This past Saturday, Dave and I drove out to the shore of the Great Salt Lake. The whole area is a study in gorgeous desolation: a bizarre amalgamation of a long-forgotten Coney Island-esqe amusements, Soviet-style refineries, and blasted heaths. A plywood billboard, barely 10 feet tall declares that the Great Saltair is closed, but the beach is still open. A half a mile away at the deserted marina, boats float noiselessly in the harbor, heavy under snowy blankets. The wind whips over the shore, through the masts, and pulls the clouds down low over everything. But out there on Antelope Island, where you can just imagine the buffalo hunkered down in their giant herds for the winter, the sun is cutting through the dusk…

It feels like it's been winter forever. And while I can handle a strong winter, it's the intermittent sunny days — breaking 50°F at midday, only to plummet hours later into the low 20s, accompanied with freezing rain and snow — that really get me. I'm leaving next week for a trip to the coast, to Los Angeles, a trip that I seem to be making more and more often. Hopefully a little sun will tide me over 'til Utah decides it's done with all this blustery nonsense.