A lone owl hooted over a backbeat of hypnotic cricket song. Despite spring runoff from the peaks above, the creek bed was bone dry. I jogged upward along the rubble-strewn dirt road, my path lit only by a full moon so bright that I could clearly read the label on my water bottle. A diaphanous layer of soft cloud drifted beneath the stars.

I shed my sweatshirt not far past the locked canyon gate, which ironically still sported its “closed for winter” sign. As I sped up, my louder footfalls startled a medium-sized animal in the trees to my left. Its abrupt dash toward the creek bed in turn triggered that “alone-in-the-dark” unease in me. The strange gulp of a rusted standpipe caught me off guard, and for a few moments I questioned the wisdom of a solo run in South Willow Canyon in the middle of the night.

I don’t run for pleasure. In fact it’s the one exercise I’ve never been able to enjoy. People who say they run because they’re addicted to it frankly make me sick. Though I’ve experienced hiking and biking versions of a runner’s high, running for me is ever-daunting and rarely rewarding. At least in the short term. But since I started running regularly last fall, the long-term benefits have proven the activity well worthwhile. And though I’ve gradually been able to up my speed and distance, I still dread it every time. Luckily, the summer brings with it the miracle of trail running. Adding adventure to the mix helps mask running’s bitter flavor and actually makes the experience sweet.

I decided to start the season off right with a pre-dawn mountain run. Because I would be running alone in the dark, I chose to avoid trails and run a road in a canyon I knew well. South Willow Canyon in the Stansbury Mountains has a moderate and steady uphill grade. A 4-mile round trip to the Boy Scout Campground and back would do the trick. As the canyon becomes a crowded all-night bazaar in the summer, the pre-season date and early hour would give me the opportunity to see it as I never have before — completely empty in the dark of night.

South Willow ranks high among the places in Tooele County that are especially meaningful to my wife and me. Early on in our marriage, when the stresses of newlywed finances and living in a Salt Lake slum were taking a huge psychological toll, we packed our meager supplies and drove west. South Willow Canyon proved to be the refuge we were seeking. Its Wasatch-esque beauty took us completely aback. We set up camp creekside at the Boy Scout Campground and didn’t leave for a week. Since that trip, the canyon has always been a favorite destination. It is there that our 6-year-old son Bridger’s “mountain gene” first expressed itself, and 2-year-old Coulter calls the canyon “my mountains.”

Thoughts of past trips brought a smile to my face as I ran in the cool air. I had started at 4:15 a.m. at the forest gate, running past the gurgling water pipes to a small weir where the burgeoning mountain creek disappears through a grate and into an underground piping system. The creek ran higher and swifter with spring runoff, and its fresh gushing sound was a welcome addition along the lonely road.

I carried an LED lantern but I didn’t use it, preferring the moonlight and remembering the old Edward Abbey adage about flashlights: “If I switch it on my eyes adapt to it and I can see only the small pool of light which it makes in front of me; I am isolated. Leaving the flashlight in my pocket where it belongs, I remain a part of the environment I walk through and my vision, though limited, has no sharp or definite boundary.”

Just above the Intake Campground at 6,320 feet and 1.5 miles into the run, a vehicle’s headlights formed a growing ball of light as it rounded the corner toward me. I turned on my lantern to make myself known, and its driver waved as he passed. I realized he must have come from the guard station just ahead. The moon fell as I completed the uphill half of my run and turned around. Soon the crickets were silent and the gushing creek was the only detectable sound. I turned into the Intake Campground and followed the steep road down to the creek. I laid on my back on top of a picnic table to watch the last of the stars fade.

I followed the creek for a while, then scampered back up to the road as the first diffused rays of sun penetrated the canyon. I jogged toward Cottonwood Campground, rejuvenated by the downhill grade and birdsong, which had joined the rushing water in a cheerful sunrise chorus. A wild turkey stood in the road ahead of me. She scuttled up the hillside when I passed. Just before I reached my car, my Blackberry got its bearings and began buzzing with the day’s first work e-mails. Since I’m unaccustomed to such early activity, the rest of the day would be spent in a delirious stupor. But my pre-dawn run was well worth it.

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.