Tag: Snow

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Three of Logan’s Finest

The Folly Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
The Folly
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Kick. Step. Breathe. Kick. Step. Breathe.

Skier John Louviere Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Skier John Louviere
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer

Skier Eric Newell Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere, Photographer Skier Eric Newell
Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere, Photographer

Miniature pellets of snow swirl past my face, land on the slope we are struggling against, then tumble hundreds of feet down the snow-encased mountain. My friend John Louviere and I have skied the Bear River Range backcountry together since we first met as Utah State University students in 1995.

Today the light is flat, causing both sky and mountain to blend into a single dimension, making it difficult to distinguish snow from clouds. The Dry Canyon slope we are ascending is prominent from nearly everywhere in Cache Valley. Each winter its absolute openness and gentle, seductive rolls tantalize backcountry skiers. For us, it is a blank canvas. We stare at it on our way to and from work, occasionally spotting other skier’s tracks, best highlighted when late evening sunlight turns the mountain hues of pink and orange.

But embedded in the stark beauty of this mountain is a dark past. Backcountry skiers call this slope “The Folly” for good reason: it measures exactly thirty-eight degrees in steepness—precisely the slope angle that produces the most deadly avalanches. Thirty-eight degree slopes are gentle enough to allow dangerous slabs of snow to build, where they can rest precariously without commitment to the mountain. A single skier, snowboarder, snowmobile, or even just one last snowflake can set it all in motion.

Because The Folly faces southwest, prevailing winds tend to transport freshly fallen snow off the slope, over the ridge, and deposit it in Spring Hollow. Afternoon sunshine also welds new layers of snow to old layers rather quickly. Both of these factors combine to stabilize the slope, despite its steepness, but it still shouldn’t be reckoned with unless you know and understand the composition and history of the snowpack. The spring-like conditions present today are exactly what John and I have waited for—everything is frozen firmly in place.
In January of 1997, Karl Mueggler and Max Lyon, who both grew up in Cache Valley, were visiting families for the holidays. The two decided to catch up on old times with Logan resident Keith Maas by ski-camping in Dry Canyon.

They pitched their tents in a stand of aspens interspersed with Englemann spruce at the base of The Folly. Trees generally serve as a good indicator of safety from avalanches since proven slide paths obliterate timber. Had they camped there any other night in a 20-year span, they would have awakened to another memorable ski day.
But while they slept, a foot of new snow fell and the west wind shifted, blowing violently from the northeast, heaping tons of snow from the Spring Hollow side onto The Folly. A week before, unseasonably warm temperatures caused rain to fall on the slope which later froze into a hard, smooth ice crust. All of these factors combined to create the perfect conditions for a spontaneous and catastrophic avalanche.

Despite their years of backcountry experience Karl, Max, and Keith were buried in their tent under five feet of concrete-hard snow. The community was devastated. Though I didn’t know Karl or Keith, I had spent a day skiing with Max only a few weeks before. He embodied the type of person anyone would aspire to become. Excitement for living radiated from his face. He laughed easily and spoke optimistically of the future. The same has been said of Karl and Keith. They were educators, outdoor activists, and advocates for community.
Over the years, I venture up here in the spring to pay tribute to their lives.

At the top of The Folly, still surrounded by thick clouds and meandering snowflakes, we start down, one at a time. Without warning, gracious sunlight bursts through the squall. We accelerate, gliding over the glowing snow, unsure if we are flying or skiing—a truly ethereal moment. The snow beneath our skis is firm and our metal edges cut tight turns with precision as we descend from the clouds, honoring three of Logan’s finest the best way we know how.

I’m Eric Newell, and I am wild about Utah.

Credits:
Images: Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer, Eric Newell image Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere
Featured Audio: Courtesy & © Kevin Colver https://wildstore.wildsanctuary.com/, Courtesy & © Friend Weller, https://www.upr.org/people/friend-weller, Courtesy & Copyright © Anderson, Howe, Wakeman
Thank you Eric Newell for recording the student audio clips
Text: Eric Newell, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University
Additional Reading: Eric Newell

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah Pieces by Eric Newell

A longer version of this story was printed in the Herald Journal Outdoors section May 5, 2006.

Opsahl, Kevin, Memories of fatal ’97 avalanche still fresh, The Herald Journal, Jan 14, 2017,
https://www.hjnews.com/accidents_disaster/memories-of-fatal-avalanche-still-fresh/article_03c457bd-ffa2-5e92-8527-38514ddb7016.html

“Outdoor Leadership Scholarship
The Lyon, Maas, Mueggler Outdoor Leadership Scholarship pays 50% of the tuition for the Desert Mountain Medicine Wilderness First Responder (WFR) certification course.”
Lyon, Maas, Mueggler, Outdoor Leadership Scholarship, Utah State University
https://www.usu.edu/campusrec/outdoor/

Cane, James, Snow Dynamics, Wild About Utah, February 2, 2012, https://wildaboututah.org/snow-pack-dynamics/

Utah Avalanche Center https://utahavalanchecenter.org/

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Local Sled Dogs-Sheer Joy

Sled Dogs-Sheer Joy: Sun, Snow, Sheer Joy, Courtesy & © Mary Heers, Photographer
Sun, Snow, Sheer Joy
Courtesy & © Mary Heers, Photographer
As the snow continued to pile up this winter, I started to ask around about sled dogs.

I soon bumped into a friend who had a friend in Preston who trained and occasionally raced his team of 14 Alaskan Huskies.

This musher graciously offered to give me a ride on one of his training runs. I showed up all smiles as he was harnessing his team. The dogs were excited to go and actually howling with happiness. The musher asked if I wanted to get in – or ride up the trail a bit on a snowmobile with his teenage son to a more level spot. In a rare moment of sanity, I opted for the snowmobile.

The machine had just pulled out of the yard when I heard his son say, “Oh, No!”

I looked back in time to see the sled tip over, sending the musher sliding across the driveway and under my car parked at the end of it. I jumped off the snowmobile as the dogs shot past us with the empty sled. The dogs were gaining on a truck up ahead, then shot past it with the snowmobile in hot pursuit.

I was left standing in a snowbank wondering if I’d wandered into a James Bond movie.

My first encounter with sled dogs had gone a lot smoother. I was visiting Denali National Park in Alaska and the rangers were introducing us to one of the dog teams that they still use to patrol the park.

But the most famous sled dogs are the freight teams that carried anti-toxin from Anchorage to Nome during an outbreak of Diphtheria in 1925. The dog teams ran a thousand miles and are credited with saving hundreds of lives.

For the last 50 years, modern mushers have retraced this journey in the ultimate sled dog race, the Ididarod. The best account I’ve read about the world of training sled dogs and running the Ididarod is Gary Paulsen’s book Winterdance. Just before going on a training ride, he discovered, “the gangline was trembling, quivering like a string on a guitar. It fairly hummed and I felt there was great power there. The trees in the yard went by in a mad blur and we left the yard at warp speed.”

Paulsen also lets us in on the deep relationship mushers form with their dogs: “As they understand you will give them meat when they run, and love when they run, and your soul when they run – as they learn to feel that, understand that, know that – they are no longer sled dogs – they become distance dogs, dogs that cannot, will not be stopped.” Paulson ran the Iditarod in 1983. It was a wild ride that took 17 days. But he finished.

Meanwhile, back in Preston, our teenage hero had caught up with the runaway team, made a flying leap from the snowmobile onto the empty sled, and somehow managed to stop the team. Pretty soon the musher and I caught up.

“Do you still want to get in?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

And we were off. The dogs settled into a steady trot. From then on it was all Sun and Snow and the sheer Joy of sliding quietly through the magnificent winter scenery.

This is Mary Heers and I’m Wild About Utah

Credits:
Photos: Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers
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’ Postings

Paulsen, Gary, Winterdance: The Fine Madness of Running the Iditarod, Harvest Books, HarperCollins February 17, 1995, https://www.amazon.com/Winterdance-Fine-Madness-Running-Iditarod/dp/0156001454/

Idaho Sled Dog Challenge, https://idahosleddogchallenge.com/

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Sled Dogs-Sheer Joy

Sled Dogs-Sheer Joy: Sun, Snow, Sheer Joy, Courtesy & © Mary Heers, Photographer
Sun, Snow, Sheer Joy
Courtesy & © Mary Heers, Photographer
As the snow continued to pile up this winter, I started to ask around about sled dogs.

I soon bumped into a friend who had a friend in Preston who trained and occasionally raced his team of 14 Alaskan Huskies.

This musher graciously offered to give me a ride on one of his training runs. I showed up all smiles as he was harnessing his team. The dogs were excited to go and actually howling with happiness. The musher asked if I wanted to get in – or ride up the trail a bit on a snowmobile with his teenage son to a more level spot. In a rare moment of sanity, I opted for the snowmobile.

The machine had just pulled out of the yard when I heard his son say, “Oh, No!”

I looked back in time to see the sled tip over, sending the musher sliding across the driveway and under my car parked at the end of it. I jumped off the snowmobile as the dogs shot past us with the empty sled. The dogs were gaining on a truck up ahead, then shot past it with the snowmobile in hot pursuit.

I was left standing in a snowbank wondering if I’d wandered into a James Bond movie.

My first encounter with sled dogs had gone a lot smoother. I was visiting Denali National Park in Alaska and the rangers were introducing us to one of the dog teams that they still use to patrol the park.

But the most famous sled dogs are the freight teams that carried anti-toxin from Anchorage to Nome during an outbreak of Diphtheria in 1925. The dog teams ran a thousand miles and are credited with saving hundreds of lives.

For the last 50 years, modern mushers have retraced this journey in the ultimate sled dog race, the Ididarod. The best account I’ve read about the world of training sled dogs and running the Ididarod is Gary Paulsen’s book Winterdance. Just before going on a training ride, he discovered, “the gangline was trembling, quivering like a string on a guitar. It fairly hummed and I felt there was great power there. The trees in the yard went by in a mad blur and we left the yard at warp speed.”

Paulsen also lets us in on the deep relationship mushers form with their dogs: “As they understand you will give them meat when they run, and love when they run, and your soul when they run – as they learn to feel that, understand that, know that – they are no longer sled dogs – they become distance dogs, dogs that cannot, will not be stopped.” Paulson ran the Iditarod in 1983. It was a wild ride that took 17 days. But he finished.

Meanwhile, back in Preston, our teenage hero had caught up with the runaway team, made a flying leap from the snowmobile onto the empty sled, and somehow managed to stop the team. Pretty soon the musher and I caught up.

“Do you still want to get in?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

And we were off. The dogs settled into a steady trot. From then on it was all Sun and Snow and the sheer Joy of sliding quietly through the magnificent winter scenery.

This is Mary Heers and I’m Wild About Utah

Credits:
Photos: Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers
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’ Postings

Paulsen, Gary, Winterdance: The Fine Madness of Running the Iditarod, Harvest Books, HarperCollins February 17, 1995, https://www.amazon.com/Winterdance-Fine-Madness-Running-Iditarod/dp/0156001454/

Idaho Sled Dog Challenge, https://idahosleddogchallenge.com/

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Rumba in the Primavera Sun

Rumba in the Primavera Sun: Crocus in Spring, Courtesy Pixabay, Alicja from Poland, PhotographerSpring dreams have already started to thaw within my winter mind. Though I know it is still time until the snow turns to mud, and longer until the mud settles to soil, I can’t help but look forward to my time in the garden, tilling earth, planting seeds, and lazing in the fragrant primavera sun. Ooooo yeah. Sun. Spring. Celia Cruz Cuban rumba, big dumb straw hats, and onyx rich loamy soil. Is there anything better?

When I’m in one season, I generally try not to think about whether I should be thinking about the next, though it’s hard not to think about what you should or should not think about, especially when such thoughts are bound by fond memories and anticipation as sweet as a perfect mango. There is a certain unripe lime of guilt I hold, that I should lean into every season with full and open heart and that I’m acting unappreciative to the winter season by dreaming ahead. I think this thinking is perhaps a remnant of an older, younger me, one who strove to be in every moment in every moment, and, ironically, often fit the puzzle pieces according to order rather than taking that which caught my eye in that moment. I think with years I’ve learned that there is no harm in a dream of piña colada spring days during rye whisky winter, especially when that dream comes with at least a bit of action. I’d be one thing to wish for planting season and not ravenously browse my Johnny’s catalog, check on my seed stores from last year’s harvest, and make sure there’s enough coconut milk. It’s another thing that I do.

Regardless, as I dream of spring and the chlorophyll which shall abound like a shoot from that onion you forgot about in the back of the pantry, I find eager joy in the challenges I am to face as much as the possibilities in their being overcome. This year’s drip irrigation can be more efficient. This year’s compost amendments can be richer. This year’s tomato pruning can tame my nightshade jungle. This year’s harvest can be tastier. And this year I’ll finally build that tiki bar. I look forward to taking the lessons learned through past mistakes. Whether those learnings came by exposures of hubris, faith, incompetence, or all three shaken together with rocks, it is important, at least to me, that joyous dreams of labor are sought equally with joyous dreams of abundance. Abundance without labor may be Eden, but Eden after all wasn’t fit for humankind. I’d rather be in my natural state than contending with high stakes iterative bureaucracy.

So, I return to my winter landscape before me, for I cannot stay in this spring space forever, mixing my mind’s sagebrush mojito with flavors both near and far. Outside, snow continues to fall; the sun continues to wake; greenery continues to wait. And now the dream of the future is a memory of fond past, having met at that synaptic crossroads where remembrance and hope meet to garden. I both recall and divine the entrancing rich black soil, the snap of fresh muddled lemon mint, and the echo of rumba in the primavera sun.

I’m Patrick Kelly, and I’m Wild About Utah.
 
Credits:
Images: Courtesy Pixabay, Alicja Polski (from Poland), Photographer https://pixabay.com/photos/crocus-early-spring-spring-flowers-3175455/
Audio: Courtesy & © Kevin Colver https://wildstore.wildsanctuary.com/collections/special-collections
Includes: “Madre Rumba” by Celia Cruz/Humberto Juama.
Text:    Patrick Kelly, Director of Education, Stokes Nature Center, https://www.logannature.org
Included Links: Patrick Kelly & Lyle Bingham, Webmaster, WildAboutUtah.org

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah, Posts by Patrick Kelly

Stokes Nature Center in Logan Canyon, https://www.logannature.org/