The far horizon

A lively recreational jewel

A flood of trivia

Great tales surrounding the lake

TODAY

Ecosystem under threat

Lake has impact on weather

Small island is a refuge for birds

Islands in the salt

Lake defines geology of northern Utah

Great Salt Lake timeline

THE FUTURE

Looking ahead

Lake pumps still waiting for flood

Myriad firms thrive off lake

Dike it, dye it, blow a hole in it

Is plan for lake great?

By Jose Luis Sanchez Jr.
Deseret News staff writer

      OGDEN BAY — There is magic enough in sitting on a boat miles out into the Great Salt Lake. Enveloped by sky and water, one feels as if in the center of an opal shot with silver and turquoise, lapis lazuli and gold.

Blue herons, cormorants and seagulls crowd tiny Landing Rocks, in Ogden Bay. The isle is one of several rookeries on the Great Salt Lake. Scott G. Winterton, Deseret News

      With the zzuuumm of the airboat stilled, the only sounds are the occasional cries of California gulls mixed with the chittering of smaller birds and the sighing of the breeze in the tall, golden marsh grass.
      Close your eyes, smell the salt and you might think yourself at sea. But reach over the side and plunge your arm into the water and you can just about touch the bottom.
      Even here in Ogden Bay, three miles from shore. It's weird, but if need be, you could walk to shore. As far as the eye can see, there is no one here but us.
      In a moment, we will be on our way to Landing Rocks, a prosaic enough name for a tiny island so seldom visited it might as well be a myth, like Avalon or Cythera, the island of love.
      The boat sweeps forward, prompting an occasional grebe to run on the water before us on its wide, webbed feet.
      From a distance, the island looks like a jumble of logs from a ruined dock sticking up from the nearly still waters. Then the birds come. First the California seagulls, raucous and blinding white against the bright blue sky, the edges of their wings translucent in the sunlight. More magic.
      A few black cormorants also come over to check us out, and one or two enormously dignified blue herons.
      As we come closer to the island, we see what looks like the tip of a drowned mountain, the jagged strata of stone all sticking up at a 45 degree angle.
      There are birds everywhere, on the island and in the air all around us. Our guide, Don Paul of the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources, estimated there are between 1,000 to 1,500 nesting pairs on the island, which measures no more than a quarter of an acre. Through the binoculars, we see there are young in some of the nests.
      One of the herons sweeps majestically into the air, like a dowager throwing a stole round her shoulders.
      In this tightly packed bird city, the heron is king. The tall, blue-gray birds perch regally on their impossibly thin legs atop the summits of the rocks. Call them the bird equivalent of Tom Wolfe's "social X-rays" from "Bonfire of the Vanities."
      Below them, in the middle-class suburbs, as it were, reside the black cormorants, their long, sinuous necks whipping about like serpents. And the gulls, the most numerous residents, live almost at water level.
      If the breeding herons seldom leave their nests unguarded, it's for a good reason, Paul said. The gulls are not above trampling through their neighbors' homes and dining on the young. Otherwise, it's a good place for the birds, far enough from shore to avoid disturbance but close enough to fly in for a fish meal from the fresh water bordering the lake.
      As we pulled away, the afternoon sun shone in our eyes, turning the silhouettes of the herons into bronze sculptures worthy of the courtyard of a Chinese emperor. Farewell, Cythera.