Teton bound

[akrvbob]

Mormonism is a truly odd religion, but my experience with Mormons has almost universally been positive. Their just good people.
Bob

 

[USExplorer]

2550: The Bountiful temple, built on a hillside overlooking the town, yet overlooked by greater hills.

The Great Salt Lake, the largest body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, sits in the bottom of a massive, flat sink. It is also very difficult to access. Its vast shoreline is indistinct, varying greatly with the seasons. North of Bountiful, the shoreline appears on a map to be a short distance from the highway, but after zig-zagging along the margins of development, I saw no lake. Squares of green, irrigated hayfields, increasingly encroached upon by development, simply faded away into marsh out on the horizon. Where freshwater springs and firm ground were available, hummocks of trees grew. West of Layton, I stopped at a preserve managed by The Nature Conservancy, which had installed a mile-long boardwalk loop through the varying marsh and upland habitats on the lake fringe. At the far point of the loop, a wooden observation tower allowed visitors a panoramic view of the surrounding country. The marshes are just beginning to turn green with the onset of spring. 

2552: Endless horizon in marsh country. I might as well be in the Florida Everglades.
2554: Looking back toward the "shore" of the lake and Layton.

Antelope Island is one of the few places on the eastern side where one can actually stand on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. The Utah DNR understands this and charges ten bucks for a day pass per person. The island is accessed by a causeway several miles long across the shallow salt marshes. I chose not to pay the fee.

I continue zigging and zagging my way north, ending up at Route 39, which parallels the first transcontinental railroad out to the beginning of the marshes before dead ending in an air force installation. Again, no view of the lake. My wanderings have taken most of the evening, and the sun reaches the end of its daily cycle by the time I arrive in Ogden city limits. The last of the clouds have disappeared, and the sky is a dusty desert blue.

2559: North of Ogden Canyon, view from the Weber River overpass near I-84.
2560: The Weber River flows sluggishly through a wild and tangled thicket of trees and underbrush. Frogs squeak in warning and jump into the water as I walk by on the paved riverside trail. Where has the desert gone?

 

[USExplorer]

I park for the night near a brand-new apartment complex on the banks of the Ogden River. Other cars from apartment dwellers are also parked along the street, so I do not stand out. The Ogden River Parkway, a multi-use path, passes a short distance away, paralleling the river. The path is covered with flood debris in the low spots and broken branches everywhere. In the public parks, crews work hard to clean up numerous downed cottonwood trees. Most of the cottonwoods still standing are leaning dangerously. It looks like the windstorm over the weekend was far more severe up here than in Salt Lake City. 

2562: A fallen tree uprooted the bike path along the river.
2564: The roiling Ogden River. Across the path in someone's backyard, a wooden tripod supports a small rock hanging from a chain. Several wooden signs say: "Weather Rock. Wet on top, it is raining. Wet on the bottom, it is flooding. White on top, it is snowing. If it is swinging, the wind is blowing. If it is sideways, there is a hurricane. If it is gone, there is a tornado."

Ogden also got me quite frustrated. The public parks had very few water fountains, and those few were turned off. There was not a spigot to be seen. All the park bathrooms were also locked up. A homeless man said that they don't turn on the water in the parks until Memorial Day. The recreation center showers were closed for renovation. 

North on 89 through more development. The development disappeared as the hills closed the gap with Willard Bay. The southern part of Willard Bay is separated from the Great Salt Lake by a dike, and its mostly fresh water attracts numerous fishermen. Ten dollars for a day pass at the boat launch. I park with a group of fishermen near a levee and walk out along the reservoir.

2566: The reservoir looks like an ordinary lake, with a distinct shore and no marshland. The Promontory Mountains are visible in the background. 
2567: At first I thought someone had a campfire going on the dike, but as I watched, these black clouds of midges dispersed and regrouped. They do not bite and I don't mind them.


2570: A quarry occupies the hills above Willard. I drive up the paved access road, keeping out of the way of the heavy equipment, and get this picture of the dike separating the reservoir from the lake.

 

[USExplorer]

The Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge is one of the most important refuges of its time in the United States. The 74000 acre refuge consists of several wetland blocks surrounded by dikes, the water level controlled by the Fish and Wildlife Service. Some of the dike roads are open to the public, but most are closed off. 

2573: Flat playas dominate the higher elevation points of the lake. The salt collects from the grassy uplands and blocks most plant growth. 
2574: One of the dike roads, closed to motor vehicles. The wide array of habitats provides refuge to over 200 varieties of birds. I am not a bird expert but I did see many birds here that I haven't seen anywhere else in the West. Most of the birds are very shy and fly away well before I approach them.

A swarm of vicious mosquitoes attacked me in broad daylight on the trail, forcing me to run back to my truck. 

2575: This wetland appears to be managed for shorebirds. Numerous ibises flew off as I drove through this area.
2577: On the other side of this dike, a barren saline playa stretched nearly to the horizon. There is no road connection between the Promontory Mountains in the background and the dike network I am driving on.
2578: This shallow lake reflects the blue of the mountains, the color of the water being a richly organic light brown. 

From Brigham City I will take 89 up over the pass into Logan and leave the Great Salt Lake behind. Hopefully sometime in the future I can explore the lake further.

 

[USExplorer]

After spending the rest of the day in quiet Brigham City, I parked for the night in a clearing near a power plant facility located in the Box Elder Creek Canyon outside the city. Shortly after I turned in for the night, a cop pulled in, shining his spotlight at my vehicle. He drove past, turned around, and pulled up right behind me. Just when I expected him to exit his vehicle, he drove off. I didn't get bothered the rest of the night. In the morning, a steady stream of trucks pulling into the nearby quarry woke me up.

Just above Brigham City on the Box Elder creek is the small village of Mantua. The name sounds vaguely familiar to me, and after I find out that the town was named after Mantua, Ohio, I realize why; a year ago, give or take a few days, I was driving through the rolling fields of eastern Ohio. After spending the morning in the Aurora library fruitlessly searching for much-needed employment on the Internet, I drove east through Mantua Corners, intent on visiting nearby Hiram College to look for work. I got to know some great locals in Hiram who knew of some job opportunities, but a pair of suspicious local cops ruined everything for me. A couple days later, I ended up in the dingy Rust Belt city of Warren, the low point of my travels, where for nearly two weeks I searched in vain for work, sleeping in the Walmart parking lot off Elm Road. 

Just like in Ohio, spring is in the air. It is somewhat cooler and much dryer out here than it was in the Buckeye State. Despite the less hospitable clime, the air is filled with millions of midges recently hatched from the lake. A pair of walkers on the dike path wear face veils against the bugs, but as they do not bite I don't mind them. Snow still lies in old drifts on the hills overlooking the town. 

Over the pass, past a golf course nestled at the base of a wooded hill, then down into the very green and slightly smoggy valley of Logan. It is clear today, and the strong sun rapidly warms the air to near 80 degrees. A day pass at the recreation center costs $3.75, and I take advantage of the weight lifting machines. 

I am looking forward to the completion of my travels. An average of 70 miles a day, day after day for six months, does get wearying (for my truck). Time to give my truck some TLC, then explore the region more thoroughly than I can in two days. By the way, "grand teton" is French for "big tit". Just throwing that out there.

2583: A standout building in an otherwise ordinary-looking neighborhood in Brigham City.
2584: Mantua Reservoir. The water is deep brown but with good clarity, like tea.
2585: Route 89/91 heading up through the pass toward Logan. Snowdrifts all the way down to 6500 feet here.
2586: What appears to be a muskrat in a swampy portion of the lake.
2587: A white pelican, very common bird in Utah waterways, swims away from me. The gentle ripples of the water produce a contrast of light and dark with the low morning sun.

 

[USExplorer]

2589: Logan Canyon is dominated by gray limestone outcroppings. Here is the view from Canyon Entrance Park. I camped right next to the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, and miraculously did not get disturbed. 

Route 89 leaves the city of Logan behind and winds its way up Logan Canyon, past numerous campgrounds and trailheads. 

2591: Ricks Spring, not a spring at all but a diversion of the Logan River through a faultline crack in the limestone. The volume of water pouring out of the rock is surprising.

2593: Looking down from the pass on to the mirror-like Bear Lake. The northern half of the lake is in Idaho, while the southern half is in Utah.
2598: Unfortunately, due to the cloudiness, the turquoise color of the lake was not very noticeable.

I acquired a head cold yesterday morning, so I spend most of yesterday just sitting on a dock on Bear Lake, reading a novel called "State of Emergency" about a secession movement among the Western states. I found the book to be a completely unrealistic portrayal of such a movement. Also, the geography sucked. The book opens with a scenario in Nye County NV of a commissioner bulldozing down a forest to build a road, and then engaging in a standoff with federal agents. It also makes repeated mention of the lush, green fields in the county. I've been to both Pahrump and Tonopah, and there are very few forests or fields in the highly arid region. If I was to list all the absurdities in the book, it would take many pages. 

2599: An unconstitutional avian checkpoint near Dingle, Idaho. I used my horn to assert my right of way, and the stubborn birds slowly moved out of the road. 

I camped last night in a gravel pit just outside Montpelier city limits. With the aid of a few grapefruits, I defeated the virus early this morning. The weather has been strange, overcast yet warm, even at night. A cold front will roll through tonight, though, bringing rain and cold again.

 

[USExplorer]

2600: I left Montpelier in a driving rainstorm. Here is the Montpelier Reservoir. A few RVs were encamped at the base of the dam. 
2601: Interestingly, trees only grow on the north-facing slopes of the hills in this region. I camped in this roadside pullout in Wyoming about a mile from the state line. 
2602: The Salt Creek Pass, at 7630 feet. Up ahead are the green pastures of Star Valley. Many inches of snow were dumped on the mountains during last night's storm.
2603: Supposedly, this is the largest elkhorn arch in the world, on the Main Street of Afton, Wyoming. In fact, it is a simple steel arch with elkhorns tied on the outside.

 

[USExplorer]

OK folks, this is my last post set. I am now in Jackson, Wyoming, gateway to Grand Teton National Park, where I will be spending the summer at Colter Bay Village. Orientation starts tomorrow. Since leaving my summer job in northern New Hampshire on November 11, I have driven over 12000 miles, visiting 24 states (including two in Mexico) and temporarily residing in five. I've seen two oceans, endless prairies and tangled swamps, searing desert and snowbound mountains covered in rich forests. Weeks of clouds, and weeks of sun. The lights of Las Vegas, quiet Florida fishing villages, rough border cities, and pious Mormon settlements. Diverse cities vibrant with tension, remote inclusive hamlets, and anarchist desert camps. Americans of all races and political persuasions making a connection through my tales with the vagabond nature that thrives in our great open spaces. Sometimes they understand the urge to wander, and sometimes they do not. Some commemorate from high panoramas of natural grandeur, while others commiserate from foul cesspools where trapped wandering spirits slowly decay. 

I must say that I do not regret taking this journey. Its objective was simple; to see the West. If asked "why" a few months ago, I would elaborate at length about the freedom of open spaces. Crossing the Mississippi, watching the trees disappear into brush, a first view of a desert plain; such experiences cannot be repeated. But open spaces are open due to the harshness of nature. People stuck by life choices or by pure chance in dismal high desert towns, their problems no different from those in similar small towns 2000 miles away; the brown, barren landscape only exacerbated their troubles. Farms and cities carved out of arid valleys, millions depending on rainfall that may not come next year. Ghost towns foreboding the future of their glamorous modern-day counterparts. 

This has been a journey of observation, a little of which I have shared here. I have glided lightly over the land, leaving very little trace of my passing. I have absorbed the natural terrain, caught glimpses of human nature, but mostly avoided interfering with the workings of the world I traversed. Of the hundreds of people I met, a few may occasionally recall me and possibly wonder where I am now, with what emotion I cannot guess, but those sparks of memory will soon fade. In nature, I am dwarfed by rocks and sky; in cities, the machinations of power brokers and everyday hustlers pass far over my head. All in all, being a fly on the wall ain't bad, but I don't believe that is God's intended purpose for us. 

If you want to send me comments, questions, criticisms, proposals, spam (even the canned variety), or threats, drop an email at [email protected]. Regarding the Land Yacht, I'll try to get the emergency brake, ball joints, TPMS sensors, coolant hoses, serpentine belt, spark plugs, heater actuator, CD player, rear bumper, brake pads, and a whole host of less obviously malfunctioning parts fixed or replaced here in Jackson. 

Back to the trip log. After the library closed in Afton, I drove down to a park on the edge of the Swift Creek Canyon. What looked like a wild, untamed mountain creek was in reality dammed with numerous weirs for both irrigation and power. A road led upstream past the dams through a somewhat narrow gray rock canyon. Filthy snowdrifts lay on shady crevices everywhere.

2605: Down this side box canyon, pouring out of a crevice at the base of this sheer wall, is the largest periodic spring in the world. Due to high water levels this time of year, the spring is not periodic, but in late summer the spring begins turning on and off regularly, every 20 minutes or so. The theory is that there is a giant reservoir in the rock drained by a siphon-like crevice. When the reservoir fills completely up, the siphon is primed, and sets about draining the reservoir to its intake, upon which it stops while the reservoir refills itself.

2608: Looking up Swift Creek Canyon. The canyon is heavily forested with firs, and rock outcroppings abut the creek in spots. 

The highway north of Afton closely parallels the Wyoming-Idaho border through the Star Valley. This valley of green summer pastures was once a hideout for bandits. Even today, it is very remote, and offers great star viewing when they are not covered in clouds. Near Alpine, the large Palisades Reservoir spans both sides of the state line. I take the gravel road leading along the western lakeshore and park on top of a bluff just short of the Idaho state line. Part of the lake is shored with quicksand. The ducks and geese on the lake are very shy and fly off when I am quite far away. To pass the time, I took a long walk down the gravel road into Idaho along the lake. Several other people are camped out along the lake, including a group of RV retirees and a bunch of young partiers from Utah playing rap music. Walking back, a Land Rover stops to ask me if I need any help. I decline and thank them. 

2610: After attending a sleepwalking-style Baptist church in Alpine Junction the next morning, I drive out along the Snake River Canyon, which is traversed by Route 89. A few rafters prepare to enter the river, which had good rapids in places. The gorge is peaceful, and as the sun clears the clouds the bugs come out of the grass. A peaceful nap in a riverside meadow is rapidly ended when several curious ants begin crawling over me. 

2615: Close to Hoback, this giant gully cut into the mountainside is home to a tiny, dirty, but decently high waterfall. 
2616: Getting closer to Jackson Hole, the canyon widens out, and the river begins to be lined with summer homes built in the rustic fashion. This is the view from the base of the waterfall.

 

[USExplorer]

Highway 89 became increasingly crowded as I approached Jackson, population higher than elevation. The city has made an attempt to keep its development looking rustic rather than tacky. I drive through the town and end up on a gravel road that leads into the National Elk Refuge. There are no elk this time of year, but several bighorn sheep are grazing by the roadside, utterly indifferent to passing cars and pedestrians. They appear to be shedding their winter coats. 

2617: The rams stick to themselves at some distance from the cars, while the ewes hang out right by the road.
2618: A ewe trying to decipher my intentions. Even domesticated sheep are much more shy than these bighorns.

A guy loading gear into a Mercedes SUV beside me in the parking lot greets me, and I find out he knows my soon-to-be boss at the lodge. He mentions that the sheep will lick the salt off car tires in the winter; they are completely unafraid of vehicles. He also mentions a great camping site a few miles down the road up Curtis Canyon. A little farther down the road, I am stopped cooking dinner, and a jogger passes by and does a doubletake after seeing my "This Car Climbed Mt Washington" sticker. She tells me that she is from North Conway New Hampshire, about 30 miles from where I worked last summer. The world is not small, I just get around.

Curtis Canyon road was rough with protruding rocks, though not the sharp kind. The first flat was completely filled, and I drove up through a fir forest to a small flat on the corner of a switchback. This one offered a far better view. The Teton range was visible across the flat Jackson Hole Valley. Behind me, a fir-ridden canyon led to a mountain wilderness. Someone had left a large amount of dead wood next to the firepit, and I got a raging fire going. 

2620: The first stormclouds of the evening pass over the Teton Range, forming contrasts of light and darkness. 

Up on the next flat, two people were skeet shooting. The ground in my campsite was littered with 10mm, .357, and .38 casings, someone with more money than sense, it was clear. To commemorate my arrival in Jackson, I fired off a couple .30-30s, a handful of 9mm, and a handful of #7.5 over the course of two hours. I picked up all the spent hulls laying on the ground, then got the fire roaring. 

2622: Meanwhile, the Tetons have become increasingly veiled in clouds as a thunderstorm rolled in. 

Watching lightning strike the high range and light them against the deepening dusk is quite the sight. I put away my metal folding chair and my shootin' irons to avoid attracting lightning to the top of the bare hill on which I sat tending the fire. The wind picked up, and the firecoals glowed white and put off a ferocious heat. As the storm moved out over the valley, the lightning stopped. By the time it rolled overhead and the first drops of rain began to fall, it was fully dark outside. The storm had expended most of its energy and rain on the mountains, and only a little wind-blown drizzle fell on my truck. 

I'll spend the rest of the day in Jackson, probably finding a curb camping spot tonight. Tomorrow I will drive up to Colter Bay Village and plunge headlong into my new lifestyle.

Thank you to all those who commented, and thanks to all the silent readers as well. I wish you Godspeed and good luck in all your travels. Over and out.