The adventure level has to be somewhat less than when, back in 1824, a teenaged Jim Bridger broke free of his trapper buddies up in what is now Cache County and followed the Bear River into the Great Salt Lake. But exploration of any kind up in these parts, even when it’s just pokin’ around the backroads, has a way of nourishing the curious.
The hunt was on. The game seeing how far you can get by utilizing what was left of the old pre-Interstate roadway system was afoot. It was like searching for long-lost groves of old-growth asphalt.
Even if the now-sleepy once-bustling town of Echo didn’t happen to be located at the intersection of so much western history, it would be hard to find a more suitable trailhead for such an excursion. Where else are you going to acquire philosophical grubstakes sufficient to the task at hand?
Frank had his “trading post” up and running, of course, and was busy at the counter, with his somewhat ruffled map at the ready, attempting to show yet one more lost pilgrim the error of his ways.
This one, heading east through Weber Canyon, had missed the turn to Mountain Green and Snowbasin. And, as everybody knows, if you’re westward bound with a similar destination, as our wanderer would now be, you’d best be heeding the ol’ pathfinder.
Brimming with his newfound confidence and the last 12 gallons of gas in Echo, our hero ventured back out into the void. This allowed Frank to begin bantering anew, deftly delving into whatever unresolved predicaments you might have brought in with you.
He didn’t let on his disappointment when his subtle interrogation didn’t lead to much. Not that he wasn’t glad to whip you up some breakfast, but he’d just as soon solve a problem or two while he’s back at the grill tending to the over-easy component of your order.
Similar discourse lay upon the land last time through, which had been at least a year or so back. Where you from? Where you headed? Know how to get there? Have you ever tried that cut-off between Backwater and Boondock? It’ll save you a good twenty miles.
Frank used to be open 24/7 back before Interstate 84 showed up and pretty much reduced clientele flow along old U.S. Highway 30 South. Not to say that lost pioneers in need of direction don’t blow through every now and then. And when they do, Frank will feed them and show them the way as he did Sunday morning past.
Frank, himself, had yet to show up at the time the Donner party came through in 1846 with their note from Lansford Hastings warning them not to continue on down Weber Canyon.
They would end up bushwhacking up out of present-day Henefer into a beautiful, but wagon-unfriendly, Wasatch range. Whatever advice Frank might have given them would have been better than what they got no doubt about that.
And so it was off down that piece of pavement formerly known as Highway 30S, following the Union Pacific tracks and the Weber River to Highway 89 and all points north. Admittedly, there were a few freeway miles involved but, before you could say “look out for the Great Blue Heron in the oncoming lane,” you found yourself jostling along the corduroy-infested byway they refer to as Bird Refuge Road.
It’s what you might call “shoulder season” up at the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge on the north end of the Great Salt Lake. Neither waterfowl nor land fowl are much in evidence. It won’t be too much longer, however, before a half-million jabberin’ ducks and geese move in and, a bit after that, a sky-full of tundra swans looking for room and board.
They’ll be migrating south for the winter, of course, performing that hard-wired loop yet one more time. What a life! Well, there are those shotguns that will be out thinning the herd at most every stop, including this one. Their lifestyle coach always seems to forget that part.
But now, for birds and visitors alike, it’s all about solitude. Quite a few white pelicans, the ones with the huge black-tipped wingspan, are about. Rather a clique-ish bunch, if you ask me, but cool as all get out, nonetheless. Egrets are all over the joint, as are white-faced Ibis, avocets, a few ducks, and fairly strong contingent of Canadian honkers.
It won’t be very much longer, however, until the serenity is broken by a vast inundation of carbon-based life forms from both the Pacific and Central flyways of North America and, lest we forget, the I-15 off-ramp in Brigham City.
The next destination, just a short distance off as the red-necked phalarope flies, brings a certain irony into the day’s events. There was once this great race going on, you see, between the Central Pacific and Union Pacific railroads to see who could be first to lay tracks through Weber Canyon. Lots of money and land were at stake.
The U.P. won, of course, and blew through Echo Canyon and then Weber Canyon while the C.P. became high-centered further out west. As the Union Pacific pushed north through Ogden and then west to Corinne, an agreement was reached between the two competing railroads that they would meet at Promontory Summit.
The completion of the first transcontinental railroad had its commemoration out at what they named “Golden Spike National Historic Site” and these days they pull-out real cool replicas of the “Jupiter” and “119” locomotives and run them head-to-head just like in the famous photo by A. J. Russell. As most all Heber folks, I just love that lonesome whistle.
Staying on the two-lane blacktop was a great way to keep from getting sidetracked, plus it allowed you to blow smoke and let off a little steam, And when coupled with the bird joint and Frank’s refuge, it just doesn’t get any better.