stamens. Blazing star (Mentzelia laevicaulis).
11 July, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Neither of us touches down—the second time in a week that we have both ridden Frank perfectly on the same day. We are jubilant. In case the bike-hubris gods are looking on, we try to look nonchalant. On the way down we stop to look at the trumpet-shaped blossoms of salmon gilia, and at the mullein stalks filling with yellow flowers (Verbascum thapsus). A light rain begins to fall. A marvelous scent rises from the dry, spent, yellow sweet clover, a pungent odor that like many other precious scents seems to rise out of childhood memory.
12 July, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Yesterday Scott and I came across our first salmon gilia of the year. This plant is a dead ringer for scarlet gilia except for its rich salmon-pink color. For several years I have thought of these two as separate gilias, plausible since Stan Welsh recognizes 25 species in Utah. But it turns out scarlet and salmon gilia are variations on a theme and both belong in Gilia aggregata. A couple of ecologists from Northern Arizona University recently discovered that the scarlet-colored phase is pollinated by hummingbirds and the salmon-colored phase is pollinated by hawk moths. The proportion of floral color depends on the proportion of pollinators. In the autumn, hummingbirds often migrate to lower altitudes or southward and the gilias may begin to produce more salmon-colored flowers to attract the remaining hawkmoths. Attracting two pollinators is not a bad strategy in a fickle world.
17 July, Great Western Trail, South Fork of the Provo River
Today we cross the Provo River to explore the section of the trail that winds up a canyon on the east side of Cascade Mountain. It’s seven a.m. and overcast when we start up Provo Canyon, eight a.m. and drizzling when we reach the trailhead several miles up the South Fork of the Provo River. It’s a cool and beautiful climb up to Big Springs. Along the spring banks stand masses of yellow monkey-flower (Mimulus guttatus), expanses of white geraniums (Geranium richardsonii), stretches of purple and aptly named monkshood (Aconitum columbianum), and rivers of yellow columbine (Aquilegia flavescens).
We look up at the snow-capped crest of Provo Peak. We breathe deeply, stand silent.
From the springs, the trail climbs more steeply. Sam points ahead. Five wild turkeys (Meleagris gallopavo) rise tentatively from their pineneedle beds, stretch legs and wings and long necks, and slip into the woods. We continue the climb, grateful for our extra-low “granny” gears. We suck the thin air deep into burning lungs, will trembling legs to push and pull us up one more climb, then another climb, and another. The trail wins, as it always does, and we stand down without having reached any specific destination. We are soaked, less from the intermittent light rain and more from the thick wet grasses that have crowded the trail. After an easy ride down the canyon, four-and-a-half hours after setting out, we are home again. Wet, tired, and jubilant.
19 July, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Showy milkweed (Asclepias speciosa) all over the place. The flowers are thick with milkweed bugs (Oncopeltus fasciatus), bright red-orange copulation machines dedicated to turning the world’s biomass into insects. These bugs have few predators, since their diet is comprised entirely of the poisonous milkweed plants. The same holds true for the monarch butterfly, whose larvae feed on milkweed. Oddly enough, this summer’s grasshoppers are eating milkweeds. They seem to avoid the leaves and stems, focusing on the flowers. We suspect this is because the rather meager crop of yellow sweet clover has been eaten to the ground. Sheep, on the other hand, are not so smart and will eat the whole plant. A couple of pounds of showy milkweed will kill a full-sized ewe. Symptoms of milkweed poisoning include wheezing, labored breathing, and “recumbence”—similar to the symptoms induced by riding up Frank.
In Hindu mythology, Soma, one of the most important Vedic gods, is a personification of the soma milkweed. This plant contains a milky sap from which a world-class, euphoria-inducing intoxicant is derived. Indra created the universe under its influence and placed Earth and sky in their proper positions. I gotta say, milkweeds are among my favorite plants. What else do you know that has the potential both to kill sheep and set the world right?
21 July, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Sitting in my lab thinking about last night’s ride. We snaked through a group of maybe forty riders of all ages waiting at a starting line to race up the lower part of our trail. No kidding—starter’s pistol, entrant numbers, staggered starts, age classes—the whole deal. This spectacle poses at least two dilemmas for me. First, although this is not my trail, as I ride through the sea of expensive bikes and colorful Lycra butts I feel like saying, “Hey, we’ve been riding this trail for many years in all seasons, even in snow over our shoes—long before any of you had the foggiest idea about mountain bikes, let alone about this place. Move the hell over and let two old men pass.”
A second more urgent issue is brought home by the human population counter sitting behind my computer, ticking off the growth of the human race on Planet Earth. I had this two-foot-long electronic counter built a few years ago to remind me of what I think is the central issue of our time. As I sit here, the counter reads 6,047,086,034…6,047,086,035…6,047,086,036—in just over one second. Correcting for death, we add about 2.6 new persons to the Earth each second—relentlessly. That’s about 156 new people per minute, more than 9000 per hour, nearly a quarter of a million per day and more than 80 million per year. Trouble is, all of them want to eat well, enjoy adequate housing, and ride the Great Western Trail.
22 July, Great Western Trail, Timpooneke to Provo Canyon
Just after eight a.m., Nancy drops us off at the Timpooneke Trail high in American Fork Canyon. We’ll ride the section of the Great Western Trail that circles Mount Timpanogos from north to west to south to east. It’s a high alpine singletrack, soft in places with pine needles, rocky in others. The one constant on the ride is the show put on by wildflowers: white Colorado columbine (Aquilegia coerulea), scarlet gilia that gives way to salmon and white, red paintbrush extruding lascivious fruiting tongues, tall green gentian (Frasera speciosa) that’s perennial for some years but dead after once flowering, showy larkspur, wild rose, sunflowers, yellow wallflowers, sego lily, mullein, white and pink geraniums, pale wild hollyhock, blue flax, fields of yellow daisies, masses of blue penstemon, and western coneflowers (Ratibida columnifera).
We have stopped to look more closely at some brilliant penstemons when Sam motions for me to look behind a rock. “Is it a blind snake?” I ask when I see the snake’s smooth reddish skin. “No,” Sam says, “it’s Utah’s only native boa constrictor, a rubber boa.” The boa slowly insinuates itself back into its hole.
“Look at the stump of a tail,” I say.
“They often present their tails as their heads in the face of danger,” Sam says. “Unlike most Utah politicians, this snake knows the difference.”
We’re well aware of the difference in our legs by the time we finish the ride five hours after we began. And the difference in our
