It would be a quick, easy hike on an oft-traveled Uinta Mountains trail. That’s what dad and I told my sister in-law. So we should have known that Mother Nature would make sure it was anything but. After two days of chronic thunderstorms, we thought she might be done soaking our little family reunion. Turns out she was just revving up.

The third day’s blue skies were, for most of the family, a green light to finally break out the Red Vines and UNO cards. For dad and me, it was an excuse to ditch the manicured campground and escape into the Uinta backwoods. My little brother jumped at the opportunity to impress his new bride with a bit of outdoors savoir faire. I strapped my then 1-year old son, Coulter, to my back and we headed into the wild.

The sky waited until we were two miles out before rolling in the clouds and unleashing its fury in one of the most violent storms I’ve ever seen. The trail became a waterslide and the recesses beneath prominent Douglas firs, which usually make effective emergency shelters, were as drenched as anywhere else. To the giggling baby on my back, the forest must have been a big backyard and the rain just a massive sprinkler. There was simply no escaping the downfall. The rain itself might have been sufferable, were it not for the earsplitting thunder and closely synched lightning that seemed to be striking just yards away. We were now in full emergency mode — sitting ducks — over two miles from the closest road, with absolutely no refuge.

Fast forward to another scary moment in the Stansbury Mountains last spring. I was taking a pre-dawn run in South Willow Canyon, which was still closed for the winter. Given the time and season, I was quite possibly the only human being in the upper portion of the canyon. As I jogged past Cottonwood campground, a primal instinct stopped me dead in my tracks.

Though I saw nothing, an inexplicable, extrasensory feeling told me I was being watched. By what, I never knew, though I pictured a cougar stealthily tracking my every move. I continued, belting out U2 songs and kicking extra gravel with each foot drop. I was alone in the dark, and chances are whatever might have been watching me could have easily had me.

Clearly I survived to tell these stories, but that thunderstorm and those eyes watching me dealt me the same powerful message — one that all outdoorspeople need to hear from time to time: “tread carefully. You are no match for nature.”

While trapped by the electrical storm, we recounted the many lightning myths we’d heard over the years, trying to sort fact from fiction. Should we return to camp now or wait out the storm? Do we crouch or lie flat? Finally, we decided to separate and crouch near trees until the “electric” feeling passed.

According to Julie King of the National Forest Service, our first decision was wise, the second not so much. “If lightning strikes a tree, you can be affected.”

In fact, a study by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) concluded that being under a tree during a thunderstorm is the second largest cause of lightning-related casualties (the first being isolated in open space, the third being close to bodies of water).

In our situation, crouching in a low spot or a dry ditch might have been the best place to take refuge. “Basically,” King concluded, “you don’t want to be the highest point out there.”

There was no good solution to our particular dilemma. In fact, the frequency of storms that week should have made us think twice about hiking in the first place. And it wouldn’t have hurt to have memorized lightning safety tips. It’s a point King politely emphasized when I told her our story: “You know what they say, an ounce of prevention…”

An ounce of prevention might have had me on that mountain run an hour later or with a buddy. “You’re definitely in cougar country,” Scott Root, outreach manager for the Utah Division of Wildlife Services, told me (and he wasn’t talking about Provo). He was preparing to attend a meeting about cougar safety when I called. “Any place you have deer, you’re going to have cougars. They won’t be in packs, though,” he specified. “Unless it’s a mother with kittens, it’s usually a solitary individual.”

David Stoner, project leader of an ongoing cougar study for Utah State University, told me that the density of cougars in the Oquirrhs is about 2-3 adults per 40 square miles. Based on his research, he estimates that 25-35 adult cougars roam that range. About half that number calls the Stansburys home.

According to Stoner, cougars also occur in the Onaqui, Simpson, Sheeprock, and Deep Creek Mountains. “There are probably a few in the Cedar Mountains as well.”

So what are the odds of encountering a cougar in Tooele County’s major ranges? Root and Stoner agreed that those odds are pretty low. “If you do get a chance,” Stoner said, “Cherish it because it probably won’t happen again.”

Both also advised against behaving like prey. If you feel threatened, act aggressively toward the animal. “Never turn around and run away,” Stoner warned. “Keep the animal in sight.”

Though cougar encounters can be dangerous, they’re extremely rare, and no cougar-related deaths have ever been reported in the state. Both experts urged caution in heavily vegetated areas — especially during the dark hours. But both also reminded me not to discount smaller, but more common threats like rattlesnakes and biting insects.

Obviously, there’s more to outdoor safety than lightning and cougars. These were just two examples. An exhaustive guide to outdoor safety would fill volumes. My point? Recall the times where nature has put you in your place, and study those scenarios. Supplement the common sense wisdom already in your mental database, and always tread carefully.



Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.