There is something so fascinating and compelling about spaces that have been abandoned. Think about it … at one time or another, the long-forsaken site was full of life and energy. People were bustling about making things happen — until they no longer were. It is quite sad actually. Every abandoned space has a story; and it seems that each of these spaces summons an audience in which to be heard.

Most of us here in Utah are familiar with the dilapidated amusement park, originally established in 1893 on the shores of the Great Salt Lake, known as Saltair. Initially intended as the “wholesome” western counterpart to Coney Island, this resort enjoyed great popularity until tragedy struck in 1925 when several buildings were destroyed by fire. It was rebuilt as more of a dance hall following the fire, but another fire, receding water and a World War all contributed to the park closing. There was a brief attempt at an uprising again in the late 1980s as a concert venue (I actually attended a concert there once), but rising waters wiped it out once again. Although the venue is still trying to give it a go with the concert gig, at some point, it’s time to call it; a phoenix can only rise so many times from the ashes.

Although I thought we had the only dead sea west of the Dead Sea, as it turns out, our neighboring state of California has one as well, and along with it, an abandoned space, just like ours.

The Saltan Sea is the larger version of our Great Salt Lake, located just outside of the sunny and ostentatious Palm Springs resort area, it has been termed the “biggest environmental disaster in California history.” Just a few miles from the sea is “Slab City.” While this is not an “abandoned” place as per definition, it certainly masks as one. This is actually an off-the-grid population of people who squat in dilapidated vehicles and trailers sans modern conveniences of plumbing and electricity and vow to live an alternative lifestyle. While “visiting,” I didn’t stick around long enough to learn what this entails; however, I did get verbally reproached for stepping too close to someone’s “claimed” space.

As creative as taking up free residency in abandoned places may seem, it may not be the best use for some of these spaces. Anyone who has visited the Delta Solar Ruins can attest that the feeling that we are not alone in the universe runs impetuously throughout. I doubt this space can ever be reclaimed. The same for “Satan’s Land” on the outskirts of Provo, in which every attempt to rebuild quickly ends in a graveyard of despair and loss.

On the other hand, I recently paid a visit to the old Ogden Exchange Building in our very own backyard. This building, which once was surrounded by stockyards, operated from 1917-1977. It provided employment for hundreds of people. However, in the late 1970s, it declined and closed and fell into dilapidation and disrepair. Although the building is still there, in all of its historic glory (sincerely), the area surrounding it has been redeveloped into a 51-acre business park. In fact, in 2020, the project won an award at the International Economic Development Council in the category of Redevelopment and Reuse.

This, my friends, is so refreshing to me. The history, and even the building, remains to teach us and share history, but the space surrounding it has been reclaimed.

There are dozens of abandoned spaces in Utah. The Cottonwood Paper Mill, Thompson Springs, Thistle, Old Arrowhead Swimming Resort, Bellshire Hospital, Iosepa Ghost Town and Harold Mill are just a small sampling of such spots. While I would be at least hesitant to suggest an overhaul of the well-known Skinwalker Ranch, near Ballard, home to a myriad of unfriendly paranormal activity, my more practical self would also like to see a better use of the 512-acre space. Either way, our own Ogden Exchange stands as a beacon.

The past meets the present and takes us into the future. This is vision.

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.

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