"Boys come prepackaged with three innate characteristics which seem to inevitably express themselves independent of nature or nurture: a love for fire, the urge to climb stuff, and the impulse to throw rocks into bodies of water. In the case of rock-throwing, the larger the better.

"Since I began writing these columns, I've become accustomed to pausing to gather my thoughts on a place and jot them down later. Coulter vocalized my thoughts in toddlerspeak when I set him down to strap on the snow shoes.

"Woo-woo. I love it, my mountains," he said."

Enjoy the pics below and click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.

Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

The following originally appeared in yesterday's Tooele Transcript Bulletin. Due to some (I'm sure temporary) formatting glitches on their website that prevent the reader from viewing the whole article, I'm reprinting it in its entirety here this week.


There's nothing quite like the sound of a mountain stream. Whether it's a spring brook in the high Uintas or a frigid creek in the snowy Oquirrhs, the vibrant white-noise gush of pure water is like nature's ipod. The only thing better than listening to a stream with your friends or your kids is listening to a stream with your sweetheart.

Last week's white-out capped off a grueling winter ruled by freak snow storms that seemed to always blow in right in time for my commute. I hoped to take my wife on a Valentine's hike, but finding a passable back road in the county has been difficult. Luckily, Settlement Canyon Road was plowed for a mile, and we drove up to watch the sunset.

We drove up to the closed gate where the snow plows turn around and a snow-packed road continues deep into the quiet Oquirrhs. The sun was setting over the distant Stansbury Mountains, framed by One O'Clock Peak to the south and Little Mountain to the north. The thermometer in our dash read 29 degrees. We turned the heater on and rolled the windows down to listen to Settlement Creek course into the mostly frozen reservoir below.

We talked about the kids and how we hoped they hadn't burned my mother's house down yet. We talked about the things we needed to buy at Wal-Mart the next morning. We reminisced about the night we first met at a gathering of friends in Skull Valley- how she broke the ice
by offering me a fruit punch Capri Sun- how we sat by the campfire talking until the sun came up, and how that almost a decade later we still can't get enough of the wilderness.

The conversation eventually turned to the disaster that was our first date. We laugh about it now, but at the time it couldn't have been more embarrassing. I'm amazed I ever saw her again after that night. Maybe some things are just meant to be- no matter how hard you try to screw them up. Till the day I die, being in the mountains at night with her will always remind me of that ill-fated night.

Having moved here from the utterly flat state of Texas the day before we met, she had never hiked a mountain trail or watched the Milky Way from an alpine meadow.

"I'll take her hiking," I thought. "One breath of crisp mountain air, one look at the city from a canyon overlook and she'll be mine."

Initially things went well—a nice drive up Big Cottonwood Canyon and a romantic couple-mile hike along the Broad's Fork Twin Peaks trail.

Of course that was before we walked back to the car and I couldn't find my keys. Before we hiked all the way back up and spent an hour looking for them.

Before we got back down again and I realized I must have locked my keys in my trunk.

"We're not too far away from the city, are we?" She asked. "Nah," I reassured her with a faux confidence that could not have hidden my acute awareness that it was now midnight and we were exactly 4.5 miles from the mouth of the canyon.

Plan A: Somehow break into my Dodge Spirit without shattering the windows and before she starts getting cold.

No dice.

Plan B: Start Walking. Stay upbeat. Avoid mountain lions and "helpful" serial-killer-looking guys offering us rides. Pick up the pieces of my shattered pride at the bottom. "Hey, at least it's
downhill."

We joked about our misfortune, but our guarded laughter dwindled as we rounded curve after curve of quiet road. We walked at least a mile before a normal-looking couple in a pickup offered to drive us to a pay phone (my cell phone was with my keys in the trunk). The awkward chitchat made the ride seem much longer than it was, but I was glad to be out of the mountains.

"So what are you going to do now?" The guy driving asked with all the compassion he could muster and still keep a straight face.

"Probably call a friend," I said as we climbed out of his cab at a grocery store, knowing that calling a friend would be even more tragic than locking my keys in my car 4.5 miles up a canyon on a first date. The only thing worse than scaring a girl off is seeing her the next week at Leatherby's, sharing a Rob's Banana Split with your friend that so nobly rescued her from her nightmare first date with you.

No, friends were definitely not an option. I picked up the pay phone and dialed the only person who could look past my idiocy and get me out of this mess. My mother arrived in short order, and we were soon driving back up the canyon with my backup key.

When we retrieved my keys and pulled out of the trailhead parking lot, I looked at the girl I was certain I'd never see again. "I'm at a loss," I blabbered, feeling about an inch tall. "I just don't know what to say. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she assured me, obviously glad the ordeal was finally over. The uneasiness had worn off and her playful sense of humor had resurfaced. "It was a great hike…and this will definitely go down as the most hilarious first date story ever!"

9 years and 4 kids later, we sat at the mouth of Settlement Canyon, laughing about that night and searching the sky for constellations. We got out and hiked past the gate and down to the Dark Trail trailhead. When it was time to walk back, I took my glove off and felt my right front pocket. Oh, good—the keys were there.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com

Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

"Friends and relatives affectionately poke fun at my near pious affinity for Skull Valley. Whether its name derives from scattered buffalo skulls or the discovery of numerous Indian skulls in the valley -- the historical debate remains unsettled -- Skull Valley has always been my happy place.

"Perhaps it's the mysterious mountains and the miles of empty space between them, or the colorful histories of the pioneers, outlaws, and Indians who wandered its paths so long ago. Even before I met my wife in Skull Valley, I spent my teenage years tracing forgotten roads and playing tackle football on the mud flats."

Whatever the adventure, it's hard to drive south on Skull Valley Road and not stop to admire the valley's defining landmark, an aptly named mountain pillar that rises to an elevation of 4,285 feet 3 miles south of I-80. The rock is easily climbed, but watch your step when you reach the top.

Click here to read the full article.

Labels: American West, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

When one thinks of Disney, “wild nature” isn’t necessarily the first thing that comes to mind. The man-made waterfalls and animatronic animals of Disney’s Jungle Cruise rides certainly evoke thoughts of far-off tropical locales, but the typical Disney adventure doesn’t stray far from carefully manicured walkways and piped-in theme music.

It’s not that Walt Disney sought to “sanitize” reality. He was dissuaded from using real animals in his nature-themed attractions because they would be unsafe, unmanageable, and impractical. Walt’s goal was to give his guests a sampling of places they would likely never experience in real life. He may have painted the human world in a fantastical light, but his goal with nature and wildlife attractions was reality. The very same team that designs the illusions at Walt Disney World have also created the very real The Disney Wilderness Preserve.

While I've climbed real mountains all my life, I can credit Mr. Disney for sparking my fascination with exotic climes. The Sunshine State’s climate ranges from humid subtropical in the north to tropical in the south. Florida’s lifeblood is a 200-mile-long system of lakes, streams, and wetlands that spans the southern length of the peninsula. The network of lakes and streams in the Orlando area are the headwaters of this system, which ebbs south through the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes into the Kissimmee River, which feeds Lake Okeechobee and the Everglades system.

The Disney Wilderness Preserve lies at the heart of this aquatic network and was once a cattle ranch. Disney purchased the bulk of property and donated it to The Nature Conservancy in 1991 as part of a wetlands mitigation plan. The result was a 12,000-acre subtropical wonderland- a timeless snapshot of old-school Florida, and one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen.

It was mid-morning and cloudy when I started along the 2.5 mile trail that loops through the preserve. The trail winds through a field of saw palmetto before merging onto an old sandy road. After about a mile, a smaller trail branches off into a swampy cypress forest on the shores of Lake Russell, one of the last remaining undeveloped lakes in central Florida.A school of tiny fish in the rusty shallows scattered as I approached, and small waves lapped at the sandy bank. Beyond the shoreline, strands of Spanish moss clung to bare cypress branches, whisking in gently with the breeze. I hate bugs, and bugs hate me (they bite me any chance they get and I smash them any chance I get). Yet despite our eternal feud, I’m glad they’re there, shrouded in grass, anonymously combing their wings. Their tranquil song awakens primal senses while it calms the soul. Dark clouds inched over the lake, almost mimicking twilight. I realized that like the High Uintas in Utah and the Laura Plantation in Louisiana, this was one of the most peaceful places I had ever been.

The clouds broke again as I walked back to the main trail and continued another mile through a young forest and back to the trailhead. I didn't see much wildlife, but there was enough slithering and rustling in the brush to convince me to stay on the trail. The ground in the area is a sandy white clay that turns black when it's saturated. It had rained the night before, and there were plenty of black mud puddles to dodge.

I never knew about the preserve prior to this trip, but I'm glad I chanced upon a mention of it somewhere in my research. I'll definitely be returning to this place.--

Check out The Nature Conservancy's TDWP website for more information.

Thanks to TNC's Jill Austin for answering all my questions.

Labels: American South, Trip Reports

"I turned onto what I thought was my planned return route, but was baffled when it veered in the wrong direction and petered off into a faint trail, eventually disappearing altogether in the brush. I got out of the Trooper and looked at the trail in disbelief. It was at that moment that I realized just how dark the night was. The crisp, juniper-scented air I normally relished now only heightened an already acute sense of aloneness.

"Solitude is bliss, but only when you know where you are and how to get back.

"I was lost -- a phenomenon I pride myself on having rarely experienced. But at that moment, my sense of direction was more wrecked than my pride. Roads looked like ATV trails, and ATV trails like roads. Nothing behind me looked like where I thought I had come from, and nothing ahead of me looked like where I thought I should go. Yearning for some sense of civilization, I turned on the radio. I spent the next two hours following trail after trail, listening to KSL host Clark Howard talk about how dollar store batteries are just as good as the name brands."

The boys and I drove out to Skull Valley last Saturday hoping to climb White Rock, a domed igneous anomoly reminiscent of Moab. Unfortunately, the road was covered with at least 2 feet of snow in some places. No matter, though. I realized a story from years past would probably make for a better article anyway.

Click here for to read the full article. If- for whatever reason- you like what you read, feel free to drop my editor a note. If you think it's just the nonsensical babblings of an inexperienced writer, feel free to refrain from dropping him a note!

Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

"No. Please don't tell me this is the best song on this album."

Those were my thoughts upon hearing the first single, "If I Had Eyes", from Jack Johnson's newly released "Sleep Through the Static."

I had waited nearly two years for new music from Johnson. His last release, the brilliant "Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies" from the Curious George movie, left me begging for more.

While recording "Sing-A-Longs", Jack informed his fans that he would be taking a couple years off to hang out with his kids and do some environmental stuff. Though I was bummed about the wait, I admired Jack for focusing on fatherhood, and I figured the time off might inspire a stellar return to the studio.

Boy, was I wrong.

And I shouldn't be surprised. Every artist has his growing pains. "Static" is clearly Jack Johnson's mid-career crisis album.

And I should have seen it coming. Jack's previous albums, "Sing-A-Long" and "In Between Dreams" were preluded by months of interviews, behind-the-scenes videos, and preview performances. I tabbed out the ukulele part of "Wrong Turn" weeks before "Sing-A-Longs" hit store shelves.

"Static" enjoyed no such hype. No preview performances or radio interviews- just a mention here and there about Jack's solar-powered studio or his environmental activism. Oh- and by the way, he's releasing an album in February.

These days the Web is everything. But when the album dropped Tuesday, Jack's website looked like it hadn't been updated since "Sing-A-Longs" and his web forums were still not up since going down "for maintenance" December. An interesting way to market a new album.

Well, it turns out there isn't much here to market or hype. "Static" retains Jack's signature mellow sound, but he's ditched the radio-friendly riffs and hooks that skyrocketed him into surf rock fame in favor of structureless, melancholy dribble.

I can't criticize the production, the instrumentation, the lyrics, or Jack's voice. It's just that the whole seems much less than the sum of its parts.

Don't get me wrong- I've been a Jack Johnson fanatic from the early days when he was a college kid writing campfire songs for the beach. I get Jack Johnson. But as much as I love the guy, I can't sugarcoat my disappointment with this album.

"In Between Dreams" was great because it was fresh and lyrically exciting. Songs like "No Other Way" and "Breakdown" blow me away every time I hear them. "Sing-A-Longs" was great primarily because it was a soundtrack. Jack's unmatched knack for pairing simple music with emotional imagery is what launched his musical career. Curious George doesn't speak and Jack's job in that film was to provide his voice through the music. The attention to mood and instrumentation on that record is stunning.

"Static" sounds as if Jack threw it together in a few hours on a really stormy day. Gone are the playful cynicism and the upbeat introspection. Every song on the record sounds like a Wal-Mart "bonus track"- you know, the B-side, so-so songs that record label throws in for free when you purchase an album there. By the end of the album you feel like you've listened to the same song 14 times.

Music industry spotlight articles tried their best to up-play the album prior to its release by raving about Jack's maturing lyrical sensibilities and world-weary savvy. But "mature" lyrics don't necessarily mean good music. In his defense, he did write this album amidst political upheaval and the death of a friend. But to be brutally honest, Jack could be singing Microsoft technical documentation and I don't think I'd notice a difference here.

I'm sure, like many other albums, "Static" will grow on me. Despite my frustration with this album, Jack retains his spot in the Holy Trinity of my life's soundtrack (flanked on both sides by U2's Bono and Alison Krauss). But here's to wishing Jack will step off his soapbox and back onto the beach.

Labels: Ramblings

Ice over Grantsville Reservoir (photos by Clint Thomsen)

"'That's a male.' Ben pulled his hook and laid the pink-banded fish on the ice. 'You can tell because he's a little bit darker and his lower jaw has that hook shape.'

Ben has plucked fish from frozen lakes for 10 years now, but has been a die-hard fisherman since he picked up a spinning rod at age 3. When he's not wading rivers with a fly rod or casting at Hyrum Dam, he's home tying his own flies. 'I think it is programmed into my DNA,' he says about his favorite hobby. Listening to him discuss lures, flies, and fish species the excited way my boys talk about Disney World, I think he's probably right."

Ironically, I wrote the bulk of this article last week while sitting under a palm tree in Orlando, Florida.

Special thanks to fishing guru extraordinaire Dr. Todd Larsen for his insight into the "jigging stick" method. Dr. Larsen writes about fishing history at fishinghistory.blogspot.com. It's a really interesting read.

Thanks also to my pal Ben for showing me the ropes of ice fishing. Ben cringed a bit at my mention of his Subaru Outback. Let's just say that Ben's more a Cabelas fella than an REI guy. He pretends it's an F-150.

Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.

Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports