washington, D.C., who’d planned their adventure specifically to re-connect away from the noisy city. As the night wore on, we took turns singing whatever ridiculous song came to mind. The fire crackled on, unapologetically bad singing echoed in the canyon, part of a human soundscape of laughter and banter among friends and new friends made in this special place, beneath massive cottonwood trees held in the palm of an isolated desert canyon.

I was acutely aware we were all bonded by something innately and importantly human — trust, conviviality — which places like this remind us of and help us to remember that life is so special.

TRIP TIPS Whitewater rafting is inherently dangerous. If you are an inexperienced rafter, it is always advisable to only go with a licensed guide. If you do have adequate

A little over a mile downstream, we landed our boat at the Nefertiti boat access to make our last camp. Swasey’s Boat Ramp, where we’d end our trip, was just over eight miles downstream. Nefertiti is a boat access because people can drive a bumpy, dirt road from Swasey’s to do day floats, which is known as the Green River Daily.

rafting experience and would like to plan a private river trip through Desolation Canyon (permit required), search for “Desolation Gray” on blm.gov and be sure to read the page completely, as well as each of the “Quick Links,” on the right side of the page.

“Belknap’s Waterproof Desolation River Guide” is a very useful publication to

This beach had sweet amenities, such as a pit toilet, a fire ring and my absolute favorite cottonwood tree. But our adventure was nearing its bittersweet end. We would soon be returning to our daily lives, but maybe with a little better perspective. These adventures are an

pore over before and during any Desolation Canyon river adventure: westwaterbooks.com Browse Utah guides and outfitters at visitutah.com/guides

About the Authors PAULA COLMAN Paula is a recovering attorney and practicing parent and, because her family supports her passion to hike, mountain bike, ski and write about all of her adventures in Utah, probably qualifies as a sponsored athlete, as well. You can follow her on Instagram @harpo_utah.

BEN DODDS

Stay Connected @utahofficeoftourism @VisitUtah @VisitUtah utahtourism visitutah Sign up for e-news at visitutah.com/e-news

Ben adventures throughout Utah on foot, boat, bike and board. He is also visual content coordinator for the Utah Office of Tourism. Previously, he worked as a technical writer for Huntsman Cancer Institute before spending a few years touring the country as a bass guitarist in a rock band. Today, as a

On the Cover

father of two boys, he’s more anchored to a specific place — UTAH!

Contributors Paula Colman Darby Doyle Ben Dodds Andrew Dash Gillman Kristen Pope Brett Prettyman Tim Sullivan Ben Whisenant Photographers Austen Diamond Hage Photography Marc Piscotty Larry Price Whit Richardson Sandra Salvas Jim Urquhart Managing Director, Utah Office of Tourism Vicki Varela

DARBY DOYLE Darby is a food writer, cocktail historian and recovering archaeologist who

Editorial Director Andrew Dash Gillman

covers the gamut of Utah’s gastronomic and natural wonders for Devour magazine, cityhomeCOLLECTIVE.com, Park City Magazine and Vamoose

Director of Photography Sandra Salvas

outdoors mag. Follow her cocktail, culinary and outdoor adventures at aBourbonGal.com, Instagram @darby.doyle and Twitter @aBourbonGal.

Design Director Brian Zielinski

ANDREW DASH GILLMAN Andrew writes and curates content for the Utah Office of Tourism. He has written for Edible Wasatch, Business in Utah, Utah CEO and FilmUtah and has been working on a novel for six years. Otherwise, you’ll find him

Millions of years ago ancient river

cooking, running or camping with his wife throughout Utah. @adngillman

flows began carving the Tavaputs Plateau. Recently, author Ben Dodds

KRISTEN POPE

discovered the outcome of that

Kristen is a Jackson, Wyoming-based freelance writer and editor who writes

transformation — the Green River

about outdoor adventure, science, conservation and travel for Backpacker,

through Desolation Canyon — has

Western Confluence, Audubon.com and Discover, just to name a few. Visit

power over more than just the

her at kepope.com.

landscape.

Photo by Whit Richardson

Editor Rosie G. Serago Additional Editing Jay Kinghorn David Williams Lorraine Daly Publishing Brent Low Project Manager Megan Donio

BRETT PRETTYMAN Brett grew up exploring the natural wonders of Utah and shared them with the public as an outdoor writer and editor with The Salt Lake Tribune for 25 years, where he also co-produced with KUED “The Utah Bucket List.” The Falcon Guides author and intermountain communications director for Trout Unlimited can often be found exploring Utah with family and friends working on his own Utah bucket list. @BrettPrettyman

This guide is a publication of the Utah Office of Tourism, Film and Global Branding in partnership with Utah Media Group.

For more trip-planning information, please call (800) 200-1160 or (801) 538-1900 or go to visitutah.com

TIM SULLIVAN Tim is a writer and principal with the community planning firm Township + Range. He is the author of two books on the American West, the most recent being “Ways to the West: How Getting Out of Our Cars is Reclaiming

©Copyright 2019 Utah Office of Tourism.

No portion of this publication’s photos, text or maps may be reproduced in any way without written permission from the Utah Office of Tourism.

the American Frontier.” He lives in Salt Lake City with his family.

BEN WHISENANT Ben is an assistant professor of communication at the University of Utah. He is also an occasional lawyer and journalist, having attended law school at Utah and received a masters in journalism from Northwestern University.

Above all, he is an unapologetic Utah outdoors enthusiast. Contact him at ben.whisenant@gmail.com or on twitter @ben_whisenant.

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UTAH MEDIA GROUP: 4770 S. 5600 W. West Valley City UT 84118 801-204-6300 | utahmediagroup.com This guide is published by Utah Media Group and is distributed by subscription through the Deseret News and The Salt Lake Tribune on a semi-annual basis. Copyright © January 2019.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any format without consent of Utah Media Group.

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