John Taylor


John Taylor fled to a welcoming St. George in 2018 to escape California’s foul air. A graduate of New York University, writing letters to the editor helped launch a 30-year career as a newspaper reporter and editor. He especially relished covering religion, health care and education. 

A native of Brooklyn, he’s a fan of the Yankees, the Packers and Fresno State roughly aligning with where he’s worked as a journalist and, until retirement, as public affairs director for nonprofit Community Medical Centers in Fresno. 

He and wife Judy, a retired teacher, relish chatting with everyone they meet, helping address community needs such as homelessness and discovering the special pleasures of being Utahans.


Courtesy of Switchpoint

 When you’re homeless, it’s like swimming in molasses. Fortunately, many homeless in southwest Utah are finding their footing thanks to Switchpoint and Carol Hollowell, its founder and CEO.

Courtesy of John Taylor

As day breaks, I take a brisk walk. I open the corral and let my imagination gallop.I awaken, surrounded by thousands of acres of desert, hills, and mountains. But I still cannot find the “great outdoors.”

John Taylor

Welcome back, visitors to southwest Utah. Welcome to our “Ferris Bueller” era. It’s where we remind you—“Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

John Taylor

I enter the chamber, giving myself a TSA-like pat-down. I don’t want coins rolling under the radiation slab.

John Taylor

You know the warning you get in expensive stores— “You break it, you own it”? Well, it doesn’t apply to national treasures in Southwest Utah. They’ve been getting trashed by feral visitors during the last year.

John Taylor

My blue hockey puck has two full-time jobs. It’s a paperweight for trash. It’s also a moral compass, guiding my day.

Sarah Thomas, Conserve Southwest Utah

Something caught my eye as I climbed to my St. George mailbox. There to the north was a solitary hang glider, swooping near Red Cliffs National Conservation Area. With so much to see and so many mishaps to avoid, I wondered if the glider pilot paid attention to the scorched hillsides.

Judy Eymann-Taylor

It’s come to my attention that there are three kinds of “day tripping.” There was “Daytripper,” the 1965 Beatles psychedelic song. Second, there are places to take the kids for an “Are We There Yet?” day. And then there’s the Pandemic Picket Fence. That’s where you test the tensile strength of your mask and your bladder to discreetly experience normal life elsewhere and still get home before the bored-silly dogs eat the furniture.

Now that we have phone apps that check blood-oxygen levels and your sunshine exposure, we need one that detects your capacity to handle the day’s news. You know, a digital news media “mood ring.”

I guess you can thank the explorers, miners and roughnecks who built the transcontinental railroad for some frisky names on Utah’s map.


Two years ago, my wife and I moved to St. George. California’s air pollution was that bad. And Southwest Utah was that welcoming. Our California families thought we were looney.