by Clint Thomsen
Guest Columnist
I love the morning -- especially the twilight hour. So it's too bad I'm as far from a morning person as I could possibly be. I do everything I can to delay that moment when consciousness begins to stir and dreams fade into thoughts of work deadlines and scraping ice off car windows. My wife tells me about all the amusing excuses I apparently come up with to rationalize a few extra minutes of slumber. I say "apparently" because, in all honesty, I don't start remembering anything until I'm walking out the door.
It's very rare that I'm ever awake enough to enjoy twilight. Luckily, a couple of days ago while driving past Black Rock on I-80, I realized I didn't recall putting my bag in my trunk and I pulled off at the Saltair exit to check. The air was crisp, but it seemed warmer outside than when I left. Several ducks floated quietly in the roadside pond with the Oquirrhs looming behind. I looked north toward Saltair and the immense inland sea in the distance. I've never been to the marina in the winter, so I decided a small detour was in order. I drove to the north end and walked along the boulder jetty. The huge spiders that spin their menacing webs in these rocks had abandoned them for the winter, and the top of Black Rock in the distance was still lightly dusted with last Saturday's first snow. This I wouldn't have traded for 10 more minutes of sleep.
It seems strange -- an enormous saltwater lake in the middle of the desert. Famed Western writer Wallace Stegner called it "a desert of water in a desert of salt and mud and rock." But the apparent anomaly of the lake is more psychological than physical. The existence and disappearance of ancient Lake Bonneville literally shaped the topography of western Utah. Its signature is prolifically etched throughout the eastern Great Basin. Where else can one look up at a landlocked mountain and see rock formations carved by great waves?
Around 17,000 years ago, Lake Bonneville's waters spilled over Red Rock Pass and violently carved their escape into the Snake River drainage, leaving remnant lakes surrounded by huge shoreline rings and bizarre rock formations like Black Rock -- that familiar limestone sentinel that rises from the water on a large shoal straddling the Tooele County line.
The rock itself marks the northern-most tip of the Oquirrh Mountains. Due to fluctuating water levels in the lake, Black Rock is sometimes an island. These days it's a fully accessible prong surrounded by oolite rubble and the remnants of an abandoned resort.
On our most recent trip to Black Rock, we took my wife's sisters and her cousin Quincy who was visiting from Texas. Sixteen-year-old Quincy had never seen mountains before, let alone climbed a rock formation like this.
There are several ascent options -- all fairly steep -- that allow anybody with a decent set of quads and a good equilibrium to reach the top with little difficulty. We started on the west side and traversed southward and up.
Humans are designed to climb stuff. From the moment a toddler figures out how to control his extremities, he searches for things to scramble over. Chalk it up to curiosity and the human urge to ascend. When presented with a rocky structure, even the unconditioned novice scopes out a natural staircase and giddily begins climbing. There are several technical spots on all of the Black Rock routes that remind you why you're not climbing alone. Once I reached the top I reached down to Quincy and helped him over the edge. The girls had taken a different route and were already on top.
The view from the top is amazing. The scene frames itself around Antelope Island, which appears much closer than it really is. Even Promontory Point is visible on clear days. To the east stands the Kennecott smelter stack. To the west, alkali flats stretch toward the Stansbury Mountains. Down below, just past the shoreline, are the remains of the old boat dock.
Quincy stood at the rock's northern edge looking out onto the glass water horizon.
"That's pretty," he said.
Quincy is a man of few words, but that's all he needed to say.
To some, the Great Salt Lake is nothing more than a big dead pool, a strange briny void in the desert, offering little more than a picturesque view and a noxious stink. To me, the lake is uncharted territory -- its shores a no-man's-land at the edge of a mysterious frontier. Its beauty lies not just in its grand vistas and floating sunsets, but also in its plainness and solemn tranquility. Many Tooele County residents are fortunate enough to drive past this part of the lake every day.
"Yep, Quincy, it's pretty," I told him. "And there are a thousand other places around here I could take you that would make you say the same thing."
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.
Box: TRIP TIPS
Black Rock and the Great Salt Lake are part of the Great Salt Lake State Park. Both are open to access year-round from sunrise to sunset. To reach Black Rock, take the Saltair exit from I-80 and drive west along the frontage road toward the marina. When the paved road turns north to the docks, head straight on the gravel road past the marina for a short distance. Current water levels allow you to park on the shoal right next to the rock. Climbing the rock isn't technical enough to necessitate equipment, but several points along each route can be dangerous. In winter, the rock can get icy, but can still be climbed. Use caution and good judgment, and as always, respect the land.