It took me a year to write about my April 2024 National Park Bike Pack because it was a lot and writing is hard. Sorry not sorry for the word count, I had a lot of feelings and it was a lot of miles and I learned a lot that I want to share. I did the best I (an ecologist) could to summarize what I read about the geology of the region, but you'll learn it so much better if you visit it yourself. 

Why?
My three favorite things are riding bikes, planning adventures, and public lands. Bike packing through all five of Utah’s National Parks in April 2024 combined my favorite things into one epic, long-awaited journey. It was a multi-purpose trip, because in addition to pedaling for hundreds of miles, I also learned about geology and did some heavy emotional work. 

​I began scheming this ride in 2012 after my first mountain bike trip to Moab. The first friend I pitched the idea to declared “that’s idiotic.” I was shocked.  Who doesn’t want to ride their bike for days through the most scenic region of the entire world? Turns out, most people. I ran the plan past my boyfriend because he had a good sense of my abilities, and he also discouraged it. I stewed on that for years and only recently found out that he didn’t doubt my competence. Rather, he was a true crime fan who worried I might be true crime snatched from the side of the road. Since then, I’ve completed several bike pack rides and become truly capable of this journey. 

​Spring of 2024 brought on a mental health crisis, so I sought out a therapist who heard all my woes: heartbreak, chronic illness, acute illness, poorness. Wade said I have an obsessive personality (ouch) and it has driven me to achieve all the things I’ve done. He recommended that I lean into that and redirect my energy from counting my problems to doing something that stoked my ambition and helped me move forward. They say that the things you pay attention to grow (or that the grass is greenest where you water it) and I was cultivating my grievances. Just running through everything that was wrong over and over and resenting people who had good things. I felt better as soon as I started to map out my route. Putting the vacation days to bike pack on my work calendar felt like a breakthrough. I DID A THING! Thus, I committed to pedaling forward for almost 400 miles (and signed up for Speedgoat 50km). 

​I didn’t tell many people that I was going on this trip because I was worried that I would fail and ashamed that heartbreak was the most proximal reason I was going right then. And anyways, I had decided I must do this ride, so the opinions of anyone trying to discourage me were not welcome. I’m like a terrier once I get these ideas, I cannot let them go (Wade the Therapist was on to something). It might seem kind of bananas to ride my bike for an entire week because I was very sad about dating and struggling with illness, but that’s my process. It’s weird to have been so warped by a relatively short relationship, but we can’t choose who makes a big impression on us (The Tortured Poet’s Department is proof of this). I can’t control what happens in any part of the life, but I can plan my best and the act of planning feels great.

​I only recently figured out why I flee to the desert whenever times are tough. I want to live a big life and being stuck at home, sick and sad, made my life feel very small. Being in the mountains makes my life feel bigger because mountains are big, I guess? You know what else is big? A 6-day, 495-mile self-supported bike ride with 25,000 feet of elevation gain. I asked a friend who’s done long tours for her daily mileage recommendations: 60-80 miles per day, fewer on days with big elevation gains. Unfortunately, I needed to do 85-100 miles per day regardless of elevation, given my time constraints. She added, “You don’t want to break yourself.” But I kind of did want that, or at least to be broken in a different way. A purposeful, predictable, diagnosable kind of broken that would fade as my muscles became less sore.  Therapy and medical treatment take time, but I could finish this by April 21. 

​The ride broke me a bit, but I felt better for it. I love a big adventure because I end it as a different person than I started it. I guess I just need to be periodically broken down and rebuilt. I walked my bike more than I’d hoped and had to call my mom for a ride, but I still saw all five Utah national parks on my bike. 10-15 mph is the perfect speed to view our parks. It was really a dream come true (even if sometimes it was a nightmare).

​The final stats: 380.5 miles, 21,257 vertical feet, 5 national parks, 7 days of riding, 1 rescue call. 

​The Colorado Plateau               
The Colorado Plateau, which covers most of southern Utah, is known for “unusually clear geology” and the greatest concentration of National Park Service units. The region only receives 10-20 inches of precipitation per year, so there isn’t much vegetation to hide the geologic processes that shaped it. All the interpretive signage I read and every primer on the region describes it as a high, flat layer cake. I take umbrage with the word “flat”, but I love the layer cake metaphor. The amazing sandstone that forms the plateau was deposited in flat planes 60-252 million years ago (mya). Mountain building events (called orogenies) lifted the entire plateau 10,000 feet higher. Sandstone doesn't fracture like other types of rock that create steep, craggy mountains. Instead, it bent across faults, you can see warps and deformities everywhere. During the intervening millennia, wind, water, and earthquakes reshuffled the rocks in ways that created a lot of up and down. The jumbled nature of the landscape matched the turmoil I was feeling.

Whenever I see anything in layers I am taken back to the 2001 movie “Shrek” where Donkey and Shrek have the following discussion:

The Ride 

I started this whole journey flustered. I had to give up changing my pedals in order to catch my Uber to the airport. In my rush, I left behind the energy chews and sunglasses I got just for this trip. Aside from the hurried start (and 30 minute wait for the bus), taking the shuttle was a relaxing way to get to Moab. Once there I planned to take a $9 Uber to the top of the mesa outside Canyonlands National Park. You can imagine my disappointment when I found that the estimate was to some office in town and the ride to the top of the mesa was actually $80. So, I assembled my bike and got riding. 

​The ride along the Moab Canyon Pathway was not part of my plan, but was lovely, nonetheless. I set up camp at the bottom of a large hill that would be easier to tackle in the morning. I found out after I got all the bags off my bike that I was camping right next to a cattle guard. It was not great sleep. 

​Monday, I woke up to overcast skies and a two-mile climb to the Monitor and Merrimac overlook. Then more climbing past Tombstone Butte (my fave) and into Canyonlands. I reached the visitor center at 12:00 and noticed snowflakes as I locked my bike. It was nice to wait out the storm at the visitor center, where I could watch a movie, buy stickers, and refill my water. Post-storm, I biked a few miles into the park (lovely), but I was already behind schedule, so I didn’t ride to the Confluence as originally intended. 

The last time I was in Canyonlands (March 2020) was to ride the White Rim solo and I emerged to one of the worst weeks of my life: COVID lockdowns, empty grocery store shelves, ending a relationship, and an earthquake. It was great to revisit in 2024 under more peaceful circumstances, though the peace was short lived. I’m glad I put on my down puffy pants, because the bike off the mesa was frigid! Going downhill was nice, but the crosswinds nearly tossed me off my bike and the hail was brutal. I appreciated the fellow who asked if I’d like a ride. I didn’t need one, but it renews my faith in humanity to know folks are looking out for each other.  

​I was partially an icicle by the time I reached the Arches visitor center where I took some time to thaw and peruse the displays before I pedaled uphill into the park. This park is special to me because a family visit to Arches in 1993 was my first step to becoming the hippie-dippy tree hugger that I am. I also have fond memories of climbing The Penguins, The Three Gossips, Sheep Rock, Off-Balance Rock, The Right Testicle, Bullwinkle Tower and the Devil’s Golf ball. Pedaling through the park I noticed cliffs and arches that I usually sped past. I probably took nine million pictures and videos but none of them do justice to how beautiful it was. The sun was setting as I reached Balanced Rock, so I dipped into Salt Wash to find a camp spot, ultimately finding a nice juniper tree next to a wash where I was peacefully secluded. 

​Did you know that you’re allowed to ride your bike on the freeway if there are no other paved alternatives? I did. But the thought of riding my bike on Highway 191 and Interstate 80 made me nauseous. Instead, I took gravel roads and the old highway across the Mancos Shale badlands to get to Green River. This was the safest route, but it was dreadful. 

The first miles out of camp were delightful and challenging due to the eolian (windblown sand) and rocky hard scrabbles. I visited the dinosaur tracks in our newest State Park – Utah Velociraptor State Park – and motorcyclists asked if I had enough water, always a good thing to do. Then I turned onto US-191, which had no shoulder and a 65 mph speed limit. I hated it and wanted to quit. I haven’t been that scared in quite some time. Thankfully, I got to a construction zone within ½ mile and had a full, freshly paved lane blocked off just for me. 

​After four miles I turned onto Blue Hills Road and started my Sufferfest. I really love the desert in almost all its forms, but I cannot appreciate this region. Plants can’t grow because the soils are dense clay, cows are just hanging out wherever, and I can’t judge distance due to the muted tones and rolling hills of the area. I’m okay knowing it’s there, but I never want to see it again. “You’re Wrong About” is my favorite podcast and their series on the O.J. Simpson murders is my emotion support podcast. When I can’t be alone with my thoughts, I need to have that podcast in my ears. Mike and Sarah got me through the gravel grind and through the Old Elgin Highway into town (I don’t want to talk about that pothole-strewn badland). 

​The cashier at the gas station in Green River where I refilled my water, road sodas, and snacks gave me a look that suggested she saw I had been suffering and had more suffering to do. However, I had two lovely moments of symmetry while in town grabbing a burger and visiting some landscape art. I last stopped at Ray’s on my way back from the White Rim in 2020, not knowing I wouldn’t eat in a restaurant again for months or what horrors quarantine would hold.  This time through my phone wasn't blowing up with alerts from concerned family and coworkers so I could gorge in peace. The future was much brighter on my way out this time.  I visited the the Monument Hill art installations six years ago after I ended a very important relationship and needed to grieve in the desert. I still remember the distress I was in, but it was far more peaceful visiting in 2024. If I could live through that heart-wrenching break up, I could live through this. 

​Then I headed onto the eastern margin of the San Rafael Swell. Very little noteworthy to report here. 

​My day of riding around the San Rafael Swell started so promisingly: there were new-to-me wildflowers at camp and along the road. I knew I had a long climb to reach the UT-24 summit near Goblin Valley, but also that it is an objective fact that the highway going south from there is downhill. However, the southerly wind was blowing so I had to pedal against it the entire 16 mile descent to Hanksville. It was demoralizing work and put me farther behind schedule.

 I got my gas station refills in town and enjoyed another burger at Duke’s Slickrock Grill, but that spot reminded me of an earlier camping trip with the dogs and how much I missed them. A brief stop at Carl’s Critter Garden was a delight. The welded dinosaurs and glass orbs are beautiful, and the One Love message is nice. ​

​From town I still thought I could make it to Capitol Reef National Park, and I was incorrect. I enjoy the Caineville Desert badlands much better than those outside Green River. There’s even less vegetation, but the buttes and cliffs are beautiful because they have hard capstone on top. I pedaled until the sun went down and still didn’t catch sight of the Waterpocket Fold. It was fruitless and unsafe to continue biking along the highway, so I’m glad I found the Cathedral Valley road and an acceptable camp spot. I was grateful for my InReach because I could check in with my sister in the absence of cell service (but also peeved I hadn’t added her email address into the device beforehand, her last name has so many letters in it). 

​​I was very lonely and demoralized. It was some relief to spend a night without cell phone alerts, but I missed my kudos. I spent the night stewing about my attachment to props from friends and family and kudos from acquaintances on Strava. I was checking in with friends and family regularly and their supportive texts got me through it. My favorite Strava friend had been giving me kudos and props every night when I uploaded my ride. Folks telling me that I’m a cool person who does cool things fuels me. The absence of that made me appreciate the people that I have in my corner even more. 

​The breaking point of my ride was also one of the best days of my ride. Capitol Reef is my all-time favorite park in all of the world. The ride into the park was amazing, following the Fremont River as it cuts through the Waterpocket Fold. The Fold is a 100-mile long series of cliffs that runs north to south and the river is historically the only way to cross through. So many people tried to set up farms along the river and it wiped them all out every time. I love Mother Nature winning against our hubris. Even in modern times we’ve struggled to keep the road paved and the water quality manageable in the face of a temperamental river that floods whenever it wants. Seeing the visitor center and riding some of the scenic drive were exactly what I’d hoped for with this ride: peaceful and awe-inspiring. 

​Then the climb started. The climb from the park to Torrey is scenic, to say the least. I held it together until I got to town and found that the ice cream store I’d been looking forward to was closed for the season. Pulled pork at a different restaurant was a satisfying alternative, but it wasn’t ice cream. Then I turned onto UT-12 and started to pedal up Boulder Mountain. This was the hill I was most afraid of and the road I was most looking forward to biking. In most cases I love riding my bike up big hills, but this was too big (3,000 feet over 23 miles). I was so tired I barely noticed the beauty of spring. I had to get back to work and my dogs eventually and was consumed with anxiety about it 

​The higher I got up Boulder Mountain, the more often I had to walk my bike. After the first walk, I thought maybe I could refresh my legs by taking a quick nap on the side of the road. It was soft and I did get some sleep, but it wasn’t discreet and there were ants. Many thanks to the couple who drove by, noticed me laying on the ground, and turned around to check that I was okay. Our society is at its best when people check on one another. 

I rode and walked my bike for as many miles as I could (not enough miles). It sucked. Admitting I need to walk my bike is hard enough without the added difficulty of pushing my fully loaded bike packing rig (heavy and wobbly). I was so grateful to find the Single Tree campground and give up there. The gates and the bathrooms were closed, but there were flat camp spots amidst the Ponderosa pines and the views of the Henry Mountains were perfect. For the first time on this ride, I ended my day well before sunset, so I had time to explore and ponder my next steps. Fun fact: “ponderous” means heavy, not a person in the act of pondering. Ponderosa pines are named for their heavy wood, not thoughtful nature.  ​

​Asking for help is not one of my top skills. I’ve been called “fiercely independent” more than once and never as a compliment. The friends and family following my ride had explicitly stated they would come help me if I needed anything, but lone wolfing things is part of my identity. I’ve had more successes than failures in these big mountain gambits I plan and would rather have called an Uber than asked for a loved one to give me a ride. I needed a good night’s rest to come to terms with that. 

I awoke at peace with fact that I could not do this ride in the time I allowed myself and texted my family through teary eyes to see if anyone would give me a ride from Tropic to Bryce Canyon and then from Panguitch to Zion. My mom immediately committed to it. I was a few pounds of anxiety lighter as I pedaled the rest of the way up Boulder Mountain. I appreciated the mountains again. My favorite thing about mountain rides is noticing how the ecosystems change with elevation, and I saw so many changes pedaling from 5,400 feet in Capitol Reef, to 9,600 feet at the summit, down to 6,500 feet in Boulder. It’s easiest to see in how most common plant changes: rabbitbrush --> sagebrush --> pinyon pine and juniper --> ponderosa pine --> aspens --> stunted shrubby things. I couldn't understand why I was having a such a hard time riding uphill until I looked behind me at the road grade signs, which they only post for downhill traffic. I was climbing 9-11% grades, which are really challenging. 

​At the summit (labeled “summit”) I put on all my layers and psyched myself up for the steep downhill! 13.5 miles downhill (3,100 feet) from the summit into Boulder, one of the coolest towns in the state. It was great to focus solely on holding onto the bike, rather than pedaling. Just fast, swoopy, downhill funsies that got warmer with every mile. But tragedy struck when I made it to town. There is a coffee shop, nice restaurant, and burger joint, but I got there exactly when none of them were open. I didn’t have enough calories in my bags to get me to Escalante, but thankfully a gas station was open and they stocked the ice cream I had missed in Torrey! I finished lunch excited to pedal the most scenic section highway in the state: the hog’s back between Boulder and Escalante.

​The Escalante River canyons are largely unknown to me, but I’m familiar with this highway. I rode through here on one of my favorite bike trips with my friend Maria in 2019, though we rode in the opposite direction, from Bryce to Boulder. Heading east to west is the way to go, it makes for more overall downhill and gentler climbs. I savored that section of desert, taking so many panoramas of the 360° views and whimsically sculpted Navajo sandstone. It’s never flat, always up or down. And so dramatic. I pedaled into Escalante in time to get my gas station provisions and grab and Impossible Burger from a restaurant. I even got to chat with a motorhead who noticed my bike and compared it to his fleet of souped-up Mustangs and Jeeps. I continued west to my favorite camp site of the trip in a gully full of conglomerate rocks. I slept well know I would see my mom and sit on a cushioned seat tomorrow. 

​Time and space are weird sometimes and I was unclear about how long I had to pedal to reach Tropic, Utah. I had a lovely morning doing yoga, looking at rocks and giving my electronics time to charge. Then I started pedaling through The Blues. I spent most of the day going gently uphill, struggling a little, but not as much as the last two days. I reached the high point for the day in time for lunch at some signs about the ancient alligator fossils found there and a great view of Powell Point. Then it was time for the downhill! Down and down and down and almost no traffic for 15 miles. I basically coasted until the town of Henrieville, at which point panic set in. My mom couldn’t find my location on her maps app and hadn’t been to this part of the state and I didn’t want to ride my bike up the hill from Tropic to Bryce. I scrutinized every white truck that passed (and there are so many white trucks). 

​Tears were building as I checked out the visitor center in Cannonville and tried to call. Eventually I got back on the highway to ride up the hill and started crying in earnest. Thank God I bought vented wraparound sunglasses so I could weep and pedal without fogging up my lenses. Another white truck drove by me in the opposite direction and my niece, Aaliayah, yelled out the window at me and I completely lost it. It must have been confusing to run into your child/aunt literally sobbing about how happy they are to see you and how tired they are. A lot of mixed feelings. Still makes me cry. I was so glad to throw that bike in the back of the truck and sit for a minute and not pedal. 

​Mom and Aaliyah were very brave to make the journey down to Bryce Canyon on a day’s notice. Google Maps leads everyone astray on that route, through Antimony rather than I-15, that’s why they were late meeting me. But then we got to explore the park and visitor center, and they could hike to their heart’s content while I rode the lovely paved path out of the park and into Red Canyon. 

​I spent 6 days looking forward to riding the bike path from Bryce Canyon to Panguitch and it was truly delightful. The hoodoos in Red Canyon would be in a National Park if they didn’t compete with Bryce. The winding path follows the canyon from the high benches down to the valley. I got to shower at a hotel in Panguitch and washing my feet was the best feeling in the entire world.

​It was great to chat on the 60 mile drive to the east entrance of Zion, but I was a bit morose watching the scenery zip by so fast. I saw beautiful mountains and streams that I can’t tell you anything about because I needed to meet my deadline. I started riding at the top of the Mt Carmel highway so I could enjoy the descent into the park. 

​My mouth was literally agape as I rode down Pine Creek into the park. The cliffs are so huge! The road is very winding, and every corner hides a new, incredible view. I was grateful that there was little traffic and I was going faster than the cars through this side of the canyon so I could take the west bound lane. I would have crashed riding on the shoulder because I couldn’t stop looking around me. My monkey mind was fully in control, just shouting over and over, “Holy Shit! I can’t believe this is my life!” I’d had moments of elation throughout this trip, especially when the views were good. But now the views were spectacular, the route was downhill, and I had an end in sight. It was so beautiful!

​Bikes are not allowed in the 1.1 mile Zion-Mt Carmel tunnels that they were excavated through the Navajo sandstone in 1930. The pavement is uneven, there are no lights, and if anything goes wrong (which happens) NPS has to shut down the entire tunnel for everyone. I planned to hitchhike through this roadblock and was very grateful I had a scheduled ride. My mom deserves major kudos for getting me through this. She doesn’t like most driving scenarios and parks are anxiety-inducing for everyone. But she was brave and drove me through the dark, claustrophobic tunnels and dropped me off where I asked (she made a left hand turn!). I think she also re-lived some childhood motorhome trauma.

​The main road through Zion NP is only open to shuttle buses and bikes. It was very peaceful pedaling through the gigantic canyon without cars. When I had my fill of scenery I turned around for my final descent, only to be overtaken by elderly tourists on e-bikes. After all my plotting and suffering, I did not handle being easily passed by a 70-year-old on a fat-tire bike with grace. I finished this ride more confident than I started. I knew I could do hard things, including asking for help. I spent more time in awe of my surroundings than moping over dating. I could believe that no feeling lasts forever, even the very painful ones. But I still cannot handle being passed on an e-bike. There is not enough Zen in all of the world for that. 

​I’m afraid I must end this narrative as abruptly as my ride ended. We reassembled the rescue team, had a delicious sandwich, and then drove on home. My heart is still full of gratitude for all the things that made my dream bike pack happen: I live hours away from the best scenery on earth, I have a job that gives me the time and income to vacation, I have people in my corner cheering me on, and I can still call my parents for a ride when I stay out too late. 

Actually, no. I can’t end without a plea to protect our public lands. It took me a year to write this up and so much has changed for the worse since then. My route took me through National Parks, Monuments, Forests, and Rangelands. Lands that are managed for the benefit of all American’s. The impacts of centuries old, short-term extractions are still visible across all of it. Everyone deserves the chance to enjoy these special places. Once they are sold or cut open, we cannot get them back. Enjoy your public lands and fight for them to keep them in public hands!

If you do anything with natural resources (the land, water, soil, plants, and animals that support our lives) then you’ve probably heard someone bemoan invasive species.  Invaders are generally viewed as bad, but there are levels of badness, from pretty OK to super-villain, which is what I’d like to explain here through examples from the wetlands I work in around Great Salt Lake.  Plants aren’t the only invasive species - there are plenty of invasive swimming, flying, and running things - but I have the most pictures and knowledge of plants. 

Weeds – Badness Level: Pretty OK
A weed is not actually an invasive species, it’s just an undesirable plant for that place, nothing more.  Undesirable to whom?  Whomever is doing the name calling.  Native cattails (species in the genus Typha) are often regarded as weeds because wetland people would rather see something else, like bulrushes or submerged plants, growing in its place.    

​Introduced Species – Badness Level: Not Great
An introduced species is a species living outside its native range and that has arrived in its new place through human activity.  Many terms are used to describe these species, including alien, exotic, and non-native.  Some introduced species have been introduced to their new habitats deliberately because they were planted in gardens and then escaped.  Watercress (Nasturtium officinale) is not native to North America, but escaped garden fences and can be found in many slow-moving waterways now.

Invasive Species – Badness Level: Villainous
Invasive species are those which are both non-native and likely to cause harm to the environment, economy, or human health.  Who decides when a species has passed beyond introduced into invasive?  I don’t know and I think often invasive species are discussed using all of the terms above.  However, since invasives have been called harmful, people are out there combating the invasion.  Reed canarygrass (Phalaris arundinacea) was deliberately introduced around the U.S. as a plant to prevent erosion following road construction (a common method for the introduction of grasses), but has become a plant bully, pushing aside other plants instead of playing nice alongside them.  Reed canarygrass is often sprayed with herbicide to weaken it. 

Why?  And what can I do about it?
Why do some many rotten plants invade wetlands?  First, invasive plant species tend to have biological super powers like rapid growth and cloning that allow them to be everywhere (and they use this power for evil).  Second, wetlands tend to be located downstream of sources of invader reproductive bits and experience frequent disturbances like scouring floods.  This means there are plenty of plant bits waiting in wetlands to take advantage of bare soil when it is exposed.  Finally, being downstream of everything also means that wetlands often have lots of nitrogen and phosphorus, which are invasive species steroids.

Oh my.  I need to step back for a minute.  Invasive species are scary…  

Once they’re established we have a whole suite of poisons, digger and cutter machines, fire starters, and natural enemies (often bugs) to combat the invaders.  However, it’s difficult work and generally the purview of professionals (or hapless graduate students).  So here I’m advocating for preventing the spread of new invasions, which is totally something you can handle.  How?  Don’t plant invasive species in your garden.  University Extension programs across the country, local gardening organizations, and a whole variety of herbariums and gardens have guidance on beautiful native species you could use instead.  An added bonus of avoiding non-native species: you’ll be planting something naturally adapted to the environment you live in.  That’s pretty cool. 

Itching for more?  Check out this video I made about my love/hate relationship with Phragmites and then look in on the research the Kettenring Lab at USU is doing on invasions and restorations.  

I’ve spent the last few months doing some really dry writing.  I’m very excited for the Great Salt Lake wetland plant identification guide I’ve been putting together, but writing descriptions of 150+ plants using clear and consistent language is boring.  Putting this script together was my reward for doing such hard work: I get to use bold, evocative language!
I don't study Phragmites myself.  I study emergent wetlands around the Great Salt Lake, which happen to have a lot of Phragmites.  I actually had to ditch some of my randomly selected sites because it was impossible or unsafe to access them due to the Phragmites.  Phragmites is so disorienting, I've found myself lost and terrified in a large patch (as the sun was going down) trying to get to one of my field sites.  Where Phragmites is established, I find my work at least doubles because it's so hard to move through, and the data I get is boring because Phrag is the only thing there.  I think I'm justifiably bitter and wanted to show just how much trouble it is to work in Phragmites.  But more than that, I have a begrudging respect for the plant, it's honestly amazing and quite pretty if viewed from a distance.  

     2. ​Great Salt Lake wetlands are extra amazing.  Water is everything in wetlands.  Well, water is really everything everywhere, a post for another time.  Water is rare in the deserts of the western United States so wetlands are also rare, generally only comprising 1% of the total landscape.  But around the Great Salt Lake (GSL) there are more than 400,000 acres of wetlands, primarily at the river deltas.  When most people think of the GSL they see barren salt flats and water too salty for anything but brine shrimp, but that's only part of the story.

     4.  ​Wetland condition is a way to answer my pressing questions.  
 (Yeah, there's a song about condition, but it doesn't sound like they're talking about wetlands.)
Once I committed to a PhD project trying to figure out this whole impounded wetland business I had to figure out a way to measure the impact of impoundment and condition assessments seemed to be the way to go.   My condition assessment is based on the vegetation within each wetland, which I will survey for at least three years.  Based on a survey of the plant community, I hope to be able to say how much a site deviates from a natural state and how stressed a wetland is based on the plant traits mentioned in section 1. In this way, I can judge each wetland (and I'm surveying 50 of them) as excellent, good, eh, and poor.  For example, a wetland in excellent condition would be composed only of awesome, native species (no weeds here) and have a water regime that looks normal (not too deep, not too dry).  A poor condition wetland might have lots of weeds and spend too much of the year too dry to support cooler wetland plants.

Now that you've read through all of this, I need a favor from you.  Will you please do your snow dances or say your prayers about snow or send out your good snow ju-ju into the universe to help us toward a good water year in Utah?  Please?  Without a good winter this year I will have to do four years of field research, rather than three, because I need to see what GSL wetlands look like in a flood year, or at least a normal year.  Since I started my project we've had two pretty severe drought years.  I NEED MORE SNOW!  Another year of field work wouldn't be the end of the world, but it would definitely delay attainment of my doctorate, and I want it ASAP.

So there you have it, why I would study GSL wetlands and how I intend to determine the impact of impoundment.  And my desperate plea for snow.  ​