“I share my house with a colony of bats.
They live in the roof peak,
enter through a gap.
At dusk they fly out, dip
into inverted arcs
to catch what flutters or stings,
what can only be hunted at night.”

— Mark Wunderlich

When a dozen resident turkey vultures (Cathates aura) return each night to roost in my tall pines, it marks the end of another summer day scavenging in harsh light. Their flight home also signals a different beginning, when airborne creatures evolved to hunt in darkened skies take flight. Around twilight we wait to watch the acrobatic maneuvers of nature’s most exclusive animal — not birds but mammals with wings.

When the day finally fades to a deep and darkened shade of night the bats (Chiroptera) seem to appear out of nowhere. They swoop in from surrounding habitats: tree hollows, rock cliffs, mines, caves and sheltered buildings. 

Like magic, they swerve, dart and dip.

Chiroptera means “hand” and “wings” in Greek, which describes the long finger bones that stretch gracefully outward to hold up a delicate membrane that forms the bat’s wings and enables flight. Their aerodynamic bodies and unique wing design have been studied by technical and aeronautical engineers for application to jets, planes and base-jumper wingsuits.

Bats are not blind but have poor eyesight. They rely on echolocation to avoid obstructions and to capture prey in mid-flight. The equivalent of 100% of their body weight is consumed daily. That amounts to about 1,000 flying insect (mosquitoes, wasps, dragonflies and moths) per hour!

More than 1,300 species of bats survive on Earth.  The International Union for Conservation of Nature is the global authority on the status of the natural world. They review worldwide bat populations and have determined most are thriving, but some bat species are in serious decline.

Utah is home to 18 species of bats. The small, dark silhouettes with 10-inch wingspans diving around my barn could be Utah’s nocturnal native, little brown bat (Myotis lucifugus). They are common statewide, especially in mountain communities.

Even while forming Utah’s largest colonies (50-1,000), little brown bats are classified as an endangered species by the union. Endangered species are considered threatened with extinction. White-nose syndrome, a fungal disease responsible for the loss of millions of little brown bats, remains a threat.

If the bats don’t die from disease or natural predators like raccoons or raptors, they can live for 35 years in the wild. Bats are a protected, non-game mammal in our state. It is illegal to kill a bat in Utah.

Little brown bats prefer streams, springs or wetlands with dense vegetation. Many bat species hibernate. Some, like the little brown bat, migrate a short distance and then hibernate solo in structures like attics and barns or trees and in rock crevices, caves and mines. In September, they return the following spring to give birth to one pup.

Bats are intriguing and offer many ecosystem benefits. Nonetheless, there are responsible ways to discourage them from hanging out in buildings like my barn, where the bats captivating me with their aeronautic antics try to set up shop.

We can reduce disturbing outdoor lighting that disrupts bats’ natural behavior, build a bat house or two and look for October’s international Bat Week to learn more about these mysterious animals.

There are plenty of cultural myths about bats, enlightening and scary. In the larger view they offer ecological gifts. No matter how and why they are misunderstood, protecting bats is cause for awe-inspiring celebration.

“They scare some
but not me. I see them for what they seem —
timid, wee, happy or lucky,
pinned to the roof beams,
stitched up in their ammonia reek
and private as dreams.”

— Mark Wunderlich

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: Wild about bats appeared first on Park Record.

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: Waiting for rain appeared first on Park Record.

“State wildlife officials relocated a young bear from Prospector on Thursday morning. The animal was tranquilized and taken out of a tree.” — Park Record, May 28, 2026

A recent photo of an American black bear (Ursus americanus) clinging to the trunk of an aspen tree (Populus tremula) in a Park City neighborhood caught us by surprise. Why was this wild animal holding on to the bark of a tree for dear life in Prospector Square?

The young bear’s coarse, dark coat evenly covering its curved back and hind quarters triggered a memory of another wild bear.

The year was 1960. By mid-July, when daylight hours of summer stretched long into twilight evenings, kids like us who lived near Midwestern farm fields played kick-the-can while hoping to cup glittering fireflies in our eager hands. Meanwhile, our parents were carefully packing the fire engine red Studebaker Lark for a much-anticipated vacation to the North Woods of Wisconsin. On Dad’s orders, we would leave at dawn the next morning.

Mom and Dad, my little brother, our pet beagle, Bingo, and my 7-year-old self dragged our sleepy bodies out of bed and piled in the car. A 12-hour road trip lay ahead. For me, the long drive was worth every mile because my favorite place on Earth was at trail’s end. Cradled in virgin timber on the shores of a spring-fed woodland lake stood a rustic log cottage, our cabin in the pines.

Clear Lake echoed with the haunting calls of common loons (Gavia immer), but inside the old-growth conifer forest of northern white pines (Pinus strobus) there was a profound quiet. Those towering, soft woods offered refuge for undiscovered mysteries and my imaginings.

Very late that afternoon we eased through this densely forested landscape, our back yard, on the rutted dirt drive leading to the cabin.

Suddenly, I huffed, “Stop Dad. Stop the car!” 

A short distance ahead, a mother black bear hugged a giant, moss-covered tree trunk 50 feet above the roof of our car. Trailing the sow were two young cubs, heads up, clutching the tree behind her. Cubs are practiced climbers. They learn to climb as soon as they leave their dens.

We rolled open the car windows. Filtered light drifted down from the forest’s lofty canopy. Dusk was approaching, but we were in no rush now. Cool, pine-scented air caressed our young faces, tilted skyward, mouths agape. One twin cub turned to look down at us as we looked up. Their black fur-covered rumps and light brown muzzles were evidence that we were actually watching three real life wild bears!

Until I moved to the Rocky Mountains in the early 1970s and learned about random attacks on humans by brown bears, or grizzlies (Urus arctos horribillis), I had no innate fear of bears. My toy teddy bears, “Winnie-the-Pooh” books and friendly “Smokey Bear” campaigns were a positive influence. Black bears were not threatening.

An estimated 850,000 black bears live in North America, with a population of roughly 4,000 living in Utah’s forests and mountains. They feel safe hidden in dens like hollow logs and caves, buried under brush piles or snow and are comfortable traveling along hiking trails and roadways. Unlike wolves and cougars, black bears are not territorial. Their home range, typically 15-77 square miles, is shared by both male (boars) and female (sows) bears.

Black bears are among nature’s most intelligent mammals. They are timid, docile and adaptable. They view humans as threats, and climb trees when frightened or to escape predators like wolves, cougars or other bears. Importantly, black bears are ruled by fear and food in that order.

So why had a black bear taken to a tree in the back yard of a Park City neighborhood? Miranda H. Mockrin, a PhD research scientist with the U.S. Forest Service, may have an answer.

America’s wildland-urban interface spaces, where human development meets the natural world, are growing. After mapping these interface areas across the continental United States, scientists discovered that in the 30-year period between 1990 and 2020, the number of houses in the wildland-urban interface increased 46%, from 30 million to 44 million! The size of the WUI increased by 179,000 square miles. According to her analysis, as of 2020 nearly a third (32%) of all houses in the United States were in WUI areas. Similar residential communities exist in Summit and Wasatch County.

Clearly, humanity has encroached and continues to infringe on wildlife habitat. Housing, commercial developments, roads, recreation and industry negatively impact the natural territories and behavior of wild animals.

Black bears, moose, wild turkeys, fox, coyotes, squirrels, deer and elk all share the forests, meadows and mountains we call home. When wildlife officials relocate bears, like the one treed in Prospector Square, they usually return to their home territory.

We have much more to learn about co-existing with wild animals in the backyards, roadways, slopes and trails of our wildland-urban interface.

The quiet image of a black bear tending her two cubs in their forested home has stayed with me for more than a half-century. In those few precious moments, a 5 year old and and a 7 year old were absorbed in a natural world resonant with wonder and wild seeing.

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: The bear sighting that stuck appeared first on Park Record.

Editor’s note: This Wild Seeing is a reprint of a commentary by Leslie Miller that was first published on Sept. 2, 2023.

The rugged, mostly undisturbed landscape of the 910 Cattle Ranch sings, bugles, hoots and howls with songs of the natural world.

When you experience, as I have, the rare pristine beauty of this large-scale landscape recently purchased by Summit County, you will understand the essential need to conserve its wilderness qualities and make protecting its wild inhabitants a top priority.

The former owner, David Bernolfo, insisted upon a non-negotiable “No Hunting” contract as a condition of sale. All wild animals, birds and water fowl will continue to be safe from legal hunting, thanks to his commitment to protecting and respecting wildlife.

Whether it is a fully racked, sentient bull elk, snout to the autumn sky bugling his heart out, or the flash of a mountain bluebird’s “blue” in a springtime sky, or catching a glimpse of a fierce white ermine tunneling a snowbank while waving her fragile black-tipped tail in winter’s air, this and more is worth saving in Summit County’s newly acquired “Serengeti.”

If the community and county leadership make conservation their mantra rather than looking at the open space through a recreational lens by comparisons to Round Valley or its significance in proximity to the Flying Dog Trail, then and only then will they preserve the legacy landscape they are celebrating. This remarkable property is a retreat from the noise of urbanization and overcrowding. Let’s keep it that way now and forever.

At the county’s public hearing and vote on the open space purchase, I heard many local constituents plead for restraint. Most voiced “leave it alone” or “keep it mostly as is” directives.

In this watershed moment the public has a choice: Sacrifice the lust for unyielding access and mechanization on public lands or make sustaining vital wildlife and wildlands our top priority.

Going forward, a clear vision and management plan is critical. Of course, it must include expert environmental analysis, public input, robust supervision and on-going enforcement. Applying a qualified conservation easement on the property while protecting wildlife depends on an engaged community holding their elected officials accountable to the promises and pitfalls of large-scale landscape conservation and management.

Unfortunately, hazards do exist on an immense property like the 910. Along with the rich array of conservation, educational, research, cultural, historical and public interest opportunities, ever-present threats pose risks to the land’s integrity and beauty. Wildlife poaching, trespassing, wildfires and accidents are a reality.

I appreciate the enthusiasm of county administrative staff’s “we will make it better” intention. However, attempts to change the land instead of adjusting our interaction with the land are misguided. Open Space Advisory Committee member Dick Stoner urged the county to tread lightly: “This is art.”

Rather, can’t we make better our fundamental understanding of the natural world? Learning to respect the migratory pathways, reproductive cycles and seasonal pauses of wildlife is our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To be in synch with the rhythms inherent to the natural world is a gift.

There will come a time to breathe in the sweet-sour smell of bunch grass and listen for the voices of coyotes, meadowlarks and great horned owls on our special public open space.

Hopefully, there will be a time to walk on a guided tour, volunteer, build bluebird nest boxes or keep a watchful eye out for poachers.

We will be patient but ready for the inspired conservation plan honoring the legacy of the 910 Cattle Ranch, on behalf of one resident blue heron, a bushy tailed fox and stealthy raccoons, spry sandhill cranes, new ducklings, native cutthroat trout, grazing white tails, energized barn swallows, vibrant Western tanagers, screeching red-tailed hawks, soaring golden eagles, shy yellow-bellied marmots, crazy ground squirrels, slow-moving porcupines, tiny frogs, night-time skunks, a lazing cougar, moose families and a reclusive bear, native wildflowers, grasses, shrubs and trees and always the big-hearted refuge.

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: The 910 legacy to honor wildlife appeared first on Park Record.

Here’s a true story, not invented. One of bewilderment and certainly not folly.

After a lo-o-o-ng, lonely migratory journey a male Rufous hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus) lands in the mountain meadows of the Wasatch Back just as vibrant green leaves and floral tubulars unfurl. He is here to claim or defend a nesting territory.

Two weeks later, a female hummingbird arrives and breeding season begins.  

Even while the Rufous population is in steep decline (62%-72% over the past 50 years due to habitat loss and climate change) and is listed on the IUCN Red List as a Near Threatened species, this tiny iridescent bird survives to fly northward, west of the Rocky Mountains, every spring.

On the wing her flight speed averages 25 miles per hour as she follows the Pacific Coast Flyway, one of four migratory routes in North America. In just two to four days she may cover 2,000 miles or more from her wintering grounds in Mexico or Central America to the Canadian border, where she often returns year after year. She is a bird on a mission.

When this wild Rufous mama arrives in the Wasatch, she builds or refurbishes her nest.  She is solely responsible for home building. The construction takes four to five days, unless it’s a remodel. This is how one determined hummingbird meets an instinctive deadline to begin new life.

The wings of a hummer vibrate 70 to 200 times per second, depending on the task. Whether seeking sustenance, shelter or nesting materials, the minuscule bird requires copious amounts of food — twice her body weight of 2-5 grams daily — to fuel her search for the moss, lichen, feathers, plant down or spider silk to build her nest.

As she darts to sweet-tasting flowers for nectar, we admire her precision and helicopter hover. A bird bright morning unfolds.

Before long, the bird sets her sights on a sticky web glistening in the dawn light. Nature’s lace is attached to the corner eve of a two-story building. An eight-legged inhabitant and the hummingbird’s protein-rich food source is missing. The skillful female flies in close and steals a piece of spider silk. 

We marvel as she pulls a single strand in a gentle stretch. Then she is off, destined for her new home, trailing a thread of nature.

Typically, a tree limb 5-20 feet above ground or camouflaged in a bush is a good site for a small hummingbird nest — 1.5 inches in diameter.

This is not the case at my friend’s yard down the block. Every spring she welcomes the return of a mother hummer whose nest appears glued to the chain of an aging front porch swing.

Besides being perplexed by the unlikely nest selection, we are grateful for its position right outside a big window, our private front-row viewing station. Here we wait and watch for a natural world wonder — the miracle of birth.

A hummingbird’s gestation is 16-18 days, after which she lays one to three eggs a day apart. If we are lucky, we’ll glimpse the mother hummingbird laying her coffee bean-size eggs. Wiggle, wiggle, plop, plop.

The  eggs must incubate for 15-18 days at a consistently warm 96 degrees. Cold weather can alter the outcome to add a few days before the chicks are born. Then the excitement begins.

Hummingbirds like most song birds, are altricial — born naked and blind. In about 10 days the baby birds sprout pin-like feathers and open their eyes. Unable to regulate their body temperature or feed themselves, they are truly helpless.

When the chicks feel the breath of their mother’s wings, they instinctively raise their tiny heads, open their short beaks and swallow the female’s regurgitated bugs and nectar. The feeding routine occurs every 20 minutes until the hatchlings fledge in about three weeks. Our favorite moment of truth.

Somehow, we feel chosen and a bit privileged when our avian friends return to share their home with us. Wild birds living in our common landscape entertain, bewilder and amaze. Especially the copper-colored, Rufous hummingbirds who survive against all odds and remind us what brilliant resilience looks like. 

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.        

The post Wild Seeing: Hummingbirds amaze us at every beat appeared first on Park Record.

On an early spring morning in mid-March, near the Summit County Justice Center, I was reminded of a similar time and day years ago. Maybe it was the Basin’s gray morning light or the natural quiet without traffic that prodded a distant memory.

While Summit County was on the social media map of global court watchers, I planned to secure a courtroom seat in moral support for my friend, private investigator Todd Gabler. He had arrived in Utah to testify for the prosecution in the Kouri Richins murder trial.

Those of us living in the Wasatch Back long enough may remember another day when Gabler took a stand for truth and justice. It was nearly 40 years ago on March 27, 1992.

Unrestrained and rapid growth was a Summit County hallmark in the 1990s. Many community members opposed the urban development of open space. A concern prompting me and Gabler to run for a Park City Council seat in 1991.

Back then our rendezvous took place in a sweet, ranch land meadow in Snyderville Basin during the chilly, wet time in early spring known as mud season. A giant steel shovel, grounded, tilted and disengaged marked the spot where shortly before dawn, Gabler chained and padlocked himself to a backhoe.

Summit County commissioners had approved construction for a K-Mart, our county’s first big box retailer, designed as a 109,000-square-foot store. The adjoining parking lot was sized to hold 800 cars. The project was destined for the east side of S.R. 224 at Kimball Junction, Park City’s rural entryway. Excavation and industrial-sized development would eventually destroy this piece of agricultural open space and wildlife habitat.

“The premise here is that all reasonable alternatives have been exhausted,” said Gabler, whose protest vigil started in a freezing rain about 3 a.m. on a Friday. “There is an imminent threat to the meadow and to the citizens of the county. By my actions, I hope to stop an irreversible harm. The meadow’s stark beauty was sufficient reason for preservation.” (Deseret News, March 27, 1992)

When I met Gabler at daybreak with a thermos of hot coffee and a half-dozen sugar doughnuts, what I vividly remember from that long ago morning was the lyrical song of a Western meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta). Known as “larks” due to their melodic trills, though only male meadowlarks sing, the birds are actually part of the New World blackbird family. Not larks at all.

Western and Eastern meadowlarks thrive across North America in healthy prairie ecosystems — grasslands, prairies and open fields. While Western meadowlarks have expansive home ranges, they are sensitive to the loss, fragmentation and degradation of grassland habitat.

We sat together for a time, two comrades in a symbolic act of defiance, bonded by a lonely Western landscape. After awhile, a warming sun lifted the meadow’s dewey moisture and our spirits. We watched as the hazy morning fog disappeared in the east.

Gabler’s chain-yourself-to-a-backhoe protest was unsuccessful. The right fight at the right time, lost. Destruction of open pasture and the avian home for Western meadowlarks, sandhill cranes and native raptors like red-tail hawks and prairie falcons was sacrificed for modern conveniences. So now we have a legacy of financial gain, pot-holed parking lots and traffic.

Exactly 40 years later I perch on the high crest of Midway’s Memorial Hill. Looking eastward, my view is of another pastoral landscape, the North Fields of Heber Valley. A refreshing north wind sweeps across the meadows and skims my red cheeks. I can see the outlines of the Provo River gracefully coursing in pastures far below.

For now, Western meadowlarks still sing, red-tail hawks prey on field mice and baby raccoons fish in the field’s irrigation ditches. Cows, bulls and calves still graze in lush pastures. Like the once bucolic land under Kimball Junction, the North Fields are at risk.

The Utah Department of Transportation wants to build a highway through the North Fields. One justification for rerouting U.S. 40 with its proposed Heber Valley Corridor, Bypass Alternative B is saving 70 seconds of travel time through Heber. If approved, this bypass would destroy a treasure trove of rural qualities — scenic vistas, historic farms and ranch lands, wildlife corridors, wetlands and high quality aquifers.

Conscientious locals aren’t having any of it. The community shares a passionate sense of place. They attend public hearings, write letters and recently staged an on-site protest. Their tractor-cade was a North Fields procession of family pickup trucks, farm tractors, horse-drawn wagons, ATVs and folks waving signs and ringing cow bells. A true demonstration of civic pride.

Win, lose or draw, fighting for preservation and ecological justice is heroic on any day in any decade. Perhaps this time around, Utah and Wasatch County leaders will listen to citizens’ well reasoned calls and prevent irreversible harm to the North Fields.

Finally, our protests won’t be in vain and a meadowlark’s song can be more than a distant memory.

“How we spend our days

is of course

how we spend our lives.”

— Annie Dillard

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: Remembering a Western meadow lark appeared first on Park Record.

“… this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.”

“Praying,” by Mary Oliver

Hello Humans,

Asked to give voice to my feathered, furred and scale-skinned community living wild on the 910 — our homeland — is a challenge. Our wild animal speech of howls, hoots, whistles and song differ from yours, but we share similarities, a natural yearning for safety and freedom.

Mr. David Bernolfo, the most recent owner of the 910 Cattle Ranch, was devoted to protecting us from threatening intrusions. He demonstrated his respect for wildlife by prohibiting hunting, prosecuting poachers and removing miles of ranch barbwire. Our well being was prioritized for nearly three decades because he created and promised a refuge for wildlife on the  910 Cattle Ranch.

During the rancher’s ownership you humans were few and far between. We encountered only a dozen or so familiar faces over those years. Imagine what that meant to us! We value our sense of place and privacy just like you. Rarely frightened by outsiders or man-made machines, our freedom to roam, prey, mate, birth, fly or perch was secure. Wild animals, livestock, herding dogs and a few human beings learned to live on 8,700 acres in a shared and thoughtful coexistence.

As a legacy wildlife sanctuary our 910 animal community is home to diverse individuals. We raise our families in fringed nests, dirt-packed hollows, rocky caves and quiet tree-topped forests. Innate intelligence, survival instincts and memory serve us well in all seasons.

We are not a resource — natural or otherwise — to be used, harvested, monetized, fenced, covertly managed or zoned. We do not exist as an experimental trophy for the aspirations of governing agencies. As conservationist, author Jeremy Schmidt suggests, we wish not to be reduced to “faceless components of a living commodity,”  based on a “data-centric blindness.” We are sentient beings.

As new owners of the 910 (your federal and local tax dollars purchased the 8,700-acre cattle ranch with a grant from the U.S. Forest Legacy Program andSummit County Open Space Bond), you have a stake in its future and our wildlife community. We ask for your attention.

Caring for and about us is a huge responsibility for you patrons. To fully understand the 910 landscape and prioritize the property’s refuge qualities is an immense undertaking. It will require patience coupled with restraint. Experts in large landscape conservation and public vigilance are critical to interpreting the 910’s future.

We expect the best from our human friends and patrons. Our wild lives and precious home, as well as your engagement, depend on it.

Across millennia the wild animal kingdom has inspired humanity’s art, poetry, astrology and lore. And yet, here we are alive among you, living in refuge on the 910. Such a rare privilege, for us all.

Dearest humans, your newly acquired open space is a one-of-a-kind, wildlife preserve and a massive crown jewel for Summit County, Utah. The 910 is refuge from the chaos of a man-made world. And wildlife is the beating heart of our wilderness preserve.

Tonight, you may see us in the 910’s night-sky constellations. There we are, the brilliant stars of legend, a universe of wildlife — Aires the Ram, Taurus the Bull, Leo the Lion, Capricorn the Goat, Cancer the Crab, Pisces the Fish — ever=present reminders that we are worthy beyond your wildest dreams.

Respectfully,

910 Resident Wildlife

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: A call to the humans appeared first on Park Record.

A thin layer of white blankets my Midway garden. Sparkling crystals create a pallet for a web of fresh animal tracks. Heart-shaped hooves, tiny paws (likely from Reggie, a neighbor’s friendly calico) and delicate impressions belonging to feathered friends: community mourning doves, errant starlings, a pair of flickers and one determined, downy woodpecker.

Their trail of prints appear random, but it is not. The route weaves between wire cages of suet, ground seed, dried berries and a steel water trough frozen solid.

Only three days earlier I listened to the drip, drip, drip from a steady rain pelting my metal roof. Fresh water replenished the trough as I watched a lone American robin quench his lusty thirst. It was the edge of winter in the Wasatch.

“Remembering the truth that we are all relatives meant to live in reciprocity.”

The arrival of new snow and a clearing sky beckoned midweek skiers to Deer Valley’s East Village gondola as it ascended to Park Peak and the fresh snowpack in higher elevations. A faraway slope revealed graceful S-turns — man-made tracks laid down by backcountry skiers.

Below, the Heber Valley looked parched and dry as a bone. Sandy banks skirting the Jordanelle Reservoir lay nakedly exposed. We are haunted by hope for more snow and plentiful snowmelt. Another gondola, the Jordanelle Express, delivered skiers up the mountain to eventually return them back down to bare ground.

“Hope is not fragile. It is work, it is discipline.

Hope is a practice.

It is the work of our time.”

The next morning, friends called early but not with invitations to ski. Eager voices tinged with concern shared sightings of an elk herd, 100 strong. The animals were bedded down in an open field wedged between two busy highways.

Throngs of drivers speeding along highways 248 and 40 posed a great threat to the elk. Wildlife advocates frantically videotaped, photographed and alerted Park City and Summit County officials and law enforcement authorities. Would they please station officers to safeguard crossing animals and drivers? Could they keep watch over the wildlife sharing our landscapes? Would they listen?

“ I don’t ask for perfection. I ask for relationship.”

Among ourselves we raised questions. Where did the herd come from: Browns Canyon, Round Valley, the 910 Cattle Ranch or Swaner Preserve? Where was home? Could it be a resident herd from the BLM property in Wasatch County, displaced by the massive construction at and around Deer Valley’s East Village?

“If your heart is noisy you cannot hear the earth.”

Early the next morning I followed the tail end of a light winter storm to Salt Lake City. My tires left prints on a wet road under a steel gray sky.

At dawn I saw them in the near distance. A huddled mass of dark bodies curled into the frozen landscape. My breath caught as I slowed to absorb the magnificent sight. The elk herd remained safe, for a time, secure in their impressive communal strength.

“Learn to look at it with reverence rather than ownership.”

That morning I was inspired by more than a chance sighting of wapiti (Shawnee for “white rump”). Darren Parry, a Shoshone elder, author and scholar, delivered the keynote address at the second annual Central Wasatch Symposium. His voice held a message worth the long drive and more.

Parry moved a rapt audience to tears with his eloquent power of story. Reverence for the Wasatch and the learned ways of his indigenous forebears will lead us onward, he said. “If we choose to listen.”

His words were an offering to our tired souls and land, “a love letter from the mountains.” A Native American vision for the future of the Wasatch and sustainable quality of life depends on our relationship with nature. And accepting that the ecological carrying capacity of our natural world is finite.

“Relationship to place is not in the language of reports …”

The gently placed tracks of a wild animal or the warm breath of resting elk rising in frigid air, only to evaporate like vanishing hoof prints in melting snow, is testament to a profound sense of place. Nature’s loving prayer for life and home.

“Love asks something of us. To be brave. To be alive.

It is a sophisticated strategy.”

Quoted excerpts from Darren Parry’s keynote address on Jan. 8.

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: Life at the edge of winter appeared first on Park Record.

Monterey Bay is in my rearview mirror as I drive inland through toiled farm fields to Pacheco Pass. It is early morning in Steinbeck Country. Bright green seedlings follow rows and rows of recently tilled earth. Bare grape vines await warmer days as a low-angled sun creeps over the Gabilan Range to interrupt a rising layer of fog. The distant scent of salt water sparks past memories as I marinate in bountiful beauty.

In 1846, Capt. William Mervine came ashore to raise the first U.S. flag in Monterey, California. 

North of Monterey rests the historic and tiny fishing village of Moss Landing, a place with a whale of a tale.

Established as a whaling and fishing port in 1860 by Capt. Charles Moss, the town was originally inhabited by Ohlone people, 4,000 years before Europeans arrived. It is now home to Moss Landing Marine Laboratories, the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute and my friend’s non-profit organization, Marine Life Studies.

Like seafarers before her, Capt. Peggy Stap is fearless, experienced and a dedicated mariner. Unlike the foreign sailors and whalers who discovered and then exploited the wonders of California’s central coast, she practices ocean life conservation in Monterey Bay.

She doesn’t hunt whales. She saves them, along with experts on the Whale Entanglement Team dedicated to freeing marine mammals caught in discarded fishing nets and lines.

When I met Stap in 2007, she had owned a successful wholesale plant nursery in Michigan.

A 1996 family vacation in Maui turned everything around. The enormity and grace of Humpback Whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) populating the warm waters of the Hawaiian Islands changed life for her.

She began work in 1998 with the Hawaii Whale Research Foundation, swimming among whales with only a snorkel and video camera. Dipping below the surface of the Pacific, Stap tracked the behavior of male humpbacks competing for female humpbacks. She photographed the baleen whale’s massive flippers, or “great wings,” and the serrated edges of its broad flukes. 

The peduncle muscle, forward of the whale’s fluke, is the strongest of any in the animal kingdom. One kick can propel 40 tons of body mass out of the water.

“The adults are incredibly aware of their bodies.” says Stap. “I don’t do anything dangerous.”

So she stayed calm, took pictures and almost a decade later decided to launch a non-profit organization in Monterey County, California. 

Before leaving Hawaii for California, Stap had volunteered for research teams on Maui. With the Hawaii Whale Research Foundation, she was part of the whale disentanglement network headed by Ed Lyman, the marine mammal response manager for the Hawaiian Islands Humpback Whale National Marine Sanctuary. 

With that experience, she formed a new organization, Marine Life Studies, in 2006 and received a federal permit from the National Oceanic Atmospheric Agency to study the mysterious behavior of species like Orcas (Orcinus orca), in the protected sanctuary of  Monterey Bay. At that time a disentanglement network in central and northern California didn’t exist.

Then Stap, fellow conservationists, marine biologists, government officials and volunteers established the Whale Entanglement Team, which may be Marine Life Studies’ greatest achievement.

Along with ship strikes, entanglement is one of the largest causes of human-induced injuries to whales and other marine mammals like dolphins, harbor seals (Phoca) and sea otters (Enhydra lutris).

As Hawaii’s marine mammal response manager, Ed Lyman observed, “The primary threat of entanglement to large whales is not drowning. Their large size usually means they can pull the gear to  the surface to breathe. Instead, entanglement may cause physical trauma, prevent feeding, lead to disease or infection, and render them susceptible to other threats, like ship strikes. In any event, for the large whales it is typically a slow death.” 

Usually a passing vessel notifies rescuers about an ensnared whale. Only a small group of highly trained people qualify to rescue whales from harmful entanglements. The whale rescuers disembark from a larger support boat to board an inflatable craft. 

Maneuvering a small rubber vessel toward an entangled animal the size of a city bus is extremely dangerous. The rescue team has to figure out a way to free the animal from fishing nets or lines without injury to themselves or the whale. 

Starting in 2008, Marine Life Studies purchased rapid response tools, formalized training and created a toll-free Hot Line ­(877-SOS- Whale). Among the organization’s advances, they produced waterproof marine mammal guides and in 2015 purchased a 40-foot whale rescue research vessel.

Ten years later at a festive December open house, we celebrated the Whale Entanglement Team and Marine Life Studies wins. At their new museum, retail and office space on Moss Landing Road, we watched remarkable videos of whale rescues by professionals who miraculously freed a multi-ton whale in distress. One of dozens over a decade.

As we honored the successes of a grassroots non-profit dedicated to coastal conservation, we recognized the irony of Moss Landing’s evolution. A former whaling port becoming a center for marine life and study. Who could predict that?

In this new year, I propose a toast: Here’s to all deserving non-profits destined to protect wildlife and the reality of unexpected miracles. Cheers!

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: A whale team toast appeared first on Park Record.

December, the final month of the lunar year, is host to our longest night. When the winter solstice on the 21^st marks the start of a hopefully snow-filled season, our heavenly hemisphere is shrouded in dark as deep as a well.

Until we look to the southeast horizon. There, the brilliant white-blue light of Sirius penetrates the night sky to outshine its celestial sisters. Located in the Canis Major constellation, the Dog Star dazzles and dances above our heads. Finally, the spectacle star ascends to its highest destination on the first twilight night of January.

Once, on a frigid December stop at the local feed store, I was attracted to a small plastic crate in the store’s parking lot. My imagination got the better of me. Before peering inside I expected to see a farm animal like a lone rooster or feral cat or maybe a wild baby raccoon!

Instead, hovering and frightened at the rear of her kennel was an innocent soft fluff of  black, white and tawny fur without a tail. I queried the store owner about her Australian shepherds and the last of the litter shivering in the box outside.

After a must-see visit to the owner’s ranch, where I met the pup’s parents — a healthy cinnamon hued female and her energetic tricolored mate — I returned to the surviving puppy.

After some analytical back and forth I made a fateful decision. I bought a dog. She wasn’t a rescue because I paid retail, but I felt like I saved her nonetheless.

Dogs like Sophie possess a natural affinity for living in the moment. They seem to understand even if we don’t that making the most of every second on Earth is a critical requirement. In her dog world there was no time for revenge, hatred or malice. Good-hearted antics and joy won the day, every day. To witness and live in her miraculous reality was an unexpected holiday gift.

Our shared time was drenched in grace, curiosity, loyalty and love. It was the perfect recipe for a lifelong bond with man’s best friend. We cherished our year-round outdoor adventures, walking, hiking, riding solo or with friends.

But when it came to animals, wild or domestic, Sophie was antisocial. She showed no interest or patience for other dogs, unless it was Beau. He was her one and only canine friend.

When they were introduced on Valentine’s Day, it really was love at first sight. From that day on they were inseparable. Greetings were frontal chest bumps, followed by affectionate neck tugs. There was no stretch of white sand, flowing river or sheer mountainside they wouldn’t challenge or champion together. They loved the thrill of a good chase. Horses and cattle on the run or shore birds in flight.

But most of all they loved bouncing along the fairways in a golf cart.

If golf wasn’t an option, then a sprint to the hidden staircase at Stillwater Cove and a game of seawater stick toss was in order. Unlike Beau, Sophie didn’t ride waves or like the water. Instead, she’d wade ankle deep in scary moving liquid to snatch a just-retrieved stick from Beau’s jaw.

And while she heroically swam the width of the Green River once, she never took a bath her entire life. Mysteriously, my dog’s natural scent smelled like fresh-mown hay. It one of many special traits I still miss.

Because she was a herding dog, her role as she understood it was protecting and guarding our territory. She despised interference within those instinctive boundaries. Livestock and my favorite 6-year-old neighbor, Elias, were especially threatening to Sophie’s sense of place. Yelping at “intruders” who dared to stroll by our front yard or step too close to the drift-bark log where we perched on a sandy beach was a favorite past time.

Consequently, Sophie was selective with her human associates. Besides Beau, my next-door neighbor was one of Sophie’s best friends. Every morning she slipped over to Gig’s porch to stare intently at the glass door until she was invited in for her breakfast dog treat. A creature of habit, Sophie returned home afterwards to patiently wait by our door for any advanced sign of a forthcoming excursion. Ready to lead the way, she didn’t let a morning pass without a solid walk, hike or ride.

We covered miles and miles during our not-long-enough life together: Centennial Valley, the 910 Cattle Ranch, Carmel Beach, Asilomar, Half Moon Bay, Mount Timpanogas, the Continental Divide, Uintas and Wasatch mountains, Snake Creek, the Northfields and beyond.  

Of course, the dog was not without fault. Despite her flowery aroma, she gulped newly flushed toilet water, caught field mice with her fox-like pounce and swallowed them whole, sometimes still squirming. She nervously gnawed through toggles and laces on expensive running shoes her entire adult life and inhaled rather than chewed her dog chow.

In spite of Sophie’s minor shortcomings, her ever-present radiance brightened our lives. She was nearly perfect, an Earth-bound dog star.

This Australian shepherd and protectress never left me or a friend behind. I proudly watched as my aging Sophie and her elderly friend Gig shared time together under the shade of a flowering crab tree and then how they sat on the edge of Gig’s rest home bed, comforted in mutual allegiance.

One early December evening, I noticed changes overcoming my 13-year-old pet. Her impressive strength and agility diminished. Sophie’s signature trot disappeared along with our extended outings. So instead of long continuous walks, we gladly rested in different places along the way where we gazed into the wild to soak up the wonders of our natural world.

In human terms, a lifelong bond will likely entail many decades on Earth. Not so with canines. At best, the loving relationship between man and his best friend lasts a decade and possibly a few extra years. And so it was with Sophie.

After 13 Decembers together, the unbroken bond of our shared and loving experiences came to an end. We said goodbye 24 hours after Christmas.

On that last day together. our vet Jerry said, “If God made dogs man’s best friend, why was our given time so short?” He promised to take this up with his Maker once he reached the pearly gates.

Now, when I look into December’s night sky the promise of new beginnings from a winter solstice are reflected in the brilliant presence and gift of an ever-lasting Dog Star.

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. 

The post Wild Seeing: A Dog Star to remember appeared first on Park Record.