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Show SSj MaDonimitafiim rA ?li0 by Nan Chalat Keep Brown's Canyon clean To some people the Brown's Canyon Road probably seems like a tedious drive through a barren wasteland of monotonous sagebrush and not much else. To them it is little more than a necessary evil which lies between Park City and an afternoon of sailing at Rockport or a weekend in the Uintas. They are the same people who are now quite surprised about the commotion over locating the new Summit County landfill somewhere along that strip of no man's land. To be honest, I've cursed that drive through Brown's Canyon a few times myself. I've crossed it twice a day for seven years now and there have been times when I wished a giant wrinkle would swallow up those rolling hills and shorten the distance between Park City and the valley. But those days have been far outnumbered by the times I've been grateful for that scenic solitary commute over the open range. Over the years, I've watched Park City change, and I've seen some of the same inevitable growth in the valley but Brown's Canyon, except for the natural evolution of the seasons, has remained the same. In the winter, I can count on the snow to blow across the two-lane highway confounding the county's efforts to keep it clear for the growing number of valley-to-Park City commuters. But after navigating through the narrow, winding gulch near Peoa, I can also count on a spectacular view of the Wasatch Moutains, from the summit of Brown's Canyon. During the winter I cross the pass just as the first light of dawn reaches the mountains. The east faces of Deer Valley, Park City and ParkWest all take on a rosy hue, leaving the western slopes veiled in purple shadows. Often the moon is still up and a cloud or two rests on the peaks. From Brown's, all of those infamous back-country bowls look like a strand of pearls along the Wasatch ridgeline. on moonlit nights the drive home from the turnoff on Highway 40 to the river bridge is illuminated by a soft, blue light reflecting off the snow-covered hills. A few times I've turned off my headlights and driven by the light of the moon feeling like a stealthy night creature. But under the new moon, I drive slowly, using my brights to watch for deer browsing by the side of the road. I've counted as many as 15 deer on the road in a single night and changed lanes more than once to pass slow-moving porcupines. Spring for me begins the first morning that I can roll down my window for the drive across Brown's. The sweet smell of sage fills the car, potguts scamper across the faded eenterline and an industrious beaver drags small stalks of aspen across the highway to a temporary pond of snow melt. Overhead, hawks soar on the thermals and flocks of herons, geese and cranes migrate northward toward the freshwater lakes and streams in the mountains. In the summer the quiet hills come alive with activity The sheep return from the west desert, camps are set up in the meadows, cows are turned out to pasture and Brown's Canyon once again becomes the domain of the cowboy. I believe a dump located on Brown's Pass would change all this. And I know I am right because I have driven past the landfill on Highway 248 just as often. I've never seen a deer grazing anywhere near the current landfill. I've seen it smolder and have followed a trail of spilled garbage into town. I've listened to the city and the county debate over policing the dump and followed the endless stream of diesel-belching dump trucks lumbering toward the landfill turnoff. I don't want to follow them along Highway 40 and watch as they spill their load rounding the curves up to the summit. Brown's Canyon is one of the last vestiges of the Western frontier. Let's keep it that way. |