by Clint Thomsen

GUEST COLUMNIST

I wasn't raised in Tooele County, but I got here as soon as I could. I'm often reminded of the many reasons I relocated here. The most recent occasion was last Friday, when I spent 20 solid minutes on a ramp waiting to get onto I-15 from I-215. Rush hour is always grueling, but it's especially maddening for somebody who rarely experiences it. My sanity hung on two very comforting thoughts: First, this is a phenomenon that does not occur in my county, and second, I'll be spending tomorrow in one of my favorite places, far from this freeway.

Ophir is a small town nestled high in the southern Oquirrhs and steeped in history -- a mountain treasure whose clocks might as well have stopped a century ago. It's a place where the stars shine unobstructed at night and a tie in the city council's last election was settled by drawing lots. A mining-era icon and Old West relic, Ophir stands as a tribute to the rugged history of the county. Former Transcript-Bulletin correspondent Jaromy Jessop once called it "the town too tough to die."

"Are ghosts shadows?" asked my 4-year-old son, Weston, as we turned southeast onto SR-73 just south of Stockton. "Actually, West," 6-year-old Bridger said, beating me to the punch with his own explanation, "Ghost are the spirits inside people and that's who live in ghost towns."

Though Ophir has a handful of full- and part-time residents living in modern houses, it's listed in many publications as an official ghost town. My boys must have heard me refer to it as a "living" ghost town -- never completely abandoned, but still a shadow of its former self. Indeed, when you compare Ophir's 1870 peak population of 6,000 with today's head count of several dozen, the ghost town label is fitting.

We turned onto the small road that leads to Ophir and passed a group of 10 mule deer that seemed unconcerned by our presence. The rough desert fauna became softer and more lush as we wound our way up the quiet canyon and back in time.

The outdoors is best experienced when viewed through the prism of history and culture. The pioneers who mapped the frontier weren't carefree peak baggers, and the miners who carved a living from dark caves didn't do it for fun. For the most part, nature was less a tourist attraction than a backdrop for a life driven by the struggle to survive. The trials that early settlers endured forged a robust culture that still permeates our mindset today.

Every town has a story, and Ophir's is unique. Small mines in the canyon were tapped in the early 1860s, after rumors of Indian rifle slugs made of lead and silver led Gen. Patrick Edward Connor's California Volunteers to the area. The mining camp hit its boom in 1870 and the town of Ophir rose, deriving its name from Old Testament stories of King Solomon's famed gold mine. Ophir's lucrative mines led many fortune seekers to the collection of stores, saloons, and hotels that lined its narrow Main Street. The boom lasted only a decade, and the town's residents petered out as time went by.

In recent years, Ophir's residents have restored some of the original buildings and homes, creating the Ophir Historic District. I spoke with Sharon St. Clair and her husband, Ed, who was born and raised there. Though he and Sharon live in Tooele, they return to Ophir every weekend, as Sharon put it, "to get our souls in order."

"It's some kind of spiritual vortex up there," she said. "I know that sounds dumb, but there's just a wonderful feeling of peace up there."

We drove to the end of the plowed road, then fastened on snow shoes and hiked farther into the forest. This road meanders for about three more miles, crossing a stream several times before branching out into smaller trails. We stopped many times along the way to let the boys throw snowballs and do belly flops into the soft drifts. We hiked back into town just as the sun began to set.

With its weathered buildings surrounded by snow-frocked evergreens, Ophir in winter reminds me of the Christmas town on top of my grandma's piano. The modern houses are quaint and blend near seamlessly with the many charming original structures. A string of old ore cars lines a rickety part of rusted track near the old mine entrance and venerable edifices like the old town hall stand against an almost overwhelming backdrop of giant staircase-like mountains.

The boys drifted off as I drove back down the canyon, passing the same group of deer. It was the perfect cure for a stressful week, and a perfect December outing.

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.