Stansbury Drear’

The dirt road cuts across the salt plain like a scar whose wound took too long to heal. It runs straight and then hacks left and right, joining the various dikes and canals, finally reaching across the neck of land leading out to the dejected Stansbury Island. The road splits two vast evaporation ponds and leaves me nervous as I think of sliding off the road and being stuck in the shallow water and antiquated mud. But the road is dry and smooths out as I near the south end of the island.

I leave the anxious salt farms and enter a land that lends me some ease. The miles of salt water and mud are replaced with sagebrush and the ever-present cheat grass; cheat grass, bane of the west and curse of my socks. I roll down my window and soak in the smell of the oddly moist desert. A cold November storm rolled through last night leaving snow high and dampness low. It’s too early in the season to ski and too cold to climb: mud season. West desert season. And here I am on the eastern flank. The clouds are building again and the Lakeside Mountains, across the shallow bay to the west, are already shrouded in the grey vapors of early winter. It’s going to rain, but hopefully not ‘til I‘ve found my way back to the bitumen.

I slow down as I reach the escarpments leading northward up to the desolate heights of Stansbury. The bleak terrain changes quickly above the road. First rolling alluvium, then the steepening talus reaching upward to the grey, broken, cliff bands that seem to meld into the slope. A two track branches right, leading to the eastern shore, an old pumping station, and perhaps another day’s exploration. Another mile on the main dirt road paralleling the western shore brings the turn-off for Morton Salt (or some other saline company) and further miles of evaporation ponds. I continue north, no particular goal, only to explore this austere moonscape.

A few miles further I park my old truck at the end of a old dirt side-road in a half-ring of VW Beetle sized Precambrian boulders. Apparently they were placed by the BLM hoping to keep people from driving further. It clearly hasn’t stopped someone as I look up the slope and see eroding tire tracks cutting like a long scab across the hillside. I park my truck facing downhill on the chance that it doesn’t want to start later and I am forced to roll start. It hasn’t happened yet, but traveling alone leads to some occasional paranoia. The other car parked in the half-moon lot has Salt Lake County tags and sports a trunk bike rack. Yuppies, I exhale hypocritically.

A small trail leave the parking area heading south and then east up a small canyon. I grab my pack and saddle onto the trail. From the crude map provided at the parking area it looks like the trail climbs the canyon, summits a small pass, and then traverses around the island to some sort of point. I snobbishly dread being on a trail. Partly because I try to avoid the inevitable social interaction, but maybe more because I am walking where everyone walks. Trails do a bang-up job at managing the backcounty and I can’t wait to step aside.

I turn north and loose the trail at the small pass I saw on the map below. In my haste to get out of Dodge I neglected to bring a map and now crave to know what surrounds me. A thousand feet below in a small washed out cove I can see a group of trucks and hear the telltale sound of gunfire. I struggle to pick figures, but from the sound of it they must be at war. I head north along the spine of the island, putting distance between me and the potential stray bullet. The ridge turns from the bleak, docile slopes to sawtooth ridge and back then back to seemingly meek. I take my time on the difficult sections, examining the rocks as I go. It’s not expectant territory for petroglyphs, but I know the island hides many away. I imagine this would have been prime hunting grounds for Native Americans. I cringe to think how different this land now looks compared to pre-settlement. This entire area surrounding the island was often one giant wetland, teeming with game and forage instead of a giant sterile salt farm. The grey limestone cliffs above me would have sheltered large game instead of beer cans and shotgun shells. It’s easy to mythologize the prehistoric West.

I move on, aiming now for a rocky peak that seems to reign over the south end of the island. Maybe it was how I was raised, but I now feel a persistent upward draw whenever I roam. As a young boy my father would drag our family out on hikes once a month or on holidays. I hated that 5am wake up call and the long cold ride to the trailhead in our old Suburban. Once on the trail I would happily trot ahead, or behind, caught in my own bliss or misery depending on the hike. Somehow this bred this altitude drive. Stinging snow across my face wakes me from my recollection and I look again south to the building gale. It ought to hold for another two hours to get me off the mountain and off the island.

The summit of the peak is like barbed wire, random spikes of rock jutting out into space, catching me off guard, forcing me to climb down and then back up. It’s more of a ridge than a peak and the highest point is, of course, the furthest away. I reach the anorexic cairn marking the zenith and rest. I drop my pack, sit back, and pull out the half smashed bagel the I hadn’t eaten at work the day before. I stare westward and pick out random landmarks and absorb the expanse. The smoke and smog from a presumable coal fired power plant fills the valley east of the Lakeside Mountains. I cringe. Eastward I can barely pick out the rugged coastline of Antelope Island through the building clouds and fog. It looks more appropriate for Baja or South America than the mud-ridden Great Salt Lake.

Time seems short, I work my way north off the odd summit and continue north along the mellow ridge. The lake to the east is dark with the foreboding of the storm. I feel drawn closer to its grey shores. I pass through a skeleton forest of burned juniper and pinyon and pause to expose a few frames. The few blackened branches that have fallen to the ground endure in stark contrast to the brown cheat grass. I pick around the trunks looking for some random ghost beads. I pocket a few and decide to move on. But I don’t move far. I hike another quarter mile along the rolling before the cold sets in. It’s still early but with the pending storm I decide to call it and follow the bread crumbs back.

I turn back south, passing between the juniper bones reaching the base of the barbwire peak. I traverse below, angling slightly downward aiming for a small pass I crossed earlier. My right knee, the one on the uphill side of the traverse, begins to ache. I groan knowing that it is going to only get worse. It’s what I deserve for not being more consistent in my marathon training of a month earlier. I never did make it to the starting line; I trained too hard, too fast, and my knees didn’t appreciate it. Now every downward step with my right knee leaves me grimacing; more in annoyance and frustration than actual pain. I reach the pass and the flatter terrain gives my knee a rest. I drop off the ridge, onto the west side of the island and pick my way down more barren slopes. There’s less cheat grass here, more rock, gravel, and the occasional juniper. Five hundred feet lower I pass the old high shoreline of the primordial Lake Bonneville. I follow a steep sided wash westward and soon intersect the trail I followed for a time on the ascent.

My brown, rusted, truck is only a half mile away and soon I am digging through my pockets looking for my keys. I’ve always thought the problem with cargo pants is that there were too many pockets to lose things; my keys the most common victim. The other car with the bike racks was gone and I feel a tinge of lonliness. If my truck doesn’t start it might be a long walk into Grantsville. I look back at where I’d been. I can’t see much of my route but I know it’s much the same as what surrounds me: a grey and brown desert wasteland. A stark beauty appreciated by few. The nearby pile of trash provides the evidence.

I climb in, turn the key slightly, push the clutch in, and roll down the hill popping the clutch and my truck bucks to life like a hapless mule. It probably would have started with the ignition, but the conditions were set and now I am swaying down the narrow two track. I catch the main graded road and am soon gliding beside the salt farms and saline canals. As I cross the railroad tracks and snake up the on-ramp the rain begins to fall. I glance back north at Stansbury island. The rain creates a haze around the deserted island that smells of late November and leaves me feeling grey and lonely. But oddly that grey lonliness leaves me partially satiated and ensures my return. I merge onto the highway, turn my back to the island, and try to avoid its glare in my rear-view mirror.

Traveling light.