Utah Stories

Human remains—Native Americans, naked Mormons, or friends of dinosaurs?

Lin Ottinger is famous in the small town of Moab. Since 1960, he has owned and operated Lin Ottinger’s Rock Shop. The Moab Rock Shop is a combination store and museum can at once be seen as an authentic dedication to a love of geology and paleontology, and a tourists love it.

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Lin Ottinger’s Moab Rock Shop is a combination store and museum
Lin Ottinger is famous in the small town of Moab.  Since 1960, he has owned and operated Lin Ottinger’s Rock Shop. The Utah rock shop is a combination store and museum can at once be seen as an authentic dedication to a love of geology and paleontology. PHOTO: SOLOMA JADE SISCO 

Human remains are rock shop owner’s claim to fame 

Lin Ottinger is famous in the small town of Moab. 

Since 1960, he has owned and operated Lin Ottinger’s Rock Shop. The Moab Rock Shop is a combination store and museum can at once be seen as an authentic dedication to a love of geology and paleontology, and a tourists love it.

Lin has an odd sense of humor, with some of his statements, perhaps intended to be humorous, falling flat and nearly indiscernible to a young reporter.

Ottinger’s Rock Shop website quotes an article from 20 years ago that calls him a “rock hound,” but the Ottinger of 2019 brushes off his old age, claiming that he is not a rock hound, but “just a pebble pup.”

Aside from having been one of the pioneering guides in the canyon country around Moab in the 60s, and discovering a number of dinosaur bones, Ottinger has a 1971 find of human remains among his claims to local fame. The two human skeletons found by Ottinger at age 43—along with a then 11-year-old son—became fuel for creationists espousing beliefs of humans living alongside dinosaurs.

Moab Man (or Malachite Man)

The find became known as “Moab Man,” or “Malachite Man,” in reference to a green mineral that presumably lent its color to the bones.

The find is of interest to creationists because these skeletons were found in a level of rock that appears to indicate that humans were alive over 100 million years ago. The Old Earth creationists’ belief in this theory claimed that the skeletons were part of the Dakota Formation, a geologic formation approximately 94–113 million years old.

Lin Ottinger’s Moab Rock Shop is a combination store and museum Native Americans, naked Mormons, or friends of dinosaurs?

 Were the humans living alongside dinosaurs? John Marwitt, the archaeologist who initially investigated the find along with Ottinger, says no, that did not happen, and the Malachite Man discovery is not evidence of such. They say the sand immediately surrounding the skeletons was loose dirt rather than the compacted sandstone the geologic era is now known for. Hence, the human remains got there at a much later time. Beyond that, Ottinger and the scientists disagree on some specifics. 

Marwitt concluded that the remains were most likely of Native Americans, intentionally buried, while Ottinger concluded that they were of Mormons, unintentionally buried. Carbon dating done by a UCLA lab indicated that the bones were deposited anywhere from around 1700 to 1840 CE. Ottinger says that nearby uranium deposits interfered with the accuracy of the radiocarbon dating. “That carbon became radioactive. So when they tested it, it was like a new carbon out of the air, not even deteriorated. Only maybe 100, 50, or 30 years.” 

If his hypothesis of radioactive uranium interfering with the test results is true, then it would logically follow that the skeletons were actually older than what the lab reported, not more recent.

Ottinger says he found the skeletons near a large Native American hearth. “The hearth was there,” he claims, “and prehistoric people lived there, thousands of years ago. The hearth was at two different elevations close to each other.” 

Ottinger claims that the separated hearth artifacts indicated that an earthquake happened. “He probably was a Mormon, because all Mormons, when they went into mines, always carried a nude woman on their backs. They were both laying face down. An earthquake happened and shook them. He stood in front of her to protect her. A rock hit him and killed him. And then a rock fell on top of her and killed her. And so she fell down on top of him.” 

Ottinger stated more reasoning for why he thought the remains were not of Native Americans. “There wasn’t one chip of agate or rock, or tools made by humans. I screened the rock, collecting azurite. These were prehistoric tool people,” he insists.

 

“These people make it all up, that it was 2 million years ago, that it was 100 million years ago. But I know the truth — I spent time out there studying it.” — Lin Ottinger

 

Utah is home to all sorts of incredibly fascinating characters. Check them out … which ones are your favorites?

 

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  • The $7 Million Recruit: How NIL Changed College Athletics Forever

    In 2012, Jabari Parker, a top high school prospect and member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was facing his biggest decision to that point in his life: where to play college basketball. 

    Fans of BYU athletics hoped and perhaps prayed that Parker would pick the school owned by the church he was raised in. BYU was listed as one of his final choices. But he ultimately chose to spend his college years at Duke before attempting a career in the NBA. BYU fans were disappointed, but no one was truly surprised. Duke over BYU was the best choice for a young prospect in 2012. 

    A.J. Dybantsa.

    What changed between 2012 and 2024 when A.J. Dybantsa, the number one high school prospect, chose BYU over every other school? The answer is roughly $7 million dollars. That is what Dybantsa is reportedly making to play basketball at BYU. 

    The deal was supported by Utah Jazz owner Ryan Smith, who met multiple times with the Dybantsa family in multiple attempts to bring the young player to Provo. 

    According to Smith, he had no financial role in bringing Dybantsa to BYU, but the influence of Utah’s most famous billionaire acting as a “booster” or unofficial recruiter certainly swayed the decision.

    Prior to 2021, boosters acting as recruiters was taboo to the NCAA governing body. It was called improper recruiting. But in 2021, California began the modern era of NIL, or the ability of a college athlete to benefit from their name, image, or likeness, when they passed the “Fair Pay to Play Act.” 

    This new law gave college athletes in California the ability to benefit from their NIL, something that was banned in the rest of the country to that point. The NCAA saw that this law would create an unfair advantage for California schools that could now give young athletes the chance to make money off their talent and image while still in college. 

    The NCAA knew they needed to do something quickly, so they rushed through a policy that opened up NIL to all college athletes in the country, and it has been expanding and evolving over the last four years. 

    Grant Duff, who has coached at the University of Utah, Weber State University, and is now the defensive coordinator for Idaho State University, says, “The best part of NIL is that athletes have an opportunity to make good money. The downside comes with the free-for-all that money causes.”

    Dybantsa confers with BYU Head coach, Kevin Young.

    One of the biggest current examples of what a school can do when the boosters are willing to pay for success is Texas Tech University. From 2020-2024, Texas Tech had 34 wins, which works out to 6.8 wins per year with a low of 4 wins and high of 8. Then Texas Tech’s boosters got involved, led by Cody Campbell, an oil industry businessman and Chairman of the Texas Tech board. The football program was given 28 million dollars for NIL with a simple message attached to the large pile of money: Win. And win now. And win they did. 

    By signing NIL deals with athletes in the transfer portal, Texas Tech went from a middle-of-the-pack school in their conference to one of the top 12 teams in the country. They didn’t just win games in 2025, they made many of their opponents look like they didn’t belong on the same field, including the University of Utah and BYU twice. That is what money can buy.

    Continue reading and support independent Utah journalism with a purchase of Utah Stories (Digital + Print) or 3 month free trial (Digital).


  • Cottonwood Heights Corruption Allegations: A Case That Never Reached a Courtroom

    A year ago, we here at Utah Stories recorded a podcast episode that we never published. We were revisiting corruption allegations from ten years ago. We decided not to publish the video, so it sat there on YouTube for nearly 12 months.

    Then somehow the video was published. How? We are not sure, but once it got out there, the comments came pouring in.

    Dozens of viewers, then hundreds, supported the video with their comments on our examination of allegations of police misconduct in Cottonwood Heights. The video recounts how the Police Department was reported by business owners as focusing enforcement on customers of the former Canyon Inn bar. These allegations did not result in a publicly documented, full investigation by Utah’s Justice Department nor the FBI (at least to our knowledge). So why rehash the past?

    We believe the story of The Canyon Inn (and other area business owners) vs. CHPD and Cottonwood Heights Mayor Kelvin Cullimore raises questions about what can happen when allegations surface and do not move forward through a formal legal process with state or federal oversight.

    In 2012, Cottonwood Heights business owners at the mouth of the canyons began publicly objecting to police activity whereby up to seven cruisers were pulling over 711 and Canyon Inn bar customers on their busiest evenings.

    According to those accounts, drivers leaving the bar were frequently pulled over by police and were given DUI tickets, sometimes even after passing a sobriety examination. The volume and concentration of those stops led residents and business owners to complain about the “heavy-handed treatment” of CHPD toward motorists, especially in and around the Canyon Inn and neighboring 711, and eventually the Porcupine Pub.

    Customers responded in predictable ways. Some chose not to return and avoid the area. Others went to different establishments. Over time, the owner of the Canyon Inn, Jim Stojack, stated that his revenue declined by 70% and that he believed police activity near his business was the main contributing factor.

    Utah Stories reported on these concerns by conducting interviews; gathering video documentation provided by those involved; and making public records requests. Through our GRAMA requests, we reviewed DUI citations issued by the Cottonwood Heights Police Department and examined how those cases were resolved in Holladay Justice Court. During that period, we observed a higher number based on our review of DUI cases dismissed in court due to lack of evidence compared to other jurisdictions. One DUI attorney, Tyler Ayers, went on record saying that CHPD was issuing a high volume of DUI citations that were later dismissed.

    That observation raised questions about how cases were being documented and prosecuted. It did not, on its own, establish intent or misconduct, but it became part of a broader set of concerns raised by multiple sources.

    Continue reading and support independent Utah journalism with a purchase of Utah Stories (Digital + Print) or 3 month free trial (Digital).


  • Why Did Salt Lake City Tear Down Its Most Beautiful Buildings?

    If you go into the Utah State Archives and spend time with photographs from the late 1800s and early 1900s, you start to notice something that doesn’t line up with what exists today.

    Main Street looks cohesive. Not in a uniform way, but in a way that suggests the people building it shared an understanding of proportion, material, and permanence. Four-story buildings line the street—stone, brick, cast iron—each one detailed in ways that don’t feel incidental. Arched windows, carved stone, brickwork that changes pattern as it rises. Even the cast iron facades were designed to replicate masonry, not hide behind it.

    Then you go downtown and try to find those same buildings.

    Most of them are gone.

    Out of more than 400 buildings designed by Richard Kletting, over 300 have been torn down. That number alone reframes the conversation. Kletting designed the Utah State Capitol, the Saltair resort, commercial buildings, schools, churches, mansions—virtually every type of structure…

    Continue reading and support independent Utah journalism with a purchase of Utah Stories (Digital + Print) or 3 month free trial (Digital).


  • Inside Moab’s Political Divide: Land, Tourism, and the Future of Grand County, Utah

    In the late 1950s, Edward Abbey took a job as a park ranger at Arches National Monument, just outside Moab. What he found there, and what he watched happen to it, would shape the rest of his life. Roads were being cut into the canyon country. Cars were replacing foot traffic. The National Park Service, in the name of accessibility, was engineering a kind of industrialization of the wilderness he’d come to love. Abbey wrote about it in Desert Solitaire, published in 1968, and the anger in that book wasn’t abstract. It came from watching something specific be changed by people who either didn’t understand what they had or didn’t care.

    Grand County has long been the most reliably left-leaning county in the state, a fact that puts it in sharp contrast to nearly everything around it. To understand how that happened, and where things stand now, I spoke with longtime residents and politicians who’ve watched it from the inside, people who’ve served in local government and lived through the shifts firsthand.

    Robert Greenberg.

    Bob Greenberg came from New York in 1976, took a job at the community mental health center, and never left. He went on to chair the Grand County Democratic Party and serve on the county council. When he arrived, he said, “the Democratic Party was said to be able to meet in a phone booth” — and even then, its members were a contradictory bunch. Yellow Dog Democrats from the oil patch were fiscally conservative but surprisingly open socially, allowing different demographics to feel safe moving to the county. 

    “The town fathers were desperate to have new people come to town,” Greenberg recalls. “They just didn’t want the people who actually showed up. They wanted some other people.”

    What followed was a demographic shift nobody planned. The people who filled the gap left by the bust were river guides, federal agency workers, artists, and eventually waves of outdoor recreationists discovering that southeastern Utah was among the most spectacular landscapes on earth. Tourism ended up being the only economic development avenue that actually worked. Manufacturing never had the labor force or market access, sewing factories came and went. The people the tourist economy attracted tended to be younger, more outdoor-oriented, and more liberal.

    Kevin Walker.

    Kevin Walker, a former Grand County commissioner who moved here in 1990 for the landscape, puts the county’s diversity in context. “Moab [is] a pretty diverse place since, I think, at least the 1950s with the uranium mining boom,” he says. “So it’s not a typical Southern Utah town.” 

    Part of what makes Grand County distinct is self-reinforcing. Federal agencies like the Park Service, the Forest Service, the BLM, have large presences here and pull in a different demographic than surrounding counties. People looking to live in Southern Utah with certain values gravitate toward the place where those values already have a foothold. Over time, that critical mass has made Grand County what it is politically, while neighboring counties went in very different directions.

    The defining conflict in Grand County has always been over land.

    In the 1970s and 80s, it was extraction versus preservation in the starkest terms. County commissioners floated toxic waste incinerators. A plan emerged to site a high-level nuclear waste repository at the entrance to Canyonlands National Park. 

    “It really, really galvanized environmentalists everywhere, but particularly in Grand County,” Greenberg says. Activists put up signs at the park entrance, watched them get chainsawed down, and came back with steel reinforcement. That stubborn, physical, unglamorous persistence became part of the local political character.

    Continue reading and support independent Utah journalism with a purchase of Utah Stories (Digital + Print) or 3 month free trial (Digital).