Claims that the summer of 2026 in northern Utah has been hot is a laughable understatement. Record- breaking temperatures in July, near or above three digits (109 degrees in Salt Lake City on July 12), confirm our daily complaints.
To cool off, my neighbor’s three toddlers run buck-naked across their back lawn, which has turned a sickly yellowish brown. Extreme heat, too little water and dry winds. Breakfast visits from Reggie, a charismatic cat from down the road, begin at 6:30 each morning rather than the usual 8 a.m. Like the song birds wetting their feathers and quenching a thirst in back yard bird baths and water troughs, he wants to avoid scorching temperatures. And I ride, walk or weed early before the heat of the day takes its toll.
A recent video of a monsoonal downpour posted by a friend from her home in New Mexico reached me shortly before bedtime. It was a delicious dream-like image.
More photos of wild animals seeking relief from a relentless heat followed, flooding social media — a tender fawn peacefully curled under a shady tree, a mother moose and young calf wading in a shallow, fresh water pond. All waiting for rain.
In another year a different July brought water from the sky to our mountains.
Heading from South Salt Lake for Midway I chose the alpine route meandering up Big Cottonwood Canyon to Guardsman Pass rather than Parleys Summit. As I left the dry heat below and gained elevation to Brighton I was rewarded with clouds that opened to release a soothing and welcome rain. I pulled over under a stand of pines to wait out the deluge, turned off the motor, invited Sophie, my Australian shepherd, to jump in the front seat and rolled down the windows. The sweet scent of fir and moist alpine air filled our lungs and souls.
Six feet ahead, solid as a statue and partially camouflaged in the understory, stood an enormous bull moose (Alces alces) drenched in falling rain. Whoa. Sophie and I sat mesmerized and quiet as lambs. We watched from the safety of my Jeep as a watery cascade polished his black coat to a lustrous shine.
Unthreatened and lulled by the softening sound of falling rain the three of us stayed, frozen in the moment. Tiny raindrops fell like diamonds from his wide glistening antlers. A story came to mind about the power of a bull moose with horns. Flat horns, that under different circumstances could shatter the recesses of a dark forest like glass.
In 1934, a year during the Great Depression, three cattlemen on horseback ventured into unchartered territory in northern British Columbia, “an awesome 250,000 square-mile chunk of mountain, swamp, river and valley,” ideal terrain for herds of moose. A memorable true-life adventure documented in “Grass Beyond the Mountains,” by Ricard P. Hobson Jr.
At that time, “Anahim country was one of the most densely populated moose areas on the continent.” As the riders crossed a desolate Canadian landscape they experienced the bewildering and unexpected behaviors of moose, hundreds of them.
Like the original Anahim frontiersman, the cowboys saw how moose were attracted to beaver habitat, ate identical foods –– small limbs, willow tops and poplar bark –– and submerged their bodies, all but their heads, in mud and cool water to escape mosquitos and flies.
The cowhands discovered a full grown moose weighs 1,300 to 1,600 pounds and can out-run a horse. Moose are near-sighted but they have a great sense of smell and hearing. And in late autumn after heavy frost and frigid nights, a bull moose will “sharpen his hoofs to razor-like edges on rocks,” smash fallen timber and trees with his horns and then, “chanting his frightening but monotonous call, he roars down the mountains in search of cow herds, prepared to battle anything that crosses his path.”
Today, British Columbia is home to 115,000-192,000 moose, while only 2,500-3,000 live in Utah. Rarely do we have a chance encounter with a solitary moose, let alone a fast-moving herd. As I recall the wild tales of moose from another era and mountain range, I won’t forget the summer rain shared with a flat-horned bull moose right here in the Wasatch.
Leslie Miller is the co-editor of “Reimagining A Place for the Wild” and a former, long-time resident of Park City who now lives in Midway.