Something has gone wrong with our health. Each generation appears sicker than the one before, despite spending more on medicine than any society in history. At the same time, trust in once-authoritative sources of health guidance has eroded as pharmaceutical advertising increasingly blurs the line between reporting and recommendation. This piece examines how lifestyle, food, and institutional incentives reshaped our understanding of health—and why reclaiming it may require more courage than another prescription.

Has this “soft-on-crime” approach resulted in safer streets?

SALT LAKE CITY — A decade has passed since former Utah Governor Gary Herbert signed a massive justice reform bill into law in hopes that the state could reduce its prison population and manage low-level offenders through rehabilitation programs instead of incarceration. Has this reinvestment resulted in lower crime and recidivism rates?

According to the Utah Department of Corrections, that landmark Justice Reinvestment Initiative aimed to “continue holding offenders accountable and securing our communities, but in a way that considers individual risks and treatment needs.”

Are communities really safer when mental health and substance use needs are addressed through programs administered outside prison walls? The idea was to treat criminals differently based on their mental health needs and backgrounds. But at least one retired Adult Probation and Parole Officer, believes this “soft-on-crime” approach hasn’t resulted in safer streets.

LOOKING BACK

State Senator Todd Weiler, in that legislative role since 2012, helped drive the passage of the Justice Reinvestment Initiative (JRI), a massive bill that enjoyed broad-based approval among state officials and the Legislature as a whole.

In November 2014, Weiler attended the national summit on the issue in San Diego, an event hosted by Pew Charitable Trusts. 

“I was very involved in it. We had a lot of high hopes,” Weiler, a Woods Cross Republican, said in a recent interview. “That was about the time we were finalizing plans for the new prison. And we actually said that because of JRI we don’t need as many beds because we’ll be incarcerating fewer people. So that new prison was designed with this idea.”

A key part of JRI dealt with adjusting sentencing for crimes related to addiction, dividing offenders into two basic groups: dangerous criminals who are a threat to society (that group goes to prison), and low-level offenders who get help kicking addictions through state-sponsored programs or private-sector rehabilitation.

“The ultimate goal was if we have an otherwise good person who got caught up in an addiction, and as a result committed crimes, they need to be punished for their crimes,” Weiler said. “It’s not that we’re going to overlook what they did, but we wanted to focus primarily on helping them overcome their addiction and [that means] getting them back to their job and their family.” 

Before JRI, low-level drug offenders with felonies would spend years in prison, which wreaked havoc with their lives and future prospects. Addressing the root cause of their theft and property crimes through supervision and treatment made sense. 

“We’re all imperfect people,” Weiler said. “So we want people working their jobs, paying their bills and raising their kids rather than sitting in jail and watching TV or playing cards.”

Before Alta was known for powder days and lift lines, it was a silver mining town clinging to the side of a narrow canyon. In the late 1800s, men lived at 8,000 feet, went underground each day, and endured winters that regularly buried buildings in snow. This past summer, that mining town resurfaced — literally — during construction at the Alta Ski Area.

To understand what Alta really looked like, you don’t begin with legend. You begin with its trash — and this time, that happened almost by accident.

Alta Ski Area was installing underground water reservoirs to support snowmaking. Because the project sits on Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest land, an archaeologist was required to monitor the excavation. No one expected the trench to produce much.

But, It did.

Artifacts began surfacing almost immediately. Enough that the Forest Service contacted the Utah State Historic Preservation Office for help. Lexi Little, who coordinates the Utah Cultural Site Stewardship Program, helped mobilize nearly 30 volunteers to assist with what quickly became a focused two-week excavation.

Winter deadlines were approaching. The pipes for the reservoirs had to go in the ground. There wasn’t time for a slow, extended dig.

“It was two weeks of digging in the dirt and helping figure out exactly what we were looking at,” Little said.

Most of the people screening soil weren’t professional archaeologists. They were trained stewards from around Utah — part of a statewide volunteer network that now approaches 500 people. They poured dirt through shaker screens, scanning for fragments that could piece together a town long buried.

“Archaeology is human trash,” Little explained. “Archaeologists are very into trash.”

Alta had left plenty behind.

https://youtu.be/hzIHzx3OGoo?si=dKcl2CEz-t6FZzYw

Victorian-style ceramics appeared first — the kind typically used in hotels. Medicine bottles followed. Ink bottles. Hand-blown glass. A porcelain doll’s foot surfaced from the soil, a small detail that shifted the mental image of the town. Families were here. Children were here. This wasn’t only a camp of miners.

The bottles helped establish time. Manufacturing details — whether glass was hand-blown or mold-made, whether a maker’s mark appeared on the base — allowed archaeologists to date many of the artifacts to the 1870s through the 1890s, when Alta was booming as a silver mining town.

“That gives you that range of dates for when Alta was really booming,” Little said.

One reusable soda bottle clearly stamped “Salt Lake City” connected the canyon to the valley economy below.

Then something unusual rolled out of a dirt pile.

A corked bottle. Intact. Liquid still inside.

our dogs has been our escape for the past twelve years. (If you don’t like dogs, take your kids, your bikes, your jeep, your UTV or ATV and have a blast. Just don’t bring your cats.

Sandwiched between Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, Moab has attracted international attention for its rare accessible beauty. We met a Parisian lady at the Hoodoo Hotel sitting in a hot tub under the stars. “I just love it here,” She told us. She jets from Paris to Moab to relax. 

When I spend time here, my asthma is at bay. We go on long walks, take in scenic vistas; the massive starlit night; no freeway noise, and less anxiety.

Last season, I had the pleasure of experiencing River rafting the Green and the Colorado Rivers with two of Moab’s most trusted river rafting companies: Navtec and Sheri Griffith. We took our kids down the Green River. Disneyland’s long lines for Splash Mountain have nothing on The Gates of Lodore’s whitewater rapids.

Like everyone who comes to Moab, I am a nature and quiet lover. Permeating our cities are noise, pollution, road rage and anxious vibes. Moab is a great escape. After covering Moab for more than 15 years, I’ve become aware how city-dwellers’ proclivities and priorities – with all of the best intentions – can destroy small, quaint places economically for working class families. 

In our last issue we profiled people who have made their lives in Helper, Utah. We pointed out how Helper and Carbon County only function due to the coal mining industry and hard-working class residents. Without capitalism, with its sometimes dirty, polluting and soul-sucking work, there would be no working class and family economic viability.

Perhaps it goes without saying that towns can’t function as tourist destinations without the risk taking of small entrepreneurs and family-operated businesses. So why am I saying it? Because there are fewer places than ever in Utah where families can afford to live. Moab is quickly becoming one of those unaffordable places. Homes here average $500K and there are an excess of properties in Moab costing more than $1 million.