The story of Moab’s off-road world isn’t just about machines. It’s about the people who have shaped this place — people like Dan Mick, who has spent a lifetime climbing impossible angles and helping others experience the wonder of the slickrock and the trails.

The project, known as Nordic Village, is expected to roll out over the next decade and represents one of the largest tourism developments in the valley’s history.

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.

Thousands showed up to protest. The decision may have already been made.

When thousands of Box Elder County residents packed the fairgrounds to protest the proposed 40,000-acre Stratos data center, they thought they were confronting the people in charge.

They weren’t.

The county commissioners stood at the front of the room, absorbing the anger, the frustration, the disbelief. They looked like decision-makers. But by their own account, they weren’t.

Because the decision may have already been made—long before the public ever showed up.

The Illusion of Authority

What happened at that meeting wasn’t civic engagement. It was something closer to theater.

No meaningful public comment. No real debate. No clear path for residents to influence the outcome. Just a room full of people reacting to a project that, structurally, may already be locked in.

Why?

Because the real authority doesn’t sit with Box Elder County.

It sits with the Utah Military Installation Development Authority.

Once MIDA designates a project area, the rules change. Local zoning can become irrelevant. Private land stays private. Water rights remain private. And the role of local government shifts from decision-maker to facilitator.

In plain terms: the county doesn’t decide if the project happens. It helps manage how it happens.

So when residents showed up demanding answers, they were asking the wrong people.

A Process That Skips the Public

That should concern anyone paying attention.

Because it flips the normal order of things. Instead of:

Proposal → Public input → Decision

We get:

Decision → Public meeting → Reaction

And by the time the public enters the room, the real levers of power have already been pulled.

So what exactly was that meeting?

If commissioners don’t have authority to stop the project, then the meeting wasn’t about deciding anything. It was about absorbing pressure. Managing optics. Creating the appearance of a process that had already moved on.

That’s not transparency. That’s choreography.

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