Exploring Utah's Public Lands

When put together, RNAs represent a pristine example of nearly every habitat type in Utah. As landscapes face development, resource extraction, grazing and human disturbance, these areas provide a baseline that can inform rehabilitation efforts and research on the state of an area prior to colonial incursion.

Each place I visited provided a window into the diverse landscapes every Utahn is lucky to call part of their home. I have spent my whole life in Utah with a memory full of nights camping and days fishing or hiking across the abundant public lands. I feel that I know this state and its land intimately, forging our connection through time outside; however, this summer showed me I have only scratched the surface.

The places that remain unseen by my eyes and unknown by my mind inspire me. They are a reminder of the bounty of life and space we often take for granted in the American West. A signal of what remains despite all we have lost. The reason why we must not lose any more.

The RNAs I visited remain relatively unchanged since their establishment, with little reason to believe the areas’ continual existence are under threat. Even so, each site was not devoid of the sign of man. Litter ranging from shotgun shells to rusted cans, old roads succeeding to native plants, a camper and his dog or the recent felling of lodgepole pine illuminated the extent of our reach as individual and specie. These disturbances illuminated our impact as humans, and equally, the resilience of the lands we inhabit.

The following short essays are reflections on time spent visiting RNAs to learn about and from them. It is a glimpse into my journey of understanding the balance between recreation and conservation. A demonstration of the need to first connect with the land in order to believe we should leave it as it was, is and hopefully will always be.

Manti-La Sal National Forest    

In 2002, a fire raged atop this mesa, burning nearly 70% of the area's trees. And while the stands of pinyon and juniper disappeared for the first time in millennia, new habitats emerged.

Wildly abundant Indian rice grass creates a sea of seeds that get cast to the wind. Young pinyons begin to grow anew, but it will be centuries—if ever—before they take control once more. The burned mesa has turned into a scene reminiscent of an African savanna. The occasional invasive mullen and cheat grass persist, but they are superbly outnumbered by native counterparts.

Native grasses become so thick in places that they cling to my ankles, nearly pulling me to the ground on numerous occasions.

The area is devoid of any recent sign of humans, aside from the occasional cow patty from wayward livestock several seasons ago.

The dramatic change this land has undergone is both inspiring and concerning. The fire induced a proliferation of native diversity; however, this area may be luckier than the next. Climate change will bring stronger, fiercer fires, and without protection and mitigation, they may rage unabated. Humans and livestock may bring invasive species that choke out native life, creating a cycle of land ever more riddled with human disturbance.

But barring a dramatic change, this RNA will continue to inform ways to return the land to its natural state as climate change and expansion inevitably affect our homelands.

Exiting the area after a long first day in the field, I feel capable but exhausted. I have learned what to expect of these RNA visits and will carry Joel and Barb's knowledge with me throughout the summer.

After a short hike of stepping around prickly pear, we look down into a small box canyon, surrounded by Navajo sandstone cliffs. The rough, dark green of pinyon and juniper give way to vibrant grasses, maple and willow.

Equisetum, more commonly known as horsetail or snake grass, typically inhabits wet areas. However, these puzzle-like plants grew like fields of grass amongst rabbitbrush, juniper and sage. A living fossil, it is the only vascular plant to reproduce using spores instead of seed.

Water birch, box elder and narrow-leaf cottonwood create the illusion of a desert river bottom. An oasis with no water to be found. The fine red-brown bark of the birch and rutted, corduroy of the cottonwood seems out of place amidst the arid world around.

Gamble oak and Rocky Mountain maple, some forty feet tall, create a dense canopy and completely shaded understory. The crunch of fallen leaves and smell of decay permeates the cool air.

More reminiscent of New England than southern Utah. More feeling of Frost than Abbey, as we navigate these woods.

Ashley National Forest

Following a trail until I have had enough of others’ steps, the trees widen in diameter and proximity. The walking is easy and enjoyable. Engelman spruce and Douglas fir dominate the canopy and a consistent bed of grouse berry comforts my soles between the crack of fallen branches. Depressions in the land, remnants of an ancient glacial moraine, litter this area in a series of sedge meadows, bogs and ponds.

Stepping out into the sedge meadow, my socks and boots now sodden, the ground beneath me undulates. Western chorus frogs leap in the ankle-deep water, filled with fields of cotton grass, elephant’s head louse wort and violet blue gentium.

Each step sends ripples of water beneath the surface of the ground. A bog suspends me above the liquid one to who knows how many feet deep. Walking back towards dry land, the ground concaves soaking me up to the waist. Laughing and shaking my head, the malleable land moves back into place, undisturbed by my clumsy presence.

And so, while his footprint and campfire’s charcoal may remain atop the knoll west of Big Pond, this place will continue unchanged.

Wet meadows have restricted cattle to the habitat’s perimeter, and wet boots will deter all but most people. So long as those who come, come lightly, the water will rise killing off trees and when it recedes new trees will grow. Chorus frogs will continue to sing their sweet trill and tiger salamanders will send gentle ripples across the Big Pond's placid water.

Walking through cut and standing trees, two ruffed grouse flush from a snowberry bush, their wingbeats deep and rhythmic.

Along the northeast border, delicate beds of twin flower coat the steep, moist earth.

The chatter of pine siskin and curious chip of chickadee soften behind the patter of rain that has begun to fall. A green-tailed towhee emerges from a pile of deadfall, staring at me and flaring its rufous crown.

Atop the central portion of the RNA, a diverse assemblage of forbs and wildflowers create a mosaic of red, yellow, green and white. Grasses provide forage for wandering deer and elk. Their scat litters the open steppe, and their hooves cut trails that guide me up and down the slope.

Even in Augst, snow fills the shaded crevices of distant Uinta peaks.

Along the south facing slope of the RNA, beetle kill has damaged lodgepole pine and Douglas fir stands. The forests in the distance are more grey than green, illustrating the power of a single insect, scouring forward despite man's best efforts to quell its hunger.

Branches of felled trees litter the ground, and large stumps still seethe orange with life. Each ring contains a year of data, creating a timeline of meteorological history through the growth of this tree. Several pristine lodgepole pines were sawed and hauled away, despite a ban on timber harvest. A pile of fresh sawdust confirms the recency of this act.

Perhaps the assailants did not know or perhaps they did not care. Regardless, the damage remains.

I make it back to my car and find the road significantly muddier than when I arrived. As I shift into gear, my tires slip helplessly sideways towards a deep rut.

"When the situation is hopeless, there's nothing to worry about!"

Poised to get high-centered, I quickly shift into reverse, managing just enough traction to back up a few feet.

Making sure to gain momentum, I give it some gas and take a high line just right of the rut. Slamming my passenger side mirror shut on an overhanging branch, I feel my vehicle precariously close to slipping away before reaching flatter, firmer ground.

Wet and relieved, I begin the journey home.

Conclusions

This summer volunteering for The Nature Conservancy was one of exploration, growth and knowledge. As Utahns, we often take for granted the abundant and diverse public lands that make up the majority of our state. One could spend a lifetime without seeing even half of these places.

The time I spent on the RNAs, generally undisturbed by the age of man, reminded me of the human necessity to connect with the land we live on. To learn the names of the plants and song of the birds is a radical act of understanding and giving back to the world.

These areas, much like TNC's preserves, are usually no more than a few thousand acres. They may feel like fruitless attempts to conserve and protect in an era riddled by climate change on a global scale. However, they are signs of resilience and inspiration for what the world could be.

RNAs provide baselines for similar habitats more affected by man. As the world warms and changes, so will the RNAs. But they will provide models to manage areas in order to maintain connected, resilient systems despite pressures from climate change, development or resource extraction.

Though the climate crisis necessitates global solutions and collaboration, we must act on a local scale too. Every effort to uphold biodiverse landscapes, maintain connected systems and protect natural spaces is an effort worth making. Through time and connection, these RNAs and the public lands like them sow love for the world and a desire to protect them.

By spending more time learning from the RNAs and applying this knowledge to other lands such as TNC preserves or similar natural areas, we are taking local action with global implications. The more land that is conserved, be that private or public, the more resilient our homelands become as they inevitably change.