west by northwest (by midwest)

Finally, a wheatpaste campaign I can get behind: Free rides on TRAX (SLC light rail) during dreaded “red air days.”

But the more I think about it, the more this campaign feels typical of the car-oriented culture here in Utah: public transportation as a last resort. If more residents rode TRAX (or biked, walked, took buses) in the first place, then SLC could reduce pollution before the air reaches red-alert levels. Why wait until a public health emergency to finally make public transport affordable, attractive and feasible?

That is not necessarily a critique—more an observation of how deeply ingrained car culture really is here. After all, knowing how far to push an issue is half the battle, and there is very little political will in Utah to sacrifice pickup trucks and SUVs for the public good.

I have not left my apartment in days. Venturing outside means diving into the thick, toxic soup of the inversion.

In the few minutes it took to snap these photos from a balcony in my building, the familiar metallic taste crept across my tongue like I was sucking on a dirty penny or licking blood from a wound. My sinus headache came back. My lungs still ache.

I ordered a stronger air filter Saturday delivery, so as of yesterday afternoon, I could breathe inside my apartment, but what happens when I leave for groceries? How long will I have to pace around indoors, hiding from the blue smog?  How long until a storm finally frightens it away?

And when the “clouds” finally leave, where, exactly, do they go?

Contrast the blue cityscape with the vivd brights close up.

By the afternoon, the same buildings looked like this:

The mountains act like the rim of a bowl, letting the toxic stew simmer in the valley:

At night, the inversion pulls a blue curtain across the mountains:

That bluish haze? Not clouds.

The dreaded inversions have returned. With the winter sun lower on the horizon, less warmth penetrates to the ground. Warm air higher up in the atmosphere acts like the seal on a bell jar, trapping cold air beneath it. Unfortunately, it also traps car exhaust, factory fumes, and other pollution until the smog thickens into a bluish soup.

Unless they sport gas masks or stay locked inside air-filtered homes, SLC residents have no choice but to breathe – and taste – that smog soup. The air feels and looks as though we live in a sealed garage, and someone has left the car idling. The air leaves a film on my teeth and skin. It tastes like a decaying tooth cap or sinus infection. It burns my eyes, throat, and lungs. It keeps me awake at night, light-headed and dizzy, even with an air filter running in the bedroom. I pace in front of the window and wait for a storm to blow the toxic “clouds” away. I stare at the vague outline of the mountains (barely visible now through the smog), wishing they would disappear for real. Poof! The mountains, you see, act like the rim of a bowl, holding in all the soup, preventing it from leaking and draining away.

I long for high winds and precipitation – even snow, which I despise – just to chase the “bad air” (as locals call it) away.

Yesterday on the news, a reporter referred to smog-induced lung inflammation as “pollution tickle.” The same reporter said he had seen far worse inversions and shrugged off the burning in his throat. That smog might look creepy, he said, but it is “really just what’s supposed to happen in the Wasatch Front” this time of year.

No.

While he is right that inversions occur naturally, he is wrong that they “should” result in toxic smog. Salt Lake City has simply made a choice to live this way. Inefficient, uninviting public transportation, combined with wide streets, long blocks, excessive parking lots, a car-based culture, and motorists hostile to pedestrians are not “natural.” It actually takes conscious planning (or conscious avoidance of good planning) to create a city this averse to changing its driving behavior.

I griped about the wide streets and long city blocks (660 feet compared to 200 feet in downtown Portland) to an acquaintance the other day, and she remarked how they go back to the plans created by Brigham Young. “They cannot change,” she said. “It is part of the religious plan.” She is not a Mormon, but she understands the significance.

“Yes,” I said. I knew that from my research into Salt Lake City planning. I also respect and admire the geometry and precision of it—how every inch of street and sidewalk can be measured in spiritual as well as geographic meaning. “But nobody can pretend the city currently follows the plan completely.”

Young envisioned gardens thriving in those large blocks, not giant parking lots. The wide streets? Those were designed for ox carts and covered wagons to turn around—an early nod to the u-turn. “The city has to be willing to acknowledge this”—I gestured to the toxic soup outside the window—“was not part of the plan, either.”

Just for comparison, here is a photo of my balcony view with actual clouds instead of smog:

As I think about this, I find myself once again comparing Salt Lake City to Portland.

Portland changed at such a rapid pace that by the time I left, it was nothing like when I first arrived nine years before. I occasionally check city blogs there to read up on new developments and public transportation routes. Even from afar, I can see how Portland has continued to evolve. Heck, evolve is not even the right word. “Evolution” suggests a slow place. Portland planning is more akin to a steamroller.

Here is SLC, change seems to happen at a glacial pace, and in part, that stems from the divine plans for the city grid and the deep spiritual significance. Of course, it also stems from the culture overall—more conservative, less ecologically focused, less biker and pedestrian-friendly, less obsessed with being “green.”

On the other hand, Portland could drive a person mad with the constant changes. It sometimes felt as though the city changed for the sake of it — with little regard for negative consequences such as long-time residents priced out of their homes. Near-constant protests crying for change leave many residents with hangovers and headaches, even if they initially sympathize with the politics.

Which is worse? Change so fast it leaves residents behind to breathe its dust? Or change so slow a city literally chokes on the lack of it?

On a side note, if you want to see how bad an inversion can really get, check out this photograph from Time Science: