Mountain

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.

Mountain resort towns are seeing the longest downward streak in tourism since the COVID-19 pandemic. Consumers brace for an economic slowdown.

Researchers say melting glaciers and permafrost can trigger the production of toxic mercury in mountain wetlands, posing risks to water supplies and wildlife.

If you spend enough time in the wilds you acquire some remarkable stories. I’ve had some noteworthy wildlife encounters over the years, but one stands out from long ago.

The story of this giant hole in the ground is woven into Utah’s history, but it’s also left its mark on our planet Earth.

When I began Nordic skiing some 40 years ago, my Bonna laminated wood skies were coveted. I miss their natural beauty and high performance. Now, they sit in a corner, replaced by a light weight, wax free pair. Somethings lost, something’s gained.

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.

For many of us who love the outdoors, the first half of March is a least favorite time of year. But if we close our eyes and listen, nature still can brighten the dingy days.

When we’re out enjoying Utah’s backcountry in wintertime, we should always resist the temptation to have a close encounter of the wild kind.

And though elections can—and do—have direct impact on the wildlands of Utah and the health of our planet, today, the crows in the yellow pine in my front yard still call out, “Caw! Caw! Caw!” The Bear River keeps flowing to the Great Salt Lake, steady and silent.