Red Butte Creek (is) Running – spring 2025

By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally May 7, 2025. 

As promised, my final visit to Red Butte Creek for this series of blog posts was a bit different from usual. My last blog post considered how my education and my time in Utah thus far has helped me see the world around me differently, and since I have been spending time near Red Butte Creek, I have noticed where the many creeks in the Salt Lake City area are present—and where they are absent. Red Butte Creek meanders from the upper reaches of Red Butte Canyon, through campus and across town until it dumps into the Jordan River at the same point that Emigration and Parleys Creeks also join the Jordan. I’ve become a creek whisperer of sorts, constantly peering into storm drains, listening for rushing water and inspecting rows of trees in case they indicate a free-flowing creek coursing behind houses.

I embraced the final self-imposed duty to investigate the length of Red Butte Creek and set out on foot to run alongside the creek as it descends from its headwaters in the canyon until it eventually joins the Jordan River a few miles later. For several hours, I utilized human-created infrastructure (such as sidewalks, roads, culverts and small bridges) to glimpse, hear and sense the creek as I paralleled its route.

At the beginning of the run, the water rushed eagerly downstream, and I perched on a small wooden bridge spanning the creek in order to stick my left hand into the rushing, burbling water. As I wound my way through campus, I passed through Fort Douglas and found it fitting that the creek still winds its way through the lives of those on the U.S. Army base here; their predecessors dammed the creek to create a reservoir and restricted public use of the creek in the interest of having a reliable water supply for its soldiers.

After campus, I passed through the Yalecrest neighborhood and the Miller Bird Refuge and Nature Park, and found the creek was never far away. It was generally easy to tell where it was because I could hear it, see it or see the line of trees that indicated flowing water ran beneath.

As I headed west down Harvard Avenue and crossed over 1100 East, it became much more difficult to tell exactly where the creek was because it was now underground before it suddenly emerged in the human-designed water features of Liberty Park. After Liberty, I continued westward down 1300 South, catching not a hint or a whisper that there was a creek flowing underfoot and under the concrete and asphalt. I only knew I was still near the creek because I was following a route I’d made on my phone’s mapping app.

I did not see Red Butte Creek until I saw an image of it painted atop a sidewalk, about where W 1300 S and S 800 W intersect. A pair of bright blue squiggly lines were painted on two parallel sides of the sidewalk, accompanying me as I headed westward through the Glendale neighborhood, stopping to read a well-worn block of white text printed atop a square of the same bright blue paint: “This would be a good spot for a creek.” From earlier research on the Seven Canyons Trust website, I knew this was a visual campaign the Trust had employed a few years ago to educate creek neighbors about the hidden waters passing through their lives. I was now certain that I was on the right track, and up ahead, I could see an open expanse of sidewalk that led into a manicured garden area. As I approached, I could see that this was the Three Creeks Confluence area, a project completed in 2021 which “daylighted” the area where Red Butte, Parleys and Emigration creeks flow into the Jordan River. This confluence had previously been covered by concrete, but Seven Canyons Trust collaborated with Salt Lake City to unbury the creeks in the spot and create a public park complete with a fishing pier, play space, picnic tables, walking trails and a bridge spanning the Jordan River.

Walking to the edge of the one of the fishing piers at the confluence, I balanced on one of the large, rounded rocks lining the edge, pausing for a moment for ceremonial effect (and to gain my balance) and tilted forward to dunk my right hand into the water. After 7.4 miles, I had arrived at the remarkable spot where Red Butte Creek converged with the waters of the Jordan River. Along the way, I had seen significant changes in the creek across the neighborhoods, from the Yalecrest neighborhood where the creek was mostly free-flowing to the Glendale neighborhood where the creek was mostly silent, unseen and contained by concrete. My run traced aspects of political and social history across the Salt Lake Valley, moving clearly from the parts of the city where political and social pressure prioritized the free-flowing creek for enjoyment and beauty to the parts of the city where the same pressures forced the creek underground in the interest of industrial development and resource management. Efforts today to daylight the buried creeks are one tool that can combat the long-lasting legacy of these historical decisions.

Running along the creek showed me that I am far from the only person who enjoys the presence of Red Butte Creek. Human neighbors of the creek have squeezed chairs in alongside her banks, they have installed hammocks and swings above her riffles and they have trod faint paths into the underbrush, following their desire to be closer to the creek and witness her eager rush to join the Jordan River. Nonhuman neighbors probe the waters for their meals, they scurry to the water’s edge for a few refreshing gulps, and they drink deeply of her clear water to grow toward the sun.

Completing this run provided a fitting conclusion to my time writing this blog post series as the academic year winds down. My only regret is that I did not do this run sooner. My perception of the creek would have been enhanced by the knowledge of what terrain, neighborhoods and conditions the creek traverses before joining up with the Jordan. Yet, if I had done this as one of my first visits to “my” spot, I might not have cared enough about the creek for the running experience to have impacted me as it did. Red Butte Creek, whether free-flowing or buried, whether on campus or in Glendale, whether gushing or trickling, is now an integral part of my personal map of Salt Lake City, and I am grateful for the reminder that important environmental resources may be present even if we cannot see or perceive them easily.

Though I will not be writing about Red Butte Creek in the next academic year, I will be continuing to visit my spot, and I hope you will also continue to visit and dwell within your spot. Have a safe and fun summer—and I’ll see you in August! A special thanks to the Seven Canyons Trust for their maps that helped me design my run and for providing detailed information about Red Butte Creek and the Three Creeks Confluence park. I appreciate your hard work to daylight the creeks of the valley!

Sources consulted:

Larsen, L. (2021, July 7). Salt Lake City’s newest park is now open—See where three creeks meet on the west side. The Salt Lake Tribune. https://www.sltrib.com/news/2021/07/07/salt-lake-citys-newest/

Three Creeks Confluence. (n.d.). Seven Canyons Trust. https://sevencanyonstrust.org/three-creeks-confluence

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An illuminating sunrise – spring 2025

By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally posted on April 9, 2025 

Well, dear reader, I heeded my own advice from my last post and visited Red Butte Creek at a different time than I normally do. I woke up earlier than usual, cycled to campus covered in flashing bike lights and reflective gear and sat alongside Red Butte Creek as the sun rose from behind the Wasatch Mountains.

Heading into “my” site, I was surprised by how unfamiliar it was and how narrow my field of vision was since it was mostly confined to the soft, glowing circle of my headlamp. I walked into thorns I knew were there, I tripped on roots I’ve always stepped over and my helmeted head gently made the acquaintance of a low-slung branch that has been eagerly awaiting this introduction since I first began visiting. The creek was running wider and deeper than I’ve seen, a visible and audible result of the warmer temperatures of the last few days melting the snow high up in the creek’s drainage basin. The squirrels and the birds near the creek were quiet, with only a single song sparrow (Melospiza melodia) chirping after the sun had risen, but not before then.

I came away from my early morning visit with a smile on my face, appreciating how the beautiful colors of the sunrise unfolded slowly during my hour by the creek and feeling energized by watching this small corner of the world wake up.  With my headlamp now off as I left my spot, the bright sky made the world feel familiar again, and I no longer bumped into the various plant residents as I retreated.

The riparian (creekside) world along Red Butte Creek is not the only part of my world where I am seeing things differently. As I think about the onset of Earth Month and the many on-campus activities happening throughout, I recognize the value of such events since they bring attention to different facets of sustainability, the natural world, scientific research or the human experience that might not otherwise be seen. As I revise my scrawled list of potential fall classes in which to enroll, I recognize that the different classes I’ve already taken these last two semesters have helped me see environmental challenges and sustainability pathways with more nuance, context and criticism.

Perhaps most importantly, my continual seeing anew of the world around me forces me to see myself in a new way, as well: I am not quite the same student or local or global citizen that I was when I began my program in Environmental Humanities last August, and I am not sure how those aspects will change further by the time I graduate in  May 2026. As I imagine what Red Butte Creek will look like when the green growth sprouts, when the leaves burst forth, when the creatures reproduce and rear their young in earnest during the warm and abundant months, I imagine in what different way I will be sprouting, bursting forth with ideas and supporting my communities. I’m excited to see where this journey continues to take me.

I am not the only one who has been on a journey during this blog series—I hope that you’ve been following along with me. Hopefully, you’ve followed along by reading, but more importantly, by finding your equivalent Red Butte Creek spot. So to you, I ask: where is your own special outdoor spot? Have you read these posts wishing you could find your own outdoor space to dawdle around, to dwell within, to observe? Or maybe you’ve gone out and found your spot—was it surprising? Boring? Just okay? Or maybe you’ve kind of found a spot, kind of haven’t. Maybe you’re just starting to notice the non-human world around you more, even if you don’t have one special place you keep going back to. There’s no wrong answer. I just hope the changing season nudges you to spend a little more time outside.

As spring fully raises her greening head, we notice the chirps and trills of birds sailing through the air, we watch the crabgrass green and grow seemingly overnight, we inhale deeply when passing near flowering trees to drink in their sweet perfume. We may be noticing more changes in how the world looks around us, with many more greens and pastel-hued buds and flowers appearing. We may observe birds flitting around certain spots, perhaps foraging before returning to their nests and their young. We might be seeing our own pet cats and dogs shedding as temperatures trend upward.

Within our human world, we may notice a multiplying of folks commuting by bike, we might be eyeballing outdoor thermometers to determine when our seedlings ought to be planted into the ground and we may be caught unawares by the late evening hour since it is still light out. As we fully enter a new season, this may be the opportunity we have all been looking for to find our own Red Butte Creek spot, to think about changing our spot as our schedules race toward the summer and to take stock of the different ways we engage with the non-human world at different times of the year. For myself, I am planning a different sort of visit to Red Butte Creek for the finale in this school year’s series, so I hope you’ll accompany me on that journey in the next blog post.

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Learning to see a place – winter 2025

By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally posted on March 20, 2025

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/

 

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Benefits of nature journaling – winter 2024/2025

By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally posted on February 12, 2025 

Hello again, friends. As you may have noticed, a few of my posts here have featured an image of a page from my trusty journal, which I have been dragging to my creek-side haunt when I visit. With the many notebooks cluttering up my backpack, buried underneath a layer of ever-changing snack options, why would I also add the journaling supplies to the maelstrom?

I tend to go one hundred miles an hour in all that I do (except for actual vehicle driving), and keeping a watercolor journal provides a calming and interesting way for me to force myself to slow down, appreciate my environment and better observe what is happening around me. I am certainly not the only person who has discovered this hack; better writers and more observant people than I have used journals to record their experiences with the world around them, whether in their backyards or while exploring new countries.

Henry David Thoreau, a Massachusetts-based naturalist and popular essayist of the 19th century, observed many things about the plants, animals, landscapes and humans he encountered. He often jotted down the dates that plants first flowered in the springtime, also noting the presence of different birds. Two centuries later, climate scientists are reading Thoreau’s journals, not just to indulge in his flowery (pun intended) language describing plants and landscapes, but to see when different plants bloomed. Modern scientists are interested in comparing today’s first bloom dates with established records like those kept by Thoreau, and this comparison has enabled scientists to quantify the impacts of our changing climate on plant phenology (a technical phrase for describing plant development). A 2008 scientific paper compared 19th-century records of first bloom in Massachusetts, provided by Thoreau and botanist Alfred Hosmer’s journals, with observations made in 2004 through 2006. The research found that plants now flower seven days earlier, on average, than they did in Thoreau’s time. This is an important finding for scientists to better understand how these changes may impact the availability of food resources for pollinators who miss this earlier bloom time.

Before I get too lost in the weeds here (yes, pun intended), I want to emphasize the value of keeping records and keeping a journal. Due to Thoreau’s skills of observation and recordkeeping, scientists today can use that information to feed their 21st-century climate models to better approximate how our world is changing.

Our different journals may grow to contain drawings, doodles, words, lyrics, snapshots, voice memos, or pressed flowers, but most importantly, our journals capture what we know and experience. The journals of the past provide information that can be crucial to understanding what has been lost, what has been found or what has changed. Nobody alive today witnessed the sky-darkening, miles-long clouds of passenger pigeons passing overhead, yet we know the visual, auditory and air temperature effects of this phenomenon because people recorded this information in their journals. Our multisensory records of crazy summer wildfires may one day be interesting to someone living on a colder and wetter planet, for instance.

There is an expanding field of study into the “shifting baseline theory,” which explores this exact idea: my journals today document my world as I experienced it, the journals of my great-grandmother documented her world which was different—she may have seen those passenger pigeons! So, my baseline understanding and experience of what life in America is like in the 21st-century is different from Great-Grandma’s baseline from life in the 19th- and 20th-centuries.

Shifting baseline theory is such a fascinating field of study, and it reminds me of the importance of using intentional language in my journal. When I can, I specifically include the scientific and common names of the plants and animals that I encounter because the name may one day be as valuable as the observation itself. If we one day don’t have robins anymore, will that word remain in the English language? If deserts cease to exist, will that word still be known? Our journals capture what we may lose, but they also capture what emerges, what we create, what we discover.

As keepers of journals, we may like to imagine that our detailed (or inane) observations will one day be beneficial to future generations, but keeping such a journal provides real benefits to you and today. Journaling in a new or familiar location can encourage you to better observe and get to know your surroundings. You may realize that the chattering squirrel that greets you every time you step onto your back porch with your morning coffee is quieter, so she may be nesting. You may start to recognize the different plants comprising the brilliant leaves tapping at your work window, and you may learn their names as you observe their phenology. You might begin to eagerly await the seasonal return of your avian neighbors who stop by to gorge on insects. Many humans enjoy routine of some sort, and observing and journaling can be a low-cost, high-reward routine to adopt. Journaling by hand can prove particularly impactful as there are, of course, additional benefits to spending time off devices and outdoors; for more on this, visit my last blog post!

Below, the sound of my boots crunching through the snow.

Learning more about the places in which we spend time benefits us in several ways, including by connecting us to those landscapes and places. By developing a connection with a physical space, we can feel enriched and our lives can have more dimensions of meaning as we engage in community with other humans and the non-human world. Attachment to a place develops over time and can take years to fully realize, yet this is an important process that helps us establish our own identities and our identities in relation to the communities around us.

Why does this matter, though? Though we may not like to admit it, where we spend time shapes who we are, and as our worlds continue to be reshaped by development and the changing climate, we will want to really get to know a corner of the world well, to continue to visit, appreciate and understand that location and ourselves.

Will my observations of Red Butte Creek one day be helpful to scientists? I do not be-leaf so (pun intended), since my journal is jammed with irrelevant entries from all over the Salt Lake Valley, and my career successes are likely to be quite different from the erudite/reclusive Thoreau. I am confident that I will always enjoy looking back at these journal entries, for my notes show what I paid attention to, what critters paid attention to and what I was thinking and experiencing at this special spot. I urge you to join me in planting the seeds (pun intended) for a new practice of observing your world in a different way.

On a practical side, what should be included in a nature journal? It’s up to you! You can do a digital or analog journal, and you can include whatever you like in it: poems, article clippings, music lyrics, scientific observations, drawings, doodles, watercolors, pressed plants, voice memos, photographs, scientific papers and so much more. I enjoy including the weather conditions, temperatures, and time and date of my visit, since this helps me immediately step back into that moment when I re-read the journal entry. There are many online resources that can help you get started with your journal, and don’t forget there are benefits to going alone since you can observe more and perhaps be more present.

 

 

Works Consulted

Giuliani, M. V. (2003). Theory of Attachment and Place Attachment. In M. Bonnes, T. Lee, & M. Bonaiuto (Eds.), Psychological Theories for Environmental Issues (pp. 137–170). Aldershot. https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Maria-Vittoria-Giuliani/publication/216658528_Towards_an_Analysis_of_Mental_Representations_of_Attachment_to_the_Home/links/09e414fd4a8c436612000000/Towards-an-Analysis-of-Mental-Representations-of-Attachment-to-the-Home.pdf

Miller-Rushing, A. J., & Primack, R. B. (2008). Global Warming and Flowering Times in Thoreau’s Concord: A Community Perspective. Ecology, 89(2), 332–341.

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By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally posted on November 7, 2024

A new crop of U community members has joined the Salt Lake City campus, and people are settling into classwork, research and learning. I am one of these new arrivals on campus and in Salt Lake City. Hello! My name is Mara, and I am a new student in the university’s Environmental Humanities graduate program and the Sustainability Office’s communications graduate assistant. I’ve moved here from the East Coast and had never been to Utah before arriving in early August. I have been eagerly exploring the new physical, historical and scholarly landscapes in which I find myself, and some of my settling in has required very intentional effort. As part of this process, I will visit and re-visit an outdoor space on campus to informally study and genuinely appreciate an outdoor space that characterizes and surrounds campus. I encourage you to join me in adopting some of these practices by finding your own outdoor space on campus or at least read along as I document my process.

My inspiration for focusing this series of blog posts on this particular topic came from multiple sources: a desire to get off the computer and outside and be able to call it work, an interest in repeatedly engaging with an outdoor location, a hope that there would be some benefits from engaging in a form of “forest bathing” (read more about this in my next blog post!) and an intention to slow down amidst the busyness of being on campus. The outdoor spaces on the University of Utah’s Salt Lake City campus do not come in the form of acres of forested or undeveloped land, so I found an accessible and dynamic environment along the edges of Red Butte Creek. The creek passes through several parts of campus, but I first saw it when walking around the Fort Douglas part of campus. I spend much of my on-campus time in or near Fort Douglas, and though it’s not possible to see the creek itself from my building, I can see some of the trees that border the creek. The crowns and upper branches of the trees reach up from behind chain-link fences, and it was clear to me that Red Butte Creek traveled from high up in the Wasatch Mountains and downhill into Salt Lake City here.

I walked along the creek one sunny day at the beginning of October, looking for a spot to sit where I could hear the water and lounge among the trees and plants that grow in the riparian (creekside/riverside) zone bordering either side of the creek. I found my spot and settled in, happily sitting in the dappled sunlight for an hour.

During that time, I identified a few species of trees and plants, caught sight and sound of a few winged visitors (both bird and bug!) and appreciated the constant burble of flowing water. I did use my phone, but differently than how I usually do when I am on campus—this time, I was using the Merlin Bird ID app and the Seek organism identification app to help me identify the organisms I was near. I focused on the bird calls, the gentle splashing of the water and the occasional whispers of wind through leaves. As time passed, I paid less attention to the sounds of vehicle traffic and more attention to the water, wind and bird songs. I practiced breathing slowly and deeply. I practiced focusing on what I could see and smell and hear right around me. I practiced being present and engaged in this opportunity to slow down during my busy, on-campus day.

I really enjoyed my time spent sitting near the creek, admiring it in its early autumnal splendor and beauty. Some of the leaves had changed to brilliant yellows, yet most of the leaves were still bright greens. I thought about who and what was upstream from where I sat, and I thought about who and what was downstream from where I sat. I was thinking of the waterways in my past that I’ve known, and I was thinking of this creek and other yet-unknown waterways in my future that I will know.

I haven’t been higher along Red Butte Creek than my chosen spot, and I haven’t even made it up to the Red Butte Garden (yet!), which sits very close by and just above my spot. I haven’t hiked up into Red Butte Canyon, and if I do make it there one day, that will be exciting. For now, I am happy to see and visit my little spot which is located right about where the creek exits the canyon. I hope to learn more about how the creek shapes and is shaped by its biotic (living) and abiotic (non-living) inhabitants and neighbors, the Wasatch Front, the University of Utah community, the Salt Lake City community and the Great Salt Lake.

Just after I visited Red Butte Creek, I researched the creek to learn more about its significance to the region and its inhabitants. I learned it is a small creek that emerges from Red Butte Canyon, which is one of the smallest canyons on the Wasatch Front and is located between Emigration and City Creek Canyons. Red Butte Creek exists because water runoff from an area of approximately 11 square miles runs downhill and collects in the creek, which moves and drains to the west as it heads downhill, through and out of Red Butte Canyon. Red Butte Creek is 10.6 miles long and descends from higher-elevation semi-forested uplands to lower-elevation grasslands. The creek eventually passes through Red Butte Reservoir, Red Butte Gardens and the University of Utah campus before joining the Jordan River and flowing into the Great Salt Lake.

For the last 3.3 miles of its length, the creek is not aboveground as it is before and on the U’s campus, but it is buried underneath concrete. Though “buried” under concrete, the creek does still flow—but instead of winding creek banks of soil and plants, the creek quickly moves through concrete channels, allowing it to be controlled and used as a drinking water source for us human inhabitants of the Salt Lake Valley. Red Butte Creek is not the only creek to be treated and used this way. City Creek, Emigration Creek, Parley’s Creek, Mill Creek, Big Cottonwood Creek and Little Cottonwood Creek have all been buried at some point along their route, usually when they’ve reached the urban areas of the Salt Lake Valley. I live near Mill Creek and have seen places where that creek flows freely, where it flows in a concrete channel past houses and where it seems to vanish underground. Knowing that Red Butte Creek is buried in the same manner as Mill Creek, I can better appreciate my ability to sit alongside Red Butte Creek while it is still freely flowing and unburied.

The upper reaches of Red Butte Creek and Canyon are designated as a U.S. Forest Service Research Natural Area (RNA). RNAs are designated because the area’s unique characteristics are thought worthy of special protection and focused scientific research. The unique characteristics of Red Butte Creek are its proximity to an urban area and the fact that much of the creek above Red Butte Reservoir flows freely through mostly undeveloped land. (Undeveloped land here refers to land that has mostly trees, plants and rocks/soil on it rather than human-built infrastructure like roads, buildings, irrigation systems, etc.) It seems that the RNA designation was created so studies researching human impacts on landscape could be completed. This means that Red Butte Creek and Canyon were seen by the U.S. Forest Service as little-impacted by humans, but whether this is completely accurate remains somewhat unknowable since the Indigenous use and knowledge of the creek and canyon were not readily recorded by the Latter-day Saints when they moved into the region two centuries ago, and access to Indigenous knowledge and history by non-Indigenous communities is not always granted. Obviously, Red Butte Canyon and Creek had names and histories attributed to them before the Latter-day Saints arrived, but the resources I consulted did not have much information on how the members of whom we today call the Ute, Paiute, Goshute and Shoshone people would have described or interacted with and used this place. I did find one resource that described a Goshute-language name for the creek, but it was cited as being included in a book published in 1913 and I could not find additional information to corroborate or challenge this information. (Please note that the ethics and processes of learning and gathering Indigenous names for land features has changed over the past several decades, so this information may not be considered correct or reliable by modern standards and is why I have omitted it here.)

Though Red Butte Canyon may not be as developed as other nearby canyons, it has still been significantly impacted by its human neighbors and residents. Indigenous communities likely used the water, plant and animal resources found within Red Butte Creek and Canyon, and like later communities using these resources, they may have manipulated the landscape through creek damming, controlled burns and selective harvesting. For about a century after the Latter-day Saints arrived in the region in the 1840s, sandstone was quarried from the canyon for construction projects, which significantly altered overall water quality and plant and animal life downstream; the quarrying also would have changed how people used that same water as a resource for human drinking water, industrial purposes or other functions. By the 1850s, cattle grazing and timber harvesting along the creek were common, further polluting downstream water quality. Beginning in 1862, the U.S. Army declared the creek a federally protected watershed and began taking steps to limit public use of the creek and canyon. The Army did this to provide clean drinking water to its soldiers stationed at Fort Douglas, and Red Butte Reservoir was constructed to better control the water supply.

Today, in 2024, the creek retains its RNA designation and is host to a range of ongoing research projects, and the Red Butte Reservoir still holds thousands of gallons of water above the University of Utah campus, but the water is not used exclusively for Fort Douglas’ drinking water. The reservoir is now home to June sucker (scientific name: Chasmistes liorus), a funny-looking fish that is only found in Utah Lake and the lower reaches of its tributaries (the creeks and rivers that drain into the lake). The June sucker population was established within the Red Butte Reservoir as a “refuge population,” a population of this fish that could be used to assist in increasing the species’ numbers as many agencies worked to rescue the fish from its endangered species status. It seems the efforts are working as the June sucker is now classified as a threatened species, which is an improvement.

I learned much about Red Butte Creek from my computer-based research, but I anticipate that I will learn just as much by visiting in person and recording my own observations. I am excited to continue visiting this location, and I hope you’ll join me in finding your own place to visit, or by reading along as I document my own learning journeys. See you next time!

Works consulted:

A June Sucker History. (n.d.). June Sucker Recovery Implementation Program. https://junesuckerrecovery.org/history

Ehleringer, J. R., Arnow, L. A., Arnow, T., McNulty, I. B., McNulty, I. R., & Negus, N. C. (1992). Red Butte Canyon Research Natural Area: History, Flora, Geology, Climate, and Ecology. The Great Basin Naturalist, 52(2), 95–121.

Maffly, B. (2018, June 6). More than 30 years ago, all of Red Butte Canyon’s beavers were killed. Some Utah professors say now is the time to bring them back. The Salt Lake Tribune. https://www.sltrib.com/news/environment/2018/06/06/push-to-return-beavers-to-red-butte-canyon-picks-up-steam-but-some-worry-what-will-happen-to-popular-garden/

Red Butte Creek Profile. (2014, March 1). Seven Canyons Trust. https://sevencanyonstrust.org/blog/red-butte-creek

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By Mara Scallon, communications graduate assistant in the Sustainability Office, originally posted on December 10, 2024

Of the holiday songs I know, there is not (yet) a song written especially for members of collegiate communities that celebrates the end of the semester and the start of winter break. If there were, the song might include a line or two about the amount of time we all spend on the computer. This is especially true with the year-end and semester-end deadlines, virtual meetings due to weather and illness and the inevitable researching and shopping for holiday gifts.

A great way to address the semester-end hunching over your computer is to adjust your posture as you read this sentence (you’re welcome!) and consider venturing outside for a 20-minute break. You may protest, “But this paper is due tomorrow and it isn’t going to write itself!” Or, “This spreadsheet must be sent today!” Or, “These online deals on trail running gear will vanish!” With all of these urgent concerns, it seems foolish to trot outside for a break shorter than the newest episode of Dune: Prophecy. However, you will find the benefits of going outside extend far beyond the time actually spent out-of-doors; your eyes, brain and body systems and productivity will all thank you—let’s find out why. During this blog post, we are going to journey into the eyeball, reimagine our bedtime routines and forest bathe.

Eyes

Our eyes are more than just the windows to our souls. They are the organs that make sight possible. Simply put, for many of us light enters the eye through its clear surface and passes through the pupil (that black dot in the middle of our eye) to the inner eye. The colored ring outside the pupil is called the iris, and it is a muscle that contracts or expands to let more or less light into the inner eye. Inside the eye, a transparent lens focuses light onto the retina at the back of the eye, where the light energy is converted into a nerve signal that can be transported to and interpreted by the brain.

When we look at something up close, such as a snack of Cheez-Its or the screen of our phone, our eyeballs lengthen to bring the object into focus. Constantly focusing on something close to our eyes contributes to eye strain and tiredness, and we often blink a lot less when we focus intently on something. In my case, I end long days on the computer with red, dry eyes.

Lengthening our eyeballs for long periods of time can cause myopia, or nearsightedness, which causes distant objects to appear blurry. Myopia rates in children have reached “epidemic” proportions, according to the American Academy of Optometry and the American Academy of Ophthalmology. Yet current children are not the only ones to suffer from increased rates of myopia. More than half of American young adults the condition, and these increases are a result of more screen use and less time spent outdoors in childhood. Though myopia can be corrected with prescription eyeglasses and contact lenses, spending more time outside can help people of all ages to reduce eye strain.

Screens are everywhere now, from smartphones, watches and tablets to computers, car dashboards and televisions. Using any of these screens for prolonged periods of time can strain human eyes, especially when used for multiple hours each day, and most of us use multiple screens at once! (I have a laptop and desktop screen next to one another, my phone is face-up on the desk in front of me, and my smart watch encircles my left wrist.) To address the concerns about eye strain and myopia, the obvious and impractical solution is to get rid of all of the screens, but this doesn’t account for the educational, economic and social needs and realities of life in the 21st century.

However, reducing screen time is certainly possible, and there are creative ways to do that: my favorite is to brainstorm outlines and draft papers by using voice notes on my phone with voice-to-text technology (usually while walking outside!), and when that doesn’t do the trick, I physically write my papers using fun, glittery gel pens (also outside, weather allowing). Interrupting screen time can help to reduce eye strain as well, especially when using the 20-20-20 rule, where every 20 minutes you look at a distance 20 feet away for 20 seconds. This will help your eye muscles relax and you’ll blink more, which will soothe your eyes and help you avoid dry, unhappy, red eyes at the end of the day.

A more interesting way to stare at something 20 feet away for 20 seconds or more is to go outside! Leave the screens behind and go for a walk, sit on a bench or visit a garden outside your building. Children benefit from at least two hours outside each day, but adults of all ages need time outdoors, as the combination of looking further away from “near work” and seeing sunlight benefits everyone. Physical exercise outdoors is the dream for most eyeballs since you’ll look at things near and far, absorb vitamin D and be in a bright setting, thereby making for healthier eyes.

Brain & body systems

Our brains require a lot of energy to operate, and I think this is a reasonable trade for the incredible conscious and subconscious things that my brain does each and every day. I find that one of the best ways to aid my brain in being as healthy and helpful as it can be is to—you guessed it—spend some time outdoors and off my phone and computer. Doing so can help my brain tune into the rhythms of natural light, which I find helps me regulate my sleeping and waking cycles. Bright sunlight can also boost our mood and alertness during the day, and I find that an early-morning run helps me avoid screens in the first hour of being awake while (usually) giving me time in the sun to help my sleepy brain wake up and get ready for the day.

Later on, particularly after spending lots of time indoors, another walk or venture outdoors helps reorient my brain and body to the day’s progression. In today’s world, we have artificial lights in nearly every building and public space in which we spend time, so if I don’t go outdoors into natural light, my body can think it is later or earlier than it actually is. I’m sure we’ve all experienced this!  Getting a midday blast of bright sunlight or a day’s-end glimpse of twilight can synchronize my body’s production of melatonin, a hormone that regulates the body’s daily cycle (called its circadian rhythm). Having grown up and lived in New England for much of my life, I find this to be especially important during the long nights of late fall and winter, and I know getting outside each day has already helped me adjust to Utah’s own late-fall darkness.

As exposure to sunlight influences melatonin production, the blue light found in artificial lighting and screens can do the same. Blue light mimics bright sunlight, so our bodies slow down the production of melatonin, making us less likely to feel sleepy. Plus, our eyeballs don’t receive the same benefits they would from actual sunlight. I am a grumpy zombie if I don’t have a good, full night’s sleep, so I intentionally don’t use screens for an hour before going to bed, giving my body time to produce melatonin and ease into sleep-mode. It was really hard to train myself to put my phone down for an hour before bed, but I now find myself looking forward to my hour of meditation, reading a physical book and/or stretching before I turn off the lights.

To feel our best, we know that getting a good night’s sleep is important, but we also know that physical exercise is just as important. Scientists have repeatedly proven that physical activity is necessary for good mental, physical and emotional health. Scientists are beginning to better understand that there are many benefits associated with being outdoors without being super active. One way to do this is by engaging in “forest bathing,” which is based on a Japanese practice known as “Shinrin-Yoku.” To forest bathe, a person uses mindful walks through ancient woodland to reduce their stress and anxiety.

I am greatly simplifying the process of forest bathing, a centuries-old practice that has more recently gained relevance in our world of a million screens, and I encourage curious readers to seek out more on this exercise. A modified version of forest bathing has been seen as a low-cost, high-reward therapeutic activity in which most people can engage. Many of us lack access to “ancient woodlands” but many of us do have some sort of access to outdoor space. Going to that space and spending mindful, screen-free time thinking and being present within that space can be as simple as sitting in Red Butte Garden (free with your UCard!), walking slowly through Liberty Park’s many trees (including pines, ashes, cottonwoods and elms), or finding a quiet creek to sit beside (hello, Red Butte Creek!). Importantly, forest bathing is not an active process—participants should not be running, playing sports or walking the dog during this time. Instead, intentional reflection and mindful quiet are the objective.

This blog series began out of my personal desire to establish a modified forest bathing routine for myself on campus. When I am next to Red Butte Creek, I am intentionally observing the space and jotting down notes. I am usually sitting and looking around, alert and curious and seeing more than I anticipated. On my recent visit to my spot beside Red Butte Creek, I sat there for about an hour on November 21, around midday. A defensive fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) chattered ceaselessly at me from its safe perch in a high tree branch situated about twenty feet above the creek’s surface. Many of the leaves were still attached to the trees and shrubs at the site, ranging in color from a lively green to a crunchy brown, with all number of yellows in between. Oaks and box elders still clung to their leaves, but the bright yellow leaves of maples and willows had fallen and carpeted the ground. Much of my time at the site was spent listening to and watching the flowing water of the creek, and I found myself entering a meditative state when doing so. I zoned out and was not thinking about anything work- or class-related, which allowed me to observe the familiar site in a new way.

Below, an audio clip of the flowing water of Red Butte Creek, with the scolding of the fox squirrel audible beginning at 0:16.

 

Data from my smart watch later showed that the hour I spent at the site had a measurable impact on me, and the watch declared that I was more relaxed for that hour than I had been before and after my creekside visit. This makes sense because my body would have been tense or alert during my walk alongside the traffic on Chipeta Way. My watch could tell I was more relaxed in the middle of my workday when I was near Red Butte Creek, but I also recognized and noted some of these changes in my on-site journal entry: a clearer mind, slower and deeper breaths, a steady heart rate and a calmness from listening to flowing water.

Scientists are increasingly interested in the plants in places like Red Butte Creek because they contain a specific compound called volatile organic compounds (VOCs). VOCs are chemical compounds that are produced both by plants and by human-made products like paints. Plants use VOCs in a few different ways, like defending against insects, attracting pollinators and communicating with other plants. Recent research is showing that humans may benefit from those plant VOCs when we spend time outdoors, and they may positively affect our bodies by helping to boost our immune systems, reduce blood pressure, decrease inflammation and improve mental clarity and mood. While I was happily listening to the flowing of Red Butte Creek, I was breathing in VOCs that may have been helping to put me into an even better mood while also making my body healthier.

Below, an audio clip of Red Butte Creek gurgling.

Productivity

Students and professionals alike can fear blank Word doc pages and its evil twin, the blinking cursor of doom. Mental blocks or other distractions may prevent anybody from writing, and while starting a paper or article can be intimidating, sometimes we lose steam later in the process. When I face this problem—and it happens more often than I’d care to admit— I do one of three things: I stare at the screen and hope the paper will write itself, I procrastinate by typing random characters using the keyboard (I’m looking at you, « ß Â § è W Ñ Ö · µ), or I head outside for a break. Sometimes, the latter takes the form of a short run, a bike ride or a neighborhood wander. Other times, it’s an entire day of skiing, hiking or birdwatching. Every time, I find it gives my brain and attitude a good reset.

Walking away from a project for a little time outside allows me to think about the project in the background (or even subconsciously) while I’m having fun, discovering my neighborhood or spending time with loved ones. Even with deadlines looming, if I find my mind wandering and I can’t focus, a 30-minute walk outside can be enough to help get me back on track, often with a new bit of energy or inspiration. Many influential authors and thinkers have long used a walk as an opportunity to think, solve a problem and allow their minds to wander, with fruitful and creative results. (You can check out Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust for a detailed exploration of this history.) Not all time outdoors needs to be active—minds can wander delightfully as one sits underneath a tree, putters around in a garden or watches clouds passing overhead from the porch—but the time outdoors will be more beneficial and provide more of a reset if there are no screens involved, even if that means taking the earbuds out or saving the phone call for later.

Anyone who knows me well is not surprised to know I am advocating for more time spent offline, and more time spent outdoors. For those just getting to know me (hi!), this serves as a bit of a spoiler for a theme that will appear in my future blog posts. I hope this brief exploration of the diverse health, mental and professional benefits associated with spending time outdoors inspires you to evaluate your own practices and try some of the things I’ve suggested. The long nights of winter are upon us, and I do not know your workload or other challenges, but I am sure you can find one outdoor space in which to linger or explore, even if you go just once a week. When I am on campus and in need of a break, you can find me alongside Red Butte Creek. If I am not there, I am integrating some of these ideas introduced here in my day-to-day and double-checking my posture (you’re welcome!).

 

Have you finished this blog post and are now wondering how I put some of these practices into play?

1. I developed the outline while on a six-mile trail run.
2. I interrupted the “eye” section several times to do some laundry, pack away a dried tent and walk around outside in hopes of finding the neighborhood quail family (Callipepla californica; no luck finding them). Writing this section had me imagining lots of eye strain, so don’t worry if you felt the same while reading it.
3. I visited Red Butte Creek during a stressful day and practiced breathing deeply while listening to the water flowing.
4. I wrote the productivity section after a half-day spent watching sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis) feeding near Utah Lake and after I had a quick soak in a hot spring.
   1. However, I did also type the following: « ß Â § è W Ñ Ö · µ
5. I wrote the brain and body systems section using voice-to-text technology embedded within Apple’s Notes app on my phone while I paced up and down my driveway at twilight.

 

Works consulted:

Blue light has a dark side. (2012, April 17). Harvard Health Publishing. https://www.health.harvard.edu/staying-healthy/blue-light-has-a-dark-side

Brodkey, F. D. (2022, July 21). Sense of sight. MedLine Plus Medical Encyclopedia. https://medlineplus.gov/ency/imagepages/8687.htm

Godoy, M. (Director). (2024, September 17). Want to protect your kids’ eyes from myopia? Get them to play outside [Broadcast]. In Morning Edition. NPR. https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2024/05/13/1250555639/kids-eyesight-myopia-near-sighted-nearsightedness-outdoor-play

Li, Q. (2010). Effect of forest bathing trips on human immune function. Environmental Health and Preventive Medicine, 15(1), 9–17. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12199-008-0068-3

Lingham, G., Mackey, D. A., Lucas, R., & Seyhan, Y. (2020). How does spending time outdoors protect against myopia? A review. British Journal of Ophthalmology, 104(5). https://doi.org/10.1136/bjophthalmol-2019-314675

Popescu, A. (2021, November 14). Why staring at screens is making your eyeballs elongate – and how to stop it. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2021/nov/14/eyeballs-screens-vision-nearsightedness-myopia

Solnit, R. (2001). Wanderlust: A history of walking. Penguin Books.

Using the COROS HRV Index (replaced by Wellness Check). (2024, October 24). COROS Help Center. https://support.coros.com/hc/en-us/articles/4405739040276-Using-the-COROS-HRV-Index-replaced-by-Wellness-Check

Vivaldo, G., Masi, E., Taiti, C., Caldarelli, G., & Mancuso, S. (2017). The network of plants volatile organic compounds. Scientific Reports, 7(1), 11050. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-017-10975-x

Zhou, Q., Wang, J., Wu, Q., Chen, Z., & Wang, G. (2021). Seasonal dynamics of VOCs released from Cinnamomun camphora forests and the associated adjuvant therapy for geriatric hypertension. Industrial Crops and Products, 174, 114131. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.indcrop.2021.114131