Utah’s preliminary municipality law does things in a very different order.

It allows a small group of property owners to begin creating a town before there is much of a town at all. There may be no neighborhoods, no voters, and very few residents. Even so, the landowners can gain authority over decisions that would normally belong to a county, city, or town. That may sound like a narrow government issue, but it has become a big one in Wasatch County.

Two preliminary municipality applications submitted in Utah during 2026 involved property here. The proposals are known as Bear Canyon and Wasatch Highlands. Both have raised questions about development, housing, infrastructure and local control. The simplest version of the issue is this: Who should get to decide what gets built in Wasatch County?

I asked Wasatch County Manager Dustin Grabau to explain. Grabau is not arguing that Wasatch County should stop growing. That would be unrealistic. The county is already growing, and that growth is expected to continue. His concern is that the preliminary municipality process allows major decisions to be made before the people most affected by them have much of a voice.

“The difference with a preliminary municipality is that three or fewer landowners can start this process, and they are granted land-use authority before the town is incorporated,” Grabau said. “Elections would not be held until long after construction is complete and the town formally incorporates.” That is the part of the law that takes a minute to get your head around. A town can begin taking shape before the townspeople show up.

What exactly is a preliminary municipality?

The easiest way to picture it is as a town being built from the ground up, including its government. It is not yet a normal town with an elected mayor, council, and residents who vote. Instead, the landowners create a temporary governing structure while the property is being developed. That structure can make decisions about zoning, density and land use.

The law does include requirements. No more than three people or business entities may own the land. At least half of the area must be undeveloped. The owners must show that the future town is expected to reach at least 100 residents, and at least 10 percent of the planned housing must qualify as affordable under the law.

The application goes through the lieutenant governor’s office. State officials review whether it meets the legal standards, and a consultant prepares a feasibility study.

The study does not decide whether the project is a good fit for the area, whether the roads can handle it, whether the county’s general plan supports it or whether nearby residents like it. The study is mostly about money. It evaluates whether the future town can generate enough revenue to cover its operating costs. “It’s not a study on if or how the town would be built,” Grabau said.

That is an important distinction. The state is being asked whether the town could pay its bills if it does move forward. If the financial numbers work, the project can proceed through public hearings and the remaining incorporation process. Those hearings allow people to speak, but they do not work the same way a normal county land-use hearing would. Residents can object. County officials can raise concerns. Neither side has the power to vote the project down.

Why would the state create something like this?

The reason is housing. Utah has grown quickly, and home prices have climbed along with that growth. State lawmakers have spent years trying to find ways to build more homes. One of their arguments is that cities and counties make construction too difficult through zoning restrictions, long approval processes, and local opposition.

From that perspective, a preliminary municipality is a way around the bottleneck. The landowners do not have to rely entirely on the county’s existing planning process. They can create a future town and make many of the development decisions themselves. Supporters would say that means more homes, faster approvals, and less red tape.

Grabau understands what the Legislature is trying to accomplish. However, he does not believe these projects will solve the housing problem the way supporters suggest.

“There is a requirement for some affordable units,” he said. “But the idea that building several hundred more homes that will cost in excess of $1 million to construct will somehow become attainable to the general public is a farce.”

The wording is blunt, but the point is easy to understand. Building more homes is not always the same as building homes people can afford

Grabau said Wasatch County already has enough approved housing to accommodate the growth the state projects through 2060. He argues that the main problem is not a lack of permission to build. It is what developers choose to build once they have that permission. The most profitable homes are often the expensive ones. “No amount of building high-end homes helps those trying to take their first step on the housing ladder,” he said.

Why the county is worried

Wasatch County already has a growth plan. The county’s general plan looks at where development should go, how dense it should be, and what infrastructure will be needed. It takes into account roads, water, sewer capacity, wildfire risk, wildlife habitat, watersheds, emergency services, and the effect development will have on nearby communities.

I asked Grabau how the preliminary municipality process fits into that plan.

“It ignores it,” he said.

That answer says a lot in three words.

A preliminary municipality is not simply another development coming to the county for approval. It creates a separate government that can make decisions outside much of the county’s normal planning process. Both Bear Canyon and Wasatch Highlands involve land the county had planned for less intensive development. County officials have raised concerns about water, wildlife, watersheds, and infrastructure that was never designed for another large population center.

Developers would be responsible for much of the infrastructure inside their own project. But new residents do not stay inside the project boundary. They use regional roads. Their children attend schools. They call police, fire departments, and paramedics. They use water and sewer systems. Employees and customers travel in and out every day.

“Regional roads outside the project would have no means of funding improvements, potentially requiring county or city funding,” Grabau said.

The county’s concern is what happens when those protections meet the real world.

A company can be legally responsible for fixing a problem, but that does not help much if the company runs out of money. “When projects fail, companies go bankrupt, and there’s no one left standing but the local government to pick up the pieces,” Grabau said.

If a project stalled with unfinished roads, inadequate services, or major infrastructure problems, the county could be left choosing between letting the problems sit or using public money to fix them. From the county’s perspective, that’s a significant potential responsibility for a project it had no authority to approve.

There is another side to the argument.

People who own land have rights. The Government should not be able to make property essentially useless through endless delays and restrictions. Counties can also be frustrating to work with. Planning takes time. Public meetings can drag on. It is not unusual to hear people say they support more housing, followed immediately by a long explanation of why it should be built somewhere else.

That is the strongest case for the preliminary municipality law. It gives property owners another option when they believe local government is blocking reasonable development. The difficulty is that large developments do not affect only the person who owns the land. They affect traffic, water use, views, wildfire risk, and public services. One person’s property rights eventually run into someone else’s.

The normal planning process is supposed to work through those conflicts. It is not fast, and it is not always pleasant, but it gives the public a place in the process and puts the final decision in the hands of elected officials. Grabau believes this law pushes the balance too far toward the original landowners.

“The process usurps the balance by favoring a small number of private property rights—one to three people—by granting them the ability to ignore the impacts to and input of their neighbors, with no means of holding the decision-makers accountable,” he said.

His argument is not that landowners should have no say. It is that they should not be the only people with real power in the room.

Where Things Stand and What Happens Next

Bear Canyon was proposed near Sundance in Provo Canyon. The application initially moved forward, but the state later found that the proposed land did not meet Utah’s requirement that the property be geographically connected, halting the current application. The sponsors may still have a chance to fix the problem and submit a revised version. Wasatch Highlands has progressed further and is now in the feasibility-study stage.

Wasatch County opposes both the law and the level of development proposed in these areas, particularly because the process bypasses the county’s general plan. Grabau said the County Council intends to call for the law’s repeal. For residents who want to weigh in, the most important action may happen at the Utah Capitol. The county cannot repeal a state law or reject a project simply because local officials believe it is a bad idea.

At first, this looks like an argument about housing. It is really an argument about who gets to make decisions. Who decides where growth belongs? Who decides how much is too much? Who gets heard when a project affects roads, water, and public services? And who is responsible if the plan falls apart?

Grabau helped separate the issue from the political noise around it. His position is not that growth should stop or that private property rights do not matter. It is that decisions this large should involve the people who will have to live with them.

The preliminary municipality law may make development easier. The bigger question is whether it makes development wiser.

What gets lost in that is the human side of it. The people behind the nameplates. The learning curve. The responsibility that follows you home long after a meeting ends.

I recently sat down with Morgan Murdock and Scott Phillips, two people at very different points in their public service journeys. One is stepping into the role. The other is stepping back.

What stood out most was not policy or politics, but how personal the experience has been for both of them.

Stepping Into the Role.

For Morgan Murdock, the early weeks on Heber City Council have reinforced something he believed going in.

“The job isn’t about having all the answers,” he said. “It’s about how you show up.”

Murdock often talks about collaboration, not as a buzzword, but as something he sees as essential.

“I’m not an expert on every issue,” he explained. “But I really believe in bringing people together. The mayor, the council, city staff, the county, and neighboring communities. That’s how progress actually happens.”

That approach stood out during the council’s recent strategic retreat, where members worked to identify shared priorities and focus their efforts.

“It was exciting to sit down and say, okay, what really matters right now, and how do we move things forward,” he said.

At the same time, Murdock has been honest about the learning curve.

“It can feel like a firehose,” he admitted. “There are issues I’m still learning, and when you’re not fully prepared yet, that can make anyone uneasy.”

Rather than avoiding that discomfort, he has leaned into it.

“I’m putting in the time,” he said. “Reading, researching, asking questions. I want to be ready for those discussions.”

The Part People Do Not See.

There are aspects of Murdock’s life that residents would never learn from a campaign sign or brief biography.

While living in Hawaii, he once sailed from San Diego to the islands with his father and a small crew. It was a weeks-long trip across the open ocean with no land in sight.

“It was one of those experiences that stays with you,” he said. “You learn patience. You learn trust. And you learn pretty quickly how small you really are.”

He still speaks fondly of the time he and his wife lived in Hawaii, where they went to school and started their family. He has also spent more than three decades snowboarding in Park City.

Those experiences, he says, help keep him grounded.

When asked what he hopes someone feels after a brief interaction, maybe a quick conversation in the grocery store, his answer came without hesitation.

“I want people to feel like they were heard,” he said. “That they matter. That this is still a small town, even though it’s growing.”

He paused before adding, “It’s humbling. I don’t feel like I have all the answers. I feel honored to be there and to represent people.”

Looking Back.

Scott Phillips reflects on his time on City Council with the clarity that comes from experience.

One of the most demanding parts of the job, he said, was public engagement.

“What surprised me was how very smart people could hear the same message and walk away with completely different opinions,” he said. “That was really tiring at times.”

At the same time, those interactions were also the most rewarding.

“Dealing with the public was actually the best part,” Phillips said. “Understanding the why behind people’s concerns mattered to me.”

There were moments when the responsibility of the role became especially clear.

“One of the hardest issues we dealt with was ranked choice voting,” he said. “That’s when the weight of what we were doing really hit me.”

Lessons From the Campaign.

Phillips says his mayoral campaign offered a reminder of what drew him to public service in the first place.

“Knocking doors was my favorite part,” he said. “I loved it when people asked questions, even when they were challenging. I would much rather have that engagement than none at all.”

Those conversations helped reconnect him with the community beyond the council chamber.

“It brought me back to the people,” he said. “That’s why I ran.”

Away from city hall, Phillips shared something many residents might not know.

“I played college hockey,” he said with a laugh. “I started at Colorado State and later played at BYU before I got injured.”

When asked what he would tell himself before his first council meeting four years ago, his answer was thoughtful.

“I would say this is going to be hard,” he said. “Not just because of the issues, but because leadership is about working on who you are, not just trying to influence others.”

Different Chapters, Shared Commitment.

Murdock and Phillips find themselves at very different stages of public service.

One is just beginning. The other is reflecting on lessons learned.

Yet both describe the same underlying truth.

Local leadership is not about certainty or recognition. It is about listening when conversations are uncomfortable, showing up when the work is quiet, and caring enough about your community to keep trying.

In a town that continues to grow and change, those efforts often go unnoticed. But they matter.

They camped where the valley narrows toward Midway, near a river bend that still catches the morning light. Their fire hissed and snapped, green wood warming their hands as they talked of rendezvous, trade, and the promise of a good season. What went unsaid was clear: the valley carried something different in its bones. Clear creeks, plentiful beaver, mountains leaning in as if guarding a secret.

A storm blew in overnight, burying the world in silence. By morning, Provost found his traps sealed under ice. Eddie was gone, his rifle leaned against a stump, tracks fading into the white. Provost found him the next day beneath a pine, his traps stacked neatly as though he’d known he wouldn’t return. Folks say Provost built a small cairn before leaving. No one knows where it stood, but when the first winter wind rolls off the ridges, it’s easy to imagine iron on stone, echoing faintly across the years.

Two centuries later, that trapping legacy still threads through Heber Valley, carried by people whose work both differs from and echoes the old mountain men. Among them is Cameron Broadhead, a lifelong local who started down the trapping path long before he realized it.

He grew up knowing the backroads, fences, and bends in the creek before he could see over the dashboard. His dad worked as a taxidermist for nearly two decades, and Cameron spent his childhood helping—stretching hides, preparing birds, doing whatever was needed. “I never got paid,” he said, “but I picked it up fast. I just loved it.”

When he talks about his first real trapping seasons, there’s a spark in his voice. He and his brother started small, trapping bobcats and coyotes. “I didn’t think much of it at first,” he said. “It was just something fun to try.” But the first time he walked up on a live bobcat he’d successfully trapped, everything shifted. “It was beautiful,” he said. “One of the coolest things in the world. You set the trap, choose the bait, pick the spot—and then the animal chooses to step into the story you set.”

Utah’s bobcat season runs on a tight window—November 15 to March 15—and requires permits. Cameron bought three that first year, filled one, and learned everything he could from that single success.  In time, curiosity gave way to craft. He approached furs like a craftsman—patient, proud, and devoted to the small rituals that refine raw material: hair combed just right, hides prepped for the sale, every detail honoring the animal.

The fur sale he attends each year draws buyers from everywhere—even as far as Russia. “Sometimes I don’t want to sell them,” he admitted. “They’re just so neat looking.” And that’s when you see the connection between those early trappers and the ones walking these hills now: the work has changed, but the feeling hasn’t.

Here’s where the story shifts. For Provost, trapping was survival. For Cameron, it’s about stewardship.

In addition to trapping, Cameron has a full-time job. He doesn’t rely on pelts to feed his family. What he does rely on is the purpose behind the work. “I do it as population control,” he said. “To keep things in balance. Mountain lions. Coyotes. Raccoons. Badgers. Some animals you can let go. Some you can’t legally release. Every species is different, and the laws are there for a reason.”

He explained how modern traps work. Utah requires offset jaws, with a built-in gap to prevent injury. “I can take a female or a young bobcat out and let them go,” he said. “You hold them with a pole, free their paw, and they take off.” He laughed, remembering the old days of mountain-lion trapping, when releases were done by hand. “I’m surprised I still have my limbs.”

Utah law prohibits relocating nuisance species like raccoons, skunks, and rock chucks—part of a broader effort to prevent disease and protect property. “People don’t realize trapping isn’t about killing everything,” he said. “You have to be smart about it. It’s how you keep next year’s populations healthy.”

This is where modern trapping in Heber Valley steps directly into the footsteps of those early mountain men: it’s about balance. Coyotes move in cycles. Bobcats follow the food. Mountain lions still patrol old corridors carved into the hillsides long before neighborhoods arrived. And someone has to understand how all the pieces fit together.

Taxidermy, for Cameron, follows the same philosophy. He doesn’t mount every animal he traps, and he’s quick to note he hasn’t taken on big commercial work yet. What he does do, and what he learned from his dad, is treat every skull and hide with precision. European mounts, skull prep, bleaching with peroxide—tasks that look simple until you watch someone who truly knows the craft.

“When you’re working on an animal,” he said, “you’re trying to capture what it really looked like in the wild. Pictures don’t always get it right. You have to see the animal—the way it holds itself, the way it moves.” It’s a sentiment that could’ve come straight from a trapper in 1824.

And while Cameron is modest—he insists Heber Valley isn’t uniquely special for trapping—the truth is the place shapes the person. He grew up on this land. He knows the terrain, the habits of the animals, the corridors they follow, and the water they depend on. Heber isn’t a trapping hotspot; it’s home. And home is where an art form like this becomes something deeper than a hobby.

Weaving Provost’s story, Eddie’s fate, and Cameron’s modern perspective together shows the valley for what it is: a place where old and new stand side by side. The tools have changed; the instincts haven’t. Motivations shift, but respect endures.

And maybe that’s the real thread worth following. The mountain men risked everything because the land demanded it. Modern trappers like Cameron work because the land still needs something from us—attention, balance, stewardship. If there’s a lesson buried in all of this, it’s probably the same one Provost learned the hard way: nature doesn’t bend to us. We bend to it. And the people who last longest out here are the ones who understand that their job is not to control the wild, but to listen to it.

On cold mornings when the mountains are rimmed with pink and the world feels paused, it’s easy to picture those early trappers moving through the snow, their breath hanging in the air. And it’s just as easy to picture Cameron stepping out of his truck, checking a trapline before heading to work, carrying forward a legacy he didn’t expect but treasures. Different centuries. Same valley. Same quiet respect.

More info:

hebervalleytrapping.com

Flooded with snowmelt, it ran loud, fast, and full of unstoppable purpose. There were no bridges back then, no warning signs or detours—just water carving its path, indifferent to anything in its way. If you lived on one side and needed something from the other, you waited. Or gave up. Those were the options.

Unless you were Isaac O. Wall.

Isaac was the local mail carrier. Which sounds simple until you remember that in 1862, “mail carrier” meant saddling up with a pouch full of letters and prayers and hoping nature didn’t try to kill you on the way to the next cabin. Most people accepted that the river was impassable during spring runoff. “We’ll get it to you when we can,” was the accepted mood.

But Isaac wasn’t most people.

He wanted to get the mail across the river. He wasn’t just trying to finish his route—he wanted people on the other side to stay connected. That was the dream. It didn’t come with applause or headlines. Just a vision of something working better than it currently did, and the unwillingness to wait for someone else to fix it.

So, he built a cable.

Not metaphorically. A real cable. He strung it between two trees—one on each side of the river—and rigged a pulley system so he could send mailbags gliding across like some kind of pioneer zipline. No ferry. No fording. No dramatic river-crossing scenes. Just rope, ingenuity, and a refusal to let mud and current decide when the mail got through.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t permanent. But it worked.

And honestly, that’s what dreaming big actually looks like most of the time. Not a logo. Not a pitch deck. Not standing on stage in a blazer talking about disruption. Just someone in a valley, staring at a flooded mess of a river, thinking, “There has to be a way.”

Isaac didn’t have resources. He didn’t have help from the government or backing from investors. He wasn’t building a business empire. He just saw something that mattered to people—connection—and made sure it didn’t get swept downstream.

That kind of dream doesn’t always come with a business plan. But it’s the kind that keeps a town running.

There were real risks. If that cable snapped, the mail was gone. If the pulley jammed halfway across, someone had to go fix it. The Provo in spring isn’t exactly known for its hospitality. This wasn’t a fun science project—it was dangerous, improvised, and necessary.

And yet, it lasted. Long enough to make a difference. Long enough to remind people on both sides of the river that they hadn’t been forgotten. Long enough to prove that even without a bridge, someone still cared enough to find a way across.

Eventually, of course, bridges were built. Roads were paved. Systems improved. That’s the part people remember. But the reason those things came later is because people like Isaac showed they were worth building. Big dreams don’t always need to last forever. Sometimes they just need to last long enough to get something moving.

We’re told that dreaming big means shooting for the stars or changing the world. But most of the time, it means trying something slightly crazy, slightly inconvenient, and entirely necessary. It means not waiting for perfect conditions. It means rigging a cable with whatever you’ve got and seeing if it holds.

And that’s the part that still sticks with me. Isaac didn’t build a bridge. He built a workaround. He solved the problem with what he had—because the dream wasn’t about permanence. It was about momentum.

I think about that every time someone tells me they’re waiting for the “right time” to launch something, start something, fix something. The right time isn’t a calendar date. The right time is when the river gets in your way and you decide you’re not going to sit on the bank and wait for someone to carry you across.

Isaac’s cable probably looked a little ridiculous. And I love that. Because most great things do at the beginning. But when people say dreaming big is about boldness and vision, I think what they really mean is: you care enough to look at a problem and say, “Okay. I’ll go first.”

So, if your own version of a river is standing between you and the thing you’ve been thinking about, remember this: it doesn’t need to be pretty. It doesn’t need to last forever. It just needs to hold long enough to carry something important across.

That’s dreaming big.

And in Heber Valley, we’ve been doing that for a long time.