My Travel Companions: Joy and Peace

On our last full day in Twin Falls, Idaho, we drove into the canyon I. B. Perrine called Magic Valley. Initially, it was a lush agricultural area transformed by water from the Snake River. In time, however, agriculture moved out of the canyon, and placer gold miners moved in to collect the gold dust in the river sediment. But when these claims became unprofitable, the hospitality and tourist industry moved in. Today, the Magic Valley contains a  golf course, a park with hiking trails, and numerous waterfalls. This picture looks back up the canyon toward Twin Falls. The valley floor is strewn with basalt boulders, washed down by the flooding from Lake Bonneville (and others, as you will discover further on) that created the canyon. We saw three picturesque waterfalls. You can see one of these in the canyon wall to the right. And, if your eyes are good, you will see the Perrine Bridge over the canyon on the horizon to the left. This beautiful walk gave us a fantastic way to remember and celebrate an excellent week in historical, geologically significant, and beautiful Twin Falls, Idaho.

 

We woke early and washed Koko and Nakai before our long drive through an exciting area. Before the drive, I had already read about the flooding from ancient Lake Bonneville. But along the way, I noticed that our elevation would move from 4,200 feet to 5,200 feet. We also noted odd plateaus and shelves all along the road. I wondered if these were levels of ancient Lake Bonneville. A roadside geological information sign confirmed that it was. I spent most of the drive looking at the surrounding mountains for evidence of these ancient shorelines. The rain moved in as we approached the Salt Lake City Metro area, and my attention was riveted on the road and traffic around us. We finally pulled into our base for the next two weeks at Springville / Provo KOA in Springville, UT. I was exhausted from the drive and rested before we took on Provo and the Great Salt Lake.

 

After a day of chillin’ and chores, we explored Antelope Island State Park on the Great Salt Lake, formerly Lake Bonneville, Lake Provo, etc. I learned in Twin Falls that the Snake River Canyon was shaped when Lake Bonneville overflowed into Idaho’s Red Rock Canyon 12,000 years ago. I have learned that this was just the first of a series of flood events from the Great Basin in the middle of the continent. These flows are named Lake Bonneville, the first; Lake Provo, the second; and others. Each subsequent flood was a little lower as the water cut its way through the walls of Red Rock Canyon. These successive floods left a layered look, like shelves on the mountains that lined the shores of the lake. This picture shows the Lake Provo Shoreline sloping to the ancient Lake Bonneville shoreline. Each mountain in the area has gently sloping sides that lead up to a last tier at roughly 400 feet above the present-day surface of the Great Salt Lake.

 

This was wonderful until I started doing the math and found that the numbers did not add up. The ancient records show that the lake was over 900 feet deep. 900 minus 400 left 400+ feet missing? Where did they go? They were lost when the ground sprang back up after being compressed under 900 feet of water. The ground we stand on seems far more elastic than I ever imagined. The land would rebound like a very slow trampoline when the water drained and/or evaporated away. As the lake returned with accumulating rainwater, the ground would sink. The water would rise and overtop the Red Rock Canyon. The rush of water would cut a bit deeper into the canyon downriver, and the land would rebound a bit more. This has been happening for over 12,000 years. In these years, the water has lowered the pass by 300 feet. It still stands at 4,785 feet. What will the next 5,000 years hold for the Great Salt Lake? When will the next deep lake form, pressing down the ground and overlapping the canyon again? I suspect the final chapter of the Great Salt Lake has not yet been written. By the way, the first flood event, Lake Bonneville, carried three times more water than the Amazon and lasted for hundreds of years. 

 

One of the facts that we all learned as school children is that fish cannot survive in the Great Salt Lake. The water is too salty to support life. I was ignorantly and innocently enjoying myself, taking pictures of birds on the lake and having a grand time. Until I looked back at this picture when I was processing the images that evening. Look in the gull’s beak; you will see that he has a FISH! And it appears that he has just taken it out from under the watchful eye of the young white Pelican. Fish in the Great Salt Lake? Impossible? Apparently not! I did some digging and discovered that fish cannot reproduce or thrive in the Great Salt Lake. Still, they can survive briefly in the smaller bays after a large inflow of fresh rainwater. This picture was taken in one of those bays. I thought I had a scientific scoop of irrefutable proof of fish in the Great Salt Lake. Instead, all I had was an exception to many things I know about life in our world.

 

This is an excellent example of how too little education leaves us ignorant. I remember being taught that fish cannot survive in the lake. And that is true. But that does not mean that under certain conditions, they cannot exist there. I assumed I understood things when I was ignorant of the exceptions. And until I saw evidence to the contrary that caused me to ask questions about my assumptions, I remained clueless. Everything we think we know needs to be weighed on the scale of observation. When our observations challenge our beliefs, we need to respect the observations and raise questions about our beliefs. Suppose we defer to our opinions and ignore the evidence before us. In that case, we will continue to live in willful ignorance of ourselves and the world around us. I owe a debt of gratitude to this little fish that braved the salt water and lost his life. He made me just a minuscule less ignorant. I hate to think how many other creatures will have to die before humanity finally gets a little less ignorant.

 

The Great Salt Lake was covered with birds. It is a premier birding location in our country. The birds flock here by the millions during migration; tens of thousands live here year-round. Most of these birds are predators and usually eat fish, frogs, and other creepy crawlies. But this lake has very few of any of these. Why do vast numbers of birds come here, and what do they eat? This question was answered at the Visitor Center. The roots of the food tree on the Great Salt Lake are in those orange, red, yellow, and green algae mats that float on and lay just below the water's surface. These algal mats are the foundation of a complex chain of life in this environment.

 

As I learned in the lava beds, algae are efficient little chemical manufacturing plants that convert inorganic minerals into nutrients. When they work with fungus, they form lichen that breaks down rocks and organic matter. But when they float in or under toxic water, they use the sun's energy and the minerals present to create life-giving biological compounds for themselves and others around them. Tiny, annoying bugs fly down and feed on this algae bloom. The bugs further convert the algae into more nourishing food for lizards and birds. These creatures then become food for other predators. As they die or excrete their waste, this all runs back into the lake and becomes another layer of building blocks for the chemistry of life in this harsh area. Life is utterly amazing. Given enough time, it can and will adapt to environmental changes. It all requires a little heat, a few minerals, and a lot of patience. Unfortunately, the only thing humans struggle to provide is the latter.

 

While on Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake, we encountered a huge herd of American Bison. They were brought here in the early 20^th Century to establish a herd to protect them from extinction. There are no natural predators on the island, and they have flourished. We encountered groups of 25 – 50 animals and many lone males wandering the flats and grasslands on the island's eastern side. These majestic creatures do, in fact, rule the land as the dominant non-human mammal on the island.

 

The Bison is a cultural icon for the American West. Yet, as I spent time with these beasts, they became more than icons. This cow was at the edge of the herd as they grazed their way to the freshwater hole a quarter of a mile away. She kept a close eye on Nakai, our Jeep, without showing any fear or anxiety. She was in her home. She knew she was in control and did her best to avoid confrontation with the red machine. But she was ready, if necessary, to take action to protect herself and her herd. There was no blustering or faux heroics. She stood comfortably in her long, shaggy fur and looked the Jeep straight in the headlights. I knew that I was in the presence of a magnificent beast. I could learn a great deal from her if I spent the time to understand and appreciate her presence on this island in the middle of a vast salt lake.

 

This ancient and rugged land has produced some of the most memorable cultures in North America. Unfortunately, we did not learn about these from Brigham Young University’s Museum of Peoples and Cultures. Mostly, what we learned at BYU was how clever the Mormons were when they came to Utah. There were references to the Fremont and Ute peoples, but only by comparing them to the later Mormons who arrived and took their traditional lands. History and science deserve better than we got at BYU, so I have done a little research.

 

The Fremont people lived in the Great Basin for 1,300 years from around 1 AD around the Fremont River. They were contemporary with the Ancestral Puebloan People to the South. Much debate exists about how coherent a group the Fremont may have been. They are scattered throughout the Great Basin and cluster in 11 different tribes. Each tribe shares a triangular style of pictographs that we have seen in Northern NM and Western Colorado. They lived in pit houses that they used seasonally. They grew corn for much of the year but were hunters and gatherers after the harvest and until the next crop arrived. Their pottery and basket weaving are similar in color and shape. Unfortunately, there is very little left of these people. There is also little evidence of why they disappeared around 700 AD. Some believe they dispersed to the East and South, but there is not much evidence of their presence today. Many of the later cultures would refer to them as the old ones.

 

The Ute, however, is still present and impacts modern times. They are the namesake for the State of Utah and hold the largest reservation in the United States just East of Salt Lake City. The Uintah and Ouray Reservation covers most of the Northeastern corner of Utah. Their hunting grounds extended into New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kanas, and Wyoming. Unlike the Fremont before them, they were primarily hunter-gatherers who traveled between their hunting grounds throughout the year, often using the same locations year after year. During their travels, they got to know and entered into trade with the Puebloans, Apache, Shoshone, and other indigenous peoples in the Western part of North America.

 

They lived in Colorado until the Eastern tribes moved into their land in 1300 AD. The Ute moved west into present-day Utah. They included at least 11 different tribes throughout the Central part of western North America. When the Spanish introduced the horse in the 1700s, the Ute were among the first to adopt them into their lives. They became the ultimate Plains Horseman and adept at war against their enemies who traveled by foot. They spread their influence far and wide. But they could not outfight the Europeans, who overwhelmed them with multiple waves of migration and failed treaty promises. Today, they continue to operate their extensive holdings in Eastern Utah and influence the culture of the United States. However, the legacy of these noble people, both Fremont and Ute, only exists in the public imagination. When our institutions of higher learning disrespect them and, in effect, erase them from our memory, we are all impoverished by our ignorance. Their stories deserve to be told.

 

On our drive around Mount Timpanogos outside of Provo, we encountered Cattle Creek. This magical little stream brought delight to my soul. An earworm immediately sang, "I’ve got joy like a river…" The sound of the water cascading over the boulders was in sync with the light dancing across the foaming ripples. Greens, whites, and every shade in between stretched from the water's edge to the water's edge. The ancient Celts revered the boundary between land and water as thin places, where the boundary between our everyday world and the world of mystery beyond our experiences is very thin. I have experienced this "thin place" at the edge of massive oceans and on the shores of land-locked lakes. But this was the first time my soul resonated with the thinness of mystery at so small a stream. The ebullience of the sights and sounds stirred my soul so profoundly. This mountain stream began high on Mount Timpanogos as a snow field gradually yielding to the Summer sun. It splashed and danced over boulders, picking up bits of rock along the way. By the time it rushed past me, it reflected this sediment and the lush greens of the forest. It celebrated its journey toward the Great Salt Lake, where it would likely leave a bit of itself before evaporating, rising again, before falling as rain or snow, perhaps on the slopes of Timpanogos. That is the way of creation. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is futile. Everything can be an occasion for joy if we gain a deeper appreciation for the thin places surrounding us and the mystery these places offer our everyday lives. May we all aspire to the joy of this mountain stream.

 

After we made our way through the pass on the northern slope of Mount Timpanogos, we came upon this Alpine meadow. This view looks out of the heart of the mountains that serve as a backdrop to the Great Salt Lake. Mount Timpanogos has always stirred deep passions and planted the seeds of imagination. It is a place where real peace finds its way into the soul. As I took in the 360 degrees of magic and wonder surrounding me, another earworm began singing, "There'll be Peace in the Valley." It was not until the next day, while I was reading about the mountain, that I discovered how deeply this peace runs in our lives. I read the Legend of the Sleeping Squaw on the website of The Heber Valley Visitor Center. Please follow the link to read the legend.

 

Peace is not about living happily ever after. That is a fairy tale used to combat or counteract the reality of life. But the Legend of the Sleeping Squaw speaks to the roots of existence, the foundations of the reality of life. Bad stuff does happen, but that does not erase the majesty of love and the sanctity of the human experience in time. The ancient Ute created and told this story so that generations of their children and grandchildren would look upon this mountain, see the vast landscape of life in these mountains, and celebrate the mystery of the "Great Spirit" that surrounds them in every moment, in times both good and ill. Legends like this one help us stay vigilant, like a bison on the edge of her herd, without anxiety but ever watchful. This is the gift of deep peace. To be able to face the tragic in life while knowing that there is far more to life, we can see, is a fruit of real peace. To be able to find grace and strength in the day-to-day journey simply by remembering a story or hearing an earworm is what real peace is all about.

 

“There will be peace in the valley for me, some day

There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray

There'll be no sadness, no sorrow

Oh my Lord, no trouble, trouble I see

There will be peace in the valley for me, for me"

“There’ll Be Peace in the Valley” by Thomas A. Dorsey

 

We were offered the gift of a glorious sunset as we came to the end of our first week in Provo, Utah. I posted a picture of the Western Sky on Facebook. It was filled with the radiance of the dying day. But a sunset is far more than the end of a day. After shooting the west, I turned and saw the sunset on Mount Timpanogos. In the East, the setting sun foreshadowed the sun's rising in a few hours. Here, echoing with the story of the Sleeping Squaw, I found myself drawn not to the past but ahead, into the future, of a day waiting to be born. I look ahead to the dwindling days left on this trip, filled with wonder at all that awaits us as we journey South. I enjoy looking back over the last five months and marveling at all we have seen. But when I look East, where tomorrow’s sunrise awaits us, I tremble with expectation. My wanderlusting soul looks to the road ahead, filled with the magic of yesterday's encounters and fully expecting even more marvelous moments ahead as we head through Utah, Colorado, and Texas for the winter before finding ourselves on the road once more.

 

Come on along! May joy and peace be our constant companions in our journey!

 

Bob