“Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky.” – Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens.
Books have a way of carrying us outside ourselves, placing us in worlds both foreign and familiar. Reading Where the Crawdads Sing brought me home in an unexpected way. It helped me recognize that I, too, can find a place of solitude and joy in Great Salt Lake. She is now a friend.
When I talk with friends and family about the lake, the first thing many mention is its smell, followed by memories of the past, often tinged with the sense that it’s no longer a place to go. But to me, that smell is proof of life. Proof she has not yet dried up.
In her shallow waters and wetlands, microbes break down dead algae, plants, and brine shrimp. As they recycle this organic matter, they release hydrogen sulfide, ammonia, and other gases, making nutrients available for everything from tiny invertebrates to towering cattails. This unseen process not only sustains the food web but also helps filter runoff from nearby cities and industries. Her wetlands improve water and air quality, supporting the health of communities along the Wasatch Front and beyond. As Owens writes, “Life decays and reeks and returns to the rotted duff; a poignant wallow of death begetting life.”
Photo from Ecoflight, Ogden Bay Waterfowl Management Area April 2024 Lake Level in April 25th, 2024: 4194 ft (Adverse Effects according to GSL Strike Team)
Great Salt Lake has long been a cradle of life, its wetlands serving as nurseries where new generations of birds, brine shrimp, and humans begin. The wetlands provide breeding grounds for avocets, grebes, and countless other species that return year after year, over thousands of miles, to nest. For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples, including the Shoshone, Goshute, Paiute, and Ute, relied on the wetlands of the Great Salt Lake. Their seasonal cycles followed the rhythms of the watershed — moving between valleys, foothills, and mountains — to hunt waterfowl, harvest plants, and gather brine fly pupae along the lake’s shores. The wetlands are not only a source of food but a foundation of cultural and spiritual life, embedded within a deep understanding of the lake’s cycles.
When Mormon settlers arrived in 1847, they looked out from Emigration Canyon and saw in the vast lake a place where their communities could take root. My own parents immigrated here, and I have chosen to remain in Salt Lake City to continue their legacy and one day raise children of my own. Today, as Utah’s population continues to grow, the same wetlands that sustained Indigenous peoples and settlers remain critical to sustaining us all. They filter pollutants from runoff, cleanse the air, and provide habitat that supports biodiversity on a hemispheric scale. The wetlands of the Great Salt Lake are not only nurseries for wildlife—they are also where families endure and generations carry forward.
Yet upstream water diversions have caused Great Salt Lake to lose around 75% of its water, disrupting these ecological processes that wetlands depend on. With lower water levels and rising salinity, brine shrimp populations begin to collapse, unraveling the microbial balance on which the entire food web depends. The loss of wetlands also removes critical natural buffers that filter water, store carbon, and moderate local climates. This is the air my neighbors breathe, and the air my own children will one day depend on. Their small lungs, still growing and more vulnerable, will bear the consequence of decisions made today. The collapse of the wetlands endangers not only the survival of birds and other wildlife, but also the health, safety, and long-term viability of human communities who depend on the Great Salt Lake’s stability for clean air, water, and livable futures.
