Original Essay written for Utah Lake Mosaic
by Laura Harper
(Photos courtesy of the author)
We bought a sailboat on a whim five summers ago. It was after a family reunion at Lake Powell, high on the pleasure of five days swimming in emerald green water, and wanting more. We stopped for lunch in Kanab, and my husband declared: “Let’s be a sailing family! Utah Lake is just right there. . .”
Despite zero maritime experience amongst us, it did not take much persuading: we were all on board (in a manner of speaking). Within days we had located a 26-foot McGregor for sale, and after a brief inspection—blue and white striped upholstery in the six-person cabin—cute! and with assurances from the owner that setup was easy and sailing a breeze, we were sold.
We chose a windless evening for our maiden voyage, wanting to get a feel for the vessel and the lake before throwing in the challenge of hoisting sails and learning the ropes. Utah Lake State Harbor is just a twelve minute straight shot from our house, and as we soon discovered, seldom busy. After a little first-timer maneuvering of the handsome blue and white McGregor down the steep ramp, we had her quayside and ready for loading.
And thus, the magic began.
There is nothing quite like the thrill of piling into a vessel, with drinks, pizza, no destination in mind except to point your prow away from land. The low-throttle hum of the engine as we made our way out of the harbor, nods and waves to a passing boater, fishermen on the harbor walls, the occasional kayakers and paddleboarders, knowing we were all experiencing that same indescribable relief—aah! Leaving it all behind!
Emily Dickinson captured it in these words:
Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea—
Past the houses, past the headlands
Into deep eternity!
Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?
Although it is landlocked, Utah Lake, being the third largest body of fresh water west of the Mississippi, has a surprising ocean-like expanse that takes my breath away. Passing the red and green buoys and shifting the engine into high gear (12 mph!), we moved fast enough to leave a wake and turned back to see the mountains from Nebo to Timpanogos stretched out in their dramatic peaks and folds, the deep cut of canyons in shadow, the soft curves of the foothills. All thoughts of the day, the troubles of life and land, were instantly gone, gone! Swept away by the spread of the mountain horizons all around, the marshy tang of the breeze, the glint of sunlight on the water.
After a few minutes, half an hour, when we felt sufficiently far from everything, we cut the engine and threw the anchor overboard, enjoying the stillness of the air, the rock-rocking of the boat, the occasional gull flying low across the water. Some of us wanting to swim, dove in with a screech, grayish-green water silky to the touch. We laid out on the deck of the sailboat, drying off in the last of the warmth and then followed the pink glow of the sunset back to harbor as the air cooled and night descended.
We were hooked.
For the next two summers we rented a slip in the harbor, $500 from April to November. We took a couple of sailing lessons from Dale, a member of the Bonneville Lake Sailing Club faculty. He was patient and thorough, and gave us the confidence to go it alone. The Utah Lake wind report became my best friend. Anything 3-10 mph became an invitation to cruise down Center Street and put our novice sailing skills to the test.
I came to love that magical moment after we cut the engine, wrestled up the sails and found ourselves slicing silently through the water. We were under no illusions of breaking any records—our top speed under sail maxed out at 6 mph—but, there was a singular, focused, quiet excitement to moving by wind power alone.
One glorious afternoon we finally made it by wind power to the western shore of the lake and back again. One night we went for a full-moon sail, in which our 15-year-old son jumped deliriously from the stern into the black water, touched by lunar madness. We fished him out, laughing and sputtering. On the Fourth of July we decided to go watch the fireworks from the lake, not knowing that it was the middle of mayfly mating season. Within minutes of leaving the harbor we found ourselves, the sails, starboard and portside lights, covered in swarms of nonbiting but very annoying flying insects. The family escaped down into the cabin but my husband pushed onwards, thinking we might lose them as we got further from land. Quite the contrary, they only seemed to multiply, and we abandoned our fireworks viewing and headed back, watching from the cabin as Captain Dan valiantly steered the boat in, wearing a living coat of buzzing mayflies! We were all very grateful to him. . .
Twice we were almost caught in the infamous Utah Lake 8-foot waves. A mile from shore we saw a dusty haze gathering at the mouth of Spanish Fork canyon, the smell of sage-scented wind whipping white caps as it raced across the lake. We knew just enough to be scared, quickly dropping the sails, turning the engine to full throttle as we cruised to the harbor, willing ourselves to move faster. Both times we made it in just as the lake behind us started to churn and boil. One of the storms felled branches from the giant cottonwoods in the harbor park. Life on the water is full of reminders of the power of the elements, so pleasant and beguiling in one moment, hostile and potentially deadly the next. Mother Nature tolerates no fools, and we learned to practice respect.
Despite storms, mayflies, mosquitos, getting our keel stuck in the three-foot mud, silty waters—none of these could quell our enthusiasm for the natural beauty of Utah Lake. In those first three summers of sailing we were surprised, smitten, challenged, delighted, schooled, charmed. We were in Utah Lake love.
But unfortunately, a new chapter began two summers ago, when the algae bloomed in early summer and shut down the lake. Reports of a deadly cyanobacteria, fatal to humans and animals if ingested, took the wind out of our sails. We didn’t rent a slip. There was no McGregor bobbing patiently at Utah Lake harbor, waiting for a sunset sail at a moment’s notice. We trailered the boat a couple of times up to Deer Creek—stunning backdrop of Timpanogos, cold, clean water, but crowded and stressful on the slip, and difficult to have to hoist the heavy mast up and down. We spent a glorious overnight at Jordanelle. But, the effort of the recreational commute takes its toll. When cyanobacteria were reported again on Utah Lake early last summer, my enthusiasm for sailing took a dive. The McGregor did not even make it out of her winter wrap in 2018, but sat in storage gathering dust and leaves. Too much effort. . .
I have my eye on the lake for 2019, hopeful but cautious. If the algae bloom early again, it may be time to sell, but I don’t want to. I still haven’t made it to Bird Island, or to the southern-most shore where the apple orchards beckon! I am hopeful there will still be happy sailing times on Utah Lake for our family. Whatever the future holds, I am grateful for three years of glorious memories on the glistening expanse of silvery water that lies perpetually on the western horizon, calling my name to come and be with her. I am hopeful that her health will improve and we can again enjoy her vastness, her panoramic views, her ever-changing moods—tranquil, teasing, invigorating, wrathful, the birds flying overhead, flaming sunsets, fresh breezes rippling across the water. . .
Hopeful. . .
About the author: Laura Harper has lived in Utah Valley with her husband and four children and an assortment of dogs for going on thirty years.
