Camping in the High Uintah’s is never easy. Due to the rugged landscape and high elevations, every trip offers its own unique adventure. On this occasion, my long-time hunting buddy and two labs, after a 4-mile hike with 2000 feet of vertical climb, were setting up tents in the dark with pelting graupel, lightning, and rain, at nearly 11,000 feet elevation. After getting the dogs and gear under a second rain fly we bring for just these occasions, we scrambled into our tent for a long, lightning-rattling type of Night.

The alarm began its rude song at 4 AM. We woke, worked on our gear, and made our way out of the tent to be greeted by the endless galaxies above. Those black mornings in the mountains, warming water for oatmeal and an instant cup of joe over a single burner portable stove, preparing to take off into the night, are cherished memories never forgotten.

We had our gear, guns, and dogs, and under the dim glow of headlights, started up the mountain towards the peak.

Sun barely began to illuminate shadowy surfaces when we reached our destination. We had come on this High Uintah adventure with two goals in mind, one being this. We had come to look for elk.

Elk are crepuscular, meaning they are most active in the morning and evening, so we needed the right vantage point at the right time of day. It wasn’t long after the east-facing hills slowly gained contrast and color that we started seeing elk. Nearly all of them enjoyed the steep slopes of the mountainsides, rather than valley bottoms. We watched as they meandered through the vegetation and lazily ate as they soaked in the morning rays. At about 9:00 AM, when most of the elk had found their way to timbered cover, it was time to pursue our next goal, which was why we had my two trusty dogs by my side.

As we slowly worked back down the bouldery slopes of the peak and the terrain turned to rocky plains with short willow, I prepared myself, my friend, and my dogs. I knew this was going to be our best chance, and it didn’t take long for my suspicions to be realized. My older and wiser black lab named Josi alerted me of strangers as we approached the first patch of shin-high willows. Her nose went down, her pace quickened, and her fast jerky movements gave me no doubt that it was time. And, like flashes of white lightning in a clear sky, they were in the air, flying this way and that, dogs chasing and yipping at tail feathers, shotguns raising and blasting. After the moment settled, only one of the elusive birds had been brought down and my younger lab, Blue, was proudly pouncing to bring back the mottled white and brown bird in his slobbery mouth.

The bird was a White-Tailed Ptarmigan, a prize upland bird that few hunters have ever seen. Biologists introduced about 50 of these birds to Utah in the mid-1970s as an experiment to see if they could establish a successful population, and the experiment was a success. Ever since, Utah’s High Uintah Mountains have been one of the only places in the lower 48 states where one has a reasonable chance to see the magical bird, a bird who loves the cold, high places, rocks, and willows.

The day continued, and although the fickle weather constantly changed from snow, to rain, to lightning, to blowing, to sun, and to graupel, we were successful in harvesting a few more birds from the majestic landscape.

As we finally made our way back toward camp, tired, wet, and carrying a few hard-earned birds, I found myself thinking less about what we had harvested and more about our experience. Hunting, to me, has been a way to experience nature more fully. It has taken me to wild places I would never otherwise have been, introduced me to natural phenomena I might have overlooked, and has helped me build relationships with people, places, and animals, that have positively shaped my life. There is something about spending a day trying to understand wild animals that changes my appreciation for the world, from the elk moving across the slopes, to the ptarmigan flashing through the alpine air; they all become part of the living landscape, and this may be what keeps calling me back; the opportunity to slow down, pay attention, and appreciate the remarkable beauty and wonder of a world that is so much bigger than myself.

This is Dr. Joseph Kozlowski, and I am wild about Utah!

Credits:

Images: Courtesy & Copyright Joseph Kozlowski, Photographer, Used by Permission
Featured Audio: J. Chase and K.W. Baldwin and lwdickens (freesound.org)
Text: Joseph Kozlowski, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University https://edithbowen.usu.edu/
Additional Reading Links: Joseph Kozlowski & Lyle Bingham

Additional Reading:

White-tailed PtarmiganLagopus leucura, All About Birds, The Cornell Lab of Ornithology, https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/White-tailed_Ptarmigan/overview

Locating ptarmigans in the Uinta Mountains, Utah Division of Wildlife Resources, https://wildlife.utah.gov/ptarmigan

The post High Uintas appeared first on Wild About Utah.

This is how my friend Richard got started keeping bees in his backyard with a single box full of worker honeybees and a queen.

Richard’s worker bees got busy building an interior wall of wax. This wall is an engineering marvel of tightly packed hexagonal cells that allow the bees to create the maximum amount of storage space with the minimum amount of wax.

While the interior walls were going up, other bees flew out of the bottom of the hive and into the flowering alfalfa fields nearby. The bees returned to the hive with bellies full of sugary nectar. The bees seemed to be thriving. Richard added another box.

Now, five years later, Richard has six hives and is harvesting gallons of honey. This year I invited myself over to watch the honey harvest.

We both suited up in bee suits. Richard lifted the top off one of the boxes. The bees were not pleased. The buzzing took on an angry edge as they flew right at us. I was very, very glad I was wearing the bee suit. I leaned in to get a better look and was surprised to see the bees had laid down a thin layer of wax capping the honey filled hexagonal cells. They had created a honey storage facility completely protected from moisture and air.

Bees are the only insect that produce wax. People that study bees tell us the honeybees secrete 8 tiny drops of wax out of their abdomen every 12 hours. The drops solidify into tiny flakes which the bees gather up. It takes 11,000 flakes to make 1 gram of wax. The bees keep the temperature inside the hive between 92-95 degrees Fahrenheit, so the wax stays flexible.

Later, when Richard got the harvested honey into his workshop, I watched him scrape off the layer of capping wax before putting the honey trays in the centrifuge. “Not to worry,” he said. He’d save the wax and make candles out of it later. Beeswax candles are ideal because they produce very little soot as well a few ions that help clean the air.

In 2013 the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris put 3 hives on their rooftop so they could make clean burning candles that could be lit inside the church.

Richard and I didn’t see the queen during the harvest, but Richard assured me she was there. Without a queen bee, the hive ceases to function. When Richard lost a queen awhile back, he quickly ordered one on the internet. The queen arrived in a small wood box (about the size of a matchbox) with a candy cork. It was up to the worker bees to open the box by chewing through the cork. Then, after the bees accepted the queen into their hive, they got to work feeding her an exclusive diet of Royal Jelly – something they produced out of their heads. In return the queen laid 1,500 eggs each day.

The queen becomes the mother of most if not all the bees in the hive. All the worker bees are female. Any drone lucky enough to mate with a virgin queen drops dead immediately afterwards. It’s a matriarchal society all the way.

I wonder if Brigham Young and the early pioneers knew this when they put the bee on the Utah flag in 1847.

This is Mary Heers and I’m Wild About Utah

Credits:

Images Courtesy & Copyright Mary Heers, Photographer, US NPS, Pixabay and Wikimedia
Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright Anderson, Howe, and Wakeman.
Text: Mary Heers, https://cca.usu.edu/files/awards/art-and-mary-heers-citation.pdf
Additional Reading: Lyle Bingham, https://bridgerlandaudubon.org/

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah, Mary Heers’ Postings

The post Bees in the backyard appeared first on Wild About Utah.

Normally, I try not to get distracted when going up as steep an incline as the Wellsville Mountains—stopping and starting again is as much work as slowly plodding on—but, I decided that a side quest to look at a bug might give me an excuse for a much-needed breather. Besides, I probably did the same when my dad took my siblings and me with him on hikes up the Wellsvilles when we were little. He sure loved those mountains, and the long hike gave him an excuse to dispense little morsels of life wisdom along the way.

When I approached the spot the kids were huddled, I was expecting to supply some wisdom myself on this bug.

A second later, I stood perplexed. I was looking at an insect I had never seen before. The bug was the size of my thumb and shifted awkwardly in what little dirt could be found just below the bare ridge of the Wellsvilles. Its dark abdomen was covered in scaled layers that became light on the edges, making it look something like the stripes of a bee. Unlike a bee, it had no stinger or wings. Its head was the size of a small cherry, with the color similar—an off-red or even orange. The six yellow, almost translucent, legs were hefty enough to support the massive body.

The kids repeated their question. My first instinct, thanks to the tones of red and orange and never seeing anything like it before, made me want to quip that it was clearly from Mars. I checked myself when thinking how this comment would compare to the boundless wisdom of my dad. In a moment of rare restraint, I told them that I had no idea and would have to research it. I snapped a photo, and we continued our march.

After surviving the Wellsvilles, I searched and discovered that we had observed a Jerusalem Cricket. Information on these insects is almost as scarce as a cricket sighting itself, so I decided to talk to someone with more experience.

Doctor James Pitt, an entomologist at Utah State who studies mathematical population models of various insect species, assured me that not only is the Jerusalem Cricket not from Jerusalem, it’s not even a cricket. Maybe my Martian bug idea was not too far off!

And while I thought its large and exotic, bee-like appearance signified danger, Dr. Pitt said that it was probably harmless unless provoked into a bite. I gathered from him that it was not prone to the large scale booms and busts of other locust-type insects—it was not even of the same family as those swarming pests. Instead, this is a bug that lives fairly solitary life cycles, mainly staying underground and only coming up occasionally. It seems as though our daytime sighting, and up in this high mountain environment of rocks and little vegetation, was somewhat rare. How did that cricket end up in such a place?

I decided to keep researching. Facts about females cannibalizing the males after mating or being known for feeding on potatoes did little to explain its presence on this high point (unless we were looking at a male determined to live a hermit-like bachelor life?). Besides, there were no potatoes on the Wellsvilles, and even the potato farmers I talked to were just as curious about this insect as I was. Chalk up another tally for Martian origins!

Still, I was not ready to give up. The more I learned, the more clear it was that, as foreign as the Jerusalem Cricket was to our modern heritage, some cultures with deeper roots in the region are much more familiar with it. Native Americans, ranging from the Yuma to the Navajo to the Hopi all included legends associated with the Jerusalem Cricket. I realized that my ignorance of them might have had more to do with what one article mentioned: urban development and roads tend to hamper these soil-burrowing and wingless bugs more than other, more mobile insects, limiting their range and visibility to people like us.

Thinking back to the moment my kids and I crowded around the Jerusalem Cricket, I started to feel as if the alien nature of this close encounter had more to do with us than the cricket. Perhaps we had something to learn from this subtle but persevering veteran of the West.

While learning about the Jerusalem Cricket helped provide me with this important perspective, it still did not reveal the mystery of what this particular cricket was doing way up on the Wellsville Mountain Range.

I just about gave up on making sense of the cricket’s location—hadn’t I learned enough by now? However, I thought I would read one more academic work before wrapping up. I discovered that the Hopi created figurines and masks of the Jerusalem Cricket for rituals, and they equated it with certain human-like traits. To them, the cricket represented human runners or racers, particularly over long distances. This was more in relation to their ceremonies, since Jerusalem Crickets barely achieve more than a crawl at the best of times, but the comparison stuck out strongly to me.

My mind went back to the Wellsvilles Ridge. I remembered that, when I was still very young, my dad participated in a Wellsville Ridge Race—a long distance run that went from one end of the Wellsvilles to the other. He would later go on to be the Cross Country Coach at Utah State for decades and just before he passed away over ten years ago, Utah State named their distance course after him and my mom: The Steve & Dona Reeder Cross Country Course. He is a distance running icon.

What was the Jerusalem Cricket doing up there? Something in me now thinks that perhaps the Wellsvilles are a place where distance runners go to dispense wisdom and perspective. I am glad that on the high slopes of the Wellsville Mountains, I got to have one of those runners give me wisdom for living life respectfully and responsibly. And I am glad to later meet another “runner” that offered perspective on the long legacy and hardy endurance of the wildlife that surrounds us.

I am Marty Reeder and my kids and I, and I’d like to think my dad, are all Wild About Utah.

Credits:

Image: Courtesy and Copyright Marty Reeder, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy and Copyright Anderson, Howe, and Wakeman
Text: Marty Reeder, https://skyview.ccsdut.org/
Additional Reading: Marty Reeder and Lyle Bingham, https://bridgerlandaudubon.org/

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah Pieces by Marty Reeder

Stoffolano, John G., Jr., and Barton Wright. “Sösööpa—Jerusalem Cricket: An Important Insect in the Hopi Katsina Pantheon.” American Entomologist 51, no. 3 (2005): 174–79. https://doi.org/10.1093/ae/51.3.174.

Strand, Holly. “Cricket or Cootie?” Wild About Utah. October 17, 2013. https://wildaboututah.org/cricket-or-cootie/.

Weissman, David B., Amy G. Vandergast, and Norihiro Ueshima. “Jerusalem Crickets (Orthoptera: Stenopelmatidae).” In Encyclopedia of Entomology, edited by John L. Capinera, 2nd ed., 2054–61. Dordrecht: Springer, 2008. https://www.amazon.com/Encyclopedia-Entomology-Set-John-Capinera/dp/1402062427/

Weissman, David B. “JERUSALEM! CRICKET? (Orthoptera: Stenopelmatidae: Stenopelmatus); Origins of a Common Name.” American Entomologist 51, no. 3 (2005): 138–139. https://doi.org/10.1093/ae/51.3.138.

The post A Close Encounter of the Cricket Kind appeared first on Wild About Utah.

Let’s backtrack.

The opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1959 allowed cargo ships to bypass the rapids on the St. Lawrence River and enter Lake Ontario. From there ships could access Canada’s Welland Canal, which also uses a series of locks to allow ships and barges to bypass Niagara Falls and access the rest of the Great Lakes. Proponents of the St. Lawrence Seaway sold the project on the grounds that it would turn the Great Lakes into a North American “Mediterranean” by transforming cities from Rochester, New York to Duluth, Minnesota into global ports.

They got what they wished for, but with a twist. “Salties,” or oceangoing cargo ships, traveling from the Mediterranean, Black, and Caspian Seas, emptied their ballast tanks in Great Lakes ports as cargo was loaded. In June of 1988 the first documented zebra mussel was found in Lake St. Clair—a small lake (in comparison to the Great Lakes) where the St. Clair River pools about halfway along its journey from Lake Huron to Lake Eire. This single, fingernail-sized mussel signaled a catastrophe. By the end of 1989, invasive zebra and quagga mussels were found in all five Great Lakes.

Zebra mussels thrive in water less than about fifty feet deep and on hard surfaces. Quagga mussels thrive in soft lake bottoms in water as deep as 500 feet. Together these invasive mollusks wreak havoc on aquatic ecosystems where they are most vulnerable—the bottom of the food chain.

Razor sharp zebra and quagga mussels filter microscopic nutrients from the water, This makes lakes clearer, while stripping them of nutrients aquatic species depend upon. By 2009 phytoplankton levels in the Great Lakes were diminished by 90% compared to pre-mussel levels. Clearer water makes for easier fishing for predatory birds and clearer water allows sunlight to penetrate deeper into lakes, warming them up faster and creating prime conditions for toxic algae blooms. Algae blooms deplete the water of oxygen and create ideal conditions for botulism, which then causes massive waterfowl die-offs. All of this has happened in the Great Lakes in a viscous cycle set in motion by zebra and quagga mussels.

Invasive mussels were found in Lake Mead in 2007 and in Lake Powell in 2013—transported from the Midwest recreational boats. What has happened in the Great Lakes can—and is—happening in the west.

I am Eric Newell and I am wild about Utah’s lakes and rivers.

Credits:

Images: Quagga Mussels exposed at Lake Powell, Phil Tuttle, Photographer, Utah DWR
Boating, Eric Newell, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright J. Chase and K.W. Baldwin.
Text: Eric Newell, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University & Lyle Bingham, Bridgerland Audubon Society

Additional Reading:

WildAboutUtah pieces by Eric Newell, https://www.upr.org/people/eric-newell

Egan, Dan, Zebra Mussels’ Takeover of the Great Lakes, January 2, 2019, https://www.discovermagazine.com/zebra-mussels-takeover-of-the-great-lakes-2626

What are Invasive Mussels?, Invasive Mussel Collaborative, Great Lakes Commission, https://invasivemusselcollaborative.net/about/mussel-facts/#:~:text=They%20were%20first%20discovered%20in,at%20the%20bottom%20of%20lakes

Howard, James, When Zebra Mussels Made the Great Lakes “Clean”, October 8, 2025, https://jameshoward.us/2025/10/08/when-zebra-mussels-made-the-great-lakes-clean

Zebra Mussels, BB-17, Environmental Fact Sheet, New Hampshire Department of Environmental Services, 2026, https://www.des.nh.go v/sites/g/files/ehbemt341/files/documents/2020-01/bb-17.pdf

Map of Lake St Clair, The Great Lakes, Google Maps, https://www.google.com/maps/place/Lake+St+Clair/@44.6782974,-87.146707,1192993m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m6!3m5!1s0x88253a42a07febbd:0x679a153523440e7c!8m2!3d42.4356504!4d-82.6915429!16zL20vMDJnMzdn?entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI2MDkwOS4wIKXMDSoASAFQAw%3D%3D

Great Lakes St. Lawrence Seaway Development Corporation, https://greatlakes-seaway.com/en/

Leahy, Colleen, Quadrillions of invasive mussels are damaging the Great Lakes, documentary shows, Wisconsin Public Radio, February 28, 2025, https://www.wpr.org/environment/drebert-melnick-documentary-quagga-mussels-great-lakes#:~:text=The%20quagga%20mussel%20has%20infiltrated,are%20felt%20throughout%20lake%20ecosystems.

Book recommendation:

Egan, Dan, The Death and Life of the Great Lakes, W. W. Norton & Company, 2017, https://www.betterworldbooks.com/product/detail/the-death-and-life-of-the-great-lakes-9780393355550

The post Don’t Move a Mussel appeared first on Wild About Utah.