On March 4, in senseless acts of violence, Linda, my neighbor, and her niece Natalie Graves were murdered at the base of that mountain.

The murderer, on a road trip from Iowa, had been stranded in Wayne County after hitting an elk and totaling his truck. Broke and in need of a car, he first killed 86-year-old Margaret Oldroyd in nearby Lyman. The much-loved elder had the fatal luck to live at the edge of town, in the first house the murderer came to.

After killing Mrs. Oldroyd, he decided her Buick Regal was unsatisfactory. When he encountered Linda and Natalie setting out on a hike, he murdered them both, took their Subaru, and went on his way, leaving behind nothing but grief.

Using an app connected to the Subaru’s key fob, authorities tracked him for 400 miles to Pagosa Springs, Colorado, and arrested him the next day. His killings were brutal and senseless—and utterly random. Any of us could have been pulling into that trailhead.

Linda and her husband Alan retired here five years ago, to revel in this wild country surrounding Capitol Reef National Park. Natalie, 34, was visiting from Massachusetts.

The Deweys were the exceptional retirees who quickly became embedded in the community. Alan volunteered for Capitol Reef’s biologists, scouting for bighorn sheep and cougar. Linda, a spirited connector, ran yoga classes and helped found a public service group, Rural Voices of Utah.

Margaret Oldroyd was a connector, too. Hundreds attended her LDS funeral, both newcomers and the extended Mormon families who had known her throughout their lives, all honoring this kind “guardian at the edge of the town’s heart,” as her memorial card put it.

Neither Torrey nor Lyman numbers more than 300 people. I-70 is 35 miles away—with no services for 110 miles. The county has no stoplights. In 1940, 2,500 people lived in Wayne County’s 2,500 square miles. We’ve since added just 100 people.

Relationships among these scattered communities are tight but complicated. Legacy Mormon families dominate. Torrey is the anomaly, full of newcomers. The murderer struck all three county demographics: proud settlers, thrilled move-ins, and one joyful and awestruck visitor.

These violent acts by a stranger who knew nothing about these people or this place disrupted our sense of safety. As I grapple with raw sorrow, I try to imagine the flood of grief following a mass shooting or a community devastated by war. Unimaginable, we say. Now, I understand viscerally.

Even as we all were texting updates and talking in the aisles of the county’s sole grocery store, our community felt quiet, pulled inward.

Utah’s canyon country has always been a source of rejuvenation and connection for me—the kaleidoscope of rocks, raucous pinyon jays, the legacy of millennia of inhabitants. I picture these connections as a web of humming cables, vibrating through time in unique chords, leading outward to every being, every person, every influence. This vast bundle of life and existence whirrs continually, creating the comforting harmonic tone that defines this place.

There’s tension, sure, between the conservative politicians who rule the county and the conservation-oriented move-ins. But the violence that came unbidden eclipses our differences. We are leaning on each other in our loss. Maybe some of that solidarity will last.

Pink ribbons now encircle every post and sign as a gesture to our loss. As Tonya Moosman, who works at the grocery store, told a reporter: “When somebody asks where you’re from, you don’t say Bicknell or Loa. You say Wayne County. We are one community.”

In Navajo culture, such fracturing violence requires a ceremony to restore balance, to heal. For those of us who are not Native, we’ll need the powers of both land and community to get back to the reassurance and resonance of this place. 

The women we lost knew something of that power. The solidarity of the community after their deaths amplifies that power. We’ll be looking for ways to reconnect with everything that makes this place special, as this place—our place—helps us to heal what a heedless man has broken.

Utah writer and photographer Stephen Trimble is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent non-profit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. His book, The Capitol Reef Reader, is a tribute to his home landscape.

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Such quiet is a rare gift. I haven’t been in Goodall’s Tanzanian rain forest, but recently shared Utah’s Capitol Reef National Park with a 25-year-old cousin visiting from urban America. Once in the canyons he kept pausing to say, “it’s so peaceful, so still.” He was astonished and renewed by that quiet.

This canyon country stillness is under attack. The assaults come in waves powered by motorized vehicles, engines revving.

First, the Trump administration proposes abandoning the 2023 Bureau of Land Management travel plan for Labyrinth Canyon. This 300,000-acre Utah wildland along the Green River just north of Canyonlands National Park is a gem—a fretwork of slickrock canyons along the river. Labyrinth preserves quiet for rafters, hikers, and bighorn sheep. No death-defying rapids here on this lazy, looping stretch easily paddled by families in canoes.

In a model compromise, the current Labyrinth plan maintains access to more than 800 miles of off-highway-vehicle (OHV) routes, closing only 317 miles to vehicles. In the surrounding Moab region, more than 4,000 miles of routes remain open. OHVs have plenty of room to roam.

But moderation is never enough for Utah politicians determined to motorize every inch of our public lands. They are pushing to reopen 141 miles of closed OHV routes at Labyrinth and hoping for even more. You can comment here before October 24.

In another backtrack on conservation in Utah, the administration has solicited bids for coal leasing on 48,000 acres of BLM land, much of it on and near the boundaries of national parks. The big views from Capitol Reef, Zion, and Bryce Canyon don’t stop at the park boundaries. Visitors, many from other countries, would be horrified by such industrialization of these world-class destinations. Rural Utah depends on these tourists to survive economically.

These are lands that even the conservative second Bush administration deemed unsuitable for mines. As Cory MacNulty, with the National Parks Conservation Association, said of the proposed leasing, “It’s absurd.”

Now the OHV battalions are threatening to overwhelm Capitol Reef National Park.

Utah Republican Senators Mike Lee and John Curtis introduced a bill on October 5 to open virtually every road in Capitol Reef to off-roaders. They claim that disabled Americans need this fundamental change to park policy, though even the park’s back roads are currently accessible by moderately high-clearance cars and trucks. There’s absolutely no need to permit noisy and destructive OHVs.

The senators’ second bill would potentially open other national parks to OHV use. Lee tried to pass nearly identical bills in 2021 and encountered a buzzsaw of resistance from national park advocates.

As retired Capitol Reef superintendent Sue Fritzke said, “OHVs would denigrate the very resources those sites have been set aside to protect, with increased dust and noise and impacts on wildlife, endangered species, and visitors.”

At each mile farther into remote corners of the park, off-highway vehicles become more problematic. Even though a majority of riders obey the rules, some will go off-road. They just will. Their vehicles are designed for this exact purpose. In Capitol Reef’s considerable backcountry—as in all underfunded national parks and monuments— staffing does not allow for constant patrolling to apprehend and ticket wrongdoers.

Capitol Reef is a place to slow down, not speed up. To revel in quiet, not reach for earplugs. To share the healing land with tenderness and restraint.

Lee disrespects national park values with these twin bills, and Curtis, who likes to tout his nature sensitivity on hikes with constituents, should know better. Their misguided proposals should be left to wither in committee and die. Those of us who love the restorative peace of national parks will just keep fighting such regressive bills.

In her last interview, Jane Goodall asked us to never give up: “Without hope, we fall into apathy and do nothing. If people don’t have hope, we’re doomed. Let’s fight to the very end.”

We will.

Stephen Trimble is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a writer and photographer in Utah.

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