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John Muir Didn’t Wear Tevas

Three Teens Returning from the Wilderness Courtesy & Copyright Emma Mecham
Three Teens Returning from the Wilderness
Courtesy & Copyright Emma Mecham

Wasatch Rambling July 7, 1989 Dromedary Peak Summit Whitney Leary & Eric Newell Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell Wasatch Rambling July 7, 1989
Dromedary Peak Summit
Whitney Leary & Eric Newell
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

Morning Light Big Cottonwood Canyon July 7, 1989 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell Morning Light Big Cottonwood Canyon
July 7, 1989
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

My Journal, July 6, 1989 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell My Journal, July 6, 1989
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

My Journal, July 7, 1989 Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell My Journal, July 7, 1989
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

Our 15 year-old and two of her friends just returned from their first backpacking trip without adults. When she hatched the idea, my wife and I were supportive of this big voyage, knowing all the growth that happens when you venture out on our own into the wilds for the first time. We asked questions and provided all the support she and her friends asked for—but we didn’t overdo it. This was their adventure.

They were giddy as they shouldered their packs at the Logan Canyon trailhead and set foot towards a popular lake for two nights. When my wife picked them up three days later, they had stories to tell.

When they are old, like me, they won’t remember the TikTok videos or Instagram reels they might have watched during that span. But they will remember trying to stay warm in their hammocks, sleeping by a mountain lake under a trillion stars, the crispness of the air, and that feeling of being out there on their own and all the uncertainly and joy that goes with it.

When I was sixteen—after finishing another of John Muir’s many books, Wilderness Essays—I decided that if John Muir only took a loaf of bread, an overcoat, and a wool blanket with him into the Sierras, that I could do the same. Certainly John Muir wasn’t—to use a John Muir word—”hardier” than I was. This wasn’t my first backpacking trip without adults, but I learn my lessons the hard way. After all, good judgement comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgement.

So I took a wool blanket from the closet in the basement and left a perfectly good sleeping pad and twenty-degree sleeping bag at home. My friends and I only wore Teva sandals when we hiked or backpacked at the time and I didn’t pack any socks. It was July after all.

Now, I am certain John Muir did not wear Teva’s. He wore socks and boots—even in July. He also built big fires and cut pine-boughs for sleeping on that would insulate him from the cold ground. Wanting to leave no trace, I did neither of those things.

That was a rough night next to a lake in Big Cottonwood Canyon. Aside from shivering on cold, hard bedrock in the darkness, I was constantly under attack from swarms of mosquitos because I couldn’t fit both my head and my bare feet under the small blanket at the same time. I also learned that if you only eat a loaf of French Bread from the Albertsons bakery for dinner, you get a lot of gas.

It turns out John Muir was much “hardier” than I.

I got “out” of my wool blanket well before dawn that morning to move my body and warm up. I watched the light show on the 11,000 foot peaks above and the reflection in the dead-calm lake below.

After breakfast, I spotted a couple of mountain goats on a pass above the lake and we scrambled up to have a closer look. When we arrived at the saddle we decided that since we had come this far, we might as well continue on and figure out the tricky and exposed route to the summit of Dromedary Peak—in our Teva’s.
I’m glad my parents weren’t there to save me from my own naiveté.

It is often hard for parents to let go and give their teens the chance to venture out into Edward Abby’s “back of beyond” to be responsible for themselves and to learn from their own mistakes. But I’m glad my parents were willing, and I have found satisfaction supporting my children, and other people’s children, on their own adventures.
Edward Abbey said it well, “It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and…mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space.”

The average 18 year-old high school graduate today has spent approximately four-years of their lives on screens. Four years. Four years of childhood that they will never get back. Our children need wildness now, more than ever.

Maybe our public lands will save us from ourselves—if we don’t sell them off to the highest bidder.

I am Eric Newell, and I am wild about Utah and our wild public lands.

Credits:
Images: Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & © Shalayne Smith Needham & Courtesy & Copyright © Anderson, Howe, Wakeman
Text: Eric Newell, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University
Additional Reading: Eric Newell & Lyle Bingham

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah Pieces by Eric Newell

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Love nature? There’s an app for that

Painted Schinia, Schinia volupia, Courtesy & Copyright Mark Brunson
Painted Schinia
Schinia volupia
Courtesy & Copyright Mark Brunson
We hear a lot these days how people spend too much time with their electronic devices. The internet is full of advice on how to get kids away from their screens to enjoy nature, and that’s great. But for me, as someone who has always loved natural spaces, I’m finding that a screen can actually enhance my time outdoors.

My iPhone is packed with apps that help me connect to nature. One lets me identify birds by their song. Another recognizes constellations in the night sky. I’ve got several plant identification apps. But my favorite nature app is called iNaturalist. When I see a plant or animal in the wild, I can snap a photo, and the app’s artificial intelligence will help me identify what species I’m seeing. Then I can upload the photo and its GPS coordinates so others can see what I found and where I found it. In doing this, I help scientists learn where species are found and how common there are. And if the AI turns out to be wrong – which does happen – experts who use the app can tell me what they think I really saw.

I’m outdoors a lot, and I use iNaturalist a lot. It’s almost an obsession. But this obsession helps me learn to see nature in new ways. Here’s an example: Earlier this year, my wife and I were walking along a cattle trail near Canyonlands National Park. It was early May, and we were delighted to see wildflowers blooming in the desert. And of course, I took photos as we went. At one point, I happened to see a bright yellow, daisy- shaped flower with a red center. I knew it was a red dome blanketflower, closely related to the bright red and yellow Gaillardia plants that many Utahns grow in their waterwise gardens.

But when I knelt to take a closeup photo, I saw something I hadn’t noticed. Feeding on nectar from some of the flowers were small, brightly colored moths, their wings a deep red with white stripes in a pattern like a woven blanket, their heads a vivid orange. iNaturalist told me I’d found a group of painted schinia moths – a species I’d never encountered or even heard of before.

Intrigued, I wanted to know more. I learned there are at least five species of painted schinia moth in the U.S. Southwest, each of which feeds only on a particular kind of blanketflower. This sort of plant-insect specialization is common. It benefits the plants, because as moths move from flower to flower, they carry pollen with them, and a specialist pollinator won’t bring its pollen load to a species that can’t use it. And it benefits the insects. As they adapt to the unique chemical and physical features of their host plants, they can gather and use food most efficiently. And – as I learned when I had to look closely to even see my painted schinia moths – they can evolve to use camouflage to avoid predators.

Of course, the downside to specialization is that if something bad happens to the host plant, it also endangers their insect specialist. Luckily for the painted schinia moth, blanketflowers are abundant in late spring in the southeast Utah desert. That’s lucky for us humans, too, as we enjoy the brilliant color they bring to red rock country – even more so if we take time to kneel down, snap a photo, and examine them more closely.

I’m Mark Brunson, and I’m Wild About Utah.

Credits:

Images Courtesy & Copyright Mark Brunson, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & ©
Text: Mark Brunson, https://www.usu.edu/experts/profile/mark-brunson/
Additional Reading: Mark Brunson, https://www.usu.edu/experts/profile/mark-brunson/

Additional Reading

Mark Brunson’s archive: https://wildaboututah.org/?s=brunson

Loarie, Scott. The surprising power of your nature photos. TED talk, April 2025.
https://www.ted.com/talks/scott_loarie_the_surprising_power_of_your_nature_photos

Southwest Desert Flora. Gaillardia pinnatifida, Red Dome Blanketflower.
https://southwestdesertflora.com/WebsiteFolders/All_Species/Asteraceae/Gaillardia%20pinnatifida,%20Red%20Dome%20Blanketflower.html

Painted Schinia Moth, Schinia volupia, iNaturalist, https://www.inaturalist.org/guide_taxa/1565242
Photos of Painted Schinia Moth Schinia volupia, iNaturalist, https://www.inaturalist.org/taxa/230575-Schinia-volupia/browse_photos

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Falconry

Falcon on Forearm Courtesy and Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer
Falcon on Forearm
Courtesy and Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer
In 1962, Rachael Carson rocked the bird watching world with her book Silent Spring. She identified the commonly used pesticide DDT as the culprit responsible for declining populations of eagles, falcons and hawks. Rachael was able to prove that once DDT got into the food chain, it fatally weakened the eggshells of these birds. DDT was banned the following year.

Would the raptor populations be able to respond? The answer to this question was spearheaded by Hawk Watch International. They recruited volunteers to camp out near Mendon Peak which overlooks a major flyway for migrating birds in the fall.

Armed with pencils and paper, these volunteers checked off each raptor that flew by. It was a tough camp, because once the snow melts, any water on top had to be carried up there. Sometimes my family and others would hike up and give them oranges. Every year the news got better. The raptor populations were rebounding. In 1999 they were officially taken off the endangered species list.

At this time, for most people in Utah, getting a close look at a raptor required a trip to the Hogle Zoo to see the bird show. COVID shut down these shows. But luckily, a young volunteer at the zoo, Nick Morris, stepped up, got the licensing needed to own raptors, and created a traveling show called Long Wing Inc.

When I was able to meet Nick on his home turf, he told me that in Shakespeare’s time, most every man owned some kind of raptor. The kings owned eagles. The nobility owned falcons. It was no accident that talk of falcons worked its way into the spoken language.

For example, falconers kept ankle bands on the bird’s legs attached to short study strings. Before flying their birds, falconers held these strings in a tight fist with their thumbs pressing down hard. This is why we say we keep things “under our thumb.”

Falcons were always easier to handle while being transported with a hood slipped over their heads. This led to our saying today that when someone does not see something clearly, he is “hood winked.”

Morning chores were underway when I showed up at Nick’s house. He carried each bird out into his driveway and put a piece of quail on a sawhorse. The bird was happy to hop over and eat it. Nick then put a piece of quail down the driveway on top of his fence. This was a chance for the bird to spread his wings and fly to the treat. Everything was going to plan until one bird took off and settled on the roof of the house. There were a few tense minutes. Nick admitted to me he had once had to chase a runaway bird all the way to Evanston.
Shakespeare captures a moment like this when Juliet is on her balcony and Romeo has walked away.

Juliet says, “Oh for a falconer’s voice to lure this tassel-gentle back again.” Once we know that a “tassel” is Shakespeare’s word for a male falcon, we can see that Juliet is seeing Romeo as a noble and beautiful creature. Juliet sees herself as the falconer, hoping that Romeo will return and possibly be tamed by her.
Just as Romeo ran back to Juliet, Nick’s bird came down from the roof.

Nick explained how falcons were not pets in the traditional sense. Falconry is an ancient sport going back thousands of years. In Shakespeare’s time, it was a way of putting food on the dinner table.

This is Mary Heers and I’m Wild About Utah

Credits:
Photos: Courtesy and Copyright Mary Heers,
Featured Audio: Courtesy & © Mary Heers and Anderson, Howe and Wakeman.
Text: Mary Heers, https://cca.usu.edu/files/awards/art-and-mary-heers-citation.pdf
Additional Reading: Lyle Bingham, https://bridgerlandaudubon.org/

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah, Mary Heers’ Wild About Utah Postings

The Story of Silent Spring, Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC), August 13, 2015, https://www.nrdc.org/stories/story-silent-spring

The Wellsvilles Hawkwatch Site, Bridgerland Audubon Society, https://bridgerlandaudubon.org/our-projects/the-wellsvilles-hawkwatch-site/

Utah’s Hogle Zoo, https://www.hoglezoo.org/

Tracy Aviary at Liberty Park, https://tracyaviary.org/liberty-park/visit/programs/daily-programs-activities/

Falconry, Utah Division of Wildlife Resources, Utah Department of Natural Resources, https://wildlife.utah.gov/hunting/main-hunting-page/falconry.html

Falconry terms in the English Language:

  • Bate: In falconry, “bate” refers to a hawk’s attempt to fly off its perch while still tethered. This has become “bated breath” in common English, meaning to be in a state of nervous anticipation or anxiety, according to Wingspan Bird of Prey Centre.
  • Fed up: A falcon that is well-fed has no incentive to hunt, leading to the term “fed up” meaning to be bored or uninterested.
  • Haggard: A “haggard” hawk is one caught from the wild as an adult, often difficult to train. In common usage, “haggard” describes someone looking exhausted or unwell.
  • Under his thumb: In falconry, this refers to the way a falconer holds the jesses (straps) of a hawk to control it. In general usage, it means being completely under someone’s control.
  • Hoodwinked: Originally, a “hood” was used to calm a hawk by covering its head. “Hoodwinked” means to be deceived or tricked, often subtly.
  • Rouse: A “rouse” in falconry is when a hawk shakes its feathers. This has evolved into the general meaning of shaking or awakening.
  • Pounce: A falcon’s “pounce” is its claws, used to seize prey. The word has entered common usage to describe a sudden, forceful movement.
  • Gorge: In falconry, a hawk “gorges” itself when it eats to capacity. This has become the general term for eating to excess.

    • Sources for Falconry terms in the English Language:
    Evans, Andrew, How falconry changed language, BBC. February 24, 2022, https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20170111-how-irish-falconry-changed-language
    The Language of Falconry, Wingspan Birds of Prey Trust, https://www.wingspan.co.nz/falconry_language.html
    Amy, Falconry terms in common language, Powered by Birds, February 26, 2010, https://www.poweredbybirds.com/falconry-terms-in-common-language/
    Assembled by Google AI https://ai.google.com

    Utah Falconers Association, https://www.utahfalconers.com/

    Posted on

    Tenacious Beaver

    Beaver at Dam, Courtesy Pixabay
    Beaver at Dam
    Courtesy Pixabay
    The most important lessons I can give my daughter are not through me, but instead those found best in the wild. Though she can’t talk, I know she still listens. Though her childhood amnesia is inevitable, I know that neural circuits are still being formed. Those circuits will do her good one day.

    Our favorite lesson is in the tenacity of beavers.

    This winter, we took one of our favorite hikes through knee-deep postholing snow to one of our favorite beaver dams. The dogs trot ahead, sniff snuffing at the path, darting to the stream that runs alongside our trail and back, and lead us as they have many times before up the trail. When we come to the great beaver dam, one that assuredly took not just years but generations of beavers to build, we stop for a snack and water, and let our daughter sit quizzically in the springtime slush. I explain to her the parts of the beaver’s home: the dam, the lodge, how they store their food. She listens while she smushes snow in her mittens, neural circuits are formed, and we pack up to start the slushy walk back to the car. A good day’s hike and lesson. A Greek proverb is dusted off in my mind, that a society grows great when old men plant trees under whose shade they know they shall never sit. Those beavers are good Greeks, but likely poor hoplites.

    Later that spring, we return to the dam, our trail shortened by melted snow. Snow is gone from the trail, but still holding fast in the mountains above. The travel is easier, muddier, but the beaver Platonic Republic justly endures. I explain the parts of the Castorian city-state yet again, and explain what the beavers are doing now as we see fresh aspen fells. They’re collecting good sugars and preparing for their kits. Kallipolis endures, as it has, another year out of dozens of millennia, and even without a cud of pulp in sight. I wonder if beavers have oral traditions?

    Time then passes as we all pass through space, and summer buds, blooms, and begins to fade. The cattle have come, grazed, trammeled, and been driven off yet again. We return to Xanadu in the early morning before the sun beats hard. We can get even closer to the dam now that the Forest gates are open, and we prepare for our adventure. My daughter looks around excitedly and drinks water from her cup. The dogs look around excitedly at all the leftover cow pies to investigate. Luckily they’ve dried.

    We exit the car and make our short way to the beavers only to discover that tragedy has struck between spring and now. The dam has burst. Like the River Isen, a great work of nature has blown a hole in the waterkeep, and drained the promised pond. The shoreline has receded like a tonsure, the lodge’s secret doors exposed as if by moonlit ithildin, and the water flowing with Newtonian determination towards Great Salt Lake.

    It’s shocking at first, seeing this anchor of time heaved asunder, the work of generations of beavers up and smote by spring runoff. All that labor. All those lives well-lived. Perhaps not wasted, but at least now remembered with a sigh. I sigh out as well, and explain this all to my daughter. She listens, pulls on cow-mown grasses, synapses fire, and circuits connect. We complete our hike and eventually go home.

    Finally, early this fall we set off for the utopia-that-was once more. Colors have begun to change to golds and crimson. The air is more crisp; the heat more bearable. We saddle up in the toddler backpack, and see what there is to see of the beavers. We arrive to the wonders of hope and joy, and the tenacity of beavers.

    The dam it appears is not abandoned. The labor of generations is honored with the restoration of the work. Not in its entirety mind you, for that will again take years and perhaps generations, but the work is underway regardless. Greek thinking again prevails. Whether by purpose or itch it matters not, but slowly the pond is regrowing. The shoreline has risen to swallow back and douse bare earth, and the water is a bit more wine-dark. I excitedly show my daughter, who excitedly is playing with my hat, the work that has happened, and the work yet to do. The beavers will not quit when allowed to do so. They are tenacious little buggers whose teeth grow forever. We take it all in and continue our hike, and eventually go back home. A new proverb pops into my head. A society grows great when we get to work and, figuratively, give a dam.

    I’m Patrick Kelly and I’m Wild About Utah.
     
    Credits:

    Images: Beaver & Dam Image Courtesy Pixabay, Public Domain
    Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright Friend Weller, Utah Public Radio with and Anderson, Howe, & Wakeman.
    Text:    Patrick Kelly, Stokes Nature Center, https://logannature.org
    Included Links: Lyle Bingham, Webmaster, WildAboutUtah.org

    Additional Reading

    Greene, Jack, I’m a Beaver Believer, Wild About Utah, December 19, 2022, https://wildaboututah.org/im-a-beaver-believer/

    Bingham, Lyle, Welcoming Rodent Engineers, Wild About Utah, February 7, 2022, https://wildaboututah.org/welcoming-rodent-engineers/

    Hellstern, Ron, Leave it to Beaver, Wild About Utah, July 30, 2018, https://wildaboututah.org/leave-it-to-beaver/

    Leavitt, Shauna, Beaver–Helping Keep Water on Drying Lands, Wild About Utah, April 17, 2017, https://wildaboututah.org/the-beaver-helping-keep-water-on-drying-lands/

    Strand, Holly, Beavers: The Original Army Corps of Engineers, Wild About Utah, April 29, 2010, https://wildaboututah.org/beavers-the-original-army-corps-of-engineers/

    Goldfarb, Ben, Eager: The Surprising, Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter, Chelsea Green Publishing, March 8, 2019, https://www.amazon.com/Eager-Surprising-Secret-Beavers-Matter/dp/1603589082/ref=asc_df_1603589082/