I be right back, Mumma,” 2-year-old Coulter told my wife the other day. He slipped on his yellow SpongeBob sandals and marched toward the front door. “I goin’ for a walk in my mountains.”

We had spent most of the prior week in Yellowstone National Park, and the headstrong toddler’s eyes had been glued to the Oquirrh Mountains ever since our return. We followed him onto the porch where he stood staring at the ridges, no doubt wondering which peak to tackle.

We know our boy too well not to take him seriously when he puts his mind to something. Had we let him go his way, he would have continued until he reached the Oquirrh foothills, no matter the difficulty. He was disappointed when we told him he must wait for one of us to go with him.

The wind cruelly snatched from his sails, Coulter trudged back inside. As the hours passed, we frequently heard him muttering, “gotta get in those mountains.”

Looking to continue my study of the northern Oquirrhs, my thoughts were also focused on the towering mountains. Scanning from north to south, I realized that I view them with the same sense of child-like wonder that Coulter does. Like Coulter, I am irresistibly drawn to mountains. And from spring to fall, the western slopes of the northern Oquirrhs are especially inviting.

Though I have lived in Tooele County for several years now, I still consider myself in many ways an outsider. I’ve spent most of my life looking at the range’s eastern slopes, which are dominated by the Kennecott smelter complex and mine. As impressive as the mine pit is — its depth, color, and geometry truly amaze — the operation and its massive tailings piles tend to overshadow the many beauties of the range’s eastern half.

In contrast, the western slopes of the Oquirrhs are imposing and loaded with uniquely articulated features. In a desert region where beauty is often subtle, the in-your-face splendor of the northernmost section especially seems almost hypnotic. Individual mountains command attention to their distinctive elements.

The geologist looks to the Oquirrhs and sees the first full local mountain range inside the Basin & Range physiographic province — a curious stratigraphy of alternating limestone and quartzite layers.

The wildlife biologist sees a vast ecosystem — a de facto wildlife sanctuary, thanks in large part to Kennecott’s access-restricted holdings — containing mule deer, elk, and mountain lion.

The naturalist sees canyon networks lushly choked with Gambel oak and conifer-draped slopes that betray little evidence of human impact.

The historian sees a character-rich tapestry of events and figures — the heart of Utah’s mining history, intricate webs of forgotten trails, and secret canyon ghost towns.

I see a row of alpine sentinels, and between them deep canyons ripe for exploration. Look long enough, and like a daydreamer’s clouds, the Oquirrhs start to resemble things like Mayan pyramids, the islands in Jurassic Park, and Pride Rock from The Lion King.

Who knows what Coulter sees when he looks at the mountains? Adventure, probably — the thrill of the new and strange, or perhaps that innate and inexplicable comfort that mountains afford a Utah boy.

All he knew last Saturday is that he had to get in those mountains. And perhaps the most kid-friendly way to experience the Oquirrhs is a drive up Middle Canyon, where you can get a cost-free and accessible snapshot of the range as a whole. The canyon road crosses the entire width of the range, winding from Angel’s Grove just east of Tooele and climbing to 7,790-foot Butterfield Pass before becoming Butterfield Canyon Road and descending back down into the Salt Lake Valley. A person with time and gas money to spare could technically drive a figure-eight around the entire range via Butterfield Pass.

Middle Canyon provides numerous recreation opportunities. Aside from being Tooele County’s favorite autumn drive — the canyon’s fall-foliage offerings easily rival any other in the state — Middle Canyon is a hub of summertime activity ranging from picnicking to mountain biking to ATV riding.

I grabbed my keys and a backpack, and Coulter knew exactly what that meant. The euphoric toddler ran to open the van door.

“You bring your camera, Dad.”

My wife convinced me to bring his little sister along for the adventure. One-year-old Ella has what might aptly be called a “rugged spirit,” though she’s notably less enthusiastic about the outdoors than her older brothers.

We decided to hike the upper segment of the White Pine Loop Trail, which begins at Butterfield Pass and drops into White Pine Canyon. The 3.5-mile round-trip loop is popular mostly with mountain bikers, but the sections I’ve hiked are perfect for hiking as well. The segment from the pass begins as a wide, shady trail with striking views of the Tooele Valley below. With the hilariously un-amused Ella in my arms, I let Coulter lead the way so he could investigate side trails and stomp bugs at his own pace.

When I could see that the boy had hiked himself silly, we loaded up and made our way back down the canyon. The sun was about to set and the ATV dust was beginning to settle. Families were pitching their tents and stove flames flickered along the roadside pull offs. Ella drifted to sleep and Coulter, having finally satisfied his mountain fix, soon closed his eyes and joined her.

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.