Swimming in a Lake of Death, and Other Such Unseemly Things in Utah

The Adventures of Wally Chapstick and Company: The Westward Excursion

Dave and the author “floating” in The Great Salt Lake in Utah. Photo by The Mom

Day 11: July 3, 1988 Grand Tetons, Wyoming to Provo, Utah

We woke up early underneath blue skies.

We would eat breakfast on the road and head south into Utah, and then into Nevada for Las Vegas. We picked up our rafting pictures at Dave Hansen and stopped at McDonald’s for hotcakes. We enjoyed the pictures of our whitewater trip on the Snake River.

We followed Rt. 89 along the river, using turnabouts for final views. By noon, we needed ice. The Mom treated us for a round of bubblegum Slurpees at 7-Eleven.

We passed through Afton and a few other small towns with populations hovering at 100 or so. Route 89 split and we continued south towards Salt Lake City, Utah. We crossed briefly into Idaho and reached the Geneva Summit at an elevation of 6,938 feet.

The road cut through many national forests — Targee, Bridger, Caribou, and Cache. All were extremely large and densely wooded, the high elevations didn’t seem too “mountainous,” mostly gently, rolling hills.

The Mom was tired — not a good thing with roads with steep and sharp curves and bends.

We stop for lunch at Bear Lake in Utah

What a deep, crystal blue! Barren mountains in Idaho and Utah surrounded the lake. At a small marina, we secured a picnic table and watched the boats. Such outboard boats reminded me of my father‘s boat — towing the bowrider to places like the Mullica River in South Jersey. We’d back it down the concrete ramp, and I would glide the boat with guidelines as my dad’s Camaro pulled out, trailing cedar water off the trailer, bumper and taillights.

On Bear Lake, there were water skiers and jet skiers. So much fun! But I was not a part of it. I so wanted a boat. After all, I grew up on boats. My dad had a larger boat on the Chesapeake and we spent weekends on the Sassafras and the Chesapeake and Delaware canal. After the divorce, we still spent time with dad on his boat.

Those were good times, too.

Lunch at the marina in Bear Lake. Photo by The Mom.

All of us were on edge

So lunch was not pleasant. Driving long hours confined can do that. I left the others and walked along the pier. I wanted my water skis and my dad’s boat. I took a few snaps of the lake.

The rest of the trip was extremely boring. How much did I hate that red family truckster — that Ford Aardvark van? I tried sleeping, but whenever I woke, I had stiff cramps in my neck.

The terrain leveled off as we drove further into Utah. Trees became less common. The hills were barren. The area seemed lifeless. The towns were extremely poor and undeveloped. The sky grew overcast.

Would it rain, too, on such a day?

Around 4:30, we reached Salt Lake City, situated in a giant oasis surrounded by dark, treeless mountains. Was this clean city the nicest part of Utah?

The salt in the Great Salt Lake is eight times that of the ocean and almost completely dead of any living organism.

Why not take a dip in death?

The city was beautiful, clean, and quiet. The capital building was situated upon a cliff towering over the city. It was directly next to the Mormon Tabernacle Church — famous for its choir.

The Mom took an exit for tourist information. The place was closed. On a Sunday? In Salt Lake City? Why?

Where could we swim and test the famous buoyancy claim of the lake?

Stopping for gas and directions, I treated myself at 7-Eleven to a Super Big Gulp and a Babe Ruth bar. Dave got himself another Slurpee.

We had to travel fourteen miles out of the way — going west — on Route 80 towards Reno, Nevada to finally reach The Great Salt Lake. We found a makeshift parking place. Most of the license plates were out-of-staters. Other nuts, too, who wanted to swim in death.

Was this a beach or a torture zone? The rocks were hot and sharp — walking was intolerable. Would my feet recover? The water — if one could call the terrible greenish-colored stuff water — had tiny organisms surrounding me. What is worse than gross?

The stench of salt was overwhelming. It made me sick. For some reason, Dave followed me.

“This is awful,” he said.

We could actually taste the salt. I was a tenderized chicken cutlet. We did, somehow, summon the courage to lay on our backs. We floated easily. Then — a quick dash out of the water, harming only our feet with the stones, and then the burning hot sand.

On the drive through Salt Lake City, Dave and I noticed our skin was covered with salt. Could we fill an entire shaker? Yes? And enough salt to cover a family feast of corn-on-the-cob.

Where was the nearest shower?

Half an hour later, we stopped in Provo, Utah

The campground was nice with lovely showers. The Mom made tuna casserole and corn for dinner. I cleaned up while The Mom and Noelle took showers. Dave read, and I listened to The Doors — especially “The End” several times because it felt like that.

Later that night, two campers across the dirt street partied until late. They were hicksters, playing horrible country music — not the type of good country I love like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. They drove loud motorcycles around the campground like it was an autocross speedway. They pranced around with tattooed women and chugging beers.

Was my East Coast New Jersey snobbiness showing again?

But what really pissed me off. No one invited me to join! It looked quite decadent and some of those women looked nice.

PS: I don’t think they were Mormons.