The scent of summer, coconutty sweet sunscreen and deep-fried corn dogs fondly known as Pronto Pups, wafts through the air in the desert oasis of Veyo, a small resort town in Southern Utah. In the lush, green Crawdad Canyon, aptly named for the non-native species found in the warm waters of the Santa Clara River, temperatures are generally 10-15 degrees cooler than in nearby St. George, 17 miles to the south.

We'd spent the morning driving across southern Idaho's high desert, where miles of open country stretch beneath an endless sky. Sagebrush rolled past the windows in muted shades of green and silver, and the horizon seemed to breathe in slow motion.

The road narrowed. The horizon widened. Billboards, traffic, and the constant noise of modern life faded into the distance. In their place stood clusters of sagebrush scattered across the valley floor and, rising from the landscape like ancient guardians, enormous granite formations glowing beneath the Idaho sky.

The smell was unmistakable: rotten eggs, sulfur heavy and sticky in the air. We pulled off the narrow track, dust settling behind us like a curtain, and Dan popped the hood. Everything looked normal, yet the odor lingered. That’s when Tara pointed off to the right, where the ground cracked open like a secret waiting to be told.

Great Salt Lake Ariel Photo of Saltair Update: Great Saltair It’s remarkable, much like the lake itself, the story of Great Saltair seems to be shaped by forces bigger than any of us. Over the past ten years, since this article was originally written in 2013 for Summer of Salt: An Exploration of Great Salt Lake , the Great Saltair hasn’t been a quiet relic; it’s lived, breathed, rattled its walls with basslines, and even whispered secrets to the curious. Once you knew Saltair