Cold bites the air, frost grips the earth. Beneath the surface, something stirs—midwinter is not stillness, but a quiet revolution. Weeks have passed since the solstice, and weeks remain before the Vernal equinox—spring. The groundhog has seen its shadow, hinting at...
Big Springs is my favorite haunt, no matter the season. Winter transforms it into something entirely different—quiet, vast, and alive with its own rhythm. As I hike toward the springs, backcountry skis gliding over six inches of fresh powder, I notice the air moving...
A few months ago, I was studying Mt. Timpanogos on a map—one of my favorite ways to pass time—when I noticed something unusual. One of its peaks was labeled Bomber Peak. That name stuck with me. I vaguely remembered hearing about a B-52 crash in the area years ago,...
When John Muir wrote, “The mountains are calling, and I must go,” he didn’t realize how deeply I’d feel that call in my bones. There is something about the crisp air at elevation, the vast silence interrupted only by the wind, the way the world stretches...
After years of searching—even with my mother’s help before she passed—this photograph eluded me. Then at our family Christmas gathering, my sister handed me a thumb drive of family photos. It sat on my desk until, on a whim, I opened it just the other day. Almost...
My late afternoon in the back-country recently was relatively routine, epiphany and all. Leaving my home in the front-country home that day, I passed a commotion of yard workers everywhere fawning over shrubs and petunias. Others mowed and edged the greenest front...
