By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office

Utah’s got the Greatest Snow on Earth.

I don’t know this personally, as I haven’t yet been downhill skiing here, but there’s surely a reason that millions of people visit the state annually, contributing billions of dollars of spending to the state’s economy. The regional aridity creates low-moisture snow, the Great Salt Lake generates lake effect conditions, the iconic Wasatch terrain forces air and snow up and over the range and the complexly shaped snowflakes stick together to produce the light-density, dry snow that creates some of the world’s best winter sport conditions. It’s not a surprise that Salt Lake City hosted the Winter Olympics in 2002, is set to host them again in 2034, and is home to many world-class professional and amateur athletes.

I have friends who have been to Utah for the skiing, but that season is the only time they’ve visited. Their entire understanding of the state is based on visits to one type of (temporary) environment, and during a specific window of time, December to April. I certainly am no expert about Utah, but having now lived in the Salt Lake Valley for a total of six months, I have seen some of the seasonal changes that occur in this area. My most recent visit to my Red Butte Creek spot made this obvious and prompted me to think about how I would have missed out on an important appreciation and understanding of what my site is like throughout the year if I only visited in the winter or once a year. My past visits have been more or less the same, with superficial differences in the weather conditions and life stages of the critters and plants seen there: warmer one day, cooler the next, leaves on the trees, leaves on the ground, chattering squirrels and squawking magpies.

But this most recent visit—this was quite different. Temperatures were significantly colder, everything was coated in white and fluffy snow, animals were silent and my eyes constantly roved the area, enjoying the beauty of the sparkling snow. In past work as a science educator, I taught visitors to Interior Alaska about the many biomes (ecosystems) of the region, including the temporary subnivean environment. “Sub” means “beneath” and “nivean” means “of the snow,” so we are discussing the world that exists underneath the snow. Utah is home to subnivean biome as well, and it is created when several inches of snow provide an insulating layer on the ground that helps small mammals and birds regulate their body temperature, move through snow tunnels between food sources and hide from predators. Of course, predators such as foxes and owls have evolved fine senses of hearing which enable them to hear small mammals moving under the snow from many yards away, and smaller mammalian predators like short-tailed weasels have elongated body shapes that enable them to enter these small tunnels and prey on the smaller mammals moving therein.

Standing near Red Butte Creek, I thought about subnivean environments, recognizing that there was not a long-term version near the creek, since the snow would melt out in several days or hours. I thought about humans’ own nivean environments, and I thought of those visitors to Utah who only know the state during the skiing season: they don’t know the slopes, the trees, the plants and animals in the same way as does a visitor coming to the same mountains in the snow-free summertime. Visiting my site along Red Butte Creek as it was cloaked in fresh snow was a necessary reminder that a place does not always look the same throughout the year, or throughout time. This is obvious, but as I crunched around in the snow, saw clouds of my breath against the bright blue sky and listened in vain for the chattering fox squirrel that usually scolds me, I appreciated more deeply this insight.

This recognition provided a new take on an idea I’ve been mulling over throughout this entire series: the value in getting to know a place well and (perhaps) using nature journaling to track the seasonal changes of that place. I dove into this idea during my last blog post, and this most recent visit made it much more obvious that visiting my place requires going at much different times: during inclement weather, at night, or during different moon stages. Doing this will open up this site even more and demonstrate its complexity clearly, while making clear the different ways that other entities know the space: the squirrel knows “my” Red Butte Creek location in a way I never will, as do the magpies, as does the Oregon grape, as do the waters flowing downstream. I know “my” Red Butte Creek location differently in the snow, when I can hear vehicular traffic, when I have a limited amount of time to spend there.

As you’re visiting your own outdoor spot on campus, or as you’re moving through the landscapes of Utah in which you spend time, I encourage you to go when the weather is inclement, when it’s nighttime (and safe!), when the plant and animal communities are different from whatever is “typical.” Consider how else the area is perceived, used or manipulated; doing so will enhance your appreciation for that place!

Works Consulted

Greene, J. (2018, January 15). Wildlife In Winter & Climate Change. Wild About Utah. https://wildaboututah.org/wildlife-winter-climate-change/

Leaver, J. (2024). The Economic Contributions of Utah’s Ski Industry. University of Utah Kem C. Gardner Policy Institute. https://d36oiwf74r1rap.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/Ski-Industry-FS-May2024.pdf

Local Lexi. (2021, January 5). The History of “The Greatest Snow on Earth.” Ski Utah! https://www.skiutah.com/blog/authors/lexi/the-history-of-the-greatest-snow-on/